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Argeus the Paladin -> The Last Cohort Prologue+ (1/14/2010 2:52:04)
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Siberian March
(This one is set in December, AD 16, roughly two thousand years before the events of The Last Cohort. Which means no anime trope like my usual fare, sadly)
“Report, Centurion Gnaeus Antonius Secundus.”
The speaker’s voice sounded uncannily like the howl of a hungry wolf. Or perhaps it was the wind of Siberia that had turned the echoes of his usually calm and commanding voice into such a distortion of its old self.
The man’s red robes was stained by the endless snow. His lorica segmentata, the proud armor of a Roman soldier was acting against its owner for the first time. Underneath it, the soldier felt no warmth, no protection, not even comfort. Nothing, except an ever increasing chill, seemingly numbing his entire torso. The thick general’s cloak did not warm him up much, fluttering behind him in the arctic wind. His lips had lost its rosy color, a pale shade had painted them just as well as it did the rest of his visage. His eyes were fatigued, his pupils showing clear traces of exhaustion. His corporeal body would want nothing more than to return to the temperate warmth of Rome as he had set out years before.
But he would not do that. His jaws clenched tightly in an effort to both control his ignoble shivering and to appear in control. His soldiers needed a strong leader to bank on at that moment more than any other time.
His name was Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius, the Roman hero responsible for flushing out the treacherous Germanic warbands under Arminius the Betrayer. A brilliant general and a worthy emperor-to-be, in the eyes of both the patricians and plebeians. If he had not come up with the decision to set off in search of the lands of Nihonnia ‘as the great gods decreed,’ that was.
Facing him was a middle-aged man in the same suit of armor, with a horse-hair helmet to decorate his sunken, fatigued expression. His face was even paler than his leader, such that the snowflakes passing it could hardly be distinguished from his texture itself. He was bending low before Flavius Teutoburgius, his mouth twisted in both coldness and anxiety.
“Imperator, the situation is grim,” said him. “The Third and Fourth Cohort are in very bad shape. The 12th Century had lost more than half her men within just a few days. The men of the 14th are openly expressing their... displeasure. To make matter worse, supplies from our homelandare getting more and more erratic. I have a gut feeling that Rome has abandoned us.”
Imperator. Such was the title bestowed upon him as he left Rome for this land of Nihonnia. Together with the golden Aquila he was granted, effectively he was the sole representative of Roman rule and authority in the desolated land they had gotten to. And with it lay the load of responsibility, one he had been all too happy to take on. A load that grew heavier the further East the expedition marched from Rome.
“It’s only natural,” Flavius Teutoburgius shook his head. “Father has just died, and Tiberius, as far as I know, is not the kind of person who would pay much attention to an expedition to a land far, far away with no immediate prospect for gains.”
“What do you reckon we do, Imperator?” the Centurion asked nervously. “This winter is unlike anything we have ever seen. Just standing in it is enough to incapacitate the soldiers, let alone actually march on.”
Taking a brief pause, the Imperator looked around the place. There were occasional shadeds of red amid the complete whiteness of the surrounding. Never before did the mighty Roman Legio XVII seem so small, so puny, so vulnerable, broken by no mortal foes, but by the weather itself. Here and there, the soldiers gathered in groups around fickle flames threatening to extinguish any minute now under the fierce wind and the incessant snowfall. Their weapons and armors were strewn all over the place, around the tents, on the icy field, around the flames. Here and there Flavius had seen a pilum or two having been broken and thrown into the fires in desperate attempts to keep them alive. The mighty legionaries were mighty no longer, their hands tugging at whatever they could find, shivering. And above them all, the wind was still blowing, snow still falling, covering everything in the white color of death and desolation. A very unbecoming sight of the Roman army, indeed. But Flavius could hardly blame his men. No one born of flesh and blood could take that cold and still stand, let alone continuing.
“We need a plan, Imperator,” reckoning that the Imperator hadn’t heard what he had just said, Centurion Gnaeus said again, louder. “I suggest we retreat, find a better spot to camp, stabilize our supplies and wait until spring before moving on!”
