Arminius

by Robert Fabbri

  The younger brother blew into his chilled hands. ‘Then we should do this as fast as possible. It’s a mile back to the boats and a mile and a half to that woodland; with luck we could be on the river within an hour.’ As he spoke a group of mounted warriors emerged from the Chauci ranks and rode slowly towards the Roman line; one held a branch in full leaf in the air.

  Thumelicatz smiled. ‘They’re going to parley, that may give us more time; let’s get moving.’

  The Romans moved back into the copse where their Batavian auxiliaries waited as Aldhard crouched down next to Thumelicatz. ‘Do you still mean to go through with this, my lord? It makes no difference now which Romans get to the Eagle first, ours or the legion; Chauci blood will still be spilled. Your actions cannot stop that now; we could just leave.’

  ‘We could; but would that guarantee that they would find it? The Chauci hide them well. I need to be sure that it’s found so I must go on. I’ve seen the path that has been woven for me, Aldhard, and, like my father, I must dare to follow it.’

  Thumelicatz and Aldhard led the Romans and their auxiliaries at a fast jog across the flat terrain; to the north the two armies were mainly obscured by the freezing mist but it was thinning all the time as the sun climbed higher. Every now and then it lifted slightly and figures could be seen; but they were still stationary.

  A huge shout rose up after they had covered nearly a mile.

  ‘The Norns are preparing to cut many a man’s life-thread,’ Aldhard said as the Chauci began to hammer their swords against their shields, roaring their defiance at the invaders.

  Thumelicatz increased his speed. ‘The Chauci are brave but they cannot withstand a legion for too long.’

  They broke into a run, splashing through an icy stream, brown with the filth discharged from the Chauci’s settlement, and pressed on, keeping well to the south of the ridge.

  Roman cornua started their low rumbling calls, signalling orders throughout the cohorts; these were countered by the blaring of Chauci horns used more to intimidate the enemy than to inform comrades.

  More bellows and war cries filled the air until there came the unmistakeable screeches and ululations of a Germanic charge. As Thumelicatz led them into the wood the first clashes of iron against iron and the dull thumps of shields taking blows resonated in the air; they were soon followed by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying.

  Thumelicatz turned to the younger brother. ‘The first grove is due east, about four hundred paces away.’

  They ran on, following a weaving path, deeper into the wood, occasionally having to hurdle the fallen branch of an oak or beech. Behind them the Batavian decurions were struggling to keep their turmae in some sort of semblance of a two-abreast column but were losing the fight, their men being unused to acting as infantry.

  He started to slow; behind him the auxiliaries’ officers signalled their men to fan out into a line. They carried on, crouching low, taking care with their steps, easing forward through the trees, javelins at the ready. ‘It’s straight ahead,’ Thumelicatz whispered as he signalled a halt.

  Before them, through the light haze of the wood shaded from sunlight by the thick canopy, the atmosphere was brighter where the sun shone down directly onto the thinning mist. The faint sounds of the battle could be heard far off, but nearer at hand the only sound to disturb the peace was birdsong. Thumelicatz crept forward; the two brothers and the street-fighter followed him having given orders for the auxiliaries to wait.

  As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent revealing a clearing with four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.

  The street-fighter spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers, muttering to himself.

  The younger brother crouched next to Thumelicatz. ‘There’s no one in it, I can see light coming though the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, Aldhard and his men to either side of him; the three Romans followed, nervously poking the earth with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.

  A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They looked for signs of the ground being disturbed, searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees.

  ‘Our Roman friends seem fearful of the wicker man,’ Thumelicatz whispered to Aldhard, noticing the nervous glances at the ominous construction swaying gently above them.

  ‘As well they might; I’ve watched many a Roman shriek his last in honour of the gods.’

  ‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicatz concluded eventually. ‘We should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’

  Thumelicatz and his men led the way accompanied by a turma, split up into pairs, scouting to either flank; the rest of the Romans followed behind just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf-mulch rising from underfoot adding a tang to the clean bracing air, invigorated Thumelicatz; the smells of his homeland were in stark contrast to the swamps around Ravenna where he had spent so much of his life. A gentle neigh from up ahead stopped him dead; he raised a hand and went down onto one knee. The two brothers joined him.

  ‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicatz whispered, pointing through a gap in the trees.

  The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on the lush grass around the circle. Three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.

