by David Black
Chapter 31
The rain stopped in the early afternoon and the skies began to brighten.
The last of the 19th Legion dragged their exhausted bodies from the clinging horrors of the vast swamp. Some wept openly with relief that their ordeal was over. Others counted themselves lucky but were confused as to why the Gods had chosen to spare them. The harrowing hours spent avoiding stake filled pits, and fighting their way through the stinking marchland had seen too many comrades fall to repeated barbarian ambush. Some of their oldest friends had gone missing; they had become separated and hopelessly lost during the ordeal. Panic stricken; men whose nerves were stretched beyond all reason had leapt from the path into the marsh, trying desperately to get away; seeking any kind of shelter or simply succumbing to the blind desire to get out of range of the deadly and unremitting hail of enemy arrows and slingshot.
When groups of stragglers reached the occasional relief of higher ground they had been attacked again and again with furious hit and run assaults which left the Legion’s already stretched ranks dangerously thinned. The murky waters throughout the swamp were littered with floating and half submerged corpses, surrounded by the spreading stain of Roman blood.
Several miles ahead of the 19th’s recovering survivors, Rufus and his men trudged wearily westwards. Like many others who still survived after their perilous journey through the swamp, Rufus’s century was down to less than twenty men. Half their number lay face down and silent in the vast swamp behind them. They had no shields and no defence against the Angrivarrii arrows; it was down to little more than luck that any now preceded their Eagle and trod the path away from the slaughter in the marshes.
The route ahead had been clearly defined by the 17th’s marching feet, who had passed over the same ground only a short time before. In the heart of the Teutoburg, visibility beyond the track remained extremely limited. The forest’s uneven floor was covered with a thick mat of green vegetation and only yards from the marching men the gloomy forest closed in, wrapped in a confused crisscross of dark shadows. To the frightened men of the 18th Legion, it gave off an aura of soul sapping despair.
Severus was marching beside his centurion in silence. His eyes were constantly moving. They flicked nervously to both sides of the surrounding forest, probing every tree and bush, watching for the slightest telltale sign of enemy movement. His bread bag long empty, Severus’s stomach growled with hunger.
Licking his dry lips, he asked.
‘Do you think there’ll be any food up ahead when we stop Sir?’
Rufus considered the question for a moment.
‘There might be something left son,’ he smiled wryly ‘but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
Suddenly, birds roosting in the canopy above screeched in alarm as a ripping snapping roar erupted close by in the forest. A huge ancient oak tore through the green wall of the surrounding trees and fell with a deafening crash across the track just twenty paces behind them. The ground shook with the thunderous impact as the gnarled trunk smashed to the ground in a shower of broken branches and browning leaves. There was the sound of more crashing trees behind them along the track, but they were hidden from Rufus and his men by the massive girth of the first tree to fall.
A deep baritone blast of a war horn filled the forest; its sombre note chilled the advance guards’ blood. It was followed by blasts from other more distant horns. Rufus and his men suddenly heard a mighty roar behind them, from the throats of a vast host of Germanic warriors.
Followed by Severus, Rufus ran back down the churned track to the fallen tree. There was an arm sticking out beneath it in a spreading pool of blood, but no sign of the rest of the body to which it belonged. One of his survivors stood beside it ashen faced and frozen. Shocked out of his daze by his centurion’s sudden arrival the legionary looked up into Rufus’ face. He was white and shaking.
‘I...I was talking to Paulo just seconds ago sir. He...he was there one minute then... then he was just gone!’
Rufus grabbed the man by the shoulder and shook him. There was no time for finesse.
‘Snap out of it lad. Now draw your bloody sword and wake up!’ A little more reassuringly he added quickly. ‘We need you!’
Beyond the massive trunk there was the growing din of battle joined. The ringing sound of steel on steel and the piercing cry of agonised screams rent the air. On the other side of the trunk his comrades shouted desperate orders and warnings which Rufus understood, but the guttural cries and oaths in the barbaric tribesmen’s tongue meant nothing.