In spite of his best attempt to shout, his voice was readily drowned beneath the howling wind, sounding no more significant than the breath of a dying man.
“There is no more zone for retreat now,” said Flavius decisively, shaking his robe up.
He then pointed to the vast field of pure icy snow ahead. Over a plane completely devoid of vegetation, the terrain was abnormally flat, especially compared to the hilly highland they had just passed over the course of the past few months.
“That, Centurion Gnaeus, is a lake. A lake frozen over several time because of Sol Invictus’ scorn. This frozen lake is the only way east from here on. If we wait until spring, there will be no way we can proceed any further.”
“But the men can barely stand, Imperator!” shouted the Centurion. “Some of them are openly questioning the point of this expedition in its entirety! If this goes on, I fear for your safety, Noble Imperator!”
“We are the children of Romulus, the proud Romans,” Flavius stuck to his guns. “If Legio XVII would like to desert its honor, murder its leader and go back to Rome, so be it. History will always remember Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgis as a hero. That much is enough for me.”
“That is insane, Imperator!” protested the Centurion aloud. “I myself have serious doubts about the Oracles’ prediction. If there had been indeed a land of Nihonnia so wondrous and free for the taking, someone would have taken it already!”
“Then it is the job of true Romans to kick them out and claim the land for ourselves,” declared Flavius as he ordered his faithful retainer. “Centurion, gather your men. I would like to have a small chat with Legio XVII in its entirety!”
******
Soon the armies were gathered, the men standing in straight lines, shivering in the frost. The latest shipment of warm clothing from Rome was too little and too late, being able to cater to barely half of the ranks of men. Up until now, their food hadn’t been a problem, but such luxury was about to be discontinued any day now. The result of such attrition was obvious. The lines of soldiers spreading before the Imperator were far thinner than the day he set out from the city of the seven hills. The Third and Fourth Cohort had merely two centuries each with full number. The Second Cohort was down to the last century. The Equites Romana column had half of its soldiers horseless. The only thing to look remotely regal in the assortment was the standard bearer with the golden eagle. Amidst the endless snow, it would not be too much to assume that it was the eagle’s gleam that was stopping the entire column from routing.
Standing before the row of exhausted soldiers was the Imperator himself. Steeling himself for the firmest expression he could muster, his jaws clenched tightly, his limbs stressed solid so as to not let a weak shiver out for his soldier to behold. His soldiers’ resolve weren’t so firm, the entire column shaking in unison as snow and wind wiped their face clear of any trace of rosiness. Flavius had a gut feeling that among those present, some were openly cursing him out of their clattering teeth. Again, he could blame them as much as he could Rome.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen,” he began to speak in the same way Marcus Antonius had addressed at the funeral of his granduncle half a century ago. “Today we gather here, in this endless field of snow and wind. I reckon you are displeased, which I would not blame you for.”
As he spoke he raised his head towards the sky.
“You have every reason to despair, to lose your heart, or even to distrust the bastard who has brought you to this land,” he turned back to the rank of soldiers and continued after a large number of snowflakes had against his cheeks, chilling the touch out of his skin. “The gods have apparently abandoned us, I can see. The indefatigable Sol Invictus has subsided before the cold. The great Mercury has ceased giving us waypoints. And the mighty Mars has found no further need to shelter his bands of trusted warrior simply because there are no battles to be fought. Through their actions the gods have decreed that we either abandon our journey and return to our motherland of the seven hills, or freeze to death in this alien world. The choice is ours to make.”
As he spoke, Flavius noticed a dramatic change in the expression of those before him. Both those who previously looked at him with due suspicion and with admiration now lifted their eyebrows in unison with astonishment. All at once Flavius could feel thousands of eyes peering at him, as if questioning his sanity. And that was all what he needed.
“My name is Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius, son of Octavius Julius Caesar Augustus, brother-in-law of the reigning emperor,” he went on as he raised his bloodied fist to the sky. “My blood is a noble one and carries with it power. Power to give and take life. Power to grant wealth and deprive of it. And power to save as well as to damn. For those of you who just can’t stand the cold, I can bring you back to the Mediterannean soil that gave birth to you. For those of you who have families and friends in Rome, those whose wife and children are still eagerly awaiting your return, I can return you to them just as I have taken you from them. And for those of you who see not a future in the land we are going to, I can as well take you home where you deem a better future.”
