Not all the Germani would follow us to battle.
The Romans had left behind most all of the wagons, much of the siege equipment and everything they felt they didn’t need. Heaps of loot lay scattered all over the gigantic, abandoned fortress, and I saw from afar, even miles away, how Marsi, and even Bructeri rushed to claim their prize. The Bructeri Thiuda Helm was sure to be screaming at the men to leave the castrum, but no force on Midgard can keep a Germani from looting.
Five thousand Germani rushed to that mud spattered, bloody castrum, and had the Romans turned around and rushed back in, there would have been a butchery of epic proportions.
Instead, the Romans rushed away.
“We have enough men to do this,” Adalwulf muttered. “With the Marsi and the Bructeri looting, the XVIII will remain unchallenged, but we can make the XIX suffer, and the XVII will as well. Perhaps we will have time to fight the XVIII later in the afternoon. Armin is sure to send men to tear the bastards off the castrum.”
I nodded and eyed Varus, and the Roman formations heaving in their metallic, muddy state, engineers hacking down obstacles and thousands of men struggling for the west. As they got closer, I saw the governor looked pallid, sick, and was clutching the bridle of his horse fearfully. There was no sight of his wagon.
My eyes travelled the troops, and then I watched Eggius, not far from Varus. The camp prefect was exhorting the troops.
“Are you ready to bleed the enemy?” I asked him ironically. Adalwulf chuckled.
Enemy. Not so long before; friends.
I turned and looked up at Armin’s own men. There stood ten chiefs, many having served Sigimer previously. Their standards of bones, hides, and wet leather banners decorated with black suns and stars stood abreast, but the men themselves looked east to the camp being looted with envy. Their eyes gleamed like those of murderous curs in the night, and then one, and another man took a step out of their cuneus. They would all be late to loot, but they wanted to have a look anyway.
“If any man leaves the ranks,” I snarled, “he will find my sword in his gut.”
That got their attention.
The chiefs looked shocked, upset, and then blushed, enraged. They had been used to being begged and cajoled into action, and perhaps they didn’t have stomach for the battle after all. Not too far away, Gaul auxilia rode wildly though the woods and chased down some javelin throwers, killing the men.
A tall man pushed out of the ranks. “Who are you to speak to us in such a manner, Oath Breaker? A man who lets his woman go to battle with him should just let the men go as they please.”
Cassia spat at his feet, and the man lifted his eyes at her, promising murder. I walked towards him. “I’m the sort of man who breaks skulls as well as oaths,” I warned him. “And this is no cattle raid for peasants. We are here to put down the glorious bastards, not rummage the filth and shit they left behind.” I was tired, lightheaded, wet and hungry, and in no mood for rebels.
That man walked to the front, and ignored a chief pulling at him.
He placed a finger on his chest. “I am called Donor, son of Varg the Hero. Like Donor, I shall not take commands like they were delivered to a dog,” he snarled. He pointed a spear towards the far away camp. “We shall go and take what is ours, and then go after them. There are a few thousand Cherusci before the Romans, anyway. They’ll be slow.”
I pulled Heartbreaker. “That loot shall be shared after the battle. And the ones who fight, shall take the first pick of it. And I am telling you we shall be going down in a bit,” I told him. “Step back to your ranks.”
“Ranks?” he laughed. “You think I am a Roman—”
“I think you are a coward who fears to face the enemy,” I stated. “You are a man of the back ranks”
“We shall not listen—”
“Adalwulf,” I said simply. “Kill him.”
Adalwulf kicked his horse. His armored body gleamed dully, and droplets flew as he moved. Ulrich was grinning. The rain that was still pouring down matted Adalwulf’s hair to his skull, and he looked like a wet wolf from Helheim as he charged at Donor. The man, a boy really, looked astonished, and then flipped the framea in his hand. Adalwulf kicked his horse again, and rode wildly, holding his spear in an overhanded grip. The young man danced clumsily, nervously left, then right, eyes full of fear, and the other Germani took shocked steps back.
“Heyyah!” Adalwulf shouted, the young man threw his framea and it missed Adalwulf.
