We were through the enemy.
The legion below had turned. The others were turning. I saw the standards of Germanicus swinging around.
Legion trumpets were blaring with manic intensity, and men were shuffling in silver lines and columns, grimy, tired, and hungry, and now, afraid. The cohorts that were there below us, some seven of them, were rippling into shape, but they saw a mass of men who had killed Varus, and no matter how many mothers and elders they had slain in Tanfana, now they were the last in line and about to fight warriors, not women and children.
The Gauls were dispersed, or dead, and we gathered new resolve. Sigvaldi was howling, holding a head at the enemy, Helm was growling orders, and just below us, legionnaire faces were staring at us and praying.
“Varus, Varus!” the men howled like wolves and then tossed javelins down at the enemy, while we received some dozens as well, weak and few as they were tossed uphill. We had many, and the often-named missiles had seen war before, had tasted the blood of Rome previously, and did so with joy this time around, as well. The sharp-bladed slivers of death rode down to pierce shield, face, throat, and mud, and the enemy ranks shuddered below us. We moved down, tossed more, and stones joined the barrage as the legion advanced here and there up the hillside, and other cohorts stayed still.
The two cohorts in the middle shuddered to an uncertain stop.
The reason was a screaming tribune on a horse.
He was a wide stripe one, second in command to the legion, and there was a javelin that had pierced his throat. He was howling hoarsely, pissing himself on the horse, and died so brutally that the barrage of javelins that followed his death dropped gaping, inexperienced legionnaires in dozens.
And into that place, Helm led the Bructeri. The Tubantes rushed to the left and the Marsi to the right.
And we, Adalwulf and I, and our men, joined Helm. The Tencteri and the Sarmatians rode to scare off enemy that was turning ahead, and many were rotating to ride past the legion to the other side, pushing them into confusion.
The Bructeri were nearly two thousand strong. They were the best of men, the soberest and savage, and ten war-chiefs had scalps of men of Rome on their wickedly dreadful standards. The men rushed and loped over stones, ever forward, shields flashing, armor jingling, and tore to the middle cohorts like ax into a rotten tree. The Marsi ran to the first cohort and savagely began contending with the murderous enemy, and the Tubantes ran to the elite second to our left, and I heard the Romans chanting, their calls echoing with glee, as a bitter battle began amid the trees, ankle deep in cold water.
But we hastened deep into the third and fourth, and there, a butchery began.
Some didn’t even fight.
Half of the cohort’s centuries ran and scattered left and right. Many sprinted away to the opposite direction, where Sarmatians began chasing them down. They fell to the water, begging, and even threw away their swords. Shields clattered as the Bructeri tore into the confused men and went for the cohort standards. More men ran, throwing their weapons away. Centurions were weeping, begging for the mutinous shits to return to the standards, to the ranks, for their honor, for Roman honor, for Tiberius, and when they failed, most turned to die alone, as we slashed and ripped our way through them, water splashing. We crashed to the men defending the standards, and there, bitter contest took place. Legionnaires, the braver men, held shields up and stabbed like things made of iron. They thrust their weapons with long practiced moves, and Bructeri dead suddenly littered their line. More and more Bructeri jumped at the enemy, and the cohort standards were forced closer to each other as a gigantic ring pressed around them, then behind them.
Helm broke the cohort.
He, his long spear flashing, waded to the forefront and, guarded by his men’s shields, pressed the spear into a centurion’s face, and through it, and pulled back and killed a tall legionnaire next, the man trying to hack through Helm’s men to kill the Thiuda of the Bructeri. One more tried to kill Helm, pushing a pilum at his cheek, but the man took the spear under his armpit, and screamed, and Helm went through with his men, raging. A stream of his men followed.
Adalwulf and I hovered near.
We were guarding each other and looking west, past the heaving first cohort, where Marsi were hacking down men, in middle of centuries, losing dozens in the process, mad, howling like wolves.
