Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XVII

The rest of Tullus’ night passed in a chilly daze of sentry duty, liaising with units of auxiliaries as they appeared, and trying to get a little sleep. By the time tinges of pink and red were visible in the eastern sky, he was tired, hungry and short-tempered. His cohort had found him, however, and the ‘net’ that was Germanicus’ army had been tightened around the village without any indication that the Marsi had realised what was happening.

As the sun rose, Tullus convened a meeting of his centurions, repeating Germanicus’ command that there were to be no survivors. No one questioned his orders, but he noticed his own distaste, mirrored and quickly concealed, in a few faces. It was one thing to act so in a war, thought Tullus, and another to destroy a village that had been feasting the day before. What choice had they, however, but to follow orders? He hardened his heart, remembering the hordes of warriors descending on his soldiers in the forest, the crimson-spattered, spear-decorated bodies decorating the mud and the piercing screams of the wounded.

The Marsi were not a peace-loving people – they were proud and warlike, and had been willing participants in Arminius’ uprising. The elderly among them had been young once and, like as not, they had slain legionaries aplenty then. Their women had birthed the warriors who’d taken part in the ambush. The children would be old enough one day to fight Rome’s legions, or to bring new members of the tribe – more enemies – into this world. They all had to die.

After a time, his conscience had been silenced. The fate of the Marsi would send the starkest of messages to every German tribe, and in particular to the ones that had been allied to Arminius five years before.

Defy Rome, and this will be your destiny, thought Tullus.

He said the same thing to his men. They were avenging their comrades, who had been so foully betrayed and murdered. Blood had to be shed – oceans of it – before the tormented ghosts of the dead could rest in peace.

He was glad when the trumpets sounded the advance. Glad that their waiting was over. Glad, after so long, to be in a position to begin avenging his slaughtered men.

His pleasure soured fast as they approached the now familiar Marsi settlement. Degmar had been correct, Tullus thought. Vast amounts of beer must have been consumed the night before, as the only figures visible as they neared the buildings were those of children. They clustered together as the lines of armoured legionaries closed in, crying out in fear, abandoning their play and forgetting their animal charges – sheep, goats and cattle. Alerted by the commotion, women rushed screaming from their doorways. Late – too late – warriors began to emerge from longhouses, or pick themselves up from where they’d been sleeping, staring in disbelief at the advancing Romans and grabbing whatever weapons were to hand. In twos and threes, they charged forward. Voices hoarse from drinking sang the barritus, but the rendition was thin, reedy. The last time Tullus and his men had heard it, his legionaries had quailed in fear, and even wept. Now they laughed. Jeered. Spat.

In unison, the centurions halted their troops. When the charging warriors were fifty paces away, a volley of javelins went up. Against so few enemies, its effect was devastating, and corpses and wounded men soon littered the ground. Only a few warriors remained unharmed, but, desperate to defend their families, they ran on, straight into the shield wall. They fell without killing a single legionary. They’re dying like men, thought Tullus, but to what purpose? If he had been in their place, with Sirona, say, he would have run. You’re getting soft, he told himself. Stop it.

The efficiency with which their fellows had been slain snapped the remaining Marsi warriors’ courage the way a child breaks a twig in two. Gathering their womenfolk and children, they fled from the advancing Romans. Hoots of derision rose from the legionaries. ‘Ah, don’t go!’ ‘You won’t get far!’ ‘There’s a nice surprise waiting for you on the other side of the village!’

‘Hold your lines,’ roared Tullus. Like cats with captured mice, his men’s instinctive reaction was to chase after their prey. The grim truth was that there was no need to run. ‘Shields ready. Draw swords. Forward, at the walk.’

When they reached the first longhouses, their lines had to break up. Parties of legionaries were sent in to search for anyone who hadn’t yet run. Tullus and the rest continued on into the settlement, cutting down a warrior here and there. It wasn’t long before the first screams reached Tullus’ ears – the voice was that of a woman, or perhaps even a girl. His stomach did a nauseating roll, but he didn’t intervene.

Rape was the norm during brutal situations like this. What was happening in the longhouse behind him was about to be repeated scores of times, all over the settlement. Tullus could no more prevent it than he could stop the tide. Stay focused, he thought. Keep control of your men as best you can. Make sure there are no casualties. Endure. It will end.

