posted 16 January 2008 05:08 EDT (US)
By Terikel Grayhair
“Riders approaching.”
Niall looked up from his hilltop vantage point to where his son was pointing. Out of the east, across the wetlands, came a group of forty riders. Though they were distant, the lack of gleaming metal encasing the men told him they were not of the same breed as the ones his men were piling atop pyres below.
"A scouting party, maybe?” Jorgen asked his father.
Niall shook his shaggy head slowly. By the gods, it hurt to move this day! Just the day before, his warhost of the Cananefate Clans had fought and destroyed and entire Roman legion and its Batavian auxiliaries, losing less than a few hundred warriors. Every man who survived was either wounded in battle or sore from chasing down the fleeing Romani, Niall among them. How he wished he still had the youthful energy and recovery ability of his son! Yet Father Time makes all men old, and with age comes the wisdom needed to win great battles, but also brings aching muscles.
“I think it is Uncle Brinno!” Jorgen cried. “Yes, it’s him! I recognize the scarf Mother made for him this past Yuletime, for the Midwinter festival.”
Niall stood up, every muscle protesting this foolish and unnecessary movement. Yet he knew what his muscles did not, that one should greet one’s king standing, even if it is your own brother. He began shaking off the aches and pains and called his men about him to do the same before sending Jorgen down below with word of the King’s imminent approach.
“Hail, brother!” Niall called, once Brinno came close enough for the shouts to carry. Brinno turned his handsome head towards the hilltop, then whipped his steed about to join his brother. His bodyguard following, they reached the top just as the men below lit the pyres to turn the Roman corpses to ash.
“Hail yourself, brother,” Brinno called back cheerfully. He was the opposite of his younger brother in many ways. Whereas Niall was tall and blond and brawny, Brinno was short and dark and slender, Except for their features, one would never consider them kinsmen. “When we heard the Romans were marching here as well, we thought we’d find them down there burning your corpses, not the other way around!”
“If not for the likes of Oddmund and Ulf Hagar’s Son, it might just have been so,” Niall admitted frankly. “We were lucky, and they were not. Simple as that.”
Brinno scoffed at the modesty of his brother as he dismounted.
Something Brinno just said raised Niall’s head. “What do you mean, marching here as well?”
Brinno’s smile died as he realized that his brother knew nothing of what had been happening up and down the river these past days. Now amazement took over, as he took in the scene of Niall’s victory and its scope.
“Niall my brother,” he said solemnly, “the Romans crossed the river in at least three places, all in strength. We faded before them and left the signs as Father told us to do, but it did not stop them. Several skirmishes were fought, and we were sorely pressed. The bastards pressed hard inland and took our burg upon the Ams over the corpses of Lido and his men. Three hundred families, Niall, they took three hundred families as slaves and toys for their infamous orgies.”
“They got nobody here,” Niall promised. “And as soon as we are done with the dead, we are going to sack their encampment upon the banks. Maybe we will take prisoners, and exchange them for our own people.”
“A noble thought, my brother,” Brinno admitted, ”but a foolish one. These fools think us rich, and any prisoners we take cowards. They will not exchange. The front is in turmoil, brother of mine, and vengeance is the order of the day.”
Niall nodded. His brother spoke truth. “What will you have me do?”
It was Brinno’s turn to smile. “Yesterday you have proven yourself our best warlord. Tomorrow you shall eradicate the vermin infesting our lands in that encampment of which you spoke, and then it is our wish that you take from them their post at Traiectum- where Vorenus himself rules. Separate his head from his shoulders and burn the place to the ground, and maybe that lardass Flaccus in Moguntiacum will order our people freed in exchange for our promise to let him rebuild upon Traiectum’s rubble. People are worthless bartering pieces, Niall, but the Sandal-wearers are always interested in land. For their land back, they will give us our people back.”
Niall nodded at his brother’s wisdom.
“And what shall you be doing, while I collect the head of Vorenus for you?” he asked his liege.
“Niall my brother,” the king replied with another smile, ”I shall be leading the remaining men of the Cananefate in preventing the return of the Romans currently hauling off our people. Lido died, but he hurt them badly. My warband is harassing the surviving Romani now, and we will finish them so that you may slay Vorenus unhindered.”
* * * * * *
Marcus Rutilius approached the encampment of Herrenius with caution born of necessity. After the debacle of the afternoon and the disaster of the evening, he knew any survivors would have spread their tales throughout the fort and everybody would be on edge. He carefully folded his stolen cloak and eased forward in the night until he was at the edge of the tower’s torchlight.
“Hallo, the camp!” he called lowly. “Tribunus Marcus Rutilius approaching. Do not, repeat, NOT, shoot me!”
“Approach carefully, stranger,” a voice replied. It was taut with tension and soaked in disbelief.
Marcus rose and moved into the torchlight. A gasp was heard as he was recognized, and the gates of the port opened slightly- just enough for an armored man to squeeze through if he held his breath. Marcus took the clue and ran for the gate. It closed so quickly it would have caught his cloak had he not already folded it.
“I must see Herrenius at once,” he demanded. ”Is he in the principia?”
The soldier guarding the gate nodded, but his eyes were aimed at the darkness beyond. Marcus knew what he was feeling- how many more are out there, seeking safety. And how many Germani are out there, seeking Roman blood? His blood.
Marcus wasted no time in telling the frightened man what he already knew. The legion of Sextus Cornelius was no more- just what few, very few, filtered in so far and not many more. It was a disaster beyond comprehension. He found Prefect Herrenius in the command tent.
“Have any other officers come in?” he demanded of the Prefect. Herrenius shook his bald head and rose in the presence of what was now the commanding officer.
“We had our heads handed to us,” Marcus explained. “There were more Cananefate warriors- including cavalry, by the gods!- than we even knew existed. Sextus Cornelius died charging grounded spears- the fool!- and Livius disappeared when those gibbering bastards in bearcapes annihilated his cohort and took our Eagle.”
The mention of the Eagle caused Herrenius- never a healthy looking man in the best of times- to lose what little color he had left. Disgrace upon dishonor, another Eagle lost to the Germans? Albeit an auxiliary eagle for the auxiliary legion, but a legionary eagle none the less. They would be crucified, all of them.
“Are you listening, man?!” Rutilius shouted. “We must get out of here now, while the Germans are occupied with burying their dead, few of them as there was. Gather the men, load the supply wagons, and abandon the fort at first light. If any of our men have not made it back by then, they never will. Most are dead. You must flee to Samarobriva if you are not to join them.”
“Samarobriva?!?” Herrenius exclaimed.
“Samarobriva,” Rutilius repeated, steel in his voice. “This entire sector is in flames, and ourbeloved commander Titus Vorenus lit the fire when he invaded a peaceful Friend and Ally with three legions to subjugate and enslave them. Our legion was destroyed, and if these farmers and fishermen did the same to Decimus Cornelius and Lucius Glabrio as well, there are no significant Roman forces between here and Samarobriva worth mentioning. I will ride to Traiectum if it still stands, and on to Flaccus in Moguntiacum if it does not. Now move it, Prefect! Word must get out about this catastrophe.”
Herrenius did not need to be told twice. He had risen from the ranks to be a centurion, and retired to take on the duties of Prefect. He knew exactly what Rutilius was saying, and that it was truth.
* * * * * *
“They abandoned the fort,” Niall mused as he studied the silent, smoking walls before him late in the following day. “Smart of them.”
