‘Or perhaps it was not Julia,’ Cornix spat and turned his horse and charged.
I turned my horse to dodge his charge, sprinting to his left side, and he cursed as he tried to swing at me from a very disadvantageous position, over his horse. I dodged and turned the fine beast and saw the Suebi had stopped thrumming their shields. Their horses knew what was to come before the riders did as I saw some take steps forth. Then Father, wearing a red tunic over his armor raised himself in the saddle, thrust his heavy spear into the air and yelled.
The Suebi charged.
They charged at their ancestral enemy, the Vangiones.
At the same time and above us, the Germani were heartened by the attack of the Marcomanni. I saw Oldaric’s Chatti scream, launch the last of the javelins, grasp their framae and run downhill in a series of clannish cunus formations, many arrow-like masses of bristling spears and streaming down for the legions. They were fast and skillful, rushing in with unsurpassed savagery, and they surprised the Romans preparing to launch their pilum. A mad melee began amongst the first two rows of columns as the enemy pushed and pulled at the silvery legionnaires. The first cohort, the most elite held, but the third cohort fell apart, giving the Chatti a central position in the Roman envelopment to fight from. The Romans were not fazed at all, but pila flew at point blank range, the disarrayed Chatti army suffered and then the further columns charged them, their gladius out. The Chatti were brave, but the death toll for the unarmored warriors was horrid. In but moments there were heaps and heaps of men on the slopes. The Chatti and Cherusci women were coaxing their men to fight to the end. The legions were losing many men, but the gladius, armor, and discipline were tearing Germani rage to ribbons, and especially the Chatti were getting the sharp end of the gladius in their frenzied attack.
I turned back to Cornix, cursing the Suebi cantering for the Vangiones. ‘We have to be quick about this, candle face!’ Cornix laughed and hit his horse’s flank. He swung his blade wickedly at me, and I guided my beast at him, clumsily bringing the shield up as I did. The blade bit into the leather and wood and got stopped, but his horse staggered, and then I stabbed the beast. It reared in pain, and when the horse came back down, I was there. I stabbed at his face, hoping to puncture his eye but opened up his chin instead. Blood spurted over my face, and he howled at his wound.
He swung again, slicing into my saddle, but I stubbornly stabbed again, now puncturing his armor at the shoulder. He cursed and tried to guide his horse away from me, but I hacked at the horse’s face and it reared again as a bit of its lip was carved and flapped crazily, revealing the teeth. I maneuvered the horse behind the enemy beast, cursing my enemy, hearing Woden call for his life blood. I slashed him across his back and then stabbed. The chainmail made a jingling, jarring sound and he stiffened, his mouth open in agony. His eyes whipped to look at me over his shoulder, and he awkwardly swung his heavy spatha at me. It flashed in the air, but I let it hit the helmet, for the strike had little force in it, and I punched the Winter Sword at his leg so hard it went through it to hit the horse. He cursed, bled and cried, and I looked him in the eye as the beast faltered under him.
‘Ansbor. Mother and Grandfather. Fulcher. All the people you have helped kill.’
‘What of them?’ he spat spitefully, the horse tottering.
‘Greet them, if you see them mocking you across the dark river,’ I spat and punched the heavy sword through his throat. His eyeballs rolled back, and he fell so fast I barely had time to understand it. I jumped down and tottered to him. I tore out the spear and the sack with the scroll and clambered on the horse.
The damage was done.
I turned to see the horses of the Marcomanni bearing down on the Vangiones. No normal force of men would charge a bristling wall of spears, but Maroboodus was a cavalryman of Rome, a guardsman of the highest mark, a warrior since he could walk, and he had trained his men well. In a wall of leather, hooves, and steel, the Marcomanni and the Quadi stampeded against the Vangiones. The Thracian cavalry and Alpine infantry started to gravitate against the horsemen that were sure to be stopped by the many ranks of spears of the Vangiones.
Hunfried’s flag fluttered.
The Vangiones raised their heads in surprise and two hundred men, the personal warband of Hunfried ran.
They ran away.
