Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XXXVII

‘The savages have attacked!’ ‘Arminius is here!’ ‘Run!’

The cold night air rang with shouts and cries. Legionaries milled about, weapons at the ready, and demanding of their comrades in nearby units if they knew what was going on. Some men slumbered on regardless, either from exhaustion, quantities of wine consumed, or both. Centurions and junior officers paced up and down, telling everyone to stay calm, and to prepare themselves for battle.

As far as Tullus could see, marching past with his century, few of the troops were paying heed to their superiors’ commands. Panicked wasn’t the word he’d use to describe the mood, but it wasn’t far off. Frustration gnawed at him, yet he didn’t pause. Any intervention to calm things down would take time – and mightn’t succeed. The Fifth’s soldiers had shown how yellow-livered they were only hours before. Snuffing out the attack early on seemed a better gamble than trying to restore order, but if the situation deteriorated even a little further …

Stop it, Tullus told himself. Focus. Find out what’s going on. If the enemy were in the camp, he would summon the rest of his cohort and then contain the bastards until Caecina could respond. They had cleared the Fifth’s lines now, and were pushing through a mob of fearful Gaulish auxiliaries. Few seemed ready to fight, and scores were streaming towards the camp’s furthest entrances. Angered by their cowardice, Tullus ordered the formation of a wedge. No one liked a clatter from a shield boss, still less a whack with the flat of a sword blade.

The section occupied by the cavalry – also auxiliaries – came next. Beyond it lay the camp’s side wall. On edge now, Tullus slowed his pace to a walk. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, yet it was difficult to see more than the shape of the poor earthen rampart that had been dug out the previous evening. This weakness would have been noticed by the keen-eyed German scouts, Tullus suspected, and might have been why Arminius had ordered an assault. Try as he might, however, he could not see hordes of warriors climbing over the wall, nor groups of them charging across the intervallum.

The cavalrymen in sight seemed calm enough, which was also odd. Tullus approached the nearest figures, a group of five men settling their horses. One look at his crested helmet had them saluting and straightening their backs. ‘Any sign of the enemy?’ demanded Tullus. The cavalrymen exchanged baffled looks and, frustrated, he added, ‘Within the camp?’

‘Not as far as I know, sir,’ said one.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ demanded Tullus. ‘My optio and I were woken by the din over here. Horses were making noise. Men were shouting. It sounded like an attack.’ The cavalrymen’s expressions turned sheepish, and Tullus roared, ‘Tell me, before I ram this vitis somewhere the sun doesn’t shine!’

‘One of the lads in another turma has a nervous horse, sir,’ said the cavalryman who’d first spoken. ‘It was frightened by the thunder, or so we’ve heard. He was trying to calm it, but the stupid creature snapped its lead rope and took off down the avenue, towards the centre of the camp.’ He pointed in the direction that Tullus had come.

The explanation was so obvious that Tullus’ instinct told him that this was what had happened: that there were no warriors inside the walls, and the whole sorry affair had been started by a jittery horse. But for the gravity of the situation – gods only knew how the panic was spreading – he would have laughed. Warning the cavalrymen that if they valued their hides, they and their fellows were to keep their mounts under control, Tullus led his century towards the ramparts. There the sentries for two hundred paces in each direction, all present and correct, reported no sign of the enemy.

His search concluded, Tullus cocked an ear. Unhappy sounds were rising from throughout the camp, and he cursed. Arminius’ warriors might have attacked another section of the defences, but given what Tullus now knew, it was far more probable that the terrified horse had sown panic everywhere instead. After the previous day’s debacle, it was easy to imagine how frightened the sleep-deprived legionaries of the four legions might become. The level of noise proved that some were on the verge of panic.

Their fate rested on a knife edge, Tullus concluded. If the soldiers headed into the bog, they would drown in the morass, or be killed by the opportunistic Germans. Even if Arminius’ forces weren’t prepared for this unexpected, almost gods-given development, they would soon realise what was going on. When dawn came, the disorganised, demoralised legionaries would be easy prey. The gates, thought Tullus. Every gate had to be secured.

