by Nick Morris
As evening arrived the head of the column had emerged from the bottle-necked trail into an open area of ground, and it was here that a large section of the army endeavoured to pitch camp for the night.
Under constant deluge by the elements, Dracco kept his company working, goading them on with the lash of his tongue and the sting of his vine stick. The men responded with exhausted grunts or pleas for rest as the welts swelled up on their bodies. Only Dracco’s iron resolve kept them going, kept them alive.
All around him fellow companies laboured on into the dark, digging out a ditch around the camp as well as fashioning a rampart implanted with the wooden stakes that each legionary carried with him. Despite the troop’s best efforts the water-logged soil badly handicapped the excavation, with the ditch’ walls continually sliding in on themselves. And, when the mud-caked defenders eventually withdrew behind their defences they were unable to craft any warmth, with the damp wood they gathered burning feebly on camp fires.
During the first hour of darkness the encampment was forced to repulse two harrying attacks. Successfully beaten off, the German dead were left floating in the camp’s shallow ditch. When the attacks ceased Dracco instructed that the roll-call was taken. Half of his men were either dead or missing.
The night hours crawled by and Dracco noted that the flesh on his forearms was turning a mottled, blue colour due to the rain and cold. He looked around and saw the mildew spotting his men’s equipment and the first traces of rust on sword and javelin. A solid blanket of rain battered his position, reducing visibility in all directions. Streams of muddied rainwater eddied around his shins, his hob-nailed sandals sinking deep into the sludge. Sleep evaded many of his men as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, with some lying in tight bunches for greater warmth. The wounded lay shivering in the mud that leeched the very life from them, and waited. For the lucky ones death, for the rest...dawn.
Dracco cleared his throat, spitting into the muck.
Bastard gods! he thought. I knew I should have sacrificed that stinking goat before leaving Haltern.
*
Dawn arrived and Dracco’s company painfully mobilized. There was no time or desire to bury the victims of the night. The forest was silent – no cry of bird or animal – with only the steady rain a companion for the plodding troops.
Less than an hour passed and the low-pitched horns sounded again. Dracco’s men, fearful, looked to him for guidance on hearing the chilling sound. He, in turn, bolstered their nerve with forced words of encouragement and foul curses.
At once, they were subjected to further bombardment by spear and arrow, hand-sized rocks and crudely formed stone hammers. The barrage devastated their packed ranks. His men were barely able to raise their shields to guard their heads, and fell, pierced and crushed in ever-increasing numbers.
The terrible assault continued throughout the morning and into the afternoon. In the respite periods between attacks, Dracco shunted his company forwards over a carpet of Roman dead and wounded, before shuddering to a halt when struck again.
Runners arrived from other units, but their messages were fuelled by fear and confusion. The officers, lacking direction, found it impossible to mount an effective defence.
His anger only matched by his frustration, Dracco realized this battle was unlike any he’d ever known.
* * *
Chapter LII
THE EARTH WALL
“Even the bravest men are
frightened by sudden terrors.”
Tacitus.
High on the gorge side where the brush was thickest, the German host waited. Guntram stood in the foremost rank of the four thousand concealed tribesmen, behind a five foot wall of sods that was over three kilometres in length.
A warrior armed with spears was placed every two metres along the wall. Similarly armed men were placed behind, ready to hurl their spears over the heads of their brothers or step forward into their positions when needed. Guntram gauged that twenty thousand shafts would streak downward into the trapped Roman ranks in the first few minutes of the attack. It would be devastating.
He flexed his grip on his war-hammer, fingers tacky from the bark resin he’d applied that would help his grip despite the rain and his sweat. His Cherusci brothers stood all around him, together with warriors of the Chatti and Bructeri too. He felt at one with them and it made him feel good.
He turned his head, searching to make sure that Wilda stood where instructed. She was. Strong words had passed between them when he’d advised her to join the battle after the first assault on the column. Indignant, Wilda had informed him that her safety wasn’t his concern, and that she needed no advice regarding her part in the battle. He recalled nearby warriors chuckling as they watched her rebuke him, while he, red-faced, listened in silence. The matter was only resolved with the arrival of Blaz, who sought to wish them good luck before the battle commenced.
Blaz spoke first with Guntram, briefly discussing the coming engagement, and, knowing Guntram’s concern for the safety of his brother and Jenell, reassured him that he’d be alert for any sign of them. Apprehensive, Guntram thanked him. Blaz then spoke to his sister and a few quiet words had the desired effect: Wilda reluctantly agreed to join the battle following the first red blaze of contact.
After, the trio exchanged words of good luck and Blaz departed, leaving Wilda to chide Guntram that he’d better leave some Romans alive for her.
She had the last word.
*
From a steep rise Arminius watched the tip of the column round the base of the Kalkriese Hill, before halting at a branch in the trail. He squinted through the rain and saw three mounted figures converge at the fork: the senior officers who’d decide on which route to take. The consultation was brief and the column moved into the more negotiable left-hand route that continued to steer them westwards.
