“It would seem that way when only a hundred men attack their entire gods’ damned army!” Cursor was beside himself, his anger washing away his fatigue, pumping much needed adrenaline through his veins. He then saw a trumpeter riding aimlessly towards the river. “Hey…you, Trumpeter!”
The soldier looked glad to have finally found an officer, and he quickly rode over to the Tribune. Cursor then reached over, grabbed him by the collar, and gestured towards an imaginary line that ran perpendicular to the river.
“Ride up and down this line, sounding recall,” he ordered. “Don’t stop until every last one of our men has reformed and we’ve gotten some fucking order restored!”
“Yes, sir.” The notes from the trumpet began echoing in the fog.
For those who were completely lost, it was something for them to orient on. Cursor knew even those who had panicked in the face of the Frisian hordes would heed its call. After all, there was nothing else for them on this side of the river. They had travelled forty miles in a single day and night, and the only way any of them were leaving this cursed place alive was to go the last few hundred meters and charge into the Frisian army together.
“Tribune Cursor!” a voice called.
Cursor looked to his left and smiled when he recognized Centurion Rodolfo, his horse at a full gallop, coming his way. The Centurion’s horse reared up as he pulled the reigns in abruptly.
“The infantry is reorganizing. They are forming up along the river in columns by cohort.”
“About damn time,” Cursor replied. “What of the cavalry?”
“They are far more scattered, but they seem to be heeding your trumpet’s call.”
Cursor galloped over to the front of the reforming auxiliary troops, holding his sword high to focus their attention on him.
“Auxilia of the Army of the Rhine! We have travelled far and hard together. Already you have accomplished far more than the best of men could hope, but it does not end now. Our way home is forward, straight into the bloody hearts of our enemy! Keep in formation…wait for my signal. We will charge together, and not only will we save the legions from destruction, we will snatch those rebel bastards’ victory right out of their grasp and send those whores’ sons to hell! Primo Victoria!”
A loud cry erupted from the souls of every last one of his men, piercing through the fog like the crystal rays of the sun. The Tribune centered himself on the cavalry, his trumpeter next to him. Cursor eased his horse forward, making certain he was at least a dozen feet in front of his men. They had followed him this far, and they would follow him the rest of the way. He turned and nodded to the trumpeter and then addressed his men one last time.
“Make ready to assault the gates of hell…charge of the ten thousand!”
A renewed battle cry was joined by the trumpeter sounding the advance. To their right, columns of infantry moved at a quick jog and the cavalry kept pace with them for the first two hundred meters. Once Cursor knew they were close, he signaled with his sword, and the entire wall of cavalry broke into a gallop, swords held aloft in anticipation of the necks that would slake their thirst with the blood and souls of the enemy. Instinctively, the formation moved into a giant wedge at the orders barked from the remaining Centurions.
His horse smashed into the packed Frisian ranks before Cursor even saw them. Luckily, the enemy was infinitely more surprised by the shock of an entire cavalry army smashing into their flank, and Cursor’s regiments had penetrated deep into the Frisian ranks before they could react. All around him he could see nothing but the enemy. To his right, he knew were the imperiled legions, though they were still masked by the fog. Quickly, he brought his spatha down in a hard backhand slash that cleaved through the spine of a bewildered Frisian warrior. The man fell forward, his head nearly severed as his neck was split from behind. The Tribune thrust his weapon forward, catching another enemy on the shoulder who had been too slow blocking with his shield. His sword seemed to sing in its lust for more destruction of the throng of terrified faces before him.
“The bridge is complete, sir!” a First Cohort Centurion shouted back to Legate Labeo. The northern bridge by his Fifth Legion had taken the least amount of time to repair, though it was only now, when the situation for the Roman forces on the far side had become untenable, that at least one of them was stable enough to handle the weight of legionaries in full armor. Sensing the completion of repairs, the entire Legion had been in a state of heightened readiness, armor and helmets donned with weapons at the ready.
“First, Second, and Third Cohorts will push out to the right and link up with the Valeria Legion!” Labeo ordered. “The rest of the Legion will deploy to the left and execute a right wheel into the Frisian flank!”
“Sir!” Master Centurion Alessio acknowledged as cohort commanders rushed back to their units and made ready to cross in force.
The men of the First Cohort double-timed across the rickety bridge, taking care as to not fall over the sides into the raging waters below. All remembered the disaster from the previous day as numerous auxiliary troopers had fallen into the torrential current, never to rise again. It would take some time for the entire legion to cross using a single bridge, and time was something the Romans did not have. Once his First Cohort was across, the Master Centurion ordered his men to follow him along the river bank. He directed the commanders of the Second and Third Cohorts to catch up as soon as their elements were across.
The fog was starting to dissipate, and the men of the Fifth Legion were anxious to get into the battle. The Master Centurion’s body was already soaked from the dampness in the air and the sweat of exertion. They could hear the sounds of battle ahead; war cries, screams of pain, and the clash of weapons all melded together in a symphony of horror.
“There it is!” a man on his left shouted, while pointing with his javelin.
Auxiliary infantry were pulling back, having been savaged by the Frisians when they attacked in too small of a force. The Master Centurion could just make out a handful of legionaries from the Twentieth. They had held!
His eyes narrowed, his breathing coming slow and deep as he turned and barked his next order.
“Battle formation! Javelins ready!”
The retreating auxiliaries were stunned to see legionaries approaching them. Exhaustion, and the brutality they had faced, struck most of them numb, and they hesitated, not knowing what to do. The Master Centurion made the decision for them.
“You!” he bellowed while pointing his gladius at them. “Reform, fall in on my right, and get your fucking asses back in the fight!”
Though still in a state of shock, at least one of the auxiliary Centurions managed to rouse his men, and they followed him onto the First Cohort’s right flank. At the subsequent order, the legionaries advanced. They no longer jogged, but rather moved at the disciplined march that came just before fury was unleashed. As they closed on the Frisians, they knew their Second and Third Cohorts would be joining them soon enough.
“Front rank…throw!”
For the Frisians who had just repelled the auxiliary assault on their flank, this latest blow proved to be too much for even the hardest of them. Javelins ripped into bodies of unsuspecting warriors, blood and filth spraying their companions in the wake of the screams of horror and pain. They had spent the better part of two days trying to destroy the legion in front of them, and now, before they could finish the task, fresh Roman troops were driving into their flank with disciplined ferocity. A wall of shields drove into them, toppling warriors in the onslaught. Their victory, once so close, was rapidly vanishing in the flash of legionary blades and the screams of the dying.