Adalwulf reached the man, stabbed down and blood spattered into the rainy grass, as Donor held his chest, where a terrible wound, a furrow of gouged flesh, could be seen under his grasping fingers. He fell on his face, shivering. Adalwulf rode around, and around the man, eyeing the Cherusci chiefs. “Life is cheap in Germania today, you shits,” he snarled. “Not precious at all, no.”
“I said there is no leaving this place for loot,” I said.
A black-eyed man in front of his personal guard of ninety men eyed the dying boy, and I knew it was a relative. He straightened his back and spoke. “War first, then. A Thing later. You will pay for him. He was my cousin’s son, Oath Breaker. And no man should be treated thus. Is this not why we fight the Roman vermin? To avoid such a fate?”
“This is why you fight the Romans,” I said. “But I was a Roman, and you need some Roman vermin to beat Roman vermin. Try to hump me again, and I show what Oath Breakers do to your rights. Today, the only right you have is to kill, and die if you must.”
The man’s eyes went to the boy, and something about his un-flinching manner made me nervous. “My name,” he said. “Is also Donor. I’ll fight, all right. And later, perhaps, we’ll deal with this on our own.”
I nodded and turned to look at the others. They looked serious, but no man moved to loot the camp. I looked at Donor, a man I would one day hate. “Let him die in a battle,” I muttered, and looked over the other warriors on the hillside. Near us, a few thousand others stood in nervous ranks. They were all in columns of war-chiefs, larger or smaller, arrow-shaped, thick cuneus formations, with the strongest fighters in the front. Most of the better men held a thicker spear, the others a lighter framea. Swords were held by the best, axes, seax, club by the others, and very few had any armor. A furry army of beasts, they were there to fight for their freedom. There were also hundreds of younger men with javelins, slingers to the west of us, and we’d all go down soon.
We wanted to kill Eggius.
Perhaps Varus.
I saw the other columns of Germani turn as Armin led them along the marching enemy cavalry. Below some Gauls fell from their saddles, and I saw some young Germani boys were pelting them with rocks, too eager to wait.
The snake of heaving legionnaires below looked indomitable.
Proud, defiant men, the best of the legions were holding together, and every single one hoped to avenge themselves on the tribes the next spring. The Aquila gleamed with the first cohort, and it was carried by the aquilifer, the toughest man of the legion. With him the cohort and some century signifiers marched, holding small shields. The cornice with their cornua, and other horn-playing bastards that conveyed the orders to the entire units were there as well, next to Varus and the camp prefect.
I wondered how many had lost loved ones as well as comrades the past day.
And that was still their weakness. Hundreds of such weak targets marched just after the first cohort.
“Move after me,” I called out, as Armin’s men disappeared to west. “We have business with the lord of the men below.”
They took a step forward, and I rode down.
We flitted through the woods, and lost sight of them for a moment. Then, suddenly, the wooded valley trail below us slowly filled with the enemy, aiming west towards the flatter lands, a day away.
I looked at the civilians.
They were walking behind the first cohort, through the tangled green Hades, almost ghosts already. I waited, and the thousand men behind me shuddered to stop. Some cav
alry—Gauls—saw us, and screamed warnings, but the calls were ignored as Armin’s men attacked the last men of the XVIII to the west. There, a ferocious battle took place, and most of the cavalry rode to help. Three thousand Cherusci were with Armin, the legions below marched faster to go to the aid of the Romans, and I turned to walk alongside the first cohort of the XIX, whose men were looking ahead anxiously, anticipating battle with Armin’s thousands.
“Ready?” I yelled, gathering resolve. Adalwulf nodded. Ulrich grinned, Cassia watched the civilians, and I almost saw her visibly harden her heart. The Germani women who followed us were now chanting, cajoling their men to war, pushing them forward, walking along up the hill from us. The men looked down at the Roman might. The best soldiers of the best legions with the best commanders were so close you could almost spit on them. Many of the Cherusci were afraid, others were praying, the hundreds of men chanting to Tiw the Just, to Donor the Smiter, and Woden the All-Father.
Many had met Rome before in battle.
They had been beaten before.
Now, there was hope in their eyes, a chance at victory. I turned to them. “I’ve fought alongside them. They are men, just men, and like all men, they shit their thighs when they fear. And these men? They fear!” I called out.
