Patrick (39 page)

“Well, what have we here?” said the general, pausing before the old veteran. “Are you back again, Quintus? I thought we'd seen the last of you.”

“Hail, Commander Septimus, it is good to see you, too,” replied Quintus affably.

“You told me you were going to retire, did you not?”

“Yes, well, let us say Massilia was not entirely to my liking.”

General Septimus laughed. He placed a hand on the soldier's neck. “We will see some fighting this year, my friend. I will do what I can to keep your hide undamaged.”

“I ask for no special favors, Commander.”

“No,” said the general, “of course not.” Turning to regard the men clustered around Quintus, he said, “Is this your numerus?”

Quintus grinned. “They seem to have followed me, General.”

Commander Septimus nodded to himself and then, looking along the ranks at us, said, “When the battle grows hot,
you men stay close to Quintus. He will see you through the worst of it.”

The old veteran smiled. I could tell he was moved by the general's oblique praise. “Thank you, General, I will do what I can.”

Septimus moved on then and, when he finished his informal inspection, strode to his place before the standard, engaged our gaze, and spoke to us in a low, clear voice, his words both simple and direct. Listening to him, I imagined, was like listening to the ancient spirit of the empire itself.

“Soldiers of Rome!” he began abruptly, “I summon you today not to demand your allegiance but to demand your lives.”

He scanned the ragged ranks before him with a stern, unapologetic gaze, an expression hardened by conflict into a flintlike determination.

“Even now our enemies are gathering in the forests to the north. Our scouts have encountered raiding parties larger than any seen in twenty years. When they believe themselves strong enough to overwhelm us, they will attack.”

He walked a few paces along the front rank and then stopped to face his soldiers again. “They will attack, and they will succeed. Yes, this time they
will
succeed….” He paused once more, letting us chew on that for a moment. “They will win, my friends—my brave
limitanes
—unless you give me your lives.

“What does this mean?” He stared with grim determination upon the wondering ranks. “It means: Deliver your fate into my hands. It means: Trust not to your gods, but place your trust in me. It means: Do not think about what you will do tomorrow—give all your tomorrows to me.

“Give
everything
to me: your hearts, your minds, your bodies. For unless you give me everything, the barbarians will take it from you, and you will lose it all.”

His voice resounded in the silence of the yard. “Every time a man marches out onto the battleground, he has a choice to make: whether to hold fast to his life or let it go for
the good of the legion. I do not ask you to give your lives to the legion, or to your comrades, or to the glory of the empire, but to
me.”
He struck himself on the chest with his fist.

“Why do I ask this?” he said, gazing out over the assembled ranks. “Because, my friends, if you give
me
your lives, when this season of war is over, I will give them back. This is my pledge to you.”

He raised his hands high and repeated his pledge, and it was greeted with a great outpouring of acclaim. Men roared their approval, shouting the general's name over and over again. I had never seen anything like it before, and I could not help being stirred.

When the shouts and cheers subsided, General Septimus continued, “I do not intend to allow the enemy time to build his strength. Therefore, tomorrow we take the offensive in the first of a series of raids on barbarian camps that our scouts have marked. Tomorrow, my friends, the battle begins.”

More cheering greeted this declaration, but in fact it was ten days before any barbarians were sighted. Having marched north for nine days into the dark, tangled heart of Germania, we camped on the banks of the broad, gray waterway called Rhenus. Along the way I learned how a proper military force was organized, how troops in the field were provisioned, how to march all day under a heavy pack and then make camp, dig a barrier ditch, fetch water, cook food for a cohort, and clean up afterward without becoming too fatigued to move on come the following dawn.

Thus, after a nine-day march, I stood on the banks of the Rhenus and gazed across the mildly swirling water into the deep-shadowed denseness of the pine forest on the other side. The rolling expanse of water marked the farthest limit of the empire. Beyond the bank on which I stood lay a land untouched by the civilizing hand of Rome. Some of the younger men quailed to see it, but I looked on unafraid. I had lived in a barbarian land before. It held no terror for me.

We established camp in a meadow a short distance from
the river. The first task was to dig a deep ditch around the entire perimeter of the camp, heaping the dirt along the inner rim to form an earthwork bank through which there was but one entrance. The sides and top of this rampart were lined with sharpened greenwood stakes cut from the surrounding forest.

