War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (36 page)

“What news?” Varus demanded. “The barbarians have scampered back to their forest, no doubt? Because my commanders are shitting their pants due to this damned snapping at our heels. Speak up man! I want to push on and leave this foul place behind.”

Massala’s face coloured red with anger.

“Sir, it’s started!” the messenger blurted out.

“What’s started?” Varus queried, grimacing. “We know about the skirmishing. Speak quickly as I’m in no mood for further delay.”

“The auxiliaries, Arminius’s men, have deserted and attacked the wagons at the rear. The wagoners and their escort have been wiped out.”

“Where did you hear this lie?” Varus shouted, stunned.

“I swear it sir! I witnessed it with my own eyes and was lucky to escape with my life, so sudden was the attack.”

“You...you’re mistaken man. Nothing is clear in this damned mist and rain,” Varus stuttered. “Where is Arminius?

I must speak with him immediately, and he will clarify this madness.” He turned to his huddle of aides, their faces pale. His voice broke as he screeched his orders. “Find him, damn you! Do you hear me? Find him now!”

“He’s deserted and joined the enemy,” Massala told Varus coldly.

Furious, Varus pivoted to query the ever-near Servannus. “You stand there saying nothing. Do you believe this?”

“It . . . It’s difficult to really know,” the Tribune responded hesitantly. “But, I agree with you my lord, as we’ve neither seen nor heard anything to indicate a large scale attack.”

Massala spoke up, “General, don’t listen to this fool. He’ll tell you anything to keep you sweet. We must act quickly and decisively, because we cannot keep the column standing for long or many more will be lost. If it is to defend itself against further attacks, the troops must be properly deployed. You must act now!”

Varus, struggling to retain his composure, replied peevishly, “I’ve made my decision Massala. The army will continue south at the greatest speed possible.”

“Gods man!” the commander exclaimed. “Such a course could be disastrous. We don’t know the strength of the German force, and if we continue to push southward on this path it could take us two maybe three days to pass free of this cursed forest. If it’s your decision to keep the army on the move, we must immediately force a passage due west and we can be at Haltern in just over a day. There would be casualties, but it’s the only option.”

“Commander, the decision’s been made.”

“Then you refuse to listen?”

“Return to your men commander, and carry out your orders.” Varus’s voice was tight, the words final.

“You’re a fool, and you’ll kill us all!” Massala volleyed, yanking his mount away.

*

Dracco snorted water from his nose as thunder rolled overhead, the sky briefly illuminated by the lightning that cracked and splintered earthwards.
Jupiter, what a fucking day!
he reflected grimly.

Throughout the afternoon the column had progressed at a brutally slow pace, with the tribes’ raking attacks taking a steady toll. The massive cavalcade’s initial order was gone; the forest of javelins no longer pointed uniformly skyward and the marching formation was fractured, ragged. Relentless undergrowth tore at the legionaries’ exposed flesh and the sucking mire beneath their feet drained their strength. Worn down, they were ever more reluctant to move forwards.

As evening arrived the head of the column had emerged from the bottle-necked trail into an open area of ground, and it was here that a large section of the army endeavoured to pitch camp for the night.

Under constant deluge by the elements, Dracco kept his company working, goading them on with the lash of his tongue and the sting of his vine stick. The men responded with exhausted grunts or pleas for rest as the welts swelled up on their bodies. Only Dracco’s iron resolve kept them going, kept them alive.

All around him fellow companies laboured on into the dark, digging out a ditch around the camp as well as fashioning a rampart implanted with the wooden stakes that each legionary carried with him. Despite the troop’s best efforts the water-logged soil badly handicapped the excavation, with the ditch’ walls continually sliding in on themselves. And, when the mud-caked defenders eventually withdrew behind their defences they were unable to craft any warmth, with the damp wood they gathered burning feebly on camp fires.

During the first hour of darkness the encampment was forced to repulse two harrying attacks. Successfully beaten off, the German dead were left floating in the camp’s shallow ditch. When the attacks ceased Dracco instructed that the roll-call was taken. Half of his men were either dead or missing.

