War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One

by Nick Morris

  “It’s too late to wish the dead back to life,” Dracco told him. “Just pray as I do that your end will be quick. Now, you should follow the example of your men, and try to get some sleep.”

  Looking close to tears, Servannus asked, “How can they sleep knowing...what’s coming?”

  “Because they are legionaries, and will fight on until death claims them,” Dracco growled.

  “Why? Where’s the glory in such a death?”

  “Have you learned nothing about the men you lead? They’re not concerned about glory. Each of them knows that his true worth lies in him meeting his duty to the man who stands next to him; in his resolve to hold strong until he can hold no longer.”

  Servannus nodded, and for a second Dracco thought that he glimpsed a hint of understanding on the tribune’s face. Or, perhaps it was just a quirk of the dull fire-light.

  Turning his attention back to his sword, Dracco hoped there were no more questions to answer.

  *

  Shortly after dawn the tatters of the nineteenth mobilised. Varus rode at its heart surrounded by the first cohort who carried with it the one eagle remaining in Roman hands.

  They were attacked by the combined German host. The assault was overwhelming, and the survivors fell in droves, their blood turning the water channels dirty red. Many Romans were too weak to properly defend themselves, and the Germans hacked and stabbed at them like wolves amongst sheep. So closely were they beset, that the dead in their midst remained erect, locked tight in the press with arrows and javelins sprouting at obscene angles from their corpses.

  Groups of Germans were turning their attention to the fallen, set on stripping armour and acquiring weapons. And the mutilation of the defenceless. In desperation, some legionaries broke ranks and fled into the bog, where either their armour dragged them to a watery death or they were cut down by the German skirmishers lying in wait.

  In shock, Varus was barely able to comprehend the horror of the last three days. The wine he drank before dawn felt sour in his belly and did little to numb his shame. He watched the first cohort’s veterans struggle to re-group for a final stand, their efforts handicapped by the ground on which they rallied. Truly the gods have cursed me, he conceded bitterly, finally realizing the end was near.

  “Danaos, quickly!” Varus dismounted and beckoned to his aide, who staggered towards him, a wound in his arm seeping blood through his clasped fingers.

  “Can you still hold a sword?” Varus asked, his eyes now clear and his jaw set.

  “Yes...I can still fight.”

  Varus drew his sword and held it out, the ornate hilt foremost. “Take it and hold the point towards me!”

  As Varus removed his breast-plate, Danaos’s eyes stretched wide in recognition. “Please my lord!” he implored, “I cannot do this!”

  “You must!” Varus demanded. “You’ve always served me well and I need your help with this last thing. A general of Rome cannot be taken alive!”

  “My lord, we are holding them and might yet break through.”

  “Danaos! There’s no more time.” He guided the sword point against his chest. “You must brace your feet and hold the blade steady. I order you to do it! Now!”

  Shaking, Danaos gave in.

  For a moment Varus fixed his gaze on the sword’s tip. He closed his eyes, willing his mind somewhere else.

  With both hands clasped on the blade, Varus jerked himself forward. Good Mithras! It’s easier than I ever imagined.

  Then the pain came, and it was everything he feared it could be. His body shuddered, and all his thoughts of the past, his every hope and ambition slid away...

  * * *

  Chapter LIV

  REUNION

  “Everyman’s life lies within the present;

  for the past is spent and the future uncertain.”

  Marcus Aurelius

  With each dead body that he checked, a barb cut into him, unfolding layer upon layer of feared recognition.

  A distinctive red blaze, it was her hair that Guntram spotted first. He closed his eyes and the noise of battle receded. A sudden, awful pain ran through him. He opened them again and moved nearer.

  Jenell’s body was covered by that of a Roman officer whose face was gone, cut away. Wounded many times, he’d clearly tried to shield Jenell with his body in the awful final moments. Their hands were tightly clasped; a sealed bond as death raced in.

