The Bane of Gods

by Alaric Longward

  I noticed Varus being pulled away, screaming with a wounded brow, his horse wild amongst his men. I pushed aside a legionnaire, kicked at a cornicen, and then slammed into Eggius who was guarding Varus’s retreat with a bloody sword.

  “Come, traitor,” he hissed. “You’ll not take him or the Eagle!”

  I spat, and went forward. Eggius stabbed at me, I parried, and Adalwulf pushed to the man, and slammed his gladius into the man’s shield. They fell together, and Adalwulf’s sword pierced the prefect’s side. Legionnaires were pushing against us, many from the second cohort, having passed the Chatti to save Varus. Adalwulf was kicked aside, and I tried to make sure Eggius died, but I slipped on a bloody rock. When I got up, I looked around in confusion. I heard Cassia calling, and Ulrich roaring. I hear Adalwulf cursing as well. The chaos was so terrible, the rain and the heat together made me feel like I was walking a path in the land of the dead.

  I shook my head, and spied Varus and his purple cloak and tried to walk forward and only barely managed it, but the Cherusci were pushing me forward anyway. I yelled and staggered at cowering legionnaires, the Cherusci followed and we clawed our way over the weak enemy rank, then another. I struggled with a man, possibly a scribe, and when I flung him back I saw Varus standing before me.

  “Hraban” he yelled.

  I snarled, and with one final stab, I pushed the blade into Varus’s chest. He howled, flesh tearing with his armor, and fell back. Men grabbed him, slammed me with shields, and for a moment, I felt I was falling. A man was above me, a caliga on my face, and then I saw Cassia, pushing him away with a spear.

  Adalwulf was howling, wildly holding the first cohort standard high, red head to feet, and then Armin’s horn was blowing. Men grasped me, pulled me away, and slowly, slowly I realized the battle was over, and the Germani were retreating.

  ***

  An hour later, five chiefs and I, Adalwulf, Cassia and seven hundred remaining men of the thousand Armin had given me, were staring down at the column that was crawling forward. I was weak with wounds, but could still walk and lift an arm.

  Below, thousands of civilians remained. Hundreds of mules still moved with them. The XIX was walking forward, under a hail of water and missiles, over heaps of corpses, only two thousand strong. Some legionnaires were crawling, begging and weeping for their friends to help. Eggius was in one of the few wagons, trying to give orders, and Varus, still alive, was heaped on his horse, bleeding, looking down in shame. Centurions and the tribunes of thin stripe were bravely trying to keep the situation under control, but no man could stop the men of the legions from seeing the hundreds of their dead.

  Nor could they ignore our men that were now loping along with them, since most of the remaining enemy cavalry refused to attack.

  The remaining javelins and slings were taking their constant toll on the men below. When they ran out, men tossed wet, jagged rocks.

  “Poor shits,” Ulrich said, his quiver empty, save for one, a yellow-feathered arrow.

  Armin rode to me.

  Horse-Arse and Grip were still alive. Chiefs by the dozens were around him, and he looked like a king; an old, tired, and fey lord who looked at the dead men impassively from his lofty throne, his mind cold.

  “The Chatti did well,” he said. “You did as well.”

  He watched the standard in Adalwulf’s hands. “He did well. And look.”

  All around the woods, men who had not fought were riding amongst those who had, staring at the terrible trek of the Romans. They stared at the wounded governor, the standard in Adalwulf’s hand, and the hundreds of dead and dying below, and a wondrous loot of dreams. They were Chauci, rogue Ampsivarii, tardy Tencteri, many were even Cherusci of Segestes. One, I saw, was Segimundus, exhorting his father’s former men to join the fight.

  “Ten thousand more men,” Armin said with relief. “We will have almost eighteen thousand men this night. Varus is finished. Come.” The wind was battering the trees, the trunks were singing, and I held Cassia’s hand, bleeding, my face bruised, as we trekked west with the Romans.

  I watched her, and she smiled at me.

  “Cassia,” I said. “About the deal I made, and the plan I agreed to. Should we, you, I, and Gervas still try to make it away from all of it. Go to the North?”

