by Alex Gough
They reached the edge of the ravine, and Silus looked over a ten-foot drop into deep, fast-flowing water. He turned back and saw, in the distance, Caracalla draw his sword and raise it above his head. The murmuring raised in pitch as the consternation increased.
‘Silus, I don’t like this,’ said Odo. ‘We should go back. My father…’
Caracalla swung his sword down in a slashing motion, and with a roar, the legionaries broke into a run.
There was instant chaos. The vulnerable Germans, weaponless and armoured only in linen and wool, ran in all directions at once. Some, the majority, ran towards the swords. Others ran away, searching for family and friends, or simply in blind panic. There was no leadership. None of the elders or warleaders imposed their authority on the mob. Silus suddenly understood his mission to assassinate Suabgast. Maybe he could have organised the Alamanni with their large numbers to fight back, even unarmed as they were. But there was now no one present with the authority and the force of will to turn these individual warriors into an army.
Odo was staring in disbelief.
‘Silus, I don’t understand. Why are they doing this?’
Silus thought he knew. Caracalla saw the Alamanni as a threat, a cooperation between traditionally uncooperative tribes, who now possessed the numbers and power to threaten Rome. Like the Marcomanni two generations before. Like the Caledonians and Maeatae only a couple of years ago. Caracalla was eliminating the threat, and he was doing it in a way that maximised his chances and minimised his costs.
The first line of legionaries crashed into the warriors charging against them. The angry shouts and jeers changed instantly to screams and howls. Gladii stabbed, piercing soft flesh, withdrawing, stabbing again. Interlocked shields formed an impenetrable wall that the barbarians broke against. Bodies fell, were trampled as the line of legionaries advanced, the rear lines stabbing down to finish off the wounded.
Here and there, a solitary, brave German, or a handful working together, managed to tear a shield away, to grab a spear or sword and turn it on their treacherous attackers. Such resistance was fleeting, the courageous fighters cut down within moments.
Silus looked at Odo. He was still as a rabbit before a fox. His face was pale, his mouth an O.
‘Father,’ he whispered. ‘Ewald.’
And then, without warning, his paralysis broke, and he darted forward.
Silus caught his arm.
‘No, Odo.’
Odo struggled, but in his shock and panic was ineffectual, and Silus kept his grip firm. ‘Odo, you can’t do anything. You can’t save them.’
Silus’ words had the opposite effect than intended. Odo’s struggles redoubled, and he kicked back into Silus’ shin, a painful thrust with his heel that felt like it had come close to shattering the bone. Silus cried out and his grip loosened. Odo pulled himself free, made to run. Silus dived on him, wrestling him to the ground.
‘Get off me. Get off me, curse you.’ His fists beat against Silus, no real strength behind them, but enough to make it hard for Silus to keep control.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Silus. Then he punched Odo hard in the side of the head.
There wasn’t sufficient force to knock him unconscious – a blow of that power could as easily kill as knock someone out. But it was enough to daze him, subdue the youngster. Odo went limp, struggling weakly. Silus lifted himself off his young friend and looked around. The small number of Alamanni who had been nearby had scattered, some towards the battle, some away. A few had dived into the river and were swimming away. Silus picked Odo up in his arms and carried him to the ravine. He sat him, still stuporous, on the edge, and slapped him lightly around the face.
Odo’s eyes focused, and he stared at Silus in dazed confusion.
‘Can you swim?’
‘You son of a cheap whore,’ said Odo, voice slurred. ‘Liar. Betrayer!’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He pushed Odo firmly, and the young boy toppled over the edge with a cry, cut off as he disappeared into the freezing water. Silus watched for a moment that seemed to drag out, until his friend, who now hated him, surfaced, waving his arms and spluttering.
Silus gave him a sad wave. ‘I really am sorry.’ He watched for a moment longer, then turned his back and walked towards the carnage.
