Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  Late that night Artorius awoke and found himself unable to sleep. He looked over at his dozing tent-mates, envying them in their slumber. He got up and decided to go for a walk. He strapped on his sword belt, laced up his sandals, and walked out into the night. As he walked down the row of tents, he was stopped by a roving sentry and asked to give the watchword. He gave it and continued on his way. The moon was out, and there was a slight mist in the air. It made everything seem surreal. As he walked along, he saw Centurion Macro leaning on the century standard outside his tent. He was breathing heavily, and though he barely made any sound in the dark, Artorius could tell he was crying. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, and his body trembled violently even though it was not cold outside. He trembled with repeated sobs that shook the standard he was clutching. Artorius watched as Macro’s servant came out with a cup of steaming liquid, which he drank thirstily. It was the second time Artorius had seen his centurion like this, only this time was much worse. Carefully he stepped backwards, afraid of being seen. Suddenly he was very tired, and he longed for his bunk. As he lay back down he wondered what, exactly, it was that haunted his centurion. What could cause an iron horse like Platorius Macro to break like that? He then remembered an earlier conversation he had had with Magnus, and wondered if he had found one of the elusive survivors of Teutoburger Wald.

  Chapter IX: Destruction of the Marsi

  ***

  Barholden watched as his wife carried his son towards their hut. As he sat sharpening his sword, he was suddenly afraid. Not for himself, but for his family. He was a brave warrior, recently elevated to war chief of the Marsi. If a Roman gladius felled him, then so be it. Such was the fate and the honor of many a Marsi warrior. However, the Romans were not there to fight the Marsi warriors. They were there to exterminate the Marsi completely. His wife and his son would be no safer than he.

  The legions had massacred and destroyed all of the Marsi settlements just east of the Rhine. Now they would try and complete their mission. Having foreseen this, Barholden had petitioned Arminius to send warriors to his aid. However, the war chief of the Cherusci was too involved in a petty squabble with his father-in-law and had laid siege to his lands. So, now, when his allies were truly in need, Arminius was not there to support them.

  Barholden had spoken to some of the few who survived the Roman slaughter. They spoke of the abject cruelty and barbarity to which the Romans had subjected their people.

  And they call us barbarians, he thought to himself. He knew then that this was not a mere raid by the Romans. No, they were here for revenge; and their thirst for vengeance had been building over the last six years. Six years since what he had felt to be the most glorious day in the history of the Marsi.

  There were a good number of warriors amongst the Marsi, however, from what Barholden had been told this particular Roman army was huge. They had the Marsi warriors outnumbered as well as out-trained and equipped. He thought about how and where he would face the Romans. His warriors had conducted several ambushes on their columns already. However, now that the Romans knew the location of their settlements, the time for skirmishes would be over. The Romans would come right at them, right for their homes and families, and they would dare anyone to stand in their way. That was just what Barholden and his warriors would have to do. Evacuation was impossible, there was too little time. This day or the next, they would come.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he heard his son cry happily and come running out of the hut. He ran right into his father’s arms. Barholden picked the lad up and gazed at him affectionately. He was so young.

  “Brave boy,” he said, setting the lad down.

  His wife, Milla, came out looking for the boy and smiled when she saw them together. He had not told her of the Romans coming, of their own impending doom and the possible extermination of the entire Marsi tribe. For that would be the price demanded by the Romans for the Marsi’s role in Teutoburger Wald.

  “They will not get me or my family so easily,” he swore to himself as he continued to sharpen his sword.

  Just then a warrior came running towards him from the outskirts of the village. The man was panting and out of breath. He kneeled before his war chief, head bent.

  “Hail Barholden, War Chief of the Marsi! I bring news of the Romans.”

  Barholden looked over at his wife. She was staring at him, alarmed. He told her to go inside, which she did immediately after picking up their son. He then stood, waving the messenger to do the same.

  “Gather all the sub-chiefs and elders.” he ordered.

  Within the hour, Barholden was standing in the glade that separated his people from the coming Roman onslaught. With him were the most distinguished and important warriors in his tribe. All were proud men, men who had fought bravely on many previous campaigns. Most had even fought against the Romans at Teutoburger Wald. Now they all looked to him for answers to their dilemma.

  “As you all know, the Romans have occupied the valley just to the west of our lands,” he began. “We have all heard stories of how they have ravaged our lands for what happened six years ago. We have tried to harass them with ambushes and skirmishes. This has done little to drive them away. They are now but a couple hours march of here, and they look to destroy us once and for all. How large did you say their army was?” he asked the messenger.

  “At least twenty thousand legionaries, plus auxiliaries,” the man replied.

  The warriors gasped. All were brave, and none of them necessarily feared the Romans; however, they were used to having the decisive advantage in numbers.

  “We are outnumbered,” one warrior observed.

  “So what if we are,” another scoffed. “We have the protection agreement with the Cherusci. Surely Arminius has warriors he can send.”

  Barholden spat into the dirt, a disgusted look on his face.

  “Arminius is engaged in an internal dispute with his father-in-law, Segestes. Every warrior he has is now being used to lay siege to Segestes’ lands. There is no help coming to us.” He paused to let the words sink in.

