‘Then we shall make sure that we sacrifice to the right gods. The Batavians worship them after all.’ Vespasian turned to Ansigar who looked concerned; he had evidently been listening to the conversation. ‘Who is your god of the sea, Ansigar?’
‘There’s a few who could help but I think we should be specific in this case and sacrifice to Nehalennia, the goddess of the Northern Sea. We always call on her before a voyage; if anyone can help us she can.’
‘What does she require?’
The decurion scratched his beard. ‘The more that we can give her the more she’ll help us.’
A pale mist had settled as dawn broke the following morning and a thin layer of snow lay on the ground, making the flat countryside seem monochrome; trees and other natural features in the distance were just two-dimensional, slightly darker shades of grey. As Vespasian sat up blinking his eyes, the troopers were rousing themselves from their damp blankets, their breath steaming in the cold air, complaining about their stiff and aching limbs. Apart from a couple of hours in the late afternoon when there had been enough of a breeze to warrant the hoisting of the sails – emblazoned with the boar’s head emblem of the Cherusci – they had rowed constantly until nearly midnight with the almost full, waning moon, sparkling on the river’s surface, guiding them; their arms and legs were now suffering after a chill few hours sleeping on hard ground, dusted white.
‘The Ice Gods,’ Ansigar informed Vespasian as he brushed the snow from his blanket.
‘What?’
‘Every May the Ice Gods walk through Germania for three days, surveying the country before they return to their realms until it is time to bring winter back to the land. Only once they’ve completed their journey do the spirits of spring feel it safe to emerge.’
‘You see,’ Magnus said, clutching his thumb again, ‘they do have weird gods.’
Within half an hour, after a decent breakfast of bread and pickled cabbage that had been stowed in the boats, they pushed off from the riverbank and continued downstream. The shroud of mist that obscured both banks, as well as the disembodied, muffled calls of birds, gave the river a foreboding air. The rhythmical dipping of the oars, breaking the water with soft splashes, and the creaking of the wooden vessels seemed loud compared to the deadened sounds around them, and the Batavians started looking nervously over their shoulders as they rowed, now that they were, as Thumelicus had informed them upon departure, in the lands of the Chauci.
They rowed on through the early morning and, although it cleared somewhat as the sun rose higher and fought off the effects of the Ice Gods, the mist remained.
‘What sort of people are the Chauci?’ Vespasian asked Ansigar in order to take his mind off the unease that had been growing within him.
‘Like their neighbours, the Frisii, they divide into two. On the coast where the land is low, wet and unproductive they’re seafaring – fishing and raiding up and down the coastline in boats like these. But here, further inland, they have cattle and horses and good land for cultivation. They have treaties with Rome to provide men for the auxiliaries, which they fulfil, as well as paying a nominal tax. Like most of the tribes, they want to stay on good terms with Rome so that they can concentrate on fighting their neighbours and the tribes further east who would dearly love to have our lands. They, along with the Langobardi, hold the wilder tribes at bay on the eastern side of the Albis.’
‘What tribes are out there?’
‘We hear rumours of many names but we only know a few: Saxones and Anglii along the coast and Suebi along the Albis and then further east the Gothones, Burgundiones and Vandilii; they’re all Germanic. We have no contact with most of them, although occasionally a Saxon or Angle trading or raiding party comes south and we have to deal with them; sometimes with force.’ Ansigar suddenly pushed on the steering oar and the boat veered around sharply. Vespasian looked back towards the lead boat; it was doing the same. Beyond it he could see the cause for the sudden manoeuvre: as the mist rose, faint silhouettes were turning into sharper outlines; a Roman fleet was drawn up on the bank and was disembarking thousands of legionaries.
Publius Gabinius had beaten them.
‘That’s the Chauci’s main township,’ Thumelicus whispered, pointing to a large settlement about a mile away, built along a low ridge; the only high land in an otherwise flat and dismal snowdusted landscape still swathed in a light mist. ‘Their sacred groves are in the woods to the east; the Eagle will be in one of those.’
But Vespasian was not interested in the Chauci’s town or the woodland as he peered out from the cover of a copse. His eyes were fixed on the six cohorts of auxiliary infantry formed up, to the northwest of it, in a line across frosted farmland, shielding a legion deploying from column to battle order behind it. Before the Roman force was a massed formation of Chauci, growing all the time as men rushed in from the surrounding areas, answering the booming, warning calls of horns that echoed all around and off into the distance.
