Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XXXVI

After driving off the Germans, the legions had travelled perhaps ten miles that day before Caecina ordered the construction of a camp. The distance covered was half that of a normal day’s march, but in Tullus’ mind, that was satisfactory. The army had not been annihilated and, baggage train aside, their losses had been light. It worried him that the ramparts were less high than they should have been, and that the ditch beyond was only calf-deep, but there was nothing to be done about it, because too many tools had been lost with the wagons. At least the entrances were traps in themselves, he told himself. The walls on each side overran one another, forming a narrow corridor through which one had to pass, and they had been blocked with cut branches. As long as the sentries remained alert, the night should pass without incident.

Tullus was tired. Bone-weary, in fact. Tramping, running and fighting through bogland sapped a man’s strength much faster than it did in easier terrain. He had managed because he had had to. His soldiers depended on him, and Caecina might have died if they hadn’t intervened. Gods, thought Tullus, but he was paying for it now. Every part of him ached, stung or throbbed. He reeked of his own sweat, and others’ blood.

The only time he could remember being more exhausted was during the terrible fight to survive Arminius’ ambush, and the flight to Aliso fort afterwards. Tullus blinked those memories away – dwelling on that nightmare would get him nowhere. Nor would brooding about his legion’s eagle, still held somewhere in this godsforsaken land. Better to deal with the tasks at hand, which were to ensure that the injured among his men had been treated, that the rest were in the best possible spirits, and that every soldier had had some food at least.

Tullus had already checked up on half the cohort, and had halted only because his body would have betrayed him otherwise. A short rest would do him no harm, he had decided. So here he was, sitting on a folded blanket, gazing into a hissing fire. Despite the damp, his grumbling belly and the watery, scant heat from his little blaze, he did feel better. Whether he’d be able to get up was another matter. With a heave, he managed it, grimacing as the movement triggered a surge of stabbing pains from new parts of his body.

He rolled his hips one way and then the opposite, trying to loosen them before they locked. His tactic worked in part, but the joints weren’t as mobile as they had been even a year before. Not for the first time, Tullus wished that he’d valued his youth more. Physical fitness then had been a given, not a blessing. Recovery from injury just happened – it didn’t have to be worked on. At least I have more sense now, he decided. Back then I had none. If that’s true, what in Hades are you doing here? his younger self seemed to ask.

Tullus had no answer.

He tried not to be despondent. Casualties that day had been heavy, but not overwhelming. Arminius wasn’t dead, but he’d been thwarted in his attempt to kill Caecina. The baggage train had been lost, yet the rest of the army – including the rebellious soldiers – had made it here. Morale throughout the legions was poor, but not at its nadir. Despite his effort to be optimistic, Tullus knew that another day of heavy assaults could break the legionaries.

‘Eaten anything yet?’ Fenestela followed his voice out of the darkness.

‘My food was in the baggage train. Along with old Ambiorix,’ said Tullus, hoping that the Gaul had died fast. His nose twitched. ‘What are you hiding?’

From behind his back Fenestela produced a chunk of sweaty-looking ham. ‘This.’

Saliva filled Tullus’ mouth. ‘Where’d you find that, you dog?’

‘I have my sources.’ It was a typical Fenestela remark. He got to work with his dagger, hacking off a slice. ‘Here.’

‘Jupiter’s arse crack, but that’s good,’ said Tullus, chewing.

‘A hungry man isn’t the best critic,’ replied Fenestela with a chuckle. ‘It’s seen better days, this meat, but I’d rather have it than nothing.’

They didn’t talk further until every scrap was gone.

‘How are the men?’ asked Tullus. The legionaries of the entire cohort were his responsibility, but between him and Fenestela, the ‘men’ would always be those in his century.

‘Cold, wet and hungry. Apart from that, they’re not too bad.’ Fenestela’s expression grew serious. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll follow you, and they will fight. They’d appreciate seeing your face, though.’

Tullus let out a pleased grunt. ‘I’ll get to them soon.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No. Sit by the fire. Get some rest.’ Fenestela began to protest, and Tullus growled, ‘You’re as tired as I am, if not more so. Thieving supplies is tiring work, or so I’m told.’

‘Ha! Those are fighting words.’

‘We’re both too old for that,’ said Tullus, pushing Fenestela towards his blanket. ‘Sit. Stay. That’s an order.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fenestela’s tone was mocking, but the look he gave Tullus was full of feeling. ‘I’ll save this until you get back.’ Out of nowhere, it seemed, he had a small leather bag in one hand. It made a welcome, slopping sound. ‘Tastes like vinegar, this stuff, but it leaves a warm glow inside.’

