Chapter Two
Even iron is not plentiful among them; as may be inferred from the nature of their weapons. Swords or broad lances are seldom used; but they generally carry a spear, (called in their language framea) which has an iron blade, short and narrow, but so sharp and manageable, that, as occasion requires, they employ it either in close or distant fighting.
—Tacitus
Northwest Germania, September 9, 762 AUC
The rain still came down in sheets, even as the wind continued to find its way through the rings of the mail and the bands of the newer kind of loricae. The was little wood that could be set alight. Thus, there were no sentry fires out beyond the camp’s perimeter. Warming and cooking fires were right out.
A small group consisting of the tribune, the first spear, the aquilifer, Silvanus, Flavus, and Caelius’ servants stood on the side of the camp nearest the fortified hill held by the Germans, but a good fifty meters inside that perimeter. A single tent, a large one capable of seating a score of men, was erected behind them. Inside the tent, protected from wind and rain, burned half a dozen oil lamps, some with multiple channels and wicks.
“In a way,” said Flavus, “it’s good, the darkness. I’d have a much harder time getting out unnoticed, if the whole area were lit up like daylight.”
They’d used the darkness not just to gather material to disguise Flavus’ upcoming adventure, but also to retrieve the bulk of the pila already thrown. Many of these were currently under repair within the camp by the century of artificers from First Cohort. They’d also used the darkness to retrieve over two thousand German framea. Before sunup, every legionary would have at least two javelins again, all of which—pila or framea—would be effective against unarmored Germanic tribesmen.
Marcus Caelius couldn’t see it, in this pitch darkness, but he couldn’t help but hear as, in a desperate bid to keep warm, the legionaries had stripped the bodies of their foes for clothing, skins, furs, heavy woolens. These they now tugged on. Especially prized, though they’d never admit it to civilized folk, had been the Germans’ trousers.
There had been a cost to all of that, of course, because the tribesmen under Arminius were loath to cede the no-man’s-land to the Romans without a struggle. About forty to fifty legionaries had fallen, thought Marcus, dead or wounded, in close combat, against a probably larger number of Germans. Small parties were still out there fighting, and who won or lost could only be discerned in the darkness by curses and screams and by who finally managed to make it back.
“Ready?” Marcus Caelius asked Flavus.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” he answered.
“How about Agilulf? He understand what’s going on?”
“We worked out some hand signals to supplement his Latin,” said Silvanus. “It’ll be okay, though he was pissed not to be going with Flavus.”
“He’s my father’s armsman,” explained Flavus. “He sees it as his duty to take care of and watch over me.”
“I’ve been studying German for the last couple of years,” offered Tribune Gaius Pompeius. “My accent is somewhere between not good and pretty bad but I’ve got the grammar and vocabulary down. Would it help if I went with the German cohort to translate?”
“Might at that, sir,” admitted Silvanus.
“What do you think, Top?” the tribune asked of Marcus.
“Sure, sir, at least until we come back with the Nineteenth. But for Jupiter’s sake, no heroics. Since Ceionius disappeared, you’re the only actual officer we’ve got left. Don’t want to lose you. Also, you can’t go until you give the senior centurions their marching orders.”
“I don’t know…” Gaius began.
“Hmmm…no, I suppose not. I’ll give the orders, then.”
In a way, Caelius was relieved. The troops could use a little pep talk before they marched out of the camp to scale the fortified hill to their south. But the operative word there was little. There’d be no need for a long-winded speech, the kind he was pretty sure the kid would have picked up in school over in Greece.
The reincarnation of Cicero is what we don’t need. Time and place for everything and this is neither the time nor the place.
“All right then, Flavus, if you’re ready to go, every minute here jibber-jawing is a waste.”
“Yes, Top,” the German agreed. “Hey, just had a thought: In case some of my countrymen have better vision at night than others, or lightning flashes at just the wrong time, can you have a squad give me a short chase once I rise up? That should be enough to give me a cover story. No spears unless they aim to miss. By a lot.”
“All the cohorts of the Eighteenth are pretty much fixed. Silvanus?”
“I’ll do it myself, Top.”
“Fine.”
“Privatus? Thiaminus?”
“Here, Dominus.” “Here.”
“I want you two to walk the perimeter; Privatus, you go left, Thiaminus, right. Go to each cohort except First and say that I want the senior centurion of each cohort to come to this tent within an hour. Then, Privatus, you find the commander of the cohort of missile troop, same orders. Thiaminus, you find the commander of the cavalry and then the chief doctor and the senior centurion among the walking wounded. I’ll take care of the other four centurions from First Cohort. Silvanus, come back here with Agilulf once you’ve seen to seeing off Flavus in some style. Claudius?”
