‘They were in our hands, ready for that pass of the knife that would drain them of their lifeblood, but before we could wield that blade the chance was gone.’
Kivilaz nodded.
‘It’s true. And their artillery was too strong for us to press any advantage as they backed away.’
Classicus stepped forward.
‘The elders of my tribe have followed you here, Kivilaz, bringing those men of our tribe who continue to believe in a Gallic empire. They wish to know what you intend to do tomorrow. They fear that the Romans will simply stand and wait for us to come to them, and that the conditions we have created will act against us if we make that attack. And, listening to the Romans singing their hymns to victory, they fear that the men of the German tribes will be so set on silencing them in the morning that they will blunder onto their line, taking our men with them and forcing us to suffer losses we can ill afford.’
Kivilaz nodded.
‘I understand. Of course I do. Your men are far from home, a home that has been invaded and conquered by the Romans, leaving you as the last hope for your people’s freedom from their oppression. You worry that I will order you to throw your lives away in some crazed roll of the dice, depending on the favour of the gods to deliver us a victory against four of the best legions in the empire, do you not?’
Classicus dipped his head in acceptance of the point.
‘And without wishing to insult your generalship, sometimes a great captain must make sacrifices in a battle to win the war. My tribe’s elders fear that we may be that sacrifice.’
Kivilaz smiled.
‘You see my intent then?’
‘In truth, no. But I can see that if you have a scheme in mind it may require some …’
‘Some sacrifice, as you say. And yes, I do have a plan. To turn it from an idea to bloody, victorious reality I will need the bulk of the army to behave exactly as the Romans are expecting when the dawn comes. We will need to form for battle, march out onto that marshy plain and fix them in place with the threat of our massed spears. If Cerialis does as I expect, then he will be delighted, because I expect him to eschew boldness tomorrow, and to fight what the Romans call a battle of attrition, looking to reap as many of our men as possible from the dry ground they hold. And when that bloody battle has begun, and we’re behaving just as he hopes and expects, then I will spring the surprise I have in mind. My fiercest German allies will strike the enemy from a direction they will never expect, turn their flank and set them running. And they will not stop running until they reach a defendable location. I should imagine that Novaesium will be that fortress, and I’d have thought that will put them far enough from us that we can re-establish our borders, and yours too, without fear of interference. Tomorrow, my brothers, will be the day that we send this man Cerialis and his vaunted legions back south with their reputations in shreds. Count on it.’
9
The Old Camp, Germania Inferior, June AD 70
‘Men of the army of Germania, hear me and know that I speak for the emperor! On days to come you will be able to boast that you were here on this day …’ Cerialis paused for a moment, allowing the tension among his men to build, ‘and you can tell your friends that Quintus Petillius Cerialis gave the speech of his life! Unlike, perhaps, the previous day’s effort …’
A ripple of laughter played along the waiting ranks of legionaries at the wry tone of his voice, and Pugno looked at Antonius with a grin.
‘At least he can laugh at himself. And at least he’s taking some time to get them stirred up today.’
The general was addressing his men again, his voice raised to reach as many of them as possible.
‘Today I shall address each of my legions by name, and tell you exactly what I expect from you! But before I do, I have counsel for each and every one of you, something to remember before this battle begins afresh! You are part of a glorious tradition, every one of you, men of legions whose names and reputations stretch back into the history of our empire, part of the greatest army the world has ever seen! You have already beaten these barbarian dogs, when they assaulted our camp at the city of the Treveri and you sent them running with their tails tucked between their legs! Running all the way from Augusta Trevorum to this place, where their treachery and lies sealed the fate of two legions who thought they were surrendering to enemies who could be trusted to allow them dignity in their defeat! Remember the Fifth and Fifteenth Legions, my brothers-in-arms! Remember their massacre and resolve yourselves to give these barbarians no mercy, as you sweep through their fleeing ranks! And run they will, for they recall that defeat all too well! That is the reason why they refuse to face us on an even battlefield, these men who carry their terror of us in their hearts and the wounds we have inflicted on their backs!’
