Eagles at War

XXV

Tullus wasn’t happy. The ground had begun to climb, and although the gradient wasn’t steep, and the path didn’t lead straight up the hill, it opened his men up to potential attacks from above. Sure enough, fresh volleys of stones and frameae were soon raining down on them. His cohort and the First – the only unit that appeared to be with them by this stage – now had to fight off a strong assault by hundreds of fresh warriors. Their shields bore different patterns to those borne by their previous assailants, telling Tullus that they were from another tribe, which cemented his conviction that Arminius had rallied more than just his own people.

It didn’t take long for Tullus to lose three soldiers in the clash, with almost twice that number injured – losses that were roughly replicated throughout the cohort. Once the enemy had pulled back – there was no point pursuing them – the Romans’ march had continued. The slain had been left where they had fallen, the luckiest among them with a coin in their mouths placed there in haste by a comrade. Grim-faced but resolute, Tullus and his men slogged on through the mud, the wind and the constant downpour.

Only the gods knew what time of day it was – the morning had to have passed, but with storm clouds reducing their world to a rain-soaked, grey twilight, it was impossible to be more specific. They had covered perhaps a mile, and the forest began to die away to their right. At first it was only a few gaps in the trees, but after another half-mile, during which they had not come under further attack, the woodland came to an end. Tullus felt like cheering – the open ground meant that they would be safe from attack on one side at least.

His hopes were soon dashed.

‘It’s fucking bog,’ he said to Fenestela, who’d come to report on the wounded. ‘That prick Arminius is even cleverer than I thought, choosing to fight us here.’

They both looked, hoping Tullus was wrong, but there could be no mistaking it. Two to three hundred paces of scrubby grass and a few bushes further on, the land’s profile changed. Patches of heather and bracken nestled alongside one another; they continued as far as the eye could see. Between them were countless nodding heads of water avens and the unmistakeable yellow flowers of goatweed. These were plants fond of damp, marshy ground. As if to prove the point, the resentful, rattling cry of a grouse rose to meet them.

The significance of what they were seeing sank home faster than a stone dropped down a well. Where there were trees, there was solid ground. A bad place to fight, but it could be done. Men could run away into the forest, if it came to it. But bog?

Fenestela cleared his throat and spat a juicy chunk of phlegm into the mud. ‘That for you, Fortuna, you treacherous old whore.’

On another day, Tullus – cynic though he was – might have counselled against such blasphemy. Now, though, he added his contribution to Fenestela’s with an energetic hawk and spit. ‘The raddled crone is in an evil mood with us – of that there’s no fucking doubt.’

Fenestela lowered his voice further, so the soldiers marching alongside – most of whom, locked in their own worlds of misery, did not appear to have noticed the marshy ground – couldn’t hear. ‘What can we do?’

Tullus cast a jaundiced look at his optio. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’

When the thunder came, it was even louder than before – right above their heads.

The heavens opened, releasing fresh deluges of water, and it truly felt as if the gods were laughing at them. Groans – of weariness, resignation, despair – rippled down the line of marching soldiers. A man could only get so wet, thought Tullus, but his spirits could be dragged lower and lower, until they were in the actual mud. In that moment, he felt his own slide several notches downward.

It was impossible to pick the thing he hated most. The gnawing worry that they were about to be attacked, that he might lose all of his men, that he might die himself. The notion that the mad-eyed soothsayer in Mogontiacum so many years before had been right all along. The brown sludge squelching between his toes with each step, and how the grit within it worked its way further and further into his open-toed boots. The twinging ache in his lower back, and the constant stabbing pain from the old injury in his calf. The strength-sapping feeling of cold, soaking wool against his skin, made degrees worse by the biting wind. The apparent ever-growing weight of his armour. The fact that his shield, combat-ready in his left fist rather than slung from his back, appeared to have been magicked into a single piece of lead. The way his sword hilt pinched the skin on the inside of his elbow with each swing of his arm. The infuriating path that rain took from the rim of his helmet on to his forehead, and onward into his sweat-stung eyes.

