From Kanuro5: I am sorry for the monthly new chapters, but college is keeping me busy. I want to thank all the those who are still reading this fic and thanks for the reviews! They truly are helping me work and commit to my story.
VI
Illusions
Day 9 of the Campaign
The news that Vitus had finally awoken from his two day comatose had elated the heart of his father. Lucius scurried from his tent in the middle of camp and hurried down to the medicus' tent where he was promptly greeted by the senior medicus.
"How is he?" Lucius asked, careful to not let too much concern become evident in his voice.
"He is awake, but very weak and still pale, we are fortunate that the arrow failed to rupture any organs, and it only fractured one rib. The wound has been sealed with fire, and sign of infection is absent. All he needs is water and lots of rest and he shall return to his feet in one week's time; fighting, another week."
"Gratitude, now let me pass."
Lucius made his way through the tent and found his wounded son lying on a wooden cot being softly bathed with wet cloths by young slave girls. He lied naked, with only a thin blanket being used to cover his lower body. His head rested softly on an elongated pillow as a slave girl carefully cleaned his wavy, dark auburn hair. The wound underneath his left nipple was bandaged completely and stained with crimson blood. The boy's movements were sluggish and weak, and the whites of his eyes were strained with red.
Yet when his eyes fell upon his father standing above him, Vitus let out a painful but happy smile. "Father . . . it lifts heart to see you," Vitus muttered in a low raspy voice. Lucius sucked his teeth at the sight of his favorite son lying wounded before him, he was just happy that the boy's mother could not see him.
Lucius shooed the slave girls away as he took a knee next to Vitus, "Greetings my son. How do you feel?"
"I feel . . . strange. It pains me to breathe, I can no longer rise, I am being tended to . . . I feel like a child. And you know how much I detest being treated as such."
Lucius let out a soft chuckle. "Put such thoughts aside and worry of nothing but recovery."
"How long was I here?"
"The ambush was two days ago. So you have been in wounded sleep inside this tent for two days, until enough blood finally flowed back into your body today."
"Father, when will I ride again with you?" Vitus asked, begging his father with pain-filled eyes.
Lucius grabbed his son's weak hands and gripped it warmly, telling his son with assurance, "Soon enough, in two weeks' time. The first week is so you may be able to walk; the second week is so you may be able to fight. Now heed proper advice and rest; and thank the Gods that you will recover."
"Father . . . I am truly sorry." Vitus' face scrunched up as if he was about to cry.
"About what?"
"The ambush. Those Germans were after me. If I stayed back with you, those men that died may have survived."
"Turn thoughts aside from the past. No man has the sight for the future; you could not had predicted the ambush, Vitus. And those men that died, unfortunate deaths yet heroic, for they gave their lives for the legion."
"Which brings to me my final question; the man that saved me . . . he wore the armor of the Auxilia, he was a Thracian, who was he?"
"Him? The man's name is Oroles, he commands the Getae of the Auxilia" Lucius answered rather disinterestedly.
"Oroles, hmm . . . Father, can you send him to visit me? I wish to express my gratitude for saving my life." Lucius recoiled in confusion at his son's request.
"There will be no need, upon reaching him on that day I already expressed thanks in reaching you," Lucius explained, anxious to not let his son meet his rescuer.
"But father, I wish to express my thanks personally. I would not be here if not for that man," he continued to insist. Lucius quickly grew annoyed.
"Fine, I'll send word upon your request," Lucius stood up and shook his head, "But it is far beneath you to express gratitude to someone not of Rome."
"The man saved my life. It would be quite honorable for any man to express gratitude," Vitus emphasized.
Before Lucius could even respond with a condescending retort, a feeble messenger made his way into the tent and reported to the general. After hearing the message, Lucius dispatched the messenger to find Oroles and to bring him to Vitus.
"It seems that Antonius has returned from patrol," he told his son as he headed out the tent, "I must go and debrief. I have also sent for Oroles to see you, remember, he is not to remain here for long; you must recover. Understand?"
"Yes Father."
The Tribune and Captain of the Twenty-Eighth, Gnaeus Antonius, approached his general's tent with a mix of blood and mud coated on the front of his armor. Following the Tribune were two soldiers of the Mighty Three; Metellus and Arminius, who were dragging a battered German prisoner with his hands bounded together. Antonius entered the tent and approached General Lucius studying a map of the region.