He stripped one entrance – the one behind him – from his list. The purported attack was coming from that direction, so even the dimmest soldier wouldn’t try to escape that way. Three gates remained then – one at either end of the camp’s shorter sides, and the one at the far end of the avenue Tullus was standing on. As he tried to decide what to do, the uproar in the darkness beyond worsened. Two centuries could hold a gate, he decided.

He would march back to his cohort’s position and there split the unit into three, each two centuries strong. One would go north with him to the entrance that lay behind the headquarters. Caecina could be made aware of the situation at the same time. The two other groups would head for the east and south gates. Tullus barked the order to advance, but a growing, unhappy certainty filled his mind as they marched.

If they didn’t move fast, it would be too late.

Their journey proved tricky. The main avenues were clogged with scared, aggressive legionaries, arguing and fighting among themselves as they meandered along. Swearing, Tullus led his men into the smaller lanes that separated unit from unit. Crowds of nervous soldiers had also gathered there, but it was easier to find the gaps. Tullus and his party reached the cohort’s tent lines without incident. Augmenting his force with the Second Century, he sent the remaining four units off under the command of his two most senior centurions. That done, he made for the headquarters.

It seemed to take an age to reach the camp’s centre. The usual, large command tent was missing, lost with the baggage train, Tullus presumed. A rectangle of six ordinary legionary tents stood in its place, and there scores of officers and guards were milling. Hundreds of soldiers were streaming past, towards the gate, and no one was trying to stop them.

With his century in close formation, Tullus drove straight through the panicked mob to the headquarters. He found Caecina in the midst of a dozen or more legates and tribunes. Their raised voices and worried faces told their own story. Tullus paused at the edge of the gathering to listen.

Caecina’s expression changed from moment to moment as he listened to the conflicting advice being given him. One legate wanted to lead the nearest cohorts towards the attackers. A second thought a defensive cordon should be set up along the camp’s north-south axis. A senior tribune – Tubero, no less – declared that the legions needed to be assembled in marching order on the intervallum and from there be dispersed to take on the enemy. Another tribune was even advocating retreat back to solid ground.

Tullus’ frustration boiled over. ‘I must speak with General Caecina!’ he cried, pushing his way forward. Faces turned, registering shock, anger and disbelief. In Tubero’s eyes, Tullus saw real hate. It was too late to consider what punishments this transgression might earn him. He came to a halt in front of Caecina and saluted.

Caecina, tired-looking but already in his armour, seemed unimpressed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘I know what’s going on, sir,’ said Tullus.

‘Ha!’ cried Tubero. ‘D’you hear this? Tullus knows what’s going on – even though it’s as clear to us as the noses on the end of our faces.’

Caecina twisted his head. ‘Guards!’

‘A wise decision, sir,’ said Tubero in a snide tone.

Tubero’s comment sent rage pulsing through Tullus’ veins, but the danger they faced was too great to risk a confrontation. ‘My news is urgent, sir,’ he said to Caecina. ‘Let me explain.’

Caecina’s nostrils flared, but he waved back the quartet of guards who’d appeared. ‘Be quick.’

‘There is no attack, sir.’ Ignoring the senior officers’ disbelieving reactions – Tubero even said, ‘Liar!’ – Tullus ploughed on. ‘The whole thing began with a horse that was startled by the thunder. The beast broke free and galloped off, among the sleeping soldiers. Complete panic ensued as they awoke and imagined Arminius’ warriors were in their midst. Men are beginning to retreat from the cavalry lines near the west gate. Those further away, unable to decide what’s going on, are also affected by the fear sweeping through the camp. The troops are trying to get out by the most distant gates, sir. That’s it.’

‘These are the ravings of a madman, sir,’ declared Tubero. ‘Every soldier in sight is talking about the enemy attack!’

A good number of officers nodded, dismaying Tullus. He glanced at Caecina. He didn’t care about himself, but the army’s destiny hung in the balance.

‘How do you know this?’ demanded Caecina.

As fast as he could, Tullus laid out what had happened since he’d been woken by Fenestela. Caecina listened in silence. To Tullus’ surprise, so did the senior officers. No one spoke when he was done, allowing the sound of panicked cries and running feet to fill the air.

‘Has anyone here seen the enemy inside the defences?’ asked Caecina.

There was no answer.

‘Not a single one of you?’ Caecina’s gaze raked the gathering. ‘Has anyone spoken with a soldier who has set eyes on the attackers?’

