The Cimbri met the joint forces of Marius and Catulus on the Raudian
plain near the city Vercellae. It was on the third day before the new
moon in the month Sextilis, which is now called August. The Romans
numbered 52,300; no one had counted the Cimbri, but it is said each
side of their army took up thirty furlongs and that they had 15,000
horses.
Eodan led a wing of these. He was not on one of the shaggy,
short-legged, long-headed Northern ponies that had trotted across
Europe--the tall black stallion he had found in Spain snorted and
danced beneath him. He dreamed about herds of such horses, his own
stock on his own land. He would raise horses like none the world had
ever seen. Meanwhile he rode with silver-jingling harness to cast down
Consul Marius.
His big body strained against a plate of hammered iron; his helmet
carried the mask of a wolf, and plumes nodded above it; a cloak like
flame blew from his shoulders; he wore gilt spurs on boots inlaid with
gold. He shouted and bandied jokes--the lusty mirth of a stock-breeding
people--with comrades even younger than he, shook his lance to catch
the sun on its metal, put the aurochs horn to his lips and blew, till
his temples hammered, for the joy of hearing it. "_Hoy-ah_, there,
Romans, have you any word I can take to your wives? I'll see them
before you do!" And the young riders galloped in and out, back and
forth, till dust grayed their banners.
Boierik--huge and silent, scarred hawk face and grizzled red hair
beneath a horned helmet, armed with a two-pronged spear--rode more
steadily in the van of the army. And not all the Cimbri who marched
after the horses owned so much as an iron head covering: there were
many leather caps and arrows merely fire-hardened. Yet even some
bare-legged twelve-year-old boy, wielding no more than a sling, might
be wearing a plundered golden necklace.
The Romans waited, quiet under the eagles, their cuirasses and greaves,
oblong shields and round helmets blinding bright in the sun. Among them
waved officers' plumes and an occasional blue cloak, but they seemed
as much less colorful than the barbarians as they seemed smaller--a
dark short race with cropped hair and shaven chins, holding their ranks
stiff as death. Even their horsemen stood rigid.
Eodan strained his eyes through the dust that was around him like a
fog, kicked up by hoofs and feet. He could scarcely see his own folk;
now and then he caught the iron gleam of chains by which the Cimbri had
linked their front-line men together, to stand fast or die. He thought,
with a moment's unease, that it aided the Romans, not to be able to see
how great were the numbers they must face.... Then a war-horn screamed,
and he blew his own in answer and smote spurs into his horse.
Hoofs drummed beneath him. He heard the wild, lowing _du-du-du_ of the
holy lur horns; closer now, the Romans tubas brayed brass and the Roman
pipes skirled. He heard even the rattle of his own metal and the squeak
of leather. But then it was all drowned in the Cimbrian shouts.
"_Hau-hau-hau-hau-hoo!_" shrieked Eodan into his horse's blowing mane.
"_Hau, hau! Hee-ee-yi!_" So did we shout at Noreia, when Rome first
learned who we are; so did we cry on the Alps, when we romped naked in
the snow and slid down glaciers on our shields; so did we howl as we
ripped up a forest to dam the Adige, break the Roman bridge and wring
the eagle's neck! _Hee-hoo!_
It was a blink of time, and it was forever, before he saw the enemy
cavalry before him. A shape sprang out of whirling gray dust, a shadow,
a face. Eodan saw that the man's chin was scarred. He reached into his
belt, whipped out one of his darts, and hurled it. He saw it glance off
the Roman cuirass. He veered his horse to the right and shook his lance
as he went by.
Around him it was all thudding and yelling. He only glimpsed the Roman
charge, fragments through the dust, a helmet or a sword, once the eye
of a horse. He leaned low in the saddle and reached for his second
dart. The Cimbrian riders were moving slantwise across the advancing
Roman front, and only those on the left actually met that charge. Eodan
edged toward the fighting.
A mounted man loomed up, sudden as a thunderclap. Eodan threw the dart.