“Here, Top.”
“Terrain model in the tent, emphasis on the big hill to our south. And see if you can roust out something for better light.”
“On it, Top.”
* * *
“Now listen up, you turds,” Silvanus ordered the nearest sixty or so legionaries in front of him. They didn’t know who he was but, even in a whisper, they knew a centurion’s voice when they heard it.
“We’re sending a German-speaking messenger to work his way through enemy lines to get a message to the Nineteenth. He looks the part, too. But we can’t let him be seen leaving our lines. So here’s what we’re going to do. I and a dozen men from the Seventeenth are going to filter through you and take a position in the front rank. The messenger is going to get on his belly and crawl”—and here Silvanus interjected to Flavus, “Best you curse in Latin the whole time you’re crawling. Some of these guys aren’t too bright and some are probably frightened out of their wits”—“to a point about fifty feet in front of us. Then he’s going to rise and try to get well to the south, just over the big hill, and find the Nineteenth. If and only if we can see him as he does or there’s some light from the lightning, we—and only the men from the Seventeenth—will give chase and hurl a couple of pila in his general direction, but offset to be sure of missing. We will then return and take position in the front rank, and then filter out. No questions allowed but don’t fuck this up.
“Ready, Flavus?”
“As I’ll ever be.” The German still wore his hauberk of mail, but this was not completely unknown to the Germans. Otherwise, he had a Germanic dagger as well as a Roman pugio. His sword was his customary spatha, which was similar enough to the sword a well-to-do German might carry. His looted round wooden shield was about two feet in diameter. He carried a single framea.
“Okay then, give us half a minute to get in front, then onto your belly and make like a snake. And don’t forget to curse in Latin the whole time you’ve got legionary legs around you.”
“Right.”
Flavus didn’t actually try to count the time; small measures of time were unknown among both his people and the Romans. Instead he waited until he couldn’t hear any more metal on metal as the men of the Eighteenth made way for Silvanus and his troops. When that died down, the German sank to his belly, closed one eye against the intermittent flashes of lightning, and began to crawl forward. The whole time he did he muttered, just loud enough for the legionaries nearest him to hear, “Fuck this mud…fuck the lousy fucking Germans, too…fuck all the gods and goddesses who led us to this…Venus, you adulterous slut, fuck you, too…fuck this mud…fuck all the Aesir and fuck all the Vanir…fuck that asshole, Varus, while we’re at it…”
This was answered with, “Fuck Varus for us, too,” by at least two of the legionaries, who turned their heads to spit on the ground.
The crawling was made especially difficult by the need to hold the shield perpendicular to the ground, to avoid the forest of legionary legs. They were known to be short-tempered.
“…Fuck Mars, too…”
“Yeah, fuck ’em all but nine,” said one of the legionaries.
“Six pallbearers, two road guards, and one to count cadence,” answered Flavus, then continued with, “And fuck Vali and Thor…but I implore the blessing of Mercury, patron of messengers.”
Then he was past the last of the legionary legs. One of them—he suspected it was Silvanus—gave him a gentle toe nudge. And then he was out in the muddy open. The rain had largely slacked off for the moment.
The iron smell told him the mud had a good deal of blood in it. He lowered his stolen shield forward-side down to the mud. This was half for camouflage and half to obscure any individual, family, clan, or tribal decoration that might give it away, if seen.
Darker than three feet up a well digger’s ass at midnight, was Flavus’ sober judgment. Even so, he kept crawling until he was pretty sure he was a good sixty feet from Silvanus and his detachment.
Flavus began to rise to his feet. Even as he did, a long, drawn-out flash of lightning illuminated him nearly as well as if it had been a sunny day in Italy.
Shit, thought Silvanus. He had the presence of mind to shout out, “There’s one of the bastards. After him, boys!”
“Shit,” said Flavus aloud. He, conversely, had the presence of mind to say it in German. He also finished rising and turned to bolt in the direction of the big hill to the south.
Unfortunately, one or two of the legionaries from the Eighteenth had been dozing on their feet while Silvanus had been whispering his orders. These joined Silvanus’ dozen as they began their fraudulent pursuit. Even more unfortunately, when a couple of them, preselected to hurl a missile, loosed, the dozers did likewise. One landed short but the other flew, unfortunately true, for Flavus’ back. It struck him squarely and, while the force was enough to knock him forward and off his feet, it had been a captured framea, so lacked the energy to punch through the German’s first-class mail.
