“You sent for me, sire?” Tabbo said at last.
“I feel I must apologize to one of my greatest war chiefs,” the King said, his back still to him.
“Sire?”
“I wronged you earlier today when I berated you in front of my son and the other warriors,” Dibbald said as he turned to face him. “This war weighs heavily on me, and your actions today were not a failure on your part, but rather another example of the fortitude of our enemy.” He then sighed deeply, and Tabbo could see the melancholy in the King’s eyes. “It breaks my heart to call Rome my enemy.”
“Sire, Rome nearly starved us out of existence,” Tabbo conjectured.
Dibbald raised a hand, silencing him.
“One man,” he retorted, “one man alone did the unspeakable to our people.” Dibbald made no mention of the personal insults he had borne, to say nothing of the flogging received in front of his household.
Tabbo knew better than to mention this to the King.
“We have been on peaceful terms with Rome for many years. It saddens me deeply because I viewed the Emperor Tiberius as a personal friend…but then Tiberius no longer rules in Rome. I have word that he now lives in seclusion on some remote isle while one of his Praetorian thugs rules Rome with the same fear and terror that Olennius brought on us.”
“That terror ends tomorrow, sire.” There was a fierce determination in Tabbo’s voice.
The King looked over at him and smiled.
“Indeed it will. I will order our men to show clemency if the Romans choose to surrender; but I know it will be for naught. This army will not surrender. They will fight to the very last, bringing more death to both our peoples. But when it is done, I will send word to the Roman governor, if he be still alive. We will negotiate an end to this war quickly, while demanding no more than the return of our sovereignty. The Romans will be in such a shock after their army’s defeat and the destruction of an entire legion that they will cede to our…requests.”
Tabbo marveled at his King’s simple yet effective strategy. After defeating the Romans in battle, they would be diplomatic to them. Unlike the Germanic tribes who brought on the wrath of the entire Empire, Frisia would ask for so little, and offer to return to friendship with Rome that the Emperor, or whoever actually ruled the Empire now, would feel compelled to agree. Tabbo felt in his heart as if the King had already led his people into a new age of freedom.
Gaius stumbled in the dark as his squad provided security for the archers who were retrieving as many usable arrows as they could manage. Each of them had started off with sixty, and their section leader stated that if he could get even half that number back he would be satisfied. The Roman javelins, being a much shorter range weapon, were mostly recovered within full view of the line.
“Look at all the drag marks,” one of his companions said quietly.
In numerous places the bush was laid flat and streaked with blood from where the Frisians had drug away many of their wounded and dead. Most of the bodies were close to the line, where they had fallen either during the storm of javelins or in close combat with the Century and their auxilia attachment. Still, there was the occasional dead warrior to be found out a ways from the line. These had either been felled by arrows or had succumbed to their injuries after crawling away from the main battle.
In the faint torchlight, Gaius saw one such warrior with his back against a tree. At first he thought it was another corpse, but then he thought he saw the man’s head twitch. Curious, he walked over to the warrior, just to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him, what with the poor visibility, his utter exhaustion, plus the ever present pangs of hunger that now tormented him. He was surprised to see that the Frisian was still alive. His chest rose and fell, and his eyes opened as the young legionary knelt next to him and removed his helmet after first checking that the warrior had no weapons within reach. Gaius noticed the man had been wounded by arrows in both legs, which he assumed had happened as the Frisians retreated given that the man also bore a stab wound to his side brought on by a gladius. None of his injuries looked fatal, though he looked unable to move on his own. The warrior looked Gaius in the face.
“Water,” he said in almost a whisper. “Water…please.”
Without a second thought Gaius pulled the stopper out of his water bladder and poured into the man’s parched mouth. The warrior gulped down as much as he could and Gaius stopped for a moment when he saw most of it running down the sides of the warrior’s face. The Frisian swallowed hard and took a few quick breaths before Gaius gave him some more to drink. He then put the stopper back into his water bladder and stood.
“Thank you,” the warrior whispered with a trace of a smile on his face.
The young legionary then turned and found himself face to face with Sergeant Valens.
“What the hell, Gaius?” the Decanus asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.
“Valens, the man has been badly hurt and is of no threat,” Gaius answered, temporarily forgetting that Valens was no longer a fellow legionary but now his superior.
The Decanus seemed not to notice the slip in protocol. The archers were heading back to the line, and Valens’ squad was withdrawing. As they walked back, Gaius felt the eyes of the Decanus on him.
“Don’t ask me why I did it,” he said at last. “To tell you the truth I have no idea. It’s just, when I saw that man stricken and helpless, I thought of what I would want someone to do were I in his position.”
“Well, at least water is the one thing we have plenty of,” Valens added, stepping into a puddle as if to emphasize. “Still, if you didn’t like watching him suffer you could have just killed him.”
“I could have,” Gaius agreed. “But I cannot kill someone who poses no threat to us.”
As Valens walked back to the lines he thought to himself, what have we done that takes the humanity out of our young men? Was I ever that young and innocent? He trudged on, not liking his thoughts.
Chapter XIX: When the Heroes Fall
Dawn brought a thinning of the fog, allowing a red glow from the rising sun to bathe the battlefield in a bloody light. Skirmishing and testing of the lines had begun in the false dawn during the previous hour. The Legion and the Frisian army were at a standoff. Vitruvius was worried about the extreme toll the frenetic pace of the battle was having on his men. Even when they were in the back of the formation, they still had to exert themselves trying to push back against the ever-pressing mass of Frisian warriors. They were mostly fresh, while his legionaries were hungry and exhausted.
“Hold this position!” he ordered his Signifier. The Pilus Prior then moved to behind the formation and sought out Centurion Dominus who was somewhere on his right. Vitruvius waved him over and told him his plan. “We need to break these bastards, and we need to do it now. At my command the First and Fourth Centuries will compress into a tight wedge formation on me. I will lead us out of this gods be damned nightmare.”
Dominus’ eyes grew wide.
“Vitruvius, such a plan will be suicidal for you!” he protested. “The Frisians are deliberately targeting Centurions and Options, knowing their importance. I beg you not to place yourself at the apex of the wedge.”
Vitruvius smiled and shook his head.
“What kind of leader would I be if I placed one of my men in the most precarious position?” he replied calmly. “My life is of no more importance than my most junior legionary. Just make certain you stay alert for word from Artorius and the Second. With as bad as we’re taking it, his men have to be going through hell.”
Dominus grimaced and nodded. He then quickly stepped back to his place on the line.