Eagles at War

XXIV

The following morning Tullus rose when it was still dark. Leaving his tent, he found the world cloaked in a damp, cold mist. He ordered the unit’s dead fires to be rekindled at once. Some of the oil that had to be destroyed was at hand, making it easy to ignite the damp wood. By the time the trumpets sounded, a reasonable amount of mule flesh had been cooked for his men.

Soldiers with full bellies marched better than hungry ones, he thought with satisfaction as he patrolled the lines, noting the pleasure with which the meat was being consumed. Exhorting each man to do his best that day, he ordered every third legionary to retain his trenching tool. This was against Varus’ command, which was to leave behind everything that wasn’t a weapon, but Tullus didn’t care. It was one thing to discard their heavy leather tents and excess equipment, but it was foolish to divest themselves of all of the tools with which to dig defences.

Following Varus’ orders, the Seventeenth was in the vanguard. It was standard procedure for the first legion to change, but Tullus was most unhappy. Stuck in the middle of the miles-long column, surrounded on both sides by interminable trees or marshy fenland, he and his soldiers had not the slightest clue what was happening. Worse, they were helpless to do anything but follow in the quagmire left by those who had gone before. In the depths of Tullus’ mind, barely admitted, there was also the niggling concern that if things went really wrong, he and his men would be trapped. He buried the worry as best he could: resignation would get him nowhere. Today was about marching. Surviving. Protecting his troops.

Despite his unease, things went well at first. Everyone was keen to vacate the temporary camp, and the legions got moving with a minimum of delay. The soldiers with common-law wives and families grumbled and bitched, yet they had to follow their orders, like everyone else. Leaving those who could not travel fast – even their injured comrades in the few wagons that had been retained – was easy for the rest. Nevertheless, Tullus was glad when he could no longer hear the wails of distressed babies, the laments of their overburdened mothers and the moans of men who knew that they were, to all intents and purposes, being abandoned. As the legions left the hill, palls of smoke from the burning wagons streaked the sky, and the air was rich with the smell of the olive oil used to set them alight.

There was universal relief when the tribesmen who had plagued them the previous day did not appear. Spirits rose further as the trees were replaced by an area of scrubby grass, not unlike the lands around Porta Westfalica. The open ground meant that the marching pace could pick up, and soon the speed was approaching half of what could be made on a decent Roman road. This was a vast improvement compared to their pitiful progress the day before, and men began to sing. By the time they had bawled their way through three old favourites, Tullus was starting to enjoy himself. He’d heard each of the chants a thousand times before, but when sung loud enough, they still had the power to bring him back to his youth, and the campaigns he had made as a wide-eyed low-ranker.

It was then that the army ground to a halt.

Tullus’ soldiers continued to sing, but he waved them into silence. There was no apparent cause for the stop, no sounds of combat, no officers shouting orders. No tribesmen were visible on either side of the cohort’s position. It could have been a river or stream that had blocked their passage, but Tullus had a nasty feeling that somewhere up ahead, another ambush had been sprung.

He had his soldiers stand to arms. A sombre air fell as they waited, shields up, javelins at the ready. Nothing happened for a hundred heartbeats. Two hundred. Tullus roared out a question to the legionaries in front, the First Cohort. Beyond them were the legates and tribunes, who were the most likely to know what was going on. After a short delay, he was told that ‘You have as much idea as we do’, which did nothing for his darkening mood.

The enemy did not appear. Time ground by in a succession of gusty squalls and heavy showers, and an occasional view from behind the ever-present clouds of a beleaguered, pale yellow sun. At length, Tullus ordered his men to ground their shields. They seemed if not happy, then satisfied, drinking from their water bags and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Scanning the landscape, Tullus could see no cause for alarm. That didn’t stop his gut from knotting as if he had a bad case of the shits. He’d have liked to confer with Degmar, but there had been no sign of him since the previous day, when he had gone off scouting. Tullus hoped he was still alive.

Fenestela came to find him, his face sour with suspicion. ‘What do you think, sir?’

