But it was slow going.
Clambering across a horse whose blood had run so dry that it lay helpless and heaving ragged final breaths, Varus paused to take stock of the situation. Despite the apparent carnage, a great number of Gallic cavalry remained intact, pressed in the tight formation and unable to do anything about the swathe of destruction moving slowly and inexorably their way.
The standard wavered in an unpredictable manner, clearly random while its bearer fought off one of the enemy, rather than in the regular motions of a command being given. Since the standard would likely denote the position of the commanders too, that suggested that the enemy warriors had cut a line through the cavalry directly toward Piso, where they were currently embroiled. If the commander and his signallers went down, there would be precious little chance of pulling anyone out of this mess.
With a single, economical motion of his sword arm, Varus indicated to his men the wavering standard. Afranius and Petro nodded, taking his meaning, the former turning his horse and the latter clambering over a body behind him.
Like a force of avenging spirits in steel and crimson, the twenty two men hacked and stomped their way through the mess without pause or comment.
The slogging through a mire of mud, blood and entrails seemed endless — the destruction left by the Germanic warriors making every step wearying and hazardous. And then suddenly, almost unexpectedly, Varus hauled himself painfully across the stilled body of a large piebald mare to find that he had reached the scene of current fighting. The press of men and horses blocked every inch of his vision and he could no longer identify the wavering standard. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed “Piso!”
The clamour and din surrounded them, and Varus, his arm burning with pain, strained to see. “Piso? It’s Varus!”
“Varus?” came a distant, desperate voice.
And then Varus’ world turned crimson.
A dozen or more blood-soaked, crimson painted barbarians, each easily a head taller than Varus, hurtled out of the mass, hamstrung a horse as they passed, and launched at him. Varus lurched back, trying to get a swing in with his sword, but there was simply not enough room. Two blows came at him simultaneously and he managed to turn one aside at the last minute with his own blade, but only the timely intervention of an unseen soldier behind him prevented him being spitted through the face by the other.
More and more demonic, blood-slicked enemy warriors were appearing from the thong of horses now, attracted by the Latin shout. Identified by the language as officers, Varus and his men had suddenly become the prize targets in the fight, and every barbarian there wanted their heads.
In mere moments the carnage had turned their way. In a heartbeat, his twenty two men had become two thirds that number. In another heartbeat and a gaggle of screams they had dropped to a half, the throng of Germanic warriors around them never dropping in number. No matter how many they killed, fresh demons appeared from the welter of blood and legs to plug the gaps.
Varus who, in the space of ten breaths, had taken two minor slashes to his wounded shoulder and a nasty lunging knife wound in his left hip, was struggling simply to stay alive now. His men — the cream of the corps and the best Caesar’s army had to offer, fought by his side and at his back, trying with their every move to stop the blows coming at their commander as well as those striking directly at each of them.
Varus knew he was costing his own men their lives through their desire to protect him, and guilt riddled him even as he collapsed with a shriek, a fresh strike having cut the scarf/sling, allowing his broken arm to swing agonisingly loose. His vision swam with the agony and his head felt tremendously light. He was close to passing out from the pain and he knew that when he did, it would be the end of him.
Desperately, he tried to raise his sword to block a descending blow and almost turned it away, feeling the blade shear off the tip of his ear. He probably screamed, but then he was sure he’d been screaming almost nonstop for the last minute or two, so it didn’t seem to matter.
Somewhere in the depth of the pain, fug and confusion, he felt sure he’d heard his name called. Blinking away sweat, blood and grime, Varus squinted upwards. The blades had stopped coming down at him. With a genuine and unbelievable sense of relief, Varus recognised Piso swinging left and right in his saddle, slicing, hacking and carving the barbarians that a moment ago were getting ready to take his head.
Varus looked around in wonder. Maybe half a dozen of his own men remained, mostly wounded. Piso and his personal guard had arrived just in time. The standard waved silvery in the air behind the commander and Varus could see the musician, horn in his right hand, smashing the boss of his circular shield into the face of a barbarian.
“Piso!”
“Come on!” cried the other commander in reply.
Varus struggled to his feet, wincing and shaking, having to lean on his sword to steady himself. His legs failed and he slumped again. “We have to get back to the column before we lose everyone.”
Piso nodded and turned to the signallers behind him.
“The commander’s safe. Sound the retreat!”
The horn, put to the signaller’s lips, rang out with the five note call, the order confirmed by the circling of the silver wolf, high above the heads of even the mounted men.
Piso smiled.
“Been a bit of a shitty morning, all told!”
Varus shook his head with relief and then looked up just in time to see a crimson-slicked warrior burst out of the crowd, a long, broad-bladed sword in his hands. Even as Varus tried to form the warning, the man swung a wide, two-handed blow with the sword, hacking with ease through both of Piso’s mount’s front legs.
With a scream, Piso’s black steed collapsed forwards, the Aquitanian commander pitched from the saddle and thrown some five or six yards ahead, where he slumped to the ground in a heap, his mail shirt dulled with mud and blood.
Helpless, unable to stand without aid, Varus watched as Piso staggered to his feet and drew his sword, barbarians closing around him in a circle. Varus lost sight of the man behind the grey and crimson bodies apart from the occasional flash of a golden helmet or glint of a sword. Two of Varus’ men pushed past him, running to help Piso, while the other four, too seriously wounded to do much else, helped Varus up.
Somewhere close by came a shout in Gaulish. Varus looked round in surprise to see the signaller push his wolf standard into the hands of the musician before leaping from his horse and drawing his sword on the run. Behind him more and more of the Gallic horse guards followed.
Piso was dead before the standard bearer and the two Roman riders could reach him. Still swinging his sword desperately, he was on his knees in the mud. Most of his assailants had turned away, leaving him for dead to face the new threat, and Varus could see him clearly as the remaining three barbarians toyed with the kneeling man. Piso had taken a crippling lower back wound that had rendered his legs useless. He was covered in blossoms of crimson and gobbets of blood poured from his mouth alongside shouts of defiance in two languages.
His final swing was weary as the strength left him, one of the barbarians knocking it aside, and then the three men were on the commander, holding him up as they sawed off his head.
Varus turned away.
They never lived to treasure their grisly prize as moments later the standard bearer, two Roman cavalrymen and half a dozen of Piso’s guards reached the spot and dispatched them. But Varus couldn’t stop staring at the headless figure kneeling on the ground.
Someone’s hands grasped Varus by the chin and turned his head away.
“Commander?”
The Roman officer focused as much as he was able. The pain was so intense that he could hardly focus or think. The only image that he could see, despite having been forcibly turned away, was the headless body of Piso kneeling in the mud, covered in blood, his sword lying discarded beside him.