From Kanuro5: I'm happy that I am finally able to put out a new chapter, college essays have been side-tracking me as of late. Anyway, I want to thank all the those who are still reading this fic and thanks for the helpful reviews! Enjoy the Fic!
V
Fog of War
Day 6 of the Campaign
After six days of marching; the men of Twenty-Eighth Legion made camp for the night; only a few miles shy of crossing the border into Gallia. The night sky was blacker than coal, and the chill nightly breeze stung worse than a swarm of hornets; yet most of the legionaries were outside their tents. They were huddled up to various campfires wrapped in warm blankets, roasting their nightly meal, exchanging fictional recounts of their tales of bravery to one another.
It was on this night that the young commander, Vitus Julius, decided to walk amidst the camp to alleviate the boredom of his lonely tent. As he roamed throughout the camp, he peered into the eyes of the legionaries he passed and felt a mix of pride and shame swell beneath his breast. Pride in that he was fortunate to be with these men who have risked all to engage with the Republic's enemies and to protect Rome, and shame in that he didn't deserve to be in their presence. They do everything that is asked of them and once finished they standby, ready for another order to be issued. A fisherman is asked to catch fish, slavers are asked to auction off the finest slaves, priests are asked to convey the will of the gods—soldiers are asked to march 15 hours a day through all kinds of weather, construct bridges and forts in mere hours, and kill all enemies of Rome. In terms of battle, they know they are the will of their general and are expendable to his eyes—yet it does not deter them from their task. For they know it is the generals that receive all the laurels and wealth while the legionaries suffer from death and receive little recognition. Men and women of the Republic especially the patricians, would never understand that all their wealth came from the men of the Army that made countless sacrifices to expand Rome's "greatness"; for the legionaries are the backbone of the entire Republic.
The young commander continued through the camp until he veered off into the First Cohort's sector of the camp. From what Vitus could see, it was obvious that being the best cohort within the legion brought its advantages. The men of the First Cohort had thicker tents and blankets, were allowed to receive more meat to eat, and also had an abundance of wine. It was clear to Vitus which men his father favored. Near the edge of their camp, Vitus spotted three peculiar men enjoying a meal and drink by a campfire. Among the First Cohort, these three men were regarded as the bravest and finest men in the entire legion. They were known as the Mighty Three throughout the legion and their exploits were legendary.
The unofficial leader of the three was Gaius Aelianus; born in the Julii capital of Arretium to a military family that can trace its lineage of war back to the Trojan War. Aelianus was an impeccably honest and intelligent man that valued the honored traditions and laws that existed within the Republic. He has served with the Twenty-Eighth for 15 years and had distinguished himself seven years ago at Lucretian Bridge—the battle where the Legio XXVIII won its fame against the Gallic horde. During the battle when General Lucius and his Tribune at the time, Tiberius Pullius, were engaged against the Gallic warriors on the bridge by themselves—Aelianus rallied the first century of the Third Cohort and came charging to the General's rescue. In the thick of the fighting in the middle of the bridge, Aelianus spear was destroyed and he lost his Gladius. Using just his shield and his bare hands, Aelianus personally slew 20 Gauls by himself—earning him fame throughout the legion and advancement to Second Cohort and eventually the prestigious First Cohort.
Next to him was Spurius Metellus who was born in Rome itself yet swore allegiance to the Julii. He was impulsive, rude, arrogant, and proud; yet he was one, if not the bravest, legionary of the entire legion. In his 12 years of service with the Twenty-Eighth; his defining moment came in the siege of the Spanish city of Osca. As his century was preparing to enter a siege tower posted at the wall; the Spanish barbarians lit the tower on fire, threatening all who entered the tower. Every legionary in the century ran out of the tower except for Metellus—who braved the searing heat and crumbling wood to run to the very top of the siege tower. Metellus leaped out of the flaming tower and landed on the enemy wall slaughtering all the Spanish on his side of the wall as the tower came crumbling down behind him. When the Romans finally broke through the city and came to his aid, Metellus was calmly sitting on a pile of Spanish dead with two stab wounds in his side, multiple sword cuts on his arms, and 1st to 2nd degree burns on his arms.