‘I think the savages have fucking well sprung another ambush up ahead. All we can do is wait until the vanguard fights its way through.’

Fenestela spat by way of agreement. ‘Filthy animal-humping savages.’

Tullus came to an abrupt decision. ‘Might as well keep busy. It will stop the men worrying. Have an inventory made of the javelins that are left. The men are to check their equipment.’ Tullus began to say more, but chuckled instead at Fenestela’s know-it-all expression. ‘You’re aware of the drill.’

‘Aye,’ replied Fenestela, smirking. ‘You could say that.’

‘Go on, piss off. Report to me when you’re done,’ Tullus ordered with a smile, and thinking that whatever happened, Fenestela had to be among those who survived.

Some time passed – without a visible sun, it was impossible to say how long, but Tullus judged it less than an hour – before a messenger appeared. Tullus, who was talking again to Fenestela, beckoned as the legionary approached from the direction of the First Cohort. The man’s pulpy-looking nose, the recipient of many a punch, stirred his memory, but it wasn’t until the soldier reached him that Tullus recalled where they had met. It had been in Vetera, the night that Piso had won too many games of dice.

‘Centurion.’ Broken Nose saluted, giving no indication that he knew Tullus. ‘Are you in charge of the cohort?’

‘I am. What news?’

‘The vanguard ran into trouble a while back, sir. There was another section of forest, where the savages were lying in wait. Thousands of them, it seems, far more than yesterday.’

If Varus had been present, Tullus would have struggled not to gut him in that moment. Arminius is behind this devilry, he thought. He has to be. Fenestela’s scowl proved the same thought was in his mind. ‘Go on,’ Tullus commanded.

‘There was heavy fighting, sir. The Gaulish cavalry’s horses were panicked by the volleys of spears and stones. The Gauls pulled back, and got tangled up with the auxiliary cohorts, which allowed the enemy to attack at will. It sounds as if they’ve been almost wiped out. The Seventeenth lost quite a few men too, but they forced a way through eventually. The savages have pulled back now, and the column is moving again.’

‘Is there a battle plan?’ asked Tullus, knowing there wouldn’t – in this grimmest of situations, couldn’t – be.

Broken Nose looked uncomfortable. ‘Governor Varus has ordered that we continue to advance, at all costs. That’s what I was told to tell you, sir.’

‘Very well.’

Broken Nose saluted and made to go, but Tullus raised a hand. ‘Wait.’

‘Sir?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Marcus Aius, sir,’ Broken Nose replied.

It is him, thought Tullus. ‘Fabricius is your centurion?’ He enjoyed the confusion playing across Aius’ face that he should know this. ‘Well?’

‘Yes, sir, he is.’

‘You lost a pair of bronze fasteners at dice a little while back, didn’t you? The ones for the shoulders of a mail shirt.’ Tullus noted the delayed recognition, and then fear, that flared in Aius’ eyes.

‘I did, sir.’

‘If I hear a single word about how the soldiers of the First Cohort didn’t fight as they should have today, or even how they ran away, I will come looking for you,’ warned Tullus. ‘It won’t be fasteners that I shove up your nostril this time either. Understand, you cocksucker?’

Aius nodded.

‘Fuck off then, and report to whoever else you’re supposed to.’

Tullus felt Fenestela’s gaze on him as Aius retreated. He muttered a quick explanation.

‘I’d give anything to be in the middle of a bar fight rather than what we’re heading into,’ Fenestela commented as trumpets ahead of them sounded the advance.

‘Aye, that’d be better.’ Tullus threw a grim glance at the sky, which was blacker than ever. More rain was coming. Thunder and lightning too. In this dark moment, it was difficult even for a hardened cynic not to think that the gods were unhappy with them, that the tribesmen’s deities, powerful in their own heartland, might pose a real threat to the lives of every man in Varus’ army.

Jupiter, Greatest and Best, Tullus asked, I beseech you to watch over us now, in our hour of need. Let your thunder terrify our enemies, and your lightning bolts strike them down – Arminius most of all.

