Download `Quintictilius Varus, give me back my legions!` Augustus Caesar

‘Quintictilius Varus, give me back my legions!’
Augustus Caesar Roman Emperor AD 9
Each legionary placed his boot carefully, stepping between twisted roots and rocks to avoid
slipping on the moss and sludge. Everything was wet and the ground underfoot sank under
the men's weight. Above huge boulders and gnarled ancient trees hung like roof trusses and
rock walls ran with rivulets streaming with ice water. The column marched doggedly through
the frozen wastes of the Teutoburg Forest. Icy crystals hung from the low branches of the
majestic pine trees and conifers. The men couldn't avoid their embrace and had long been
drenched, as if the heavens above had burst.
The damp forest floor was covered with a thick carpet of pine needles and rotting bark. The
men cursed to their comrades, and to themselves, as soldiers do, and shivered beneath their
sagums. The red woollen military cloaks were wet and heavy. The forest frost robbed each
legionary of body heat, despite the unremitting hours of physical effort to keep up with the
man ahead.
Each man was bare legged, and the skin on their calves and knees was scratched and torn by
the sharp rocks and fallen branches, and the lichen caused them to slip and slide so that every
step became three. They wore heavy leather sandals with a hobnailed sole; good footwear in
open grassy plains but here in the forest the mud squelched between their toes so their feet
slipped and chafed as they walked.
Legionary Marcus Catullus no longer bothered to speak. Weariness and resignation weighed
heavily upon him, and so he trudged on doggedly, placing each step carefully, just fixing his
gaze on the man ahead. His thoughts were of Attilia and the little ones. By Jupiter he missed
them. He dwelt on the memories of her smell, her long brown hair and slim neck. He thought
of Attilia's brown supple shoulders, her apple shaped backside and long willowy legs, her
laugh and honey coloured eyes. She'd waved at him as he marched off to the barracks with
Gaius all those months before. Little Paulus was on her hip sucking his thumb and Sarina
held her mother's hand and waved at Marcus ─ once Attilia had pointed him out, fast
disappearing down the Roman road. By Jupiter Best and Greatest if I could just hold her once
more.
‘Do you think General Publius Quinctilius Varus is half as cocky by now Marcus?'
Marcus wished that Gaius would just shut his trap and let them march in peace but he knew
Gaius from a hundred camps and campaigns. If Gaius needs words now then he could spare
them. Soon it may be him in need of speech. Marcus looked back at Gaius. Even this was an
effort. His head was bare and the water streamed down his matted dark locks, cut short in the
Roman way. His face and chin was streaked with mud, scratched and bleeding from the
branches and covered with a five day beard. As with the others his bronze helmet was slung
over his right shoulder by its chin strap.
‘Who can say? The legion has some able centurions Gaius, Proculus may have his faults but
he won't hold back on giving Varus advice. Entering this dung heap of a forest isn't the legion
way. Maybe Varus will realise that by now if he deigns to peer out the velvet curtains of his
wagon.'
‘No wagon in this place would get far Marcus, unless Varus's slaves build him a road as he
goes. No; he'll be on that white horse of his by now to keep his toes dry. Gaius stopped,
reshouldered his scutum shield and pack, then followed Marcus up a steep rise. ‘By Jupiter,
the column of march must go on for leagues ─ the centuries are all asunder by now.'
Legionary Decimus Drusus, immediately in front of Marcus, reached the top of yet another
slippery embankment ahead. He rested his heavy javelin pilum on the ground as a crutch and
looked back, his red and gold scutum shield was slung on his left shoulder in the legion way.
He turned and looked at Marcus and Gaius still heaving themselves up the embankment.
They grabbed whatever hand holds they could and tried to find purchase with their sandals.
‘This smells like a ten day corpse,' said Decimus. ‘If the Celt bastards attack us, we can't
form close order. It'd be every man for himself. We're like a centipede cut into pieces. One
section can't help another.'
Marcus nodded. He knew the army of Rome as an extraordinary beast. Each part a superbly
disciplined limb which carries the rest towards whatever the gods decree. Each looks the
same, moves the same and behaves just like its brothers. But if the limb is severed from the
main beast....well that is what the Celt's strategy had always been, to sever the limbs.
‘Varus must know the risk,' said Marcus. ‘A calculated risk gains victory. Ten years I've
served this Legion. Fifteen years more, I get the Bronze Diploma and the pension. Just do as
we're told Decimus, as always things will get better. We'll probably be in open fields again
come nightfall and safe in camp. They're probably lighting the cooking fires right now. No
Celt will touch us then.'
The mule bayed. Gaius turned quickly to the Legionary behind him. ‘Shut Augustus's trap
Domituis, she'll bring the top knots down on us.'