“They are not many, Niall,” called Manfred, his commander of spearmen, from by the gate where he was examining the tracks left by the departing foe. “Maybe a half-thousand, no more. And most of those would be slaves and serfs and the like. Maybe two hundred warriors. Mounted on mules, judging by the amount of gear they left behind. Shall we pursue?”
Niall shook his head. “Nay, Manfred. We shall let them go. I want Vorenus, not his lackeys.”
* * * * * *
Titus Vorenus, commander of the Rhein Delta forces, second only to Marcus Hordeonis Flaccus himself in the territorial capital of Moguntiacum now that Aulus Vitellius was marching on Rome, was not a happy man. He put on his cuirass and continued pacing the matted floor of his command tent in the castrum at Traiectum.
What had gone wrong, he wondered. This sector, his sector, was strongly defended. He had command of two legions, and had raised from his own lands and funds two more. One he had out patrolling the roads and making a wonderful demonstration of Roman presence to keep the merchants, traders, and travellers assured of Roman Peace. The other three were across the river, ravaging the lands of the Cananefate, whom he had learned were devastated by poor harvests and a recent flood, yet were numerous and hoarding wealth. You can’t eat gold, and starving people made poor warriors, but excellent slaves. What could go wrong?
Something had. All morning long shattered cohorts were filtering in, most at maniple strength, some down to a mere century. Decimus Cornelius was reported dead in an ambush, and nothing at all had been heard from his brother Sextus. Lucius Glabius and his legion were still at large. And now his Batavian auxiliaries were ordered by their commander in Batavodurum to report there at once.
Vorenus took stock of this unmitigated disaster. One legion shattered beyond recognition, one at large but still reporting back through couriers, one spread out all across the sector, and one missing. He had six cohorts of fresh legionaries in his castrum, and the makings of several more once the Prefect reorganized the remnants of the I Legion Vorena. He had an auxilia of Syrian archers, some cavalry, two Gallic light auxilia, and Glabius had been kind enough to leave his legionary artillery safe in his care here in Traiectum.
A startled cry from the tower broke his musings as the sun set. Vorenus burst out of his command tent as men scurried to their battle positions.
“What is it, you fool?” he screamed at the sentry.
“Germans, lord, thousands of them!”
“Shades of Marius at Aquiae Sextae, man!” he cursed the man’s blatant display of cowardice. “So what? We are almost two thousand hardened warriors in here now, with three more legions in the area.”
“Pass the word, centurion.” Vorenus turned and ordered his garrison commander, “All men to fall into formation to repel any immediate assault, break out the spare supplies, and prepare for a siege. We must hold out until Sextus Cornelius or Lucius Glabius arrive with their legions to relieve us, or help from Flaccus arrives.”
“Aye, lord,” Primipilus Gnaeus Priscus said with a heart-thumping salute. He hurried out to attend to the orders, leaving Vorenus to ponder this unforeseen turn of events. The Cananefate were daring to attackhere? How could this be? Two full legions were still out ravaging them. Had they so many more men than the Batavian spies said?
“Mars and Venus!” the sentry cried weakly. “I see two Legionary Eagles amid the Germani- adorned with the heads of Sextus Cornelius and his brother Decimus!”
Vorenus sank to his knees. Sextus Cornelius was dead. So was his legion, if the Eagle in German hands meant anything. Decimus Cornelius was also dead, and the disorganized remnants of his legion were a chaotic mass in the castrum. That left only Lucius Glabrius and that fat fool in Moguntiacum as his only salvation, and both were days away. He rose, cursing at what he must do, and summoned Priscus.
Within minutes, a cavalryman on a fast horse departed through the southern gates headed east. Now, he thought, now we must simply wait out these simple barbarians until help arrives.
* * * * * *
“They sent a horseman away. Probably a messenger going for help,” Oddmund commented as he watched the tiny dustcloud disappear into the distance. “Do you want me to stop him?”
Niall shook his head. “You are watching the luckiest man of the Traiectum garrison,” he said with a grin. “The only one who will survive to see the sun set tomorrow. Let him live, and he shall remember all his days his friends who will be no more by the next noon.” He turned toward the forest, searching for Glam. His axemen were spread out, their axes working their magic on the sacred trees. It will be a long night for those men. The rams must be finished by sunrise.
* * * * * *
Niall’s plan of attack was simple and hardly elegant. He had no experience in sieges, for he was a peaceful man at heart who wanted nothing more than to settle the feuds and disputes among his people with reason and justice. He had fought at his father’s side when that brave man faced down Imperial Caligula, so he did know war. Sieges and storming fortified walls, however, required a special skill which he did not have. So he made his plan accordingly.
It would be more than sufficient. He would breach the wall and the gate facing him with most of his army, while a third would breach the walls on the side adjoining his. Between the two, he should have enough spearmen and axemen breaking in to catch the defenders in a vice, with archers pouring their murderous shafts into at least one unshielded flank.
Glam’s axe shone in the sunlight from the flank. That was the signal that his men were in position. It was time. He blew on his ram's horn to gather the attention of his warhost.
“To the walls!” he cried. “Honor and Vengeance!”
The rams rolled forward but not in unison. The two which were to breach the strong walls of the fortress rolled first, followed minutes later by the ram assigned to smash open the gate.
Boulders began to rain down near the rams, and not far from where the Germans were waiting. Niall knew what those rocks did to his troops, whether they hit someone or not. There was no defense against boulders from the sky, except one- get too close for the damned things to aim properly. He gave the order, and the men of the Cananefate followed him to the walls.
“Honor and Vengeance!” he roared.
“Vidar's Altar!” his men roared back. Honor and vengeance were ideals well worth fighting for, but when it came to spilling blood, the men preferred to recall great victories above intangible principles. The Cananefate were no different, and they had a whopping victory just a few days ago to recall. They surged forward in a German tide toward the rock of Rome.
Boulders flew outward from inside the castrum, splattering mud and dirt about the men of the Cananefate. These even more than Niall's command to hurry or their own bloodlust redoubled their efforts to get close to the Roman wall and out from where the boulders could fall.
Flaming arrows reached out to the rolling rams from inside the castrum, fired by desperate men trying desperately to burn the things that could allow Death to enter. This was what Niall had Klaus and his men waiting for.
Four hundred arrows swam up the Roman stream of inbound arrows to land among the Syrian auxiliaries inside, while another two hundred tried to silence those damned rock-hurlers whose boulders yet fell amongst them. The rams reached the walls and began their rhythmic battering while the archers dueled. The high-pitched tenor screams of burning Syrians provided a welcome harmony to the baritone pounding of the rams, music to warriors’ ears. Klaus had his fellow hunters continue the symphony of pain to give a welcome respite from the lethal rain to his fellow clansmen.
The gate burst open amid a massive Roman howl of despair, followed quickly by the resounding collapse of the walls. Niall had his breaches. Now it was time for the slaughter to begin. He pointed his sword towards Manfred at the gate and signalled his attack, then repeated the gesture to Otto on Manfred’s flank and again to Glam at the far wall. The Cananefate roared their warcry and charged inwards to face Roman steel.
* * * * * *
"Skirmishers forward!" ordered Vorenus when the dust raised by the falling palisade had cleared enough for him to see the German spearmen swarming in. "Hit them now, at their most vulnerable!"
His Gallic auxilia rushed forward to throw their javelins. Vorenus swelled with pride as he watched his javelineers bravely charge the Germans swarming in, before realizing that in doing so, they were sealing their own doom, and his. He recanted the order and commanded his legionaries forward.
