Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) (36 page)

“Will they at least hold through tomorrow?”

Pilate thought hard before making his reply. He did not want to look incompetent in front of the commanding general. Then again, how bad would it look if one of his weapons failed during the assault the next day?

“They should hold up through tomorrow,
sir,” he finally replied. “However, I am going to keep an eye on them. First sign of trouble and I’ll have to order a cease fire on the line.”

“Be sure you do,” Germanicus said, standing with his arms folded, “because I really don’t want to get struck by a stray
fireball tomorrow.” With that he gave the tribune a half smile, turned, and left.

“What did he mean by that?” the section leader asked.

“It means he plans on leading the attack himself. It also means we need to make damn sure these weapons are functioning properly. After all, I don’t think either of us wants to explain to the Emperor why the commanding general, who also happens to be his nephew and adopted son, was killed by his own artillery.”

As Germanicus walked away, Pilate turned back to his work of inspecting
and repairing his heavy weapons. It would soon be dark, and he needed to be sure that all machines were up to standard before the attack commenced in the morning.

“Ever scaled a barbarian fort before, lad?” Statorius asked.

“Never,” Artorius answered.

“It’s not too bad,” the sergeant assured him. “Those turf and sod walls are slanted and not that difficult to climb, so I doubt we’ll even bother with ladders which can be tipped over. You just sling your shield across your back, look for hand and footholds, and up you go. The only tricky part is once you get to the top.”

“Why is that?” Artorius asked.

“Because you have to be able to pull yourself over the top, get your weapons out, and find your bearings before the barbarians at the top can gut you.”

Artorius cringed at the thought.

“Decimus here, claims to be the fastest climber in the century,” Statorius continued.

“Is that so?” Magnus asked.

“What’s more, I’ll prove it when we attack that fort tomorrow,” Decimus replied confidently.

“You see, Decimus has been decorated with the
Rampart Crown
twice for being the first over the wall of a siege,” Statorius said.

“And I intend to make it three times!” Decimus retorted.

Carbo shook his head. “Decimus, some days I swear you have a death wish.”

Artorius sat back and started to sharpen his gladius. There were a number of nicks on the blade that needed to be worked out. Besides, he always took pride in keeping the blade razor sharp.

“What do you think about attacking this German stronghold?” Magnus asked, taking a seat on the ground beside him.

“If we
do it right, it shouldn’t be anything to worry about,” Artorius replied, running the sharpening stone across his blade.

“I just hate the thought of not being able to see the enemy at the top, not knowing where they are going to be.”

“Would you rather they were where they could see
us
?” Artorius asked. “The last thing I want is to get picked off the wall by one of their spear throwers or archers.” He hefted his gladius, admiring the blade as he looked down the edge. One would scarcely guess the amount of use it had gotten over the past year and a half.

Later that night, Artorius was coming off of sentry duty when he saw torches
by the artillery positions. He walked over to investigate and saw that Pilate was inspecting the tension rope on one of the onagers. Artorius walked up and saluted.

“Out for a late night stroll?” Pilate asked, returning the salute
and giving his friend a tired smile.

“Just thought I would check and see what the commotion was over here,” Artorius answered.

“It’s these damned tension ropes on the onagers,” Pilate said, pulling on one as he did so. “I’ve never placed a lot of faith in the construction of these small catapults.”

“They’ve served us
without problems so far,” Artorius replied. “I guess that could have something to do with the officer in charge of them?”

Pilate laughed. “Come on, Artorius. No need to put your lips to my backside just because I happen to be a
tribune.” He turned to faced Artorius, leaning back against the wagon as he did so. He looked at his old friend and sighed. So much had changed since they had left home. His old schoolmate was now a legionary infantryman, while he was a military tribune. “Has it really been so long since your father tutored us both?”

“Feels like a lifetime ago,” Artorius said, looking down. “This is definitely a completely different world than the one we came from.”

“Back home we could lay aside the differences in our birth and social upbringings. And yet we now live in
this
world in order to protect the other,” Pilate mused. “You know, most tribunes only serve on the line for six months. I’ve been gone for four years and have been home only twice during that time.”

“
Perhaps you’ll get a third chance soon,” Artorius observed. “Surely our victory here will not go unnoticed back home.”

“I daresay not,” Pilate answered. “However
, we still have at least one more battle to get through before we can go home and celebrate.”

“Have you ever
taken part in a siege before?” Artorius asked.

“Only once,” Pilate answered. “I had the privilege of laying down an artillery barrage on a Cherusci stronghold when we went to liberate our ally, Segestes. However, the timing has to be perfect. The artillery needs to lift their fire at exactly the right moment as the assaulting element goes over the top. Otherwise
, the enemy will have time to regroup and possibly throw back the assault. And if the artillery waits too long, well, let’s just say it could cause a number of our own people to have a very bad day. I take it you are going to be part of the assault tomorrow?”