They scattered, leaving some braver champions standing alone to fight the horses and men bearing down on them. The king ran, his fleeing men pushed and pulled the ranks apart as they did and took the weaker men with them. Then, another band of men ran. I was betting it was that of Vannius, for there was a man on a horse, his leg bandaged.
There was a gaping hole in the line.
Officers and signifiers turned to gawk at Drusus, looking for orders, and I think I saw my lord’s shoulders sag at the terrible sight of betrayal. The Marcomanni rolled over the few Vangione defenders, stabbed at the edges of the hole and scattered the rest of the enemy easily. Over a thousand panicked Vangiones threw away their shields and spears and ran after their king. Hundreds of gleeful Marcomanni turned to fight the Thracian cavalry, some hundreds faced the Alpine infantry but most milled in the hole left by the Vangiones as Father was gazing at the sieges machines, and then he spotted Drusus.
Drusus tore his gaze off Father. He pulled his sword, screaming orders. Buccina and trumpets blared, Drusus was riding around, yelling at his men, and they reacted slowly, utterly shocked by the events.
The Noricum cavalry that had been deploying was in confusion. They had three hundred men, and slowly they turned to the Marcomanni, the ranks in chaos. I saw over five hundred Marcomanni break free, make a dangerous, spear bristling column and start to ride for Drusus’s standards. I saw the Consul turn in his saddle and stare at the disaster, yelling orders and the Noricum ala finally got their orders and the praefectus commanding them waved his sword. They charged forward at the same time I did.
Up above the Cherusci and Chatti shield wall, now some seven thousand long, a ragged line of tired men went to the attack. They had to engage the legions, to keep them fighting, sacrificing blood and were trying to push the Romans downhill. I saw, while whipping the horse, some hundreds crash to the steely legions, killing brave centurions and taking a cohort standard, which a bearded, armored champion held aloft, his glory eternal. They were mad with fury. Armin’s horn rang thinly, rising, ululating, and blood flowed downhill.
My father guided his horsemen mercilessly for the young Consul.
There was a fierce fight going on with the Thracian cavalry, some of whom went around to tear at the charging enemy on its sides and a desperate one was taking place with the tough Alpine infantry, as Maroboodus did not have men to rout the thousand strong, solid unit. Some Marcomanni even harassed the running Vangiones, but there was no need. They had seen their king run and had no appetite for the fight.
Maroboodus just needed time. And he had it.
The Noricum cavalry thundered before Drusus. I desperately whipped my horse and guided the horse for the Consul.
The five hundred elite Quadi and Marcomanni tore towards the Noricum cavalry, and there was a slight tremble on the ground as the horses went at full gallop. Where normal cavalry usually dismounted to fight in a proper shield wall, these men would have none of that, for they had no time for such finery. I felt the strange power of death on hooves rocking the grass around me, and Woden sang in my head, his dance thrumming in my ears. I saw the rearmost cohorts on the hill turn in stupefaction and the rearmost centuries of men began to run downhill. A hundred men had rallied around Drusus, for everyone knew what Maroboodus was trying to do. There were legionnaires, scouts, archers, and slingers, artillerymen and standard-bearers with the tuhicens lifting swords. There were tribunes and Immunes, and they all were ready to die for the Consul.
The Noricum cavalry hit the center of the Marcomanni and Quadi column.
Men fell, horses died, and so many were wounded. Flesh rolled in mud and blood flew so high it seeme
d it was raining. The Noricum were brave, but soon surrounded, and Maroboodus’s men rolled around them. I saw, I think, Tudrus and Bohscyld on their horses with the few Thracians circumventing the Marcomanni. My friends were slashing wildly at the Marcomanni, even at their fellow Quadi. Hund was riding gleefully after Tudrus to topple men from the saddle. Then I saw a Batavi hiss as a blade wounded his side, and then I was in the middle of the battle, trying to reach my lord.
Before me were bearded faces. I could tell the Suebi apart from my allies by their head knots, and that day I made my final break with my tribe.
