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A raven soared above the flat countryside below. His eyes were open for meat rotting in the sun, or wheat left untended, or anything shiny to steal. These things interest a raven- the first two being a means of survival, the third a means to attract a mate. A movement of metal below caught his eye. He swept lower on unseen winds to investigate.

The raven saw a large, very large, circle of men clustered about in an open field. No wheat here, and the shiny things in their hands it knew for weapons. Death, it was, and where death was, was food. He circled.

An earthen castle rose from the plains inside the circle, harboring more men. These wore shiny metal shirts upon their backs, and moved as if they had a purpose. The raven knew these men as strangers in a strange land, for the men that lived in these parts lived as one with the earth. These metal-clad strangers ripped the earth apart to build upon it.

The castle was but one of four, it saw as it circled soundlessly upon the wind. Each was built the same- blocks of Mother Earth cut from the surrounding grass and piled upon it. A wide ditch lay before the walls, dug deeper by more strangers as the raven flew above, The dirt brought forth was cast as blocks and carried by more men who piled their walls higher. The walls rising from the plains were bristled with staves to repel climbers, and topped with a palisade that grew stronger for every minute the raven watched. Towers rose from the outer corners, into which men armed with bows kept a wary eye for danger.

Inside the square created by the four castles was a small forest. This was an old forest, but a dense one. So dense in fact, that none of the strangers had yet to enter its heart, only nibbling away at its outer edges to obtain wood with which to improve the castles.

The raven noticed in one nest, some activity was taking form. He flew lower to investigate, maybe even grab an eye or other easily-edible delicacy from what he knew would soon be a dead man. His attention on the action was so focused, so tempting, that he never saw the deadly hawk dropping on him from above, the talons ripping through his body until at last he lay still, clutched in the talons and borne away to become food for young hawks.

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“Legate, there is something you ought to see,” said the primus pilus of the X Gemina. He had not waited for his legate to answer the knock- he merely barged right in. It was that urgent.

“I come,” Cadorus said as he rose from his bed. He and half the legion were armored and awake for most of the night, guarding the others in case the Germans surrounding their camp tried to break in. Special attention was paid to the inner walls- those facing the camps of the other legions trapped as was the Xth. There was a forest blocking the view of the other camps, and while those trees would soon be gone, for now they presented a place for the enemy to hide. But that danger was slowly being erased. Wood from that forest was now strengthening the Roman positions, and more would be on their way.

Cador exited the tent and threw his helmet upon his head. A moment later, he whisked it back off. Before him stood a woman, struggling useless but held firmly in the arms of two legionaries.

“What in the names of Andraste and Mars is this?” he bellowed.

The soldiers did not know if he meant the woman, or those holding her prisoner.

“A patrol caught her moving through the woods between our camp and that of the VI Victrix,” the top centurion explained. He held out a dagger. “She had this, making her an enemy combatant. The rules are clear- she’s your slave now. Where do you want her?”

Cador cast a wicked eye at the top centurion. “Get me someone who speaks Germanic,” he ordered. “And bind her hands behind her back- I don’t want any soldier slain because they got near her and she picked a dagger from his harness.”

“I speak Roman tongue,” the woman said. Upon closer inspection, Cadorus saw she was older than he first thought- thirtyish instead of twentyish, and with darker blonde hair than was normal.

“You do speak Latin,” he admitted, “but not very well. Top, get me a translator.”

The centurion did so immediately, while his legate studied the prisoner some more. She was homely, but not uncomely, and had a fire in her he had not seen in a woman since Princess Camorra changed her name to Queen Julia Victoria. With a decent bath, some cosmetics, she could even be pretty.

An auxiliary approached with the primus pilus.

“Ask her what she was doing inside our perimeter,” the legate commanded. The auxiliary did so. She babbled back at him angrily, causing him to smile.

“She says she lives here, legate, and that we are trespassing on her property.”

“Ask her name.”

The stream of Germanic that shot back was rather unpleasant to the auxiliary, but Cadorus had picked up enough Germanic to identify expletives and curses- and this woman used none of them while still managing to make the auxiliary quake in his boots. Interesting.

“She says her name is Astrid, legate.”

She said a lot more than that, auxiliary. I picked out the names of several gods in her outburst, and more than one reference to powers. That, and the confidence the woman has in those gods reminded him so much of Tasca, who was now the High Priestess of Andraste back in Britannia...

The map is wrong.

“Top, gather your century,” Cadorus said with a smile. “We are going to bring this wayward daughter home to her father, the High Priest of Wotan, and exchange her for the bloody Eagle of the V Alaudae which is hiding in these woods between us and the Raptors.”

“What?!?”

“Marcus told us the Eagle was in the Sacred Grove,” Cadorus explained. “Our map says that it is over there somewhere,” he added, pointing to the west, ”but I think the map is wrong. It seems our legions are camped around that elusive forest, using sacred trees to strengthen our earthly forts. If the priest values his flesh over his worship, he will trade us the Eagle for free passage to his lines.”

“And if he does not?” asked the centurion.

Cadorus shrugged. “Then he dies, the daughter here becomes my slave, and we take the Eagle anyway. But I would rather trade, seeing as how this is holy ground. Some gods might object to blood being spilled in their temples.”

The primus pilus nodded at that wisdom, especially as the legion was surrounded and besieged by a lot of that particular god’s worshippers. He ran off, pointed a tribune or two to the legate, then rounded up his century.

Cadorus briefed Severus and Minucius in low tones before sending them on their way. Then he turned to the woman while the centurion mustered his men.

“Astrid, do you understand what is going to happen now?” he asked of her. When she shook her head at the auxiliary’s translation, he explained. “I am going to ransom you to your father for our Eagle.”

“We possess no Eagle!” she shouted in reply.

Cadorus laughed. “Lying to your captor is a bad way to start a relationship, woman. You said you speak our tongue. Did you not hear what I said to the centurion? We are going to exchange you for it, then escort you both out of our lines.”

“I heard you say kill my father,” the woman replied with a violent twist of her arms against the men holding her. She did not get far before being tugged roughly back into position.

“Only if he resists,” Cadorus corrected. “I have a healthy respect for the gods and their servants, woman. It matters not to me if the god is Mars or Jupiter or Wotan or my own Andraste. I promise you no harm will come to you or your father as long as neither of you tries to harm us.”

The woman glared at him, reading his expression and the honor in his eyes. The eyes were a clear blue- which matched her own- and she saw the truth in them. She also saw a slightly bulbous nose, a washed-out pink complexion, and light hair framing features that could never come from swarthy Rome. A barbarian, risen high in the service of Rome.

“We have no Eagle,” she said lowly, but with far less emotion in her voice. “It was donated to Wotan, the All-Father. It is his, now, never ours.”

“It was stolen in a massacre of unarmed men granted safe passage,” Cadorus replied. “That gift is tainted with shame and dishonor.”

The woman thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “I do not think the All-Father will mind you removing that sort of blight from his grove,” she added. “I will lead you to it, in exchange for safe for myself and my father out of this fortress you have built around our home.”

Cadorus gave his word.

“The word of a Roman counts for little,” she replied evenly. “Romans lie too often.”

“How about the word of an Iceni noble?” he countered, having felt first-hand the perfidy of Roman lies before a few good Roman men showed him that they too could possess honor. “For an Iceni nobleman was what I was born, and that is what my blood remains. A barbarian, like you.”

The woman nodded. He had passed her test. “That I can accept.”

In short order, the century was arrayed before the legatus by squad. Each contubernium was arrayed in a rank of four, with a rank of one, two, or three depending on casualties and transfers behind. Before each stood the decanus of the squad. This being a First Cohort century, it held twenty squads instead of the normal ten. Before the century was its signifer and cornicen, while behind stood the optio and tesserarius.

“Which contubernium has the honor of guarding the standard?” Cadorus asked.

“Seventeenth squad, lord,” came the answer.

Cador nodded, and had the guards bring his prisoner to the seventeenth squad.

“Decanus, I place this woman in your charge. Do not let her escape, nor allow her to draw a weapon. I wish to bring her unscathed and unharmed to her home. Understood?”

The decanus nodded. Cadorus returned to his top centurion before the century.

“First Century!” he called. “We are going on a little tour of the woods between us and the VI Victrix. I expect no trouble, but with the rude and obnoxious neighbors we have outside our little community here, I take no chances.” He let the few chuckles die down before continuing. ”We are going to visit a shrine to the gods. They might not be our gods, but they seem to be very popular in these parts, and are indeed gods. In respect to the gods, I command that none here desecrate the shrine or shed blood within it unless it is absolutely unavoidable. Do you understand, legionaries?”

“YES, LEGATUS!” the century roared.

“Good,” the legatus replied, satisfied. “Top, open the east gate. We are going on a little stroll now. I will march with the third squad out of the gate; you may march with whatever squad you wish. Severus is in command until I return. Now, move them out, centurion!”

The centurion called his century to attention, and called off the marching order. Cadorus would be marching with the First Squad, third in line. He himself would march with the Eleventh Squad, the fifteenth out of the gate. The prisoner and the signifer marched with the Seventeenth in the middle. Once into the woods and no immediate threats were identified, Top Sextus Sennius rushed forward, bringing the Seventeenth Squad and their charge with him, while the legatus dropped back to the third squad in line.

“Here is where it gets tricky,” he said to the primus pilus. “If those Germans saw us come into the woods, they might try something. We must not tarry, nor can we be too hasty in case some sneaked in during the night. Put five squads down here as a security ambush. Astrid,” he said, addressing the prisoner, “you promised to lead us to the entrance of the Grove. Do so now.”

She did. She led them through the more open part of the forest to the denser core, which led to a path only a man wide. Along the way the legate and primus pilus had been dropping squads in ambush positions. Cadorus unsheathed his sword here and bade the centurion set up a hasty defense. The entrance was so artfully concealed that it was invisible from five paces away and looked like nothing more than an indentation in the forestry from closer.

Astrid looked at the sword and frowned. “You promise safe passage,” she reminded him.

“Can you guarantee there are no warriors awaiting at the end of this dark path?” he asked. When she shook her head, he added, “I’ll keep my sword ready, woman. Just in case.”

Astrid led them along the path, which opened abruptly into a small, ovular clearing centered on a spring. Across from them hung the Eagle of the Alaudae, and surrounding the pool were twelve oaks rearing like pillars into the sky- a significant change from the dense pine and cedar surrounding the site. And beyond the bubbling spring, under the Eagle was an old man kneeling before it.

The older man stood up sharply at the approach of Romans into his Sacred Grove. He spied his daughter with them, and waxed indignant at her treachery and their arrogance.

“Why did you betray us, daughter?” he asked in German, before switching to a reasonable Latin, “and why do you desecrate this holy site with your presence, Roman?”

Cadorus put his sword away as soon as he determined that no warriors stood hidden in this shrine, not with the attitude of the priest. He pointed with an empty hand to the Eagle. “We have come for our Eagle, priest. And to escort you beyond our lines, so that neither you nor your daughter shall suffer when your disciples attack.”

“I am safe enough here, Roman,” the old man retorted. “It is you, the trespassers, who shall die. Not I.”

“Will your god stop this grove from burning?” Cadorus asked gently. “I shall not order it, but those chaps outside... They might try to burn our supplies. A bad wind, and those fire arrows land in the forest surrounding this grove. Lots of pine out there, father, which will burn hot and fast when a fire arrow lands in it.”

“Wotan will protect his high priest,” the old man said with iron determination.

“And Andraste will grant her favorite son the victory,” Cadorus replied. “I do not wish a clash of the gods here. I will win, as I have a sword while you do not. In this case, Andraste has proven stronger in Wotan’s Grove than Wotan himself. Or, conversely, Wotan has granted a follower of Andraste privilege into his Sacred Grove, to escort the High Priest to safety where he can perform other services for the god. Two tales, same ending. Your choice.”

The priest thought it over, while his daughter pleaded with him. She had seen, he had not. Now her vision of the massed tribes outside, led by Udo, surrounding the Roman forts was transferred to him through her words.

“Udo commands? Not Ricgard the Lion?” the high priest uttered suddenly. He cursed, and grabbed the Eagle down from its display. He thrust it rudely at the legate. “Here, Roman. Remove this stained trophy from our Sacred Grove. We will follow you shortly.”

Cadorus accepted the Eagle while the priest rummaged through the rear of the grove, seeking items he would need. Astrid took this moment to answer the unspoken but obvious question poised on the Briton’s lips.

“Udo was nearly killed this winter,” she related. “He was brought here, with his brother, likewise dying. My father healed Udo with the power of Wotan, yet the injuries to Ulfrich were grave. Udo threatened to burn this grove if his twin was not likewise brought back from Death’s Doorstep. My father and he do not get along well, but he did it. He would not put it past the king to let some fire arrows fly errant on purpose.”

“So both kings live,” Cadorus said with a nod. “This we did not know.”

