“Sir, our left flank is collapsing!” Rufio shouted to Artorius as they desperately tried to hold their position.
The Centurion turned back to the Cornicen and nodded. Just as the man started to blow into his horn a Frisian spear punctured his windpipe, bursting out the back of his neck in a spray of blood and bone. The man fell back, his horn dropping to the earth as his eyes clouded over. The horn landed amongst the tightly packed ranks of legionaries, several of whom inadvertently stepped on the instrument, smashing it.
“Son of a bitch!” Artorius swore as he pushed back once more with his shield, stabbing over the top with his gladius.
The Frisians were now pushing hard against them, and his weapon went right into his enemy’s mouth. The blade severed tongue and mouth, while shattering teeth as it plunged upward into the man’s brain. As Artorius wrenched his gladius free, he stepped back and caught sight of his Nordic friend on his left.
“Magnus!” he shouted. “The Cornicen is dead! Get your ass over to Vitruvius and tell him we’ve been overrun!”
The Norseman nodded, shouted some quick orders to his section, and then withdrew through the auxiliaries, who were struggling to maintain their position. The legionaries were being pushed back up their short step, and now they, too, were face-to-face with their foe. One poor trooper was grabbed on the shoulder by a towering barbarian and dragged over the top of the legionaries, where he was hacked to pieces by the rampaging Frisians.
Artorius’ shield arm was almost completely numb, and he fought hard to keep control as he felt the impact of Frisian axes and swords again and again. His sword arm had been cut numerous times and was crusted in blood; his, as well as his enemies’. He threw a left cross with his shield, the boss catching a Frisian on the side of the head, bones crunching underneath. He was so exhausted, his movements slowed, he failed to pull his shield back before a Frisian sword stabbed him in the upper arm. A shock went down his arm, and his shield fell useless from his grasp. In a rage, he lunged forward and wrapped his injured arm around the man’s head, where his arm was subsequently smashed by the flat of an axe. Three men grabbed hold of him, one yanking his head down by the crest of his helmet. Instinctively, he cut the chin straps with his gladius and his helmet was ripped away. The three warriors fell on him, knocking him to the ground. Two held his arms while the third tried to eviscerate him. In the fray of bodies, the Frisian could not get at his face or neck, so he repeatedly stabbed the Centurion in the side with his sword. His armor could withstand much, but this man was bearing down on him with all of his weight behind each blow. Links soon began to snap. In desperation, Artorius reached up with his right hand and grabbed the Frisian on his arm by the hair. He pulled the man’s head down and bit him savagely on the neck. The warrior gave a roar of pain, which Artorius echoed through his clenched teeth as his armor finally burst, and the Frisian sword bit into his side. He bit harder, tearing through flesh, foul blood spurting into his mouth as the warrior’s artery was torn in two.
His dying foe fell off him, feebly clawing at his neck in agony as his companion pulled his sword out for another blow. Artorius still held his gladius and swung as hard he could, smashing the pommel into the head of the man who held his other arm. It crushed deep into his temple. As he rolled to his side and shoved his assailant off, he was slashed across the leg by the swordsman. Then, over the deafening sounds of battle, came a war cry louder than anything Artorius had ever heard. One of the auxiliaries leaped over the top of him, driving his spear into the chest of the swordsman. His weapon became stuck, and he quickly drew his gladius as he stepped back and stood protectively over the Centurion. He then screamed in rage as another warrior came at them, driving his shield into the man’s neck. As the warrior fell to the ground, the trooper pinned the bottom of his shield against his neck and violently ran his gladius across his throat. In his now blurred and reddened vision, Artorius thought he must have decapitated the man.
“Dominus!” Magnus shouted as he ran up the slope.
The Fourth Century had just pulled back and were now trying to repel the Frisian counterattack. The Centurion shouted a quick order to his Signifier and rushed back to where Magnus stood next to the rear of his formation.
“We’ve been overrun, the entire flank has fallen!”
“Shit,” Dominus swore under his breath. He then nodded and turned back to his Century.
They had just executed a passage-of-lines and his fourth rank was completely spent.
“Third rank…action right!” the Centurion shouted. The legionaries in his third line immediately pivoted and started to step off towards them. Dominus nodded to Magnus. Magnus nodded in reply before turning his attention to the legionaries who now followed him. There were only sixteen of them, which meant the Fourth had been taking casualties as well.
“Let’s go!” the Tesserarius shouted as he raced back down the slope.
It was an unholy sight that greeted them, the legionaries with him gasping in horror. The gap was filled with Frisian warriors, with only a sliver of a Roman line remaining. The auxilia had been overrun as well, and formations had all but completely collapsed. Pockets of men fought together, but there was no line anymore. Magnus steeled himself and braced hard against his shield.
“Online!” he shouted as the legionaries followed suit. He took a deep breath, adrenaline and a lust for vengeance giving him renewed strength. He would save his friends or die in the attempt. “Charge!”
The war cries of the Frisians had drowned out Magnus’ order, and they seemed oblivious to him and his men as they smashed into the Frisian flank. Shields sent warriors reeling, gladii finishing the job. They rushed past where Optio Praxus and a single legionary still stood fighting. Then they found Sergeant Valens and three others with him. Gradually, they made their small formation bigger as surviving legionaries fell in on them. They were now at an angle to their original formation, with Magnus on the extreme right. It was he who had to step over the bodies of his fallen companions as they fought to push the Frisians back. The right of the Second Century’s line was mostly gone, with just a few auxiliaries left, and these were now in a fight for their own survival. In his peripheral vision, Magnus saw his best friend and Centurion. He was down on one knee and looked to be badly wounded, with blood streaming down his side and leg. A lone auxiliary was fighting in a berserker rage to protect him. The Norseman knew there was nothing he could do to help Artorius. As that realization came to him, their attack stalled. Even with the legionaries they had picked up from the remnants of the Second, his total force was, at most, twenty-five men. The ground was littered with corpses and wounded men, the whole area slick with bloody mud and gore.
This is it, Magnus thought to himself. We’ve done all we could. Now we must fight until the bitter end. As axes hammered his shield, he gave a great cry and fought with renewed vengeance as he accepted his fate.
Odin, let me be worthy of entering Valhalla. Today is a good day…
Chapter XX: Ten Thousand Strong
“Where the hell are those men going?” Tribune Cursor swore as he watched small groups of auxiliary infantrymen retreating.
Cavalrymen, individually or in small groups, were also lost in the scene of battle. There was no organization to be had in the dense woods. The fog was still so thick that the Tribune had no sense of direction, whatsoever. Only the sounds of battle oriented him to where he needed to be.
“The units are all scattered, sir,” a nearby Decanus shouted. “Individual companies have charged on their own. By the gods, the Frisian army is enormous!” The man was sweating profusely and trembling badly on his mount.