Confusion reigned among the Gallic auxiliaries at the contradictory orders. And when in doubt facing thousands of Germans, the best thing to do was obey the orders that brought you away from those Germans. Thus the auxiliaries faded away and drew the Germans after them, setting them up as perfect targets for the charging legionaries.
"Well done, lord," Gnaeus Priscus noted. As commanding centurion and a veteran of twenty years, he knew a good maneuver when he saw one. "Send forth the cavalry to circle about, and you will have them all on the run!"
Vorenus saw the thousands of armed Germans screaming for his blood, and his brave legionaries impaling themselves on German spears. He saw Germans pouring through three breaches in his defenses. He saw arrows stabbing into his men's backs from several directions, giving no respite from that deadly rain. He saw that he had lost the initiative, and that the Germans were winning and would kill everyone in the castrum. He saw Death.
And he froze.
Cursing his commander's cowardice, Gnaeus Priscus hit his commander in the back of his helmet with the hilt of his gladius. Titus Vorenus Carnifex, the Butcher, dropped like a felled ox. This was time for an experienced soldier to command, not a cruel but gifted aristocrat who had been bounced from command to command. And Priscus was not about to bet his life on the indecision of an amateur general of political roots.
"Cavalry! Exit the side gate and scatter those Germani archers who are killing us in this crossfire! Scorpions! Try to nail their kinglet when he comes, and he will. Javelineers- support our legionaries. Men of Rome, follow me to Death or Glory, or both!"
The Romans surged forward toward the gate and the breach beside it. Charging with his men as he was, Priscus did not witness the events on the flanking breach. Nor did he see the cavalry open the side gate, see a warband of Germans waiting there with grounded spears, and slam the gates shut again before a heartbeat passed. So the hammer he was expecting never materialized, and that sealed his fate.
* * * * * *
Glam of the Silvered Axe led the Cananefate right. He was an experienced warrior, and was instrumental in the great battle at Vidar's Altar not three days before. His men had battered open the flanking breach, and now he raised his mighty warcry and charged into the mass of Romans awaiting him.
The burning arrows of Klaus and his hunters had reduced the rock-hurlers to wreckage, and were now firing into the rear of the legionaries facing Glam and his men. Heavy battleaxes chopped into and through Roman scuta, breaking arms and cleaving helms with equal ease. Following these hacking and screaming men came spearmen, racing to get inside and form the vaunted spearwall. Gregor Carl's Son called that his spearmen were in place, and Glam acknowledged with a mighty roar and pulled his men aside that the legionaries may impale themselves upon Gregor's spears. Besides, there was a tasty mass of milling, confused cavalry just waiting to be minced. With a mighty warcry, the axemen of the Cananefate charged the cavalry.
The combination of the burning arrows stabbing their backs while spears pierced their bellies from the front, and Glam's attack upon the idling cavalry whose ominous presence had so consoled the battling legionaries, was the breaking point. All along the cohort, men screamed "Fall Back! Fall back, for the sake of Mars!"
Niall's plan seemed to be working. Glam had his breach and was pouring in, Manfred was inside the gate and holding versus a fierce Roman press, and Otto was pouring into the breach to the left of the gate. Within moments he should be assaulting the gate Romans from the flank and that will be the end.
* * * * * *
Otto Heinrich's Son was proud to lead this warband of stout spearmen. A fisherman two days ago, he was now a warrior seeking vengeance for his stolen wife and child. He stabbed a hated Roman in the leg, then used his spear to club down another so that his comrade could kill him.
Niall saw immediately it was a mistake to give Otto command of the men of his village instead of using those volunteers to fill up his other warbands. His men were raw, stout of heart but farmers and fishermen. Otto was fighting well for an amateur, but when a Roman spear opened his bowels and killed the two men behind him, his men suddenly had enough of war. They broke and began to flee.
Niall blew two short blasts upon his ram's horn to signal Oddmund, then one long blast to identify where. That done, he rode forward to rally Otto's broken spearmen before their rout carries over to the other warbands.
Oddmund, the smiling, handsome commander of Cananefate Cavalry, understood the signal and charged toward's Otto's flagging men. The fishermen, assaulted from behind by raging Roman legionaries, from the front by their own cavalry, and extorted to find their courage by their battle king, forgot the fate of Otto and found their courage. As one, they turned back toward the breach and supported Oddmund's plunging, jumping, and crashing cavalry.
* * * * * *
The gatewall breach was rallied, and Manfred's veteran spearmen were successfully holding back the tremendous Roman press at the gate. On the sidebreach, however, things went from well to worse in a hurry. Another cohort charged forward, and was joined by the remnants of the cohort Glam had destroyed. The press of armored flesh hampered the swinging of the mighty battleaxes, and the spears of Gregor were knocked aside by gladii. Glam of the Silvered Axe went down under a pile of Roman bodies, and worse, this fall was witnessed by his men as well as by Romans who rejoiced. The cheering Romans redoubled their efforts, and the men of the Cananefate right broke under the pressure.
* * * * * *
Something fast whizzed by Oddmund's head as he slashed down a Roman legionary threatening his swordmate. He whipped around and saw the cause- two Roman scorpions. He glanced back and saw a second bolt strike one of Niall's bodyguards. The man was nailed to the wall, hanging lifeless as if he was a grotesque ornament. Oddmund knew then that these evil machines were aiming at Niall in order to decapitate the Cananefate forces, and that could not be allowed to happen.
"Follow me, horseborne!" he cried. "Slay those beasts yonder!"
The men manning the spear-throwing Scorpions did not even have a prayer. Oddmund and his men chopped them to pieces in moments, then followed the fleeing artillerymen into the remaining Syrian archers and murdered them as well. When all were dead, he saw the Gallic auxilia grabbing up more javelins from their cache and took them out too.
* * * * * *
Titus Vorenus awoke with a whopping headache. Rage filled his noble head as he rose to take stock of the battle. He did not like what he saw. The Germans had broken through the gate-flanking breach and their bloody cavalry was hunting his support troops like penned deer. Only Gnaeus Priscus and the men at the main gate were doing well, but they were about to be crushed from the flank.
His anger overrode his innate cowardice. He was going to die and knew it, but at least he could die as a Roman nobleman ought to- in battle. And maybe, if Mars was smiling, he might even turn the tide of battle and live. Then he saw the fall of the roaring idiot with the gleaming axe and saw the Germans there fall apart. Escape presented itself, and Vorenus Carnifex knew he could live to avenge the deaths of his men. He ordered his Praetorian-trained bodyguard to charge the breaking Germans.
* * * * * *
Glam of the Silvered Axe found it hard to breathe. Somebody, friend or foe, had hit him so hard that his helmet dented and its edges dug into his skull, spilling blood over the left side of his face in a cascade. That was the last he could recall. Now he was under a warm, heavy, sweaty load, with naught but his trusted axe in his hand. The sounds of battle reaching his ears were muffled, but enough came through to pierce the fog blinding his mind to reveal that his men were breaking. Anger and rage welled up in him, and with them came strength. He shook off the bodies burying him and rose like a bloody phoenix, axe in hand and Valhalla in his voice.
Vorenus was faced by the bloody spectacle of a ghoul rising from a pile of bodies, bloody axe in hand and crimson rivulets running down a bearded face. His own face went white at the sight, and both he and his charging bodyguard recoiled as Glam took a step towards them, axe slinging blood as he worked loose his cramped muscles.
