“Then get one!” Agricola barked. “I don’t care if you have to cut down the nearest fucking tree, get inside that gods damned house!”
Alessio shouted concurring orders to his Optio, who headed into the woods with twenty men to see if they could find a fallen tree.
“My apologies, sir,” Agricola said once they were alone.
Soldiers’ voices were heard in the background, calling out to the lost cohort.
Alessio shook his head. “Were they of my Legion, I would do the same,” he replied calmly.
Agricola shuddered once more. Though it was now midmorning, and the fog had since dissipated, he still felt cold.
Alessio started as a legionary grasped his arm. The soldier was visibly shaking in his boots. With a trembling hand he pointed to something hanging over the doorway.
Alessio pulled his arm way and looked askance of the legionary. In a whisper, the soldier started to speak, but a shudder of terror grasped his throat.
“What is it, man?” Agricola demanded.
“It’s cursed!” the man gasped.
Hanging overhead was a wreath of human and animal bones, intertwined and tied together with locks of long human hair.
“I have seen this before. It is used by the unholy barbarians to destroy men’s minds, causing unimaginable agony as their most terrible fears consume their thoughts.”
“Get a grip on yourself, soldier!” Agricola snapped.
The terrified legionary backed away, still trembling.
Within minutes, the Optio and his men returned, bearing a semi-rotting log that still looked heavy enough to break through the barricaded doors. The men made their way up the short steps to the front door. A quick series of commands and the sound of the makeshift ram slamming into the door echoed in the otherwise silent woods. Chunks of rotten wood flew off the ram with each blow, but soon the braces on the other side of the door snapped and gave way. Agricola and Alessio quickly ran to the door as the soldiers tossed the log aside. Agricola gave a sharp kick, opening the doors just enough to allow a man to pass inside. There were no torches available, and he stumbled over upturned furniture that had been stacked against the door. He stopped just inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Alessio and several men came in behind him.
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” one of them whispered, as he groped his way along the wall to the nearest boarded up window. “Here! Someone give me a hand with this!”
Two of his companions fumbled their way through the dark and with their gladii proceeded to pry out one of the boards. With a grinding snap the board crashed to the floor; the sight that greeted the men, as a dim light fell upon the room, caused them all to recoil in horror.
“What the…what the fuck happened here?” Agricola stuttered, his face clammy with shock. A slain legionary lay but a foot from him, coagulated blood sticking to his sandals. Bodies littered the floor. Laid out in neat rows was the Fourth Cohort.
“Sir, it’s the same all up there,” an ashen-faced legionary reported, coming down the stairs.
“Any survivors?” Alessio asked softly. The legionary shook his head in reply. He then removed his helmet and wiped his forearm across his brow.
“Seems the Frisians got to them after all,” the soldier said quietly.
“Idiot!” Alessio barked. “All the entrances were barred; I scarcely think the Frisians would have sealed the place up again! And look around. Do you really think the enemy would have just left their weapons and armor on them? Use some common sense, man!”
Agricola placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. Alessio turned to see that the Pilus Prior had not moved. His eyes were still fixed on the dead legionary, whose lifeless eyes stared piteously up at him.
“I did not mean that the Frisians killed them directly,” the legionary on the stairs explained, his eyes cast downward. He then looked into the face of his Master Centurion. “But they got to them, sir. Something scared these men into committing mutual suicide.”
“This can’t be possible,” Alessio said with a shake of his head.
“The bodies tell a different story,” Agricola replied quietly. “Look at them; all slashed through the jugular. They figured it would be a quick and reasonably painless way to die. Did you find the officers?” As he asked the question, he at last looked up at the legionary, who nodded somberly in reply.
“Yes, sir. All Centurions and Options are in the same room upstairs.”
“How is it that every last man in this cohort was convinced that this was right?” Alessio asked. “More than four hundred men and not one of them elected to fight for a chance to live! If they were going to die, they should have died fighting the enemy, not slaughtering each other!”
“What would you have us do, sir?” an Optio asked.
“Surround the house,” Alessio replied. “We need to figure out what to do with the bodies. And send for carts to come pick up their weapons and armor. No sense leaving them to the Frisians. Once we get disposition orders on the bodies, we’ll torch this damn place!”
As Agricola walked outside, he felt as if he were stepping out of a nightmare. Suddenly, he was very tired, and he longed to be away from this awful place. He stumbled through the broken gate where a squad of legionaries from the Fifth Legion stood guard. As soon as he felt he was out of sight, he fell against a tree and allowed himself to collapse to the earth. He dropped his helmet beside him and buried his face in his hands. After a few minutes he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over through tear-stained eyes to see Master Centurion Alessio kneeling beside him.
“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.
Though they were not his men or his friends, Alessio’s face was ashen. “I sent word to your Commanding Legate. My lads will stay here and watch over the place.”
Agricola nodded in reply. “Thank you,” he said. “I just wish I knew what could possibly have terrified an entire cohort into doing what they did.” He wrung his hands in frustration as he spoke.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Alessio replied. “Regardless of what did it, I say these woods are cursed, and the sooner we leave here the better!”
Word from Legate Apronius returned with the carts, giving permission to do what they thought was best.
The weapons and armor were quickly removed from the dwelling, piled in a jumbled mess as they were loaded onto the carts.
As the dwelling was emptied of all except the grisly contents, Agricola ordered, “Fire this damned building, now!” and stepped back.
The flames, encouraged by oil brought with the carts, eagerly began to climb the walls.
Agricola looked up and saw the horrible wreath crumbling in the rising flames as they consumed the dwelling. That last look would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Amke winced as Tabbo applied a bandage to her hip. The new King of Frisia had many such injured warriors to attend to, but he wanted to make certain that the last of the Segons would live before moving on. Once satisfied, he stood and gazed at the ghastly sight that surrounded him.
Families had gathered at the grove to assist in the caring of their loved ones. Cries of mourning echoed in the night as the dead were laid out in rows. Mothers, wives, and children sought in vain for many who were still unaccounted for. Tabbo had no way of knowing how many dead still lay on the field, though he knew the number was far greater than what they had recovered. And how many of their wounded were now prisoners of war?
“It’s a terrible sight,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see is old friend Olbert. A gash ran across the warrior’s cheek and he walked with a limp. Tabbo allowed himself a sad smile and embraced his friend.
“It gladdens me that you live,” he said quietly.
“And to you, sire,” Olbert replied, acknowledging Tabbo as his sovereign.
“It is with a heavy heart that I take that responsibility,” the King replied. “Much have our people suffered, and now I must find them victory within the sorrow.”