He waited for the appreciative cheers to die away before speaking again, pointing to the Fourteenth Legion’s eagle, shining like gold in the summer sun.
‘You men of the Fighting Fourteenth Legion, you conquerors of Britannia, you more than any other men have a score to settle with these boastful animals who were once your brothers, but who have more recently spurned you and claimed the glory for your greatest victories!’
He trotted his horse along the line as the men of the Fourteenth cheered loudly, singling out the legion standing alongside them.
‘The Sixth Legion, named “Victorious”, glorious in your status as the legion that backed Galba, and thereby brought Nero’s blood-soaked rule to a timely end! And you men of the Second Legion, named the “Rescuers” on your founding, formed of the proud marines of the Ravenna fleet, what better day than today to blood yourselves than in the company of these illustrious eagles?’
Trotting his horse on down the line he stood before the First and Sixteenth Legions, shaking his head as he considered the tattered remnant of what had been proud and powerful forces only eighteen months before.
‘You have been called “traitor legions” by those men who have not shared your experiences, whose feet have not trodden the same ground yours have, or shared your tribulations at the hands of these barbarians! There is a part of me that feels sympathy for your shame! I have the power to expunge that shame, and spare you the pain and indignity of having your legions disbanded, but if you wish me to use that power then I can only offer you this advice.’ He pointed at the Germans waiting for them on the far side of the marsh. ‘If you wish to be allowed to follow your eagles with pride then you must go over there with your swords drawn and ready to fight for your lives, giving your lives if necessary, to take back what remains of our fortress! If you can do this, and play your part alongside your brothers, I may yet decide to allow you to retake your places in the empire’s proud army despite your poor showing at Augusta Trevorum!’
He turned in his saddle and pointed to the men of the Twenty-first Legion.
‘Let First Spear Pugno and his men be your exemplar! These fine soldiers have fought in every major action since the start of the civil war and they still lust to be allowed to run at their enemy. Men of the Twenty-first, will you gift me with one more battle?’
Pugno nodded to the aquilifer standing next to him, and as the big man raised his eagle high into the air above his head the legion behind him uttered a swift angry cheer, repeating the mutual exhortation twice more as the gilded bird bobbed up and down. Cerialis solemnly saluted Pugno, who snapped off a salute of his own and then turned to face his men.
‘Twenty-first Legion … prepare for battle!’
‘Here they come again.’
Alcaeus cast an experienced eye across the Roman formation facing them across the marsh before responding to Levonhard’s statement. The Roman artillery had not started shooting yet, the engine captains clearly waiting for their targets to advance out onto the marsh’s killing field. On the far side of the watery expanse the Roman legions were drawn up in formations so precise that they might as well have been parading, rather than readying themselves for a battle that might well end in catastrophic d
efeat. The German tribesmen along the rebel line were chanting their battle songs, each verse ending with a deep booming hoom that intended to intimidate their enemy, individuals stepping forward to wave their spears and bellow boastful threats across the marsh, eyes protruding and tongues lolling from their open mouths to emphasise the dreadful nature of their threats.
‘I don’t think so, soldier. They lost too many men yesterday to try the same old thing today, not unless this man Cerialis lacks the wit to work out that if he does offer us the same battle he’ll lose in the same way. And somehow I suspect that isn’t the case. Today they will stand and wait for us to cross that marsh, and let their artillery murder us in twos and threes until we reach their line.’
He pointed at Kivilaz, who was walking towards their column with Hramn at his side.
‘We’re in columns, and not a line. Which means that Kivilaz has an attack in mind for today.’
The Batavi prince stood before his army, raising his arms as if to embrace every man present, then started speaking, his voice loud enough to be heard but low enough that every man strained intently to hear his words.
