Patrick (40 page)

“Hail, valiant warriors!” he called in a voice made sonorous through, I supposed, many years in the senate. “I come bearing the emperor's greetings and his good wishes for a speedy and successful end to this campaign. He sends me with instructions to bring word back to him of your accomplishment.

“The campaign, I am informed, is well begun. I can tell
you that nothing will please me more than to behold the rout of the enemy which has so long troubled this border.” He struck the pose of a beneficent god dispensing favors: right arm extended, hand open, palm upward. “I can also tell you that I am charged by the emperor himself with the power to confer on each and every soldier who distinguishes himself on the battlefield tomorrow an advance in rank.”

This brought an immediate clamor. “What about pay?” demanded a voice from the ranks. The question was instantly taken up by others, and soon everyone wanted to know: “What about our pay?”

Vicarius Columella raised his hands, smiling as if he were a merchant whose price has just been battered down by hard bargaining. “Your pay,” he announced, “will be increased according to rank—” Jeers and catcalls interrupted him here; he waited patiently a few moments before he could make himself heard.
“With
appropriate bonuses, of course, and the increase will commence from this campaign.”

This impromptu and judicious amendment was greeted with cheers all around, and Imperial Vicarius Columella smiled as graciously as if he had intended offering the increase from the first. The vicarius and the general retired to the commander's tent then, and we all went back to our camps to prepare for tomorrow's assault.

My side, though tender, ceased throbbing after a while, and I determined to fight more skillfully and protect myself better the next day. Beyond that I did not dare to contemplate.

Like the others in our numerus, I slept with my weapons ready at hand. Our camps were along the outer perimeter, and we would have little warning if the enemy tried to surprise us in the night. All remained quiet, however, and nothing disturbed our dreams of the money and advancement we would surely gain by battle's end. Not a man among us allowed his rest to be troubled by thoughts of death. Why should we? With four entire legions and a massive auxiliary force, what was there to fear?

I
WAS AWAKE AND
ready long before the trumpet sounded. The veterans always eat a little bread and watered wine before battle to settle the stomach and steady the spirit. As we sat and passed the cup, we were visited by one of the centurions moving from camp to camp to give the auxiliaries their marching orders. I listened carefully as the stern, scar-faced officer detailed our part in the day's activities. It came to this: The main body of the legionary force was to cross the Rhenus and move into the forest toward the barbarian encampment as if perpetrating a surprise raid. Meanwhile the numera were to follow in two divisions, one on either flank, maintaining our silence and keeping out of sight as much as possible.

The Gothi, defending their camp, would be expected to mount an immediate counterattack. The legion would then fall back to the river as if overpowered. Upon seeing the legion forced to the riverbank with deep-flowing water at its back, the barbarians would press their advantage and commit themselves to an all-out destruction of the army. Once they were fully engaged, the trap would snap shut.

For what the enemy did not know was that during the night the legions of Moguntiacum, Banna, and Noviomagus had been painstakingly working their way through the forest beyond the enemy encampment. As soon as the battle commenced in earnest, they would fall upon the barbarians from behind.

Those of us in General Septimus' command had merely to draw the enemy into a fight and hold them until the other legions swept in to obliterate them. We would be overpowered and outnumbered for a short time, true, but this risk was more than balanced by the fact that those first in the fight also had first chance at the plunder. If all went well, we would be sitting on a mound of wealth by the day's end.

Aglow with this hope, we ate a hasty meal, armed ourselves, and marched across the river at the ford. As predicted, the enemy was not expecting an attack. They were still in camp as we took up a position no more than a few spear casts away. We even had time to assemble three
catapultae
—spear-hurling machines of great might, if not accuracy.

Then the commander gave the order, and all three catapultae spat flaming spears into the dim, dawn-shy forest. Within moments a second strike followed. From our hiding place to the side and slightly behind the main body of our troops, I traced the fiery trajectory as the spears flew up through the trees. Their fall was answered by shouts and cries of rage.

Covered with branches and leaves, we hunkered down and waited, listening to the clamor of the enemy as they hastily armed themselves and rose to meet the supposed attack. The catapultae continued flinging spears, lighting the gloom with their passing. Soon the scent of smoke came sifting back on the breeze and, following right behind, the first hapless ranks of barbarians.

They ran in clumps and knots, scattered here and there among the tall trees, flying down the gentle slope leading to the ford only to plunge headlong into the waiting legion already formed for battle. The first Goth warriors into the fray paused in their onrushing attack to send up a warning cry to those following, then raced on.