‘This could be a welcome diversion for us,’ Vespasian suggested, his breath steaming.
‘First bit of luck we’ve had,’ Magnus agreed with a grin. ‘It looks like they’re all going to have plenty to keep them occupied for a while.’
Sabinus looked equally pleased. ‘We should get going before we freeze our bollocks off; if we skirt around to the south the mist will obscure us and we should be able to reach that woodland undetected.’
Thumelicus did not look so sure. ‘It’s not ideal; the Chauci will know why they’ve come and will either be moving the Eagle or sending a large force to defend it.’
‘Then we should do this as fast as possible,’ Vespasian said, blowing into his chilled hands. ‘It’s a mile back to the boats and a mile and a half to that woodland; with luck we could be on the river with the Eagle within an hour.’ As he spoke a group of mounted warriors emerged from the Chauci ranks and rode slowly towards the Roman line; one held a branch in full leaf in the air.
Thumelicus smiled. ‘They’re going to parley; that may give us more time. Let’s get moving.’
They made their way back through the copse to where Ansigar and five turmae of the Batavians crouched, waiting; the sixth had been left guarding the boats pulled up on the bank out of view from the Roman fleet.
‘Leave a turma here to cover our escape,’ Paetus ordered, ‘and bring the rest with us, they need to keep low and move fast.’
Thumelicus and his men led them at a fast jog across the flat terrain; to the north the two armies were mainly obscured by the freezing mist but it was thinning all the time as the sun climbed higher. Every now and then it lifted slightly and figures could be seen; but they were still stationary.
A huge shout rose up after they had covered nearly a mile, followed by a roar and then the rhythmical hammering of weapons against shields as the Chauci began to work themselves up into battle fever.
‘Sounds like they’ve decided not to become friends,’ Magnus puffed, his chest heaving with the exertion. ‘Let’s hope they’re evenly matched and they slog it out for a while.’
They broke into a run, splashing through an icy stream, brown with the filth discharged from the Chauci’s settlement, and pressed on, keeping well to the south of the ridge.
Cornua started their low, rumbling calls, signalling orders throughout the cohorts; these were countered by the blaring of Chauci horns used more to intimidate the enemy than to inform comrades.
More bellows and war cries filled the air until there came the unmistakeable yells and ululations of a barbarian charge. As Thumelicus led them into the wood the first clashes of iron against iron and the dull thumps of shields taking blows resonated in the air; they were soon followed by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying.
‘The first grove is due east, about four hundred paces away,’ Thumelicus said, increasing his speed.
They ran on, following a weaving snow-patched path deeper into the wood, occasionally having to hurdle the fallen branch of an oak or beech. Behin
d them the decurions were struggling to keep their turmae in some sort of semblance of a two-abreast column but were losing the fight, their men being unused to acting as infantry.
Vespasian’s heart was pounding as he worked his legs hard to push himself forward with the added weight of the cavalry chain mail tunic; he sighed with relief as Thumelicus started to slow. Paetus turned and signalled to Ansigar who, with a couple of movements of his hand above his head, ordered the columns to fan out into line, just as they would have done had they been mounted. They carried on, crouching low, taking care with their steps, easing forward through the trees, javelins at the ready.
‘It’s straight ahead,’ Thumelicus whispered as he signalled a halt.
Vespasian peered through the light haze of the wood shaded from sunlight by the thick canopy; up ahead the atmosphere was brighter where the sun shone down directly onto the thinning mist. The faint sounds of the battle could be heard far off, but nearer at hand the only sound to disturb the peace was birdsong. ‘Keep your men here,’ he told Paetus. ‘Sabinus, Magnus and I will go forward with Thumelicus and his men to have a look.’
Paetus nodded and whispered a few words to Ansigar as Thumelicus led them off at a crouch. As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent and Vespasian could see how the trees thinned leaving a clearing that had four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.
Magnus spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers. ‘It looks like they were planning one of their wicker sacrifices that they seem to be so fond of.’
‘There’s no one in it,’ Vespasian said, edging forward, ‘I can see light coming through the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, his men either side of him; Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus followed nervously, poking the ground with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.
