“Out for a late night stroll?” Pilate asked, returning the salute and giving his friend a tired smile.
“Just thought I would check and see what the commotion was over here,” Artorius answered.
“It’s these damned tension ropes on the onagers,” Pilate said, pulling on one as he did so. “I’ve never placed a lot of faith in the construction of these small catapults.”
“They’ve served us without problems so far,” Artorius replied. “I guess that could have something to do with the officer in charge of them?”
Pilate laughed. “Come on, Artorius. No need to put your lips to my backside just because I happen to be a tribune.” He turned to faced Artorius, leaning back against the wagon as he did so. He looked at his old friend and sighed. So much had changed since they had left home. His old schoolmate was now a legionary infantryman, while he was a military tribune. “Has it really been so long since your father tutored us both?”
“Feels like a lifetime ago,” Artorius said, looking down. “This is definitely a completely different world than the one we came from.”
“Back home we could lay aside the differences in our birth and social upbringings. And yet we now live in this world in order to protect the other,” Pilate mused. “You know, most tribunes only serve on the line for six months. I’ve been gone for four years and have been home only twice during that time.”
“Perhaps you’ll get a third chance soon,” Artorius observed. “Surely our victory here will not go unnoticed back home.”
“I daresay not,” Pilate answered. “However, we still have at least one more battle to get through before we can go home and celebrate.”
“Have you ever taken part in a siege before?” Artorius asked.
“Only once,” Pilate answered. “I had the privilege of laying down an artillery barrage on a Cherusci stronghold when we went to liberate our ally, Segestes. However, the timing has to be perfect. The artillery needs to lift their fire at exactly the right moment as the assaulting element goes over the top. Otherwise, the enemy will have time to regroup and possibly throw back the assault. And if the artillery waits too long, well, let’s just say it could cause a number of our own people to have a very bad day. I take it you are going to be part of the assault tomorrow?”
“Yes, in the front rank,” Artorius answered.
“Be careful then. I’ll do my best to keep the barbarians off you long enough to get over the wall. After that, I’m afraid you are on your own.”
“We’ll be alright,” Artorius said. “The Second Century hasn’t lost anyone yet on this campaign, and we’ve had fewer combat related injuries than any other century in the legion.”
“Good, I hope you can maintain that,” Pilate said as he went back to checking his machines.
As Artorius returned to his tent, he saw Magnus and Praxus talking quietly and eating a small meal over a fire.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked his friends as he sat down beside them.
Magnus was stuffing his face with bread and bacon. Artorius laughed at the sight. Praxus also found it amusing.
“Just trying to help our friend Magnus here calm his nerves a bit before the morrow,” the older legionary replied as he handed Magnus another piece of flat bread.
Artorius looked puzzled. “What is it, man?” Magnus crammed the bread into his mouth and took a long pull off of his water bladder. With great effort he managed to swallow it all. He then took a deep breath before answering. “To tell you the truth Artorius, I’m afraid of heights.” Magnus looked downwards, as if ashamed. Artorius was surprised by this and had to stifle a laugh. “You mean to tell me that after all we’ve faced here, you’re afraid of climbing over a little rampart?”
“What can I say? I get nervous when I think about falling. And you can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit worried about tomorrow. After all, we are to be the first ones over the wall.”
“I never said I wasn’t concerned,” Artorius replied. “I just have a little bit of faith in myself and in those who will accompany me tomorrow.” He gave Magnus a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Besides,” Praxus added, “if you do fall on your head, it will only hurt for a second.” Magnus elbowed him in the ribs.
He was smiling and seemed to have relaxed a bit.
“The Roman auxiliaries are covering the rear of the stronghold and the treelines. They are supported by archers,” Ietano reported.
“With the legions to our front and the swamp on our flank, the Romans have us surrounded,” Haraxus observed.
Arminius was laying back with his head on a rock. He seemed to be only half listening.
Ingiomerus leaned over and placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “If we leave now, we can organize a breakout,” he said. “I can lead the cavalry straight into the auxiliary lines, allowing us to get the women and children away.”
“And then what?” Haraxus scoffed. “As dark as it is, our people won’t be able to see where they are going. It will be little more than a disorganized flight. And even if we do manage to break out, then what? Run away until we are hunted down like dogs? At least here we have a fighting chance, a chance to live!”
“A chance to be incinerated alive, more like,” Ietano retorted. “Have you not seen those throwing machines the Romans brought with them? They will turn this stronghold into a pit of fire and ash before they even scale the walls.”
“What say you, Arminius?” Haraxus asked.
Arminius’ eyes looked lost and distant. Clearly his wounds still affected him. After a minute he finally spoke. “Whether we run or we fight, we are damned. We will fight long enough for the Romans to commit all their forces to the storming of this stronghold. During that time, we will try to evacuate the women and children. I know many will refuse to leave, not wanting to abandon their men to die alone. If we are to die, then we will die with Roman swords in our guts, not in our backs!”
Chapter XXIII: The Stronghold and Final Justice
The legion was arrayed in full battle order. The First and Twentieth Legions had been selected to carry the assault, along with the two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard that accompanied Germanicus. The general himself was on foot and conspicuously devoid of his helmet. He was pacing back and forth in front of the assaulting cohorts. He was smiling and bantering with the men of the Praetorians.
“Is he really going to lead this assault?” Valens asked.
“That’s what it looks like,” Magnus answered.
“I guess he wants to make the Emperor proud,” Statorius remarked.
Were he still in the field, most veterans had no doubt that Tiberius would have led this attack personally as well, such had been his reputation.
“Quite a reputation to try and live up to when your adoptive father is not only emperor of the known world, but also one of the most aggressive soldiers to have ever lived,” Vitruvius remarked. The optio was at the left end of the line, right next to where Statorius’ section had fallen in at.
“I think he’s lived up to it admirably,” Artorius replied.
“He’ll get his chance to add to that reputation soon enough,” Praxus added.
“Yes, quite soon,” Vitruvius muttered to himself.
Horns sounded, and the legions tasked with scouring the woods around the stronghold moved out. This was also the signal for Pilate to begin his artillery barrage.
Arminius sat brooding, his back to the rampart. The wounds on his face and abdomen still troubled him. He reached up and felt the gash on his face. It was fresh and would leave a scar. That was alright, he had plenty of scars. His side was still bandaged up. He had packed the wound with medicinal herbs to speed healing and prevent infection; something he had learned from the Romans.