As if in answer to his question, the surrounding forest erupted to sudden life. Barbarians, mounted on Roman horses, appeared out of the morning mist and swooped to the attack.
Soldiers dived for cover as they rode over us, killing as they went. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught on the trail was either hacked down or trampled under the horses’ hooves. Varro, two others, and myself hid in the brush, watching as the enemy wheeled and wheeled again, slicing the legion to bloody pieces.
In the midst of this carnage, the trumpet sounded. “There!” cried Varro, leaping to his feet.
I looked where he was pointing and saw the golden-boar standard planted in the center of the clearing where the previous day’s massacre had taken place. General Septimus had succeeded in rallying a few cohorts to the vexillium, and was quickly forming a testudo. Everywhere men were running to the protection of this close-locked covering of shields.
“Now!” Varro shouted. “This way!”
I leapt after him, running for my life. Arrows whined through the air, glancing off trees and rocks, but I reached the testudo unscathed. Two others of our numerus were not so fortunate. One of them took an arrow in the leg and the other in the back. Both made it to the shield wall, but neither was able to fight.
The mounted barbarians continued to harass the stragglers; many of those caught beyond easy reach of the shield wall were killed outright as they fled into the wood. We heard their screams as the riders caught them and cut them down. This went on for some time, and at last the attack ceased and the wood grew quiet.
General Septimus moved at once to form the legion into cohorts. The auxiliaries were included along with the regular soldiers, and men rushed everywhere as centurions called their divisions to order. This was swiftly accomplished, and the command was given to march. The trumpet sounded, and we all moved out, heading toward the river. I glanced once more to the place where Quintus lay and bade him a silent farewell, then turned my eyes to the path ahead.
We marched into the forest and were soon hacking our way through thick brush. This reduced our progress to a crawl, and we had gone less than a mile when the column stopped. Three big trees blocked the trail.
Scouts were sent to search out the way ahead, and we were ordered to remain vigilant. We stood shoulder to shoulder, shields up, weapons ready, looking this way and that into the shadowed forest. A long time passed, and the scouts returned. The legion was commanded off the trail and into the wood.
We moved a few hundred paces into the forest, and the trees began to creak and moan. Branches began to twist and shake, trunks tilted, limbs plunged earthward. Hidden ropes snapped taut, and all around us the great trees began to topple, spinning slowly as they fell, crashing into smaller trees and bringing them down, too, heaving dense clouds of dust into the air. Order collapsed as men scattered to avoid being crushed by the falling timbers. Many were caught, and the screams of the dying echoed back from the wood.
As the last trunk plummeted to the ground, the enemy charged—horsemen first, breaking through the brush, followed by more and still more warriors on foot, many, I saw now, wielding Roman swords. They swarmed in from every direction; there was no retreat.
The trumpet shrilled two short blasts. In the fuggy gloom I caught the faint glimmer of the golden boar, and I started for the place. “Varro!” I shouted. “Pallio! Over here!” They saw where I was running, and followed.
Upon reaching the vexillium, we took our places in the quickly forming triangle of locked shields. Enraged by the swiftness of the Roman response, the barbarians hurled themselves at us, beating on the shield wall with axes, spears, and war hammers. Every now and then one of them would strike a lucky blow, and a legionary would fall. Mostly, however, it was the barbarians who paid for their rashness with heavy casualties.
When at last they saw that they could not crack the hard shell of the testudo, they backed off and assailed us with arrows once more. We drew in further, overlapping our shields so that no arrow could probe even the smallest chink or crack.
The day ended in deadlock. The enemy could not breach the legion’s stubborn defenses, and we, surrounded and outnumbered, could not break through the barbarian mass to escape.
As daylight faded, the dark skies opened and the rain began. Down it poured, cascading straight through the windless air like a waterfall, drenching everything in moments. The barbarians withdrew to the perimeter of the forest to watch through the night and wait.
“They will not attack again until daylight,” Varro suggested.
