played at a stream nearby. At one end of the camp, there were carts piled high with loot, and a band of defeated captives sat dejectedly, heads hung low, guarded by a single warrior. Probably taken in some recent raid, these hapless men and women were now the slaves of this upstart and his men. We noticed that they had the same crude dress and blond complexion as their captors. Unix was obviously making war on other Germanic tribes as he struggled to establish his supremacy over them. We counted several dozen warriors, most of them unarmed, although their arms were stacked nearby. These fighting men were not deployed for defense. Here and there an occasional guard had been posted, but the camp was clearly not on alert.
It seemed inconceivable to me; the gods must be with us! Surely by now the raiding party must have warned them of the presence of a Roman column in their own backyard, but there was a curious air of lax tranquility about the barbarian encampment It was as though they were oblivious to any danger; or perhaps they were so confident of their strength that they had become arrogant, rashly disregarding any warnings they may have had.
We stole back to where my men waited hidden behind the rocks and planned our attack Because the camp lay in the middle of a large plain, we would be seen as soon as we emerged from the rocks, thus giving our enemy plenty of time to spread the alarm and grab their weapons. Therefore, we would split our force.
I would lead a contingent down the defile, tumbling across the plain, brandishing our swords, shouting and charging with a great clamor. As soon as the Teuton warriors rushed onto the field to meet us, we would turn, as though in sudden panic, and flee back toward the rocks. Once we had the overconfident enemy strung out and racing eagerly across the plain, we would stop suddenly and turn on them, while at that moment Sergeant Metellus, leading the main body of our men, would fall on them from their flank The maneuver took disciplined timing, but my troops had practiced it many times, and they knew what to do.
The charge went as planned; the alarmed barbarians scurried for their weapons and rushed out onto the plain. We feigned cowardice at the fierceness of their charge and let them chase us. Then, at my signal, we dug in our heels and wheeled about, preparing to meet our onrushing enemy. We clashed and immediately found ourselves in a furious fight, swords flashing and clubs swinging wildly as we fought toe-to-toe. I managed an anxious look at the surrounding rim of rocks just in time to see Metellus with the main body cresting a small hill to begin their charge.
At that point, my attention was fully occupied by a blond giant who grabbed my ankle and pulled me from my mount I hit the ground with a thud, momentarily stunned. He screamed and swung a murderous mace at my head, which I managed to duck away from at the last second. It hit the ground next to my ear with a bone-jarring thud. I spun over and leaped to my feet just as the second blow came swinging my way. This time he swung in a high circle, leaving himself open. I saw my chance and I took it, lunging with my blade to catch him under the arm and stab upward straight into his chest With a sharp cry, the big man went down, nearly tearing the sword out of my hand as his massive body twisted and fell. My head was singing as I pulled the sword free in a fountain of blood and swung around, bloody sword at the ready.
I was much too busy to keep track of the battle, but I saw that our comrades had joined us. Now we had the enemy in our pincers. A horn sounded from somewhere. Suddenly, a second force of the enemy appeared-hidden reserves, perhaps, who were now rushing to join the fray. Maybe we had been tricked, but I had no time to think about that. I found myself slashing furiously, severing limbs and felling blond warriors left and right as I hacked my way through the press of desperate fighting men.
For a while, we struggled in a battle in which neither side would yield. Then we began to surge forward slowly. The barbarian line faltered and then began to break up. Suddenly it cracked, dissolving into small islands of savages, still fighting desperately even as their comrades began to desert them-at first a few, then in droves, falling back, turning and running from the terrible battle. My men sensed that victory was ours and, shouting triumphantly, chased after the stricken foe, scattering them as they ran for the safety of the woods.
I saw the blond chieftain holding his own under his standard of animal pelts and made my way toward him as his guards fell around him, one after the other. The noose of legionnaires was getting tighter around the Teuton standard, when somehow the mighty warrior managed to tear himself away from our grasp and, taking a few of his men with him, fled toward the defile and possible escape. I motioned for a party of legionnaires to come with me, and we went off in hot pursuit. It took us a while chasing the little band through the hills, till at last we managed to corner our foe with his back against the face of a cliff.
