I frowned. Just then, Sunna peeked across the land, and the golden light lit the woods gently. “What did you say?”
“I said, first of all, that it is good to be part of this war,” he mused. “Or not to be part of it. You choose your paths, Hraban, and I realized that you were right. I am older than most men. I have fought battles and lost many. I have come back to conquer, though usually I have done so with guile. I have loved once, a woman named Saxa, the one I lost so very early. I have taken risks, but rarely have I stood on my own two feet and simply conquered. I think I only now decided that no, I shall not ride to Armin’s aid. May the ring be lost too.”
I stared at him, feeling my heart falling.
He gave me a glance. “Let the two dogs fight. The fewer adelings that survive, the fewer enemies there are to kill after the war. Let Rome butcher them and let Tiberius deal with Germanicus. Let it take years. Let there be a civil war in Rome. In the meantime, I shall do what Armin tried to do. I want to be the Summer Sword of the Germani, the terrible king of the north, bane of summers and the bear that only sleeps in the winters. I will no longer walk in the shadows, but I shall ride to take what I want. I do not want to die without such glory. And let there be no more doubt between you or I, Hraban. You took the Semnones and the Langobardi from me. You have conspired to keep me in check all this time. You fail, and so does Tiberius. You are dead to me. And to Woden.”
I moved fast.
I didn’t stand still to die.
I knew Father was betraying everyone, and we had underestimated him. He was old, cautious, but had not always been so. He would pull his men back, and he would fall on the Cherusci survivors.
He would take his men to war that same day against Armin, and he would chase Rome out, if it objected.
He would, unless he was dead.
I kicked my horse, leaned down, and felt something pass over my head.
A javelin.
I pulled out my sword, and saw Father’s face, full of surprise, before me, his sword up. He had his hand on his sword and had pulled it out.
I was faster.
My sword was low, and I slashed up. The blade cut for his face. It was met by his sword. Sparks flew, and we crashed together. He was cursing, as he had his left side to me, hampering him, and I was close, our legs pressing together. I was younger and stronger, and I roared and forced him back. Woden’s anger gave me what I needed. I pushed his sword to the side and slammed the hilt of my sword to his helmet, and he fell out of his saddle to crash in mud. I slapped my blade on the horse and then dodged, instinctively, as ax passed my head.
The two men, brothers to Sasas, were there, and both were heavily armored, their horses as well. Champions of my father and deadly bastards, they rode to either side of me, hacked their axes at me, their horses dancing over Maroboodus, who was clawing his way up.
I hid behind my shield and pushed my sword to the man on my right side. He parried with the ax and hacked down, and I parried in turn, my arm aching with the power of the ax strike. We stayed there, our weapons locked, and my shield was taking hits from the other man. Once, it hacked to my thigh, but my chain saved the leg, and my life. I was pushing and pulling with the snarling bastard on my right, and he tried to turn me and my horse, so his friend could smash his ax into my back. I felt Woden’s anger, his spite for weaklings, and that anger multiplied, as I saw Father getting up and staggering for me, blade high.
I pushed the ax away from my sword and parried again. Father was hovering, trying to get behind me. I saw the man’s face and knew he wanted to bury some ghosts, at any cost.
I prayed to Woden for deliverance, turned in my saddle, and hacked over my shield, catching the man there by surprise. His throat was slashed, and chain ripped apart to his chest, and he toppled like a log, jingling merrily.
I felt the ax thumping to me back. I felt Father’s sword crashing to my helmet and neck heavily, and the old, bronze guard was split and torn away. I kicked my horse, dizzy with pain, and pulled him around, slashing my blade at their direction.
The blade struck the horse coming after me, making it rear and kick with pain, and the rider was holding on desperately. I rode for him, and for Father beyond, and pushed the blade to the man’s torso as he was toppling from his horse. The blade ripped through the Sarmatian. The blade slipped my hands, and the horse crashed to Father, who stabbed at me. His blade cut at my chained body, tore to my chest, and I pulled Nightbright out with lightning fast motion and stabbed down at him.
