Varus’ horse, his pride and joy for five years of campaign, snapped its neck instantly as the front legs disappeared into the hole and the head hit the turf opposite. Varus, his mind reeling hopelessly, was thrown from the four-horned saddle and hurled several yards up the gentle slope. His world exploded in a white-hot burst of pain and shock. As he cart-wheeled over and over before coming to a painful halt, he saw flashes of his men disappearing into the disguised pits alongside the screams of men and horses both.
With a crash, he came to rest. Experience and professionalism took over and he found his feet, despite the pain of his various cuts and grazes, what felt like a dislocated right shoulder, and almost certain concussion. He had fared better than some of the men he could see as he stumbled, spinning in pain and confusion, to his feet. His eyes scouted the turf nearby, searching for the sword that momentum had snatched from his grasp. No sign of it, but his gaze latched onto the discarded blade of one of his companions. He stumbled towards it and bent to retrieve it with his left arm. The first wave of cavalry had now passed, some number falling foul of the hidden pits, but many more passing them and engaging the enemy. The second wave thundered up behind and slowed enough to avoid falling foul of the same obstacles as the first.
Varus turned and tried to take in the entire situation. This was one almighty screw-up… Fronto had been right with his bad feeling. These Nervii knew exactly what they were doing and were more than prepared. What should have been a cavalry charge that shattered the resolve of the front line of the enemy had, instead, turned into a bloodbath, the surviving members of the first wave of attack now being systematically unhorsed with long spears and, where that was not possible, the Nervii and their allies were simply butchering the horses beneath the riders.
Varus spun around at a loud ‘crack’ and fresh horror overcame him. To the left and right the enemy had pushed aside wicker screens at the edge of the woodland to reveal massive tree trunks lying along the crest of the hill. A rolling tree trunk could do enough damage, but Varus realised with cold dread that the architects of this nightmare had left the sharpened stumps of all the branches attached, creating a rolling mass of spikes that even now had begun its inexorable descent toward the river. The second wave of attack foundered instantly, the officers shouting directions that were being entirely ignored by the men. Those who could were making for the far left and right flanks to try and evade the rolling nightmares. Others crowded into the killing zone at the centre, where they were butchered by the enemy infantry as they neared the crest.
Varus turned to start crying out orders and found himself face to face with a warrior at least a foot taller than himself and as much again broader across the shoulder. The barbarian raised a huge Celtic blade to strike down at the cavalry officer.
The commander lifted his unfamiliar, stolen blade in an arm unused to wielding a weapon in an attempt to block, and the sheer force of the blow ran down his arm to the shoulder, numbing the joints. He flexed his right hand and tried to roll the shoulder, wondering whether he could change sword-arm, but that one was most definitely out of action. Staggering back, he almost dropped the blade again. Lights and colours were still flashing behind his eyes. He really was in no fit state to fight.
The man raised the great sword once again, this time for a massive overhead strike that would likely shatter Varus’ own before continuing its descent and separating him in two. In a flash of instinct, the cavalry commander lashed out with his foot, delivering the man a hard blow in the groin.
Shock suddenly filled the man’s eyes, yet, while Varus waited for him to drop the blade and double over, the barbarian gritted his teeth and fought the pain, once more raising the great blade.
‘What the hell were these people made of?’ he thought to himself as he stepped back. The man advanced on him again, the sword still raised high. Another step back. Varus was beginning to panic. He had no idea what was going on behind him and what he was backing towards, unwilling as he was to take his eyes from his assailant.
There was the distinct possibility he might walk straight back into the pit down which his poor horse had gone…
He smiled grimly.
“Alright, you bastard. Come with me.”
As the barbarian growled and once more stepped close enough to bring the blade down, Varus slipped out of his reach yet again. The man was beginning to become vexed and yet, the commander had to give him credit, had not only overcome Varus’ unpleasant attack, but had held enough discipline to keep his blade raised, rather than madly swinging down at a man who was keeping just out of reach.
Back another step; back another step; back another step…
And suddenly Varus’ heel came down with nothing under it. Had he been unprepared, he would have toppled back into the pit, but that was not the case; he was very prepared. He regained his balance as the great barbarian smiled a horrible smile at him and begun to swing his blade downwards.
Ignoring the agony in his arm, Varus threw himself forward and into a roll, directly between the man’s legs. Lucky he was such a big fellow, really. The warrior staggered, trying to counterbalance the momentum of the swing that was now suddenly carrying him forward into the pit by arching his body backwards.
With a vicious smile, Varus came out of his roll, standing poised. Years of falling from horses had trained the commander exactly how to control a fall and a roll. In a matter of a heartbeat he had gone smoothly from standing in front of the warrior to standing behind him.
The Nervian swordsman glanced in surprise over his shoulder.
“In you go.”
With hardly any force, Varus gently pushed at the point between the man’s shoulder blades. With a squawk, the great warrior disappeared into the deep hole. Varus turned and looked at the chaos around him. It was odd. The Belgae had not pressed the attack, but were now picking off those cavalry who were still fighting at the top, and thrusting their long spears into the wounded Romans on the ground. They were making no attempt to advance down the slope toward the river.
Perhaps they were fighting a defensive strategy? Waiting to see what the Roman infantry across the river would do.
Realising that the space around him was opening up, he scoured the grass until he found a fallen cavalry spear, which he collected before turning and heading back to the pit.
The warrior, bruised and irritated, was using the carcass of Varus’ horse to start his climb out of the hole.
With immense satisfaction, Varus reached the edge, raised the familiar thrusting spear, and brought it down as hard as he could. The leaf-shaped blade entered the barbarian in the ‘V’ between shoulder and collar bone, and pushed deep through the interior of the man’s torso, reappearing just above the other hip in a spray of blood.
The man actually looked astonished. Again, Varus found himself wondering what these Nervii were made of.
Leaving the spear protruding from the dying man as he uttered his rustling death rattle, Varus grasped his sword and took in the situation with a professional eye. Fronto had obviously been prepared to support the cavalry for, though the legions were already heaving sods of earth around across the river, the auxiliary units of archers that seemed to be the legate’s pet units these days had taken position on the far bank and were firing off missiles that were, despite the incline and the distance, remarkably accurate, ringing off Belgic helmets and thudding into Nervian shields.