The respite gained by Glam's return to battle was doubled by the entrance of Ulf Hagar's Son to the fray. He too witnessed the miraculous resurrection of Glam of the Silvered Axe, and vowed right there to Woden that if such a man should see nightfall, he would offer him a place of honor in his gang. And to ensure he would see the sun set, Ulf ordered his men to ring the brave axeman and spare him the gladii until he had his bearing.
The sight of the berserkers ringing the dead axeman who yet walked was more than enough for Vorenus. He was no longer fighting mere barbarians, or terrible Germans, or bitter foes. He was fighting demons, and against them there was no escape. Resolved to die now with honor, he fought his way through cheering Germans to where Gnaeus Priscus battled heroically but uselessly for possession of the gate.
Priscus and his hardened veterans had almost reached the gates. Using the tactics learned in battle against rebel hoplites, his men cut the heads off the spears, then moved in to kill the hapless spearman. But unlike those Greeklings who knew not the way of the sword, the Germans merely dropped their useless spears and drew forth swords the size of scuta. And they knew how to use them, which was why he was having such a hard time cutting through them to the promise of escape beyond.
A grizzled spearman was before him now, blond beard braided and face tattooed with scars of battle. He was wielding a sword like a monster swinging a club, but the pile of bodies before him testified to the effectiveness of his style. Gnaeus took up the challenge and stepped forward.
Mars but this barbarian was strong, Priscus thought as the sword impacted on his scutum, almost knocking him off his feet. But he kept his balance, while the recoil caused the Germani to lose his. Priscus darted forward, arm and gladius extended, and felt his blade bite German flesh a moment before he felt nothing at all as Manfred's sword came down across his helmet. Both men, Primus Pilus Centurion Gnaeus Priscus and Manfred of the Silvered Spear, fell against each other dying, their blood flowing and intermingling.
The death of Priscus was balanced by the arrival of Vorenus and his Praetorian copies, while there was no warlord to balance the loss of Manfred. The Cananefate spearmen began to waver under the Roman press.
Niall saw Manfred fall, and the arrival of the gleaming soldiers who served Vorenus, and saw the effect of both upon the men fighting. Cursing, he blew the rally upon his ram's horn and charged. And got caught in the Roman press just like his men. But his presence steadied the men, who fought the more valiantly before their commander.
Gods bless Oddmund, Niall thought as he watched salvation coming in the form of two squadrons of heavy German cavalry bearing down upon the rear of the Romans pressing him. It was a colossal impact, and together with the arrival of Glam and Ulf upon the flank, it was enough to break the Roman battle line.
Nobody knows exactly when Titus Vorenus Carnifex found his death, but he did die in that mass of melee by the gate. A few Romans escaped over the far wall, but very few. The rest went down in death to a man, fighting as if warriors possessed, but by noon it was all over.
* * * * * *
Niall walked through the carnage, poking and prodding bodies to see if any still live. Somewhere under this pile lay Manfred, and somewhere under that pile over there lay Otto. He had yet to find his son Jorgen. Was he somewhere under that far pile of corpses?
A cry from the tower caught his attention. A rider was approaching, followed by several more. The first rider rode past, his blond hair and Cananefate cloak telling all he was a friend on his way to spreading the news. The second group was also fair of hair and clad in Cananefate colors, but these stopped at the gutted castrum.
"Greetings from King Brinno, Niall," their leader called.
Niall nodded in acknowledgement. "You may tell my brother that Carnifex was himself carved," he said, as he raised a severed head for the rider to see. "But so were we. A thousand of the bodies you see laying here are ours. We sought vengeance against Carnifex and got it, but I doubt it was worth the price of survival. We were gutted as thoroughly as this castrum."
"Brinno and the remaining Cananefate warriors, aided by the hirdsmen of the folk, caught Lucius Glabius and his legion trying to cross the river Yssel. Glabius escaped with half of his warriors, but only after he massacred the men. The women and children he turned loose to slow our pursuit."
"So now a legion and a half torment our lands," Niall mused. "And after this battle, I have bugger-all with which to fight them."
"Glabius then ran into a warband of Frisians, who slaughtered them to a man," the rider continued. "The shattered cohorts fled like mice before a brushfire. Thanks to your victory here, Niall, there are no Roman forces between here and the Waal. You and your warriors have driven the Romans out of all Cananefate land."
Niall could care less. He had lost many many men, and so had the Romans. But despite his son's words after the Battle at Vidar's Altar, his losses remain lost while the Romans and their huge empire could simply levy another five or ten or twenty legions and come back. And his son was still missing, no doubt lying dead amid the fighting.
* * * * * *
Marcus Rutilius reined in his tired horse and glanced over his shoulder. There was no pursuit. He kissed his nasty, oily, smelly Cananefate cloak in gratitude, before turning his horse towards Moguntiacum. Traiectum had fallen, and with it all Roman presence on the region. And with Vitellius taking so much of the Army of the Rhein with him to Rome, there was little hope of regaining anything.
Damn Nero for posting a cruel and greedy butcher like Titus Vorenus here on the previously peaceful Cananefate border, and damn Galba for appointing ambitious Aulus Vitellius as Commander of the Rhein, then choosing that idiot Otho to be his heir. And damn Aulus Vitellius for taking half the army to Rome to make himself Emperor, leaving a man like Vorenus unsupervised.
Rutilius shook under his cloak, despite the heat of the summer sun. Three emperors already, three legions dead or dispersed not counting the dead of Bedriacum, and the summer had yet to reach its midpoint. He spurred his mount on toward Moguntiacum.
This was going to be a very bad year for the Empire.
* * * * *
"You have your war, lord, but not as you had wished. The Cananefate won."
These words, spoken around a campfire later that evening but a day's hard ride from the ashes of Traiectum, haunted both their speaker and the lord hearing them, who swore softly. The Cananefate were to be attacked by Rome and pillaged, raped, and conquered. The turmoil resulting from the Romans destroying their own Friend and Ally would open many doors of opportunity for a clever lord to exploit, as well as opening Cananefate land for his own expansion.
"Were they badly hurt?" asked the lord. Maybe something from this mess could be salvaged.
"Not really, lord,"" the scout reported. "They lost a total of one in six, while the Sandal-wearers lost seven in ten. And the Cananefate now have two new heroes, both sons of that famed rebel who defied Imperial Caligula. And none who still breathe know of our involvement."
The lord pulled his shawl tighter around him while he pondered how this news would affect his plans. The flames of the fire danced in the light wind, and in the camp the daily routines were winding down as the riders settled in for the night. Thoughts churned, and then a smile formed.
"Tribesmen attack and defeat three attacking legions and scatter a fourth without significant losses," he said with a low chuckle, that rose to a raucous laugh. "If those untrained, dirt-poor farmers and fishermen could do that, what could a veteran warhost of hardened warriors accomplish now that half of the Roman Army of the Rhein was away fighting in Rome and the other half has been halved again?"
The scout saw where his lord was going, and smiled in reply. This unexpected twist gives a much better outcome than the original conspiracy ever could
The Romans were in for a very bad year indeed.
To be continued...
