‘Quintictilius Varus, give me back my legions!’ Caesar Roman Emperor AD 9

Each 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 once at Marcus just as he finally disappeared 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 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. All 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 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 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 shovels and picks, 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 their ‘tentful' comrades, their contubernia, to aid and give them 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 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 cloak 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 Gaius, I still have some dry here.' ‘Thank you citizen, mine are lost.' As they lay resting each man's pilum leant against a fallen trunk, most were bare headed and used their bronze helmets as pillows. Each legionary kept their scutum shield close and 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 fucking 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 's vine vitus cane any day, twenty five strokes I'd take right now, and be glad of it.' 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 danced with 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 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,' whispered Gaius between pursed lips. Marcus laughed.

‘Well at least we'll be a part of his political career for years to come, you know the drill; 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, a Roman top-knot. My arse! 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 point. Use your pilum, skewer him before he can use axe or sword to batter his way through your sheild... 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, but not him. 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 spear 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 pre- dawn 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. 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 vellum 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 spear 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 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 as he gripped his spear shaft. 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 sword and ran past Domituis and the other soldiers. ‘Hold Sir, hold all of you,' Domituis ordered. The legionaries instantly obeyed the grizzled veteran, 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 swords in the scabbards and raised their red shields. Each 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 normally overcome the fatalistic drive of the German warrior. But here, in the Teutoburg Forest there was no legion, no massed ranked 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 short 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 spear presented, and Marcus wondered how his friend could still calmly 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 and give his final orders.

‘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 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 sword. 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 sheild, 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 sheild. 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 sheild. Gaius hadn't yet drawn his gladius but countered each attack with his heavy pilum , 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 sheilds 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 sheilds 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 throughout the forest.

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 .

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 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 natural shelter 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 shield wall that 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 ramparts 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.

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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 cloak. 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 sheild. 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 the familiar gesture to the gods averting 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 to get clear at least. 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 spears. 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 spear 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, fucking 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 spear 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