Unable to break the advancing line and desperate to get out of the way, the barbarians turned and made for the woods on either side of the battlefield.
“Now,” said Quintus, his voice a growl, “here is where we earn our pay.”
Tightening my grip on the sword, I hunkered down behind my curved shield, peering around the edge at the onrushing enemy. They ran blind, heedless of the danger awaiting them in the wood.
“Get ready….”
The barbarians raced swiftly toward us, howling like wolves, their screams loud in our ears. They spread out as they came, making for the gaps in the trees. Only as they came in range of our spears did they realize that their escape was blocked. Some checked when they saw us, searching for another way out. Others drove in regardless, screaming with rage.
Three huge brutes broke from the main body of the enemy and made for the place where Quintus and I waited. I had time but to brace myself for the collision.
“Stand!” shouted Quintus, and my shield was struck by a blow that almost knocked me off my feet. My arm was thrown against my body and I fell back a pace. “Stand!”
I thrust my shield before me and resumed my place. The next blow nearly shattered my arm. I felt the impact as a jolt through every bone in my body, sending a sharp pang through the still-tender wound in my side. I gasped for breath but somehow remained unmoved.
“Strike!” cried Quintus.
A third blow rattled my shield, knocking it sideways. I saw the face of my attacker—a dark, bearded, bare-chested giant with a sword. Seeing his chance, he lunged at me again, swinging hard to knock the shield away. I let my arm fall. The brute’s blade missed the top of the shield and carried on, opening him out wide.
I thrust out blindly in the same instant—striking low and straight, as Quintus instructed. The blade met but slight resistance, sliding in and up.
The barbarian gave out a scream, clutched his belly, and collapsed.
“Again!” shouted Quintus. “Again!”
But I could not move. I stood and stared at my fallen adversary as he rolled in agony on the ground.
Quintus stepped forward and delivered a quick jab in the center of the chest under the ribs. The brute ceased thrashing and lay still. The sight of my first dead barbarian produced a strange and unsettling sensation. In appearance he was very like the Irish warrior Forgall, Lord Miliucc’s chief of battle. And while I no longer considered Forgall and his band rank barbarians, there was no clear difference between Miliucc’s crew and those swarming around me now. Could I have so blithely and unthinkingly engaged Forgall and seen him slain?
I had no time to dwell on this question, however, as new foemen swarmed fresh to the fight.
“Eyes up,” commanded Quintus. “Be ready!”
I raised my eyes from the dead barbarian as two more drove in toward us with spears at the level. The shafts of their spears were short, and they carried them low. I dropped my shield to better protect my legs and drew back my sword arm to await the assault.
Wild in their fury, the enemy fell on us. The blades of their spears struck the curved surface of the shield and slid away. Ignoring the growing pain in my side, I pushed forward, throwing the shield before me and into the nearest barbarian’s face, knocking him back. As before, I gave a short, sharp thrust, catching him in the side. Blood gushed from the wound.
Unlike the first Goth, however, he did not fall. Heedless of the slash in his side, he came at me again. I saw the cold defiance in his dark eyes as, lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl of rage, he stabbed with the spear—once and again. Each time I countered his jab with my shield, and the spear point clattered away harmlessly.
His third assault surprised me. He jabbed with his spear as before, but when I knocked it aside, he swung his shield into mine, hooking the edge and pulling it away. For one brief instant I stood unprotected.
I saw the long spear blade start toward my chest, and I swung the sword with all my might. My blade caught the spear just below the shank, neatly shearing the spearhead from the shaft in a stroke.
The barbarian threw the useless shaft at me and reached for the knife at his belt. He loosed a furious cry and charged behind his shield, trying to knock me off my feet. I saw the knife in his fist as he drove into me and, without thinking, slashed at his wrist.
I watched in amazement as the both hand and knife spun to the ground in a crimson flash of blood. He screamed and raised the streaming stump as he fell to his knees.