Other chapters in this series:
1-They Come
2-Vengeance at Traiectum
3-Betrayal on the Border
4-Batavia Rises
5-Homeward Bound
6-The Long Road to Castra Vetera
7- Sunrise at Bedriacum
8-And yet, I was once our emperor
9-Midwinter Misery and Madness
10-Prophecies Fulfilled
11- The Little War
12-The Broken Bridge
|||||||||||||||| A transplanted Viking, born a millennium too late. |||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||||| Too many Awards to list in Signature, sorry lords...|||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||||| Listed on my page for your convenience and envy.|||||||||||||||||
Somewhere over the EXCO Rainbow
Master Skald, Order of the Silver Quill, Guild of the Skalds
Champion of the Sepia Joust- Joust I, II, IV, VI, VII, VIII
“Riders approaching.”
Niall looked up from his hilltop vantage point to where his son was pointing. Out of the east, across the wetlands, came a group of forty riders. Though they were distant, the lack of gleaming metal encasing the men told him they were not of the same breed as the ones his men were piling atop pyres below.
"A scouting party, maybe?” Jorgen asked his father.
Niall shook his shaggy head slowly. By the gods, it hurt to move this day! Just the day before, his warhost of the Cananefate Clans had fought and destroyed and entire Roman legion and its Batavian auxiliaries, losing less than a few hundred warriors. Every man who survived was either wounded in battle or sore from chasing down the fleeing Romani, Niall among them. How he wished he still had the youthful energy and recovery ability of his son! Yet Father Time makes all men old, and with age comes the wisdom needed to win great battles, but also brings aching muscles.
“I think it is Uncle Brinno!” Jorgen cried. “Yes, it’s him! I recognize the scarf Mother made for him this past Yuletime, for the Midwinter festival.”
Niall stood up, every muscle protesting this foolish and unnecessary movement. Yet he knew what his muscles did not, that one should greet one’s king standing, even if it is your own brother. He began shaking off the aches and pains and called his men about him to do the same before sending Jorgen down below with word of the King’s imminent approach.
“Hail, brother!” Niall called, once Brinno came close enough for the shouts to carry. Brinno turned his handsome head towards the hilltop, then whipped his steed about to join his brother. His bodyguard following, they reached the top just as the men below lit the pyres to turn the Roman corpses to ash.
“Hail yourself, brother,” Brinno called back cheerfully. He was the opposite of his younger brother in many ways. Whereas Niall was tall and blond and brawny, Brinno was short and dark and slender, Except for their features, one would never consider them kinsmen. “When we heard the Romans were marching here as well, we thought we’d find them down there burning your corpses, not the other way around!”
“If not for the likes of Oddmund and Ulf Hagar’s Son, it might just have been so,” Niall admitted frankly. “We were lucky, and they were not. Simple as that.”
Brinno scoffed at the modesty of his brother as he dismounted.
Something Brinno just said raised Niall’s head. “What do you mean, marching here as well?”
Brinno’s smile died as he realized that his brother knew nothing of what had been happening up and down the river these past days. Now amazement took over, as he took in the scene of Niall’s victory and its scope.
“Niall my brother,” he said solemnly, “the Romans crossed the river in at least three places, all in strength. We faded before them and left the signs as Father told us to do, but it did not stop them. Several skirmishes were fought, and we were sorely pressed. The bastards pressed hard inland and took our burg upon the Ams over the corpses of Lido and his men. Three hundred families, Niall, they took three hundred families as slaves and toys for their infamous orgies.”
“They got nobody here,” Niall promised. “And as soon as we are done with the dead, we are going to sack their encampment upon the banks. Maybe we will take prisoners, and exchange them for our own people.”
“A noble thought, my brother,” Brinno admitted, ”but a foolish one. These fools think us rich, and any prisoners we take cowards. They will not exchange. The front is in turmoil, brother of mine, and vengeance is the order of the day.”
Niall nodded. His brother spoke truth. “What will you have me do?”
It was Brinno’s turn to smile. “Yesterday you have proven yourself our best warlord. Tomorrow you shall eradicate the vermin infesting our lands in that encampment of which you spoke, and then it is our wish that you take from them their post at Traiectum- where Vorenus himself rules. Separate his head from his shoulders and burn the place to the ground, and maybe that lardass Flaccus in Moguntiacum will order our people freed in exchange for our promise to let him rebuild upon Traiectum’s rubble. People are worthless bartering pieces, Niall, but the Sandal-wearers are always interested in land. For their land back, they will give us our people back.”
Niall nodded at his brother’s wisdom.
“And what shall you be doing, while I collect the head of Vorenus for you?” he asked his liege.
“Niall my brother,” the king replied with another smile, ”I shall be leading the remaining men of the Cananefate in preventing the return of the Romans currently hauling off our people. Lido died, but he hurt them badly. My warband is harassing the surviving Romani now, and we will finish them so that you may slay Vorenus unhindered.”
* * * * * *
Marcus Rutilius approached the encampment of Herrenius with caution born of necessity. After the debacle of the afternoon and the disaster of the evening, he knew any survivors would have spread their tales throughout the fort and everybody would be on edge. He carefully folded his stolen cloak and eased forward in the night until he was at the edge of the tower’s torchlight.
“Hallo, the camp!” he called lowly. “Tribunus Marcus Rutilius approaching. Do not, repeat, NOT, shoot me!”
“Approach carefully, stranger,” a voice replied. It was taut with tension and soaked in disbelief.
Marcus rose and moved into the torchlight. A gasp was heard as he was recognized, and the gates of the port opened slightly- just enough for an armored man to squeeze through if he held his breath. Marcus took the clue and ran for the gate. It closed so quickly it would have caught his cloak had he not already folded it.
“I must see Herrenius at once,” he demanded. ”Is he in the principia?”
The soldier guarding the gate nodded, but his eyes were aimed at the darkness beyond. Marcus knew what he was feeling- how many more are out there, seeking safety. And how many Germani are out there, seeking Roman blood? His blood.
Marcus wasted no time in telling the frightened man what he already knew. The legion of Sextus Cornelius was no more- just what few, very few, filtered in so far and not many more. It was a disaster beyond comprehension. He found Prefect Herrenius in the command tent.
“Have any other officers come in?” he demanded of the Prefect. Herrenius shook his bald head and rose in the presence of what was now the commanding officer.
“We had our heads handed to us,” Marcus explained. “There were more Cananefate warriors- including cavalry, by the gods!- than we even knew existed. Sextus Cornelius died charging grounded spears- the fool!- and Livius disappeared when those gibbering bastards in bearcapes annihilated his cohort and took our Eagle.”
The mention of the Eagle caused Herrenius- never a healthy looking man in the best of times- to lose what little color he had left. Disgrace upon dishonor, another Eagle lost to the Germans? Albeit an auxiliary eagle for the auxiliary legion, but a legionary eagle none the less. They would be crucified, all of them.
“Are you listening, man?!” Rutilius shouted. “We must get out of here now, while the Germans are occupied with burying their dead, few of them as there was. Gather the men, load the supply wagons, and abandon the fort at first light. If any of our men have not made it back by then, they never will. Most are dead. You must flee to Samarobriva if you are not to join them.”
“Samarobriva?!?” Herrenius exclaimed.
“Samarobriva,” Rutilius repeated, steel in his voice. “This entire sector is in flames, and our
Herrenius did not need to be told twice. He had risen from the ranks to be a centurion, and retired to take on the duties of Prefect. He knew exactly what Rutilius was saying, and that it was truth.
* * * * * *
“They abandoned the fort,” Niall mused as he studied the silent, smoking walls before him late in the following day. “Smart of them.”
“They are not many, Niall,” called Manfred, his commander of spearmen, from by the gate where he was examining the tracks left by the departing foe. “Maybe a half-thousand, no more. And most of those would be slaves and serfs and the like. Maybe two hundred warriors. Mounted on mules, judging by the amount of gear they left behind. Shall we pursue?”