Flavus lay there, stunned, fully expecting whoever had struck him to come and finish him off.
Fortune in the form of Silvanus came to Flavus’ rescue. Though the centurion wanted to strangle both the men of the Eighteenth who had missed his orders and thrown to kill, he recognized that he couldn’t bitch them out in case there were a Latin-speaking German besides Flavus nearby. Instead, he had to say, “Well thrown!” as if he actually meant it. He added, “Back to the lines, boys! Hardly a German wears any armor. He might die where he fell or he might make it another couple of hundred feet but die he will all the same. Now both you boys from this century who accompanied me, meet me in the rear. I want to get your names for a commendation.” He raised his voice to shout out, “Centurion of this century, this is First Order Centurion Silvanus of the Seventeenth Legion. You meet me in the rear, too, so you can know the quality of some of your men.”
* * *
The point of the framea hadn’t been turned by Flavus’ mail. Instead, it had penetrated about three quarters of an inch, just to the right of the German’s spine between his shoulder blades. Blood ran down his back in a small rivulet. The blood wasn’t enough to bother him but where the point had sunk in it hurt like the devil. In the restored darkness, after the lightning flash, he rose to his feet and began to feel his way to the south. As he did, he thought, I hope Silvanus has whoever wasn’t listening to his orders flogged within an inch of his life. The stupid bastard.
Flavus hadn’t gone another hundred feet before he heard, “Hail, friend. Saw the whole thing. You are one lucky bastard.”
“Nah,” answered Flavus, in the same language, “my parents were married, and to each other, and neither of them were Romans.”
That drew a guttural laugh. “Suero of the tribe of Bructeri,” Flavus’ newfound acquaintance said. Almost the Romanized German answered with his Latin name. He choked on that and then nearly gave up his birth name. Oh, no, that would never do. Quickly he improvised, “Eburwin of the Cherusci. I got separated from my group and ended up here. Pigheaded, I suppose. I should have sat down and waited for daylight.”
“A noble pigheadedness, if so,” Suero said. “I’m about as forward as anyone. Everything behind me is safe. I don’t know where your tribe is but someone on the wall might. You keep traveling and as long as you’re headed uphill you should find it.”
Suero then took a skin of captured wine off his shoulder, passing it to Flavus. “Help yourself. It will steel you for the climb.”
“Thanks muchly, friend.,” said Flavus, taking the skin and a healthy slug from it. “I will look for you, after the battle, should I survive. An acquaintance so well met deserves the chance to ripen into friendship.”
“I agree,” said Suero, reaching to take one of Flavus’ arms and then clasp it in the German manner. “Now take care. You’re safe from the Romans but I can’t answer for it if you fall into a ravine and break your neck. We’ve got some warming fires going back there, they may help you find your way.”
“Take care, Suero, and good luck. Remember, those Roman bastards still carry a stinger or two.”
* * *
The tent was just about well enough lit. Claudius, the aquilifer, had found another half dozen oil lamps and from somewhere had come up with some torches. Too, there was a small fire going that added both warmth and a bit of light.
Can’t do much about the sound of the rain on the roof, though, thought the first spear, looking upward at the leather of the tent’s roof. We’ll have to shout our way through the orders. At least the son of a bitch isn’t dripping.
The first two senior centurions to arrive were Sextus Albinus, from Second Cohort, who stood on the left of First, and from Seventh Cohort, to the right, Gnaeus Gallus. The former looked too old for the job while the latter looked far too young. The chief of the remaining cavalry, a Gaul who went by the barbaric name of Atrixtos, son of Cotilus, came in next, followed by Agilulf, the German, in company with Tribune Gaius Pompeius. The German was a beefy bear of a man—bearlike, too, in the skins he wore over his armor.
Thereafter, a swarm of them arrived, more or less at once. They all formed up around the terrain model, with Marcus Caelius giving them a few minutes to familiarize themselves with the model and orient it in their minds to the ground as they saw it during the day.
No one had shouted out in alarm from the perimeter for several hours now. Which could mean the Germans had fallen back, or that they were husbanding their strength against a breakout attempt, or—and perhaps most likely—that most of them had fallen asleep.
“Me,” said Marcus Caelius, “I think they’ve mostly fallen asleep. They’ll be on us like flies on shit before first light.”
He used a pilum as a pointer. “Hold your questions to the end. Here’s the mission the tribune gave us: Eighteenth Legion, with attachments, are going to form up in an almost standard acies triplex, about two hours before sunup. By ‘almost standard’ I mean that the exterior cohorts of the second and third lines will remain in column formation, to guard our flanks. We will do so as quietly as possible, but let’s be serious: with all this rain pouring down we’re unlikely to be heard.”