  Guntram squatted down and moved a lock of hair from Jenell’s cheek. Black blood stained the corner of her mouth and he swatted away the eager flies. His eyes searched the stillness of her face as if expecting her to awake and speak to him, a part his mind splitting away, questioning if it was true.

  At length, Guntram stood, and continued to stare at her for a while. He tried not to see the blood and pain, glad only that Jenell wasn’t alone at the end.

  Tribesmen passed him, yelling, laughing.

  Guntram hardly noticed them. He felt queasy, the full impact of his discovery bearing down on him.

  He’d known where to look for Jenell and found her. Of his brother there was still no sign.

  *

  With victory still not complete, Arminius was unable to sleep through the long, murky night; a night broken by the cries of the Roman captives.

  He’d had not foreseen the wide-spread torture of the wounded, and it was never his intention to unnerve the survivors in such a way. His men, acknowledging imminent victory spared no-one, not even the women and the children. He’d planned for the battle to end at the earth-wall, but the nineteenth’s first cohort had lived up to their reputation and fought their way through with a small force – a pitiful few.

  The final attack was delayed in order to allow scores of his men time to shake off their hang-overs from the previous night of celebration. They’d ignored his orders for restraint until victory was complete, and he was angry, tired, and Wulfga had cracked heads.

  Now, as he watched the Roman formation recoil under the massive assault he knew that it was nearly finished. For the first time he saw legionaries drop their weapons and try to surrender. They were struck down without mercy. His men used their long swords to hack off their heads, nailing the grisly trophies to the trees. The few of centurion rank who were seized – although barely alive – would be saved for the ritual fires.

  All these things he pledged to retain in his mind. And, when the fighting ended, he would ensure that homage was to his fallen sword-brothers, whose loss would be dearly felt in the struggle ahead. Some had been good friends, all were true to his cause.

  “They’ve brought it back!” the blood splashed Wulfga’s arrival shattered Arminius’s thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “The head of Varus.” Wulfga pointed to a jubilant crowd of warriors. “They found his body and armour. So you’d better hurry before the drunken bastards lose it!”

  “I’ll come soon,” Arminius replied quietly, the battle’s exertions weighing heavily on him. Wulfga nodded, and looking slightly bemused hastened away.

  Arminius knew that he was expected to view the gruesome trophy, as well as confirming that it was the true head of the governor. After, he’d send it as proof of victory to Marcobodus of the Mark, King of the Marcomanni, as testimony to all that Arminius had planned coming to fruition. He plainly recalled the look of contempt on Marcobodus’s face when he asked him for the support of the large German federation. He’d almost begged, despite his nagging belief that the King was never going to commit to their struggle.

  Drained, Arminius rubbed his eyes. Even now it was difficult to accept victory over the eagles.

  He scrutinised the Roman square, saw the gaping holes in its sides. He gauged that no more than a hundred were left, and looking closer, he thought he caught a flash of the eagle, but wasn’t sure.

  Removing his helmet, Arminius walked towards the scarf of warriors that pressed the square ever more tightly. They recognised him and called out, raising their bloody we
apons in salute. He smiled through the fatigue, wrinkles creasing back the corners of his eyes. Raucous cheering broke out, growing in volume. This is what I’ve striven for, he told himself.

  Accepting the acclaim, he punched his sword into the air, and thought of neither the harrowing past nor the beckoning future.

  *

  Servannus swayed amid the core of veterans at the centre of the square. Dracco fought at his side.

  Less than fifty remained and when the next attack came it would be finished. Servannus knew that life held nothing more for him beyond the imminent final stand.

  Since entering the forest he’d experienced a deep sense of foreboding, but to be seen not to support Varus would have been as good as committing political suicide. All of his hard work and constant scraping would have been for nothing.

  Now, it didn’t matter. Gods! It’s so unfair that I should die here, like this, he thought, feeling the tears well up.

  The battle pressed in and Servannus struck out wildly for his life – a life in the measure of the next breath, the next sword stroke.

