Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (26 page)

The young legionary then turned and found himself face to face with Sergeant Valens.

“What the
hell, Gaius?” the Decanus asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.

“Valens, the man has been badly hurt and is of no threat,” Gaius answered, temporarily forgetting that Valens was no longer a fellow legionary but now his superior.

The Decanus seemed not to notice the slip in protocol. The archers were heading back to the line, and Valens’ squad was withdrawing. As they walked back, Gaius felt the eyes of the Decanus on him.

“Don’t ask me why I did it,” he said at last. “To tell you the truth I have no idea. It’s just
, when I saw that man stricken and helpless, I thought of what I would want someone to do were I in his position.”

“Well
, at least water is the one thing we have plenty of,” Valens added, stepping into a puddle as if to emphasize. “Still, if you didn’t like watching him suffer you could have just killed him.”

“I could have,” Gaius agreed. “But I cannot kill someone who poses no threat to us.”

As Valens walked back to the lines he thought to himself,
what have we done that takes the humanity out of our young men? Was I ever that young and innocent?
He trudged on, not liking his thoughts.

Chapter XIX: When the Heroes Fall

***

Dawn brought a thinning of the fog, allowing a red glow from the rising sun to bathe the battlefield in a bloody light. Skirmishing and testing of the lines had begun in the false dawn during the previous hour. The Legion and the Frisian army were at a standoff. Vitruvius was worried about the extreme toll the frenetic pace of the battle was having on his men. Even when they were in the back of the formation, they still had to exert themselves trying to push back against the ever-pressing mass of Frisian warriors. They were mostly fresh, while his legionaries were hungry and exhausted.

“Hold this position!” he ordered his Signifier. The Pilus Prior then moved to behind the formation and sought out
Centurion Dominus who was somewhere on his right. Vitruvius waved him over and told him his plan. “We need to break these bastards, and we need to do it now. At my command the First and Fourth Centuries will compress into a tight wedge formation on me. I will lead us out of this gods be damned nightmare.”

Dominus’ eyes grew wide.

“Vitruvius, such a plan will be suicidal for you!” he protested. “The Frisians are deliberately targeting Centurions and Options, knowing their importance. I beg you not to place yourself at the apex of the wedge.”

Vitruvius smiled and shook his head.

“What kind of leader would I be if I placed one of my men in the most precarious position?” he replied calmly. “My life is of no more importance than my most junior legionary. Just make certain you stay alert for word from Artorius and the Second. With as bad as we’re taking it, his men have to be going through hell.”

Dominus grimaced and nodded. He then quickly stepped back to his place on the line.

“Fourth Century, make ready to advance!”

Vitruvius wiped a rag across his brow and made his way back to the First Century. There was a sense of calm about the
Centurion. The Frisians had backed off slightly and were goading the Romans to come at them. Every last man in the Third Cohort was breathing heavily and completely spent. Vitruvius knew this was his last chance to save them. The fog was clearing from the morning sun, but brought the sight of packed enemy warriors in all directions.

“First and Fourth Centuries!”
he shouted with a voice that pierced the remaining rags of fog and was heard throughout the battlefield.
“Wedge formation…on me!”

The command was echoed to his left and right. Quickly the legionaries collapsed towards the center, linking their shields together. Those in the subsequent ranks closed up, pressing their shields against their brothers in the front rank.
A loud shout came from one of the Frisian leaders, and they immediately started to back up. Vitruvius’ eyes narrowed as he set into his fighting stance, ready to spring.

Prince Klaes was inspired by the Romans’ tenacity. He was certain that after the sleepless night and the loss of an entire cohort to mutual slaughter, those who remained would be easily dealt with. It was not to be. He knew his enemy had to be close to the breaking point, though with nowhere for them to run, they would fight to the very last. The Frisian prince almost felt a sense of camaraderie for his foe, given their tenacity and bravery. In spite of the terror that that bastard Olennius had visited on his people, he could not find it in him to hate the Romans he now faced. He would kill them, yes, but without malice or wrath.