Men answered, their roars echoed in the woods, and the Roman step below faltered, their thick lines losing cohesion, men falling on roots as they gazed up at us, who were only shadows. The shout spread along the men, on our side of the enemy column, then to the other side, where skirmishers were busy. You could see the Roman confidence weaken visibly. Adalwulf was yelling, his sword high, and even Cassia was letting her ululating shout out to the enemy.
And for a moment, at least, even I became Germani again. I, the Oath Breaker got caught up in the raw emotion of anger at the conqueror. I rode up and down on the hilly woods, my bronze, Greek helmet wet with rain, and flashed my spear at the enemy below.
“Hraban! Hraban of the Marcomanni! Hraban no more of Rome!” I screamed in Latin. “Look, Varus!”
He looked. His eyes sought me out, and he grasped his chest with horror. He saw, and knew me.
“I, Hraban, and Armin, and thousands of others want you! For Roman perfidy! For Roman greed! Choke on Germani riches, Varus! We have naught but spears and death to give! Choke on the mud and find the Germania that was always here, lurking in the woods! Woden eat you!” I called and laughed, the battle madness on me, and the men milled around us. “Blow the horn,” I said, panting with rage.
Ulrich nodded, and lifted a horn. He blew high notes, six times, and then the Chatti, who were hidden on the other side of the woods, rushed forward.
And they aimed for the baggage and the civilians.
Flitting through the woods, the savage Chatti, just under a thousand strong, seemed to appear out of thin air. Many men had uncut hair, a mark of not having killed a man, but killers or not, hundreds were there to take bitter vengeance and to get that hair cut. Adgandestrius, formerly a fool, but now an adeling, and Aprus, his cousin, led the men forward. They tore into the thin screen of cavalry and like a tiny wall of sand trying to hold a river out of a settlement, they barely slowed the charge. Men fell, horses bolted, and a wave of Chatti rolled over the enemy. Some Chatti died to Gaulish swords, but the wolves loped over the stones and corpses and surged into the midst of two thousand shocked civilians, thousands of mules and their caretakers, poor slaves, fat merchants, terrified scribes, and weeping freedmen, and there began a bitter butchery.
The second cohort of the XIX saw what was happening, and pressed to aid them.
The first cohort of the XIX stopped, as Eggius was yelling orders, red-faced. The centuries, some terribly under strength, turned cumbersomely. Varus was screaming orders as well, which caused chaos as he seemed to be urging Eggius to go on. I could see Varus’s face, pale with fear, arguing with the prefect.
Thus, the first cohort spread left and right.
The Chatti were slaying as fast as they could, but began to build a circle of spears in the midst of the road. Roman centuries from west and east began to attack them, and the Chatti were now tossing javelins at the Romans hampered by the woods and their wet armor and shields, and the scattering civilians. Small parties of the Chatti left the shieldwall and chased down fleeing men, terrified women, and even children, slaying mules, scattering them across the woods, creating utter chaos.
Half of the first cohort rushed to attack them.
One half stayed still, while a century or two marched forward.
As we had hoped.
I pointed my spear at Varus. “Kill, kill, and come back heroes, or on your shields!”
They rushed forward like a wave, silent for a moment, a thousand men holding shields to their bodies, spears steady, and javelins ready to be tossed. I turned to look at Cassia, begging, but she shook her head. She would join us. She had earned the right. Adalwulf and I, with Ulrich and Cassia, joined the men. I jumped on my horse, and soon, I was riding down amongst the Cherusci, Cassia and Ulrich close, Adalwulf next to me. The Romans below were shouting warnings, some Gaul riders were coming back from failing to stop Armin’s attack, but most of them hesitated, and then rode away in panic.
Our men began lobbing the javelins while they ran. They went up to the air with the eerie sound of hissing death, and plunged down to hit wood and turf, then metal and flesh. Hundreds and hundreds struck down amongst the Romans. Many of the best javelins were named, things like The Blood-Drinker, or Viper, and that day, they drank blood and bit their foes ferociously.
Dozens of the enemy fell with a rattle of shields, many in the midst of forming a wall of men to counter us. Causing chaos in the thickening Roman ranks were the wounded, who were thrashing between the trees in the mud, holding the shafts in their flesh as they wept and begged, pushing at the men who tried to get ready for a fight.