The last and youngest of the Three was Arminius, who was Roman in name but Germanic in blood. His father had served in the auxiliary long ago for their family to earn full Roman citizenship. While he shared in the debauchery of wine like Metellus; he also held the strong Roman code of honor, yet not to the extent of Aelianus. Arminius has spent 10 years with the Twenty-Eighth with his defining moment coming from a battle against the Gauls six years ago. A Julii family member, Gnaeus Julius, was temporarily attached to the legion during the battle. After a failed cavalry attack led by Gnaeus, a Gallic spear killed his horse and caused Gnaeus to violently fall to earth; shattering his collarbone. As the Gauls descended on the broken Gnaeus, Arminius broke formation and ran 100 meters alone to reach Gnaeus before the Gauls did. In the skirmish, Arminius killed 13 Gauls while protecting Gnaeus. He killed so many Gauls so fast that the attacking Gauls retreated in fear of Arminius. Although after the battle, Arminius was flogged for breaking formation during the climax of the battle; he was credited a hero for his bravery and by General Lucius himself. These were the Mighty Three of the Legio XXVIII.
"Men! Attention!" Aelianus ordered once he saw Vitus approaching them. Aelianus sharply bolted upwards and stood with his back erect. Arminius, initially confused, stumbled up himself and fidgeted until he stood presentable. Only Metellus remained seated, chugging down a jug of wine to keep his body warm.
"On your feet Metellus! The Commander is present!" Aelianus growled through clenched teeth.
"I refuse," Metellus slurred.
"That is an order!" Aelianus sneered.
Metellus giggled loudly, waving his hand in the air, "I simply invoke the soldier idiom of old, 'Never run when you can walk, never walk when you can stand, never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lay, and never lay when you can sleep."
"As you were," Vitus smirked, extending a calming hand to Aelianus, "It is no inspection."
Aelianus and Arminius sat back down and offered Vitus a place to sit down. Aelianus still maintained his troubled glare at the swaying carefree Metellus.
"Apologies for Metellus," Aelianus said to Vitus, "He does not remember his place in front of command."
"I only know that your place is beneath Metellus' heel," Metellus snickered, his foul wine drenched breath washing over Vitus' face, much to his annoyance.
"Metellus, are you drunk?" Vitus asked with spite.
Metellus threw away his empty jug, "No." He then picked up a new jug that was filled to the brim with wine; a lazy smile grew on his face as he raised it up towards Vitus, "But this should do it."
"Please indulge me, Metellus. Did wine flow out your mother's tits like a stream when you were a babe, or was your father Bacchus himself?" Arminius quipped with a smug smile.
"How Metellus drinks his wine and how often Metellus shall consume it is none of your concern, you German cur," Metellus agitatedly slurred through his lips.
"I am a citizen of Rome, you drunken fuck," Arminius spat back.
"Tough words, absent meaning from a shit who hails east of the Rhine."
"Care to repeat yourself, you father fucking fool!"
"Enough! Both of you! We are in the presence of our Commander," Aelianus ordered, standing in the middle of them. "Apologies Commander Julius, the two find themselves in petty quarrels often."
"It is quite alright, Aelianus. It was rather amusing seeing these two argue. But I must ask, legionary Metellus, for what cause do you have to drink so heavily during the eve of night?"
"Because Jupiter cursed him with the lack of fucking self-control," Arminius slyly added.
Metellus hastily brought the jug up to his lips and allowed the burning yet succulent taste of wine to grace his stomach, afraid to give his real reason of why he drank to young Vitus; because he did not have control enough to stop drinking.
"Is it to help relieve the pain of your wounds from your heroic feat at Osca?" Vitus naively asked.
Aelianus squinted his eyes in frustration and shook his head at Vitus, "Oh Commander, why did you ask—"
"Yes! That is the reason," Metellus eagerly lied, "For what Metellus did at Osca in front of entire legion against ruthless Spanish barbarians! Metellus remembers fondly—"
"Oh here we go . . ." Arminius disappointedly sighed, rolling his head back with his hands in his face; in preparation for Metellus' embellishing story.
