As the various officers passed the orders on to their subordinates, Ingenuus kicked his heels and started the units moving. Once more he looked down at his bandaged and blood-soaked hand. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he hadn’t. The loss of the fourth and fifth fingers on his right hand would create a few problems for him in the future, but he’d still be able to carry out most tasks with reasonable ease. The main problem, and it was the brutal problem that he was trying to come to terms with, was that the loss of those two fingers would seriously reduce his effectiveness with a sword. Those two fingers gave you balance and stability with a sword swing, and the loss of that ability would make him considerably less effective in mounted combat. It was a painful possibility that his life in the cavalry was over.
On reflection, he hadn’t quite realised how meteoric his rise through the ranks had been this year. A few months ago he’d been a cavalry decurion with little prospect of advancement. After a split-second decision to go to the aid of a fellow officer, he’d been raised to prefect, in charge of an entire ala of regular cavalry. Normally there would be no realistic place for him to go after that but perhaps into a non-cavalry role. Instead, however, some of the senior officers and even the General himself seemed to have taken to him. Here he was now, ordering prefects around with an authority granted by Caesar. Oh, he wouldn’t make it to controlling the entire cavalry force in this campaign, as there were Crassus and Varus both in line ahead of him, but one day he might have. Not now though. Once a medicus had pronounced him useless, he might as well sell his horse.
Muttering, Ingenuus tried hard to pull himself together. He was dangerously close to actual tears and that would be enormously embarrassing in front of so many hardened cavalrymen. He straightened in the saddle and drew his cavalry long sword. The agony as the sword dipped and pulled at his hand was intense and this time tears did come; tears of sheer pain. Gritting his teeth, he laid the sword across his thighs and unwrapped the bandage. Blood trickled from the sodden scarf and ran onto his leg and the horse’s flank. For a moment, he thought he might pass out, but his focus came back. Slowly and carefully he reached with his wounded hand and gripped the hilt. Fresh blood ran from the stumps of fingers as he applied pressure and, once more, he almost fainted. Sighing, he sheathed the sword, shook the excess damp out of the scarf, and reapplied it to his hand.
Looking up, the copse was now only a few hundred yards away. Holding up his maimed hand, he gave the signal and the auxiliary cavalry separated, riding out from both sides of the column to surround the wood. At his second bellowed command, the regulars reined in. For the next few minutes they could be seen all around the area, tying their steeds to the branches of lone trees or bushes. Once they were assembled again, he gave the third order and the dismounted regulars moved in, splitting off in much the same way in order to surround the wood a few yards forward of the cavalry. Ingenuus waited patiently for them to deploy into position. Once they were ready, two concentric circles surrounding a knot of Germans of unknown size, the prefect put his hands to his mouth and called out.
“This is prefect Aulus Ingenuus of the Eighth Legion. If any of you can understand me, I am offering you the chance to surrender. If you surrender peacefully, your warriors will be taken as slaves, but your women, children and old folk will be allowed to return across the Rhine. If you defy us, we will move in to take prisoners by force. If you understand, answer me now.”
The prefect sat tensely waiting. He’d much rather they came out freely and he could let the women and children go. If the army had to move in, there would be a lot of unnecessary deaths. He listened intently, the whispering leaves in the trees masking any conversation that went on within.
Suddenly, he was sure he heard a voice begin to call out in Latin before being silenced quickly. Why did he always get to make decisions in an instant, when others got so much time to plan?
“Damn the consequences. Any German warrior to be killed on sight. Women and children are not to be harmed, but sent back to the cavalry as prisoners. Advance!”
The regulars moved into the trees in perfect order, as the auxiliaries behind them closed slightly to prevent escapees. Ingenuus sat for long moments, still tense, waiting for sounds of battle. After almost two minutes, a shriek echoed through the woods. It had begun.
For several sickening minutes there were loud cries, shrieks and clashes of metal from deep in the thicket. Ingenuus shook his head sadly, for clearly not all the cries were male voices. The prefect found that he was actually holding his breath when the first of his men appeared at the edge of the trees.
A few more men followed, and then a small group of a dozen came crashing through the undergrowth. Behind them others brought out the Germans taken alive, mostly women, but a few men, even ones of a fighting age. They would fetch a reasonable sum in the markets of Rome and would boost the already sizeable booty Caesar had squeezed out of the Tribes through defeat or protection. The individual soldiers of the legion would have made their own small profits from the battlefield before they received any gratuity from the commander. In all, a lot of people would be wealthy this winter, and the troops wintering in forts would have plenty of cash for women and wine.
All this flashed through Ingenuus’ mind for only moments. He was too busy staring at the dozen or so soldiers that had come out together. They had separated once they were in the safety of open grass and the presence of the Auxilia. Between them, sheltered and harboured among allies, stood a man in a military tunic and boots. Fashionable Roman hair style now ravaged and wild, boots worn, tunic dirty and torn, he still looked every inch the Roman Patrician.
As the men moved out of the way and the prefect got a better view of the prisoner, he realised that the man’s hands were shackled behind him. Dangling down by the side, Ingenuus could make out a triple-thickness chain, the three strands wound around one another. They hadn’t meant him to escape. Ingenuus drew himself up and saluted, his bloody bandaged hand dripping onto the horse and the turf.