  *

  At the heart of the final encounter the terrible war-hammer struck savagely, shearing away metal and flesh. Bodies lay broken in Guntram’s wake, and those before him reeled back before the onslaught.

  Despite their filthy appearance, the two Romans’ armour and helmet’ plumes depicted them as centurion and officer. They were the closest to Guntram and he braced himself to attack.

  Then, the centurion emitted a startled grunt and pitched sideways. A spear bloomed from his thigh, its shaft snapping with a dull crack as he fell sideways.

  Guntram turned to the officer, shaking sweat from his eyes, blinking hard to clear his vision. Studying him more closely, he took in the dark, bloodshot eyes and distinctive cruel mouth. The arrogant chin above the helmet strap trembled. It was a face etched by fire in his brain. His mind screamed out – Servannus!

  “You!” Guntram cried. Wrenching off his helmet, he threw it aside. “Remember this face, Roman dog?” he spat out the words.

  The Roman made a whimpering sound and looked frantically about. Then, seeming to spot a gap in the cordon of tribesmen, he threw down his sword and made a dash for the forest. The warriors quickly converged on him.

  Guntram bolted the command, “Stay back! He’s mine. And no one is to touch the centurion!”

  The warriors backed off.

  *

  Servannus gasped for breath as he plunged through the water-logged forest. Branches sprang back, lacerating his face, and the pain came in throbbing waves. Wounded in the arm, he’d panicked and pulled out the barbed arrow. Now it felt like his heart pounded in the wound and blood spattered his whole front.

  His empty scabbard manoeuvred between his legs and he tripped. Dirty water filled his mouth and eyes and a violent pain wracked his arm. He tried to hold back the cry, but couldn’t.

  He struggled to his feet, realizing that the water rose to above his knees. Unclasping his scabbard, he flung it away. Thank Mithras he’s not following! he reassured himself after looking quickly behind. Ahead of him the forest thinned out, yielding to foggy swamp. “If I can just reach the fog,” he mouthed. “I can do it! Just keep walking...” He lurched forwards.

  After wading a short distance, Servannus realized that the surrounding murk was thickening and that he could no longer hear the sounds of battle. I’ve made it! he told himself, and smiled.

  Ahead, a small island of earth and reeds poked up through the water. His breath came fast and his vision swam. I need to rest before I pass out, he decided, just for a short time.

  He fell forwards onto the island. The pain in his arm was bad and he clenched his teeth against the urge to vomit. For the present he was content to lie there, not moving. Darkness pushed in, and he no longer wanted to fight it...

  It was afternoon in Herculaneum. Fresh winds blew in from the harbour shore, the villa’s shadows bending away from a warm sun that crawled across a brilliant blue sky. The tiled floor of the courtyard glimmered brightly around him, highlighting animals and gods in mosaic. It was dazzling. A salty breeze from the sea caressed his neck and face, carrying with it the smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchens, while a servant ushered towards him with a pitcher of cooled wine, his sandals softly clopping on the marbled floor of the colonnade. Everything was fine, and he was safe.

  Then the pain in his arm returned, flushing the vision away. He opened his eyes and knew someone was there, standing over him. Twisting his head, he saw the large man-shadow outlined against the fog. Sobbing, he squeezed his eyes shut and searched for the blackness that would blot out the reality.

  He felt the ex-gladiator grip him by the nape, and his fingers felt like iron. Close to his ear a voice hissed, “This is for my people and my loved ones slain on your command. The blade’s too clean for you. Let foulness cleanse foulness!”

  His face was driven down into the churned muck. He desperately reached back, clawing at the hand that forced him deeper, but his efforts were useless against the German’s crushing power.

  Servannus tried to scream, but foul sludge filled his nose and mouth. His legs jerked out as mud was sucked into his lungs. There was a grunting noise above him that sounded far away, and his face sank deeper. His stomach heaved and the strength left his arms, and then there was stillness . . .

  *

  A slimy blood trail marked Dracco’s path to the oak.