Again Quintus was there to give the killing stroke. The barbarian slumped to his side with a grunt.
“Do not trade blows with them!” he shouted, pulling me back into position beside him.
He looked down the line and called to Pallio, Varro, and the others. “Shields up!”
I straightened my shield and renewed my grip on the sword hilt. But the attack was over. The Gothi were already running away, fleeing back across the river the way they had come.
Out on the battlefield the legionaries still advanced, but slowly. They were not giving chase, merely killing the wounded left behind.
“We have them on the run!” I cried.
“Stand easy,” advised Quintus.
I stared in disbelief at the fleeing enemy. Pursue them and we could finish it here and now. “But we could wipe them out.”
“It is over. The commander will not be drawn into a foolhardy chase through the trees.”
“You mean that is all?”
“No, they’ll be back.” The veteran turned to the dead barbarians before us. “Here, let’s see what we can get.”
We all searched the bodies of those we had killed, but there was little enough booty to be had. I took the knife and shield from my second attacker and the sword from the first. Varro got a spear and sword, and Quintus got a war helm—a conical cap with disks of bone fastened to a hardened leather surface. “It will do,” he said, “until I find something better.”
Pallio did not get anything, so I let him have the shield.
After we had divided up the plunder, Quintus took me aside and said, “You were lucky just now, but you might not be so lucky next time.”
I thanked him for helping me and said I would try to do better.
“You have the heart of a fighter, Succat,” he told me, and then he smiled. “I pissed myself the first time, and it was only some miserable, weedy Daciani. Nothing at all compared with Gothi.”
I accepted his praise. “You said they would come back.”
“Yes, but not today. I suspect it was only a feint to test our strength. The real battle is yet to come.” He gave my shoulder a fatherly pat. “Still, you did well. Two kills, and you won your first spoils.”
In all, more than fifty enemy were killed outright or wounded—the injured were executed, too, as a matter of routine. General Septimus suffered the loss of only three—one dead and two wounded, although one of the wounded later died.
That night I lay awake thinking about the barbarians I had engaged. Were they, I wondered, so very different from the Irish I had come to know? Once I would have said that all barbarians were the same under the skin. Now, however, I was not so sure. Or maybe they were after all, and it was myself who had begun making fine distinctions. Certainly there was once a time when I saw the Irish in exactly the same way that I now saw the raging Gothi. And while I had no real difficulty defending myself against howling savages intent on slaughtering me, I could see how, having been mistaken about the Irish, I might now be just as mistaken about these northern tribes.
These thoughts occupied me far into the night. Sleep came long before I reached a satisfactory conclusion. In the end I simply decided to do my duty—which, as I saw it, was to stay alive by any means possible. Beyond that, all other considerations dwindled to insignificance.
As Quintus had suggested, the raid was a trial skirmish, a test of strength and will, nothing more. Our scouts returned at dusk with word that the main barbarian force remained encamped in the forest. It
was estimated to be in excess of thirty thousand Goth and Hun, and also Angle, Saecsen, and Jute warriors in ten or twelve separate camps.
I heard this, and my heart sank. I could not see how we could stand up to, let alone defeat, such a force. The numbers alone would overwhelm us.
Nor was I alone in such thinking. As night drew in upon the meadow, talk around the cooking fires grew hushed and broken. Men sank into themselves, contemplating the brevity of life and the certain horrors the morning would bring.
It was then that Commander Septimus showed his wisdom. He summoned his troops and had all of us form a tight circle around him. “Some of you may be thinking the enemy has us overpowered and outwitted,” he began. “This is what the barbarians think, too. But they do not know what I am about to tell you: Tomorrow, when they return in force, we will be joined by the legions and auxiliaries of Noviomagus, Moguntiacum, and Banna.
