His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it could be seen. He was fighting to breathe normally and give the impression that he belonged among this host. He was sure that the looks cast his way by those he passed were becoming more and more suspicious. When he reached the end of the bridge, his hands were beginning to shake. He had not put a great deal of thought into how he was going to proceed once he was free of the Roman camp. That had been such a huge risk, he had not seen clearly beyond it but here he was and a decision was called for. He was now between the river and the walls of the signalling fort. The gate was open. Thirty or so clan-leaders and chieftains sat on a ring of logs listening to a warrior with green snakes tattooed on his face. With a sick lurch in the pit of his stomach, Otto saw it was Hulderic. He was sure that he too would be recognized and denounced; fifty yelling warriors dragging him down to be tortured to death and his mutilated body displayed to the Romans. Hulderic did not even glance his way.
Otto looked over at the bridgehead, as casually as his anxiety let him. A dozen warriors were grouped around it. They wore good armour, silver arm-rings and carried spears and axes. Most of the men he had seen had not been fully armed and he guessed that those hard-looking men were there to control the river-crossing. He thought of approaching them and asking for passageway but there was something about them that made hm hesitate. As he sat in the saddle undecided, Djinn kept walking slowly into the heart of the enemy. Now, he was in the area behind the line of carts which was hidden from the Roman camp. It was full of activity. Men and women were constructing large hurdles out of split birch-wood and making crude ladders. They were too busy to glance up at the undistinguished young warrior on the dusty horse. He found that Djinn had ambled past the last of the wagons where the settlement thinned out as he moved eastwards, upstream.
The last makeshift shelters were behind him and he now rode a pitted track towards the treeline. Up ahead, half a dozen men were sitting on the verge or leaning on their spear shafts. They were the same big, experienced warriors as those at the bridgehead. One came forward into the middle of the track. Otto pulled his mount to a halt. His terror had left him and he felt calm. The hand of fate had touched his shoulder; he could no longer control events. He sat patiently waiting for whatever was coming next.
“Why do you leave the camp of King Helmund?” the guard asked.
“I am not one of his people.”
“No? Then who are you?”
“I am the son of Badurad who led a clan of Suevi.”
“Take off your helmet.”
Otto removed it and the leather skull cap he wore underneath as padding
“If you are who you say, why do you not wear the Suevian Knot like any honest tribesman?”
“I will grow my hair again when the war is won.”
His questioner grunted. “What is your business?” he demanded.
“I have been sent to see if the bridge and King Helmund’s army are still here. Now I know, I am going east to tell my people and will return with fifty or more horsemen to fight in this place.”
“If you came out of the east, why did we not see you when you arrived?”
“I crossed the river further down. I was advised to be cautious. We have had only rumours of this army.”
“That horse you ride is very fine underneath his dust and dirt. You should take better care of him, son of Badurad. I will exchange him for one of mine.”
“No.”
“I will buy him.”
“No.”
“Then I shall take him from you.”
Otto whipped the spear in his right hand over in a blurring arc and without the man having time to move, the point was aimed at his throat.
“No.” he said flatly.
There was a moment of crackling tension then the warrior burst into laughter.
“A fierce young man is the son of Badurad. Take your horse and go on your way. If any others stop you, tell them Audo of the Bright Axe gives you leave to pass.”
“Thank you for your courtesy, my Lord Audo,” Otto said, giving him a title of nobility to which he was probably not entitled.
Audo responded with a bow of the head and stepped aside.
Djinn walked on. The skin of Otto’s back crawled, anticipating the pain of a stabbing blade but he forced himself to keep to his steady pace. He travelled a hundred yards or so and came to slight bend, once through it, he flicked the reins and clucked with his tongue. Djinn responded by breaking into a trot. Otto would like to have gone faster but there was a long way to go and there was no sense in tiring his mount early on.
Twenty minutes later, he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats; two horses being ridden at an easy hand-gallop. He hung his shield on one of the horns of his saddle and dismounted, shooing Djinn forward down the track. Otto looked around him. It was half overgrown by a blackthorn tree a few yards further along. Directly opposite on the other side was the thick trunk of an oak. Otto stood waiting beside the oak, hidden from view of the oncoming riders. He was sure any horse seeing the blackthorn would instinctively move away, closer to his spears. He took several deep breaths and readied himself, listening carefully as the horsemen approached.
He judged the moment perfectly. The instant before the leading horse came level with this hiding place, he thrust the shaft of one of his spears through its front legs. It went in between them and snapped but brought the animal down, head over heels. He caught a glimpse of a man still on its back frantically windmilling his arms. Otto leapt out with his other spear. The second rider was concentrating on controlling his own horse which was throwing its head up and dancing on the spot, trying to avoid trampling its fallen companion. Otto’s thrust caught him in the groin. The blade went in but he manged to stay in the saddle scrabbling for his axe. Otto leaned forward and pushed harder. The spear-shaft bent like a bow and finally the warrior was forced sideways, lost his balance and fell. He had recovered as far as his knees when Otto withdrew the blade and stuck again. The thrust took him in the throat. He died with bright-red blood cascading down his chest.
