Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) Read online

  “Alright, let’s move out.”

  Calvinus was more than a Centurion and commanding officer to his men. To them, he was like a second father, hard as iron, yet compassionate to the needs of his men. A tough, battle-hardened veteran with nearly fifteen years in the Army, he was the one who always had the right answers and knew the solution to any situation, no matter how desperate. He would get them out of this.

  As they ran through the dense woods, they saw the bodies of most of their century and cohort. They were a ways from the narrow lane through the bog, and Metellus realized that they must have been conducting a fighting retreat, for there were many barbarian corpses amongst the slain legionaries. Had it all been in vain? Had the barbarians’ numbers been too great? Were there no other survivors? Metellus tripped over a corpse and fell headlong into the dirt. He rolled over to see that it was the body of Clodius. His face was caved in down the middle with an axe embedded in it, his mouth frozen in shocked horror. Flies were already crowded around the gaping wounds.

  “Clodius,” Metellus whispered, a tear coming to his eye. “No!”

  The overwhelming despair of the disaster was becoming unbearable. A jerk from one of the legionaries pulled him to his feet and back to his senses.

  “Come on. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  The sound of their Germanic pursuers was getting closer. As they moved through the thickets and undergrowth, they came upon even more carnage. Here, many of the camp followers had been slain. The bodies of soldiers were strewn amongst the dead, cut down as they tried to protect their families and loved ones. Metellus saw one dead soldier with his throat cut, lying on top of the bodies of a woman and young girl, the wife and daughter he had tried, in vain, to save. He thought briefly of the child he had failed to save. It was obvious that both women had been viciously raped and then mutilated. The young girl had even been decapitated as a final insult. Metellus shuddered at the sight, realizing that the soldier had probably still been alive and forced to watch the horrifying spectacle before his own life was brutally ended. Metellus thanked the gods again and again that he had declined the opportunity to bring his beloved Rowana on the expedition with him. At least she would be safe.

  Metellus suddenly felt that he would never see her again. This, in turn, caused a wave of anger and despair to wash over him. It wasn’t going to end this way. He thought back to the day he said goodbye to her.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she had said as she clung to him. “I need a live husband, not a dead hero.”

  “Do not worry yourself, love. It’s simply an expedition to rout a few rebellious barbarians. Besides, I am with the best armed and best trained army in the world. Nothing can stop the Seventeenth. I will see you again.” With that, he had given her a lingering kiss before he turned and walked away. Not once did he allow himself to look back. Metellus started to feel a sense of desperate determination at the memory. He could not allow that to be the last time he would ever see her. He had to keep his promise.

  Suddenly, he saw his deliverance: Cassius’ rally point was in sight, a mere three hundred meters away. So close, yet seemingly impossible to reach. There were maybe one hundred twenty legionaries lined up in a box formation, the last bastion of Roman might, and all that remained of the Army of the Rhine. Their shields were linked together, swords at the ready. Most of the barbarians ignored them, looking for easier prey. Occasionally, a zealous group would crash into the formation, only to be beaten back.

  “There it is.” Calvinus pointed the position out to his men. With renewed energy, they rushed towards their comrades. A call came out from the rally point. Some of the legionaries started to move towards Calvinus, but were quickly pulled in by their officers. Maintaining formation was their only hope. Calvinus and his men would have to make the final dash to safety on their own. The legionaries in the formation shouted encouragement, frustrated that they could not rush out to help. They started frantically pointing to the left of Calvinus’ small band where another swarm of barbarians was running out of the woods towards them.

  “Stand ready!” Calvinus shouted as he set into his fighting stance. The legionaries quickly followed suit. The soldiers in Cassius’ formation couldn’t bring themselves to look away as Calvinus and his men disappeared from view. They readied themselves to charge forward and help, only to have an even larger band of warriors crash into their lines once more.