  The warrior who had been confident only seconds before couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “You mean after all these years, all these battles we’ve fought for that man, now in our moment of need he abandons us?”

  “We cannot hope to win this battle,” another warrior observed.

  Barholden shook his head. “No, we cannot. But what we can do is give the Romans such a taste of Marsi bravery they will never forget us.” He drew his sword and raised it high to emphasize his point. “Let us then die as warriors are meant to die, with our swords in our hands and faces towards our enemy.”

  This elicited a series of cheers and battle cries from his assembled warriors. He was suddenly very proud, proud to be the leader of these brave warriors. As the host returned to their homes, he was troubled once again. He would have to return to his own home to see his wife and son for, perhaps, the last time.

  The legions were formed up and on the move. The Third Cohort was towards the center of the Twentieth Legion’s formation with the Second Century occupying its second rank. The elite First Cohort occupied the very center, with the Second, Third, Sixth, Seventh, and Ninth Cohorts falling in on either side. The Fourth, Fifth, Eighth, and Tenth Cohorts were in the second rank in reserve. Artorius was filled with excitement and a little anxiety. The legion was in battle formation this time, no loose skirmishing here. Shields practically linked together, javelins at the carry. Soon the wood line was in sight. They knew there would be a gradual slope to climb, and then a straight shot to the Marsi settlements.

  Sounds of fighting soon filled the air. The auxiliaries were in contact. They would be withdrawing soon, hopefully drawing all of the Marsi warriors behind them. Artorius rehearsed in his head how it was supposed to work. The first rank would throw their javelins, followed by the second and third. The first rank would stay out front and be the first to engage.

  At last, a real
battle, he thought to himself. They had crossed into the woods and just made it to the top of the slope when they saw the auxiliaries withdrawing towards them. Behind them were thousands of Marsi warriors.

  “Javelins… ready!” Proculus called out.

  Everyone hefted their javelins to the throwing position; hand up by the shoulder, placed just behind the weight at the end of the meter-long metal tip.

  “Quick step…march!”

  The pace quickened as the legionaries closed the distance with their enemy. While there were many Marsi warriors, it was obvious they were outnumbered.

  “Just save some for me,” Artorius muttered under his breath.

  Magnus and Decimus were on either side of him. He felt reassured, knowing he was fighting alongside these men. The auxiliaries passed through their lines between the cohorts. It was time, the gap was closing fast. The Marsi were a teeming swarm of men, with no semblance of order apparent. They would fight valiantly, but as individuals. None wore any protective body armor. Most had shields, though these were little more than wicker or flat round boards. The majority carried either spears or fire-hardened clubs, though some did carry swords. The scream of their battle cries was deafening. The Romans made not a sound, not until the very last.

  “Front rank…throw!” Proculus shouted.

  As one, the men in the front rank sprinted a few paces and, with a shout, threw their javelins.

  “Second rank…throw!” shouted Centurion Macro.

  Artorius ran forward, staying on line with the rest of his century. He ran through the narrow gap between soldiers in the first rank. As he passed through, he got a good look at the enemy for the first time. They were still coming at them in force, though it looked like they were starting to waver under the storm of javelins. With no time to think, Artorius picked a target and threw his javelin as hard as he could. He watched a young Marsi warrior raise his shield to block, only to have the javelin pass through his shield and forearm. The soft metal tip then bent, sticking the butt of the javelin into the ground, pulling the young man down, where he lay screaming in pain.

  “Third rank…throw!” Centurion Justinian of the Third Century shouted.

  They ran through the second and first ranks and immediately unleashed their javelins. Artorius was unable to see how many hit their targets, but from the screams coming from the Marsi, he knew they were having the intended effect. He tensed up, ready for the next order.

  “Gladius…draw!” Proculus ordered.

  With a shout, the entire cohort drew their swords. The Marsi were now completely unnerved. Many slowed to a halt, wondering what devil they had unleashed.

  “Advance!”

  The Roman auxiliaries had broken off almost as soon as they made contact. Filled with blood lust, the Marsi pursued them. Barholden knew this was the Romans’ intent. They would pull their auxiliaries back, and the Marsi would have to face the legions head on. He gave a shout of encouragement to his warriors and then joined them in the chase. As the legions came into sight, he saw the men in their first rank rush forward as one and unleash their heavy javelins. The most overly zealous of his warriors were the first to fall. As he ran towards the front of his clan, he saw a second rank of Romans run past the first before throwing their javelins. Even more warriors were skewered and ran through. Those that managed to raise their shields either ended up with their shields pinned to their bodies, or at best their shields would be stripped from their hands when the soft metal shafts bent, making it impossible to withdraw them. The Marsi were rattled, their losses already starting to mount, and they hadn’t even closed with the Romans yet. Suddenly, a third rank loosed its javelins on them. The Romans, who had been unnervingly silent up to this point, gave a loud shout as they unsheathed their swords. The Marsi were now ready to break and run. Barholden knew he had to do something.

  “Brothers, clansmen, listen to me! Take courage now! We fight for our families, for our tribe, for each other! The Romans have come to take these things from us. Do not let them take away our pride and dignity. Who will follow me?” With that he raised his sword and charged the Roman line.