The horse that Audo of the Bright Axe had been riding had broken its neck in the fall and now he lay pinned under it by both his legs.
“I should have listened when you said you would not let me take your horse, son of Badurad,” he gasped.
Using his elbows to raise his shoulders, he tipped his head back. Otto drove his pugio up through the soft flesh under his chin into his brain pan. He convulsed and died. He took two arm-rings off each of the fallen men, as was his right, and the spear of the second one, before mounting his victim’s horse and riding after Djinn who was a little way down the track grazing on a clump of late grass. He took his shield back, untwisted the tether rope from his own horse’s neck, took a firm hold of one end and rode on but this time at a dead gallop. It would be an hour at most before Audo and his friend were missed and a search party was sent out. He needed to cover as much ground as he could before it could catch up with him or night fell.
Lucius and his men finished their task as the last rays of the sun were slanting sideway, plunging half of the camp into darkness but giving a warm, kindly glow where they still shed their light. The legionaries had built a six- foot deep platform where the Porta Principalis Dexter had so recently stood. Eleven feet high on its outer side and seven feet inside, it gave the defenders a four-foot protective parapet. It was lower than the walkway but the ditch in front was nearly ten feet deep and had been dug out on either side. On Lucius’ orders, the smiths had been busy all-day forging caltrops, the four-pointed iron stars, twisted so that however they were flung down, at least one tip was always upright to pierce an unwary foot. Bucket-loads had been flung into the eastern and northern ditches.
Titus Attius came over to inspect the works. He walked up the steps and stamped heavily on the platform, as he always did, “to test it”, before looking out at the hillside. The tree-stumps stuck up like splintered, broken teeth now that the bracken had been cut back.
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“Well done Boxer, a fine job and I’ve seen plenty of them. Take a walk with me, will you?”
They went up onto the western wall and leaned on the parapet. At this height, they could still feel the dying warmth of the day on their faces.
“Probably rain tomorrow, “Titus offered. “I can smell it in the air.” He fell silent for a minute then began to speak once more. “Remember Centurion Lentus? A brave man and a fine soldier but he was beginning to lose his way. I had a word with him before he left us, like I’m having one with you now. We all know you’re upset about Otto buggering-off on this mission of his without telling you. I understand that, but it shows me you’re losing your way, a bit like Lentus did. Get this into your head. There is a man in this legion who has the right to be consulted and he is The Noble Legate Publius Quadratus; only him, not me, not you, not anybody else. You have no right to know what was said between Otto and the legate and you have no right to fear for your friend. You are a soldier. Comrades we loved like brothers are gone but we soldier on. That’s part of what makes us what we are. Pray for his success, grieve for him if he is lost but soldier on; that is what we are here to do and so long as everyone does, all will be as the Gods will it. Fancy a flask of wine? You’ve had a long, hard day….”
The centurion commanding the guard at the western gate did not believe his eyes. An unmounted cavalry horse, caked in mud up to the withers, stood outside, pawing the ground with one front hoof. He shouted for the officer of the watch. Soranus had drawn that duty and hurried over.
“Take a look at that, sir.”
Soranus leaned over. The horse lifted its head and looked back at him in irritation at being shut out of its stable.
“Better open the gate quick and get him in,” the tribune ordered.
“Your heard the officer, lads, open up and get that nag in here before the Germans roast ‘im.”
They were still dragging the two leaves of the gate apart when the weary animal pushed through of its own accord. They heaved them back and dropped the locking bar back into position with a dull thud.
“Decurion Otto was riding it,” one of the cavalrymen told Soranus and the centurion before he led it away.
This made sense of it coming in from the west. It had most likely got so muddy crossing Boxer’s Canal. Once the news got out, the legion was split into two groups with conflicting opinions. Many believed it was a favourable omen; his horse had found its way home unharmed. That had to be good. The others thought it was the worst possible outcome. If Otto had made it into cover and then rode on, surely he would have taken it with him. It was a long way to headquarters and he would have need of a spare horse. No, he must have fallen. Argument and counterargument raged during every spare minute but there were not to be so many of those over the next few days.
Otto pounded up the track in the gathering gloom. At last he had to admit to himself that it was growing too dark to carry on. He noticed a game trail leading off to the right and followed it until it broke out into one of those small glades formed when a great tree fell. There was grazing but no water. He tethered his animals and sat with his back against a tree waiting out the long night. He dozed but sat forward, wide-eyed, and instantly awake at every rustle in the undergrowth. When the first birds began to twitter in the tree-tops and the world was no longer black but grey, he mounted up and retraced his steps to the track. “Giddup!” he yelled and drove his stolen horse forward as fast as its legs would take him.