The blade sunk to his shoulder.
He howled and fell on his back, taking my sword with him. He rolled with Nightbright on his shoulder, the blade deep in his flesh, and the blade broke under him.
He was thrashing to get up, and he was howling with pain. Then he fell on his face, shivering.
I sobbed with pain, reached down to grasp the Red Wolf from the dead man’s chest, and then guided my horse to the west, trying to cling on. I was whipping the horse through the woods and passed a thousand Marcomanni, staring at me with surprise, and for some reason, none stepped up to stop me.
The reason was suddenly clear.
Out in the fields, Roman horns were blaring, and battle was about to start.
The Marcomanni were staring that way, unused to such sounds, the great horns of the Rome, and the brazen horns of the free Germani.
“Flee, curs!” I laughed as I passed them. “Flee, and do not return! Your master has shamed all of you. Soiled you are, as if he pissed on your necks!”
I rode for miles, and soon, near the wheat field and river, I found a trail up to a small hill. It rose high to the air, and from there, I saw the battle.
It was clear Father had been right.
A massive number of Roman auxilia was marching south for Armin’s heavy lines. Behind that, came the legions of Moganticum, least spent in the war years. With them, the red cloaks of cohorts of Praetorian Guards, and with them, Germanicus and his standards. Tribunes were rushing across the fields, centurions were leading their men to kill, thousands of proud standards were high in the sky. There were lines of archers between the first line of auxilia and the legions. There, behind the last cohorts of the first four legions, marched more auxilia lines, most light rabble, and the Chauci, thousands strong near the woods. Last of all, the familiar foes, the four legions of Xanten, much smaller than the other legions, just twelve thousand or so.
They were marching to win, and below me, I saw a massive number of Roman cavalry charging through the boughs for the waiting defenders. There were legion cavalry by the hundreds, and Batavi, out for revenge, Gauls and Thracians, Vindilici with their colorful cloaks. The great Roman prefect was amongst them, Stertinus. There, Adalwulf and Gochan and his men would fight.
And Armin’s huge horde?
It was beating its shields with spears. The sound was wild, the screams drowned even Roman trumpets.
The masses of noble tribes, old families, the great flower of the free nations were moving back and forth like an impatient wave, and Armin, the poor Armin, was waiting for Maroboodus to save him.
Worse, they thought they had already won.
I watched the Cherusci pointing spears down at the Romans. Champions, famous warriors, great men all were dancing downhill, showing enemy their bravery, Armin, their valor, and challenging romans to send their best to die.
Romans marched and sent none.
And then I saw Inguiomerus, his figure clear on the middle.
He moved forward. He rode, and his men moved with him, thousands strong, and began running down the hillside.
Armin’s men followed.
Everyone did, all across the field.
They ran towards the auxilia, which seemed to stagger to a stop beneath the hill, and for a moment, javelins were tossed back and forth. Thousands and thousands of them were tossed at both sides. Hundreds of auxilia arrows landed on Germani flesh, clouds of death. Our men did well. Their javelins tore the heart out of the auxilia, especiall
y in the center, dropping hundreds of foes out of the ranks, and the Germani roared with rage and joy, the great shout echoing far and wide. They ran wildly and all along the lines, a great clash could be seen in thousands of places at the same time. Germani standards mixed with auxilia ones, and the archers were firing over their lines at the men who were still not engaged. The screams of horror and pain echoed all across the field. There, in many places, the auxilia broke.
Then, they ran all over the field.
They rode and ran off, and the Germani, the Chatti, Bructeri, and the Cherusci were hot on their tails.
The running Germani were suddenly twitching and moving less certainly forward, dozens falling in mid-charge, and I realized pila were being tossed at them and at the fleeing auxilia as well.
Then, they went on again.
I kicked my horse and rode for the hill. I rode like mad and bled on my saddle, my sword out. I galloped through the paths of the woods, and to my luck, Stertinus had already passed that place.