"Our century's task was to climb siege tower to capture the eastern walls of Osca. But those crafty Spanish shits emptied jugs of oil and set our tower aflame before we could enter. As the flames of the tower burned brighter than Apollo's chariot, the entire century routed from the tower, all . . . except Spurius fucking Metellus! Metellus saw the Spanish savages mock the Twenty-Eighth from on high, so Metellus striped his armor except for precious helmet and charged through Hades' inferno! Once Metellus reached the peak of the tower, the tower was going to crumble at any moment. So Metellus leaped off tower just as it fell and cursed the Spanish, 'I AM SPURIUS FUCKING METELLUS! THE SON OF FUCKING MARS AND BELLONA!' And once landed on the wall, Metellus slaughtered the Spanish like cattle!"
By the end of the story, both Aelianus and Arminius gazed at each other in complete and confused silence; then simultaneously broke out in laughter.
"Since when did you remove your fucking armor?" Arminius asked, fighting back tears of laughter edging in his eyes.
"What simple mind would remove armor inside an inferno? It baffles the senses to think how drunk you were during the battle." Aelianus chuckled, patting a slightly smiling Metellus on the back.
"Wait, you were drunk in the midst of your greatest act of bravery?" Vitus raised his eyebrow in total disbelief.
"Of course I was," Metellus drunkenly cackled, "What sober mind would charge forth inside a burning tower and leap onto enemy walls?"
"Commander, Metellus was so filled with drink that morning, which if it was possible—he would have shit from his cock, and have pissed from his ass!" Arminius added on in a fit of laughter.
"Apologies Commander, their tongues fall loose once they had their excess of drink," Aelianus explained as he began to calm down from laughter, "But please tell us Commander, with all respect, is there something upon your mind?"
"Um . . . indeed I do," Vitus awkwardly spoke, "To be honest, I did not mean to approach so casually; I was simply bored of being in my tent, absent people. But hearing Metellus' story, I have a question about our mission. If you all could enlighten my naïve mind, what can you tell me about the three barbaric tribes we are said to fight against?"
"With respect Commander, but I am sure that the General can tell you all you require to know about the barbarians," Arminius replied, snatching the wine jug from Metellus' grasp.
"Indeed he has, but I require knowledge on more personal matter. My fath—the General, has explained to me from the thoughts of a general; I would allow myself to hear from the thoughts of soldiers."
Metellus bolted up laughing as he turned around in a drunken stupor; choosing careful steps of where to place his heavy feet. He undid the loins around the genitals and proceeded to piss away a quarter of the wine that he had drunk.
"I like you!" Metellus shouted over his shoulder towards Vitus, "You remind me of your father, of his first ten years with the legion. Back where he cared about us common soldiers!"
"General Julius does hold us all to heart," Aelianus passionately defended his general.
"Not like he used too," Metellus sighed, cocking his head back and shutting his eyes to enjoy the fleeting sensation of emptying a full bladder, "He would walk among us as equals, asking of our wellbeing. But ever since Lucretian Bridge; 'Lucius Julius the Mighty' has been reveling in his victories more so than his legion."
"Forget the pissing fool," Aelianus said to the patient Vitus, "Let us begin with the Gauls then. Do not mistake the Gallic people for simple barbarians. They are far from simple people. They have kings, coinage and developed trade. Their metal working skills are superb, easily the equal of our "civilized Roman society."
"It sounds as if you admire then, Aelianus," Vitus slightly teased.
"I would as well, since the Gauls are the oldest enemies of Rome," Arminius added with a cocky grin, "They have a lively culture, a far cry from what some patricians would think in Rome."
"Stop stroking their cocks, Arminius!" Metellus blurted out in emphasis, still urinating, "Gauls are just fucking savages that happened to be worthy fighters, but to say they are on par with us Romans is damn blasphemy."
"To underestimate your enemy is a sure way to reach your demise, Metellus. Please do not fall prey to it," Aelianus sighed.
"Keep your fucking sermon, Aelianus. This is no temple!"
"So what about fighting them? How is that?" Vitus asked.
"The Gauls have very strong infantry, yet have very limited cavalry. Therefore they crash their men into ours to disrupt our lines. What the Gauls lack in apparent discipline they make up for in numbers," Aelianus explained.