‘Then we'll get some scalps at last. They're like shades from Elysian Fields these Celts. Let's
go shield to shield with them and they'll learn to fear the seventeenth. 'Domituis was a
grizzelled twenty five year veteran who'd served from Spain to Syria. No one doubted his
will to fight, or his courage, he'd proven both often enough. Soon he was to retire and would
return to his village in Gaul. Like many legionaries his people were not from Italy but from
conquered territories long brought to yield under the Roman yoke. It was way of things now;
citizenship marked a man's status, not your people, or your tribe.
Domituis stroked the mule's snout and whispered comforting sounds in her ear. Augustus
shook herself, as vapours blew from her nostrils in the freezing air. The contubernium's
baggage was loaded on the animal. Each legionary's welfare depended on Augustus the mule,
for the eight man squad shared everything. Their common tent made of cow hide, the food
rations and water, trenching tools, dolabras and spare weapons were all loaded on Augustus's
back. Everything else was carried by the soldiers themselves. All their personal belongings
and food for the march were in a pack at the end of a pole slung over each man's shoulder.
And so the men of the Second Contubernium, of the Third Century, of the Second Cohort, of
the Seventeenth Augustan Legion, trudged through the primeval forest, picking the best
terrain, and trying to keep in contact with the column ahead. The daylight faded, the giant
pines and conifers grew in girth and the legionaries were forced to enter a narrow ravine
overshadowed by moss covered boulders and dead fallen trunks. Everything was coated with
a soft light green carpet of lichen. The whole world had become green, interspersed with dark
forbidden timber.
This campaign had dragged on relentlessly, month after month. The Celtic tribes, in their
Germanic way, refused to lay down their arms and pledge allegiance to Rome's might. Then
they refused to stand and fight, simply melting away before the legions like ethereal mists of
the forests. The three Augustan legions under the command of Publius Quinctilius Varus
were determined to engage them in battle. The seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth
legions, the cream of Emperor Augustus's army, would bring the barbarians to heel. Twenty
thousand men and auxillary troops, fully trained and equipped would finally quell the
troublesome Germanic tribes. They had help. Allies protected the legions flanks under the
Germanic leader named Arminus. He was civilised, and a citizen of Rome having pledged
friendship and fidelity to the Emperor.
The legions had pressed on stubbornly, maintaining contact with enemy stragglers,
tantalisingly within reach of forward scouts and skirmishers. But just as it seemed the main
body were trapped and must give battle, they had entered the forest, the Teutoburg Forest.
They had left the tundra and broad grassy plains and followed the Germans into the trees. At
first the scrub was sparse and the cohorts could keep order easily in well drilled ranks. But
soon the seventeenth legion was broken into individual cohorts, and then the centuries also
became separated by the rough terrain. Each century had eight contubernia or eight men
sections, and by nightfall these also were alone in the vast silent forest.
Sight and sound was absorbed into a vast morass of damp, dead vegetation covering every
feature, every rock, and every fallen tree. The sun and moon seemed always obscured by
massive overhanging conifers. And so the Romans marched on, with only his ""tentful'
comrades, his contubernia to aid him and give him sustenance. The Roman legionary, the
foot sloggers who had conquered the known world had never felt so lonely.
The shadows lengthened and the unseen sun fell below the surrounding mountains that
bordered the Teutoburg Forest. The legionaries of the second contubernium bivouacked as
they had a thousand times before. But this night there was no time for the usual field camp,
and no ditch faced with turf, levelled off to a rampart. The sharpened stakes to deter attackers
by night stayed in Augustus's pack this night for none dared venture beyond the ravine to
pound them into the root infested ground. The cow hide tent must remain folded and unused
for there was no room to pitch it and night had fallen so quickly. The men spoke in whispers,
for sound travelled so easily across the icy wastes, and they feared the enemy. Now that the
black shadows crept across the clearing, and the conifers merged in the gloom swaying to and
fro, each man's courage failed. So they found some depression to lie, preferably sheltered
from the overhanging stalactites on the low conifer branches. Not even a fire could be built
for fear of the smoke alerting the enemy.
The contubernium camped in a deep wide gully. At its widest four men could walk
comfortably side by side. Massive lichen covered rocks and sheer cliffs towered above, too
steep and slippery to climb. Streams of water trickled from hidden fissures and flowed down
the craggy face. The ravine twisted and turned so one could not tell what lay beyond the next
precipice. The ground was flat but littered with boulders and tree trunks long fallen and
decayed, and water squelched beneath their sandals. Each legionary drew some strength from
their tent companions as they whispered to each other and then heard familiar voices
responding from out of the darkness.
‘Has anyone got a spare sandal?' Statilus Corvinus asked. He threw his left sandal against the
rock wall in disgust, its bindings torn and useless.
‘Hey donkey phallus, take this,' Marcus threw a spare from his pack, ""but I want a new pair,
properly treated when we're out of these Elysian fields.' The other legionaries laughed.
‘Keep the old one Statilus,' suggested Gaius, ""wrap it around and use it to keep your phallus
warm, you don't want it breaking off in this weather, think of all the whores who live off your
denarius.'