Chapter Fourteen
Caracalla watched the scene unfold below him. He was seated astride his favourite horse, Bucephalus. Beside him sat Macrinus, who stared in fascination at the slaughter, and Festus, who looked uncomfortable.
Caracalla felt only triumph. His advisors and spies were vague about the origins of these Alamanni, but Caracalla knew his history. He knew that, regardless of how they felt towards Rome at that moment in time, that attitude would change, and they would turn on the Empire, just like so many German nations, and nations at other borders, had done in the past.
When his spies had told him that the Alamanni were growing in strength and number, he had known he must destroy them. There were other tribes in Germania that were more overtly hostile, like the Chatti, and some, Oclatinius for example, had counselled that he should accept the Alamanni offer of alliance in order to destroy those other tribes first. But others, such as Festus and Macrinus, had aligned with his fears of leaving an enemy at his back when campaigning deep in Germania. Arminius, the architect of the disaster in the Teutoburg forest, had left a long legacy, and the fear of betrayal from German so-called allies ran deep. Better to be the betrayer than the betrayed.
So he had hatched this plan with the help of Festus, Macrinus, and a reluctant Oclatinius. And now he watched it unfold to perfection. The flower of Alamanni youth was being hacked down before his eyes, their sap draining into the earth. He knew that this was not their entire manpower, he could not hope for that, but it was a fatal blow. They would not be able to resist the legions after today.
Two legionaries approached, dragging an unresisting captive between them. They threw him to the floor at Caracalla’s feet. When the man looked up, Caracalla recognised the bloodied features of Chnodomar. The chief’s face was streaked with dirt and tears. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and from one ear. He was trembling violently.
‘Why?’ he cried out plaintively.
Caracalla shrugged. ‘You were a threat.’
‘You promised. We trusted you.’
‘A promise to your kind is meaningless. There is no dishonour in breaking your oath when it is given to a barbarian. And I know that for all your words of peace and friendship, you will fall on us like wild dogs when our back is turned. Your Arminius taught us that.’
‘Not our Arminius. He was Cherusci. Not Alamanni.’
‘You’re all Germans, all barbarians.’
‘You’re evil. You will be cursed, by your gods and mine.’
Caracalla looked out over the slaughter, his face displaying a satisfied half-smile.
‘Take a look, Chnodomar, at your people. They are broken. They will never trouble Rome again.’
Chnodomar turned. There was no resistance now. Just attempts to flee, pleas for mercy, and murder of the wounded and those attempting to surrender.
‘I am looking, great Emperor. And I see a people foully wronged. Who will rise again, and make Rome pay for this treachery.’
‘Maybe. But not for a generation or more.’
‘We are not all you see before you now. There are still many of our tribe in our homes and farms.’
‘A trivial problem, now we have crushed the majority of your warriors.’
‘Maybe. But when you descend on our homes and our families, our men will die with honour. When you die, whether it is tomorrow or three score years from now, you will die as a man hated, your name cursed forever.’
This struck home. Reputation was all, to Caracalla. He was the Emperor of Rome. The conqueror of Caledonia. Soon to be conqueror of Germania and Parthia. The new Alexander.
He turned to Macrinus.
‘Kill him.’
Macrinus
dismounted smoothly, drew his sword and thrust it through Chnodomar’s neck, skewering him from front to back. Chnodomar’s hands flew to the blade, clutched it with eyes and mouth wide, then he toppled over sideways.
Caracalla returned to surveying the carnage, but his pleasure at the day’s events was tarnished. He wheeled his horse, and accompanied by Festus, Macrinus and his guards, he rode for Colonia.
* * *
Silus picked his way through the bodies. There were so many, many dead, and the enormity of his task nearly overwhelmed him. But he had to do this. For Odo. For Ada. For Ima.
He saw a man with a broken spear protruding from his back, who was about Boda’s build. He turned him over, and let out his breath. The sightless eyes staring back at him did not belong to Odo’s father. He let the body flop back.