The priest finished and came forward. “You seem to know about Sacred Groves,” he said bluntly. “Tell me, Roman. Show me the Grove.”

Cadorus pointed carelessly at the twelve oaks surrounding the spring. “These twelve, and no more,” he said. “The rest is but camouflage.”

“Correct,” the old man said with a gleam in his eye. “I will make a bargain with you. Your men can take as much of the camouflage as they wish, but I want your word of honor, Champion of both Andraste and now Wotan, that this grove remains untouched. In exchange, when you are captured and your men enslaved, I shall insist that the officers be slain cleanly, not tortured or roasted to Wotan in the Sacred Grove you spared.”

“I vow that none from my legion shall so much as touch a leaf,” he said solemnly. “And I shall do my best to prevent the men of the other legions from doing so as well.”

“I expected no less,” said the priest, “For you, if Andraste does somehow grant you victory over Udo.” He handed the legate a scroll. “Now lead on, champion.”

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Haven't given the first update a good read yet - just a skim through the excerpt (which brought about a very mysterious atmosphere "The Cauldron? Oooh...") Just thought I'd go ahead and grab the first comment

Now before you decide to hammer my Asian ass in anger (with the banhammer, I mean), here's promising to edit in a proper comment later tonight when I've got some time to read properly and quietly.

And so the Romans recovered the final eagle taken so treacherously from them.

Now all they need to do is break the encirclement and defeat the German horde! Great to see you continuing this, Terikel!

[This message has been edited by Legion Of Hell (edited 02-28-2011 @ 10:36 AM).]

A raven soared above the flat countryside below. His eyes were open for meat rotting in the sun, or wheat left untended, or anything shiny to steal. These things interest a raven- the first two being a means of survival, the third a means to attract a mate. A movement of metal below caught his eye. He swept lower on unseen winds to investigate.

Y'know, that was one of the best non-professional intro I'd ever read. Set me in the mood instantaneously. The maneuver commands were also very nice.

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Gaius Roscius was waiting in the last post station before Mogontiacum. The former merchant and post rider sat quietly, rolled a little dice with the stationmaster, but drank little. He had been there a day, and expected to be there for little longer. Sooner rather than later a rider would return, and then he would be off.

Hoofbeats could be heard outside.

“I guess you’re off now, Gaius,” the stationkeeper said as he rose from the table. “That’ll be Pollax coming in with the post for Mogontiacum.”

“I’ll take it from here, Manlius,” Roscius said as he rose. “And thanks for the placard,” he added, lifting the plaque hanging from his neck identifying him as an imperial postal rider. “I’ll bring it right back, as soon as I am done.”

“No worries, Gaius, I have more,” the stationkeeper laughed. “And when Petrus here wakes up, he’ll thank you too for taking his route. Fellow never could handle his wine unwatered.”

Roscius nodded and exited. He greeted the incoming rider as he had once done many a time, then switched the bags to his own horse.

“Any special instructions?” he asked.

“A banker in Argentorate gave us a scroll for his cousin in Colonia,” the rider said as he dismounted. His legs were stiff from the forty mile ride. “Its already in the bag for Colonia- nothing more you need to do for that one. There are two more are bound for merchants here in town. The merchant ones you give to the postmaster, and he’ll sort it out. Just don’t forget to tell him.”

“Thanks,” Roscius said, and swung himself up onto his mount. He kicked his horse into a gallop, and off he went, doing what he swore he would never do again.

He dismounted before the gates of Mogontiacum and gained entry. From there, it was a short walk to the postmaster.

“Post from the south,” he announced.

The postmaster was a squirrelly-looking wight who looked as yellow and dingy as the parchment with which he worked. He nodded at the rider, noting the new face but the old placard, then gestured to the pigeonholes filling a wall.

“If you want to remain on your feet for a while,” he said to Roscius, “you can sort it yourself. Otherwise it’s off to the hostel and report back in the morning for the post going south.”

“I’ll stick around,” Roscius said gruffly, stretching his legs as he took his bags to the wall. The one bag for points north he set aside for the outgoing northbound rider. The other he opened and began pulling the items out. He read the names and addresses then put the scroll in the appropriate box. There was a box-hole was for an official in imperial service, and two buckets below for imperial servants on temporary duty in town. Within minutes the regular post was sorted by recipient, and Gaius Roscius knew all he needed to know. Then he got to the two for the merchants, and fished the one from Tullius out as well.

“What do I do with these?” he said, interrupting the postmaster from his own tasks. “Two are for merchants here in town, the third has no name.”

The postmaster came over and snatched the three scrolls. He glanced over them, noting the seals and names on the first two. Then the seal on the third, and tried to make out the name. Then he shrugged, and placed it into a pigeonhole, confirming what Roscius already thought.

“Throw these two in the dead letter bucket by the door,” the postmaster commanded. “I’ll handle them personally.”

“I am sure you will,” Roscius said. Then he exited, having found his traitor.

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While Cadorus was exploring the Sacred Grove, the Germanic kings were holding a council of war. Their victory had given them a bit of euphoria, but that euphoria was wearing off as they buried their dead. They had lost at least five men for every Roman brought down overall. The Bructeri had lost a thousand, and the Marsi two thousand. Ricgard lost two thousand as well, while the Cherusci had suffered the worst- when Otho went down, four thousand of his warhost went down with him. Together they numbered thirty two thousand, just over what was inside the four dirtpiles. What kept the Romans there, Udo was explaining to Horobard, was those thirty two thousand, plus the sixty-two thousand Horobard brought. Together they numbered almost a hundred thousand- enough to keep the Romans penned until they were too weak to defend themselves.

“That could take weeks, Udo,” Horobard scoffed. “We do not have weeks. We Chatti came, almost at the run, to help you drive the Romans from your lands as we promised we would. We too must eat- and a hundred thousand mouths will eat these forests bare in less than a week. Then it is we who starve, and they who are strong.”

“Your suggestion of leaving a token force here then overrunning the Roman province is flawed,” Ricgard said, standing proudly among this collection of kings. “While I do not disagree that we could easily overrun what little remains in the Roman province or even that beyond, I do violently disagree with leaving a token force here. It is suicide.”

“They are trapped,” scoffed Horobard. “They are going nowhere. They sit and eat their bread, while we sit out here and long for a bite of anything once running on four legs.”

“They are trapped now,” Ricgard reminded him. “But if you take your Chatti and Suevi to the Roman side of Father Rhein, those remaining will be too weakened to defend properly. The Romans, Horobard- their fortresses are not isolated. They can assemble in one and make a concentrated push. They can break out and destroy the remainder piecemeal. With overwhelming force, they cannot even make the attempt.”

“They do not have to,” Segestes of the Suevi said. “They sit in those dirtpiles and eat, while we out here starve. They will win by default. Horobard is correct- we have too many in one place. We must send some away. Where better to send them than across Father Rhein?”

“My Marsi and Ricgard’s Chauci are sending wheat and cattle,” Calor said with a sigh. “But Horobard and Segestes are correct- it is not enough. But Ricgard and Udo are also correct- if we decide to invade the Roman provinces now, we risk letting these men break out. That could be dangerous. But worse, holding them penned here gives the Romans time. They are clever, these Romans. We must not give them time.”

“We must not let them break out, either,” Udo reminded him. “We are all doomed if they do.”

Horobard was adamant. He had an itchy feeling about this, caused by his memory of what the witch in his court said. A quick dash up and back was fine by him, but dragged into a siege? He would be away for far too long. Was it this the Witch meant? That nagging doubt decided him. “To hell with a siege. You are right- we have too many mouths here. Mouths that belong to bodies who came to fight. So we fight! Let us attack on the morrow, and remove the threat their existence causes.”

“We borrow a ploy from Seval,” Ulfrich said suddenly. “We attack, as Horobard says. Two outcomes. One- we win and eliminate the Romans as a threat. Problem solved. Or two, we are driven off, with fewer mouths to feed thereafter. Maybe then the Chauci and Marsi food stores, plus our own, will be enough to outlast the Romans.”

“Or you could let the Romans feed you,” called a quivering voice from outside the ring of kings. The kings parted to reveal a cloaked figure stepping forward with a raven on his shoulder. Ricgard, Ulfrich, and Calor bowed their heads, prompting Segestes and Horobard to do the same, while Udo glared defiantly into the High Priest’s eye.

“Hello Eirik,” he said sharply. “Abandoned your Sacred Grove at the first sign of the enemy, have you?”

“I turned it over to another, one who is sincere about the gods and one I can entrust not to harm the Sacred Grove,” the High Priest replied evenly. “And I came here to ensure that you know I am no longer in it, and thus have no reason to try to burn it down ‘by accident.’”

“You mentioned letting the Romans feed us,” Segestes interjected. He did not know about this feud between a high priest and a king, but such matters bode only ill for this war. Best to keep that shunted aside. “How?”

“There are four legions in your noose, eh?” Eirik cackled. “Legions reside in stone castles, where they have their stores to last the winter. If the legions are here, who is in their castles?”

“They are empty,” Horobard replied, his head rising at the inspiration.

“Correct,” Eirik replied. “Except one- Vetera, across the water here and curiously, the closest. In it will be the summer’s stores for all four legions. It is guarded now by auxilia, and if you tarry, by all the auxilia in the province if that young chieftain commanding the province is any good. There, kings of the tribes, there you can strike a blow worthy of your titles. Take Vetera- the linchpin of the province, grab its stores, and destroy the last vestiges of armed force left in the province in a single blow. That will solve your problem- and you do not need to send so many either- maybe ten thousand, maybe fifteen- and the rest keep these cockroaches penned. After Vetera, take Noviomagus- it is not far. That is two storehouses in striking range, both relatively unoccupied. Strike swiftly, Ravens of Wotan, and victory shall be ours. The tribes shall rule to the seas, as Veleda once predicted.”

“The Priest speaks wisdom,” Horobard and Segestes agreed. Calor and Ricgard nodded as well, forcing Udo and Ulfrich to join in. It was unanimous.

Calor mustered his Marsi. He did not head west, though that would have been the quickest way had Father Rhein not lived where he did. No, he left the march west for Segestes and ten thousand Suevi and other warriors. Since Father Rhein did live where he lived, the fastest way to Vetera to the west actually lay to the south. Thus Calor marched south while Segestes marched west. They would both be at Vetera within a few days, and inside it in another.

Vetera shall fall. The prophecy shall be fulfilled. Germans shall rule to the seas!

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Gnaeus Pinarius Cornelius Clemens sat as his table with his stylus in hand. This being a formal occasion, he should have been wearing his toga, but since it was merely a formality, he dispensed with the unwieldy garment in favor of clothing more suitable for the climate. He duly granted the honorable trader Decimus Laetius imperial permission to travel through the hostile Agri Decumates for the purposes of conducting trade. Laetius, for his part, promised to trade fairly and to report any developments he noted among the barbarians. He was among the last of his clients coming to seek his patron’s services for the day.

Official business concluded, Clemens waved the applicant away and stared back down at the tablets before him. Two were reports from his legates that his orders had been executed and that they were where he wished them. The third was also from a legate, who reported by tablet he and his legion were at the postal station as ordered, and were officially reporting to the Governor of Germania Superior for duty. The fourth tablet made him laugh.

It was also a report from a legate stating that he was in position as ordered, but there was little pleasant about it. He smiled, and opened the tablet to read it once again.

Hail, governor Cornelius Clemens,

We are in the armpit of the province as you demanded. The river here stinks of shit and the natives here are not happy to see us. Gellius of the VII legion passed through not long ago, happy to be going to war. My men, however, are unhappy. They curse me- and you- for putting them on the roof of the world in the armpit of the province which stands high on the list of poorest duty stations. So thanks for sending us out of the way where nobody can get hurt on our arrowheads. We will hold an archery tournament in your honor, since there is little else here to do.

Titus Flavius Sabinus,
Legatus, I Adiutrix

He laughed again. That little man, the nephew of the Emperor, thinks he and his legion of auxilia-turned-legionaries were uprooted from Mogontiacum and sent to southern Vindonissa to keep them out of harm’s way. He laughed again, harder this time. All I need, little man, is the word to go. Then your tour of duty in Vindonissa will become rather interesting, rather quickly.

As if the thought triggered the action, a praetorian cavalryman burst into the chamber from the atrium, sweat pouring off the man as if rain from a duck’s back. The smell of him caused Clemens’s nose to ruffle in disgust, but the praetorian paid him no mind. He simply marched in as if he owned the place, plopped a tablet down on the desk, and stormed back out, his duty accomplished. Only the brief nod he gave a waiting plaintiff on his way out was not perfect regulation.

The tablet was sealed with a praetorian emblem. Clemens opened the tablet cautiously. It did not say much, only a single word, followed by a brief explanation and a signature.

Attack!

All deployed legions are to attack no later than the Kalends of Julius into the Agri Decumates. Do not delay. Logistics and supplies are already in place clogging up the Via Mala. Move now! Resistance should be less than you expected- many went north to fight Cordinus.