Step by muddy step, Tullus and his cohort trudged forward. Their pace was no better than a slow walk, which frustrated and increased tension among his men. Tullus was not immune to the feelings either. When combat threatened, men hated to linger at its edges, waging a losing battle against nausea and the constant need to empty one’s bowels or bladder. Yet here in this Stygian gloom, where the only illumination was from lightning flashes, and rolling thunder made it hard to hear a man’s voice more than five paces away, it was hard to find the will to fight.

Their slow progress, in a line, reminded Tullus of the way a miller poured wheat into a grindstone. Once the stream of grains fell, there was no way back, just a descent into the hole in the stone’s centre, a brief, encompassing blackness, and then oblivion as the top stone moved over the bottom and ground everything to flour. The image made Tullus feel queasy. He ignored the feeling as best he could and concentrated instead on his soldiers, on their readiness, on their morale. His responsibility towards them was a heavy burden, but it was a sharp way of focusing his mind. ‘Hold steady, brothers,’ he called out at regular intervals as he paced alongside his century. ‘There’s hot wine waiting for you in Vetera! I’ll pay for the first round myself, for the whole damn cohort. Hold on to that happy thought as you march!’

Tullus worried that he was filling the air with useless words, but it seemed to give his men some solace. Their eyes were wary, fearful, and many were praying out loud or rubbing their phallus amulets. Nonetheless, they gave him nods, or shakes of their heads, as if to say, ‘We’re not done yet.’

At length, the trees in which the latest ambush had been sprung drew near. The sound of fighting – shouts, cries, the clash of arms – had been audible for a little while, even with the thunder. All eyes were fixed towards their front. To everyone’s frustration, most of what they could see was the back of the First Cohort. The only men with a wider range of vision were those to the far left and right; they shouted descriptions of what could be seen constantly in response to their comrades’ questions. Tullus did nothing to stop this. Information, even a little, was power of a kind. It gave men who felt helpless the idea that they had some degree of control over what was going on.

When he wasn’t issuing orders, Tullus also stared into the distance, where running figures were now visible to either side of the column. They were tribesmen attacking and retreating, he assumed. Bring them within reach of my sword soon, he prayed. Let this damn waiting be over!

Two hundred paces from the trees, Tullus was as shocked as anyone else when another ambush was sprung – on them. With loud shouts, scores of warriors rose up from the vegetation to either side of his soldiers. The bastards have lain there, letting thousands of us walk by, thought Tullus in alarm. They were close, dangerously close. Perhaps thirty paces separated their hiding places – nothing more than the bracken, cotton grass and bog rosemary that grew there – from the track, and the Roman column. Bearded, clad in dark colours, waving shields and spears, they charged forward in a muddy, disorganised mass. The barritus rose from their midst, like the wail of demons from the underworld.

Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !

The chant didn’t have the volume of the previous day – there weren’t enough of them – but the effect was the same. With the memory of what had happened to their comrades bright in their minds, Tullus’ soldiers quailed at this unexpected assault. Fear oozed from them like pus from a lanced abscess, and their formation wavered.

Time fractured for Tullus. His eyes shot from left to right, behind him, took in a succession of random images. The terror in a nearby legionary’s face. Another man who had dropped his shield. A third had fallen to his knees and appeared to be praying to the gods for mercy. Fenestela was raining blows on soldiers’ backs with the flat of his blade, roaring at them to form a line to either side. One fool had broken ranks and was running towards the Germans, weaponless. It was moments such as this in which battles were won or lost. If his legionaries didn’t stand now, they’d be butchered.

Rage filled Tullus. I’m not going to fucking die here, he thought. Not here. Not now. Not today. ‘FACE LEFT! FACE RIGHT! SHIELDS UP!’ he roared. ‘CLOSE ORDER!’

He wheeled right, shoved in against the next man, prayed that the legionaries behind him were doing the same, or he’d end up with a spear in his back. The tribesmen were closer, only twenty paces away. Tullus could see their bared teeth, the sweat beading their brows, the sharp points of their frameae. It was risky, but: ‘PILA! NOW!’