  In spite of lacking a shield, Calvinus still used his left hand to punch one of his assailants before ramming his gladius hard into the man’s groin. The centurion then grabbed him by the hair and threw the barbarian, who was howling in pain, into his companions. Metellus and the other legionaries fought with equal tenacity, each man holding his own against the onslaught.

  One barbarian carried a massive cudgel, which he swung as hard as he could at Metellus. The club caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground and tearing off his helmet. Blood streamed from behind his nearly severed ear where the helmet had torn a nasty gash. The blow gave Metellus blinding vertigo, and he retched violently. Dazed and confused, he struggled to his feet, his head throbbing. Through his blurred vision, he saw two legionaries attack his assailant and stab him repeatedly. He also saw Calvinus cut down two more Germans in rapid succession. Their fellows suddenly halted their attack, their uncertainty apparent. Calvinus gave an unholy howl and lunged at his nearest adversary. He slashed hard with his gladius, something Romans practically never did. Yet so ferocious was his blow, it cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Dizziness overcame Metellus again, and he fell to the ground. He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet, and saw his companions sprinting away. He ran as hard as he could, yet he found himself unable to clear the stabbing pain from his head as he stumbled and fell further behind. The men in Cassius’ formation had beaten off the latest attack by the barbarians; however, they were in a desperate state and could not hold out much longer.

  “Calvinus!” he heard Cassius shout, “We have to get out of here now!”

  Just then, Metellus felt a sharp blow to the small of his back which knocked him to the ground. A spear, thrown with great power, had been deflected by the bottom band of his armor. As he slammed into the damp earth, he somehow managed to hold on to his gladius. Suddenly, he was awake, alert, every fiber of his being fighting for survival. He rolled over to see a burly warrior bearing down on him with an axe. He could smell the man’s rank breath and foul body odor. He quickly raised his gladius to block the attacker’s blow. Unfortunately, he managed to only partially deflect the strike. The axe slid down his gladius and impacted hard on his right thigh, opening a deep gash. Metellus howled in pain and in desperation swung his gladius up in a backhand slash. The blade connected with the German’s throat, slicing it open. The warrior fell to his back, hands at his throat, his screams muffled by the gurgling sound of blood gushing from his mouth.

  Metellus slowly pulled himself to his feet, clutching at the wound on his leg where dark crimson blood flowed freely. He did not even bother trying to stifle his cries of agony. He knew there was no chance of stopping the bleeding. The wound was mortal. Metellus was in great pain, and his leg refused to function. Calvinus was immediately at his side, his own helmet now gone, bleeding from a long gash that ran from his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone. The entire side of his face was purple and swollen, his eye forced shut. Calvinus grabbed Metellus by the shoulder, examined his wound, and then looked away. Turning back, he looked Metellus in the eye. Both men knew the wound meant his death.

  “Go,” Metellus gasped to his centurion, while looking at the two legionaries nearby. “You have to get these men out of here, sir. Just…please…tell Rowana…” his words were cut off as he choked up and found himself unable to continue.

  “I will,” Calvinus answered as he clutched Metellus by the shoulder. He nodded in acknowledgement and ran back to his remaining soldiers. The war cries and din of battle behind t
hem was growing ever louder. Before resuming their flight to Cassius’ detachment, all three soldiers turned back briefly and saluted Metellus with their swords. Metellus returned their salute and then turned to meet his fate. His vision was starting to blur, the loss of blood quickly taking its toll. He saw an entire band of Germanic warriors coming his way. He struggled into a fighting stance, his weapon at the ready, his eyes smoldering with hate. They would not take him so easily. He just hoped he could cut down a few before he succumbed to his wounds.

