The Wald
Page 23
The first of the German foot soldiers ran scared into the trees that closed in behind them as Rome pushed them back. Yet, despite the fleeing men, about five hundred of the tribesmen spun around, joined with the cavalry, and meant to protect the retreat of their brethren. Drusus shouted for his men to stop and reform into proper order some distance from the forest. The trumpets blared and officers smacked and screamed at their men to bring the line into fighting formation once again. An optio at the rear of one of the centuries used his long staff to strike a man who took the free moment to release his bladder. Fearing even more severe punishment, the soldier jumped back to his place and let the urine flow down his leg. He would normally be embarrassed for such behavior, but he saw at least three other soldiers with a clear stream sluicing away the dirt and grime that had accumulated on their legs during the combat.
Avectius and Chumstintus rode to their leader. “Lord, the left of your line has seen little action. We sent scouts into the forest on our side. We see no treachery hidden away there.” Chumstintus looked for confirmation from his brother when he finished reporting. His brother nodded.
Manilius pounded his mount to the center to report to the general. “General Drusus, we have a fine victory thus far. We can make a camp here tonight and be secure, knowing that some one thousand of the tribesmen will not be able to fight any longer.”
“And what of those men?” asked Drusus, pointing to the rear guard of the tribes.
“Lord, they look scared out of their skins. And they are right to feel that way. We ought to heap disdain upon them by ignoring their presence. Let’s throw up a temporary camp with what small light we have left,” answered Manilius.
“Did you see anything that would indicate chicanery, Manilius?”
“From the tribes, lord? No.”
“Then I mean to finish them. The Cheruscans have had no cause to fight us and yet they entered this year allied with Adalbern and his Sugambrians. I want to teach them that to oppose Rome is to request certain death. It is the best way to save the lives of Roman soldiers in the long run. It’s even the best way to save their own people from continuous destruction,” Drusus added.
“Lord, we do not know what lies in the forest behind them. They could be cunning enough to have a trap set to spring,” said Manilius. “It is no dishonor to take a stunning victory and ride home.”
“I don’t seek honor or glory for myself, prefect,” responded Drusus, uncharacteristically coldly. And then he ended the discussion. “Prepare to advance. Move through their guard and then move with haste to cut down the men fleeing. Stay in formation as well as we can in the woods. We don’t need to have our small units chopped up piecemeal.”
His officers returned to the opposite ends of the Roman line to report what their general desired. In mere moments the cornu blared and the march moved forward, stepping over dead bodies littering the ground made slippery with entrails and blood.
. . .
“What are you doing here?” called Segimer when he saw his son sitting on his horse next to him while the Romans again began their advance. The boy didn’t answer. “If I were Adalbern, I’d cuff the side of your head and swear to the war god. But I’m not and so I’ll just remind you that in any other circumstance you’d be whipped on the spot. Now stick with me.” Segimer spun in the saddle to shout to the genuinely terrified men who served as the last line of defense – and bait – for the Romans. “Men, any one of us may give his life today. But it is far better to do so with a purpose at heart than die fleeing out of cowardice. Remember, we need only to fight long enough for them to believe that we truly protect a retreat. Then we break in a mad dash when the horns sound again. Let’s kill a host of them while we wait, shall we?”
Ermin drew the long sword, proud when his father gave a satisfied, yet subtle, glance at the crimson moisture that decorated its tip. In fits and starts the men all began shouting at the oncoming Romans. They rained down curse after curse from the forest gods and goddesses. Hardly any of the Romans could understand them, but such was war.
The calls evaporated when another round of javelins began cutting men down. Many held up shields, but in every case it seemed, dozens of the missiles wormed their way into a man’s arm, neck, or leg. Shouts of anguish replaced the hazing. A poor man standing just several paces from Ermin fell dead when three of the javelins cut into his already-damaged wicker shield, pinning his supposed protection to his chest.
For the second time in this late day, the two lines pressed together. Men on both sides were cut down with horrific wounds. Many fell and wished they had simply been killed swiftly as the feet of those still fighting kicked or stepped on them. One Roman, his sword arm dangling by a band of sinews no wider than a cord, used his other arm to crawl away. He was so disoriented that he scratched his way deeper into the German line until he was accidentally trounced by a horse’s hooves.
. . .
Septimus was getting ever so close to the men he believed to be the German leaders. He was soaked to his bones with sweat, but ignored it as he shouted and encouraged his men forward, slashing as he went. The horns sounded again and the Germans broke. This time, there was no order, only every man operating as an individual fleeing this way and that into the woods. What was left of the cavalry and mounted Cheruscan or Suebian noblemen fled on ahead of the unfortunate common men running on tired feet. Septimus checked his advance for a heartbeat, hoping for the thrill of battle not to end so quickly, awaiting the signal to pursue.
It came. The trumpets blasted the call to pursue at all haste. “Together men!” he shouted. “Each man stays with the man next to him. Our century stays with that of Marcus and so on. No one gets separated, but we advance rapidly. Let’s cut them!”