‘You'd know Gaius,' he replied. ‘I wondered how you'd suffered so, I always thought you
bastards from Epirus are born with more phallus inside than out, but maybe it was just a cold
snap as you say.' Marcus laughed with his friends as he offered Gaius some dried meat he'd
retrieved from his pack.
‘Keep it quiet,' hissed Contubernalis Bassus, ‘you'll bring the top-knots down on us.' The
nervous quaver in the young nobleman's voice was obvious.
‘Yeah shut your trap Donk and Gaius and eat, let me rest, by Jupiter Best and Greatest my
bones ache.' Marcus lay with his head on his helmet and pulled his sodden sagum over his
shoulder shivering; trying to get what rest he could. After a while he gave up, rested on one
arm and turned to his friend.
‘Have some wheat cakes to Gaius, I still have some dry here.'
‘Thank you citizen, mine are lost.' As they lay resting each man's pila and pilum lances leant
against a fallen trunk, most were bare headed and used their bronze helmets as pillows. Each
legionary kept their scutum shield close and gladius double edged sword slung on their belts
to the right, their dagger hung to the left. Gaius and Marcus had served together in the legion
for more years than they cared to recall. They were friends and trusted each other with their
lives. Domituis the Gaul drank from the water hide he'd retrieved from Augustus's pack and
also chewed on dry meat. He sat only an arm length from Marcus and Gaius.
‘This is not good ─ no place to be boys,' Domituis remarked as he grabbed a sharp twig and
pried some meat from between his blackened teeth. ‘I'd trade this place for a Centurion's vine
vitus cane any day, twenty five strokes I'd take right now.'
Marcus smiled at the old veteran. ‘That's cause you've got a hide tougher than Augustus's
back Dom. You couldn't feel a virgin's caress over those scars, you've danced with the vitus
too many times.'
‘You're right Marcus, I've seen too many centurion scums these past years. Most have since
turned to smoke on funeral pyres. But I'm still here citizen. I'm soon for Gaul, and none of
these Germanic top-knots will stop me, there aren't enough tribes in all Germania.' Marcus
and Gaius laughed.
In all there were twelve legionaries in the ravine. Eight were the second contubernium and
another four had lagged behind their comrades as one of them suffered a twisted ankle. The
ranking legionary or Contubernalis was Flavius Bassus. He hissed at them again.
‘I'll have your hide off your backs if you don't shut up, you'll bring the top-knots down on us.'
‘Sorry Sir,' Domituis answered. ‘We were just discussing General Varius's infantry tactics
and something amusing came up.'
‘Just shut it Domituis, and get some rest.'
‘Sir.'
Marcus turned towards the dark depression in which he knew Gaius and Domituis sat. ""And
we're stuck in some Godless forest with a pimple pocked Contubernalis in command ─
Jupiter help us', he said in a low whisper.
‘I hear the little prick is betrothed to the daughter of Publius Isauricus. Poor bastard only has
a couple of months of his enlistment and he'll be back in Rome and destined for the Senate,'
remarked Gaius between pursed lips.
Marcus laughed. ‘Well at least we'll be a part of his political career, you know ─ how he led
his contubernium and defeated the top-knots, personally skewered a hundred heads and stuck
them along the Appian Way. Not a bad feat with only a year's service.' Marcus had seen these
young noblemen come and go, serve their twelve months, then follow a public career back in
Rome, no doubt deflowering Roman gentry daughters on their stories of military conquest.
Domituis looked to where his friends lay, men he could trust and had done so for a thousand
nights. ‘Listen, Gaius and Marc, I don't jest here. We're in this forest because that's where the
top-knots want us. They're not fools. Varius may be, and even Emperor Augustus, but not the
top-knots. I've seen too many dead Roman soldiers.'
‘They're not all bad Dom,' answered Gaius, ""remember we've got tribes guarding our flanks
right now. We won't even see the enemy inside this forest.'
Domituis chuckled, ""What, you mean Arminus, the Roman top-knot. Don't trust him Gaius,
don't trust any of his Germanians.'
‘Well we have to,' said Marcus, ‘if he turns on us we're fucked. We can't fight as a legion in
here. The Gods Jupiter and Minerva will watch over us. Remember the eagle we saw soar
over the forest as we marched on the plain? That was our Aquila, the legion's standard, a sign
we'd pass through Teutoburg unharmed just as the bird on the wing.'
‘That's dung Marc, the top-knots conspire, not Jupiter. We are exactly where they want us.
Trust your training boys, watch each other, keep your pilum and shield close. And listen to
me if things get rough ─ not our hero from Homer, young Flavius... Agreed?' The two
legionaries nodded in the darkness. Through the gloom Marcus swore he could see the
veteran's white eyes, boring into them as they lay.