  At the head of the charging horde was a young, slender barbarian, body painted blue, wearing nothing but a torque around his neck. The man looked like a demon possessed, and he was clearly much quicker than his fellows. Metellus readied himself to fight the man, but was surprised when the fleet-footed German ran right past him. He was ignoring Metellus, eyes on the bigger prize ahead, the centurion with his back turned. Metellus realized his companions were oblivious to the barbarian pursuing them. They had no chance of outrunning him. With the last of his strength, he turned and flung his gladius, falling to his hands and knees as he did so. His vision was now almost completely impaired, yet he still managed to see his sword tumble end over end, embedding itself deep into the base of the sprinter’s spine. Metellus smiled weakly to himself. He knew then that his friends would be alright. His breath was coming in deep gasps now. He could no longer see or hear the battle around him. The forest, his friends, the German hordes, Cassius’ formation had all but disappeared in the darkness that was overtaking him.

  Calvinus and his men rushed through the ranks of the formation. The legionaries gave a cheer, taking solace that someone else survived. Cassius ran over to Calvinus, the tribune placing his hand on the centurion’s shoulder. Calvinus was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

  “You alright?” Cassius asked.

  “We’re alive, if that counts for anything,” Calvinus replied, looking up at the tribune. He noticed right away that Cassius, too, had lost his helmet.

  His face was cut in numerous places, and his gladius and armor were coated with blood. Cassius bit his lip hard and nodded in acknowledgement. He then patted Calvinus on the shoulder before turning back to his own men.

  “Alright, listen up.” he shouted. “We’re going to work our way back, heading due west until we reach the river. We will then head south to our bridges and pray they have not been overrun. Keep it tight, men. If we stick together, we will survive. Move out!” He then turned his attention back to Calvinus as the formation started its slow march. “Come, old friend,” he said, “let’s leave the stench of this accursed place forever.”

  “You may be leaving this accursed place,” Calvinus muttered under his breath as Cassius walked away, “but I will return.”

  For Metellus, he knew he was breathing his last. He wished for the end to come, though he sorrowed at the thought of what effect his death would have on his Mother, his Father, little Artorius…Rowana. Then, out of the shadows, he saw Rowana walking across the glade. He closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, but this was no dream, for there she was. She may not have been there in the horror of Teutoburger Wald, yet somehow, across time and great distance, the merciful Fates were allowing him to see her one last time. She turned towards him and stood in the middle of a beacon of light that shone through the darkness. She wore a white gown, her auburn hair flowing freely around her shoulders. Her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes filled with infinite sadness.

  She knows, Metellus thought to himself.

  “My love, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, reaching for her with his right hand. He felt the soft touch of her hand as she placed it over his, her cool, gentle touch lifting his pain. Suddenly, a German spear was slammed through the back of his skull. His world went black, and he knew no more.

  In his dispatch back to Rome, Cassius told of the heroics of one legionary who had saved the life of one of his centurions.

  Chapter II: Aftermath of Disaster

  ***

  What a fool you were, Quintilius Varus! Arminius surveyed the carnage that spread as far as he could see. The ground was littered with fly encrusted corpses, both Roman and German. The stench made his stomach churn.

  Here was the greatest feat of arms in our time, he thought to himself. Three entire legions had been destroyed. The Army of the Rhine virtually ceased to exist. Now was the time to strike into the heart of Roman territory. With the Army of the Rhine destroyed, the provinces in Gaul were left practically undefended. A rapid invasion could annex all that land for the Cherusci and their allies. However, when it came to dealing with the Germanic tribes, nothing ever came rapidly. It had taken Arminius years just to unite the tribes to strike as they did against Rome. Now, when the opportunity to achieve so much more was within their grasp, it was quickly slipping away before the bodies of the slain had even cooled.

  The warriors would plunder the Roman dead. That would take time. The tribal chiefs would then bicker and squabble over their share of the wealth. Thankfully, there were no slaves to be had, as that would take even more time and resources to deal with. All who had survived the battle would be sacrificed in reverence to their deities, in thanks for giving them this victory. Once the arguing over plunder ended, there would be further quarrels regarding what to do next. Arminius and his closest allies would push for immediate invasion of Gaul while their army was still intact. Others would wish to ravage and plunder the entire province around the Rhine bridges. Still other tribes would simply go home, basking in the glory, yet shunning responsibility when time came for retribution. To go home and do nothing else was the worst course of action that Arminius could imagine, and yet it was the one they would most likely take. Unless he could keep all of the tribes united, he would not have the forces necessary to invade Gaul.