The night hours crawled by and Dracco noted that the flesh on his forearms was turning a mottled, blue colour due to the rain and cold. He looked around and saw the mildew spotting his men’s equipment and the first traces of rust on sword and javelin. A solid blanket of rain battered his position, reducing visibility in all directions. Streams of muddied rainwater eddied around his shins, his hob-nailed sandals sinking deep into the sludge. Sleep evaded many of his men as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, with some lying in tight bunches for greater warmth. The wounded lay shivering in the mud that leeched the very life from them, and waited. For the lucky ones death, for the rest...dawn.

Dracco cleared his throat, spitting into the muck.

Bastard gods
! he thought.
I knew I should have sacrificed that stinking goat before leaving Haltern.

*

Dawn arrived and Dracco’s company painfully mobilized. There was no time or desire to bury the victims of the night. The forest was silent – no cry of bird or animal – with only the steady rain a companion for the plodding troops.

Less than an hour passed and the low-pitched horns sounded again. Dracco’s men, fearful, looked to him for guidance on hearing the chilling sound. He, in turn, bolstered their nerve with forced words of encouragement and foul curses.

At once, they were subjected to further bombardment by spear and arrow, hand-sized rocks and crudely formed stone hammers. The barrage devastated their packed ranks. His men were barely able to raise their shields to guard their heads, and fell, pierced and crushed in ever-increasing numbers.

The terrible assault continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon. In the respite periods between attacks, Dracco shunted his company forwards over a carpet of Roman dead and wounded, before shuddering to a halt when struck again.

Runners arrived from other units, but their messages were fuelled by fear and confusion. The officers, lacking direction, found it impossible to mount an effective defence.

His anger only matched by his frustration, Dracco realized this battle was unlike any he’d ever known.

* * *

Chapter LII

THE
EARTH
WALL

“Even the bravest men are

frightened by sudden terrors.”

Tacitus.

High on the gorge side where the brush was thickest, the German host waited. Guntram stood in the foremost rank of the four thousand concealed tribesmen, behind a five foot wall of sods that was over three kilometres in length.

A warrior armed with spears was placed every two metres along the wall. Similarly armed men were placed behind, ready to hurl their spears over the heads of their brothers or step forward into their positions when needed. Guntram gauged that twenty thousand shafts would streak downward into the trapped Roman ranks in the first few minutes of the attack. It would be devastating.

He flexed his grip on his war-hammer, fingers tacky from the bark resin he’d applied that would help his grip despite the rain and his sweat. His Cherusci brothers stood all around him, together with warriors of the Chatti and Bructeri too. He felt at one with them and it made him feel good.

He turned his head, searching to make sure that Wilda stood where instructed. She was. Strong words had passed between them when he’d advised her to join the battle after the first assault on the column. Indignant, Wilda had informed him that her safety wasn’t his concern, and that she needed no advice regarding her part in the battle. He recalled nearby warriors chuckling as they watched her rebuke him, while he, red-faced, listened in silence. The matter was only resolved with the arrival of Blaz, who sought to wish them good luck before the battle commenced.

Blaz spoke first with Guntram, briefly discussing the coming engagement, and, knowing Guntram’s concern for the safety of his brother and Jenell, reassured him that he’d be alert for any sign of them. Apprehensive, Guntram thanked him. Blaz then spoke to his sister and a few quiet words had the desired effect: Wilda reluctantly agreed to join the battle following the first red blaze of contact.

After, the trio exchanged words of good luck and Blaz departed, leaving Wilda to chide Guntram that he’d better leave some Romans alive for her.

She had the last word.

*

From a steep rise Arminius watched the tip of the column round the base of the Kalkriese Hill, before halting at a branch in the trail. He squinted through the rain and saw three mounted figures converge at the fork: the senior officers who’d decide on which route to take. The consultation was brief and the column moved into the more negotiable left-hand route that continued to steer them westwards.

