Patrick (41 page)

It is difficult to fight and walk backward at the same time, as I discovered. Fortunately, I did not have to perform this feat too often, nor for too long, before we reached the enemy camp. There were women and children residing in the camp, and this caused General Septimus to halt the advance.

“Why are we stopping?” someone asked. “Let us push through.”

“Patience,” replied Quintus. “Let the mothers and their brats get free.”

“It'd be short work,” insisted another. “Give the filthy shriekers something to think about besides.”

“It's beneath us,” sneered Quintus, “and serves no useful purpose—except to make the bastards more angry than they are already. And that's angry enough for me.”

“I thought the idea was to kill as many as possible,” muttered a glowering man with a bloody sweat-soaked rag about his neck.

“Then you best leave the thinking to someone better accustomed to the chore,” Quintus told him.

The women and children fled the encampment in a flurry of screams, and the legion resumed its slow forward march, torching the camp with brands pulled from the cooking fires as we went. The men complained about the sad lack of plunder to be found in the wreckage, and we moved on.

We soon came to the banks of the dry stream beyond which Legio Gemina was encircled by a barbarian force equal to the one that was now mostly behind us. It took a few moments for the Gemina to realize they had been joined by the Valeria Victrix, but when they did, a tremendous shout of relief and welcome went up.

Septimus wasted not a moment; he plunged into the thick of the battle, forcing a way through the Goth ranks to unite the two legions. The Gemina, though much battered and weakened by the ferocity of the assault, still possessed our best chance of turning the barbarian attack. The joining of the two legions renewed all our hopes for a swift and successful conclusion to the fighting.

“Stay where I can find you,” Quintus told us, hastening away.

“Where you going?” one of the men called after him.

“To give the general the benefit of my superior wisdom,” came the reply as the veteran disappeared into the tight-packed mass of soldiers.

It could be argued that our position had not vastly improved. Quite possibly it was now far worse. At least with the river at our backs, the barbarians could not surround us completely; now they did. Also, any gain in troop strength we might have made by uniting the two legions was more than offset by the increase in barbarian numbers as the two attacking enemy forces united as well.

So it seemed to me, but I was inexperienced and did not reckon on General Septimus' flinty determination to cut through any adversary he happened to meet, no matter the size of the force arrayed against him.

We stood behind our shields, waiting to be thrown into the fight, watching the battle swell and flow around us.
Presently Quintus returned. “Neither Banna nor Moguntiacum's shown so much as a pimple,” he reported grimly. “Gemina was ambushed here and failed to get the message to Fidelis.”

“They'll know by now anyway,” suggested Varro. “They'll be mounting a rescue.”

“Unless they've been ambushed as well.” Quintus shook his head grimly. “We're on our own.”

“And I say they'll come,” someone insisted. “You'll see.”

“If they were coming,” shouted Quintus, suddenly angry, “they'd have been here by now!”

“Not coming?” wondered a soldier from the rear of the group that was pressed close about the veteran. “Is that what you say?”

“I say nothing,” Quintus growled. “Now, get your swords up, girls, and look smart.”

Thus the day passed; the barbarians continued to hurl themselves against the Roman shield wall, availing little and wasting much. The combined legions took every opportunity to move west in the direction of the missing Pia Fidelis and in this way maintained a steady pressure on the attacking Gothi. Each time the assault waned, General Septimus ordered the cohorts to move out, and the enemy—desperate to keep the legions surrounded and immobile—leapt once more to a futile attack.

We fought in turn, rotating from the center to the front ranks and then withdrawing once more to the protected center; this allowed us to rest and maintain our strength through the long day. As dusk drew in upon the forest, the battleground was heaped with barbarian dead, whereas the legions had lost only a few dozen.

As light began to fade, so, too, did the enemy appetite for a swift victory. The waves of assault slowed, and as twilight began stealing through the trees, the onslaught gradually ceased.

This is what the commander had been anticipating. As soon as the last wave withdrew, word began circulating
through the troops. “We move as soon as it is dark,” they said. “Wait for the signal.”

Water, oat rusks, and dried meat were shared out of the legionaries' pack provisions and canteens. Then we rested behind our shields and waited for darkness. The forest grew quiet—save for the distant commotion raised by the barbarians as they set about rebuilding their camp. As twilight gathered in the forest, filling the spaces between the trees and spilling shadows across the open ground, we watched and waited. When at last the gloom became impenetrable, we moved out—as quickly and as stealthily as possible for upwards of six thousand heavily armed men.

