by David Black
The centurion’s emergency briefing that morning had said the plan was to get to the marching camp where the Legions would rest before launching an all-out assault on the rebels at dawn next morning. Rufus’s priority was to be on the start line when the attack went in, and if he was late getting to the marching camp that evening, well he thought with a shrug, so be it.
Leading from the front with rain dripping from his helmet Rufus turned and walked backwards. He glanced into the faces of the men nearest him. They looked dog-tired to a man, but thanks to his relaxation of the regulation that ordered stragglers be abandoned, the formation remained together and tight. He looked towards the back of the marching century. The mule in the middle of the small column suddenly brayed loudly. Severus remained tightly bound by his tether behind it. The prisoner looked even more miserable than the others as he slithered along thought Rufus. Seeing the movement from the head of the column his Optio waved from the rear rank. It was the signal that all was well. Satisfied, the veteran centurion turned back and with a resigned sniff, marched on.
Shortly afterwards Rufus was daydreaming. His future beckoned and his thoughts were filled with the little farm in Gaul he would have one day. Suddenly his dreams were torn from him by a bloodcurdling cry from the surrounding forest. It quickly became a deafening guttural roar from both sides of the track. In an instant Rufus knew it wasn’t an animal sound; it could only have come from many hundreds of human throats. At the same moment there was a whistling hiss and sudden hard thump against his shield. Rufus ducked without thinking. A dark shower of arrows hissed from the tree line. Honed by years of combat Rufus reacted instantly.
‘Form tortoise!’
The tortoise was essentially a defensive formation by which the middle ranks of legionaries would hold their shields overhead, except for the front and back rows, thereby creating a kind of shell-like armour, shielding and encompassing them against missiles from all sides and above.
The last shields clanged into place a split second before the arrows hit. Inside the tortoise it sounded like an even heavier shower of rain peppering them. His shield held before him, Rufus peered through the slit above it. There was movement in the trees. A dark sea of barbarians was rushing towards his defensive box from the forest.
With their javelins still tied to their yokes, there was only one thing for it. He yelled at the top of his lungs...
‘Draw swords!’
It was mid-afternoon. The head of the column was untouched by the carnage; completely unaware of the fierce linear attacks going on behind them in the depths of the forest. Like the staff officers around him, General Varus was cold and soaked to the skin. Stretching tired muscles, he lent forward in his saddle. Looked back he called out to his adjutant.
‘We should be getting close now and this looks as good a place as any for the marching camp Dalious. We’ll halt here and make camp.’
From his own horse, Prefect Dalious saluted. His General was right. The area ahead was the clearest stretch of land they had come across during what he had to admit to himself had been one of the most miserable day’s marches he could remember. It would be tight, but he was sure there was sufficient space to fit in all three Legions.
‘Yes Sir. I’ll see to it right away.’
With a nod of acknowledgement, Varus gave a slight tug on his horse’s reins. The stallion obediently stopped with a snort and shake of its wet head. Varus waited until one of his orderlies placed the dismounting step beside his animal. Gratefully, he climbed down and once safely on the ground stretched again and yawned. It had been a long and difficult day and he was looking forward to dry clothes and something hot to eat.
He glanced at one of his attendant staff officers and said.
‘Go and find those auxiliary scouts for me will you? I haven’t seen them for a while. I expect they’ve probably gone on ahead to reconnoitre. Send a galloper if you must and get them back quickly. I must learn the enemy’s dispositions.’
Prefect Dalious returned from issuing his orders to begin building the night’s camp. General Varus turned and addressed him once again.
‘When my tent is up I can get out of this wet uniform. Call a staff officer’s meeting in one hour. I want to start planning the details of tomorrow’s attack.’
Chapter 27
As forward elements of the 17th Legion began to build their marching camp some miles ahead, vicious hit and run attacks continued along the entire length of the column as it snaked its way slowly through the dense forest of the Teutoburg.
By the late afternoon Arminius had rejoined his own auxiliary cavalry. He was engrossed in planning an ambush against one of the largest Roman units who, according to a messenger, still marched along the forest path and would arrive soon. So far, reports brought to him by other messengers suggested the day had gone well; his wild army had inflicted heavy casualties on an increasingly desperate enemy. Now he needed something special. He had decided something spectacular was needed to persuade the other watching tribes that the seemingly invincible Romans could be beaten. Many tribal leaders still required a tangible sign of victory to finally convince them to throw in their hand and join his rebellion in their thousands.
Among the trees in the small wooded valley, on the far side of the mud soaked track Arminius had carefully hidden almost two thousand of his best Cherusci warriors. Heavily armed, they were led by noble members of the Cherusci’s warrior caste; his fiercest and very best fighters. His men were impatient for battle but they waited under strict orders to stay hidden, remain silent and wait for the signal before launching their attack.