“You know so much about barbarians,” Pallio replied, “maybe you should be the commander, and then you can lead us out of this grave we have dug for ourselves.”
“General Septimus is welcome to consult me anytime he pleases,” answered Varro. “My advice is offered freely to one and all.”
“Too freely, if you ask me,” grumbled a nearby soldier.
“Shut your mouths!” hissed another irritably.
Nevertheless it was as Varro suggested. The enemy did not attack again. All through the night we waited, watching their surrounding campfires for any sign that they might try to come at us by stealth; but, other than a few arrows loosed to keep us awake and on our guard, the barbarians maintained their distance.
The rain did not slacken. By morning the battlefield was a quagmire; the chewed-up earth dissolved into mud, and every depression became a puddle. Grim daylight found us shivering, hungry, and exhausted. The moment the rain did let up, the enemy came boiling out of the forest once more, resuming the attack with renewed ferocity.
Wave after wave broke itself upon the shield wall, and when that proved no more effective than before, the horses charged again. General Septimus was ready for this, however. During the night he had men secretly stripping the fallen trees of long, stout branches, the ends of which were sharpened and hidden behind the front ranks.
When the horses reached the shield wall, the soldiers stepped back, the sharpened poles appeared, and the horses were skewered. All along the line, animals and men rolled and thrashed in the mire, tripping up other attackers hurtling in behind them. Instantly the assault degenerated into confusion, as horses stumbled and fell, pitching their riders to the ground.
Seeing the first break in days, General Septimus ordered the attack. The trumpet sent a long, shrill blast, and the legion charged into the gap, leaping over the bodies of the floundering, dying horses and men.
For a time it looked as if the legion would yet fight clear of the ambushing enemy. But when the phalanx broke, more barbarians appeared. Perhaps the Goth host, eluded during the long march the night before, had caught up with us at last. Perhaps word of the legion’s predicament had reached the nearby tribes, who now swooped down to be in for the kill. Or perhaps the scouts, so certain of victory, had underestimated the barbarian numbers from the first.
However it was, no sooner did we break formation than the enemy war horns sounded and barbarians without number flowed like floodwater into a trough. The legion was swiftly engulfed. With no chance to regroup and re-form the testudo, we were left to fight for our lives hand to hand.
The soldiers fought handsomely. One after another screaming barbarian went down before the disciplined Roman sword; but for every enemy warrior cut down, three more took his place. Gradually the legionaries succumbed. All around me men raised their voices to Apollo, to Mithras and Mars, to save them in their extremity; they vowed eternal allegiance, honor, and sacrifice if salvation could be delivered and life preserved. I knew well the worth of such vows. Needless to say, our numbers shrank before the onslaught, and still the Gothi kept coming.
I strove to keep up with the more seasoned soldiers, but despite my best efforts I fell steadily behind. I was neither quick enough with the blade, nor evasive enough to make any significant headway. Eventually I was separated from the remaining members of my numerus. I lost sight of Varro and Pallio…and then I was alone.
This, I decided, was how I would die: ha
cked to death by a barbarian war ax, my limbs severed, my skull nailed to a tree, the carrion crows pecking out my sightless eyes. That I, a noble Briton, last of my family line, should die this way angered me far more than it grieved me. Very well, so be it. I determined that I would set the highest possible price on my life and take as many with me as I could. Accordingly I stopped trying to find a way out of my dilemma and began trying to kill enemy warriors instead.
My sword had grown blunt and ragged with use, so I threw it away and drew the Goth war ax from my belt. I swung it a few times around my head to get the heft of it and then charged straight for the first foeman I saw: a huge, fair-haired barbarian with short hanks of wheat-colored braids jutting from beneath his iron war cap. He met my assault with a practiced feint and rounded on me with his spear.
I clipped the spear shaft with the edge of the ax, sending splinters flying. He swung his heavy wooden shield at me, trying to knock me off balance and open me up for a jab in the chest or side. At first I met the pressure, resisting with all my strength. Then, as he bore down harder and harder still, I yielded and jumped back. He fell forward, and I swung the ax, nicking him behind the knee as he passed.