Despite his resolve, their time in the village seemed to last an eternity. Tullus grew weary of the sight of bodies, the piteous cries of the wounded, and the acrid stench of burning flesh wafting from burning houses. Men and women, children, greybeards and crones: they lay everywhere. On their backs, their fronts, sprawled on their sides, or heaped on top of one another in death’s emotionless embrace. Flies swarmed over the pools of clotting blood. Overhead, crows and ravens gathered, black-winged messengers of doom.

The animals weren’t immune from the savagery either. Dogs were slain out of hand. Hens had their necks wrung or were tossed, squawking, into the blazing houses. Shrieking pigs writhed on the javelins spitting them through and through. A horse that had been disembowelled walked in ever-decreasing circles, winding tight the sinuous loops of bowels around its lower legs. Laughing soldiers chased sheep around pens, stabbing them so many times that their wool turned crimson before they collapsed.

By midday or thereabouts, the slaughter was over. Faces blackened with soot and caked with blood, wild-eyed legionaries sat around, swilling the beer they’d found and arguing over who had killed the most tribesmen, and other, uglier things. Tullus issued orders to his officers, and then, calm and methodical, they re-established control over their troops, the way a rider of a bolted horse coaxes it back to his hand. According to a messenger, Germanicus had ordered the army to move on to the next village, which was some five miles distant. There was enough daylight left to reach it and put its inhabitants to the sword, the messenger said, before riding on.

At last the contubernia and centuries began to re-form under the direction of Tullus’ officers. He watched in silence, standing with his back towards a longhouse that was a little smaller than most. It was positioned at the edge of the settlement, almost as if the person living in it hadn’t really wanted to live close to anyone else. It hadn’t been burned down, but the smashed-in door and a couple of nearby dead sheep were evidence that it had been ransacked.

Or so Tullus thought.

Amidst the uproar of bellowed orders, tramping feet and the soldiers’ resentful comments, he heard a low cry, as a child might make in fear. It was stifled by something – or someone – which drew Tullus’ attention at once. He might have done nothing, but other men had heard it too. One of his centurions asked permission to send men into the longhouse. ‘I’ll do it,’ said Tullus. ‘Piso! Vitellius!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’

The two legionaries were with him in a few strides, their faces as sweat-covered and dirty as anyone’s. Vitellius had scratches running down one cheek, as might have been made by a woman’s fingernails. Tullus put that image from his mind. ‘Come with me.’

Tullus led the way. He stepped inside the longhouse with care, sword ready by his side, shield high enough that anyone hurling a spear would have to hit him in the face. Nothing was thrown, and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was a typical farmer’s dwelling, with a packed-earth floor. Livestock pens – empty – filled the space to his right, and living quarters – low beds, a stone ring fireplace, blackened pots and pans – the area to his left. Dried herbs and meats dangled from the beams above. Tools and implements – rakes, hammers, a twig broom, a saw, two axes – leaned against or hung from the walls to either side.

Tullus shuffled a few steps further inside, allowing Piso and Vitellius to enter. ‘Search the pens,’ he whispered. ‘Be careful.’

Ignoring their curious stares, Tullus moved towards the living area, treading light, eyes darting from side to side. There was no sign of life. Every few steps, he stopped to listen. The only audible sounds were Piso and Vitellius murmuring, and the creaking of wicker hurdles as they were moved aside. Closer to the fireplace, he could see that it had been used that morning – the embers at its heart were yet glowing. Some kind of broth steamed in a pot that hung from an iron tripod over the fire, and Tullus’ belly rumbled. He hadn’t eaten in many hours.

Whoever had been cooking appeared to have fled. So too did whoever, or whatever, had alerted him. Tullus propped his shield against a wooden pillar and picked up a ladle. Scooping up a measure, he blew on it until it was cool enough to swallow. The broth was delicious – root vegetables with herbs, he thought, bending over the pot for a second time.

A tiny sound behind him – a sandal scraping off the floor, perhaps – rang an alarm in his head. He wheeled around, ladle in one hand, sword in the other, feeling like a complete fool. To die because his hunger had got the better of him would be a stupid way to go. To his huge relief, he saw no hulking warrior with a ready spear, no woman brandishing a carving knife. He wasn’t alone, however. Tullus was sure of that. Laying down the ladle, he moved, cat-soft, towards the beds. There were six of them, three facing three, with narrow gaps between the head of one and the foot of the next.