When full daylight was spreading over the land, he came to a small stream. He let both horses drink, but only a little, before forcing them on, his heels drumming a constant rhythm on his mount’s flanks. By noon, he could feel the horse under him beginning to fight for breath. The day was cooler; huge, black anvil shaped clouds were filling the sky downstream but for the moment he was racing ahead of them. He passed a bare hill with a seared top and recognised it as where Tertius Fuscus had ordered the bodies of the German ambushers to be cremated. On he rode without pause into the afternoon. He felt a tremor run through the horse beneath him. He gently slowed their frantic pace and felt its legs wobble when they had slowed to a walk. He halted and slipped out of the saddle. The animal was spent, soaked in sweat and so unsteady on its legs it could go no farther. He led it to some grazing under a sheltering tree near the river. He took off the saddle and bridle and set it free. With any luck, there would be enough nourishment in the grass to restore its strength and it certainly would not lack water; it had the whole of the Rhine to drink. He loped away holding Djinn’s lead rope. The great stallion trotted beside him still relatively fresh; although he had kept up the pace, he had borne no weight on his back so far during their headlong dash.
Day came quicker to the Marcomanni camp than it did to Otto under the forest canopy. As he was mounting-up in the first dim dawn, Helmund and Hulderic had their people on the move in bright sunshine. They were going to be seriously damaged by missile-fire, they knew that but they had learned some lessons. Making the clan leaders and chieftains apply them had been a major battle in itself. Over ten thousand warriors were taking part in their first full-strength assault. Manoeuvring was going to take some time. The entire force had been divided into ten battalions of around one thousand men. Each man had been instructed to stand so that his spread arms did not quite touch his neighbour on either side and that there were two paces between each rank.
“If you close up too soon, their machines will kill you three at a time,” Helmund warned.
They had reluctantly agreed but there was a sticking point. One of the chieftains had decided to ride his horse into the engagement. Hulderic told him that this was not a good idea.
“My warriors will look up and take heart at the sight of me in my battle finery and hear my words of encouragement.”
“But you will make a bigger target for their bolt-throwing machines,” Helmund told him hoping that stating the obvious would being him to his senses.
“Then these Romans will know I have no fear of them,” he said jutting out an obstinate chin.
“Helmund and I will be on foot,” Hulderic added.
The chieftain looked at him disdainfully.
“It is not for me to comment on the valour of others,” he said.
As a result of his insistence, most of the rest felt they should also show the Romans they had no fear, which resulted in over two hundred mounted men forming up with the warriors on foot.
The Marcomanni knew they could move without fear of artillery fire as long as they were not within four hundred paces of the Roman walls. They walked across the open plain and fell into their ranks, spread out as instructed. The battalions began to separate from each other. Then half the force stepped out onto the farmlands and began to deploy to the west.
The Roman officers were watching from their northern parapet.
“Aye, aye, that’s new,” Attius said.
“I see a lot of men are carrying hurdles and ladders,” Soranus remarked.
“And there are many warriors on horseback among them. Boxer, tell your artillerists to pay them special attention, if you will,” Quadratus said, giving one of his polite suggestions which were, in fact, precise orders.
“Yes, sir,” Lucius responded.
“Tell your lads to aim for the horses, not the riders. A big fat horse with a scorpion bolt up its arse can do a lot of damage before it drops dead,” Attius added.
“Perhaps not as I would have put it but tactically sound as ever, Titus,” the legate laughed before turning to Tertius Fuscus. “Senior tribune Fuscus, you will command the western wall for me. First Spear Centurion Titus Attius, take the northern side. We cannot neglect our other defences so let us have one cohort manning each of the south and east walls, we can bring them into the main fight if necessary. Tribune Lucius Longius, split Centurion Corvo’s men between the two commanders. Tribune Rufus Soranus, I’m making you my permanent aide-de-camp. Find yourself twenty runners and an armful of wax-tablets. Titus, what ar
e all these German axes doing propped up behind the parapets?”
“Took ‘em off the enemy dead after their last performance. Handy for chopping through ropes they throw up and that sort of thing, sir.”
Quadratus grunted his approval. “To our places gentlemen, Mars and Fortuna with us.”
“Mars and Fortuna,” the officers replied in unison and hurried away.
Helmund halted his division and waited while Hulderic marched the other half of the army into position. Horns blared and the orderly advance gradually speeded up until, within range of Lucius’ scorpions and ballistas, it became a full charge. When the first missiles fell among them, they closed up instinctively and against all instructions. A horse was hit square in the chest and bowled over half a dozen warriors like skittles as it fell, thrashing in its death throes. Others followed in rapid succession. The proud riders now looked about them wild-eyed, wishing they had listened to Helmund but fearing the loss of face if they dismounted more than the threat of death swooping down from the sky. The thudding of artillery fire increased in rapidity as the mass of yelling men came ever closer and made it easier to pick out a target. They reached Boxer’s Canal and flung down their hurdles using them as crude bridges, surging over in a mad dash to gain the shelter of the walls. Now javelins, arrows and sling bullets rained down on them. Men fell dead or with broken limbs, tripping their companions but still they came on. New levels of noise were reached as screams added to the cacophony when the caltrops in the northern ditch crippled feet.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 12
