Slugbaby
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The following essay is based on the events of 9AD when three Roman Legions were massacred in the Wiehengebirge forest.
TERROR AMID THE TREES
I hate the trees! They tower menacingly above my position like the mighty closed ranks of a faceless foe; their knitted canopy screens the whisper of sunlight that miraculously escapes the sullen clouds. The accompanying odour is alien to me, somewhat bitter and quite unlike the sweet fragrance of the trees of my youth; a mix of olive and orange grown attentively in groves and always uniform and in order. The trees here are wild and grow amid steep banks and deep cleft ravines. I hate the trees! Not all trees, but these trees; these Pines and firs. Horrid trees that are in league with the wildness of this hellish far flung nightmare. Over these past three days the cold heavy rain as merely aided the hideous trap into which we hopelessly stumbled.
Our legions had been tasked with the collection of taxes; concentrating our efforts along the villages to the north of the mighty Teutoburg forest. Our Germanic auxiliaries; mainly cavalry troops, were acting as guides and it was on their advise that the three legions had been split into cohort sized groups. Each cohort would help combat the many bandits rumoured to be terrorising the tribes centred around Kalkriese in an area known as Wiehengebirge.
Of the three legions, the XVII, the XVIII and my own the XIX only I now remained alive. Spread out over a thirty mile route our barbarian guides had led us into a terrible trap. Our sense of invincibility along with our commander’s greed combined in a disaster of monumental proportions. Over 16,500 legionaries and 10,000 of our camp followers now lay butchered amid these torturous trees.
Our journey had been a difficult venture and as usual the cohorts lived up to the axiom ‘Marius’ Mules.’ Between marching and hauling we had doubled as loggers and builders; constructing the countless bridges required to allow the continuous train of wagons to roll onward.
In the thickest of the forest the difficult ground suddenly embraced a new storm. A watery downpour only added to the already treacherous footing; resulting in a slowing of the pace and the increase of each poor soldiers labour. The gods had surely abandoned us in this realm of Woden and the storm had quickly transformed into a frenzied creation of clap and bolt. Amid dull light, cold heavy rain and falling branches confusion reigned. A worse storm could not be imagined; yet the mayhem born of angry gods was nothing compared to the demons that spilled from the trees.
In moments a mass of wretched bodies spilled from the dark boughs of these terrible trees. Huge screaming fair haired warriors rushed from every quarter taking us totally unawares. The ferocity of their assault was overwhelming, and few of us even had chance to hurl our pila before they were upon us. A cohorts discipline came from our cohesion and ability to close ranks, yet here in the confined spaces between the trees we were broken. Unable to link or react to the sudden onslaught each man fought alone against incredible odds. For three days and nights the battle raged. All along the 30 mile column cohorts and camp followers alike met their untimely end on the edge of a barbarian axe.
I had been lucky; hammered into the ground on the underside of my scutum. I had collapsed under the mighty blows delivered by the assault of some wild giant. Suffering only from a slight concussion, I had been left for dead as the battle moved on. Dazed and confused I inched my way toward an area of fresh deadfall and prayed none would find me.
When finally I recovered from the stunning blows I emerged sheepishly from my hiding place; my mind full of shame. I felt like a coward: a feeling amplified by the vision of chaos that remained where my cohort and their followers had found their bloody demise. I uncontrollably heaved and convulsed, as I manoeuvred over the splayed entrails of my dismembered comrades. The heart wrenching sight was more than any man should endure and it was hard to comprehend how these barbarians could commit such atrocities.
Suddenly alone I cursed Publius Quinctilius Varus for his greed. He had treated these unconquered people like subjects of Rome. They had complied but only because he was always backed by strong legions. Our complacencies had allowed Arminius to bide his time and lead us to our annihilation at the hands of the Cherusi tribe. The Emperor would be livid; Augustus had already lost his stepson Drusas in 9BC after gaining a foot hold along the river Elbe. Drusas’ brother Tiberius had replaced him and by 5BC the areas leading to the Elbe had all fallen to Roman rule. It was now September 9AD and with so many years of turmoil wasted on the attempted civilisation of these Germanic tribes this loss would undoubtedly rank high amongst Rome’s darkest hours.