Most of the fighting was finished. The legionaries had broken formation now, and had started the grisly business of executing the survivors. Centurions were organising teams of soldiers to bring prisoners forward in groups, pushing them to their knees, then efficiently dispatching them with a thrust downwards between collarbone and neck. Some went meekly to their deaths, some cursing and struggling, but the end was the same for all.
Other teams of soldiers were checking bodies, just like Silus, except with a different purpose. Any flickers of life, they extinguished with sword or spear. Silus found himself hurrying, desperately trying to find Boda and Ewald before the execution squads got to them.
Two legionaries approached him menacingly, swords drawn, and Silus realised that they must be thinking that anyone who wasn’t in armour must be a barbarian.
‘Stand down,’ he said, in his best command voice. ‘I’m Gaius Sergius Silus, centurion of the Arcani.’
They looked him up and down doubtfully. Silus put a hand on the knife at his belt and took a step forward.
‘Do I have to say it twice?’ he growled. ‘Fuck off.’
The men backed away, and Silus resumed his search. He was near to giving up hope when he saw a familiar face.
Familiar, but dead. Boda, father to his friend, and to his last lover, who had invited him into his house and treated him as a treasured guest, lay with eyes wide open, blood coming from a gash in his head that looked like it had been made with a shield edge, and another wound in his chest, the finishing blow. Silus knelt beside him, and bowed his head.
Then he saw movement from a nearby body, a dozen yards away. Just the slightest motion of an arm. A young boy, sprawled on his front, his face sideways, facing Silus, eyes closed.
Ewald. And he was alive. Just.
But others had seen the movement too. Three legionaries who had been stripping some jewellery from a dead chief noticed, and approached. One drew his sword.
Silus leapt to his feet, cried out, ran forward. The legionary ignored him and thrust downwards.
Silus barreled into him, knocking him sideways in a two-arm tackle around his torso. The other legionaries stared in surprise for a moment, and Silus rolled to his feet as the downed man gasped breath into his winded lungs.
The two standing legionaries closed shoulder to shoulder, swords in hands.
Silus put a warning hand up. ‘Gaius Sergius Silus of the Arcani.’
They paused, doubtful as their comrades had been.
‘Why did you attack Sextus?’ said one.
Sextus was sitting up, looking offended.
‘I need this one alive,’ Silus said, gesturing to Ewald, who was stirring weakly.
‘Why?’ asked the same legionary.
In two swift steps, Silus was inside the surprised legionary’s guard, with his blade at his throat.
‘Did you not hear me the first time?’ hissed Silus. ‘I am Arcani. There should be no further questions.’
‘We meant no insult, sir,’ said the other legionary. ‘We’ll leave you be.’
Silus stepped back, nodded, then said, ‘No. Help me. This boy is an informant. I need to get him back into German territory. Help me get him to the river.’
The legionaries looked at each other in annoyance, no doubt thinking about all the loot they would be missing out on. But they had seen Silus move, and had no wish to get on the wrong side of an Arcanus. They muttered reluctant acquiescence.
Silus bent over Ewald. The boy had a deep wound in his outer thigh, and a bruise on his head. He was semi-conscious, and when Silus lifted him upright, he began to moan incoherently. He gave him some water, and Ewald sipped, coughed and sipped again.
‘Get your shield under him, come on.’
They wiggled the curved shield beneath Ewald, and two of them hoisted him up. His legs and arms dangled over the sides, but it was better than throwing him over a shoulder. As they headed towards the river, they got sideways looks from the various legionaries patrolling and prowling around the battlefield. A centurion challenged them, and the legionaries looked to Silus to reply.
‘Business of the Arcani,’ said Silus. ‘Nothing to do with you, centurion. Carry on.’
The centurion watched them pass suspiciously, but said nothing more.
The carrion crows had already begun to settle. Where there were unmoving corpses, and no legionaries nearby, they started their grisly work. First they went for the softest parts, the bits of the body that required little effort. The eyeballs. The tongue. Only then would they start on the tougher parts, the meat and gristle.