The clash sounded as a sporadic stuttering clatter along the line, first one cohort and then another meeting the charge. The soldiers easily held their ground and even ad
vanced a few hundred paces to make better use of the slope. More and more barbarians were joining the fight now. I could see groups of them coursing through the trees, screaming as they ran. Oh, they were eager to spill the blood of the hated Romans.

General Septimus maintained his position with rocklike tenacity. Even when it became apparent that the legionaries were outnumbered, Septimus did not move, giving our legionary comrades as much time as possible to get into striking position. Thinking that the signal to attack must come at any moment, we of the auxiliary numera prepared ourselves to join the combat.

We waited. The enemy numbers continued to grow.

Still the signal did not come.

“Behind!” shouted a voice from the flank.

We turned to see a host of Goth warriors descending upon us. With loud whoops and terrible screams they came, slashing through the underbrush in their frenzy. Quintus called us to form the line, but we had time only to turn and get our shields up before they were on us. Soldiers on either side of me squared off to meet the foe, and suddenly we were all immersed in private skirmishes.

I saw a spear go spinning past my head and heard the sharp chunk as it struck the trunk of a tree. A bare-chested barbarian rushed in behind the thrown missile. Raising my shield, I put one foot back and bent my legs to take the blow, which, when it came an instant later, rattled my teeth.

Jolted and dazed, I fell to my knees. My arm, suddenly heavy, drooped down slightly. I saw a livid, fleshy, hate-filled face scowling at me, and I strained to raise my shield, which seemed to have become caught on something.

I gave a hard jerk, up and back. To my surprise the attacking Goth came with it. His fingers closed on the upper rim of my shield, and he pulled with all his might to wrest it from my grasp. I flicked the blade of my sword along the edge, catching his fingers. He gave out a yelp, released his grip, and jumped back—only to lunge at me again.

All at once my shield began wobbling from side to side. I could not stop it; I could feel my hand beginning to slip on the strap. Desperate, I hurled myself into the attacking barbarian, knocking him backward. My charge carried me over him. Arms flailing, fingers clawing, he tried to grab my legs. I gave a downward slash with the sword, striking him a glancing blow on the arm. He made to roll away. I saw his side exposed and thrust in the sword as deep as it would go. He gave out a cry and succumbed.

It was then I saw that my shield was split, just below the boss protecting my hand. Protruding from the crack was the vicious blade of a Saescsen war ax, stuck fast in the wood. With his first blow my enemy had disarmed himself and sealed his fate. I tried to pull out the ax, but could not dislodge it.

Before I could find a way to loosen the ax, another barbarian was on me. This one, bigger than the last, leapt over the body of his comrade, swinging a great wooden hammer around his head. I stood firm as he rushed in, the hammer a dark blur above him. As he aimed his first blow, I pulled back half a step. The hammer glanced off the top of my shield and flew wide. I saw his arm swing out and away. In that instant I threw my shield before me and thrust blindly straight ahead with the sword. The blade met a yielding resistance.

The barbarian screamed and crashed to his knees. I peered warily around the edge of the shield to see him writhing on the ground with a wide gash in his naked thigh. He clutched at the wound with one hand while trying to fend me off with the other. My next thrust found the base of his neck. The blade went in, and he stiffened, hissing like a broken bellows as his breath rushed out through the gash in his throat.

“Succat! Here!”

Quintus darted past, calling me on as he ran. I turned and followed. The legion was moving back toward the river, beginning the feint that would spring the trap. Soldiers were retreating through the trees, pursued by enemy warriors
roaring in triumph. How soon would those same voices be raised in shrieks of fury at the cunning of the Roman commanders?

We reached the banks of the river. The sight of water sent the barbarians into a murderous frenzy. They threw themselves at the solid line of cohorts, trying to batter down the stout shield wall with spears and hand axes. General Septimus drew the legions tight, shoulder to shoulder, and dug in. The auxiliaries on the flanks drew in close, too, lest we become separated from the main force.

I saw a shaft of sunlight striking through the leaf canopy above to illuminate the golden boar on its high pole. There is where General Septimus would be, biding his time until the surprise counterattack commenced.

But where were the other legions?

“They should have come by now,” I suggested to Quintus, wiping my hands on my tunic. The enemy attack had moved away from us for a moment as the barbarians concentrated their efforts on the legion.

“They will be here,” he said. With a swift upward motion, he slammed the hilt of his sword against the handle of the ax stuck in my shield boss—once, then again. The ax came loose on the third try, and he pulled it free. “There,” he said, handing the weapon to me, “a keepsake of the battle. Now, get your sword up and look sharp.”