‘The Celt fight like the Furies,' Domituis hissed, and Marcus knew he must have gestured to
ward off the evil he could invoke by speaking of those snake haired goddesses. ‘Their swords
dwarf your gladius Marcus, they can outreach, out stab and out chop. You're better off
keeping the Celt at spear point. Use your pilum, skewer him before he can use axe or sword
to batter his way through your scutum... and citizen...' Domituis lowered his voice even
further so that only the three of them could hear. ""Don't get captured by the hairy lipped
scum. It's not worth the extra few hours of breath it may grant you... trust me, you'll beg for
the Elysian Fields long before they done with you.'
Gaius spoke and the tremor in his voice could have been the cold but Marcus knew it was
more likely the fear. He knew it; because he to felt its cold embrace.
‘You heard of the forest wicker man?' Gaius paused and waited. Marcus had heard the story
many times. It chilled him to his bones and had done so even as the story was told around the
warm hearth back in the barracks in Gaul. He looked at Gaius and willed him to speak no
more but he was trapped by the terror.
‘We don't need that now Gaius, we know what these buggering brutes can do.'
‘It won't hurt to remind ourselves Marc.' Gaius spoke and told a tale all the more poignant for
where they now lay.
‘A giant man of wicker branches reaching to the highest tree tops of their forest. And inside
the wicker man they roped and bound the captured legionaries from the seventh legion; Legio
VII, Jupiter's best. Then the top knots set it alight to sate their Druid's thirst for Roman blood.
I knew a man of the seventh, he told me their screams travelled for miles and reeved around
rock and tree until not even the earth ramparts of their distant fort could silence them. One
hundred and fifty captured and wounded legionaries burnt alive in that wicker trap, and the
seventh dared not march at night to give aid for fear of being trapped in the forest.'
‘Well we are in a forest now,' quipped Marcus. May Jupiter and Minerva protect us, he
thought. And the chill in his bones and the dread in his belly had little to do with hunger. Our
fool of a General has placed us right in their inner atrium. He knew the three legions were
trapped, and he suspected some of his comrades also sensed their plight. But what else can
we do but follow orders. The stupid but lucky ones blindly follow, trusting in their General's
divinity and skill. Domituis spoke, almost as if he had read Marcus's thoughts.
‘Quinticilius Varus, what does he know of the northern forests, he's served for years in
Judea... no open valleys or hard desert plains here, and now Teutoborg has us caged like fish
in a trap. What does Varus know of the barbarian?'
‘The Jewish tribes were tough enemies Dom, Judea was no virgin's picnic.'
‘But at least they had a king Marc, gave them some order and the Jews are used to rulers. But
these Germanians?... can they be trusted? They have many chieftains but no king. Is Arminus
truly Roman?' Marcus thought of the thousands of Celts now on their flanks supposedly
guarding the legions.
‘A wolf is a wolf Marc. She may feed from a man's bowl and seek warmth by his fire, but
loyalty is no more than hunger in the belly... the need to fill it... no more! The barbarian and
the wolf, they think no further than this.'
Marcus shivered, he felt the dread rise in his spine, he could taste it and felt it spread. Tonight
would be long, but not long enough. And the morning was too close.
A wolf howled somewhere in the shadows beyond, cutting through the icy silence. Her pack
returned her call.
Domituis persisted. ‘Listen to me if things get rough... listen to me, follow my orders. I've
served too long to end things here. Listen to me... agreed?' Domituis urged his friends.
‘Agreed?'
‘Agreed,' they answered, ‘we'll pass the word.'
Domituis smiled, they could sense his black humour. ‘I'm after the Diploma of service. You'll
not deny me that... and neither will the top knots.'
Marc pulled his sodden sagum close and surrendered willingly to his solitude, for here, now,
he could visit Atillia in his dreams...her breasts, by Jupiter I love her breasts, I'm going to
sleep between them both and never leave their warmth. His thoughts dwelt on her parted lips
and tongue, open in the midst of their lovemaking, and he felt his phallus engorge. Please
don't stop, please stay with me. But a night bird called, the wind suddenly howled, and the
chill pulled him back to the stark frigid forest of Teutoburg. And so the men wallowed in
their own thoughts and stole what rest they could amongst the mud, ice and moss. For most it
would be their last.
The first alarm came suddenly from Augustus in the chilled silence before dawn. Her bray
woke the men not on watch and each were instantly on guard, grabbing their pilum and
scutum shield, some donning their bronze helmet.
‘Keep that mule quiet or I'll skewer it myself,' whispered Contubernalis Bassus.
‘Aye Sir,' Domituis answered. ‘It's smoke, that's what's roused her.' There had been a sudden
shift of wind and now each man smelt it. Fire! Marcus sniffed. But how could that be, he
thought, how could this forest burn? There is only moss and lichen and damp everywhere.
