Free The Wald by Jason Born Page A

pilot.  “Take us back.”
    But it was too late.
    The wald around him exploded into chaos.  Near silent death whistled out of the sky.  Eburwin, who had watched the action dumbly from atop his horse, slumped to the ground with a Roman javelin through his neck.  Berengar did not have the presence of mind to thank the gods of the glens and hills for granting his wish to be rid of the pompous fool, because it happened in such a perverted manner, but thankful he was.  Other men all along the shore began falling as they let loose spluttering blood from severed arteries and shrieks from torn mouths.
    Berengar and his men jumped into the water, weapons raised, before the boat had returned to shore.  To their left , they saw the unmistakable glint of Roman helmets in the blue light – thousands of helmets.
    . . .
    As they had trained to do hundreds of times, the legion had formed up into their battle line one-half mile from the tribesmen.  They then methodically and silently moved toward their prey.  It took much longer than they would have liked because of the forest and hillside leading up from the river, but their scouts had been correct.  The Sugambrians were occupied with hauling their men over the waters and therefore ignored their northern flank entirely.  Well, not entirely – the legion captured Berengar’s scouts and executed them among the roots of an old tree.  As a result, their temporary blindness would cost the Germans.
    Septimus couldn’t believe their good fortune.  The surprise attack across the river further drew the German attention in the wrong direction, allowing the legionaries to get closer than he thought possible.  His century, at the far right end of the far right cohort, had marched to within forty yards of the enemy without a single warning call.  After two more paces, the advance halted and the men of his century and all down the Roman line let loose their javelins as one.  It was at that moment when the terror-struck tribesmen looked his way, discovering that they would be slaughtered by the mightiest army the world had ever seen.
    A driving rain of heavy iron fell onto the invaders.  Men crumpled and howled.  One of the legionaries from Septimus’ century had just launched his javelin with such force that when it hit the man on the shabby horse by the river, it pushed directly through his neck, forcing him from the beast.  The dead man had only been on the ground for a single heartbeat when Septimus smiled with gritted teeth as the horse ran wild through the ranks of terrified tribesman, trampling at least ten that he could see.
    Septimus saw a thin boy splash his way out of the river using the flat of his sword to whip the nearest survivors into order.   The sight caused the centurion to check his battle clarity for just a moment.  He did not like killing children, but if one was foolish enough to take up arms against the emperor, then he would be put down.  The math was simple.
    Shouted orders came down from Drusus , who would be somewhere near the center of the line.  “Spears and shields.  Advance on me,” repeated Septimus to his men.  He heard the rattle of their armor and weapons as they prepared to execute the general’s, and therefore his, will.  The centurion looked to the left to time his order properly.  His friend Marcus Caelius commanded the century immediately adjacent to his own.  He could barely see the man’s eyes widen in the darkness as Marcus gave him a nod.
    “Advance!” all the centurions shouted , more or less in time.  No army that Septimus had ever seen could stand up to the menace of the Roman army as it closed.  The sight was the most terrifyingly beautiful in all the world.  It was more gorgeous than the dangerous curve of a woman’s hips that made him mad with excitement.  At that moment, the courage of the tribesmen would flee as they watched thousands of expertly trained, well-equipped killers marching on them to puncture them