  It was difficult to pick out individual soldiers. They all moved together as one well-disciplined killing machine.

  Within seconds he closed the gap. He did not know how he could cut through that wall of shields and swords, but he had to try. He brought his sword down in a powerful slash. It impacted on the brass strip on the edge of one shield. He swung again, trying to break through, and again. As he raised his sword once more, the Roman suddenly stepped in, blocking and thrusting with his shield, and stabbed him in the belly. Just as quickly he pulled his gladius out and smashed Barholden again with his shield. The force of the blow knocked him down. He was in sudden blinding pain, his bowels ran through by the Roman’s blade. Helpless and injured, he crawled away and sat back against a tree, watching as his warriors smashed into the Roman line. His intestines oozed through his fingers from the rendered guts. He was suddenly proud of them, his brave warriors. They would fight to the last to protect their homes and families. He watched in sorrow as they were cut down in rapid succession. He saw a couple of Roman soldiers fall as some of his warriors actually managed to penetrate their shield line. This gave him some hope. But then the Roman line suddenly held fast, and the rank behind them rushed through, fresh troops smashing into the Marsi with a vengeance. Within minutes it was over. Barholden gritted his teeth in pain, blood and intestinal fluid dripping from around his fingers, as he tried to hold in his stomach. He took pride when he saw that not one of his warriors had run. All had stayed and fought till the end.

  He winced again as pain overtook him. He wished to die, but did not have the strength to raise his sword and finish himself off. He saw other warriors similarly stricken. Some sought to crawl back the way they’d come. Others shrieked in agony, a great many lay unmoving. While the Romans’ expertise with their weapons ensured a high percentage of fatalities, not everyone died right away. Those ran through the guts took the longest to die. In spite of the horrifying pain most of the dying felt, few made a sound. Others unleashed an unholy wail. Barholden knew the Romans would slaughter any warriors still alive. He hoped it would not take them long to find him.

  Artorius stood and caught his breath as the reserve cohorts passed through their lines. They would be the ones to sack and destroy the settlements. The cohorts that had fought the battle would pick up their dead and wounded and finish off any of the enemy still alive. He’d managed to slay one barbarian with a rapid stab underneath the ribcage. It had been all too easy. The man, slow and unwieldy, had probably had no real training in close quarters combat. The ferocity of the Marsi warriors’ charge caused several gaps in the line, which they had been able to exploit, inflicting many casualties. He did not yet know how many in the Second Century had been killed or wounded. Details were sent out to dispatch the Marsi wounded while others were tasked with setting up a casualty collection point, where they would bring all their dead and wounded. The centuries that had not taken part in the direct fighting were given these tasks. As these were being accomplished, centurions and options were walking up and down the lines, getting accountability of all their soldiers.

  “Artorius, are you alright?”

  He was surprised to see Centurion Macro standing in front of him.

  “Yes, sir, I’m fine,” he answered.

  Macro patted him on the shoulder and continued to walk down the line, checking all of his legionaries individually. Though normally the decani would conduct the checks and then report back to the centurion, Macro was the type that, many times, wished to check things for himself. Artorius saw that everyone in his section was alive, and none seemed to be seriously wounded, though Gavius had a gash on his forearm with blood running down his arm that Praxus was applying a bandage to. He would later find out two legionaries from the century had been killed, another six were wounded, including Gavius. Only one required immediate evacuation to the rear. It was hard
to determine just how many barbarians fell in their storm of javelins, but from what could be gathered later from first-hand accounts, thirty-five were killed in close combat with the century.

  “Not a bad day’s work,” Magnus said as they surveyed the aftermath of the battle.

  “Work”? Artorius laughed. “And to think we could have gotten real jobs in the city.”

  They listened as they heard the screams and moaning sounds coming from the settlements up ahead. With their warriors gone, the Marsi were being slaughtered without mercy.

  “Damn, at least it’s a start,” they heard Statorius remark as he shrugged.

  “Alright, form it up,” Centurion Macro ordered. “We’re going to push through and set up in reserve just short of the settlements. Once in position, we’ll wait until the assault is complete, then we’ll move back to camp.”

  Without another word being spoken, the century fell in on the rest of the cohort and started towards the sounds of destruction. As they started to move out, Artorius watched Macro walk over to where a German lay suffering with his back against a tree. Macro moved as if to cut the man’s throat, but then changing his mind, sheathed his gladius and walked back to the line.

  “Why didn’t you finish him?” he heard Camillus ask.

  “And grant him the mercy of a quick death? I think not,” Macro answered. “That man’s been stabbed through the bowels. It will take him hours to die; long, painful hours. They refused to grant our wounded a quick death in Teutoburger Wald, so why should we oblige them? Let him die a slow and agonizing death… the slower the better.”

  Artorius surveyed the scene of carnage in front of them. It seemed everything was ablaze as far as the eye could see. The corpses of humans and livestock littered the entire area. It looked very much like what they had done to the other Marsi settlements, only on a much larger scale. With the river to their backs, the Marsi had had nowhere to run.