[Author's foreword: This fictional story is based on the factual disappearance of the Roman Legions under Quintilius Varus, who were said have vanished within the Tutobeurgian forest whilst engaging the Germanic hordes. Neither Tacitus, nor Suetonius knows how they disappeared. (the story shall be posted in segments. Here's a taster.)]

The sleety rain hissed down upon the legion's ranks, three thousand leather cuirasses squeaking in protest as they scrapped off one another, shoulder to shoulder. Coughs and sniffs occasionally interrupted the relentless downpour, which drove on incessantly.

"Prepare a charge," Quintilius nodded at the sight of his army in grimsatisfaction. Some would die, of course, but they would die as Romans, as heroes. He inclined his head to look at the distant horde of Germanic barbarians that lurked within the forest. They, Quintilius decided,would not die such a noble death. They'd die sooner.

"Comrades," he boomed," Today we avenge the lives of our forward scouts, our noble and fallen brothers. They were murdered, butchered by these..." Quintilius' lips twisted around the words in contempt,"... by these animals. And what do we do with animals, men?"

"We hunt them!" bellowed the legionnaires. A thousand clangs reverberated down the rank and file as they hammered their tower shields against their spears, the beating of Mars' hungry drums.

Quintilius' slight smile blossomed into a full grin. They would win this day.

"Indeed, my brethren," he drew his sword, the metal singing in protest," Good hunting."

Officers began to roar instructions, and so the battle commenced.

With a wave of his arm hulking siege equipment lurched forward slowly, nestled behind a solid line of Roman infantry. Cavalry peeled off and darted to the right flank, a classic imitation of Alexander the Great's Companion Cavalry, which had preceded the Romans hundreds of years before.

"First section, tortoise formation. Advance on my command!"

Shields slid into a series of interlocking chains, forming a single carapace that rendered each clump of soldiers impervious to the arrows that were to be anticipated.

As if on cue, a new kind of rain filled the sky. Deadly rain. Arrows cascaded down upon the forward sections of the advancing Roman force, arrows shattering ineffectively against the shining silver of Roman armour.

Ineffective, that is, until Marcus Piso got wounded.

He had been trudging over the tree-boles and rugged, pine-littered terrain with some difficulty; ankle-high mud sucked at his legs, pulling him downward and the rain stung his weary eyes. How was he supposed to keep formation if he couldn't see where he was going?! He stumbled. And then, just for a moment, his arm was exposed. With a muffled thud a searing pain shot up his forearm. He yelped in surprise and dropped his shield, clutching a trembling hand over his wound. An arrow had passed cleanly through his arm at the point between his hand and his steel bracer. Blood pulsing vehemently from the wound, and he nursed it with a trembling hand.

"Marcus pick up your shield!" hissed Gnaius, the man in position on Marcus' right. Marcus rocked back and forth, mumbling to himself in shock.

"Marcus! For Jove's sake pick up your shield!"Marcus nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain, which had faded to a constant throb. With a grunt of effort he reached over to scoop up his shield, which lay forlorn in the slippery muck.

Too late.

Marcus didn't even have a chance to scream as a volley of arrows impacted noisily into his flesh. With barely a sigh he slumped unceremoniously to the ground. Gnaius grumbled a swear word and continued on past his dead friend, shifting his shield to cover the position Marcus' shield no longer could.

For Gallus Trebonius, being entrenched in the center of the advance tortoise formation was hardly a luxury. All he could do was lock his shield directly above his head with the others and stumble on blindly. The only sound was the roaring of his ragged breath in his ears and the angry clanging of arrow tip against shield. The formation shuddered under the assault, but seemed to be progressing steadily. Well, thought Gallus glumly, if by progress you meant facing certain death at the hands of foreign savages.

Then the Germans tried something new.

Gallus didn't know what was happening at first. After all, all he could see was the back of his shield and the mud that splattered over his greaves, flecking his uniform. Until the reassuring presence of silver became tinted with a muted orange, and Gallus felt a faint sense of heat. He didn't mind it at first, he was freezing and any heat, however mysterious, seemed a welcome thing. Then the screams started. Gallus' eyes flicked left and right, his nostrils flaring as they sucked in a new odour. He could smell something, almost like burning meat, like when his wife had left the meat cooking too long.