I looked up and saw Gochan on top. He was riding back and forth—many of his men milling around him, those who were not riding around the harried legion with bows—and was looking down at me. His eyes watched the west as well.
And then, Roman trumpets blared, just as the cohorts before us broke fully.
While the Bructeri took ten century standards and the two cohort ones, and even a young tribune died trying to defend one, the help was on its way for Rome.
“Germanicus,” I whispered, and hopped on a trunk to see.
Legio XVI was coming. The last cohorts and some auxilia were rushing through the water to fall on the Marsi, and Germanicus was amongst the mass of ninth cohort of that legion, marching under his purple standard. His face was smudged, bewildered, and I saw the fear in his eyes.
I also saw the excitement. He feared and loved each moment.
Horns blared, Helm turned, and the Bructeri ran away.
They left their kills, sometimes they abandoned a man, mid-kill, and dragged the standards with them, howling with joy. Marsi disengaged reluctantly, falling in great numbers to the overwhelming enemy crashing for them, and the Tubantes, they left last, finally having made the enemy cohort retreat.
We left in a milling mass, showing our victorious trophies, heads, weapons, standards, bloodied limbs.
I heard Germanicus screaming his men forward. “XX! Now is the time! Time to gather your courage and to show them what must be come to those, who defy Rome! Come and bring sword to them! Chase them!”
Then he saw me.
I was hopping up and turning and showed my sword at him. “Dog!” I called him. “Come, Germanicus, the coward! Know what I did to Publius? You will see!”
He stared at me aghast, and then he howled orders I couldn’t hear.
The XX heard. They joined XVI in an attack.
The legionnaires ran after us, slipping in blood and water, root and mud, and climbed after us. They were ferocious, and some were dying to javelins and rocks. They streamed after us, and we retreated, faster than they were, and the Sarmatians slunk up the hill or rode around them, shooting arrows into anyone unlucky enough to be left behind.
We were going to turn on top and pick up fresh javelins, and then we would butcher more of them and let them go, only to attack again as soon as we could.
I saw Germanicus pushing after his men, never heeding his tribunes and the centurions of his praetorian cohort. He was looking at me like a starving man would stare at feast.
I looked up and waved my sword at Gochan.
He roared something, while turning.
I watched men above us, twenty Sarmatians rush out from the higher ground, the best archers they had.
I signaled with my sword again, and Gochan grinned, growling an order.
Those men aimed their bows, and the men shot their arrows. It was far. It was in range, though.
I ran up but looked back.
I saw a man next to Germanicus fall. Then a centurion, holding his face, fell on his back. The fool still didn’t see anything. He was yelling at a legate and at Caecina who were pulling him back, and again, the arrows fled the bows, spurred by released strings and anger of Germania.
I stumbled forward and couldn’t help but look back. There, arrows were landing in the concentration of men.
The over-eager bastard wanted to be a hero.
I’d send him to the mausoleum of Augustus.
The arrows landed on the signifier of Gaius, who had been struggling to keep up with Germanicus. The man fell on his knees. A trumpeter died mid-blow, and finally, Germanicus turned to look at the falling men. C
aecina was spitting orders, looking up at us. The legate next to him was plucking an arrow from his horse’s flank, screaming at Germanicus.
“Woden, help me,” I growled, as more arrows fell down.
Two arrows struck Germanicus’s horse.
One in the arse. The other, the skull. The horse fell amid his men.
And then, for a moment, I thought Woden had heard me.
One arrow struck the falling general, and Germanicus got his first war-wound as the arrow tore to his sculpted armor and hopefully through it to his belly. I saw the shaft and Germanicus screaming.
I laughed and screamed my joy to the high air, so happy to see him fall. I laughed for he had been reckless, had wanted to see me chased down, and now, he might be dying.
If so, Tiberius would be happy.
I would be happier. I thought of Ulrich and flinched at the thought Germanicus might be the only one who knew where that bastard was, but I would find someone.
I would, if it took forever.
