“Even the veterans have become a bit complacent lately,” the Tesserarius observed. “We’ve been so focused on the large number of recruits we had, plus no one seems to be keen on training for the Legion Champion tournament, seeing as how the lads all think you are unbeatable.”
“They need to get that kind of bullshit out of their heads!” Artorius snapped, smashing the cup against the post. “I’m no god, Magnus, and I’ve had my ass beaten more times than I can count!”
“Sure, but not since Vitruvius retired from active competition,” his friend replied with a shrug. “I agree that the men need a bit of added motivation. We’ll start increasing sparring sessions, in addition to century-level drill.”
Artorius gave an affirmative nod.
“Get with Praxus tomorrow and come up with a tentative schedule,” he replied. “Whenever they are not on work details, they will be drilling or sparring; and that includes us! You, me, Praxus, and Rufio need to set the example to the rest of the century; just as the Decanii need to be the most fit and ablest fighters within their respective squads. And if they need any extra motivation, any man who bests me in single combat gets twenty denarii from my own coffers.”
Magnus whistled as Artorius gave a sly grin.
“That’s more than a month’s pay for most of them,” the Norseman observed. “I don’t think you’ll have too many who will be able to collect, if any.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the Centurion replied. “If it makes them train harder, that’s all I care about. I would rather we sweat now than bleed later.”
“Our people starve,” Tabbo said to the gathering inside his home. He had kept it small, just Prince Klaes, Amke, and a couple of warriors, including Sjoerd and Olbert. It was black outside, and a single lamp gave off a feeble light inside of the war chief’s hall. “Our King’s spirit has yet to recover; he takes no interest in anything, just keeps staring into the fire. We stand on the brink. Our people can either die fighting for our freedoms, or they can slowly waste away and die of famine.”
“Tabbo,” Klaes replied. “There is not one of us here who disagrees with what you are saying. What I don’t want is for our people to fight a war that is suicidal. Surely there must be a way for us to fight the Romans without facing extermination!”
“How can we?” Amke countered. “We’ve all heard the stories about what the legions did to us the last time we faced them. Klaes, you and Tabbo both fought beside the Romans! You know how dangerous they are!” The leader of the Daughters of Freyja was overcome by frustration and emotion. She shook her head and regained her composure.
“I don’t even care anymore,” she continued. “I would rather die with a Roman sword in my guts than begging for scraps from that bastard Olennius!”
“I’m with Amke,” Sjoerd concurred. “The Romans can spill my guts for all I care! I’ve been so hungry that they are empty anyway.”
“I see that it is almost time,” a voice said from behind Tabbo. The group gasped as King Dibbald walked into the light. He had aged, his face drawn and pale, but the old fire was in his eyes. “I am sorry for having failed you for so long. It is time we remembered our warrior past and expelled the blight that has tainted our land. Tell the people that they are to consume the grain and barley meant to be given as tribute. We will need all our strength when the spring arrives and Olennius comes and attempts to collect his tribute!”
Olbert joined Tabbo as he walked through the woods towards the river. The war chief’s face was hard with determination. Olbert had lost his usually jovial manner, the reality of what awaited them bearing down on him.
“Can the Romans be beaten?” he asked quietly. Even in the middle of the forest he still felt as if eyes were watching them. After what had happened to the King’s messengers no one felt safe.
“I don’t know,” Tabbo replied. “I try to assure our people that we can achieve victory, but to you, my brother, I cannot lie. I have seen them fight, and they will be a fearsome enemy. I have an idea that just might work, or at least will give us a fighting chance. Archers are scarce amongst our warriors, and I will need every last one for this plan to have a chance.”
“I’m listening,” Olbert replied, his determination matching his war chief’s.
“Next spring, when that bastard comes to collect his tribute…” Tabbo began, his eyes filled with rage.
Chapter XV: Another Way to Die
Ljouwert, Frisia
March, 28 A.D.
Spring had come to Frisia and with it the Olennius and his tax collectors. At night on the day before they were expected to arrive in Ljouwert, a host of men gathered in the sacred grove dedicated to the goddess, Freyja. Tabbo understood his King’s hesitation, as did the other warriors present.
“Rome,” King Dibbald began, “has long been an ally to the people of Frisia. I served with Tiberius many years ago in Pannonia, long before he became Emperor. Our efforts to make him aware of our plight have been in vain. Our ambassadors have been assassinated. Our pleas for assistance have gone unanswered.” He paused and gazed up at the sky, as if asking the gods for an answer. He knew that what he was about to propose amounted to treason against the Empire, as well as to his friend, the Emperor. Tabbo spoke up quickly.
“Sire, Tiberius may have been your friend, but will we allow our people to starve to death before he hears of their suffering? Whatever your command, know that all the warriors of our nation will follow you!”
“Starvation…enslavement,” Dibbald continued, his resolve renewed with vigor. “These are what our women and children have been subjected to. If we do nothing to protect them, then we have failed in our duties as men and warriors of Frisia!”
The warriors stood silent, though there was intensity in all of their faces.
“What will you have of us do, sire?” Lourens asked.
“The magistrate Olennius has given us an ultimatum,” Dibbald replied. “It is time he had his answer, in the only way left to us.” As he spoke his eyes reflected the flames of vengeance.
Two dozen tax collectors stood idly in front of the raised dais in the center of Ljouwert. Olennius was so convinced of the Frisian’s docility that he had but a few personal bodyguards on either side of him. As per his orders, the wives and daughters of the noblemen stood gathered in front of the dais. He knew that the Frisians would be unable to meet his taxation demands, and he and his taxmen had already made a list of who amongst the noble women would make the finest prizes for the slave trade. Olennius had his eye on Queen Femke herself. The bitch stood with an air of noble defiance at the center of the women, head held high and looking past him as if he didn’t matter. The magistrate looked forward to having her as his slave. A few lashes of the whip would put her in her place, as it had her husband.
“People of Frisia!” Olennius shouted. “It is the spring equinox; the time has come for you to give Rome what is due to Rome! Have you my tribute, or shall I take it in the form of your wives and daughters?”
“We have your tribute!” King Dibbald roared as he lunged through the crowd of women. As he stood in front of his wife, he drew a hand axe from beneath his cloak. “And here it is!”
With a flash the axe flew from his hand and embedded itself in the skull of the nearest tax collector. The man never saw it coming, his eyes crossed, tongue jutting out of his twitching mouth as blood and brain streamed down his face. Olennius’ eyes grew wide as the slain tax collector fell face first off the dais.
A universal cry of rage echoed forth from the gathered host. Cloaks were thrown back, swords and axes gleaming in the sunlight. The magistrate stumbled backwards and jumped from the dais as warriors swarmed his tax collectors and bodyguards. Only two men managed to escape with him, dropping their weapons as they ran for their lives. No one noticed at first, as their wrath was spilled forth on the hapless taxmen who were in shock as they were violently pulled from the dais and beaten. Though armed, the bodyguards were untrained and quickly overwhelmed.