Silus watched as one bird dipped its head into the eye socket of a young slave girl, caught up in the slaughter. It pulled back, a slimy string of goo dangling from its beak. A larger bird came over to challenge for the morsel, and they fought and squawked at each other briefly, before the smaller bird flapped away, looking for uncontested food. There was plenty to go around.
They reached the river, and Silus had the grumbling legionaries walk along the bank until they found a path down the steep ravine to the water. Then they had to find some way to cross, and he sent them scouting up and down to find some form of transport.
Of course, almost everything that floated had been commandeered by the fleeing Alamanni who had made it to the river. But one of the legionaries returned, looking pleased with himself, and pointed out a makeshift raft of half a dozen logs lashed together, stuck a little way out in the flow, on which lay a dead warrior. Presumably he had only got so far before succumbing to his injuries.
Silus got the legionaries to help him wade out into the fast-moving water with Ewald, position him on the raft, and get it free from the rocks it had stuck on. They looked worried that he was going to ask them to help him cross as well, but now he just wanted rid of them. He dismissed them with cursory thanks and instructions to give him a good shove. Gratefully they did as they were told, and even as he floated free into the main stream of the river, they were rushing back to the battlefield, hoping there was still good stuff left that was worth stealing.
The raft swirled in the currents, and Silus found himself pointing forward, then back. The motion made him feel nauseous, and he didn’t attempt to row, content for the river to bear him and Ewald far from the scene of the slaughter.
After they had travelled some distance, he grabbed a long stick that was floating nearby, and used it to fend off rocks, and slowly edge the raft towards the far bank. Eventually, it nudged up against a shallow beach in a river bend, and he was able to drag the raft half out of the water, and then lift Ewald off. Out of the motion of the river, he was better able to assess the boy’s injuries. Nothing that seemed likely to kill him. At least not yet. If infection set in, who knew? He bound the wound in the boy’s leg with a strip of cloth from his tunic, and then lightly tapped his cheeks.
Ewald’s eyes slowly focused on Silus.
‘You.’ He coughed.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Did you… save me?’
Silus supposed so. But it didn’t feel like it. Not when it was his side that had done this in the first place. He put an arm around Ewald’s chest and lifted him to his feet. Though he had to su
pport most of his weight, he was able to get Ewald walking, east, towards the forests.
It was slow going, and they had to stop frequently as Ewald fatigued easily. Silus reflected on the irony that so recently he was helping someone escape in the opposite direction. They didn’t speak. Maybe Ewald was too out of breath, or too traumatised. Whatever, the reason, Silus was grateful for it.
After some time they reached a copse, and Silus guided Ewald into the trees, and into a clearing in the centre.
Half a dozen Alamanni glared at him as he approached. They were slumped in a rough circle, a variety of ages, from one Ewald’s years to one older than Boda. Two bore wounds, and one of them, who was lying recumbent and staring at the sky, looked like he would not last much longer. The others had obviously fled when they saw the first signs of trouble. Maybe they would not be feted as the bravest of their tribes. But they were alive.
None were armed, but there was an air of menace hanging over them, and Silus did not want a fight. He lowered Ewald to the ground and spread his hands in front of him, to show he was holding no weapon and meant no harm. They watched him in silence.
Silus pointed at Ewald. ‘Alamanni. Yours.’
They looked at Ewald but said nothing.
‘Ewald,’ said Silus. ‘Tell them.’
Ewald took a breath and spoke in Germanic. Silus watched their faces as they listened, looking from Ewald to Silus. Their expressions softened from outright hostility to mere glowering suspicion and resentment. The oldest replied to Ewald, and they conversed in their guttural language for a few moments. Then Ewald spoke to Silus.
‘They will take me home,’ he said. ‘They are resting because of the injured one. But they will continue soon.’
Silus nodded, thankful. ‘Tell them not to delay. I don’t know if Caracalla intends to hunt down the survivors, but knowing how he works, it wouldn’t surprise me. He isn’t the sort to squander any advantage.’