I stood facing the powerful, well-built warrior. I had no doubt that this was Unix, their chieftain. He stood taller than the other men, his loincloth torn and bloody, the hard muscles of his torso sheened with sweat and dripping with blood that trickled down from a sword wound that had been opened at his side. But he was not defeated. His eyes were fierce and blue, and he trembled with excitement as he wheeled around to face us. His hands and arms were bloody from the slaughter and he had lost his shield, but his right hand still held the wicked battle-ax, its deadly blade gleaming red. I shouted for him to yield, even though I knew that this proud barbarian would never allow himself to be taken alive to be hauled back to Rome in a cage.
He looked at me for a moment above the fray. Then, with a fierce shout, he plunged toward me, swinging his ax wildly. It was no contest, for by now the Teuton chieftain had lost his few remaining companions and the big man went down alone under the weight of our numbers, swinging defiantly at his pursuers till the very end.
By the time we made our way back to the scene of the battle, the last remnants of the enemy were being dispatched. We heard the pitiful cries of the wounded as the swords came down; the smell of blood was strong in the air. Parties of soldiers had begun looting the enemy camp, gathering the captured booty that was now ours, rounding up the women and children, sorting out those that would be taken to serve Rome. I found my trusty sergeant in the middle of organizing the mopping-up operations.
He stood talking to a Teuton girl: a slender reed of a girl, fair featured and small-breasted. Her name was Minta. The young woman had been a slave of Unix, and now she would be a slave of Rome-perhaps a most valuable slave, as the clever girl spoke Latin, as well as Gaulish and the Germanic tongue of the Teutons. For the first time since the onset of the battle I looked at my sergeant and smiled, and he smiled back. We stood there saying not a word, smiling at one another, bloody and dirty and weary but triumphant at this, our first victory, and a most decisive one at that!
As we were congratulating ourselves, a shrill scream made me spin around just in time to see a crazed woman flying at me from behind one of the wagons. She was brandishing a nasty dagger over her head and would surely have struck me, had not Metellus alertly stuck out his foot to trip her and send her sprawling across the grass. Her weapon was knocked from her grasp by the impact, and she quickly got to her hands and knees to scramble after the knife when two of my men pounced on her. She howled her rage and struggled under them, screaming all the while in that guttural tongue of the Northmen. I knew only a few words, but I recognized the Teuton words for “Roman pigs.”
She was subdued expertly. One of the men who knelt on her with his knee pressed between her shoulders gathered up a fistful of long blonde hair and pulled back her head, exposing her throat, while he drew his dagger. He would have dispatched her on the spot, had I not stopped him with drawn dagger in midair. At my command, the soldiers dragged the would-be assassin to her feet and brought her to me.
She was a magnificent blonde animal! Even though her face was contorted with sizzling rage, she possessed the proud Nordic features of her kind. Hers was a face of rare beauty, the angular plane of her cheeks defined by fine high-set cheekbones, a long sculpted nose with flaring nostrils, precise lips, and big eyes of icy blue that, flashing in insolence and cold anger, penetrated to the soul. Her hair was wild and matted, but it had the quality of pure spun gold. Hanging in silvery blonde sheets, it fell in bangs across her forehead and framed her long oval face, as she stood before me, twisting in the painful grip of her grim guards.
As she was brought face-to-face with her new Roman master, she screamed her defiance, repeating the same words again and again. Minta translated. “Kill me! Kill me!” the young woman demanded. She wished only to die, for she swore she would rather face death than submit to a Roman. Of course, I had no intention of granting that proud beauty her wish. It would be a tragedy to slay a such a magnificent creature who so obviously had been made to give men pleasure.
Now I regarded her blazing eyes and let my gaze deliberately drop to take in her tall, handsome, blonde body. Her single garment was a crude tunic of animal hide that hung from her shoulders to mid-thigh, belted at the waist with a thin strip of leather. I asked her name and waited while Minta translated. She said nothing, but eyed me coldly. I nodded to the guard who stood behind her. By applying pressure to her arm, we got to her spit out her name: Helva.
I nodded, then ordered the men to strip her, pulling off the tunic, ripping off the loincloth she wore