Though Caelius had warned him, Gaius Pompeius almost did a double take. He certainly hadn’t given the first spear any orders. He didn’t feel remotely qualified to have done so.
I figure he’s probably just trying to build me up in the eyes of the men until he can get some real use out of me. Good for him, if he is. Good for me, too.
Caelius cast a glance at the tribune to see if he’d kept his demeanor. He was pleased to see that the officer had.
Then, “Gallic auxiliary cavalry?” the first spear asked.
“Here, centurion,” announced Atrixtos. In the light of torches, lamps, and fire his reddish-blond hair seemed to cast back a golden light. He was civilized enough that he didn’t chalk his hair before a battle. Even so, most of his troops did. The Gaul was clean shaven, in the modern Roman fashion. In height, Atrixtos stood somewhere between the Romans and the Germans. His shoulders, too, were relatively slight.
“The tribune wants you to the right of First Cohort, to guard our flank and neutralize any German cavalry they may have been able to come up with. We know they have some because the mixed cohort of German cavalry and foot that had been under that bastard Arminius’ command defected to the enemy, en masse, at the very beginning. They made up a big cohort—pretty big men on big horses, too—so if they do come after you, I’ll peel off First Cohort to your support.”
“Got it,” Atrixtos agreed.
“Missile cohort?”
“Here, Top.” The commander of the missile cohort, Horatius Jovis, was an equestrian sort from around Campania. He had the swarthy complexion common in that area. After this campaign it had been expected he’d move over to a senior slot in one of the legions his performance with the auxilia had earned him. Jovis had never become more than a mediocre slinger or archer, but he knew how to make use of those as well as anybody in the Empire.
“Spread your troops out more or less evenly ahead of the second line. The usual: rush out and pepper them at a distance than run for shelter if they try to close. Then I want you to rush back out and pepper them; if they come on again, fall back. By the way, what’s your ammunition status?”
“Javelins are good—we looted the Germans’ bodies plus recovered a good many of those they threw at us, and lead sling bullets are all right, fifty-five or so per man, including the store in the carts. We’ve also got lots of stones, courtesy of the barbarians. Arrows status is great because, in this rain, we’ve hardly got the power to throw one eighty paces. And you know what? Come tomorrow evening we’ll be just as flush, because our bowstrings are useless.”
“Yeah,” agreed Caelius, “I know. Palmyrene Ala?”
“Here, Top.”
“Just like the Thracian archers, your bow strings are worthless, right?”
“Near enough, yes. We still carry lances but we’re not going to be as good as the Gauls are.”
“Right; you stay in the center as a reserve. I…will ask the tribune not to use you unless we must; you’re worth more as horse archers alive than as light lancers, dead.
“Now Silvanus, have you got a good hold of Agilulf’s cohort, the one from Seventeenth, and the couple of centuries from Nineteenth?”
“Yes, and I appreciate the tribune coming to help us.”
“What’s your strength?”
“Between Seventeenth and Nineteenth, almost two full cohorts, heavier on the former, lighter on the latter. The Germans, under Agilulf, bring us up to about fifteen hundred men.”
“Ja,” the German, Agilulf, growled. He growled like a bear, too. Slowly, as if straining for each word, he said, “Two hundred more, we should have, but some of dem ran away. Some maybe to defect to the enemy. And, ja, I trust the ones remaining.”
“All right,” said Caelius. “That’s a halfway decent number to stretch from the northern swamp to where the Eighteenth turns left to go over the hill. After we start upward, close on us and guard the rear. Now, who’s the senior centurion from among the wounded…?”
* * *
The first fire Flavus came to, he stopped just inside earshot and just listened. After a few minutes he thought, Not a Cherusci accent among the lot. I ought to be safe enough here.
He advanced slowly and cautiously. At a distance of maybe forty feet he stopped, placed his framea in the hand that also grasped the handgrip of his shield. Advancing with his right hand up and opened, he waited until they’d sensed him coming. There were nine or so men that he could see by the light of the fire.
“Hail, comrades,” he said, “Suero of the Bructeri tribe said I should use your fires to guide me back to my own people. I am Eburwin of the Cherusci.”
“Come closer,” ordered one of the men standing around the fire. “You say you know Suero?”
“Not well. We met when some Romans chased me more or less into him. Fuckers stabbed me in the back, too, as I ran away. I’m trying to find my own people, the Cherusci.”
“You sound enough like a Cherusci,” said his inquisitor, who gave his name as Kunibert.
