by James Mace
“I keep telling you about all the signs that say ‘this is an ambush,’ yet no one will listen! I smelled a rat as soon as this expedition was announced. A few zealous tribesmen murder a Roman tax collector and his staff and we send three legions after them? Then Arminius assures Varus that there would be no resistance, that the tribes were mostly docile. Since when have Germanic tribes ever been docile? And was it not Arminius who convinced Varus to allow the soldiers to take their families and camp followers with them? That is the biggest breach of Army procedures I have ever heard of in my career!”
The cohort commander listened impatiently to the same rant he had heard nearly a dozen times in the last week alone.
“And how about that older German, Arminius’ father-in-law, Segestes? He even warned Varus that Arminius plans to betray us. I’m telling you…”
“No, I’m telling you, centurion!” The cohort commander growled. “If you do not cease and desist immediately, I am going to drag you before the commanding general myself. Do not forget that Varus wanted to strip you of your rank and position the last time you were rude to one of his native guests, and it was my intervention which prevented it. And now you dare to get insubordinate with me? I will deal with you later, Calvinus; though I must tell you, you will be lucky if you leave Teutoburger Wald with your rank intact if I have anything to say about it. Now return to your century!”
As Calvinus rode away, he turned back to his commander. “Sir, we’ll be lucky if any of us leave Teutoburger Wald with our lives intact.” He turned away and rode back to his men, rightly suspecting that he would never see his cohort commander again.
“We’ll ride ahead and make sure the way is clear,” Arminius told the bedraggled Roman contingent that still accompanied his scouts. They hardly even acknowledged him, each man off in his own little world as he fought the rain and the cold. Arminius and his Germanic companions galloped off, leaving the Romans behind. As they rode along the path, he heard the sound of a crow cawing. They brought their mounts to a halt as one of his scouts answered the call. Arminius looked to his left, along the top of the rock outcroppings. He saw an older warrior step out from behind a thicket of bushes. He was bare-chested and carrying a broadsword. It was his uncle, Ingiomerus. Arminius waved and dismounted his horse. His scouts did the same and followed him up the steep slope to where the rest of their fellow warriors lay waiting.
What a fool you are, Quintilius Varus!
Metellus Artorius Maximus looked around in disgust. He was thoroughly miserable as the legions passed deeper into Teutoburger Wald, a thick and nearly impenetrable forest with concealed swamps. Arminius had assured the Romans that this was a safe and more expedient route.
Right! Metellus thought. He was cold, soaked, and had absolutely no idea where they were going.
At nineteen years of age, Metellus had been in the army for a little over two years. He was a strong, intelligent, good-looking soldier with a promising career ahead of him. He wrote often to his family about how proud he was to be serving in the Seventeenth Legion. His younger brother, Artorius, had so wanted to come with him, to live the life of the legions. Metellus laughed briefly at the memory.
“If only you knew what you’d be getting yourself into, little brother.” he said to himself as he tried to wipe the rain from his eyes. Leaves and branches slapped his face constantly as he struggled to move through the quagmire. He looked around in search of his century.
His friend, Clodius, was close by, head hung low as he plodded along. The rest of the century was starting to scatter. This was not boding well in Metellus’ mind. Intervals and formations were becoming nonexistent in the confusion and the rain. As he looked behind him, he stepped right into a swampy mess, sinking halfway up his calf.
“By Mars, I’m going to kill the bastard who convinced Varus to take this route.” he swore in a low tone.
Clodius stifled a laugh as he reached down to help his friend. “What a damn shit hole,” he observed as he pulled Metellus out of the stinking mire.
Looking ahead there was nothing but trees and swampy marsh to be seen. “I thought that barbarian, Arminius, was supposed to be showing our reconnaissance cavalry the quickest way to go. I can’t believe this is the path they picked!”
“And just how in Hades do they expect the baggage trains to get through this?” Metellus asked. “Not exactly the best job of planning.” The rain was coming down harder and his irritation was increasing. It wasn’t supposed to rain like this during the summer.