I shrieked Woden’s hate at the men before me. I felt my shield shuddering with hits, my helmet, and chainmail getting tugged at by spears, and I did not care. For I was stabbing and hacking in the battle rage. I stabbed my blade up, I stabbed it down at the flesh of men and horses and waded through the milling battle of the Noricum cavalry and the Suebi. Somewhere ahead, I heard the Suebi reach the hundred men guarding Drusus, for there were Roman curses in the air. I killed a youngster with barely a beard, stabbing him in the side. My blade was sticky with blood, oily with guts, and I was covered in sweat and the tangy lifeblood of my enemies. Around me were now pockets of Noricum men in Roman armor, and I accidentally stabbed one in the throat as I had not seen him coming from the side. The press of horses and men was terrible, and there was a coppery smell of blood in the air, mixing with that of human piss and excrement. My ears rang, the chaos made me dizzy, and Woden’s song made me deadly fast.
Up ahead, I saw some more centuries detach from the battle on the hill as they raced down to help. Archers and slingers on the left flank had drawn pugiones and gladius to charge the enemy, but Maroboodus was relentless. I pressed on in the chaos. Suddenly I saw a dead lictor, another spitting blood as the knot haired savage men pushed on. Then, up ahead I saw what they tried to reach. I saw Nero Claudius Drusus, the purple-cloaked man in bright armor, on his wild horse. His gladius was flashing in the air, and his men died around him. There was a Roman shield wall around him, manned by sturdy legionnaires, and the horses found it hard to push through them. There were men dismounting and tearing into the press and pull. Drusus’s horse had a framae sticking from its flanks, but the horse was as brave as its master.
A tall Marcomanni rode through the shield wall, literally over a man, and he managed to grab the hair on Drusus’s helmet, pulling the young lord half from his saddle. I screamed and killed a Marcomanni from behind, another hit me with an ax, but the armor deflected it, stealing my breath away. I ignored the man, and a Noricum man was his next victim. I rode forward amidst corpses, but then my horse stumbled. I fell, heavily, dodged stamping horse feet and got up. Up ahead, Drusus was again fully in his saddle, minus the helmet, and his assailant was dead on a horse, dead by an arrow. The shield wall still held, lictors picking up shields to join it. Drusus had men wave the standard and blow cornu to summon more help, but the Marcomanni still had over three hundred men, and fifty were especially trying to reach the young lord.
Then I saw Father and Nihta.
He had his bear standard behind him, his face and Hulderic’s helmet caked with blood. He was howling, bawling at his men to push, then he speared a Roman archer, after that a brave man of Noricum, grinning like a demon under his helmet, about to become a Germani legend. He was within reach of his plans; one step away, and he had the tools to achieve his goal. Father hollered and pointed his spear at the shield wall. Men struggled in the press and dismounted, some ten hefted axes and spears. Some fell to arrows and spears, but seven remained, and they made a small cunus. The lead man was a brute with a huge hammer, his face marked by scars and a tattoo covering his forehead. He screamed and ran forward, climbing horses and wounded, and the legionnaires in the shield wall braced themselves at the specter of death. The man jumped onto the wall, his belly split by a gladius but brought the hammer down on his slayer, caving in a helmet. The rest of the Marcomanni swarmed after and a bitter fight ensued in the gap. I struggled to get there, swatting away horses, opening a belly of one whose rider sought to stab at me. He fell, and I went forward, getting hit, pushed, and constantly stabbed in the thick fight. I wounded and killed and prayed I would get to Drusus in time. Miraculously, I was barely hurt.
The Marcomanni assaulting the legionnaires were finally put down. The wall was rebuilt. But it was thin, in places not a wall at all.
And then Maroboodus nodded at Nihta. The deadly warrior prayed, visibly gathered himself and pulled his thin, long sword.
The slender man guided his horse to the wall and spurred forward, splitting the face of a young tribune on his way, kicked a wounded legionnaire to the mud and crashed through the wall. Drusus turned his horse for the oncoming horseman, and I despaired as I put away Nightbright and picked an ax from the mud and ran after him.
Father saw me, his jaw hanging open. I spat at him as I ran past.
Nihta was closing in on Drusus, who was guiding his horse sideways to fight the deadly man. Nihta said something to Drusus, who laughed at him, and then they slammed together.
Nihta was fast.
He was deadly.
