Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER VIII

For three days the column moved on as fast as it could, crossing into the lands of the Chatti, and for three nights their ethereal hunters preyed upon them, taking men seemingly at will during the hours of darkness without ever revealing themselves. Indeed, there had been no sign of them since the ambush, but their brooding presence was confirmed every morning by the slowly dwindling number of auxiliaries at muster and the grisly finds of decapitated bodies in their path later in the day. On the second night, in an attempt to stem the flow of silent death, Paetus had ordered a doubling of the guard so that the sentries patrolled in fours, but to no avail: four men died that night. On the third night he had set no sentries around the perimeter of the camp, keeping them instead patrolling amongst their sleeping comrades; a man had still somehow disappeared.

‘Every day they manage to leave the bodies three or four miles along our route,’ Vespasian observed as they stood surveying the latest headless auxiliary nailed to the thick trunk of an oak. ‘They must know where we’re headed for.’

‘And that’s something that only Pallas, Narcissus and Callistus knew,’ Magnus pointed out, swatting away one of the many flies that had been attracted by the stench of death.

Sabinus frowned, mystified. ‘It just makes no sense. Why would Narcissus spare me for a task that he’s going to try and sabotage?’

‘It don’t have to be him, it could be either Pallas or Callistus,’ Magnus suggested.

‘Have him cut down and buried,’ Paetus ordered Ansigar as he remounted.

Ansigar barked a couple of orders in his harsh tongue and a group of frightened-looking auxiliaries came forward and began their unpleasant task, muttering sullenly amongst themselves.

‘The men won’t stand for much more of this, Paetus,’ Vespasian said, swinging himself up onto his horse next to the prefect. ‘How much longer are we going to be in the Chatti’s lands?’

‘Another day according to the guides. We need to cross the Adrana River and then it’s comparatively flat and mostly cultivated terrain to the Amisia in the Cherusci’s lands. So hopefully we’ll be able to pick up a bit of speed.’

‘And be more exposed.’

Paetus shrugged. ‘So will whoever’s tracking us.’

Vespasian thought of how their tormentors had managed to stay so elusive in the past days. ‘I very much doubt it, Paetus.’

As the sun reached its zenith they finally broke out of the forest onto undulating pasture; there were a few mean dwellings scattered around in the middle distance, with pasture fields surrounding them in which cows grazed. After the endless trees of the forest it seemed like a wonderfully spacious, sunlit paradise where one could breathe easily and not have to be constantly peering into the shadows looking for an unseen enemy.

‘The Adrana is less than a quarter of an hour’s ride north of here, prefect,’ one of the guides informed Paetus, pointing to a long hill a mile ahead of them. ‘We should be able to see it from the top of that. However, we can’t ford this river; we’ll have to swim across.’

‘I’m well overdue a bath,’ Paetus replied cheerily. ‘Ansigar, send a four-man patrol ahead of us to find out whether our mysterious friends are holding the river against us.’

As the patrol galloped away, Paetus led the rest of the column off at a canter. Vespasian kicked his horse forward, feeling invigorated by the space; his fear of being too exposed to unfriendly eyes was for the moment overtaken by the relief at finally being able to travel at some speed. ‘I’m looking forward to washing the smell of the forest off my skin.’

Magnus did not look so sure. ‘Nothing good ever came out of swimming a river, especially wearing these.’ He rubbed his chain mail tunic. ‘They ain’t designed for buoyancy.’

‘Take it off and strap it to your horse, it’ll be able to support it.’

Magnus grunted and turned to Ziri who was riding next to him. ‘How’s your swimming, Ziri?’

‘I don’t know, master, I’ve never tried.’

‘Fucking great! This is not going to be the time to learn.’

The column pounded over the grassland, climbing steadily until they reached the top of the hill. Paetus reined in his horse; Vespasian slowed next to him and shaded his eyes against the glare. Below them, a couple of miles away, a river meandered through verdant countryside irregularly divided up into fields. Its banks were mainly lined with a thick layer of trees but here and there they were open, revealing a slow-running, sedimenttainted body of water. The four-man patrol was already a third of the way to it. Beyond it were fields and copses for as far as the eye could see; a fat land brimming with agriculture.

‘That doesn’t look to be more than thirty to forty paces across,’ Paetus said confidently. ‘That won’t delay us for too long.’ He raised his arm in the air and turned in the saddle to order his men on; his face fell. ‘Shit!’

Vespasian spun round to see a dark shadow emerging from the forest; horsemen, scores of them, at least a hundred, he estimated.

