“Fourth Century, make ready to advance!”
Vitruvius wiped a rag across his brow and made his way back to the First Century. There was a sense of calm about the Centurion. The Frisians had backed off slightly and were goading the Romans to come at them. Every last man in the Third Cohort was breathing heavily and completely spent. Vitruvius knew this was his last chance to save them. The fog was clearing from the morning sun, but brought the sight of packed enemy warriors in all directions.
“First and Fourth Centuries!” he shouted with a voice that pierced the remaining rags of fog and was heard throughout the battlefield. “Wedge formation…on me!”
The command was echoed to his left and right. Quickly the legionaries collapsed towards the center, linking their shields together. Those in the subsequent ranks closed up, pressing their shields against their brothers in the front rank. A loud shout came from one of the Frisian leaders, and they immediately started to back up. Vitruvius’ eyes narrowed as he set into his fighting stance, ready to spring.
Prince Klaes was inspired by the Romans’ tenacity. He was certain that after the sleepless night and the loss of an entire cohort to mutual slaughter, those who remained would be easily dealt with. It was not to be. He knew his enemy had to be close to the breaking point, though with nowhere for them to run, they would fight to the very last. The Frisian prince almost felt a sense of camaraderie for his foe, given their tenacity and bravery. In spite of the terror that that bastard Olennius had visited on his people, he could not find it in him to hate the Romans he now faced. He would kill them, yes, but without malice or wrath.
The burly Centurion who the legionaries now clustered on particularly impressed the prince. The man was a killing machine, and Klaes knew who he was. It was the legendary Centurion Marcus Vitruvius, thought by many to be an invincible demigod. Klaes decided to put the Roman’s reputation to the ultimate test. Sjoerd and Eitel were with him, with Sjoerd carrying a large two-handed war hammer. He then motioned for two burly warriors to join him. Klaes pointed his weapon towards the Centurion, who was barking subsequent orders to his legionaries.
“Let that one through,” the prince ordered his men, who nodded in reply. A number of them swallowed hard as they braced for the impact of the Romans’ charge. Klaes let out a loud war cry, which his warriors quickly echoed as they charged in turn.
Vitruvius gritted his teeth as every muscle in his body tensed for the pending impact. Instead, he flew right through the Frisian line, which parted before him. He went another few meters before stopping. The enemy had smashed into his men, but not him. There was an empty circle in the mass of warriors. Within it were five men. He then realized what they had done, and he could not help but smile at their ingenuity. He limbered up his sword arm and let out a sigh.
“Five against one…not bad odds,” the Centurion observed loudly. The enemy leader grinned, for he spoke perfect Latin. The men started to circle him like a pack of wolves stalking a stricken calf. But Vitruvius was no calf. He took the initiative and bounded forward, catching one of the warriors with his shield. Instead of following up on the man he just knocked down, he sidestepped and thrust his gladius hard, catching another one of the men in the stomach that gushed blood and bile as he withdrew his sword with a twist. He then stepped away as a large man with a hammer swung his weapon hard, catching Vitruvius’ shield and knocked him back a pace with a grunt.
Klaes flinched as he watched one of his men fall to the Centurion’s sword thrust. Though he made not a sound, he was stabbed through the stomach and would die slowly, in extreme pain. Eitel lumbered to his feet, having been knocked down by the Roman’s initial shield charge.
“Attack together,” the prince ordered calmly. “He cannot possibly hold us all off.” He then moved forward, swinging hard with his war axe as Sjoerd gave another mighty swing with his hammer.
In a surprise move, the Roman fell flat onto his stomach, the unstoppable hammer slamming into the chest of another warrior with an audible crunch, his chest crushed and bone splinters piercing the heart. Eitel brought his sword down hard, catching the Roman on the back of the thigh as he stumbled to his feet. Nonplused, Sjoerd back swung the hammer, impacting hard onto the Centurion’s helmet, tearing it from his head and leaving a bloody gash. Part of his scalp had ripped and blood flowed freely from the wound.
Soldiers of the Third Cohort fought desperately to break out against the pressing mass of Frisian warriors. Those closest to the center could catch glimpses of their revered Cohort Commander fighting for his life against a group of Frisians.
“We’ve stalled!” shouted the Signifier of the First Century. “Our charge has failed, we must withdraw!”
“Sir, we cannot leave Vitruvius!” a nearby Decanus shouted back as he thrust his gladius into the throat of a warrior to his front, abruptly cutting off the man’s war scream.
In such cramped quarters the Romans had a distinct advantage, and the Frisians were paying heavily for their stubborn determination. Still, the already spent legionaries were expending what was left of their energy at an alarming rate, and the Signifier knew they could not last much longer. It was then that he saw his Centurion’s helmet fly from his head as a hammer blow sent Vitruvius to his knees.
“No!” the man screamed as they desperately tried to break through.
A warrior was pressed up against his shield. The two men were face to face, and the Signifier could smell his enemy’s rank breath as they struggled. The Frisian carried a spear and was unable to get his weapon free as the Signifier brought his gladius up and quickly ran it across the man’s neck, severing the artery and windpipe in a red, frothy mist. Even as the body fell he still gained no reprieve, as many more enemies were bearing down on them. One caught the Signifier in the thigh with a spear thrust, sending him limping backwards as he fought to suppress a groan of pain. Fatigue was taking its toll on the legionaries and with their reflexes considerably slowed, the Frisians were able to exploit and inflict casualties. The carnage on both sides was horrific, along with the screams and groans of the wounded and dying.
Vitruvius tried to clear the cobwebs from his head as he guided his shield protectively back and forth while he was down on one knee. As he stood his back leg started to cramp on him. Blood was also running down the side of his head from where his helmet had crumpled. At least it wasn’t running into his eyes, and he could still see. Two of his adversaries lay dead, but he was visibly shaken and hobbled by the wound to his leg. The leader with the hand axe came at him again, while the warrior with the short sword attacked him from his right. Vitruvius blocked both blows with his shield and gladius, immediately smashing the leader in the shin with the bottom of his shield, then swinging it in a hard arc, catching the swordsman on the temple. As the warrior fell onto his face, Vitruvius stabbed him through the neck with a satisfying crunch as the razor sharp blade severed his vertebrae. He then felt the wind taken from him as a giant hammer slammed into his back, knocking him down and over the warrior he had just slain. His shield fell from his hand, which was now numb, though thankfully he still held his sword.
The Centurion rolled onto his side as both men rushed towards him. He released his gladius and quickly drew his dagger, which he flung with deadly accuracy into the hairy belly of the huge warrior with the hammer, who had his weapon high and was ready to smash once more. A hair raising scream erupted as his war hammer dropped from his fingers as a glance down showed his doom. Before he could react further, an axe caught him on his sword arm, opening a terrible gash. Amazingly, it still functioned, and he lifted and swung his gladius in a hard backslash to keep his opponent away as he labored to his feet once more. Blood now covered the back of Vitruvius’ leg and his sword arm was dripping blood freely as well, his back a flame of agony. As he faced the Frisian leader, he marveled in the fact that during his entire tenure in the legions he had never so much as been scratched in combat. Now he was bleeding from multiple wounds, his left arm was broken and useless, and he wondered just how much longer before his sword arm gave out on him. He could no longer see his men and knew that even if he did slay his final foe, the rest of the Frisian horde would only swarm in and finish him off. As if on cue, about a dozen men were now standing behind their leader. Vitruvius smiled and dropped to his knees, slamming the point of his gladius into the mud.