It struck the Roman's horse in a nostril, and blood squirted out. The
horse screamed and lunged. Eodan knew a moment of reproach; he had not
meant to hurt the poor beast! Then he was upon the enemy. The fellow
was too busy with his frantic mount to raise shield. Eodan drove his
lance two-handed into the man's throat. He toppled from his seat, and
the shaft was almost wrenched from Eodan's hands. With a single harsh
movement, he freed it, nearly falling himself.
Another shape came out of the racketing dust. Eodan was able to see
this one more clearly. He could have counted the iron bands of the
cuirass or the iron-studded leather strips falling down the thighs
above the kilt. He braced his lance in his hands and waited. The
Roman came in at a trot. His shaft struck out. Eodan parried it, wood
smote dully on wood. The horses snorted and circled while their riders
probed. The Roman's steel hit Eodan's shield, where it hung on the
Cimbrian's arm, and stuck there for a tiny moment. Eodan grabbed the
lance with his left hand and shoved his own weapon forward, clumsily,
with his right arm. The Roman's shield blocked him. Eodan whipped his
shaft down like a club, and it hit the Roman's knee. The man yelped and
dropped his shield. Eodan's iron went through his jaws. The Roman fell
backward, dragging the lance with him, strangling in blood. His horse
bucked, brought down a chance hoof and cracked the wood across.
Panting, Eodan drew his sword and looked about. He could dimly see
that men were skirmishing through dust and heat--the Bull help us,
but it was hot!--and that the battle was moving toward the Cimbrian
right. Sweat runneled from him, stung his eyes and drenched his padded
undergarment. He should have been crowing his victory. Two men slain
for certain; it was not often you knew what a blow of yours had done.
But he felt too choked in the dust.
He rode after the fight in search of an enemy. Boierik's plan had
worked, to draw the Roman horse away while the Cimbrian foot struck
their center. He could hear the screeches and hammering as men battled
on the ground; he could not see it.
Slowly his mount gained speed. He was riding at gallop when he saw the
knot of men. Two Romans ahorse were circling about four dismounted
Cimbri, who stood back to back and glared. Eodan felt the heart spring
in his breast. "_Hee-ya-hau! Hau, hau, hau!_" He whirled the great iron
blade up over his head and charged.
The nearest Roman saw him and had time to face the attack. Eodan struck
down, two-handed, guiding the stallion with his knees. The blow cried
out on the Roman shield, and he felt it shock back into his own bones.
He saw the shieldframe crumple. The Roman whitened and fell from the
saddle, rolled over and sat up holding a broken arm.
The other one darted to his rescue. Eodan took a savage spear-thrust on
his breastplate; it glanced down and furrowed his thigh. He reached
out, hammering with his sword. It bounced on helmet and shoulder
pieces, clamored against wood and steel. The lance broke across. The
Roman rider sat firm, working his way in, shield upraised. Eodan hewed
at his leg. The Roman caught the blow on his own sword, but the sheer
force of it pushed both blades down. Eodan struck with the edge of his
small shield and hit the Roman on the shoulder, knocking him from his
saddle. The four dismounted Cimbri roared and rushed in.
A wolf-fight snarled by. Eodan followed it. All at once he found
himself out of the dust cloud. The ground was torn underfoot, and a
dead barbarian glared empty-eyed at a cloudless sky. Not many miles
off gleamed Vercellae's white-washed walls. He could almost see how
the townsfolk blackened them, standing and staring. If Marius fell,
Vercellae would burn. High over all, floating like a dream, remote and
lovely, were the snowpeaks of the Alps.
Eodan gasped air into lungs like dry fire. He grew aware that his leg
bled ... and when had he been wounded in the hand? No matter. But he
would sell his best ox for a cup of water!
His eyes went back to the battle. The cavalry skirmished in blindness.
The Cimbrian foot raged against Catulus' legions, and Catulus buckled.
Where was Marius?
Even as he watched, Eodan saw Roman standards in the dust, a gleam, a
rippling steely line, and the army of Marius came from chaos and fell
upon the Cimbri!
Eodan jogged back, scowling. It was not well. He could see how the
barbarians were suddenly caught and chopped--and they had the sun in
their eyes, and never had men fought in so much heat.... What had
become of Boierik?