Titus Flavius Vespasianus Junior
Prefect of the Praetorian Guard and Commander of the Expedition

There it was, the order for which he had been waiting. So, all the training and foolish movements have not been in vain after all. Clemens had originally been highly eager to charge into the Agri Decumates; it was why he so wanted this province and literally begged the Imperator for it. He got it and prepared his men to the highest level of readiness they had seen in five years. Then, he was told to sit pretty while that slug Cordinus got first priority of men and supplies and crossed the river to a debacle. He did it again this year, frustrating Clemens immensely. Now, just as it looked like Cordinus would be reaping all of the glory- again!- he gets the orders for which he dreamed. Just like that, out of the blue, with no warning. They did not catch him totally by surprise, but they did catch him off-guard.

Clemens was not a stupid man. He knew the Agri Decumates were a spearhead aimed at Rome. It was going to be conquered. And relatively soon, which was why he wanted this province and why he trained his men so hard. Yet time and again, something somewhere else- like Germania Inferior- came up and thwarted his plans. It was the lack of logistics that caught him off-guard and unprepared for the order- no attack can be successful without a firm logistical base, unless it is to feed off of the enemy, which in this case is poorly fed. He had the men and the readiness, but not the supplies. But crafty young Vespasianus had considered that, and clogged the Via Mala with caravans of supplies out of sight of German eyes, ready to support his attack.

I will get my triumph after all, he thought.

Gaius Roscius had enough of waiting. He stood and knocked on the door. He had his evidence. All he had to do now was present it to the provincial governor and the traitor would be both exposed and executed. He was feeling good- Publius Sollus and the others could soon rest in peace.

“Busy,” came the mumbled reply.

“Its urgent, lord, especially if you just got the orders to launch your offensive,” Roscius replied.

The door flew open. Gnaeus Cornelius Clemens stared at him. “How did you know?”

“I am the arcanus who told Praetorian Prefect Titus Flavius Vespasianus that the Chatti were on the move,” Roscius replied. “And I have some vital information for you, too.”

“Do you know the headwaters of the Danube, arcanus?” he asked of the scout.

Roscius nodded.

“Then take this scroll and ride like the wind to Titus Flavius Sabinus in Vindonissa,” Clemens commanded. “You personally, arcanus. And your mission is to lead him and his legion past the headwaters of the Danube, all the way to the Raetian defenses.”

“But lord, I have vital info-”

“I have no time for anything else,” Clemens replied urgently. “The Old Owl pulled a fast one on me, arcanus. I was asked to send auxilia to the north. He has me train and move my legions about, without a word as to why- leaving me to think it just a practice for next year’s invasion. Everything I had received was to make me believe the north was the main effort this year, then he orders me to crash across the border the day after tomorrow with four legions. Totally without preparation, totally without orders. Just go. Well, arcanus, I have this night to prepare an order and some semblance of command and control for this operation, and tomorrow to execute it. Now make yourself useful- report to Vindonissa and guide the Imperator’s nephew to the headwaters of the Danube.”

“But lord-”

“No buts, arcanus,” Clemens said sternly. “I have too little time. Now move it, son, or I will have you jailed for interfering with imperial business.”

“Yes, lord,” Roscius said dejectedly. He took the scroll and moved out sharply. Rome was going to war- and it was not with the lads up north. There was a traitor in the province, but it seemed he only set up the boys up north- not the ones here. Maybe a man who tried to make his own attack easier? A triumph...

Roscius had little time, too. He had a long ride to Vindonissa and a short time to get there. At least he could earn the trust of the Imperator’s nephew on this mission. Then the traitor would pay dearly. Especially since the Imperator’s nephew was supposedly such good friends with the boys getting screwed up North.

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Read this yesterday but forgot to comment. Great stuff!

So Roscius has to help Sabinus who are friendly with Cordinus/Rutillus' forces who are besieged by thousands of Germans?

Things are going to end bloodily. But that is why your stories are so epic, Terikel!

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“What the hell?” uttered Arturus as he spied the castrum at Vetera on its hill. Walking the posts were men in legionary armor, with others alertly manning the artillery posted upon the stone walls of the fortress. The sight startled him, causing him to turn to the ex-tribune riding beside him. “Where the hell did we get more legionaries from?”

Dieter shook his head as they continued forward. A few of the catapults turned sharply toward them as they rode, then returned to their original arcs as the gunners recognized the four riders as Roman auxiliaries. “I do not think they are legionaries,” he replied with another shake. “I think Marcus dreamed them up.”

“Dream up legionaries?” Arturus mumbled. “Is that even possible?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” the gruff Batavian replied.

The gates opened slowly. Dieter and Arturus, accompanied by two more Remi cavalrymen, entered the fortress at Vetera single file, under the scrutiny of very nervous men dressed in legionary armor. Dieter pointed out the faults with the men- primarily the swords being on the wrong side- to Arturus, who agreed. Arturus sighed at the lack of discipline. His decurion would never let anyone walk a post without every bit of their equipment in the proper position. These men never had a real centurion to be dressed so haphazardly- they had to be the vigiles dressed to be legionaries.

“I see what you mean,” he said to Dieter. “Marcus had indeed dreamt up some legionaries- at least men who could pass for such at a distance, and the Rhenus was wide here.”

The ex-tribune nodded. “That is all it takes to make the monkeys think twice, usually. But this case might be different. They know they have four legions trapped. They might think this a fifth legion, which would give them pause, or maybe they will see right through the illusion. Either way, Marcus needs to know what is really going on.”

The four riders stabled their horses, then Dieter led them across the muster field to the praetorium. There the vigiles were replaced with Batavian Guardsmen, who recognized their commander and opened the door for him and the Remi.

Dieter found Marcus in the main chamber, listening to Gnaeus Milus report that he could not get the supplies through due to Germanic interference.

“You are lucky they did not realize your cavalry screened wagons filled with food supplies,” Dieter said as he entered. “And you did extremely well in turning back and skedaddling here so quickly.”

“Why were there Germans on the supply routes?” Marcus asked with a sinking feeling. The presence of the man he detailed to command the unruly Galatians confirmed something bad had happened. “And why are you here with three riders- all Remi and not the Galatians you commanded?”

That feeling grew worse and turned his stomach into a knotted mass that someone struck with a sledgehammer when Dieter spoke.

“That little moron dawdled on attack after attack, bringing an entire legion to bear upon each and every tiny village,” the Batavian reported. “He moved like molasses, Marcus, while your old X Gemina slashed a burning path through the Bructeri. Cordinus reined him in, then brought the legions together. He took a long time to reach the civitas, Marcus. A long time.”

Rutilius knew what was coming. It did not lessen the impact in the least.

“The tribes came, my friend,” Dieter continued. “And they came in their thousands. The Cherusci were reported in the area with thirty cohorts, and the Chauci with twenty. The Marsi had been lured away by a brilliant raid into their homeland, but Cordinus moved too slowly to capitalize on the Germanic split.”

“He didn’t-” Marcus said, but the vigorous nod of his Batavian commander cut his words off in his throat.

“He did,” Dieter said. “He wanted to fort up. I advised him to fix the Cherusci with two legions while the other two destroy the Chauci, then have them fall upon the Cherusci and crush them. Then he would have had a chance.”

“That’s what I would have done,” Rutilius agreed. ”Fix the larger force, crush the smaller, then gang-rape the larger with everything.”

“I don’t think it will make much of a difference though,” Dieter continued, dropping the hammer. “Fifty thousand or more Chatti, Usipi, and Suevi came up from the south- which the fool left unguarded and unwatched. If he was smart, he would have been in position to utterly destroy that mass of warriors despite the size of their warhost.”

“He was not smart,” Arturus added. “He sacked Dieter, then tried to arrest him. After that, he ignored Dieter’s advice- and that of his legates, who said the same as him. He did send my turma south, though. We saw the Chatti, and broke into contubernia to bring him the word. If he was lucky he forted up, and is now surrounded by almost eighty thousand warriors. He is not bright, that man, but he has survived being both stabbed and poisoned. I count him lucky.”

“So do I,” Rutilius agreed. “Had the legions been slaughtered, the Germani would be here, not you. The fact that you four managed to come this far without seeing masses of men moving this way, then swim the Rhein, tells me those warriors are busy elsewhere- most likely with our legions.” He slammed a fist onto his table. ”Damn it!”

Dieter sat back, his locked spine holding rigid as he leaned against the wall. “So what do we do now, Marcus?””

“We do what we must,” Rutilius replied. “We go save them.”

“With what?” laughed Dieter harshly. “He took all four legions, man. He left you nothing!”

“He left me twelve auxilia cohorts,” Marcus replied. “And was kind enough to relieve you of duty to be by my side once again.”

“Thanks of the vote of confidence,” Dieter said sullenly, though he meant it. “Twelve auxilia cohorts, and me. What else do you need?”

“Those twelve are scattered throughout the province,” Arturus reminded him. “They are needed there, to keep the Rheinwatch.”

“Not any more,” Rutilius said, grabbing some tablets and his stylus. “The ones they need to watch against are all near that Bructeri Sacred Grove. There are two choices, Arturus. We let them stay in their little forts and the Germans slaughter them one by one when they come- and they will. Or we bring them all together and make a single larger force that can have a chance of dealing with the hordes- if they break up and we stay together.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Dieter pointed out.

“I will make it simple,” Rutilius decided firmly. “We gather the cohorts and try to relieve the legions. We will most likely all die, but maybe, if we attack the besieging force and do enough damage before we fall, we can give the legions a chance to break out of the death trap. Only one if in that one.”

Dieter nodded. “We will indeed all die. But nobody lives forever, and dying to free one’s trapped comrades… There are worse causes for which to die.”

“Are you serious?” Arturus exclaimed in shock at the calm settling over the three senior officers. “You go to certain death, in the off-chance that it will succeed in giving the legions a slim chance of breaking out?”

“That sums it up quite nicely, I think,” Dieter agreed.

“Figure it out yourself, Arturus,” Gnaeus Milus said bitterly, speaking for the first time since giving his own report. “Given upwards of eighty thousand warriors over there, and surrounding our legions. The legions have enough supplies for two weeks, three if they ration wisely. Over here, with but a river between us, are twelve cohorts in single-cohort castella. You have three choices. You sit pretty and do nothing. What happens?”

The Remi thought it out. It was a linear equation, needing little thought. “They would come and destroy us.”

“Think further,” Rutilius commanded. “Then what?”

“They would overrun the province, inciting more tribes to join them, and start a flood that would probably end only once an army was assembled to deal with them.”

“There is one legion in Gaul, four in Britannia involved in suppressing a rebellion, another in Hispana, and four more in Germania Superior,” Marcus informed him. “The rest are in the East- weeks if not months away, the closest being in Moesia and Pannonia.”

“Shit,” Arturus muttered. “Second choice?”

“Choice number two,” Milus continued. “You mass your forces and defend this castrum with it until help arrives. What happens next?”

“This place has bad memories for besieged Romans,” the Remi admitted. “They besiege us with a large band while the others do as I said earlier- overrun the province and most of Gaul as well- isolating the four in Britannia to boot.”

“He’s learning,” Marcus admitted.

Milus nodded in agreement. “Now, choice three- we gather the cohorts and attack the buggers besieging our boys.”

This one was more difficult, but it finally dawned on him. “By attacking over there, we keep them occupied over there, giving the distant legions more time to come. And by attacking, we give the trapped legions a chance to escape- thereby giving the opportunity to have those legions return and seal the border. It is a small chance, lord, but you are right- it is the best option.”

Marcus nodded. “Sometimes it sucks to be a soldier.” He pressed his ring into the wax of the tablets he had written then handed one to Arturus and the other to one of the two silent Remi auxiliaries. “You two,” he commanded. “You ride west to Matilo, and you, Arturus, go south to Bonna. Stop at every auxilia post along the way and inform the commander of the situation and show him these orders. Arturus, you continue on to Mogontiacum to inform the governor of Germania Superior of our predicament and actions.” Then he turned to the remaining Remi and handed him a third tablet. “You, Lucky, get to ride all the way to Britannia. Give this to Quintus Petillius Cerealis. Between him and Clemens in Mo-Go town, they have eight legions- enough to do something to help.”

He handed a fourth tablet to Arturus. This one was sealed on the outside as well, with both his personal signet and the governor’s official signet. “This goes in the post to Rome, marked urgent. It contains the same as the dispatch to Mo-Go, but with more detail and formal requests for aid.”

“We shall ride like the wind,” the three Remi promised solemnly.

Dieter laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Better to ride like Batavians,” he said. “We do not ride like the wind- we ride the very wind itself.”

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Very good installment.

We shall see if the Germans are able to besiege Vetera!

I sense the climax of the series approaching...

Don't tell me if I'm wrong, I need to reinflate my ego a bit right now.