Taking a short pause as his eyes scanned the whole rank, Flavius then said with a totally different tone.
“But, friends, would that make you men? Would cowering your way back to Rome be any becoming of the proud legionaries of Legio XVII? Would such an act of cowardice make you as Roman as the heroes of the ages past who struggled to build this Rome you call your home?”
And then came silence, a dreadful silence interrupted only by the hollering gusts. There was a sharp sound of a metal blade being drawn from its scabbard, as piercing as the arctic wind itself. The Imperator brandished his short sword, raising it to his face.
If anyone in the line was still drowsy and exhausted, the next moment’s development woke them up completely. With a swift movement of his left palm along the edge of the gladius, the Imperator’s hand was cut open. His blood dripped on the ground, scattered away by the wind, so that as he closed his wounded palm, a large area around him had been sprayed thinly with the color red. As the blood touched the white ground, it melted through the snow, blotting up in a wide radius around the Roman.
“Here is my blood, red and burning, cut open before your eyes for all to behold,” he said, his voice now having turned into a thunderous roar, overwhelming even the horrible wind. “The feeble snow cannot withstand my blood, instead crumbling and melting before the blood of a true Roman! And neither can it withstand yours, true Romans to a man! The gods have deserted us, but so what? With just this noble blood that flows within the veins of each and everyone of us, the blood that has seen Rome built from clay and gravel into what it is today, our ancestors have gone through far worse than this. Whether or not the later generations can say the same about us of Legio XVII solely depends on our conduct in this very challenge!”
With a sharp turn of his body and flick of his uninjured hand, the Imperator pointed towards the East and raised his pitch even further.
“Let me remind you all, that beyond all this danger, all this suffering and torments, beyond all that urges you to return home to the warm fire of Vesta, lies the land of Nihonnia. The promised land, the new Rome, the place where your name shall forever be etched into stone as the founder of! The honor is not only mine, but yours as well! Everything we could ever ask for will be ours when we overcome this challenge. And only then will we stand under the Sun as men deserving of it all!”
At this point Flavius’ entire body was shaking not because of cold, but passion. He then proceeded to push his gladius into the frozen ground.
“I, Flavius Julius Caesar Teutoburgius, swear that I will live to see and make this new land of Nihonnia Roman!” he shouted as he knelt on the ground, pressing on the hilt of the blade. “Men of Legio XVII, are you man enough for this task at hand?”
Then passed several seconds in complete silence, as if the words of the Roman general had drowned out even the mighty blizzard itself. Its effect on the crowd, however, didn’t seem all that positive. For a second, it appeared as though the general’s passion never reached his freezing troops.
And then from the ranks, a pilum was raised into the sky, followed by another, then another, and another, until the entire row of legionaries had their throwing spears raised to the sky.
“Most Noble Imperator!” one soldier from below took the responsibility to break the silence into his hands and spoke up eventually. “We men of Legion XVII will stand with you until the very end! Nihonnia or death!”
In response, the whole rank quickly echoed with “Nihonnia or death” cries coming from each and every man’s lips. No longer were the howling winds silenced, they were overwhelmed. No longer did the snowflakes freeze men’s soul, they melted. The heat from the moment’s uproar was more than enough to replace the warm hearth of Vestia for the entire army. Flavius Teutoburgius took this development with the broadest smile of pride he could afford.
“With you at my side, friends, Romans, countrymen, I fear nothing!” he exclaimed as he pointed to the horizon beyond. “Now, men, let us set ourselves for the task at hand! Today we cross this frozen lake, tomorrow that plain over there, and Nihonnia shall be in our hands! We are the invicta!”
To conclude his speech, the Roman general drew his weapon from the ground, mounted his horse, and turned towards the frozen lake. As he rode off, behind him he could still hear his Centurion’s voice shouting to the now-rallied soldiers.
“Legionaries, forward! Follow the Imperator! In the name of Rome, march!”
*******
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