by David Black
The startled Tribune looked back at the Centurion, a mixture of surprise and fear in his eyes.
‘What the...?’
Rufus had had enough of the priggish fool standing uncertainly before him. It was time to snatch back his command. Ignoring the floundering Tribune he bellowed at the Conicen.
‘It’s a bloody ambush! Blow recall! Get the patrol back from the village.’ Stepping forward he shouted above the roaring clammer busting on their ears from the other side of the village. ‘Century! Form fighting square...quickly!’
Not a man among the battle hardened veterans needed to be told twice. Forming on their century standard, the legionaries sprinted to their rehearsed positions and in a matter of seconds the long line was gone and a solid phalanx was formed. It was second nature; a standard fighting tactic they had practiced so many times recently in training. Behind the solid square of shields the men anxiously watched the patrol running for their lives towards the protection of the Roman fighting square. Already the leading warriors were splashing across the stream in a shower of foaming spray. The last legionary was limping badly. He had taken a well aimed piece of slingshot in the back of his leg. Blood ran hot and burning as he frantically tried to hobble away from the village to safety. The wall of howling warriors was too quick for him. He screamed to his comrades for help as he disappeared beneath a frenzy of swinging blades, as the tribesmen broke over him like a crashing wave.
Chests heaving, the other six legionaries disappeared behind the open shields of the square which quickly slammed shut behind the last of them.
Rufus stood calmly with his shield raised at one corner of the square. Watching the approaching tribesmen he drew a deep breath and bellowed.
‘Steady now lads...Second rank. Ready pilums!’’
The second row of legionaries inside the wall of shields tightened their grip on the long wooden shafts of their throwing javelins. They rocked back, drawing their throwing arms behind them as they readied themselves for the next order.
Satisfied, Rufus quickly bellowed again.
‘Front rank, draw swords and brace yourselves.’
Each man forming the outer shield wall snatched out his short stabbing sword and tensing muscles crouched slightly behind his shield. Each braced his right leg behind him. With shields virtually locked together, only the deadly points of the gladius were thrust outside the protective screen decorated with the 18th’s emblem of the running boar.
From across the valley, the war horns continued to blow, urging the charging warriors to close and kill. When they were just fifty feet from the tight square Rufus’ next order rang out.
‘Pilums...Throw!’
A shower of sleek javelins hissed over the heads of the front rank and arced towards the onrushing mass of tightly packed tribesmen. Even as they left the legionaries callused hands Rufus roared anew.
‘Again men...Ready ...Throw!
Another salvo of pilums flew from the square, as the first began to smash into their rushing targets. Warriors screamed and went down everywhere as the heavy javelins crashed into the tightly packed swirl of charging men. With a sudden look of shock and pain one howling chieftain dressed in the skins of a wolf took a javelin full in the chest. A gout of bright blood erupted from his mouth as he toppled forward. Pierced by the heavy iron pilum heads, both the dead and wounded dropped to the ground. Those who still lived screamed with pain as they lay skewered and writhing in agony. Their fallen bodies tripped those who careered headlong behind them. One or two javelins were stopped by shields carried by a few of the near naked tribesmen. The heavy iron heads punched through their wicker skins with ease, pulling their carriers off balance and rendering the shields awkward and utterly useless for further defence.
This was part of Rufus’ plan, to break the impetus of the initial charge before it broke on one side of the Century’s shield square. There was no time for a third volley of javelins, the frenzied tribesmen who had survived the hail of deadly pilums charged forward and crashed into the line of Roman’s shields in a blaze of oaths, hissing blades and snarling fury.
Under their Centurion’s orders the legionaries stood ready; silently braced and waiting for the first powerful impact. This would be the moment when months of hard training should pay off; providing the shield wall held the highly trained Roman killing machine could begin its deadly work.
