She fell onto her side, her face half buried in the muck. Advancing legionaries stepped on or over her, their hobnailed caligae tearing into her flesh in places they stomped. She was unaware of the last legionary to step over her. He was the first one she had faced, and he noticed she was still alive. She never knew that he raised his gladius to finish her, only to shake his head and continue his march without driving his weapon home.
As the Daughters of Freyja fought valiantly in a battle they now knew they could not win, King Dibbald watched in sorrow. He could not see his niece amongst the fray and feared she had already fallen. Lourens scanned the battlefield for her as well, but now was seeing nothing but Roman shields and the few survivors of Amke’s regiment breaking and running with the rest of the Frisian army.
“My King, you must vacate the field,” Lourens advised the King. “I will take half of the household cavalry and counterattack the Romans. At least then we can ensure your safety.” He then turned and addressed horsemen behind him. “Half the men will escort the King to safety; the rest will fall in on me.” The warrior turned his horse about when he was stopped by the words of his King.
“No,” Dibbald spoke deliberately, and yet seemingly calm. “If I do not make my stand here, then I am no King worthy of the Segon line. The entire regiment will fall in on me. Lourens, you and I will lead the charge together. My son is gone, our line broken. If I am to follow him this day, then at least we will make a stand that will ensure our immortality!”
The warrior nodded with deep sadness in his eyes. “We will follow you to the halls of our valiant ancestors, sire.”As the finest horsemen in all of Frisia formed up around their King, Dibbald caught sight of the Roman cavalry. One of their regiments had wheeled around behind his army and was now bearing down on them. He recognized the standards of the elite Indus’ Horse.
“At least I will die at the hands of brave men,” he said quietly before nodding to one of his men, who raised his horn and sounded the charge.
Cursor and his group of picked cavalrymen were sweeping around the Frisian flank in an attempt to get behind the mob. The warriors, who had been to their left, once they charged into the fray, had been mostly killed or fled from the battle. His horse suddenly reared up in the face of a Frisian spear, only to have the warrior wielding it, cut down by a Roman lance. Cursor kept control of his mount and continued to move, hoping to find the rear flank of the enemy. At last, they turned the corner of the formation and pressed forward so they could get directly behind their enemy. Through the thinning mist he saw Indus’ Horse charging at a full gallop to their left. Meeting them, also at a full charge, was the Frisian cavalry. The sounds of men, horses, shields, and spears crashing together were muffled by the clinging fog. Though a brave and worthy foe, Cursor knew the outcome of this engagement before the first blow was struck. Julius Indus commanded the finest cavalry regiment in the whole of the Empire. The Tribune then realized why he had not been able to find Indus and rally his men. They were perhaps the only ones in their entire force who had not been lost and had, in fact, been right where they were supposed to be! In the absence of orders, he had taken it upon himself to go after the Frisian King.
“Sir, the enemy is reforming!” a trooper shouted while pointing to their front.
Cursor swore under his breath as the enemy, who moments before looked as if they were fleeing, was quickly reforming their ranks.
His feelings of euphoria at the sight of the Frisian King’s bodyguard cavalry being mauled by Indus’ Horse was short lived, for it looked like his ten thousand had expended their charge. Auxiliary infantry units were withdrawing as the Frisians counterattacked the flanking force. The bulk of his cavalry was completely spent as well, with men and horses now falling to Frisian spears.
“Damn it!” he swore as he and Centurion Rodolfo apprised their, now desperate, situation. “Even if Indus does kill the Frisian King, we are fucked!”
“No,” Rodolfo replied, pointing over the Tribune’s shoulder. “Look, the Fifth Legion has crossed over the bridge!”
Cursor’s face broke into a wide grin as he saw the standards of the Fifth gleaming through the fast thinning fog.
“Thank the gods,” the Tribune said, closing his eyes for a second. “Five thousand legionaries…and they are fresh, too.”
“What say we finish this then?” Rodolfo said, nodding with his head towards the rear of the Frisian army.
Cursor nodded slowly, his face contorting into a determined scowl.
“Form it up, online!” he shouted as the hundred or so horsemen he had with him fell into a long, thin line parallel to the Frisian army.
Cohorts of the Fifth Legion had unleashed a torrent of javelins into the enemy, who were now wavering in the renewed Roman onslaught. Cursor hoped that by hitting them directly from behind, he would break them. His men were beyond exhausted, and he knew they could only carry their assault so far before extreme fatigue brought on by forty miles of hard marching, combined with little food and no sleep over the past two days would become too much for them. Their tasking suddenly changed as Frisian war horns sounded in desperation, and the entire mass of warriors suddenly turned and began to flee in all directions.
Cursor grinned sinisterly as he shouted his next order. “Charge!”
The Frisians were now scattered and leaderless, the will to fight taken from them as the Tribune led the remnants of his cavalry into their fleeing ranks. He swung his sword in an underhand motion, catching a warrior underneath the chin. His spatha was almost wrenched from his hand as the weapon caught in the man’s neck while blood gushed onto the blade. Cursor jerked his weapon free, wrenching his shoulder. The enemy was escaping, some even jumping into the river in order to save themselves.
The Frisian flank had collapsed under the onslaught of the Fifth Legion and Cursor’s ten thousand. The Master Centurion rammed his shield into a warrior, knocking the man onto his back. He then brought the bottom edge of his shield down in a horrific smash onto his neck. The Frisian thrashed around violently, grasping at his crushed windpipe as he fought in vain for breath. The Master Centurion brought his shield down again, breaking the man’s skull with a loud crack. As they drew closer to the left flank of the Twentieth Legion, the Frisian army turned about and was now on the run. The trees were thick, and Alessio could just make out the end of the line of legionaries. He took a deep breath and slowly walked towards their position. As he did so, a Centurion from the Twentieth approached him. Alessio recognized the man, though could not remember his name.
“Centurion Agricola, commander of the Sixth Cohort,” the man said with a salute as he got closer.
“Thank the gods!” The Master Centurion replied with a nod.
Agricola was a fearful sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and clammy. He was trying to control his rapid breathing; swallowing in spite of the fact his mouth was parched. The front of his armor looked as if it had been through a slaughterhouse. In his dark humor, Alessio surmised that, in a way, he had.
“Your men have been through hell itself,” Alessio said with an air of reverence in his voice.
Agricola took a knee and removed his helmet. His hair was matted with sweat and grime, his face cut in numerous places.
“Sir, we need your help finding our lost cohort,” he said after catching his breath.