War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One

by Nick Morris

  A pulse beat strongly in Guntram’s neck and he swallowed hard before forcing out the question, “Do they live?”

  “My people inform me that your brother was seen at Xanten, before the close of winter. And the female, Jenell, lives as the woman of an auxiliary officer.”

  “What do you mean as his woman?” Guntram asked, his mouth very dry.

  “I mean that she shares his bed willingly, as well as catering to his other needs,” Arminius answered plainly. “I know this man, this Ulner. He is a respected soldier, and not the kind of man to mistreat a woman.”

  “I . . . I see,” Guntram stuttered, shaken by the news. “And what of my brother?”

  “When seen, he appeared to be in good health. Since the raising of your village he’s lived as the personal slave of a Roman tribune named Servannus.”

  “What?” Guntram exclaimed. He clasped his hands tightly to stop them from shaking. His next words came slowly. “Are you sure of is?”

  “I’ve no reason to doubt my sources,” Arminius replied, scrutinizing Guntram’s face. “This Roman-”

  “I know him.” Guntram’s words were barely audible and it felt like he’d been struck a blow to the guts. “There is a blood debt between us, and I’ve sworn to kill him.”

  Despite the relief that his brother was seen alive, he was stunned by the revelation regarding Servannus. How cruelly fate has toyed with me, he thought – Strom with Servannus in Campania, walking the streets of Pompeii. It was a twist too cruel to believe. And Jenell now shared the bed of another. He’d thought it possible, although not wanting it to be. He barely heard Arminius address him.

  “You should know that the tribune and Ulner will march with the nineteenth legion, and doubtless the boy and woman with them.” He paused, before continuing more soberly. “I wish you good luck in finding them, but, in the heat of battle the innocents-”

  “There can be no guarantees.” Guntram finished for him.

  “And, you have my thanks for locating them. The news means... much to me.”

  “What about this Servannus?” Arminius asked.

  He pondered for long moments before answering, “Once, I thought my path was clear; when I dreamed only of taking revenge on this man, to repay the blood debt between us. Then someone came into my life and things were no longer clear. Here, now, I know that my brother and Jenell have been seen alive, and it’s more than I dared hope for. When I find Strom he will need me and perhaps Jenell too. After they are safe I’ll search for this Roman, and when I find him...”

  Guntram bit his lip, drawing blood, and the darkness was strong in him again.

  *

  The morning of departure arrived, and Guntram said his farewells to Bertha. Guntram smiled and Bertha cried. Stepping from the lodge into the fresh air, he looked around the settlement, maybe for the last time.

  It was a place he felt part of, where his advice was valued and where it was happily given. There were other good things too, like the camaraderie of the hunters and the villagers’ communal oneness and open friendship; given freely and without condition. It had been good to drink beer again and sing, and to breathe the cool forest air and wander its depths without restraint or curfew. At these times his pain receded, and his guilt did not rile him, when he dared to believe that he could find Strom and Jenell amongst the confusion and killing of the coming battle. It was the most hope he’d had in two years of separation.

  “Bertha isn’t good with farewells.” Wilda’s voice brought him about. The two of them stood, alone, at the entrance to the lodge.

  “Yes, I know,” he acknowledged, half smiling.

  “It’s been a long winter, too long. How does it feel to be Cherusci again?” Wilda joked.

  “I see your tongue’s as sharp as ever. I just hope that your blade’s as sharp.”

  “I can assure you there’s none sharper. Talk of blades aside, Blaz told me the good news of your brother,” Wilda paused, looking awkward, “and the woman.”

  Guntram saw the sincerity in Wilda’s eyes. “Yes, good news.”

  “When you are reunited, will you leave us?” Wilda asked.

  “If I’m honest, I’ve not thought that far. My plan is to find them, and then, where there are Romans to fight...that’s where I’ll be.”

  Her expression thoughtful, Wilda stated, “If you go I’ll miss our talks.”

  “Your opportunity to raise my hackles you mean?”

