War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (37 page)

A lull in the onslaught was followed by the wail of a war-horn.

Guntram vaulted the earth-wall. Lifting his war-hammer above his head, he screamed, “Germania!” A dark mass of warriors swarmed forwards at his side.

*

A heart-beat away from the shield-wall, Guntram glimpsed the pale, bobbing faces of Rome’s finest.

His heart pounding, he drew his war-hammer back over his right shoulder. He cried out, an awful bestial sound, and then his hammer crunched down onto a jutting helmet. The Roman died instantly but didn’t fall, his body hemmed upright by the press of troops on either side. Guntram pivoted sideways, felling another with a reversed swing of his hammer, its vicious spike embedding itself fully in the victim’s neck. He wrenched it free and sucked in a breath, strong with the stench of blood and bowel. Eyes blazing, he sought his next victim.

Stretching away on either side of him the two forces met with the shocking clang of iron and the screams of men and horses. The shield wall was shrinking, with hundreds of legionaries lying sprawled in tangled knots; bleeding, groaning, drowning in the muddy filth. All of the Germans’ throwing weapons had been discharged with deadly effect, and their lack of heavy armour now gave them a marked advantage as they ranged freely around their enemy in the narrow gorge. The weight of numbers was now in their favour.

Those legionaries closest to Guntram shrank back from him and the dripping hammer. He shook sweat from his eyes and paused briefly to glare back at them. Blood crept sluggishly through his scalp and he adjusted his hand grip, knowing there could be no stopping until all the killing was done.

*

The blotted sun was setting and darkness crept up the slope like the rising tide of the sea.

Wilda moved quietly to Guntram’s side. He bled from wounds to his neck and arms and his helmet bore dents from the blows of sword and shield. Steam rose from his black corselet, its once dull sheen obscured by blood. He leaned forwards, folding both hands over the butt of his hammer.

“Has there been any news of your brother and the woman?” Wilda asked tentatively.

“Nothing,” Guntram’s reply was sharp. Then, seeing the concern on Wilda’s face, he added more gently, “The column is shrinking fast, and I’ll need to inspect the wounded, look among the-”

“We’ll look again tomorrow,” Wilda finished for him.

“Yes. Tomorrow will be the last day, and then I’ll know for sure.” He looked in the direction of a group of parading warriors.

“The men say you fought like Thunor himself, and that no one could stand before you.” Wilda’s words were filled with pride.

“I played my part.” He switched his gaze to her upturned face. He wanted to tell her to withdraw from the battle, that he was concerned for her safety, more concerned than he would admit. Yet, he knew that she would not be swayed, that she was as immovable as she was beautiful.

There was a smudge of blood across Wilda’s cheek.

“Are you cut?” Guntram asked, lifting his hand to trace the mark.

“No...the blood isn’t mine.” She sighed, and then went on. “They fought bravely despite their losses, and battle was not like I expected it to be. So much blood and the smell.” Her voice trembled. “Then I saw the women and...the children. It was terrible.”

“The men of the legions rarely surrender or run,” he told her. “If they did, they know the punishment would be severe.” His voice became quiet. “The women and the young ones...I know.”

Both stood silent, pensive for a time.

“Tomorrow,” Guntram said, “some will try to surrender.”

“What will be different?” Wilda asked.

“Because the living know there is no hope.”

* * *

Chapter LIII

NO
QUARTER

“Wars, the horror of mothers.”

Tacitus

At the close of their second day in the forest the remnants of the Roman army erected the semblance of a fortified camp along a water-logged stretch of the trail. Sheltered behind a rickety perimeter of stakes, the two thousand survivors prepared for a desolate night ahead.

As Dracco stared into the struggling flames of the small fire, the screams of the Roman wounded sounded over the mutterings of the troupe. They were the unfortunate ones, captured before they were able to fall on their blades. Cut by knife and burnt with flame, their agonised cries jolted the men, before shuddering away into the darkness, only to start again soon after.
The bastards will draw it out as long as they can,
he admonished

“I’ve stopped listening,” Servannus said, tightening his grip on his
gladius
.

