It had been less difficult for Helmund of the Marcomanni to assemble a new force than he had thought. Yes, the ambush of the Romans at the edge of Treverii lands had failed. But their shield wall had been breached, if only briefly. Their proud commander had been flung from his horse and laid low at the mercy of one of Helmund’s warriors. It was the unexpected arrival of the Romans’ cavalry that had lost him the day. As the story of the battle was told and re-told, the number of warriors that had been lost faded in significance when compared with bringing a Roman “General” down into the dust. Hulderic, Helmund’s adjutant and intelligence officer, had made sure the “near victory” was celebrated with ale and songs. So, when Helmund proposed a new attack, hundreds of warriors joined him. When the news came that the Roman cavalry had ridden away to the north, men flocked to his standard in their thousands.
He had been moving steadily down the German side of the Rhine, by-passing Raetia, with the aim of taking the camp of The Second Lucan. If this stronghold was eliminated, Roman forces to the east would be forced to fight on two fronts when he advanced back up through Raetia, but this time on the Roman bank. There had been spies and informers to deal with on the way; they had been neutralised in a very public and agonising way to discourage others. The Marcomanni Confederation were closely related to Otto’s people, the Suevi. That was sufficient for them to obtain free passage through the territories of other tribes who, if they were not exactly friendly, did not want to provoke an open conflict.
He had planned to attack across the river at night with two hundred warriors in canoes. He had been patiently waiting for an overcast sky to launch them when the fog came like the blessing of Tiw, the War God he also made use of the bridge. His tactic had been to overwhelm the garrison of the forward fort with its signalling tower and take control of the bridgehead. This would allow him to bring his forces over in relative security. He had partially succeeded. He now commanded the fort and the Rhine crossing but he had wanted to be in position before the Romans had any warning of his coming. He had wanted them to wake in the morning with a whole army arrayed against them where the day before, there had been no-one. That would have jolted their morale. The garrison had escaped into the main camp and he had lost eighty of his warriors. They had disobeyed his orders to stay put and instead chose to blunder around in the fog in pursuit of the fleeing Romans. Their lack of discipline was troubling but the first objective had been achieved. His army were sitting down in front of his enemy’s camp and with the bridge closed to them and no effective cavalry force, the Roman’s options were limited.
Helmund looked up the slope to the enemy camp brooding like an alien presence on the landscape. He believed that it was his to take but he knew that he had two struggles on his hands. The first was the military one of destroying the enemy stronghold and its occupants, the second was political. The Marcomanni were not one people under one leader. They were a group of tribes and clans united by their hatred of the Romans. To defeat their mutual enemy, he had to persuade them to put aside age-old rivalries and blood-feuds. Chieftains had to submit to his orders and carry them out with precision. He walked into the fort and addressed the leaders assembled to hear his words.
“When the Romans first came, our forefathers asked who were these arrogant black-haired dwarves daring to behave as if they owned the world? They rushed upon them and died on their swords. So it has been ever since. The meanest of their soldiers, the ones they treat like dogs, whipping and beating them, the meanest of these wears on his back the armour of one of our kings. They all have swords; they all have many javelins. They burrow their greedy, gold-lusting way into everything like maggots gorging on what is not theirs. Are they better men than we?”
A great roar of “No!” burst from the sixty chieftains within the fortress walls.
“Are they nobler born?” Helmund continued, raising his voice.
“No!”
“Are they braver warriors?” he shouted
“No, never!”
“Then how is it that they defeat us time after time after time?” he asked in a quieter tone. No answer came to this question. “We lose because we fight as we have always fought, for glory. They have no warrior’s pride. They never come out man to man if challenged. No, they make a plan and they all follow it. All of them; if any man does not, his general executes him. We are not like them, we are free men, but now we must act as one, following orders like they do. Then and only then, will they be defeated.”
“And are we to be executed if we disobey?” yelled one chieftain with a greying beard.
“No, that is not our way. But if men disobey, they are stealing victory from all of us. Such men are no better than thieves.”
“And who will give these orders?” another dissident voice shouted.
“I, Helmund, and no other. If you cannot not accept my leadership, you and your people may leave now in peace but remember, you will have no part in our victory.”
“And what will be different this time, Helmund? It is not so long ago that your warriors were slaughtered by these same Romans?”
“Many brave men were lost, but their glory is undying. This time it will be different. This time, we will do things our people have never done before. We will play them at their own game and we shall win. Who is with me?”
They looked around at each other, unsure. “We are with you! The bravest are with you!” Hulderic shouted from behind the semi-circle of clan leaders. Like a wave building as it approaches the shore, they stood and acclaimed Helmund. Chanting and waving their fists in the air, they swore damnation to Rome and loyalty to him.
“What do you think?” he asked Hulderic when they were alone.
Hulderic sucked his teeth and spat. “You can hold them for seven days. If we haven’t hit the Romans hard enough to hurt them in that time, you’ll start to have problems.”
Lucius went up on the walkway and wandered right around the walls several times that first day. He could see Marcomanni moving to and fro, apparently aimlessly, showing no signs of organising for an attack.