And then, I saw him standing up, screaming. He looked up at me, and I stopped and pointed a sword at him, cursing him to Hel, and he took a step back.
He had survived. We were still being chased down.
We had reached the top of the hill.
I saw him grimace and realized it was a smile, and then I knew my joy had been premature.
Germani rushed from the top. They were fleeing.
They were women, and vitka, and I saw Gunda there. I saw some Sarmatians riding to warn us, some Germani falling from saddle. There, suddenly, a milling mass of Thracian cavalry came to sight and rode straight down at us, their heavy spears bloodied already.
They rode to our ranks and in the middle of it, and while we pulled down many men, they were routing the Marsi and then the Tubantes. I hacked down an officer, tearing him from the saddle, then a standard bearer, and heaved around me in despair, pushing at horses. The Sarmatians were there in a mass, trying to push the Thracians into chaos, and indeed, a terrible mixed melee took place.
I tried to see Gunda.
I saw her running, and then to my horror I saw the Young Wolf, I saw Ourbazo, his horse near her, calling at the Thracians.
Two heard him and followed his spear.
They rode for Gunda.
I cursed, pulled down a Thracian, took a stab from his dagger and kicked him down as I vaulted on the horse. The beast surged forward, and I was ignoring swords reaching for me, a spear tearing the air next to my face, and rode through the melee to where Ourbazo, the traitor, was screaming at Gunda to surrender. She had found a half a spear, and she was backing off. Ourbazo was laughing, the golden hair a halo around his shoulders, and the two Thracians were reaching to grasp the spear form her.
I crashed into Ourbazo first.
His eyes turned my way, and I rammed my hilt to his face.
He fell from the saddle and rolled down the hill a short way, as I turned to charge the two warriors. Both turned, bearded and brooding beasts, and one vaulted back to his horse. I rode straight at him and bashed my sword down at him.
He seemed to fall into two pieces.
His chest was cleaved in half, and the blade was wrenched from my hand as our horses crashed together.
I fell with the impact and, getting up, had a small chance to see what chaos reigned around me. Thousands were fleeing in every which way. Hundreds were on horse, fighting, some Thracians were hacking at those who fled, and ferocious battles took place left and right. I saw Helm being pulled away, wounded, and Mallovendus was one of the men defending him. He was also bleeding heavily. I didn’t see Sigvaldi, but I heard Romans screaming with joy. They were howling with furious savagery below the hill to the left where his Tubantes had fought. Someone of high blood had died. It could have been anyone, but somehow, I knew it had been him.
I turned with Nightbright and faced the last Thracian.
He was laying on his face, as someone had slashed him down while passing.
I looked up and saw Ourbazo aiming a bow at me.
He smiled thinly and shrugged. “You were right, Hraban. When you are a fourth to the throne of even such a sad band of bandits as ours,” he said simply, “it is hard to resist offers such as was made to my sisters. It is impossible, Raven. I could never say ‘no’ to an opportunity to be rich. Alas, I don’t think I can take you alive. Germanicus must be content with your corpse. Surely it shall please him a bit. It pleases me. No, I meant two corpses.”
He aimed for my thigh, and I shifted my shield.
He grinned.
He shifted his aim again, and I charged, and the arrow went past my face and struck Gunda. It pierced her chest and she fell on her back and whimpered, holding the shaft.
Again. Again.
I roared and went to kill the boy.
The boy was not so easy to kill.
He dropped the bow and whipped out his sword. The long, curving blade moved smoothly like water, as the boy dodged under my stab. I crashed into him and fell over his shoulder. I pushed myself up and instinctively whipped my blade high, and I parried his savage slash.
I pushed him back and cursed. “All the dead are on you. You ordered the scouts off the road. You told them to—”
“Aye,” he said. “I care not. I get paid for that too. Where are my sisters?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The blade came for my chest, and I dodged away, then for my throat, and I pushed it away with my shield. It was there, immediately after, and cut deceptively fast for my neck, and I managed to twist my helmet against it. He was so fast, so very fast, and I knew I could die. He kicked me from the side and stabbed, so very close, the blade cutting for my throat as I whirled to keep up.