Fuck it, thought Tullus. Fuck this wet, dreary shithole. Fuck its savage people, and their barbaric ways. Fuck the weather. Fuck the forest. Fuck the stinking mud. Fuck Varus for being a blind fool. And most of all, fuck Arminius for being a traitorous whore’s get.

The internal rant took his mind from their miserable situation for all of a couple of hundred paces. Then it was back to the numbing grind. Place one foot before the other; keep up a decent speed so that they remained close to the First. Wipe the rain from his face. Shift the hilt of his sword – again. Grip the edge of his shield with his right hand for twenty steps, to ease the load on his left shoulder. Study the trees to their left with great care for signs of the enemy, and then his men, with equal intensity, to monitor their spirits. Growl encouragement at the laggards; shout back to Fenestela, so that he knew what was going on behind him.

Repeat the whole procedure again and again and again. And again.

Tullus dragged his cohort thus another mile.

The next attack was a hammer blow, far worse than any of the previous assaults.

Wily veteran though he was, Tullus was caught by surprise. So too were his soldiers. Who could have predicted that the tribesmen would have constructed huge earthworks, protected by wicker fencing and cut branches, behind which they could hide in their thousands? Yet that is exactly what they had done – what Arminius, the genius, had had them do.

One moment Tullus was trudging along, half counting his steps, half listening to the filthy joke being told in the rank behind, and the next the world filled again with that damnable sound, the barritus. Before his disbelieving eyes, scores of warriors burst into sight from his left, charging straight at his astonished soldiers. More followed, and more, until there were hundreds of the enemy, emerging from gaps in what Tullus realised – far too late – was a manmade embankment thirty to forty paces back into the trees.

There was nothing to their right – even though it was bog, Tullus checked again – which was something. ‘HALT! FACE LEFT! CLOSE ORDER!’ he roared, his voice cracking with effort. He was already shoving his way forward so that he could stand on the right of the first rank. ‘PLACE THE WOUNDED BEHIND. QUICKLY!’

This time, reduced numbers notwithstanding, they were able to form a decent line and throw their pila before the enemy came within gladius range. The paltry number of javelins remaining to them meant that the volley had little effect on the massed assault. Perhaps a dozen tribesmen were punched backward into their fellows, but the rest came on without pause, weapons raised and shouting their hatred. In the lead were five naked warriors, their bodies streaked with daubs of white and blue paint. An alarm sounded in Tullus’ head. He had faced berserkers before, and knew how dangerous they could be. Their manic expressions, large physical size and complete lack of fear, not to mention clothing, shouted that these specimens were to be feared. They weren’t going to hit the line anywhere near him either, worse luck.

Tullus was moving before he let himself think. With a shove, he forced the legionary behind him into his place; then he wheeled around the back of the formation. It was gut-wrenching that his soldiers only stood two deep now, because of their losses. The wounded who could not fight – almost a score of them – made a more pathetic sight. The ones who could sit upright were propped up against one another, daggers and swords in their hands, but the rest lay in the mud, piss-soaked, wounds bleeding and groaning in pain.

Ignoring this bitter reality, Tullus forced his weary legs into a trot. ‘HOLD THE BASTARDS!’ he shouted over and over. ‘STEADY!’ As he made his way towards the centre, he kept peering over his men’s shoulders, searching for the berserkers.

Acid filled his mouth as he realised he wouldn’t reach the point where they struck the line in time. Fortuna wasn’t finished with him yet, Tullus thought, imagining the goddess’s pitiless smile as her dice landed to reveal a pair of unbeatable sixes. If the berserkers smashed through, the battle would turn to a slaughter. Already demoralised, facing more warriors than ever before, his soldiers would break and run – into the bog, where they would be cut down to a man, or drown. Tullus set his jaw, managed to increase his pace a fraction, then a little more. The next few moments would cost him his life, but that was a fair price if he could prevent a wholescale rout.

