Knight of Rome Part I

by Malcolm Davies

  Badurad heard a Roman carrying no shield but with a crest like a fan on his helmet shout something.

  A gaunt soldier holding a bow walked around the end of the shield wall; a dozen slingers and archers following him. The slings whipped round at arm’s length just once and released their bullets as the first arrows flew. Half of Badurad’s men fell. He looked at the dead and wounded one either side of him and made his decision. These enemies had come to destroy him and his people for no reason. There was no blood feud between them. He had killed no Roman nor had he raided their territory but what did not matter to them? They were inexplicable; like a storm or a plague they came and wreaked havoc then they were gone. If Rome was a force of nature and could not be defeated, it could be defied. He held his sword high, screamed his war cry and ran at them, his warriors closely following. At the instant of impact, a whistle blew and the legionaries leaned forward pushing out with their shields. The weight of the charging Germans shoved them back into the legionaries’ bodies but did not break their line. The short swords flickered out through the gaps like vipers’ tongues. Badurad and his forlorn hope fell, bleeding their lives out into the earth. Roman boots marched over the bodies. A stamp to the throat or a downward thrust in passing finished off the wounded and the line of death rolled on, seeking further prey.

  Badurad lay on his back. Blood pumped out of wounds in his chest and the side of his neck was ripped open. He used his sword to heave himself onto his knees and then to his feet, swaying, head hanging, struggling for every ragged breath. His immense will was focussed on one thing only; his enemies should have neither his body nor his honourable sword to gloat over and despoil. He managed three staggering steps, dragging it behind him and let himself fall headlong through the side of a burning hut. The roof poles crashed down on him, throwing up a wave of flame and completing his warrior’s pyre.

  Otto’s first reaction to the onslaught had been to run and find his father but he quickly realized that was useless; he would never find him in the smoke and confusion. He pulled the halter off his colt’s head and smacked it hard on the rump. The screaming and the reek of blazing thatch terrified the animal. It bolted towards the higher ground. He opened the gate of the pen and stood aside as the half dozen horses inside barged each other to get out in a frantic stampede. The oxen lumbered around in a bellowing circle.

  Faint screams and rising smoke made the foragers rush to the edge of the chestnut grove and looked down towards their homes. They could see fire moving in a line of yellow flames and behind, the gleam of armoured men chopping and thrusting at any figure who stood in their way. The women screamed and wept; some fell to their knees but Odila watched impassively. She understood what was happening and knew that there was nothing to be done; nothing down in the village could be saved.

  “Come on,” she shouted harshly. “Get up and run. Stop that stupid noise or we’ll be dead as well. Come on!”

  She cajoled and bullied them deeper into the grove and out the far side, climbing higher up until a ridge hid them from view of the village. Breathless they collapsed in a hollow, clinging to each other and sobbing.

  “Odila, I must go down,” the only man with them said.

  “To die?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, with my brothers; can you imagine the shame of being the only man who did not oppose them?”

  “Go then,” she said, “but leave me your knife and don’t lead them to us.”

  “What do you reckon’s going on here then?” a legionary of the upper valley guard asked the man on his left.

  A lone warrior was loping steadily along the river path towards them with an immense black hound keeping pace with him. He carried a shield and two spears. As he came closer, they could see he was going to run straight at them.

  “He’s only attacking us!” another one said.

  They began to laugh until their optio ordered silence and they all stared at the solitary figure growing larger by the second as he approached.

  “Archers,” the optio shouted, “knock ‘im down.

  Two stood forward and fired their arrows. As soon as they were airborne, the warrior swerved in mid-stride and raised his shield. Both shafts missed him and plunged quivering into the turf. A slinger fired. His bullet went right through the shield, rocking it back with the impact but failing to hit the man behind it. When he was ten paces away from the Roman triple line the warrior hopped sideways and flung a spear. It arched over the first rank and stuck in the shield of a second rank legionary. But that was all he achieved. Two lead bullets and an arrow at almost point-bank range took him down. His hound ran back to its fallen master, whimpered and licked his dead face. They shot the dog as well.

  “Bloody idiot,” a legionary said and spat at the ground beneath his feet.

  The optio hit him so hard on the head that his helmet rang like a bell and he staggered.

  “Would you do what he did?” the officer asked. “No, you fucking wouldn’t. That was a brave man; show him some respect.”

  Lucius had kept immediately behind the centre of the constantly breaking and reforming infantry line as they advanced. From his vantage point high on his horse’s back, he saw an old, bent man with scrawny arms and legs standing in front of an old woman defending her with a kitchen knife. He watched them fall to two of his men who casually thrust them into a burning hut with their javelins. He saw a legionary strike down a young woman and catch the baby she held in her arms before it hit the ground then cut its throat and toss it, pinwheeling through a blazing roof. He could feel the blood draining from his face and suddenly his mouth was full of vomit. He swallowed it back, burning his throat and fought the faintness that made him rock in his saddle.

  “Mars, is this your true face?” he thought, appalled.

  He looked around and saw his men going about this butchery as if it was all in a day’s work. Then he understood that it was, exactly that; a day’s work and if he wanted to serve as an officer of Rome, it must be his work too.

