by Born, Jason
With a short burst of humility the augur answered, “I am just a vessel through whom the gods speak. Any skills I have are not my own, but rather a gift. If I deserve any credit at all it is for sharing them with others.”
The general clasped his hands behind his back, intent on returning to the walk he had planned. Only now he had no reason to toil over making a decision, for it was already made. Paterculus and Cornelius stood in the torchlight watching him go until his ambling form disappeared into the chattering campfires of the camp.
The augur held out a single hand, palm up. “You do know your master.”
Paterculus fished into a small pouch and produced three denarii. He wistfully studied them in his hand, then set the pouch into that of the augur. The three remaining coins were stuffed into a pocket.
“Ah, an unexpected gratuity – it was a pleasure, Paterculus.” The pouch quickly disappeared into the seer’s satchel. “And how will you get rid of the hive without paying the price the bees command?”
The old servant chuckled. “You play your part, augur. I play mine. Drusus was becoming drunk with prospects of glory and together we righted him. I brought the bees with only twenty stings on my arm. You properly read the swarm’s meaning. Let me worry about getting rid of the little beasts.”
. . .
It was time to make their Cheruscan ancestors proud. Ermin was giddy with the prospects suddenly offered by the gods of the forests as the heat from summer turned to the crisp breezes of autumn. Riders had pounded north from their Sugambrian friends proclaiming a victory over the Cattans. At first, the Cheruscan leadership hoped that would mean that Adalbern would march his army north to join in the fight against the Romans. They would not, of course, having lost many fine men and crops to the destruction wrought by the Cattan army. It would be no matter, however.
The Roman general had turned his army inexplicably northwestward five days earlier. The time had come, his father had said, to repay the Romans a double or triple the pain they had set onto the tribes.
Ermin marveled at the patience his father had shown all during the campaign. Partially due to the careful counsel of Kolman, but also because of a wise military mind, Segimer had not once overcommitted his men. He never once lashed out with a force to take revenge for all the families and fields taken away from the wald forever. Segimer hit and retreated, helping bring Drusus ever deeper into their homeland.
The Roman soldiers would be proud of their successful march but frustrated by the continued activity of the tribes. Each week brought another set of attacks to sap at their manpower and will. Then, just as the legionaries would begin to think about an easy winter spent west of the Rhenus, wasting their wages on women and wine, the Cheruscans would step up their attacks. They would hit them hard and at a sustained pace. The Roman general, though smart, would bite and bite big. He would pursue the Cheruscans and Suebians to a terrain of their choosing. The gods of the glens demanded it and therefore it would happen. Rike, the old shriveled priestess, would be correct in her foretelling of a victory born from the Sugambrian and Cheruscan union even though it was torn asunder by the contemptible Cattans.
For each of the past five days Segimer had sent more cavalry slamming into the Roman ranks. Each time, they withdrew but tarried long enough to bloody more soldiers. Common infantry and officers of the legions found themselves killed by spears or workhorse hooves. The killing of both sides amounted to a wretched mess of crying men and bleeding stumps scattered over the ground. As Segimer predicted, it had been enough to anger Drusus into following the retreat from the last attack in a rapid pursuit, a double-time march.
When the Roman legions and their auxiliary forces emerged from the wald into a broad land of rich rolling hills they could not believe their good fortune. In front of them, finally assembled in the wedge formation favored by most of the German tribes, was an army of thousands of men. They stood holding spears and shields of wood or even wicker, ready to meet the Romans, behind several leaders mounted on horseback. On the tribesmen’s left flank sat its mounted force of cavalry, perhaps three hundred warriors, clustered together in a rough square near where the forest began again.
The day was late with the sun beginning its final descent on the Roman left flank. Septimus and the cohort he supported were placed in the right center of the line. He saw that the Batavian auxiliary cavalry had already moved into position on the far right of the Roman line to meet the tribesmen’s horses. Some sporadic swordplay and an exchange of spears had already broken out as some of the overzealous tribesmen broke ranks to gallop forward. The battle of horse had begun.
