by James Mace
“Oh, Arminius, War Chief of the Cherusci, I bear news from Idistaviso. The accursed Romans have made a spectacle of our dead and have erected a trophy made from the weapons of our slain.” Arminius rose up on one elbow, listening intently.
“A trophy you say?” Ingiomerus asked.
“Yes,” Haraxus answered. “It is inscribed with the names of every tribe that fought against them. They were parading it in front of their army when I left.”
“This is intolerable!” Ingiomerus shouted.
“Where are they moving to now?” Arminius asked.
“They are coming this way,” Haraxus answered. “It would seem they are goading us into fighting them again.”
“Then we shall oblige them,” Arminius said quietly. “We will defend the stronghold with our infantry. Cavalry will occupy the woods to the east and attack the Romans from behind. The west is a swampy marshland; they will not dare use that. Many of our women and children have come to this stronghold in order to seek protection. We need to offer them that.”
Haraxus smiled. “This will be the day of our victory. There are still many warriors who survived the battle. From a defensive position, there is hope.”
“Are you certain?” Germanicus asked the scout.
“Yes, sir, without a doubt,” the man answered. “From what we were able to see, it looks like Arminius has rallied all of the warriors he still has under his control. They are occupying this stronghold here.” He pointed to a section of map. “They also have many families – women, children, and elderly - located in this stronghold. Doubtless they will try and evacuate it while their warriors defend against us.”
Germanicus sighed and looked over at Severus. “Do you feel up to another major battle?” he asked. The older general shrugged.
“Giving Arminius another kick in the balls can certainly do no harm,” Severus answered. “We can bombard the stronghold with artillery and storm it easily enough.”
“I’ll lead the attack myself,” Germanicus stated. “We will send another contingent to rout whatever they may have massed against us in the woods here. Shall we go and have a look?”
Later that day they rode forward to where the stronghold was just coming into view. There was a deep, swampy marsh on the left and a thick forest on the right. It only left one avenue of approach available. Germanicus knew Arminius would keep a large force within the trees, hoping to draw him into a fight there. Artillery was already being set up in a long line, facing the stronghold.
“Severus, you will take half the army and assault the wood lines,” Germanicus ordered as they surveyed the scene in front of them. “Use your infantry. I want the cavalry kept in reserve. Once you break them, go ahead and use the cavalry to conduct the pursuit.”
“Yes, sir,” Severus replied calmly. The woods were thick, but this would work to their advantage. The barbarians, with their spears and war clubs, would have less maneuverability. Their cavalry would also be greatly restricted by the terrain. Severus turned to the legates of the legions who would take part in the attack.
“Men, you need to reassure your legionaries before tomorrow’s battle. I know they do not like to fight in restrictive terrain. They feel it breaks up their formations too much. What they need to do is stay online with each other and make sure each of them uses the trees for flank protection, like they would each other. The barbarians will be even less maneuverable with their longer weapons. By utilizing the terrain, the enemy will not be able to coordinate their warriors against our soldiers. Make certain they understand this.”
While Severus discussed these things with the legates participating in the woodline attack, Germanicus surveyed the stronghold. The rampart was rather long, though it was no more than eight meters high. Thankfully the enemy had absolutely no concept of siege warfare whatsoever. If they did, the next day’s fighting would be desperate and difficult. Enemy archers were few and far between. The Germans could do little more than hurl spears and stones down upon the legionaries when they scaled the wall. Germanicus looked over to where Tribune Pilate was supervising the setup of artillery. The scorpions would then suppress whatever numbers the enemy managed to rally along the walls. Onagers would rain fire down upon the inside of the stronghold. Germanicus could only speculate as to the burning chaos that would cause. He saw Pilate inspecting one of the onagers while the weapon’s section leader looked on nervously.
“Everything alright, tribune?” he asked.
The section leader snapped a sharp, if rather nervous salute. Pilate, though not intimidated by the presence of his commander, still looked worried.
“To be honest, sir, I’m not sure,” Pilate replied as he continued to pull and inspect the catapult’s tension ropes. “The scorpions all checked out fine, but these onagers I’m a little nervous about. They have never been the most stable type of siege weapons, and I worry about these tension ropes.”
“Will they at least hold through tomorrow?”
Pilate thought hard before making his reply. He did not want to look incompetent in front of the commanding general. Then again, how bad would it look if one of his weapons failed during the assault the next day?
“They should hold up through tomorrow, sir,” he finally replied. “However, I am going to keep an eye on them. First sign of trouble and I’ll have to order a cease fire on the line.”
“Be sure you do,” Germanicus said, standing with his arms folded, “because I really don’t want to get struck by a stray fireball tomorrow.” With that he gave the tribune a half smile, turned, and left.
“What did he mean by that?” the section leader asked.
“It means he plans on leading the attack himself. It also means we need to make damn sure these weapons are functioning properly. After all, I don’t think either of us wants to explain to the Emperor why the commanding general, who also happens to be his nephew and adopted son, was killed by his own artillery.”