We met no resistance. With darkness the barbarian resolve seemed to have dissipated. No doubt, seeing that all efforts to force a breach in the Roman shield wall had come to naught, they had decided to withdraw and regroup for the next day. Content to consign us to the forest and the night, they went back to their camps to rest and renew their strength for tomorrow's assault.

Once free of enemy resistance, we moved quickly, falling easily into long files of soldiers, marching in silent lockstep along the night-dark trails. We marched through the night, expecting at any moment to come upon the missing legion.

This we did, but not until dawn had begun to lighten the sky in the east. And by then we required no explanation why Legio Pia Fidelis had never arrived.

I
STOOD FLAT-FOOTED
in the pale light of a threatening sky and stared at the shattered remains of Legio Pia Fidelis. Dead men strew the ground—wherever I looked, whichever way I turned…corpses and more corpses, bodies like so many broken statues, toppled and smashed. They had been ambushed on the trail and slaughtered as they ran.

Many had been stripped naked, their bodies mutilated: weapons and armor taken, heads and hands removed. I wondered at this, but as we moved on, we passed a tall pine tree along the trail, and I discovered the reason: Nailed to the trunk was the severed head of a Roman soldier.

Further along the trail more heads appeared—at first just here and there among the trees. And then, as we came closer to the center of the battle, every trunk of
every
tree was adorned with the bloody head of a legionary spiked through the skull.

Sometimes the hands were there, too, bloodstained and pierced through the palms or simply stuffed in the mouth; more often it was just the head—eyes wide, mouth agape. They were everywhere. Scores…hundreds…an entire legion, massacred, decapitated, and nailed up for display.

We came to a clearing in the wood where, it appeared, the legion had been surprised. Here the fighting had been most fierce, and the dead were most numerous. Yet if there had been any barbarians killed, we did not see any evidence of them. Their bodies had been removed, so all that remained were Roman dead.

Horses of the ala had been killed in the fighting, too, but far fewer than I would have imagined; I counted only twenty-three. The rest, no doubt, had been taken for use by the enemy.

Any equipment deemed of little use had been piled in heaps and put to the torch. Corpses had been thrown onto these pyres as well, left to burn as they would. The heaps still smoldered, sending pale tendrils of smoke drifting through the surrounding forest and filling the dark air with a rancid taste.

We passed through the clearing, pressing on. Thunder grumbled in the distance. Quintus, a few paces behind me, cursed. A few more paces and he growled, “They should be properly buried.”

“Stop if you want to,” suggested someone farther back. “You'll join them if you do,” added another.

“There was a time…,” snarled Quintus with barely controlled rage.

The words were still in his mouth when I heard a sizzling in the air. It seemed to pass over and behind me, followed by a curious sucking sound. I half turned to look behind me and saw Quintus standing in the trail, his jaws still working, a black-feathered arrow through his throat.

“Ambush!” cried a nearby centurion.

I hurried back to catch Quintus as he fell. Blood gushed from the wound as I lowered him to the ground. All around me men scrambled for cover as the air whizzed and whistled with arrows. I put my shield over both of us and squatted beside him on the trail.

He looked at me, his eyes imploring me to do something for him. I took hold of the arrow, broke off the end and, with an effort, pulled it through. This made the blood run more freely. Quintus mouthed a word I read as “Thanks.”

“Leave him!” shouted Pallio, running past.

Arrows fizzed through the air, striking the ground around me. I hunkered down beneath the shield and hoped for the best. Quintus gurgled and gasped, struggling for air.

“Succat! Get up!”

I was plucked from the path and bundled into the brush beside the trail as more arrows streaked down through the trees and thudded to earth.

I looked to my savior. It was Varro. “Filthy vermin,” he snarled. “Hiding in the trees.”

“Quintus is hurt,” I said, pointing back to where he lay on the trail.

“Quintus is dead,” Varro answered, scanning the treetops. “Or soon will be.”

“He's our friend.”

“Let him go. He would do the same.” Varro peered cautiously around the edge of his shield. “Where are they?”

As if in answer to his question, the surrounding forest erupted to sudden life. Barbarians, mounted on Roman horses, appeared out of the morning mist and swooped to the attack.