"A thing that is true with most barbarian tribes," Arminius added on.
"The strongest Gallic tribe that we faced was the Bellovaci that lived here in Transalpine Gaul. We fought them in the capture for Alesia; they were the only tribe that I can note that had thorough discipline and cunning."
"But since we Romans proudly killed most of their population, the Gauls are of little concern to us now," Metellus said as he spun around once he was finishing relieving himself.
"Now, Arminius, what can I know about the Germanic people?" Vitus asked.
"Well Commander, the Germanic people would have you believe that they descended from Mars himself. They are born to war, savage in battle, unforgiving of insults, implacable when feuding, and cruel in victory. The Germans are relentless warriors that shall never cease their war until either their enemy or themselves are dead. We Romans are not warriors by nature, more of political snakes then actual wolves. Rome cannot accept losses; if a campaign becomes too costly then they shall cease all efforts to continue the campaign. To Germanic eyes, losses do not fucking matter. They shall continue until their enemy is dead."
"Yet it baffles senses of how when one sticks his sword into their bellies they die just like any other man," Metellus said sardonically, waving his hands in the air to make the gestures of a man dying. "You paint them to be nigh invincible, when in fact they fall easy to Roman steel."
"So tell me dear Metellus, how would you come to explain the Berserkers?" Arminius ominously emphasized.
"Berserkers?" Vitus asked, confusion written all over his face.
"Allow me to reveal intent," Aelianus said, "The Germanic tribes consist mostly of Axemen and specialist infantry such as pikemen and night raiders. But the most dangerous men are the Berserkers. Men of impressive stature that stand over 200 centimeters with muscles that would put gods to shame. They wear the pelts of great black wolves on their heads and paint their faces with the blood of the wolf. They wield large battleaxes and swing with enough force to cleave three men's heads with one swing. In battle, it takes nearly 20 men to put one Berserker to grass."
"That is hard to believe," said the young man, shaking his head at the vivid imagery in his mind.
"Indeed it is, such is the reason I pray we do not need to face them in the coming battle."
"Now for the last mysterious tribe, can you regale me with anything you know about the Britons?"
All three mighty warriors turned their heads simultaneously at each other, hoping to see if one of them had an answer. Yet their silence spoke volumes of their lack of comprehendible knowledge of the Britons.
"Apologies Commander, but the Britons are a mystery to us. We most likely know as much as you do," Aelianus explained, rather embarrassed through his lack of knowledge.
"I find myself agreeing with Aelianus," Arminius said, "All we know about the Britons is that they were cast out by the Gauls and the Germans from the mainland 100 years ago. I was once told by my father that the Britons dye themselves blue with woad and lime their hair into spikes, to frighten their enemies."
"It baffles senses to think that these three tribes whose bonds only exist by hate, would come together to spill Roman blood. They must truly want their lands back," Vitus whispered.
"Or maybe they just really fucking hate us," Arminius spoke rather coldly.
"They can hate us as much as they desire, for they just hold empty shells of jealously for us Romans!" Metellus joked.
"Well, most civilizations are indeed jealous of us and of all that we have done," Vitus added, "But to say that war extends because of some petty jealousy is abs—"
"YOU THRACIAN CUNT!"
All four men turned around, curious to see where the shouting was coming and of what purpose. Through the low din of campfires, they could see a small crowd forming around where the cooks served the food; the four walked over to investigate. The crowd consisted of a dozen angry men from the First Cohort and several Roman cooks surrounding a young red haired Thracian from the auxiliary. The Romans and the lone Thracian were exchanging curses and threats as the situation was increasing leading to violence.
"Cease petty quarrel!" Vitus said as he made his way through the center of crowd, "What has upturned you all to an uproar?"
"Thank the Gods you are here, Commander," the head cook said as he saluted Vitus, "This Thracian had the audacity of demanding food from our camp; even when they are presented with proper food in the Auxilia camp."
"Proper food?" the Thracian laughed in disbelief, "My own shit would be of a more welcome meal than the 'proper food' that is presented to us!"
"What is wrong with your food?" Vitus asked the angry Thracian.
"We do not have enough. We have limited amount of bread and grain which proves to be stale. We only have at best 30 hares for the 300 of us Thracians! And as previously stated my own shit would taste better than that stew that is served to us!"