“Good, good,” Arminius muttered under his breath, smiling at the rugged warrior at his side. Unbeknown to the Roman officers, Arminius’s men had cleverly created a barrier to force them into the narrower passage around the Kalkriese hill. A large portion of the trail that forked to the north over a depression had been dug away, exposing water where land had been, and on the far side of the water, brush and foliage was arranged to look like natural vegetation. The Roman column on approaching the fork, saw only open water to the north, being left with the option of the trail heading west around the foot of the hill...and towards the earth-wall.

Arminius tracked the head of the column as it crept forwards along the sandy embankment that hugged the hill’s base, its outermost flank bordered by the watery expanse. He knew that in many places the edges of the track turned to bog, and that the legionaries would be forced to squeeze ever more closely together as they struggled to keep their feet on dry land. In places they’d be able to march only three or four abreast and in others would have to wade up to their knees in swamp.

Half-way down the hill his warriors waited behind their wall. It was his plan to inflict the maximum damage on the enemy from the wall’s cover: his men launching their missiles into a packed and restricted Roman formation, rather than simply attacking the armoured legionaries wielding their deadly short swords. Hidden in a dense copse of trees fifty metres above the wall was another force of five thousand tribesmen.

Pointing to a series of smudged smoke trails to the north-east, Arminius spoke excitedly to his companion. “See Wulfga! It’s as I hoped. They’re unable to get their wagons through and are burning them. Excellent, the tail of the convoy will be slowed down even more.”

“When can we attack?” the scarred warrior asked. “The men pull like dogs at the first smell of the kill. I don’t know how much longer they will hold.”

“They’ve shown great patience my old friend; something that doesn’t come easily to them when the battle fever burns so strong,” Arminius said. “But, the time for patience is over. Is everything in place?”

“The signals are prepared, and the men are ready,” Wulfga growled.

“Good,” Arminius said. “After the next cohort enters the gorge, I want the trail sealed behind them. I don’t want any to break free to the north. Not one...do you understand?”

Wulfga inclined his head in grim acknowledgement. He wheeled about, breaking into a stooped run through the trees.

Arminius fastened his helmet strap, and then drew the long cavalry sword that had served Rome so well.

*

The smell of wet earth was strong as Guntram crouched low behind the earth-wall, his hands splayed wide on the haft of his war hammer. Well versed in the dangers of Roman weaponry, he’d purchased armour at the settlement. A conical helm fitted with sweeping eye-guards rested upon his head, giving him a distinctly hawk-like appearance. In place of a tunic he wore a sleeveless hauberk of black ring mail, and his Damascus blade was strapped between his shoulder-blades to ensure a quick, overhead draw. The broad bladed Roman dagger was thrust through his belt.

The majority of his brothers were armed with the traditional framea, or with axes crafted for single or double handed use. Fine blades of iron and steel were scarce, being restricted to individual chiefs and experienced warriors. Some were equipped with an assortment of less purposeful, yet no less deadly weaponry: including razor edged scythes, long bladed hunting knives, crudely spiked wooden cudgels and heavy hammers. A number of hunting bows were also in evidence; despite his people tending to shun this weapon in war, preferring instead those more suited to close combat.

As he waited, his every muscle screamed for action. He cranked his head from side to side. The air crackled with tension, and all about him warriors displayed the familiar signs of men about to be immersed in bloody combat. Many cursed to bolster their courage or fidgeted and sweated the cold sweat of fear. Others murmured prayers to the gods, over and over, while a small number, like him, waited mutely for the blood-letting to begin.

Then suddenly the signal came.

Thousands rose as one above the rim of the earth-wall to release their missiles. For brief moments the awful hail might have been mistaken for a spreading cloud of out-sized birds that swooped downwards onto the oblivious troops. Then spears, hammers, arrows and jagged rocks ripped into them. A second and third volley swiftly followed. The iron-tipped spears punched through even the sturdiest Roman armour. Their shields, embedded with the spears, became too cumbersome to wield. Startled legionaries cursed, screamed, bled and fell. As the terrible onslaught continued to rain down, many of the wounded were trampled to bloody ruin beneath the boots of their comrades. Some threw off their heavy packs and braced themselves behind their shields, but there was little room to manoeuvre and the dead and wounded underfoot only added to their plight.