Not all the soldiers with javelins heard his order, or responded in time, but some did. A light shower of shafts shot out from the Romans’ ranks. At such close range, every one hit something. A man, a shield, it didn’t matter, thought Tullus. The volley checked the warriors’ charge a fraction, which was vital. Their barritus caught for a heartbeat and, into that silence, Tullus screamed, ‘DRAW SWORDS, AND HOLD!’

The tribesmen were no fools. They came on with speed, and maintaining their cohesion. Less than a dozen paces out, they separated at last, the barritus replaced by screams of hatred. Four of them made for Tullus, no doubt because of his crested helmet – or perhaps because he was the last man in the line. A trace of panic entered his mind. If they snaked around him and drove in between the two ranks, it was all over. ‘IS THERE ANYONE BEHIND ME?’ he shouted.

The answering ‘Ayes’ had never been more welcome. There were still some spare men, those who had been in the middle of the six-wide column. ‘FACE FORWARD! CLOSE THE GAP!’ Tullus bawled without looking to see if they obeyed.

Back to his enemies. Two men in the prime of life, shoulder to shoulder, both with spears, one with a hexagonal, blue and red painted shield, the other with a distinctive tribal hair knot at the side of his head. A pox-scarred youth, rough-spun tunic, carrying only a club. And the most dangerous of the lot, a wiry man, similar in age to Tullus, armed with an iron-rimmed shield and a nasty-looking sword. ‘Take the one with the club,’ he ordered the legionary to his right.

‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier roared insults at the youngster, getting his attention.

Tullus ducked his head until his eyes were level with the top of his scutum. The pair with the spears would reach him first, he saw, while the older man hung back, waiting for his chance. Roaring like angry bulls, the two warriors closed in. Stab! Stab! Their spears thrust forward in unison. Tullus bent his knees, heard one whistle overhead, felt the second drive into his shield. The impact rocked him back; if it hadn’t been for the soldier behind, bracing him with his scutum, he might have fallen. Using the muscles in his thighs, Tullus drove up, looked, and shoved his gladius into the belly of the warrior whose spear had caught in his shield. His actions were exact, precise. In, no more than a handspan, twist a little, out. The man went down, blood blossoming on his tunic, crying like a baby taken off the tit too soon.

The spear hanging from Tullus’ scutum made it unwieldy and nigh-on impossible to hold. Yet he had to, because the second spear-wielding warrior was driving his weapon at Tullus’ head. The older man had joined him, sword jabbing back and forth, searching for a gap in Tullus’ defences. Arm muscles screaming, desperate, Tullus lobbed his shield straight at the spearman. Doing what he always told new recruits never to do, he broke ranks and leaped forward at the warriors, making use of their confusion. Trying to shove away Tullus’ shield, the man with the spear didn’t even see him coming. Tullus smashed his left shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him flying backwards. Tullus also lunged at the older warrior’s midriff from the side. He hadn’t been expecting Tullus’ attack either, but still managed to twist away, avoiding a death wound. Instead the gladius ripped open the back of his tunic, drawing only a line of blood across his flank and an outraged hiss of pain.

Tullus spun back to the man he’d barged, managed to stab him through the lower leg, and then he was retreating, fast as he could, still facing the enemy. The older warrior followed him, like a cat on a mouse, and Tullus thought: I’m done. My own fault. They feinted at each other, sparred and then, to Tullus’ immense relief, the legionary who’d been on his right shuffled forward a couple of steps, roaring abuse, forcing the tribesman to withdraw.

Tullus resumed his place in the line, called for a shield and was handed one from behind. He had no time to thank the legionary who’d saved him, no time to assess how the rest of his soldiers were doing, because the tribesmen were attacking again. A third less in number than they had been, but advancing nonetheless. The older warrior whom Tullus had injured was among them. In a testament to his bravery, so too was the man he’d wounded in the leg.

‘ROMA!’ Tullus yelled. ‘ROMA!’

