The Barbarian

by Barry Sadler

  As Casca judged it, the Saxons probably wouldn't attack until they were at least fifty feet away. That was the maximum distance they would be able to throw their axes from. They would advance to about two hundred feet, then rush. At fifty feet, would come the first wave of axes, and then the attack would begin in earnest.

  Casca was strict in his instructions to keep the top layer of grass whole and had his men cut it out in squares and lay it aside. The trench was only to be about thigh-deep, dug in a straight line across the field with the ends going up along the sides of the tree line to form an open-ended box. If the Saxons tried to flank them by attacking through the trees, they would have to cross his small trench first. Inside the trench, he had sharpened stakes placed and then branches were gathered to interlace over the top. The squares of grass-covered sod were then placed on top of this and carefully arranged to give no hint that there was anything but solid ground beneath. His warriors, once they understood the idea, worked even harder to make sure everything would be right. Casca moved back out to the front and looked over their handiwork, making a change here and there until from a distance of twenty feet, it was impossible to detect his trap. It was on this that they would win or lose.

  By nightfall, all was ready. He sent scouts out to keep him informed of the enemy advance, and ordered the rest of his men to settle in for the night. They were permitted to build campfires. This night he wanted it to be no secret where they were. With the Saxon forces outnumbering him by at least five to one, he felt confident they wouldn't hesitate in their advance.

  Later that night his scouts informed him that the Saxons had also made camp and were no more than five miles distant.

  Casca conferred with Glam and they both agreed that it would probably be at least midday before the Saxons reached their positions. Glam was, as always, ready for whatever would come. He honed down the edge of his sword and axe, stuffed half a lamb down his gullet, and went to sleep, snoring and wheezing. One thing about Glam that old bastard didn't seem to have a conscience or a worry about anything. Nothing ever interfered with his eating or sleeping unless it was a quick roll with some sweet young maiden who wanted an experience to remember by coupling with a human bear.

  The day broke clear and sharp, ground fog hugging the low spots and hiding in the hollows of the valleys. Before long, it would burn off, leaving the field clear for this day's bloody work. Casca rose with the sun and dressed.

  One thing he had learned a long time ago - don't make yourself stand out. Men who affected fancy dress or even armor that was too different from the mass of the men, suffered higher casualty rates. They became selected targets and he had no desire to have a dozen axes and spears coming his way at one time. No, he was a barbarian with the conical helmet with horns. True, he wore his breastplate, but kept it well-hidden under a tunic of gray wolf skin. He kept his short sword in its scabbard for now. A broad-bladed axe, like the one he had killed Ragnar with, would be of more use this day in battering through the wicker shields of the Saxons. He called his captains to him after they had eaten their morning ration of meat and grain.

  To Glam he assigned command of the right flank with orders to hold there for his signal unless he saw the center, which he would command, breaking. The left he gave to the proud young warrior, Sifrit, who looked the part of a Nordic hero, blond shoulder-length hair and eyes the color of high mountain lakes. His face was unscarred by battle, not because he had avoided fights but because he was good enough that he won them before he got all cut up. The young man wasted no time on theatrics. When it came to killing, he was all business.

  Casca wished he might have had a few of the engines of war that were standard issue in the legions; even a couple of arbalests would have been a comfort. Old Corio could have built them. But his rough crew was not ready to handle such sophisticated weapons of destruction. It would be all he could do to keep them in their positions long enough for the Saxons to fall into his trap. It was probably best, after all, to arm them with the weapons they were most familiar with. He felt he was lucky that he had managed to get a dozen of his young men to take up the use of the bow. Most of the tribes of Germania disdained the use of it, claiming the sword, spear, and axe were the only weapons for a man. That type of thinking had cost them more than one battle. Honor is a fine thing so long as it doesn't get you killed.