“But they are not well known to us,” he continued. “Some stand with us, some with the Romans; this much is known.” He looked at the youngest among the lot, a boy of perhaps sixteen, and ordered him, “Hrodulf, go find Suero and get the truth of the matter.” To Flavus he said, “In the interim, sit, presumed friend, have some beer, and help yourself to the beef on the fire. No sudden moves, though, and leave your spear out of reach.”
Flavus realized that it had been a while since he’d eaten. He threw his spear about five feet to his left, then dropped the shield. Advancing to the fire, he pulled his German dagger and sliced off a half-pound chunk of well-done beef. “You mentioned ‘beer,’ I think.”
“I did. Wait. Sit. Someone will bring some to you.”
It was a long wait, so long that Flavus began to doubt his ability to even get to the Nineteenth Legion in time to do anything.
Hrodulf returned and said, “It is as the Cherusci said. Suero confirms that he was almost caught in an attack on the Romans and that one of them struck him in the back with a spear of some kind.”
“Funny,” said Kunibert, “whether our spears or one of the Roman heavy javelins, a good strike in the back should have come out your chest.”
“Stopped, if barely, by my armor.”
“And you got armor from where? It is a rarity among us.”
“Ultimately,” Flavus answered, “I think it came from the Gauls. But what you really mean is how could I afford it, yes? I couldn’t have but I am an armsman to Chariomerus. He paid for it for me along with my long Gaulish sword.”
“I would see this armor and the wound you took,” said Kunibert. “And you didn’t mention your sword as you threw down your spear.”
“Neither did you ask,” Flavus answered, undoing the belt that kept his lorica tight and under control, then hoisting the mail overhead. As he did the wound, already partially healed, tore open again, letting blood flow down his back. He turned his back to the fire so that Kunibert could see the wound and the flow of blood.
The other German ignored the back for the moment, but picked up and examined the lorica by the light of the fire. Thrusting two fingers through the hole left by the javelin, he whistled. “That was a good throw. I’ve thrown a framea at armored Romans myself and seen my spear not make a tear half this wide. Let me see that wound.”
After half a moment’s close scrutiny, Kunibert said, “You are a lucky man. That spear was thrown in earnest.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I think I have. I can tell you that you will find your people well to the east. They invest the eastern half of the trap in which we have bottled up the legion there.”
“I thank you, Kunibert, for the advice, the meat, and the beer. And now I must be off.”
“Stay here, friend, and walk in the morning. It is dark out there with many pitfalls, some Roman refugees, hence many of us too eager to throw a spear.”
“I cannot,” pleaded Flavus. “Who knows how many from among Chariomerus’ armsmen have fallen? There is no rest nor forgiveness for the armsman who fails his chief, should that chief fall.”
“You speak the truth,” agreed Kunibert. “Hrodulf will guide you as far as where the Marsi begin. I recommend sneaking through their area without trying to introduce yourself. They hate the Cherusci almost as much as they hate the Romans.”
Flavus grunted in the affirmative, adding, “Not a lot of love lost for the Marsi from the Cherusci, either.”
“Even so,” agreed Kunibert. Clasping Flavus on the shoulder, he said, “Travel with care, friend. And good luck.”
* * *
There were actually a lot of people individually and in small groups, just lying around all over the hill. At a point in time Hrodulf stopped and said, “Marsi from here on out, Lord. Tread with care.”
“I shall,” said Flavus. On a sudden impulse he slipped off the baldric holding his Roman pugio and handed it to the young man. “For your trouble,” he said.
“Lord, I cann—”
“Take it. When the last of the Romans are dead, I’ll find another as good.”
“Yes, Lord. Thank you, Lord.”
Alone now, Flavus crept carefully forward, avoiding fires, avoiding voices, avoiding snoring, too, for that matter.
One very large fire loomed ahead. Flavus wasn’t quite sure why, but instead of skirting the fire at a distance, he drew closer to it, walking in half steps to be as silent as possible. He then drew closer still. There was a mass of Marsi dancing around the fire. That wasn’t what drew his eye. No, it was what stood well above the dancers.
Jupiter, no. Almost, the Roman in him began to weep. There, ahead of him, illuminated by the fire, was a Roman legion’s eagle. He could read the number on the plaque underneath the eagle: XVII. It was the ultimate shame—to lose an eagle meant shame not merely because of what the emperor might have to do and crawl through to get it back. No, worse, it meant that the legion who had lost it had been caught sleeping—that, or unaware, outfought, outthought, out-soldiered.
