Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) Page 18

  “Yeah, well we’ll be long since gone by then.” Artorius leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand. He sat pondering for a minute before speaking again. “I think we’re going to have to rearrange the squads a bit. Some are stacked with veterans, while others are full of recruits. There’s one that only the Decanus has served on campaign. And speaking of which, we have two Decanii who have never seen combat!”

  “That happens when this corner of the Empire is at peace for so long,” Praxus observed.

  “I’ve gone through the roster,” Artorius continued. “The Second Century has seventy-six men, the most we’ve ever had. Now of those, eighteen have just recently completed recruit training. Another seven have been in longer, but still joined after the Sacrovir Revolt. That means one in every three of our legionaries will be seeing their first action in Frisia.”

  Praxus thought about his Centurion’s statement and then nodded.

  “They may be inexperienced, but we trained them well,” he replied. “I agree we should spread out our recruits some. It will help for the rookies to have somebody next to them on the line that’s had the enemy’s blood splattered in his face.”

  If one were to ask Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor what he thought about the pending invasion of Frisia, he would say that as a soldier his job was to follow the orders of the Emperor and the Governor General. Inside, he was troubled. The Frisians had been a loyal and faithful people since being pacified by Drusus Nero. Now suddenly, they were hanging taxmen and causing the magistrate to flee for his life. It did not make any sense. He wanted to see Rodolfo about it, seeing that he was originally from Frisia. It was pointless, though. The Centurion had moved from his homeland to Gaul when he was in his late teens. The man had spent almost all of his adult life serving in the Roman Army as a cavalry officer. He had already been given citizenship when he was promoted to Centurion, with his wife and children sharing in the benefits granted to pure born Romans. No, Rodolfo would not have any answers as to why his native people had suddenly taken up arms against the Empire. Besides, there was an issue that was far more important for Cursor to address with his senior ranking Centurion.

  “You going to be alright?” Cursor asked as he watched his ranking Centurion pack his kit into his saddlebags.

  Rodolfo turned and gazed at him, perplexed.

  “I fail to see why I wouldn’t be,” he replied. Cursor gave a brief smile, then bit the inside of his cheek, thinking he needed to phrase his next words carefully.

  “It’s just that I know you are of Frisian ancestry…” he stopped speaking as he watched Rodolfo tense up.

  The Centurion had turned back to fixing a strap on his bag when Cursor spoke.

  “I thought you knew my loyalty better than that,” he said quietly before turning to face the Tribune. “You want to know if fighting my kinsmen will be hard for me; well the answer is yes. This is not easy for me, and I daresay I will have many a sleepless night over the pending ordeal. The other thing you want to know is if I am still loyal, and will I still fight. If you are questioning my…”

  Cursor raised a hand, catching the growing anger in Rodolfo’s voice.

  “I have never questioned your loyalty,” he replied. “You have been as loyal a soldier and friend as any could hope. It’s just…well, I cannot help but think how unfair this must be for you.”

  Rodolfo cocked a sarcastic half smile.

  “Forgive me, sir, but since when has life ever been fair? I confess I am deeply troubled by this sudden rebellion in my former homeland. One of the war chiefs, Tabbo of Maloriks, was a close boyhood friend of mine, and we briefly reconnected after Idistaviso. I cannot imagine what would have driven him to fight against Rome.” Rodolfo shook his head while gazing at the ground. He then nodded in resolve and faced Cursor once more. “Whatever their reasons, they have broken alliances and committed treason against the Emperor. I swore an oath, the same as you. I will honor it!”

  Cursor ran his hand over his bald head as he walked back towards his billet. Though a fancy manor house could have easily been his, he reasoned that while deployed with his cavalry regiments, it was far more practical to live in similar quarters as his troopers. He smiled when he saw a familiar face dismount his horse and walk briskly towards him.

  “Indus, old friend!” he said enthusiastically as he clutched his former mentor’s shoulder, and Indus grasped his.

  “Forgive my manners, sir,” Indus replied. As soon as he released Cursor’s grip he rendered a salute to the Tribune.

  Both men laughed as Cursor returned the courtesy.

  “It’s good to see you,” Cursor said with a relieved sigh. “I have a feeling I’m going to need you more than ever, before this is done.”

  Indus shrugged in reply as both men walked towards the Tribune’s billet.

  “The Frisians don’t have shit for cavalry,” he observed casually. “They have but a single regiment, and that is little more than the King’s personal bodyguard. Our own cavalry will smash them readily enough.”

  “It’s not their cavalry that concerns me,” Cursor stated. “There is much we don’t know about the Frisians. They’ve been left to their own devices for so long, we have no idea what their actual fighting strength is. I imagine if they’re serious about this rebellion, they will have mustered every man and boy old enough to carry a weapon.”

  “And girl,” Indus added, causing Cursor to raise an eyebrow. “Oh yes, the Frisians are among those who allow their women to fight. Many are inducted into a warrior caste called The Daughters of Freyja. While their position is largely ceremonial, they will be called upon in dire times to defend the homeland.”

  “And this is as dire of a time for Frisia as any,” Cursor observed.

