“After we pulled down their wall we feasted and they rebuilt it. Now we have destroyed one of their gates and we must march upon them again as soon as possible. I have left archers hidden on the slopes to hinder them but no doubt they will succeed in hanging a new gate by the morning. To do this, some of them will be forced to work all night. Tomorrow they will be tired. We shall fall on them again and again and again until they are so exhausted and weakened they can resist no more,” he shouted.
Spears and axes were brandished overhead as men demanded to go with him to kill the hated Romans. Helmund raised his hands for silence.
“Let the chieftains and leaders drink ale and break bread with me and we shall decide what we shall do next.”
When they were seated and the first ale horns had been emptied in honour of their dead, the process of cajoling those fiercely independent tribesmen to act together and in accordance with a fixed plan began once more.
“We have twice been successful by using darkness to approach and launching ourselves on them at first light….”
“How many of the swine have we sent to Hell?” someone called out.
“If I listened to the boasts I have heard, nearly all of them. In truth, between five hundred and a thousand…” Faces fell and unhappy looks were exchanged between the leaders. “This is more than one man in ten of them,” Helmund continued. Again he was interrupted.
“That is still fewer than our own losses, much fewer.”
“It is bound to be so. They have stout walls and better arms. Victory will be bought at a high price in blood but think of this. Their walls are long and they need soldiers to defend every yard of them. If we kill a few hundred more next time and the same after that, they will be too few to cover their walls; then we can overwhelm them. Think of the treasure in weapons and armour in their camp. That will be ours. We shall be rich. We shall be powerful…” He looked around and saw nods of approval and greedy eyes; he had them now. “We are going to storm them, all of us. No more creeping up in the dark. We will fight like our fathers; in the light of day where our enemies can see us and know we are not afraid. Listen now to Hulderic who is a crafty man, skilled in warfare...”
The Roman conference was the mirror image of the Marcomanni’s. The legate spoke first, looking round at the senior officers seated at the table and others on stools or standing against the walls.
“The enemy have been able to surprise us on two separate occasions. This is not good enough. I appreciate that the cover afforded by the eastern hill allows them to approach unseen but even so, we must do better…”
“If I may, sir?” Titus Attius broke in. “It is not yet noon, with your permission, I intend to send a strong party out with sickles to cut down as much of that bracken and undergrowth as we can during the rest of today…”
“Give the order as soon as we are finished here, First Spear Centurion. Boxer, how are we with the Porta Principalis Dextra?”
“Nothing can be saved. Your choice is either a substantial breastwork with fighting platforms which will be stronger than any gate but not so high, or a new gate. In either case, we do not have sufficient timber in store. I shall need to demolish the bridge over the ditch outside the gate and part of the stables. We can re-use the planks, beams and roof supports….”
“The point of having a gate is so that we can sally out and take the fight to the enemy when we choose,” Tertius Fuscus objected.
Lucius nodded. “Understood sir, but with no cavalry and reduced effectives, are we likely to do so?”
“Which brings me to the most painful question of our losses,” Quadratus responded.
As acting adjutant Soranus had the figures. He cleared his throat and read off a wax-tablet.
“Three-hundred and eighty dead or gravely wounded and not expected to survive. Seventy-five walking or lightly wounded, mostly arrow wounds, sir. Of the dead and dying, fifteen centurions and optios. That is our most accurate assessment at this stage.”
No-one spoke for a moment then Quadratus continued.
“Boxer, I favour a breastwork but I am unhappy that it will be lower than the walkways. If an enemy climbed over the wall they would have the advantage of height.”
“If we make a double defensive wall filled with earth and rubble, we should have enough to build a walkway and parapet over it, sir.”
“Very well, see to it immediately.” Lucius stood, saluted and left. “Now, gentlemen, how are we to go about improving the way in which we are defending ourselves?” asked the legate.