  After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed cropping the grass once satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.

  Thumelicatz led the Romans between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various advanced states of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free.

  ‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’ the younger brother asked

  ‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicatz indicated towards the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.

  ‘Very lovely,’ the street-fighter muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’

  ‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’

  ‘Free to fight each other,’ the elder brother scoffed, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.

  ‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east.’

  They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing. Thumelicatz ignored it and the muttering of the Romans behind him and pressed on at a crouch concentrating his senses ahead of him. A murmur floated through the air; he signalled for silence and crouched down.

  ‘What is it?’ the younger brother whispered, squatting down next to him.

/>   Thumelicatz cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’

  The Roman nodded and gave orders for a scout to go on ahead; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist.

  Thumelicatz left the Romans to plan their attack and moved over to Aldhard and his men. ‘This is not your concern; you don’t have to fight alongside these men.’

  ‘Will you fight with them, my lord?’ Aldhard asked.

  ‘Yes, although I’ve no wish to shed Chauci blood. However, I’ve led these Romans here to reclaim their Eagle and I cannot in honour stand by and watch while they risk their lives for something that will benefit me and my people far more than it will benefit them.’

  ‘Then we fight with you.’

  Thumelicatz placed his hand on Aldhard’s shoulder. ‘So be it, my friend.’ With a nod to the other men he turned and rejoined the Romans.

  Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in Latin with a heavy accent.

  The younger brother looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to the patrician. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’

  ‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicatz warned the patrician as he left with half the Batavian force. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’

  ‘If it’s there,’ the street-fighter muttered.

  ‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  The elder brother got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’

  The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.

  ‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicatz mumbled, clutching the hammer amulet around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome for ever.’

  ‘And you’re welcome to it,’ the street-fighter added.

  Thumelicatz ignored the insult.

  All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.

  ‘Right, let’s get this done,’ the younger brother said, signalling left and right for his men to move out.

  Almost sixty men in two lines crept forward towards the edge of the clearing; ahead of them the Chauci talked amongst themselves, sharpening their swords and spear points on stones or flexing their muscles, suspecting nothing as the noise of the battle still raged.

  The younger brother raised his arm, took a deep breath, looking left then right and then flung it forward. As one, the Batavians screamed their battle cry and then pelted out of the trees towards their enemy, shield to shield with javelins at the ready.

  Taken completely by surprise the Chauci struggled to form up into two lines, their captains bellowing at them and shoving them into position as the low-trajectory javelin volley hit hard, tearing through the gaps in the incomplete shield wall. Screams filled the clearing as a dozen and more warriors were punched off their feet with the slender, bloodied tips of javelins protruding from their backs.

  Thumelicatz and his men surged forward on the Batavians’ left flank, whipping their long swords from their scabbards and forming a small wedge with Thumelicatz at its head.

  Keeping in good formation the Batavians hit the disorganised Chauci in unison, cracking their shield bosses, with explosive force, up into faces whilst thrusting low with their swords at fleshy groins and bellies, harvesting the slimy, grey contents within. In a couple of places a wall had been formed and these warriors fought back with the ferocity of desperate men, jabbing their long spears over the shield rims at their onrushing foe with such strength that, with the momentum of the charge, their tips cracked through the chainmail, to lodge half a thumb’s length in a few screaming Batavians’ chests; not deep enough to kill outright but painful enough to incapacitate whilst a killing blow was administered.

  With a fleet, downwards slash of his sword, Thumelicatz sliced into the shoulder, splintering the collar-bone, of a wide-eyed, snarling man, whilst blocking his counter blow with an upwards thrust of his shield. Blood exploded from the deep wound, slopping over the man’s beard as he raised his head to the sky, lips curled back and mouth wide, issuing a scream that would summon the Valkyries. Using the weight of the howling man’s body as it slumped to the ground, Thumelicatz wrenched his sword free from the shattered bone as Aldhard, to his right, ducked underneath a wild slash, driving the tip of his sword with an explosive punch, up into the exposed neck of the perpetrator.