‘I knew there was a reason I promoted you to optio,’ said Tullus, grinning.

Perhaps he would get some sleep after all.

Leaving Fenestela by his fire, Tullus wandered the muddy avenues, using the light cast by the soldiers’ fires to find his way. As before, he held brief conversations with the centurions of each century. He also kept talking to the men, making sure that their morale remained as high as possible. Whether the officers in the other cohorts were doing the same, he had no way of knowing, but Tullus hoped so. Chance alone, or perhaps Fortuna’s goodwill, had been all that had prevented the earlier foolishness of the Twenty-First and Fifth resulting in complete catastrophe.

Having spent time with all but one of the remaining centuries, and conferred with their centurions, he at last approached the lines where his own unit was camping out. His bone-shattering weariness eased by the warmth of his reception, Tullus moved between the contubernia, sharing a joke here, praising soldiers whose actions had stood out there. It touched him how many men offered him food and drink, although they themselves had so little. ‘I’ve sunk low before, but stealing from the mouths of you scoundrels would be a step too far,’ he demurred as they chuckled.

‘Today was hard, brothers, but tomorrow will be worse. Our losses will have given the savages a real appetite,’ Tullus told each group. ‘More of us will get hurt. Some will join our comrades in the underworld. Stick together, though, and we will get out of this fucking bog. I’ll be with you, every cursed, muddy step of the way, worse luck. My vitis will be with me too, so best watch out!’

It was usual for soldiers to wince, scowl or even look away when Tullus mentioned his vine stick, but tonight they let out full-throated roars of approval. Satisfied, he worked his way down the century, coming last to the contubernium in which Piso and Vitellius served. Before he approached, Tullus hung back in the darkness, watching the seven men as they sat talking by their fire.

Tullus would never admit to having favourites among his soldiers, but those who’d been with him in the Eighteenth did hold a special place in his heart. The still-gangling Piso and his acerbic comrade Vitellius ranked highest in his opinion – Piso’s actions earlier that day had cemented this feeling. Since they had helped to rescue Degmar’s family, Tullus also held Saxa and Metilius in particular regard.

Poor Saxa, thought Tullus. Like Ambiorix and White Hair the wagon driver, he was dead. Everyone unfortunate enough to have been with the baggage train would have met the same grisly fate. If Saxa and Ambiorix weren’t worm food, they were being tortured this very moment by German warriors. Tullus hoped it was the former.

‘Greetings, brothers,’ he said, stepping into the light. They made to jump up, but he waved a hand. ‘Rest easy.’

They grinned at him, eager as puppies, and Tullus’ heart warmed. ‘How are things?’ he asked, moving to stand near the crackling blaze.

‘All right, sir.’ ‘Not too bad, sir.’ ‘Things have been worse, sir.’

Tullus glanced at Vitellius, who hadn’t yet spoken. ‘And you?’

‘I’m wet through, sir. Half-starved too. My nose hurts like a bastard,’ replied Vitellius, giving him a sour look. ‘The front of me is toasty, thanks to the fire, but my back is fucking freezing. Oh yes – Saxa’s dead. Apart from that, I’m fine, sir. Thanks for asking.’

Surprised, Tullus roared with laughter. ‘Honest as always, Vitellius. I can’t offer you much succour.’

‘Didn’t think you could, sir.’ Vitellius’ shrug was resigned.

‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ asked Tullus.

‘I’ll be there, sir, you know that.’

Tullus threw him a pleased look and turned to Piso. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Sore, sir.’ Piso’s smile was lopsided.

‘You able to march?’

‘Aye, sir, and to fight.’

‘You’re a good man. If it wasn’t for you, well …’ Tullus found himself at an unusual loss for words. ‘… I wouldn’t be here. Thank you.’

‘Any one of us would have done the same, sir,’ protested Piso.

‘Maybe so, but it was you who did it today. You who saved my life.’ Tullus held Piso’s gaze for a moment. ‘I won’t forget that.’

Piso gave him a solemn nod. ‘Sir.’

‘I’ll leave you lot to it,’ said Tullus. ‘Get some rest – tomorrow will be no joke. Sleep in your armour, just in case. Arminius is craftier than a fox.’