Otto stood up. “I would like to speak freely, although what I have to say will not be pleasing to this assembly, yet again. We can die quickly by marching on the Marcomanni or we can die slowly while they whittle us down until we can no longer resist. We must drive them off and to do that we need cavalry. I propose to go and find us some.”
“We have already lost two men on that mission,” Tertius said.
“We have, but now we know better. They block the river. They undoubtedly have pickets in the eastern forest. Our only other route to assistance is to the south but they are watching this as well. They imagine we are in a box, with the only exit being to the west. Westward is nothing but miles of forest and riverbank for days on end. There is no help for us there. That is why I will take that direction.”
“But you have already said there is no relief to be had in the west,” Soranus blurted out.
Otto laughed. “Exactly, that is why it will be weakly guarded, if at all. I shall work my way round and ride upstream to seek reinforcements at headquarters. Aldermar is there and he can speak to the general for me.”
“When do you propose to go?” Quadratus asked.
“This afternoon; Boxer will be working on his defences, the men will be out on the hillside under heavy guard, all enemy eyes will be on the north and east. I shall ride through the southern gate but I need a sacrifice from you. I have twenty-eight cavalry men and thirty-five mounts. I ask any officer who is willing to donate one of his own horses. We shall leave the camp at speed leading spare horses, saddled and bridled. It has been dry and the sun is bright today, when we gallop through what was the camp-followers’ settlement, our hooves will throw up a lot of dust and ash. We ride until we contact the Marcomanni pickets. They will try to stop us with spears and arrows. At that point, we scatter then ride at full speed back the way we came. Most of the spare horses will be released. They will run wild and add to the general confusion. I will break off to the west, change mounts under cover and proceed alone.”
“You have clearly given this a great deal of thought Principal Decanus Longius,” the legate commented.
“Yes sir, there are other minor points but they are for me to organise.”
“You have my consent.”
“Thank you sir, oh, there is every hope that some of the loose horses will join in the hasty retreat and return to their owners. As Virgil says, “Be resolute, comrades and save yourselves for better times.” I should like to begin make myself ready ….”
Otto rummaged through the stores in the cavalry lines until he found a worn mail-shirt that had been discarded and a dented helmet. One of the smiths knocked the dents out but the repairs were obvious. He scavenged a pair of chequered breeches and a non-descript shield out of the pile of Marcomanni corpses and their kit. He also found himself a decent grey cloak. Felix gave him a brightly coloured scarf instead of his red, military one. With his head shaved, dressed in his shabby kit and oldest pair of boots, he looked like any other impoverished Germanic warrior wandering the borderlands in search of war-glory. He tied his gold ring, marble finger pendant and a few coins into his belt purse. The final part of his transformation was easy. He took up the two spears he had made when he first entered the Roman camp. With his pugio dagger, they were the only weapons he carried.
His final preparation was a visit to the priests. He handed over a scrap of paper on which he had written that in the event of his death, all his property was to be left
to Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius, known as Boxer, with the exception of ten-thousand denarii which were to go to the legion funds for the relief of soldiers discharged on medical grounds and an equal sum to Decanus Felix. The priest read the paper with surprise at the sums-involved but gave his solemn oath both to preserve and enforce this simple last will and testament without comment. Lucius had been engrossed in his building-works all day, a lot of the time just outside the camp, and had no idea what Otto was about to attempt.
Horses were saddled. Cavalrymen mounted-up and took lead reins into their hands. Felix handed up a leather satchel with some bread, smoked meat and a cup to Otto.
“Fortuna with you, Otto Longius,” he said and turned away without waiting for a reply.
Quadratus came over to clasp hands in farewell.
“Look for me on the ninth day sir. When the reinforcements arrive, I shall ask for all the buglers to blow the call to mount-up at the same time. You should be able hear it and when you do, The Second Lucan can come out in force.”
“Any message for Boxer?” the legate asked.
“No, sir. I’ve left hm all my money. The priest has my will.”