“Good, good,” Arminius muttered under his breath, smiling at the rugged warrior at his side. Unbeknown to the Roman officers, Arminius’s men had cleverly created a barrier to force them into the narrower passage around the Kalkriese hill. A large portion of the trail that forked to the north over a depression had been dug away, exposing water where land had been, and on the far side of the water, brush and foliage was arranged to look like natural vegetation. The Roman column on approaching the fork, saw only open water to the north, being left with the option of the trail heading west around the foot of the hill...and towards the earth-wall.
Arminius tracked the head of the column as it crept forwards along the sandy embankment that hugged the hill’s base, its outermost flank bordered by the watery expanse. He knew that in many places the edges of the track turned to bog, and that the legionaries would be forced to squeeze ever more closely together as they struggled to keep their feet on dry land. In places they’d be able to march only three or four abreast and in others would have to wade up to their knees in swamp.
Half-way down the hill his warriors waited behind their wall. It was his plan to inflict the maximum damage on the enemy from the wall’s cover: his men launching their missiles into a packed and restricted Roman formation, rather than simply attacking the armoured legionaries wielding their deadly short swords. Hidden in a dense copse of trees fifty metres above the wall was another force of five thousand tribesmen.
Pointing to a series of smudged smoke trails to the north-east, Arminius spoke excitedly to his companion. “See Wulfga! It’s as I hoped. They’re unable to get their wagons through and are burning them. Excellent, the tail of the convoy will be slowed down even more.”
“When can we attack?” the scarred warrior asked. “The men pull like dogs at the first smell of the kill. I don’t know how much longer they will hold.”
“They’ve shown great patience my old friend; something that doesn’t come easily to them when the battle fever burns so strong,” Arminius said. “But, the time for patience is over. Is everything in place?”
“The signals are prepared, and the men are
ready,” Wulfga growled.
“Good,” Arminius said. “After the next cohort enters the gorge, I want the trail sealed behind them. I don’t want any to break free to the north. Not one...do you understand?”
Wulfga inclined his head in grim acknowledgement. He wheeled about, breaking into a stooped run through the trees.
Arminius fastened his helmet strap, and then drew the long cavalry sword that had served Rome so well.
*
The smell of wet earth was strong as Guntram crouched low behind the earth-wall, his hands splayed wide on the haft of his war hammer. Well versed in the dangers of Roman weaponry, he’d purchased armour at the settlement. A conical helm fitted with sweeping eye-guards rested upon his head, giving him a distinctly hawk-like appearance. In place of a tunic he wore a sleeveless hauberk of black ring mail, and his Damascus blade was strapped between his shoulder-blades to ensure a quick, overhead draw. The broad bladed Roman dagger was thrust through his belt.
The majority of his brothers were armed with the traditional framea, or with axes crafted for single or double handed use. Fine blades of iron and steel were scarce, being restricted to individual chiefs and experienced warriors. Some were equipped with an assortment of less purposeful, yet no less deadly weaponry: including razor edged scythes, long bladed hunting knives, crudely spiked wooden cudgels and heavy hammers. A number of hunting bows were also in evidence; despite his people tending to shun this weapon in war, preferring instead those more suited to close combat.
As he waited, his every muscle screamed for action. He cranked his head from side to side. The air crackled with tension, and all about him warriors displayed the familiar signs of men about to be immersed in bloody combat. Many cursed to bolster their courage or fidgeted and sweated the cold sweat of fear. Others murmured prayers to the gods, over and over, while a small number, like him, waited mutely for the blood-letting to begin.
Then suddenly the signal came.
Thousands rose as one above the rim of the earth-wall to release their missiles. For brief moments the awful hail might have been mistaken for a spreading cloud of out-sized birds that swooped downwards onto the oblivious troops. Then spears, hammers, arrows and jagged rocks ripped into them. A second and third volley swiftly followed. The iron-tipped spears punched through even the sturdiest Roman armour. Their shields, embedded with the spears, became too cumbersome to wield. Startled legionaries cursed, screamed, bled and fell. As the terrible onslaught continued to rain down, many of the wounded were trampled to bloody ruin beneath the boots of their comrades. Some threw off their heavy packs and braced themselves behind their shields, but there was little room to manoeuvre and the dead and wounded underfoot only added to their plight.
A lull in the onslaught was followed by the wail of a war-horn.
Guntram vaulted the earth-wall. Lifting his war-hammer above his head, he screamed, “Germania!” A dark mass of warriors swarmed forwards at his side.
*
A heart-beat away from the shield-wall, Guntram glimpsed the pale, bobbing faces of Rome’s finest.
His heart pounding, he drew his war-hammer back over his right shoulder. He cried out, an awful bestial sound, and then his hammer crunched down onto a jutting helmet. The Roman died instantly but didn’t fall, his body hemmed upright by the press of troops on either side. Guntram pivoted sideways, felling another with a reversed swing of his hammer, its vicious spike embedding itself fully in the victim’s neck. He wrenched it free and sucked in a breath, strong with the stench of blood and bowel. Eyes blazing, he sought his next victim.
