The Wald (28 page)

. . .

Drusus fought hand to hand against a determined batch of Suebians. At last, the general was given a moment to catch his breath.  The Germans had pulled back and begun a fighting retreat at the sound of their horns.  Their salient, as the Roman commanders had anticipated, had been nipped off.  Several of the tribesmen who had begun the afternoon’s battle at the tip of the formation now fought in an isolated pocket.  They would all be pierced and bled dry.  Drusus, his face smeared with sweat, dirt, and tribesman blood, looked to his right.  He saw the main force of the Cheruscan cavalry coming to help protect the infantry retreat.  Craning to the left, he saw the pitiful remnants of the band of riders that had tried to encircle his army by attacking the reserve doing the same thing.  His centurions kept up the killing, moving forward at a quick pace, but keeping order.  They cut down slowly retreating men who sometimes inched away sideways, afraid to allow their unarmed backs to become targets for Roman spears.

The first of the German foot soldiers ran
scared into the trees that closed in behind them as Rome pushed them back.  Yet, despite the fleeing men, about five hundred of the tribesmen spun around, joined with the cavalry, and meant to protect the retreat of their brethren.  Drusus shouted for his men to stop and reform into proper order some distance from the forest.  The trumpets blared and officers smacked and screamed at their men to bring the line into fighting formation once again.  An optio at the rear of one of the centuries used his long staff to strike a man who took the free moment to release his bladder.  Fearing even more severe punishment, the soldier jumped back to his place and let the urine flow down his leg.  He would normally be embarrassed for such behavior, but he saw at least three other soldiers with a clear stream sluicing away the dirt and grime that had accumulated on their legs during the combat.

Avectius and Chumstintus rode to their leader.  “Lord, the left of your line has seen little action.  We sent scouts into the forest on our side.  We see no treachery
hidden away there.”  Chumstintus looked for confirmation from his brother when he finished reporting.  His brother nodded.

Manilius pounded his mount to the center to report to the general.  “General Drusus, we have a fine victory thus far.  We can make a camp here tonight and be secure
, knowing that some one thousand of the tribesmen will not be able to fight any longer.”

“And what of those men?” asked Drusus, pointing to the rear guard of the tribes.

“Lord, they look scared out of their skins.  And they are right to feel that way.  We ought to heap disdain upon them by ignoring their presence.  Let’s throw up a temporary camp with what small light we have left,” answered Manilius.

“Did you see anything that would indicate chicanery, Manilius?”

“From the tribes, lord?  No.”

“Then I mean to finish them.  The Cheruscans have had no cause to fight us and yet they entered this year allied with Adalbern and his Sugambrians.  I want to teach them that to oppose Rome is to request certain death.  It is the best way to save the lives of
Roman soldiers in the long run.  It’s even the best way to save their own people from continuous destruction,” Drusus added.

“Lord, we do not know what lies in the forest behind them.  They could be cunning enough to have a trap set to spring,” said Manilius.  “It is no dishonor to take a stunning victory and ride home.”

“I don’t seek honor or glory for myself, prefect,” responded Drusus, uncharacteristically coldly.  And then he ended the discussion.  “Prepare to advance.  Move through their guard and then move with haste to cut down the men fleeing.  Stay in formation as well as we can in the woods.  We don’t need to have our small units chopped up piecemeal.”

His officers returned to the opposite ends of the Roman line to report what their general desired.  In mere moments the cornu blared and the march moved forward, stepping over dead bodies littering the ground made slippery with entrails and blood.

. . .

“What are you doing here?” called Segimer when he saw his son sitting on his horse next to him while the Romans again began their advance.  The boy didn’t answer.  “If I were Adalbern, I’d cuff the side of your head and swear to the war god.  But I’m not and so I’ll just remind you that in any other circumstance you’d be whipped on the spot.  Now stick with me.”  Segimer spun in the saddle to shout to the genuinely terrified men who served as the last line of defense
– and bait – for the Romans.  “Men, any one of us may give his life today.  But it is far better to do so with a purpose at heart than die fleeing out of cowardice.  Remember, we need only to fight long enough for them to believe that we truly protect a retreat.  Then we break in a mad dash when the horns sound again.  Let’s kill a host of them while we wait, shall we?”