The horses walked once around the interior of the camp, then trotted so that they were warm and moving easily when they were unexpectedly joined by Soranus. He was on the back of a showy bay with a white mane and tail and dressed in his parade armour, a long red cloak flowing from his shoulders. He glittered and glinted in the afternoon sun which was past its zenith and beginning to settle in the west.
“I’m going with you,” he shouted. “They’ll expect to see a Roman officer.”
“Well, they won’t overlook you!” Otto shouted back.
The Porta Decumana opened and they were gone, accelerating over the bridge and onto the road south. Forty horses in all, hooves shaking the ground in their wild gallop, flinging their heads about, manes tossing as they jostled each other to get to the front. The riderless mounts reared and tried to pull away from the restraint of their lead ropes adding to the confused motion of the mass of jolting men, flying tails, rolling eyes, dust and madness. When they hit the camp followers’ settlement, a dense fog of black and grey ash flew up around them. They carried it with them for several hundred yards. In four minutes their headlong dash had covered a mile. A little beyond this distance, the ground began to rise steeply either side of the track and a fallen tree blocked their way forward.
The Marcomanni guarding the road saw what they were intended to see; a Roman officer in gleaming armour leading a desperate break-out heading towards Gaul for reinforcements, dragging spare mounts behind them. They had been sitting on the hillsides for days, bored and resentful that they had no share in the glory of the main army. Now was their chance but they took it a fraction prematurely. The leading Romans spurred as if they were going to jump the barrier. The guards rushed down and stood behind it, holding their spears at an angle ready to rip the belly out of any horse attempting the leap. They misjudged both horses and riders. The cavalrymen hauled on their reins and leaned back in the saddle. Their mounts straightened their front legs and bent their back ones, practically sitting as they slammed to a skidding halt in a shower of grit and dust. The led horses were flung around sideways-on, kicking and rearing. As a body, the Romans turned and sped back up the track dropping their lead ropes. Some of the “spares” ran with them, some broke off to the left and right in their panic. Yet others slowed to a bewildered halt before trotting after their vanishing companions once more. It was too great a temptation to resist. The guards abandoned their position and hurried forward to catch one of these valuable prizes. They had left their high vantage point so when the fleeing horses threw up a dense cloud of ash once more, none of them noticed one figure bent low in the saddle with a great black horse keeping pace alongside him, race off to the cover of the trees half a mile to the west.
Chapter 8
Otto slowed his wild flight under the tree canopy at the edge of the woodland. He dismounted and took the small sack of crushed grain off the saddle-horn of his cavalry mount. He removed the lead rope around its neck and turned its head back towards the camp before giving it a mighty slap across the rump. The horse snorted and ran out onto the neglected agricultural land, cavorting and huffing at the indignity. He looked up at the sky. Although it was gloomy under the thick foliage, there were three hours of full daylight left and then the long gloaming. He took Djinn’s bridle and walked at his head deeper into the forest, heading roughly northwest. He would have been cheered to know that, of the forty horses that had left the camp, thirty-six had thundered back through the Porta Decumana.
Lucius was at a loose end. The legionaries had broken down the bridge over the ditch and taken down the roof of most of the stables. Both faces of the heavy timber breastwork were in position. Soldiers were digging the ditch deeper and wider, throwing the earth and sand in between to make a fire-proof core. Lucius noticed a flushed and excited Soranus climbing down off the back of his horse which was fretting at its bit and flecked with foamy sweat. Loose horses were running about the parade-ground being chased by soldiers who thought they were helping to catch them by shouting, whistling and waving their arms about. Gradually, the still mounted cavalrymen captured and quieted them.
Lucius walked up to Soranus and held his horse for him while the young tribune took several deep breaths.
“That was excellent,” he said, “Completely forgot how much my hand hurts.”
“What have you been up to?” Lucius asked.
“Helping Otto with a diversion.”
