The sun shone feebly, birds sang and a hare raced for shelter across the Roman front.
Helmund and Hulderic embraced. This was the day they had been waiting for. Helmund was elated. He had won. His tactics had weakened them so much they had been forced to come out. That was an act of desperation on their part. Yes, there was still a battle to fight and it would be bitter but his numbers assured him of the victory. He surveyed the Roman formation. He would roll up their left flank on the western side and force them all back against the steep hill where they could not manoeuvre. He had no fear that they would rush him; the remaining wagons would divide the Roman shield wall if they tried and he knew how much they dreaded that. It was time to arm, briskly but without rushing. This was a morning to savour.
“Lords and chieftains, today go into battle on your horses, like the noble warriors you are!” he yelled.
Fifty auxiliary cavalry led by Aldermar trotted down the forest trail to where Otto had first encountered Audo of the Bright Axe. His men were all German, flowing red or blond braids and beards, arms thick with silver rings. A score or so of yards before they would be out of the treeline, they were spotted by a dozen warriors. They saw no cause for alarm in the approaching horsemen who looked as if they could be remote kinsmen. As their leader put up his hand to stop them, two of the riders darted past him and spun their mounts to face back up the track. They were there to prevent any of the guards Aldermar and their comrades had now commenced to slaughter from escaping to warn Helmund’s army below.
A horn was blown and a further three hundred and fifty auxiliaries joined the advance party. They trotted on in a compact body and emerged from the trees. Again the horns blew, urgently this time. The riders settled deeper into their saddles, took a firmer grip on their lances and launched themselves down the short incline onto the Marcomanni lines. They took the planned route between the wagons and the river. Ten abreast, they tore through the encampment riding down anything and everything in their path; fire circles, tents, shelters, half-armed men, women, children were pulped under hooves or pierced by lances. A great communal shriek of agony rose into the air. Helmund and his army forming up in the face of the Romans looked back in bewilderment. By the time the first division of cavalry had ridden to the end of their lines the Roman squadrons, twice as large in number, smashed the far edge of Helmund’s left flank and then cantered arrogantly across his front, joining the auxiliaries who were now gathered in a body on the west of the battlefield.
The Roman infantry remained ominously still and silent. A whistle shrilled in the centre of their lines immediately followed by others to left and right. They took their first step forward and as they did so, the thunder roll of swords on shields filled the ears of Helmund’s army with dread. The combined cavalry spurred close to the Marcomanni formation and threw their lances before wheeling away. The result was carnage. Confused by the drumming of the advancing infantry, terrified by the sudden arrival of killers on horseback, they bunched up, edging away from the threat of the cavalry. They began to get in each other’s way. Cohesion was being lost.
On the far side, the scorpions began to cut down the massed men, sometimes two at a time with a lucky shot. This had a similar effect, pushing the Marcomanni into their own centre. The pressure from both flanks, bulged their line outwards into the Roman advance. They were now less than one hundred yards apart. Arrows and slingshot rained down on them dropping men at random. Still the Roman line came on. Twenty-five paces away, the Romans halted and the centre threw their javelins, one, two, three volleys. Three thousand wicked, weighted blades plunging into the enemy. It was as if they had waited for Helmund’s army to ripen like corn and were bringing in the sheaves. The whole front speeded up and smashed into the directionless mob the enemy force had become. It reeled back but reformed. The Roman advance was checked and they fought shield to shield. The cavalry hammered into Helmund’s flank again, their long swords rising and falling while their chargers ripped men’s faces with their teeth or broke their bones with heavy hooves.
Helmund looked around and saw defeat on the faces of everyone around him. Half his force had been pushed onto their own wagons and now fought with them at their backs. Out of his sight, women, children and some of his men were jumping into boats and paddling frantically across the river, the current dragging them downstream as they tried to get away. The bridge was a struggling chaos of people seeking refuge across the Rhine.
A body of warriors tried to burst through the Roman right flank and either attack the artillery or make their way up into the forest and safety. Their presence stopped the advance of Lucius’ troops and the Roman line skewed as the centre and left continued to carve its way deeper into the enemy. From his vantage point on horseback, Tertius saw the danger and shouted the information to Quadratus.
“Take three hundred of the reserve and bolster Boxer’s troops. We must keep going forward,” the legate commanded.
Tertius trotted forward and filtered the extra troops past Lucius and into the line before returning to his original position.
“There you are, Tertius, you were of some use after all,” Quadratus said with a grim smile.
Aldermar ordered Otto and his men to repeat the charge between the wagons and the river again in the opposite direction. Otto’s heart was hammering, Djinn was dancing on the spot, eager to be let loose.
“On me! On me!” he shouted and felt the thrill of so many horsemen riding at his command. They galloped through the panicked crowd, hacking and stabbing. There was more resistance this time. Many of the warriors leaving the battle were still fully armed and holding weapons. They fought back but could do little against half a ton of horse and its merciless rider. The cavalry reached the end of the line. They were now behind the main Marcomanni force on their eastern side. Otto had no further orders. Hoping that the Roman artillery would notice them, and re-direct their fire, he shouted for his men to attack the enemy in front of them. They raced in and threw their last lances. As they were wheeling away, Otto saw Helmund. He had been riding his bay stallion all over his front yelling encouragement to his failing men. Helmund recognised Otto.