Chapter 16
The tidal wave of screaming warriors broke on the shield wall with a mighty crash. The barbarians frantically hacked and slashed at their enemies but their swinging blades bounced off the legionary’s leather bound wooden shields. Their first flailing swings momentarily blunted their ferocious attack as their initial rush failed to penetrate the Roman defence. Forced forward, hard against the Roman shields by the onrushing crush of warriors behind them, unable to pierce the wooden wall of locked shields, the closest warriors were forced to reach up and try to stab over the top of the nearest shield. This was the moment the legionaries had been waiting for. As the screaming barbarians stood tall and tried to thrust at the legionary’s heads, in that one wild moment each of them failed to realise that they had completely exposed the right-hand side of their unarmoured bodies to the razor sharp points of the waiting Roman stabbing swords.
Centurion Rufus gave no order when the hand to hand fighting began; each of his men knew his duty and was trained for what they must do if they were going to survive the ambush. As the warrior in front and to his immediate right stretched upwards to attack the man standing beside him, the legionary thrust the tip of his sword between his enemy’s ribs. Precision wasn’t necessary, just hold onto the shield and stab with a flat horizontal blade anywhere into the adjacent warrior’s rib cage, or just below it. Separated only by their shields and at most a few inches, the Centurion’s men could smell the stink of their enemy’s breath and the rank odour of their unwashed bodies as they stabbed.
Inflicting a minor flesh wound was extremely unlikely. In the tight melee, every legionary knew any solid thrust into enemy flesh would almost certainly inflict a mortal wound. The point of the gladius would slice into a lung, puncture guts or pierce a vital organ.
Stabbed barbarians began to scream and fall all along the shield line. Their groans and anguished cries of pain were drowned by the snarling roars of the warriors behind them who climbed over their fallen brothers to push home their own frenzied attack on the legionaries standing behind the wall.
The legionaries fighting against the unrelenting onslaught were beginning to tire. While they thrust and parried, they were engaged in an exhausting shoving match against the mass of barbarian warriors. To hold their position and maintain the vital protection of the shield wall they had to strain against their shields and hold against the push of their screaming enemies.
Centurion Rufus placed a small red whistle to his lips. He took a deep breath and blew. The whistle’s shrill scream pierced the cries of the barbarians. Every man in the phalanx knew its meaning. The front rank disengaged themselves and stepped smartly backwards past the fresh rank of their comrades standing close behind them. With swords drawn and shields in place, a new and rested line of legionaries stepped into the desperate fight, quickly replacing the old wall. The exhausted soldiers who had fought so desperately for minutes, which felt like hours, fell back to the centre of the phalanx to snatch some much needed rest.
Centurion Rufus decided it was time to wrong foot the wild tribesmen. Nodding to the horn carrying Conicen he shouted.
‘Blow... Prepare to advance!’
The Conicen nodded and spat down onto the ground, desperate to find enough spittle to lubricate his dry mouth. He put his lips to the horn’s mouthpiece and blew two short baritone blasts. Trained to fight in silence every legionary heard the signal. Grimly, they readied themselves for the next order blown from the horn.
Satisfied, Rufus pointed his sword towards the village and bellowed.
‘Century will advance...Advance!’
Thru
sting their shields forward on the horns new signal, the new front line smashed the conical iron bosses mounted in the centre of their shields into the faces of their enemies, then took their first pace forward. The entire phalanx began to move in unison close behind them. As the front rank moved forward the next rank stabbed down at the throats and chests of the fallen barbarians who lay on the ground beneath their feet. It was a cruel tactic but made good tactical sense. A wounded enemy might feign death then suddenly slash at the back of the legs of one or more of the men fighting on the front line. If a hole suddenly appeared in the wall, it would mean the end of the solid defence the Century currently enjoyed.
Standing next to the Conicen, Tribune Crastus ducked suddenly when a piece of slingshot careened off his helmet. The ricocheted slug hit the legionary behind him full in the face. With an agonised cry, blood streaming from just below his eye, the wounded legionary fell groaning to the ground.
