“Think we’ll see any real action today?” he asked Magnus, who was marching next to him in formation.
“From what the veterans have said, I kind of doubt it,” Magnus answered. “Sounds like these operations are almost boring in nature. Kill a few farmers, torch their crops, and then move on.”
“That’s what I was figuring,” Artorius replied. “Though, since neither of us has ever killed a human being before, it may be worth our while.”
Magnus gave him a searching look. “Anxious to exact your revenge, are you?” he asked.
“If only you knew,” Artorius answered. He was suddenly angry.
“Artorius, I’m your friend. And if I’m going to be able to help you in any way, you might as well tell me. What is it that burns inside of you? Everybody sees it. Praxus, Decimus, Carbo, heck, even Sergeant Vitruvius mentioned something to Statorius the other day. He said that in your little sparring sessions every week, which by the way makes me think you are either mad or have a high threshold for pain and a masochistic streak, you fly into a blinding rage each time you two come to blows. He said you mutter curses against the Germans, almost acting as if he is one of them.”
Artorius looked almost embarrassed.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Magnus continued, “Vitruvius thinks it’s productive. He just worries because you become so incensed that you lose focus. That’s why he thrashes you all the time. I’ve heard him say that you have more raw talent than any legionary he has seen in a long time. You just have trouble controlling your anger.”
“Alright,” Artorius said, “If you really want to know what fire burns inside of me.” He then told Magnus about how Metellus had been killed in Teutoburger Wald, the subsequent death of his mother, and how he promised himself that he would avenge their loss.
Magnus was fascinated, though by no means surprised. “I understand,” he said. “My ancestors in the far north were always involved in some kind of ‘blood feud’.”
“Make no mistake,” Artorius continued, “I think the army is the most honorable profession a Roman in my position can choose. When this campaign is over, I intend to make a career out of this. Right now, the hardest battle I am fighting is not so much conquering my hate, but rather using it to my advantage.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one,” Magnus said.
Artorius gave him a puzzled look.
“I don’t mean me,” Magnus said when he saw the look of confusion. “What I mean is; didn’t you ever think that maybe there are some soldiers in the legion who were actually there and survived Teutoburger Wald? Think about it. Tiberius welcomed the survivors back after the disaster. Chances are most of them are still around.”
“I wonder who they are,” Artorius pondered.
“That I don’t know,” Magnus answered.
They walked on in silence for the next few hours. Around midday they came to the base of a ridgeline. They watched as several cavalry scouts rode towards the marching column from the ridge. They closed with the First Cohort and after a short halt, started leading most of the cohorts around the ridge to their places on the cordon. The Third Cohort stood fast, along with the Second and the Seventh. Macro had briefed them all on their mission before they moved out that morning. Now Macro and the other centurions had ridden forward to work out the final details of the attack with the cohort commander. A couple of scouts were there, giving the finer details of the cohort’s sector. Artorius and the other legionaries could not hear what was being said. From the centurions’ gestures it didn’t look as if they were overly worried about how the operation was going to go. Soon the centurions rode back to their units. There they dismounted and had soldiers take their horses back to the baggage trains, where the Sixth Cohort was stationed in reserve.
“Cohort on line, skirmishing formation.” Centurion Pilus Prior Proculus called out. All six centuries formed up in a long line. The second on the extreme right, with the first, fourth, third, sixth, and fifth falling in on their left. Skirmishing formation meant that everyone spread out further than the usual interval, though they could form up tight if a serious threat suddenly materialized. Artorius looked to his right and saw Centurion Macro was the last soldier on the line. The Second Century would be the extreme right of the entire assault. Just behind Macro was Camillus, dressed in the traditional bear skin that adorned his helmet and shoulder guards. He carried the century’s standard, which he would use to relay visual signals and to act as a rally point in emergencies. As simple as this operation seemed, nothing was being left to chance. Standing next to Macro was Sergeant Vitruvius and his section. Next to them was Sergeant Statorius’ section. Artorius and Magnus found themselves right next to their decanus. Decimus was left of Artorius, followed by the rest of the section and, subsequently, the rest of the century.
“Post javelins and drop your gear,” Macro told his men. All did as they were told. “Every fourth man will carry one torch,” Macro added as Flaccus walked down the line handing out torches.
Decimus was the last soldier to draw a torch. As soon as this was done, Camillus gave the signal they were ready. Once all centuries had done the same, the signifier of the First Century signaled the other cohorts that they were ready. Once Strabo saw this, he sent the signal back, giving the order to advance. Soon three cohorts were advancing towards the ridgeline and the woods at the top.
Artorius watched as the wood line grew closer. Not a word was said by anyone. Most of the time he stayed focused on maintaining formation. This proved to be difficult on the rough terrain going uphill. His heart was pounding as they moved through the wood line. Towards the end, the order was given to halt. About three hundred meters beyond the woods was a broad expanse of small villages surrounded by farm fields. The crops had barely been sown. People milled about, working their fields or tending to livestock. There were silos containing what remained of the last season’s harvest.
“Doesn’t look much like a people bent on the destruction of Rome,” Magnus mused.
Artorius looked at him, eyes filling with hate. “How in Hades can you say that? These people are among those responsible for the Teutoburger disaster. They are responsible for my brother’s death. For all we know, one of those damn farmers could have been the one who killed him.” His breathing increased as adrenaline flowed through his veins. He did not care anymore that this was not a major battle they were facing. He only cared about vengeance. All were guilty. Germanicus had even said so. His eyes blackened as he grasped the handle of his gladius roughly, waiting for the order. He did not have to wait long.
“Gladius…draw!” Simultaneously, the entire cohort drew their swords.
Artorius seethed. People in the fields stopped and looked about for the source of the disturbance.
“Advance!” As one, the cohort moved down the hill at a slow jog.
The people in the fields looked horrified. There was no central organization, no way to sound an alarm and set up an organized defense. Many ran towards their homes, either in hopes of evacuating their families or to find weapons with which to fight the Romans. Others stood fast, either frozen in disbelief or determined to make their final stand where they were.
Artorius saw Germans on his left being cut down rapidly as the legionaries advanced. Farm tools were definitely not suited for combat. He watched as Carbo smashed his shield into one young barbarian’s face. The lad was knocked to the ground, and Carbo quickly finished him with a stab to the throat. Carbo was just two positions over from Artorius, but he knew better than to break formation to get in on the killing. Soon, barbarians emerged from some of their huts bearing spears or clubs. Even the women came out to fight alongside their men. The resistance was in no way organized, and each was quickly slain as they fought, in vain, to defend their homes.