Alerted by the blood-soaked and mutilated bodies of their comrades which they had counted in their thousands, the 1st cohort of the 19th Legion was closed up, fully prepared and ready to fight. In their midst, the precious Eagle was borne by the Legion’s standard bearer, a grizzled veteran who had fought and protected it on many distant battlefields during his long years of service. Although his lion’s mane headdress was soaked like the rest of his uniform and armour, he carried the Eagle’s staff proudly. The Eagle was part of him; in fact it was a very important part, more precious to him than his own heart or the blood which it pumped through his veins.
The skies remained grey and overcast but the rain had begun to ease a little. A short distance up the track Arminius finished explaining his plan to the Cherusci chieftain who would soon lead the charge down the hill from the other side of the narrow wooded valley.
‘So you understand Karl? When the signal comes, your attack must be fast and savage. I want you to strike them like a lightning bolt thrown by the Gods. You must hammer them; don’t stop or show mercy, and hold their complete attention. Is that clear?’
Nodding his shaggy grey head the old warrior grinned eagerly. He growled.
‘Yes Herman. Our men are ready and know what you expect of them. We will attack like demons and cut them down like corn falling before the scythe.’
Arminius placed his hand on Karl’s shoulder. His cold stare was deep and intense.
‘Today, ultimate victory may well rest on us and the noble members of the Cherusci warrior caste.’ Arminius’s face was grave. ‘For years to come, the battle we will soon fight will bring honour to our people, and heap shame onto the heads of our enemies.’
The tension in his face eased a little as a grin of anticipation began to spread across it.
‘The message we send to them will echo forever through the great halls of Rome.’
Arminius dropped his hand.
‘Now go back to your men Karl...watch the track, and await my signal.’
Lucius Plinius was confident. As highly decorated and much respected first centurion of the 19th Legion, he knew the calibre of the men who served in his cohort. Not a man among them boasted less than ten years service with the Eagle. They were battle hardened veterans and the array of bravery decorations they proudly wore proved their courage beyond a shadow of doubt to any who might make the grievous mistake o
f questioning it.
As he marched at the head of the reinforced cohort beside the standard bearer carrying the 19th’s precious Eagle, Lucius Plinius’s confidence was tempered with growing concern at the number of dead they had passed from the 17th and 18th Legions. The carnage was clearly the result of a large scale barbarian rebellion. It was clear to Plinius that the tribes must have been hitting the extended column hard all day.
So far, with his double sized cohort of nine hundred men, despite the condition of the track, the enemy had made no serious attacks on his own unit; resorting simply to occasional sniping by slingers and archers hidden in the dense tree line close by.
The ground began to rise gently as the 1st cohort entered the heavily wooded valley. It was a perfect place for an ambush Plinius thought, but what alternative did he have but to lead his men straight through it? Marching off the track and around the valley was unthinkable. The trees were so tightly packed on either side of the rapidly narrowing path; they would soon be reduced to marching in single file if he tried to take his men around. He had no choice but to keep his troops together, stay in tight formation and press on. Plinius hoped that the enemy had missed the opportunity of using what he considered an excellent ambush point.
Arminius watched the Eagle as it was carried slowly past him by the standard bearer on the muddy track below. He cast his eyes beyond the track, and could see no-one hiding among the trees. He nodded to himself with satisfaction; it remained unnaturally quiet in the valley; it was almost time to begin the attack.
A little way ahead, the Cherusci holding axes tensed. The huge oak tree they had worked on all morning still stood tall, but was only held from falling by a network of taught ropes above. The trunk was almost severed; white chips carpeted the ground around its broad base.
The noble commanding them slowly stood up. Concealed by the massive tree trunk he was watching for the head of the column to reach a white rock placed on the side of the track. As the Romans approached the marker he turned and whispered to his men hoarsely.
‘Ready yourselves...’
His men knew what to do. Grinning broadly, several spat into their hands and picked up their heavy felling axes. As the noble Cherusci watched, he lifted his arm. The others were ready. Suddenly, his hand chopped down through the air.
‘NOW!’
His men swung their axes with all their strength and sliced through the straining ropes. For a second nothing happened, then with an ear splitting crack the last sinews of the trunk shattered and slowly at first the massive tree began to topple towards the marching Romans.
The men in the cohort’s advanced guard heard the cracking noise first. They looked nervously about them as they tried to define its source. Suddenly to their right, in a shower of falling leaves the canopy began to shake and swirl as the ancient oak crashed through it towards them. Most of the advance guard had no chance to react before the huge tree fell on them.
As the trunk crashed to the ground there was a mighty roar from the startled column’s left. Screaming their guttural battle cries, brandishing swords and axes, a moving carpet of warriors suddenly burst from cover and charged straight at the surviving Romans.
Lucius Plinius screamed at his men to deploy into double line formation. As the front rank’s shields clanged together, the second line hurled their javelins at the sea of charging warriors. Despite the shower of deadly missiles, huge numbers of howling warriors remained unscathed and crashed into the line where they began hacking and slashing in a frenzied attempt to get at their hated enemies.
The men who formed the escort to the Eagle, with swords drawn had instantly surrounded it, forming a solid phalanx circling their precious charge and the lion’s mane of its standard bearer.