  He called over the two teenage warriors he had selected as his trumpeters. They only knew three calls: a long blast on the ox horn, two short blasts, and three short blasts. Casca had remarked more than once to Glam that communications were more often than not the secret to success in battle. The leader that could get his orders to his troops the fastest had the best chance of success. If only man had some way to communicate instantly with his forces ... but that was likely never to be.

  The field was silent. Small animals had taken to their burrows; the larger ones had fled far away. Even the birds were silent, staying in the branches of the trees or in their nests. They knew somehow that violence would soon break the silence. Casca often wondered how the dumb beasts could anticipate the actions of man. But they knew. More than once the sound of silence had warned him of an enemy's approach.

  And it would be soon now. The last of the scouts were racing across the field. The Saxons wouldn't be far behind. One of the scouts leaped over the camouflaged trench and saluted Casca. "They come, lord. Led by Hrolthar Bluetooth."

  Casca laughed at the name. Bluetooth. These Nordics took things literally and named themselves so. Hrolthar did indeed have a tooth that had died and turned dark in color, sitting right in the front of his mouth.

  Glam whistled and pointed with his long sword to the far edge. The leading elements of the Saxons were coming out of the trees, first one, then another. They were big hard men with the look of those who enjoyed slaughter. Most, like his own men, had only bare skin for armor. They were a little fairer in color than his own men and more of them were blond or red-headed. All affected beards or long sweeping mustaches that reached below their chins. Only the young men who did not have enough years to grow face hair were clean-chinned.

  Casca had wanted his men to shave, but an order like that could have caused rebellion, even after he'd explained how handy a beard was for an enemy to grab onto and hold a man down while he beat his brains out. But it was no use - they had such an affection for hair on the face that it was best to leave it alone. Maybe he could do something about it later with the younger men. Right now they could have their way. It was worse to give an order you couldn't enforce than not to give one at all.

  Glam and the other captains had smiled in anticipation as they understood the reason for Casca ordering the women to make up large wicker shields. They were large enough to cover two men, but light enough for one to hold. They made sure their men also understood the use of them and would wait for the command. And the time would be soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Casca called out to pass the word to get ready. The five foot tall wicker-shields were laid face down in front of the first rank. He had only two ranks. The men in the rear were all armed with lances and boar spears to protect the first, who would have their hands full soon enough.

  Glam, on the right, signaled his readiness, as did Sifrit on the left. Casca looked carefully at the faces of those who were in battle for the first time. They were bright faces of young men, unscarred and handsome. He knew what they were feeling, what caused the slight tremor of the sword arm, the sudden small beads of sweat on the upper lip and brow.

  He knew well the feelings that always come before a fight, but they would pass. With the first thrown spear or axe, they would pass, and these young men would do good service this day as young men have always done in their first fights when well-led and not uselessly sacrificed. He knew too that many of these clean, bright faces would be gashed, bloody, and still before the next hour passed. That was the sadness of war. These young men would never sire sons to carry on. All they would leave behind would be their fath
ers and mothers to mourn for them. But he also knew they would not have it any other way. To be left out of the fight was worse than the threat of death. How many millions had died in the name of some honor that would soon be forgotten in a few years? But without honor, what else did man have to distinguish him from the beasts? Bad as honor could be, it would be worse to have none.

  The Saxons were setting up their ranks. There was no sense or order to them, just a thick mass of men on the far side of the clearing, waiting for the word to attack. Then they would rush. A large warrior stepped forth and bellowed across the field, "is the Roman with you, or has he fled back to the pigpens that sired him?"

  Casca stepped out a bit from the straight line of his rank. "I'm here." Casca knew the Saxons had been marching since dawn; it would be best if he could get them to attack now, before they had a chance to rest. "Is that Hrolthar Bluetooth trying to speak like a man? Aye, it must be, though I'm too far away to see your rotten tooth. The stench of decay that reaches me must be coming from your mouth. If you have the nerve to come a little closer to me, I'll close that cesspool forever." Hrolthar stamped his leather-wrapped feet in anger.

