Cornua rang desperately.
We knew the call, high, and then low.
“They aren’t?” Ulrich breathed. “No, that would be mad.”
“They are,” I said, astonished.
Varus had given an order. A thousand men of the XIX around Varus began building another castrum right there on the road, digging like mad in the sodden ground. They looked like moles, worked like they never had before, while the rest of the XIX was fighting the Germani who were trying to push over, and into the diggers. The XVII and the civilians, and even the mules, were pushing to guard the east rank of the new castrum, losing dozens as they gave up the ranks to rush to surround the new camp, and eventually, whole cohorts were cut off on the miles wide battle. On the far side, I saw Bructeri savagely attack the XVIII., pushing the decimated cohorts back in half a rout, where they would eventually stop to defend the west side of what would be called Varus’s Folly.
The desperate Romans were looking back at Varus, and at the walls that were being built with hope. Either they knew that would be their grave, or they thought it might be a salvation, but they all wanted to get in, and they fought ferociously to guard the men digging the fossa, which filled with mud and water and blood. The agger, the wall, was composed of mud that slid back to the fossa, but miraculously, in places the castra was forming.
“Ceionius,” Adalwulf grunted.
Indeed, from the east, the XVII camp prefect, Ceionius rode for the forming fort on the bog’s edge. He guided his horse past tribesmen, then jumped off, and surged to a desperate Roman cohort guarding the castrum, then through it, and jumped down to the agger, and clawed up the fossa to find Varus. I saw them speaking, with Varus soon screaming, and Ceionius screaming back, gesturing for the west.
They both stopped, and looked that way.
There, suddenly, rose a great scream of joy. It came from Germani throats, and we all saw a tall, tattooed Bructeri ride wildly amid the routing first cohort of the XVIII, holding the bloodied Aquila high, the Eagle shining even in the rain, as if Woden had lit it on fire to celebrate the great deed. He held it high, to the horror of the Romans, and that is when the XVIII broke and ran for the fort, only stopping by the agger, as centurions forced them to turn.
“One,” I said. “Let it be so the other two are captured as well.” We saw them. One Aquila, that of the XIX was with Varus. One was near the eastern edge of the forming fossa and the men of the XVII guarded it as well as the diggers, swords flashing desperately.
The Romans kept digging. Civilians were pushing to the fort. Dozens of Romans were braving the bog.
“The poor men,” Cassia said, as she eyed the destruction of the cut-off cohorts and centuries all along the road.
Soon, the few thousand remaining men were surrounded around the castrum, shields out around the forming fort’s mud filled agger, and all those men were begging Varus would summon a miracle.
Varus was out of miracles.
Our men, more and more of them, ten thousand of them, surrounded the enemy, trying to push them to the agger. Cuneus after cuneus of packed shields and bristling spears went for the Romans. Battering down shields and men, many of Germani heroes penetrated the ranks, sometimes splashing to the agger itself, before the Romans rallied and pushed them back bloodily. In most places, a shieldwall formed against a Roman one, and a brutal, grinding pushing battle ensued, with men pushing, flailing tiredly over and under the shields, and new men took their places, when they tired, bled, or died.
The Romans, miraculously, held.
For hours, our men attacked in the rain, and the enemy held, seemingly held upright by pride alone. The road turned into a bone-road. The Roman discipline, their remaining pride, and their fear of surrender cost us over two thousand Germani. The Romans wrote their last messages with their chipped and dulled swords on the flesh of our brave men, chanting behind the remains of their shields. For every man they lost, they killed two.
But soon, what remained would not be able to hold.
The castrum was their foolish hope. The walls kept growing, despite being nothing more than heaps of mud. The exhausted men, even some women dug, many with their hands, when a dolobra was not available.
Adalwulf pointed a finger at Varus. “Cornu. They’ll run inside the walls.”