“Aulus Ingenuus, prefect of the Eighth.”
The Roman officer nodded, unable to raise his hand.
“Gaius Valerius Procillus, officer of Caesar’s staff. Forgive me for not returning the gesture. No…” he interrupted as Ingenuus lowered his arm, “you’d be better keeping that up. You’ll lose a lot of blood with it down.”
Ingenuus grinned.
“Procillus. Amazing, sir. How long have you been held by them? Must be weeks now. And you’re still alive and relatively well.”
The ragged officer smiled wearily.
“Relatively, yes. Borderline starvation I think, but I’m lucky. They won’t do anything without the say so of their Gods and the old crones checked the auspices three times but still said no. Good job, really. They were going to burn me to death. I think they were trying to take me back across the Rhine to bargain with later.”
Ingenuus nodded.
“Seems likely. I take it that was your voice that I heard silenced in the woods then, sir?”
“That’d be me, yes. I need to get back to camp. Can you give me a horse?”
Ingenuus grinned.
“I’ll do better than that. Caesar’s only ten minutes away, so I’ll take you to him. Then we’ll get someone to crack those chains for you and I’ll escort you back to camp personally. I need to have a medicus look at my hand, anyway.”
Several miles away, Varus kicked his horse to a greater turn of speed. Around him his own unit and one of the auxiliary alae raced for the river. They could see the small group of refugees ahead of them at the river’s edge, pushing off in three small boats. Other, more desperate Germans were leaping into the strong, dangerous currents of the wide, powerful Rhine and trying to swim across. A few were making it; most were not. He could still hear the clash of weapon on weapon and the cries of the wounded and dying not far behind.
Crassus and his wing had chased down many of the fleeing survivors from the battle and had come across a large col
lection of German warriors that had turned and prepared to give their pursuers a fight. With the odds as they were, Varus couldn’t in good conscience call it a battle. It was a slaughter and, to give him his due, Crassus had given them the opportunity to surrender. It had been in the depths of combat when he had realised why the warriors had given them such fierce resistance. Alone on the edge of the fray with only a couple of the auxiliary troopers, he had spotted a small knot of well-dressed and equipped men and women moving as unobtrusively as possible toward the river, covered by the fighting behind them. He had pointed them out to the auxiliaries and one of them, a Sequani warrior fighting alongside the Romans had identified them as the Royal party.
They had been so close to the river by then that Varus had no time to draw this to the attention of Crassus and had instead gathered all of the regulars and auxiliaries he could find at the edge, racing off in pursuit of Ariovistus and his family.
Concentrating, he slowed his horse as they reached the edge of the river. He didn’t dare ride into the current. Looking up and down the bank for other boats, he was disappointed. Presumably the Germans had not expected to have to flee across the Rhine and had been woefully unprepared. With an irritated growl, he realised that the King had escaped.
Suddenly a number of spears whistled over his head, crashing into and around the boats. Turning angrily, he saw a number of the auxiliary troopers hurling their weapons into the boats.
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill them all, and many of them are women!”
One of the auxiliaries looked down at him in surprise.
“They kill our women!”
Varus turned back to look at the boats and noticed that a few of the spears had, in fact hit home. The man Varus presumed to be Ariovistus himself stood nobly in the prow, shouting defiance in his guttural tongue. Slumped nearby were three women and two men.
Angrily, the prefect picked up a stone from the river bank and cast it after the boats, only to watch it fall very short and sink into the water. Turning, he gestured to the men around him.
“He’s gone. Back to your units.”
Varus mounted his horse once more and, with a last, longing look out at the small boats diminishing into the distance, sighed and wheeled his horse.
On the ride back across the hill and into the fray he kept berating himself for not having realised that the fight was a delaying tactic earlier. Had he been a little sharper, they could have caught Ariovistus on the way to the river and he would now be in chains on his way back to Caesar and, eventually, to Rome to be paraded before the public. Damn.
He looked up as they crested the hill and the bile rose in his throat. He was confronted with a scene of devastation. Without doubt the German warriors had surrendered, presumably when they’d realised that the King was either safe or they had failed. There was not a single warrior offering any resistance and, too proud to run from Crassus’ ‘no survivors’ policy were being cut down where they stood or knelt. With further horror, Varus realised that the Auxilia were sat ahorse in formation watching the grisly scene. The perpetrators were the regular cavalry. His ala was murdering surrendering men.
His fury rising, he kicked his horse into a gallop and made for the commanders, Crassus and several prefects and decurions sitting in a group in the centre of the field. He tried not to look around as he rode, but couldn’t fail to see the line of prisoners, a score or more, on their knees being beheaded systematically by his men. He fought the urge to draw his sword as he made for Crassus.
“What in the name of Mars, Jupiter and Fortuna is going on? These people are surrendering, Crassus. We need slaves, not corpses!”
Crassus merely turned his cold stare on the prefect and gestured to the officers around him. Obediently they rode away to attend to the butchery. Once they were alone, the commander trotted across to Varus.