The screams and shouting started then, easily covering many leagues through the quiet predawn stillness. The supply column always followed the Legion. The camp followers, the
women, children, animals and goods wagons were always safe, for the legion clears the field
of the enemy as they march. It had ever been so... but not this day. Fear gripped Marcus; he
had fought in a dozen pitched battles, but always in the midst of the century with shields
locked and pilums outstretched before them. The legion's strength was its unity with
formations like the Wedge, but here, now they were alone... just twelve men alone. Then
through the twisting ravine ahead the clang of iron on iron suddenly rang out, sounds of battle
and Germanic voices raised in a chorus of many hundreds. Spears clashed on shields. The
cohort ahead was under attack, but the men of the second contubernium could see nothing
beyond their gully.
They instinctively, without orders, removed the leather scutum cover, and raised their shields.
The ravine was narrow, allowing only two shields abreast. At one end of the gully two
legionaries faced front, shields locked in close order and at the other two faced the rear. The
remaining men looked out over the hummocks and conifers.
Young Contubernalis Bassus drew his gladius sword. ‘Stand to men.' His voice quavered and
his fear was obvious to them all.
Each man raised his heavy pilum lance and sheltered behind their shield expecting masses of
screaming Celts to suddenly burst from the forest. The distant sounds of battle continued, the
screams and shouts echoed off the rocks. The orders shouted in Latin emanated from the
distant cohort but were quickly supplanted by German curses, and then peals of triumph.
Marc stood side by side with Gaius and felt the strength once more flowing through his veins.
Having his comrade there, a man who had dined as guest at his table, with Atillia and the
chidren, now gave Marc some comfort.
A young Roman auxiliary, only eighteen years or so, ran through the under growth adjacent
to their shelter. They did not recognise him but could see he was terrified, and had already
discarded his shield and helmet. Gaius looked over the embankment and made effort to climb
higher to signal the auxiliary and to beckon him. But as he fled over the broken timber and
rocks he stumbled; and as he struggled to his feet a black feathered arrow took him through
the throat. He collapsed in an instant and Celtic tribesmen emerged from the conifers. One of
them approached the stricken soldier, raised his axe and with well practised ease chopped the
man's head off at the neck. The Celt then kicked the bloodied head down the slope and it
rolled, down the embankment, thumping on rocks and then falling into the midst of the
watching legionaries.
‘By Holy Jupiter save us,' the subaltern screamed. He threw down his gladius and ran past
Domituis and the other soldiers.
‘Hold Sir, hold all of you,' Domituis ordered. The legionaries instantly obeyed, their battle
discipline instinctive. The young nobleman did not. His pale face looked left and then right
pleading for salvation, for escape. He was terrified, the nightmare was real and beyond any
experience he had ever encountered. A Germanian arrow pierced his eye and Flavius fell
back dead, bright arterial blood streaming from the wound and freezing in the ice.
‘Legionaries, they come, close order battle.... hold....hold!' Domituis commanded and the
contubernium obeyed. Each man readied himself. They grasped their pilum, loosened their
gladius in the scabbard and raised their red scutums. Each shield was emplazoned with a
golden wreath painted on the scarlet red linen and hide covering. Marc and Gaius gripped
their weapons, hard muscle and sinew, conditioned by years of drills and frontier service,
bulged beneath their olive skin. The two legionaries gritted their teeth, set their jaw and
readied themselves for bloody combat, remember the drill, watch Gaius's back ─ no
quarter, none given, none received. Marc relived his basic training, the centurion's calm litany
as he struck the recruits with his vitus; no quarter, none given, none received.
The arrows rained first, and struck harmlessly on the men's shields. Some pierced the
laminated timber and hide or deflected onto the turf around them. But this wasn't good
ground for archery and the Germanians preferred to close their enemy and kill him with
sword and club, and dagger. Whatever tool or weapon lay at hand the German would use.
The warriors screamed and shook their weapons, feeding their rage from the terror of their
enemy and the fallen corpses around them. Each man fought alone, for his own glory. This is
where the discipline of the legions would overcome the fatalistic drive of the German
warrior. But here, in the Teutoburg Forest there was no legion, no massed ranked phalanx or
testudo of locked shields. No wedge formation. The Germanians could pick one cohort off at
a time and bring masses of warriors to its destruction. As it broke into pieces each Roman
soldier would face two or three forest fighters. It seemed as if demons from Hades had
emerged from the black pits and ravines of Teutoburg.
Roman soldiers only learn basic drills of close quarter fighting with a sword. At best some
may be competent, but the gladius is more often used to kill an enemy already stricken with
mortal wounds. Prisoners are rarely taken so the wounded enemy is dispatched to whatever
after-life their religion may honour. The principle tactic of Rome's enemies then was to break
the phalanx, and engage the legionary alone without his comrades to aid him... much like
cutting a beast from the safety of the herd.
