Then, our men, hiding in the fields of barley, seemed to twitch. The men around me moved like the field was alive, and I saw a massive number of riders splashing to the river.
They were Treveri, Gauls, and Batavi.
There were two thousand of them, many alae. They came to make sure it was safe to deploy against Armin.
I prayed and knew I would have to fight the enemy who was also a dear friend. Chariovalda would be there, fighting his last battle. I watched Adalwulf who saw my face and turned to speak to Gochan. He, too, nodded. They knew what I asked of them, and soon, his men were pointing spears at the right standards.
The 1st Batavorium was there with the 2nd.
I saw one high standards in the middle of them. It was a new one, but I did see my friend under it.
“The silver disk of Sunna,” I said, and they heard me.
Chariovalda was in the middle.
His standard was easy to see amid the water flying high around him and his men.
Near the edge of the river, a mile from us, the battle began.
A hundred men jumped out of the grass to lob spears at the crossing enemy, and the first men died in that river. There, hordes of Cherusci skirmishers showed their contempt at the auxilia, and some hunters were releasing arrows. Men and horses fell down in lines of bleeding corpses and splashed below. Soon, the first ones came to the right bank of the river in a furious, wet charge, some of those men with spears and arrows hanging from their shields.
They crashed in the middle of the skirmishers who had been too late to flee and then rode like the wind after the rest, not at all wiser for the past year.
Or, perhaps, they were just expendable, and Caecina and Germanicus used them to see what was out there.
The Batavi were Tiberius’s clients, and not those of Germanicus.
In fact, they might one day be enemies.
He was free to use them like dogs, and he did.
The Batavi and the Gauls rode wildly after the skirmishers, hacking down at them. The wall was approaching fast, and our men were very few as they sprinted past.
The enemy rode straight at us.
The thousands around me got up as one man and enveloped the enemy so fast, they crashed into a wall of shields, men and horses falling in dozens, a look of shock on their faces.
The Germani were expert fighting against horses.
Men were slipping under the great Gaul beasts, slashing legs and bellies, and horses fell all around us.
We had our part to play.
The others were there to stop them.
We were to encircle them. To break them.
Adalwulf’s men and the Sarmatians pulled up their horses from the grass. We jumped on our horses and whipped the beasts to, yet again, once more, slam to the arse of the enemy with very sharp cocks. We sped through the grass and mud and, without any ceremony, turned and rode straight into the Batavi rear, lances thrusting.
I had been an officer of 2nd Batavorium. I had fought with the men.
I had loved fighting for and with them.
And now, I’d have to kill them.
I rode straight into one, and my spear punctured the man’s back. The spear was caught, I let go of it, and the man was forgotten, his long, blond hair bloodied as he fell. We pushed forward, lances and swords hacking and stabbing, our momentum taking us straight to the heart of the Batavi contingent.
They were in terrible trouble already.
Behind us, the legions and fresh auxilia were rushing over to save them, witnessing the terrible annihilation facing them.
They were nearly surrounded.
We had time. We had to be fast. The Batavi and the Treveri didn’t.
We had to kill them and to make their scouts cautious for the rest of the battle. We had to kill as many of their horsemen as we could and to unnerve the rest.
It seemed we could.
Shields were pushing the enemy horses and men together, our men protecting the men next to them in the tight shieldwall, taking cavalry spears and long swords with those shields, while spears were stabbing over their shoulders to kill our foe efficiently, brutally. Javelins were tossed at point blank at the enemy horses and men. Many were falling. Many more would be falling when they tried to flee.
I saw Chariovalda, my old friend on his horse, howling orders to do just that.
“Back, back!” he called, and his decurion obeyed, his riders turned their mounts, the noblest of riders in Roman army obeying without question.
Chariovalda howled for his men to attack the rear, and that’s where we were, and behind us, more of our men, many of them Marsi, were circling the battle to aid us, casting nervous looks at the river.
