Chapter XVIII: The Weser River
Centurions and options mounted their horses and surveyed their troops. Legionaries hoisted their packs and hefted their javelins and shields. Macro and Vitruvius looked on, pleased at the sight of their soldiers.
“These are good men,” the newly promoted optio said. “They will do well.”
“They should. You trained almost all of them,” Centurion Macro replied.
“Cohort!” Centurion Proculus shouted.
“Century!” Macro and the other centurions sounded off.
“Advance!”
As one, the men of the Third Cohort, along with the entire army, started their march towards the Weser River. As they marched, Artorius surveyed the sea of armored men surrounding him. The army marched in step, the ground practically shaking with the force of their march. Shields and sword belts bumped leisurely against their armor, sounding almost like a cadence of its own. By Mars, how could Arminius even hope to achieve victory against such a force? Artorius had full confidence in his own ability to fight. Yet here were tens-of-thousands with similar skills and abilities. Moreover, they were tens-of-thousands that were working together as one. Praxus had been right; the strength of the Roman army lay not in the skill of its soldiers as individuals. Their strength lay in their ability to work together, to fight as one man. The Germans may have had them outnumbered, but Artorius never once doubted the final outcome of the pending battle. Just getting to battle, however, was a maddeningly slow process.
Artorius had not fought a German since their successful ambush against the raiding party the winter before. His sword arm twitched, almost as if it were suffering from a hunger that could only be satisfied by slaying as many barbarians as it could. He then looked at the meadows and woods they passed. The serenity contrasted sharply with the army of men and metal that bore their way through her.
Arminius sat on his horse, hidden in the woods, yet able to survey the river below. In spite of his warnings, warriors stood in large numbers at the edge of the water, shouting insults and waving their weapons at the Romans who were massing on the opposite bank. The enemy was lined up in neat rows, shields together, javelin butts resting in the ground.
“So they have come at last,” he muttered to himself.
“A blessing to finally be able to vanquish the Romans once and for all,” Haraxus said as he rode up beside him.
Ingiomerus was with him. They watched as the Romans started to unload wagons they had parked near the edge of the water. Arminius’ eyes grew wide. An artillery barrage would be devastating to the warriors on the bank below. Why did they never listen? To them it was like a sport to try and dodge the Roman missiles.
“Some lessons the stubborn will only learn through pain and hardship,” he said quietly.
“What was that?” Ingiomerus asked.
“Nothing,” Arminius replied. “Give it few minutes and we’ll see if we cannot get those fools to pull back from the river bank.”
“Scorpion crews, ready!” a centurion reported to Pilate.
“Onager crews, ready!” another shouted.
“Make any last minute adjustments to tension and elevation!” Pilate answered.
“Already been done,” Dionysus said as he walked back from the line of artillery weapons.
Pilate smiled. He drew his gladius and raised it in the air. Onager crews ignited their balls of fiery death. As Pilate brought his gladius down in an arc, almost simultaneously the command was shouted by all section leaders.
“Fire!”
A wave of fireballs sailed towards the opposite bank. Most crashed into the trees, starting small fires. A few landed in amongst the barbarians on the opposite bank. Pilate watched one burning pot hit a warrior directly on top of the head and explode. The man screamed as he was covered in burning oil. His companions nearby were also doused in fire. Pilate nodded to Dionysus.
“Scorpions…fire!” the centurion shouted.
A volley of scorpion bolts flew in a low arc at their enemies. A few landed short or sailed too high, though most managed to strike home amongst their intended targets. Screams could be heard as men fell, some on fire and dying. Another volley from each weapon system and the barbarians were running towards the tree lines behind them. The beach on the German side of the river was littered with corpses, some of which still burned. The smell of burning flesh and hair assailed Pilate’s nostrils. It was repugnant and exhilarating at the same time.
“Onagers, maintain harassing fire on the wood lines! Scorpions, clear shots only! Watch your sectors and keep your eyes open for any threats to our working parties!”
“Sir!” the section leaders replied in unison.
Pilate nodded to Severus, who in turn nodded his approval. The legate then pointed towards the riverbank.
“Working parties forward!” a centurion shouted.
Soldiers immediately came forward bearing lumber and tools and started to work on the legion’s bridge. Up and down the river Artorius was certain that similar episodes were being played out by the other legions. The Third Cohort had not been assigned to a working party. Instead, they would provide close security and be among the first across the river once the bridge was complete.
On another section of the river, one that was too wide for the Roman artillery to be effective, two brothers stood on opposite banks, facing each other. Chief Tribune Strabo and Master Centurion Flavius were among those sent to accompany their ally, Flavus, to his meeting with his detested brother. They sat back and watched the spectacle, while an auxiliary from Flavus’ unit translated the dialog for them.
“So my brother has come home at last!” Arminius shouted. “It is too bad that he has returned as nothing more than a whipped lapdog of Rome!”
“At least I maintained my oath, brother!” Flavus answered. “You speak of being whipped, yet it is you who are whipped. You claim to be a great war chief, yet you are the one who is a slave. You are a slave to your warriors and their lust! You are nothing but a figurehead, you have no real power!”
“I am loyal to my tribe and my family! You, my brother, are loyal only to how much the Romans pay you!”
All the while, Arminius could not help but stare at the scar on his brother’s face, and the fact that he was missing an eye.
“Do tell, brother,” he said at length, his voice softening slightly, “when was it you received such a fearful wound to your face?”
“Several years ago, while serving under Tiberius. I took a spear to the face while saving the life of one of my wounded troopers.”
“And how did the Romans compensate you for such disfigurement?” Arminius found himself intrigued to hear the story of his brother’s plight.
“I have since been promoted to command of an ala of cavalry, with a significant increase in pay. I received the Silver Torque for Valor for my actions that day. And for saving the trooper’s life, I was awarded the Civic Crown.”
“A crown of oak leaves?” Arminius scoffed. “That was your reward for being permanently disfigured? What a paltry recompense for having enslaved yourself! You are certainly one to be envied!” 1 The sarcasm and disdain ran deep in his voice.
“As is your wife,” Flavus retorted. “She has been treated fittingly by the Romans as a guest rather than a conquest.”
He watched as Arminius’ face twitched and his complexion reddened at the mention of Thusnelda.
“Rome is the light in the darkness of this world!” Flavus continued. “Mercy and a return to friendship await those who surrender and repent of their crimes. Only death will you bring to those who stand by you in defiance of the Empire! The Romans seek neither plunder nor slaves, only revenge. You know this. They will spare no one. All will be burned in their wake… every last person slain. Such is the punishment of vanquished traitors!”