“Tomorrow, when the enemy returns, they will face a force four times that which drove them back today. But tomorrow they will not be allowed to retreat. For as soon as the battle is joined, the cunes and alae of Legio XIV Gemina from Noviomagus will cross the river and close in behind them. Legio XXII Pia Fidelis from Moguntiacum and Banna will close in from the west and east, sealing off any possible retreat.” He paused, nodding to himself, as if satisfied with these arrangements. “There will be no escape, and the season’s campaign will be finished in one day.
“Victory is certain, my friends,” the general declared, standing by the fireside, the flames casting a golden glow upon his spotless tunic and his breastplate of bronze. “That is why we have been blessed by the arrival of the imperial vicarius, Aulus Columella, who has come to witness our glorious victory.”
He turned to the group of men clustered behind him, and a tall man with a boyish face stepped forward. Dressed in a simple tunic and belt, with high boots of red leather, he smiled affably as he gazed around at the ranks of soldiers ringing him. His hair, long and swept back over a domed forehead, was almost the same shade as his boots. Aside from the expensive footwear, the only sign of his towering rank was the silver-edged pattern on the hem of his tunic and the slim silver circlet at his throat.
“Hail, valiant warriors!” he called in a voice made sonorous through, I supposed, many years in the senate. “I come bearing the emperor’s greetings and his good wishes for a speedy and successful end to this campaign. He sends me with instructions to bring word back to him of your accomplishment.
“The campaign, I am informed, is well begun. I can tell you that nothing will please me more than to behold the rout of the enemy which has so long troubled this border.” He struck the pose of a beneficent god dispensing favors: right arm extended, hand open, palm upward. “I can also tell you that I am charged by the emperor himself with the power to confer on each and every soldier who distinguishes himself on the battlefield tomorrow an advance in rank.”
This brought an immediate clamor. “What about pay?” demanded a voice from the ranks. The question was instantly taken up by others, and soon everyone wanted to know: “What about our pay?”
Vicarius Columella raised his hands, smiling as if he were a merchant whose price has just been battered down by hard bargaining. “Your pay,” he announced, “will be increased according to rank—” Jeers and catcalls interrupted him here; he waited patiently a few moments before he could make himself heard. “With appropriate bonuses, of course, and the increase will commence from this campaign.”
This impromptu and judicious amendment was greeted with cheers all around, and Imperial Vicarius Columella smiled as graciously as if he had intended offering the increase from the first. The vicarius and the general retired to the commander’s tent then, and we all went back to our camps to prepare for tomorrow’s assault.
My side, though tender, ceased throbbing after a while, and I determined to fight more skillfully and protect myself better the next day. Beyond that I did not dare to contemplate.
Like the others in our numerus, I slept with my weapons ready at hand. Our camps were along the outer perimeter, and we would have little warning if the enemy tried to surprise us in the night. All remained quiet, however, and nothing disturbed our dreams of the money and advancement we would surely gain by battle’s end. Not a man among us allowed his rest to be troubled by thoughts of death. Why should we? With four entire legions and a massive auxiliary force, what was there to fear?
FORTY-ONE
I WAS AWAKE AND ready long before the trumpet sounded. The veterans always eat a little bread and watered wine before battle to settle the stomach and steady the spirit. As we sat and passed the cup, we were visited by one of the centurions moving from camp to camp to give the auxiliaries their marching orders. I listened carefully as the stern, scar-faced officer detailed our part in the day’s activities. It came to this: The main body of the legionary force was to cross the Rhenus and move into the forest toward the barbarian encampment as if perpetrating a surprise raid. Meanwhile the numera were to follow in two divisions, one on either flank, maintaining our silence and keeping out of sight as much as possible.
The Gothi, defending their camp, would be expected to mount an immediate counterattack. The legion would then fall back to the river as if overpowered. Upon seeing the legion forced to the riverbank with deep-flowing water at its back, the barbarians would press their advantage and commit themselves to an all-out destruction of the army. Once they were fully engaged, the trap would snap shut.