“And what idiot said that we wouldn’t need our leather rain covers for our shields?” With no cover on his shield, it had become waterlogged and felt like it weighed a ton. His leather pack felt as if it was overflowing with water as well. He sighed and started walking again.
They moved out quickly, trying to catch up to the rest of their century. Metellus was also concerned because it seemed that no one was paying attention to anything going on around them. Normally, Centurion Calvinus would have already been in his face, beating him with the vine stick for having fallen out of formation. Where was he, anyway?
Soon they came upon a narrow path, the only place that did not seem to be overflowing with water and swamp slime. Soldiers were already moving in a narrow file along the lane, oblivious to everything around them except the pouring rain and the ground at their feet.
“No way will the baggage carts be able to use this,” Clodius observed.
Metellus shrugged. “At this point, it’s not really our concern.”
Clodius raised an eyebrow at that. “It will be if we end up sleeping on the ground tonight.”
Arminius watched the disheveled soldiers pass before him. It was time. The moment for him to strike at the very soul of Rome and shatter her sense of invincibility had arrived.
Now! War horns sounded, battle cries deafened anyone within earshot, spears and arrows flew, and what seemed like every Germanic tribe charged in a mass of men and spears. The force of their charge shattered the Roman lines like a demonic beast. So caught off guard were they that only a few were able to throw their javelins before they were overwhelmed. Formations were completely forgotten, and soldiers soon found themselves isolated and having to fight individually. Like a tide coming over the sands, they soon disappeared in the wake of their doom. The Romans who survived the initial shock were now in a fight for their lives against insurmountable odds. The outcome was never in doubt. The force of the wave of barbarian warriors knocked many Romans into the swamps, their heavy armor and weapons dragging them to a murky and watery grave in the blackness below.
Metellus was surprised and appalled when he heard the sound of the war horns. He looked to his left and saw a horde of barbarians pouring down from the hillside.
“Where are those damned auxiliaries?” he shouted to himself, referring to the native fighters enlisted to fight alongside the legions.
They had been tasked with providing some semblance of flank security and should have given ample warning of any potential threat. He soon had his answer. For no sooner had he spoken those words than he saw a large number of auxiliaries amongst the charging barbarians. They were still dressed in mail armor, wearing legionary style helmets. So much for loyalty.
“Treacherous bastards!” he snarled through clenched teeth. He watched in horror as his century disappeared amongst the throng of men and metal. This couldn’t be happening!
Metellus had been reared on the concept of Roman invincibility from the date of his birth. Fighting together as a cohesive unit, his century had always been unbeatable. Nothing could stand up to them. But, by Jupiter, where were they now? In the confusion of the battle, he could not see anyone from his unit. He then realized that he and Clodius were alone. His friend was seething in rage.
“Traitors from Hell!” he screamed as he threw a javelin at one of the turncoat auxiliaries.
The weapon slammed into the side of the man’s neck with such force that the shaft whipped around and tore his throat away. The
auxiliary fell to his knees and then to the ground, his head practically severed from his spine. Clodius then drew his gladius and charged headlong into the fray. Metellus watched horrified as a huge barbarian bear-hugged his friend and pinned him against the side of the rocks. Clodius spun his gladius around and stabbed the man in the small of his back. He then disappeared from view in the sea of struggling bodies.
As soon as he lost sight of his friend, panic swelled up inside Metellus. He did the unthinkable for a Roman soldier; he turned and started to run in terror. So great was his overwhelming fear, he was not even aware of what he was doing.
He ran for what felt like hours. His legs ached, and his lungs burned as he tried, in vain, to suck in enough air. He found he could no longer hold on to his shield or his pack. Without even slowing down, he dropped everything he was carrying, including his javelins, which had become tangled in the thick underbrush. He didn’t even know where he was running to. All he knew was that he had to get away from that swarm of death and destruction. As he passed through a tangle of branches, he tripped over a tree root and fell into a marsh, completely submerging himself. Again, he panicked, thinking that he was drowning. He clawed his way to the surface, gasping for air. He looked around and saw that all was black around him. It must have been getting late in the day. Combine that with the thick canopy of trees over him and the black clouds that dominated the sky, and he found that all was dark. He could scarcely see his hand in front of his face.