"General," Tribune Antonius saluted.
"Give report," Lucius muttered, his thoughts turning to other pressing matters.
"I have scouted with the Sixth Century of the Fifth Cohort across the road which leads into the hills. We ran into an ambush half a mile north of the legion . . . like you have predicted. We were attacked by a dozen archers, and three dozen swordsmen. 33 Germans have been put to grass, and the rest fled liked frightened rabbits."
Lucius scratched his chin and sucked his teeth, wary to ask the next obvious question, "And what of our casualties?"
"We lost three men and suffered nine wounded; two men are forever crippled by their wounds. I would wish to offer a commendation of valor for Centurion Flavius Caelius of the Sixth Century, Fifth Cohort. Centurion Caelius slayed most of the Germans and saved my life from an attacking German. Also I was fortunate that the Mighty Three from the First Cohort were attached with us; their assistance was duly needed."
"Isn't it always?" Metellus smugly whispered to Arminius.
"Close fucking mouth!" Arminius silenced him, not wanting to be punished for speaking out of turn.
"How do you fare? Are you wounded?" Lucius asked Antonius, eyeing his second-in-command up and down noticing his bloodstained armor.
"I am fine, General. No Germanic steel has touched my skin, the blood on my armor belonged to the Germans."
"Did you come off with any grand discovery?"
"We did capture a prisoner." Antonius pointed to the scruffy and blood soaked German.
"Fine work, Antonius," Lucius smirked with pride, inspecting the bounded prisoner. "Has he broken tongue?"
"He has, but Arminius translates that he only slurs curses and insults."
The German prisoner raised his head and began to mutter a phrase weakly in Germanic before spitting blood on the feet of Lucius, only to be violently kicked in his side by Antonius. Lucius motioned for the Germanic-blooded Roman, Arminius, to prepare to translate everything he would say to the prisoner.
"Where is your army located?" Lucius asked, with Arminius asking the question. The prisoner laughed so hard that he began coughing up blood. He spoke to Arminius for a full minute, while his eyes remained fixated on Lucius' stern face. Arminius turned to his general and uneasily translated.
"He spouts a multitude of foul obscenities about your mother, wife, and father," Arminius muttered rather embarrassed of what he had to translate.
"I gathered that by the smile that creeps upon his face, Arminius. Tell me what else he said." Lucius ordered.
"He did mention how he would kill us all from the brush of the trees and continue on until our blood wets the grass for all eternity. The rest is blasphemous curses upon Rome."
"Gratitude Arminius, that is all that's needed." Lucius smiled, drawing out his sword and pressing the tip of his blade against the prisoner's throat. The prisoner let loose one last defiant curse to Lucius before the general callously drove his blade through the German's neck. At the Tribune's cue, Metellus and Arminius dragged the gurgling prisoners outside the tent and discarded his body into the mud, allowing the German to drown in his own blood.
"Apologies General," Antonius hesitantly spoke up, "Was it wise to take his life, he may have still proved useful."
"I do not know his tongue nor have cause to learn it. Besides, he has already told me what I desired to know," Lucius said, sheathing his sword.
Antonius squinted his eyes in confusion, "I do not understand?"
Lucius walked over to the map of the region with a confident smile and pointed to the road on the map, "Did you recall what the prisoner said? 'Kill us all from the brush of the trees'. The Germans are using ambush tactics which forces them to hide in wait within the grass. Gather past memories of previous conflicts with the Germans, Antonius. The Germans have never resorted to ambush; especially in the reign of their king, Cunovindus the Butcher. Cunovindus is a man plagued by berserk hatred; he possesses no temperament to plan ambushes along the road."
"Your words still remain shrouded in mystery, General."
"These plans of war were not forged from Cunovindus' mind, yet from another tactical mind. To influence mind of a barbarian king must come from none other than other kings. Either the Gallic king Segovax or the Brittonic king Lugotorix gave Cunovindus the idea of ambush. If such is case, then we must root out all possible ambush points."
"Which comes full circle around my talk with you." Antonius replied. "General, your plan of destroying all possible ambushes is costing us valued time in rescue of Marcus Maxentius."