He delivered a swing that made Drusus flinch, but the swing turned to the familiar, snake fast stab, which wounded the young lord in his arm. Drusus held his grip on his blade, his horse dancing away. Nihta laughed and came at him again, blocking Drusus’s strike and this time, his blade was going to come for the throat of the Consul.
I screamed, I screamed for Woden and Hel and ran at the lithe man whose face flickered towards me, buying Drusus time to dodge away.
Nihta saw me, his face a thing of disbelieving hate.
He had once told me I would never best him in single combat. Only in the thick of battle would I have a chance, he had said. I had once wounded him by wounding his pride first, but I had no wish to test my skills in swordplay. This was the thick of battle, and he was there, unprepared, sitting on a skittish horse. I came to him, the ax high and all his finery with blade, all his fighting styles and deceptions did not matter in the least as I, in a berserker rage swung the large thing at him, smashing through his blade to bury itself in his belly, ripping his armor apart. I saw his face turn to a mask of a dead man, his mouth open, and beard dripping with blood as I pulled him down from the saddle. ‘Man whore, shit fucked half beast, die!’ I spat at him as I tore the blade out. Behind us, Maroboodus howled, and his men charged again, and again and I stepped before Drusus, which many men saw and flocked to me. Some out of breath legionnaires were now splashing through the muddied stream.
We held, I swung the ax, killing men and horses and the Marcomanni despaired. The standard of Drusus fell in the mud as one of my father’s riders from Rome killed the bear pelted staff holder, a veteran of many wars, but the man came close to me and the ax ripped off his shoulder. My weapon was now dull, nicked and flattened as more enemies came at me. Drusus cheered behind us as the centuries from above started to lob pilum at the Marcomanni, and many men were now hacking at the milling horsemen from all sides. The Alpine troops were routing the last, stubborn Marcomanni. The Thracian cavalry were filtering more and more men to us as they engaged some two hundred Suebi still.
Maroboodus was failing.
Their surprise was spent.
Maroboodus’s face was ashen gray with hate, I saw it in his cursing mouth, the only thing showing under Hulderic’s old beast helmet. He pulled at a large man, who nodded. The great Quadi chief, Sibratus, clad in a barbaric chain and leather armor spurred his horse across my vision, and Drusus spurred his horse at the man. They met, both breathless and tired, and the Germani swung a black cudgel with spikes at Drusus. The lord dodged it and stabbed Sibratus in the face. Sibratus’s horse guided him away, the master of Quadi spilling blood, his men moaning in horror as the chief spilled from the saddle, and Drusus laughed. ‘Keep his armor! I wish to dedicate it to the gods in Rome!’ he yelled, having achieved what few Roman generals had; killing an enemy chief in single combat.
&nb
sp; Marcomanni energy was starting to wane.
The enemy was despairing as the few remaining men of Noricum, fresh legionnaires, savage Thracians, legionnaires, and archers cut and stabbed at them amidst piles of dead. I was fighting a large, fat man, breaking his shield with the now hammer-like axe when I saw my father curse, raise his eyes to the gods like Nihta had, take up his spear, and then he threw it.
It was a splendid throw. The gods approved of it.
I turned to look at Drusus. He was holding his sword up, exhorting the newly arriving legionnaires, in glee at his recent feat, his face a shining sun. Despite the deadly surprise, his men were winning. He was a young hero at the peak of his glory. He would conquer. He would beat his enemies to the dust and crags of Hades. The gods would reward him richly, and he would, by Juppiter, save Rome from Augustus and tyranny.
Father’s spear flew over my head, and I could not stop it. I killed the stubborn Marcomanni and turned to look at the deadly throw.
I breathed in relief.
Drusus’s horse was hit, the hasta deep in its chest.
Then the horse fell, taking Nero Claudius Drusus with it.
He fell and howled. It was a brief howl, but speaking of terrible hurt. His leg was stuck weirdly under the horse, and as the horse thrashed an audible crack was heard. Drusus’s eyeballs turned white from pain, and he fell back to the mud.
I saw my father grin.
I screamed defiance to the gods as I charged him. He sneered at me and turned his horse, commanding his men to turn. I saw Vannius amongst the fleeing men, but I ignored him.
The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3) Page 41