Fierce cries went up, and then there was an almighty crash. The berserkers had hit the waiting legionaries. Their comrades, a short distance behind, yelled their approval. Tullus, still at the rear, and ten paces from the point of impact, had a perfect view of what happened. The force with which the naked warriors struck pushed both Roman ranks back a couple of steps. Shouts of anger and terror, and pain, competed with the sound of iron on iron and men’s screams. The coppery smell of blood filled the air; mixed with it were its inevitable companions – piss and shit. Tullus heard a man vomiting. His sense of urgency multiplied. All the signs were there. Within a dozen heartbeats, his worst fears would be confirmed. That was how fast the balance of a fight could tip one way or the other.

Instinct and battle experience told Tullus not to try and shove his way into what was left of his soldiers’ formation. There lay only madness, panic, men jammed so close to each other that it was impossible to wield a sword. It was a ruthless decision: some of his soldiers would die because of it, but he could think of nothing else. Preparing himself, asking Mars for his help, Tullus stepped away from the swaying ranks a little, and raised his sword and shield.

A cry of agony, a despairing shout from a comrade, and a legionary sprawled backwards out of the line and on to his back. Blood spurted from the deep wound to his neck, turning the plates of his armour crimson. There was a triumphant shout, and the berserker who’d killed him leaped forward to stand over his victim, spear aimed down to deliver another blow.

Tullus had stuck him through and through before the man had even realised there was someone there. Quick as he could, Tullus tugged his blade free, twisting his head so that the blood sprays didn’t hit him in the face. He shuffled back a short way, and waited.

Another legionary died in similar fashion within a few heartbeats. So too did his killer, at Tullus’ hands. He repeated the simple manoeuvre on a third berserker as well, and was beginning to think he might do the impossible, but the last two crashed through his men together. Tullus managed to wound the nearest berserker in the arm, but it was the man’s left, not the one wielding his spear. The berserker turned on him like a rabid dog, baring his teeth and shrieking his pain – or was it contempt at Tullus’ effort? – and shoving his spear towards Tullus’ face and shield, shield and face. Tullus retreated, head as low as possible behind his scutum, noticing with alarm that the berserker’s companion was darting around to his rear. Resignation swamped him. He’d done well, for an old man, but to die with a wound in his back was a shitty way to go.

Thump. Tullus had to forget about his second enemy as he was shoved back a step by the first berserker’s spear driving into his shield. Even one-handed, the man had the strength of a boar. The sharp iron point sliced through the layered wood to strike Tullus’ mail under his sternum. He staggered, but managed to keep a tight hold on the shield grip. When the berserker tried to free his spear, Tullus countered by pushing forward – hard. The warrior’s face was a picture of surprise as he was twisted sideways by Tullus’ momentum. The move brought Tullus close enough to slide his sword deep into the side of the berserker’s chest. Iron grated off rib bone, then the resistance vanished as the blade sliced everything beyond that into ribbons.

The berserker was a dead man standing, yet he somehow found the strength to let go of his spear and punch Tullus in the head. The blow struck his helmet and despite the felt liner that cushioned his skull, stars flashed across his vision. ‘Fucking die!’ he shouted, running his sword in until the hilt touched the berserker’s flesh. With a shuddering gasp, and a dribble of pink froth from his lips, the man did as he asked. He fell off Tullus’ blade as he went down.

Remembering the second berserker, Tullus flinched. Why wasn’t he dead? The warrior had had more than enough time to kill him. He twisted his head, could see no one for a heartbeat. Turning, he was astonished to find the final berserker lying face down, chest heaving, almost at his feet. He’d been hamstrung in one leg, and slashed by a sword in the other. Behind him, two of the wounded legionaries were grinning like idiots at Tullus, who took in their bloodied gladii, and laughed with a combination of relief and pride. ‘My thanks,’ he said.