"It is necessary," Lucius rebuked, trying to hastily dismiss the conversation.
"For the past week the legion has been covering nearly 12 miles a day, for the past two days after Vitus' ambush, we have covered only 6 mere miles a day, in favor of sending out men to destroy the ambushers!"
"And it bares results! Through my actions we have thwarted three ambushes."
"And I am not denying you of forethought. I am only breaking words of advice; we cannot continue to linger behind. We are cursed by approaching winter and a few months before Maxentius' legions are annihilated. We must push forward to save them."
"I am aware, Antonius. Your counsel is appreciated, but not needed." Lucius hissed, annoyed that his Captain continued to press the subject.
"General, apologies if I overstep; but do not place blame on Vitus' wounds on yourself and let it influence your decis—"
"Apologies General," a messenger said coming in, "But the barbarian mercenaries have arrived and are awaiting your presence."
"Very well. Come Antonius, we will continue for another time. Now, we greet our new cavalry."
The General and Tribune walked out of the tent and bore sight of one hundred men of the mercenary barbarian cavalry. The mercenaries stood next to their chestnut coated horses; they wore green linen tunics and all of them had bright blond hair. They stood at attention and at the sight of the General, they saluted him.
"Who stands forth as your voice?" the strong general asked the barbarian cavalrymen.
One man stepped forward from the front row; his face was covered with dirt and sweat only to be intertwined with his beard and protruding blond hair that covered most of his face. He removed his sword and planted it into the ground in front of Lucius, a sign of respect in his tribe and answered in a guttural growl, "I am Totates. I speak for them."
"I now conscript you and your kin into the Legio XXVIII of Lucius Julius. Recite the sacramentum militare and commit loyalty unto me."
Antonius marched towards Totates and handed him the sacramentum scroll for him to recite unto his men, pledging eternal loyalty unto Lucius Julius; until dismissal or death parts them. Totates turned around to face his 100 horsemen underneath him and with a strong, booming growl; he swore the oath.
"I, Totates, swear by Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that I shall uphold and defend the Republic. I swear to have her enemies as my enemies and her friends as my friends. I pledge to defend the Republic and her honor with all my thoughts, my words and actions. I pledge to uphold all honor close to my heart and know that I will be met with the strictest punishment for the dereliction of my duties. I pledge my body and life to the Republic and to its army under the leadership of General Lucius Julius. By Jupiter Optimus Maximus, I so swear."
"By Jupiter Optimus Maximus, we so swear!" the men said in perfect unison. A fierce smirk emerged on Lucius' face.
"Before you dismiss," Lucius added on, pacing back and forth in front of his new men, "I must iterate some rubrics and reminders. By reciting the sacramentum, you all are now subjugated for Roman punishment. If any man shirks away from duty, every man here will be punished to the highest extent of the law of Rome. I do not know of your culture or care to learn it, but in my command you all will follow the Roman pantheon of the Gods. Another thought, you all must cut off all hair from your face, as is the Roman way. I do not care if it is your culture or religious duty, you are in my command and I will not have you be mistaken for enemy. Centurion Tarsus will take you up to camp next to the Auxilia. Dismissed!"
"Is Commander Vitus in here?"
Vitus snapped awake at the mention of his name, his chest aching from the sudden movement. The medicius walked up to the recovering youth and presented him his savior.
"Commander, the Thracian Commander has arrived to see you."
At the sound of his title, the man who had saved Vitus' life walked in. Vitus stared in awe as if the man was Jupiter himself, for the man was a specimen of human perfection. He was blessed by the heavens for his handsomeness; his well-defined face was Godlike perfection. He was a tall man that stood well over 6 feet, arguably even rivaling his father's own height. His hair and his thin scruffy beard was a fiery red as is common amongst the Thracian people yet he adopted the style of having a low Roman cut instead of longer hair like his kin. The only off-putting feature that disturbed Vitus was the man's cold sky blue eyes. His focus was sharp and heavy; and truly frightening, resembling a famished wolf who had finally found its prey to devour. The Thracian locked eyes upon the wounded boy, and a chill ran up Vitus' spine.