Lucius looked around but could not see his friend.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“On the way to headquarters, with any luck,” Soranus told him with a broad smile which faded when he saw the horrified expression on Lucius’ face as his words sank in.
“He’s gone, just like that on some suicide mission? Without even telling me about it?”
“Thought you knew, Boxer. You must have seen us setting out?”
“No, I did not. I was busy. So what is going on?”
“Otto is getting us some cavalry support. He had a plan to leave camp unseen and now he’s off….”
Lucius turned his back and walked quickly away across the parade ground and up to the northern wall where he had seen Quadratus and Tertius gazing out over the parapet at the Marcomanni lines. He saluted abruptly.
“Why was I not told Otto was leaving the camp? I could have ridden with him… sir,” he said to the legate without even a greeting, adding the “sir” as an obvious afterthought.
Tertius answered. “It is not customary to inform every officer of actions approved by our commander.”
It was a deserved rebuke and Lucius knew it.
“My apologies. I have been discourteous. But I was shocked to discover that Otto had left on his mission without discussing it with me beforehand. I must admit, I feel wounded that he did not even say goodbye. Clearly, I was far from his thoughts…”
“On the contrary, Boxer; his last act before departing was to entrust his will to the priests. He has left you practically his entire fortune. Congratulations,” Quadratus told him, drily.
Lucius reddened. “I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” he said after a pause.
Quadratus shook his head. “No, not at all. It is natural that you are thrown out of equilibrium to discover your close companion gone without your prior knowledge.”
“Indeed, sir but it is in my reaction that I am at fault. Otto often quotes Cicero, “People make too many emotional decisions and not enough by reason and law.” That is one of his favourites. I should have thought before I approached you.”
“He was reciting Virgil before he left,” Tertius remarked. “From where does he get it all?”
“He studies the sayings of philosophers and poets. He is himself a philosopher in his way, since he seeks after truth and wisdom.”
“Who would have thought it of a German?” Tertius l
aughed but it was his time to be corrected.
“The Principal Decurion Otto Longius is a Roman Citizen enrolled in the Equestrian Order by the Emperor Augustus in person. “German” no longer has any place when discussing our brother officer.” Quadratus told him sharply.
Tertius had meant no harm. Until joining The Second Lucan, he had spent his military career in Italy where the word “German” stood for savagery and mindless violence. When had he arrived to begin his service on the border, he was amazed that the legion relied on these very same Germans for intelligence gathering and cavalry support. He had a mind that craved order; that is why he felt most secure when immersed in his administrative duties where everything could be categorized and written down. He simply did not know what to think of Aldermar and Otto. They did not fit into a category he could define; Men were noble or common, civilised or barbarians but where did they belong?
Otto had cut a leafy branch and was trying to sweep his tracks aside as he made his way towards the riverbank. After forty minutes, the trees thinned significantly and he could catch the odd glimpse of the shimmering surface of the Rhine. He tethered Djinn and crawled forward. Looking both up and downstream, he could see nothing but a peaceful grassy bank with a few saplings growing close to the water’s edge. He then wriggled back into deeper cover and scouted the edge of the forest in either direction for several hundred paces. He found no watchers, no dead fires left by guards. It appeared he had been right; the Marcomanni had not considered their western flank needed protection.
He took Djinn to the river and let him drink a little, then mounted and walked him upstream. He rounded a bend and found he had blundered into the outskirts of the enemy lines. There was no defensive ditch, no palisade. One moment he was on the open bank, the next among tents and rude huts made of interlaced branches, some with canvas over them, others crudely thatched with long grass. Women walked down to the water to wash clothes or fill cooking pots. Barefoot children, mostly naked, ran shrieking, playing their games. Warriors squatted on logs by their fires, some alone where their families had settled, others in groups passing around an ale-jug. One to two looked up at him with mild curiosity, others called a greeting. Djinn took him further into the encampment where the crowd was thicker. Otto now had to control Djinn carefully to avoid pushing over a tent or stepping in someone’s fire circle.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 11