He was right. The cornicen near Varus prepared. Then, he blew the instrument. The air rang with clear notes, and the Romans outside the fort, floundering in mud, water, and corpses roused themselves. They turned, almost as one, disengaging from the Germani shields. They rushed for the fossa and the agger, tossing even shields in their haste. Many crashed together, falling, and the chaos was fully exploited by the brutal Germani, who hacked to the backs of those who were stuck or crushed between their friends. The mud walls were to a man’s chest, the fossa filled with water and blood. The wall was lined with men of the XIX, who bent down to help the fleeing Romans up.
A thousand, two, splashed into the fossa. There they pushed each other, and pulled themselves up, many falling and crawling in panic, having held fast for so long. In many places, the agger fell apart and buried men, and the troops drowned their own in their haste.
Our men chased them, and pushed after them even to the agger, and killed hundreds in that mud pit, in a scene of butchery like I had never seen. From above, the Romans killed as many they could, but that retreat was a terrible mistake that led to a slaughter that heartened our exhausted men, who tried to follow the Romans right up and through the agger in places.
Armin was riding up and down the lines, as we watched the scene unfold. It took ten minutes, and then the surviving, last Romans of the XVIII were climbing to a relative, temporary safety in the west, leaving most of their friends dead and wounded behind. Most of the XIX were inside. The remnants of the eighth cohort of the XVII were fighting around the fossa still, and a thousand rogue Chauci were single-mindedly pushing to them through our Cherusci. Led by a bald brute, they pushed to the milling enemy, forcing their way through them.
“They want the Aquila,” Adalwulf said. “Damn them.”
I saw the Eagle. It was still not inside. It was held by a boy, stepping on corpses in the fossa, looking behind in terror as he tried to take the Aquila to the castrum. A centurion was helping him, legionnaires were pushing him, and that’s when the Chauci broke through both the Cherusci and the Roman cohort. They jumped into the fossa, fearless as the dead, and the bald chief tossed his spear at the young man. The spear went through the man, the Eagle fell, the centurion turned, and a horde of Chauci streamed over them. Spears stabbed, axes heaved, Germani died as Romans tossed stones at them from above, but soon, the muddy Eagle was hoisted high, and carried through the remains of the dying cohort and the envious Cherusci. The Germani carrying it died, another took it, chiefs converged on it, and the Germani cheered as it was carried away.
“Armin will need one,” Cassia whispered. “It will look terrible if he doesn’t get one.”
Before the Roman fort, the Chauci and the Cherusci were still in the agger where the Aquila had been captured. There they pushed, fought, climbed on the muddy wall.
“Hraban!” I heard my name called. I turned my face to the voice, and saw Armin waving his sword, pointing it at the castra. “We won’t wait! Take it, take it!”
The fort, or the Aquila? Or even the life of Varus?
All of that.
I turned to Cassia who shook her head. She would not stay behind. I looked at Adalwulf, who was exhausted and wounded, but grinned. Ulrich grunted, as he climbed down from his horse, and patted his bow, a yellow-feathered arrow nocked and ready. He nodded, and winked. “I shall guard her,” he mouthed.
I nodded thanks, and then watched the men.
We could wait. We only had to wait. The enemy would not go home. And yet, Armin’s eyes watched me, gauging and judging. I saw the chiefs. Donor was there, cheek bleeding. Other chiefs, still some five of them, and hundreds of best men of the Cherusci turned to look at me.
> I pointed Heartbreaker at the milling Chauci and Cherusci, and the desperate Romans.
“Now,” I snarled, “is a time to loot a fort. Bring the Eagle to Armin before the Chauci take that one too, and you shall have the best pick of their treasure.”
They grinned, turned to watch the enemy.
I dismounted, hoisted a new shield, and limped forward. I heard them following, and then I ran painfully, jumping over heaps of corpses and wounded. I felt weak for my wounds, and for the orgy of death that opened up before us. We pushed through the exhausted Chauci, then past the even more exhausted fellow Cherusci. We went forward like an inexorable wave, and splashed down to the fossa, which was filled with corpses and water, a true pool of horror. All around us, the Germani were braving the Romans, climbing up like animals in mud, and we did as well. I pushed over corpses, struggled to stay upright, ignored the weeping wounded, all brown and red with mud and blood, and splashed against the agger. A stone struck my helmet, and another killed a Cherusci next to me. Men were behind me, dozens of rested hands were pushing and grasping me, and lifting me up that root-infested, muddy agger, where corpses rested. A gladius flashed on top, and another stabbed at my back. I saw Adalwulf’s brow was wounded, one eyed closed with bloody mud, and heard Ulrich screaming orders behind.