Niall shook his head. “Nay, Manfred. We shall let them go. I want Vorenus, not his lackeys.”
* * * * * *
Titus Vorenus, commander of the Rhein Delta forces, second only to Marcus Hordeonis Flaccus himself in the territorial capital of Moguntiacum now that Aulus Vitellius was marching on Rome, was not a happy man. He put on his cuirass and continued pacing the matted floor of his command tent in the castrum at Traiectum.
What had gone wrong, he wondered. This sector, his sector, was strongly defended. He had command of two legions, and had raised from his own lands and funds two more. One he had out patrolling the roads and making a wonderful demonstration of Roman presence to keep the merchants, traders, and travellers assured of Roman Peace. The other three were across the river, ravaging the lands of the Cananefate, whom he had learned were devastated by poor harvests and a recent flood, yet were numerous and hoarding wealth. You can’t eat gold, and starving people made poor warriors, but excellent slaves. What could go wrong?
Something had. All morning long shattered cohorts were filtering in, most at maniple strength, some down to a mere century. Decimus Cornelius was reported dead in an ambush, and nothing at all had been heard from his brother Sextus. Lucius Glabius and his legion were still at large. And now his Batavian auxiliaries were ordered by their commander in Batavodurum to report there at once.
Vorenus took stock of this unmitigated disaster. One legion shattered beyond recognition, one at large but still reporting back through couriers, one spread out all across the sector, and one missing. He had six cohorts of fresh legionaries in his castrum, and the makings of several more once the Prefect reorganized the remnants of the I Legion Vorena. He had an auxilia of Syrian archers, some cavalry, two Gallic light auxilia, and Glabius had been kind enough to leave his legionary artillery safe in his care here in Traiectum.
A startled cry from the tower broke his musings as the sun set. Vorenus burst out of his command tent as men scurried to their battle positions.
“What is it, you fool?” he screamed at the sentry.
“Germans, lord, thousands of them!”
“Shades of Marius at Aquiae Sextae, man!” he cursed the man’s blatant display of cowardice. “So what? We are almost two thousand hardened warriors in here now, with three more legions in the area.”
“Pass the word, centurion.” Vorenus turned and ordered his garrison commander, “All men to fall into formation to repel any immediate assault, break out the spare supplies, and prepare for a siege. We must hold out until Sextus Cornelius or Lucius Glabius arrive with their legions to relieve us, or help from Flaccus arrives.”
“Aye, lord,” Primipilus Gnaeus Priscus said with a heart-thumping salute. He hurried out to attend to the orders, leaving Vorenus to ponder this unforeseen turn of events. The Cananefate were daring to attack
“Mars and Venus!” the sentry cried weakly. “I see two Legionary Eagles amid the Germani- adorned with the heads of Sextus Cornelius and his brother Decimus!”
Vorenus sank to his knees. Sextus Cornelius was dead. So was his legion, if the Eagle in German hands meant anything. Decimus Cornelius was also dead, and the disorganized remnants of his legion were a chaotic mass in the castrum. That left only Lucius Glabrius and that fat fool in Moguntiacum as his only salvation, and both were days away. He rose, cursing at what he must do, and summoned Priscus.
Within minutes, a cavalryman on a fast horse departed through the southern gates headed east. Now, he thought, now we must simply wait out these simple barbarians until help arrives.
* * * * * *
“They sent a horseman away. Probably a messenger going for help,” Oddmund commented as he watched the tiny dustcloud disappear into the distance. “Do you want me to stop him?”
Niall shook his head. “You are watching the luckiest man of the Traiectum garrison,” he said with a grin. “The only one who will survive to see the sun set tomorrow. Let him live, and he shall remember all his days his friends who will be no more by the next noon.” He turned toward the forest, searching for Glam. His axemen were spread out, their axes working their magic on the sacred trees. It will be a long night for those men. The rams must be finished by sunrise.
* * * * * *
Niall’s plan of attack was simple and hardly elegant. He had no experience in sieges, for he was a peaceful man at heart who wanted nothing more than to settle the feuds and disputes among his people with reason and justice. He had fought at his father’s side when that brave man faced down Imperial Caligula, so he did know war. Sieges and storming fortified walls, however, required a special skill which he did not have. So he made his plan accordingly.
It would be more than sufficient. He would breach the wall and the gate facing him with most of his army, while a third would breach the walls on the side adjoining his. Between the two, he should have enough spearmen and axemen breaking in to catch the defenders in a vice, with archers pouring their murderous shafts into at least one unshielded flank.
Glam’s axe shone in the sunlight from the flank. That was the signal that his men were in position. It was time. He blew on his ram's horn to gather the attention of his warhost.
“To the walls!” he cried. “Honor and Vengeance!”
The rams rolled forward but not in unison. The two which were to breach the strong walls of the fortress rolled first, followed minutes later by the ram assigned to smash open the gate.
Boulders began to rain down near the rams, and not far from where the Germans were waiting. Niall knew what those rocks did to his troops, whether they hit someone or not. There was no defense against boulders from the sky, except one- get too close for the damned things to aim properly. He gave the order, and the men of the Cananefate followed him to the walls.
“Honor and Vengeance!” he roared.
“Vidar's Altar!” his men roared back. Honor and vengeance were ideals well worth fighting for, but when it came to spilling blood, the men preferred to recall great victories above intangible principles. The Cananefate were no different, and they had a whopping victory just a few days ago to recall. They surged forward in a German tide toward the rock of Rome.
Boulders flew outward from inside the castrum, splattering mud and dirt about the men of the Cananefate. These even more than Niall's command to hurry or their own bloodlust redoubled their efforts to get close to the Roman wall and out from where the boulders could fall.
Flaming arrows reached out to the rolling rams from inside the castrum, fired by desperate men trying desperately to burn the things that could allow Death to enter. This was what Niall had Klaus and his men waiting for.
Four hundred arrows swam up the Roman stream of inbound arrows to land among the Syrian auxiliaries inside, while another two hundred tried to silence those damned rock-hurlers whose boulders yet fell amongst them. The rams reached the walls and began their rhythmic battering while the archers dueled. The high-pitched tenor screams of burning Syrians provided a welcome harmony to the baritone pounding of the rams, music to warriors’ ears. Klaus had his fellow hunters continue the symphony of pain to give a welcome respite from the lethal rain to his fellow clansmen.
The gate burst open amid a massive Roman howl of despair, followed quickly by the resounding collapse of the walls. Niall had his breaches. Now it was time for the slaughter to begin. He pointed his sword towards Manfred at the gate and signalled his attack, then repeated the gesture to Otto on Manfred’s flank and again to Glam at the far wall. The Cananefate roared their warcry and charged inwards to face Roman steel.
* * * * * *
"Skirmishers forward!" ordered Vorenus when the dust raised by the falling palisade had cleared enough for him to see the German spearmen swarming in. "Hit them now, at their most vulnerable!"
His Gallic auxilia rushed forward to throw their javelins. Vorenus swelled with pride as he watched his javelineers bravely charge the Germans swarming in, before realizing that in doing so, they were sealing their own doom, and his. He recanted the order and commanded his legionaries forward.
Confusion reigned among the Gallic auxiliaries at the contradictory orders. And when in doubt facing thousands of Germans, the best thing to do was obey the orders that brought you away from those Germans. Thus the auxiliaries faded away and drew the Germans after them, setting them up as perfect targets for the charging legionaries.
