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Not long after the Roman army marched, four hunters were gathered at the spot where the legates and senior tribunes decided their course of action. Three were in agreement that the main force of the Romans went north, while the fourth was convinced the northern departure was a feint, or at worst a flanking move for the warhost they knew must be following them.
Udo and the kings rode forward. The hunters told their beliefs.
“Why do you think the main force went east, while your fellows say north?” he asked of the stubborn one.
“It makes no sense, lord,” the hunter replied. “They must know we trail them. They must know we will catch them. Yet they break their forces in twain. Many, many go off to the north, while this narrow, but very deep trail, heads west. Methinks more went west than north, lord. The depth of the tracks tells me this.”
Udo scoffed. “Maybe you are right, hunter, but it makes no difference. Those going west threaten none, while those striking off north do. There is a village not too far from there, to the north.”
Udo looked to his fellow kings, who nodded at the wisdom. Those heading west may be caught later- they bring no harm. Better to catch and flay those who can hurt the Bructeri.
“We go north.”
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“The village is there, lord,” a Batavian reported. “And it has people inside. Two men stand by the gates, another patrols the walls. And the rest, with women, move about.”
“Is the gate open or shut?” Nigidius asked. When the Batavian said they were open, he added, “I’ve got a few men who can put an arrow through an apple at a hundred paces. If you wish, legate, I can have them kill those guards before they close the gate.”
“And I can lead the horsemen inside to prevent others from taking over their duties,” Dieter added. “Leaving you with the task of getting the cohorts up and in to support us.”
“A good plan,” Rutilius agreed. “Execute it. Nigidius, give your experts to Dieter, who will bring them close. I will follow with the infantry. When we hear the thunder of your charge, Dieter, we will begin our run.”
“Understood,” the Batavian acknowledged. He picked up the marines and rode quietly forward while the legate briefed his centurions. Then the cohorts followed the cavalry.
Nigidius was neither kidding nor bragging about the abilities of his sharpshooters. Three archers shot two arrows at each target from just inside the woodline, two hundred paces away. Each of the sentries died with at least three arrows in them. As the last volley was loosed, the Batavians kicked their horses to the gallop, signaling the infantry to begin their run.
It was over before it began. The Bructeri had not been expecting an assault, though they had been ready for an eventual siege. The men were cut down as they bolted from their homes and shops with weapons in hand, and any who approached the gates found himself trampled or slashed down. Then the cohorts were entering, sealing their doom. Within the space of ten short minutes, the village of Low Meadow was in Roman hands.
“Search it,” the legate ordered. “Minucius, gather up the villagers. We will take any men with us, but release the women and children when we leave. So bind the men well, and have somebody fix a small supply of food for the survivors.”
“Can our men enjoy the women before we release them?” he asked hopefully.
Rutilius shook his head. “I don’t want them coming back and selling their own spawn into slavery. Besides, I don’t want to be here that long. Smash and grab, then bolt. We have a warhost on our tail, remember.”
The tribune nodded. How could he have forgotten that? “I’ll tell the men.”
Dieter rode up. “We suffered a few cuts, but the surprise and speed of the assault kept us from losing anyone. I count twenty Bructeri dead, another thirty three men being bound as we speak.”
Ten minutes later Minucius reported back. It was indeed a small village. “It is a small haul, sixty hovels and a few workplaces. We recovered some trinkets, some hacksilver, and a few decorated weapons, but nothing making this place worth our while.”
“It will serve,” Rutilius retorted. “The loot is not much, but it will not slow us down. We’ll take it with us.”
“A lot of grain though, legate,” Minucius added. “Too much for such a small village. One would think they were hoarding.”
“Have the cohorts start moving out,” Rutilius ordered, ”Circle past the village gate three times, then head north for a mile before sweeping west to rejoin our comrades. Last centurion out the gate will be Lampranius. He is to release the female captives then set this place on fire. I don’t want that grain feeding the warhost chasing us.”
“Aye lord,” Municius acknowledged. “Circle three times, head north one mile, then west. Lampranius and his century last, they release and burn. The circling I assume is to mislead the survivors?”
Rutilius nodded. “They may be prisoners, but they can still count. I want them to see at least fifteen cohorts march by.”
“And have someone who speaks our tongue tell them Nevel got them freed before we go to the river,” Dieter added. He turned to Rutilius and added, “Maybe if they think their spy is with us, it will give them some caution.”
“But you would tell them our destination,” Rutilius countered. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“Doubtless they have found their spy dead in the ruins of that camp,” Dieter reminded him. “Thus the name and destination. They will hear the one and deny the other as a false lead. It may buy us some extra time while they figure it out. If they do not, then, well, they will follow us anyway.”
“Good idea,” the legate agreed. He turned his horse toward the gate and signaled the marines to start their move.
An hour later, a black plume feathered the green canopy of the forest.
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The pillar of smoke was seen through the trees at a clearing.