I let go of my shield, grasped a root, and pulling, suddenly, I was on all fours on the wall.
The gladius stabbed at me again, and I howled as the chain saved my life, but didn’t save me from receiving a long, bitter wound on my back.
I stabbed at a knee, then brawled my way to my knees, parried a centurion’s sword, and chopped his knee. Germani all over were getting on top now, and a desperate struggle took place at a dozen points. Adalwulf and I, with a few Chauci, and a dozen men of ours, managed to push men off the agger, and Romans fell, left, right, and below.
Below us, the Romans backed off, shaking with horror as I got up and pointed my sword at them.
A man dropped his sword, and kneeled.
“Kill the lot,” I hissed.
The Cherusci went into the fortress to do just that. I walked forward with them, my eye on the Aquila. It was defended by centurions again, and an old cornicen was holding it. Adalwulf joined me, and our men surged forward with us, lured by the golden god.
The centurions saw us coming, and braced themselves.
We pushed aside wounded, women, civilians. I killed a slave, who tried to club me with a dolobra, and we rushed the enemy. They fought, briefly, exhausted, but we stabbed them down, tore their lives from their bodies with spears, and left them corpses. The old man with the Aquila looked away, as Adalwulf walked for him. His knuckles were white around the pole. Adalwulf’s sword pushed at the man’s throat, and he fell, mercilessly fast.
I grasped the Aquila as if fell, and looked around, holding it high.
Men cheered wildly. The Romans wept.
And then, many of the enemy surrendered, kneeling, and threw their weapons away.
At first, few cared.
A butchery was taking place all over the walls and the fort, where our men, wild-eyed, killed them all indiscriminately. In one place, the agger collapsed under the Romans, burying a mule and ten men. I saw Eggius stabbing himself in the belly, and some other high officers killing themselves clumsily after. I saw the Camp Prefect Ceionius surrendering, shamed and looking away from the enemy that took his weapon. Even many ordinary legionnaires were falling on their swords, which sometimes were not sharp enough to get the job done. We saw how women; even high Roman matrons were killed. Some Romans, seeing the end, even begged for our men to kill them, and our men often did.
I didn’t see Varus.
A horn blew, for a long, long time it blew.
Armin was announcing his victory, and the notes echoed far and wide from that rainy hillside. Crazed with the triumph, drunk with victory and mead, all our men cheered. We saw Roman soldiers weeping as they were chained, tied with straps, or slain, depending on the mood of the man taking them. Soon, chiefs took hold of the chaos, the captured centurions were dragged to the side, the few tribunes taken yet elsewhere, and ordinary legionnaires tied in the middle. I watched how a young centurion, weeping, bashed his own skull in with his fresh chains, unable to bear the shame, or perhaps anticipating the fate of the officers.
Armin stepped to the agger, staring over the chaos, his sword high.
I took the Aquila to Armin, and he grasped it, tears in his eyes. I turned away, and left him to celebrate, as I walked the agger, tired to the bone.
Soon, Armin was surrounded by all three Aquila, and at his feet, the cohort and century standards were being thrown. Muddy, no longer proud, each had seen the length of Midgard, and the destruction of people few remembered now.
There, now, they bowed to their mighty foe.
There too, was finally dragged the body of Varus, half burned. He had killed himself, some said, others that gods had punished him for his failure with a lightning bolt. In truth, his men had tried to burn the body, and to bury it. The head of Vala was brought and placed on the lap of Varus, men were cheering in the rain.
I watched them hack Varus’s head off with a sword, and Armin, placing it on a spear, had it up in the air. He lifted his sword as well, and screamed, “Germania! Germania! Glory to all of us! Together!”
“Thiuda!” screamed another man.