He bounded off into the woods with his century right behind him. The Roman line melted into the forest while Drusus sent a message to the reserve commander to advance to their current position and halt. Manilius rode on ahead with the Batavian cavalry, eagerly hacking down tribesmen who were ill-fated enough to lag behind their fleeing comrades.
The dense wald fell around them rapidly. It grew darker in the forest so that the men’s eyes had to adjust even though the sun still sent a few rays to the earth, keeping the clear, rolling hills of the battlefield at their rear reasonably well lit now that it was dusk. Tribesmen were dying in groups of ones and twos. It was inefficient killing, but a fleeing army stood almost no chance and so with such favorable odds, the Romans tolerated it.
Because he was leading his century from the front, Septimus had personally dispatched five tribesmen since entering the forest in pursuit. Many of his men had cut down enemy soldiers too. It was a slaughter as scores of the fleeing men found themselves actually running toward the legions, trying to escape from the Batavian horsemen who rounded them up.
That is when Septimus noticed that the line ran in tighter formation than when they entered the forest. The men who had occupied the position he had not too many months before –that is, the far right of the line – had subconsciously squeezed closer toward the center. Septimus looked through the tall, old trees and saw that the ground had angled upward to form a hill on that end. Some of the men on that far right flank scampered on the side of the hill. While still running, Septimus gazed further up the knoll and saw no one preparing to attack. He returned his mind to the men under his immediate command.
More and more of the fleeing Germans fell at his feet. He lost track of time. Twilight would arrive at any moment.
On Septimus ran until he again had an eerie feeling that something was not right with their surroundings. A quick glance to his right told him that his century now formed the far right of the line that advanced into the wald. The hill had gotten steeper. Little by little the legionaries on the flank had to fall back and allow those marching in the center to go ahead of them. The advancing Roman column became deeper in numbers of men along a narrower front. Still they went on, still they killed.
He was growing ti
red. Septimus realized that he was thirsty. They had marched and fought all day. He could tell that most of the fleeing tribesmen had been eliminated because he saw no more movement in front of him. The enemy’s horsemen would be long gone – probably already resting around a campfire three valleys away.
Septimus was at last ready to be ordered to halt and begin the march back to dig in for the night’s camp in the clearing. He looked left to see if he could catch a glimpse of his victorious general. Drusus was there at the front still riding ahead, talking animatedly with his officers. The commander’s sword had seen ample killing that day, but was now sheathed. The blood it carried had oozed up and over the scabbard, draining down its length and leaving dark blotches on the general’s leg and his horse’s belly. Past them, in the last waning light, Septimus could see that a large hill had cropped up on the left side of the advance just as it had on the right. It had caused the same effect so that the entire width of the march looked narrower than one hundred men.
The centurion thought through the implications. The legions now moved in a formation that would resemble a square that trapped most of its fighting power in its center, rendering their offensive or defensive power cut to just a fraction. He hoped that Drusus saw this and would immediately order a halt with scouts sent ahead. Or, better yet, the general may have wanted to command an outright withdrawal of the entire army.
Septimus did not have to wait for an answer. The cornu sounded the call to halt. As soon as their blaring faded, the deep bellows of German horns rose from the front, sides, and rear. Even more frightening, next came a haunting chant from hundreds of women. None of the German females could be seen, but the repetitive verses they sang out in a mellow tone sent veritable shivers down Septimus’ arms. Ahead, the centurion saw Cheruscan cavalry barreling toward them at full charge. Thousands of infantry followed the horses. Spears, javelins, and even rocks came sailing down from the heights above. Behind the legions, thousands of enemy foot soldiers streamed down the gentler hills from hiding places on the other side. Septimus and the entire force were cut off. They had fallen for what looked like a poorly organized battle. They had been gullible to a hectic feigned retreat.
Drusus had his sword out again, ready to meet the coming onslaught. He had the presence of mind to have the musicians repeat the call for reserve troops over and over. Their playing would likely do little good, however, since the clearing was easily two or three miles away. The legionaries who found themselves trapped in this narrow pass between valleys would have to fight their way out if they expected to have any hope of surviving the night.
Septimus had very good luck establishing the renowned Roman army discipline in record time. He had the men currently pinned behind him in the central mass raise their shields over their heads to provide cover for themselves and for the nearest man, who was now free to hurl javelins. The front lines of his century stood firm to meet the oncoming charge with spears jutting over top overlapped shields. The centurion did not worry about how the centuries to his rear organized themselves against the horde of tribesmen crashing into them from the hills. If the attackers from the rear were successful at fighting all the way to his position, he was already finished.
The horses slammed into his men. Septimus saw a man with his hair fixed in a tight knot at the side of his head ride over one of the legionaries. Behind that man on a great big horse was a thin, pale boy. What did it mean, the centurion wondered, that in these battles with the tribes he continued to come across men and their young sons?
It meant, of course, that defending the fatherland was a job for everyone. From the son who rode with his father, to the daughter who prepared meals in some hut for a group of warriors, to the wives using their voices to encourage and hearten their men into a killing frenzy – the entire region was at war with Rome. Even the young woman, Dorthe, who he had helped capture, was proof that the legions faced more than just some angry tribesmen with simple weapons and tactics. But Septimus did not know these things. None of the Romans knew these things. If they had been told of them, their Rome-centric mind would not have been able to understand their implications anyway. So all they could do was fight for their lives in that dark gorge.