“Do you see what lack of discipline will get you?” shouted Septimus to his men. Still in tight formation, his century watched a tribesman fall from his beast with his guts spilling onto the earth before his body crashed on top of them. “It is why we are the most powerful army in the world. Your arms are no stronger than theirs.” He smacked the side of his helmet with the pommel of his sword. “But the intellect of your leaders and the methods they teach you is unparalleled. If we march smartly and pay attention to training, we’ll triumph over the rabble across the way!”
. . .
At the center of the legions, Drusus sat atop his charger. The animal could sense the pending excitement and pawed at the earth, kicking up clods of grass. A visible mist of breath snorted from her nostrils. Drusus, too, was eager, for he had waited three years to meet any German tribe in a full-scale, pitched battle. “It’s too perfect, is it not, Lord Drusus?” Chumstintus asked his commander. “They finally form against us in these open fields. They are outnumbered and out-trained. And yet despite it being too good to be true, I can’t see any treachery.”
Drusus shook his head. “I was thinking the same thing. But I come to the same conclusion, tribune. They use the wedge form that nearly every one of the tribes uses for battle. It is like they do not know they intentionally create a salient for us to exploit and pinch off. The open ground here suits us, not them. The forests are far to the right and left so that an ambush, if it were to come, could easily be met with a simple wheel. Behind them I see some trees and rocky crags jutting from the earth. But once again, if I believe they are duplicitous, we are far enough removed from what may lie beyond to be threatened. What do you say, Manilius?”
The old senior centurion narrowed his eyes, looking across the landscape. He remembered when he could see everything clearly, when the setting sun of evening shone as bright as midday. Not any longer. His vision was not what it once was, but such was age. “Lord Drusus, I cannot see anything that favors our opponent. It must be impatience that has taken over where their senses once lived. The season is late. We’ve razed their fields all year. Their warlords must hope for some bit of retribution to take back to their pathetically burned villages for the winter. I suppose they think if they can bleed us, even a little, that it may act as a balm when the snow flies and their people are starving from lack of food.”
Drusus trotted his horse some strides in front of his line. The other three officers followed on their mounts. “We all agree then that there is nothing to fear other than the enemy who presents himself across the field.” A momentary uproar from the small, ongoing cavalry engagement caused the leaders to turn their heads, straining to see what happened. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Men on both sides fought, sweat, and died. “When we all concur after weighing the same facts separately, I think it obvious that we are missing something. My brothers Gaul, you’ll command and coordinate the leftmost flank. Allow the individual legates of the legions control of course, but I hold you both in conjunction responsible. No one will turn that side of our line, do you understand?”
The brothers did appreciate the task Drusus gave them and so they drove their heels into their horses’ bellies, pounding off. “And Manilius, I want you to perform the same task on the right. You have more experience than either man commanding the separate legions. Use it.”
“Yes, legate. Those c
ommanders will not like my interfering with their business,” said the prefect.
“I didn’t take you for one who concerns yourself with the opinions of others – except your general, of course.”
Manilius smiled at the young leader. “I don’t, lord.”
“Good. Don’t meddle with their affairs unless you must. We simply don’t want to take a situation that appears to be ripe and turn it rotten.” Manilius gave the general a crisp nod and rode off.
Soon Drusus had the cornu scream their songs and the legions moved forward as one, terrifying in their silence. A legion was kept in reserve in the event any one area of the advance faltered or the tribesmen were crafty enough to send a force against the legions’ rear. The reserve commander sat on his own horse, taking in the battlefield. He, like the other officers, could not envision a situation that did not turn out in Rome’s favor, let alone one that would require any of his services. All he could do was shout to his men, “There goes your fighting general. He’ll have decimated the enemy by nightfall.” The stationary troops in the reserve guard called a song of encouragement to their marching comrades.