  “We give you this blood in sacrifice great Mars,” Lucius muttered under his breath, hoping to appease the god of war for the weakness he had momentarily shown.

  The action was nearly over. The initial fires were burning low and there were no roofs left to fire. The legionaries were ordered to break ranks, form small groups and hunt down survivors. One such knot of three men found Otto.

  He still stood with the gatepost at his back holding his axe across his body in both hands. He watched them impassively as they came nearer and spread out in front of him. He had never seen Romans before. They were smaller than he had expected after all the stories he had heard about their victories under their great general, Julius Caesar. But people now said that Caesar was a god which explained why his armies swept the lands clear of all who opposed him. Otto was not impressed by what he saw. He accepted that they would shortly kill him but he wished his enemies were heroic in stature and bearing. They were not. Their boots were black with ash, their faces smeared and filthy and their swords fouled with brown stains. They gave off an odour of smoke, sweat and the metallic scent of blood.

  They saw a German like all the others; tall, blond and with those horrible blue eyes like chips of ice.

  “He’s a big ‘un,” one of them said.

  His companion looked more closely.

  “Bit of a boy, that’s all; look, he hasn’t even got any peach fuzz on his face.”

  “Bloody big boy, that’s all I say,” added the first speaker. “Come on, Tubby, sort him out.”

  They both turned to the middle soldier in the group. He was short, barrel-chested and had only the vestige of a squat neck.

  “Why me?” he complained.

  “Oh go on, it’ll be a laugh. Chop ‘im down at the knees, they’re about level with your shoulders.”

  “Bastards,” Tubby muttered and stepped cautiously forward.

  Otto did not stir as the Roman closed in. He could see only his eyes above the top of his shield and his
sword held out at the side, level and ready to thrust. More legionaries emerged from the thinning smoke and stood back to watch the fun. Tubby was in sword strike distance of Otto. His eyes narrowed slightly at the moment he made his move. It was enough for Otto who had been trained by his father to look out for such signals on an enemy’s face. He half turned to avoid the blade and stepped to the Roman’s left. Tubby had leaned forward and advanced his right foot to get all his weight behind the blow, but since he had missed, he was off-balance. Otto banged the end of his axe handle down on the toe of Tubby’s boot. The legionary yelped and fell sideways through the fence. A huge roar of laughter burst out of the watching soldiers. Otto did not strike at his fallen opponent but took his place with the post at his back again; calmly waiting for whoever would come next.

  A horse’s head and neck appeared through the murk. It came forward revealing the rider. He jumped nimbly down from his saddle, looked around and walked towards them. At that moment, a gust of wind blew the air clear and the sunlight struck down on him.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked the soldiers who immediately clammed up and came to attention.

  Otto took in his fine armour but most of all, the helmet he wore; silver and gold with an ornate crest of black plumes that had been plucked from the tails of several roosters. They nodded and shook as he moved. Blades of sunlight splintered from their glossy surfaces which made them even blacker; black as the deepest night; black as death within the grave. Otto dropped his axe, stepped across the three paces that separated them and knelt. He lifted up his hands held together as if in prayer and looked inquiringly into the face of the man who held his destiny. Lucius did not know what was happening but without thinking about it, he clasped the boy’s hands in his own. Otto stood up, smiled broadly, nodded and took hold of the tribune’s bridle, holding his horse for him.

  Lucius was as amazed as the legionaries. They all stood in silence staring at this German oddity. Lentus bustled up and took everything in.

  “Alright, alright, what’s all this?” Tubby what the bloody hell are you doing, mending the fucking fence? Get on with it the lot of you; no-one’s sounded the recall have they?”

  The soldiers melted away, cheerfully grinning, to get back to the sports of prodding in woodpiles and haystacks for any hidden survivors to kill.

  Lentus looked at Lucius and then at Otto who was calmly holding the tribune’s horse. He drew his sword which had remained in its scabbard throughout the operation.

  “Want me to finish him, sir?” he asked in the tone of someone offering to do a favour.

  “I think not,” he replied.

  “Oh, going to do ’im yourself are you sir?”

  “He gave himself up to me,” Lucius told him, as if that would explain why the boy was not to die.

  “Gave himself up?” Lentus snorted. “These Germans don’t do that, never. Kill him now or he’ll cut your throat as soon as we’re back in camp, if not tonight. They make shit slaves, Germans.”

  But Lentus had gone a little too far. It sounded to Lucius that the centurion was issuing an order. He fixed the man with his best superior stare.

  “Thank you for giving me your opinion Centurion Lentus. I do not believe I asked for it. Recall the men and have them assemble here where there is room for them all. Oh, and I noticed some horses galloping about in the confusion. Let them be captured and brought along.”

  Lentus tried to keep his face impassive but his pinched lips turned down at the corners. He was angry at being put in his place by this youngster who obviously thought he was Alexander the Great because he had seen his first action. He saluted stiffly and turned smartly on his heel before striding rapidly away and issuing a stream of orders. The men drifted up out of the smoke which was now little more than occasional thin wisps like rags shaken out on a gust of wind. They had brought three horses with them which they led into the pen. Although the scouts had received no orders to engage, they had done so gleefully, cutting down anyone they could. They now had trophies tied to their saddles; scalps of bloody hair, right hands. The soldiers fell in and the roll call was taken. They were all accounted for; none missing, none injured. Lucius turned to mount his horse. Otto passed him the reins and cupped his hands to help the tribune into the saddle.