  Casca grinned to himself. That got his ass a little bit.

  Hrolthar called back, "I'll come soon enough, Roman, but first I have a little entertainment for you.

  Hrolthar signaled, and the mass of his men opened to let eight of Casca's villagers be shoved out to the forefront. Obviously, they were all from the same household and had been too late in leaving. There were two old men, a teenage boy and girl, a farmer, his wife, and two small children holding onto their mother's skirt. At a given signal, all eight were cut down, even the children, who were tossed in the air on spear points, while their parents were hacked into pieces by swords and axes. Casca's men groaned in anguish. Many started to break ranks and rush across the field. Only his immediate and firm order to hold stopped them, but it was an unwilling obedience. He called to his men.

  "That's what they want you to do, to come to them where they can use their numbers to swarm over you. Stay in line a bit longer and you'll have all the revenge you will ever need; they will come to us. But remember what you have just seen. There will be no mercy asked for or given this day. Kill or be killed." Casca called back to Hrolthar. "I see the stories are true. You are indeed a man to be feared, especially if one is a woman or child. But if you have the stomach for facing a man, then come to me. We are less in number than you. Surely you have some courage left after your bloody victory over the children. Come then, you bag of pig gut, or all will know you are less than a man, less even than the worms that feed on dead man's eyes; for you are a coward..."

  Hrolthar fumed, his face turning red. He beat his chest with his axe hand, his mustache flaring, eyes red-rimmed with the building of the berserker rage. He worked himself up and the contamination spread to his men. They beat on their shields and howled like beasts of the forest, their faces red, sweaty eyes narrowed. They crowded together, feeding each other's battle frenzy.

  Casca could feel the moment building. It wouldn't be long now; they were just about ready.

  The screaming of the Saxons reached a crescendo that broke in mid-howl and they lunged forward, a disorganized mob racing to the waiting line. Casca moved back into the ranks, beside his trumpeters, to get ready. The Saxons were almost to the point of no return. Those in front of the racing pack had their throwing axes out, one in each hand. Wild-eyed and screaming, they came to a distance of thirty feet and then all of them drew back their arms to throw the deadly flying blades into the line of Casca's warriors.

  Casca barked at his trumpeters, “now!”

  They raised their horns and blew one long blast. Now the real use of the wicker shields was made known. The front rank raised them up and knelt behind them, covering themselves and the men behind, who pointed their spears out past the front of their shields to hold off any Saxons who might break through the trench. Axes thudded into the wicker. A half dozen of Casca's men fell to the ground mortally wounded or dead because they hadn't gotten their shields up fast enough. But the brunt of the axe attack was absorbed by the wicker shields.

  Immediately behind the throwers came the rest of the Saxons. By the sheer force of their numbers, they forced their brothers in the front into the trap. When they hit the hidden pits their eyes went wide, as the ground that had looked so solid a moment before broke beneath their feet and sharpened stakes penetrated their legs and stomachs. A hundred Saxons died in that first rush onto the trench. Those behind didn't hesitate a moment. They used the bodies of their dead comrades as bridges to cross the gap, only to meet the large shield of wicker that was forming a solid wall forcing them back into the pits. The second ranks' spears darted and stabbed. The young warriors of the center were doing their job. For a moment the Saxon line wavered.

  Casca knew the signs. He had seen them often enough when fighting with the Seventh Legion on the other side of the Rhine. Now was the moment. He called to his trumpeters again. Two short blasts were sounded over the din of the battle. The wings of the left and right flanks, those with the older, more experienced warriors under the leadership of Glam and Sifrit, rushed forth using the wicker shields as foot paths over the sharpened stakes. They rushed, axes swinging, the thirst for revenge driving them on. Men fell by the dozens, disemboweled and dying, as the men of the hold paid back a blood debt. The Saxon flanks were crushed and Glam's warriors joined with those of Sifrit in closing the pocket.

