“Soldier!” a man said in heavily accented Latin behind Artorius.
The centurion turned to face him.
He was a farmer, though with his more brightly colored tunic and breaches, along with his well-groomed hair and shaven face, he appeared to be a man of greater importance.
“What is it?” Artorius asked.
“I trust your men will be able to protect us,” the man, who Artorius surmised to be the village leader, stated. “During the last raid I recognized some of the men or at least was able to see what tribe they belong to. They are Marsi, same as my people.”
“The Marsi were all but annihilated during the last Germanic War,” the centurion affirmed. “With their lands so close to the border, they would not dare risk a renewed call of Roman vengeance.”
“It has been fifteen years since then,” the village leader observed. “Mallovendus, our chief who attained peace with Rome in exchange for the return of a lost imperial eagle, has since passed on to the halls of our ancestors. His sons have fallen from favor, and those who now lead the Marsi curse those of us who live across the Rhine within the boundaries of who they view, still, as our most hated enemy.”
“The senate granted you lands on the border to prevent conflict with the native Gauls,” Artorius said. “It was also with the intent that having the same tribal peoples directly on both sides of the empire’s border would create a sense of peace and harmony.”
“Your senate’s intent may have been noble,” the man replied, “yet, sadly, it has had the opposite effect. We who seek Roman community and protection have been branded as traitors. They do not just want our food stores, they wish for our deaths.”
“It is they who will pay the price in blood,” Artorius promised. As he left the man and returned to his century, he furrowed his brow in contemplation. Though it affirmed his suspicions that the raiders would certainly return, it troubled him to think more substantial troubles may be brewing.
“The Germanic tribes will always be trouble,” Praxus conjectured when Artorius told him of his concerns. “Why do you think we live in one of the only double-legion fortresses in the whole of the empire?”
“True,” Artorius concurred. “One does not post ten-thousand men, especially legionaries, in a single place without reason. Still, it does wear on me from time-to-time. As our soldier said a while ago, these bastards never learn.”
The remainder of the day passed without incident, and it was well into night when the Marsi raiders returned. The legionary runner sent from the pickets somehow managed to make his way back to the century without causing a commotion. It was only when he reached the embankment that he lost his footing and pitched headlong over the side in a crash of armor and weapons. A few stifled chuckles were heard from amongst the legionaries lying against the slope. Their demeanor immediately changed when they understood why he’d come.
“Sir,” the runner said as quietly as he could, once he found Centurion Artorius. “The raiders are coming.”
“Any idea on their strength?” Praxus asked as squad leaders started to rouse their sleeping men.
“No,” the soldier replied. “It is so bloody dark in the thicket that we can’t see a thing. However, we could hear them. They’re not making any attempts at being quiet. There must be a lot of them. The sounds of the river would mask the approach of a smaller force. They’ll be on the settlement in a matter of minutes.”
“Whatever their numbers, we will stop them,” Artorius asserted. He then turned to his optio. “Praxus, get our flanking forces set.”
“I still don’t agree with you only taking two squads with you,” the optio remarked as he signaled for decanii to have their men make ready.
Most of the century would fan out in either direction in order to envelope the raiders and prevent them from escaping. With another squad still on picket duty and providing their blocking force, that left Artorius with only sixteen men.
“When I’m a bloodied corpse, you can say you were right,” the centurion retorted. “Now move!” It was rare for him to give such a biting rebuke to his second-in-command, who was also a close friend. However, he was facing an enemy of unknown strength, with many of his own men having never seen combat. This was not the time for indecisiveness.
The raiding force proved to be far larger than Artorius had anticipated. At first all he could see was a handful of shadows moving amongst the homesteads, some heading for the kraal, the rest for the grain silo. He took a deep breath and squeezed the upper arm of the soldier lying to his left. This noiseless signal was passed down the line and everyone stood with shields and javelins ready.
As his men quickly stepped off and advanced towards the settlement they heard the sounds of doors being smashed and screams coming from within. There were now numerous shadows rushing about and the flash of torches was glaring in the blackness.
“Impudent bastards,” Artorius growled. He had hoped to get as close as possible to the enemy before making his presence known, but now he had no choice but to distract the raiders, lest they wipe out the settlement. “Advance!”
Though his shouted order would alert his men moving to flank the enemy that the situation now called for speed, it also let the enemy know he was coming. Shouts in a foreign tongue echoed in the night, and it was only when those bearing torches came into view that the light cast on the field let Artorius know just how badly he was outnumbered. There was nothing for it. As a horde of what he figured were at least a hundred men bore down on them, he quickened his step and shouted his next order. “Javelins…throw!”
His men unleashed their heavy javelins, which tore into the bodies of the oncoming raiders. Some managed to block the incoming missiles, though their shields were rendered useless as a result. Others fell with their guts ran through, tumbling to the ground in overwhelming agony. There was no time for further orders and without waiting for the centurion’s command, every legionary quickly drew his gladius.
“Orb formation!” Artorius shouted.
With only sixteen men, he knew he had no chance of holding a battle line against the mass of barbarians whose clubs and spears were already slamming into the wall of legionary shields. His men quickly formed a circle, keeping their shields together as they suddenly found themselves in a fight for their lives. In the flashes of torchlight, he could see the looks of glee on the faces of the barbarians as they hoped to add nearly a score of legionaries, not mention a centurion, to their trophies of plunder.
One man swung a club which banged repeatedly off Artorius’ shield. The barbarian’s one eye was clouded and white, the other red as he howled in a berserker rage. The centurion tilted his shield and hammered the raider in the gut with the bottom edge, causing him to double over. Before he could finish the man, a spear caught him in the cheek guard of his helmet, knocking him back. Artorius regained his footing and brought his shield up as the spearman thrust his weapon at his face once more. With only brief glimmers of torchlight it was difficult for him to see anything. He thrust his gladius randomly in the direction that the enemy blows were coming from. He heard a shriek as the point of his sword impacted what he guessed was the man’s forearm.
As his men battled against the onslaught, panicked cries echoed from amongst the barbarian warriors. They soon fled in all directions as legionaries from Artorius’ century bore down on their flanks. They had elected not to employ their javelins, lest they risk hitting their own men. The darkness worked to their advantage, as the raiders were unaware that they had the Romans outnumbered.
Artorius and his men breathed a collective sigh of relief as the enemy fled towards the river. More than a dozen lay dead and another six had been captured. As he scanned the scene, his heart leapt into his throat. Lying on the ground in a pool of blood was one of his legionaries. The man had been stabbed in the throat; one of the few places their armor could not protect them.