  He sat with his back set squarely against it. His life-blood pulsed between fingers clamped over the wound in his thigh. No warrior approached him, but he held his knife against his throat; ready for the single deep cut that would end it.

  The big German pushed through the encircling warriors, to stand glaring down at him, the terrible war-hammer balanced over one shoulder. He waved the warriors away and none protested.

  Dracco peered up though the pain and exhaustion into the German’s face. It was older and harder, and the scar was much fainter, but there was no mistaking it.

  “You’re still breathing stone-face.” The warrior’s Latin was heavily accented. “I didn’t think one so old could live so long...barely.

  Dracco managed a strained smile before coughing out his reply. “Stone-face, a new name for me....one of many. As many as the battles and the scars.” His blade remaining at his throat, he ventured, “I see you’ve collected a few scars of your own since we last met.”

  The German seemed to read his face. “Give me the knife,” he ordered.

  “So that your friends can play fucking ball with my head!” Dracco snorted, grinning oddly. “I don’t think so.”

  Snake-quick, the German’s foot lashed forward, kicking the knife away from Dracco’s grasp. Its course scored a shallow furrow across his throat, before it landed upright in the mud and well out of reach.

  Dracco knew what sort of death awaited him and he let his head ease back against the damp wood. A blurry veil draped before him and he could do nothing to edge it back.

  *

  His face darkly intense, he walked amongst the fallen, the shrieks and clangs of battle replaced by the moans and prayers of the dying.

  Men, women and children lay in the mud, some alone, others in heaps. The smell was awful. A severed hand lay palm up in Guntram’s path, as if in friendship, and he stepped over it. It was a great victory, but it didn’t ease the great hollowness that he felt inside; for Jenell and for his missing brother. And, he needed find Wilda, or at least confirm that she was safe and Blaz too.

  He touched his hand to his scalp and it came away smeared with tacky blood. The energy that drove his muscles was ebbing away, and he felt the ache of his wounds.

  Then, as he watched the warriors moving amongst the grim wreckage of battle, something caught his attention: someone was calling his name. Through the clutter of bodies he saw two figures heading towards him. The taller held up his hand to wave and called his name again; this time louder, clearer. It was Blaz, with a boy at his side.
>
  Guntram let the war-hammer slip from his hand, and he broke into a half-run, pushing men aside as he cut a straight path towards them. Suddenly, there were no more bodies in the way, and a bolt of recognition ripped through him.

  “I’ve found someone who’s keen to see you.” Blaz’s words seemed to float about him and he blinked hard as if to clear his vision. He stared at the boy intently as though marking his face from a memory, then shook his head in wonder.

  His brother ran forward and wrapped his arms about his waist. He pushed the boy’s face tight against his chest and held him there.

  “Oh Guntram! I was told you were dead!” the boy cried freely as the words spilled out.

  Guntram held him at arm’s length, searching his body for wounds. Satisfied there were none, he said, “In one piece I see, and by the gods how you’ve grown!” He laughed and his brother’s smile split wider.

  “I found him with the wounded and had quite a job to prize him away,” Blaz joked.

  “Still playing the physician,” Guntram said, half-teasing. “Then, I would have expected nothing less.”

  When his brother spoke, his face was sombre. “During the battle the Roman soldiers were being killed all around me, and I hid in the forest. Then our warriors began searching for those who’d tried to escape. So, I hid under the bodies....” He took a deep breath. “Later, when the fighting became quiet, I came out and tried to help some of the wounded. Then, the warriors came back and started killing them.” He paused, the horror clearly marked on his face. “I called out to the warriors in German, and when they realized I was Cherusci they sent word...and then Blaz came.”

  Guntram placed his hand on Blaz’s shoulder, “My thanks brother.” There was tightness in his throat when he asked,

  “What of Wilda?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve seen her and she was in one piece,” Blaz answered, still smiling.

  Greatly relieved, Guntram turned to his brother. The boy looked very pale. Guntram squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Strom, the face of war is a terrible thing, but Rome has given us no choice.”