  The Saxons turned to flee, only to find every possible way out blocked by grim-faced men with spears and axes. The numbers were about equal now, but the spirit of the Saxons was diminished by the unexpected turn of events. Instead of an easy victory over their outnumbered opponents, they had lost half their men in ten minutes. They huddled together, back to back, weapons facing out in a circle inside the pocket. They had nowhere to go. Several threw themselves at the surrounding men only to find their death a little sooner than the others would.

  Casca stepped across the trench, using the bodies of dead Saxons instead of the wicker bridges. Hrolthar watched him. Casca signaled again, and the trumpets blew three blasts. His men stopped fighting and pulled back a little. The field was silent again except for the labored breathing of the fighters and the groans of the dying or wounded.

  Casca called to the Saxon chieftain, "Are you ready to face me now, baby killer?"

  Hrolthar waved his axe at the Roman. "You wanted me to come to you earlier. Now if you want me, come to us. We will take many of you with us before this day's bloody work is done."

  Casca knew he spoke the truth. When men are surrounded with no way out and no hope for surrender, they have only one choice - to fight to the death and take as many with them as they can. Casca called out to Glam, "Show them the way out." Glam obeyed and his men stepped back, leaving a corridor to the tree line. It was a corridor lined with steel, but still it represented the only choice other than certain death. Casca pointed. "There is your way out." He knew many would probably escape, but that was better than having too many of his own killed just for revenge. Besides, the survivors would tell their tale and in the telling, the story would grow. Then perhaps fewer would dare to attack the Roman and his men in the future.

  "Saxons, there is your way home. Take it or die where you stand." He raised his short sword above his head and cried out, "Attack!" His young men dropped their shields of wicker and drew swords and axes. They closed in on the Saxons; only the way out was uncontested. The Saxons made their decision and rushed for the corridor, stomping each other as many fell to the ground in their haste to get away. Glam's and Sifrit's men did bloody duty, with little loss to themselves as they cut down any that came too close to the wall of steel.

  Casca lunged forward, grabbed Hrolthar's shoulder, and swung him around, making a sweep with his short sword. It sliced through Hrolthar's right arm at the wrist, dropping the hand still holding the axe to the ground. Hrolthar screamed and before Casca could cover his eyes,
Hrolthar used the fountain of Tyr to blind him. For a moment the red, spouting arterial blood from the severed wrist covered Casca's eyes. He reeled back and by the time he had wiped them clear, Hrolthar was gone, holding his wrist tightly with the other hand. He had made his way through the corridor to the tree line and escaped into the woods.

  But most of Hrolthar's men had no such degree of fortune and lay gape-mouthed with vacant eyes, waiting for the ravens to pick them clean. In the end, only fifty-four Saxons returned to their homes. The rest were now no more than fertilizer for the field of Runes. No prisoners were taken. All wounded Saxons were put to the sword. It was a hard life and compassion was not a survival factor in these lands.

  Casca only regretted that he wasn't able to finish off Hrolthar. But one thing was for certain: the bastard would never use an axe with that hand again. He kicked the severed limb into the ditch to lie there with the dead Saxons until the rest of the casualties had been thrown into the pits and the trenches covered over

  Casca led his men back to the hold carrying with them the spoils of their victory. There were shields, weapons, some bracelets of hammered copper and silver, and a few scraps of bloody armor.

  They also returned with their own dead. Carrying them on shields, held high on their shoulders, they returned their own fallen heroes to their families.

  Lida stood on the ramparts facing inland, sightless eyes staring in the direction from which she knew they must come. Her ears, grown more sensitive since her blindness, had heard the thin distant sounds of metal striking metal before the waiting guards caught sight of anything with eyes. She called out below to the courtyard. "He comes! Casca is returning!" Somehow she knew that it would be him and not the Saxons that would come to Helsfjord this day.