‘Banô!’
At first glance the speaker was an auxiliary soldier, clad in the same mail and headgear as the soldiers fighting to defend their line, but the presence of a soldier at his rear with a drawn sword identified him as a prisoner. Aquillius was about to turn back to the fight when the man shouted again.
‘I know you! You’re Aquillius! I saw you when you spoke to our centurion Alcaeus! I can win this battle for you!’
The big centurion nodded, striding across to where the prisoner stood.
‘You deserted?’
The Batavi nodded, his face set determinedly, ignoring the contemptuous sneer on Aquillius’s face.
‘Yes, I deserted! And I can show you how to win this battle and end this war, if you’ll allow me to!’
‘How?’
The prisoner pointed at the other end of the Roman line.
‘There’s high ground over there, a bar of it thirty paces wide that goes all the way to the line we defended yesterday, that’s what’s keeping the water level here high. Take a legion down that and into their rear and they’ll have no choice but to turn and run, before you finish the job and bottle them up.’
Aquillius contemplated him for a moment.
‘Why? Why do this? How do I know this is not a trap?’
‘Why? Because our leader has turned on us, sending us into fights that halve our numbers every time we fight! This war needs to end, and Kivilaz needs to get what’s coming to him! That’s why!’
The Roman pondered him for a moment, then turned and gestured for the Batavi to follow him.
‘Come with me. What is your name?’
‘Levonhard, son of Skaken.’
‘Come with me, Levonhard son of Skaken. Although I expect men will call you Levonhard the traitor for the rest of your days.’
‘It’s time we went forward! How much longer is Cerialis going to let these animals hammer at our shields without sending in the men who can put them to flight with a single attack?’
Antonius remained silent, sharing his brother officer’s frustration but knowing better than to encourage his ire to fresh intensity. Both armies struggling for dominance twenty-five paces in front of the Twenty-first’s line were showing signs of exhaustion, and to his practised eye the moment when the legions should be unleashed to pass through their auxiliary brothers and confront the enemy was at hand, but the senior officers clustered between them at the rear of the line and the doubtless equally impatient Fourteenth Legion showed no sign of any decision to send their fresh troops in to administer the killing stroke. Feeling compelled to placate his irate friend, he started to venture a soothing opinion, only to fall silent as he saw a pair of horsemen detach from the group.
‘Isn’t that Legatus Longus? And that’s Aquillius riding with him. But who’s the runner?’
The riders trotted down the rear of the Roman line with an unarmoured man running alongside them, evidently using one of the horse’s bridles to pull himself along in a way that reminded Antonius of the stories he had heard of the Batavi way of war. Both men watched as the horsemen approached, recognising Aquillius as he reined his beast in and climbed down from its saddle, saluting Pugno and pushing the tunic-clad man forward.
‘Greetings, First Spear Pugno. This man is a Batavian traitor who has agreed to show us a hidden path into the enemy rear.’
Pugno turned to Longus, who nodded.
‘It is as the centurion says. Petillius Cerialis has directed us, as the most fearsome of his legions, to follow this man’s guidance to wherever it takes us.’
‘I see.’ The first spear looked the traitor in the eyes for a moment before speaking. ‘You have heard of the Twenty-first Legion?’
The Batavi nodded.
‘We fought alongside you a year ago and rescued your eagle for you.’
‘You retain your people’s gift for provocation even in captivity then?’
‘I am no captive, I am Levonhard, son of Skaken, and I am here of my own will. I chose to change sides in this war when I discovered that my own prince was happy to see me dead if it will settle a personal score. I will show you where to march your legions, if you wish to catch the tribes in a trap from which there can be no escape, but I do so to end this war and spare my people any further suffering.’
Pugno shrugged.
‘Your delusions are of no matter to me, Batavian.’ He looked to Longus. ‘Your orders, Legatus?’
The senior officer extended a hand towards the Batavi soldier.
‘We are to follow this man to wherever this path of his takes us. What we do then will decide on where we find ourselves.’
The senior centurion shrugged at Antonius.
‘Every day a fresh surprise, eh Centurion?’ Squaring his shoulders he nodded to his trumpeter, who blew the single piercing note to warn the legion that they were about to move. ‘Twenty-first Legion … Right! Turn!’
Four thousand men pivoted where they stood as the command rippled down the length of the legion’s line, turning line to column of march.
‘You, Levonhard son of Shagga or whatever his name was, with me.’ Pugno patted his pugio with a meaningful stare. ‘Lead us to this hidden path. But be very clear that if it fails to take us somewhere I consider worth the effort, you’ll be joining your daddy in the Underworld somewhat sooner than he might have expected.’ He glanced over at Aquillius. ‘Tell Cerialis that he’ll need to send another legion to block their escape to their right because I’m taking my lads to close their back door!’
The Batavi nodded dispassionately and turned away.
‘Follow me.’
As they passed the head of the legion’s column Pugno roared the command for his men to follow him at the slow march, his eyes locked on the Batavi captive as Levonhard paced forward, his eyes on the ground.
‘Walk faster, son of Shagga. If we go any slower we’ll be going backwards!’
The prisoner answered without looking back.
