“Very well,” Apronius replied. He and the other officers stood as the Frisians entered the tent. Their faces were cleaned of any war paint they had worn before, and they, too, had taken the time to wash and make themselves presentable. A taller, better dressed man in the front of the small group spoke first. His right shoulder was bandaged and his arm in a sling.
“I am Tabbo, King of the Frisians.”
“No,” Apronius interrupted with a shake of his head. “Your King is Dibbald Segon. Where is he?”
Tabbo’s presence alone gave him the answer he sought, though he wanted to hear it directly from them. Two of the Frisians looked away, another bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep silent. Tabbo’s eyes bored into the Roman.
“Our beloved King has gone to join his ancestors, in a place where all the valiant pass into. It is by his own words that I am now King of Frisia.”
“Then you are welcome here, sire,” Apronius said. “May the gods of both our peoples bless this gathering.”
“Aye, may Freyja and Mars both find favor in our meeting,” Tabbo remarked in an extension to the courtesy given to him.
Both men knew the battle, though brutal as it was, had decided nothing. Now diplomacy would do what it could.
“I submit that we declare an immediate cessation of hostilities and allow both sides to bury and honor their dead.”
“Granted,” Apronius replied. He then nodded to Calvinus who handed a scroll to a legionary messenger.
The Legate quickly explained, “Those are directives ordering my men not to assault, either physically or verbally, any of your peoples while they collect your dead. I expect the same will be shown from your warriors towards my legionaries. You also have permission to retrieve your wounded from our custody.”
“Of course, honorable Legate of Rome.” Tabbo knew the real reason behind this show of clemency. The Romans’ resources were stretched dangerously thin just trying to care for their own wounded. He also knew that the Frisian wounded numbered in the thousands, and removing and caring for them would tax his own forces heavily. Still, he was grateful. It was fairly common practice when a smaller force defeated a much larger one; they would kill any wounded left on the field. The Romans’ magnanimity was not lost on him.
“I must also inform you that I have been given authority by the Emperor himself to negotiate on his behalf,” Apronius continued. “Any treaties or agreements made between us carry the full weight of his divine authority.”
Tabbo once more nodded in acknowledgment of the Legate’s statement. He then produced some documents from beneath the folds of his cloak.
“It is with a heavy heart that we have not been able to produce these for you before so much needless bloodshed,” the Frisian King said as he laid them on the table. “These are edicts, signed by the Magistrate Olennius. They are the reason our peoples went to war.” He continued to speak as Calvinus and Cursor each looked through the documents.
Apronius kept his eyes fixed on Tabbo, both men with their hands folded on the table.
“Our people were taxed to the point where we were starving to death, and still he demanded more. And when we were no longer able to pay, our lands, livestock, even our women and children were taken from us in payment.”
“Why were we not told of this before?” Cursor asked, looking up from his reading. The seals on the documents were all official, written in legal language that the Frisians would not be able to duplicate through forgery.
“We tried,” Tabbo replied, somberly. He then told of the messengers that Dibbald had sent, of their brutal fate and the ignominious flogging their King had received as a warning. “Frisia was once a loyal province of the Empire. As such, we were entitled to protection from threats both beyond our borders, as well as from within. Rome betrayed that trust. For our loyalty we were punished.” He paused to let the words sink in.
Though Apronius had yet to look at the documents validating his claims, he knew that Tabbo spoke the truth.
“Know that while I bear no ill will towards the people of Rome or the Emperor himself,” Tabbo continued, “my people will not return to the way things were. Our warriors are all gathered at a sacred grove, barely a day’s march from here. If you wish to return us to subjugation by force then meet us there, for you will have to destroy us to the last. Just remember the loss you have suffered here and how much more Rome will lose before it is done. How many more of your men are you willing to send to the afterlife in order to exterminate our race? And is death how the Emperor rewards previous loyalties?”
Apronius stole a quick glance to each side, catching the barely noticeable nods from both Calvinus and Cursor. Even Draco hung his head slightly.
“You give us much to discuss,” Apronius replied. “Return tomorrow and you will have the Emperor’s answer.”
Tabbo stood and bowed deeply before exiting the tent. Once they were gone, the Legate slumped his shoulders and let out a deep breath. He looked over at Cursor, who was still pouring through the documents.
“The Frisians have been a peaceful province for many years,” the Tribune said when he felt his Legate’s gaze bearing down on him. He then looked up and handed the edicts to Apronius. “They gave us their loyalty…and we fucked them.”
Artorius wondered if he would ever feel clean again. His body was sticky with dried sweat and flakes of blood, his hair matted to the point he could not run his fingers through it. The blood and grime came off his hands and body in clumps. He had removed his armor and tunic while a surgeon tried to clean his wound and stitch it up. He reckoned the gash in his side was probably the cleanest part of his entire body. Though he felt it would be best to put his tunic back on, the stench embedded into the garment was repugnant. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his waist, and his body had numerous other injuries. A superficial gash marked his left thigh, and his right leg bore a nasty bruise that caused his muscles to knot up and make him walk with a limp. His left eye was swollen shut, and he struggled in vain to open it.
He sighed and grabbed his Centurion’s vine stick from where his kit was piled together and used it as a walking stick. Dominus and the other Centurions from the Cohort had assembled in this area at the center of the line. No one spoke, and though he was beyond exhausted, Artorius knew he could not sleep. He instinctively went to strap on his gladius, but his shoulder where the strap rested was scoured badly and rubbed raw, so he left his weapon as he hobbled down to the river in an attempt to wash his tunic. He came to a small eddy where medics were retrieving water as quickly as possible with which to treat the wounded.
Artorius groaned as he knelt down painfully and rinsed off his tunic. He soaked it in the circulating waters and wrung it out a few times before he figured it was as clean as it was going to get, given the circumstances. As he made his way up the gentle slope, it dawned on him that in the fog and incessant dampness his tunic would never dry properly. He sighed as he returned to where the Centurions were now joined by their Options. He stopped and took a few deep breaths, suddenly light-headed. The surgeons had told him he’d lost a lot of blood and was severely weakened. He knew he had to lie down soon or else he would simply pass out. Artorius hung his tunic off a tree, hoping it would drip dry to the point that it would be wearable. Romans did not have modesty issues, and it would not have bothered him to walk around in nothing but his sandals, loin cloth, and the bandage around his waist, were it not for the fact that the damp air chilled him. He desperately wished for his cloak, which was across the river along with his spare tunics and the rest of his and his men’s personal baggage. A sentry’s alert made him immediately forget his personal discomfort.