Tullus left them to finish the berserker off. Seizing a discarded shield, he went to fill the gap in his soldiers’ line. His men had almost managed to close it, but not quite. Tullus’ arrival came none too soon, and he took delight in the alarm that his appearance, crested helmet on, roaring like a madman, caused among their attackers. One moment they’d been shoving forward into a hole caused by their berserker brethren, and the next, it had been plugged by a centurion who appeared to be insane.

‘HOLD, BROTHERS!’ yelled Tullus. ‘STAY CLOSE!’

From that point, Tullus’ world became a tunnel. He lost all concept of weather, location, how much his body hurt, anything other than the man to either side, and the handful of warriors before him. It was galling that despite the berserkers’ deaths, the tribesmen continued to attack. Their morale had to have been affected, Tullus reasoned, forcing his screaming muscles to continue working.

Keep the scutum up, he thought. Pick a target. Let him come. Duck down, take the blow on the shield front, or its rim. Thrust forward, often without looking. Drive the blade in, sense the victim squirm away in vain, hear his screams. Blade out, feel the blood sheet over his forearm, peer over the shield to see his opponent fall. Glance to either side, check that his companions are alive, still fighting. Shuffle closer to one or the other. Yell at his men to hold, to stay close. Bellow his defiance at the tribesmen, throw whatever insults came to him in both German and Latin. Blink away the sweat that was running into his eyes.

In this fashion, Tullus slew two warriors and shared another kill with the soldier to his right, who had stabbed his opponent at the same time. By this stage, it was agony to breathe, and his every muscle was trembling with exhaustion. It was pathetic how grateful he felt when, without any warning, the warriors withdrew. He watched, panting and offering up silent prayers of thanks to Mars, as they loped back into the trees and their embankment, which had hidden them so well. Their wounded and dying were left behind: a decent covering, Tullus was pleased to see. Worry gnawed at him nonetheless. His losses, and those suffered by the cohort and the army in general, were far more pressing. They could not keep haemorrhaging men like this.

For now, though, they had won some space to recover. Tullus lowered his sword, let his shield sag to the ground. Felt the rain, softer now, drifting down on to his face in welcome drops. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes for a count of five. Ten. Crazy as it was in that blood-spattered place of death, sleep beckoned. Tullus rallied what was left of his energy and forced his gummy eyelids open. ‘Injured?’ he demanded of the soldiers to either side. One was fine; the other had a gaping wound to his left cheek, but averred that he could fight on. With constant glances towards the trees, Tullus marched to the end of his century, assessing his casualties. To his intense relief, they weren’t as bad as they could have been. Five – only five! – legionaries were dead or dying, and two would follow them within hours. Six more men had minor wounds. Heavy though these losses were, the berserkers’ charge could have ended everything. He was overjoyed to find Fenestela still alive: covered in other men’s blood, with a gash to his neck, but otherwise unharmed. Tullus grabbed him in a bear hug.

‘I heard what you did to those naked fuckers, sir,’ said Fenestela when they had separated, smiling. Respect shone from his eyes. ‘Few men could have done that.’

‘I was full sure I was dead. That helped, like as not,’ Tullus said, shrugging. ‘Mars was kind to me. So too were a couple of the wounded lads, who hamstrung the last whoreson. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be here.’ His vision blurred for a moment, and he swayed.

‘You all right, sir?’ asked Fenestela, steadying him.

Tullus straightened his spine, grimaced and shook off Fenestela’s hand. ‘Aye. I have to be. Is there anything to drink? I’m fucking parched.’

Fenestela called for a wine skin.

Reinvigorated a little by several mouthfuls of undiluted wine – Campanian, it tasted like – Tullus sent word to the other centuries in the cohort that they were to treat the injured fast, and to be ready to march. When the messenger returned, he wasn’t carrying good news. Three of Tullus’ centurions reported that they were down to half their usual strength. A fourth centurion was dead, and the last would not live another hour. Cursing at the delay dealing with this would cause – and with the First Cohort already on the move in front – Tullus ordered the depleted centuries to unite, forming two that were full strength, and for them to do it with all haste.

