“Nineteen miles, sir,” the trooper said as Cursor came within a few feet of him.
The Tribune nodded and the man jogged forward to catch up with his companions.
Can’t see a bloody thing, he swore quietly to himself. Let’s just hope we don’t march right past it!
“Midnight is approaching,” Rodolfo observed. “We should allow the men and horses to rest once we cross.”
“I agree,” Cursor replied. “Twenty miles through this shitty terrain without rest would take its toll on the best conditioned of men and beasts. We will rest after we have crossed the ford and again when we have traveled another ten miles, and then one last time at five miles. We must make certain we save our strength or else we do the Valeria Legion no good.”
“Nor ourselves,” a cavalryman nearby added. Cursor looked back at the man, who quickly lowered his head. “My apologies, sir.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” the Tribune replied with a shake of his head. He let out a quiet sigh as the magnitude of the trooper’s statement struck him. Was he bringing salvation to his brothers in the Twentieth, or was he simply leading his ten thousand in a mass suicide?
A faint glint interrupted his thoughts. The four men he had sent forward to scout the route were waving their spears towards the river. They had found the ford, much to Cursor’s relief. He turned to the trooper behind him, “pass the word that we’ve found the crossing. All cavalry units will mount up and cross in force and clear the far side of any potential threats.”
“Yes, sir,” the man responded. Rodolfo was already back on his horse and barking orders to his men. It had been deathly quiet since the sun had set, and the sound of commotion in the darkness was the first real sign the Tribune had of the rest of his men with him. He had ordered them to maintain silence as they had trekked along the river, lest the enemy have scouts watching for them. Now silence was impossible to maintain, and as he rode up to the shallow crossing he was soon joined by Centurion Rodolfo and a large number of horsemen. The four scouts had somehow managed to light torches and would stay on the near side guiding all units across. Cursor then looked over to Rodolfo, who nodded that they were set. Without a word the Tribune spurred his horse to a quick gallop as he was splashed repeatedly in the darkness. The cavalry quickly fanned out in a large semicircle as soon as they were to the far side. The enemy was nowhere to be found.
This is it, Cursor thought. Either I bring salvation or death. Gods have mercy if we are too late!
The area by the Fifth Legion’s bridge was lit by numerous torches as legionaries worked at a furious pace to make it serviceable enough for men to cross with all their weapons and armor. In the distance, the sounds of axes felling trees and men shouting orders echoed through the blackness. Though the planks had all been burned and crashed into the river, the main support posts remained intact. Off to the left a pair of sentries alternated between watching their companions work and their sector along the river, which was devoid of movement. Only the sound of the raging river greeted their senses. The night was chilly, and the men wrapped their cloaks tight around themselves. One ate a balled up chunk of bread that had been left over from his supper. The other sentry looked over his shoulder and nudged his companion as their Tesserarius walked over to their position. The officer was making his rounds of the guard posts and work parties.
“How are you men holding up?” he asked. He had been rushing from one position to another since the afternoon, and though he wore his cloak, he let it hang loose as his face was damp with sweat. There was little perceived threat on their side of the river, and only those on sentry duty wore their body armor and helmets.
“We’re doing okay, sir,” one of the men answered as his friend’s mouth was full of food. “It’s bloody cold tonight, though.” He shuddered under his cloak in emphasis and was shocked that he could see his breath.
“It is unusually cold for this time of year,” the Tesserarius concurred.
“This bread’s a bit doughy, too,” the other soldier added as he took a drink from his water bladder to wash it down.
The Tesserarius snorted, “Be glad you’re not with the Twentieth.”
The soldier looked down briefly and then swallowed. The first legionary shook his head, slightly ashamed.
“Those poor bastards,” he said quietly, to which the officer nodded in reply.
“They’ve been fighting all evening,” he added. “Gods only know how many of them were killed, or how many wounded they have, with no way of treating their injuries. To say nothing of the fact that not one of them has cloak or food.”
“I have some friends in the Twentieth,” the soldier still eating said. He then looked up at his companions.
The Tesserarius’ face was stern. “We’d better hope the bridge is complete by morning then,” he observed. “Otherwise there won’t be a Twentieth Legion when we cross.”
Tabbo ate heartily as he tried to work the soreness out of his arm and shoulder. He knew he had to rest at some point, though he was afraid that too much inactivity would leave his injured arm stiff and useless come morning. Still, he was grateful for the warm fire and fresh boar that his men had brought to him. There was no laughter or songs around the fires this night. His men were hopeful, yet still somber at the loss of many of their friends. He knew not how many of his own men had fallen that day. He only knew that whatever losses the Romans had suffered, they had visited back on the Frisians several times over. There was no sign of his friend, Olbert, and the war chief wondered if the brave man had fallen in battle. His heart was hardened for the time being; he could not allow himself to worry about friends who were simply missing when hundreds, if not thousands, of warriors had already fallen.
“You were reluctant to leave the field today, no?” Sjoerd asked as he joined him, a jug of mead in his hand. The war chief grunted as he continued to eat.
“I admit I did not like leaving even such a small sliver of our land in the hands of the Romans,” he replied. “However, the King was right to recall us. If we had persisted we may still have been fighting with them even now. And how many more of us would have fallen? No, we have done the right thing, painful as it was to withdraw. While we warm ourselves by the fire and eat mightily, the Romans are freezing in the night while hunger takes its toll.”
Sjoerd grinned in reply. “Should make their demise all the more easy tomorrow,” he observed as he took a long quaff of mead.
“It will ease our struggle, yes. But that does not mean it will be easy. I have seen the way the Romans fight. We must never underestimate them.” He then took another bite of meat before speaking again. “I take it the prince fought well?” Sjoerd shrugged.
“Well enough,” he replied. “As well as any of us, I guess. The King ordered Eitel and me to stay by the prince’s side. We only managed to directly engage the Romans a few times, and that was doing little more than banging our weapons randomly against their shield wall. You are right, though, they are a fearsome enemy. Their javelins slew many of our comrades before we even got close to them.” He took another long pull off the mead jug, which was nearing empty.
“Not too much, old friend,” Tabbo chided. “You will still need all your strength in the morning.”
Both men laughed as Lourens walked into the light.
“Tabbo, the King has called for you.”
The war chief nodded and followed the master of the household cavalry away from the fire. Lourens then pointed to where the King paced quietly in a small grove, well away from the crowded fires. Tabbo nodded and Lourens left him to his business. As Tabbo limped into the grove, he saw Dibbald with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed as he paced slowly in contemplation.