‘Does it worry you to face Roman legions today, my brothers? If it does, then clearly I need to remind you of our recent exploits! You stand here, my brothers, on the bones and ashes of Roman legions! It was you that brought two legions to bay and forced them to surrender and face their fate! When those Romans look across this marsh, so hideously unsuited to their way of waging war, all they can see is disaster, captivity and death! Dire omens confront them at every turn! We may have lost the fight at Augusta Trevorum, believing that we already had the battle won and allowing them time to regroup and come back at us, but everything since then has gone perfectly for us! This marsh has suited us perfectly, and has proved deadly to our enemy! And here, my brothers, with the gods watching over us, we have the chance to end this war in a single blow! Remember your wives, your children, your parents …’ he turned slowly to encompass the entire host, ‘and most of all, my brothers, remember your fatherland! Today we must either surpass the glory of our forefathers or be ridiculed in the eyes of our descendants!’
He strode across to the cohorts, acknowledging Alcaeus’s salute with a curt nod.
‘And with all that said, I have one last request of my oldest and most experienced warriors. And I expect you, Centurion, to lead them with your usual lack of concern for anything other than winning the day, and defeating this enemy as we have defeated so many others.’ He looked up and down their sadly reduced ranks, barely a third of the strength that had joined his rebellion the year before, raising his voice to be heard by every one of the warriors. ‘Men of the cohorts! I know that you have been at the point of my spear since the day you marched into Batavodurum last year and even before that happy day! I know you fought at Bonna and routed the First Legion when they were unwise enough to attempt to stop you joining us! I know you fought and bled during the siege of the Old Camp! I know you came within a hair of defeating the Romans at Gelduba, and were defeated only by the most unfavourable of circumstances, and I know how grievously you suffered in that unpredictable reverse! But now I need one last effort from you, one feat worthy of Magusanus himself! My plan of battle today is to draw the Romans’ attention to their front while our most powerful force takes them in the flank! And I need you to lead the way, and show our allies of the Bructeri tribe the way to achieve that surprise. Will you do this for me?’
Waiting until the soldiers’ cheers had died away, he turned to Hramn and nodded.
‘As we agreed it. And wait for my signal, I want the enemy fully committed before we spring the jaws of this trap closed on them.’
As he walked away, the prefect stood, considering Alcaeus with a level stare.
‘So priest, do our men have one last battle in them? A day of blood and glory for the tribe?’
‘One last battle, Prefect? If it’s in your power to guarantee such a thing then yes, without doubt these men behind me would sell their lives dearly, if it were the price of peace for our people. Is that within your power?’
Hramn stared at him in silence for a moment before replying.
‘If we win here, Centurion, if we smash those legions off their ground, roll up their line and then surround them, we could inflict a disaster on Rome to equal their greatest defeats. As terrible a reverse as they suffered at the hands of Arminius sixty years ago. They never sought to occupy their province of Magna Germania again, for all their punitive raids, and it can be the same for us. Let their empire end at the Ubii’s northern borders, and we will live free like our German brothers. That is the prize that we can win today. Or were you considering defeat?’
‘No, Prefect. No son of the tribe can ever consider such an outcome. With the blessing of Hercules we will triumph over our enemy as we have on so many other occasions.’
Hramn nodded tersely.
‘Make sure the men under your command share that belief.’
Alcaeus saluted.
‘They will fight, Hramn. You have only to show them where, and tell them when.’
The prefect smiled, and Alcaeus’s eyes narrowed as he realised that his superior was about to reveal what it was that Kivilaz had in mind for the remaining men of the cohorts.
‘My uncle’s plan today is a simple one, but it will result in a victory that will be felt like a punch to the gut in Rome. Today we shatter their hold on our land forever!’
‘So not only are we waiting for them to come at us but we’re letting Felix’s auxiliaries form the first line. It seems like an act of sacrilege.’
Antonius nodded at his colleague’s complaint.
‘I know. But one of the secrets of being an effective general is to know when it’s better to tempt your enemy onto your line than to batter yourself bloody against his, and when to allow your allies to take the edge off the enemy general’s blade before committing your main force. And besides …’
Pugno scowled across the marsh at the oncoming rebel columns, the barbarian warriors chanting their war cries as they hurried forward across the swampy ground, eager to come to close quarters with the Romans.