“King! King for life!” another called, and after a small, confused silence, men answered the call. They roared their approval of Armin in the rain, standing amidst their great victory, knee-deep in the blood and the mud, amidst the butchered remains of three of Rome’s finest legions, and we all loved him.
And I had succeeded.
I had.
I turned to watch the fate of the tribunes, centurions, and the other officers, as Woden was given his due. Not one of these men would leave the field as prisoners, but they would be given to gods, their bones would be cooked and hung and nailed to the trees for Woden, to celebrate the great victory.
We had a king.
But I didn’t.
Despite all I had done, I would do as Cassia had asked me to do, and I would take them to the North, to an unknown fate, but away, and I would forget the plan I had made, and the warnings of Adalfuns the Crafter, as I always had.
Adalwulf grasped my shoulder. I saw his sorrowful face, and stiffened, and knew nothing would be the same again.
I turned to look for Cassia. I followed Adalwulf’s eyes.
I saw her. She was lying on her face on the wall. She had an arrow in her back. It was an arrow with yellow feathers.
Ulrich. And then it struck me. The arrow was like what I had used to hurt Germanicus, years past. It was, I was sure, the very same arrow.
Ulrich, for Germanicus.
And perhaps, for Livia.
EPILOGUE (Castra Vetera, October 28th, 9 A.D.)
C astrum Vetera was Armin’s.
The Romans had fought for it and escaped, but it was ours now. The Cherusci were busily looting it. Luppia Valley was free once more. What Sigambri remained were riding its length, allies to Armin. Varnis had bowed before him. Many chiefs had given him oaths. Many more would.
I cared not.
I sat on my horse, numb. I had not taken part in Armin’s victory over the forts in the South. I had not sat on his councils. I had merely … followed. I wasn’t alone. Wandal was there, weak from his wounds. He had burned and buried Cassia, as I had not been able to. I had seen the glow of balefire, but had not visited the gravemound. Tudrus had, helped by Euanthe. Adalwulf had, with Gisil, and Wulf, and Gisil took care of Gervas for me. They had buried Agetan and her, and I had not been able to even weep.
For Gervas. For him.
There would be no North. There would be no escape.
For Gervas, I would stay on my path.
And yet, I was tired. I was exhausted, disappointed, and knew I had failed.
I had the same nightmare every night. The same one. In that night
mare, I relive the day she died. I hold her face in the rainy, corpse-filled castrum. I beg Woden for help, curse him for his cruelty, and with a stab of pain, I remember the warnings of Adalfuns the Crafter.
Then, in the nightmare, she opens her eyes, and smiles, the yellow arrow crude in her back, but she is alive.
And then, always, I wake up, and remember she never did, not after hours of begging the gods for it.
The Three Sisters had woven a black string into the tapestry of all our futures, for my mistakes.
She was dead.
Dead.
I looked around the countryside, feeling utterly empty. Great pillars of smoke filled the autumn sky. The Sigambri, the Bructeri, the Marsi, and the Chatti were burning Roman settlements all over the land, and others were doing it wider and far afield, across the Rhenus borders, where news of Armin’s victory roused beaten people to kill Romans. Castra Xanten, on the other side of the great River Rhenus, was preparing for war with one of the two remaining legions that remained in the land, but it would take Rome time to muster enough strength to come over the river. The Ubii and the Batavi were mustering men to the banners for Rome, and Boicalus had escaped, making half of the Ampsivarii tribe one of the deadly threats deep inside Germania for Armin and his allies. Many Roman legionnaires had been paraded in their chains, now slaves who had been taken deep inside the land, and shared across the tribes. The three Aquila were shown to all, and soon, the Bructeri, the Marsi, and the Cherusci would take them away to their shrines deep in the woods. The one taken by the Chauci warriors was given to the Marsi, because many of the highest families of the Chauci in the North had condemned the war, though they had little intention of fighting for Rome either. The bald Chauci chief joined the Marsi with his men in spite for their cowardly kin.
And of course, Maroboodus and his Suebi loomed in the South, a danger one could never ignore. Armin had sent the head of Varus to my father.
The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5) Page 51