"Do not believe the lies, Commander!" the head cook warned, "The food they received is on equal footing as ours."
"You Romans keep the good of your food to yourselves, while you scrape and heap the worst of it to us!"
"Silence!" Vitus ordered. Once both men effectively quieted down, he turned to the Thracian, "What is your name?"
"My name is Drenis, Commander."
Vitus turned to head cook, "Now, voice the wrong in which Drenis inflicted upon you."
"Before serving the men their nightly meal, this Thracian came to us demanding of food to return to his camp. We denied his request several times, prompting him to threaten us with violence if we did not comply."
Vitus turned to Drenis, "Does what the cook said holds true?"
"I, I admit that I threatened the cooks, Commander," he said, embarrassed by his actions, "I only did so for the benefit of my people in the Auxilia camp. To cease eating food that is beneath us. The First Cohort enjoys the finest food of perfect grain, boar, deer, goat, and ewes to feed many, while we are made to contend to eat a small number of bread and grain."
"Such actions does not excuse the threat of violence!" the cook hissed.
"He is right, Drenis," Vitus nodded in agreement. Vitus turned to the head cook, "I want you to and your fellow cooks to deliver 10 deer, 10 boars, and 10 goats to the Auxilia camp, immediately."
The jaws of all Romans that were present dropped. "But Commander—"
"Do as I command, I shall be sure that all men are at their best for when the fighting starts."
"Your will, Commander," the head cook said, a tone of anger and annoyance mixed in his voice.
"Gratitude, Commander," said Drenis, a smile creeping on his face as he lighted up in surprise that a Roman would actually help.
Drenis proudly saluted Vitus and left with the cooks, making sure that the cooks were preparing the food that Vitus had promised. Once the Thracian and the cooks have left, Vitus could feel the heavy condescending stares of all the Romans present. The disdain they felt that they, the best men in the entire legion, had to share their own meal with non-Romans was absolutely insulting. Arminius and Metellus were the only men who had the audacity to be vocal about Vitus' decision.
"With respect Commander, that food was to feed us of the First Cohort," expressed Arminius.
"I am aware of what purpose it was for, Arminius. But now its new purpose is to aid of the auxiliary."
"Those fucking Thracians," Metellus cursed, "Unable to appreciate what is given to them."
"Just like how you men cannot appreciate helping a fellow comrade?" Vitus rebuked, turning around to face the disappointed men.
"Those men are not our comrades, they are not Roman," Arminius argued.
"If I remember correctly, neither are you Arminius." Vitus got into Arminius face, wanting to emphasize the nonsense that Arminius spoke.
"I have earned my citizenship Commander, I am a Roman."
"Yet your father fought with the auxiliary to become a citizen of Rome; which is equal in what the Thracians are doing."
"Yet, they are not Romans, by blood or citizenship. Until the time they earned their place as a part of Rome, they shall not be treated as such." The men present began to cheer in agreement with Arminius' sentiments towards the lowly Thracians.
"Silence! All of you!" Aelianus commanded in a booming voice. "The Commander has made his decision! Now return back to your tents and cease with your petty grumble! You are men of the Twenty-Eighth; you can go absent a full meal!"
The men confided with themselves that this was indeed a trivial matter and turned away, still frustrated by Vitus' decision. Vitus bit down on his bottom lip, he wanted to explain to Arminius the hypocrisy that he had just said; but chose it was better to not say anything at all. Vitus turned around and left the First Cohort in favor of his tent, disgusted by the elitist view that the Romans held.
Day 7 of the Campaign
It was around midday when the Twenty-Eighth finally crossed border north into Belgica, the region that held the city Samarobriva. Once they crossed the border, the trail that the legion took immediately led them into a large, bleak forest. With winter approaching, the vast trees in the forest were barren and brown. General Lucius, along with his Tribune Antonius and his son Vitus were leading the Twenty-Eighth. As the legion kept marching, a thick fog quickly descended on top of them, sharply limiting their visibility. Through the thickening fog, three Roman scouts on horseback came galloping back on the trail to report to General Lucius.
