“Push hard and push right. Try and join up with the Seventh!”
Sending some of the cavalry who were free of the melee toward the right hand side, Varus began to push for the main mass of Ariovistus’ force.
As the Roman infantry finally hit the front line, the cavalry in the centre disengaged and moved to the sides to join Varus and Crassus. The infantry reserve, led by Quintus Tullius Cicero, smashed into the Germans like a hammer on an anvil. The power with which they hit threw many a German rider from his horse and Ariovistus’ men finally gave ground, unable to bear the weight of such a heavy force.
Separated now by the infantry reserve, the two cavalry forces on the left fought independently, Varus pushing for the centre of the field and the main mass of the enemy, Crassus harrying their flank and pushing them from the field.
Varus caught only one more glimpse of his commander as Crassus, his shiny white and bronze armour now stained and spattered with blood and gore, wheeled his horse and fought off a German spearman. The man finally looked like the soldier he should be as far as Varus was concerned.
As the German cavalry finally gave, riders at the back fleeing the field, accompanied by their footmen, Varus could see the mass of the Seventh Legion only ten yards away.
“Let the reserves deal with the centre. We need to clear these bastards away from the edge, then we can start work on their infantry; give our lads a bit of a break.”
He looked around. The mass of German cavalry was now well and truly broken. The rear half of them had turned and were fleeing for their lives. Footmen were being trampled as their cavalry escaped. Those that were left at the front were no longer even attempting to push forward; they fought for their life and nothing less.
On the very edge of the field he could see Crassus’ men harrying the fleeing cavalry. They were already half way off the battlefield in their pursuit.
“What the hell’s he doing now? The battle’s still happening!”
Returning his attention to the task at hand, he spotted a small knot of German riders at the rear of the enemy cavalry, jeering at their companions as they fled. They were surrounded by footmen with long spears, but they wore a great deal of gold and bejewelled and decorative armour. Blinking at a close call from a German spear and retaliating without even thinking, he shouted above the din to his unit.
“There are chieftains at the back. Push for them… I want prisoners!”
As he kicked his horse forward, a number of his regulars and a host of Gaulish auxiliaries joined him. It was tough and bloody work hacking their way through the remaining milling cavalry, but slowly and relentlessly they closed on the small knot of German commanders. Varus couldn’t believe his luck. It was very unlikely Ariovistus was among them, but to take captive chieftains was not only a very lucrative move on a battlefield, but would also break the Germans’ spirit and increase the likelihood of a permanent surrender.
As the last horsemen in front of them broke away or died, Varus and his small unit reached a charge and spread out enough to allow a sword swing. He had to give credit to their opponents. The chieftains did not run, merely readying their weapons for combat. The footmen, presumably their own guard, levelled their long spears. As he bore down upon them, Varus recognised the danger. The bristling long spears would wreak havoc with a charge. Pulling hard on the reins, Varus stopped in his tracks, shouting out a halt to the rest of the unit. The regular cavalrymen reined in sharply after their commander, as did many of the auxilia. Some of the Gauls, eager and undisciplined charged straight at the group.
Varus turned his head away from the grisly sight. He hated to waste men or horses. Both were valuable.
Glancing around, he could see the situation was turning grave for the German chieftains. To his left the reserve force and a few of the cavalry were driving the German wing from the field. To his right, the German mass was being forced back into the ‘U’ of their wagons. Varus turned and lowered his blade.
“Do any of you speak Latin?”
One of the horsemen manoeuvred his horse out ahead of the others.
“I talk little.”
Varus nodded.
“You are finished here. Over. Understand?”
The German grinned a defiant grin.
“Many of us. Much left.”
Varus shook his head.
“You are finished. Surrender now. There’s no need for you all to throw away your lives. Surrender and I’ll guarantee I will do my best to see that you return to your lands across the Rhine.”
There was a great deal of conferring among the barbarians, and then the spokesman stepped his horse further forward.
“We not surrender to you. You fight us.”
Varus sighed. So much for diplomacy. He called out a number of orders very quickly in Latin; too quick, he hoped, for the German to have followed him. Behind him the regulars and some of the Gauls formed up with their swords at the ready. The rest of the auxiliaries moved out to the edge and levelled their spears.
“One more time. We don’t need the bloodshed. Will you surrender?”
The barbarian chieftain merely snarled in response and threw his horse forward into a charge. Varus, disciplined as always, waited for the man, neatly sidestepped his mount and swung with his sword. The Chieftain continued on between the regular cavalry as he slowly topped forward over his horse’s mane and then slid from the saddle and bounced along the ground before coming to a rest finally in a broken and painful position.
Varus turned back to his men.
“Release!”
The Gaulish auxiliaries cast their spears in unison at the footmen protecting the chieftains. As many of the missiles struck home, the protective ring around the men fell away.
Varus held the chieftains in his gaze. Without a glance at his men, he gave the order in a low, quiet voice.
“Take them.”
Varus merely sat astride his horse, viscera still running down the blade of his sword and dripping to the turf. The cavalry swarmed past on either side, bearing down on the chieftains, intent on destruction. Varus knew when to take the lead and when to let his men off the leash. There were times when soldiers needed a free hand to take out their anger and hatred over the loss of comrades or personal injuries. He looked up only once at the destruction ahead of him. Afterward they would loot the bodies and carry the gold back to their camp for their own personal funds. Such was the way of things. Varus would go back empty handed and face the judgement he’d called down. For all Crassus’ change, Varus had disobeyed orders and had insulted a senior officer, and was under no misconception of what that would mean.
As his eyes gradually focused on the grisly scene, he noticed something he hadn’t been able to see between the horses and the men. A Roman. A man in a military tunic among the few survivors still fighting for their lives against his men. A momentary worry caught him and he called out at the top of his voice; a halt to the fighting.
As the cavalry drew back, surprised, the three remaining German warriors took the opportunity to drop their swords and surrender. Between them the Roman stood, his tunic dirty and bloody and torn, his arms tied together behind him. Varus rode forward, gesturing to his men to deal with the prisoners. He frowned at the Roman.
“Who are you?”
The man struggled to stand proud, though painfully and was still hampered by the way his arms were tied.