Our men were brave. They knew we had hope.
They trusted the Summer Sword, Armin.
Many knew of the Marcomanni.
They all knew this could be the day of great victory.
Germani were ill-equipped to fight Rome on a field. It was a long learning experience, a painful one, and it would take long years. But Germani could hold and bleed Rome, while exchanging many lives for few, and still win. It could still surprise Rome in the woods, in the rain, and now, we would surprise them on a level battle field.
The Batavi pushed against Adalwulf’s men, slaying like fiends.
Then they were pushed from behind and many fell to javelins.
I saw Chariovalda near me. I saw Adalwulf, the most respected, greatest war-chief of the Chatti. He was leading his men, savage and numerous again, bedecked in silver and gold chain. He led his men viciously against the armored Batavi chief, and his sword was flashing as he cut down young men around my friend. Gochan was near me, looking at the enemy with glee, his remaining Sarmatians close around us, stabbing down men, shooting arrows at those who got past, spilling them on the grass where the Marsi stabbed them for good measure. The enemy was struggling, finding it hard to turn, to organize a proper push, a mass of thousands rapidly being hacked down.
As for Germanicus, he was not happy. There were trumpets blowing, and we were running out of time. We doubled our effort, panting, pushing spears again and again in the rapidly thinning lines.
It was then when Chariovalda, his face sweating and bloodied by the men he had killed, lost his last guardians. His silver Sunna was above him, held by what must have been a relative, a beautiful young man, and gesturing for him to follow, Chariovalda howled his defiance as men rode for him, over the corpses of his best men.
He hefted his heavy spear, red from blade tip to the bottom, his shield sundered by javelins, and led his last men forward to meet the men after his life. In heavy armor, old warriors all, the enemy came forth, pushing to Adalwulf’s charging men. I was near and saw Chariovalda, roaring as he killed a wolf warrior, and then rode at Adalwulf, hissing.
Adalwulf greeted him, gave me a glance, his ferocious battle rage making him grin like a fiend, and he attacked Chariovalda.
Chariovalda leaned forward and thrust the spear at Adalwulf.
The shaft was broken.
The blade sunk to Adalwulf’s shield, bashed across it to his helmet, and broke to splinters.
For a moment, the old warrior was thrown off-balance.
Adalwulf hacked down with his sword so savagely, the blade hummed.
It crashed into Chariovalda’s helmet, through it to his skull and shoulder, and the old warrior, to the dismay of his last men, fell from the horse. Then, his standard, the silver disk spun down after him, as Gochan butchered the young man who had held it.
So died the most noble of the Batavi, and I thanked Woden I had been spared killing him.
We pushed the enemy in again, and in again, crushing them against each other. They fell in rows and lines, into an ever-smaller ring, until we heard the trumpets close.
Behind us, legions were near, all of them rushing from the river, wet, brilliant, brave. Auxilia cavalry was spreading out, many new Gaul units and the Chauci with them under the banner of Ernust, and they were
riding to cut us off from Armin.
Armin, I saw him. His blond hair was gleaming with sweat, and he lifted his horn on his lips.
He blew notes, and we broke off and ran for the woods, leaving hundreds of the riders a bleeding, weeping mass of men, standing on wounded horses amid thousands of dead.
We ran and rode and, in the woods, swung south and watched as Rome turned to march to the wheat field and deploy. They were miles away from Armin’s lines, and the cumbersome force would take time to get ready.
To our surprise, they didn’t attack. Not that day.
That afternoon, Roman legions began building a castra in the middle of the field, their legions spread left and right of it, seemingly in no hurry, and hunkered in.
They didn’t attack that night. They sent their riders to the woods, and those woods rang with sounds of dying men, as we tried to stop them from discovering Maroboodus.
***
I was riding through the ranks that night.