Discarding my lorica-segmenta and helmet in an effort to de-Romanise my appearance I moved through the fallen carcasses of an auxiliary cavalry unit. The pungent odour of spilled horse flesh was more than I could bear and I vomited once more. Wiping my foul tasting mouth I regained my footing. To my right I spied a Spartha, a cavalry sword that was longer than my infantry Gladius; I avoided the temptation it provided, for though it too may help disguise my origin I was unfamiliar with its balance, a chance I dare not take.
I walked blindly for what seemed an eternity; the slaughter having affected me more than I would openly admit. Sinking to the ground my exhaustion soon overtook my awareness, and darkness followed.
The sudden ear-piercing crack of a dead branch woke me with a start. Bright light invaded unaccustomed eyes as I sprung instinctively to my feet. I flash of movement to my rear saw my body spin to avoid a forceful blow. The chopping thud of a powerfully wielded double-handed axe struck the trunk of the tree above my left shoulder. Thrusting forward in a stabbing motion my Gladius penetrated my assailant below the ribs. His sharp intake of breath indicated my strike had hit the spot. I retracted my sword pleased with my prowess as he dropping to his knees before me.
My victory however was short lived. I suddenly felt as though a burning rod had entered my chest. Free of my armour the thin cloth I now wore offer no resistance to the swift piercing shaft of a barbarian arrow. I too fell to the ground; an excruciating pain coursing through my body. The damp pine covered floor joined with the warm fluid gushing from my back as I stared skyward. As my life slowly escaped my body my final image of the Earth was these dreaded trees of pine and fir. I hate the trees!
Authors note: The short story essay, “Terror amid the trees,” is based on the events of Sep 9AD when Publius Quinctilius Varus guided by Germanic scouts was lead along with three legions, auxiliary troops and camp followers totalling around 26,500 personnel into a Germanic ambush in the forests of Wiehengebirge (near modern day Osnabruck) in northern Germany.
The incident deeply trouble Augustus who refused to cut his hair or shave for sometime following news of the disaster. The massacre of so many Romans saw Rome’s interest in conquering the Germanic tribes grind to a halt. It would be from these same Germanic tribes that Rome would finally meet its downfall. The split in Europe made at this point in history shaped the divide between the cultures of western and Eastern Europe; a divide that still stand to this day.
TERROR AMID THE TREES
I hate the trees! They tower menacingly above my position like the mighty closed ranks of a faceless foe; their knitted canopy screens the whisper of sunlight that miraculously escapes the sullen clouds. The accompanying odour is alien to me, somewhat bitter and quite unlike the sweet fragrance of the trees of my youth; a mix of olive and orange grown attentively in groves and always uniform and in order. The trees here are wild and grow amid steep banks and deep cleft ravines. I hate the trees! Not all trees, but these trees; these Pines and firs. Horrid trees that are in league with the wildness of this hellish far flung nightmare. Over these past three days the cold heavy rain as merely aided the hideous trap into which we hopelessly stumbled.
Our legions had been tasked with the collection of taxes; concentrating our efforts along the villages to the north of the mighty Teutoburg forest. Our Germanic auxiliaries; mainly cavalry troops, were acting as guides and it was on their advise that the three legions had been split into cohort sized groups. Each cohort would help combat the many bandits rumoured to be terrorising the tribes centred around Kalkriese in an area known as Wiehengebirge.
Of the three legions, the XVII, the XVIII and my own the XIX only I now remained alive. Spread out over a thirty mile route our barbarian guides had led us into a terrible trap. Our sense of invincibility along with our commander’s greed combined in a disaster of monumental proportions. Over 16,500 legionaries and 10,000 of our camp followers now lay butchered amid these torturous trees.
Our journey had been a difficult venture and as usual the cohorts lived up to the axiom ‘Marius’ Mules.’ Between marching and hauling we had doubled as loggers and builders; constructing the countless bridges required to allow the continuous train of wagons to roll onward.
In the thickest of the forest the difficult ground suddenly embraced a new storm. A watery downpour only added to the already treacherous footing; resulting in a slowing of the pace and the increase of each poor soldiers labour. The gods had surely abandoned us in this realm of Woden and the storm had quickly transformed into a frenzied creation of clap and bolt. Amid dull light, cold heavy rain and falling branches confusion reigned. A worse storm could not be imagined; yet the mayhem born of angry gods was nothing compared to the demons that spilled from the trees.