Bad places to hide, thought Tullus, spying a shape covered by an old blanket in one gap, and opposite it, a second. Only a simpleton could think they wouldn’t be found here. That, or the legionaries who’d been in here had already been pissed out of their minds. He poked the first shape with the tip of his sword. ‘Get up,’ he ordered in German. ‘Now.’

With a resentful shrug, the blanket slid to the floor, revealing a freckle-faced girl of about ten years. Clad in a shapeless dress, she was barefoot. Rags or no, she was proud, glaring at Tullus despite the fear in her eyes. She stood, calling out in a soft voice to whoever was hidden opposite her.

The toe of a worn shoe was poking from under the second blanket. This had been the person Tullus had heard. ‘On your feet,’ he ordered.

There was a sigh, such as the old make when their joints hurt, and the covering fell away. An ancient woman, her face lined with deep wrinkles, stared at Tullus with calm resignation. ‘Kill us and be done.’

Tullus extended a hand and helped her up. The crone gasped with pain as she came fully upright. To Tullus’ surprise, she chuckled. ‘At least my hip won’t trouble me when I’m dead.’

It all made sense now, thought Tullus. Only a fool would stay behind in such a poor hiding place – or a child who wouldn’t leave her lame grandmother.

‘There’s no one in the pens, sir,’ said Piso, arriving with Vitellius. He eyed Tullus’ captives. A flicker of distaste passed across his friendly face. ‘D’you want me to finish them?’

If the two didn’t speak Latin, they understood his tone. The girl rushed to her grandmother’s side and clung to her. The old woman muttered something Tullus didn’t catch, but which might have been, ‘We won’t suffer.’

‘Shall I kill them, sir?’ repeated Piso. Vitellius stood ready beside him, his face a mask.

Is this what I am now? Tullus asked himself. What we are? Murderers of the helpless and infirm? He looked at the girl again, who was similar in size to Artio, and the old woman, who would have found it difficult to swat a fly, let alone harm his men. ‘No,’ he grated. ‘Vitellius, watch them. Piso, come with me.’

Like other longhouses, the walls had been built by fixing a lattice of small branches between wooden posts driven into the ground. The meshwork of branches had then been slathered with a generous covering of mixed clay, earth, dung and straw. Tullus found a spot in the back wall and slammed his heel against it. Brown clods broke away, and he stamped again, snapping a few branches. Using his sword to enlarge the gap, he soon created a hole large enough for the girl to get out. He peered outside, and was pleased to see the tree line no more than twenty steps away.

‘Make it large enough for the old woman,’ he ordered Piso. ‘Do it fast.’ Tullus could have sworn that Piso looked pleased – he certainly set to with a will.

‘You must go now,’ Tullus said to the pair. ‘Through the hole at the back. The forest is close. Our soldiers are no longer encircling the village, so you will be able to escape.’

They stared at him with disbelief.

Tullus repeated what he’d said. As the trumpets ordered the advance outside, he added, ‘Move! Someone might still come in. They won’t be so merciful.’

‘Merciful?’ the girl hissed, her eyes now wild with hate. ‘You call butchering the inhabitants of a village merciful?’

‘Move,’ Tullus ordered, pointing with his sword.

The girl’s grandmother whispered in her ear, and she quietened. Together they walked to the hole in the back wall. As Piso stood aside, he proffered a lump of bread. ‘You need this more than me,’ he said in broken German.

Again the girl seemed about to express her anger, but the old woman took the bread with gratitude. She urged her granddaughter outside. Then, easing herself into the hole, she glanced back at Tullus and gave him a nod, before also disappearing.

Tullus felt a little less soiled. He eyed Piso and Vitellius, who were waiting for him to speak. ‘Not a word about this to anyone, you understand? Not a fucking word. If I hear as much as a whisper, you’ll wish you had never been whelped, so help me.’

‘Aye, sir,’ they both muttered.

‘Outside,’ ordered Tullus.

He was emerging from the longhouse’s doorway when Tubero came riding up, his usual retinue behind him. As usual, the sight of Tullus made his lip curl. ‘I come to inspect your cohort, centurion, and instead find you ransacking a hovel for scraps like some common soldier. So much for the pride of the legions!’

A dutiful laugh rose from his staff officers, and Tullus’ temper, so often his bane, flared. ‘I wasn’t looking for food, sir. I heard something inside, and went to investigate.’

‘That’s more commendable. How many more did you kill?’

‘None, sir,’ replied Tullus, forcing a regretful expression on to his face. ‘It must have been a scavenging dog. There’s a hole in the back wall, you see.’