"You summoned me, Commander?" the Thracian asked with curious gentility. Vitus was taken back with surprise, despite having the eyes of a ferocious predator, this Thracian had a soft and endearing tone with him; allowing for Vitus to breathe easier.
"I did. You are Oroles?"
"Yes Commander. I am."
Vitus let out a weak yet genuine smile. "I want to express gratitude unto to you, for saving my life two days ago. If not for you, I would be dead. Gratitude, dear Oroles."
Gratitude. This word was all too familiar to Oroles. Throughout his service with Rome, many Romans had "express" their gratitude in unfortunate ways. Oroles wanted to rebuke this Roman youth, but discipline held him back.
"The honor is mine, Commander. But you do not need to thank me, I only did what was asked of me."
"And what was asked of you?"
Oroles paused to recount of what had happened two days ago. "I was leading my kin near the front of the legion behind General Julius. Your stallion, as I recall, returned with you absent from his saddle. The General dispatched our Auxilia to search for you. I split my men to cover more ground as I ventured out alone. I heard some shouting and some cackling howls and I traced them, and founded you surrounded by Germans. And the rest is as you remember and as I have said that I only did of what I was asked."
"You still fail to understand," Vitus smirked.
"What is that?"
He leaned up from his cot and stared into his rescuer's eyes, "You witnessed me alone surrounded by a dozen Germans. Instead of searching for help, you fought them to preserve my life; even though you were heavily outnumbered. You fought long and hard until my father came to save me. You took selfless initiative against the enemy and it saved my life. For that I am grateful."
Oroles didn't know what to say. He had rarely ever been praised in such regard, even less by Romans. But something was different about this boy, he was honestly sincere in his thanks and his eyes did not show any ulterior motive unlike the other Romans. This boy was special.
A genuine smile that has not blessed the Thracian's face in so long, finally arisen at the compliment, "You honor me, Commander . . . and the men of the Auxilia."
"What do you mean?"
"The young lad, Drenis, returned two days ago with delicious meal, foreign to most of the men in the Auxilia." Oroles smirked as he began to reminisce. "When I asked him on the origin of the meal he responded, 'A Roman boy in the position of Commander, with different colored eyes, gave permission for food to be delivered.'"
"I am glad that I was able to help, how did you enjoy the food?" Vitus asked, leaning on to his question, hoping to get a satisfied approval.
"We ate hearty that night. Some Thracians even praised you, young Commander, for giving them such food to eat. We have not enjoyed a meal as such since seven years ago after the defense of the Lucretian Bridge."
"Seven years ago? How long have you served with my father's legion and what is your age?"
"I am at my 40th year and have been in the Auxilia for 15 years," Oroles disdainfully spoke. Vitus skeptically eyed the Thracian up and down. He could not believe that he was 40; all the Romans that he saw that were in their forties were fat and began to look decrypt with age. However, Oroles still had the complexion and the physique of a young man in his early twenties.
"I see . . . so tell me Oroles, is it custom for your men to receive so little food?"
"It is in this legion. Your father gives the best meals to his First, Second, and Third Cohorts; while we in the Auxilia receive only bread to fill up on campaigns. The Syrian archers in the Auxilia receive an extra helping of soup more than we Thracians."
"That doesn't sound like my father," Vitus lightly protested, "He treats every man with proper equality in his legion."
"You are right, every Roman man," Oroles emphasized.
"My father does not judge from the lands in which you hail. I have known my father for 16 years and he has never once mistreated another man because of their blood."
Oroles rolled his eyes and scoffed at the naiveté of the boy, "And I have seen him fight and wage war for 15 years," the Thracian explained. "War sheds the shell of men and parts the veil to show their true nature. Constant fighting and constant wars only lights the fire of hatred and contempt against the men they fight. It forges a belief about one's own race being the superior over another's. But your father, he has built this belief on top of his "Roman attitude". He believes every ally that is not a Roman, is just as inferior as the enemy. And his legionaries believe it too."
"Now you bear false tongue against my father," Vitus raised his voice. "He doesn't—"
"Reflect on past actions with men of the legion, and remember the injustices we Thracians endured!" Oroles commanded.
Vitus thought back to three days, when the legionaries grew angry at him for giving better food to the Thracians. He remembered the hypocrisy spoken by Arminius about the treatment of non-Romans and how it irritated Vitus to listen to their complaining. Oroles indeed had a point.