In moments a mass of wretched bodies spilled from the dark boughs of these terrible trees. Huge screaming fair haired warriors rushed from every quarter taking us totally unawares. The ferocity of their assault was overwhelming, and few of us even had chance to hurl our pila before they were upon us. A cohorts discipline came from our cohesion and ability to close ranks, yet here in the confined spaces between the trees we were broken. Unable to link or react to the sudden onslaught each man fought alone against incredible odds. For three days and nights the battle raged. All along the 30 mile column cohorts and camp followers alike met their untimely end on the edge of a barbarian axe.
I had been lucky; hammered into the ground on the underside of my scutum. I had collapsed under the mighty blows delivered by the assault of some wild giant. Suffering only from a slight concussion, I had been left for dead as the battle moved on. Dazed and confused I inched my way toward an area of fresh deadfall and prayed none would find me.
When finally I recovered from the stunning blows I emerged sheepishly from my hiding place; my mind full of shame. I felt like a coward: a feeling amplified by the vision of chaos that remained where my cohort and their followers had found their bloody demise. I uncontrollably heaved and convulsed, as I manoeuvred over the splayed entrails of my dismembered comrades. The heart wrenching sight was more than any man should endure and it was hard to comprehend how these barbarians could commit such atrocities.
Suddenly alone I cursed Publius Quinctilius Varus for his greed. He had treated these unconquered people like subjects of Rome. They had complied but only because he was always backed by strong legions. Our complacencies had allowed Arminius to bide his time and lead us to our annihilation at the hands of the Cherusi tribe. The Emperor would be livid; Augustus had already lost his stepson Drusas in 9BC after gaining a foot hold along the river Elbe. Drusas’ brother Tiberius had replaced him and by 5BC the areas leading to the Elbe had all fallen to Roman rule. It was now September 9AD and with so many years of turmoil wasted on the attempted civilisation of these Germanic tribes this loss would undoubtedly rank high amongst Rome’s darkest hours.
Discarding my lorica-segmenta and helmet in an effort to de-Romanise my appearance I moved through the fallen carcasses of an auxiliary cavalry unit. The pungent odour of spilled horse flesh was more than I could bear and I vomited once more. Wiping my foul tasting mouth I regained my footing. To my right I spied a Spartha, a cavalry sword that was longer than my infantry Gladius; I avoided the temptation it provided, for though it too may help disguise my origin I was unfamiliar with its balance, a chance I dare not take.
I walked blindly for what seemed an eternity; the slaughter having affected me more than I would openly admit. Sinking to the ground my exhaustion soon overtook my awareness, and darkness followed.
The sudden ear-piercing crack of a dead branch woke me with a start. Bright light invaded unaccustomed eyes as I sprung instinctively to my feet. I flash of movement to my rear saw my body spin to avoid a forceful blow. The chopping thud of a powerfully wielded double-handed axe struck the trunk of the tree above my left shoulder. Thrusting forward in a stabbing motion my Gladius penetrated my assailant below the ribs. His sharp intake of breath indicated my strike had hit the spot. I retracted my sword pleased with my prowess as he dropping to his knees before me.
My victory however was short lived. I suddenly felt as though a burning rod had entered my chest. Free of my armour the thin cloth I now wore offer no resistance to the swift piercing shaft of a barbarian arrow. I too fell to the ground; an excruciating pain coursing through my body. The damp pine covered floor joined with the warm fluid gushing from my back as I stared skyward. As my life slowly escaped my body my final image of the Earth was these dreaded trees of pine and fir. I hate the trees!
Authors note: The short story essay, “Terror amid the trees,” is based on the events of Sep 9AD when Publius Quinctilius Varus guided by Germanic scouts was lead along with three legions, auxiliary troops and camp followers totalling around 26,500 personnel into a Germanic ambush in the forests of Wiehengebirge (near modern day Osnabruck) in northern Germany.
The incident deeply trouble Augustus who refused to cut his hair or shave for sometime following news of the disaster. The massacre of so many Romans saw Rome’s interest in conquering the Germanic tribes grind to a halt. It would be from these same Germanic tribes that Rome would finally meet its downfall. The split in Europe made at this point in history shaped the divide between the cultures of western and Eastern Europe; a divide that still stand to this day.