  “No, I’m serious,” she said, stepping closer. “All these months when the other men talked about food and drink and fighting, you were different. You talked of other things and other places, about different people and their ways.”

  “But you-” he started.

  “Please! I know that I’ve a fierce tongue and temper to match, but I’ve listened to you talk and...I’ve learned.” Wilda dropped her head, her voice quiet. “I’ve also learned that I cannot bully your heart away from another, and that it’s your love, given freely, that I desire above all else.”

  “Wilda, I must tell you-”

  “Hush,” she said, touching her hand to his lips, “say nothing now.” Gazing up at him she looked very young.

  Guntram reached out, and with his finger-tips lightly stroked her hair. Slowly, he drew back his hand.

  Wilda’s hand went up to trace the place where he’d touched. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “It’s a gladiator’s custom to touch the hair of a woman for good luck before he fights.”

  “I see. May it bring you luck then.”

  Without further word, he stepped past her and away, his fingers still tingling from the feel of her hair.

  * * *

  Chapter L

  THE FOREST

  “Fears are greater in

  proportion as things are unknown.”

  Livy

  Soaked through and suffering from a chill, as well as being utterly dejected by the army’s lack of action, Varus baulked at the thought of a lengthy march back to the legionary camp at Haltern in such foul conditions. Weeks of fruitless campaigning without any engagement and only the occasional glimpse of retreating war-bands had dampened the whole army’s resolve. And the drizzle continued unabated, drenching men and beasts.

  Following a lengthy consultation with Arminius, Varus opted to take the advised shorter route via the Teutoberg Forest. Several of the more seasoned commanders strongly counselled against this decision, highlighting the army’s potential vulnerability and the risks attached; notably the danger of their troops being unable to adopt a full marching order along the forest’s narrow trail. Their advice was ignored.

  Varus, stressing the need for haste, reassured the reluctant commanders that Arminius’s scouts could be relied upon to forewarn them of any danger.

  *

  Cold and damp, the forest carried the acrid smell of leaf mould and decaying earth. The encroaching tree wall hid the sky from Dracco’s view; a dark, far stretching barrier, intermittently broken by towering giants that punched upwards into the blanket of mist and rain.

  He pushed himself onwards, eyes watching the forest, alert to any danger. They’d entered the forest five hours earlier and he knew that his men’s morale was in their boots. The downpour continued, rain mixing with Dracco’s sweat as it coursed in rivulets down his back and chest, saturating his tunic under his plated armour. Splattered with mud, his fingers were beginning to turn blue and his legs felt like lead. Water streamed from his helmet onto his shoulders and every step he took was a labour as he pulled his feet from the thick mud of the trail.

  Dracco’s surroundings seemed to press ever closer, the unbroken wall of trees and dense thicket on one flank and a stinking, oozing swamp on the other. His entire body was begrimed by filth splashing up from the boggy ground, with the mud in tracts reaching mid-calf. He mumbled an oath, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  To his rear the curses grew louder, more frequent, and hard as he tried he could not quell the nagging feeling that he might d
ie in this wretched place.

  *

  From the shelter of a thicket of trees he watched Blaz approach through the gusting rain. He was returning from a final meeting with Arminius and the war-chiefs and Guntram was eager to receive the latest news.

  “Arminius’s plan remains unchanged,” a dripping wet Blaz informed him. “The whole army has entered the forest and the Nineteenth Legion will be attacked at the wall.”

  Picturing the wall, Guntram smiled. Eight thousand Cherusci on Arminius’s direction had laboured for over a week to construct a wall of earth and effectively disguise it. The rain had turned the earth to lead for the labourers, and its completion in such a short time was a great testament to the Cherusci’s depth of will as well as their brawn.

  “Good,” said Guntram. “Arminius knows that the nineteenth is the heart and back-bone of Varus’s beast. He knows that he must kill it on the ground of his choosing and not allow it room to take formation. The trail below the wall is a good place to attack their best and break them. Arminius has chosen wisely ...it’s where Varus will be and where the battle can be won.”