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Titus Piscius was in a pickle. He had thirty ships on the River Lupia in five squadrons patrolling to keep the Marsi on their side and the Bructeri on theirs, and not letting anybody cross in either direction. The Lupia was pretty straightforward as rivers go- up to a point. Upstream beyond the Witch’s Tower was off-limits. His river ships drew too much water to pass beyond the shallower shoals there, which effectively limited his ships to the lower half of the river. To complicate matters, the river was narrower than the Rhenus to which he was accustomed- making maneuvering an exercise in not getting stuck on the nearby banks.

Word had come through the supply boats that the army mule trains had turned back. Piscius was a veteran of sixteen years. He knew what that meant. Either the Germani had blocked the supply route, or the legions had run into their own Teutoburger Forest. Either way, his ships were now patrolling uselessly, yet he had no orders to cease, nor any valid reason to do so.

He glanced up the river again, looking beyond the Witch’s Tower. Forbidden territory, he mused. What is happening up there?

It took a moment to realize that the movement which had drawn his attention to that point was not a whimsy, but a flicker in the corner of his eye. There was movement- now a lot of it. He saw dozens and dozens of small craft descending on his fleet. He stopped counting at sixty- and there were many more coming.

A veteran of sixteen years knew well what could happen to a warship swarmed by smaller boats. He did not hesitate.

“Turn about!” he commanded. “All ships! Turn about and best speed for the Rhenus! Signal the others.”

His ships saw the movement and reacted to the order instantly. His flagship turned nicely about, apparently spinning in place, while the other ships attempted to do the same. He rowed past two of his ships that were halfway through their turns before catching up to one that had yet begun to turn.

“Horatius, you old goat!” Piscius roared from the bow. “Get that bucket of yours turned about, NOW!”

“They’re just fishing boats,” Horatius shouted back. “Smash them and be done with them.”

“That is several hundred, if not thousands of boarders coming at us, dumb ass,” Piscius shouted as he passed the stationary ship. He ran toward the stern as his ship passed the other, still shouting, “I don’t have any marines. Do you?”

Horatius paled. A relatively new man to the River Navy, he had twelve summers in the Regular Blue-Sea Navy, where size meant everything. No warship would ever flee from a pack of fishing boats- it was an embarrassment on par with legionaries running from a pack of peasants. One simply used the ram to smash them apart.

Now he learned from the fleet captain something he had not considered- the gunwales of his ship was not so much higher than those of the fishers, and those small boats were packed with warriors. Those warriors could easily clamber aboard his vessel and swamp it. He began his turn, backing water with one bank of oars while driving the other side forward, all the while holding his rudder locked as far as it would go. It would be a tight race.

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“The fleet!” roared Horsa, one of Calor’s lieutenants, when he saw Roman ships around the bend of the river come into view. “The Roman fleet blocks the river.”

The Marsic king, travelling three boats further down, saw the ships his lieutenant was screaming about. Most were running away, with one commencing a tight turn in a narrow spot. That one was as good as dead- a worthy prize. He hollered back, “Then we take the fleet. Horsa! Take four boats and come along the Marsic side. I’ll take four more and come along its Bructeri side. The rest of you- pursue the fleet! Try to take as many ships as possible!”

Horsa acknowledged. Roman warships were prizes- and more. If one could eliminate the river fleet, the trapped Romans would have no means at all of escaping, nor ever invading again. The thrill of victory came quickly upon him, though yet earned. He ordered the steersman to follow the king’s order.

The German boats leapt forward. They came upon the Roman ship just as it had completed its turn, but before it could begin to make any headway. A volley of thrown axes made a mess of the oarsmen, fouling their oars and making headway now impossible. Then the boats swept in, the Germans using their shields to protect against flailing oars while others drew upon dead men’s oars to bring their boats closer. An a few enterprising young men climbed up the oars to board the vessel proper.

It was all over within minutes. Horatius knew his ship was lost, as did his officers. A few of the brighter oarsmen did as well, while the rest clung stubbornly to the doctrine ingrained in them that ships beat boats. These fought like madmen, but with no marines or armor or edged weapons, they were quickly overwhelmed by the warriors.

“I will not die a slave,” Horatius said stiffly with willpower of iron. He hefted the shield he habitually kept near his steerboard and drew the gladius his father had given him when he was commissioned. “I shall die a free man. Who is with me?”

The other officers and men hefted the weapons they had already drawn. It was unanimous. Horatius led the charge down the central deck, to either certain death or unexpected glory.

The Germans met them in a rough spearwall, which the Romans easily hacked their way into. Horatius dropped two Germans and pushed others back, beginning to feel invincible. He might just make it! He might free his ship. Then an axe crashed into his shield and another into his neck. He fell to the deck dying, but dying a free man. Around him his men put up a worthy fight, but crashed one by one to the deck until the final few were simply overwhelmed in a rain of sword and axe blows.

Piscius watched the Germans overtake then take over his friend’s ship. He watched helplessly as the Germans swarmed aboard, butchered the oarsmen, and cornered his friend and the surviving crew on the stern. Then Horatius made his charge, and Piscius’s heart leapt with pride. His friend died well; one cannot ask for better. A single tear fell down his cheek, then abruptly ceased as he saw the rest of the German fleet sail past the stricken vessel to approach his fleeing flotilla.

“By Neptune those buggers are fast!” he yelped, then ordered the hortator to double the speed of the oars. Further, he saw the ship of Bassus having difficulty- her steerboard had been fouled by river muck and weeds from one too many collisions with the shallow riverbed by the Tower. He saw no way for the ship to outrun those coming, but he did see a way to save the rest of his fleet.

”Bassus!” he yelled, running to the front of the ship bringing his cornicen with him. “Play the signal for Bassus, lad, then follow it with prepare to abandon ship.”

The notes flew out, grabbing the captain’s attention. The notes that followed destroyed his calm, until he saw the masses of German boats descending on his own. He nodded, then gave the orders to his men. “Ship portside oars.”

The oars on the port side rose sharply at the command. A similar command from Piscius caused the steerboard side oars to rise. The two ships glided together and ropes drew them tight.

“Move quickly, lads!” exhorted the navarchos. “Get aboard!”

The sailors hurried as the Germans closed. Piscius judged the distance- it would be close. The last sailor climbed aboard.

“Cut the ropes,” he ordered, “except for that one!”

Axes chopped, and the two ships parted, but for a single strand. That rope was pulled hard to one side, its other end bound fast to the rudder’s heavy handle and looped through a capstan. The towed ship slewed sideways under the pull of fifty oars, until Piscius cut the remaining rope.

“Double speed, you apes,” he ordered, “if you want to live. Anyone tiring sing out, and one of the passengers will jump in. The bastards have the wind, but we have a living engine. Get it moving, ladies, if you want to keep it living.”

The sailors pulled, and pulled. The flagship leapt away from the abandoned vessel- which now blocked a good portion of the river. A few Germans sailed around it, but the majority were moving too fast. There were multiple collisions on the far side of the ship. Though many maneuvered around, enough crashed to slow the German flood to a manageable trickle.

“Shall I order the flotilla to turn and engage, fleet captain?” the cornicen asked hopefully.

Piscius shook his head. “We slowed them, not stopped them. This battle is over, and they have won it. Though we could manage a draw if we reach the Rhenus first.”

The cornicen nodded. A draw would be acceptable, given the odds. More than acceptable.

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There should be a regulation restricting Terikel's writing speed.

Action-packed, well-researched, gripping, and superbly delivered. Good to see you taking it to another level, Grand Master. /suckup

On a side note, I was tuning in to a few Gladiator tracks on YouTube as I read this, and the effect was just pure awesomeness.

Good chapter. Never seen a river battle from you so its a new yet welcome addition.

I see you have been taking tips from my war story! :P

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The attack came with little warning.

The sun rose as it always did, a fiery red meatball hovering low in the eastern skies, barely visible through the trees lining the eastern edge of the large meadow. Like the last few days, it revealed only mist, until such a time as the heat of the summer sun burned away that mist. Out of the mist came a horrendous thumping, the clatter of swords and axes upon shields. It began as a rhythmic rumble and rose to a crescendo. There was no veteran of the border legions who did not know what was coming.

The shouts of the sentries alerted the legions to the impending attack. Those legionaries not on guard reacted as if set alight- men hustled out of their tents slinging on their armor, or lifting shields if they were on the walls. Helmets were grabbed from where they hung useless and tossed onto their heads, the cheekplates fastened as they moved. Within minutes the centuries were forming outside their tents, with centurions and optios marching down the ranks inspecting their men and counting heads. Five minutes later, the cohorts were formed and marching to reinforce the cohorts already on the walls, while the legates and tribunes took up their stations to best evaluate the threat against them.

The same scene was repeated across all four Roman camps.

In the camp of the VI Victrix, Messala was watching the Cherusci form up. They were not easy to see- the sun was still low and right in the eyes of his legionaries. He wished he had his artillery with him, but that was left in the camp his men had built by Vetera. Still, he could have used their range to weaken the force about to charge him. All he had now were some archers, and not very good ones at that.

To his left rear, he saw the X Gemina through the edges of the forest between them. Arrayed before Cadorus were a host of Germans dressed in patterned cloaks and shirts of a sort he had only seen once to the south. He assumed they were Usipi tribesmen, but he could not be sure. To his right, facing the Raptors, were the Bructeri- what was left of them- with a strong Chauci contingent. In all, at least thirty thousand warriors.

What he could not see, Decius Paullus saw well. His camp was directly across the forest from the VI Legion, with its Sacred Grove and tight trees blocking Messala’s sight of him as it did his sight to Messala. But he did not need to see elsewhere to know he was facing the main effort. The Chatti were arrayed before him, their disciplined ranks in easy-to-count formations of five hundred. Older men stood in the front, with the younger men deployed beyond. Paullus felt that strange, as the younger men would last longer in a fight, then realized the cunning shown in the Chatti array. The older men, having lived long and hard, would die tiring his men out, so the younger men could kill his easier. The young veterans would then be able to go home and marry well, thus mate well to make more warriors. The old were making way for the young- against the natural order as he knew it but very effective for a warrior tribe.

He counted over twenty thousand men arrayed- forty wedges of five hundred. It was definite- he was the main effort of the Germans, or at least faced the tribe with the largest warhost. He smiled cruelly. The gods were not kind, but they had a sense of humor. The Germanic main effort would come from the west against his XXII Primigenia, to them a legion unseen before and thus easy meat, but to him a veteran legion who fought for a year straight in the last great tussle between German and Roman. Further, he had almost a cohort extra, if he counted the Samnite bodyguards of the general. He laughed cruelly. If we do go down, it will be my pleasure to see the cause of this mess go down with me.

The Chatti closed in, their pulsing beat still playing. They walked slowly, carefully, across the wide muddy field separating them from the Romans. The other tribes, seeing the Chatti beginning, also moved forward.

In the Roman camps, the legionaries readied themselves for the coming assault by checking their weapons and putting their pila easy to reach. The centurions were mostly confident- despite the number of Germans out there, the defenses were solid, the stakes sharpened, the tribuli strewn, and the men ready. Any German reaching the inside of the camps will do so over a pile of their own dead large enough to fill a longhouse top to bottom.

The rhythmic pounding grew louder as the men in the fields sensed the coming struggle drawing closer. They were calling in the Valkyries, the handmaidens of Wotan who chose only the bravest and best from among the slain to feast and frolic forever in the Halls of Valhalla. Then, with a sudden rush, the pounding became unbearable and the warriors hurled themselves across the remaining distance.

“Ready!” called countless centurions on the walls. Rank upon rank of soldier hefted their pila. “Wait for it... Throw! Rearm! Throw!”

The double volleys tore huge holes into the front rank. Men toppled, or caught the missiles on their shields, which then became useless. The second volley of pila caught more flesh than shield, and the tumbling men sinking to the ground tripped up those in the pack pressing forward. The entire formation was disrupted, and the Romans took full advantage of it.

In the camp of the X Gemina, Cadorus had the Arvernii come forward. At this range, the archers could not miss. They sent volley after murderous volley into the tight-packed ranks of tangled Germans, cutting down many. They withdrew only when the some dozen Germans came within throwing range with axes in their hands.

Paullus also had some archers. These, as the Arvernii, cut down dozens in each release of the drawstrings before withdrawing to avoid the melee. The legionaries had time to resume their positions when the first wave of axes came.

The Germans were seeking payback. Their axes were thrown hard, but the press of men from behind put the front rank of hurlers in difficulty. The barrage was ragged, and ineffective. What axes did manage to avoid thudding harmlessly into the earthworks simply landed on the tight wall of shields above it. The second wave fared little better, then the Germans started their assault rush.

They met a wall of shields armed with large thorns that sought exposed stomachs or flicked into unarmored chests. The impact and momentum of the mass of men broke upon the earthworks. Those few who leapt high onto the barrier ended up falling back into the press dead or dying, their life pouring out through wounds dealt from the second rank. Others tried to grab shields and pull legionaries out of position- these too died quickly. Anywhere a lucky blade brought a Roman down, the killer was quickly slain and a man from the second rank would move forward.