  “Well done men,” he called in a voice loud enough to be heard by all. “You will be pleased to know we are now proceeding back to camp but before we do, there is one more task we need to accomplish; Centurion Lentus!” Lentus stepped forward and saluted. “Detail some men to slaughter those oxen and butcher a couple of them. Load the hind quarters up on the horses. Tonight, we feast, lads.”

  He was rewarded by a cheer but the sour look did not leave the centurion’s face. They marched out of the valley and picked up the guard they had left fifty paces down the river path.

  “Any problems optio; anyone tried to get past you running away or surrendering?” Lentus asked pointedly.

  The optio looked puzzled. “They’re Germans, centurion, they don’t never give in….”

  “Very good, optio, well done you and your men; Centurion Lentus, get them to fall in at the rear of the column,” Lucius intervened, barely able to contain his annoyance.

  The day after the soldiers left, Odila and the others came home. Their huts were circles of ash and half burned timber. There were few recognisable bodies left but they knew Badurad by the sword still clutched in his charred right hand. They hunted out anything that might be useful and made a pitifully small heap of axe heads, knives and tools. They found half a dozen skillets and cooking pots that had not been destroyed. They had no shelter, no warriors to defend them and hardly any property left. They might have despaired but they did not. There were a few cattle in the upper valley, their grain stores were left untouched and Otto’s colt together with two other horses were found grazing on the lower slopes.

  They had enough to come through the winter. In spring they would find their kin and their lives would go on, never knowing why the disaster called Rome had fallen upon them. They carried out the funeral rights for their dead and moved out of the ill-omened valley.

  Chapter 8

  The column marched back the way they had come along the river path until they reached the fishing place where they had bivouacked the previous night. The original inhabitants had not returned. The legionaries and their officers did not relax either on the march or in making sure they set out enough sentries overnight. They were all very aware that they were still days away from the legion camp and in hostile territory. They lit fires in shallow trenches and fed them with wood until the embers were white hot before roasting the ox haunches over them on improvised spits. The fat dripped down and flared, sending a rich odour of cooking beef through to cold air. The legionaries’ mouths filled with saliva and their bellies rumbled until the cooks decided they were done. Gangs of men lifted the sizzling meat clear of the fire and they began to hack it up and gorge. No-one offered Otto any food but neither did they prevent him from taking his share. When he picked up the butcher knife to slice himself a steak, the nearest men to him recoiled and put their greasy hands on the hilts of their swords, then looked sheepish when the German boy dropped the knife and walked away with a bloody, steaming lump of meat to eat in seclusion.

  Otto was ravenous and tired from keeping up with Lucius’ horse all day. Once he had eaten his fill, he washed his face and hands in the river and lay down to sleep in front of the door of the hut the tribune was using. He was anxious. He did not understand these men; their speech or the relationships between them. The legionaries had armour and swords which made them rich noblemen in his eyes. But there were other Romans who carried no shields but had thick sticks with which they struck at them. Since the legionaries did not draw their swords and kill the men who hit them, they could not be noble. Only one of them rode a horse and had a breastplate and feathered helmet so he must be the leader.

  He was glad that his mother and Saxa had been away when the raid took place
. They would survive and their lives would continue. His mother’s family was numerous and powerful and they would find room for her and his sister. Badurad’s end had been fated so there was no point in mourning what had been decreed for his father. As for himself, he had found the man with the black plumes as had been foreseen. Whatever happened next would be his destiny. Since it could not be changed, he must accept it as something to be endured or enjoyed like a warrior and the son of Badurad. He slept dreamlessly and awoke refreshed.

  They marched on a slightly different route from their outgoing journey, partially for security but mostly because the scouts had found a short-cut that saved them several hours. Otto ran beside Lucius again and either held his horse or stood beside his when he was dismounted. Although the men were happy to be going back to base, there were some grumbles.

  “No loot we were told but Boxer’s got himself some nice horses.” a soldier said quietly to his mate but unfortunately for him, not quietly enough. Lentus overheard.

  “Were you expressing disapproval of Tribune Lucius Longius?” he asked.

  “No, centurion; wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Glad to hear it because if you did, I would have to hit you like this…” Lentus told him and lashed him across the back of the thighs with his vine-staff. The legionary hissed with pain and bit his lip but did not break step.

  They reached the bridgehead without incident. Before crossing the men were told to fall out and smarten themselves up as best they could.

  “First Spear Centurion Attius is not going to chew my balls off because you lot look scruffy,” Lentus told them.

  While they were gathered in an informal group doing their best to clean up their kit, Lucius walked his horse into the middle of the busy men.

  “Centurion Lentus,” he called, “when we get back to camp ask Prefect Aldermar if he wants to buy those three horses we brought back. If he doesn’t; have them sold to one of the traders. The price you are paid for them is to go into the legion funeral fund.”