  Then there would be Tiberius to deal with. Arminius shuddered at the thought. He knew after such a disaster as this, the Emperor Augustus would not hesitate to send his best General to deal with the situation. Varus had been a coward and a fool. Tiberius Claudius Nero was another matter completely. Had Tiberius been in command of the Army of the Rhine, Arminius highly doubted he would have contemplated such a bold move as that which had just brought him victory. Surely the outcome would have been different with Tiberius in command. Arminius’ father and uncles had all faced Tiberius and his brother Drusus in battle and felt the full effect of their wrath. Two uncles had been slain, one by Tiberius’ own hand. Mercifully, Drusus died in a horse riding accident years ago, but his brother had lost none of his skill or venom. Arminius’ one surviving uncle, Ingiomerus, still walked with a slight limp from a javelin wound in the thigh, suffered in battle with Tiberius’ army.

  Lesser known was Tiberius’ nephew, Germanicus, so named in honor of his father Drusus’ military achievements in Germania. Arminius scoffed at the very notion. Germanicus was the protégé of Tiberius, having served directly under him in Pannonia. There was little doubt he would accompany the General, possibly even in a position of high command. Still, while Germanicus was virtually an unknown factor, Arminius knew he had been trained by his uncle, who surely passed on some of his cunning, tactical savvy and ruthlessness on the battlefield.

  If I face Tiberius on the battlefield, I will have sealed the fate of the entire Germanic nation, Arminius thought to himself. While he was brave, knowledgeable in the tactics and techniques of the Roman Army, and had won one of the greatest feats of arms in memory, he was no fool. He knew his limitations, and he was not too proud to admit when he was outmatched. Tiberius was skillful, his troops superbly drilled. Most battles were virtually over before the first blow was even struck. No, against Tiberius there could be no victory, even if he were able to keep the numerical advantage. At that moment, he made his decision and would pull his army back across the Rhine. They would continue to conduct raids and skirmishes to harass the Romans, of course. But above all, they would pray to their gods that Tiberius would not venture across the Rhine.

 
News of the disaster came hard to Rome. Families wept, mourning the loss of loved ones, and a general panic ensued. Many citizens were convinced that with no army to speak of on the frontier, it was only a matter of time before the barbarians reached the gates of Rome. Such thoughts were nonsense to the sensible person, however, so had been the destruction of the Army of the Rhine. How could this have happened? How could an entire army have been annihilated? Stories ran rampant of how Germania was a land of seven-foot tall giants who could crush legionaries with their bare hands. And there were thousands of them. Tens of thousands …no, hundreds of thousands. They spawned in those dark forests, watching, waiting for the moment to strike. And now they would come for the head of Rome itself.

  None took the news harder than Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome. Three of his legions, the Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth were gone. The barbarians had taken his beloved Eagles, the sacred symbols of each legion. Such a disgrace was unbearable. Equally appalling was the sheer loss of life. Twenty thousand Roman citizens had perished in the carnage. Now, the Emperor had to make some rapid decisions before the barbarians invaded the provinces in Gaul. Retribution was a given; the barbarians must be made to pay for this atrocity. However, the first thing that needed to be done was securing the Rhine bridges and eliminating any chance of invasion. And, by all the gods, someone had to quell the masses that were panicking and spreading stories borne more out of fantasy and fear than fact! For these things, he looked to Tiberius and Germanicus. They would save Rome or else nobody would. The Emperor was so consumed with grief and despair, he could do little to help in preparations for war. In the midst of council, he would suddenly cry out, ‘Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!’ The 72-year-old Emperor would be of little help when it came to planning the actual campaign. Late one night, Tiberius and Germanicus were poring over a map of the Rhine frontier when Germanicus brought this point up to his uncle.