It was as if they met in the tranquil eye of a hurricane. The sounds and sights of battle no longer existed for them. Both saw in front of him one man who personified all the hatred, anguish and pain of the last days and weeks. They charged recklessly at each other, scattering anyone in their way, oblivious to the danger they might represent. An open space opened up around them as men scrambled out of the way. The Roman infantry frontline was now so close, the legionaries could see everything. Fighting ceased in the immediate area and everyone held their collective breath, awaiting the collision of Otto and Helmund as if it had been pre-ordained.
They passed each other so closely that their knees clashed painfully but neither regarded that. Helmund’s sword took a big slice out of Otto’s shield as he slashed downwards. Otto’s blow to his opponent’s head missed. They wheeled their horses and ran at each other again. Helmund split Otto’s shield completely. Most of it fell to the ground leaving him only a half moon of painted wood with which to defend himself. Again, Otto’s head strike found only empty air. They turned and charged for the third time. Helmund’s head was bent to the right and his shield held high to avoid the anticipated third blow but Otto altered his attack. He leaned forward in the saddle and quickly extended his arm, his long cavalry sword pointed at Helmund’s chest. The Marcomanni king saw too late he had been outfoxed. He could not avoid the inevitable. With the weight of horse and man and the impact speed of the two opponents racing towards each other, nothing could stop the blade bursting through his armour and ribs, splitting his heart in two. Helmund stayed in the saddle for a few more paces and fell forward, slumping to the ground. The Marcomanni who had witnessed the duel groaned. The Romans cheered. The spell was broken.
The warriors who had been standing by as witnesses a moment before rushed on Otto. Djinn lashed out with hooves and teeth Otto slas
hed to his right and left, drops of blood flying off his sword but the legionaries burst through and drove his attackers off. His own men came up and pushed further into the centre. The legionaries moved on and Otto was now in a quiet space behind the fighting, littered with the dead and dying. He detailed two of his men to stand guard over the body of the king and made his way back to the rest of the cavalry.
Aldermar had been blocking the bridgehead but withdrew when the left flank under Soranus wrapped around the remaining Marcomanni who were now in turn besieged; the legion advancing in a curved line in front and the Rhine at their backs. The last boats had gone and the inaccessible bridge was empty of refugees. They fought on singly or in small groups but the Roman mincing machine swallowed them up and spat them out as dead meat. The last die-hards fought up to their knees in the river. And then then were none.
“Seen Helmund?” Aldermar asked.
“He’s dead,” Otto told him.
“Yes, sir. Killed in single combat by our prefect,” one of Otto’s men told him.
Aldermar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise but he noted the Roman cavalryman had said “our prefect” referring to Otto. “Everyone loves a winner,” he thought.
“Well then, to the victor the spoils,” he said. “Show me.”
They sat on their horses looking down on the livid faced body of the king. One of Otto’s men held the bay stallion he had ridden into battle by the reins. The legionaries had been ordered back into their cohort formations and awaited further commands. Under the eagles, the headquarters party rode down, joined by Lucius and Soranus.
“How did he die?” Quadratus asked. They repeated the story to him. “You have killed a king, Prefect Otto Longius, what once was his is now yours, take it” he said, loud enough to be heard several yards away. Everyone in earshot grinned. Otto dismounted.
Helmund had thirty silver arm rings in total and round his neck had worn a thick gold torque crafted to look like a rope with a snarling wolf’s head on each end. Otto took it and put it on. He removed the arm rings and the dead man’s sword belt, scabbard and sword. He walked over and ritually placed his hand on the bay stallion’s flank to symbolise his ownership. The onlookers saluted him, “Hail Prefect Otto Longius!” He bowed to Quadratus and Aldermar in acknowledgement.
The legate issued a stream of orders. There would be no individual plundering of the enemy bodies. All items of value were to be collected into two heaps for general distribution to the legion and cavalry. Provosts were set to guard the wagons which were found to hold a quantity of grain, oil, smoked meat and ale. The body of Hulderic who had died an undistinguished death when a sling bullet hit him in one eye, was retrieved. He and his king were crucified at the far end of the bridge facing German territory. Several oxen had survived. They were hitched to the wagons and driven into the Roman camp. Their contents were loaded into the legion’s stores and they were sent back to gather up the loot. The pathetic, naked bodies of their so recently fearsome enemies were pitched into the Rhine. They floated away, bobbing in the current.
It was noon. Felix, in gleaming armour and wearing his gold chain, had formed his invalids into a guard of honour through which Quadratus rode at the head of the legion.
“Wish you joy of your victory, sir,” he called as the legate passed by.
“The victory belongs to us all, Evocati Felix, my thanks to you.”