Horrified, Tribune Crastus stared transfixed at the man’s bloody face. Surrounded by the moving phalanx and trying to hide the burgeoning panic he felt rising inside him the Tribune shouted at the legionaries surrounding the fallen soldier.
‘He’s done for...Leave him!’
Rufus heard the order. Furiously he shouted to the surrounding legionaries.
‘As you were! Pick him up and carry him into the centre lads.’
Angrily the veteran Centurion whirled towards the ashen faced Tribune as his men picked up the injured legionary.
‘We never leave wounded men behind...Sir!’
Still furious Rufus turned his attention from the open mouthed Tribune and focused his attention to directing the battle which was still raging around him.
The shield wall was tiring; it was time to change the front rank. Rufus blew his red whistle once again. Relieved to be swopped, his front rank stepped back sharply. Some of his men were bleeding and several injured needed the willing help of their comrades to return to the relative safety of the centre of the phalanx.
Rufus glanced about him. The barbarians charge had spilt around its armoured walls and now all four sides were engaged and fighting hard. Their defence was holding and to his relief, no warrior reinforcements had appeared from the tree line.
Ahead of him two legionaries suddenly went down, leaving a gaping gap in the shield wall. Rufus didn’t hesitate. He snapped at the Tribune beside him.
‘Follow me!’
Rufus stepped over one of the fallen legionaries and locked his shield with the next man in the line. A second later Tribune Crastus was beside him, shield raised and fighting for his life. A huge warrior rose up in front of him and smashed his wooden club down on the top edge of the Tribune’s shield. As the bottom of the shield thumped down onto the ground, another snarling barbarian thrust his spear towards the exposed officer’s groin. Crastus desperately parried at the spear with his sword but only managed to partially deflect it. The spearhead’s sharpened blade cut through his tunic, a fraction below the armour which protected his waist. Crastus let out an agonised yelp as it sliced across his hip. As he fell, Rufus cursed and hacked down on the spear. He recovered the powerful stoke with a backhand slash at the startled warrior’s throat. In a spray of blood the warrior recoiled from the shield wall. Another legionary stepped forward to fill the gap left by the fallen Tribune. Lying bleeding on the ground Crastus wailed.
‘Please, don’t leave me!’
Ducking an axe that cleaved through the air at his head, Rufus shouted an order over his shoulder to the men behind him. There was unguarded contempt in his voice as he snarled.
‘Get the Tribune out of here.’
Suddenly the barbarian horns, which had fallen silent during the desperate fighting, blew another echoing signal across the valley. To Rufus’ amazement, the barbarians began to disengage and withdraw; sprinting helter-skelter back through the village towards the cover of the opposite tree line.
Recovering from his surprise, Rufus quickly ordered the Conicen to blow the signal to stop. Chests heaving from their efforts the legionaries gratefully came to a halt. Leaning forward, they rested on the top edge of their shields. Moments later Optio Praxus appeared.
‘What happened, Sir, why did they suddenly run?’
Rufus shook his head. ‘I don’t know Praxus. We were holding our own but they had us pretty much trapped.’
Taking off his neck scarf, Rufus wiped it across his sweat stained face. Retying the red cloth firmly he said. ‘Go and check on the wounded, then get the Century back up the hill quickly. We don’t want to get caught out in the open again if they change their mind and come back.’
Still breathing heavily, Optio Praxus nodded as he removed his helmet and wiped his brow. ‘Stay formed up as we are until we hit the tree line Sir?’
Rufus nodded again. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at the silent village. ’We’re done here anyway. We’ll get over the hill, reform and head straight back to camp...and I want a report on our casualties.’ He stared at the dozens of dead warriors who littered the battlefield. Most had fought naked except for the cloaks they wore. Rufus nodded towards the dead outside the phalanx and said thoughtfully.