As they moved forward to crush the enemy, Septimus saw Manilius riding along his end of the line. The camp prefect called to some of the officers as he passed. The old, scarred man trotted past Septimus and called, “See them killed, Septimus. Be vigilant.”
“Yes, prefect!” he shouted back. So the prefect did have a heart.
. . .
Now the cavalry battle raged in earnest to the right of the Roman line. At the moment when the advancing legionaries at the battlefield’s center unleashed their first barrage of javelins, one-third of the German horsemen retreated to their left into the forest as if on cue. Septimus and the other officers who watched it happen in the distance assumed that it was some prearranged maneuver – perhaps an attempt to outflank the auxiliary cavalry or even one of the cohorts at the far end of the line.
They were correct. The scheme was given much forethought.
Ermin sat atop his horse in the middle of the pack that had stayed to fight the Batavian auxiliary. He watched his countrymen and some Suebian riders plunge into the wald with enemy cavalry in close pursuit. The horseback battle clattered about him. A cluster of men from both sides sat locked in a stationary engagement while others swooped, spun, and swooped again to continually maneuver their horses for better position. The slight Ermin began thinking he had made a mistake in disobeying his father and placing himself in the cavalry’s midst.
The boy was supposed to be hidden deep in the forested hills with the thousands upon thousands of Cheruscan warriors under the command of Kolman. Instead, after he lost the argument with his father, he disregarded the man’s wise advice and rode with the other men. His father sat on his own horse next to a Suebian warlord at the apex of the Suebian wedge formation. Ermin watched as the two lines of opposing forces, the Romans and the tribesmen, slowly fell together. He saw a screaming Suebian swing down a long wooden club with both hands. It tore the tall curved shield from a surprised legionary, who stabbed out at the tribesman with his gladius. The Suebian was wiry and stepped aside. His club then crashed down, denting the Roman’s helmet. The soldier staggered like a woozy drunk until the club fell onto the same dent again. This time blood sprayed down the man’s face and his legs gave way beneath him. Ermin was glad to see that it was a Roman that first fell when the lines of infantry met over at the battle’s center.
It would only be a few moments now. If the plan was to have any hope of working, it had to happen rapidly and on time. It had to look like the tribes had attempted a highly orchestrated plot that simply slipped through their fingers due to their inability to execute. Their scheme had to fail in order to succeed.
A Roman cavalryman kicked past one of the mounted Germans, slashing the Suebian’s throat with the long spatha gripped tightly in his right hand. The sword recoiled back as if it were a bent branch in order to swing at Ermin who had yet to bloody the sword gifted to him by Kolman. Ermin was slow to duck, but he was short and the attempt went high, cutting a shock of the boy’s fair hair. Ermin didn’t know what else to do so he sprawled forward on his horse’s neck while kicking it and extending his new sword. The horse’s momentum helped the tip of the blade to plunge into the Roman’s chain mail cuirass. But Ermin’s slight arms were not strong enough to maintain the driving force. The blade went less than an inch in, then popped out as his opponent used his legs to steer his horse away. The soldier was angrier now with a small bit of blood staining his tunic beneath the mail.
The cavalryman’s horse barreled into Ermin’s beast. The boy’s grey horse was large and was not easily moved. It spun its wide rump away so that Ermin’s and the man’s right sides were nearest one another. The soldier swung his spatha down again. This time Ermin widened his eyes in terror and leaned back. The blade gleamed as it went down past his nose. It cut into the blanket on which he sat, tore into the horse’s flesh, and finally danced off the tip of Ermin’s knee. Ermin screamed, not sure if he should just flee or fight the man. Every part of his mind and body said that he must run. His heart, as he thought of the wald and his Cheruscan village, said that he must stay no matter the consequences.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Suebian ride behind the Roman and unceremoniously ram his spear into the man’s back. The blow that would have killed Ermin crumpled mid-strike. “Does your father know you’re here?” the red-haired man snorted.
“No, nor will he,” shot back the boy.