It was heartening that the response from his soldiers was loud, and came from plenty of throats.

Tullus put down the man with the leg wound with his first thrust, but the older warrior was killing the legionary on his right as he did. With an animal cry, the warrior leaped into the gap left by the dying soldier. Several tribesmen followed him. Tullus was fortunate to have no one before him, or he’d have been slain as he half turned, exposing his left side, and pushed his sword into the first body he saw – a warrior wearing a dark blue tunic. A frantic look to his left – no one there still – and he killed a second tribesman.

Pounding feet forced him to face front again, to take on first another club-wielding warrior, and then a stripling youth as skinny as his own framea. Expecting to be hacked down from behind by the enemies who’d broken the Roman line, Tullus pushed himself to his limit. He took down the club-carrying warrior with a savage thrust to the belly, and then tackled the stripling – who fell for the age-old ruse of a feint to the face with the shield, never anticipating the precise stab to the throat of Tullus’ gladius. With both opponents dead or dying, Tullus had a moment, a heartbeat to recover. He was suddenly intensely aware of the bands of pain wrapping his chest, the breath ragged in his throat, the sheer relief that he was alive, not dead.

There were no more warriors in front of him. The rest appeared to be pulling back. Tullus looked over his shoulder, could see no tribesmen, just sweaty, bloody, grinning legionaries’ faces. ‘Are they all dead?’

‘Aye, sir,’ replied a veteran who’d been with Tullus almost as long as Fenestela. ‘Or going that way.’ His head disappeared from sight, there was a grunt, a moan cut short, and he popped up again. ‘That was the last one, sir.’

‘Good work.’ Tullus cast a look to his left, where the First Cohort was still advancing. Urgency filled him. They had to keep moving if they weren’t to be left behind. He glanced to his right, along the line. Pride swelled his heart. He had no idea how many of his soldiers were down, but they had held. They had fucking held!

‘Should we go after them, sir?’ asked a voice.

Tullus regarded the remaining tribesmen, who were loping off towards the forest. In other circumstances, other battles, he might have agreed, but not today. Among the trees, there would be more warriors waiting, of that he had no doubt, and they were the ones with the advantage in such confined, awkward places. ‘Let the cocksuckers go. Check the wounded; treat them if you can. Strip the dead of any equipment you need, and do it fast. We move now.’

Tullus stalked down the line, repeating his orders, assessing his losses and his soldiers’ mood. They were bloodied and battered. Six of them would never leave this place, and nearly a dozen more sported wounds of varying severity. These were grievous losses for one clash in an ongoing battle, thought Tullus, especially if they were being repeated throughout the army. His rising sense of concern was countered, however, by the fierce grins his men gave him, and the promises that they’d be ready to march as soon as the injured had been looked at.

They’d make it through – one way or another, he decided.

Nonetheless, Tullus couldn’t quite shake off his unease as they resumed their advance. Scores of dead legionaries – the casualties suffered by the First Cohort – were strewn across their path. Many had been dragged to the side of the road by their comrades, but the unit’s officers had been keen to move on. That meant that Tullus and his soldiers had to pick their way past – and in some cases walk on – the mud-spattered, bloodied corpses and, worse still, those who had not yet succumbed to their wounds. Having to behave in such a callous manner dampened the brief elevation in Tullus’ men’s mood like a bucket of water emptied over a smouldering fire.

Rather than say anything, Tullus saved his breath; they’d need rallying later, when the enemy hit them again. Thoughts of Arminius filled his head: how they had first met, how he had charmed everyone, in particular Varus. He was a clever man, a battle-hardened warrior, and a leader of men. He would not attack a force of three legions, even from ambush, unless he had an army at his command. It was feasible, even likely, that the warriors who’d attacked thus far were but a small part of Arminius’ host. The rest were in the forest ahead of them.

Where they had to go.

Curse Arminius for a treacherous dog, thought Tullus, wishing that he was back in Vetera, dry, warm – and safe.

In that moment, it seemed as far away as the moon.