As he stood trembling in the water, his breathing started to slow down. The rain had stopped, and a cool gentle breeze seemed to rip into his very soul. Suddenly, he was filled with something stronger than fear. He was filled with utter shame. He had committed the ultimate sin; he had run away from a battle. He had left his comrades to their doom. He placed his head in his hands as he fought back tears of despair.
He looked around and saw he was alone. He could not see the battle, though in the remote distance he could still hear the clash of arms and the hellish screams that accompanied it. Nothing like this had ever happened. He had never been on his own in a battle. His unit had always fought together, working as one had made them invincible. To fight on one’s own was unthinkable. Now he was alone.
Suddenly he found his resolve. There was only one thing he could do to find redemption. He had to find his companions. Surely somebody from his century was still alive. Metellus found it impossible to comprehend they might all have been wiped out. He started wading through the swamp, slowly making his way towards the sounds of the battle. It was so dark that he tripped and fell face first against a gnarled tree, catching the nub of a branch, gouging his cheek. He swore quietly as he tasted the blood that was seeping from the wound. Reaching up, he ripped off a piece of skin that was hanging from his face. This, in turn, caused him to swear even more as he continued to struggle to find his way out of the swamp.
Once he reached a bank, he lay on his stomach and found some stray branches with which to pull himself out. He found that the mud and slime had plastered itself to his sandals and legs, weighing him down. At this rate, the battle will be over before I even get back to it, he thought.
Once he was out, he pulled himself upright and sat back against a tree, catching his breath. He leaned over as he heard the sounds of many running feet heading towards him. Not knowing whether they were friend or foe, he laid flat alongside the tree. In the gloom of the thick forest, he could not see a soul, but soon he heard voices, voices that were not speaking in Latin. Their tone was excited, and their unholy war cries caused him to shiver.
He closed his eyes and tensed up as he heard the excited voices of numerous Germanic warriors running by. Slowly, he unsheathed his gladius and braced himself against the ground, ready to spring. Soon the sounds moved past him, and he started to breathe easier. Then he heard a loud crash and splash as someone fell into the swamp from which he had just crawled. He heard the sounds of cursing, unlike anything he had ever heard before. He listened intently as the irate individual slogged through the water, heading directly towards where he hid. Metellus held his breath as he caught the form of a man pulling himself out of the water. He could just make out the long club the barbarian carried, and he could also see the unkempt mop of hair on his head.
It would have been easy to just lie there and wait for the man to pass him by, but he felt that he had to do something to atone for his earlier cowardice. As the German struggled to pull himself up, Metellus lunged forward, smashing his helmeted head into the barbarian’s, knocking the man senseless. He then fell on top of the German, and with one hand over his victim’s mouth, he rammed his gladius into the side of his neck. The barbarian thrashed about in his death throes, blood spurting over Metellus’ hand. He worked his gladius in a rough sawing motion, trying to hasten his enemy’s death. So violent were the barbarian’s convulsions that Metellus was almost thrown off. Once death had finally claimed the man, he slowly staggered to his feet and starting moving in the direction the barbarians had gone. For where they went, surely his friends would be.