Plinius frantically called for the rear centuries to close up. The extended line would only hold for a few seconds more under the ferocity of the murderous onslaught. With another ear splintering crash, a second tree fell across the far end of the column, crushing many and isolating the last fifty men who were quickly surrounded and hacked to pieces beneath a rain of swinging blades and axes.
The first centurion was shouting himself hoarse, trying to issue orders above the din ranging all around him. His men were falling all along the line but so he noticed with grim satisfaction, were many of the barbarians.
Some of his men scrambled back into the phalanx when they heard the order to withdraw, but almost half still battled furiously with their screaming enemies, unaware that the desperate order to rally had been issued.
Plinius knew his cohort was in danger of being overwhelmed unless he could get his men’s attention and pull them back around the Eagle. He snarled at his Conicen, who carried the large circular buccina horn across his shoulder.
‘To hell with orders. Blow rally, NOW!’
The horn trumpeted out a series of short notes. The men fighting desperately in the line heard and understood the signal. As they tried to disengage and rally to the Eagle, many were cut down as they made a run for it. They didn’t know they weren’t the only ones waiting for the buccina’s signal.
On the other side of the valley, Arminius drew his sword and yelled to his two cavalry squadrons formed into a long line on either side of him.
‘CHARGE!’
The mounted auxiliaries surged forward down the hill, swerving their snorting mounts between the trees and urging them towards the furiously fighting men, and the intense din of battle.
1st centurion Lucius Plinius noticed the movement and realised to his overwhelming relief that reinforcements had arrived in the nick of time and would save them all. It was a standard tactic. Any second, the line of thundering cavalry would swerve left and right and attack the barbarians on both flanks and more importantly, from the rear. In the ensuing chaos, that would be his moment to launch a counter attack, order his men forward and crush the now surrounded enemy. Turning to the men around him he bellowed.
‘Take heart lads. Our cavalry have arrived! Fight hard and prepare to advance!’
A cheer rose from the phalanx as relief surged through every one of them.
Plinius waited for the cavalry to begin enveloping the barbarians, but was suddenly alerted by the screams of his men behind him. He turned. To his horror, the cavalry detachment hadn’t ridden out to the flanks, but instead were urging their mounts forward and hacking down left and right with their long swords into his own men. Lost for a moment in utter confusion, Plinius realised too late that the auxiliaries had switched sides and were cutting his men down and driving towards the phalanx’s centre. His stomach turned to ice when the truth dawned on him. Panic rising in his voice he shouted.
‘The Eagle! The bastards are after our Eagle!’
His warning came too late. As the barbarians continued to fight and savage what was left of the forward fighting line, the heavy horses behind them were forcing a widening wedge into the rear of the defensive phalanx. More warriors on foot were streaming down the same narrow paths used by the horsemen moments earlier. Romans screamed and fell in a spray of blood beneath the flailing cavalry blades, as more and more roaring tribesmen surged forward from all directions and joined the desperate carnage and slaughter amidst the mud on the track.
Caught like a nut between two hammers, the last legionaries fell onto ground which was soaked and running with their comrade’s blood.
The outcome was inevitable. Only a few Romans stood huddled around the Eagle now, surrounded by a pile of their dead comrades’ bodies and the closing ranks of their fur clad enemies. Lucius Plinius stood back to back with the standard bearer. Both men were badly wounded. Blood flowed freely from deep slashes in the 1st centurion’s arm, and the standard bearer fought on bravely with an arrow embedded deep in his thigh....
His sword still gripped tightly in his blood-splattered hand, Arminius rode slowly across the track in the deathly hush which had fallen across the battlefield. The 19th’s golden Eagle lay across the 1st centurion’s body, still gasped in the
hand of the dead standard bearer, who fulfilling his sacred oath had been the last Roman to fall. He had fought desperately to protect it until a spear pierced his heart. Around them, the forest floor and track was carpeted with the bodies of the cohort. Warriors ranged among them, callously laughing as they dispatched any wounded legionary they found feigning death; eagerly helping themselves to whatever booty and weapons they could discover among the bodies of the bounteous dead.
Arminius climbed down from his horse and walked into the middle of the silent ring of Roman corpses. With the smell of fresh blood filling his nostrils he bent down slowly and savouring the moment, grasped the Eagle’s staff. He pulled but even in death the standard bearer’s hand still held it in a vicelike grip. With a frown Arminius swung his sword and lopped off the Roman’s clenched hand. It fell to the ground with a soft thud as Arminius straightened, wiped the blood from his blade and recovered his prize.
Elation surged through every fibre of his body. His plan had worked. His men had done the impossible. They had captured that most revered symbol of Rome and all it stood for...They had taken a Roman army Eagle.
More powerful emotions of relief and exaltation surged through him as he hefted the staff and raised the Eagle high above his head. It was a symbol he would parade before the doubting tribal leaders later. But now he decided was not the time.
Arching his back he breathed in deeply and bellowed a single triumphant cry which filled the quiet valley and reverberated across the silent battlefield...
