Just then, Metellus felt a sharp blow to the small of his back which knocked him to the ground. A spear, thrown with great power, had been deflected by the bottom band of his armor. As he slammed into the damp earth, he somehow managed to hold on to his gladius. Suddenly, he was awake, alert, every fiber of his being fighting for survival. He rolled over to see a burly warrior bearing down on him with an axe. He could smell the man’s rank breath and foul body odor. He quickly raised his gladius to block the attacker’s blow. Unfortunately, he managed to only partially deflect the strike. The axe slid down his gladius and impacted hard on his right thigh, opening a deep gash. Metellus howled in pain and in desperation swung his gladius up in a backhand slash. The blade connected with the German’s throat, slicing it open. The warrior fell to his back, hands at his throat, his screams muffled by the gurgling sound of blood gushing from his mouth.
Metellus slowly pulled himself to his feet, clutching at the wound on his leg where dark crimson blood flowed freely. He did not even bother trying to stifle his cries of agony. He knew there was no chance of stopping the bleeding. The wound was mortal. Metellus was in great pain, and his leg refused to function. Calvinus was immediately at his side, his own helmet now gone, bleeding from a long gash that ran from his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone. The entire side of his face was purple and swollen, his eye forced shut. Calvinus grabbed Metellus by the shoulder, examined his wound, and then looked away. Turning back, he looked Metellus in the eye. Both men knew the wound meant his death.
“Go,” Metellus gasped to his centurion, while looking at the two legionaries nearby. “You have to get these men out of here, sir. Just…please…tell Rowana…” his words were cut off as he choked up and found himself unable to continue.
“I will,” Calvinus answered as he clutched Metellus by the shoulder. He nodded in acknowledgement and ran back to his remaining soldiers. The war cries and din of battle behind them was growing ever louder. Before resuming their flight to Cassius’ detachment, all three soldiers turned back briefly and saluted Metellus with their swords. Metellus returned their salute and then turned to meet his fate. His vision was starting to blur, the loss of blood quickly taking its toll. He saw an entire band of Germanic warriors coming his way. He struggled into a fighting stance, his weapon at the ready, his eyes smoldering with hate. They would not take him so easily. He just hoped he could cut down a few before he succumbed to his wounds.
At the head of the charging horde was a young, slender barbarian, body painted blue, wearing nothing but a torque around his neck. The man looked like a demon possessed, and he was clearly much quicker than his fellows. Metellus readied himself to fight the man, but was surprised when the fleet-footed German ran right past him. He was ignoring Metellus, eyes on the bigger prize ahead, the centurion with his back turned. Metellus realized his companions were oblivious to the barbarian pursuing them. They had no chance of outrunning him. With the last of his strength, he turned and flung his gladius, falling to his hands and knees as he did so. His vision was now almost completely impaired, yet he still managed to see his sword tumble end over end, embedding itself deep into the base of the sprinter’s spine. Metellus smiled weakly to himself. He knew then that his friends would be alright. His breath was coming in deep gasps now. He could no longer see or hear the battle around him. The forest, his friends, the German hordes, Cassius’ formation had all but disappeared in the darkness that was overtaking him.
Calvinus and his men rushed through the ranks of the formation. The legionaries gave a cheer, taking solace that someone else survived. Cassius ran over to Calvinus, the tribune placing his hand on the centurion’s shoulder. Calvinus was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
“You alright?” Cassius asked.
“We’re alive, if that counts for anything,” Calvinus replied, looking up at the tribune. He noticed right away that Cassius, too, had lost his helmet.
His face was cut in numerous places, and his gladius and armor were coated with blood. Cassius bit his lip hard and nodded in acknowledgement. He then patted Calvinus on the shoulder before turning back to his own men.
“Alright, listen up.” he shouted. “We’re going to work our way back, heading due west until we reach the river. We will then head south to our bridges and pray they have not been overrun. Keep it tight, men. If we stick together, we will survive. Move out!” He then turned his attention back to Calvinus as the formation started its slow march. “Come, old friend,” he said, “let’s leave the stench of this accursed place forever.”
“You may be leaving this accursed place,” Calvinus muttered under his breath as Cassius walked away, “but I will return.”
For Metellus, he knew he was breathing his last. He wished for the end to come, though he sorrowed at the thought of what effect his death would have on his Mother, his Father, little Artorius…Rowana. Then, out of the shadows, he saw Rowana walking across the glade. He closed his eyes tightly and opened them again, but this was no dream, for there she was. She may not have been there in the horror of Teutoburger Wald, yet somehow, across time and great distance, the merciful Fates were allowing him to see her one last time. She turned towards him and stood in the middle of a beacon of light that shone through the darkness. She wore a white gown, her auburn hair flowing freely around her shoulders. Her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes filled with infinite sadness.
She knows, Metellus thought to himself.
“My love, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, reaching for her with his right hand. He felt the soft touch of her hand as she placed it over his, her cool, gentle touch lifting his pain. Suddenly, a German spear was slammed through the back of his skull. His world went black, and he knew no more.
In his dispatch back to Rome, Cassius told of the heroics of one legionary who had saved the life of one of his centurions.
Chapter II: Aftermath of Disaster
What a fool you were, Quintilius Varus! Arminius surveyed the carnage that spread as far as he could see. The ground was littered with fly encrusted corpses, both Roman and German. The stench made his stomach churn.
Here was the greatest feat of arms in our time, he thought to himself. Three entire legions had been destroyed. The Army of the Rhine virtually ceased to exist. Now was the time to strike into the heart of Roman territory. With the Army of the Rhine destroyed, the provinces in Gaul were left practically undefended. A rapid invasion could annex all that land for the Cherusci and their allies. However, when it came to dealing with the Germanic tribes, nothing ever came rapidly. It had taken Arminius years just to unite the tribes to strike as they did against Rome. Now, when the opportunity to achieve so much more was within their grasp, it was quickly slipping away before the bodies of the slain had even cooled.
The warriors would plunder the Roman dead. That would take time. The tribal chiefs would then bicker and squabble over their share of the wealth. Thankfully, there were no slaves to be had, as that would take even more time and resources to deal with. All who had survived the battle would be sacrificed in reverence to their deities, in thanks for giving them this victory. Once the arguing over plunder ended, there would be further quarrels regarding what to do next. Arminius and his closest allies would push for immediate invasion of Gaul while their army was still intact. Others would wish to ravage and plunder the entire province around the Rhine bridges. Still other tribes would simply go home, basking in the glory, yet shunning responsibility when time came for retribution. To go home and do nothing else was the worst course of action that Arminius could imagine, and yet it was the one they would most likely take. Unless he could keep all of the tribes united, he would not have the forces necessary to invade Gaul.