  She smiled, her eyes were wet, and she nodded. “Yes.”

  Just short hours from the plains and fields, the Romans were attacked by thousands of Germani, who stopped the XVIII in a terrible butchery.

  Rome finally drove the Germani off, but, too tired to go on, built yet another camp.

  We rode past them, and took positions on a dark shadow of Bone Hill, overlooking a great marsh to the south and fields to the west, and there we waited. There were eight thousand Romans in the makeshift, terrible marching fort filled with bog water, mud, blood, and fear.

  CHAPTER 37

  The morning dawned and men roused themselves. There were nearly twenty thousand Germani on Bone Hill, shivering in the rain and the wind, and for the excitement of what should be the final battle with the enemy. Below us, a half-flooded road in light woods ran for the plains we could already see in the weak morning light. Ten Roman miles of it, perhaps twelve, the road was a sorrowful sight. A huge bog spread to the south. Shrubs, stones, and water to the ankle with puddles of rainwater, and small streams of water that ran from our hillside made it look like a miserable place to die in.

  In addition to the men on that hill, there were two thousand cavalry beyond the hill to the west, hiding in copses of woods that dotted the rich farmland.

  Below us was the killing field, a stretch of miserable, boggy, rustic road. It would seem like nothing on any other day, but that day, it would echo across Midgard. Men would visit it for centuries, just to remember what Armin would give the Germani.

  Hope.

  The last of the javelins had been distributed, and the Cherusci and other tribes arriving to the battle, emboldened, were bringing more. Armin had also heaped thousands of rocks on the slope, hand sized, and many slugs for the slingers. We stood in ragged lines, and looked down at the road.

  In the east, the Romans were leaving their mud-walled camp.

  Twelve miles. When the first would reach the plains, the last would have barely left, and so, it would be a long, terrible battlefield.

  The moment they stepped passed the point below, men would start harassing them. They would be pelted by javelins, stones, and the lot would piss their thighs as they heard the Germani scream their hatred down at them. Their Aquila high, they would still come. They had no other choice.

  There was little to say, little to do, but to wait.

  If the enemy tried to go another way, through the woods and skirt the bog, we would rush after them. The rain had not ceased for more than an hour that night, and the wind was still strong. It was blowing from the west, the clouds were travelling the sky like a herd of dark oxen, and the weather would have scared most men into keeping dry and inside, but now everyone was eagerly waiting to be part of a feat that would echo to eternity. The Germani around me didn’t know it, but Romans had lost armies before. It would not end here. We would have to take Castrum Vetera, perhaps Castrum Xanten over the Rhine, and many settlements.

  And then, we would endure the enemy attacks.

  We would fight a general with a familiar name.

  Or, perhaps, I wouldn’t.

  No. I would take Cassia and Gervas, and go. I would abandon the plan, as soon as we were done.

  Cornua blared. Dozens of them.

  “They come,” Cassia said, worried.

  Our men shifted. Everyone went quiet.

  Below, to the west, a gold, silver, and brown mass moved. Cohorts were staggering forward, hungry, drenched, wounded, their spirit half broken.

  No, that was not true. Their spirits would not break that easily.

  They could still win.

  Possibly.

  They came on, and we watched how the first centuries of the XV
III came first. The XIX had lost too many men to take the point, so the first men of the XVIII saw glimpses of the plains far behind the bog, and embraced the bitter, wet wind, and fought for a promise of freedom from the green Helheim they had just walked through. They quickened their steps in the morass of water, almost indecently happy with the salvation that seemed to be in sight.

  If the poor bastards thought they were safe, we would show them they were not.

  “Riders,” Ulrich muttered.

  Indeed, on the sides of the first marching legions, horses thundered into sight. They were mud-spattered auxilia, what had not yet died or deserted, the remains of legionnaire cavalry and officers. They came on, their last riders, near six hundred strong bouncing on exhausted, starving beasts. They were passing the ranks of the XVIII, scouting ahead, apparently. They were led by the sole legatus, Vala of the XVIII, who was muddied, his armor dented, and his horse wounded. We all watched as Vala stared at the great bog, the fog-ridden, evil looking watery grave, and then he gazed up at the great height of Bone Hill, thick with woods that had covered their enemies so many times. Vala knew exactly what would be on the hillside.