‘If I miss what I’m looking for you’ll put that knife in my back, so I think I’ll take my time.’
‘If you miss what you’re looking for I’ll put this knife right up your …’
He bellowed the command for the legion to halt as the captive raised a hand, then pointed at the ground, lifting his hand to indicate a path out into the marsh.
‘This is it. Drier ground, see?’
The two centurions walked out onto the wide spit of firmer going, strolling out until they were level with the Germans hammering at the line of auxiliary cohorts barely fifty paces distant.
‘If this goes all the way to the positions they held yesterday then we have them by the balls. One legion on that high ground could hold them off for the rest of the day while the others encircle them and cut them to pieces.’
Pugno nodded at Antonius’s statement.
‘If it goes all the way to their position of yesterday. And if they don’t see us flanking them and make a run for it. It seems that our traitor has given us the key to end this war, but only if …’
His friend nodded, gesturing at the ground before them.
‘Shall we go and find out?’
Pugno nodded decisively.
‘Sound the advance!’ He tucked his vine stick into his belt and drew his sword, lifting the blade above his head as the trumpeter blew the signal that would set the Twenty-first into motion, his teeth bared in a grin that Antonius had come to know all too well. ‘Follow me!’
The two men pounded forward, revelling in the feel of dry ground beneath their feet after so long walking on saturated, boggy terrain. Antonius glanced back to see the Twenty-first in full cry behind them, still in their column but determined to chase down their officers. The legion was sweeping past the enemy right flank at speed, and, looking to his right he realised that the closest of the tribal war bands was already in chaos, their auxiliary foes momentarily forgotten as men pointed at the advancing Romans with shouts of alarm. Pugno followed his stare and laughed out loud between
panting breaths.
‘Look at them … they’re shitting themselves!’
The two men kept running, their speed dragging the Twenty-first out across the battlefield and exposing the enemy tribesmen to more risk of being encircled with every step the legion advanced. The Germans were already disintegrating, increasing numbers of warriors turning to run for their lives as their predicament became clear to their chieftains. With a sudden collective lurch away from the Roman line, the tipping point was reached and passed, those men who had not yet turned to flee realising that they were increasingly isolated in front of fresh enemy soldiers as a pair of legions advanced forward through the exhausted auxiliaries, singing their battle hymns and clashing spear shafts against shields in a terrifying rhythm. Pugno looked across at the routing Germans, then back at his objective.
‘They’re running! Faster!’
The entire rebel army was on the move, thousands of men splashing through the marsh on a parallel track with the Twenty-first for the safety of their former defensive position and the open fields beyond in which, unencumbered by the weight of armour and weapons carried by their enemies, they would be able to outpace the pursuing legionaries. The fastest among them were already leaping up the slope they had defended the previous day, and Antonius realised that the bulk of them would escape thanks to their superior speed and agility even across such infirm ground.
‘They’re going to—’
Pugno nodded.
‘I see it!’ He changed course, turning to his right to run out into the marsh in a cascade of splashing water from beneath his pounding boots. ‘Into them!’
The Twenty-first followed him, their column reverting to a line as the running soldiers roared their battle cries and poured across the boggy ground at the fleeing Germans in a wave of raging iron. Smashing an isolated runner to the ground with his shield, the first spear stabbed down into the sprawling man’s throat with his gladius and then strode forward into the panicking tribesmen like a wolf picking out his prey from a fleeing herd of deer, clinically selecting a man and swinging the sword low to drop his victim to the ground in a tangle of limbs and flying blood before finishing him with another clinical death-stroke. The legion’s leading soldiers were suddenly alongside him, men spreading out to either side and tearing into the terrified tribesmen whose only instinct was to run their gauntlet, twisting and dodging their attacks with no thought but to escape.
‘Blood Drinkers!’
Pugno’s bellowed challenge was taken up across the advancing ranks of legionaries as they scythed their way into the broken mob of Germans, and Antonius found himself echoing the war cry as he picked a runner and expertly slit the hapless warrior’s throat with a perfectly timed swing of his blade, feeling a hot tickle on his face as the man’s blood fountained from the wound.
‘Blood Drinkers!’
Advancing into the fleeing mass of tribesmen, he quickly lost count of the men he had shield checked and killed, only vaguely aware of Pugno beside him fighting and killing with equal ferocity as the two men led the legion out across the marsh. Stopping to get his breath back he realised that the battlefield was suddenly comparatively empty, most of the tribesmen who were going to escape its lethal confines having run the gauntlet of the enraged legion leaving the slow and lame to their fate. The initial mindless slaughter had burned out of the Twenty-first, replaced by something more calculated and brutal as the legionaries toyed mercilessly with the remaining Germans, soldiers raising their shields to block the hapless stragglers’ paths and leave them stranded, all hope of getting away from the legion’s harsh justice lost. Pugno shook his head, still panting for breath after their rampage through the fleeing tribesmen that had left both men painted with blood.
‘Twenty-first Legion! Kill the rest of them and re-form! Now!’
He waited while the legionaries obeyed the order, swiftly putting the remaining Germans to death and then returning to the ranks of their formation, looking across the battlefield with a practised eye.