Soldiers dived for cover as they rode over us, killing as they went. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught on the trail was either hacked down or trampled under the horses' hooves. Varro, two others, and myself hid in the brush, watching as the enemy wheeled and wheeled again, slicing the legion to bloody pieces.

In the midst of this carnage, the trumpet sounded. “There!” cried Varro, leaping to his feet.

I looked where he was pointing and saw the golden-boar standard planted in the center of the clearing where the previous day's massacre had taken place. General Septimus had succeeded in rallying a few cohorts to the vexillium, and was quickly forming a
testudo
. Everywhere men were running to the protection of this close-locked covering of shields.

“Now!” Varro shouted. “This way!”

I leapt after him, running for my life. Arrows whined through the air, glancing off trees and rocks, but I reached the testudo unscathed. Two others of our numerus were not so fortunate. One of them took an arrow in the leg and the
other in the back. Both made it to the shield wall, but neither was able to fight.

The mounted barbarians continued to harass the stragglers; many of those caught beyond easy reach of the shield wall were killed outright as they fled into the wood. We heard their screams as the riders caught them and cut them down. This went on for some time, and at last the attack ceased and the wood grew quiet.

General Septimus moved at once to form the legion into cohorts. The auxiliaries were included along with the regular soldiers, and men rushed everywhere as centurions called their divisions to order. This was swiftly accomplished, and the command was given to march. The trumpet sounded, and we all moved out, heading toward the river. I glanced once more to the place where Quintus lay and bade him a silent farewell, then turned my eyes to the path ahead.

We marched into the forest and were soon hacking our way through thick brush. This reduced our progress to a crawl, and we had gone less than a mile when the column stopped. Three big trees blocked the trail.

Scouts were sent to search out the way ahead, and we were ordered to remain vigilant. We stood shoulder to shoulder, shields up, weapons ready, looking this way and that into the shadowed forest. A long time passed, and the scouts returned. The legion was commanded off the trail and into the wood.

We moved a few hundred paces into the forest, and the trees began to creak and moan. Branches began to twist and shake, trunks tilted, limbs plunged earthward. Hidden ropes snapped taut, and all around us the great trees began to topple, spinning slowly as they fell, crashing into smaller trees and bringing them down, too, heaving dense clouds of dust into the air. Order collapsed as men scattered to avoid being crushed by the falling timbers. Many were caught, and the screams of the dying echoed back from the wood.

As the last trunk plummeted to the ground, the enemy charged—horsemen first, breaking through the brush, fol
lowed by more and still more warriors on foot, many, I saw now, wielding Roman swords. They swarmed in from every direction; there was no retreat.

The trumpet shrilled two short blasts. In the fuggy gloom I caught the faint glimmer of the golden boar, and I started for the place. “Varro!” I shouted. “Pallio! Over here!” They saw where I was running, and followed.

Upon reaching the vexillium, we took our places in the quickly forming triangle of locked shields. Enraged by the swiftness of the Roman response, the barbarians hurled themselves at us, beating on the shield wall with axes, spears, and war hammers. Every now and then one of them would strike a lucky blow, and a legionary would fall. Mostly, however, it was the barbarians who paid for their rashness with heavy casualties.

When at last they saw that they could not crack the hard shell of the testudo, they backed off and assailed us with arrows once more. We drew in further, overlapping our shields so that no arrow could probe even the smallest chink or crack.

The day ended in deadlock. The enemy could not breach the legion's stubborn defenses, and we, surrounded and outnumbered, could not break through the barbarian mass to escape.

As daylight faded, the dark skies opened and the rain began. Down it poured, cascading straight through the windless air like a waterfall, drenching everything in moments. The barbarians withdrew to the perimeter of the forest to watch through the night and wait.

“They will not attack again until daylight,” Varro suggested.

“You know so much about barbarians,” Pallio replied, “maybe you should be the commander, and then you can lead us out of this grave we have dug for ourselves.”

“General Septimus is welcome to consult me anytime he pleases,” answered Varro. “My advice is offered freely to one and all.”

“Too freely, if you ask me,” grumbled a nearby soldier.

“Shut your mouths!” hissed another irritably.

Nevertheless it was as Varro suggested. The enemy did not attack again. All through the night we waited, watching their surrounding campfires for any sign that they might try to come at us by stealth; but, other than a few arrows loosed to keep us awake and on our guard, the barbarians maintained their distance.

