“The village is cleared, Calvinus,” one of the younger centurions reported.
Calvinus nodded to the man. “Good work. Once every building is alight, conduct one last sweep through the village as we head back to our lines.”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion nodded as he turned back to finish his task.
Calvinus looked into the faces of some of the men under his command as they executed their grisly task. Many were young, no more than overgrown boys, forced to accelerate the ascension into manhood through brutality and war. He saw one young legionary, his face twisted in blinding rage, splattered with blood and brain from a villager whose head he had smashed in with a rock. The man, like many of his companions, looked as if he were demon-possessed; though within minutes his composure returned, once the last of the barbarians were slain. Though he never spoke of it, the men of the Fifth Cohort knew their centurion had survived Teutoburger Wald, and for them vengeance was personal.
Calvinus remembered the other young faces he had once commanded. Seventy-two of his men had died in that horrible battle six years before. Besides Calvinus, only two others survived from his century. Of the men he lost, he remembered in particular, Metellus, the young soldier who had saved his life. Rumor had reached Calvinus that Metellus’ younger brother was now a legionary, serving with the Third Cohort. The centurion instinctively turned back and looked towards the glade they had passed through, which, ironically, was now occupied by the Third Cohort.
Calvinus never fully understood why the army had allowed him to retain his rank, moreover why they later promoted him to the command of an entire cohort. He closed his eyes as he remembered his fallen soldiers, his boys whom he had loved like his own sons. In that moment, any sense of remorse for the butchery his men were committing evaporated. The Marsi had taken part in the treachery of Teutoburger Wald. They had murdered his boys, and now they were paying their debts in full.
The Second Century marched back towards their camp in silence. As they passed through the woods where the battle had taken place, Artorius saw that the stricken barbarian still lay against the tree. His breathing was shallow, his complexion pale. His body and the ground around him drenched in blood and body fluids, but he was still alive. Artorius wondered just how long it would take for the man to expire completely and hoped it would be a long time. He saw that all Roman casualties and equipment had been removed from the site. Javelins would be redistributed later. The barbarian corpses would be left to rot. He saw that a pack of wild dogs were already fighting over one body. Artorius gave a nervous start when he heard a shriek come from the center of the swarm. The man the dogs were viciously devouring was still alive.
Decimus let out a short, mirthless laugh as he watched the man being savagely ripped apart. “Not exactly what he thought a warrior’s death would be.”
“Such is the fate of traitors and cowards,” Magnus added with contempt.
Artorius remained silent, surprised by his own lack of venom at the sight.
His thoughts turned elsewhere as they reached the clearing where they first came into the woods. There he saw Severus and a contingent of cavalry riding out from another part of the woods. Severus had his sword drawn, and it was covered in blood. Artorius smiled. Even though he had never met his commanding general, he admired him. Severus was an extremely competent general, and unlike many of the soft types that infected the ranks of Senatorial legates, he always led from the front. Germanicus had the same reputation. If his men were in danger, so was he. The Emperor himself had been notorious for his apparently reckless lack of self preservation in battle. Such men inspired aggression and valor from even the meekest. Yes, these were definitely the sort of men Artorius wanted leading him.
Germanicus was growing frustrated, as he was sure his men were. While the Marsi had been ravaged and were out of the war completely, his primary target, the Bructeri, had evaded him since the campaign began. Every time he thought he had them pinned down, they would vanish into the forests and swamps. His legions had smashed a few settlements, but these were rather small. As he sat at a table with the legates and auxiliary commanders, he knew further pursuit of the Bructeri would be in vain. The Chatti on the other hand, he had caught off guard and devastated, though most of their warriors escaped being killed or captured.
“What are your orders, sir?” one of the legates asked.
“We will reunite with Severus,” Germanicus answered. “As you know, we are not very far from Teutoburger Wald. Therefore, I feel it is imperative we go there and bury our dead.” He paused to let the words sink in.
There was some uneasy fidgeting from the legates, but nobody said a word.
“I also feel it is important for us to demonstrate to the Germans that we can and will go wherever we wish,” he continued. “The men also need to be taken to Teutoburger. Take them there; show them what happened to their brothers, and I guarantee it will renew their fighting spirit.”
“And what of the Bructeri?” another legate asked.
“They will have to wait till another day. Further pursuit of them is completely futile at this point. Our task now is to take care of our fallen brothers. We will then turn our attention towards Arminius himself.”
Just then a soldier came running into the tent. “Beg your pardon, sir, but you may want to come outside quick.”
It was already dark, the sun having set an hour before. Germanicus and the legates burst from the tent to see a group of soldiers shouting and cheering, clustered around something in the center of their group.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted as soldiers snapped to attention and parted out of his way.
“Only this, sir,” one legionary answered as he produced a battered but magnificent standard. It was adorned with a silver eagle on top, and the plaque underneath read: Legio XVII.
Germanicus gasped. How was it possible? The Eagle of the Seventeenth Legion had been found.
“We found it in a ravine, sir. Looks like it escaped capture and was simply lost. We were out on patrol when one of the men saw a glint of something shiny. So he jumped in to fetch it out, and here it is.”
“Who was it that found this?” Germanicus asked.
“I did,” answered a young legionary who stepped forward. “Legionary Gaius Clovius, sir.”
Germanicus put his hands on the soldier’s shoulders. “By Jupiter, you are now Sergeant Gaius Clovius, and you shall be handsomely decorated for this.”
Germanicus was suddenly filled with euphoria. It was an omen, it must be. A simple legionary just happens to stumble upon this sacred icon in the middle of this vast wilderness? Impossible! The gods must have decreed it. Germanicus was known to be highly superstitious and was overwhelmed by what he thought was sure sign of the gods’ favor. He looked to their foray into Teutoburger Wald with renewed assurance from what he perceived as divine sources.
Chapter X: Return to Teutoburger Wald
“Teutoburger Wald? Have they gone mad?” Gavius was beside himself. He had finally killed his first enemy during the last battle, a perfect throw with his javelin through the heart of a Marsi warrior. His confidence was later shaken by the news they would be heading back to Teutoburger Wald.
“Oh, come off it, man,” Carbo retorted. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid. It’s a forest just like the rest of this cursed land, with some added swamps for decoration.”