‘We killed a thousand or so as they ran, and probably twice that in the fight beforehand. Not enough.’
Antonius shrugged, watching as Briganticus’s Ala Singularium thundered past in a shower of spray to take up the pursuit, their long spears held low, eager to catch the running tribesmen and make them pay for their defeat.
‘They ran. And they’re still running. Those horsemen will kill more of them, but the rest won’t stop until it’s dark. Half of Civilis’s army will melt away back across the river in family groups, and what’s left will be in no hurry to take us on again, not unless they can wield the knife at our backs in the dark. We won, Centurion, and that’s that. All we have left to look forward to is the occupation of their homeland and whatever resistance he has left. This war is over.’
‘I know. But that was our last chance to show those long-haired fuckers what it means to piss Rome off, and we didn’t kill enough of them for my liking.’
Antonius shrugged.
‘If this war is over then there’s only one man I want to see dead now.’
‘Total victory! Congratulations, gentlemen, you’ve just thrown the Batavians and their German allies off the last piece of defendable ground between here and the Island! Here’s to you!’
The assembled legati and their senior centurions raised their cups in response to their general’s toast, and for a brief moment there was silence as they all drank.
‘We have to admit that we were lucky, do we not?’ Alfenius Varus had a quizzical expression, and after a moment’s pause Cerialis smiled at him beatifically.
‘Lucky, Alfenius Varus? Of course, we were lucky. If that Batavian deserter hadn’t swum ashore at just the right place to be brought to me, rather than just being gutted and left to die at the water’s edge, then we’d have been none the wiser as to that high ground that allowed us to get around them. But luck’s a funny thing, as I’m sure you can attest from your experiences of the last eighteen months, eh?’ Varus inclined his head in respect for the other man’s point. ‘We make our own luck in this life, and I was doubly fortunate to have placed the Twenty-first Legion on my left flank, where they were best placed to exploit that weakness in Civilis’s plan.’
He would have continued, but Julius Briganticus strode into the command tent, his big body spattered with mud from a long afternoon in the saddle pursuing the retreating Germans, the bronze of his armour heavily flecked with dried blood.
‘Prefect Briganticus, what do you have to tell us? I presume it’s urgent from the fact that you didn’t have time to bathe and change your tunic before reporting?’
The Batavi officer ignored his commanding officer’s jest and saluted smartly, snapping to attention and scattering yet more flakes of dried mud across the tent’s carpeted floor.
‘The enemy are still running, Legatus Augusti.’
‘Excellent! I presume you’ve been squabbling with their rear guard, from the state of your armour?’
‘We’ve been killing the wounded as they fell out of the line of march, Legatus Augusti.’
Cerialis nodded knowingly.
‘Mercy killings, eh?’
The Batavi stared back at him uncomprehendingly, and the legatus augusti smiled at his confusion before turning to the rest of his officers.
‘So, we have them on the run. They’re abandoning their wounded and if I have the measure of things they won’t stop retreating until they reach their Island. We’ll follow up behind them, of course, but I have a task for you that you may find distasteful, Julius Briganticus. I want you to ride out tomorrow morning, get ahead of them and take your cavalry wing all the way to your tribe’s homeland. I presume you can swim the river, if they’ve destroyed the bridge?’
Briganticus nodded.
‘You want me to raid across the Island?’
‘I want you to ravage the Island, Prefect. More specifically, I want every farm burned out by the time your uncle gets his men back across the river, every farm except,
that is, those belonging to him and the rest of your family. While every man of substance in your tribe will see his property ascend into the sky in a column of smoke, I want your uncle’s fortunes to be untroubled. If that doesn’t make them think twice about supporting him in this doomed war then perhaps the sight of your horsemen operating on their soil with complete impunity will.’
‘Just the farm buildings?’
Cerialis raised an eyebrow.
‘What do you take me for, Briganticus? No blood is to be shed unless you encounter resistance, in which case the killing is to be limited to those men who are armed and not running from you. Of course, I only want the buildings burned out, and on no account is fire to be taken to your tribe’s ability to feed themselves. If any crop has been brought in then the barns in which it has been stored are to be spared as well. I’m not stupid enough to want to have to feed an enraged population of your countrymen, I just want them to feel Rome’s long reach tightening around their collective throat, and to realise that their only hope to end this insanity without a bloody campaign across the Island is for them to surrender now.’
‘We have to keep moving!’ Lanzo looked back at Egilhard worriedly, beckoning him on. ‘If we don’t keep up we’ll be dead before dark because without our armour and spears we’ve no way to face those bastards!’
What was left of the Batavi cohorts was half running, half forced marching across the open farmland to the north of the Old Camp, the exhausted warriors huddling together for protection against enemy cavalrymen roaming along their flanks and rear, their spears gleaming red in the evening sunlight as they darted in to pick off exhausted stragglers and those of the wounded unable to sustain the brutal ground-covering pace any longer. In the distance horns were blowing, a reminder that the legions that had so decisively routed the rebel army were following close behind, eager to kill more Germans before the sun sank to meet the western horizon.
‘He’s lost too much blood to go much further!’
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