This done, the soldiers carried water from the river to fill the large cisterns which had been dug and lined with great leather integuments brought especially for the purpose.

Each cohort and numerus hollowed out a place at the base of the earthen rampart near their lodgings to use for a hearth to cook their meals. For lodgings the legionaries had tents, but the auxiliaries either slept under the sky or erected makeshift shelters using their cloaks and javelins, or pikes. This is what those of us in Quintus' numerus did, and it was not so bad once I got used to it.

While we were making the field camp, the scouts were ranging north across the river to ascertain the enemy positions. They returned the second day with a report that a large number of Goth and Hun warriors were moving south toward a fording place on the Rhenus a day's march to the west of us.

Early the next morning, under a low, gray sky, we took up our weapons and marched out to meet the enemy at the ford.

T
HEY CAME AT
us out of the forest without warning. One moment we were sitting in the shade of the trees at the edge of the ford, waiting for our scouts to return with word of the enemy's advance…the next moment we were fighting for our lives. The barbarians rushed in eager swarms, splashing across the shallow water and racing headlong toward our camp.

The trumpeter had time to sound but a single warning blast before the first wave closed on us. The legionaries scrambled to form the battle line—triple ranks of cohorts—to take the brunt of the attack while the auxiliaries flew into the forest on either side of the meadow to guard the flanks and prevent the enemy from getting behind the line or, in the final stages of the conflict, to prevent their escape into the wood.

At the trumpet call we took up our arms and ran to our positions. “Stay by me,” shouted Quintus. I struggled to force my hand through the straps of the shield and hurried after him. “Do what I tell you.”

General Septimus had placed us in sparse cover along the western side of the battlefield. We filled the gaps between trees and waited for the signal to close in.

“Remember what I told you,” Quintus said. “Let your shield do the work and strike up under it. Aim for the belly. Short thrusts. Make it quick. Trade blows with them and you're dead.”

Just then the first Goth raiders came into view, rushing up over the riverbank. They were big men, with long fair hair, huge muscled chests, and arms they had smeared with red and black designs. Some of the leaders wore the mailed shirt and war helm, while others wore leather tunics covered with iron disks or rings. Most, however, wore neither shirt nor head covering of any kind and, I noticed, ran into battle barefoot. For weapons many wielded swords and a few had axes, but the rest had spears of various kinds, mostly short and easily thrown or used in close fighting.

Upon sighting the cohorts ranged for battle, the barbarians sent up a tremendous cry: a sound to rattle the bowels and raise fear in the boldest heart. My hand trembled on the sword hilt.

“Steady,” muttered Quintus. “Let it wash over you.”

I did not know what he meant: the fear, the sound, the tremendous surge of energy? I let it
all
wash over me, drew a deep breath, and tried to stop my hand from shaking as I watched Goth warriors stream over the earthen rampart and across the meadow, closing with breathtaking speed.

The legionaries waited motionless, a rock headland about to take the battering of a wild and angry sea. Facing such a terrible assault, how could they stand so still?

Three heartbeats later the collision came with an earsplitting crash. Shield met shield, and blade met blade. The swift advance shuddered, halted, and staggered backward upon itself. The solid Roman wall took the full onslaught and did not buckle or break, but stood firm. A shout of acclamation rose from the watching auxiliaries. I cheered, too, much emboldened by such a handsome display of disciplined courage.

The barbarians, stunned by the obvious and utter failure of their principal tactic, fell back a pace or two. Those still rushing up from behind were thrown into stumbling confusion as they collided with their own men.

Seizing the momentary disorder, General Septimus commanded the cohorts to advance; the ranks moved forward a
few paces, shortening the distance the barbarians had to maneuver. Pinned between the unbending Roman line and the crush of their own numbers from behind, the Gothi in the first ranks gave out a roar of anguished frustration and began hacking at the shield wall before them.

The clatter of blade on rim and boss reached us as the sound of hail on a tile roof. The legionaries, safe behind interlocked shields, forced the enemy back step by unforgiving step. The Gothi fell beneath the slow, controlled onslaught like so much stubble sliding under the threshing sledge.

Unable to break the advancing line and desperate to get out of the way, the barbarians turned and made for the woods on either side of the battlefield.

“Now,” said Quintus, his voice a growl, “here is where we earn our pay.”

