‘When we reach Carnuntum, if it comes to a fight, I promise you boys will be the first in line, and I’ll be right there with you.’ I rasped my sword from my scabbard and thrust it toward the stars. A great roar echoed in the night; a loud rasp as one hundred men bared their weapons to the gods and roared their war cry.
Somewhere, the Allfather stirred. Surely even he did not command better men.
‘The bridge, lord. The bridge on the horizon!’
I was dozing at the steering oar. Too many late nights and hot days had gotten the better of me. I snapped from my torpor to see a long wooden bridge on the horizon, spanning from Carnuntum on the south bank over to the lands of the Quadi on the north.
I had not told my men what I had planned for when we reached Carnuntum. Mainly because I had no idea myself. Somehow, I had to get in there. Somehow, I had to find the man that wanted my head and remove his before he had the chance to take mine. The one small issue was that I was completely clueless as to how I was going to get that done.
A full frontal assault was completely out of the question. I had no siege equipment, no ladders or artillery. There were five thousand battle hardened legionaries behind those high walls; even if my men managed to scale them, I didn’t fancy our chances of living long enough to tell the tale.
Getting in by disguise would prove much harder than it had at Colonia Ulpia Traiana. Too many men there knew my face, officers especially. Somehow, I needed to lure the legion out, get them over that cursed bridge and into Quadi lands. Then my five hundred men and I could force an entry and fight off the few men left to guard the fortress.
‘Otto, pull the ship over on the north bank. Behind that island there, we’ll disembark and regroup with Ruric and the rest of the men.’ Slowly, the threads of a plan were coming together. I watched on as my two other ships followed our lead and rowed over to the north bank. The River Danube is vast in width as well as length, so that islands appear sporadically along its course. Some big, some small, all just patches of marshland covered in dense bush. I knew they were despised by merchants and Roman warships alike, as they narrowed the river temporarily and caused traffic to slow to a standstill at times as two ships argued over who had the right of way. But to me, right then, they were a gift from the gods.
The island we were behind ensured we couldn’t be spotted from Carnuntum. I knew if I could see through the dense greenery I would see walls, red tiled roofs and a busy market down by the small harbour. But that view was hidden from me, and I was hidden from them.
We leapt from the ships and waded through the shallows and the reeds to clamber up onto the northern bank. Birgir stumbled from the water just behind me, dragging a reluctant horse from the water. ‘Hates the ship lord!’ he said cheerily as he saw me, ‘and I hate him! Right bastard he is!’
‘Why do you have him then?’ I asked with a raised eyebrow.
‘Because he’s a demon in a scrap and he’s fast as the wind!’ he said as he vaulted onto his back. ‘I’ll be off to find the others then. See you at nightfall.’ And with that he was gone.
I clasped hands with Gerulf and Adalhard as they made it on to dry land, and waited impatiently as the men were formed up in their units on a flat patch of grassland.
‘You going to tell us what the plan is, chief?’ Adalhard asked. I had pretended to ignore as my three captains had a hushed argument as to who was going to ask the question. I smiled to myself, prolonging the tension with the extended silence.
‘Today, my friends. We’re going to start a fire, a big one.’
TWENTY
That summer was glorious. Too glorious. Each day the sun scorched the earth, shining down on crops that wouldn’t grow, and fires would burst into life within the dry scrub and drought-stricken fields of grain. I had already heard of several farmsteads that had seen their crops ruined, burnt to nothing more than dust. It would be a hard winter for many.
I knew that to lure the Fourteenth from their lair I would have to do something remarkable, make such a storm that those red shields would have no choice but to march across their wooden bridge and seek me out.
Any old fire would not have achieved that. The Romans would have merely watched from the walls and laughed as their enemies were plunged into further plight. No, I had to start such a blaze that the Fourteenth would have no option but to come rushing from their fortress, swords sheathed and water buckets at the ready.