The fallen trunk was thicker than the height of two tall men. There was no way over it. Cursing silently in his frustration Rufus looked left and right. The fallen tree’s surviving foliage locked a thick tangled mess of snapped branches into the surrounding undergrowth. At its other end a confused web of roots did the same. Angrily he snarled to the frightened men surrounding him.
‘This is bloody hopeless, we’re cut off!’
Making up his mind on what must be done, renewed energy flowed through tired muscles as he snapped.
‘We’ve got to rally to the Eagle men...Follow me!’
* * * * *
Arminius watched the unfolding battle from a nearby ridge. Around him, his cavalry squadrons were eager for battle, but Arminius had forbidden them from moving. His allies, the Bructeri had fought well the previous day. Their nobles and men had died bravely in the numerous battles along the line and he knew it was only right for them to receive a suitable reward. When he had planned the day’s attacks, he made sure it would be the Bructeri who would launch an assault on the second Eagle.
When Arminius was victorious, he knew he would need allies bound to him in an uncertain future. The new alliance he had spent months forging between the tribes was fragile. After the Romans were defeated and gone from their lands, he needed the common bonds of spilt blood and glory between them to bind both the Bructeri and the Angrivarrii to his future plans for Germania.
Beside him, Rolf was also watching the developing battle. He could see the swirling groups fighting below. The Romans had neither the time nor opportunity to join together. The fallen trees had done their work. Isolated pockets of men hacked and slashed at each other as far as he could see with no quarter asked or given. As the Bructeri fell before the stabbing Roman swords they were immediately replaced by new warriors lost to the pain of minor wounds by their mind numbing and ferocious battle madness, and an unquenchable thirst for enemy blood.
‘The Bructeri fight well Herman.’
Arminius nodded.
‘Yes Rolf they have no choice.’
Rolf’s face betrayed his lack of understanding. Arminius smiled knowingly and replied.
‘They must fight well today Rolf, their tribe’s honour is at stake. If they fail to take the 18th’s Eagle their shame will spread throughout our lands. Men will spit on the name Bructeri.’
Rolf’s face filled with admiration for his leader.
‘The Bructeri king will use any number of his men to avoid that, won’t he?’
Still watching the ferocious fighting below, Arminius nodded. There was coldness in the smile which played across his lips. The Romans had taught him the meaning of ruthlessness.
‘Yes Rolf. We still need the other tribes to rally to us before this is over, but our cause will gain another Eagle today. It will encourage them without shedding a single drop of our own Cherusci blood.’
* * * * *
Below, things were going badly for the 18th Legion. Dwindling pockets of desperately fighting legionaries had scattered and were being cut down in vicious hand to hand combat as wave after wave of screaming warriors appeared from the surrounding forest and swept down to join in on the murderous attacks. The barbarian’s tactics were simple and clear. They surrounded each group of desperately fighting Romans, enveloping them by sheer weight of numbers. Heavy axes crashed into those legionaries who still held shields. Arrows hissed across the chaotic battlefield and slammed into the
tightly packed throngs of Romans who, as their comrades fell, were quickly reduced to fighting back to back in a vain attempt to save themselves. Their bloody end was certain...there were just too many Bructeri blades hacking into them.
Beyond the fallen tree, the ground had suddenly fallen away forcing Rufus to lead his men on a wide detour to get them to the defence of their Eagle. Suddenly he saw a group of young barbarian warriors racing towards the sounds of battle. So intent were they on joining the fight they failed to notice the band of Romans who suddenly appeared from the undergrowth close on their right. In that critical moment; Rufus had only one possible course of action while he had surprise on his side. He roared to his men.
‘Charge!’