Tightening my grip on the sword, I hunkered down behind my curved shield, peering around the edge at the onrushing enemy. They ran blind, heedless of the danger awaiting them in the wood.

“Get ready….”

The barbarians raced swiftly toward us, howling like wolves, their screams loud in our ears. They spread out as they came, making for the gaps in the trees. Only as they came in range of our spears did they realize that their escape was blocked. Some checked when they saw us, searching for another way out. Others drove in regardless, screaming with rage.

Three huge brutes broke from the main body of the enemy and made for the place where Quintus and I waited. I had time but to brace myself for the collision.

“Stand!” shouted Quintus, and my shield was struck by a blow that almost knocked me off my feet. My arm was thrown against my body and I fell back a pace. “Stand!”

I thrust my shield before me and resumed my place. The next blow nearly shattered my arm. I felt the impact as a jolt through every bone in my body, sending a sharp pang
through the still-tender wound in my side. I gasped for breath but somehow remained unmoved.

“Strike!” cried Quintus.

A third blow rattled my shield, knocking it sideways. I saw the face of my attacker—a dark, bearded, bare-chested giant with a sword. Seeing his chance, he lunged at me again, swinging hard to knock the shield away. I let my arm fall. The brute's blade missed the top of the shield and carried on, opening him out wide.

I thrust out blindly in the same instant—striking low and straight, as Quintus instructed. The blade met but slight resistance, sliding in and up.

The barbarian gave out a scream, clutched his belly, and collapsed.

“Again!” shouted Quintus. “Again!”

But I could not move. I stood and stared at my fallen adversary as he rolled in agony on the ground.

Quintus stepped forward and delivered a quick jab in the center of the chest under the ribs. The brute ceased thrashing and lay still. The sight of my first dead barbarian produced a strange and unsettling sensation. In appearance he was very like the Irish warrior Forgall, Lord Miliucc's chief of battle. And while I no longer considered Forgall and his band rank barbarians, there was no clear difference between Miliucc's crew and those swarming around me now. Could I have so blithely and unthinkingly engaged Forgall and seen him slain?

I had no time to dwell on this question, however, as new foemen swarmed fresh to the fight.

“Eyes up,” commanded Quintus. “Be ready!”

I raised my eyes from the dead barbarian as two more drove in toward us with spears at the level. The shafts of their spears were short, and they carried them low. I dropped my shield to better protect my legs and drew back my sword arm to await the assault.

Wild in their fury, the enemy fell on us. The blades of their spears struck the curved surface of the shield and slid
away. Ignoring the growing pain in my side, I pushed forward, throwing the shield before me and into the nearest barbarian's face, knocking him back. As before, I gave a short, sharp thrust, catching him in the side. Blood gushed from the wound.

Unlike the first Goth, however, he did not fall. Heedless of the slash in his side, he came at me again. I saw the cold defiance in his dark eyes as, lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl of rage, he stabbed with the spear—once and again. Each time I countered his jab with my shield, and the spear point clattered away harmlessly.

His third assault surprised me. He jabbed with his spear as before, but when I knocked it aside, he swung his shield into mine, hooking the edge and pulling it away. For one brief instant I stood unprotected.

I saw the long spear blade start toward my chest, and I swung the sword with all my might. My blade caught the spear just below the shank, neatly shearing the spearhead from the shaft in a stroke.

The barbarian threw the useless shaft at me and reached for the knife at his belt. He loosed a furious cry and charged behind his shield, trying to knock me off my feet. I saw the knife in his fist as he drove into me and, without thinking, slashed at his wrist.

I watched in amazement as the both hand and knife spun to the ground in a crimson flash of blood. He screamed and raised the streaming stump as he fell to his knees.

Again Quintus was there to give the killing stroke. The barbarian slumped to his side with a grunt.

“Do not trade blows with them!” he shouted, pulling me back into position beside him.

He looked down the line and called to Pallio, Varro, and the others. “Shields up!”

I straightened my shield and renewed my grip on the sword hilt. But the attack was over. The Gothi were already running away, fleeing back across the river the way they had come.

Out on the battlefield the legionaries still advanced, but slowly. They were not giving chase, merely killing the wounded left behind.

“We have them on the run!” I cried.

“Stand easy,” advised Quintus.