There was a small fort on the north side of the bridge, a lookout post, a small fence and a gate. I reckoned there to be no more than a century posted there at any one time, so no more than eighty men. That fort symbolled Rome’s only power our side of the river. Its sole purpose to give advanced warning to the rest of the legion of any impending attack. That day, I think, would be the first time the men stationed within would have been called upon to see out that duty. Happily for me, they failed as miserably as I had been expecting them to.
The grass had grown long around the small wooden barricade that enclosed the lookout tower. There was, I was sure, a parapet on the far side of the barricade, though no soldiers were patrolling it. Nor were the lookouts in the watchtower giving the northern horizon the slightest glance. As I crept down the defensive ditch that surrounded the fence, I could hear the cries of glee and anger as a small circle of legionaries played dice in the shade. The clunk of the bone dice in the wooden cup was audible as the men held their breath and prayed to Fortuna for the numbers to fall their way.
A horse whinnied and pawed a hoof on the dry ground as I leaned up against the barricade. I could see it through the gaps in the wooden beams, its ear flicking to listen for trouble. Again it whinnied, snorted and stamped. I panicked momentarily, fearful the noise would alert one of the lounging Romans who would spot me through the gaps in the barricade. I need not have worried, the only reaction it sparked was for one soldier to launch an apple at the noisy beast, who was happy to take the treat in exchange for quieting down.
Birgir scrambled up the earthwork behind me, a mischievous glint in his eye as he drew his flint from a pouch on his waist and grabbed a handful of yellow grass. The first sparks came to nothing, and with each one I flinched, certain I would see a helmeted Roman appear at any moment.
Another strike of the flint and this time the spark caught. Light smoke drifted from the small orange flame which Birgir carefully lowered to the base of the barricade. We slowly added fuel to the fire; more dry grass and an array of twigs. It caught quickly, the flames rising higher and the base spreading along the floor. With a wink I slapped Birgir on the shoulder and silently gestured for him to retreat with me.
As we ran we heard the first cries of alarm; saw the great bloom of orange and yellow as the beacon fire was lit in the tower. I grinned a savage grin. Right then there would be pandemonium within the fortress over the river; men scrambling into armour as centurions struck them with their vine sticks.
Birgir and I rounded a sharp bend in the landscape and ran into my wall of German iron. The Ravensworn were formed up for battle; five hundred of the finest warriors in the land. It brought a tear to my eye seeing my men in all their battle glory. It was not often I had the time or space to bring them all together and practice combat manoeuvres. But still, each man knew their place in the ‘cohort’ as I liked to call it, purely as a means of mocking the Romans, although there were similarities between the two.
A Roman cohort was made of six centuries of eighty men. My unit had five units numbering a hundred each. Ruric and his Hundred held the right flank. It was considered the position of honour on the battlefield; the place where a General would assemble his best troops. Gerulf was next, standing in the front rank of his men with a single headed axe in one hand and his shield in the other. Adalhard held the centre with his great long sword held two handed, his head free of a helmet so his long locks swayed with the breeze. Baldo stood with his back to me, haranguing one of his men for what I am sure was a slight misdemeanour, with Otto and his men were on the far
left. He raised his shield to me as I ran closer, the black raven on the red background gleamed in the sunlight.
‘Men!’ I bellowed in the loudest voice I could with burning lungs. Running any distance in armour is no joke, especially in that heat. ‘I need you to make enough noise to awaken the Allfather in his hall! I need Donar to hear you in the far north, I want him to pause and cup his ear, and know the Ravensworn are roaring their battle cry! Can you do that?’ ‘Yes!’ Was the immediate reply.
I slotted in to the right wing next to Ruric, taking an offered shield and hauling free my sword. Ruric stood holding a great spear, the shaft longer than him. ‘You do know you are quite mad, don’t you?’ he said with an expression that offered not the slightest bit of humour.
‘Oh yes,’ I replied, a stupid grin fixed on my face. ‘Come on old friend, admit it. Life would be dull if I wasn’t around.’ I winked at the men around us, hoping to calm a few nerves.