As Germanicus walked away, Pilate turned back to his work of inspecting and repairing his heavy weapons. It would soon be dark, and he needed to be sure that all machines were up to standard before the attack commenced in the morning.
“Ever scaled a barbarian fort before, lad?” Statorius asked.
“Never,” Artorius answered.
“It’s not too bad,” the sergeant assured him. “Those turf and sod walls are slanted and not that difficult to climb, so I doubt we’ll even bother with ladders which can be tipped over. You just sling your shield across your back, look for hand and footholds, and up you go. The only tricky part is once you get to the top.”
“Why is that?” Artorius asked.
“Because you have to be able to pull yourself over the top, get your weapons out, and find your bearings before the barbarians at the top can gut you.”
Artorius cringed at the thought.
“Decimus here, claims to be the fastest climber in the century,” Statorius continued.
“Is that so?” Magnus asked.
“What’s more, I’ll prove it when we attack that fort tomorrow,” Decimus replied confidently.
“You see, Decimus has been decorated with the Rampart Crown twice for being the first over the wall of a siege,” Statorius said.
“And I intend to make it three times!” Decimus retorted.
Carbo shook his head. “Decimus, some days I swear you have a death wish.”
Artorius sat back and started to sharpen his gladius. There were a number of nicks on the blade that needed to be worked out. Besides, he always took pride in keeping the blade razor sharp.
“What do you think about attacking this German stronghold?” Magnus asked, taking a seat on the ground beside him.
“If we do it right, it shouldn’t be anything to worry about,” Artorius replied, running the sharpening stone across his blade.
“I just hate the thought of not being able to see the enemy at the top, not knowing where they are going to be.”
“Would you rather they were where they c
ould see us?” Artorius asked. “The last thing I want is to get picked off the wall by one of their spear throwers or archers.” He hefted his gladius, admiring the blade as he looked down the edge. One would scarcely guess the amount of use it had gotten over the past year and a half.
Later that night, Artorius was coming off of sentry duty when he saw torches by the artillery positions. He walked over to investigate and saw that Pilate was inspecting the tension rope on one of the onagers. Artorius walked up and saluted.
“Out for a late night stroll?” Pilate asked, returning the salute and giving his friend a tired smile.
“Just thought I would check and see what the commotion was over here,” Artorius answered.
“It’s these damned tension ropes on the onagers,” Pilate said, pulling on one as he did so. “I’ve never placed a lot of faith in the construction of these small catapults.”
“They’ve served us without problems so far,” Artorius replied. “I guess that could have something to do with the officer in charge of them?”
Pilate laughed. “Come on, Artorius. No need to put your lips to my backside just because I happen to be a tribune.” He turned to faced Artorius, leaning back against the wagon as he did so. He looked at his old friend and sighed. So much had changed since they had left home. His old schoolmate was now a legionary infantryman, while he was a military tribune. “Has it really been so long since your father tutored us both?”
“Feels like a lifetime ago,” Artorius said, looking down. “This is definitely a completely different world than the one we came from.”
“Back home we could lay aside the differences in our birth and social upbringings. And yet we now live in this world in order to protect the other,” Pilate mused. “You know, most tribunes only serve on the line for six months. I’ve been gone for four years and have been home only twice during that time.”
“Perhaps you’ll get a third chance soon,” Artorius observed. “Surely our victory here will not go unnoticed back home.”
“I daresay not,” Pilate answered. “However, we still have at least one more battle to get through before we can go home and celebrate.”
“Have you ever taken part in a siege before?” Artorius asked.
“Only once,” Pilate answered. “I had the privilege of laying down an artillery barrage on a Cherusci stronghold when we went to liberate our ally, Segestes. However, the timing has to be perfect. The artillery needs to lift their fire at exactly the right moment as the assaulting element goes over the top. Otherwise, the enemy will have time to regroup and possibly throw back the assault. And if the artillery waits too long, well, let’s just say it could cause a number of our own people to have a very bad day. I take it you are going to be part of the assault tomorrow?”
“Yes, in the front rank,” Artorius answered.
“Be careful then. I’ll do my best to keep the barbarians off you long enough to get over the wall. After that, I’m afraid you are on your own.”
“We’ll be alright,” Artorius said. “The Second Century hasn’t lost anyone yet on this campaign, and we’ve had fewer combat related injuries than any other century in the legion.”
“Good, I hope you can maintain that,” Pilate said as he went back to checking his machines.
As Artorius returned to his tent, he saw Magnus and Praxus talking quietly and eating a small meal over a fire.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked his friends as he sat down beside them.
Magnus was stuffing his face with bread and bacon. Artorius laughed at the sight. Praxus also found it amusing.
“Just trying to help our friend Magnus here calm his nerves a bit before the morrow,” the older legionary replied as he handed Magnus another piece of flat bread.