Marcus gazed along the ravine and prepared for the onslaught. Next to him Gaius chewed
some dried meat as he stood at the alert, shield and pilum presented, and Marcus wondered
how his friend could still eat even with death about to dance within their midst. Behind him
the other legionaries covered the flanks while Domituis gathered whatever weapons were at
hand in the centre. As the Celts attacked from the forest, and hurled themselves across the
broken ground, the veteran seized every opportunity to gain some advantage.
‘You hold them, Gaius and Marc. You two, Pesius and Valerius hold the rear,' Domituis
ordered desperately. But there was no time for battle plans. Each man had to rely on training
and instinct.
The first Celts were on them in seconds, almost falling over each other to overrun the small
body of Romans. The eleven remaining legionaries stood their ground, the men in the centre
reached for their pila light javelins and prepared to hurl them at the tribesmen who stood
above the ravine, ready to rain spear and arrow on the hapless defenders.
Each Celt was dressed in long leggings woven of course wool. They had groomed themselves
for battle, with intricate designs painted on their chest and arms and their long hair braided.
Many had secured the strands into a top-knot upon their heads. Their shields were oval, gaily
painted with circles and chequers and it covered their body from ground to breast. Their iron
swords were double edged for slashing and chopping, almost twice the length of the legion's
gladius. And their spears stood a head higher than a man, so they could stay well clear but
still thrust or slash to bring a man down, skewered by the broad tapered spear head.
Despite the chill, some were stripped to the waist to fight with only their shield for protection.
But others of more wealth or station in their tribe wore iron mail shirts similar to the Romans
with conical shaped helmets.
‘Watch the spear!' Marcus yelled to Gaius, ‘let it pass then bring your man close.' The
Romans were well drilled, for the Celt fought the same wherever they'd met him. On the first
rush the tribesman first tried to skew their enemy as if he were a wild boar. If the first thrust
failed to maim, then they would club their enemy with the massive shield and thrust again
until at last the man's defence broke.
Marcus waited for the thrust, deflected it with the curved face of his scutum, and then braced
himself for the inevitable clash of shield on shield. And then before the German could thrust
the broad spear again Marcus used the tapered point of his gladius and stabbed it home under
the man's rib cage. The sharp blade parted the man's flesh and warm blood poured over
Marcus's hand and forearm, slippery and thick like warmed honey. He smelt the man's breath
expel forth. It was the perfect killing stroke and the German fell to his knees, dead before his
face hit the squelching forest floor.
Instantly another tribesman took his comrade's place and raised his sword to slash and club,
and a barrage of blows pummelled Marcus's scutum. The leather hide covering split and the
strips of laminated timber beneath splintered. Gaius was sorely tested as a huge Celt, perhaps
a chieftain or Holy man dressed for war with iron mail and helmet, thrust his spear repeatedly
to force a path inside the Roman's scutum. Gaius hadn't yet drawn his gladius but countered
each attack with his heavy pilum lance, not as long as the Celt's but just as stout and deadly.
Beyond Gaius and Marcus defending the entrance to the gully the other soldiers faced wild
yelling tribesmen attacking from every part of the forest. Marcus thought of the vicious
soldier ants at home in Aquilla storming a carcass and reducing it to bones in mere hours. He
felt good; the close quarter fighting drills hammered into him on a thousand barrack fields
now served him well. Fear was there, he could taste it and sensed it but for now it was held at
bay. There was no time for fear; no quarter, none given, none received, shield, parry, thrust,
watch your man, guard your comrade. And so they fought on...
Legionary Tiberius Drusus behind them screamed. A Celtic spear had pierced his thigh and
he'd fallen to his knees. The German withdrew the spear and thrust it cleanly through the
Roman's neck. He fell and did not rise again.
‘Reserve !' Marcus yelled.
‘Aquillia,' the two legionaries behind replied and deftly stepped between Marcus and Gaius,
stooping low with scutums raised high. The fresh soldiers engaged the same Celtic
protagonists and allowed Marcus and Gaius the opportunity for a brief rest. In such a way the
Celts would tire as they beat their weapons on ever fresh Roman reserves. But in this forest
on this day the respite was too short and the attack never faltered.
Gaius leant on the edge of his battered shield. The oxen hide was torn in strips and hung in
tatters from the laminated strips of wood beneath. He was bent over as he gasped for precious
air. Blood ran down his cheek for flesh had been ripped by his own helmet which had borne
the brunt of a heavy Celtic war club. Marcus looked at his friend and knew to rest meant
death, only savage action could save them.
‘Come on Gaius, your emperor calls, you earn your pay this day!' The two of them raised
their scutums and together they hurled their pila into the massed Celts charging down the
slope to finish them. Live Roman legionaries were increasingly hard to find and those that
remained drew yet more Celts onto the isolated bands of desperate men.