For a time after that, Fortuna appeared to have cast her capricious gaze elsewhere, leaving Mars to hold his shield over Tullus and his soldiers. The thunder stopped, and the rain eased to a gentle drizzle. There was even a hint of sunshine through a few breaks in the cloud. A rainbow formed overhead, its beauty a stark contrast to the bloodbath taking place at ground level. From somewhere on the moorland beyond the bog came the lonely, warbling cries of curlews. With no sign of the tribesmen other than heads peering over the earthen rampart, Tullus’ soldiers regrouped and got moving.

When they caught up with the First Cohort, it was travelling at a snail’s pace. Before long, it ground to a complete halt. The unit had come under attack again. Hundreds of warriors rushed out from behind the German earthworks, threatening to overwhelm the First through sheer weight of numbers. With worry gnawing at his guts, Tullus ordered his tired soldiers forward to its aid. They managed to fight their way to the unit’s rear after a time, with the loss of two men. If Tullus had thought things would prove easier having another cohort to one side, he was mistaken. It might have worked if the First hadn’t lost so many junior officers and centurions – but it had. From his position at the far right of his soldiers, abutting the First, he could see the unit’s legionaries weakening like an undercut riverbank hit by a winter flood.

It was unusual to mix troops from two different cohorts, but desperate times called for desperate measures. During a brief respite, Tullus had Fenestela take his place in the front rank. Then, leading half his own century, he made his way behind the First for a short distance, and forward, into the middle of its disrupted formation. The grey-faced, stoop-shouldered legionaries met their arrival with varying degrees of disbelief – and pathetic gratitude. Their spines stiffened too, however, which was what Tullus needed. He interspersed his soldiers between those of the First, all along a section of line eighty men wide, and placed himself in the middle. When the next wave of warriors came charging in, the legionaries stood solid, and threw the enemy back.

They did the same thing on a second occasion, wreaking fearful casualties on the tribesmen. During the short breaks between attacks, Tullus was able to ascertain that his cohort was also holding its own. The rest of the First – to his right – was a different matter altogether. Parts of it were standing their ground, but from the sounds and looks of it – loud cheering from the enemy, and an increase in the force of their assault – other sections were crumbling or had even broken. He began to wonder whether his move to strengthen the First had been wise – if the situation deteriorated much further, the soldiers around him would also crack. If that happened, he and his men would die. Even worse, so too would Fenestela and the rest of his beleaguered century – possibly even his entire cohort.

It was with a sense of real relief, therefore, that Tullus watched the enemy tribesmen pulling back a short time later. They hadn’t been beaten – too many of them were sauntering for that to be the case, and hurling insults over their shoulders at the Romans – but they were withdrawing. For a rest, like as not, he thought, feeling a great need for the same. The horns of an unpleasant dilemma now faced him. Another enemy assault would begin soon. Should he stay put, or return to his men? Or even, Tullus wondered, should he push on past these beaten legionaries, away from his allotted position, to where the legion’s eagle was? It was vital that the golden standard not be lost – and his men might make the difference in retaining it. That bitter realisation drove Tullus to throw caution – and army regulations – to the wind.

Ordering the First’s soldiers to do their best, he rallied his men – three fewer than he’d led in – and took them back to their own unit. Fenestela greeted him with unbridled relief. ‘We didn’t break, sir, but it was close. We won’t be able to hold on for much longer.’

‘If we stay here, we’ll be raven food by sunset,’ agreed Tullus. He pointed. ‘Look over there.’ He’d spotted an area of dry ground to their right, parallel to the track, increasing the distance between them and the boggy area. Fenestela took one look and also saw the chance it granted. Without further ado, Tullus led his soldiers on to it, around the still unmoving First Cohort. There were unhappy glances from its legionaries, and even a shout from an optio that they shouldn’t be changing formation without direct orders from Varus, but Tullus paid not a blind bit of notice.