"I understand not wanting to believe trusted family on nefarious issues," Oroles spoke up, "But I do not mean to spite the name of your father. I am merely telling you my experiences with your father."
"I understand what you say," Vitus sighed, rather embarrassed at his biased defense of his father. He understood that how a man acts with his family could be entirely different than how he acts at his occupation. Vitus was only hoping that this was the only infraction his father committed.
"It is not a fault to hold love for one's country and countrymen," Vitus said, a twinge of shame could be heard in his voice, "But it does turn sour to believe that your land is naturally superior to others; which I unfortunately admit is a common Roman vice. I have seen it too many times among the patricians and how they talk about the plebeians. The stresses of war may have changed my father into a different man, yet it does not excuse his shortcomings. For the way he treated you and your countrymen; I truly apologize for the way he acted."
Oroles was stunned silent yet again. A Roman apologizing for the way another acted? He could scarcely believe it. The wisdom, philosophy, reason, and maturity; all coming from this Roman boy who is barely a man was truly astounding. He did not act like "the high and mighty" Romans that were perceived all across the known world; he was a humble, idealistic kid that actually exemplified the Roman virtues that many Romans preached they had.
A promising smile surfaced on the chiseled face of Oroles, "I accept. You, Commander, are indeed strange for a Roman."
"I get that sometimes," Vitus chuckled.
"But," the Thracian continued, "Fortune shines on me that I am able to meet one such as you."
Vitus smiled proudly at the compliment and extended his hand out towards Oroles. Oroles studied the hand, hesitant to shake it out of discipline of rank. But he judged that this Roman, out of all that he met, was worthy of true respect. Oroles extended his hand and shook hands with Vitus.
Day 14 of the Campaign
Around the chilled, misty midday; the Twenty-Eighth stopped for a break in the march. Many of the men sat offside to the road enjoying a light midday meal to replenish their strength. As they sat around to eat and converse, they wrapped themselves in blankets to keep warm. Today was especially cold, the first day in a long time where they could see their breaths. Winter was on the verge and the soldiers all knew it. They were just counting the days and placing bets on when the first snowflake would fall onto the earth, leading to the inevitable blizzard.
Among the legion, the men of auxiliary were at the front of the legion eating on scraps of deer that Vitus allowed for them have two days ago when Oroles came asking. The Thracian commander was among his most senior men enjoying the succulent roasted deer.
That is when Oroles' right-hand man, Ligadis, spotted a Roman on horseback approach them. Ligadis groaned and shook his head, "Fuck my ass, the Tribune approaches."
"Oroles! Rise!" Antonius obnoxiously demanded.
Oroles put down his deer and rose to his feet in front of the Tribune. His men muttered low groans and curses at the sight of the "impudent" Roman; if he was here, then they knew that something was going to be asked of them.
"Yes Tribune?" Oroles asked.
"By order of the General, take 20 men and scout the forest about 500 meters north."
Oroles sucked his teeth and lowered his head in contempt, "Apologies Tribune, but couldn't this task fall more to the barbarian cavalry? They can patrol the area faster than we can and seek out any possible ambushes."
"The General did not ask of them, he asked for you Thracians," Antonius snarled, not bothering to mask his scorn, "The cavalry would make too much noise, giving away precious position. A small contingent of men can easily maneuver the forest."
"Then why not send out the General's precious legionaries; they are better trained than we are," Oroles countered. The Tribune quickly grew annoyed.
"Just follow fucking command! Take some men and scout the area immediately!"
And with that, Antonius left the auxiliary and returned to the General; leaving the Thracians boiling with frustration.
"Fucking Romans," one Thracian scoffed.
"All the time, they send us out to get killed first," grumbled another.
"Leave it to a Roman to protect his own kind," shouted a third.
Oroles ignored it all. He had heard it plenty times before from his men, he even shouted these things himself during his first year in the auxiliary. But Oroles came to begrudgingly accept their places underneath the heel of their "General". His word was law to the auxiliary and any dereliction of duty was met with unfortunate punishment. Oroles selected his twenty men patrol and wandered off into the forest to look for enemy activity.
