up. The young man wasted no time on theatrics. When it came to killing, he was all business.
Casca wished he might have had a few of the engines of war that were standard issue in the legions; even a couple of arbalests would have been a comfort. Old Corio could have built them. But his rough crew was not ready to handle such sophisticated weapons of destruction. It would be all he could do to keep them in their positions long enough for the Saxons to fall into his trap. It was probably best, after all, to arm them with the weapons they were most familiar with. He felt he was lucky that he had managed to get a dozen of his young men to take up the use of the bow. Most of the tribes of Germania disdained the use of it, claiming the sword, spear, and axe were the only weapons for a man. That type of thinking had cost them more than one battle. Honor is a fine thing so long as it doesn't get you killed.
He called over the two teenage warriors he had selected as his trumpeters. They only knew three calls: a long blast on the ox horn, two short blasts, and three short blasts. Casca had remarked more than once to Glam that communications were more often than not the secret to success in battle. The leader that could get his orders to his troops the fastest had the best chance of success. If only man had some way to communicate instantly with his forces… but that was likely never to be.
The field was silent. Small animals had taken to their borrows; the larger ones had fled far away. Even the birds were silent, staying in the branches of the trees or in their nests. They knew somehow that violence would soon break the silence. Casca often wondered how the dumb beasts could anticipate the actions of man. But they knew. More than once the sound of silence had warned him of an enemy's approach.
And it would be soon now. The last of the scouts were racing across the field. The Saxons wouldn't be far behind. One of the scouts leaped over the camouflaged trench and saluted Casca. 'They come, lord. Led by Hrolthar Bluetooth.'
Casca laughed at the name. Bluetooth. These Nordics took things literally and named themselves so. Hrolthar did indeed have a tooth that had died and turned dark in color, sitting right in the front of his mouth.
Glam whistled and pointed with his long sword to the far edge. The leading elements of the Saxons were coming out of the trees, first one, then another. They were big hard men with the look of those who enjoyed slaughter. Most, like his own men, had only bare skin for armor. They were a little fairer in color than his own men and more of them were blond or red-headed. All affected beards or long sweeping mustaches that reached below their chins. Only the young men who did not have enough years to grow face hair were clean-chinned.
Casca had wanted his men to shave, but an order like that could have caused rebellion, even after he'd explained how handy a beard was for an enemy to grab onto and hold a man down while he beat his brains out. But it was no use-they had such an affection for hair on the face that it was best to leave it alone. Maybe he could do something about it later with the younger men. Right now they could have their way. It was worse to give an order you couldn't enforce than not to give one at all.
Glam and the other captains had smiled in anticipation as they understood the reason for Casca ordering the women to make up large wicker shields. They were large enough to cover two men, but light enough for one to hold. They made sure their men also understood the use of them and would wait for the command. And the time would be soon.
Chapter Thirteen
Casca called out to pass the word to get ready. The five-foot-tall wicker shields were laid facedown in front of the first rank. He had only two ranks. The men in the rear were all armed with lances and boar spears to protect the first, who would have their hands full soon enough.
Glam, on the right, signaled his readiness, as did Sifrit on the left. Casca looked carefully at the faces of those who were in battle for the first time. They were bright faces of young men, unscarred and handsome. He knew what they were feeling, what caused the slight tremor of the sword arm, the sudden small beads of sweat on the upper lip and brow.
He knew well the feelings that always come before a fight, but they would pass. With the first thrown spear or axe, they would pass, and these young men would do good service this day as young men have always done in their first fights when well-led and not uselessly sacrificed. He knew too that many of these clean, bright faces would be gashed, bloody, and still before the next hour passed. That was the sadness of war. These young men would never sire sons to carry on. All they would leave behind would be their fathers and mothers to mourn for them. But he also knew they would not have it any other way. To be left out of the fight was worse than the threat of death. How many millions had died in the name of some honor that would soon be forgotten in a few years? But without honor, what else did man have to distinguish him from the beasts? Bad as honor could be, it would be worse to have none.
The Saxons were setting up their ranks. There was no sense or order to them, just a thick mass of men on the far side of the clearing, waiting for the word to attack. Then they would rush. A large warrior stepped forth and bellowed across the field, 'Is the Roman with you, or has he fled back to the pigpens that sired him?' Casca stepped out a bit from the straight line of his rank. 'I'm here.'
Casca knew the Saxons had been marching since dawn; it would be best if he could get them to attack now, before they had a chance to rest.
'Is that Hrolthar Bluetooth trying to speak like a man? Aye, it must be, though I'm too far away to see your rotten tooth. The stench of decay that reaches me must be coming from your mouth. If you have the nerve to come a little closer to me, I'll close that cesspool forever.'
Hrolthar stamped his leather-wrapped feet in anger.
Casca grinned to himself. That got his ass a little bit.
Hrolthar called back, 'I'll come soon enough, Roman, but first I have a little entertainment for you.'
Hrolthar signaled, and the mass of his men opened to let eight of Casca's villagers be shoved out to the forefront. Obviously, they were all from the same household and had been too late in leaving. There were two old men, a teenage boy and girl, a farmer, his wife, and two small children holding onto their mother's skirt. At a given signal, all eight were cut down, even the children, who were tossed in the air on spear points, while their parents were hacked into pieces by swords and axes. Casca's men groaned in anguish. Many started to break ranks and rush across the field. Only his immediate and firm order to hold stopped them, but it was an unwilling obedience. He called to his men.
'That's what they want you to do, to come to them where they can use their numbers to swarm over you. Stay in line a bit longer and you'll have all the revenge you will ever need; they will come to us. But remember what you have just seen. There will be no mercy asked for or given this day. Kill or be killed.'
Casca called back to Hrolthar. 'I see the stories are true. You are indeed a man to be feared, especially if one is a woman or child. But if you have the stomach for facing a man, then come to me. We are less in number than you. Surely you have some courage left after your bloody victory over the children. Come then, you bag of pig gut, or all will know you are less than a man, less even than the worms that feed on dead man's eyes; for you are a coward… '
Hrolthar fumed, his face turning red. He beat his chest with his axe hand, his mustache flaring, eyes red- rimmed with the building of the berserker rage. He worked himself up and the contamination spread to his men. They beat on their shields and howled like beasts of the forest, their faces red, sweaty eyes narrowed. They crowded together, feeding each other's battle frenzy.
Casca could feel the moment building. It wouldn't be long now; they were just about ready.
The screaming of the Saxons reached a crescendo that broke in mid-howl and they lunged forward, a disorganized mob racing to the waiting line. Casca moved back into the ranks, beside his trumpeters, to get ready. The Saxons were almost to the point of no return. Those in front of the racing pack had their throwing axes out, one in each hand. Wild-eyed and screaming, they came to a distance of thirty feet and then all of them drew back their arms to throw the deadly flying blades into the line of Casca's warriors.
Casca barked at his trumpeters, 'Now!'
They raised their horns and blew one long blast. Now the real use of the wicker shields was made known. The front rank raised them up and knelt behind them, covering themselves and the men behind, who pointed their spears out past the front of their shields to hold off any Saxons who might break through the trench. Axes thudded