Unbalanced, the brute growled and swung his spear at me—a clumsy blow, which I countered easily and caught him a glancing blow on the arm. He roared with pain, spun, and swung at me again. I ducked under the blow, came around his shield, and chopped into his side. The ax blade struck one of the many iron rings sewn onto his leather tunic, driving them into the wound.
He shouted and sprang back. Before he could raise the spear, I charged again, throwing both shield and ax into his face. His arm flew up, and the ax blade caught him just below the wrist, severing the cords of his muscles. He cried out in fury as the spear shaft spun from his grasp.
I raised the ax again, but my wounded adversary stumbled backward, fleeing the assault. So, replacing the ax in my belt, I picked up his spear instead and, well warmed to the fight, fell upon my next opponent.
Oh, I fought with sublime abandon. The next foemen to encounter me received a surprise when, out from behind the cover of my shield, jutted a long-bladed barbarian spear. I sliced one in the groin, and the other I pierced through the gut; another risked his life on a foolhardy throw of his ax, which bounced off my shield boss. I laid open his leg below the knee and, as he turned to run, thrust the blade deep into his back.
So it was I soon found myself looking at a space of open ground. Across from where I stood, nestled in a protecting bulwark formed by the massive trunks of two fallen trees, battled the last remnant of Legio Valeria Victrix, staunch beneath the much-battered golden boar. I put my head down and ran to join them.
Halfway across the gap a rider swooped into my path. His sword glimmered through the air, slicing toward my head. I tried to dodge. My feet slipped in the churned-up muck and flew out from under me.
The horse wheeled and reared. I squirmed in the mud, struggling to rise. My shield and spear, heavy and unwieldy in the mire, suddenly became awkward impediments to be cast off. Releasing my hold on the shield, I rolled away just as the horse’s hooves came down.
I scrambled to pick up my spear but slipped again. The rider loosed a cry of triumph and raised the long blade above his head to dispense the killing stroke. Looking up into his eyes, a word came to my lips. “Dachnaruhna!” I shouted, using the briamon as Datho had taught me.
Now, I do not know if it worked or if, in my alarm, I even said it properly. But the word struck my attacker with the force of a command. A bewildered expression came into his eyes. The blade faltered slightly in his hand. I lunged for his mount’s bridle. My fingers snagged the leather strap, and I pulled with all my might.
The horse’s head came down. Its forelegs slipped on the soggy ground, and it stumbled, pitching the rider headlong over its neck. He landed in the mud on top of his shield. I heard the bone in his arm crunch as he fell. He groaned and tried to rise, the weight of the shield hanging from his broken arm.
I took a quick step and kicked him in the side of the head. The barbarian rolled onto his back. Springing forward, I snatched the sword from his hand, spun back to his mount, seized the reins, and slid into the saddle as the horse climbed back onto its legs.
Once in the saddle I rode straight for the legion huddled in its fortress of fallen timber. I cut down three attackers from behind, then a fourth who shouted something to me as he turned to meet the blade that caught him at the base of the neck. I realized then that mounted—filthy with mud as I was and without a Roman shield to distinguish me—the Gothi took me for another barbarian.
I forced my way through the crush, killing at will. Most of those I struck down did not even look back to see who it was that attacked them, and the few who did could not understand why one of their own should turn against them. With careless ease I carved through the mass of warriors, opening a path behind me.
Upon reaching the shield wall, I shouted, “This way! Follow me!”
Wheeling the horse, I started back into the crush that was rapidly filling in behind me. I urged the horse forward, slashing this way and that with my sword, not caring where I struck. Weapons, helmets, shield rims, the shafts of spears—all met my blade, but I hacked away, striking again and again.
Seeing an opening before them, the legion was not slow to follow. With a mighty shout they surged into the gap, forcing it wider, pressing in behind me, and rushing on.
I reached the outer edge of the encircling ranks and saw the forest trail leading to the river. I urged my mount forward, galloped across the gap, and paused at the trailhead to mark the place while the legion followed as swiftly as they could on foot.