Oroles personally led in the front of his men as they carefully maneuvered through the forest with their swords drawn and their shields out, expecting a fight to erupt any minute. Oroles looked around to gauge his surroundings; the trees were mostly bare and brown with all the leaves coating the ground in a beige paint. If an ambush were to happen, then the enemy would most likely come from the trees or from up under the leaves.
Ligadis walked closer to his commander and whispered to him in their native Thracian language, "Oroles, do you smell that?"
Oroles took a strong whiff, he could distinguish two primarily different smells coming from the forest. "Indeed, I smell it."
"It's them. We are right on top of an ambush," Ligadis warned.
"We are, do not alert the men, bring them into tight formation."
"What about the ambush?"
"Keep slow pace, I will march ahead in front of you."
"You will deliberately provoke ambush?"
"I don't like it, but we are already in their clutches. If we turn and run, we will be struck from this life. We have to fight. Besides, the Romans want bodies; and we shall provide them some."
Ligadis nodded his head and backed away from his leader. With a few inconspicuous hand motions, the men of the auxiliary fluidly pulled together in tight formation; the formation change alone told the men they were in for a fight. Yet, they puzzled of why Oroles was advancing ahead of them alone.
Oroles kept walking and kept smelling the various scents surrounding him, like a wolf tracking its next prey. One scent stopped him dead in his tracks right underneath a large tree. Without even looking up, Oroles knew there was a man hiding among the branches of the tree looking down at him.
What am I to do? Such questions weighed heavy on the commander's mind. Good chances exist that he is an archer, and I am in his sight right underneath him. He peered over his shoulder to take a gander of his men's position. They are still moving. Good. In that formation, they should have great defensive advantage. But what about number of the enemy? How numerous are they? What if they come for my head first? No, I am strong in the sword and they will not overcome me so easily. But clear head now Oroles, and think about current dilemma of the man above you. If I can get my shield above my head, I may block the arrow in time . . . Byzo! He is adept in the throwing of spears, he may kill my attacker. I hope you spot the man, Byzo!
Oroles was committed. He snapped his head back and looked up to spot the archer in the tree above him. In a split-second he spotted him. He was a young man with his arrow already drawn with leaves and branches tied to his body for camouflage. Startled at his sudden discovery, the archer released the deadly missile at Oroles. In one fluid motion, Oroles took a knee as he raised his shield above his head. The arrow simply bounced off the shield.
"Byzo!" Oroles shouted over his shoulder.
Byzo traced where the arrow came from, he knew there was an archer in the tree branches, yet he could not distinguish branch from man. But it mattered not for he had his general location. Byzo stepped out of formation and took his stance. He raised his free left hand in the air to gauge the target, it was a lengthy distance. Byzo jumped off his back foot and hurled his spear into the air with so much strength he nearly threw his arm out.
Did he hit him? Oroles had no way of knowing. His shield was still over his head which blocked his sight on all sides and he was still kneeling on the ground. All he heard was the primal grunt of Byzo throwing his spear in the air and the rustling of branches above. Something heavy crashed into the earth. The definitive thud of the object followed by certain cracking sounds riveted through his ears. A smirk creased across Oroles' face. Byzo got the archer.
Out of nowhere, the barbarians charged from the woods down at the Thracians. Their bravery was noted as they ran forth bare-chested with swords, spears, and axes in hand. Their savage war cries shook the earth, yet did not shake the Thracians' spirits.
"Orbem Formate!" Ligadis bellowed. The Thracians assumed a circle formation with locking shields and waited for the ambushing barbarians to fall on their swords. Ligadis pleaded for Oroles to return to formation, not wanting him to fight alone. As Oroles stood up to return, three barbarians already descended upon him, hungry for his death.
The first barbarian, with a spear in hand, tried to run Oroles through. Yet the experienced Thracian sidestepped out of the way and once the barbarian was in arm's range, Oroles sliced the spearman's throat open. Oroles swiftly moved on to the second one; the barbarian brought his axe down on the head of Oroles. Yet as before with the archer, Oroles raised his shield above his head blocking the blow and took a knee; he then lunged his sword deep into the barbarian's stomach; in one whole fluid motion.