Judging where the First’s centre was proved to be difficult, as the cohort had lost its usual formation. Approximating as best he could, Tullus returned to the path after a few hundred paces. The niggle of unease he’d felt about the eagle now became open disquiet. The casualties here had been horrendous. Legionaries were sprawled everywhere, dead, wounded, somewhere in between. The unit’s ranks were so full of gaps that they resembled an old fishing net that had never been repaired.

Not every centurion had been killed, however, and there were also standard-bearers dotted throughout the unit’s soldiers. What worried Tullus was that they were signiferi, the men who carried centuries’ standards. There was no sign – anywhere – of the aquilifer, and the eagle he carried.

‘Where’s the eagle?’ Tullus roared at an optio who was tending to the wounded.

The optio looked up. The grief and shame on his face, and the streaks that tears had left on his cheeks, revealed everything. ‘It’s gone, sir. Lost.’

‘What?’ Tullus seized the optio’s arm, shoved his face into the other man’s. ‘How?’

‘There were too many of them, sir. They went straight for the eagle – twenty berserkers, at least. Our centurions did their best, they shoved us forward, sideways, every way they could to protect it. Three of them died, maybe more, defending it. Scores of ordinary soldiers too. I’m one of the only optiones left.’ The man hung his head. ‘I should have died – would have done, if I hadn’t been knocked out for a time.’

Numb, reeling, Tullus left the optio to his misery. Ordering his own cohort to regroup, he went in search of a more senior officer, hoping against hope that they would rebut what the optio had told him. The eagle’s loss was almost incomprehensible. Men would do anything – die, take a disabling wound, lose a limb – to prevent such an iconic symbol falling into enemy hands. Tullus would have done the same. He couldn’t remember the last time a legion had lost an eagle. The optio had been mistaken, he told himself.

Ignoring the nearby legionaries’ dejected, beaten expressions, his fantasy lasted until he came across Centurion Fabricius, of the Second Century – whom he knew – an officious type at the best of times. Now, though, Fabricius looked like a man whose family has just been butchered before him: dead-eyed, with a sickly grey complexion. He gave Tullus a puzzled look. ‘You’re not with the First.’

‘No. I’m Tullus. Senior centurion, Second Cohort.’

‘Ah.’ Fabricius’ disinterested gaze fell, and he picked at the hilt of his sword with bloodied fingernails.

‘Is it true?’ demanded Tullus. ‘Has the eagle been lost?’

There was no reply.

‘Answer me!’ shouted Tullus, uncaring that Fabricius outranked him.

‘Aye. It’s true,’ muttered Fabricius, unable to meet his eyes.

‘I brought my men forward as fast as I could. We would have – I meant to-’ Tullus stopped. Empty words and hollow promises would not magic the eagle back. He glanced at the earthworks, and the clamouring warriors atop it. ‘They took it back there?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long ago?’

‘I-I don’t know. Not long since.’

Tullus’ mind raced. If he gathered all of his men, and the soldiers around him, could they sweep forward and cross the enemy fortifications? Could they recover the eagle? He studied the nearest legionaries, and his hopes burned to a white ash. Everyone he could see looked exhausted. His own troops weren’t in a much better state. Such men couldn’t storm a higher position – against superior numbers – and expect to win, let alone take back a prize that would be defended to the bitter end. You bastard, Arminius, he thought. You filthy, scheming bastard.

Tullus had never felt so bitter. Never been so ashamed. It was immaterial that he had not been present when the eagle had been seized: it belonged to the Eighteenth. His legion – the unit to which he had given fifteen years of his life. Their humiliation was all the greater because the Seventeenth and the Nineteenth still retained theirs. If they escaped this living hell, it would be the death of the Eighteenth. Legions without eagles were disbanded.

