Conspicuously absent from the list was the Dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla, who though awarded the Grass Crown during the Social War one hundred years before, the scourge later placed on his name made listing him amongst Rome’s historic heroes in very poor taste. The legionary at last addressed Cursor directly.
“Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor, it is by your actions in leading your ten thousand forty miles in a single day, flanking the Frisian army, and killing the enemy King that you have saved the Twentieth Legion from being wiped out of existence. It is by universal acclamation of the men of the Twentieth that we present you Rome’s most sacred honor, the Grass Crown.”
The Tribune removed his helmet, tucking it under his left arm, and bowed his head slightly as the legionary placed the crown on his bald head. The soldier then drew his gladius and turned to face the legion.
“Twentieth Legion!” he shouted. “Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!” responded the host of legionaries, who had been deathly silent to this point.
“Salute!”
“Ave Cursor, savior of Valeria!” the Legion cried while holding their weapons high in salute to the Tribune.
Cursor drew his own weapon and returned the salute. He then briskly turned and left the field. He removed the crown as soon as he was out of sight of the legion.
As he made his way back to where his tent had been erected he saw an old friend, Centurion Artorius, sitting on a tree stump. Though he was still without a tunic, he did manage to get his cloak to try to keep off the biting chill of the coming night.
“You know, that actually looked good on you,” the Centurion said with a smile. “Makes one forget that you’re bald.”
“Believe it or not, the ladies like my smooth head,” Cursor replied, running his hand over his dome and wiping away a few bits of grass. He then stood and stared at the crown of grass that the legionaries of the Twentieth had just presented him. Part of him wished to throw it into the river, the other part to hold it close, lest it ever get away from him.
“How many men in our history have ever been awarded that?” Artorius asked, nodding towards the crown in the Tribune’s trembling hands. “A dozen, maybe?”
“I don’t deserve this honor, Artorius,” Cursor replied quietly. “The Fifth Legion is who turned the tide of the battle. My auxiliaries were spent and ready to break. Hell, numerous companies had already started to retreat when the Fifth made its crossing! This is a sham, I am no hero.”
“Yes, you are,” Artorius replied, using his vine stick to stand up. “You gave the Fifth the breathing space they needed in order to cross. Had you not hit the enemy in the flank so hard, the Fifth would have never gotten across that bridge. I know. I overheard their Master Centurion talking to Calvinus. They came upon a number of Frisian corpses just on the far side of the bridge, well past the end of our line. There were also a handful of dead and wounded auxiliaries. That means the Frisians were waiting for the Fifth. They would have ambushed them and kept them from coming to our aid. Were it not for you and your ten thousand, the Twentieth would have been ignominiously annihilated, and the Fifth would have been stuck on the far side of the river. Whether you wish to accept it or not, you are a hero, Cursor. You have earned your place in the annals of Rome’s most valiant.”
“And yet,” the Tribune said after a moment’s pause, “this crown feels like it is made of lead, rather than grass.”
Artorius gave a sad nod, understanding what the Tribune meant.
“It is a heavy burden you now bear,” he answered. “But know that your place in history is well earned.”
What Artorius could not know was that the actions of the Senate would undo the ultimate honor bestowed upon his friend. Were Cursor to know that his deeds of valor would be forgotten almost immediately, he would have been relieved. As it was, he accepted that no matter what posterity said about his actions, as long as the Twentieth Legion, Valeria, breathed life, he would remain immortal in the eyes of its men.
The following day was set aside to send the fallen to Elysium. Massive funeral pyres were assembled in a clearing near the fort. Nine hundred of their comrades were to be consigned to the gods; the other four hundred of the Fourth Cohort ignominiously burned within the house, they had sacrificed each other. Several smaller pyres were arranged around the perimeter to honor those of higher rank, with fallen Tribunes and Centurions placed on individual pyres. Sergeant Valens had requested one to honor his friends, Carbo and Decimus, even though they were but legionaries. He had gathered the wood for this himself, his simple explanation of why he wanted the pyre was readily accepted. He would see them off to the Elysium Fields together; friends in death as they had been in life.
Artorius also stood by one of those pyres, while several officers and men that knew Vitruvius best, gathered near. To Artorius was given the dubious honor of torching the stacked logs holding the body of his friend. A lighted torch was placed in his hands as he stared at the last remains of his beloved mentor. He refused to tear his eyes away as he thrust the burning pitch into the oil soaked logs. Flames arose with a roar, causing those nearest to back away. Artorius remained motionless while the flames carried Vitruvius away. As he stared into the fire, the men drew their gladii in a final silent salute.
Several hours passed, and when the coals were settling into ash, he scooped them into a small urn. He then sealed it with a cork and wax. Closing his eyes, he sent a last farewell to his dearest friend and turned away.
Chapter XXIII: Souls Broken
Even from a great distance, the flames of the burning manor house crept high enough to cast an eerie red glow upon the camp. Four hundred and twenty-seven men had been assigned to the Fourth Cohort, and every last one had been accounted for. Agricola had ordered their weapons and armor stripped from the bodies and the house burned over their heads. No pyres of honor amongst the other fallen of the Twentieth for them. As he watched the glow in the distance, Cursor knew it was because of the shame brought on by the disgraceful and eerie manner in which they had died, and they did not warrant any sort of honors.
The Tribune lay on his cot, thankful that he had not witnessed the macabre sight that Centurion Agricola and the men of the Fifth Legion had dealt with. He had his own issues to worry about. Hundreds of auxiliary troopers had been killed or wounded during the battle. The few who had been missing had been found; two who had been wounded had, in fact, been treated and brought back to camp by the Frisians. Cursor marveled that men, who had but a few hours previously been in murderous combat, were now taking care of each others’ injured.
“Tribune, sir,” a Decanus said as he stuck his head into Cursor’s tent. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Centurion Rodolfo has gone missing.”
“What in Hades do you mean, missing?” Cursor asked as he followed the auxiliary towards the edge of their camp.
Torches lit the damp earth at intervals leading down the makeshift path that led to the east entrance. Once the rest of the army had crossed with all the baggage trains, the Romans had been able to set up a proper marching camp, complete with trenches and palisade stakes. They exited the camp where a squad of auxiliary infantrymen stood guard. Though there had been a cessation of hostilities, it was an uncomfortable feeling being on the Frisian side of the river. The Decanus carried a torch and led the Tribune to the tree line a few dozen meters beyond their camp.
“Me and some of the lads were conducting a sweep of the woods,” he explained.