Later that night his scouts informed him that the Saxons had also made camp and were no more than five miles distant.
Casca conferred with Glam and they both agreed that it would probably be at least midday before the Saxons reached their positions. Glam was, as always, ready for whatever would come. He honed down the edge of his sword and axe, stuffed half a lamb down his gullet, and went to sleep, snoring and wheezing. One thing about Glam that old bastard didn't seem to have a conscience or a worry about anything. Nothing ever interfered with his eating or sleeping unless it was a quick roll with some sweet young maiden who wanted an experience to remember by coupling with a human bear.
The day broke clear and sharp, ground fog hugging the low spots and hiding in the hollows of the valleys. Before long, it would burn off, leaving the field clear for this day's bloody work. Casca rose with the sun and dressed.
One thing he had learned a long time ago-don't make yourself stand out. Men who affected fancy dress or even armor that was too different from the mass of the men, suffered higher casualty rates. They became selected targets and he had no desire to have a dozen axes and spears coming his way at one time. No, he was a barbarian with the conical helmet with horns. True, he wore his breastplate, but kept it well-hidden under a tunic of gray wolf skin. He kept his short sword in its scabbard for now. A broad-bladed axe, like the one he had killed Ragnar with, would be of more use this day in battering through the wicker shields of the Saxons. He called his captains to him after they had eaten their morning ration of meat and grain.
To Glam he assigned command of the right flank with orders to hold there for his signal unless he saw the center, which he would command, breaking. The left he gave to the proud young warrior, Sifrit, who looked the part of a Nordic hero, blond shoulder-length hair and eyes the color of high mountain lakes. His face was unscarred by battle, not because he had avoided fights but because he was good enough that he won them before he got all cut up. The young man wasted no time on theatrics. When it came to killing, he was all business.
Casca wished he might have had a few of the engines of war that were standard issue in the legions; even a couple of arbalests would have been a comfort. Old Corio could have built them. But his rough crew was not ready to handle such sophisticated weapons of destruction. It would be all he could do to keep them in their positions long enough for the Saxons to fall into his trap. It was probably best, after all, to arm them with the weapons they were most familiar with. He felt he was lucky that he had managed to get a dozen of his young men to take up the use of the bow. Most of the tribes of Germania disdained the use of it, claiming the sword, spear, and axe were the only weapons for a man. That type of thinking had cost them more than one battle. Honor is a fine thing so long as it doesn't get you killed.
He called over the two teenage warriors he had selected as his trumpeters. They only knew three calls: a long blast on the ox horn, two short blasts, and three short blasts. Casca had remarked more than once to Glam that communications were more often than not the secret to success in battle. The leader that could get his orders to his troops the fastest had the best chance of success. If only man had some way to communicate instantly with his forces… but that was likely never to be.
The field was silent. Small animals had taken to their borrows; the larger ones had fled far away. Even the birds were silent, staying in the branches of the trees or in their nests. They knew somehow that violence would soon break the silence. Casca often wondered how the dumb beasts could anticipate the actions of man. But they knew. More than once the sound of silence had warned him of an enemy's approach.
And it would be soon now. The last of the scouts were racing across the field. The Saxons wouldn't be far behind. One of the scouts leaped over the camouflaged trench and saluted Casca. "They come, lord. Led by Hrolthar Bluetooth."
Casca laughed at the name. Bluetooth. These Nordics took things literally and named themselves so. Hrolthar did indeed have a tooth that had died and turned dark in color, sitting right in the front of his mouth.
Glam whistled and pointed with his long sword to the far edge. The leading elements of the Saxons were coming out of the trees, first one, then another. They were big hard men with the look of those who enjoyed slaughter. Most, like his own men, had only bare skin for armor. They were a little fairer in color than his own men and more of them were blond or red-headed. All affected beards or long sweeping mustaches that reached below their chins. Only the young men who did not have enough years to grow face hair were clean-chinned.
Casca had wanted his men to shave, but an order like that could have caused rebellion, even after he'd explained how handy a beard was for an enemy to grab onto and hold a man down while he beat his brains out. But it was no use-they had such an affection for hair on the face that it was best to leave it alone. Maybe he could do something about it later with the younger men. Right now they could have their way. It was worse to give an order you couldn't enforce than not to give one at all.
Glam and the other captains had smiled in anticipation as they understood the reason for Casca ordering the women to make up large wicker shields. They were large enough to cover two men, but light enough for one to hold. They made sure their men also understood the use of them and would wait for the command. And the time would be soon.
Chapter Thirteen
Casca called out to pass the word to get ready. The five-foot-tall wicker shields were laid facedown in front of the first rank. He had only two ranks. The men in the rear were all armed with lances and boar spears to protect the first, who would have their hands full soon enough.
Glam, on the right, signaled his readiness, as did Sifrit on the left. Casca looked carefully at the faces of those who were in battle for the first time. They were bright faces of young men, unscarred and handsome. He knew what they were feeling, what caused the slight tremor of the sword arm, the sudden small beads of sweat on the upper lip and brow.
He knew well the feelings that always come before a fight, but they would pass. With the first thrown spear or axe, they would pass, and these young men would do good service this day as young men have always done in their first fights when well-led and not uselessly sacrificed. He knew too that many of these clean, bright faces would be gashed, bloody, and still before the next hour passed. That was the sadness of war. These young men would never sire sons to carry on. All they would leave behind would be their fathers and mothers to mourn for them. But he also knew they would not have it any other way. To be left out of the fight was worse than the threat of death. How many millions had died in the name of some honor that would soon be forgotten in a few years? But without honor, what else did man have to distinguish him from the beasts? Bad as honor could be, it would be worse to have none.
The Saxons were setting up their ranks. There was no sense or order to them, just a thick mass of men on the far side of the clearing, waiting for the word to attack. Then they would rush. A large warrior stepped forth and bellowed across the field, "Is the Roman with you, or has he fled back to the pigpens that sired him?" Casca stepped out a bit from the straight line of his rank. "I'm here."
Casca knew the Saxons had been marching since dawn; it would be best if he could get them to attack now, before they had a chance to rest.
"Is that Hrolthar Bluetooth trying to speak like a man? Aye, it must be, though I'm too far away to see your rotten tooth. The stench of decay that reaches me must be coming from your mouth. If you have the nerve to come a little closer to me, I'll close that cesspool forever."