  “Even the weather is in our favour,” Blaz said, wiping water from his eyes. “The rain will only help to disguise the movements of our men until we are ready,”

  Guntram looked up at the blackness overhead. “This place is a hell, but it will only add to the enemy’s confusion. Not even the most experienced officers will be able to map out or direct a good defence, and Varus will find it impossible to manoeuvre his troops and reinforce any weak points.”

  Guntram had scouted the army’s route with Blaz and was familiar with the lay of the land. The forest was comprised of a group of thickly afforested hills that flanked one another, with the gullies between them becoming water-logged due to the persistent rain. The only trail of any size through the forest was bordered by treacherous areas of swamp and bog-land. In such conditions Guntram believed it would be virtually impossible to traverse, as did Arminius.

  Blaz stood watching him as he peered out into the rain, then stepped closer, clapping him on the shoulder, “I know you’re counting on your brother and the woman being with the Nineteenth.”

  “It’s what I’m hoping for,” Guntram said cautiously. Events were suddenly moving quickly, his past approaching like running dogs. “It’s where Arminius says they’ll be.”

  “Arminius is seldom wrong,” Blaz offered.

  “I know.”

  “The dog Servannus will be there too.”

  A shudder crept up Guntram’s neck, like a cold, cupped hand. He turned to look into Blaz’s eyes.

  “With so many to search for,” Blaz said, “you’ll need to keep your wits about you, my friend.”

  With Servannus’s name strong in his mind, Guntram could not keep the anger from his voice. “Don’t worry; I’ll live long enough to do what must be done.”

  *

  The lowing of a barbarian horn resonated through the forest and Dracco realized that an attack was imminent. An eerie, mournful sound, it washed over the packed ranks of troops, raking nerves and churning bowels.

  Another horn from the forest’ depths took up the call, followed by others forward and aft of his position. Dracco’s mouth felt dry as he tried to swallow. He jerked his head up to glimpse a sinking, dark-bellied sky through a break in the trees. He cursed.

  Hidden by the veil of trees and rain, Dracco couldn’t see the hundreds of German warriors moving inexorably towards their position, nor see the dull-iron sheen of axes and spears and the garishly painted shield blazons. Even as he drew his gladius, the leading wave of tribesmen crawled nearer, bellies tight to the ground like the viper before its first strike.

  From the dark tangle of trees hurtled a shower of iron-tipped spears that ripped into the slow moving cohort. Dracco heard frantic yowls all around him. He bellowed, “The Germans are upon us!”

  A mounted officer, his red helmet crest distinctive in the murk, reined up in a spray of water. “At last!” he yelled. “Nothing like a few spears from a bunch of dung eating savages to keep us on our toes. Keep those shields up you-”

  A second flight of spears hit the column and the officer was struck by a lance through the neck, blood spewing from his mouth in mid-speech. He toppled into the mud.

  Through the torrent of iron, Dracco heard a chorus of dull ‘thwacking’ noises as the spears embedded themselves in the hide coverings on the legionaries’ shields. Men collapsed, wounded in arms and legs. Horses collided with one another, some falling to crush the tightly compacted legionaries under their great weight.

  Next to Dracco a legionary collapsed screaming, a spear-head embedded in his thigh. He quickly disappeared beneath the iron–shod boots of his comrades as they tried to veer away from another shower of iron. Legionaries that edged backwards were greeted by the swamp, adding to the fear that was spreading quickly through their ranks.

  The Germans, their spears released melted back into the forest.

  A chorus of spine-chilling howls emitted from the gloom, and Dracco grimaced, thinking, Jupiter! Like the fucking hounds of Hades! Just forwards of his position a wave of German warriors ran screaming from the forest to plough into the Roman ranks. The shockwave of first contact shuddered along the column.

  Dracco squeezed his eyes into focus and watched as more shapes broke from the tree-line to bear down on his company. The tarry ball in his stomach burned hot and he screamed, “Come on you bastards!” Some of his men took up the cry. He levelled his gladius forwards, low, ready for the disembowelling thrust.