Thoughts of the Cherusci leader filled Tullus’ mind as he paced back to Fenestela. After so long, it had been startling to see Arminius again – and galling beyond belief to have crossed blades with him, lost men to him, but not to have slain the whoreson. The Fates must be sitting up there, watching me and still cackling, thought Tullus with a dour glance at the sky. Miserable Greek bitches. You separate our threads for six years, then bring them close enough to touch, but whip them away again before I had a decent chance to put the treacherous rat in the mud.

Give me another opportunity, he swore now, and I won’t waste it.

Tullus was deep in a most pleasant dream involving Sirona – he had managed to persuade her to lie with him at last – when a loud cry interrupted it. In the dream, it sounded as if someone was shouting outside Sirona’s room, or downstairs in the inn. Tullus did his best to ignore it, and kissed Sirona again. ‘Gods, but I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he murmured.

She smiled. ‘So have I.’

A hand shook Tullus’ shoulder, hard. ‘Wake up!’ demanded a voice.

Sirona vanished. Instead of her warm bed, Tullus found himself lying face down in the muck under a damp blanket. He was in his armour, cold and uncomfortable, and whoever was responsible for his rude awakening had not given up. ‘Curse it all, wake up!’ said the voice.

Still exhausted, Tullus realised that the culprit responsible for the rude ending to his dream was Fenestela. Opening his eyes, he found his optio kneeling alongside. ‘What is it?’ His breath clouded in the chilly air.

‘I’m not sure.’

Tullus bit back an acid response. It was pitch black – the middle of the night – but Fenestela wouldn’t rouse him for no reason. He sat up, wincing as his back protested. ‘Tell me.’

‘Listen.’

Tullus obeyed. At this godsforsaken hour, he’d have expected to hear little. The occasional call of an owl. Perhaps a sound or two from the cavalry lines, or the mule pens. Maybe the tramp of a sentry along the nearest walkway, but nothing else. A whinnying horse and the sound of galloping hooves, therefore, was of note. So too were the dim cries of alarm. The last tendrils of fog vanished from Tullus’ mind, and he was on his feet. ‘Where’s it coming from?’

Fenestela gestured towards the area occupied by the cavalry, off to their right.

‘Have you taken a look?’

‘I came to find you first.’

It was usual to wait for orders, to wait for the trumpets’ call. Acting on initiative was not the army’s way. This was different, Tullus decided. The man who hesitated around an enemy like Arminius wound up dead. ‘I’ll get the men up. You wake every centurion in the cohort. Tell them to ready their legionaries for battle, and to wait for my summons – the advance, sounded twice, a delay, and once more. If they don’t hear it, they’re to stay put until further orders come in.’

‘And the other cohorts?’

Alerting the rest of the legion would waste time, thought Tullus. A rapid response would have the best chance of containing an attack. ‘Don’t worry about them yet. Go.’

Fenestela vanished into the gloom. Tullus adjusted his mail, pulling it down where it had rucked up above his belt. He straightened his scabbard, which tended to move a little too far towards his back. A scrabble around where he’d been lying produced his arming cap and helmet. These donned, and a battered shield in his fist, he was ready. Tullus stalked to the first contubernium, a mass of sprawled shapes lying close to each other. He poked the nearest one with the toe of his boot. ‘Up, you maggot!’

His first demand was met by a groan. Tullus drew back and kicked the man. Leaning over, he stamped on his closest companion. They both woke up, cursing. ‘UP!’ roared Tullus. ‘NOW!’

Apologies and yes sirs filled the air. Tullus watched the soldiers until he was sure they were all stirring, and then he moved on to the next contubernium. The men there had been woken by the noise and were getting up. By the time he’d reached the last few tent groups, the soldiers were waiting for him in combat order. Tullus gave them a nod of approval, and ordered the century to form a column. Fenestela returned, his task completed, and took his position at the back.

Tullus addressed his men. ‘It’s not clear what’s going on, but you can hear the racket.’ He waited, letting the cries of alarm speak for themselves. ‘That’s where we’re heading – to see if the cursed Germans are within the camp.’

His soldiers stamped from foot to foot. Some looked scared. Most seemed nervous, which Tullus also expected. Yet they were resolute enough, in particular Vitellius and Metilius. Even Piso, still glaze-eyed, stood ready. Tullus felt a stirring pride.

As they tramped after him into the blackness, the clamour from the cavalry lines intensified. It also seemed to be spreading. Fresh sweat beaded on Tullus’ brow.

What devilry was Arminius up to?