Ermin drew the long sword, proud when his father gave a satisfied, yet subtle, glance at the crimson moisture that decorated its tip.  In fits and starts the men all began shouting at the oncoming Romans.  They rained down curse after curse from the forest gods and goddesses.  Hardly any of the Romans could understand them, but such was war.

The calls evaporated when another round of javelins began cutting men down.  Many held up shields, but in every case it seemed, dozens of the missiles wormed their way into a man’s arm, neck, or leg.  Shouts of anguish replaced the hazing.  A poor man standing just several paces from Ermin fell dead when three of the javelins cut into his already-damaged wicker shield, pinning his supposed protection to his chest.

For the second time in this late day, the two lines pressed together.  Men on both sides were cut down
with horrific wounds.  Many fell and wished they had simply been killed swiftly as the feet of those still fighting kicked or stepped on them.  One Roman, his sword arm dangling by a band of sinews no wider than a cord, used his other arm to crawl away.  He was so disoriented that he scratched his way deeper into the German line until he was accidentally trounced by a horse’s hooves.

. . .

Septimus was getting ever so close to the men he believed to be the German leaders.  He was soaked to his bones with sweat, but ignored it as he shouted and encouraged his men forward, slashing as he went.  The horns sounded again and the Germans broke.  This time, there was no order, only every man operating as an individual fleeing this way and that into the woods.  What was left of the cavalry and mounted Cheruscan or Suebian noblemen fled on ahead of the unfortunate common men running on tired feet.  Septimus checked his advance for a heartbeat, hoping for the thrill of battle not to end so quickly, awaiting the signal to pursue.

It came.  The trumpets blasted the call to pursue at all haste.  “Together men!” he shouted.  “Each man stays with the man
next to him.  Our century stays with that of Marcus and so on.  No one gets separated, but we advance rapidly.  Let’s cut them!”

He bounded off into the woods with his century right behind him.  The Roman line melted into
the forest while Drusus sent a message to the reserve commander to advance to their current position and halt.  Manilius rode on ahead with the Batavian cavalry, eagerly hacking down tribesmen who were ill-fated enough to lag behind their fleeing comrades.

The dense wald fell around them rapidly.  It grew darker
in the forest so that the men’s eyes had to adjust even though the sun still sent a few rays to the earth, keeping the clear, rolling hills of the battlefield at their rear reasonably well lit now that it was dusk.  Tribesmen were dying in groups of ones and twos.  It was inefficient killing, but a fleeing army stood almost no chance and so with such favorable odds, the Romans tolerated it.

Because
he was leading his century from the front, Septimus had personally dispatched five tribesmen since entering the forest in pursuit.  Many of his men had cut down enemy soldiers too.  It was a slaughter as scores of the fleeing men found themselves actually running toward the legions, trying to escape from the Batavian horsemen who rounded them up.

That is
when Septimus noticed that the line ran in tighter formation than when they entered the forest.  The men who had occupied the position he had not too many months before –that is, the far right of the line – had subconsciously squeezed closer toward the center.  Septimus looked through the tall, old trees and saw that the ground had angled upward to form a hill on that end.  Some of the men on that far right flank scampered on the side of the hill.  While still running, Septimus gazed further up the knoll and saw no one preparing to attack.  He returned his mind to the men under his immediate command.

More and more of the fleeing Germans fell at his feet. 
He lost track of time.  Twilight would arrive at any moment.