‘A dog?’ The disbelief was clear in Tubero’s voice. His gaze fell on Piso and Vitellius. ‘Did either of you set eyes on this dog?’

‘No, sir,’ said Vitellius, ‘but I heard it.’

‘Me too, sir,’ lied Piso with relish.

Tubero’s lips thinned, but his interest moved on. ‘Time to leave this shithole, centurion. Are your men ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I understand that the next village is larger than this. We’ll have to work hard to ensure that all of the Marsi filth are laid in the mud before dark. I expect your cohort to play its part.’

‘It will, sir, as ever,’ replied Tullus, wishing that a battle awaited, not another massacre.

With another contemptuous look, Tubero rode on to the next unit.

Tullus tried to find solace in the fact that he had saved two lives, but in the face of what they had done, and what awaited them a few miles away, it was impossible. The coming days would prove no better, he knew. The only choice left open to him was to wall off what happened – even to pretend it wasn’t happening – and carry on.

Perhaps there was one benefit to the mass slaughter, he decided. Germanicus’ campaign of death and destruction would attract Arminius’ attention in the same way as the screams of a wounded rabbit drew in a hunting fox.

To Tullus’ frustration, Arminius and his Cherusci warriors did not materialise during the following days. Unhindered, the legions and auxiliaries laid waste to every Marsi settlement that they found. News of their presence spread fast, and a good number of the villages were deserted by the time the army arrived. It was a secret relief to Tullus, although he admitted that to no one.

They found no sign of the eagle mentioned by Degmar. Numerous chieftains and tribal priests died under torture ordered by Germanicus, protesting that they knew nothing. The prisoners were either telling the truth, Tullus concluded, or regarded the eagle as a prize worth dying for. Either way, the Romans’ failure to locate even one golden standard – most particularly for Tullus, that of the Eighteenth – boded ill for their recovery.

He drank a lot of wine during the month-long campaign.

The Romans’ brutal tactics soon provoked the local tribes – the Bructeri, Usipetes and Tubantes – to take up arms. Wary of confronting Germanicus’ heavily armed legionaries in open battle, they began to harass the force as it marched back to the Rhenus, the job of restoring morale complete. They attacked the Romans inside forested areas, as Arminius had done, where the legions could not deploy in their usual battle formations. Over a two-day period, more than half a dozen assaults were made on the miles-long column. Scores of soldiers were killed and injured, but discipline remained good, limiting the tribesmen’s success. On the third day, knowing that Germanicus’ host would soon reach the relative safety of open ground, they attacked in greater force, striking hardest at the rear.

That day, it was the turn of the Twentieth Legion to form the end of the column, so Tullus only heard the dramatic tale of what happened afterwards. Confused by the strong enemy attack, the Twentieth’s lines had wavered. Heavy casualties were being sustained, and things were looking bleak until Germanicus, who had heard what was going on, rode back to seize control of the situation. His exhortations to the Twentieth’s legionaries to turn their ‘guilt into glory’ had dramatic results. The tribesmen were driven back, allowing the army to stop and construct a fortified camp for the night.

Resistance melted away as the Rhenus drew near, allowing the army a safe passage to the western bank, and their camps. Spirits were high and the camaraderie of old had returned as the expedition came to an end. Wiser to his soldiers’ needs since the rebellion, Germanicus discharged scores of veterans who had served their time. He also laid on several days of games. Food and wine was provided in great quantity for the festivities’ duration. These unexpected bounties fell like spring rain on young seedlings. So too did the usual four-monthly payday, which was boosted by the addition of a special bonus paid for by Germanicus himself. Soon after, the governor departed for Rome – his mission there to report to Tiberius – content in the knowledge that normal life had resumed in Vetera.

He left instructions with Caecina, which were soon relayed to Tullus and the other centurions. The legions were to prepare for a major campaign the following spring. To keep the officers’ minds focused on the task in hand, Germanicus’ final words were repeated verbatim at the end of every meeting in the months that followed. ‘Varus and his men will be avenged. Arminius and the tribes who massacred the three legions will pay. The lost eagles will be found, and our honour restored.’

They became Tullus’ refrain as he knelt nightly before the shrine in his quarters.

‘My soldiers will be avenged. Arminius and the tribes who massacred them will pay. The Eighteenth’s eagle will be found, and my honour restored. Grant me these things, great Mars, and you can have anything.’

Each and every time, Tullus paused before adding, ‘including my life’.