Dracco saw that his hands shook and he could smell the man’s fear across the short distance between them.

“We’ve no leadership I tell you,” Servannus whined. “I’ve heard that Varus has lost his mind and cries like a child.”

“Get some rest,” Dracco advised, stretching the stiffness from his neck as he stroked a whet-stone along the edge of his sword. “Tomorrow you’ll need it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Servannus’s voice quivered with fear. “If Varus is mad, who will plan our escape?”

“We’re better off without the bastard, and no plan will make any difference when tomorrow comes,” Dracco replied, his gaze fixed on his sword.

“That is treasonous talk! I...I could have you scourged for such words.” Servannus’s voice cracked with emotion as he sputtered his response.

“Keep your threats to yourself you prancing sack of shit, or you’ll not live to see tomorrow, and no man here will interfere.” Dracco spat a gob of phlegm to land deftly between Servannus’s feet.

Long minutes passed before Servannus ventured to speak again, his face wearing an imploring expression. “Tell me straight, then. Is there any chance we could reach Haltern?”

“Not in this life.” Dracco laughed, and it was an empty, humourless sound. “Better that you make your peace with your gods and resolve to sell your life dearly tomorrow like the rest of us.”

“It’s as I thought,” Servannus said, his head bowed forwards into his palms, his words sounding dead. “Even if we fight like furies there are so many, and they’ve had the taste of our blood...so much blood.” Lifting his head – the pale tracks of tears visible on his dirty face – he asked, “Do you think that any still live forward of our position? Or maybe behind?”

“No,” Dracco answered wearily. “The army’s been chopped apart and butchered. We’re all that’s left, and we have the first cohort to thank for it – tough bastards. If they’d not broken out we’d be rotting in the mud, too.”

“Why did Varus allow us to be caught like a rabbit in a snare?” Servannus griped.

“Perhaps he knew no better, but it doesn’t matter now. For us the bell cannot be un-rung.”

Servannus persisted, anger creeping into his voice. “He’s led a whole army to its death, and yet you dismiss it as if-”

“It’s too late to wish the dead back to life,” Dracco told him. “Just pray as I do that your end will be quick. Now, you should follow the example of your men, and try to get some sleep.”

Looking close to tears, Servannus asked, “How can they sleep knowing...what’s coming?”

“Because they are legionaries, and will fight on until death claims them,” Dracco growled.

“Why? Where’s the glory in such a death?”

“Have you learned nothing about the men you lead? They’re not concerned about glory. Each of them knows that his true worth lies in him meeting his duty to the man who stands next to him; in his resolve to hold strong until he can hold no longer.”

Servannus nodded, and for a second Dracco thought that he glimpsed a hint of understanding on the tribune’s face. Or, perhaps it was just a quirk of the dull fire-light.

Turning his attention back to his sword, Dracco hoped there were no more questions to answer.

*

Shortly after dawn the tatters of the nineteenth mobilised. Varus rode at its heart surrounded by the first cohort who carried with it the one eagle remaining in Roman hands.

They were attacked by the combined German host. The assault was overwhelming, and the survivors fell in droves, their blood turning the water channels dirty red. Many Romans were too weak to properly defend themselves, and the Germans hacked and stabbed at them like wolves amongst sheep. So closely were they beset, that the dead in their midst remained erect, locked tight in the press with arrows and javelins sprouting at obscene angles from their corpses.

Groups of Germans were turning their attention to the fallen, set on stripping armour and acquiring weapons. And the mutilation of the defenceless. In desperation, some legionaries broke ranks and fled into the bog, where either their armour dragged them to a watery death or they were cut down by the German skirmishers lying in wait.

In shock, Varus was barely able to comprehend the horror of the last three days. The wine he drank before dawn felt sour in his belly and did little to numb his shame. He watched the first cohort’s veterans struggle to re-group for a final stand, their efforts handicapped by the ground on which they rallied.
Truly the gods have cursed me
, he conceded bitterly, finally realizing the end was near.