On Septimus ran until he again had an eerie feeling
that something was not right with their surroundings.  A quick glance to his right told him that his century now formed the far right of the line that advanced into the wald.  The hill had gotten steeper. Little by little the legionaries on the flank had to fall back and allow those marching in the center to go ahead of them.  The advancing Roman column became deeper in numbers of men along a narrower front.  Still they went on, still they killed.

He was growing tired. 
Septimus realized that he was thirsty.  They had marched and fought all day.  He could tell that most of the fleeing tribesmen had been eliminated because he saw no more movement in front of him.  The enemy’s horsemen would be long gone – probably already resting around a campfire three valleys away.

Septimus
was at last ready to be ordered to halt and begin the march back to dig in for the night’s camp in the clearing.  He looked left to see if he could catch a glimpse of his victorious general.  Drusus was there at the front still riding ahead, talking animatedly with his officers.  The commander’s sword had seen ample killing that day, but was now sheathed.  The blood it carried had oozed up and over the scabbard, draining down its length and leaving dark blotches on the general’s leg and his horse’s belly.  Past them, in the last waning light, Septimus could see that a large hill had cropped up on the left side of the advance just as it had on the right.  It had caused the same effect so that the entire width of the march looked narrower than one hundred men.

The centurion thought through the implications.  The legions now moved in
a formation that would resemble a square that trapped most of its fighting power in its center, rendering their offensive or defensive power cut to just a fraction.  He hoped that Drusus saw this and would immediately order a halt with scouts sent ahead. Or, better yet, the general may have wanted to command an outright withdrawal of the entire army.

Septimus did not have to wait for an answer.  The cornu sounded the call to halt.  As soon as their blaring faded, the deep bellows of German horns rose from the front, sides, and rear.
  Even more frightening, next came a haunting chant from hundreds of women.  None of the German females could be seen, but the repetitive verses they sang out in a mellow tone sent veritable shivers down Septimus’ arms.  Ahead, the centurion saw Cheruscan cavalry barreling toward them at full charge.  Thousands of infantry followed the horses.  Spears, javelins, and even rocks came sailing down from the heights above.  Behind the legions, thousands of enemy foot soldiers streamed down the gentler hills from hiding places on the other side.  Septimus and the entire force were cut off.  They had fallen for what looked like a poorly organized battle.  They had been gullible to a hectic feigned retreat.

Drusus had his sword out again, ready to meet the coming onslaught.  He had the presence of mind to have the musicians repeat the call for reserve troops over and over
.  Their playing would likely do little good, however, since the clearing was easily two or three miles away.  The legionaries who found themselves trapped in this narrow pass between valleys would have to fight their way out if they expected to have any hope of surviving the night.

Septimus had very good luck establishing the renowned Roman army discipline in record time.
  He had the men currently pinned behind him in the central mass raise their shields over their heads to provide cover for themselves and for the nearest man, who was now free to hurl javelins.  The front lines of his century stood firm to meet the oncoming charge with spears jutting over top overlapped shields.  The centurion did not worry about how the centuries to his rear organized themselves against the horde of tribesmen crashing into them from the hills.  If the attackers from the rear were successful at fighting all the way to his position, he was already finished.

The horses slammed into his men.  Septimus saw a man with his hair fixed in a tight knot at the side of his head ride over one of the legionaries.  Behind that man on a great big horse was
a thin, pale boy.  What did it mean, the centurion wondered, that in these battles with the tribes he continued to come across men and their young sons?

It meant, of course, that defending the fatherland was a job for everyone.  From the son who rode with his father, to the daughter who prepared meals in some hut for a group of warriors
, to the wives using their voices to encourage and hearten their men into a killing frenzy – the entire region was at war with Rome.  Even the young woman, Dorthe, who he had helped capture, was proof that the legions faced more than just some angry tribesmen with simple weapons and tactics.  But Septimus did not know these things.  None of the Romans knew these things.  If they had been told of them, their Rome-centric mind would not have been able to understand their implications anyway.  So all they could do was fight for their lives in that dark gorge.