Slowly they marched back to where the battle had started and reformed their lines. Artorius knew right where it was, because that was where the piles of barbarian corpses ended. He looked to where doctors were working frantically on the wounded. Again, the numbers were surprisingly few compared to what they had inflicted. He also saw, off to the side, the bodies of the dead laid out in a row and covered with their cloaks. The dead certainly deserved to be mourned and given proper respect. However, the sight bore nothing in comparison to the spectacle of death he had just walked through.
He turned back to the scene of the battle. The legions to their front were rapidly gaining ground. Within minutes the enemy ranks had completely broken. They were being destroyed from the front, on the flanks, and at the rear by the Roman cavalry. Artorius looked down at his gladius. It was covered in blood.
“You served me well today.”
Chapter XXII: The Rout and the Aftermath
The barbarians were in disarray. They were fleeing in every direction. Germanicus spurred his horse and followed.
“With me!” he shouted to the cavalry troopers with him. “This is not over yet!” He rode towards a slow-moving German who was limping from a wound. With a shout he slashed his sword across the man’s neck, violently tearing his weapon loose as he rode by.
Cavalrymen continued to slaughter the barbarians as they ran. Most would probably escape, though. The cavalry were too few, and the reserve legions had already been committed to battle. Those who now occupied the reserve were in no condition to conduct a full-blown pursuit in their state of battered exhaustion. Still Germanicus insisted on pressing the issue.
Ingiomerus ran as hard as he could. His mind raced wildly, unable to control it anymore. Memories of the past flooded into his conscious as he fled through the trees. He was suddenly taken back to when he was a young man and had suffered a similar defeat at the hands of Tiberius. Ingiomerus had watched helpless as one of his brothers was butchered by the very man who was now Emperor of Rome. Tiberius had ridden through the ranks of the vanquished, running Ingiomerus’ brother through from behind. Now the Emperor’s nephew could be seen riding in similar fashion, slaying all in his wake. Ingiomerus had no doubts as to which one was Germanicus. With his dazzling armor and purple crest on his helm, the young General purposely drew attention to himself. The shine on his armor had dulled as he was awash in blood and sweat, Cherusci blood.
Ingiomerus remembered seven years before, to the destruction of the Rhine Army in Teutoburger Wald. That had been a different army altogether. He personally had killed five Romans during that battle, one of whom was a young tribune. He had taken distinct pleasure in gouging out the man’s eyes before beheading him. Never once did he imagine the Romans would lash out against them like this.
As he continued his stumbling run, the sounds of battle slowly faded into the distance. Still he forced his legs to work beyond the limits of his physical stamina and age. His legs ached, the veins in his head pulsed as sweat ran over his face, and his lungs screamed in agony.
Better this kind of pain than that of a Roman blade. He thought to himself.
Germanicus stopped his horse and surveyed the scene around him. Every German that had not fled the battle lay dead or dying on the field. Only his small contingent of cavalry was with him. All were breathing hard, covered in sweat, grime, and blood. Though the Germans had been routed, there were still enough of them to conduct a counterattack against his small force should they press out too far ahead of the main body. Germanicus gave an audible sigh. His men had pushed themselves so hard during the pursuit that they started to scatter.
“Sound recall,” he told the cornicen riding next to him. Reluctantly, he turned around and rode back to his legions as the cornicen sounded the notes on his horn, ordering the rest of the cavalry to do the same.
Germanicus smiled with pride as his army came into sight. All eight legions, along with their auxiliary counterparts, were arrayed in parade formation. He rode by their ranks, surveying his men. All stood solemnly, each man covered in crusted blood from the enemies they had slain. Yet every last one stood as noble and dignified as if they had just polished their armor and looked their parade best. To Germanicus, they looked magnificent! He rode to where a group of officers stood together at the center of the impressive formation. A centurion walked forward and handed Germanicus the spear of a slain Cherusci.
He gazed at the weapon, reveling in its significance. It was not well-crafted by any means. Really, it was little more than a six-foot wooden shaft with a sharpened stone tip strapped to the end. It was sturdy, though unbalanced. The lack of blood on the tip told Germanicus it had not served its owner well that day. He smiled at the thought as he turned the weapon over in his hands. This simple spear, devoid as it was of having killed a single Roman that day, was to Germanicus the ultimate symbol of their enemy’s defeat. He held the spear aloft and gazed upon his men.
“My friends…brothers in arms,” he began. “Today we have won a great victory. Today we can truly say the blood spilled by our comrades in Teutoburger Wald has been avenged. This weapon is a symbol of our vanquished enemy. We will take one from each of the tribes we fought and destroyed today. We will erect a trophy in honor of our victory, in the name of the Senate and the people of Rome, and in the name of the Emperor. Hail Caesar! Hail Tiberius!”
“Hail Caesar! Hail Tiberius!” The soldiers sounded off in return.
Twelve spears were separately inscribed with the names of the tribes they had fought. They were then stood upright and bound together. The trophy was paraded in front of the army, soldiers cheering loudly as it passed by them.
Haraxus watched from the cover of woods at the hated spectacle. The Romans were making a mockery of the bravery of their warriors! He turned and limped back through the woods.
Ingiomerus placed a damp cloth over the gash on Arminius’ face. Scattered warriors had started to return. They were occupying the stronghold that marked the border between Cherusci and Angrivarii territory. Many warriors bore injuries from the previous day’s fighting. All were somber. There was no drinking, no revelry. So many had died fighting the Romans, and so few could claim the honor of having killed even a single legionary.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Ingiomerus said as he tended to his nephew. “Your warriors fought bravely. This just was not their day. Their day of glory will come.”
Arminius sat in silence. At least his wounds did not hurt as they had the day before, and a skin of wine helped. However, the loss of blood left him dizzy and weak. He felt beaten. Haraxus ran up to where Arminius lay. He was out of breath, having run a great distance. He dropped to one knee before speaking.
“Oh, Arminius, War Chief of the Cherusci, I bear news from Idistaviso. The accursed Romans have made a spectacle of our dead and have erected a trophy made from the weapons of our slain.” Arminius rose up on one elbow, listening intently.
“A trophy you say?” Ingiomerus asked.
“Yes,” Haraxus answered. “It is inscribed with the names of every tribe that fought against them. They were parading it in front of their army when I left.”