“Don’t ever speak to me like that in front of the men, prefect. It doesn’t do for junior officers to question the judgement of their seniors, particularly in public.”
Varus stuttered, unable to believe the arrogance of the man.
“I’m not questioning your judgement, Crassus, I’m questioning your sanity! They’re valuable property now, and they’re people. Murdering them solves nothing.”
Crassus rounded on him.
“I am in command of this cavalry, Varus, not you, no matter how much you wished for it and angled for it. You may have been Longinus’ pet, but you’re an officer of the equestrian class, whereas I am a patrician and a senior commander. I will not be questioned by an equestrian.”
Varus growled.
“Being a Patrician entitles you to wealth and power; to sit in the Senate and to make policy decisions for the good of Rome. It does not give you the right to treat the lesser classes as cattle. Without the Equestrians, the Plebeians and even the slaves there would be no Rome. No army; no merchants; no builders. What good would your rank be without them?”
Crassus smiled a dead smile.
“Exactly what I would expect one of your class to come out with. Drivel. You don’t understand how it works.”
Varus reached out between the horses and grasped the military scarf around Crassus’ neck, hauling him closer and almost from his horse. Crassus’ sudden look of surprise and, Varus thought, of fright was soon replaced by his usual arrogant and complacent smile. The prefect resisted the urge to punch him.
“Crassus, I am one of the Patrician class, not an Equestrian. My father sat in the Senate and so shall I one day, so don’t you dare tell me I don’t know how it works. To hell with you and your nightmare command.”
He let go of his commander and turned the horse.
“Men of the Ninth!”
Amid the slaughter, cavalrymen looked up at the prefect, blood still running from the tips of their swords and daggers.
“Form on the hill!”
He turned once more to face Crassus.
“My men will have nothing to do with this and neither shall I. I’ll see you in the camp. This isn’t over.”
Leaving a stunned commander sitting amid a field of bodies, Varus joined his men on the hill and began the ride back to camp.
Chapter 23
(Epilogue)
“Corona: wreath or crown awarded as military decoration.”
“Phalerae: (sing. Phalera) set of discs attached to a torso harness used as military decorations.”
Fronto glanced around the room happily before his attention returned to the table. Last time the legions had been in Vesontio, he’d had been in the middle of nowhere with one mounted cohort and had missed the place entirely. Priscus had told him it wasn’t up to much, but had pointed out a bar that he said was quite reasonable halfway up the main street. And so he was now here. He’d left messages with several people in the huge camp at the bottom of the hill to say where he would be if anyone wished to join him and had been most surprised when he actually found the place and strode in through the door to find Balbus and Crispus already seated close to a window. Fronto sighed contentedly as he dropped into the seat. He was able to hobble for short distances, but soon began to sway and topple if there was no one there to give him support.
Crispus stirred and put down his drink.
“The proprietor doesn’t serve at tables, so I should be delighted to procure a drink for you, Marcus.”
Fronto smiled and reached out a restraining hand to stop the young legate from standing.
“He’ll serve me, lad, don’t you worry.”
Reaching down to his side, Fronto retrieved a leather purse and held it over the table. He upended the container and a large quantity of coinage dropped out, much of it in silver and some of it in gold. The ringing of coin on coin had certainly attracted the attention of the barman. Fronto smiled up in his direction.
“I’ll have what these two are drinking. All drinks served to a Roman while I’m here go on my bill and you can take it in silver and gold, with a little extra if you’ll serve at tab
les. Ok?”
The barman nodded eagerly.
“Oh yes sir. I’ll ‘elp you s’much as I can.”
Fronto looked over at Crispus.
“What are you drinking anyway?”
Crispus smiled.
“It’s a local brew. A little potent, but nicely tart and with a pleasing aftertaste. I rather favour it.”
Balbus snorted as he took a swig.
“Youth of today.”
Fronto grinned.
“You never cease to amaze me, Aulus. I take it you know about the award?”
Crispus nodded with a certain ambivalence.
“I cannot see how I particularly deserve it. I performed my duty to the same degree as everyone else. To be honoured above others such as the two of you makes me a trifle uneasy.”
“Don’t be daft. You’re still new to this game and already pulled a few manoeuvres that’ve got you a bit of a reputation. Be proud of that. Balbus and I already have awards from past campaigns. You’ve an empty harness. Time you got that corona. You did save the army after all.”
Crispus shook his head.
“Yes but what about all you’ve both done for this army?”
Balbus smiled at him.
“Don’t kid yourself, Aulus. Caesar dangled awards in front of Marcus here, but he’s refused them.”
“Refused? Why?”
Fronto shrugged.
“I’d rather they go to the men below me. They need them more. For me to be decorated above others more deserving isn’t the sort of thing I do.”
Crispus nodded.
“For certain. I’ve have heard tell that both Velius and Priscus will receive phalera. Tetricus also, I believe.”
Fronto sighed.
“I’ve had the full list reeled off to me. I was one of the four who went through them with Caesar deciding on who was worthy of reward. Those three indeed, and you. Balventius is lined up for phalera, as are Ingenuus, Baculus of the Twelfth and your own primus pilus, Felix whatever-his-name-is.”
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