The rain did not slacken. By morning the battlefield was a quagmire; the chewed-up earth dissolved into mud, and every depression became a puddle. Grim daylight found us shivering, hungry, and exhausted. The moment the rain did let up, the enemy came boiling out of the forest once more, resuming the attack with renewed ferocity.

Wave after wave broke itself upon the shield wall, and when that proved no more effective than before, the horses charged again. General Septimus was ready for this, however. During the night he had men secretly stripping the fallen trees of long, stout branches, the ends of which were sharpened and hidden behind the front ranks.

When the horses reached the shield wall, the soldiers stepped back, the sharpened poles appeared, and the horses were skewered. All along the line, animals and men rolled and thrashed in the mire, tripping up other attackers hurtling in behind them. Instantly the assault degenerated into confusion, as horses stumbled and fell, pitching their riders to the ground.

Seeing the first break in days, General Septimus ordered the attack. The trumpet sent a long, shrill blast, and the legion charged into the gap, leaping over the bodies of the floundering, dying horses and men.

For a time it looked as if the legion would yet fight clear of the ambushing enemy. But when the phalanx broke, more barbarians appeared. Perhaps the Goth host, eluded during the long march the night before, had caught up with us at last. Perhaps word of the legion's predicament had reached the nearby tribes, who now swooped down to be in for the
kill. Or perhaps the scouts, so certain of victory, had underestimated the barbarian numbers from the first.

However it was, no sooner did we break formation than the enemy war horns sounded and barbarians without number flowed like floodwater into a trough. The legion was swiftly engulfed. With no chance to regroup and re-form the testudo, we were left to fight for our lives hand to hand.

The soldiers fought handsomely. One after another screaming barbarian went down before the disciplined Roman sword; but for every enemy warrior cut down, three more took his place. Gradually the legionaries succumbed. All around me men raised their voices to Apollo, to Mithras and Mars, to save them in their extremity; they vowed eternal allegiance, honor, and sacrifice if salvation could be delivered and life preserved. I knew well the worth of such vows. Needless to say, our numbers shrank before the onslaught, and still the Gothi kept coming.

I strove to keep up with the more seasoned soldiers, but despite my best efforts I fell steadily behind. I was neither quick enough with the blade, nor evasive enough to make any significant headway. Eventually I was separated from the remaining members of my numerus. I lost sight of Varro and Pallio…and then I was alone.

This, I decided, was how I would die: hacked to death by a barbarian war ax, my limbs severed, my skull nailed to a tree, the carrion crows pecking out my sightless eyes. That I, a noble Briton, last of my family line, should die this way angered me far more than it grieved me. Very well, so be it. I determined that I would set the highest possible price on my life and take as many with me as I could. Accordingly I stopped trying to find a way out of my dilemma and began trying to kill enemy warriors instead.

My sword had grown blunt and ragged with use, so I threw it away and drew the Goth war ax from my belt. I swung it a few times around my head to get the heft of it and then charged straight for the first foeman I saw: a huge, fair-haired barbarian with short hanks of wheat-colored braids
jutting from beneath his iron war cap. He met my assault with a practiced feint and rounded on me with his spear.

I clipped the spear shaft with the edge of the ax, sending splinters flying. He swung his heavy wooden shield at me, trying to knock me off balance and open me up for a jab in the chest or side. At first I met the pressure, resisting with all my strength. Then, as he bore down harder and harder still, I yielded and jumped back. He fell forward, and I swung the ax, nicking him behind the knee as he passed.

Unbalanced, the brute growled and swung his spear at me—a clumsy blow, which I countered easily and caught him a glancing blow on the arm. He roared with pain, spun, and swung at me again. I ducked under the blow, came around his shield, and chopped into his side. The ax blade struck one of the many iron rings sewn onto his leather tunic, driving them into the wound.

He shouted and sprang back. Before he could raise the spear, I charged again, throwing both shield and ax into his face. His arm flew up, and the ax blade caught him just below the wrist, severing the cords of his muscles. He cried out in fury as the spear shaft spun from his grasp.

I raised the ax again, but my wounded adversary stumbled backward, fleeing the assault. So, replacing the ax in my belt, I picked up his spear instead and, well warmed to the fight, fell upon my next opponent.