Stretching away on either side of him the two forces met with the shocking clang of iron and the screams of men and horses. The shield wall was shrinking, with hundreds of legionaries lying sprawled in tangled knots; bleeding, groaning, drowning in the muddy filth. All of the Germans’ throwing weapons had been discharged with deadly effect, and their lack of heavy armour now gave them a marked advantage as they ranged freely around their enemy in the narrow gorge. The weight of numbers was now in their favour.
Those legionaries closest to Guntram shrank back from him and the dripping hammer. He shook sweat from his eyes and paused briefly to glare back at them. Blood crept sluggishly through his scalp and he adjusted his hand grip, knowing there could be no stopping until all the killing was done.
*
The blotted sun was setting and darkness crept up the slope like the rising tide of the sea.
Wilda moved quietly to Guntram’s side. He bled from wounds to his neck and arms and his helmet bore dents from the blows of sword and shield. Steam rose from his black corselet, its once dull sheen obscured by blood. He leaned forwards, folding both hands over the butt of his hammer.
“Has there been any news of your brother and the woman?” Wilda asked tentatively.
“Nothing,” Guntram’s reply was sharp. Then, seeing the concern on Wilda’s face, he added more gently, “The column is shrinking fast, and I’ll need to inspect the wounded, look among the-”
“We’ll look again tomorrow,” Wilda finished for him.
“Yes. Tomorrow will be the last day, and then I’ll know for sure.” He looked in the direction of a group of parading warriors.
“The men say you fought like Thunor himself, and that no one could stand before you.” Wilda’s words were filled with pride.
“I played my part.” He switched his gaze to her upturned face. He wanted to tell her to withdraw from the battle, that he was concerned for her safety, more concerned than he would admit. Yet, he knew that she would not be swayed, that she was as immovable as she was beautiful.
There was a smudge of blood across Wilda’s cheek.
“Are you cut?” Guntram asked, lifting his hand to trace the mark.
“No...the blood isn’t mine.” She sighed, and then went on. “They fought bravely despite their losses, and battle was not like I expected it to be. So much blood and the smell.” Her voice trembled. “Then I saw the women and...the children. It was terrible.”
“The men of the legions rarely surrender or run,” he told her. “If they did, they know the punishment would be severe.” His voice became quiet. “The women and the young ones...I know.”
Both stood silent, pensive for a time.
“Tomorrow,” Guntram said, “some will try to surrender.”
“What will be different?” Wilda asked.
“Because the living know there is no hope.”
* * *
Chapter LIII
NO QUARTER
“Wars, the horror of mothers.”
Tacitus
At the close of their second day in the forest the remnants of the Roman army erected the semblance of a fortified camp along a water-logged stretch of the trail. Sheltered behind a rickety perimeter of stakes, the two thousand survivors prepared for a desolate night ahead.
As Dracco stared into the struggling flames of the small fire, the screams of the Roman wounded sounded over the mutterings of the troupe. They were the unfortunate ones, captured before they were able to fall on their blades. Cut by knife and burnt with flame, their agonised cries jolted the men, before shuddering away into the darkness, only to start again soon after. The bastards will draw it out as long as they can, he admonished
“I’ve stopped listening,” Servannus said, tightening his grip on his gladius.
Dracco saw that his hands shook and he could smell the man’s fear across the short distance between them.
“We’ve no leadership I tell you,” Servannus whined. “I’ve heard that Varus has lost his mind and cries like a child.”
“Get some rest,” Dracco advised, stretching the stiffness from his neck as he stroked a whet-stone along the edge of his sword. “Tomorrow you’ll need it.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Servannus’s voice quivered with fear. “If Varus is mad, who will plan our escape?”
“We’re better off without the bastard, and no plan will make any difference when to
morrow comes,” Dracco replied, his gaze fixed on his sword.
“That is treasonous talk! I...I could have you scourged for such words.” Servannus’s voice cracked with emotion as he sputtered his response.
“Keep your threats to yourself you prancing sack of shit, or you’ll not live to see tomorrow, and no man here will interfere.” Dracco spat a gob of phlegm to land deftly between Servannus’s feet.
Long minutes passed before Servannus ventured to speak again, his face wearing an imploring expression. “Tell me straight, then. Is there any chance we could reach Haltern?”
“Not in this life.” Dracco laughed, and it was an empty, humourless sound. “Better that you make your peace with your gods and resolve to sell your life dearly tomorrow like the rest of us.”
“It’s as I thought,” Servannus said, his head bowed forwards into his palms, his words sounding dead. “Even if we fight like furies there are so many, and they’ve had the taste of our blood...so much blood.” Lifting his head – the pale tracks of tears visible on his dirty face – he asked, “Do you think that any still live forward of our position? Or maybe behind?”
“No,” Dracco answered wearily. “The army’s been chopped apart and butchered. We’re all that’s left, and we have the first cohort to thank for it – tough bastards. If they’d not broken out we’d be rotting in the mud, too.”
“Why did Varus allow us to be caught like a rabbit in a snare?” Servannus griped.
“Perhaps he knew no better, but it doesn’t matter now. For us the bell cannot be un-rung.”
Servannus persisted, anger creeping into his voice. “He’s led a whole army to its death, and yet you dismiss it as if-”