“Perhaps we could dig more spike pits around the outside of our walls,” he suggested.
“No, Boxer, won’t do at all. Suppose we had to make a sortie in force; we’d risk crippling our own men,” Titus told him.
“I just wish something would happen…” he began but the centurion stopped him and touched his lucky amulet.
“Never say that. When it begins, then you’ll really wish for something to happen alright; for it to stop! They are deliberately letting us stew to wear down our nerves. Don’t fall for it.”
The following day a large party left the enemy camp and crossed back over the bridge. They lined up their wagons with canvas screens in between to obscure their activities from the camp but the elevation gave the Romans a partial view. Another long, sunny day of inactivity was followed by a tranquil moonlit night. But the weather was changing. On the morning of the third day, dark clouds began to roll in from the south and west. By late afternoon, they had completely covered the sky and that night, neither a moonbeam nor a glimmer of starlight penetrated the thick blanket overhead.
Quadratus called Otto into his office.
“The night is as black as that horse of yours decurion. It may be dark enough for a messenger to slip through the enemy lines and carry a message to headquarters. What do you think?”
“I’m willing to try, sir…”
“No, no, no! Unthinkable; who will commend your turma in your absence? I need two volunteers from among your men. I cannot send legionaries; whoever goes has to be able to blend in with anyone whose path they may cross in the forest. There will be a substantial reward but don’t mention that until after they’ve offered to go. Report to me in the next hour; hopefully, with your volunteers.”
When Otto returned with two of his cavalrymen who had agreed to carry messages, a small-scale officers’ conference had been set up. Rufus Soranus sat beside Lucius and Cestus Valens. Titus Attius pac
ed the space behind them looking grim.. Tertius sat by Quadratus.
“Are these the men?” the legate asked Otto.
“They are, sir.”
“Good; translate for me as I go along. I want them to have the fullest understanding of what is proposed before they commit themselves,” he turned his attention to the assembled officers. “One hour before dawn the third cohort led by Tribune Soranus will leave by the Porta Decumana. Their ostensible mission is to scour the remains of the camp-followers’ settlement for any of the enemy who may be concealed there. This, tribune, is what you will tell your men and all you will tell them.” Soranus nodded, and the legate continued. “Our messengers will go out with you as inconspicuously as possible; when they judge the moment right, they will slip away into the forest and be on their way to headquarters, gods willing. I want the third cohort to be carrying torches and to make a great deal of noise. The recall will be sounded at dawn. That’s the plan. gentlemen. Your First Spear Centurion is about to tell me he does not like deploying troops at night. Neither do I but we need to give Otto’s lads the best chance we can. Cestus, can your artillery offer any support?”
“We have a limited number of fire-pots for the ballistas, sir. We can lob half a dozen into the ruins just as the gate is opened for Tribune Soranus. They’ll blaze up on impact and add to the general effect.”
“See to it,” the legate said and turned once more to Otto. “Do your men completely understand what is required of them?”
Otto held a brief conversation in German and then replied that they did. Quadratus nodded his approval and gave each of them a small scroll wrapped in oiled cloth.
The two leaves of the gate parted. From up on the walkway, crouched over his ballista, Lucius watched Cestus beside his. When his arm dropped, both machines bucked and kicked simultaneously as the fire-pots arced into the night. They were clay jars filled with a mixture of oil, tar and naptha, covered in cloth with a wick which was lit as soon as they were placed on the slides. They landed among the charred wreckage and shattered with the sounds of small explosions and a rush of blue and bright yellow flame. The third cohort was by now half-way through the gate, whistles and horns sounding, one in four of them holding a pine-pitch torch. They spread out and began to advance in skirmish order, kicking over burned posts and plank walls throwing up clouds of ash and soot. They reached the far-end of what had once been a thriving commercial centre with three hundred permanent inhabitants and others who came and went. The first silver line appeared low in the eastern sky and the horns called them back in. With blackened faces and kit, all of which would have to be restored to its acceptable spotless state, they marched in.
“Did our Germans get away?” Tertius asked Soranus.
“Must have done, sir. They’re gone but I never saw them leave.”
“That’s as it should be,” Tertius commented.
“Well, Boxer,” Quadratus said, “Titus has told me that you have been pestering him for some action and we have made our first move; sending messages begging for help. Not very glorious eh?”
Chapter 4
As the day wore on, the sound of hammering and sawing was borne on the breeze from the Marcomanni camp. A small group of officers stood on the walkway staring out but unable to see anything.
“Now what are they up to?” Tertius asked Attius.
He shrugged. “Some sort of woodwork; perhaps they’re building a wooden horse for us to drag inside, then they’ll all jump out and cut our throats.”
Lucius and Soranus, who were both within earshot, laughed. Tertius flushed.
“If the enemy is constructing some sort of war-machine, that is hardly a subject for humour, First Spear Centurion Attius.
Titus snapped to attention. “Since we have no idea what they’re doing and no possibility of finding out, expressing concern in the hearing of the men is fruitless and could damage morale, Senior Tribune Fuscus.”