I heard his riders killing Tencteri and Usipetes somewhere to south, and I managed to get to the right flank of the battle. There, Batavi spearmen were struggling with the Marsi. The Chauci were rushing past them, and near me. I rode forward to escape their javelins. Legionnaires were hurrying to aid them. In the middle, I saw the Pretorian cohorts and Moganticum legions struggling with the Cherusci themselves.
There, the battle between silvery legionnaires and the veteran Cherusci warriors was the fiercest. Rarely had such a battle been fought elsewhere in any Roman wars, little less in the north.
I saw Armin under his standard.
I saw the Sarmatians, and I saw Adalwulf.
They had been moved from the right to Armin.
They were all struggling to break through cohorts of legions to get to Germanicus, in the last ranks of the third line of cohorts. The first cohorts of triplex acies was pushed into chaos by the milling Germani, and still the romans butchered their foe who pushed between the cohorts, but more and more died, until the first line cohorts were fully enveloped by our men. Some were broken. It was a mighty effort, and hundreds lay dead around the battle.
I rode hard in the direction, my horse wounded and tired, navigating through a field full of wounded and dying, rows of auxilia laying in heaps of armored bodies, littered with spent javelins and arrows. I felt some arrows pass me, one struck the side of the horse, another ricocheted off the saddle.
I spotted Armin again.
He was advancing with his men, their shields out, crushing one of the cohorts, but pushed back by new ones. The spears against gladii resulted in many more Germani dead than Roman ones, for the silvery ranks were experts in the close battle.
We had lost thousands by then. They, far less.
I saw Germanicus, not that far, afraid, but still on his horse, gleeful, moving forward from the last cohorts of the triplex acies to the second, and his praetorians were already engaging with some of our men.
I spat in his direction and called out, “Armiiiiiin!”
He heard me. He turned to look at me. He didn’t call out questions.
I shook my head.
His face darkened, and eyes filled with tears, and he lifted his bright sword and roared. He waded deeper into the ranks of the enemy, pushing at legionnaires, howling for his men to follow.
Then, on the left, I heard hoarse yells of triumph.
They came from the throats of the legionnaires.
They yelled their joy to the high air, to Juppiter and Mars themselves, and I knew a tribe or two were fleeing. They would be running away, harried by arrows, javelins, and light auxilia, and they would have to swim the river or run around the hill and the river, which, I realized, would be surrounded soon. I saw Chatti running, following Bructeri. I saw Adgandestrius leading Arpus away.
The left flank ran.
I was right.
To my right, similar chaos was evident.
“Varus!” screamed the legions. “Varus!”
I saw Marsi fleeing, and Sigambri falling. I saw the standard of Theudric trampled, and Mallovendus’s overran by Chauci and legionnaire cavalry. I saw the Roman prefect, Stertinus, on hillside, bleeding and leaning over his horse, wounded.
The right flank ran.
The legions were now pressing at the Cherusci, and the cohorts were suddenly all attacking and engulfing us.
I saw Inguiomerus, howling orders. I saw an arrow striking his head, and blood flowing. He was thrown down, and his men were picking him up.
I saw Armin, clawing in a sea of enemies, his men desperate around him. I saw Adalwulf there, looking back at me, and I shook my head, just as arrow went past my face. Gochan was near, and his Sarmatian band abandoned the attack and turned to ride around me.
I kept looking at Armin.
Armin hacked down a trumpeter, then a signifier, who was stabbed from all sides as Armin’s men pushed a broken century into flight. He stepped through the ranks of fleeing legionnaires, and Germanicus was screaming orders.
Then, arrows fell amongst the Cherusci.
One struck Armin. He staggered and fell on the arms of his men, and they began pulling him back.
The Germani ran. The battle was lost.
“Get him out!” I howled at my men, and Gochan nodded. We rode over some praetorians and over half a century of Romans who were surrounding Armin’s own men. We pushed to those men, who saw us and looked relieved, dragging away dead and dying men. I reached down and pushed away a young man trying wildly to defend Armin, and Adalwulf stabbed down a legionnaire reaching for our king. I grasped and pulled Armin over my saddle.