As he pulled out his sword, the last barbarian was already on top of Oroles, about to deliver the death blow. Yet quick as ever, Oroles who was still on his knee, swung his sword at the barbarian's legs and lopped off the barbarian's leg at the knee. The legless man fell back screaming in bloody agony cursing his gods for making him fight such a man. Oroles stood to his feet and drove his sword deep into the man's chest, effectively ending his suffering.
Two more barbarians came down at him from the underbrush. The first barbarian wielded a massive two-handed sword and swung with reckless abandon. The Thracian dipped his head out of the way of the swing and skewered the barbarian in the belly with his sword. Oroles moved to the second barbarian and with one perfectly placed swing; Oroles sliced the man's eyes out. The barbarian covered his eyes and shrieked to the heavens as he ran away flailing his arms madly at the loss of his sight.
The cries of battle and death behind him stirred Oroles to check upon his men. The Thracians behind him were still in formation and were holding their ground. The bodies of the barbarian dead began to stack; as their blood began to wet the ground.
Oroles turned his sights on Iphidamas who was doing most of the killing. He lost his shield in the fighting but was still surviving with just his sword. At the moment, Iphidamas was engaged with a barbarian youth who stood no match for the experienced Thracian. Iphidamas kicked the youth in his chest and knocked him to the earth. Iphidamas stood above him, sword raised high in the deliverance of the final blow; when an arrow came hurtling at him and shot Iphidamas in his lower back.
Iphidamas recoiled back in pain which gave the barbarian youth the precious time to run his sword through Iphidamas' body. The youth began to twist his sword deeper into Iphidamas; making sure he will die faster. With his last bit of strength, Iphidamas reached down to his waist and pulled out a Thracian dagger and stuck it deep into the youth's jugular; screaming with rage at the barbarian while doing so. As the blood spurted out of the youth's neck at high velocity, the barbarian fell backwards, pulling the sword out of Iphidamas as he fell. Iphidamas felt his wound and the blood pouring out of him before he collapsed into the dirt.
The thundering din of heavy footsteps echoed throughout the woods, even overshadowing the roar of the fighting. From behind hills, 50 horsemen from the mercenary cavalry hired by Lucius came galloping down to join the fight, led by their berserker leader Totates. The cavalry came crashing down on the ambushers, spearing and cutting down the many of them. The ambushers turned and ran at the sight of the horsemen; but Totates cared not for survivors. "Kill them all!" The ambush had failed.
Oroles ran to the fatally wounded Iphidamas as the other Thracians looked on in sorrow that such a great warrior was leaving this life. Another Thracian came down to Oroles' level and scooped Iphidamas in his arms, the man's name was Ralgylis. Death was near for poor Iphidamas, he's began to groan in agonizing pain as the blood underneath him began to pool. He started shaking uncontrollably, his luscious cream skin began to pale; little sobs could be heard in his dying groans.
"Do not cry Iphidamas, do not cry," Oroles tenderly whispered to him in their native Thracian tongue.
A smidge of blood began to show at the corner of Iphidamas' mouth. He opened his mouth where a raspy wheeze could be heard, "I . . . killed the man . . . who killed me . . . I am happy . . ." With one last breath, Iphidamas of the Getae died.
The Thracians watching bowed their heads, Oroles stood up and took Iphidamas' sword and scabbard and wore it on his hip. Ralgylis started to sob and cradled Iphidamas' body tighter. Oroles placed a comforting hand on Ralgylis shoulder. The two Thracians were the best of friends, they suckled on the same teat growing up and they were raised closer than brothers; and if one of them shall fall in battle, than both of them were to die together. But not on this day.
A fit of laughter in the area snapped Oroles out of his mourning disposition. He spotted the mercenary leader laughing with his men as they scavenged the dead. Oroles gripped his sword tightly and walked over to the mercenaries with a seething Ligadis at his side.
"You!" Oroles pointed to Totates, "Are you in command of the cavalry?"
"I am," Totates politely said with a toothy grin, "I am Totates, and who are you?"
"I am Oroles, commander of the Thracian Auxilia; and this is Ligadis, my second. Why did you come from behind the hills?"
Totates started chuckling, "What riddles do you spout?"
"Cease the laughter and answer the fucking question!" Ligadis yelled.
"We were commanded by General Julius to come to your aid if you and your Thracians met an ambush."