Tertius smiled. “I stand admonished Titus; apologies if I have offended you,” he leaned closer and spoke in a quieter voice. “I am truly concerned, more than that, I’m worried. The accepted wisdom is that they have no skill in making siege engines but the more they are exposed to Roman military tactics and equipment, the greater the opportunity they have of learning from us.”
“Possible, I suppose but I’ve yet to see any evidence of them learning much,” Titus replied.
It came on to rain, raising the level of water in Lucius’ ditch and making the bottom and sloped side softer and slicker. The rain faded away during the night and the moon broke through the clouds intermittently.
Dawn brought a new and unwelcome sight. During the night, a forked branch had been stuck into the ground three hundred paces from the camp gate. To a single shout from thousands of throats and blare of native horns, a tall warrior approached it at a casual saunter. His hair was the colour of autumn leaves where it flowed out under the rim of Roman officer’s helmet he wore. His leggings were checked in squares of green and faded red and a bronze breast plate covered his broad chest. He held a human head dangling by the dirty braids in each hand. In plain view of the Romans behind the parapet, he threw them to his feet, opened his breeches and pissed on them. Gales of laughter rose from the assembled Marcomanni. By now, the parapet over the gate was packed.
Quadratus sighed. “Our messengers no doubt, I grieve for them. Cestus, Boxer, can you knock that barbarian down for me?”
“He’s in ballista range sir but he’ll be able to see a bolt coming and step aside,” Cestus replied with a shake of the head.
“We need to distract him.,” Lucius said. “Look at him swaggering; he loves that applause. Can I try something?”
“Make sure it does not make things any worse; if they could be. The men really won’t like this.”
“Corvo,” Lucius shouted, “Get up here with your bow and the two best archers you’ve got. Cestus, please load a bolt on the ballista in the tower and sight it on that bastard. Loose when I call out.”
Corvo came back at the run with his men.
“Can you hit that big German standing out there on his own?”
Corvo looked carefully, wet one finger in his mouth and held it up to test the wind. “No, he’s out of range by a few paces.”
“Good,” said Lucius, “shoot at him anyway when I drop my arm.”
Their arrogant target lifted the two heads and hooked them over the forks of the pole by their hair. He swung them so they knocked together and laughed. He turned again to the Roman spectators and flung his bent arms wide in a gesture of contempt. Lucius let his own arm fall.
Three arrows hurtled up into the air and dropped with increasing speed towards the enemy warrior. For a moment it looked as if they would find their mark but they plunged into the turf in a tight group ten paces short. Corvo looked crest-fallen; it had been magnificent shooting but they had missed; exactly what Lucius had wanted. The warrior strolled forward and plucked the arrows out of the ground. His silver arm-rings glinted as he raised them above his head and shook them, turning his back on the Romans to accept the praise of his own people. He took a stride towards the pole with its grisly trophies.
“Loose!” Lucius shouted and Cestus himself pulled the trigger.
The thirty-inch iron bolt sped in a high arc and began to descend, a dark blur against the lighter clouds above. It struck him in the spine below the shoulder blades, passed through his body, ripping his breast plate like paper before travelling on for another twenty feet and slanting into the ground. He toppled his full length, to drop on his face, dead; with the arrows still clutched in his hand. A stunned silence fell on the Marcomanni. Then their previous cheering and laughter was replaced by shrieks of rage. A confused turmoil of movement broke out among their packed ranks like an ant-heap being upturned. All the cheering now came from the Romans.
“Oh, well done, Boxer,” Quadratus said and slapped him on the back.
“Corvo and his men put their arrows in the right place and Ce
stus fired the killing shot, sir.”
“Quite right, well done Centurion Corvo and both of your archers.” Then he called up to Cestus Valens. “Excellent, you took the shot yourself?”
“Couldn’t ask one of the men to take the responsibility in case of a miss, sir,” Cestus shouted back.
“Well, that’s woken ‘em up,” Titus observed laconically.
Out of the churning, furious mass of the enemy, warriors were streaming away from their camp, at first there were only a hundred or so but more and more joined the stampede until over two thousand men ran with murder in their hearts towards the Roman walls. They carried spears, axes and knotted climbing ropes. They flourished shields, shrieking in berserk hatred as they sprinted up the slope. Titus shook his head and looked amused. They had begun their charge too far away, they needed to be saving their wind, not yelling.
“Man the walls to repulse a general assault,” he shouted. Brass horns relayed the order throughout the camp. Legionaries rushed to their positions. “Tribune Longius, let’s have half your archers and slingers over the Porta Praetoria. Artillery, fire at will according to the orders of your officers.”
The ballistas were loaded with the new basket-tube ammunition. Four scorpions had a field of fire and were loaded and cocked.
Helmund stood with his arms folded, watching in a mixture of disgust and despair. Yet again his men acted without thought and without orders, giving in to their desire to wipe out the perceived insult they had received when their champion had been cut down. Helmund had not wanted him to make his provocation with the messengers’ heads in the first place. It would have been better to let the uncertainty gnaw away at the Romans’ nerves day after day while they watched and waited for their return with news or relief. Now they knew that no help was imminent and were about to massacre a substantial part of his force, among them many of the youngest and bravest.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 5