Men from both sides fell at the feet of Septimus until he splashed in blood as he would in puddles after a rain storm. He used his shield as a punching weapon to drive noses into faces. He rutted under, over, or around shields with his gladius as he looked for any ground, fertile or infertile, within which he may drive its blade. Ribs were separated or cleaved. Legs, arms, and foreheads were gashed or broken.
Ermin used the big sword with surprising agility. The summer of countless guerrilla attacks had seen that he had developed a comfortable efficiency at killing men. He used his wide horse to his full advantage, clearing men out of his way when he felt excess pressure. One of the Roman centurions was fighting his way ever closer and Ermin obliged him by fighting his way through the choking mass of men toward him.
Septimus saw the boy-soldier had appeared nearby on his large horse and saw that he was an effective killer of Romans. Septimus decided that he would have to be the one to put a stop to it. Roman military organization had disintegrated to the extent that they held no clear line of defense. Septimus simply hacked his way toward the boy who surprised him by doing the same.
Just as the two were to meet, another Cheruscan, this one on foot, stabbed his spear at Septimus. The tip slipped behind his shield and into the leather strap that held it to his arm. The point had missed the arm, but now acted like a pin, fastening the arm, shield, and spear together. The foot soldier pressed his advantage and cleanly punched Septimus in his face. The cheek plates of his helmet helped absorb much of the crack, but his head snapped back from the blow. Sweat stung his eyes.
Ermin saw the opportunity his comrade had given him and drove the sword at the tilting centurion’s open neck. But in the melee the boy had not seen another Roman of even higher rank step in the way of the sword thrust. Ermin could see that the older man’s intent was not to take the sword himself, but such was the mayhem of battle. The man’s body did not act the way he had intended or maybe, at his advanced years, his body was no longer able to comply. At any rate, the senior centurion was pierced under his outstretched arm. Ermin felt his blade slide past the protective layer of ribs and into the soft flesh of the man’s organs. The old man’s face, like all trained warriors who find themselves at the point of death, showed utter disbelief.
Septimus recovered quickly from the blow to his face and slashed the Cheruscan who had struck him with a backhand motion of his short sword. He turned to face the boy, but instead was greeted with Manilius falling back upon him. The two went down in a heap. Septimus watched as the boy went about his swinging and killing, the gap created by the horse slowly collapsing as they moved away.
“Prefect!” Septimus shouted.
Manilius’ eyes already showed a lifeless gaze.
Septimus was surprised at just how sad and simultaneously angry he became at seeing his chief nemesis in the army dead in his arms. But he swallowed any feelings that welled from beneath and threw the dead man’s body off. Manilius rolled in the dirt until he disappeared under a mass of feet. Septimus stabbed his gladius into the ground and with his knife cut his arm free from the shield. He stood then and surveyed the horror that surrounded the legion.
Even in the dark gorge, lit now only by the earliest stars and the partial moon above the still-leaved trees, the centurion could see they were defeated. Many of the legionaries yet lived, but the terrain would not allow them to utilize any of the fighting methods with which they had trained. Theirs was a world of open battle and spreading terror just by showing their brilliant colors and standards. Theirs was not the world of simulated retreats leading to huddled dark ravines. Septimus remembered the sling stones he had gathered at the Pillars of Hercules and reached into his pack. He did not know what he was going to do with them, but when he laid his hand upon one he felt better, ev
en though in his heart he knew the truth. All was lost at that moment.
. . .
Kolman, too, knew it. From his perch above the gap, he peered down at the dying soldiers on both sides. His vantage point gave him the knowledge that if they so desired, the Cheruscans could completely remove these legions from the face of the earth. They could kill all these invaders and leave before the reserve units even understood what happened.
But Kolman thought in broader terms. It was a source of pride for him to be able to make decisions as if he weren’t a Cheruscan. He tried to think in the political idioms of the Romans. Total destruction of the professional soldiers who toiled below his feet would mean that Augustus would react out of anger rather than intellect. Within a year, the Roman emperor would send innumerable legions to slaughter every inhabitant in the lands between the Rhenus and the Albis. There would be no negotiations for peace, only revenge. And if the most powerful man leading the most powerful nation was bent on revenge, there would be no stopping him. He would bankrupt his treasury before he allowed the tribes to demonstrate that Rome could be broken. The Cheruscans and their neighbors would be forced to unconditionally accept the peace dictated to them. So, Kolman reasoned, an unmistakable triumph on this battlefield could result in an unthinkable loss for generations of his people. A brilliant tactical victory would lead directly to a strategic defeat. It was best to merely bloody them badly, he thought.
“And we’ve done that,” he said out loud.
The man nearest him threw down another rock, hoping it hit a Roman and not one of his own, and asked, “What?”
Kolman shouted to make sure he was heard over the clamor echoing off the walls of the pass. “Sound the horns of retreat. We withdraw with a great victory to use at the negotiating table. The Romans will have reason to fear us now.”