General Septimus and Vicarius Columella, surrounded by a bodyguard of soldiers, were among the last to come. “This way to the river, General,” I said as they hurried past.
“The vicarius is wounded,” the commander told me. “Take him with you.”
Columella made to protest. “I can still fight.”
“Then fight for us in Rome,” replied Septimus. Turning to me, he said, “Cross the river and ride for Banna. Have them send messengers to Agrippina and Novaesium to muster the legions there. We will push on to the river and cross if we can. They are to meet us there.”
He motioned to the legionaries with him, and they lifted the protesting vicarius and heaved him onto the back of my horse. “Go with all speed, and do not stop until you have reached Banna safely.” He looked at me hard. “Do you understand, soldier?”
“I understand, General,” I said; clenching my fist, I struck my chest in salute.
“Hie!” shouted General Septimus, slapping the flanks of my horse.
The animal bounded away. “We will send help!” called the vicarius, tightening his grip on my waist. I gave my mount his head and let him run.
FORTY-THREE
THERE WERE NOW a great many legionaries fleeing down the trail, with clots of pursuing Gothi and Huns. Rather than plowing through the turmoil, I reined off the track and headed into the forest. I pushed a fair pace through the wood, listening to the sounds of the battle receding behind us. When I reckoned we had outrun any pursuit, I slowed somewhat and worked back to the trail, where I halted.
“What—why are you stopping?” demanded the vicarius. “Are we safe now?”
“Silence!” I hissed.
The wood was quiet. The tumult reached us as a muffled din, far off and indistinct. Satisfied that there were no barbarians lurking anywhere nearby, I urged the horse onto the trail and dismounted. Regarding the vicarius, I said, “We are safe now, but we must keep moving. The horse is growing tired, so I will walk.”
“Then I will walk, too.”
I glanced over my charge. He was covered in mud and blood, as I was, but seemed no worse for his ordeal. “What about your wound?”
“It is nothing—a lump on the head. Nothing.” He slid off the back of the horse and joined me on the trail. He took but two steps, however, when his eyes rolled
up into his head, and he went down on one knee. I caught him and bore him up.
“Perhaps we should rest a little,” I suggested. The color had drained from his face, and he appeared about to swoon.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice tight in his throat, “the men are waiting. We will go on.”
“As you say. But I think you should ride.”
“I think you are right.”
I helped him back onto the horse. “The river is this way,” I said, sliding the sword beneath the saddle. Then, handing the vicarius the reins, I started off at a quick pace.
We continued for a time in silence, myself on foot, the vicarius riding slowly beside me. After a while he seemed to improve. Looking down from the saddle, he said, “What is your name, Centurion?”
“I am not a centurion,” I told him.
“No?”
I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, “you are now. Your name?”
“I am called Succat,” I replied simply.
“Stand still,” he ordered. I stopped and turned to look up at him.
He raised his hand over me. “I, Aulus Columella, by appointment of Emperor Honorius, Consul and Vicarius of Gaul and Germania, do herewith promote you, Succat, to the rank of centurion in the Imperial Army of Rome.”
I thanked him and resumed walking. He rode up beside me, asked what my former rank had been and how long I had been in the army.
“I had no rank.”
“But you can ride,” he objected. “You have a horse.”
“I took the mount from a Goth I unhorsed in battle. Before that I was on foot like everyone else. I had no rank.”
“None at all?”
“I was in one of the numera,” I told him. “I have been in Germania only a few weeks.”
“You have done well to save me, Succat. I can do good things for you.” He smiled expansively. “I am not one to forget a favor—as you shall see.”
He made it sound as if saving his life were little more eventful than rescuing a pup fallen in a well. To me, certainly, it was nothing more than that. Even so, I thanked him again and continued walking, content to let the matter rest. But, feeling better, and heady with his experience of battle, the vicarius wanted to talk. “Your family will be very proud to hear of your promotion. No doubt they will hold a banquet in your honor.”
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 40