Turning and moving away from the fire, he continued on his way, sick at heart but still determined to carry out his mission.
* * *
Forming up for battle, while inside a marching camp, in pitch blackness was not something new to Romans. But normally it was done in a full camp, with regular streets, even signposts, in camps that never deviated from night to night.
That wasn’t this camp. No streets here, no signposts. No regular order. And, perhaps worst of all, no decent night’s sleep beforehand. And food was nothing but cold and soggy biscuit.
Still, with an unusual amount of shouting, a more than normal amount of confusion, and more than a few strokes of the centurions’ staves of office, their vine staves, enough order emerged.
It was a fair sign of the desperation felt by each legionary that no one so much as attempted to gut the centurion striking him, even in circumstances where getting away with it approached certainty. Not to say that a couple might not have thought about it, but a unit without its centurion to guide and inspire it, as well as to coordinate its actions with others, was a unit ready to be butchered.
On the plus side, it had been some hours since anyone on the perimeter had had to cry out, “Here they come.” Oh, there were eyes on the camp, everyone knew that. But it was doubtful any of those eyes could see into the camp any better than the men inside could see out.
In any event, the Eighteenth did manage to sort itself out into a formation within the camp, Mostly the cohorts faced toward the south in an acies triplex, with only two cohorts facing the east and west flanks and Silvanus and the Germans looking north.
The last remaining tribune, Gaius Pompeius, would join the Germans later. For the moment, his duty lay in overseeing the work of the haruspex, Appius Calvus, in sacrificing an animal victim and interpreting.
An ox had been chosen for the sacrifice from among the dray animals, pure white but for the mud around its lower limbs. There was no formal altar, but a part of a tent there hadn’t been time or chance to erect had been laid out. Torches on long poles burned over the tent, to allow the haruspex to see to his work.
Appius Calvus’ assistant led the ox onto the tent. He’d made an attempt, a half-assed one, to garland the creature with whatever greenery could be found. He’d also given the ox some of the legion’s wine to drink, though the animal had shown no interest. Finally, he led the ox forward onto the tent, at which point, Calvus leaned over and threw his knife-holding hand and arm around its neck.
Of all the blades in the camp, none was as fine and sharp as Calvus’. Whispering soothing words, Calvus drew the blade one hundred and eighty degrees around the doomed beast’s throat. The animal lowed once, confused, as blood from a nearly painless gash gushed out onto the leather of the tent. The blood stank of hot iron. It lowed once again as unconsciousness took it. Slowly, and with surprising grace, the ox sank to the flattened tent, before rolling onto its side, deeply unconscious and soon dead.
With practiced skill, Calvus sliced the ox open, then reached in with both hands, one still holding the supersharp knife, to seize, detach, and extract the liver. Once out of the ox, the assistant poured water over the liver to clear away the blood.
Calvus peered closely at the liver, with Gaius Pompeius looking, likewise, over his shoulder, rubbing his oversized nose with worry.
“What does it say?” asked the tribune.
“I’m not sure,” replied Calvus. “I’ve never seen one quite like this…or even a little like this. I think it says that we are in no serious danger at the moment. But that is so very much not in accord with the events of the last couple of days, that I find it hard to credit.” The haruspex turned the liver over to its normally flat side, pointing and saying, “And see this ridge and those lumps there? They don’t belong…”
“No matter,” said the tribune, with commendable decision. “That we will be in no danger is what the legion wants and needs to hear.” He ordered the cornua to sound the call. “Senior centurions on me.” When they arrived at the trot, he told Calvus, “Announce it.”
Calvus did, prefacing his announcement with another quote from Homer, “‘Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.’”
Marcus Caelius, who had been standing close enough to hear Gaius, even when he whispered, thought, That’s my boy.
After the senior centurions had taken off back to their cohorts. Marcus Caelius gave his shield to Privatus and Thiaminus, saying, “Hoist me up on this.”
Once they had his feet at about shoulder level, the first spear spoke in a voice that had chilled recruits across a thousand camps and parade fields.
“I don’t know about you pussies,” the first spear shouted out, “but as for me, I’m too fucking mean to die here.”
* * *
The first, faint trace of diffuse light made a sudden appearance as Flavus neared the edge of the oval that was the Nineteenth Legion. That was the upside. The downside was that Cherusci tribesman, many of whom would recognize Flavus on sight, were also coalescing into another assault on the legion.
He’d hoped to be able to arrive in the dark and use his excellent upper-class Latin to talk his way through the Roman perimeter. That wasn’t going to be so easy now.