‘That’s true, chief,’ Ruric said, ‘although it might also be a damn sight longer.’ I erupted into laughter, slapping him on the back so hard he nearly fell into the man beside him.
‘Cheer up, you miserable old goat. Let’s get through this, and I might just find you that nice little farm you’ve been thinking about.’
There was an eruption of noise from our left flank, who could see further round the bend than us. Birgir came haring across our front line; he wore just a tunic and his feet were bare; he ran as if Hel herself were chasing him. ‘They’re coming, lord!’ he said in a breathless voice. ‘The bastards are coming!’
I took a long, slow breath as I tried to calm my fraying nerves. The unmistakable sound of tramping hobnails could be heard through the trees to my right, as five thousand men marched for my blood. I could see the dark smoke smudged against the pale blue sky. They must have quashed the fire quickly, or maybe it had not spread as far as I had hoped.
My men stood ready, blocking the muddy track that passed as a road this side of the Danube. Each captain knew the plan, which should have been passed to each warrior by now. We just had to see it through.
It took an age for the Fourteenth to attack. They approached us in a column eight men wide. As we watched each century swung either left or right from the central path, showing their disdain for us by trudging slowly to their allotted position. It was so calm, organised, and not for the first time I wished for the command of a force so disciplined. My men were better than any in our land, they would hold their formation and fight as a unit, to start with at least. But once their blood was up I knew some of them would break ranks and charge. The fighting would become disintegrated, impossible to manage or follow.
Not that the battle would be my problem today.
After what felt like a month but must have been half an hour at most, the Fourteenth were ready for battle. The first cohort of the Fighting Fourteenth were laid out in all their finery. Their segmented cuirass’ gleamed in the sunlight, scarlet cloaks billowing in the breeze. A golden eagle stood in their centre; I must admit that even I was momentarily caught up in its splendour. A huge man prowled their front ranks; his feet rumbled the earth like an ice giant from legend; legs thicker than the tallest pine tree, arms thicker than a cows waist and clenched fists the size of hams.
Well, ok, but he was big.
First spear centurion Silus, primus pilus of the Fourteenth legion barked command after command at his men. His voice carried clearly over the tumult of men readying for war, each command cutting the air like iron. He turned to face our line and I saw the shimmer of his pure blue eyes from a hundred paces. There were not many men I feared in all the nine worlds Yggdrasil holds together; Silus though, was certainly one of them.
A horn sounded from somewhere behind the Roman line and without the slightest sound or protest each man put his left leg forward as one. There was a rumble in the earth – and in a few of my men’s bellies I’m sure.
They were magnificent as they approached. A solid wall of red shields, standards held high. All you could see of each man was the top of his iron helmet, the straps of his sandals and the tip of his spear. I racked my mind for something – anything to say to my men to boost their courage, I drew a blank.
Fifty paces off and the low rumble of cavalry filled my ears. My men held a narrow front, with woods either side to protect a surprise attack on our flank. Even so I shuddered, just thinking of the carnage the long lances could carve up. ‘Shields!’ I yelled, finally finding my voice. My men raised their own red shields, showing the Romans nothing but a row of black ravens.
Thirty paces, sweat already blinded me. My left arm shuddered with the weight of my shield, my sword arm dropped lower, lower. ‘Steady now boys, we know what’s coming,’ Ruric said, as if commenting on a passing rain cloud. I felt the men around me group closer together, seeking the protection of their neighbour from the hail of iron they were about to receive.
Twenty paces, and across the Roman line the trumpets blared and men got ready to unleash their spears. Pila, the Romans call them. Long shafts of wood topped with deadly iron spikes, fitted to the pole with a long iron shank. They would tear through our shields, rip through our mail and condemn us to die a sad and lonely death, screaming for our mothers as our sword brothers fought on around us.
A loud grunt, followed by a slow whistle, and then blissful silence. I stood transfixed as five hundred spears arced through the air towards us. The sky went black, even the carrion birds that circled patiently, waiting to feed before sundown were gone. It was beautiful, in a funny kind of way, almost like a dance.