  Apronius furrowed his brow as he contemplated the information Cursor gave him. The Legates of the First and Fifth Legions sat around the table with him, as did the Chief Tribunes and Master Centurions. Behind Apronius sat the First Cohort Centurions of the Twentieth Legion. Apronius was a capable commander in his own right, though part of that competence came from relying on the counsel of his most experienced Centurions.

  “Do we have any census figures for Frisia?” the Governor General asked.

  “No, sir,” his Chief Tribune answered. “Unfortunately, during the census under Augustus, the Frisian population was rolled into that of Germania Inferior. We have no way of knowing how much of the population came from each district.”

  “Which makes it more difficult to determine just how large of an army they can field,” the Legate of the First Legion added.

  “What we do know is that the Frisians are professional warriors,” Cursor replied. “They fielded two cohorts of auxilia infantry during the Germanic Wars. Not a large number, mind you, however their valor and fighting prowess was noted by both Germanicus and Severus. These are not mindless barbarians we will be facing.”

  “I have here a report compiled by Commander Indus that adds a bit more detail to what he told you,” Apronius said, holding up a scroll. “You are correct that they are a highly organized fighting force, broken into numerous regiments that include the all female one you spoke of. The question we cannot answer is just how many regiments they have.”

  Legate Labeo of the Fifth Legion then spoke up. “On that note, sir, I would add that I don’t think the Frisians will muster all of their forces at once. After all, rounding up and equipping every young boy and old man and sending them into battle may do them more harm than good. Think about the number of times amateur allied forces have gotten in the way of our legionaries.”

  “Regardless, we do have a sizeable army of our own,” said the Fifth Legion’s Master Centurion, a battle hardened veteran named Alessio. “Between our three legions we have approximately fifteen thousand men, plus an equal number of auxiliaries. I think thirty thousand men should more than suffice. Even if they can muster every man, woman, and child against us, they are less experienced and poorly equipped compared to our men; and besides,
it is not like we have never been outnumbered before!”

  This remark brought a number of affirmative remarks and gestures from the assembly. Apronius sat with his chin in his hand. The Master Centurion’s statements held true, and the fact that timidity was not the way to deal with a rebellion, something still troubled him, nonetheless. He knew he had to exude confidence to his men, and he could not be indecisive on a mere whim.

  “Labeo, your Master Centurion makes a valid point,” Apronius conceded. “I confess that I do not like going into battle unless I know all I can about the size and disposition of my enemy. However, it looks like we have all the actionable intelligence that we are going to get for the time being. Our scouts either can’t find them or never return. Tribune Cursor, your cavalry will have to be our eyes and ears. It is up to you to find out exactly what we are up against.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Tribune replied confidently.

  Chapter XVI: Flevum

  ***

  Tabbo stared across the open ground at the wall surrounding the Roman fort. It was occupied by a single cohort that was detached from the First Legion out of Cologne, along with a handful of auxilia archers. All told, less than five hundred Romans remained on Frisian soil.

  “I can’t wait to cut my teeth into the flesh of a Roman jugular!” a nearby warrior spat. “It is time they paid for what they have done to our people!”

  Warriors around him shouted similar curses towards their former occupiers. Tabbo quietly shook his head. He felt no animosity towards these particular Romans. They were simply stationed in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had hoped to take the fort before the Army of the Rhine arrived, though he knew that Flevum was not the real prize.

  “What is your command?” Sjoerd asked. “Do we send a sortie against the walls?”

  Tabbo studied the wall of the fort once more. He had five thousand men with him; the rest waited on the far side of the Rhine in Braduhenna Wood along with the King. Doubtless, his force was large enough to take the fort, though he wanted to avoid excessive losses if at all possible. He reasoned that he would need every fighting man he could get before it was over.

  “Send a regiment forward,” he ordered. “Have our archers and skirmishers support the advance. Have two more regiments waiting in reserve to exploit any breaches we may achieve.”

  “I will lead them myself,” Sjoerd said with a large smile. He then shouted orders, which were echoed with a string of battle cries all along the Frisian siege line.

  A dozen makeshift ladders were brought forward, warriors swarming around them, jostling for position to be the first ones over the wall. In front of the mass was a line of archers and dart throwers. These men would be left exposed, out in the open, dueling with the archers on the wall for superiority and covering the assault regiment as they stormed over the wall.

  Sjoerd stood in front of his men, raised his short war axe high, and roared a battle cry. He then started to race towards the wall, skirmishers running in front of him and forming up a long line in front of the wall as the Roman archers loosed their arrows upon them. Tabbo’s face was grim as he watched a warrior crumple and fall to his side, an arrow piercing his guts; the first casualty of the war. The elevation and angle gave the Romans superior range, and they were able to let off several volleys before his men were close enough to the wall. His archers fired a wave of arrows in unison as the Romans hunkered down behind their wall.

  The First Legion marched at the head of the column. Since it was one of their cohorts that was besieged at Flevum, their Legate had insisted they be the ones to lead the attack and save their friends. To their front in a screen line was the elite cavalry regiment, Indus’ Horse. Cursor had ordered these men to scout the front and find the enemy, holding them in place if possible. They were directed not to press a decisive engagement, however. The army had been on the march for four days and they knew they were getting close to the fort at Flevum. The Frisians had made a critical error in not attacking the fort immediately. Instead they had hoped the garrison would surrender peacefully and they could expel the Romans from their lands with little bloodshed. It was only when their own scouts reported the Rhine Army was on the move that they had decided to act.