How, in the name of the great, purple-togate Augustus, am I going to get through this without either my own tribesmen gutting me or the legionaries doing so when I get within pilum range?
While crouching behind a tree and trying to figure matters out, Flavus heard the whirr of massed slings, punctuated with whiplike cracks and the sounds of scuta being struck and, sometimes, of the plywood within them cracking.
He glanced toward the whirring and saw his countrymen brushing leaves off what turned out to be piles of stones. Clever bastards, he thought. We marched and rode right by those and never even noticed. They’ll keep up the barrage a good long time with those.
The Romans had some slingers with them, as well. Moreover, instead of using rocks they had cast lead sling bullets, pointed at both ends, with greater range and greater striking power than the Germans’ crude projectiles. To add to their psychological effectiveness, the Romans’ cast lead whistled sharply as it flew. In Flavus’ view he saw tribesmen fall, heads smashed and brains leaking, or clutching a punctured gut, or hopping away on one leg.
Even so, there were a lot more German slingers. Moreover, they had the high ground, which helped. Flavus couldn’t see well enough to be certain, but suspected that they’d even cleared fields of fire.
But a German with no better weapon than a sling was a poor German, indeed. The wealthier ones, now forming up in groups of about fifty to two hundred, began to chant their barritus. The tone of the battle chant suggested men confident in their coming victory.
Shit! Once the better-armed tribesmen start to close, the Romans won’t even remotely be able to distinguish between them and me. I go now or I go never.
Well, on the plus side, at least the Romans’ slingers are going to concentrate on the enemy’s slingers. They’ll assume the pila can take care of me when I get close enough. Sooo…best put on a brave show until I get close enough.
Standing fully upright, Flavus drew his sword and, chanting a Cherusci hymn to their god of war he remembered from his childhood, began a calm walk forward. He waved his sword about his head as if he were a man about to enter into a frenzy.
Behind him, and off to his right, he heard someone shout, “There’s that bastard traitor brother of Hermann, our leader! After him, boys!”
Flavus didn’t turn to count his pursuers. Instead, he ran at full gallop for the legion’s lines, shouting the whole time, in his upper-crust Latin, “I am eques Flavus! I serve Rome! I carry a critical message for Lucius Eggius! I am eques…”
At fifty feet Flavus saw half a dozen legionaries aiming javelins at him, some pila, some framea. The framea held no terrors, despite the wound in his back, but a well-cast pilum could go in the front and out his back, right through his shield and his lorica hamata.
Time to take a massive chance.
Flavus turned his back to the legionaries, looked the nearest pursuing Cherusci right in the eye, and spat.
Hmmm…if I’m not mistaken that’s cousin Sigigastiz. Sorry, Aunt Gudagebo, but it’s him or me.
The Cherusci had just a framea and a round shield. Stepping forward, Flavus knocked his opponent’s spear out of the way, then made a short stab with his long sword, ripping to the right and disemboweling his enemy on the spot. A German right behind the one now dying on the ground drew him arm back and hurled his framea. Flavus just barely raised his shield in time to deflect the missile from his unarmored throat. That Cherusci, now disarmed, held back, but two more, one with a sword and one with a spear, closed. There were half a dozen more coming close on the heels of those. Flavus took a step back, then another. The whole time he kept up his shouts, “I am eques Flavus! I serve Rome! I carry a critical message for Lucius Eggius! Romans, I am one of you!”
The nearest of the two Cherusci, the one with the sword, suddenly spouted the shaft of a pilum from his chest. Staggering, he took a step forward. Blood began to pour from his mouth. He took a final step and fell, face forward, to the leaf-strewn ground. In his fall he twisted the pilum’s iron shaft in a way that nothing short of an armorer or blacksmith was going to fix.
Just as suddenly there were half a dozen legionaries on Flavus’ right, and a like number to his left. He sensed still more on line behind him.
And then a centurion—Nobody but a centurion has a voice like that, thought Flavus—gave the order, calling the cadence to fall back. Flavus fell back with them, while his former pursuers hesitated in fear of those deadly pila.
“German,” said the centurion, “if you’re lying, I swear that we will crucify you and then hold on long enough for you to die up there.”
“Centurion,” Flavus shouted back, “if my former countrymen ever catch me, then crucifixion would be a dawdle by comparison.”
* * *
Once inside the lines, the centurion took Flavus’ sword and shield, gave them to an optio, then had him escorted by the optio and two legionaries to Lucius Eggius, the praefectus castrorum of the Nineteenth, senior officer present, and a former first spear, himself.
“Oh, give him back his bloody sword,” said Eggius. “I recognize you, Flavus. How goes it?”