A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees, all the time aware that capture could mean a ghastly fate burning in the wicker man above them.
‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicus concluded eventually, ‘we should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’
Vespasian signalled back to Paetus waiting on the edge of the clearing to move his men out as they began to head north.
This time they proceeded with even more caution, a turma, split up into pairs, scouting ahead with Thumelicus and his men, just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf mulch and clean bracing air made Vespasian wish he was taking a morning stroll in the woods on his estate at Cosa, so far away from this strange land full of danger and alien practices. With a quick, silent prayer to Mars, his guardian god, he asked never to have to return to Germania Magna should he escape this time. An answer seemed to form in his heart; it was not that: all would be well; it was one word: Britannia. He shivered as he imagined the terrors that awaited the Roman legions on that fog-bound island almost completely untouched by Roman civilisation, and for the first time it occurred to him that he and the II Augusta might be a part of the invasion force.
He pushed the unsettling thought from his mind and stalked on, glad of Magnus’ and Sabinus’ comforting presence either side of him; ahead, Thumelicus raised a hand and went down on one knee. Vespasian and his companions padded forward to join him.
‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicus whispered.
The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on hay spread out for them on the patchy snow around the circle, reminiscent of what they had seen on their way to meet Thumelicus; and, in an echo of that scene, three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.
After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed their meal, satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.
Vespasian passed between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various stages of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free. ‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’
‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicus swept the dusting of snow from the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.
‘Lovely,’ Magnus muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin and looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’
‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’
‘Free to fight each other,’ Sabinus pointed out, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.
‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east, if I remember rightly.’
They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing.
‘It sounds like our lads are pushing them back,’ Magnus observed after a while. ‘For once I’d say that ain’t a good thing.’
Sabinus shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it other than hurry up. I don’t fancy being caught by Gabinius with the very thing that he’s after; that would make for an interesting exchange of views.’
‘Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,’ Vespasian said as Thumelicus signalled for silence and crouched down.
‘What is it?’ Vespasian whispered, squatting down next to him.
Thumelicus cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’
Vespasian beckoned Paetus to join him. ‘Send a man forward to find out how many there are.’
The prefect nodded and slipped back to his men; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist and Paetus returned.
‘They’ll be expecting an attack from either the north or west,’ Vespasian said softly, ‘so we’ll split up. You take two turmae around to the north and I’ll take the other two to the south where, hopefully, they won’t be anticipating a threat. Wait until you hear us charge and make contact, then take them in the rear.’
‘I’ll give you Ansigar’s and Kuno’s turmae.’
Vespasian nodded his thanks and then peered forward. Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in a heavy accent.
Vespasian looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to Paetus. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’
‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicus warned the prefect as he left. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’
‘If it’s there,’ Magnus pointed out.
‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’
&nb
sp; Magnus checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. ‘Fair point.’
Sabinus got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’
The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.
‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicus mumbled, clutching a hammer amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome forever.’
‘And you’re welcome to it,’ Magnus added.
All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.
‘Right, let’s get this done,’ Vespasian said, having made another entreaty to Mars Victorious to help him control himself in the heat of the fight; he had managed it against the Chatti, he could do it again. He signalled to Ansigar to his left and Kuno on his right to move out.
Almost sixty men, in two lines, crept forward towards the edge of the clearing; ahead of them the Chauci talked amongst themselves, sharpening their swords and spear points on stones or flexing their muscles, suspecting nothing as the noise of the battle still raged.
Vespasian raised his arm, took a deep breath, looking left then right to check the decurions were watching, and then flung it forward. As one, the Batavians screamed their battle cry and then pelted out of the trees towards their enemy, shield to shield with javelins at the ready.
Taken completely by surprise the Chauci struggled to form up into two lines, their captains bellowing at them and shoving them into position as the low-trajectory javelin volley hit hard, tearing through the gaps in the incomplete shield wall. Screams filled the clearing as a dozen and more warriors were punched off their feet with the slender, bloodied tips of javelins protruding from their backs. Vespasian watched his missile slam into the throat of a huge blond man, throwing him backwards in a spray of gore with his blood-soaked beard resting on the shaft; he charged across the clearing, whipping his sword from its scabbard.
Rome’s Fallen Eagle Page 19