The burly
Centurion who the legionaries now clustered on particularly impressed the prince. The man was a killing machine, and Klaes knew who he was. It was the legendary Centurion Marcus Vitruvius, thought by many to be an invincible demigod. Klaes decided to put the Roman’s reputation to the ultimate test.
Sjoerd and Eitel were with him, with Sjoerd carrying a large two-handed war hammer. He then motioned for two burly warriors to join him. Klaes pointed his weapon towards the Centurion, who was barking subsequent orders to his legionaries.

“Let that one through,” the prince ordered his men, who nodded in reply. A number of them swallowed hard as they braced for the impact of the Romans’ charge. Klaes let out a loud war cry, which his warriors quickly echoed as they charged in turn.

Vitruvius gritted his teeth as every muscle in his body tensed for the pending impact. Instead
, he flew right through the Frisian line, which parted before him. He went another few meters before stopping. The enemy had smashed into his men, but not him. There was an empty circle in the mass of warriors. Within it were five men. He then realized what they had done, and he could not help but smile at their ingenuity. He limbered up his sword arm and let out a sigh.

“Five against one…n
ot bad odds,” the Centurion observed loudly. The enemy leader grinned, for he spoke perfect Latin. The men started to circle him like a pack of wolves stalking a stricken calf. But Vitruvius was no calf. He took the initiative and bounded forward, catching one of the warriors with his shield. Instead of following up on the man he just knocked down, he sidestepped and thrust his gladius hard, catching another one of the men in the stomach that gushed blood and bile as he withdrew his sword with a twist. He then stepped away as a large man with a hammer swung his weapon hard, catching Vitruvius’ shield and knocked him back a pace with a grunt.

Klaes flinched as he watched one of his men fall to the Centurion’s sword thrust. Though he made not a sound, he was stabbed through the stomach and would die slowly, in extreme pain. Eitel lumbered to his feet, having been knocked down by the Roman’s initial shield charge.

“
Attack together,” the prince ordered calmly. “He cannot possibly hold us all off.” He then moved forward, swinging hard with his war axe as Sjoerd gave another mighty swing with his hammer.

In a surprise move
, the Roman fell flat onto his stomach, the unstoppable hammer slamming into the chest of another warrior with an audible crunch, his chest crushed and bone splinters piercing the heart. Eitel brought his sword down hard, catching the Roman on the back of the thigh as he stumbled to his feet. Nonplused, Sjoerd back swung the hammer, impacting hard onto the Centurion’s helmet, tearing it from his head and leaving a bloody gash.  Part of his scalp had ripped and blood flowed freely from the wound.

Soldiers of the Third Cohort fought desperately to break out against the pressing mass of Frisian warriors. Those closest to the center could catch glimpses of their revered Cohort Commander fighting for his life against a group of Frisians.

“We’ve stalled!” shouted the Signifier of the First Century. “Our charge has failed
, we must withdraw!”

“Sir, we cannot leave Vitruvius!” a nearby Decanus shouted back as he thrust his gladius into the throat of a warrior to his front
, abruptly cutting off the man’s war scream.

In such cramped quarters the Romans had a distinct advantage
, and the Frisians were paying heavily for their stubborn determination. Still, the already spent legionaries were expending what was left of their energy at an alarming rate, and the Signifier knew they could not last much longer. It was then that he saw his Centurion’s helmet fly from his head as a hammer blow sent Vitruvius to his knees.

“No!”
the man screamed as they desperately tried to break through.

A warrior was pressed up against his shield. The two men were face to face
, and the Signifier could smell his enemy’s rank breath as they struggled. The Frisian carried a spear and was unable to get his weapon free as the Signifier brought his gladius up and quickly ran it across the man’s neck, severing the artery and windpipe in a red, frothy mist. Even as the body fell he still gained no reprieve, as many more enemies were bearing down on them. One caught the Signifier in the thigh with a spear thrust, sending him limping backwards as he fought to suppress a groan of pain. Fatigue was taking its toll on the legionaries and with their reflexes considerably slowed, the Frisians were able to exploit and inflict casualties. The carnage on both sides was horrific, along with the screams and groans of the wounded and dying.