Woden’s anger was mine.
Uncanny speed was his.
The blade tore at my beard and my skin as I stumbled back, and he kicked my shield, dodged under my stab and was on my right side, blade again coming to kill me.
I managed to parry, with luck, and he was still there, roaring to stab again, and I, desperate to turn my shield to face him, stabbed up at him, unprotected. He dodged, but Woden smiled at me, for my blade slashed to his wrist, and he jumped back and grasped his sword with the other hand. He snarled at my face and came again.
Adalwulf came at him, horse thundering for us.
Adalwulf’s blade cut down, and the boy screamed as the blade ran across his shoulder blades, tearing at his armor. He dropped his weapon and ran to a thick party of Thracians, not far, and I hesitated and ran to Gunda, picked her up, and with Adalwulf and thousands of others, we fled.
Germanicus had won his first battle.
Worse, he had survived.
***
Armin was riding back and forth on the bloody ridge and he was staring at the carnage. His eyes took in everything, and while Helm had told him much, lying down on a bed of pine, Armin knew what the plan had been just by looking at the dead.
The plan had been born of despair and necessity, and at least we had shown Rome they would not be able to come and go as they please. There had been losses on both sides.
Armin’s troops, ten thousand strong, all that had not dispersed before were below marching and running after Rome, but while the Germani moved as fast as the legions, as Armin had left women and the scarce supplies behind, Germanicus would be almost unchallenged as he went back to Xanten. The villages of the Bructeri on his path, and eventually those of the Tencteri, would burn, and some such fires already flared across the horizon.
Armin might catch some, if he was lucky.
He turned to look at me and then at Helm and the others. The adelings were staring ahead, not meeting his eyes, and I knew his golden shine had been tarnished, and he felt each long look like a needle in a muscle. He wasn’t happy.
His pride had grown. It had been spat on.
His guards had failed.
“Gray Wolf is dead,” he said.
“He is,” I told him, looking at Gunda, grievously wounded. The arrow had sunk just below he
r shoulder.
“He died before he could explain his failure,” he said, and though he had been told what had happened, and how my men…
Indeed. My men.
“I was betrayed,” I said.
He nodded. “I know about betrayals. I have been betrayed as well. Alas, for had we just had Chatti oaths we would have more than ten thousand men here. But I was denied oaths of the Chatti. And of others.”
I ground my teeth together. “I have reason to believe my son is still alive,” I said. “Borena and Alde hope to take him to my father. He was hurt, so they might—”
“Be out there, finding a way,” he said bitterly. “Aye. I am sorry for him. Alas for the war.”
I stared at him and spoke. “If you help me find him, Armin, and put Donor and his hunters to the task, I shall take the blame for this.”
He nodded. “You shall bear responsibility for this anyway,” Armin snarled. “They are saying you are cursed. Gods help your son. I cannot spare Donor or any other man to serve you, when you have failed all of us. I shall call on you later, when I know what to do.”
I stared at him with cold fury. “You will not help me find my son?”
He shook his head. “Look around you, Hraban. I shall need all the best men to trail Germanicus and to make sure he doesn’t plan anything else. And everyone knows it was your Sarmatians, working against you, who failed us. Gervas is going to your father. He will be safe there, eh? Send Sarmatians to look for the sisters, but I cannot throw my own resources to waste.”
Waste.
I stared at him. I watched him and cursed him and nodded at Gunda. “To Mattium. We go to Mattium.”
He nodded, his eyes feverish. “You, Adalwulf, and Gochan will go to my village. I have not released you from your oaths. But perhaps it would be best if you rode to your father and begged for your boy’s life. Just leave Adalwulf and your brother with us.”
Bastard. He wanted to be rid of me.
I nodded and watched Gunda. She was being carried out, and she might live, but she might die of infections or the hardships of the travel, and it couldn’t be helped.
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