  He spoke to some of his men, and the cavalry surged forward.

  “You think they are fleeing?” Adalwulf asked heavily. “He is leaving his legion behind?”

  “They might be,” I answered. “Vala should stay with the legions. Maybe he is just scouting.”

  “No, he will run. I smell it. He lost his head,” Ulrich laughed. “Or will.”

  They passed our position, streams of men in drenched cloaks, but we let them go, and waited as the XVIII slowly passed. Their eyes were turned up to us, not that far above, and their shattered cohorts held dulled swords out, terrified of even a shriek of a squirrel. Their Aquila looked pale, a sad thing on a bloodstained pole.

  They passed for others to attack.

  Then came the XIX.

  The first cohort was some hundred strong. The second, two. There, amongst these elite men, was Varus, riding a horse, his face pale with fear. Eggius was in a miserable, blood spattered wagon, barely conscious.

  I watched Armin looked right and left on the ridge, waiting for the right time. The legions would be assaulted at the same time, with a mass of men ready to block the road to stop them from pushing to the plains.

  They could hold on, beat us with discipline, and still escape with their honor and even glory.

  If anyone other than Varus were in command, they might. Ceionius would still be with the XVII, Eggius was wounded, and perhaps a primus pilus would take over the XVIII with Vala riding away, and they could find their courage. Not with Varus, though.

  “Not Jerusalem, Varus, is it?” I muttered. “I bet you couldn’t have killed the Jews in their mountains either.”

  Armin turned and spoke with his allied Thiuda, who were nodding. Many were newcomers, but all seemed eager, little heeding the enemy repercussions. Armin saw his scouts coming, they darted for him, he listened, and finally smiled.

  He lifted his horn for many to see, and placed it on his lips. The thick ranks of Germani shuddered with anticipation.

  Then he blew the horn.

  The wailing sound echoed over the hills, woods, and bog. Some claimed it echoed all the way to the Luppia River, thought that was nonsense. The horn’s sound went on, and on. The Romans below stopped to look up, praying, others took quicker steps forward, and the Germani?

  They roared. They made the terrifying barritus yell, holding shields before their mouths, and the ululating call echoed across the lands and terrified all foes. Near twenty thousand men roared their bloody rage for their victims to hear. Like a terrified elk before a snarling wolf, many of the Romans below stopped to cover themselves. Their braver souls shouted encouragements, the terrified gathered resolve, and centurions laughed to show their spite, flashing their swords at us, but the civilians who still remained, tried to run away between the bog, and the soldiers. Many, indeed, rushed for the bog, splashing for small islands, never to be seen again. Mules ran free, their decorated gear jingling.

  Armin stopped blowing.

  The Germani rippled, and then they attacked.

  Just below us, crammed on the thin strip of land between the hill and the bog, the legions prepared. There, just inside the javelin’s range, shaded by branches, their shields turned to face us, for they knew what would happen.

  Thousands of javelins were hurled forward by the advancing Germani to crash down on the enemy. Many struck trees, or each other in flight, but terribly many fell amongst the Romans, who had no way to answer, and sometimes no way to cover themselves, since many had lost their shields to battle and rain. Hundreds fell. Simply hundreds. The javelins took a murderous toll on the tightly packed enemy. I saw a centurion fall on his knees, holding a javelin that had passed through his throat. Three legionnaires were thrashing in the mud next to him, with several shafts in their bodies. The Germani moved like a wave down the hill, still throwing the weapons, and soon, rocks joined the barrage. The enemy ranks were shattered in many places even before the melee. The Romans instinctively retreated towards the bog, now even some legionnaires splashed in, pulling at their mail, others tried to wade and got stuck, but most, tightening the ranks, formed lines, hiding behind their remaining shields. There were gaps between legions, cohorts, and even centuries, and the Germani would surround hundreds of the foe.