For what the enemy did not know was that during the night the legions of Moguntiacum, Banna, and Noviomagus had been painstakingly working their way through the forest beyond the enemy encampment. As soon as the battle commenced in earnest, they would fall upon the barbarians from behind.
Those of us in General Septimus’ command had merely to draw the enemy into a fight and hold them until the other legions swept in to obliterate them. We would be overpowered and outnumbered for a short time, true, but this risk was more than balanced by the fact that those first in the fight also had first chance at the plunder. If all went well, we would be sitting on a mound of wealth by the day’s end.
Aglow with this hope, we ate a hasty meal, armed ourselves, and marched across the river at the ford. As predicted, the enemy was not expecting an attack. They were still in camp as we took up a position no more than a few spear casts away. We even had time to assemble three catapultae—spear-hurling machines of great might, if not accuracy.
Then the commander gave the order, and all three catapultae spat flaming spears into the dim, dawn-shy forest. Within moments a second strike followed. From our hiding place to the side and slightly behind the main body of our troops, I traced the fiery trajectory as the spears flew up through the trees. Their fall was answered by shouts and cries of rage.
Covered with branches and leaves, we hunkered down and waited, listening to the clamor of the enemy as they hastily armed themselves and rose to meet the supposed attack. The catapultae continued flinging spears, lighting the gloom with their passing. Soon the scent of smoke came sifting back on the breeze and, following right behind, the first hapless ranks of barbarians.
They ran in clumps and knots, scattered here and there among the tall trees, flying down the gentle slope leading to the ford only to plunge headlong into the waiting legion already formed for battle. The first Goth warriors into the fray paused in their onrushing attack to send up a warning cry to those following, then raced on.
The clash sounded as a sporadic stuttering clatter along the line, first one cohort and then another meeting the charge. The soldiers easily held their ground and even advanced a few hundred paces to make better use of the slope. More and more barbarians were joining the fight now. I could see groups of them coursing through the trees, screaming as they ran. Oh, they were eager to spill the blood of the hated Romans.
General Septimus maintained his position with rocklike tenacity. Even when it became apparent that the legionaries were outnumbered, Septimus di
d not move, giving our legionary comrades as much time as possible to get into striking position. Thinking that the signal to attack must come at any moment, we of the auxiliary numera prepared ourselves to join the combat.
We waited. The enemy numbers continued to grow.
Still the signal did not come.
“Behind!” shouted a voice from the flank.
We turned to see a host of Goth warriors descending upon us. With loud whoops and terrible screams they came, slashing through the underbrush in their frenzy. Quintus called us to form the line, but we had time only to turn and get our shields up before they were on us. Soldiers on either side of me squared off to meet the foe, and suddenly we were all immersed in private skirmishes.
I saw a spear go spinning past my head and heard the sharp chunk as it struck the trunk of a tree. A bare-chested barbarian rushed in behind the thrown missile. Raising my shield, I put one foot back and bent my legs to take the blow, which, when it came an instant later, rattled my teeth.
Jolted and dazed, I fell to my knees. My arm, suddenly heavy, drooped down slightly. I saw a livid, fleshy, hate-filled face scowling at me, and I strained to raise my shield, which seemed to have become caught on something.
I gave a hard jerk, up and back. To my surprise the attacking Goth came with it. His fingers closed on the upper rim of my shield, and he pulled with all his might to wrest it from my grasp. I flicked the blade of my sword along the edge, catching his fingers. He gave out a yelp, released his grip, and jumped back—only to lunge at me again.
All at once my shield began wobbling from side to side. I could not stop it; I could feel my hand beginning to slip on the strap. Desperate, I hurled myself into the attacking barbarian, knocking him backward. My charge carried me over him. Arms flailing, fingers clawing, he tried to grab my legs. I gave a downward slash with the sword, striking him a glancing blow on the arm. He made to roll away. I saw his side exposed and thrust in the sword as deep as it would go. He gave out a cry and succumbed.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 38
