“Artorius!” he heard Vitruvius shout behind him. He turned to see his Cohort Commander rushing up with a small group of auxiliaries. “I brought you something. It’s not much, only about thirty men; auxiliaries who had managed to cross the torrential river as the damned flaming bridge collapsed. I’ve placed a group of archers on top of the rocks as well. There are only six of them, but it was the best I could get. There’s a Cornicen on his way as well. Since visual signaling will be impossible in this fog, we’ll have to rely on his horn to alert us if you get overrun.”
“Understood,” Artorius replied before turning to the auxiliaries. Some were soaking wet and looked disheveled, having barely escaped from drowning.
“The bridge was taken out from under us, and our whole unit ended up scattered,” the Decurion leading the auxiliaries remarked. “This is all I was able to rally. Just tell us where you need us; we will fight.”
“Very good,” Artorius replied as Vitruvius made his way back up the line, where he would fight in the very center of the Cohort. “You men will make up our third rank; however, you will not be part of the passage-of-lines. Instead, I want you to use your spears to reach over the top of our ranks and into the faces of the Frisians. I want you to build up an earthen step behind my second rank to give you height. At my command you will stab over the top with your spears and into the enemies’ faces.”
“Right you are, sir,” the Decurion acknowledged as he then relayed the order to his men. A young auxiliary had placed himself behind Artorius’ left shoulder. He turned to look at the man and did a double-take in surprise.
“Sir?” the auxiliary asked, his face showing his puzzlement.
Artorius just shook his head and turned back to the front. The lad’s face looked so familiar to him, in fact, he closely resembled…but it could not be. He suddenly remembered a vision he had seen years ago, after the Triumph of Germanicus. Artorius turned away, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes as he raised his face to the heavens.
“Brother, be here with me,” he said in a low voice. “Give me your courage and strength.” As he lowered his head and opened his eyes, he exhaled audibly. He gave a dark smile as the Frisian formations broke through the fog. His anxiety left him, and his pulse raced with anticipation.
Massed numbers of Frisians were shifting towards the right. Had they noticed the Romans’ weak point? Artorius could feel the uneasy movement in his own ranks. His men had noticed it as well.
“Here they come, sir!” the archery section leader shouted from atop the knoll.
His men took aim at the loudest sounds, and at the command, fired a volley into the fog. The legionaries below could not see where the arrows landed, nor could they tell if they struck anything, for the sound of the Frisian war cries was already in their ears.
“Javelins, ready!” Artorius shouted. As his men hefted their javelins up to their shoulders, ready to launch a wave of death into their enemy, he gave a subsequent order, “both ranks will throw simultaneously!” He took a deep breath, his gladius drawn and resting easy against his leg. In his peripheral vision he could see the archers increasing their rate of fire. The Frisians had to be close for them to be expending arrows as fast as they were.
Towards the left end of the line, Gaius stood with his first javelin resting easy on his shoulder. He swallowed hard and was trying not to start hyperventilating. For him, as well as his friends, this was their first real action. They had not seen any of the fighting during the battle around the Flevum fortress and had been anxious to face the enemy head on. It had pained Gaius that he had been in the army for over a year and was only now finally getting his chance to fight his first action. Now that they were, he was suddenly nervous.
“Mars, don’t let me fail now,” he whispered. “Give me the strength to fight hard!”
The Frisians had burned the bridges behind them and completely cut them off before attacking. That had stolen the initiative away from the Romans, and the realization of this sat very poorly with the young legionary. He swallowed hard as he remembered Legionary Carbo’s disturbing words. He quietly prayed to the plethora of deities his mother kept statues of that he not be allowed to die until he had at least unleashed his javelin.
“I don’t want to die here,” one of his friends whispered. There was fear in the lad’s voice. “This place is cold and dark. It’s not a fitting place for a Roman to meet his end!”
“Then we had best kill them before they kill us,” Gaius replied, his voice surprisingly calm. “And if we are meant to die here, then let’s just get it over with and make a good show while we’re at it!”
His confident words brought a grin to his friend’s face and some murmurs of assent from his companions on the line.
A warrior next to Tabbo screamed in pain as an arrow pierced his shoulder. The Frisian war chief jolted in surprise at how close it had come to striking him. Through the fog, he could just make out a rocky knoll to their front where he caught sight of several silhouettes. No doubt these were the archers who were firing on him and his men. Another warrior to his front took two arrows directly in the chest, falling face first into the mud without as much as a sound. In spite of this, Tabbo was ecstatic to see the rocks, for it meant he was where he needed to be. He knew that just to the left of the rocks was a path that went behind them, and behind the Roman army. The main Frisian army was heavily engaged with the legionary cohorts in the center. All Tabbo had to do was get around the rocks, and he would smash them all from behind. He knew that if the Romans were smart they would have troops placed here. It mattered not, for he had well over a thousand warriors with him; more than enough to rout whatever pathetic resistance they would meet.
“Sound the advance!” he ordered the three horn blowers next to him.
All raised their war horns, their ominous notes spelling doom for Rome. Tabbo gave a vicious grin even as two more warriors in his vicinity fell to the sporadic arrows. The drone of the horns was followed by a slowly rising battle cry. At its pitch the horde charged.
“Fuck me,” Artorius heard Rufio say in a low voice.
The Signifier had planted their standard behind the formation, seeing as how visual signals would be useless in the pending engagement. The Centurion would not be taking part in any line changes; therefore Rufio had taken it upon himself to help protect him.
“Those horns come straight from the bowels of hell,” Sergeant Ostorius said, drumming his fingers nervously on the grip of his javelin, which rested on his shoulder. He was standing just to the left of Artorius, and the Centurion sneered when he heard the man’s remark.
“Then it’s time we sent them back to where they came from,” he replied with a growl. He could hear the Frisians clearly and could just make out their force. The fog was so dense that they were almost in his face before Artorius saw them. “First and second ranks, throw!”
As his warriors stormed into the narrow gap between the rocks and the river, Tabbo saw an entire wave of his men fall, blood and gore spraying everywhere as a storm of javelins ripped into their bodies. Screams of pain mingled with the roar of battle cries and the sounds of hundreds of men rushing forward. A second wave came in a higher arc, striking down those behind the first group that had been savaged before even catching sight of the Romans. The enemy archers were now on their right and firing into their flank. It mattered not. There were so few of them that they were little more than a nuisance. Besides, Tabbo reckoned they would blow through the Roman lines and be past the threat soon enough. He waved his warriors forward with his hand axe and started making his way to the left of their line. He knew the Romans always placed their senior leaders on their own right and he longed to slay one of the legendary Centurions.