The cavalry were to bed down at the edge of the battlefield. Aldermar took over the signal station for himself and his officers.
“Prefect Otto, you are now once more of The Second Lucan, I suggest you return to your camp.”
“Very well, but first I have a request to make. Can you find me the “ghost” who threw the message over the wall?”
After a short wait the man was brought forward. He was tall but very lean and his hair still bore traces of sooty mud. Otto shook his hand and slid one of the king’s arm-rings on each of his arms. The honour that had been done to him was immense.
“I need scouts Aldermar, can you give me some?”
“I shall ask. If any want to serve with you, they’ll be at the camp tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Otto said and walked away coming back a few minutes later leading Helmund’s stallion. He put the reins in Aldermar’s hands, “My thank-offering to you. If you had not come, all our comrades would be dead.”
“As they would have been if you had not made it through to headquarters but I accept your princely gift with gratitude.”
The evening was drawing on, half of the oxen had been sent down to the cavalry lines, the other half had been roasted.
“Gentlemen, we bow our heads in remembrance of fallen comrades and drink to their shades,” called Quadratus from the head of the table. After a pause he spoke again. “And now we feast our victory, or should I call it escape?”
“Victory! Victory!” the officers on all sides shouted.
Hunks of beef, fresh bread and wine covered the three tables pushed end to end around which they sat. After an hour of gorging and drinking, Otto slipped away. He returned with Helmund’s sword in its decorated scabbard and tooled leather belt together with a number of arm rings. He banged on the table with his wine cup.
“With your permission, sir?” he called to Quadratus.
“Proceed, prefect, proceed,”
Otto gave a ring to Lucius and Soranus, much to his surprise, and to each of his decurions. He walked up to Tertius Fuscus.
“Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus, would you do me the honour of accepting one of these rings as a token of our shared success?”
“The honour is mine,” Tertius replied, slipped it on his arm and admired it in the lamplight.
Finally Otto approached Quadratus.
“Noble Legate Publius Quadratus, you have steered us safely through a great peril. I wish to offer you the sword of King Helmund in recognition of your leadership.”
“Hear! Hear!” resounded around the room and the officers stood as one to lift their wine cups in salute to their legate.
Chapter 12
The atmosphere was a little subdued the following day. The release of the pent-up resentment the men had felt against their enemies and the aftermath of the adrenalin rush in combat left them feeling flat. Another fifty Romans had lost their lives in the final battle, among them a burly, one-eared legionary. Thirty were wounded, several of whom would either die or never be able to serve again even if they managed to hang on to life. Five horses had been killed or had to be destroyed. The German auxiliaries skinned and jointed them to add to their rations. Otto’s auxiliaries who had been in the camp throughout the siege returned to the relieving force which would be leaving the next day.
Otto sat in what had been Aldermar’s cubby-hole office in the stables and looked up at the sky. He had been shocked at the state of the camp when he rode in; makeshift defences and half of the roofs gone, debris everywhere. It was difficult to picture it as it had been when he had first arrived and marvelled at anything so huge, so populous. He shook his head and laughed at how little he had known then. But he had no time to spare for musings. He had one hundred and twenty men and one hundred and forty horses to settle-in and no roof.
Crucial repairs were already under way. Men were in the forest cutting trees for lumber in addition to the fifty useful logs the Marcomanni had conveniently rolled in the ditch where the Porta Principalis Dextra had once stood. They had been dragged free, with some difficulty since half of them were slippery with olive oil. The carpenters were now sawing the best of them into planks. The air was full of the scent of pine and sawdust but underlying it was a cloying stink of burning bodies being carried on the breeze off the funeral pyres. Legionaries with scarves tied across their noses were clearing Boxer’s Canal. The broken hurdles both sides had used to cross it were slung onto the fires where the rotting corpses were being consumed until only clean ash remained.
The bellowing of Titus Attius occasionally burst on Otto’s eardrums as some unfortunat
e legionary met with his disapproval. Lucius was busy with the repair fatigue parties, Soranus was closeted with the quartermaster running through manifests and Tertius resting; his shoulder joint was still painful. Of Quadratus nothing was to be seen. He had shut himself in his office with his clerks to write up his report and despatches. His guards had been told to admit no-one to the Praetorium until further notice; no matter who, no matter what their business.
“Does that include First Spear Centurion Attius, sir?” his guard commander asked.
“Of course it does, I said no-one is to disturb me,” the legate replied shortly.
His men smirked at the thought of their commander telling Titus Attius to go away and come back later, “Rather him than me,” they all thought.
The first raindrops fell on Otto where he sat. He sighed and went over to Lucius.
“Greetings Boxer, can we have a roof please?”
Lucius looked at him blankly for a moment, then understood.
“Of course you can.”
“When?”
“Ah now, that’s a different question. Most of the roof tiles are ballasting the breastwork where the Porta Principalis Sinistra used to be. If the carpenters can make a new gate on this side today and we can remove the breastwork and hang it, and if we can….”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 17