“Yes, in the front rank
,” Artorius answered.

“Be careful then. I’ll do my best to keep the barbarians off you long enough to get over the wall. After that,
I’m afraid you are on your own.”

“We’ll be alright,” Artorius said. “The Second Century hasn’t lost anyone yet on this campaign, and we’ve had fewer combat related injuries than any other
century in the legion.”

“
Good, I hope you can maintain that,” Pilate said as he went back to checking his machines.

As Artorius returned to his tent, he saw Magnus and Praxus talking quietly and eating a small meal over a fire.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked his friends as he sat down beside them.

Magnus was stuffing his face with bread and bacon. Artorius laughed at the sight. Praxus
also found it amusing.

“Just trying to help our friend Magnus here calm his nerves a bit before the morr
ow,” the older legionary replied as he handed Magnus another piece of flat bread.

Artorius looked puzzled.
“What is it, man?” Magnus crammed the bread
into his mouth and took a long pull off of his water bladder. With great effort he managed to swallow it all. He then took a deep breath before answering. “To tell you the truth Artorius, I’m afraid of heights.” Magnus looked downwards, as if ashamed. Artorius was surprised by this and had to stifle a laugh. “You mean to tell me that after all we’ve faced here, you’re afraid of climbing over a little rampart?”

“What can I say? I get nervous when I think about falling. And you can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit worried about tomorrow
. After all, we are to be the first ones over the wall.”

“I never said I wasn’t concerned,” Artorius replied. “I just have a little bit of faith in myself and in those who will accompany me tomorrow.” He gave Magnus a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Besides,” Praxus added, “if you do fall on your head, it will only hurt for a second.” Magnus elbowed him in the ribs.

H
e was smiling and seemed to have relaxed a bit.

“The Roman auxiliaries are covering the rear of the stronghold and the treelines. They are supported by archers,” Ietano reported.

“With the legions to our front and the swamp on our flank, the Romans have us surrounded,” Haraxus observed.

Arminius was laying back with his head on a rock. He seemed to be only half listening.

Ingiomerus leaned over and placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “If we leave now, we can organize a breakout,” he said. “I can lead the cavalry straight into the auxiliary lines, allowing us to get the women and children away.”

“And then what?” Haraxus scoffed. “As dark as it is, our people won’t be able to see where they are going. It will be little more than a disorganized flight. And even if we do manage to break out, then what? Run away until we are hunted down like dogs? At least here we have a fighting chance, a chance to live!”

“A chance to be incinerated alive, more like,” Ietano retorted. “Have you not seen those
throwing machines the Romans brought with them? They will turn this stronghold into a pit of fire and ash before they even scale the walls.”

“What say you, Arminius?” Haraxus asked.

Arminius’ eyes looked lost and distant. Clearly his wounds still affected him. After a minute he finally spoke. “Whether we run or we fight, we are damned. We will fight long enough for the Romans to commit all their forces to the storming of this stronghold. During that time, we will try to evacuate the women and children. I know many will refuse to leave, not wanting to abandon their men to die alone. If we are to die, then we will die with Roman swords in our guts, not in our backs!”

Chapter XXIII: The Stronghold and Final Justice

***

The
legion was arrayed in full battle order. The First and Twentieth Legions had been selected to carry the assault, along with the two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard that accompanied Germanicus. The general himself was on foot and conspicuously devoid of his helmet. He was pacing back and forth in front of the assaulting cohorts. He was smiling and bantering with the men of the Praetorians.

“Is he really going to lead this assault?” Valens asked.

“That’s what it looks like,” Magnus answered.

“I guess he wants to make the Emperor proud,” Statorius remarked.

Were he still in the field, most veterans had no doubt that Tiberius would have led this attack personally as well, such had been his reputation.

“Quite a reputation to try and live up to when your adoptive father is not only
emperor of the known world, but also one of the most aggressive soldiers to have ever lived,” Vitruvius remarked. The optio was at the left end of the line, right next to where Statorius’ section had fallen in at.

“I think he’s lived up to it
admirably,” Artorius replied.

“He’ll get his chance to add to that reputation soon enough,” Praxus added.

“Yes,
quite
soon,” Vitruvius muttered to himself.

Horns sounded, and the
legions tasked with scouring the woods around the stronghold moved out. This was also the signal for Pilate to begin his artillery barrage.

Arminius sat brooding, his back to the rampart. The wounds on his face and abdomen still troubled him. He reached up and felt the gash on his face. It was fresh and would leave a scar. That was alright, he had plenty of scars. His side was still bandaged up. He had packed the wound with medicinal herbs to speed healing and prevent infection; something he had learned from the Romans.