"General, there are no signs of any barbarians or villages, but the fog is getting thicker. Would you allow us to go further down the trail to combat this visibility?" the head scout asked.
"You may," Lucius said unto to the scout.
"Father, may I also go along and scout with them?" Vitus asked.
"To what purpose?" Lucius asked, adamant to let his son go out.
"All great generals are required to know the basics of scouting; it would be great opportunity for me to learn so during this march."
Lucius thought on it for a good while, contemplating whether or not it would be a good decision. Yet Lucius relented and allowed Vitus to go, yet only accompanied by two of Lucius' bodyguards on horseback.
The six men maneuvered a half a mile ahead of the legion through the dense fog of the forest. The way the trail began to grow narrow and the way the fog grew thicker at the same time sent an ominous chill up Vitus' spine. He felt that something was going to happened, but he had no idea what. The ominous vibe that Vitus was feeling also seemed to be affecting his horse, Romulus, as well. Romulus was beginning to become a little skittish; he was stamping his feet a little too heavily and began to softly jerk his neck around.
"Is it usual in these lands for the fog to be so thick?" Vitus asked the head scout while stroking the back of Romulus' neck to calm him down.
"Sometimes, Commander. The farther north we go, the more likely the fog shall thicken and stay thick for hours."
After a few minutes of roaming through low visibility, the fog slowly began to fade away into nothingness—much to the relief of Vitus. He felt the weight of fear being taken off his shoulders and could breathe easier knowing that they had some visibility. But not enough visibility to foresee of what was going to happen to him.
It all happened so fast, that Vitus didn't even know what had happen. One moment Vitus is breathing easy and the very next he is off Romulus and lying on the ground with an aching chest and with the wind knocked out of him. He did know one thing; something had knocked him off his horse; something fast and strong. As he laid there on his back in the dirt recollecting what happened, his chest, more specifically under his left nipple; felt like it was burning hotter than the sun. He instinctively began to pat his chestplate to find the cause of the pain; but he stopped when he felt something thin and long protruding from his chest. He strained his neck to see what it was—only to be greeted by the sight of an arrow sticking out of his chest.
"Commander!" one of the bodyguards shouted in concern. Vitus raised his head to the voice that called his title; only cursed to witness the man's death by the hands of the unseen archer. The enemy arrow pierced through the back of the bodyguard's helmet, with the arrowhead exiting through the man's right eye—coated in his crimson blood. The bodyguard slumped off his horse and crashed into the ground.
"Ambush!" the head scout warned—just as two arrows flew into his body. The first arrow entered in his sternum as the second arrow tore through his neck and through his spine at the neck, killing him instantly.
"Off the horses! Protect the Commander!" a bodyguard ordered, dismounting his horse before the words left his lips.
The rest of the men followed suit, as a few arrows soared overhead. Two of the scouts grabbed the wounded Vitus and dragged him to cover inside of a ditch at the side of the road. They hid in the ditch for a few moments, until the senior bodyguard assessed that they were safe from the archers.
Vitus quickly began thrashing about in the ditch, the shock of being shot by an arrow had begun to set in. Every inhale and exhale brought a new plethora of razor-edged pain inside his chest. He could feel his precious blood leaking out of the arrow stuck in his chest. He just could not believe that he had just been shot by arrow.
The men placed their hands over Vitus' mouth to silence him to not alert their ambushers, but it was too late for them; their attackers were already closing in on them. Through experience, the senior bodyguard differentiated the various sounds of the forest and could hear twigs snap as light stamping of feet began to get closer.
But one scout, too panic-stricken to think and too anxious to leave the ditch; stood up and attempted to make a run back to the rest of the legion. One of the hidden barbarians came from behind the trees—with a large axe in hand—and drove the axe through the scout's helmet; splintering his head in two.
The men were frozen with terror as the German callously removed his axe from the dead Roman's skull. The German towered a good two head over them with flowing golden locks descending down to his shoulders with a large scruffy golden beard. The giant axeman wore baggy red plaid pants and wore no shirt to cover his body from the cold. Seeing the frightened Romans cower before him brought a wretched smile to the giant's face. His teeth were a dark shade of yellow and some were on the verge of rotting out of his own mouth.