Had it been hours that passed or days? Metellus was not sure. Though the rain had long since stopped, the sky was still black. He heard the sound of crying, as if from a young child, and instinctively ran towards it. He saw that it was a toddler, standing next to the bodies of his murdered father and mother. A burly German was laughing over the corpses and was preparing to stab the child with his spear. Metellus rushed forward; however, he was not fast enough. The warrior ran his spear through the wailing child. He then hefted his spear with the child hanging off it, laughing as if he had skewered a wild boar. In a blinding fury, Metellus grabbed the barbarian, spun him around and drove his gladius into his guts, ripping up to the heart. As the man fell dead, Metellus bent down to console the child whose cries had subsided, still alive but coughing up blood and convulsing violently. Metellus’ heart was filled with anger and sorrow at the same time. It was not the child’s fault. Damn his parents! Damn all who had condemned their children this way! How could anyone have thought that a campaign was the appropriate place to bring one’s family, especially young children? He looked up to see a group of Germans pointing at him through the trees. They turned and started running in his direction. He realized that he could not hope to save the child. In spite of the guilt that burned inside him, he turned and ran.
“Please, forgive me,” he said as much to himself as to the child, whom he knew was to soon be murdered. As he ran, he turned back and watched, unable to avert his gaze as one of the barbarians hacked the child’s head off with an axe, laughing all the while. Metellus vomited, sobbed quietly, and turned away wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he crashed through a thicket, he came to a small clearing where he saw a sight that gave him cause for relief. There stood Centurion Calvinus, Commander of the Fourth Century. Metellus had hoped to see the rest of the century with Calvinus. However, there were only two legionaries with him.
This can’t be right, Metellus thought. Where in the name of Jupiter and Mars is everyone else? As he ran into the clearing, Metellus saw that there were, indeed, only the two legionaries with Calvinus, and that all three were engaged in mortal combat with five Germanic warriors. Three of these were attacking Calvinus. Seeing his distinctive armor and the crest on his helm, they had recognized him as an officer, a centurion no less. Killing a Roman centurion would bring much prestige and glory to the warrior responsible.
Metellus gave a loud cry and rushed forward to save his centurion and friends. He lunged forward, plunging his gladius into the nearest barbarian’s chest. The man tried to scream as his lungs quickly filled with blood. As he collapsed to the ground, Metellus’ gladius became stuck in the ribcage of his stricken foe and was ripped from his hand. Ignoring this, Metellus attacked another German with his bare hands. He quickly got inside the warrior’s shield and spear. An elbow to the wrist knocked the spear away; one to the face dazed his adversary long enough for Metellus to grapple him to the ground where he hamme
red his fist into the man’s face and head. He tried to choke the barbarian, but the German was incredibly strong and not so easily dispatched. He bucked violently, nearly throwing Metellus off. His left hand came loose and banged against the dagger on his belt. His dagger…of course! With a flick of the wrist, Metellus drew his dagger and plunged it as hard as he could into the man’s eye. Warm blood and brains spurted all over Metellus’ hand and wrist. He rolled off the German, who was thrashing on the ground as his body convulsed. Metellus grabbed his gladius and with a violent jerk pulled it free from the other barbarian’s chest. Blood dripped from the blade. He then looked up to see Calvinus thrust his gladius under his remaining assailant’s jaw. The two legionaries had dispatched their attackers and were looking to their centurion for answers to their dilemma.
“What the fuck do we do now, Calvinus?” one of them asked. His voice was near panic. He was clutching his arm as blood oozed through his fingers, having been punctured by a German spear and in obvious pain.
“We find whoever else is still alive, and we cut our way out of here,” Calvinus answered, panting slightly, but still surprisingly calm.
“Where’s the rest of the century?” Metellus asked.
“They’re dead. Everyone’s dead.” the other legionary answered. His hands were on his knees, his head sagging.
“Sir?” Metellus asked, looking to his centurion.
Calvinus lowered his head, nodding. “I’m afraid so. And as far as I can tell, the four of us are all that remains of the cohort, maybe even the whole damned legion. Cassius Chaerea of the Nineteenth seems to be the only senior officer in the entire army that hasn’t lost his head. He’s established a rally point not too far from here and hopefully hasn’t been overrun. We’ll find him and then fight our way out from there.”
“If we can even find him in this gods’ forsaken nightmare,” the wounded legionary complained.
Calvinus ignored the man’s remark. The sounds of Germanic war cries and men crashing through the woods alerted their senses.