Armin appeared from the road, leading a thousand of the three he had led against the arse of the XVIII to aid us.
Our men were jumping over rocks and dodging trees, many falling, some dying to pila. Roman weapons fell amongst us now. I guided my horse past and through branches, holding on to the saddle. A flash of red shieldwall appeared before us, the Augustan Capricorn of the XIX painted on the sodden leather. I saw the first hundred men bash into the Romans, push into their midst. I saw the Aquila and the cohort standard in the thick of the Roman column, but not all that far. I caught a glimpse of Varus, and then, spears stabbing, the rest of our columns roared into the enemy. Romans were pushed back, many falling, slain. One rank, then another of them went under our savage onslaught. A Cherusci chief, bearded and naked and wet, painted red, was amongst the thick rank, ax heaving left and right, shield bashing, until two legionnaires put him down, stabbing desperately. One caught a framea in the throat, and then Adalwulf and I were amongst the first fighters. I vaulted from the horse, felt the pressing of the bodies around me, and regretted not forcing Cassia to stay behind. I looked back, saw her still on a horse, eyeing me and the Romans, Ulrich hovered near her. Adalwulf was close, already in the first rank, his gladius stabbing at a silvery centurion helmet, and then the next man, putting down Romans like a lightning bolt splits rotten trees. We pressed on, pushed on and on, the line of Cherusci before us were roaring their way forward like bulls, clubs going up, axes coming down, until their arms were almost too weak to fight, and still they kept pushing into the Romans, who fought like men destined to die well. Very near, I saw two glittering standards, and one was the Eagle.
“Take them, take them,” I panted, and pressed the Cherusci before me onward. Then, fighting grimly, bloodied faces white with fear, the Romans killed the Cherusci I had been pushing, and he fell just before me. The enemy cheered, and stabbed at his quivering body.
The Roman glee ended abruptly as I stepped forward.
They saw a man swathed in mail, tall as tree, wide and evil, and with helmet made for war. I laughed at them, and pushed my spear into a man’s eye. The damn
ed legionnaire didn’t die but held on to my spear, until I pushed him into a man behind him then barreled over both, with panting Cherusci and Adalwulf moving to rush behind, his shield on my back. I kept my shield up and dropped the spear then pulled Nightbright, took a fist to my helmet which half flattened my nose, and stabbed at anything moving before me.
I am not sure how long I fought and stepped forward, others next to me stepping over bodies that Adalwulf made sure would not move to attack me. One step after another, likely not for a long time, I went for the Aquila and Varus.
A man fell next to me, Adalwulf took his place.
We killed like beasts.
Cherusci shields guarded our backs and sides, and Germani chiefs exhorted their men to follow us, or be in shame, and we went forward, heaving amidst steel and Roman corpses. I stabbed a Roman optio in the arm. Adalwulf hacked him down. I dodged a pilum and stabbed the man who had tossed it in the thigh, then another in the chest, pushing through his chain with difficulty, sawing back and forth, dulling my sword. Adalwulf heaved his sword at enemy shields and hacked men down then pushed a wounded centurion to my feet, where I stomped him silent. I lost my shield, the planks battered to pieces by someone. I blocked a pugio, and sawed at the hand holding it in a terrible, sweaty press. Adalwulf roared, and hammered down two men before him.
And as those men fell, I saw Eggius, Varus and five burly legionnaires, and two centurions screaming orders.
Varus turned to look at me with horror. His eyes widened. The disappointment was there, the fear as well. “Do not worry!” I panted, a blood drenched thing from Helheim. “Augustus will let your wife keep all the coin you stole from the Jews!” I laughed. “She’ll marry well, no doubt!”
I went forward, being jostled by the enemy and our men.
A spear pushed at me, held by a centurion, and I grasped it. Eggius snarled, and charged with his men, the aquilifer and the signifier took steps away, and Varus hung on to the two men who held the pride of the gods of Rome high. Both wore bear skins over their helmets, a habit they had picked up from Germani bear warriors. I heard Adalwulf grunting with pain, and I roared, as a spear slashed to my leg. The centurions were old hands at war, and didn’t flinch as their spears held us away. Another spear cut my shoulder, thrashing under my chain, and Adalwulf nearly died as a spear danced near his throat.
The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5) Page 49