The senior bodyguard drew his sword and charged the axeman. "Run! Protect the Commander! I shall hold him off," he yelled to terrified scouts.
The scouts scooped Vitus up from under his arms and took him away; leaving the bodyguard engaged with Germanic brute alone. The three men scurried deeper into the woods in an attempt to hook around with the rest of the legion as Vitus' condition began to worsen. The more he moved, the larger amount of blood began to flow from beneath his armor. His breathing turned shallow and he began to wheeze; his groans of pain grew louder with each passing step.
Despite the scouts' earnest protest, Vitus ordered them to stop running and to put him down to rest; his wounds proving too painful to move. Yet this proved to be a costly mistake for the three men as the Germans were right on top of them.
A German woman with flowing fiery red hair came flying from out of the undergrowth of the woods behind them as if she was an eagle sighting her prey. She wore a thick red and white apron dress that came down to her thighs and she was armed with two meat cleavers that were forever stained in blood.
She silently ran closer to the lost Romans until she was within ten meters of them. She summoned all the air from her diaphragm and unleashed a tribal screech so high in pitch that it could wake the gods from eternal slumber. The screech induced a primal fear inside the hearts of the three men; their hearts stopped, their flesh tingled, and their bowels loosened.
One scout instinctively turned around, anxiously wanting to know where the scream was coming from. He only saw flicker of a woman armed with cleavers. The screeching woman swung her cleavers at the startled scout and sliced his throat open—from ear-to-ear.
The scout's blood shot out into the air from his lacerated throat and landed on Vitus' face. The scout crashed violently on the ground liked a chopped tree. He softly thrashed around on the ground; gurgling, then drowning in his own blood.
Enraged at his friend's death, the lone scout quickly drew his sword and rushed the dual wielding woman, who started smirking at the charging Roman who she was about to slaughter. The scout let loose a torrent of wild swings, seeking the fatal blow that would avenge his friend. But the woman effortlessly evaded his strikes and would occasionally block his strikes with relative ease.
Determined to kill her, the scout brought his sword down on top of her in an attempt to cleave her in two. She used her left cleaver to block upward; and in the same motion, the woman used her right cleaver to deliver an underhanded strike to his genitals. The scout's body scrunched up in recoil as the scout cried out in immeasurable pain. His body flopped to the ground and began to convulse in shock of his most sacred physical limb being bisected. The woman crudely laughed at the sight of the agonized Roman. She spat on his face and left him to die of either blood loss or from his heart giving out from the shock of his wound. She turned her attention to the cowering Vitus who managed to stagger to his feet, clutching his wounded chest in pain.
A dark, cocky smile rose on the woman's lips at the sight of her pathetic prey; gravely wounded and eyes filled with fear of the knowledge of his imminent death. She walked closer to him nonchalantly, twirling her cleavers in her hands; observing the frightened boy painfully draw his sword in desperation. She raised her head to the clouds and shouted at the top of her lungs some Germanic words. Within seconds, Vitus could hear the violent rustling of grass from all around him. The sounds from the woods grew until they were too loud to ignore. Out from the rustling grass sprang a dozen Germanic warriors who quickly surrounded the young Roman; including the giant axeman who cleaved the scout's head, the senior bodyguard had failed.
They spat, cursed, and taunted wildly in their language, instilling every compound of fear into Vitus. The Germans began their callous approach; eager to taste fresh Roman blood.
Vitus swung his sword wildly in a circle, attempting to make the Germans back off, "Back away from me! Get away!" he pleaded in a wheeze as his swings turned wild.
But the Germans did stop, yet they only pointed and laugh at Vitus. It was then, that Vitus could feel the hot tears running down his cheeks. He gently ran his fingers under his eyes and felt the light flow of tears. Crying. They were laughing at him, his final moments in this life and he unknowingly cries before them. He could not believe that he had been shedding tears, and he could not understand why. Was it because of the pain from his arrow wound? Was it that he was going to die? Or was it that it was his fault his men were ambushed? It could have been that he let his father down by dying in the least honorable way? Maybe it was that in his final moments he regretted never telling Appia how he felt about her, or; how he never truly told his brother, Proculus, how much he idolized him and wished for the best.
