“You what?”
As Cursor continued to ride forward, the last of their foes disappeared from his view. The sight that greeted him wrenched at his heart. He was at the end of the Twentieth Legion’s line, and all he could see were bodies, both Roman and Frisian. He recognized the Signum that still stood upright amongst the carnage. It was the Third Cohort’s Second Century. He gasped in realization as he saw, on the far left, his old friend, Centurion Artorius, slumped against a tree. Cursor quickly rode forward, practically leaping off his horse once he was upon his friend.
One could not even see the ground around the Centurion. Even the places that weren’t piled with bodies were still covered in pools of blood, gray matter, and bits of entrails. Cursor removed his helmet and knelt down next to Artorius, who partially opened his remaining good eye. The other had since swollen shut.
“Still alive, are we?” the Centurion said through parched lips.
“The gods obviously have a sense of humor,” Cursor replied, taking his hand. “How are you, old friend?”
Artorius was covered in blood, and his side bore a nasty gash. Cursor did not see any wounds that looked fatal. Still, Artorius was a frightful sight.
“I’m certain I look exactly how I feel,” the Centurion replied with a weak smile. His face immediately became somber, a tear forming in his right eye. “My men…you must take care of my men!”
Cursor swallowed hard and nodded.
“Trooper!” he shouted to the nearest horseman. “Take a dozen men and get all the bandages and medical supplies you can muster!”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. The trooper’s face betrayed the sense of shock he felt at the frightful sight of the Second Century. It was amazing that anyone was left alive in the carnage.
The clash between the royal household regiment and the famed Indus’ Horse had lasted but a few minutes. Dibbald had been struck from his horse almost immediately by a Roman lance, his body trampled in the onslaught. He felt little pain in his lower body and knew that could only mean his spine was crushed when his horse stumbled and fell on top of him. Lourens lay nearby, his eyes open and lifeless, throat torn out. His body covered in blood. Almost every member of his household cavalry had fallen. Bodies were piled around him as his men had refused to abandon their King, even though he lay dying. The Roman cavalry, having disposed of the King, now pushed to the far flank in order to envelope the now routed Frisian army. As his army retreated, one man made his way deliberately for him. It was Tabbo, his most beloved war chief.
“My King!” Tabbo cried as he dropped his weapons and knelt beside him. “By Freyja, what have they done to you?” He seemed desperate to put his hands on Dibbald, to offer some comfort to his master.
Yet his entire body was broken. Both arms and legs were shattered, splinters of bone jutting through the skin. His guts were splayed open and everything was covered in blood. How he still lived he did not know, but he knew it would not be for long.
“Tabbo,” he whispered. “My son is gone, and I go to join him. It is you who must lead our people now.”
“Please, sire…” the war chief started to plead but was quickly silenced as Dibbald painfully shook his head.
“You are the greatest of my war chiefs. They will follow you…I am honored to name you King of Frisia.” Dibbald took a few shallow breaths, his eyes clouding as they rolled into his head. He then refocused on Tabbo and gave his final words. “Do not let our sacrifice be in vain.”
Tabbo hung his head, his body trembling in sorrow as he felt his King breathe his last.
“Sire, the Romans are upon us, we must flee!” a voice shouted to him.
Tabbo nodded in his first acknowledgment that he was now King of his people. He then lifted Dibbald’s shattered body onto the King’s horse. The prize stallion had somehow survived the onslaught and had stayed loyally by his master.
“We will rally at the sacred groves of Freyja,” he ordered the few remaining men of the Household cavalry. “The Romans do not have the strength for a long pursuit. I promise you this, we may have lost the battle, but in this defeat we shall find final victory!”
As he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon one of the many wounded. It was Amke, niece of Dibbald Segon. She lay on her back in the mud, unable to turn over and crawl away. Her left arm lay crumpled across her chest, a horrifying gash running from the outside of her shoulder down to the inside of the elbow joint. Blood flowed from the wound. Tabbo rushed to her side and knelt beside her. Her right eye was swollen shut, the entire side of her face scored and a sickly hue of purple and yellow beneath the skin. A deep gash in her left hip was covered in clotted crimson.
“Oh, daughter,” Tabbo mourned as he lifted the young woman into his arms.
She winced as pain overtook her, and the King reckoned that several of her ribs were broken. Bodies of her slain sisters lay around her. The Daughters of Freyja had made a valiant, albeit futile, stand.
“We tried…” she gasped, fighting for breath through the blinding pain. “We tried to save the King…we failed…we failed.” The pain was too much, and Amke swooned in Tabbo’s arms.
He carried the girl from the field. She was the only surviving member of the Segon line, and he would not leave her to die in that pit of suffering.
Chapter XXI: Horror and Madness
The house looked deserted to the legionaries who approached it with caution. The stone wall surrounding the villa was just over waist high, and it was overgrown with moss and weeds. Where there had once been a gate, was now just a pair of rusted hinges which some rotting boards still clung to.
“I know this place,” Agricola said as he led a group of men from the Fifth Legion through the opening. In spite of his extreme exhaustion, he had insisted upon accompanying Alessio and his legionaries. The Pilus Prior of the Fourth Cohort was a friend of his, and he had to know his fate. Others were circling the outside of the wall and looking for clues that could lead them to the lost cohort.
“How do you know it, sir?” one of the soldiers asked as he pushed a cluster of weeds aside with his gladius.
The entire area between the wall and the house proper was an overgrown mess.
“It once belonged to a retired auxilia, who was also a Gallic noble, named Cruptorix,” the Centurion replied as he eyed the front of the house with suspicion.
The scant openings in the boarded up windows on both floors were pitch black and unnerving.
“Most of the weeds are trampled leading up to the door,” another legionary observed. “Someone’s been here.”
“Sir, we’ve got a number of drag marks and blood trails over here!” a Decanus shouted from off to the left.
Agricola had been in a stupor from lack of sleep, but now he was suddenly awake once more. He rushed over to where the Decanus was pointing towards the trees that paralleled the house about twenty meters away.
“Found a Frisian shield,” Master Centurion Alessio said, as he picked up the scoured shield. “Your lads made a stand here alright.”
The sound of loud banging on the door startled them. They looked over to see a legionary hammering on the door with the butt of his gladius while shouting to anyone who may be inside.
“I don’t get it,” he said, turning to the Centurions after his shouts went unheeded. “If they are here, why don’t they answer? The barricades on all the doors are still in place, so if they are here, they must still be inside.”
An icy chill ran up Agricola’s spine. He looked over at Alessio, whose ashen face told him that he, too, had the same sense of dread.
“It’s going to take a fucking battering ram to break in here,” a nearby soldier said in frustration.