“They are several miles ahead,” Ulfrich noted. “If we hurry, we can catch them.”
Udo, by his side, shook his head. “If we hurry, they will kill us, like last time. We have almost caught them, and they are still far from Father Rhein. Patience, my brother, patience.”
Ricgard rode up, pointing to the plume of black in the evening sky. “One of your villages?”
Udo nodded. “Low Meadow, about seventy families. Half of the men who live there are in this warhost. The rest were there, in their homes.”
“Condolences,” Ricgard offered. “Shall we hurry?”
Ulfrich explained why they should be patient, as Udo had explained it to him. The Chauci nodded at the wisdom, then looked back to the angry plume. And saw movement.
“Women,” he said, identifying the movement. “It looks like somebody got away.”
Horsemen were dispatched and the survivors brought to the kings. Each told the same tale, and as more survivors were found and brought, they too repeated the tale. The Romans came with eighteen cohorts, three legions all told, and utterly destroyed Low Meadow. The commander wanted to murder them all, including the women, but a Germanic officer intervened and begged to spare them. They were told that Nevel had spared them, and to tell the kings the Romans were heading to the river.
“It looks like your three hunters were correct- the legions went north,” Calor said as he heard yet again a survivor repeat the same tale. “When do you think we will catch them?”
“Soon,” Udo said, looking at the ground. “We shall catch them soon, but not by the river. They are going north. The river is a ruse.”
“How so?” Ricgard asaked. “It makes the most sense, and your own man said so.”
“I do not see how that is possible,” Udo retorted, “since Ulfrich found him dead in the ruins of a Roman camp days before our last battle. Fredrik was with him. No, this Roman is clever. He brings his legions north, knowing we must follow, then lets valuable female slaves ‘escape’ to bring us the word of Nevel that he goes west? I do not think so.”
“Nor do I,” Ricgard said with a nod. “It is a ruse indeed. They intend to go north, but wish us to believe they go west.”
“The waters of the Yssel are low,“ Ulfrich added. ”They might be able to simply march across it back to Batavi territory, or construct rafts and float across. Batavians would know this, and Batavians have been seen in the Roman warhost.”
“It makes sense,” Calor agreed. Ricgard nodded as well.
Udo completed the vote. “We go north. In two days we should catch them just before the banks of the Yssel come into sight. There we kill them, all three legions.”
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Gnaeus Messala was never so glad to see a rickety bridge as he was to see the Bridge of Cordinus. Nor was he particularly saddened to see a fleet of river vessels on each side of the bridge, ready to begin ferrying the legions across.
The lack of German pressure made the evacuation a mere exercise in logistics. The wounded were put in the ships, while the VI
Victrix took up a simple defense around the bridgehead. The green cohorts of the X Gemina passed through them to stand upon the other side of the bridge, while the baggage mules under Milus went across and passed through them. Then the XXI Rapax passed through, and finally the VI Victrix.
“Shall we leave the bridge up for Rutilius?” asked Amensius. “Or do we cut it loose and let the fleet bring him over.”
Messala looked to the bridge and thought hard. Both courses of action had their advantages and disadvantages. In the end, the advantages of leaving it standing won out.
“We leave it up,” he said. “Let Marcus make the decision to destroy it or not. His Batavians and marines can swim the river, but any wounded could not. Let’s leave him the option.”
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The appearance of the five cohorts of the X Gemina and one of marines six miles north of the bridge two days later was a bit of an anti-climax. They came out of the deep woods, saw the river, spied Castra Vetera upriver, and began moving toward it. The sentries at Vetera saw the movement, and reported to the legates. Ships were dispatched, and the marines, the prisoners, and two cohorts were duly picked up. The rest marched quietly to the bridgehead, their caligae still soggy from the hour spent marching through the cold stream north of the village, and crossed back into Roman territory.
Rutilius and his Batavians took one last glance at the deep, dark, and placid forest before they too crossed back to Roman lands.
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A day’s travel north of the bridge, Udo was cursing as his hunters once again reported no sign of the Roman legions. It was as if they crossed the muddy stream north of Low Meadow and simply disappeared into the water.
“They got away,” he cursed to his brother. “That bastard got away from us again.”
Ulfrich had other things running through his mind. The Witch. She was wrong. Rutilius came, two Rutilii came, yet both were driven back across the Rhein like whipped curs. Their coming had hurt the Bructeri, true, but the remainder were stronger than before. Both he and his brother lived. He looked out across the open clearing toward where Father Rhein flowed toward the sea. A cold shiver ran down his spine. The Witch was never wrong. “He’ll be back, brother. We humiliated him. He will most definitely be back.”
Ricgard nodded, as did Calor of the Marsi. “And when they come, my brothers, we shall be here with you, waiting.”
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Here ends Part II- Tyroes in the Forest.
Part III- Downs and Ups- will commence in about a week. Enjoy.[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 02-16-2010 @ 06:21 AM).]