  “They flee!” Ulrich called out. “They flee! The cavalry! I told you!”

  I turned to look far to the west. Indeed, Ulrich had been right. The cavalry fled. Led by Vala, instead of rescuing their poor heavy infantry and families, streams of Romans rode like mad past the Germani trying to block the road. Most made it. The disease of terror had eaten their honor.

  Horns rang far in the plains. Our men would be ready for Vala.

  “Come, let us do it,” I said, as I led our men down behind thousands of Cherusci, Chauci, and Marsi. I watched the milling mass of Germani gleefully toss their last javelins at the Romans. Hundreds more of the Romans fell.

  I had never seen a Roman army so butchered, and another butchery was taking place on the plains where the cavalry was being pursued.

  Some legionnaires were too exhausted to fight, and they just sat down, waiting with those who were wounded, as miserable in their defeat as men missing legs or arms. Most men in the legions were moving slowly west, taking punishment, waiting for the enemy to come and play, seeing the huge mass of our men coming down the hillsides like a horde of ants, jumping over rocks, spears pointed at them, axes glinting. They went west, step by step, cohorts, centuries, pushing together on the road, or creating new holes as units with wounded were slow. The muddy, steel-glittering snake filled with the best men of Rome was shuffling along, their spirit hopelessly wounded. Mighty centurions and the aquilifiers were the focus of our men, and many such men found javelins and rocks. Legionnaires followed centurions and the standards kept falling, only to be picked up again. Some centurions were tearing their helmets off to avoid being targets of stones and javelins. I was watching the huddling women and children with nausea, the hundreds of terrified mules and muddy merchants of all kinds, who were praying, wailing, and begging for help, as they constantly disrupted the ranks, trying to take cover behind and amongst them.

  Then, what was now perhaps five thousand legionnaires of the three legions, suddenly stopped.

  Far to the right, a vicious battle was ongoing,

  Armin’s men had stopped the enemy from advancing.

  Had Varus commanded the men to attack, to force a way out, they might have made it. Had Vala stayed with his legion, they might have fought harder. Had Eggius, still wounded in his wagon, been able to lead, it would still have been a terrible loss for Rome, but not what would follow.

  Instead, the legions stopped moving, as the XVIII fought to break out.

  More javelins, though mostly rocks now, fell on the stopped, confused enemy for long minutes, claiming lives.

  Arm
in, above us, lifted his horn.

  A long, wailing horn call echoed in the woods again, and the Germani went in for the kill. They rushed forward, shields flashing with soggy colors. Their spears, clubs, axes, and swords were ready. They loped down like an army of vicious wolves, their long hair streaming behind, some berserk with joy. Their ring-givers were watching, their lords were with them, the gods and their women appraised them, and they went down, ready for Valholl. The Romans called out needless warnings, and what followed, I was sure would echo from the lips of the poets long after Rome was gone.

  The Germani pushed into the Roman lines, past them, through them, and a terrible melee raged for miles and miles, the din of metal on metal and the screams of the dying echoing across the bog and the hills.

  Cassia and I stopped just high enough on the hillside to see the field. Our men muttered angrily, but I gave them a baleful stare, which silenced them. We would stay in reserve, with several thousand others, until a need arose. I saw Armin, also on his horse, not far from us, pointing his sword at points where Romans had fallen back.

  Despite the successes in several places, where the Germani pushed through the Roman ranks, the Germani took terrible losses, as the Romans held strong. It would not last. Here and there, where the civilians mixed with the ranks, where a brave centurion fell, where the Germani were pressing to the shields, going under and over them, where mighty champions were raining terrible blows on Roman shields, helmets, and flesh, the Germani pushed through and got behind the Romans. The price was heavy, such breaches were lined with Germani dead, but they were getting through, and when they did, Romans fell by dozens.

  Cornua rang desperately.

  We knew the call, high, and then low.

  “They aren’t?” Ulrich breathed. “No, that would be mad.”