Again, his mind raced. Sixty or so Germanics advancing slowly on half that number of Gauls, their pace menacing. What was going on?
Waving to his men, Varus rose to a canter, bearing down on the unit. The enemy was not pressing for a fight. Why were they advancing slowly and not charging?
The answer struck him in a series of flashing images from around the valley. They were being herded. The enemy was not allowing them to regroup at Piso’s standard, they were actively herding them there. But why? They would be outnumbered five-to-one. What possible benefit could that be to them?
But something was going wrong here. The turma of Gauls were backing up to yet another small burned out farm building which, along with the fence and irrigation ditch, would hamper them and prevent them retreating any further. The retreating Gauls trapped, the enemy would have no option but to attack. Varus gestured to the men with him as he broke into a gallop.
“We’ve got less than a minute before those barbarians have no choice but to smash our lads. Come on. Let’s break the attack.”
The seven men hurtled through the lush grass of the meadow, towards the shell of the charred wooden building, on the far side on which he could just see the Gauls in good order, unable to retreat any further, preparing to meet the inevitable charge.
“Let’s put the shits up them” Varus grinned as he urged every ounce of speed out of his fast-wearying mount. Across the field he raced, the other six close behind. The fence — a stout construction some four feet high, constructed of rough-sawn timber and treated against the weather, was too much of an obstacle to the Gauls, who had retreated there at a walk.
Not for galloping horsemen, though. With a single command, augmented by rein-and-knee activity, Varus urged his steed into a jump, clearing the fence easily and coming down on the far side, releasing his reins to draw the long cavalry sword as he did so.
The trapped Gauls first became aware of their allies’ arrival reflected in the faces of the enemy, who stared in mixed surprise and confusion at the small party of red and silver heavily-armed cavalry leaping the fence into the fray.
Perfectly-trained, Varus’ regular cavalrymen cast their spears almost the instant their hooves touched the turf on the far side of the fence, three of the six missiles flying true and plunging into the advancing Germanic riders and their steeds. Two horses collapsed, screaming, thrashing and foaming, snapped spear shafts protruding from them. The third impaled a rider, who toppled from his mount, the beast trotting away.
The blows drove the enemy into the almost expected rage. The Germanic warriors, not a people to flee a fight, felt the final uncontrollable surge of blood into their brains and roared, leaping from their horses and running forward, brandishing their weapons and shields or, more often, two weapons.
Varus almost pulled up in surprise. Why had they dismounted? What in Juno’s name were they doing?
Off to the right, the Gallic cavalry had realised what was happening and the thirty men, with their decurions leading them, broke into a run, levelling their spears at the invaders and trying to join up with Varus’ men in a line.
And then everything exploded into chaos.
Perhaps half a dozen of the dismounted enemy fell victim to the levelled spears in the initial flurry, and Varus learned the hard way the reason for the strange tactic of leaving their horses behind and running into battle.
Three men made directly for him, likely seeing him as the man to kill for the most glory, his kit marking him out as a senior officer. Even as he tried to imagine what they hoped to achieve, Varus had already fallen into the rhythmic actions of the Roman cavalryman, his sword swooping out and low and shearing off half the man’s head at the bridge of the nose, pulping both eyes and sending a hairy cap of bone sailing through the air as the rest of the body slumped to the ground, brain matter falling out to mingle with the soil.
Even as the blow was made, his left arm had reacted to a sign of danger out of the corner of his eye, slamming down his shield so that he broke a reaching arm with the bronze rim.
The third attacker had disappeared. In the sudden flurry, Varus turned this way and that. Now, riders and their dismounted opponents were locked in individual combat all across the field. The body of his sword victim lay to his right, and a man on his left howled as he clung to an arm that was bent impossibly out of shape.
No sign of the third man, though.
Suddenly, Varus’ world turned upside down. The third warrior, who had made himself small with a crouch, had ducked amazingly between the front legs of Varus’ horse and had then reached up with a wide, sharp knife and jammed it into the horse’s soft underside, driving it deep and raking it this way and that.
The horse screamed in impossible pain at the gruesome task being performed on its belly, and bucked. The man, his work done, took the opportunity to step out and away before the beast came back down, with Varus tumbling away from the stricken mount.
The commander hit the ground heavily, making his best attempt to roll and come up into a crouch as training dictated, but realising that something was wrong. It took a moment of utter confusion to realise that his horse’s flailing hoof had caught his helmet a glancing blow and, as he reached up to unfasten the strap and let the painful, dented helm fall to the ground, releasing his throbbing head, he also became aware that only one of his arms had obeyed his brain.
A glance at his other arm showed a gleam of sharp white amid the crimson mess that was his forearm.
A landing his old riding tutor would have beaten him for. Appalling!
His brain was starting to swim with the pain-killing euphoria of battle — often the only thing that saved a soldier’s life when badly wounded and in a sticky situation.
He was suddenly aware that the barbarian who had gutted his horse from underneath was now approaching him, blade held forward, coated to the waist in the slick of horse’s blood that had sluiced down over him. Varus felt a terrible rage infecting his mind though, unlike these crazed barbarians, he knew battle-rage for the double edged gift it was and his sheer will channelled it into a hard, cold urge to make this man pay for the death of his lovely mare.
No sword. He’d lost both sword and shield during the fall. The shield, of course, would have been what broke his arm as he landed. He should have let it go. But the sword he’d simply dropped.
A quick glance and he could see his expensive, carved and etched cavalry blade lying in the blood-soaked grass some ten feet away. Too far.
The barbarian was on him. The blade flashed out, quick as a snake striking: once… twice… thrice.
On the third lunge, Varus stepped calmly forward into the blow, coming alongside the man’s arm, and brought his elbow down on the man’s wrist, numbing the barbarian’s joint with a blow that sent waves up Varus’ own arm. The barbarian’s horse-gutting knife fell to the grass and the man stared in surprise at this Roman who’d appeared on the verge of death and totally helpless and unarmed a moment ago.
With a growl, Varus’ good arm reached out and grasped the barbarian by the throat, his grip squeezing instantly with all the strength of a man who has spent twenty years using that fist to cling on to the reins of a startled mount or swing a heavy sword from horseback.
The man’s gristle, cartilage, muscle, bone and soft tissue crunched and ground into a pulp in Varus’ tightening grip. His eyes bulged and his face turned purple and then grey, his head flopping at an angle, indicating that he’d kicked his last and that the jerks Varus could feel were those that came in death.
Calmly, with steely eyes, Varus let go and the dead thing dropped to the ground before him.
“That’s for Hyrpina. I raised her from a foal.”