“I suppose he will if you get yourself killed out here. But it’s too late now. We’ll hear the horns soon.” And the man rode off to engage another enemy.
. . .
Across the battlefield, Septimus saw that the tribesmen were fighting like any mad army would fight. They fought to exact revenge and reclaim their territory. In a way, it was a fine sight to see. But they fought his legions. They fought his century. His own sword and those of his men cut down Cheruscan after Cheruscan, Suebian after Suebian, doing the killing work that came so infrequently between the long weeks of monotony in the legion. They made men cry and bleed. They took a step forward. The legionaries found another man to gut. They stepped forward, walking on dead men.
The killing process was going on. Whatever plan the tribesmen had, they had better spring it soon, or they would be completely annihilated, thought the centurion after taking off most of the cheek of a hairy opponent.
. . .
Behind Septimus, at the reserve legion, cornu rang out. Its commander spun his men around to meet the tribal cavalry that had at last galloped out of the wald behind them. The officer in charge shook his head at the silliness of the move. One hundred horsemen against a few thousand infantry? The riders would do damage, he knew. But unless they were only the initial wave of a massive attack by foot soldiers, the charge would be completely useless. One of his scouts came to him then, riding his horse from the woods nearby.
“Lord, you’re being attacked from the rear.”
“I see that. What else is there?”
“Nothing,” he answered as his anxious horse panted. “We’ve been covering our rearmost elements for most of the day. At most there could be a few hundred of the enemy hiding in the forest on foot. Even then, they’d have to be dispersed. We’ve been everywhere in there.”
“Thank you. Now get back to being my eyes.” The rider nodded and jerked the reins to the side to lead his horse away. The commander watched as his wide front – which now faced rearward – met the oncoming cavalry charge. As expected, the sheer momentum of the riders made the line sway inward like the hands of a father catching the smiling son he just tossed into the air. He cringed for just a moment as he thought about all the fine Romans who had died over just two of his heartbeats. But the concern was short lived. The line firmed and chaos rattled and echoed over the land.
The Roman-allied, Batavian auxiliary cavalry burst from the trees then. Good, the reserve commander thought, we
crush the enemy between us.
A plethora of horns, not one of his cornu, rang out from behind him. He turned to see that the tribesmen and their wedge were quickly being overrun. The commander could tell they had put up a momentous defense from the dead or crawling legionaries littering the battlefield, but it was inevitable that the numerical and training superiority of the legions would succeed. He returned his gaze to where his units plied their trade. What remained of the enemy cavalry immediately disengaged.
They ran their horses in a manic path around his right flank. Perhaps twenty of their number already lay dead back at the point of their attack. Now more of them fell from their horses as centurions ordered their legionaries to hurl lances at the fleeing riders. They seemed to be trying to return all the way around to where the tribesmen infantry fought a losing battle in their antiquated, dwindling wedge formation. Insane, thought the Roman reserve troop commander. Insane. No one with one afternoon’s experience would fight a battle under these conditions in such a way. It would be good once Roman rule was over these people and their lands so that they would be brought from their backward ways.
. . .
Drusus fought hand to hand against a determined batch of Suebians. At last, the general was given a moment to catch his breath. The Germans had pulled back and begun a fighting retreat at the sound of their horns. Their salient, as the Roman commanders had anticipated, had been nipped off. Several of the tribesmen who had begun the afternoon’s battle at the tip of the formation now fought in an isolated pocket. They would all be pierced and bled dry. Drusus, his face smeared with sweat, dirt, and tribesman blood, looked to his right. He saw the main force of the Cheruscan cavalry coming to help protect the infantry retreat. Craning to the left, he saw the pitiful remnants of the band of riders that had tried to encircle his army by attacking the reserve doing the same thing. His centurions kept up the killing, moving forward at a quick pace, but keeping order. They cut down slowly retreating men who sometimes inched away sideways, afraid to allow their unarmed backs to become targets for Roman spears.