“How can you possibly find victory in this?” Olbert asked, exasperated. “The Romans have beaten us, like they did under Drusus Nero!”
“No,” Tabbo replied. “They have won this battle, but our people are not broken. Look upon them, and you will see strength in their faces, despite the pain. They knew that this was the alternative to starvation, and they chose this path willingly. Do not forget that the Romans suffered greatly, as well. Exhaustion and casualties have prevented them from launching any kind of a pursuit. The legions should have been on our heels coming to this place, but look behind us. There are no soldiers, no clashing of metal coming for us in the night. We must strengthen our resolve, old friend. I do not think the Romans wish to fight us any more unless they have no other option. Unlike the time of Drusus Nero, this time we will lay out the terms and see if Rome accepts.”
Chapter XXII: Battles Won and a War Lost
There was a universal feeling of exhaustion amongst the Roman ranks. This was not the mere fatigue one felt after marching for a day in full kit and then building camp, nor was it like they felt after a day of drill or even actual battle. No, what the survivors felt was something beyond human endurance or comprehension. None of them knew their bodies could even withstand such punishment. The auxiliary infantry, who had flanked the enemy and were now trying to set up a screen line, found for the most part they were unable to even stand. The wounded were in even more dire straits due to their injuries and loss of blood. Some men fell to their knees and vomited uncontrollably; others fell down from dizziness. Even those who could stand wore vacant expressions and stared aimlessly at nothing.
As he lay against a tree, Artorius could not help but admire these men who had saved them. Forty miles they had marched in a single day and night. He knew such feats were possible, yet to do so and then charge into battle was something he would never fully understand. He turned and looked to his left. Bodies were everywhere, both Frisian and Roman. While the auxilia had been on their forced march, he and his legionaries had been in a murderous fight for their lives; a fight that, in essence, they had lost. Even the reserves that Magnus brought from the Fourth Century and led in a counterattack had bought them but temporary reprieve. Were it not for Tribune Cursor and his ten thousand strong, he knew all would have perished.
He then wondered how many had perished, and how many more had succumbed to wounds and exhaustion and could neither move nor call out for aid. His own injuries had gotten the best of him, though he still did not know how bad they were. His side did not hurt, yet his armor was split. It had taken a razor sharp sword with a man forcing all his weight onto it to burst through, and Artorius cursed that Centurions never kept their issued segmentata armor. The blows that wounded him would have never penetrated through the plate armor worn by legionaries. Though heavy and cumbersome, many more would have died were it not for their protective armor. The legionaries who had been slain had mostly died due to blows rendered in unprotected places like the neck, groin, or femoral artery. Only a handful, such as Legionary Carbo, had been killed by Frisians who actually were able to penetrate the segmentata.
Artorius looked to his right when he heard a loud groaning. It was the auxiliary trooper who had saved his life. The young man was crawling on his hands and knees towards him. His helmet was gone, his forehead split open and bleeding profusely. His leg bore a nasty gash, impeding his ability to walk. Injuries and utter exhaustion limited his movements to little more than a crawl.
“Sir,” the lad said as he collapsed next to the Centurion.
“You saved my life,” Artorius replied. The trooper could only nod, his eyes shut from the blood and sweat running into them.
“I had to make certain you lived,” he said at last.
“What do you mean?” Artorius asked, the man’s emphasis puzzling him. Why did he have to live above all others?
The trooper could not answer. At first Artorius thought he was dead, but then he saw the slight rising and falling of the man’s chest as his breath refused to leave him. Artorius winced as he reached over and placed a hand on the trooper’s shoulder.
A short way down the line, Sergeant Valens was on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably over the bodies of his beloved friends, Decimus and Carbo. Magnus was on a knee next to him, holding his friend close, tears flowing freely down his blood-stained cheeks. Those few from the Second Century still able to stand, desperately checked their fallen companions, tears of joy or sorrow following as they sorted the wounded from the dead.
At the end of the line, Optio Praxus took charge of setting up a casualty collection point for the wounded. In reality, every soldier in the Second Century had suffered numerous injuries; it was only a matter of who could still walk and those who could no longer. The soldiers Magnus had led from the rest of the Cohort assisted him.
“Sir, what do you want us to do with the enemy wounded?” one asked. “There are a lot of them mixed in amongst our lads.”
“Disarm them and bring them to the casualty collection point,” Praxus replied. “Bind their hands if they still pose a threat.”
“There’s no way we have the resources to take care of their wounded,” a legionary protested, “not with the number of losses we’ve sustained!”
“Shut the fuck up and do what you’re told!” a Decanus from the detachment barked at him.
As the legionaries went about their task, he walked over to Praxus and said quietly, “The lad’s right you know. We can’t possibly take care of all of their wounded and our own.”
“I know,” the Optio replied in an equally low voice, though his was borne out of fatigue rather than a desire to be quiet. “My instincts tell me they will serve us better alive than dead. They are brave men and shouldn’t be left to die in the mud. At least we can gather them with their comrades, to die together.”
Apronius was perplexed that he was still alive. His entire legion had been cut off and almost annihilated. He had personally taken a stand beside Camillus in order to protect the Legion’s precious Eagle from being captured. The quick reactions of Master Centurion Calvinus had saved both the Eagle as well as the Legate’s life. In the hours since the battle, he had managed to catch a little sleep and to wash and have a shave. Scouts reported that the Frisian’s were sending a deputation to parley with them, and he, at least, needed to make himself look like a noble Roman. He was anxious for this meeting, though not just to negotiate a cessation of hostilities. Rumor had it from several eyewitnesses, including Tribune Cursor, that the Frisian King himself had been killed during the battle, along with his only son.
His headquarters tent had been hastily erected with all the formal trappings. Appearance was important, not just his own person, but the camp and what the Frisians would see of his army. With him were all the senior officers in the Legion still able to stand on their own. Only two of the Tribunes were present. One had been killed, and the other three were badly injured. The Laticlavian Tribune had also been killed. In addition to Master Centurion Calvinus, only Centurion Primus Ordo Draco was on hand, the other First Cohort Centurions amongst the wounded, including Centurions Macro and Proculus. Tribune Cursor, the man who had saved all of their lives, was given a seat next to the Legate. This esteemed honor was not lost upon anyone, least of all Cursor himself. At length a legionary stepped in and saluted.
“Sir, the Frisian deputation has arrived.” Apronius nodded and returned the salute.
“How many?”
“Only four. They came to us unarmed, stating that their small escort of cavalry would wait a mile from our camp. They assured us there are no other forces with them.”