“Danaos, quickly!” Varus dismounted and beckoned to his aide, who staggered towards him, a wound in his arm seeping blood through his clasped fingers.

“Can you still hold a sword?” Varus asked, his eyes now clear and his jaw set.

“Yes...I can still fight.”

Varus drew his sword and held it out, the ornate hilt foremost. “Take it and hold the point towards me!”

As Varus removed his breast-plate, Danaos’s eyes stretched wide in recognition. “Please my lord!” he implored, “I cannot do this!”

“You must!” Varus demanded. “You’ve always served me well and I need your help with this last thing. A general of Rome cannot be taken alive!”

“My lord, we are holding them and might yet break through.”

“Danaos! There’s no more time.” He guided the sword point against his chest. “You must brace your feet and hold the blade steady. I order you to do it! Now!”

Shaking, Danaos gave in.

For a moment Varus fixed his gaze on the sword’s tip. He closed his eyes, willing his mind somewhere else.

With both hands clasped on the blade, Varus jerked himself forward.
Good Mithras! It’s easier than I ever imagined.

Then the pain came, and it was everything he feared it could be. His body shuddered, and all his thoughts of the past, his every hope and ambition slid away...

* * *

Chapter LIV

REUNION

“Everyman’s life lies within the present;

for the past is spent and the future uncertain.”

Marcus Aurelius

With each dead body that he checked, a barb cut into him, unfolding layer upon layer of feared recognition.

A distinctive red blaze, it was her hair that Guntram spotted first. He closed his eyes and the noise of battle receded. A sudden, awful pain ran through him. He opened them again and moved nearer.

Jenell’s body was covered by that of a Roman officer whose face was gone, cut away. Wounded many times, he’d clearly tried to shield Jenell with his body in the awful final moments. Their hands were tightly clasped; a sealed bond as death raced in.

Guntram squatted down and moved a lock of hair from Jenell’s cheek. Black blood stained the corner of her mouth and he swatted away the eager flies. His eyes searched the stillness of her face as if expecting her to awake and speak to him, a part his mind splitting away, questioning if it was true.

At length, Guntram stood, and continued to stare at her for a while. He tried not to see the blood and pain, glad only that Jenell wasn’t alone at the end.

Tribesmen passed him, yelling, laughing.

Guntram hardly noticed them. He felt queasy, the full impact of his discovery bearing down on him.

He’d known where to look for Jenell and found her. Of his brother there was still no sign.

*

With victory still not complete, Arminius was unable to sleep through the long, murky night; a night broken by the cries of the Roman captives.

He’d had not foreseen the wide-spread torture of the wounded, and it was never his intention to unnerve the survivors in such a way. His men, acknowledging imminent victory spared no-one, not even the women and the children. He’d planned for the battle to end at the earth-wall, but the nineteenth’s first cohort had lived up to their reputation and fought their way through with a small force – a pitiful few.

The final attack was delayed in order to allow scores of his men time to shake off their hang-overs from the previous night of celebration. They’d ignored his orders for restraint until victory was complete, and he was angry, tired, and Wulfga had cracked heads.

Now, as he watched the Roman formation recoil under the massive assault he knew that it was nearly finished. For the first time he saw legionaries drop their weapons and try to surrender. They were struck down without mercy. His men used their long swords to hack off their heads, nailing the grisly trophies to the trees. The few of centurion rank who were seized – although barely alive – would be saved for the ritual fires.

All these things he pledged to retain in his mind. And, when the fighting ended, he would ensure that homage was to his fallen sword-brothers, whose loss would be dearly felt in the struggle ahead. Some had been good friends, all were true to his cause.

“They’ve brought it back!” the blood splashed Wulfga’s arrival shattered Arminius’s thoughts.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The head of Varus.” Wulfga pointed to a jubilant crowd of warriors. “They found his body and armour. So you’d better hurry before the drunken bastards lose it!”

“I’ll come soon,” Arminius replied quietly, the battle’s exertions weighing heavily on him. Wulfga nodded, and looking slightly bemused hastened away.