Oroles discreetly grinded his teeth in anger, Ligadis whispered into Oroles' ear, "That fucking Roman cunt!"
"But your men are quite skilled, even better than some of the legionaries; you survived an ambush of 50 men with just 20," Totates smirked.
"One of my men was killed."
Totates' smirk quickly evaporated, "Apologies. But I am confident he died a warrior's death."
"He did, one that was premature because of your late arrival," Ligadis sneered.
"We stopped an ambush for the rest of the legion; we did good today," Totates reassured them.
"One of my men lies dead," Oroles reminded him, "That is all that has happened today."
"You Thracians are weak," the mercenary scoffed, "The Romans sacrifice their men like cattle, yet you do not see them cry upon it."
"We are not Romans!" Ligadis snapped.
"Obviously not!" Totates snapped back. He stood up and walked towards the two Thracians. "Do you not understand? The Roman way is the only way; we must adopt their way, sooner or later. I chose now to adopt the Roman way."
"So you turn your back on your own people?" Ligadis questioned.
Totates burst into a fit of laughter before extending his arms asking them, "What people? I am a Gaul, my people are on verge of destruction, once the General reaches Samarobriva, my people end and our land is forfeit to the Romans. They will be forced to adopt what I already did. Just like your people will. You Thracians only have a little land, the Thracian kingdom is no more; there is only the Republic.
"You know what Rome has that no other nation has? Ambition. Rome is an insatiable beast that's hunger will never be sated until it's eaten the entire world. Romans will not stop until they have everything, you know of this more than I," Totates said pointing at Oroles, "And once they have the earth, the only place for them is the heavens! So drop your pride as a nation, we are all Romans; now and forever."
"Totates, we have found something!" a mercenary walked up to him with a scabbard coated in leather, "Look at the mark engraved in it!"
Studying the mark carefully, Totates broke out a twisted smile. "This is miraculous find! Julius shall be pleased. Come my Thracian friends; let us inform the General of the ambush."
In his makeshift tent, General Lucius Julius was slowly pacing back and forth studying the scabbard with his Tribune, Totates, Oroles and Ligadis present. "What is this I hold? A trophy?"
"A sign," Totates answered him. "Look at the engraving notches in the leather: two wings of doves and the tusks of a wild boar. Does tribal mark bare meaning?"
"I am not familiar of this tribe?"
"Nor should you be. The men we fought were Gauls."
"Gauls?" Lucius raised his eyes skeptically. "We wiped out most of the Gauls; and all of the consecutive ambushes were by Germans."
"I understand, General. But this mark proves it was Gauls. This mark belongs to the tribe of the Candevaci."
"The name does not strike as significant," Antonius said.
Totates chortled, "They were a relatively small Belgic tribe in the north. One of the most peaceful tribes of Gallia. Their warriors were disgraceful and their society was small. But once you, great General, began your war on the Gauls, your destruction of the more powerful tribes led to the Candevaci to grow in strength. Many refuges of former tribes flocked towards the Candevaci for haven."
"Yet if they rise in strength, then why not attack us?" Antonius asked.
"Because their chieftain is not a fool. He knows they cannot survive a war with Rome."
"Yet they send men to attack the just men of Rome," Lucius added, still fixated on the scabbard.
"Also General, my men found this," Totates gave a gold coin to Lucius.
"A denarii." Lucius said, "They are in possession of Roman coin?"
"The lands of the Candevaci are not far from Samarobriva; the Romans before you most likely used their lands for food and water for resources while laying siege on Samarobriva."
"So Marcus Maxentius had the Candevaci in service to Rome—" Antonius explained.
"And now since dear Marcus is in dire need, they betray Rome by attacking us!" Lucius added, throwing the scabbard on the ground in anger. "Totates, how far are the lands of the Candevaci?"
"At our pace, four days' time. Apologies General, but I must inquire, what will you do with the Candevaci?"
Lucius raised his head and revealed a sadistic grin, a grin that Oroles has seen too many times and knew of what was to come. Lucius in a calm, yet dark voice, "I only seek to break words with their chieftain."
Thank you for reading and giving me support. It seems that I may have to be doing monthly chapters now, but I hope that is not the case. Once again thanks for your continued support!
-Kanuro5