Messala watched the attack impassively. He was facing the Cherusci, who had already lost one king this week and were making a poor showing under their new one. The Cherusci had usually caused Romans to quail at their mention- vestiges of Varus. Messala snorted as he watched the brave but pitiful attack. The Cherusci had indeed fallen on hard times since Arminius.

“Tribune!” he called, signaling forward an officer. “Take two cohorts from the reserve and our Dalmatians and go out of the back gate. Come around and hit those bastards assaulting our front from their flank. Be careful not to kill their king- they won’t stop, then.”

The tribune saluted and ran to where four cohorts stood about behind the walls. These were the VI’s reserve- in case the Germans broke through. If the legate was releasing half to his command, it must mean the Germani are close to breaking.

Lucius Amensius, observing the Chauci attack on his own legion, came rapidly to the same conclusion. The Germans were flagging, not making any progress. A quick hit from an unexpected direction, and they would break. He ordered two cohorts of legionaries, two of auxilia, and whatever cavalry he had left to hit the Germans and hit them hard.

Cadorus was facing Suevii and Usipi. They fought hard, but it was obvious the Usipi had not faced Romans in over a generation, while the Suevi were less than enthusiastic in this attack. They were close to breaking, and even before his four reserve cohorts could even get into the battle. A quick glance about found a good use for them.

“Minucius!” he called. “The XXIId is going to be overrun! Take the III, VI, VIII, and IX and hit those bastards flanking them in the ass.”

Minucius saluted, then turned to the legion reserve. A quick orders brief with the cohort commanders and the four cohorts began moving. And not a moment too soon.

Paullus was getting desperate. The Chatti storm washed against his breastworks for a while, but now the disciplined German warriors were making headway. Already they had pushed his defenders from the walls, forming a German pocket that was struggling to break the ring of shields penning it in. Once the wall was weakened and then broken, the freed Chatti would swarm over the rest of the legion like wolves. And he had no reserves left- having already thrown them into the weakening wall.

“Runner!” he shouted. A legionary from his guard stepped forward. “Go to tribunus Herulius on the south wall. Tell him to send anything he can spare!”

“Second runner! Go to the east wall- tell Caesius to send half his force here. And that if he does not, we are all doomed!”

The two runners sped away. Paullus hoped they would bring help on time. It did not look like it would help much- he could see both Herulius and Caesius embroiled in bitter battles of their own.

The dam began to break. The right flank saw a sudden surge when six warriors wielding axes knocked over eight legionaries. The wall was thin there- a single line- and though the six were soon felled, it was not quick enough. They had fallen forward, and sixteen took their place. The wall parted, and the Chatti flooded through.

“Vibulus!” Cordinus shouted. He pointed with his sword to the gap. “Follow me! We shall seal that gap ourselves! And no backtalk! We will all be dead- including me- if we do not move at once!”

Vibulus looked to the breaking Roman wall. Shit, the governor is right! He shouted to his Samnites and lifted his swords. The General’s Guard knew that signal. As a wall of shimmering steel they moved toward the growing gap, following and then overtaking the man they swore to protect against all enemies. The Chatti, crumbling the shoulders of the wall facing them, poured through the expanding zone into what they thought was the soft innards of the Roman fort.

They ran into the charging Samnite wall instead. The ex-gladiators did not fight as did the legionaries- side by side and with sword and shield as a team. These were fighting angels, each with sword and shield and out to prove themselves the better than their peers, not their foes. In that respect, they fought very similar to the men they faced. They fought individually, tearing into the Chatti warriors as they drove deep into the diffusing Chatti ranks, hacking men down as they whirled and danced with flashing swords in their hands. Many Chatti were slain trying to stop them, but the gladiators suffered too- and far more losses than the legionaries had in battling the same foes. They fought well, though, and earned Chatti respect the hard way for every wound and death they suffered. The Chatti breakthrough was blunted in blood.

The Chatti outside the fort of the XXIId had eyes only for the diminishing Samnites, the broken legion wall they were currently plugging, and the man in the general’s cape leading them. The ex-gladiators fought well for sell-swords, but they were still showcase warriors and not veterans. They were also fighting individually, and though better than any single Chatti warrior with a sword, they were far outnumbered and numbers began telling. Engrossed as they were with the breaking wall of warriors before them, they never saw the four cohorts of the X Gemina closing in behind them until Minucius ordered the pila to be thrown. With no shields facing them, the javelins bit flesh and much of it. Then it was swords and shields into men who barely had time to register the attack.

Paullus rallied his flagging cohorts, and used the Samnites as an example. The Roman reinforcements from the other walls arrived, were formed, and thrown into battle in support of the general. The disciplined, veteran legionaries stopped the Chatti cold. The flood ceased pressing forward, and at the sound of a ram’s horn in the distance, ebbed. Chatti warriors streamed from the fort, and across the field as four cohorts of the XGemina came over the north wall.

“Compliments of Quintus Cadorus,” Minucius said as he reported to Decius Paullus. “We beat off the attack in our sector, but he thought you might need some help over here.”

“My thanks,” Decius Paullus replied. The Chatti were retreating in earnest now, with the Galatian cavalry hurrying them along. “Can you stay until my centurions get reorganized?”

Minucius looked about. A good bit of the legion was still standing. This should not take too long. “As you wish.”

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“That was not pleasant,” Ricgard said, addressing the council of kings that evening. “I lost two thousand good men, and never even made it into the fort.”

“Likewise,” agreed Boirix of the Usipi.

“We did not lose so many, maybe a thousand,” Othgar of the Cherusci said proudly. “Then again, the ones we faced had no bowmen.” He cast a wicked glance toward Horobard of the Chatti. “Your men made it over the walls and into the fort, Horobard. Then you ordered the retreat. I had thought you wished to kill the Romans.”

“I retreated when you did,” said Ulfrich to Horobard. “I am puzzled, though. Your men made it into the fort, as Othgar saw, yet you retreated while Romans there still lived. Why?”

“You all lost a thousand or two thousand each,” Horobard replied. “We lost far more. The bodies were piled so high before our Romans that the surge which broke through did so by marching over a bridge of our own slain. True, our men made it inside and pushed the Romans from their wall. We were enjoying success. Then my son was slain by Romans from your fort, Boirix, which came to help those I was fighting. Our men were in danger of being pressed into a cauldron from which few would return. We had lost. There was still a chance of victory then, but I judged the price too high. So I ordered the retreat while I still had a warhost that could obey.”

“You threw half of your warhost against the Romans,” Udo pointed out. “You could have thrown in the other half and slaughtered a legion, breaking their defenses, and giving Germania its greatest victory ever!”

“At what price? You were not there, Udo Scar-throat,” Horobard replied evenly. “There were more men there, but they were either too far away, or on the wrong side of the little fort. I had thought throwing four times the amount of Romans against them would be sufficient to overwhelm them, as it had in the past. In this I was wrong. These Romans are fighting for their lives- they would not break. I put the weight of my men on Roman right, to bring the Roman attention there- and allow the Tencteri cavalry to slam into the open Roman left. We got into their fort by sheer mass- but the Tencteri never showed. The arrival of four cohorts from the other fort turned our salient into a death-trap. As it was, my chieftains said we lost one in three. Had we not pulled back, we would have lost two in three, and maybe even then not have the victory.”

Udo wisely held his tongue. Horobard was right about one thing- Udo had not seen the Roman move. Everything else was conjecture- but it fit. Penned Romans fight like demons. He smiled inside. This was what he had said earlier.

“Our horsemen ran into stakes, which caused the horses to balk,” said the Tencteri king in his own defense. “The Romans covering the obstacle chose that moment to unleash a storm of arrows and javelins. Our formation- our strength- was shattered. I pulled back to regroup, but by then Horobard had given the order to retreat.”

“Have your foot-borne warriors clear away the obstacles next time,” said Othgar of the Cherusci. “Then your horses can charge and leap over the wall to shatter the Roman formation- their strength.”

“There will be no next time,” Horobard muttered.

“So what do we do now?” Udo asked slyly. He already knew the answer.

Horobard rose to the bait by throwing the bone upon which he had been gnawing into the fire. “We starve them out,” he said bitterly, glaring at the Bructeri king. “As you had originally advised.”

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Looks like the fierce Germanic attack was blunted by a fiercer Roman defense.

Another great installment, Terikel!

I agree. The last few updates have been very exciting.

And Samnite Gladiators for the win!

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The primus pilus of the X Gemina was directing his subordinate centurions in the after-action routines when Cadorus joined him. A screen of Remi were circling before the fort, providing cover for the cohort detailed for battlefield clean-up. Under Top’s watchful eye, the men of the III cohort had gone out and began working their way back to the fort- making sure the dead were indeed dead, stripping them of food and weapons, while others harvested arrows and other missiles for use the next time they come.

“Think they’ll find any food among them?” Cadorus asked the centurion.

The top centurion shook his head. “Most likely not, but you never know. Some might be carrying a pouch of dried meat, in case they get hungry during the battle.” He turned to face the legate directly. “I don’t know what Tribunus Minucius lost, but the rest of us have two hundred twenty dead- mostly guys caught holding their shield too low and having their throats cut, or getting clobbered over the head by cudgel or axe. Another hundred or so wounded- mostly arms. We did good, legate.”

Cadorus nodded. He saw at least a thousand bodies sprawled before his fort, most likely more. “As soon as the clean-up crew is finished, have a second cohort reset our obstacles and drag those bodies away from our ditches. No sense in making the next time easier for them.”

“Aye, legate,” the centurion replied. “Will you be picking up Minucius and our four cohorts soon? We may need them. I’ll have six turmae of the Remi escort you- in case any bloody monkeys are hiding in the woods.”

“That will do,” Cadorus replied with a nod. “Tell Severus he is in command until I get back.”



There were no Germans in the woods, making the four hundred pace trip tense but uneventful. What few Germans were about were eight hundred paces away- across the clearing, staring sullenly at the earthwork forts so many had died trying to take. The sentries of the XXIId opened what passed for their gate to let the legate in. Had they not, he would have simply gone over the walls as his four cohorts had done earlier.

“You need to fix that ditch,” he pointed out to the tesserarius at the gate. “It’s not deep enough by far, and no stakes remain.”

The tesserarius wanted to grumble a low curse toward the legate who had had it easy all day while the XXIId was fighting for its life, but one look into the ditch changed his mind. The ditch was indeed too shallow, and the bloody Germans- or the four cohorts of the Xth that had saved the XXII’s collective ass- had pulled what few stakes there were out of position. So instead of grumbling, he promised to correct the deficiency.

Cadorus left the Remi to find Minucius while he went to report to the generalis. As he suspected, the other legates had likewise gathered in the coming darkness to give their reports as well.

“You first, Gnaeus,” the generalis said, nodding to the VI Victrix legatus. The generalis was lounging on his couch, but favoring his left side. The dark stains in the dark fabric he wore spoke of wounds. He acknowledged the arrival of the Gemina commander with a small nod, then gestured for the Victrix legate to begin.

“The Cherusci came at us in strength, but their king did not press his attack as hard as he could,” Messala reported flatly. He tried not to let the leaking blood of the general distract him, but it was hard. The general had fought! Maybe he wasn’t the pansy we took him for, or maybe he learned something else here in the pit of Hell. “Either that, or the lads did extremely well fending them off. We had three hundred killed, and counted at least two thousand bodies.”

“I believe they did not press,” Lucius Amensius concluded. “We too faced stiff resistance, but not a thorough press. We drove them back rather quickly, and even had men to spare for a flanking attack. The flankers ran into some enemy horse, but took care of them rather handily. Two hundred dead, half that wounded. That’s across the entire legion.”

“We faced Usipi, in the least, maybe others mixed in,” Cadorus added. “They seemed pumped for action, but winded rather quickly. I drove them off, then saw the XXIId about to be overrun, so I send Minucius and the reserve I no longer needed to relieve Paullus. We lost about two hundred twenty dead, not counting Minucius’s losses.”

“His pilus prior reported less than ten men killed,” Paullus chimed in. “The Chatti never saw him until it was too late. He had it the easiest of us all.” The legate turned to the general. “As you know, sir, we were hit the hardest. It was obvious that we were the main target based on the amount of Germanic warriors deployed against us. The others faced holding attacks to prevent reinforcing us. In the case of the Usipi attack on the X Gemina, it was too weak and thus easily driven off. Tribune Herulius on the South wall managed to throw the coming cavalry charge into disarray, but we were pushed off the west wall and our north wall defenses were overrun. You led your praetorian guard into the battle on that flank and stabilized it for a while, but we still would have been dead meat had not Tribunus Minucius and four cohorts of the Xth come.”

“Vibulus and his men died well,” Cordinus agreed. He sighed, then looked up in remembrance of the fallen. He fixed his gaze upon Cadorus. “We lost fifteen hundred men. Had your cohorts not arrived when they had, we would have lost another six thousand. It seems I and this army owe you a debt.”