It was a fearsome yet strangely fine-looking thing—curved and deadly, sharp as a razor, the sides chased with an intricate knotwork pattern. I tucked the ax into my belt, and we settled down to wait, watching wave after wave of enemy warriors beat against the Roman shield wall, break apart, lapse, re-form, and surge again. For the first time I began to appreciate the ebb and flow of battle. What before seemed to me irrational, incoherent chaos became the rhythmic surge and swirl of opposing energies, both dynamic, both defined and constrained by their own natures.

It occurred to me that anyone who realized this and could read the emerging patterns might move through the commo
tion at will, perhaps even master it. No doubt General Septimus possessed this ability, as any good commander would—probably Quintus as well and, for all I knew, most seasoned soldiers of the line. Perhaps it was only myself who, until now, had been ignorant of this commonplace revelation.

But as I watched the valiant legion meet wave after wave of attacking barbarians, I marveled at the obvious predictability of the apparently random action. It seemed to me that I could read the current as a sailor might read the drift of the sea tide.

“They should have been here by now,” I said again.

Quintus agreed this time. “You may be right.” He scanned the dark forest to the north, behind the attacking enemy, for a sign of the tardy legions. There was nothing. “Not good,” he concluded ominously. “Not good at all.”

A short time later a runner came from the commander. “Quintus!” he called. “Is there someone called Quintus among you?”

“Here!” answered the veteran. “Over here!”

“A message from General Septimus,” said the soldier as he joined us. “Which one of you is called Quintus?”

“I am Quintus. What does the general want?”

“A scouting party is required to go alert the Gemina.”

“We'll go,” volunteered Quintus. “What is the message?”

“The general says to tell Commander Paulus that the trap is baited and ready, and if he does not strike quickly, the vermin may escape.”

“I'll tell him.”

The messenger darted off again, and Quintus called his numerus together. “General Septimus has chosen us for scouting duty. Who's coming with me?”

Since no one cared to be left behind, we all volunteered to accompany him.

“If that's your pleasure,” said Quintus with evident satisfaction, “follow me—and stay low.”

Off we went, twenty men in two long files, darting through the trees, working our way north in the direction of
the barbarian encampment. I expected to be challenged at any moment, but our progress was both swift and unhindered. We reached the enemy camp and circled around it, giving it a wide berth and continuing north, deeper into the forest, whereupon Quintus stopped.

“See something?” asked Varro, stumbling up behind him.

“Listen!” Quintus hissed, breathing hard from his run.

We trained our ears to the trail ahead and heard the clatter of weapons. “It is just the battle,” said Varro.

Quintus shook his head. “Not
the
battle,” corrected the veteran.
“Another
battle.” He turned his face toward the sound. “Our comrades are under attack. This way.”

The sound of the clash grew with our every step until we reached the rising bank of a dry stream; in the deep-shadowed woods beyond, we could see the glint of weapons and the confused rush of motion. The air shivered with the shouts of men fighting for their lives. “That'll be the Gemina,” muttered Quintus.

“Your message may have to wait,” observed Pallio.

“What now?” wondered one of the men with us.

“We go back and tell Septimus.”

“What of Legio Fidelis?” I asked. “Could we reach them, do you think?”

Quintus shook his head and turned to begin hurrying back the way we had come.

“Staying here alone?” wondered Varro as he passed.

I quickly fell in behind him, and we swiftly returned to the riverbank, where the battle still raged. “Stay here and guard our backs,” said Quintus. “Varro, Pallio, and you two”—he pointed to the men—“come with me.”

We resumed our positions and watched Quintus and his little band snake around behind the fighting and come up to where General Septimus was dug in, waiting to be rescued. Whatever passed between them was brief, for no sooner had they reached the legion than Quintus and the others were hurrying back.

“What did he say?” asked one of the men.

“The general says we are to cut through this sea of shrieking Saecseni and join up with the no-luck Gemina,” said Quintus. “We move out at the trumpet. And then its keep up or be left behind. Any questions?”

“They'll come in on our tail,” warned one of the men, “and cut off our retreat.”

“True,” Quintus agreed. “But if we stay here, we'll all be pissing in the Styx before sundown.” He spat on the ground. “All the same, Janus, you do what you want. Me—I'm going with the general.”

We had time but to tighten our shoelaces when the trumpet sounded. The legion advanced, and we ran to join them, falling in close behind the last ranks so that we would not become separated in the fray.

The legion gained ground with slow, methodical efficiency—a line of reapers cutting a swath through a ripe and ready field. The barbarians closed in behind us, as we knew they would, and harried the rearmost ranks.