I stared in disbelief at the fleeing enemy. Pursue them and we could finish it here and now. “But we could wipe them out.”

“It is over. The commander will not be drawn into a foolhardy chase through the trees.”

“You mean that is all?”

“No, they'll be back.” The veteran turned to the dead barbarians before us. “Here, let's see what we can get.”

We all searched the bodies of those we had killed, but there was little enough booty to be had. I took the knife and shield from my second attacker and the sword from the first. Varro got a spear and sword, and Quintus got a war helm—a conical cap with disks of bone fastened to a hardened leather surface. “It will do,” he said, “until I find something better.”

Pallio did not get anything, so I let him have the shield.

After we had divided up the plunder, Quintus took me aside and said, “You were lucky just now, but you might not be so lucky next time.”

I thanked him for helping me and said I would try to do better.

“You have the heart of a fighter, Succat,” he told me, and then he smiled. “I pissed myself the first time, and it was only some miserable, weedy Daciani. Nothing at all compared with Gothi.”

I accepted his praise. “You said they would come back.”

“Yes, but not today. I suspect it was only a feint to test our strength. The real battle is yet to come.” He gave my shoulder a fatherly pat. “Still, you did well. Two kills, and you won your first spoils.”

In all, more than fifty enemy were killed outright or wounded—the injured were executed, too, as a matter of
routine. General Septimus suffered the loss of only three—one dead and two wounded, although one of the wounded later died.

That night I lay awake thinking about the barbarians I had engaged. Were they, I wondered, so very different from the Irish I had come to know? Once I would have said that all barbarians were the same under the skin. Now, however, I was not so sure. Or maybe they were after all, and it was myself who had begun making fine distinctions. Certainly there was once a time when I saw the Irish in exactly the same way that I now saw the raging Gothi. And while I had no real difficulty defending myself against howling savages intent on slaughtering me, I could see how, having been mistaken about the Irish, I might now be just as mistaken about these northern tribes.

These thoughts occupied me far into the night. Sleep came long before I reached a satisfactory conclusion. In the end I simply decided to do my duty—which, as I saw it, was to stay alive by any means possible. Beyond that, all other considerations dwindled to insignificance.

As Quintus had suggested, the raid was a trial skirmish, a test of strength and will, nothing more. Our scouts returned at dusk with word that the main barbarian force remained encamped in the forest. It was estimated to be in excess of thirty thousand Goth and Hun, and also Angle, Saecsen, and Jute warriors in ten or twelve separate camps.

I heard this, and my heart sank. I could not see how we could stand up to, let alone defeat, such a force. The numbers alone would overwhelm us.

Nor was I alone in such thinking. As night drew in upon the meadow, talk around the cooking fires grew hushed and broken. Men sank into themselves, contemplating the brevity of life and the certain horrors the morning would bring.

It was then that Commander Septimus showed his wisdom. He summoned his troops and had all of us form a tight circle around him. “Some of you may be thinking the enemy
has us overpowered and outwitted,” he began. “This is what the barbarians think, too. But they do not know what I am about to tell you: Tomorrow, when they return in force, we will be joined by the legions and auxiliaries of Noviomagus, Moguntiacum, and Banna.

“Tomorrow, when the enemy returns, they will face a force four times that which drove them back today. But tomorrow they will not be allowed to retreat. For as soon as the battle is joined, the cunes and alae of Legio XIV Gemina from Noviomagus will cross the river and close in behind them. Legio XXII Pia Fidelis from Moguntiacum and Banna will close in from the west and east, sealing off any possible retreat.” He paused, nodding to himself, as if satisfied with these arrangements. “There will be no escape, and the season's campaign will be finished in one day.

“Victory is certain, my friends,” the general declared, standing by the fireside, the flames casting a golden glow upon his spotless tunic and his breastplate of bronze. “That is why we have been blessed by the arrival of the imperial vicarius, Aulus Columella, who has come to witness our glorious victory.”

He turned to the group of men clustered behind him, and a tall man with a boyish face stepped forward. Dressed in a simple tunic and belt, with high boots of red leather, he smiled affably as he gazed around at the ranks of soldiers ringing him. His hair, long and swept back over a domed forehead, was almost the same shade as his boots. Aside from the expensive footwear, the only sign of his towering rank was the silver-edged pattern on the hem of his tunic and the slim silver circlet at his throat.