He looked inside the stronghold. There were scores of huts and buildings inside. Men were ushering their wives and children into what they hoped were the soundest shelters. One woman was carrying a
crude sword and arguing with her husband while her toddler son tugged on her other hand. Arminius marveled at the sight. Even the women of his tribe were willing to fight to the last. He listened intently to hear their debate.

“I can fight!” the woman shouted. “And I will not sit idle while you commit suicide!”

Her husband sighed.

“I know you can fight. But what we need now is courage beyond that of fighting the Romans. Somebody has to help our people to rise again. When I am gone, you will raise our sons to be great warriors. You will teach them what it means to be Cherusci!”

The woman’s lips
trembled as she smiled weakly and averted her eyes downward.

“If you are overrun, what will keep the Romans from slaughtering every last person here?” she asked
softly. “You said so yourself; they do not come for conquest or slaves. They come for extermination. If I am to die today, and if our children are to die, then we will die where we belong, fighting by
your
side.” As she spoke, she placed a hand on the side of her husband’s face. Their elder son, perhaps eight or nine, placed his hand on his mother’s shoulder. He proudly carried a wicker shield and club in his other hand, though both were too big for him to wield effectively. The father lifted his youngest into his arms and embraced his wife and elder son. Tears were in his eyes.

“I have been so blessed to have such a famil
y,” he said. “But you must live! If I die and we do get overrun, you must make your way into the forests. You must do this for me.”

His wife clung to him tightly, not saying a word. The warrior then released his family, his face stoic. He nodded, drew his sword, and returned to the rampart.

“Is there no hope for us, Mother? Are we really going to die today?” the eldest son asked, looking up into her face.

Her face set and determined, the woman kneeled down and placed both hands on her son’s shoulders.

“If we show true courage and if we face the Romans like Cherusci, then all of us will live forever in the Halls of the Valiant. I do not fear them.” She held both her sons close, trying hard to hide her own tears, for she knew their fate. If they tried to flee, they would only be cut down during the Roman pursuit. To die running was unacceptable.

“The Romans are coming!” a young
boy shouted from the rampart.

Arminius and the warriors rushed forward to see for themselves. Thousands of Roman infantry were formed up on the dry plain in front of them. In the distance, the brightly colored paint and the metal bosses on their shields gleamed in the sun. Their helmets and armor reflected the glare even more so. In true Roman fashion
, they moved in complete silence. They would only make a sound when the time came to engage. It was unnerving. Arminius looked beyond the infantry. As expected, the Roman artillery was set, crews working frantically on each weapon. Arminius started to breathe heavily. The pending barrage would be devastating.

“Scorpions…load!”
Pilate shouted. Loaders rapidly cranked back the tension ropes on their machines. They placed bolts into the firing grooves as gunners looked down their sights
towards the stronghold.

“Scorpions ready,
sir!”
Dionysus called back once all crews reported they were set. Pilate walked up and down the line of scorpions. Behind them, onagers were loaded with their fire pots. Beside each a torch bearer stood awaiting orders.

“Monitor your sectors,” he told the
scorpion crews. “Only fire at what you can hit. Quick, clean shots, men!” He looked over at the wall. In his peripheral vision he could see the legions advancing on the woods.

A detachment of
onagers had been designated to cover their advance as well. He also saw movement on the wall of the stronghold. There seemed to be excited shouting and pointing coming from the ramparts. It was time to put a stop to it. On the line, one of the gunners
watched as a figure silhouetted itself fully in his sight. He gave a knowing smile. This was going to be all too easy. He wondered to himself if he could score a head shot.

“Scorpion crews…fire!
Onagers…ignite!”

The
gunner elevated his weapon slightly and squeezed the firing mechanism.

“Got you
.” he uttered in a low breath as the bolt flew home.

“The Romans are advancing on the woodlines!” the young lookout shouted. He couldn’t have been any older than fourteen, not even old enough to grow a beard.

“Damn, they anticipated our move once again,” Arminius
swore. He was still dizzy from the effects of his injuries and was having trouble focusing.

“Tell your son to get off that wall! And get the rest of those men off of there!” Ingiomerus shouted at Haraxus.

The other warrior just laughed. “My son’s a brave lad, and he’s a damn good lookout.
Aren’t you, son?”
The boy smiled broadly and turned back to gaze over the ramparts. Suddenly, they saw a long bolt fly through the air and smash through his face and head. Blood and bits of bone sprayed everywhere as he fell into a heap on the rampart. A scorpion bolt protruded from the back of his skull.

“No!”
Haraxus screamed as he ran towards his dead son.