“The Germani will not come again soon,” Decius Paullus interrupted, trying to bring the governor away from the loss of most of his guards- many of whom had served him long and well- as well as his own wounds. “Not after that thrashing. I figure maybe a week before they try again.”

“You said it would be a week before they even try an assault,” Messala reminded him. “You said that yesterday.”

“That Chatti king must have pushed for it,” Paullus replied easily. “The others supported him to keep us occupied, but their hearts were not in it. The Chatti came in force- and were definitely intent on killing us. They were also the largest warhost- and one which had not faced us in many years. They had lost the respect our ancestors drilled into them. So the Chatti Bull pushed for the assault, thinking us weak, and now that he got his ass kicked and branded, he will simmer with the others.”

Cordinus snorted, and was about to make some asinine comment when Amensius coughed and said quickly, “I agree, Decius. He thought he could beat us in a fortified camp, but got taught a lesson. He will chew on that for a while before coming again.”

Messala was looking out into the darkening sky to the west. The bodies were still piled high where they died- at least those outside the fort. “You might want to let the Germans take care of their dead, Decius,” he said suddenly. “You don’t want putrifying bodies on your doorstep, leaking crap into your water supply.” Water triggered the thought of food, and the bodies added a new component to his mental soup. "Did your men scavenge any food from the buggers when you searched them?“

“Hardly a loaf of bread,” Paullus replied.

Messala nodded, as did Cadorus.

“They had too many mouths to feed,” Cadorus said, picking the thought from the head of Messala. "We have food; they do not. So they attack while they are strong. If they win, we die and they can go home to dinner. If they lose, then there are fewer mouths to feed during the coming siege- and the Chatti did not throw their entire host against you.“

“So,” said Cordinus, thinking aloud as he pondered this information upon which his legates seemed to agree. “We wait a week, heal our wounded, then attempt a breakout when they are weakened. I like it. Yes, that is what we shall do. We will beat back their next attack, then follow them and destroy them once and for all.”

“That will get us all killed,” said the legates in unison. The general sat back, stunned at the unanimous reply.

“How so?”

Messala pointed to the German camps. “There are still sixty thousand out there. If we win, we kill maybe ten thousand and drive the rest off, right? Driving off is not the same as driving away.”

“Semantics,” Cordinus snorted.

“Not semantics. Two very different things, generalis,” Messala corrected. “Today we drove them off. Look outside. See the campfires? We did not drive them away- they are still there. The fact that they are not here inside with us is because we drove them off.”

He paused to let the difference sink in. Then he began anew. “So we follow your plan, yes? They attack, we drive them off again, and follow it up with a rousing victory. Then we move. These Germans, Cordinus Gallicus, are not like the Armenians who flee to their high mountain homes when whipped. No, these men might flee, but they will regroup and come back to redeem their lost honor. Fifty thousand against us on the march, and us with no camp into which to duck? I do not like that at all.”

“Shades of Varus,” Amensius added. “In these very woods, too.”

The generalis nodded as the lesson sank in. These men knew the Germans well- he did not. His poor knowledge of them led him to lead them here- in the middle of a Germanic cauldron. Better here then out there in the fire, he thought. “Then we stay put until they go home. Or until our supplies run out.”

“Marcus will rescue us,” Messala said cheerfully. “He has a dozen auxilia, and legions on the way. Plus he is Marcus Rutilius. His best friend is a centurion in this camp, and Cadorus is his protege. We and he are Roman soldiers, and Roman soldiers never let other Roman soldiers remain trapped.”

Cordinus thought back to the unsent scrolls he found in his baggage. There are no legions coming. If they knew that, they would be far from confident. I need them confident to survive, so I must keep that secret to myself.

“I will consider it,” the generalis decided. “So how do we keep the men occupied and disciplined now? Doing maneuver drills outside the camp I would assume would be foolish.”

“Suicidal,” Messala agreed.

“We fortify,” Cadorus said. “When in doubt, fortify. That was one of the first things Marcus ever taught me.”

“That will indeed keep the men too busy to worry,” Lucius agreed. “I’ll have my boys start cutting down trees.”

“I’d rather my boys cut down the trees,” Cadorus interjected. “Yours and those of Gnaeus have spent the last two winters planing and shaping, mine chopping firewood. We cut them down, your men lop off the branches and shape them.”

Messala nodded. His legion had become wizards with woods, building boats and barges and bridges for the assault crossings. Amensius nodded as well- his Raptors were woodworking gods. Chopping was the easy part- the X Gemina could handle that easily enough.

“I’ll have my boys help too,” Decius Paullus added. “As soon as we are done rebuilding the ramparts and fixing our ditches.”

“You concentrate on your earthworks,” Cadorus said with a pushing wave of his hand. “I’ll chop the trees.”

Paullus shrugged with an unspoken ‘as you wish’, but Cordinus was more interested in the reason the Gemina legate wanted to handle the axes himself.

“You seem rather eager to have your men do menial labor,” he said in an amused tone, “especially for a man whose actions have made himself and his men the heroes of the hour. Tell me, Quintus Petillius, why this is.”

“A promise I made, lord,” Cadorus explained. He left it at that.

But Cordinus did not. “Elaborate,” he commanded.

Cadorus sighed. There was no escaping it now. He was about to mention Astrid and her father, but realized the futility of that. He decided to keep it simple. “The map is incorrect, lord. The Sacred Grove of Wotan that the VI Victrix was to assault is not over there beyond the Usipi campsite. It is right here. We built our camps around it.”

“Is that so?” Cordinus asked with much more amusement.

“Aye, lord,” Cadorus admitted. “I encountered its High Priest outside our encampment and escorted him outside our lines. He bade me promise to guard the grove. I made that promise freely, and he allowed all other trees to be felled.”

“You fool,” Cordinus shouted. He lunged up, only to fall back from the pain in his wound. When he spoke again, it was with the same level of anger, though the volume and intensity was seeping out through his bandage. “You captured their High Priest, and let him go free?!? What were you thinking? I should have you cashiered and thrown in chains for such blatant stupidity! We could have used him to bargain our way out of this!”

“No priest or king would ever bargain us away,” Messala scoffed. What an ass this generalis was! “Cadorus bought us some good will- the best he could get.”

“Better,” Cadorus said with a nod. “He promised none of us would be sacrificed to Wotan should the Germani be victorious. A clean death- no torture for the officers, no roasting in wicker cages. Wotan’s thanks for sparing his High Priest. Enslavement for the men, of course.”

“You bargained well,” Amensius noted. “Roasting officers is one of their favorite pastimes.”

“I am surprised he agreed to it,” Paullus added. “Most want to roast as many as they can to appease their awful gods.”

The ambience of positive reactions made an impression on the man who led them into this mess. He was not stupid, though some lessons took a lot longer to sink in than others, but was rather ignorant of the local customs. Roasting in a wicker cage was not his idea of a worthy end to a Roman senator- and it seems that was exactly what was in store for a man who could not even fall on his sword properly. Cadorus had changed that fate to a clean death- something admirable and worthy.

“I apologize, Quintus Petillius” Cordinus said after a moment’s reflection. “You acted well in accordance with piety and dignity in releasing their High Priest.”

Cadorus nodded silently.

“But now that we have their Sacred Grove, maybe we can use that to our advantage,” Cordinus continued.

“No,” Cadorus reminded him. “I shall do all I can to preserve the Grove itself. I gave my word freely, which was why we were offered clean deaths. Destroying the Grove would erase that. Plus erase my honor.”

Cordinus knew well how barbarians felt about honor, even ones with a Roman veneer. He was about to speak when Cadorus brought forth a large, heavy packet.

“The priest gave me this,” he said as he unwrapped it. “It was taken by treachery, a blight upon his honor and that of his god. When he heard how, he gave it to me to purify his Grove of the taint it carried. The Germans will want this back, and ours as well, of course, but honorably. I made a promise to a priest that I would watch over his trees as if they were my own, in exchange for clean deaths and the possibility of felling other trees. My honor is as strong as any German’s. He kept his word; I would keep mine. Your mission is now a success, as soon as we leave, which should be in a week or two.”

Cordinus stared at the silver Eagle unveiled. It was the Eagle of the Alaudae, the second of two lost in the Batavian Revolt. His objective, handed carelessly to a legate by a priest who no longer wanted it. He’ll probably take it back honorably shortly anyway, he thought callously. Still, he would die with his task accomplished. Both Eagles recovered.

“The Grove is sacrosanct,” he promised at last. Silver icons given freely tend to make a man think of honor. “Quintus Petillius, you are in charge of the felling of trees. Gnaeus, Lucius, your men plane and shape. Decius, yours dig. I want our forts linked into a gigantic castrum by the end of the week.”

Cadorus nodded solemnly. He had given Cordinus success. The scroll in his belt, also a gift of the priest, would remain where it is. It would be a fitting gift to Marcus when he relieves the army.

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And so the Romans plan to achieve victory.

Great installment. Although Cordinus eying up the Sacred Grove is worrying.....

Cordinus' presence does add a nice balance - on one hand you're worried for the legions' entrapment by the Germani, on the other you are fretting over when that great imbecile of a generalis will pop up with some fresh stupidity to further endanger his men's situation.

Thus I particularly enjoyed the part where he spoke up and was promptly slapped back down by his legates in unison.

“Roasting officers is one of their favorite pastimes.”

LOLed at that.

[This message has been edited by GeneralKickAss (edited 03-17-2011 @ 10:51 AM).]

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Aulus Caecina was receiving a visitor, which he usually did at the noon hour of a warm summer day, but this visitor was one he did not expect. The visitor was a nobleman but had come alone, which was unusual in a time where the definition of abject poverty was the inability to own at least one slave. And on a day like this every man owning at least two slaves would have one carry a shade and another fanning him to keep him cool. This man had neither. He was wrapped in a white shawl over his bleached toga- also unusual for a nobleman not performing official duties.

“Gaius Helvidius!” Caecina exclaimed upon recognizing the visitor. “I thought you to be in Armenia by now.”

“I was dawdling in Athens,” Helvidius replied coldly, “awaiting word of my household goods when I received a disturbing letter from Titus Burrius. Would you prefer to discuss it out here in your atrium, or inside your study?”

“By all means, Gaius Helvidius, the study of course,” Caecina said graciously. He had his attending slave fetch wine and water, then gestured for Helvidius to enter his study. “No slave? On a day like this?”

“I freed my slaves,” Helvidius answered, “upon going into exile. I do have a few freedmen with me, but I preferred they set up my house for residence than accompany me here.”

“How very Republican of you,” Caecina said, hiding his smirk. “Catonian. Now, my friend, welcome back to Rome.”

“I would rather not be here at all, Aulus,” Helvidius replied coldly, though his tone seethed with anger. “I would much prefer to be dawdling in Athens before moving east to Kotais. Yet this ado with Burrius- it calls me back.”

Caecina was the very epitome of innocence. “Which ado is that?”

“Do not toy with me, Aulus Caecina,” Helvidius replied stiffly. “He sent me a letter. He says you told him that both he and I were targets of an imperial investigation into something very treasonous, so treasonous that true evidence would not be required. He said nothing further, other than to flee. I would know what he was about, but he seems to have disappeared into the woodwork. As you told him, coming to your house was the next logical step.”

Caecina nodded. “Ah, now I remember.” He smiled broadly. “I had been so overjoyed at seeing my old friend so unexpectedly, the unpleasantness had slipped my mind.” He poured some wine, and left room for the Republican to add water, should he so desire. Of course, he did. “Dreadful business.”

“Enlighten me,” Helvidius said with a smile of his own. Unlike that of Caecina, his smile was more a baring of fangs than a grin of pleasure.

Caecina told him of the intercepted letters- how they were sent, and how they were sealed, and most of all, what they contained. Helvidius listened in growing horror as the espionage and treason was casually laid out- and especially that Burrius had thought him involved in such perfidy.

“I see,” said Helvidius. “And because this traitor’s signet bears such a remarkable resemblance to my own, you duly warn him out of friendship for me. He then flees, which you knew he would, and in fleeing making his patron- me- look even more guilty. Well played, Aulus. I assume you chose my signet to forge because you thought my departure for Armenia would provide a sufficient alibi for me if it was discovered?”

Aulus gasped in feigned indignity, then sputtered angrily, “I forged nothing, Gaius. Nor did I send those plans. Pluto’s Frozen Sac, Gaius, how would a political exile like myself have access to such secret documents?”

Helvidius snorted. “I have sat here in this very room and watched you pour wine for sotted son of Titus Flavius Vespasianus many times now, Aulus. You might be a political exile and outcast, but he is not. And he has access. It would be rather simple for him to steal the plans, or have them stolen, and for you to use my business to transport them.”

Caecina raised his right hand. “I swear before Jupiter Optimus Maximus and any god you prefer, Gaius. I did no such thing!”