Many Germani adelings were on the hillside, which was held by the Cherusci, in the middle of the line. Tencteri and Usipetes were on the right in the woods with the Marsi, Tubantes, and what Sigambri remained. The horsemen were busy with the aggressive Roman scouts, and few got rest. The Chatti and Bructeri were on the left side of the hill, with Ampsivarii. That was the most dangerous place, for it was the longest way from there to safety, since the river covered them and much of the Cherusci on the hill. It was a daring and massive gathering of tribes, and the singing of the tribesmen echoed across the river and the land.
Across the field, the Germani of the enemy were also singing, their massive preparations still going on.
Gochan was with me, while Adalwulf had his men deployed to the right of the hill. I had a task for the night and would not be with them. Before that, I wanted to see the battle lines.
He grunted and pointed a lance to the Roman lines near the woods. I could see a great deal of light there, and a tall Roman riding with hundred men. “Stertinus, that one. He’ll lead the cavalry and the Chauci to our right tomorrow. Trying to break through and past our flank to trap all of the army against the river and the hill.”
“Bastard,” I said with a smile.
“We’ll stop him until Maroboodus comes,” he said. “Wait. What is Armin doing?”
I turned to see Armin. He was riding down the hill for the front, his eyes gleaming. I looked at Gochan, and then we followed along. He rode far, and I began to worry for his safety, and there, on a bank of a small stream that split the field in two, he stopped and watched the night.
From the night rode Flavus.
His eye was missing, and his face was haggard and tired, his hugely blond hair long behind his back.
He was smiling gently at his brother, and Armin smiled back, briefly.
They said nothing for a moment.
Flavus broke the silence. “I heard,” he said, “that you have offered land and gold to men who betray Germanicus.”
Armin nodded. “And I hear your Germanicus is walking the camps in disguise, nervous as a kitten in woods, listening to his men complaining.”
Flavus shook his head. “It is so. He is nervous as a kitten. His men are faithful. Can you beat him, brother?”
Armin waved his hands around. “Forty thousand men. Have you heard of anything like it, Flavus? Is it not how Rome was made? Tribes joining common causes against those who were powerful and oppressive? If not I, then someone else. I saw Roman influence spreading. Matticati to the south, then Vangiones taking Marcomanni lands. In the north, Frisii, Chauci, Sigambri… We are here to fight, brother. Come, Flavus. We have long-hated each other.”
He looked at Armin with doubt.
His eyes sneaked on mine, and Armin noticed.
I stiffened. Had Flavus betrayed me, intentionally or unintentionally? Who knew Flavus’s heart, after all?
“Hraban is a champion,” Armin said finally. “He decides on nothing. A sword and a liar, he is no threat to you, brother. Come, join us. Bring with you men who listen to you. At least, tell the Chauci to stand down.”
Flavus stared at Armin, and tears streamed down his eye. He shook his head. “Alas, it is far too late. Tomorrow, you either kill Germanicus, or you fail. In either case, I go back to Rome. Perhaps one day, Armin, when much of our blood is gone, Rome shall send one of mine to rule here.”
Armin spat and hissed. “Thusnelda.”
“Yes?”
“Is she alive?” he asked, choking.
Flavus looked down. “Unmolested, alive. You have a son, Armin. Thumelicus, they named him.”
Armin stared at him. “That means… ‘one who represents himself in public’? That’s what it means?”
Flavus sighed. “They plan on making him a gladiator. The name? It is a joke, and a bad one. He is not harassed or hurt. They just speak of them like…I am sorry. I cannot—”
Armin raised his sword at him. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow, I shall take Germanicus. I shall take him alive, if I can, and I shall do all I can to bring back my son and wife. Tell Segestes…tell Segimundus I shall kill both for what they did. Tell the latter I will find out why they betrayed me. Tell them the fate of my son shall be carved on their flesh. And you, brother, since you fail me, your king, shall be the first to die.”
Men stopped Armin from riding forward and pulled him back.