In that moment, Tullus’ despair threatened to overwhelm him. He longed to lie down in the mud and let the world fall to ruin.

One thing prevented him. His men.

He could not go to Hades knowing that he’d abandoned them. He had to keep his cohort moving. To stay was to die.

‘The gods be with you,’ he said to Fabricius.

Disbelief flitted across Fabricius’ face – then it was anger. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to my cohort.’

‘What about the eagle?’ demanded Fabricius. ‘It has to be recaptured!’

Shame scourged Tullus anew, not least because there was nothing to be done. ‘It’s thanks to the incompetence of you and your fellow officers that it was lost in the first place,’ he snarled.

Fabricius spat into the mud. ‘Varus will hear of this.’

‘I’ll tell him what I did myself,’ Tullus retorted. ‘He can be the judge of who did the right thing. It won’t be you, you fool. Mark my words: stay here, and you will all die. We can’t fight these whoresons, at least not the way we’d want. Our best chance – our only chance – is to keep marching.’

He walked away, ignoring Fabricius’ orders to stand his ground. Gods grant that he comes to his senses before it’s too late, Tullus thought, putting the fate of the First – and the eagle – from his mind. In this calamitous situation, his cohort came first, and everyone and everything else came a distant second. Including Varus. Especially Varus. I told him, Tullus remembered, a throbbing fury pulsing behind his eyes. If only he’d listened. But Varus hadn’t, and here they were, with hundreds of men dead and an eagle lost – and that was just among the ranks of the Eighteenth. Who knew what was happening to the rest of the army?

A short distance along the path, Tullus was presented in gory fashion with the fate of the senior officers and their escort. Whether it was because the enemy had noticed the number of officers together – legates, tribunes and auxiliary prefects – or the fact that they were only protected by a single cohort, he didn’t know, but the attack here appeared to have been made with even more force than that directed against his soldiers. In the carnage upwards of two hundred legionaries lay slaughtered, and among them Tullus counted four tribunes, two prefects and a number of centurions. It was a relief to see no legates among the dead, and to note that the senior officers who had survived had not lingered.

He eyed the enemy’s earthworks with renewed respect.

It was as if the tribesmen saw him looking. A rendition of the barritus began, and a number of warriors emerged from the nearest gaps in the fortification to hurl abuse towards the path. Some even dropped their trousers in order to wave their genitalia at the Romans. On another day, Tullus would have found a wisecrack to shout back. Instead, he watched the taunting men in grim silence. With their confidence running this high, it wouldn’t be long before they attacked again.

How Tullus wished that he had the legion’s artillery to call on. Behind the earthworks, the enemy would be packed as tight as a shoal of fish in a net. A sustained barrage from ballistae would cause heavy casualties, and force them out from their defences, whereupon the legionaries would be able to slaughter them. Arminius had foreseen this, however, by tricking the legions on to this narrow, godsforsaken path upon which wagons and artillery could not travel. The result meant that, despite being less than fifty paces away, the tribesmen were invulnerable.

Tullus hadn’t trudged much further when cheering broke out among the enemy. He peered, making out a familiar broad-shouldered figure in fine armour, surrounded by a group of excited warriors. It was Arminius, Tullus felt sure of it. Hearing Arminius’ voice a few heartbeats later was the final proof that his suspicions all along had been correct. That sour realisation, although expected, was hard to take.

It was far worse, however, to see his legion’s eagle being brandished aloft beside Arminius. It glinted in the weak rays of afternoon sunshine, mocking the Eighteenth’s failure. Tullus’ fury was such that his vision blurred for a moment. When it cleared, the eagle had been taken behind the enemy fortification, driving the reality of the loss even further home.

Tullus took a silent oath on the spot.

One day, my men and I will return and reclaim what belongs to us – what belongs to the Eighteenth. The eagle will be ours again. By everything that is sacred, I swear it. We will be back.

For now, though, he had to focus on survival.