Regardless of why he was crying, Vitus knew that his time in this life was over. He slowly lowered his weapon and bowed his head towards the Germans, accepting his fate. The German woman cackled in front of his face. This was pathetic, even for a Roman. She raised her cleavers at the young man, claiming her kill in front of the other Germans.
A Roman pila came flying through the air and descended on top of the woman. The javelin speared the woman through her head—straight through one temple and out the other. Her knees crashed into the dirt as every orifice from her head began to spew out blood, until the weight of the pila inside of her head forced her to fall face first into the dirt.
All eyes turned to the hurler who emerged from the woods 30 meters away from them. The hurler was a Roman; yet Vitus recognized that his armor was of the auxiliary; he was a Thracian. But to Vitus' disappointment, the Thracian was alone; it was a blessing that the man had delayed his life but he soon will be killed like the bodyguards and scouts.
Furious that a German was slain by a Roman, the giant axeman bellowed in Germanic to his men to bring back the Roman's head. Three German swordsmen took up the command and charged the Thracian. The Thracian drew his sword and positioned himself behind his oval shield, in preparation for the attack.
The first swordsman took a swing, only for it to be blocked by the Thracian's shield; and with his right sword hand he plunged his sword deep into his swordsman's stomach that the iron tip of the Thracian's sword exited through the German's lower back. Once the Thracian removed his sword, the German's blood rushed out of his wounds like a roaring river as he fell to the earth mortally wounded. The Thracian went back to his defensive stance and braced for the second swordsman, who attacked the Thracian in a mad flurry; yet the Thracian's shields protected him. After one overexerting attack which left the German off balance, the Thracian thrust his sword through the roof of the German's mouth and entered the man's brain killing him instantly. The Thracian moved on to the last German and quickly smashed his shield against the German's skull. The German fell on his back in a daze. The Thracian walked over to the disoriented German and violently stomped on his neck, killing him.
Outraged by the death of his men, the giant axeman charged forward to kill the Roman with the remainder of his men; completely forgetting of the wounded Vitus' presence. The Thracian rushed forward to meet the Germanic barbarians and proceeded to fight them off, methodically killing them one-by-one.
In the midst of the fight, five Roman horsemen suddenly emerged from behind the trees with an enraged Lucius leading the horsemen. The remaining Germans lost heart and ran from the sight of the onrushing horses, yet only to be cut down by the cavalry. Lucius spotted the giant axeman fleeing and chased him down; and with his Gladius in hand, he sliced the giant's nape—severing his vertebrae and killing the giant German.
With all the ambushers lying dead; Vitus had never had smile as hard as he had in his life. His was heart overjoyed at the sight of his father coming to save him. But then his heart began to throb out of control. His breathing turned hoarse, his vision turned hazy, and his knees and legs felt heavy. He collapsed to his knees and felt the pain originate from his arrow wound.
The Thracian spotted the wounded Roman and ran to his care. "General, come quick! It's the Commander!" the Thracian called Lucius.
Lucius's face contorted in fear, he leapt off his horse and ran to his son. He gently cradled his son's wounded body and thoroughly examined him. Vitus had lost too much blood and his flesh began to pale. The sight of his son dying in his arms because of it was his order, had torn the old general's heart in two.
Lucius scooped his son and hastily ran him back to put him on his horse. "Father . . . you have saved me . . ." Vitus muttered weakly, a touch blood gurgling in his throat.
"Do not speak; you will be taken to the medicus!"
"Father . . . how did you find me?"
"Your horse, Romulus. He returned to the legion in full gallop with you absent. I knew something had occurred."
Hearing that his faithful horse had ultimately saved his life caused the corner of Vitus' mouth to lift in pride. The remainder of the auxiliary came into the woods and took up a defensive formation surrounding the general.
Placing his son carefully on his horse in order not to break the intact arrow, Lucius turned to the Thracian that saved Vitus, "Oroles, move the Auxilia out and secure the woods. Make sure all Germans found will be brought to deserved end!"
The Thracian silently stared at the general before turning his back on him, ordering his fellow Thracians to mobilize through the woods. Lucius hopped on to his horse and sped off with his son to search for the medicus.