The man crammed into the position in front of Gallus collapsed, a flaming arrow sheathed in his neck. Gallus cried out in surprise and tried to evade his fallen comrade, but the force of the men behind him surged on. His left book got caught on the corpse and Gallus was tackled to the filthy floor. He began yelling in panic, as row upon row of feet trampled over him, pushing his face down deep into the muck. He tried to scream, but the wider he opened his mouth, the more mud poured in.

***

"Maintain formation, maintain formation!" barked Quintilius. He could see that one of his tortoise units had disintegrated under the burning cascade of fire arrows. Panic had set in, and some Romans had even peeled off and tried to flee, all of them in vain. Arrows continued to pour down upon the hapless soldiers, who fell in twos and threes. Broken bodies lay scattered across the central plain, perforated with the shattered shafts of arrows. Suppressing a curse Quintilius urged his horse forward and sped toward the flagging unit.

On either side of Quintilius, cavalry thundered across the plane, the earth shuddering beneath them. The other legionnaires who had initially ordered to hold position surged forward too, their war cry drowning out the painful wails of the wounded. Boulders hurled by catapults began to crash into the forest, scattering the enemy's archers. The Roman infantry, relieved by this brief respite, broke from tortoise formation and efficiently slid into a tight wedge. This completed, they surged forward.

"Wait! Hold!" Quintilius bellowed, but to no avail. Spurred on by the sight of the retreating enemy, the Romans plunged headlong into the forest. Then the slaughter truly began.

***

The German archers sprinted as fast as they could, for death was only a moment behind them. The rain continued to lash down upon the wind-swept forest. The archers darted past a line of trees deep within the bowels of the forest. These trees were no ordinary trees, being smeared with the dried gore of sacrificial victims: this was the meeting place.

***

Brittanicus Aurus was the first to die here. He managed a tight grin of triumph as he buried his sword down to the hilt through the back of a fleeing German. With a grunt of exertion he freed the blade, wiping the sheen of crimson away with on the furs of his fallen victim.

"Didn't count on me being the best runner of all of Ostia, eh?" managed Brittanicus through ragged breaths.

His last words.

***

Quintilius urged his horse forward, weaving through the dense lines of trees that obstructed his path. "All units hold position! Hold, I say!" he roared as he burst through another leafy thicket.

He need not have said anything: the troops ahead of him had all stopped. Indeed, they were all dead. The eviscerated remains of what had been Roman soldiers were barely recognisable, only the abandoned Roman helms and shields were the only clue to what had once been an advance formation of thirty of Rome's finest soldiers. Blood caked the local vegetation; vibrant greens smeared a dull maroon. Quintilius suddenly felt very much alone. He looked around, but there was no enemy in sight.

"What in the name of Jupiter?" he breathed.

The snap of a twig behind him made him whirl about with a start. It was only Ahenobarbus, a seasoned cavalry officer. Ahenobarbus' war-weary eyes had seen much slaughter, much depravity but this was enough for even his grim eyes to widen, transfixed by the butchery.

"General Varus... how did this happen? We were scarcely a few heartbeats behind these men..." Ahenobarbus trailed off in shock.

Quintilius slid off his horse and crouched by a tree, peering at a nearby tree stump with morbid awe. Deep scratches adorned the remains of the tree, reminding him of something he had seen before, a long time ago, as a child.

"Claw marks," he mused," like that of a cat on a tree. No human being did this."

Ahenobarbus jumped down from his horse and knelt beside Quintilius,"Claw marks?" he snorted derisively, "but these markings are four inches deep - who could do this but a human?"

Quintilius nodded at a battered shell of what had once been a Roman cuirass.

"I assure you, old friend, no human could have done that to a suit of armour. Look at that: it's Roman steel, and yet someone has torn it asunder like it was so much a mere scroll."

The rain stopped. The imposing silence screamed at Quintilius, screamed at him to run, to get away from this madness. But Quintilius frowned at the twinge of fear that was inching along his spine: he was a General, not a child. He had no time for a child's games.

Even so, he had no desire to linger here.

"Order a tactical withdrawal," Quintilius ordered as he swung back onto his horse," I have neither the patience or the inclination to court further disaster by pursuing enemy ambush parties tonight."

As they steadily trotted back to the bulk of his legions, Quintilius couldn't shake the impression that there were a hundred pairs of eyes burning into the back of his armour. Hungry eyes. He would die in this forest, they leered. Perhaps not tonight, perhaps not tomorrow, but soon. Very soon.