BANG! With a wet crunch the spears hit home, finding gaps in the shield wall and tearing my men to pieces. The screams were harrowing. A man to my right took one through the eye, the spear went through his head and exploded from the back of his helmet. Bone and brain matter spattered the side of my face, covering me in blood. Before we had time to recover there was another loud grunt and once more the spears cut through the air.
I remember very little of the battle that followed. The shield walls clashed and for a time there was nothing but the shoving match that decides most battles. I fought next to Ruric in the front rank, who hacked and sliced with a short-handled axe, always probing for an opening. He caught the rim of a shield early on, tore it down and I hacked through the neck of the legionary behind it. I remember taking a blow to the shoulder, then one to the ribs but because of my sturdy mail I’d only see some bad bruising from them.
For the majority of it I just leaned into my shield, roaring incoherent abuse at the Romans and trying not to get killed. I felt the pressure slacken on my shield and risked a glance over the rim to see my opponent had slipped on some blood. Without hesitation I raised my shield, lunged out underneath it and stabbed the legionary in the groin. His arterial blood was almost black as it swamped the mud underfoot. He collapsed with a scream, convulsing in agony. Within heartbeats there was a new shield against mine, as another nameless Roman took his comrades place in the line. I resumed my position, keeping my head down and waiting for another opening.
‘Reckon it’s time you were off, chief,’ Ruric said, as he hacked with his axe over the top of his shield. ‘We’ll hold them here.’
I said nothing. Risking a brief look across our line, I saw our men holding their own. We had given no ground, which pleased me. With a nod to Ruric, I gestured for the man behind me to take my place.
I grabbed Birgir by the arm, and in turn summoned the other twenty men who were to accompany me. With barely a backwards glance, we ran from the battle, deep into the woodland that guarded my army’s right flank.
TWENTY-ONE
The quiet in the forest was unsettling after the roar of battle. There was only the echo of the song of iron; distant screams muffled by the density of the trees. We ghosted through the darkened woodland like shadow walkers, our feet light and silent on the earth. For a time I wished Ketill and his men were with me, for there were no better warriors at this kind of work than the Harii.
But my men did well. Each man had been chosen for his lightness of foot and his ability with the sword; they were good and loyal men, who would die for me if my plan went arimray.
Suddenly we were leaving the darkness behind us, the gaps between trees grew greater and the bridge was in sight, and as I had hoped it was barely guarded. The Fourteenth had trampled across the wooden boards, so intent on the enemy to their front it had not crossed their minds that they could be attacked from the rear.
Eight men lounged around the open gate. One tent party, or contubernium as the Romans would call it. None looked in our direction as we streaked from the forest. I had told my men not to make any battle cries, so our silent charge went unchecked till the moment we were upon them. My ribs ached from the blow I had taken, and the second wind I was hoping would come was slow in arriving. I more lumbered than charged into my opponent who would have dispatched me with ease if he had been looking my way. As it was he was studying his sandals, his back turned to me. With one clumsy sword stroke beneath the neck guard of his helmet I almost cut his head off in one blow. Without so much as a grunt he sunk to the earth, his life blood pumping from his mangled neck.
As I stood hunched over, panting and trying to ease the stitch in my side, I saw with satisfaction the other seven legionaries had all joined their friend in death. Sucking in a great lungful of air I set off across the bridge, not waiting to see if my men followed.
It felt strange, running into a Roman fortress. As we arrived on the far bank of the river we ran across a road paved in stone. It was flat, perfectly laid, and superbly maintained. The whole landscape was different, all around was order. The land either side of the road was partitioned off into perfectly squared sections, each presumably owned by someone different. There was a ludus, a gladiator school set just off from a giant amphitheatre where the slaves would be forced to fight to the death. I grimaced as we passed, thinking of all the free German warriors that had not been lucky enough to die on the battlefield; sold into slavery as a spoil of war and forced to fight their comrades as thousands of greedy Roman bastards cheered on and put money on their favourites. There really was nothing likeable about Rome.
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