Within seconds both bands were locked in fierce combat. Adrenaline surged through the tired legionaries. They were desperate, isolated and alone, fighting for their very survival. Surprised by the sudden attack, the Bructeri troop was caught off guard. Rufus stabbed the nearest warrior in the throat. With a gurgled gasp of pain and surprise the young warrior fell to the ground. Rufus recovered his balance and slashed another. Running forward he attacked his next opponent. He was an older man armed with a vicious looking axe. Swinging it above his head he rushed at Rufus growling like a maddened bear. Rufus ducked as the blade hissed past his head. Now too close to use his sword, Rufus drew back and slammed the rim of his armoured forehead into the growling warriors face. Blood erupted from the rebel’s nose and lips as the stunned Bructeri fell backwards. With all his strength Rufus leapt forward and stabbed the warrior in the centre of his unprotected chest. The warrior shuddered and lay still. This was like the fighting Rufus had witnessed as a boy, between rival gangs in the backstreets of Rome. Savage and cruel, it was simply kill or be killed. In the charnel house of the blood-stained battlefield nothing else mattered.
Severus was on the ground in trouble. A muscular Bructeri had his hands around the legionnaire’s throat. Moments before, the man had lunged at him with a spear. Severus had sidestepped the thrust and the iron tipped head missed his shoulder by inches. With the added reach of the man’s spear, Severus’s training took over. Instinctively, he knew he had to get in close before he was skewered by the next thrust. The Bructeri realised what the Roman was trying to do and dropped the spear. Growling like a beast he lurched forward and reached for his enemy’s throat. His brutal impact knocked both men to the ground and Severus’s sword flew from his hand. Sensing victory the snarling Bructeri increased the pressure to the struggling Roman’s throat. The Bructeri’s strength was immense. Severus tried but couldn’t break his iron grip. As blood roared in his ears he remembered. Releasing one hand from his enemy’s fingers he felt down to his left hip. Relief surged as his fingers closed around the handle of his pugio, the sidearm dagger carried by all Roman soldiers. As the world around him began to blur and blacken, Severus pulled the pugio from its sheath. His life-force ebbing quickly he desperately stabbed upwards under the snarling warrior’s chin. The blade pierced the warrior’s soft pallet and slammed into his brain, killing him instantly.
Severus lay with the warrior’s dead weight on him for several moments as he gratefully gasped air into his burning lungs.
Chapter 32
Torn and bloodied bodies lay heaped around Tribune Crastus, the standard bearer and 18th’s precious Eagle. What was left of the 1st cohort had been trapped and cut to pieces defending it. They had willingly sacrificed their lives to protect their Eagle and now lay scattered silently on the ground before it. As men fought and died, Crastus stood terrified beside the blood-splattered standard bearer. At that moment he cared nothing for the honour of the 18th and wished with all his heart that he could be anywhere rather than facing a horde of uncivilised barbarians who were intent on killing him. As blades rang and flashed around him, he looked desperately for a way to escape. Suddenly he saw it. The remnants of the standard party had been forced back by the sheer weight and ferocity of the Bructeri attack. Just a few paces behind them now, the empty forest beckoned silent and welcoming. The few remaining survivors of the first cohort had forced a narrow channel on both sides behind him which was free of the enemy.
Crastus turned and ran.
Seeing his commander making a break for it, the standard bearer mistook his motives and followed his lead. With only a handful of men left he knew their position was hopeless. He was out of options and now his duty was to save his precious charge by any means possible.
‘With you, sir!’
Crastus cursed. He heard the shout but didn’t stop. He blundered blindly into the cover of the forest, intent only on getting as far away from the hideous slaughter as possible. One of the last men of the 1st cohort closed the gap and bravely fought on to their dying breath.
Still gripping the Eagle, the standard bearer followed his Tribune through the tightly packed trees. Just ahead he could see him sword in hand checking the way forward. Perhaps there was a chance, he thought. Perhaps there would be a miracle in this stinking forest after all?