"Well done, lord," Gnaeus Priscus noted. As commanding centurion and a veteran of twenty years, he knew a good maneuver when he saw one. "Send forth the cavalry to circle about, and you will have them all on the run!"
Vorenus saw the thousands of armed Germans screaming for his blood, and his brave legionaries impaling themselves on German spears. He saw Germans pouring through three breaches in his defenses. He saw arrows stabbing into his men's backs from several directions, giving no respite from that deadly rain. He saw that he had lost the initiative, and that the Germans were winning and would kill everyone in the castrum. He saw Death.
And he froze.
Cursing his commander's cowardice, Gnaeus Priscus hit his commander in the back of his helmet with the hilt of his gladius. Titus Vorenus Carnifex, the Butcher, dropped like a felled ox. This was time for an experienced soldier to command, not a cruel but gifted aristocrat who had been bounced from command to command. And Priscus was not about to bet his life on the indecision of an amateur general of political roots.
"Cavalry! Exit the side gate and scatter those Germani archers who are killing us in this crossfire! Scorpions! Try to nail their kinglet when he comes, and he will. Javelineers- support our legionaries. Men of Rome, follow me to Death or Glory, or both!"
The Romans surged forward toward the gate and the breach beside it. Charging with his men as he was, Priscus did not witness the events on the flanking breach. Nor did he see the cavalry open the side gate, see a warband of Germans waiting there with grounded spears, and slam the gates shut again before a heartbeat passed. So the hammer he was expecting never materialized, and that sealed his fate.
* * * * * *
Glam of the Silvered Axe led the Cananefate right. He was an experienced warrior, and was instrumental in the great battle at Vidar's Altar not three days before. His men had battered open the flanking breach, and now he raised his mighty warcry and charged into the mass of Romans awaiting him.
The burning arrows of Klaus and his hunters had reduced the rock-hurlers to wreckage, and were now firing into the rear of the legionaries facing Glam and his men. Heavy battleaxes chopped into and through Roman scuta, breaking arms and cleaving helms with equal ease. Following these hacking and screaming men came spearmen, racing to get inside and form the vaunted spearwall. Gregor Carl's Son called that his spearmen were in place, and Glam acknowledged with a mighty roar and pulled his men aside that the legionaries may impale themselves upon Gregor's spears. Besides, there was a tasty mass of milling, confused cavalry just waiting to be minced. With a mighty warcry, the axemen of the Cananefate charged the cavalry.
The combination of the burning arrows stabbing their backs while spears pierced their bellies from the front, and Glam's attack upon the idling cavalry whose ominous presence had so consoled the battling legionaries, was the breaking point. All along the cohort, men screamed "Fall Back! Fall back, for the sake of Mars!"
Niall's plan seemed to be working. Glam had his breach and was pouring in, Manfred was inside the gate and holding versus a fierce Roman press, and Otto was pouring into the breach to the left of the gate. Within moments he should be assaulting the gate Romans from the flank and that will be the end.
* * * * * *
Otto Heinrich's Son was proud to lead this warband of stout spearmen. A fisherman two days ago, he was now a warrior seeking vengeance for his stolen wife and child. He stabbed a hated Roman in the leg, then used his spear to club down another so that his comrade could kill him.
Niall saw immediately it was a mistake to give Otto command of the men of his village instead of using those volunteers to fill up his other warbands. His men were raw, stout of heart but farmers and fishermen. Otto was fighting well for an amateur, but when a Roman spear opened his bowels and killed the two men behind him, his men suddenly had enough of war. They broke and began to flee.
Niall blew two short blasts upon his ram's horn to signal Oddmund, then one long blast to identify where. That done, he rode forward to rally Otto's broken spearmen before their rout carries over to the other warbands.
Oddmund, the smiling, handsome commander of Cananefate Cavalry, understood the signal and charged toward's Otto's flagging men. The fishermen, assaulted from behind by raging Roman legionaries, from the front by their own cavalry, and extorted to find their courage by their battle king, forgot the fate of Otto and found their courage. As one, they turned back toward the breach and supported Oddmund's plunging, jumping, and crashing cavalry.
* * * * * *
The gatewall breach was rallied, and Manfred's veteran spearmen were successfully holding back the tremendous Roman press at the gate. On the sidebreach, however, things went from well to worse in a hurry. Another cohort charged forward, and was joined by the remnants of the cohort Glam had destroyed. The press of armored flesh hampered the swinging of the mighty battleaxes, and the spears of Gregor were knocked aside by gladii. Glam of the Silvered Axe went down under a pile of Roman bodies, and worse, this fall was witnessed by his men as well as by Romans who rejoiced. The cheering Romans redoubled their efforts, and the men of the Cananefate right broke under the pressure.
* * * * * *
Something fast whizzed by Oddmund's head as he slashed down a Roman legionary threatening his swordmate. He whipped around and saw the cause- two Roman scorpions. He glanced back and saw a second bolt strike one of Niall's bodyguards. The man was nailed to the wall, hanging lifeless as if he was a grotesque ornament. Oddmund knew then that these evil machines were aiming at Niall in order to decapitate the Cananefate forces, and that could not be allowed to happen.
"Follow me, horseborne!" he cried. "Slay those beasts yonder!"
The men manning the spear-throwing Scorpions did not even have a prayer. Oddmund and his men chopped them to pieces in moments, then followed the fleeing artillerymen into the remaining Syrian archers and murdered them as well. When all were dead, he saw the Gallic auxilia grabbing up more javelins from their cache and took them out too.
* * * * * *
Titus Vorenus awoke with a whopping headache. Rage filled his noble head as he rose to take stock of the battle. He did not like what he saw. The Germans had broken through the gate-flanking breach and their bloody cavalry was hunting his support troops like penned deer. Only Gnaeus Priscus and the men at the main gate were doing well, but they were about to be crushed from the flank.
His anger overrode his innate cowardice. He was going to die and knew it, but at least he could die as a Roman nobleman ought to- in battle. And maybe, if Mars was smiling, he might even turn the tide of battle and live. Then he saw the fall of the roaring idiot with the gleaming axe and saw the Germans there fall apart. Escape presented itself, and Vorenus Carnifex knew he could live to avenge the deaths of his men. He ordered his Praetorian-trained bodyguard to charge the breaking Germans.
* * * * * *
Glam of the Silvered Axe found it hard to breathe. Somebody, friend or foe, had hit him so hard that his helmet dented and its edges dug into his skull, spilling blood over the left side of his face in a cascade. That was the last he could recall. Now he was under a warm, heavy, sweaty load, with naught but his trusted axe in his hand. The sounds of battle reaching his ears were muffled, but enough came through to pierce the fog blinding his mind to reveal that his men were breaking. Anger and rage welled up in him, and with them came strength. He shook off the bodies burying him and rose like a bloody phoenix, axe in hand and Valhalla in his voice.
Vorenus was faced by the bloody spectacle of a ghoul rising from a pile of bodies, bloody axe in hand and crimson rivulets running down a bearded face. His own face went white at the sight, and both he and his charging bodyguard recoiled as Glam took a step towards them, axe slinging blood as he worked loose his cramped muscles.
The respite gained by Glam's return to battle was doubled by the entrance of Ulf Hagar's Son to the fray. He too witnessed the miraculous resurrection of Glam of the Silvered Axe, and vowed right there to Woden that if such a man should see nightfall, he would offer him a place of honor in his gang. And to ensure he would see the sun set, Ulf ordered his men to ring the brave axeman and spare him the gladii until he had his bearing.