More
scorpion bolts were seen flying towards the stronghold. Warriors that were standing up conspicuously were picked off by the highly accurate weapons. One lay screaming on the ground as a bolt protruded from his upper arm. Another warrior cried out as he sprouted a bolt from his thigh. His leg started to spasm uncontrollably as he fought to keep his balance. His leg snagged on a section of turf, and he pitched head first over the side of the wall. Yet another warrior took a hit to the chest and was dead before he hit the ground. Haraxus knelt down on the rampart, cradling the bloody and broken head of his son, tears streaming down his face.

“Haraxus, get down!” Arminius shouted.

Haraxus ignored him. All he could do was clutch his son while sobbing uncontrollably. A scorpion bolt slammed through the grieving father’s neck, covering Arminius in blood. Haraxus bore a look of both pain and relief in his eyes. He still clung to the body of his son, as both tumbled over the rampart. Arminius turned his head away, trying to drown out the screams of his warriors as they were horribly maimed and cut down. Then a wave of fireballs came over the rampart in a high arc; flames spewed forth as from the bowels of Hell. Their targets were the inner structures, where the families of the warriors huddled in fear.

“Look out!” he shouted to the people below. It was too late. The fireballs were already falling inside the compound, exploding
, and spreading liquid fire
wherever they impacted. Huts inside the stronghold burst into flames, their thatched roofs feeding the fire to an uncontrollable inferno. Warriors turned back from the ramparts and looked on horrified, as their wives and children became the targets of the Roman firestorm. There was nowhere for them to run. The torrent of fire seemed to find all who sought shelter within. Arminius watched as what looked like a sound shelter burst into flames, the walls quickly crumbling. The screams of terror
were almost deafening, those trapped inside slowly suffocating or burning to death. He quickly turned back to the rampart, trying to shut the nightmare from his mind.

“Their infantry
is advancing on us!” a warrior shouted, peeking over the rampart. Suddenly the back of his throat exploded, spewing more blood on the already slick rampart,
as another scorpion bolt found its mark.

“Stay down! Nobody goes to the wall!”
Arminius shouted. “We’ll face them as they come over. Uncle, you take the right wing.”

He and Ingiomerus drew their swords and waited. Ingiomerus walked over to the extreme right of the wall. He leaned back against a
post, resting the blade of his sword in his hand. The wait was maddening. He could hear the Romans advancing towards the wall. How long would it take them to get over the top? For the first time since the campaign began, he was afraid. Even when he had been wounded during their assault on the Roman fort at Ahenobarbi, he had not felt fear the way he did now. Now they were the ones cornered, and there was nowhere for them to run. If only their plan for defense had been as sound as the Romans’.

The First and Twentieth Legions started to advance. Nobody in the assault elements carried javelins, as they would be impossible to employ. Swords remained sheathed and each soldier kept a tight grip on his shield. They stayed in close formation, in case the barbarians managed to engage them with missile weapons. None came. Artorius watched the fireballs from the onagers and the scorpion bolts falling like rain onto the stronghold. He could see smoke and traces of fire coming from within.

“We have
turned that place into Hell itself,” he breathed, the glow from the fireballs reflecting in his eyes as they passed overhead.

It was, indeed, hell within the stronghold. While turf and stone fortifications were ideally suited for defense during intertribal warfare, they were useless against the advanced Roman war machine. The Germans had no concept whatsoever of artillery, let alone how to defend against it. By having all of their peoples confined in one place, it made it that much easier for the Romans to employ their siege weapons against them. Warriors howled in pain as they were cut down by scorpion bolts. Women and children screamed in agony and terror as they were smashed and burned. It was as if demons from the underworld were breathing fire and wrath upon them.

“What are they, Mother?” a boy screamed, hiding underneath a shield.

Their hut had been burned, and now there was nowhere for them to hide. A fireball exploded nearby, shards and fire spraying them.

“Take courage!” his mother cried, holding him and her toddler close.

They watched, horrified, as one woman took the brunt of a fireball in the back as she tried to run past them. It erupted, covering her in liquid fire. She laid screaming on the ground as she was slowly consumed, the smell of burning flesh and hair overpowering the senses. Many were running towards the rear of the stronghold, hoping to escape through the woods beyond. The woman clung to her children, paralyzed with fear for them. She tried to protect them from the firestorm with her shield as she searched desperately for any sign of her husband. She would not leave without him.

“
Our gods have abandoned us,” she whispered under her breath.

She knew the Romans would storm the stronghold with their infantry, but the preceding firestorm had taken all of them by surprise. She did not know that men were capable of such destruction.

Through the haze of smoke, they could see a man walking slowly towards them. His eyes were glazed and distant, his face expressionless. It was only as he got closer that the woman saw that it was her husband, a scorpion bolt protruding from his chest. His breathing was shallow and sounded like a hiss, trickles of blood running from the corners of his mouth.