Vitruvius tried to clear the cobwebs from his head as he guided his shield protectively back and forth while he was down on one knee. As he stood his back leg started to cramp on him. Blood was also running down the side of his head from where his helmet had crumpled. At least it wasn’t running into his eyes, and he could still see. Two of his adversaries lay dead, but he was visibly shaken and hobbled by the wound to his leg. The leader with the hand axe came at him again, while the warrior with the short sword attacked him from his right. Vitruvius blocked both blows with his shield and gladius, immediately smashing the leader in the shin with the bottom of his shield, then swinging it in a hard arc, catching the swordsman on the temple. As the warrior fell onto his face, Vitruvius stabbed him through the neck with a satisfying crunch as the razor sharp blade severed his vertebrae. He then felt the wind taken from him as a giant hammer slammed into his back, knocking him down and over the warrior he had just slain. His shield fell from his hand, which was now numb, though thankfully he still held his sword.

The
Centurion rolled onto his side as both men rushed towards him. He released his gladius and quickly drew his dagger, which he flung with deadly accuracy into the hairy belly of the huge warrior with the hammer, who had his weapon high and was ready to smash once more. A hair raising scream erupted as his war hammer dropped from his fingers as a glance down showed his doom. Before he could react further, an axe caught him on his sword arm, opening a terrible gash. Amazingly, it still functioned, and he lifted and swung his gladius in a hard backslash to keep his opponent away as he labored to his feet once more. Blood now covered the back of Vitruvius’ leg and his sword arm was dripping blood freely as well, his back a flame of agony. As he faced the Frisian leader, he marveled in the fact that during his entire tenure in the legions he had never so much as been scratched in combat. Now he was bleeding from multiple wounds, his left arm was broken and useless, and he wondered just how much longer before his sword arm gave out on him. He could no longer see his men and knew that even if he did slay his final foe, the rest of the Frisian horde would only swarm in and finish him off. As if on cue, about a dozen men were now standing behind their leader. Vitruvius smiled and dropped to his knees, slamming the point of his gladius into the mud.

“Alright,” he
gasped. “You win.” The enemy leader smiled and nodded. Klaes then came forward and stood in front of the Centurion, a sneer crossing his lips as he raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. Vitruvius grimaced as he pulled his weapon from the mud with all his remaining strength, and with superhuman effort, rammed his weapon underneath the ribcage of his opponent up to the hilt. The falling axe still managed to slash the side of his neck, which for Vitruvius was perfect timing. He wanted this man to be the one who killed him. With his strength fading fast, he reached up with his left hand, which somehow managed to function at the last, grabbed the stricken Frisian by the shoulder as he was collapsing, and pulled him down to his knees in front of him. The man’s eyes were wide with shock and the stark realization that he was a dead man. His gaze was locked on the face of the man that had slain him, blood streaming from a corner of his gapping mouth.

“No,” Vitruvius whispered as he dragged his victim’s head closer and his breath became ragged gasps and bloody spittle escaped from his lips. “We’ll call it a draw.”

Thus did Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius pass into the afterlife; never having been defeated in single combat. His men, who witnessed this passing, bemoaned his loss. Yet they were unable to come to his aid, even in death. The Optio of the Fourth Century finally gave the order to pull back. The Cohort had paid dearly for their bravado, though they withdrew slowly, recovering their dead and wounded lest another one of them be left behind. A few managed to catch a brief glimpse of the Frisians carrying away the body of their commander. It baffled them that Vitruvius was not left where he fell, or worse, defiled and mutilated. It almost seemed as if their enemy was showing great reverence to the slain Centurion. Six Frisian warriors carried Vitruvius’ shattered body high on their shoulders in an unmistakable sign of respect.

Vitruvius had been right.
On the flank, the Second Century was indeed going through a brutal hell. A hand axe caught Gaius flush on the side of his helmet, sending him to his knees. The Frisian paid with his life as one of his fellow legionaries struck the man down with a stab to the throat. The blow left a bad cramp in his neck, and his helmet was creased and cutting into his scalp. He quickly undid the leather cords under his chin and tore the helmet off. The legionary to his right fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his face as blood and grey matter gushed from an axe wound. The one who had just saved him was knocked back as he fought the onslaught of several attackers. Still on his knees with his shield protecting his front, Gaius glanced to his right and saw the stricken legionary’s legs twitch and then stop. Enemy warriors were stomping and climbing past him to continue their attack.