Some officers began to seem embarrassed now. Even Tubero looked uncomfortable.

Caecina scowled. ‘It appears you may be right,’ he said, relieving Tullus beyond measure. ‘Take me to the north gate.’

‘Yes, sir. Might I make a suggestion?’

‘Anything.’

‘Send an eagle to each of the gates, sir. They will help to steady the men.’

‘A fine idea.’ Caecina rattled off orders, commanding a legate, an eagle and an escort to both the east and south entrances. The Fifth’s own eagle was brought forth from the command tent to accompany their party. With the aquilifer nowhere to be found, Vitellius was deputised to carry it. He bore the gold bird aloft behind Tullus, his usual sour expression replaced by a wide, satisfied grin. Four soldiers, Piso among them, walked to either side, carrying flaming torches that allowed the eagle to be seen. Pride filled Tullus to have the legion’s standard at his back, although it wasn’t the same as if the Eighteenth’s lost eagle had been there.

The throngs of soldiers heading towards the north gate had grown denser, yet the sight of the eagle made them give way. Again using the wedge, with Caecina close behind, Tullus forged a path into the area occupied by the Fifth Legion. From there, he guided them through the tent lines and approached the north gate from the side. A hundred and fifty paces out, he stopped.

The entrance was obscured by a large crowd of legionaries which filled the intervallum and the spaces where tents should have been. Despite the fearful cries rising into the night, the soldiers didn’t appear to be moving outside the camp. ‘Maybe there’s still time, sir,’ Tullus said to Caecina. ‘They can’t make up their minds what to do.’

‘It’s one thing to run amok through the camp, but quite another to charge into the darkness beyond the walls,’ said Caecina. ‘We’d best get over there fast, though, before they change their minds.’

Even in the poor light, the press seemed far thicker than it had been elsewhere. There was a chance that the panicked legionaries might fight back, Tullus decided, which meant his hope of positioning his two centuries between the mob and the gate was no longer feasible, at least without blood being shed. He wasn’t averse to that per se, but if it happened, the situation would descend into complete chaos. ‘Let’s walk along the rampart, sir. That’ll take us right up to the entrance.’

Caecina stared at him. The earthen walkway along the top of the defences was wide enough for two men to stand abreast, but no more. ‘Just a few of us?’

‘Aye, sir. You, me, the soldier with the eagle and maybe a dozen more. It’s you they need to see, and the standard, not my troops.’

‘If the mob turns, we will die.’

‘That’s right, sir. But if we try to push our way among them, they will panic, and many more will be slain, including us perhaps.’ Tullus held Caecina’s gaze with a stolid one of his own.

After a moment, Caecina nodded. ‘Lead on.’

Fenestela was most unhappy at Tullus’ plan. ‘They’ll cut you to pieces.’

‘They might not,’ said Tullus.

‘Or they might,’ retorted Fenestela with a ferocious scowl. ‘You’re going to do it anyway.’

‘Aye,’ replied Tullus.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘You have to stay with the men. If things go wrong, they’ll need someone to lead them out of this shithole.’

‘You’re the one for that, not me.’ Fenestela glowered at Tullus, who returned the look. Several heartbeats fluttered by. ‘I’ll stay,’ muttered Fenestela. ‘You’d best fucking come back, though, d’you hear?’

Tullus gripped his shoulder, and went to talk to the centurion in charge of the second century. If Tullus blew his whistle, both centuries were to drive forwards to the gate, and try to save Caecina and the eagle. The centurion seemed of a mind with Fenestela about the plan’s riskiness, but he nodded reluctant acceptance.

Piso, Vitellius and the ten others picked by Tullus formed up behind him and Caecina without protest. ‘Keep those lights high,’ barked Tullus. ‘I want the eagle to be the first thing they see.’

Heads began to turn from the moment they ascended to the walkway. Raised more than a man’s height from the ground, and illuminated by the flaming torches, the party stood out from the blackness. At Tullus’ suggestion, Caecina had shed his red cloak, allowing his armour to wink and flash in the flickering light.

‘Your general is here!’ roared Tullus. ‘Caecina is here!’

A loud Ahhhhh went up. Some men cheered, but more threw insults.