‘Recognise them? From the way they’re dressed I reckon they’re renegades from the Usipati tribe, but why are they raiding so far from home?’ Rufus sucked his teeth and looked back at the deserted village. ‘And where in Hades for that matter have the local Tencteri villagers gone?’
Optio Praxus scratched his head. ‘Dunno Sir. Now you mention it, it does all seem a bit odd.’
Rufus gave up looking for answers. He said. ‘Get the lads moving, Praxus. I must get back and make my report to the chief Centurion...None of this makes any sense to me....Why attack, surround us, and then not finish us off?’ As he rubbed the back of his neck Rufus stared hard at his Optio.
‘No. Something definitely doesn’t feel right here.’
* * * * *
From their vantage point high on the other side of the valley, a group of horsemen dressed in woollen cloaks and warm furs had observed the battle. Concealed in the dense cover of the forest of trees they now watched as the Romans withdrew in good order into the distant tree line. Close to the bearded warriors a dozen other barbarians stood silently watching. Each carried a war horn.
Only one of the watching groups knew the outcome in advance. He was dressed differently; he wore the uniform of a Roman cavalry officer.
The attempt to overwhelm the Romans had failed miserably. Two to one, a savage charge and raw courage had not been enough. It was a brutal and graphic lesson to each of them, written in the blood of the fallen warriors on the valley floor below.
Arminius turned his head and spoke to the tribal leaders around him.
‘Behold my brothers! Now you see the result of fighting the invaders in pitched battle without sufficient men. If we are not blessed with overwhelming numbers, this is what will happen to us when they have both time and room to manoeuvre.’
Each of the seven barbarian chieftains nodded silently. Their faces were grim; they were not afraid of what the future held but there was unspoken concern among them; each knew that Roman revenge would be terrible if they failed. Torture, death or enslavement awaited them if they were not victorious. The invaders would show no mercy.
Arminius shook his head gravely. ‘There is only one way to gain victory. We must engage them as my father did long ago.’ Arminius rolled his fingers into a fist.
‘We fight them the way we know best; ambush, slash and run. We keep snapping at them like hungry wolves; attacking again and again. We don’t allow them the luxury of rest.’ Grinding his teeth, he smashed his fist into his open palm and snarled.
‘Our warriors keep bleeding them until the Romans stand before us afraid and exhausted. We will cut their columns into smaller and smaller pieces until all are annihilated.’
Arminius’ eyes narrowed. They burned like coals as he watched the last legionaries across the valley disappear from view. As bitter as bile, a lifeti
me of hatred welled up from deep inside him. He spat the words from his mouth.
‘The Romans will come to know the meaning of real terror when they are trapped.’ There was silence for a moment, and then, his voice softer, he said.
‘There will come a moment of sweet victory for all the tribes.’ He stared into the faces of his allies.
One of the chieftains looked at Arminius and asked.
‘When exactly will our people taste this victory Herman?’
A savage grin spread across his face.
‘It will come before winter’s first snows brother, when we slaughter every last one of them in the Teutoburg forest.’
The chieftain’s eyes remained fixed on Arminius.
‘But how will we force them to enter the Teutoburg?’
Arminius looked down at the slain warriors below, and then stared back at the chieftain. The fire had died in his eyes, replaced now with animal cunning. Almost in a whisper he said.
‘Don’t worry brother...Leave that to me.’
Chapter 17
Sitting hunched in his chair, Camp Prefect Macros listened with growing concern to Rufus’s report. When the Centurion finished the Prefect pushed himself back from the table and stood up.
‘None of this makes any sense to me at all, Rufus. We’ve had no reports from the border of unrest or incursions, and apart from the usual inter-tribal bickering; it’s been quiet throughout the province since we arrived back in the spring. Now suddenly, out of the blue your patrol was ambushed by hostiles in force?’
Rufus nodded. ‘Yes sir, that’s about the size of it. It was clearly a trap. The village had been emptied of people and provisions before we got there, and the barbarians were waiting for us.’