He still held his sword. I took it and hid it under my cloak.
We rode away, hundreds of us, losing men every moment to pila and javelins, one of the fleetest troops in the battle. I saw, as did others, the hill swarming with Roman auxilia, the trap having turned against us. We rode along the battle’s perimeter, hordes of enemy between us and the woods, and then, I saw the Chauci, forming ranks before they would start pushing to the thronging tens of thousands of Germani.
I rode forward and saw Ernust.
He saw me, saw the man over my saddle, and hesitated.
I shook my head.
Then, he licked his lips and opened the way with his spear. His men stepped away, in shame, and I rode through that place, felt like wolves were giving me a path to their den, and then we fled to the woods, where, fighting through surprised Roman cavalry, ill-equipped to woods and trails, we escaped. The ones who chased after us fell soon behind.
CHAPTER 25
The remains of a lost battle are sad and defeated dreams. The bones disappear, but the songs remain.
The tribes that gathered just twenty miles north from the battlefield were sitting with their chiefs. Thirty thousand had survived by getting through the cavalry to the woods.
The losses were heavy.
The Marsi were bereft of a Thiuda. Mallovendus was taken prisoner.
The Sigambri lord had been wounded. Theudric was leaning on a spear and bleeding from his chest, the wound untended.
The Bructeri had survived with few losses, new adelings leading them, all young. Great many of them had been shot in the river when they had tried to swim over. The Chatti had suffered many losses. Aerumer was dying, and Adgandestrius was wounded lightly in the gut.
There were twelve thousand men missing.
Many of them were dead. Many had tried to hide in the trees and had been shot down, or the trees felled.
No prisoners had been taken by Rome.
And the corpses had been gathered into a great monument of victory, mocking Germani, and infuriating the survivors.
Inguiomerus was leading us. He wasn’t done with the war. Very few had fled.
The Roman arrogance, the mutilation of our fallen, the mockery of Germanicus, and oaths given to Armin kept the troops together.
The escape had been nothing short of miraculous.
We had made our way to th
e woods, and across the river and from there, we had ventured north past the enemy. We had marched for a day and found a new place to fight in, with fresh supplies and weapons, and even men. Women were treating wounded, many of whom were taken east to the lands of the Chatti and remoter Cherusci lands. Men were recovering and gathering bravery.
The new battlefield was near an ancient border with the Ampsivarii, very close to our foe who had set camp in the site of their victory. There was the river again on our right, deep swamps and woods behind us, and a great earthen wall the Ampsivarii of old had built to separate their lands from the Cherusci ones, running even west over the river, and far to the east.
Inguiomerus was riding up and down the ranks, speaking softly to the men.
The man was a terrible general, but a good leader. Gaunt, bloody, and cheerful, he was speaking to many of the men, inspiring them. He held the Summer Sword, for Armin had loaned it to him. Armin would not fight.
Adalwulf was seated next to me. “There will be one more battle. One more. I feel like we cannot kill him.”
“We cannot kill Germanicus,” I said. “But he has lost a lot of men.”
“Not with spear or sword,” he said sadly. “Tiberius must suffer him a while longer, perhaps.”
I laughed and held my face. “The Marcomanni went home. To think, he decided to go rogue.”
He looked glum. “But you dealt with him.”
“They are leaving the land, so I suppose he is at least badly hurt,” I said. “We must survive Germanicus at least this one year. And we must make him suffer.”
“He didn’t suffer much,” he said. “Mainly Auxilia. But they will come again, aye. Inguiomerus sent men to attack their supplies just to let them know we are waiting. They are marching.”
“Armin?” I asked.
He shrugged and shook his shoulders. “He will live. But now, he must let Inguiomerus fight his war.”
I grunted. If Inguiomerus won, it would not sit well with Armin. Losing to Rome again would sit badly with everyone.
And still, Armin had let the man carry the famous sword.
“It won’t be long,” Adalwulf said. “My last chance at an eagle.”
The Summer Sword Page 36