Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (31 page)

Artorius wondered if he would ever feel clean again. His body was sticky with dried sweat
and flakes of blood, his hair matted to the point he could not run his fingers through it. The blood and grime came off his hands and body in clumps. He had removed his armor and tunic while a surgeon tried to clean his wound and stitch it up. He reckoned the gash in his side was probably the cleanest part of his entire body. Though he felt it would be best to put his tunic back on, the stench embedded into the garment was repugnant. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his waist, and his body had numerous other injuries. A superficial gash marked his left thigh, and his right leg bore a nasty bruise that caused his muscles to knot up and make him walk with a limp. His left eye was swollen shut, and he struggled in vain to open it.

He sighed and grabbed his
Centurion’s vine stick from where his kit was piled together and used it as a walking stick. Dominus and the other Centurions from the Cohort had assembled in this area at the center of the line. No one spoke, and though he was beyond exhausted, Artorius knew he could not sleep. He instinctively went to strap on his gladius, but his shoulder where the strap rested was scoured badly and rubbed raw, so he left his weapon as he hobbled down to the river in an attempt to wash his tunic. He came to a small eddy where medics were retrieving water as quickly as possible with which to treat the wounded.

Artorius
groaned as he knelt down painfully and rinsed off his tunic. He soaked it in the circulating waters and wrung it out a few times before he figured it was as clean as it was going to get, given the circumstances. As he made his way up the gentle slope, it dawned on him that in the fog and incessant dampness his tunic would never dry properly. He sighed as he returned to where the Centurions were now joined by their Options. He stopped and took a few deep breaths, suddenly light-headed. The surgeons had told him he’d lost a lot of blood and was severely weakened. He knew he had to lie down soon or else he would simply pass out. Artorius hung his tunic off a tree, hoping it would drip dry to the point that it would be wearable. Romans did not have modesty issues, and it would not have bothered him to walk around in nothing but his sandals, loin cloth, and the bandage around his waist, were it not for the fact that the damp air chilled him. He desperately wished for his cloak, which was across the river along with his spare tunics and the rest of his and his men’s personal baggage. A sentry’s alert made him immediately forget his personal discomfort.

“Frisian contingent approaching!” a Decanus shouted from the skirmish line.

With no tools or palisade stakes it was impossible to set up a proper defense and this deeply concerned the Centurions, even though they knew their commanding general was in meetings with the Frisian King himself.

“How many?” Dominus asked, rising to his feet.

“About two score,” the Decanus of the watch replied over his shoulder. “Half of them are carrying torches…it looks like…I can’t tell what it is they are carrying.”

Artorius, Dominus, and the other
Centurions walked over to where the Decanus stood. The Frisians with the torches marched alongside others who carried what looked like a wooden bier on their shoulders. The Romans then noticed the body that lay reverently on top.

“Come to bring us one of their dead?” the Decanus asked.

Artorius slowly shook his head as a chill went up his spine.

“That is no Frisian they carry,” he replied.

Indeed
, it was not one of their warriors that the Frisians bore. As they approached and silently lowered their burden, the Romans stood wide-eyed, they saw the body of their lost friend and fellow Centurion, Marcus Vitruvius. The blood had been washed away from his wounds, his hands folded reverently across his chest, holding his gladius against his body. His Centurion’s helm smashed and with a broken crest, lay next to him.

“We return this bravest of warriors to his people,” the lead Frisian said in thickly accented Latin. “Prince Klaes, heir to the throne of Frisia, f
ell by his hand, along with four of our best warriors. It is in keeping with our customs that we honor such heroic valor.” With a bow the Frisians turned and slowly walked away.

Artorius had both of his eyes shut, fighting against his tears.

“Sir,” a soldier said behind him. “The list of our dead.”

He turned to see one of his legionaries holding a scrap of paper. Artorius’ soul ruptured as
he read the names of all of his men who were killed during the battle, and now he sunk further into despair, seeing for himself the body of his fallen friend and mentor.

He
fell to a knee and lowered his head, placing a trembling hand on Vitruvius’ now cold hands. Artorius had always believed that the man who had taught him everything he knew about close combat was invincible. For all his years in the army, numerous campaigns, and countless foes bested, Vitruvius had never been so much as scratched. Now he lay cold and lifeless, his body battered and scored, his neck slashed with the same type of wound that had killed poor Gaius Longinus. Artorius stayed there for some time, head down, and senses numb. As badly as he wanted to cry for his friends, no tears would come, though his heart was torn apart by their loss.