Suddenly two more legionaries fell to missiles thrown by Celts above the ravine. It was good
tactics... while the Romans were engaged at the opposite ends of the gully the Celts rained
arrow and spear from the high ground. Domituis grabbed a pila with his right hand and threw
the light javelin up the rise on their flank. The long narrow iron spear impaled the archer
before he could draw another arrow. The Celt fell through the scrub and landed dead at
Domituis's feet. The veteran threw another pila and it pierced a Celt's shield. It instantly
became a useless encumbrance, for the Celt couldn't remove the heavy wooden shaft. And so
he had to forego his shield and fight unprotected. The pila was designed thus, to either kill or
maim, or render the enemy's shield useless, or the thin iron shaft would bend on impact so the
weapon could not be reused against the Roman legion.
Some of the Celts fought their way past the defenders and thrust their heavy spear points into
Augustus's unprotected flank. The terrified mule bucked and squealed as fresh blood poured
from her wounds down her hind quarters. Goods spilled from her pack and the Germanians
looked greedily at the scattered booty. Augustus burst from the gully mad with panic and
agony. Immediately the Celts thrust spear and loosed arrow to bring the beast down. The
legionary stores spilt randomly across the forest floor as the dying mule fell and breathed its
last.
Domituis yelled above the din, ‘On me the seventeenth! On me, we're out of here boys, on
me!' The soldiers still living and on their feet withdrew towards the veteran. They locked
scutums and presented a wall of shields towards the Celts. Six legionaries still fought. Those
who'd fallen were stabbed where they lay as the Germanians stepped over them to pursue the
retreating Romans. The scutum shields were hacked and broken and most had arrows
embedded through the wood and red hide. The missiles resembled stalks of thick barley stuck
in dried bloodied earth.
Marcus felt blood, warm and thick, filling his sandal and streaming down his leg. He'd been
gashed by a Celtish blade that had chopped above his flesh, opening muscle almost to the
bone. He couldn't recall how he'd been struck or when, for his whole focus had been on the
shield, spear, and sword of the Celt before him. There was no pain yet but the leg was numb
and strangely refused to move. He was almost blinded by the sweat and grime and the bronze
helmet dented by club and sword. The others bled also and none, but one had escaped the
blades and spear points. Only Domituis, the wily old dog hadn't yet felt their bite.
The ravine snaked into a narrow defile carved by eons of water cascading from the rocky
embankment towering above. Into this narrow defile the legionaries retreated. Decimus
Drusus fell, an arrow loosed at close quarters finding a gap in the shields and pierced his mail
shirt through his chest. As he fell a savage club stroke smashed his skull and the bronze cross
braced helmet flew across the ravine propelled by the force of the blow. Another Roman,
Cornelius Sabinus, faltered when a spear thrust slashed his exposed leg and he lagged behind
the other four legionaries. His weapons and shield were discarded as he grabbed the wound to
stem the arterial blood pouring copiously from the wound.
‘Save me brothers,' he yelled as three Germanians circled him like rabid dogs savouring a
meal, seemingly excited by the impending kill. Cornelius grabbed a dolabra pickaxe from the
fallen stores at his feet which had been scattered from Augustus's pack. He swung the tool
wide as he struggled to stand on one uninjured leg. The Celts laughed and easily ducked and
weaved to avoid the arcing dolabra. Cornelius feinted left, then right, determined to sell his
life dearly. He tired, his movements slowed, and a brief moment was all that another Celt
warrior needed to swing his sword high and wide across Cornelius's neck, almost chopping it
from his stooped shoulders.
Just then the defile narrowed and the remaining legionary's flanks were suddenly protected by
smooth rock reaching high above, seemingly supporting a vaulted ceiling of grey cloud.
Barely two shields in width, the defile stopped the pursuing Celts for they could bring no
weapons to bear. The Romans locked their shields, and it then seemed as if a door had closed
and the passage was shut. Flights of arrows pursued them and the darts pierced the scutum
wall that still faced the barbarians. Most harmlessly embedded into the hide and timber, but
one found Marcus's wrist and slit open the flesh half way up his left forearm. Finally the four
surviving legionaries retreated along the curved trail that snaked between the rocky defile and
were no longer visible to their pursuers. The rise of the cliff either side was too high and
steep for the enemy to scramble.
_______________________________________________
No more Celts had braved the defile since sunset. Those who tried were savaged by the
Roman pilums for the space was too narrow for more than one or two Celts to attack. And so
night fell. Germanic curses and insults and threats pierced the night gloom. At times, blood
curdling peals echoed from the rock walls as the tribesmen sought to steal what courage
remained in the hearts of the four legionaries.
Gaius bound Marcus's wounds with woollen strips torn from his filthy sagum. His leg and
arm had suffered nasty gashes and blood pumped continually. He knew his friend was out of
this fight, but worse, without a surgeon's skill he could not last for many days. They must
find aid. Already Marcus felt his strength ebbing. The legionaries stayed close to draw
comfort. Statilus survived and now kept watch at the defile behind the cover of his scutum.
There was no light, only blackness and dark grey shapes in the gloom.