  “The Frisians have begun their assault on the fort, sir!” a cavalryman from Indus’ Horse reported to Apronius.

  “Have you information on the enemy’s strength?” the Governor General asked.

  The scout nodded in reply.

  “We have, sir. We estimate five thousand warriors surrounding the fort, though we suspect this is but a fraction of their total force.”

  “I concur,” Apronius replied. “The region around Flevum is mostly open country, and I doubt they will wish to face us there.”

  “And I do not think they would openly rebel against Rome if all they could muster was five thousand fighting men,” the Chief Tribune, who rode next to Apronius, added.

  “Were you able to gather any intelligence on the rest of the Frisian army?” Apronius asked the scout, who shook his head.

  “No, sir,” he replied with a trace of discouragement in his voice. “The far side of the river is thick forest, with all possible avenues of approach covered by Frisian skirmishers. Tribune Cursor is trying to find a way through, but since the enemy knows the terrain far better than we do, I don’t think this is very likely.”

  “Alright,” the Legate replied with a scowl as he waved for the scout to leave.

  The cavalryman saluted quickly and rode forward at the gallop back to his regiment.

  Some ways behind their commanding Legate, Legionary Gaius Longinus marched with his squad and the rest of the Second Century. He felt like he was lost within the mass of men and metal, and he cursed that they were so far behind the head of the advance.

  “I wonder if there will be any Frisians left for us to fight!” he scoffed as he quickly stepped over a large rock in the middle of the path.

  The paved road had ended a few miles back, and all there was to walk on was a dirt path used by farmers. The cohort stationed at Flevum had been tasked with paving this section all the way to the Rhine, though they were indisposed at the moment.

  “You’ll get your chance to die soon enough,” he heard Legionary Carbo say behind him.

  Gaius hunched his shoulders, momentarily embarrassed. He felt a hand clasp him by the shoulder and saw it was Legionary Valens who had stepped out of formation to walk beside him, his forearm resting easily on the pole that held his pack.

  “Don’t worry about it, son,” the veteran legionary said. “Every new soldier wonders the same thing before his first battle. And who knows? You may not get to kill anyone today. Hell, you may not see a Frisian at all before this day is done. Our friend Carbo is right, though. You will get your chance before this war is over.”

  Valens was much older than he, and Gaius was smart enough to look up to, and listen to, the veterans. The fact that they were the same rank puzzled him. Granted, it was not unusual for a legionary to retire from the legions at the same rank he had enlisted. After all, vacancies and promotion opportunities were rare, at best. Still, Valens had the air of an experienced leader about him, and it puzzled Gaius that he was not a Decanus or higher.

  “How many battles have you fought in, Valens?” Gaius asked.

  “More than a few and less than too many,” Valens replied.

  “How do you know when it’s too many?” another young legionary asked.

  The veteran soldier grinned broadly.

  “When your throat’s been torn out by an enemy spear, or else you’ve been disemboweled in some gods’ forsaken hellhole, then you know you’ve been in one battle too many.” His humor was dark, but it seemed to break the barriers down a bit that always existed between the veterans and the new soldiers prior to their first engagement. Until a legionary had stood on a shield line and stared death in the face, he amounted to little.

  “Some lads can go decades without a scratch,” Carbo observed. “Other poo
r bastards will end up castrated before they even get a chance to unleash their first javelin.”

  Tabbo allowed himself a brief sigh of relief as the first ladders were raised against the wall. Perhaps the defenders would surrender, knowing that they could not possibly hold against such an overwhelming force. The Roman archers’ accuracy was infuriating, especially in light of the fact that his own archers and skirmishers had to get so much closer to be effective. The two-foot darts thrown by the skirmishers had little effect due to the range and steepness. Most that did find their mark were deflected off the auxiliaries’ mail armor. A few arrows did find their marks, striking down enemy archers in the face or throat as they exposed themselves over the wall.

  As warriors formed up behind each ladder, leather tarps were thrown back from the upper corners of the wall where the Romans had posted their scorpion ballistae. Bolts were fired into the massed ranks, and Tabbo closed his eyes in frustration as one slammed through two of his men before embedding itself in a third. The crews weren’t even bothering to aim their weapons, as the Frisians were packed so closely together that it was impossible to miss. Orders were shouted to the archers and skirmishers who concentrated their efforts on the hated machines. The crews kept low behind their weapons, making them difficult to hit.

  Tabbo watched as the first wave of Frisian warriors made their way up the ladders. At the top, archers had pulled back, and in their place was a wall of legionary shields. The Frisians tried to work their way over the rampart, though their attack now stalled. Those down below were anxious to get up the ladders, especially ones closest to the ends where the scorpions continued to fire a rain of death into them. One man tried blocking the bolt with his shield, only to have it slam through and pin his shield to his chest. His sacrifice may have saved those behind him, as the bolt did not penetrate through.