“Achillia,” Magnus said anxiously, “where is she? Why is she not here?”
He looked to Artorius who, not knowing what else to do looked to the legionary that had bandaged up Magnus. The young soldier could only shrug. It was then that the master centurion feared the worst.
“We’ll find her for you,” Artorius stated, unsure what else to say.
“Damn it all,” Magnus replied, sadly shaking his head and fearing the worst. He turned his head to the side and stared at the mud-stained walls of the fort, not wanting to see any more signs of death.
“Master Centurion Artorius!” Vespasian’s words drew his attention, and Artorius pulled himself to his feet stiffly. The few minutes he had spent kneeling at Magnus’ side had caused his already battered and exhausted body to seize up.
“Sir?” he said, noting the messenger that accompanied the legate.
“Governor Plautius’ compliments, sir,” the man said, handing him a short note. “He says to let you know that you are relieved of command of the Twentieth Legion.”
“Relieved?” Artorius asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“Yes, sir,” the messenger replied. “Before his arrival, the emperor had sent word to Rome, demanding a replacement legate for the legion. Of course, the directive took several weeks to reach Rome, and the new commander almost a month by sea to arrive. He has assembled the rest of the legion at their camp north of the River Tamesis.”
“Understood,” Artorius nodded. “Who is it?”
“Ostorius Scapula, sir.”
“He’s a good man,” Vespasian acknowledged. “A pity we did not have him with us during the invasion.”
“Very well,” Artorius said. “I’ll ready my cohorts to begin the march as soon as they’ve rested and eaten.”
“Take an extra day to rest your men and get refitted with rations,” Vespasian directed. “Gods know they’ve earned it! And don’t worry, I will see to your wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” the master centurion replied. He then asked the messenger, “Was there anything else?”
“There was; Governor Plautius wished me to convey to you that he personally exalted your leadership, valor, and distinguished conduct to the emperor.”
It was still midafternoon, yet to Vespasian it felt much later. Every minute of the assault had felt like an hour, and he was completely spent. However, there was still much that required his attention. He made his way on foot once more down the main hill road, where at the bottom he was greeted by Tribune Cursor.
“A hard-fought but total victory,” he said to the commander of his cavalry.
“If I may say so, that was one of the most disciplined and well-coordinated assaults I have ever witnessed,” Cursor replied respectfully.
“It certainly did not feel that way at the time,” the legate noted. “I wasn’t sure how any of us got up that damn hill!”
“Discipline, tenacity, and leaders who know how to adjust to an ever-changing situation will overcome any defense,” the tribune replied. “I’ve also never seen anyone attempt to advance siege engines with their infantry, especially when attacking uphill. I don’t doubt that the efforts of your artillery crews saved the lives of numerous legionaries.”
“I needed this place to fall quickly,” Vespasian shrugged. “I couldn’t let it stand definitely against us nor could I risk suffering unnecessary losses trying to take it.”
“Well, take this for what it’s worth,” Cursor said, choosing his words carefully as he continued. “I have seen many campaigns in my lifetime, to include a number of sieges. I have also served under some of the greatest military leaders Rome has ever borne. And yet, not even Germanicus Caesar could have accomplished what you did today.”
“Your words mean a great deal to me,” Vespasian emphasized, “for Germanicus was one of my heroes when I was a young lad. I’ll never forget my father holding me up on his shoulders so I could watch the returning hero and his legions during the Triumphal parade.”
“And now perhaps you’ll be the triumphant general,” the tribune noted.
“Perhaps,” Vespasian grinned. “But of course I am but one amongst many. The victory belongs to them more than it does me.” He gave the cavalry officer his next orders. “I need you to scout to the north. The Dobunni kingdom is not far from here, and we do not yet know their disposition. They have trade relations with the continent, however, they are also bordered by several tribes who we know are extremely hostile towards us. Take one regiment and see if you can ascertain their motives. In the very least, make certain no enemy forces are on the move to attack us while we reconsolidate.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Magnus was carried by several of his men to where the field hospital was being staged, he saw her. He clutched the shoulder of one of the soldiers hard, and the man saw what had so vexed his centurion.
“Give me a few moments,” the Norseman said as he hobbled over to where Achillia lay, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg as the split muscle twitched violently. Two of Achillia’s archers stood watch over her body, but they stepped away, their heads bowed in respect. Magnus then collapsed onto his side and lay propped up on his elbow next to her. The spear had been removed from her belly, though the ghastly wound was now attracting flies. Her hands lay folded on her stomach, just above the gash. Her head was turned to the side, eyes closed. If not for her ruptured guts, one would assume she was sleeping. That she’d been stabbed in the stomach was an even greater symbolic loss for Magnus. The news she’d shared that had once brought him so much joy now magnified his sorrow. He cursed himself that he was unable to cry. The fact that the tears he longed for refused to fall added to his torment.
“The gods mock me in allowing me to live,” he said bitterly through clenched teeth. Unable to bear any longer the sight of the woman he loved so brutally slain, he signaled for his soldiers, who helped carry him the rest of the way down the hill to where a field hospital was being hastily set up.
Along the slopes, and particularly towards the very top, exhausted legionaries set about their grisly task of separating the wounded from the dead. Though losses were comparatively light when viewing the carnage they had inflicted, every man lost was both friend and brother to his mates. For the survivors, they were awash in conflicting emotions; jubilation and triumph at their victory, relief that they were still alive, sorrow for the loss of their friends, and repugnance at the sights and sounds of brutally killed and badly maimed. Several mass graves were being dug into the hard earth, where the corpses of the enemy dead would be unceremoniously tossed. Their wounded were being treated, if possible, though if their injuries were too great legionaries would simply finish them with a slash across the jugular.
As Artorius wiped down the blade of his gladius, he wondered if this was his last battle. He certainly hoped so! After decades of serving in the legions, he had grown tired of the suffering and death they had inflicted. He thought when he was younger he would grow accustomed to it, but this had been a foolish notion.
He was reminded of war’s abject horror as he happened upon a young girl, whose leg had been smashed by catapult stone. The leg was completely mangled with splintered bones protruding grotesquely. Though her face was covered in sweat and her breath was coming in rapid gasps, she bravely made not a single cry. Her mother held her head in her lap, tears running down her cheeks. Artorius watched as a legionary removed his helmet and knelt down next to them. His eyes were full of pity as he drew his gladius and rested the blade against the girl’s neck. She looked up at her mother and nodded pleadingly, hoping to end her pain. The woman then met the soldier’s gaze. Though they could not communicate verbally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod before closing her eyes and turning away as the legionary quickly slashed his blade across the girl’s throat. Torrents of warm blood gushed into her mother’s lap, who broke down in wails of a broken heart. The young girl’s eyes betrayed a sense of relief as her life left her, in a sense thanking the soldier for ending her pain.