Domituis leant close to speak for in this blackness he knew the only sense that Statilus could
rely on was his hearing. He may not see the Celts massing but at least a stray footfall or a
sudden intake of breath may grant some warning of the final attack. That they would rush and
finish them, Dom was certain. It was the Germanian's way, nothing fancy, just overrun a
demoralised enemy and finish it. He knew it was time for farewells.
‘Marc, Gaius listen,' he hissed. ‘It's over, they'll finish this before dawn. They might wait a
few hours but they'll come and we can't hold with so few, and you're useless with that leg
Marc. They'll fight like the furies.' He made a gesture to the gods to avert the evil of speaking
of the dreaded snake headed ones.
‘Not buggering likely Dom, I can stand, just help me to the line.' The legionary leant on his
pilum to rise. Gaius bid him to sit back and rest.
‘Listen you stupid verpa, there's no use in the four of us going under. You two get clear, you
probably won't get far but you owe the rest of us poor bastards. Donkey Phallus and I will
hold them. We might even follow after we've had some more fun. By Jupiter Best and
Greatest you two go now... piss off!'
The two younger soldiers looked at Domituis in the gloom. There was scant light in which to
see. They couldn't make out his features but had a long memory of his stubbornness. Once his
mind was set that was it. This was why his back was scarred by the Centurion's vine vitus.
‘Go now citizens.'
Marcus and Gaius stood, shouldered their shields and grasped their pilums. Marcus grimaced
and leant painfully on his as if it were a walking staff. Both placed their bronze Coolum
helmets on their heads. Gaius prodded Statilus with his pilum shaft in a gesture of farewell.
He didn't turn. ‘Find the rest of the seventeenth and bring them back. Then we'll show these
hairy lipped scum.'
‘Take care Donk, may Jupiter and Minerva protect you.'
‘You to, Gods protect.' He turned back at the gloom and waited.
Domituis grasped each outstretched hand in turn. ‘Get word to my people in Gaul Marcus,
tell them I was close, by the Gods the diploma was close... now go!'
‘Gods protect,' Marcus and Gaius said, and then they turned making their way through the
defile, away from the Celts. Marcus's arm was around Gaius's shoulder for he could barely
place his weight on his wounded leg. He discarded his battered scutum for he could no longer
hold it. The width of the defile continued to narrow until they were forced to scramble up
slippery wet boulders and decaying fallen tree trunks. Marcus grabbed branches and tufts of
grass to climb the steep escarpment. Gaius turned back and offered the pilum shaft to his
friend and used the weapon to hoist him just a few more paces.
‘Come on Marc, just a few more yards and we're clear.' Once they'd reached the precipice the
two rested and used their daggers to strip more woollen bandages to bind each other's
wounds. By now birds were coming alive to the new day. A crow squawked from a low pine
branch nearby. Just then they heard an unmistakable curse from Domituis from the ravine
below.
‘On me the seventeenth, you top knotted bastards. German whores. On me boys, cursed
Verpas. Let's finish them.' His curses were smothered by Germanic screams and peals of
anticipated triumph.
The quiet dawn of just a moment before was replaced by the sudden clang of iron on iron and
thuds as weapons pummelled Roman shields. The sounds of battle echoed off the rocky
escarpments.
In less than a minute the shouts of glory, and victory, and wild laughter rang out. Guttural
Germanic voices savouring the defeat of their hated enemy mocked the two legionaries.
‘Come on Marcus, let's away, we can do no more my friend,' said Gaius in a whisper. Marcus
heaved himself to his feet and leant on his pilum. The two of them moved through the thick
forest undergrowth, listening, waiting, despairing. As they travelled, the legionaries saw
Romans. Some were still in the ranks where they had fallen, some were alone, loyal to their
Emperor still... but all no more than carrion for the beasts of Teutoburg.
A lone she wolf howled. The hungry pack answered their leader's call and the primeval
sounds echoed from rocky peaks to the deepest gully. They were coming now. Marcus
reached for his gladius and Gaius held his pilum ready, just as they had been trained to do.
Marc remembered Attilia and the little ones. By Jupiter he missed them. In a mere instant her
smell was there, he saw her long brown hair hanging loose over her shoulders. She had
waved as he marched away. Little Paulus was on her hip sucking his thumb and Sarina held
her mother's hand. The little girl... she to had waved at Marcus as he fast disappeared down
the Roman road.
‘Attilia, by Jupiter Best and Greatest if I could but hold you once more.' His eyes welled.
‘Look to the front Marc!' Gaius chewed and spat out the last of his dried meat as the snarling
pack encircled them... no quarter, none given, none received.
Epilogue: ‘9 AD...Battle of Teutoburg Forrest: Germanic tribes under the leadership of
Arminus annihilate three entire legions under Publius Quinctilius Varus. Varus throws
himself on his sword as twenty thousand Roman soldiers are massacred. Varus' head is sent
to Augustus.'
The Concise Encyclopedia of World History The Book Company 1998