Helvidius read the play of thought across his erstwhile friend’s face and merely said, “But you knew. And in knowing, you knew I would be implicated.”

“How?” Caecina wailed. “You were enroute to Armenia- safe from palace intrigue. You could not be implicated!”

“Then why warn Burrius?”

Caecina deflated. “Out of respect,” he admitted. “The Imperial Investigator came to my house, looking for help. I noticed the seal immediately, of course- it was indeed that of Burrius. The second seal- on the incriminating documents- was a ringer for yours, Gaius. I gave the investigator no cause for alarm, nor any help that was true. I did slip him a few false leads, which he wandered off tracking down and wasting precious time, which I in turn used to warn Burrius.”

“How very noble of you,” Helvidius said haughtily.

“The investigator was Titus Clodius Eprius Marcellus,” Aulus Caecina informed him. “One lies to that fat pig at one’s own peril. Yet I did it, Gaius, in order to give your man fair warning. Now, why would I do that- put my own neck at risk- if I had anything to do with the sending of those plans to Germans?”

Helvidius rummaged through his memories. Such discussions they had held here in this very room, many of which concerned ways to force Vespasianus to give Caecina a commission and an army, which he would then use to overthrow the Principate and restore his beloved Republic.

As if reading his visitor’s mind, Caecina continued. “I do have my own agenda, Gaius, as you well know. I want a political life again. I want to be a generalis again. I went along with you in restoring the Republic as I saw that goal as one that would further my own- Vespasianus killed my career through his personal hatred of me. The People may see my service and reward me. I stand to gain if we win. But Gaius- I gain nothing by destroying the army with which I would restore the Republic! Think about it. Handing military plans to the Germans? They would butcher the very tool I need!”

Helvidius relaxed a bit. “That is very true, Aulus.”

“I have absolutely nothing against sacrificing a pawn or two to achieve my goals,” Caecina continued. “Rutilius Gallicus can be discredited as a governor- fine, he will be replaced. Maybe by me. Rutilius the quaestor? Let him die- he stands in my way. But let the army upon which our plan depends get itself massacred? It serves no point, and is directly opposite of my goal.”

“Then we have a bigger problem than the musings and conniving of political exiles trying to regain stature,” Helvidius determined. “Someone used my man to pass treasonous materials under my name.”

“Which is exactly why I risked my life to give your man warning,” Caecina completed. “And he risked his to warn you, or you would not be here now.”

Helvidius thought this over. It made utter sense. Somebody was out to discredit him, and him alone. Caecina and Mallius were small fish with no voices in the halls of power- even if they tried, it served no purpose. It had been his long experience that men most willingly do those things that help them achieve their goals. Further, he did have one very large enemy- the man who had prosecuted his innocent father-in-law into suicide. Eprius.

“I think Eprius is behind this all,” Helvidius stated factually. “He has every reason to hate me- I have hounded him incessantly since the death of my wife’s father. I would not put it past him to forge those documents to have me slain as a traitor- it exonerates him totally of the charges against which Vespasian shielded him.”

“I saw the documents, and the signets,” Caecina admitted. “Eprius brought them to me. I recognized your seal at once, but sent him on a false trail chasing shady slavers anyway. I had thought the seal real, and the perpetrator you, to be honest.”

You do not know the meaning of the word honest, Helvidius thought viciously. Yet the words and attitude of the man spoke volumes. In this case, he did appear to be telling the truth. He had no motive, nor did he shy away from sending word of the coming persecution.

“Slavers?” he said at last. “I sell slaves, too. One of my side-businesses. And I have sold slaves to the Flavii as well- mine are highly-prized. But this seal... Are you sure the signet was mine? I have been on the road to or in Athens well before these ‘plans’ were sent. It could not be mine!”

“I know, which was why I warned your man. Somebody has a forgery of your signet- and access to military plans- or the Imperial Household- or both. And that someone wants the blame for this to fall upon you, if they get caught.”

Helvidius thought that over. It was just bad luck- and some very good spying- that had found the incriminating documents in the first place. They were not meant to be found. So, following that train of thought, someone wanted the Army of Germania Inferior to be destroyed or severely hurt in battle. That was totally against the aims of Caecina, who would arrange things so that the commander was deemed incompetent and thus relieved of command of his very capable and intact army. That fully exonerated Aulus Caecina from this mess.

“And Eprius did not recognize my signet? At all?”

“Have you ever written to the man?” Caecina replied.

Helvidius shook his head. Of course not.

“Then he has no way to know what your signet looks like,” Caecina reasoned. “His ignorance in the matter was complete.”

Nor could he forge that which he did not know, Helvidius realized. Eprius is not the culprit. That realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Boar was not his only enemy. There was another.

Caecina had come to the same conclusion.

“I see,” said Gaius Helvidius Priscus, who saw nothing at all. The entire affair was a mass of confusion. The only thing he did see was the only way out of this mess.

“It looks like I must pay a visit to Titus Flavius Vespasianus and discuss this with him personally,” Helvidius said lowly. “He is the only one in the government not tainted by spite or greed in this matter, besides being reigning consul.”

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Calor and his Marsi chased the Roman fleet out of the Lupia, maintaining the pressure on Piscius the entire length of the river. Piscus, seeing the Marsi still coming even after his ships cleared the mouth of the river, turned his fleet upriver.

“That’s against the wind, navarchos!” bellowed the steersman. “We’ll be slowed, and then taken like Horatius!”

Piscius threw his weight against the rudder, forcing the ship to head upstream, against the protests of his steersman who stood helplessly by.

“True, we will be slowed with the wind against us,” the grizzled fleet captain replied bitterly. “But those commandeered fisher boats are sailboats with few oars- we will be slowed, but they will be stopped.”

The steersman looked aft and saw the Germanic fleet turn to follow the Roman fleet- then stop cold in its wakes and be blown downstream by wind and the current. His panic receded, and he apologized.

“You will learn, kid,” the veteran replied easily. “We’ll get some distance between us and see what those monkeys are up to.”

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Calor watched the Romans retreat faster than he could chase.

“Let them go,” he ordered with a confident shout, then signaled the rest of the fisherman fleet to maintain station on Father Rhein. “They will not come back anytime soon. Has anyone seen the Suevi?”


Segestes and his men were marching hard. They reached Father Rhein a day later. He greeted the Marsic king on the bank, overlooking the Roman rockpile further downriver. He could not help noticing the Roman fleet sitting prettily on the West Bank far upstream.

“Will they give us any problems?” he asked of the Marsi.

Calor shook his head with a laugh. “We captured two of them on our river, and chased the rest upstream. They shall not interfere with what we do now, or risk losing the rest of their tiny fleet. Do you know they have no marines onboard?”

“No soldiers?” wondered Segestes. No wonder the Marsi had been able to capture two. But why not more- the boats were evidently faster than the lumbering ships? Then the impact of the first statement struck him. No marines meant a lack of manpower. “This might be easier than we thought.”

“Aye,” laughed Calor. “Let your men rest, Segestes. We shall occupy ourselves with drink and merriment tonight, then capture the food for our warhost in the morning. Shall it not be a grand sight, my friend, to have the Roman grain delivered to the Germanic warhost in Roman ships?”

Segestes laughed heartily. “Aye, Calor. A grand gesture, one worthy of our conquest.” He would rest easier, later that night, when one of his men reported the Roman fleet had moved further upriver and out of sight.

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Helvidius might rue the day his signet was forged.

I think Caecina is lying though.

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Across the river, Rutilius watched the forest with a sense of doom. So many campfires. There had to be at least ten thousand warriors- probably more. They would not stay there long- tomorrow at the latest. After that, more would come. He had exactly one night to come up with and execute a plan to defeat them.

He had four thousand five hundred auxilia in the fort, eleven of his twelve auxilia cohorts- but many were cavalry and quite useless on the walls. He also had the artillery of two legions. He had enough supplies to last a legion of six thousand eight months. With rationing and his lower numbers, he could withstand the siege for a year. On the surface, that sounded like a Roman victory, but he remembered well the winter and spring of five years ago. Two legions were trapped in the old castrum a few hundred paces from here. They held out for eight months before surrendering. By that time the closest Roman haven was in Massilia. If Cordinus was trapped and could not be rescued in a week or two, then this fortress would be the only thing between the Germani and the coast. Any legions coming would have to fight through hundreds of thousands of Germani to reach this post. In other words, a year might not be long enough. Then again, he could not abandon the fortress or its supplies to the enemy and maneuver on the battlefield- if there was even a wisp of a chance of the legions still existing, he had to defend this place. His decision was therefore already made.

“Centurion!” he called, summoning the commander of the artillery. “How far from here can your scorpions and catapults reach?”

The artilleryman judged the distances and wind. “Maybe half across the Rhenus for the closest, to that patch of scrub for the farthest-placed piece.”

“Emplace as many scorpions as you can on that wall,” Rutilius ordered, pointing not to the wall facing the river, but the one facing south. “Make sure there are plenty of projectiles ready, but also make sure there is enough room between the pieces for men to defend them.”

The centurion saw the Germans and their boats, then looked to the wall facing the river. “Not on that wall, lord? Where we could shoot them in the river before they ever get dry feet?”

Rutilius turned to the centurion and spoke plainly, as a tutor to a pupil. “There are two types of Germanic commanders I have encountered. One type, the most common, throws everything he has at you in one fell swoop, hoping to overpower you before his own men tire. The other kind relies more on craftiness and wile. A balls-to-the-wall commander would assault from the river, storm up the small slope, and hit our walls with everything he has. Your artillery, while good, will not even come close to depleting his forces, even if they could hit a boat on the move. The wily commander, though, will rest his men thoroughly before the attack, then cross over there,” he pointed to the south, where the embankment was not as steep, “and form up. Which kind of commander do you think we face?”

The centurion looked out at the Germanic encampment, with its fires roaring and its men settling in for the coming night.

“A wily one, lord,” he admitted. “But a wily one might think to land north of us, where the embankment is lower still and the land suitable for forming up for battle.”

“A wily commander would also know that scorpions can range much of the river, and our onagers can plaster the far side from here. It would also take those boats three or four lifts to get the army across. Now, if you were a wily commander, centurion, would you run an artillery gauntlet five to seven times for a better location, or stick with the landing zone you know is out of range?”

“I will emplace the scorpions on the south wall,” the artilleryman said, admitting defeat. “And have the onagers set their aiming stakes to cover the ground by that landing zone as well, with secondary fields of fire covering the river- just in case.”

“That is exactly what I thought, too,” Rutilius admitted.

Good plan. The centurion acknowledged the order.

Rutilius then summoned the prefects and tribunes of his auxilia and explained the situation and his orders. Each understood what was asked, though a few gave advice on the proper use of their own specialty troops. Much of that made sense, and was incorporated into the defense plan. And as a fail-safe, one contubernium of auxilia was to stand near the storehouses with lit torches and amphorae of oil- just in case the Germanic assault carried the walls anyway.

Decimus Nigidius was less pleased with the orders he received. His marines were looking forward to standing on the walls as equals of the infantry, or showering the enemy with naval arrows. Instead, he was given marching orders.

“This is a long march, and one which could turn the tide of the coming battle,” the quaestor had pointed out. “Few cohorts can do it, fewer still accomplish the mission at the end of it. But you can, Decimus. Your men can.”

Nigidius accepted the praise and his shoulders sank. He too knew the importance of his mission. Rutilius had been neither wrong nor prejudiced in issuing them to his cohort- his men were truly the only ones in the castrum capable of correctly executing them. So with a heavy heart he returned to his men.

Rutilius stood in the tower alone and watched. His plan was made, and explained. Sentries were set, the towers manned, and the orders given. There was nothing more to be done, so why did he feel so bloody useless?

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The morning saw the Germanic attack on Vetera.

At first the heavily laden boats appeared to seek the northern landing area, but a firm rain of rock dissuaded them from that idea. More likely the outlying boats had merely drifted towards the fortress in the current, or the Germani were testing to see at which range the Roman artillery would start its awful hurling. A wily commander would want to know these things, and Rutilius already knew he was facing such a man. He knew it since the Germans first appeared on the bank- the hundred thousand facing Cordinus were too many in one spot with no logistics, so the wily commander split his forces to get some food while reducing the load on his vestigial supply system. Smart. And the closest storehouse of food was inside these very walls. Yes, kamerat, you are very wily indeed, which is why you will land to my south.

The German boats collided with the bank, vomited their load of warriors, then shoved off to pick up the second load. Calor, leading the first wave, had his men form up into warbands to secure his landing zone from immediate attack. He was puzzled as a black plume of smoke went up from the Roman rockpile, but nothing untoward happened. If anyone was waiting to attack the Marsi at their most vulnerable, they missed the opportunity. The beachhead was strengthened, and ready for the next wave.

