“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 poor 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.