Tullus reached the end of the walkway. A final ladder at his feet led down to the ground by the gate. There was no sign of the sentries, and the cut branches which had blocked the entrance had been hauled to one side. A number of soldiers had left the camp, Tullus decided, but the ones he could see didn’t appear to be in a hurry to join them. In the end, though, the weight of numbers pressing towards the gate would force them outside.

There was no room to get down from the wall, even if they had wanted to. Hundreds of legionaries packed the space underneath, their pale faces looking up at Tullus, Caecina and their companions with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

‘Piss off back where you came from,’ yelled a voice.

‘Fucking officers,’ shouted another. ‘Good for nothing whoresons!’

A fist was waved, and another. Then it was five, ten, a score. Someone lifted a sword, and the mood, which had been wavering between rebellious and fearful, grew ugly.

It was act now or die, thought Tullus. He drew his blade and clattered it off his greave, bash, bash, bash. The sound wasn’t that loud, but everyone was watching. The shouting died down a little. ‘Sir,’ muttered Tullus to Caecina and, sheathing his weapon, stood aside.

Caecina stepped forward. ‘Brave soldiers of Rome,’ he shouted.

‘To Hades with you, Caecina,’ cried a voice.

‘Brave soldiers of Rome,’ repeated Caecina, louder this time. ‘The enemy has not stormed the camp.’

‘So you say!’ ‘We heard him with our own ears!’

‘It was a horse, I tell you. A horse that had been scared by the thunder,’ yelled Caecina. ‘Centurion Tullus has been to the spot where the enemy is supposed to be attacking. He found nothing out of the ordinary. The savages are not in here with us, but out there!’ he roared with a dramatic gesture at the world beyond the walls. ‘Step outside at your peril, brothers!’

‘I know where I’d rather take my chances, and it ain’t here,’ declared a sour-faced legionary among those closest to the entrance.

‘Will I have to lie in your path to stop you?’ asked Caecina, his frustration evident.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ warned Sour Face, as an animal sound left the soldiers’ throats.

Sour Face was the first rock in a landslide, Tullus decided. If he left the camp, the rest would follow, and if Caecina got in their way, they’d kill him without thinking, just as they had other senior officers during the previous year’s rebellion.

‘Give me that,’ Tullus hissed, snatching the eagle from a startled Vitellius. Bellowing ‘ROMA!’ Tullus took the steps down two at a time. Shocked, the nearest legionaries gave way a little. Tullus sensed someone follow him – looking back, he was startled to recognise Caecina.

Brandishing the eagle as if it were a weapon, Tullus pushed towards the gate. ‘Make way! MAKE WAY!’ he ordered.

No matter how rebellious the soldier, it was impossible to obliterate the reverence felt towards a legion’s eagle. The embodiment of pride, courage and glory, it demanded respect. The crowd fell back, gazing with awe at the golden bird. Tullus shoved on until he stood in the middle of the entrance. Caecina reached his side an instant later, and Tullus stabbed the standard’s spiked butt into the muddy ground, facing the eagle towards the mob. Sensing what he needed, Piso and the other torch-bearers climbed atop the edge of the rampart to light up the scene.

‘See this magnificent bird?’ shouted Tullus. ‘It belongs to the glorious Fifth!’

As he’d expected, a chorus of voices roared back, ‘The Fifth! The Fifth!’

‘You don’t want to see this fall into enemy hands, do you?’ Tullus shouted, the hairs on his own neck prickling at the idea.

‘NEVER!’ the legionaries roared.

‘Listen to me! I served in the Eighteenth for many years. I see you nod your heads – you knew men in it.’ Tullus acknowledged several of the nearest soldiers. ‘As you know, the Eighteenth was one of the legions destroyed by that sewer rat Arminius. Lucky for me, I got away from the ambush, me and about fifteen of my boys.’ The old guilt stung Tullus: that he should have saved more; that he should somehow have prevented the eagle being taken.

‘You’re the Centurion Tullus?’ It was Sour Face who spoke. ‘Aye.’

Another Ahhhhh went up, surprising Tullus. They know of me, he thought.

‘Men say you rescued more soldiers than anyone else,’ said Sour Face. His angry tone had become respectful.

‘That’s right,’ roared Piso suddenly. ‘Centurion Tullus saved us, when no one else could have.’