Artorius looked puzzled. “What is it, man?” Magnus crammed the bread into his mouth and took a long pull off of his water bladder. With great effort he managed to swallow it all. He then took a deep breath before answering. “To tell you the truth Artorius, I’m afraid of heights.” Magnus looked downwards, as if ashamed. Artorius was surprised by this and had to stifle a laugh. “You mean to tell me that after all we’ve faced here, you’re afraid of climbing over a little rampart?”
“What can I say? I get nervous when I think about falling. And you can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit worried about tomorrow. After all, we are to be the first ones over the wall.”
“I never said I wasn’t concerned,” Artorius replied. “I just have a little bit of faith in myself and in those who will accompany me tomorrow.” He gave Magnus a friendly slap on the shoulder.
“Besides,” Praxus added, “if you do fall on your head, it will only hurt for a second.” Magnus elbowed him in the ribs.
He was smiling and seemed to have relaxed a bit.
“The Roman auxiliaries are covering the rear of the stronghold and the treelines. They are supported by archers,” Ietano reported.
“With the legions to our front and the swamp on our flank, the Romans have us surrounded,” Haraxus observed.
Arminius was laying back with his head on a rock. He seemed to be only half listening.
Ingiomerus leaned over and placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “If we leave now, we can organize a breakout,” he said. “I can lead the cavalry straight into the auxiliary lines, allowing us to get the women and children away.”
“And then what?” Haraxus scoffed. “As dark as it is, our people won’t be able to see where they are going. It will be little more than a disorganized flight. And even if we do manage to break out, then what? Run away until we are hunted down like dogs? At least here we have a fighting chance, a chance to live!”
“A chance to be incinerated alive, more like,” Ietano retorted. “Have you not seen those throwing machines the Romans brought with them? They will turn this stronghold into a pit of fire and ash before they even scale the walls.”
“What say you, Arminius?” Haraxus asked.
Arminius’ eyes looked lost and distant. Clearly his wounds still affected him. After a minute he finally spoke. “Whether we run or we fight, we are damned. We will fight long enough for the Romans to commit all their forces to the storming of this stronghold. During that time, we will try to evacuate the women and children. I know many will refuse to leave, not wanting to abandon their men to die alone. If we are to die, then we will die with Roman swords in our guts, not in our backs!”
Chapter XXIII: The Stronghold and Final Justice
***
The legion was arrayed in full battle order. The First and Twentieth Legions had been selected to carry the assault, along with the two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard that accompanied Germanicus. The general himself was on foot and conspicuously devoid of his helmet. He was pacing back and forth in front of the assaulting cohorts. He was smiling and bantering with the men of the Praetorians.
“Is he really going to lead this assault?” Valens asked.
“That’s what it looks like,” Magnus answered.
“I guess he wants to make the Emperor proud,” Statorius remarked.
Were he still in the field, most veterans had no doubt that Tiberius would have led this attack personally as well, such had been his reputation.
“Quite a reputation to try and live up to when your adoptive father is not only emperor of the known world, but also one of the most aggressive soldiers to have ever lived,” Vitruvius remarked. The optio was at the left end of the line, right next to where Statorius’ section had fallen in at.
“I think he’s lived up to it admirably,” Artorius replied.
“He’ll get his chance to add to that reputation soon enough,” Praxus added.
“Yes, quite soon,” Vitruvius muttered to himself.
Horns sounded, and the legions tasked with scouring the woods around the stronghold moved out. This was also the signal for Pilate to begin his artillery barrage.
Arminius sat brooding, his back to the rampart. The wounds on his face and abdomen still t
roubled him. He reached up and felt the gash on his face. It was fresh and would leave a scar. That was alright, he had plenty of scars. His side was still bandaged up. He had packed the wound with medicinal herbs to speed healing and prevent infection; something he had learned from the Romans.
He looked inside the stronghold. There were scores of huts and buildings inside. Men were ushering their wives and children into what they hoped were the soundest shelters. One woman was carrying a crude sword and arguing with her husband while her toddler son tugged on her other hand. Arminius marveled at the sight. Even the women of his tribe were willing to fight to the last. He listened intently to hear their debate.
“I can fight!” the woman shouted. “And I will not sit idle while you commit suicide!”
Her husband sighed.
“I know you can fight. But what we need now is courage beyond that of fighting the Romans. Somebody has to help our people to rise again. When I am gone, you will raise our sons to be great warriors. You will teach them what it means to be Cherusci!”
The woman’s lips trembled as she smiled weakly and averted her eyes downward.
“If you are overrun, what will keep the Romans from slaughtering every last person here?” she asked softly. “You said so yourself; they do not come for conquest or slaves. They come for extermination. If I am to die today, and if our children are to die, then we will die where we belong, fighting by your side.” As she spoke, she placed a hand on the side of her husband’s face. Their elder son, perhaps eight or nine, placed his hand on his mother’s shoulder. He proudly carried a wicker shield and club in his other hand, though both were too big for him to wield effectively. The father lifted his youngest into his arms and embraced his wife and elder son. Tears were in his eyes.
“I have been so blessed to have such a family,” he said. “But you must live! If I die and we do get overrun, you must make your way into the forests. You must do this for me.”