The sight of the berserkers ringing the dead axeman who yet walked was more than enough for Vorenus. He was no longer fighting mere barbarians, or terrible Germans, or bitter foes. He was fighting demons, and against them there was no escape. Resolved to die now with honor, he fought his way through cheering Germans to where Gnaeus Priscus battled heroically but uselessly for possession of the gate.
Priscus and his hardened veterans had almost reached the gates. Using the tactics learned in battle against rebel hoplites, his men cut the heads off the spears, then moved in to kill the hapless spearman. But unlike those Greeklings who knew not the way of the sword, the Germans merely dropped their useless spears and drew forth swords the size of scuta. And they knew how to use them, which was why he was having such a hard time cutting through them to the promise of escape beyond.
A grizzled spearman was before him now, blond beard braided and face tattooed with scars of battle. He was wielding a sword like a monster swinging a club, but the pile of bodies before him testified to the effectiveness of his style. Gnaeus took up the challenge and stepped forward.
Mars but this barbarian was strong, Priscus thought as the sword impacted on his scutum, almost knocking him off his feet. But he kept his balance, while the recoil caused the Germani to lose his. Priscus darted forward, arm and gladius extended, and felt his blade bite German flesh a moment before he felt nothing at all as Manfred's sword came down across his helmet. Both men, Primus Pilus Centurion Gnaeus Priscus and Manfred of the Silvered Spear, fell against each other dying, their blood flowing and intermingling.
The death of Priscus was balanced by the arrival of Vorenus and his Praetorian copies, while there was no warlord to balance the loss of Manfred. The Cananefate spearmen began to waver under the Roman press.
Niall saw Manfred fall, and the arrival of the gleaming soldiers who served Vorenus, and saw the effect of both upon the men fighting. Cursing, he blew the rally upon his ram's horn and charged. And got caught in the Roman press just like his men. But his presence steadied the men, who fought the more valiantly before their commander.
Gods bless Oddmund, Niall thought as he watched salvation coming in the form of two squadrons of heavy German cavalry bearing down upon the rear of the Romans pressing him. It was a colossal impact, and together with the arrival of Glam and Ulf upon the flank, it was enough to break the Roman battle line.
Nobody knows exactly when Titus Vorenus Carnifex found his death, but he did die in that mass of melee by the gate. A few Romans escaped over the far wall, but very few. The rest went down in death to a man, fighting as if warriors possessed, but by noon it was all over.
* * * * * *
Niall walked through the carnage, poking and prodding bodies to see if any still live. Somewhere under this pile lay Manfred, and somewhere under that pile over there lay Otto. He had yet to find his son Jorgen. Was he somewhere under that far pile of corpses?
A cry from the tower caught his attention. A rider was approaching, followed by several more. The first rider rode past, his blond hair and Cananefate cloak telling all he was a friend on his way to spreading the news. The second group was also fair of hair and clad in Cananefate colors, but these stopped at the gutted castrum.
"Greetings from King Brinno, Niall," their leader called.
Niall nodded in acknowledgement. "You may tell my brother that Carnifex was himself carved," he said, as he raised a severed head for the rider to see. "But so were we. A thousand of the bodies you see laying here are ours. We sought vengeance against Carnifex and got it, but I doubt it was worth the price of survival. We were gutted as thoroughly as this castrum."
"Brinno and the remaining Cananefate warriors, aided by the hirdsmen of the folk, caught Lucius Glabius and his legion trying to cross the river Yssel. Glabius escaped with half of his warriors, but only after he massacred the men. The women and children he turned loose to slow our pursuit."
"So now a legion and a half torment our lands," Niall mused. "And after this battle, I have bugger-all with which to fight them."
"Glabius then ran into a warband of Frisians, who slaughtered them to a man," the rider continued. "The shattered cohorts fled like mice before a brushfire. Thanks to your victory here, Niall, there are no Roman forces between here and the Waal. You and your warriors have driven the Romans out of all Cananefate land."
Niall could care less. He had lost many many men, and so had the Romans. But despite his son's words after the Battle at Vidar's Altar, his losses remain lost while the Romans and their huge empire could simply levy another five or ten or twenty legions and come back. And his son was still missing, no doubt lying dead amid the fighting.
* * * * * *
Marcus Rutilius reined in his tired horse and glanced over his shoulder. There was no pursuit. He kissed his nasty, oily, smelly Cananefate cloak in gratitude, before turning his horse towards Moguntiacum. Traiectum had fallen, and with it all Roman presence on the region. And with Vitellius taking so much of the Army of the Rhein with him to Rome, there was little hope of regaining anything.
Damn Nero for posting a cruel and greedy butcher like Titus Vorenus here on the previously peaceful Cananefate border, and damn Galba for appointing ambitious Aulus Vitellius as Commander of the Rhein, then choosing that idiot Otho to be his heir. And damn Aulus Vitellius for taking half the army to Rome to make himself Emperor, leaving a man like Vorenus unsupervised.
Rutilius shook under his cloak, despite the heat of the summer sun. Three emperors already, three legions dead or dispersed not counting the dead of Bedriacum, and the summer had yet to reach its midpoint. He spurred his mount on toward Moguntiacum.
This was going to be a very bad year for the Empire.
* * * * *
"You have your war, lord, but not as you had wished. The Cananefate won."
These words, spoken around a campfire later that evening but a day's hard ride from the ashes of Traiectum, haunted both their speaker and the lord hearing them, who swore softly. The Cananefate were to be attacked by Rome and pillaged, raped, and conquered. The turmoil resulting from the Romans destroying their own Friend and Ally would open many doors of opportunity for a clever lord to exploit, as well as opening Cananefate land for his own expansion.
"Were they badly hurt?" asked the lord. Maybe something from this mess could be salvaged.
"Not really, lord,"" the scout reported. "They lost a total of one in six, while the Sandal-wearers lost seven in ten. And the Cananefate now have two new heroes, both sons of that famed rebel who defied Imperial Caligula. And none who still breathe know of our involvement."
The lord pulled his shawl tighter around him while he pondered how this news would affect his plans. The flames of the fire danced in the light wind, and in the camp the daily routines were winding down as the riders settled in for the night. Thoughts churned, and then a smile formed.
"Tribesmen attack and defeat three attacking legions and scatter a fourth without significant losses," he said with a low chuckle, that rose to a raucous laugh. "If those untrained, dirt-poor farmers and fishermen could do that, what could a veteran warhost of hardened warriors accomplish now that half of the Roman Army of the Rhein was away fighting in Rome and the other half has been halved again?"
The scout saw where his lord was going, and smiled in reply. This unexpected twist gives a much better outcome than the original conspiracy ever could
The Romans were in for a very bad year indeed.
To be continued...
Other chapters in this series:
1-
2-
3-
4-
5-
6-
7-
8-
9-
10-
11-
12-
|||||||||||||||| A transplanted Viking, born a millennium too late. |||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||||| Too many Awards to list in Signature, sorry lords...|||||||||||||||||
|||||||||||||||| Listed on my page for your convenience and envy.|||||||||||||||||
Somewhere over the EXCO Rainbow
Master Skald, Order of the Silver Quill, Guild of the Skalds
Champion of the Sepia Joust- Joust I, II, IV, VI, VII, VIII
[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 11-01-2008 @ 08:24 AM).]