Valens walked the field in a
daze, his eyes swollen and red. Large numbers of Frisian warriors walked around him, intermixed with legionaries and auxiliary troopers, though their purpose now was to retrieve their fallen brothers rather than fight each other anymore. He saw many expressions on their faces that told stories of shared sorrows. The warriors who had died on legionary blades had meant just as much to these men as Carbo and Decimus had meant to Valens. He glanced over to his left and saw two warriors bending down to help up one of their wounded who lay against a tree. The Decanus immediately recognized the man as the very one who Gaius had given water to the night before. He was amazed that the Frisian had not only lived through the night, but survived the battle. Valens walked over to the man, who was now standing upright, though propped up by his friends. The warrior recognized him and nodded, to which Valens did in return.

“Your…warrior,
” the Frisian said. He knew little Latin, his fatigue and injuries making it difficult for him to find the right words. “One who…gave water.”

“He’s gone,” Valens replied. When the man did no
t seem to understand, he swallowed and uttered the word he knew the Frisian would understand.
“Dead.
Legionary Gaius Longinus is with the gods now.”

The warrior closed his eyes tightly
, almost as if he were sorry for Gaius’ loss.

“I…,” he started to say. “I will…
honor
him.” The warrior looked up, gritted his teeth, and nodded in determination. His body sagged as weariness and pain overtook him.

His companions picked him up and carried him from the scene of death. Valens stood and watched until the men were lost amongst the crowds who came to claim their fallen.

“Are you alright, Sergeant?” the voice startled Valens, and he looked to see one of his legionaries standing behind him. Beneath the grime, caked-on blood, and sweat was the face of a boy. So young; as young as poor Gaius had been, but no longer an innocent.

Evening was closing fast and the remnants of the Twentieth Legion, at least those able to still stand, stood in formation outside of Legate Apronius’
tent. They were a fearful sight. Though most had made an attempt to clean themselves, their armor was battered and still showed streaks of blood that had failed to come off. The men leaned on their shields, which were scored and no longer gave the appearance of gleaming in the remaining sunlight. Their faces carried the look of complete exhaustion that a few hours rest and some hasty rations brought across the Rhine could not alleviate. Still, there was a sense of pride in that they could stand at all. They had not suffered the fate of the legions in Teutoburger Wald nineteen years before. The Frisians had pushed them to the breaking point, and yet they had held the line.

Standing humbly before the assembled host of legionaries was the man who had saved them from annihilation.
Though many accolades and thanks were given to the Fifth Legion, it was Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor and his ten thousand that had traveled forty miles in a single day, saved the Twentieth Legion, and killed the Frisian King. Cursor stood rigid, his eyes cast slightly downwards. His own fatigue was extreme, and in light of everything that had transpired both during and after the battle, he did not feel like a hero. Still, it was the right of the men of the Twentieth Legion to bestow Cursor with Rome’s most sacred honor.

A lone legionary faced the Tribune. As was custom in these circumstances
, where an award was bestowed by the men rather than the generals, one of the youngest and lowest ranking legionaries was chosen to represent the legion. That was why, in an unusual change of protocol, the senior officers stood behind the formation, rather than in front of it. This showed that the honor came from the ranks and not from the Commanding Legate. The soldier held a crown in his hands, though unlike the Civic Crown, which was made up of oak leaves, this one was woven of weeds and grasses.

“The crown of grass,”
the legionary spoke. Even though his face was that of a boy, his booming voice carried throughout the field.
“It is never conferred except in times of extreme desperation, by acclamation of the entire army, to its savior. While the most hallowed Civic Crown is presented for saving a single life, the Grass Crown, made from materials taken from the field of battle, is given in recognition of the valor of one who saves an entire army.”

Cursor stood silent as the legionary spoke of Rome’s most hallowed recognition for valor. Indeed
, it was the rarest of awards, with but a handful of Roman soldiers ever receiving it, and none had been awarded in battle for nearly one hundred years. Though the Emperor Augustus had been presented the Grass Crown by the Senate, it was in homage, rather than for military achievement.

“We remember the few who have been given this esteemed honor,”
the soldier continued.
“From Rome’s glorious history we remember the Tribune Lucius Siccius Dentatus, the Consul Publius Decius Mus; three heroes of the Punic Wars, the Dictator Fabius Maximus, the Tribune Marcus Calpurnius Flamma, and the great Scipio Aemilianus. We also remember two of the last to have saved entire armies; Centurion Primus Pilus Petreius Atinas, and the Legate Quintus Sertorius.”