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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Banks of the Danube,

North of Vindobona

May 20th, 166 CE

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Lucius, senior centurion of the Tenth Gemina, felt his mind stutter and gibber. One minute he’d been preparing for death . . . and now there was death.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Death for the Hermanns, in great job lots.

When the sulfur-smelling smoke cleared in a few seconds he could see hundreds of them dead in the formation that had been about to punch through . . . annihilate . . . his beloved First Cohort. Hundreds more were wounded, and a thousand or more were simply running away, throwing their weapons aside to run the faster.

His head whipped to either side. His own men were staring in slack-jawed astonishment; there was fear there too, and it could build. That snapped him back to the present moment. He strode forward, the signifer and the signaler beside him. A moment’s echoing silence had fallen, not complete but close enough after the roar of battle and then the cataclysmic bangs of . . . whatever it had been. Something to do with those new catapults, certainly.

“Men of the First Cohort, Tenth Gemina!” he shouted. “Jove’s thunderbolts fight for us!

He pointed with his sword to the hill. Heads turned; that let them see the clot of three score or so of Hermanns around Prince Ballomar’s standard clawing their way up the steepness. Three more of the bronze balls arched out, thrown by hand this time, trailing smoke, and . . . 

CRACK! and a very brief pause, then: CRACK! CRACK!

More of the Marcomannic warriors died, with the Romans watching; some of them . . . or parts of them . . . flipped all the way back to the base of the hill. A breath of wonder went through the watchers, and he could hear a building excitement in it. To the south, the German line was beginning to unravel; a lot of them could see what was happening too, and rumor would fly like thought, magnifying it.

Battles could turn on their heels sometimes, like a chariot rounding the spina in an amphitheater.

Then the last few Marcomanni fell back over the lip of the hill . . . or the crews of the catapults up above showed up there, waving severed heads and dancing with glee.

“Prepare to charge!” he shouted, with decades of experience in projecting his voice behind it. “Cohort will wheel to the right and advance! For our Eagle, for the Emperor, for Rome! Signaler, sound charge!”

There was a sound from the men as the curled brass instrument sang; first more of a rasping croak: “Jupiter!”

Then a massed bull-chested bellow: “IUPPITER OMNIPOTENS!”

Who was now definitely, demonstrably with them and giving the Hermanns what they deserved.

Then a crashing double bark, as the far-right century marched in place and the far-left double-timed out, the whole of the 372 men still on their feet performing as if this was a parade:

“ROMA! ROMA!”

The First Spear of the Tenth Gemina chopped his blade forward.

Shields up under their eyes, short swords held hilt down for the gutting stroke, hobnails treading down the dirt and the dead, the living walls of Rome began to walk.

* * *

When the legate and his command group cantered up the easy western slope of the hill, Artorius came to his feet and stood beside the heavy Marcomannic battle spear rammed butt-first into the dirt. The veterans chivvied their crews into line and stood to attention as he drew his horse to a halt, and the bodyguards grouped around Sarukê and Filipa.

The American saluted, in the palm-out, arm-vertical Roman style. The legate returned it, his eyes traveling across the catapults and their crews, stopping a second where Sarukê stood helmetless with her arm around Filipa’s shoulders, passing on to the scatter of two dozen dead and mostly headless Marcomanni . . . and then up the spear to the head of Prince Ballomar, mouth gaping and flies swarming for their feast, his mutilated helmet still on his head.

The Roman commander obviously recognized it, probably from previous diplomatic meetings, and gave a slow smile and a satisfied nod.

Josephus slid down from his horse, stepped up beside the American and bowed, indicating him with a sweeping gesture of one arm.

“Behold the maker of this mighty new weapon, my lord Legate,” he said. “And the man who slew Prince Ballomar in single combat, and brings his head to the most noble Legate of the Tenth Legion!”

“Commendable,” the Roman noble said, then turned back to the American. “This man deserves well of the Republic. Name yourself, that you may receive the thanks of Rome.”

Artorius bowed, catching Josephus’ eyes as he did so and getting an almost imperceptible nod.

Meaning, he told Centurion Lucius to remind the legate that the Emperors will be getting independent reports about all this from their agents—probably by something tactful along the lines of What wonderful reports the Frumentarii will be sending to Rome, sir! So don’t try to hog all the limelight or you’ll look bad.

“My name is Artorius, most noble Legate,” he said firmly. “Lucius Triarius Artorius. My thanks for your generous words.”

By now his Latin bore only a faint accent from his native tongue. It was also still, by second-century Roman standards, a bit archaic, in the style scholars and men of old family cultivated. In fact it was quite similar to the legate’s diction.

The legate looked up at the head of the Marcomannic prince again, and sighed with the happiness of a man reprieved from death . . . and worse, from failure and disgrace that would make death attractive as an escape.

“You shall have more cause for thanks. The Emperor in Rome shall hear of your service to the State.”

He motioned to a clerk and began dictating a report, still glancing up at the spear and severed head.


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