  Slamming his shield hard to the left, Thumelicatz cracked a skull as he exploded over his writhing victim, punching his sword-weighted fist forward, shattering the teeth of the next warrior in his path, ripping the skin from his knuckles. Ignoring the pain, he sliced his blade left, clean through the warrior’s right wrist as he tried to slash his sword down; with a surge of crimson, the hand fell, still clutching the sword as the arm carried on its descent, spewing blood from the fresh stump as yet unnoticed over the agony of the warrior’s ruined mouth. The man’s eyes rolled as he caught sight of his shortened arm flashing through the air; he screamed, spraying Thumelicatz with a fine red mist and shards of bloodied teeth. With a violent jerk, Thumelicatz brought his knee up to slam into the man’s testicles, doubling him over and the scream abruptly changed into a deep growl as the wind grated out of his body; a sharp downward crack of Thumelicatz’s sword hilt punched a hole in the back of his head and he crumpled down

  Suddenly a shockwave rippled through the whole melee; the encircling force of auxiliaries had struck the Chauci in the rear. It was now just a matter of time. The Batavians pressed their advantage as the dwindling Chauci retaliated with ever-diminishing force until the last one slid to the churned grass with brains spilling out of what was left of his skull.

  ‘Halt and re-form!’ someone cried as the two opposing Batavian forces met either side of a ridge of mainly Chauci dead and moaning wounded. The officers bawled their wide-eyed, panting men back and into lines before they could do their own comrades any harm whilst under the influence of the rush of combat.

  Thumelicatz looked at his sword arm; it was streaked with blood.

  ‘We should get searching,’ the young brother said, taking deep gulps of air.

  Thumelicatz nodded and ordered Aldhard and his four men to follow him as he turned towards the grove.

  The grove consisted of about two dozen trees of a variety of types that had been planted by man many years ago. Thumelicatz strode through them to a stone altar at the grove’s dark centre between an ancient holly and a venerable yew.

  The altar was bare.

  The Romans joined him; Thumelicatz looked at them in puzzlement. ‘There’s no sign of the Eagle here.’ He kicked at the mossy ground but it was solid and showed no signs of recent disturbance.

  ‘What about in the surrounding trees?’ the elder brother asked.

  After a futile search Thumelicatz shook his head. ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘But you said it would be,’ the younger brother almost shouted in his frustration.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it has to be; perhaps they moved it deeper into their lands.’

  ‘Then why were they guarding this grove?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps they just wanted us to think it was here,’ the street-fighter suggested, ‘after all, fifty or so men aren’t going to stop determined people getting the Eagle, but it would be enough to convince people to look in the wrong place.’

  The younger brother frowned. ‘So where could they have hidden it?’

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps we should a
sk one of their wounded.’

  ‘They won’t talk no matter what you threaten them with,’ Thumelicatz stated.

  ‘What about the prospect of a nasty time in that wicker man back at the first clearing? That might—’

  ‘Of course!’ the younger brother exclaimed, looking at the street-fighter. ‘You’re right. They were trying to draw attention away from where they had hidden it by guarding the wrong grove. It’s in the first grove; we checked everywhere but we didn’t look inside the wicker man as it seemed to be empty because light was shining through it and because it was so chilling to look at we wanted to avoid it. But how come it was swinging when there was no wind? Because they had just finished hanging it up when we arrived! We must have just missed them. It’s in there.’

  The elder brother smacked himself on the back of the head. ‘Of course, how stupid. I almost said that would be a good place to hide it as a joke.’

  ‘Would that have been funny?’ Thumelicatz asked; he had never understood Roman humour.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good, I thought not. We should go.’

  Thumelicatz led them southwest along the side of the triangle they had not yet travelled. The raucous sounds of battle growing ever closer, away to his right, gave even more of a sense of urgency to the final sprint.

  After a lung-tearing run of almost a mile they entered the first clearing from the opposite side. The wicker man was still visible hanging over the altar at the centre of the four oaks that made up the small grove. Thumelicatz ran over to it and stopped, looking up at the chilling artefact.

  ‘Can you see it?’ the younger brother asked, stopping next to him.

  ‘No, I can’t make out anything inside it; we need to get it down.’

  ‘We should be very careful.’

  ‘Do you really think that I don’t know what sort of traps could be protecting this?’ Thumelicatz turned to Aldhard. ‘Hrulfstan’s the lightest; get him up into the trees to spring the traps.’

  Using their clasped hands as steps, Aldhard and his men immediately began to hoist the lightest of their number up onto the lowest branch in the grove. ‘Move away from the altar,’ Thumelicatz advised the Romans.