Sour Face had glanced up when Piso spoke. Now he regarded Tullus once more. ‘This officer should say his piece,’ he declared. ‘What say you, brothers?’

‘Aye!’ shouted a hundred voices.

Tullus shot a look at Caecina, a little concerned that he was centre-stage rather than the general, but Caecina indicated he should speak. Tullus rolled his tongue around a parched mouth. His next words were of vital importance. Say the right ones, and the unhappy legionaries would go back into the camp. The wrong ones would see him and Caecina murdered, trampled underfoot as a sea of soldiers fled into the darkness, and the next morning, all four legions would be massacred.

Tell them the truth, he thought. Say it like it is.

‘The shame of losing the Eighteenth’s eagle haunts me every day. I dream of it at night. I see it each and every time I look upon this majestic bird, and the ones belonging to the other legions in this camp.’

‘Where’s our eagle?’ demanded a voice. ‘The one belonging to the Twentieth?’

A barrage of cries followed. ‘And the Twenty-First?’ ‘Where’s the First’s eagle?’

Tullus pointed. ‘One is at the east gate, and another at the south. They’ve been sent to do the same as this bird here – to stir the men’s pride. The other remains at the headquarters.’

Sour Face seemed pleased. Heads nodded. Men even started smiling.

Tullus took heart. ‘Leave this camp, brothers, and I promise it will be the end of you. Arminius is out there with thousands of his warriors, waiting for you to wander around in the dark, up to your knees in mud. Leave this camp and your lives will be forfeit. Your eagles will be lost – taken by the enemy, disgracing each and every one of you for eternity. Is that what you would have?’

‘NO!’

‘Do you want your bones to moulder in the bog? To have your heads nailed to trees?’

‘Noooo!’ they screamed back at him.

‘Return to your positions then. Get what rest you can. In the morning, Caecina will lead us out, to victory.’

‘What about the enemy in the camp?’ demanded Sour Face.

‘Listen,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Tell me if you can hear any fighting.’ Gods, let the situation have calmed, he prayed as the mob fell quiet. A dozen heartbeats skipped past; in the distance, men were shouting, but the frightened edge that had been present before was gone. There was no sound of combat, no clash of sword on shield. No screams as men died on the sharp end of a blade.

Sour Face stared at Tullus, long and hard, and then he shook his head. ‘It must have been a horse after all. Curse it, brothers, we were fooled by a fucking horse!’

Embarrassed laughter broke out and, just like that, the tension began to dissipate. Sour Face turned on his heel and shoved his way into the crowd. ‘Back to our places, brothers!’ he cried. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’ His shouts continued as he pressed on into the throng. Nothing else happened for a few moments. Tullus’ heart was thudding in his chest – there was no way of knowing if enough of the legionaries had been convinced.

He twisted the standard’s staff a little, so that the torchlight bounced off the majestic gold bird. Similar in appearance to the Eighteenth’s lost eagle, it was depicted lying forward on its breast, a golden wreath encircling its wings, which were upraised behind its body. Its part-open beak and penetrating stare gave off an overpowering sense of arrogance and power. The embodiment of a legion’s pride and honour, the eagle demanded – expected – respect.

Another reverent sigh escaped a hundred throats, and in dribs and drabs the legionaries began edging away. All were careful to avoid Tullus’ and Caecina’s gaze.

It took time, but at last he and Caecina were left standing in the gateway, with Piso and the rest watching from above. Only the muddied ground – tramped flat by hobnailed sandals – bore witness to the large crowd that had been present.

‘Well done,’ said Caecina, his face paling with delayed shock.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Tullus studied Caecina sidelong. One disaster had been averted, but another – in the form of Arminius’ waiting hordes – beckoned. They needed Caecina’s leadership now more than ever. ‘Have you given any thought to our next move, sir?’

His composure regained, Caecina let out an evil chuckle. ‘The enemy must have heard the commotion. Let him think we are too scared to leave the camp. Let him think the legionaries are bunched together like frightened sheep. Let him attack us here, at dawn.’ He gestured at the ramparts and the intervallum. ‘When he scales the defences, and enters the gate, he’ll find us waiting.’

The chaos at the gate had curdled neither Caecina’s resolve nor his courage, thought Tullus with delight.

It was an ingenious plan.