“Pretty badly,” the German confessed. “Seventeenth Legion is all but destroyed. Some of the tribes are hunting down the refugees and some of the legionaries made it to the Eighteenth. Some of yours are there, too, over and above your advanced party. The Eighteenth isn’t in bad shape yet.
“Which is what I’ve come about. Eighteenth is going to try to outflank that hill to the south, then turn east to come and rescue Nineteenth. But their and your best chance will be if you can attack and keep as many Germans as possible pinned here. After you link up, you and the Eighteenth will cut south and leg it for the river. There, you can build a bridge, cross it to the south, burn it behind you, and leave the Germans fuming on the north side. You can be supplied by water.”
“Plausible,” agreed Eggius, “but tough. The Germans haven’t really hit us yet, but they will soon, and from all sides.”
“I know. Give some hasty orders and attack now,” Flavus suggested. “It’s your best chance.”
Slowly, Eggius nodded. Then he called for his cornicen. “Blow ‘senior centurions assemble on this instrument.’
“Now, what’s in front of us?”
Flavus answered, “On your right and center they’ve made a cut in the hill to create the beginnings of a wall. Over that they’ve driven in a bunch of posts and woven what amounts to wattle to link the posts. Covers them to about chest high. I went around it, to your left. I’m not sure—actually, I doubt—that I could have gotten over it without being recognized and most probably killed.”
“Right. We’ll march forward at a left oblique, then. Two cohorts can keep them pinned to the wall. Three can outflank it. The rest can guard our flanks and rear.”
“Makes sense,” agreed Flavus.
“What are you going to do?” Eggius asked, while waiting for the centurions to show up. “If you try to fight on our side one of my boys is likely to see that blond hair and take you for a German. Unhealthy, that would be.”
“After I warned you,” Flavus replied, “I was supposed to leg it for Aliso and warn the camp prefect there. Don’t suppose I could borrow a horse.”
“I think we can set you up with a decent equine,” agreed Eggius. “And even throw in a set of spurs.”
* * *
“How do you plan on getting through?” asked Lucius Eggius.
Flavus looked at the legion now forming for the attack, around him. Three cohorts, which looked shockingly understrength, were to guard the rear and fall back. The wounded and walking wounded were south of those and doing their best to keep up. To the right and left, a single cohort each was on flank guard, and to the front, the five remaining had formed an acies duplex, with three cohorts forward, with two gaps between them, and two following in the gaps.
Only the Romans could do this, Flavus thought, in wonder.
Eggius repeated, “How do you plan on getting through?”
“Oh, sorry, Prefect, I was just admiring the legion. Me? I’m going to wait for your first charge to get them moving, then I’m going to cut right—which is to say, to the west—wave hello to the Eighteenth, go south to the river, then follow it to Aliso.”
“Good luck then. Cornicen?”
“Here, Prefect.”
“Sound the attack.”
“Good luck, Flavus,” the camp prefect said, clasping the German’s arm.
Answered Flavus before mounting up, loudly enough for many of the legionaries to hear, “And to you and Rome’s gallant Nineteenth!”
* * *
The attack was going in. As Flavus expected. Except at their own wall the Germans had no interest in standing up to the walking wall of the Nineteenth. They did harass Eggius’ left flank but got as much as they gave or more.
Seated with his horn saddle tightly gripping his thighs, Flavus drew his spatha. He saw to the right that the flank guard had done a brief charge and set the Germans besetting it to flight.
Keep up the fright, thought Flavus, that’s the ticket. He gave his horse a light prodding of his spurs. The equine was, indeed, a good one. He launched himself forward with such power and speed that only the gripping horns of the saddle kept Flavus in his place.
Though he’d done it, and quite recently, Flavus was loath to kill any Cherusci tribesman he could avoid killing, so, instead…
“Run for your lives!” Flavus shouted. “Run for your lives, the legion is out and no one can stop them. They’re killing everything in their path. If you ever want to see your mothers and sweethearts again, run, run, RUN for your lives!”
After some of that, Flavus halted his horse and turned it around to look at the Nineteenth. He could see Eggius, sword in hand, mounted atop his own steed, urging his legionaries on with laughter and curses. The Romans seemed to be making no progress whatsoever at the wall, but some in the left-side flanking movement. Still, it was only some.
No matter; if they’re drawing the tribesmen against them, it means the Eighteenth will have a quicker and easier time of it. I hope.
With that, Flavus pulled on the reins to point his horse west again and, with a little prod from the spurs, took off.
“Run for your lives. Run, run—the Romans are right behind us!”