Rutilius watched them form with almost Roman precision. Someone has been practicing, he thought glumly. Then his attention was drawn back to the boats, which were tacking with the wind toward where the next load stood ready to board. He glanced down the river, then up. His mind drifted to Nigidius and his men, and he hoped they had managed to find the fleet, or the four thousand in the fortress would be hard pressed.

The second wave crossed and landed. Rutilius could make out the tribe of that bunch. He was surprised. They were Suevi, from far to the South. He had expected a few, but not the thousands he saw, with a second load of Suevi on the far bank awaiting the return of the boats. Squinting, he could make out the Suevi commander.

“I should have known,” he muttered to himself. “”Segestes. As he promised.”

The third and final load was loading now, to bring the German force back up to its full fifteen thousand. Fifteen thousand! Twice as much as he had figured- and confirmed!- remained of the Bructeri.

Muted shouts dragged his attention from the Suevi and back toward the river. Relief flooded through him as he watched the thirty ships of the Rhenus Fleet come rowing down the river in wedges- pulling like champions. Never had he been so happy to see the navy as he was at this moment.

The Germans were less happy, but not as crushed in spirit as the Romans had hoped. They had taken two Roman ships upon the Lupia and were now being handed thirty more. To them, a gift. The boat captains turned their ships upriver to swarm the dangerous ships that would become sitting ducks at first impact.

The Germans seriously underestimated the speed and momentum of the Roman fleet, and the resulting effect of that mass of warships impacting on boats built more to keep fish inside than warships out. The Roman galleys plowed through the first impacts without hardly slowing. Warriors were thrown into the air and river as boats were smashed to splinters in less than a heartbeat. The next wave of crashes slowed the Roman galleys down some, and the effects of the impacts were less spectacular. The third batch slowed them even further and simply broke the laden boats in twain. The fourth series of impacts had the Romans stopped in the water.

But only for a moment. Piscius ordered his cornicen to play “back water” and the galleys lurched backwards as oars dipped into the water and pushed. The wreckage of the German boats, helped by the current, slid from the rams to sink into oblivion. The movement brought the Roman ships closer to the remaining boats who were both stunned and shocked by the ferocity and power of the Roman attack. But that attack was now slowed, and its perpetrators now surrounded by a swarm of angry, vengeful warriors. That is when Piscius played his trump card.

Nigidius and his men stood up, the powerful naval bows in their hands with arrows nocked. On command, they pulled their strings back and released, sending a swarm of angry wasps to sting the Germans intent on boarding. Men fell back into their boats with arrows sunk to the fletchings in their chests and necks, or missed the boat to disappear forever into Father Rhein. A second volley followed, then a third. By the time the fourth volley was nocked, the ships were out of immediate danger and pulling hard downriver.

“Turn about!” Piscius commanded. “Build speed and hit them again! Every boatload emptied is so many fewer warriors to hit the fortress.”

The Germans figured the Roman plan when they saw the warships come smartly about. They also saw their only chance of survival. As a man, they set a fast course for the west bank, trying to gather as much wind as possible.

The wind was blowing downriver. This hindered the Romans a bit, but as their sails were furled and their oars pulling a stroke per second, it had little effect. It had more effect on the light German boats, heavily laden with warriors. Both current and wind pushed them toward the Roman ships. Again the impact was devastating, and boats broken like toys under an angry hammer. A third of them made it to the shores, where eager warriors helped their brothers out of the water and helped haul the boats ashore and out of harm’s away.

Piscius defiantly sailed his ships back and forth by the landing zone, making a six mile loop, as if daring the Germans to take to the river again. At every pass, the marines launched volley after volley of naval arrows into the startled mass of warriors, until they finally retreated out of range. His cornice played a light tune in victory, while he himself kept one eye on the boats and one on the flotsam moving slowly downriver. Over half of the German boats were now splinters, at least, and many others were damned near emptied by the marines. It was warfare as Horatius was accustomed. He wished his dead friend could have seen this. In all, a victory that more than made up for the loss of two ships and their crews- including his friend.

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“No marines, eh?” Segestes cursed as he pulled yet another body from the river. Like most of the others, this one was dead, too. “They slaughtered us, Calor, like sheep!”

“They must have picked some up somewhere,” The Marsic king replied lowly. Like the Suevi lord, he too was stunned and angry at this sudden turn of events. The Roman attack.... It was like dragons among wagons- powerful, unstoppable, and devastating. He had never seen the like.

“Half of the Quadii are drowned,” shouted Segestes, pulling yet another corpse from the river. This one, however, began sputtering when he kneeled upon its chest. “I got a live one here!”

Two men rushed to help the Suevi prince get the man to safety. They got about fifty paces from the bank when the Roman ships glided past, sending everyone scurrying for cover. Arrows fell, then the ships were gone. The two men and prince came out from under their shields to find the survivor writhing with an arrow in his chest. A few seconds later the writhing stopped, as did the bleeding.

“Three thousand we lost, Calor, half of the third wave!”

“There is nothing more we can do here, except lose more,” Calor said with a resigned sigh. “If we go any further downriver, those blasted catapults from the fortress can skewer our rescuers before they can rescue anyone. What we have, is what we have.”

“We have twelve thousand, no food, and are trapped on the Roman side of the river,” Segestes summed up. “And I suggest we get those boats on land as soon as possible before the navy comes and wrecks them, making our task of freighting the grain we shall capture to the rest of our warhost impossible. And of course, trapping us here for good.”

Calor nodded, and detailed off a few men to spread the word. Bring up the boats. Then he turned to Segestes.

“Do you see that rockpile there?” he asked, gesturing toward the fortress to the north. “That is the fortress of Vetera. They can withstand a siege, while we cannot. But once we take that vital piece of ground, this province is broken in half. That fleet over there,” he gestured to Piscius and his galleys, “will have no safe haven between here and the sea. They will be forced to return upriver- far upriver- and that will allow us to succeed. Granted, freighting the food across will take longer, but by then we shall have time and the Romans not.”

Segestes considered that. He found that he was forced to agree. Once this fortress was in German hands, the fleet would have no havens between here and the sea. In fact, the closest safe place would be in Mogontiacum- just north of Suevi lands. So this loss today, while painful, was not critical to their success. The assault tomorrow would be.

“You are correct,” the Suevi acknowledged. “Let us ready for the assault. This evening we examine the fortress from every angle and make our plans while our men rest or make siege gear.”

“Ah, a thinking man,” Calor said with a nod. “It is always good to work with such.”

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Looks like the Germans suffered badly on their third wave. Be interesting to see if Vetera holds. Great installment!

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The Germans were not the only ones readying for the coming assault. Roman eyes had seen nearby trees falling, and the sound of axes sinking into wood was unmistakable. Rutilius needed no scouts to tell him the enemy was preparing rams and ladders. If his hypothesis concerning the German logistical situation was correct, then the Germans would waste no time besieging- they would assault. A siege would be in their strategic interest- it holds the legions in the forest until they starve, and holds the supplies they would normal receive trapped within these walls. But if the legions had their full supply before getting boxed and the Germans had none... They would need to assault and do it right quick before the men holding the legions trapped withered.

Segestes had proven rather wily so far. He had assuredly seen the batteries of scorpions arrayed on the south wall by now, and knowing what they can do, decided to attack elsewhere. Rutilius examined his position once again. If he were the enemy commander, from where would he attack? The east wall put the forces between the fortress and the river, subject to intense artillery and archery from both fortress and fleet. The south wall was too obvious, leaving the north wall and its wonderful parade ground, and the west wall with the forest just over a bowshot away.

“Centurion Verrus!” he shouted, calling over the artillery commander again. “Move your engines,” he ordered, explaining what he wanted, where he wanted it, and why. Verrus fairly beamed as he acknowledged the order.

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It was light long before the sun rose, though neither the Germans nor the Romans cared. Both knew what this day meant- victory, or death. There was no middle ground for those inside, and fairly little for those outside. With a rousing roar emanated from the forest to the west, the Germans poured forth in their thousands.

Their force split into two uneven parts. The smaller force consisted of about five thousand Marsi, preceded by a covered battering ram that must have cost them all night to put together. The larger force, seven thousand Suevi and Quadii, carried ladders as they scurried quickly to the north in an attempt to avoid the rain of missiles they knew was coming.

“Verrus- at your pleasure,” Rutilius commanded. The artilleryman acknowledged with a wave of his sword and gave the order. The artillerymen lifted the canvas coverings from their weapons- which had moved during the night from the south to the west wall, and began loosing deadly bolts into the tight-packed masses of Marsi before them. The onagers began their rain, and stone fell out of the sky to squash men and equipment into intermingled jelly. Rutilius had hoped one of the falling rocks would smash that battering ram, but no luck. The covered ram made it unscathed through the lethal rain to within the minimum range- where no rock can crush it.

It was however, within throwing range of the wall. Lucius Palla, once the primus pilus of the X Gemina and now prefect commanding the IV Nervorum infantry auxilia cohort, gave the order to his men. Twenty men rose up with earthen flasks in their hands and hurled them down onto the siege engine below. Another bellow saw the flasks- which broke on impact- be followed by a rain of ignited torches. The thick straw matting that covered the ram effectively from archery burned away in minutes, leaving the men manning it horribly exposed to the rest of the IV Nervorum.

The attack on the gate effectively stopped dead in its tracks.

On the north wall, however, the Suevi and Quadii had made it through the obstacles and had their ladders against the wall. Rutilius wasted no time in calling two runners over and giving his commands.

“Tell Kalos and his III Sagitarii to fall back to the northern part of the west wall. From there he can pour arrows on both contingents,” he ordered the one. To the other, he said curt, “Tell Titus Faenius to have his infantry protect the Sagitarii. And have his cavalry ready to move or dismount, depending on the situation.”

Both runners repeated their orders and ran off to carry them out. Rutilius leaned from the tower where he was observing the battle and waved a sword toward Publius Ulpius on the west wall. When Ulpius waved back, Rutilius pointed his sword to the north wall, which would soon be vacated by the archers of Kalos. Ulpius pumped his sword into the air twice that he understood.

“The archers have done their bits, lads,” the Spanish prefect announced. “Now it is swords and shields- our job. VI Brittonum, slide north to take over the defense of the north wall!”

The auxilia surged forward along the walls, following the departing archers and assuming their positions. The Germans below already had their ladders against the wall and were climbing when the Brigante auxiliaries arrived. Shortly the ladders were caught on forks and shoved from the walls. But there were many Germans, and many ladders, and few forks. The law of physics made it impossible for the forks to be in more than one location at a time, and some forks were grabbed by Germans even as they were heaved from the wall. Their grips tightened on the things pushing them into open air, and when they fell, some took the forks with them.

The Germans gained the wall and began pushing the auxilia back with sheer mass of numbers. The Sagitarii, having taken position where they could shoot down at the Marsi, found they could turn about and shoot into the unprotected backs of the Germans pushing three centuries of Britons east.

The Quadii and Suevi, taking arrows from all sides, were not happy.

“Ragnar! Jump down and attack those bloody archers from the ground!” ordered one noble. Sixty men dropped to the hard ground below in response. The nobleman followed a moment later, a Greek arrow through his neck.

Faenius saw the Germans land and recover, then start toward the west wall and Kalos. They had axes in their hands and mayhem on their minds- and no eye for the Vascon cavalry.

“Charge!” the former tribunus laticlavius ordered. One of the two ala of the VI Vasconi lurched forward. Spears came level, and a few seconds later the Germans on the ground were no longer standing. A few Vasconi stabbed into those bodies they did not think were totally dead- just to make sure.

That action sealed the fate of the Suevi attack. The auxilia, fighting side by side in the old Roman sword-and-scutum drill, closed the gap slowly but surely, aided by the arrows of the Greeks.

Then Rutilius had a stroke of luck. Verrus had given the orders to his crews- shoot enemy archers first, then any threat to the gate, then any leaders. The Germans had few archers, and these were quickly neutralized. The ram was now ablaze, ending the threat to the gate, which left them open to skewer German commanders. One of the crews spotted one such. An older man, he was in the middle of his mob, waving his sword about. Men followed to climb where he pointed, which identified him as a leader. The bolt punched through the man’s shield to pierce his chest and exit to kill the man behind him as well. When Calor of the Marsi fell dead, his attack on the west wall evaporated. And when the west attack failed, it was only a matter of minutes before the north attack would also fail.

They did. The Germans withdrew, leaving over two thousand bodies littering the fields outside, with another five hundred or so leaking on the walls above, or dead inside the fortress.

“We drove them off,” Kalos said to Rutilius. He reported his archers suffered few casualties, and requested permission to go outside and harvest arrows. “We will need the extra supplies when they come back.”

Rutilius nodded. “They will come back- and soon. There are still ten thousand of them, or more. Go, Kalos, but be back before dark. And have Milus see to the repair of the gate as far as possible. He may use the remains of the ram for struts if he likes.”

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[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 03-28-2011 @ 07:28 AM).]

And so fell Calor of the Marsi. Good installment although the Germanic assaults on Vetera have been bloody failures so far!