‘Besides what?’
With perfect timing the bolt throwers massed on their left flank spat their missiles across the two-hundred-pace gap in unison, a dozen heavy bolts tearing into the oncoming columns of tribesmen.
‘That.’
Pugno shook his head dismissively.
‘That? A pinprick. The only way these boys are going to give it up is if we’ve killed so many of them that they can’t get over the wall of their dead. They’ll get one more shot off if they’re lucky, then scuttle for the cover of our line when that lot are close enough to smell their shit.’ He stared hard-faced at the auxiliaries holding the line in front of his legion, then turned to address his trumpeter. ‘As soon as they sound the hold fast, you blow it too!’
The auxiliaries’ horns sounded, and an instant later Pugno’s trumpeter followed their example with a note loud enough to make Antonius wince minutely, much to his friend’s grim amusement. An instant later every other trumpeter in the Twenty-first responded, the blare of their horns loud enough to override conscious thought and lift every man in the legion onto the balls of his feet. Pugno stamped out in front of his men with a glowering expression, shaking his head in disgust.
‘Calm yourselves! We have to let Legatus Felix’s men have their turn first!’
The cohorts arrayed in front of them were readying their spears, their shields raised against the arrows slanting down into their lines from behind the oncoming Germans. The rebels were trotting, splashing though the ankle-deep water with the easy gait of men unencumbered by heavy equipment, and while men were falling to the auxiliary archers shooting at them from behind their comrades, their losses were no more than a momentary hindrance to the warriors behind them who hurdled their wounded comrades and pressed forward with fanatical determination.
‘Spears … ready!’
The waiting soldiers drew back their throwing arms, every man picking a face in the advancing mass of the enemy and waiting for the command to kill the warrior behind the snarling mask.
‘Wait for it!’
Pugno nodded approval as the leading enemy warriors passed the point at which they were inside spear-throw.
‘Someone’s got some balls, I’ll give them that.’
The Germans were running now, eager to get at their lifelong enemies, covering the boggy ground fast enough that another five heartbeats would have them toe-to-toe with the legion, and just as Antonius wondered if the man commanding the cohort in front of them had lost his nerve and his voice with it, their first spear roared the order his men were waiting for.
‘Throw!’
At such close range, with the leading runners less than five paces from the Roman line, the slaughter was almost instant, hundreds of spears whipping across the narrow gap almost horizontally while those thrown from the rear ranks arced briefly up before falling into the men pressing up behind the warband’s rampaging front rank. A chorus of screams and bellows of pain rang in the defenders’ ears as they stepped swiftly back into the defensive stance, drawing swords and crouching behind their shields as the men behind them pressed forward to support them against the impending assault. Pressing past and over their dying and wounded comrades, the Germans sprinted across the remaining few paces, hurling themselves onto and in some cases through the Roman front rank, those men whose momentum had enabled them to burst through the gaps between shields being put to the sword by the soldiers waiting for them, then dragged to the rear of the formation where they were swiftly put to death. Pugno waited a moment to make sure that the auxiliaries were going to leave them where they lay and then turned to his second-in-command.
‘Do it.’
Despite knowing what was coming, Antonius still stared in amazement as dozens of men ran forward at the chosen man’s command, some with their swords drawn and others carrying stout wooden poles whose ends had been sharpened to fire-hardened points. Hacking down with their sword blades, the legionaries lifted heads severed from the enemy corpses to allow their comrades to impale them firmly on the poles and lift them into the air above their heads, more than one man opening his mouth to catch the blood dripping from their trophies as part of the legion’s grisly ritual. Stepping up close behind the auxiliary line, they waved the severed heads above the soldiers’ helmets so that the dead men’s faces could be seen by their comrades. Pugno nodded approvingly, grinning wolfishly at Antonius.
RETRIBUTION Page 32