I rode near him and heard him weeping. “Thusnelda made me king. Alas, I would have died a hero rather than hear these words.” He looked at me. “Make sure Maroboodus is coming. And stay with him for the battle. Take his men straight to Germanicus. Capture him.”
“Yes, king,” I said, and rode off with my Sarmatians.
***
The camp of Maroboodus was deep in the woods, and full of grim warriors who were combing their horses and looking at their spears as if gauging their sharpness. Men were silent, thousands of them, stretching deep to the woods. Roman captives, speculatores and scouts, were laying still in one part of the clearing, and whether or not Maroboodus had managed to keep his presence unknown, was to be seen.
His eyes, as he saw me, gleamed like a bear’s.
He clutched his sword and stared at me with malevolence.
I leaned down at him. “Well, Father. How is Catualda?”
He smiled thinly. “He is in the Amber Hall. Still alive. Barely.”
He had tortured the bastard.
I shook my head. “I am sorry to hear that. You are not able to finish him? Should I send someone to do it for you?”
He spat. “Shut your mouth, son.”
I waved my hands around. “Few hours ’til the battle, Father. The ring is yours, then, as is the glory. Have you been told what we face?”
He nodded. “Much of Rome’s might in the north.”
“They die like any,” I said.
He lifted his hand and ran it across his sword. “There is a rumor.”
“Share it,” I told him.
“The rumor is that my son died at childbirth. That Gunhild died. How could I know the truth of it?”
I was silent and still.
I had not heard of it. It was possible. Gunhild was not young, and even the young died in that horrible affair. Had they forgotten to tell me?
“Well?”
I shrugged. “You cannot know for sure, Father,” I said. “It is called trust, and you lack it. There is no man in Midgard you trust. Who told you this rumor?”
He laughed. “Who? I still know men in the guard. An odd rumor, is it not? As for trust? I should trust men?” He shook his head. “There was one, but he found a woman. He took your grandfather’s wife and went to live with the Batavi. The rest? No, I trust none. I will want Armin’s oath. Before all the nations, and men. He will give me his oath. Then you may do with him as you please.”
“After Germanicus is dead,” I said. “After that, Father, we shall deal with him.”
He looked at me. “We? You and I?”
I shook my head.
�
�Adalwulf and you?”
I shrugged. It was none of his business.
“Tiberius cannot protect you forever,” he told me. “And Tiberius cannot threaten me forever.”
I chuckled. “No? You have ever bowed to his mother, and now to him. You shall never rule a land of your own. I doubt you could win a war against Armin, so be glad he is in need of you.”
He sat and shook in anger, which then seemed to abate as he thought of the ring he needed to prove me wrong. He would have to swallow it all. He got up and walked to his horse. He stroked its mane and looked thoughtful, like a spider that has just consumed a fly. “The enemy is confident.”
“They are,” I said. “They are Romans. You know what we are facing? I asked once.”
He nodded. “They will march at Armin, while Stertinus will sweep through the woods and try to surround the hill and cut away the escape between the river and the hill,” he continued. “There will be massed auxilia in their first rank. Cohort after cohort of scum. Then, archers. Germanicus with four legions will come next. Then, auxilia again, lighter ones.”
“Possible.”
He shook his head. “And then, four more legions. Each legion will be in triplex acies formation, and it will look like no battle ever in the north. It is good to be part of it.” He laughed, fully aware how Rome fought. He spoke softly. “They have fifty thousand men. Armin nearly as many. And I can decide it all with my thirty. It is a moment to remember.”
He mounted up. I turned my horse and rode after him. We passed hundreds of his men in a lightless wood. Scouts rode out and past him, bowing to the great Marcomannic king, and he rode up to a hillock in the middle of the woods. There he sat, and men came to him with news, and he stared west over the land.
He said nothing to me and seemed deep in his thoughts.
We could see the battlefield miles and miles away.
“You should get your men ready,” I said. “Sunna will rise soon.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I suppose Adalwulf’s, what, over fifty? He will come for me one day.”
The Summer Sword Page 35