  A screeching figure took shape before him. Dracco lunged, missed contact and then stabbed again. He felt his blade push through flesh to grate on bone. Likely the bastard’s spine, he applauded himself. He quickly drew back.

  Ready to thrust again, Dracco prayed his training would keep him alive through the day.

  * * *

  Chapter LI

  THE WOLF UNCLOAKED

  “I see wars, horrible wars,

  and the Tiber foaming with much blood.”

  Virgil

  Varus’s thinning hair was slapped down, soaked to his forehead, and rainwater trickled down the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body was sore. The rain fell in heavy, freezing sheets, and thunder rumbled over his head at the army’s core. It was an army stretched out over five torturous kilometres, like some great, iron-shod centipede. Varus was surrounded by men of the first cohort of the Nineteenth Legion, the Germania. The legion’s elite fighting unit, it was comprised of its most battle-hardened troops.

  “Damn this miserable land and its fucking people to Hades!” Varus cursed. He already knew that tribes were attacking the column at multiple points when the messenger arrived. The breathless rider reined to a halt before him and Massala, the Germania’s seasoned commander.

  “What news?” Varus demanded. “The barbarians have scampered back to their forest, no doubt? Because my commanders are shitting their pants due to this damned snapping at our heels. Speak up man! I want to push on and leave this foul place behind.”

  Massala’s face coloured red with anger.

  “Sir, it’s started!” the messenger blurted out.

  “What’s started?” Varus queried, grimacing. “We know about the skirmishing. Speak quickly as I’m in no mood for further delay.”

  “The auxiliaries, Arminius’s men, have deserted and attacked the wagons at the rear. The wagoners and their escort have been wiped out.”

  “Where did you hear this lie?” Varus shouted, stunned.

  “I swear it sir! I witnessed it with my own eyes and was lucky to escape with my life, so sudden was the attack.”

  “You...you’re mistaken man. Nothing is clear in this damned mist and rain,” Varus stuttered. “Where is Arminius?

  I must speak with him immediately, and he will clarify this madness.” He turned to his huddle of aides, their faces pale. His voice broke as he screeched his orders. “Find him, damn you! Do you hear me? Find him now
!”

  “He’s deserted and joined the enemy,” Massala told Varus coldly.

  Furious, Varus pivoted to query the ever-near Servannus. “You stand there saying nothing. Do you believe this?”

  “It . . . It’s difficult to really know,” the Tribune responded hesitantly. “But, I agree with you my lord, as we’ve neither seen nor heard anything to indicate a large scale attack.”

  Massala spoke up, “General, don’t listen to this fool. He’ll tell you anything to keep you sweet. We must act quickly and decisively, because we cannot keep the column standing for long or many more will be lost. If it is to defend itself against further attacks, the troops must be properly deployed. You must act now!”

  Varus, struggling to retain his composure, replied peevishly, “I’ve made my decision Massala. The army will continue south at the greatest speed possible.”

  “Gods man!” the commander exclaimed. “Such a course could be disastrous. We don’t know the strength of the German force, and if we continue to push southward on this path it could take us two maybe three days to pass free of this cursed forest. If it’s your decision to keep the army on the move, we must immediately force a passage due west and we can be at Haltern in just over a day. There would be casualties, but it’s the only option.”

  “Commander, the decision’s been made.”

  “Then you refuse to listen?”

  “Return to your men commander, and carry out your orders.” Varus’s voice was tight, the words final.

  “You’re a fool, and you’ll kill us all!” Massala volleyed, yanking his mount away.

  *

  Dracco snorted water from his nose as thunder rolled overhead, the sky briefly illuminated by the lightning that cracked and splintered earthwards. Jupiter, what a fucking day! he reflected grimly.

  Throughout the afternoon the column had progressed at a brutally slow pace, with the tribes’ raking attacks taking a steady toll. The massive cavalcade’s initial order was gone; the forest of javelins no longer pointed uniformly skyward and the marching formation was fractured, ragged. Relentless undergrowth tore at the legionaries’ exposed flesh and the sucking mire beneath their feet drained their strength. Worn down, they were ever more reluctant to move forwards.