Militarily, I suppose it was a great success. The slaughter was appalling, for as the men we had hidden in the woods moved in for the kill, the enemy packed on the road itself were unable to fight back. We, the cavalry, had served our purpose. All we had to do now was watch and wait for any attempt at retreat that came our way.
At first there were about a dozen, perhaps a score of men who fled back from the tunnel of death that awful road had become. They stopped when they saw us waiting for them.
While they were in no immediate danger, their numbers grew until there were perhaps two hundred of them in a great knot on the road, half-way between the woods and us. After a time, the fugitives from the tunnel grew fewer, until the flow ceased completely. At first, rather than face us, a number of them tried desperately to escape through the bogs on either side of the road, but the man who travelled furthest made less than a hundred steps before he fell for the last time. He had been wearing garish red and green, but he was ho more than a black blob by the time he vanished. I turned to Achmed Cato, my lieutenant.
"How many, do you think?"
"Two hundred, perhaps three? Hard to count, Commander."
"Say three hundred. Out of three thousand." I watched them, remembering Publius Varrus. "Are you a Christian, Cato?"
"Aye, Commander, in Camulod."
"What do you mean?" I looked at him. "Not here?"
He grinned, embarrassed. "Mithras is the soldier's god, Commander. He has not let me down in battle yet."
"I know what you mean. Christianity can be uncomfortable when it comes to killing. Sometimes I think the Druids have the right of it. Their gods are not so prickly. They seem older, somehow, easier to live with." I remembered Uncle Varrus's description of his own dilemma as he faced three bound Hibernians on a stony beach. They were defenceless, but vicious and dangerous. To kill them would be murder, according to .his Christian faith, but if he released them they would surely murder others, and he could not take them with him. I faced three hundred now, and I had no archers poised on the cliffs above me to relieve me from the responsibility of making a choice. I spoke again to Cato. "I wonder if the Christian Church will ever breed soldiers among its ranks?" He looked at me as if I had gone mad. He had no idea of what was in my mind. "Cato," I went on, "these men are going to come to us. I don't want to kill them, but we cannot take three hundred prisoners."
"Then let them fight, Commander."
"They may have no fight left in them. They don't look too belligerent right now."
"Take them as slaves, then."
"To Camulod? We have no slaves, and no need of them. Slaves are a sickness. Have the trumpeters get me attention." Murder is a sickness, too, my mind was telling me, and killing these men would be murder. Even if they chose to fight, they were dead before they started. I wondered how many had got out on the other side of the woods and how they were faring.
A single trumpet blast gave me every man's attention. I raised my voice. "On the next signal, you will form up on me and make a circle, open on the bogs. These men will enter the circle. I want it one man deep. If they choose to fight, every second man from my left and right will immediately form up in three arrowhead formations, one behind me, one behind Lieutenant Cato and one behind Lieutenant Maripo. Those men will identify themselves now." Amid the stir of interest as the troopers counted themselves off from my left and right, I turned my horse around, telling Cato and Maripo to come with me, and rode back until I was a good seventy paces from the point where the road emerged from the bog onto firm ground. I nodded to the trumpeter and another blast started my men forming around me as I had ordered.
"Maripo," I said, "I want you over to my right there, half-way from me to the end of the line. Take position thirty paces back from the circle. Cato, you do the same on my left." I nodded to the trumpeter again and another blast brought all attention back to me. I raised my voice again. "Once the arrowheads have formed, two more blasts will be the signal for those still left in the circle to break to the rear immediately and form up behind my arrow. I want a block formation there, four ranks of fifty. Once the block is formed, I will move my formation to the right, clearing the ground, is that clear?" I saw heads nodding. They understood me. I raised my voice even higher. "I want to intimidate these people, but not to fight them unless we have to. If any of them try to attack a section of the circle while the arrowheads are being formed, that section will fall back and try to avoid them without allowing them to escape. Remember they are on foot. They will have to run to you.
"We will wait here for them. No talking. No movement. Let them see our discipline." I turned to the trooper who sat behind me on my right, bearing my new standard. "Come with me." I kicked my horse forward into the forefront of the circle and sat there, waiting, for I could see activity among the group at the head of the knot of men on the roadway. Eventually an enormous man who, I could see from even this far away, towered head and shoulders above his fellows, stepped forward and began to advance purposefully towards me. His companions fell in behind him and I sat there and watched them approach.
The rogue walked proudly, and as he drew closer I could see that he was clean-shaven, which surprised me, for those of his people I had encountered before had all worn full beards or luxuriant moustaches. As he drew nearer still, however, I was shocked to see the reason for his lack of facial hair. He was only a boy! A huge boy, but still a mere stripling in age. He had a barbaric splendour about him, too, in a tunic of yellow, bordered with red, a breastplate of bronze on his massive chest and fur leggings tied around his thick calves. He wore an armlet of beaten gold on his left arm above the wrist, and the gold tore of a Celtic chief about his neck. A longish sword hung from a belt slung crosswise from his right shoulder.
When he reached the edge of the bog between the furthest points of the horns of my ring of men, he stopped and looked around the ring from left to right, all the way, before allowing his eyes to return to me. His face held no expression. The men behind him had stopped when he did. None of them moved a muscle. To my right a horse snorted loudly and stomped, fly-bitten. The silence stretched, and then he reached behind him and unslung a battle axe. He swung it gently in his right hand and caught the shaft in his left, just behind the head. He moved forward again, stopping about twelve paces in front of me while his men fanned out behind him, forming a solid half-circle facing my own. He had obviously issued his orders before approaching. His eyes had not left mine.
"So," he said. "It is time for us all to die, it seems." His eyes were filled with scorn as he looked from me around the circle of my men. "You'll find us not too shy about taking company with us."
I realized with surprise that he spoke in his own tongue and that I understood him easily. Some of his words were pronounced differently, the intonation was different, but the basic language was the same as that of Uric's people. I chose my next words carefully and spoke back to him in his own tongue. "If you wish to die, we can accommodate you quickly," I said. "But .ask yourself first if it is really necessary."
His jaw dropped in astonishment. It was obvious that he had been talking to himself before.
"How does a Roman turd like you come to speak the Tongue of Kings?"
"The Tongue of Kings? The Romans call it the tongue of the Outlanders, that I know. But we are not Romans."
His brow creased momentarily and his eyes flickered uncertainly over my armour and trappings. "Not Romans? What does that mean? You dress like Romans. You act like Romans. Who are you, then,' if you are not Romans?"