He entered the dust again. His tongue felt like a block of wood.
Presently he found some of his young riders streaming back to the
main fight. Their cloaks were tattered and their helmets stripped of
feathers; one man's cheek gaped open, and his teeth grinned through.
"_Hau-hau-hau!_" Eodan gave the war-cry, because someone must, and
hurled himself at the Roman lines. There was a whirling and a shock,
and then the earth came up and struck him. His horse galloped off, a
javelin in its flank.
Eodan cursed, rose to his feet and ran to the Cimbrian foot. Behind the
chained first rank he saw men who were stabbing with spears, hewing
with axes and swords, throwing stones and shooting arrows. They leaped
into the air, howled, shook their tawny manes and rushed to do battle.
The Romans stood firm, shield by shield, and worked.
Eodan reached the front-line flank of the Cimbrian host. He faced a
dimly-seen foe; the sun in his brows blinded him almost as much as the
dust and sweat. He heard a whistling, like the wind before rain, and
felt three thumps in his shield. The Romans had launched their massed
javelins.
Cimbri clawed at whetted iron in their flesh. Eodan was unhurt, but his
shield was useless. What new trick was this? Only one metal pin left in
the javelin head--it was bent and held fast by its crooked point; he
could not wrench it free. He knew a chill. This Marius had thought of
such a trick!
Casting his shield from him, Eodan joined the charge.
Elsewhere the invaders were already locked face to face with the enemy;
now this part of their host met him. Eodan struck at a shield. His
sword was blunted; it would not bite. A Roman blade flashed at him. He
dodged it, planted his feet wide and hewed two-handed. A Roman helmet
stopped his swing. He heard neckbones snap across. The man crashed to
the ground. One behind him stepped into line. The legion advanced.
Gasping, Eodan retreated. It was a hailstorm of blows now--shouts,
shocks, no more war-cries for lack of breath, but always the din of
weapons. And the rising wildcat song of the pipes ... where were the
lurs? No one blew the holy lurs? He yelled and struck out.
Backward step by step. His boot crushed something, the bones of a face.
He looked down and saw it was Ingwar, with a Roman javelin in his
armpit. He looked up again from the dead eyes, sobbed and hit through
redness at a face above a shield. The Roman had a long thin nose like a
beak. And he grinned. He grinned at Eodan.
Crash and clang and boom of iron. No more voices, except when a man
hooted his pain. Eodan saw one of the linked Cimbri fall, holding his
belly, trying to keep in his bowels. He died. His comrades dragged him
backward. The man beside the corpse gasped--a slingstone had smashed
his teeth--and sat down. A Roman took him by the hair and slashed off
his head. Four Romans, close together, stepped into the gap and cut
loose.
The battle banged and thundered under a white-hot sky. Italy's earth
rose up in anger and stopped the nostrils of the Cimbri.
Eodan slipped and fell in a pool of blood. He looked stupidly at his
hands, empty hands--where had his sword gone? Pain jagged through his
skull. He looked up; the Roman line was upon him. He glimpsed the hairy
knees of a man, drew his dagger and thrust weakly upward. A shield
edge came down hard on his wrist. He cried out and lost the knife. The
shield struck his helmet and darkness clapped down. The legionaries
walked over him.
He sat up again, looking at their backs. For a little while he could
not move. He could only watch them as they broke his people. There was
a tuba being sounded. Was it in his head, or did it blow victory for
Marius? His wrist was numb. Blood dripped slowly from a forearm gashed
across.
At least he lived, he thought. The dead around him were thick. Never
had he seen so many dead. And the wounded groaned until he sickened of
their anguish. He sat there for a while longer. The field grew black
with flies. The sun got low, a huge blood-colored shield seen through
dust.
The Romans took the field, gathered themselves together and
quick-marched after the fleeing.
Eodan struggled for wakefulness. He kept slipping back into night; it
was like trying to climb out of a watery pit. There was something he
must remember.... Was it his father? No, surely Boierik was dead; he
would not outlive this day. He would fall on his own double-headed
spear if he must. His mother had died two years ago, now let her ghost
thank the earth Powers for that. And Hwicca--