Winded, Tribune Crastus weighed his options as he continued his flight deeper into the forest. The sound of battle was faint now but he could hear the stupid standard bearer pounding along close behind him. If he saved the Eagle he would be a fated hero of Rome but he knew his chances were nil of escaping under the noses of his enemy. The filthy barbarians were intent on capturing it; it was clearly what they were after. They would hunt the two of them down like dogs until they found them and took it anyway. Crastus shuddered at the thought of being taken alive by the savages who would begin the hunt at any time.
The fools still fighting to the death behind them wouldn’t last much longer, he thought. If he was going to save his own life, he must act quickly.
Panting, he stopped and lent against a tree. A moment later, his chest heaving with effort, still carrying his precious burden the red-faced veteran arrived beside him.
Between gasps he said with surging relief.
‘You did it sir, you got the Eagle away.’
Still breathing heavily Castus smiled and nodded. Suddenly with explosive force he rammed his sword into the Aquilifer‘s unprotected throat. The man’s eyes bulged and his face contorted to a look of shock and confusion. As the blade was wrenched away, he fell to his knees. Crastus drew the edge of his blade across the standard bearer’s throat, and with a sneer of contempt, pushed the dying man’s body forward onto the forest floor.
The Tribune picked up the staff of the Eagle and rammed it into the earth beside the still twitching body. The Eagle was in plain sight for all to see. Even the half-witted savages would easily discover it now, he thought smugly.
As he turned and ran further into the concealing depths of the forest, it occurred to Tribune Crastus that with any luck, the barbarians would not even realise that it had been two men who had escaped the battlefield with the Eagle. They would see the corpse wrapped in the Lion’s mane headdress and simply assume the standard bearer had bled to death alone on the forest floor.
* * * * *
Five miles ahead, still surrounded on both sides by dense forest, General Varus ordered the column to halt. It was time to build the coming night’s marching camp.
Varus needed to carefully consider his options, and discuss them with his staff. Hampered by lack of intelligence from his missing scouts he had been leading his men blindly westwards with no idea of alternative routes, enemy dispositions or how far they had left to travel before they marched into open ground and salvation.
There were unanswered questions which disturbed Varus. Who exactly was leading the revolt? Whoever it was had so far outmanoeuvred him at every turn. He was facing a rebel leader who had marshalled his forces and used the terrain like an experienced General, but there was no one he knew among the barbarian chieftains who even remotely had such abilities?
His spirits failing, he ordered assembly of his senior officers for an emergency staff meeting at dusk. The aging General was deeply disturbed by the lack of conta
ct with Arminius. Where was the damned man and his supporting cavalry, he wondered? Might he be dead or captured, or perhaps Varus thought darkly was there a more sinister explanation to his disappearance? In the back of his tired mind, Segestes’s warning at the feast was beginning to haunt him.
It was becoming critical now that Arminius brought the Cherusci horde to his ragged army’s aid. Although so far there had been no reports concerning his whereabouts, Varus still had some cavalry remaining under his command. A full squadron of auxiliaries originally recruited as mercenaries from Gaul, led by Roman Decurion Numonias Vala were close by and available. He snapped an order to an aide to find Numonias, and bring him to the General’s command tent immediately.
* * * * *
As more groups of stragglers and survivors limped slowly into the half built marching camp Decurion Numonias Vala presented himself before his General. Varus had his head down. He was intently studying a campaign map. Muttering to himself, he ignored the Decurion and still staring at the map slowly shook his head.
Suddenly looking up, through eyes bloodshot with fatigue Varus regarded the Roman before him. There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence before the General acknowledged the Decurion.
‘Ah yes, Vala. I have two very important missions for you and your men.’
Numonias stiffened. ‘At your service sir, but my men are very tired. They haven’t been out of their saddles for two whole days and two nights.’
Varus nodded.
‘No doubt Decurion, but nevertheless I need you to send a patrol back along our route to find Arminius. He and his tribe of loyal Cherusci are out there somewhere and must be brought to our aid quickly. Do you understand, with all dispatch?’
Numonias nodded. Fighting his own exhaustion, with a resigned sigh he replied.
‘Yes Sir.’