‘This is not going to be fun,’ Paetus muttered almost to himself before throwing his arm forward and urging his horse as fast as possible into a gallop. The column followed immediately.

One mile behind them so did the Chatti.

Vespasian leant forward in the saddle pushing his horse on downhill, his cloak flapping noisily behind him as all around him the Batavians kicked their mounts into greater speed, yelling over the thunder of hoofbeats. Very quickly they covered half the distance, gaining on the patrol ahead; Vespasian looked over his shoulder to see the first of the Chatti breasting the hill and, with a quick mental calculation, he accepted the inevitable and shouted at Paetus: ‘They’ll pick us off whilst we’re in the river. We need to turn and face them; we must outnumber them by at least fifty.’

‘My lads are fast swimmers, sir,’ Paetus yelled back over the deep rumble of the gallop. ‘We’ll lose fewer in the river than we would in a fight; it’s our best chance to make it home again.’

Vespasian could see the logic: the more men they lost now the more vulnerable they would be when and if they got to the Teutoburg Forest. He looked up towards the river, it was just over half a mile away; the patrol was just arriving. He glanced back; the Chatti were not gaining on them, perhaps there was still a chance. As he steeled himself with this faint new hope, one of the patrol’s horses stumbled, falling to the ground and trapping its rider beneath it. Within an instant two more riders were punched from their saddles; the fourth turned his horse and began to bolt back up the hill. Behind him, on the far bank, there was movement; within moments the river was lined with a hundred and more warriors.

They were trapped.

‘Halt!’ Paetus screamed, raising an arm into the air, ‘And about face.’ Most of the Batavians had seen the new threat to the north of the river and did not need to be told twice; with prodigious skill they pulled up their frothing, wild-eyed mounts and turned, forming up two deep in their turmae. As they did, the Chatti slowed, coming to a trot, and formed an arrowheaded wedge, advancing steadily; one man was to their front with the rest of the warriors echeloned back at an angle on both sides.

Paetus took one look at the enemy formation and turned to Ansigar next to him. ‘The two outer turmae form up in column to our rear, we’ll release javelins then do a split before contact.’

The decurion nodded and barked a couple of orders that were echoed by his five other colleagues. The turmae on the extreme left and right retreated behind the central four in a precise, brisk manoeuvre and formed into columns, two abreast.

‘Batavians! Prepare to advance!’ Paetus called, his voice rising an octave on the last word.

Throughout the turmae the troopers grabbed javelins from the leather carry-cases attached to their saddles and slipped their forefingers through the thongs knotted around the centre of the shaft. Their horses stamped and snorted, heads tossing, their powerful chests expanding and contracting as they breathed deeply.

‘We’re going to try a rather tricky manoeuvre,’ Paetus informed the brothers, ‘it would be best if you and your two chaps get behind Ansigar and me and follow our lead.’

Sabinus bristled, not liking being told to fight in the rear rank, but Vespasian reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve seen how he manoeuvres his cavalry; I think it’s probably best to do as he suggests.’

‘I ain’t ever fought mounted before,’ Magnus grumbled as they took their places behind Ansigar’s turma in the centre of the line, ‘it ain’t natural.’

‘What about in Cyrenaica, against Ziri’s people?’ Vespasian asked, adjusting the arm strap on his shield.

‘I just tagged along behind you in the charge and then got to my feet as soon as possible.’

‘Then do the same this time; you and Ziri cover mine and Sabinus’ backs.’

‘I will; and I’ll also keep an eye on you, making sure you don’t get too carried away, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian grunted but knew his friend was right: he had often endangered himself in the past by losing control and fighting in a frenzy, heedless to what was going on around him. He would not allow himself to do that today.

A quarter of a mile in front of them the Chatti leader raised his right arm in the air; the hand was missing. The Chatti halted but their leader walked his horse on until he was just fifty paces away; he paused and stroked his blond beard that bushed out from between his cheek-guards whilst he surveyed the Batavians.

The Batavians watched him in silence.

Vespasian looked over his shoulder; the warriors remained on the far bank. He called to Paetus: ‘We’ll hear what he has to say, prefect.’

‘Romans and Batavians in the pay of Rome,’ the Chatti leader shouted in surprisingly good Latin. ‘You outnumber us but we have the advantage of charging downhill. Perhaps you could kill us all but not before you’d lose so many of your number that the survivors wouldn’t stand a chance of getting back to the Empire alive.’ He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his bald head with the stump of his right arm.

Vespasian had a jolt of recognition and turned to Sabinus but the man carried on before he could say anything.

‘I offer you this, Batavians: hand over your Roman officers and your weapons and we will escort you back to the Rhenus; you will then be free to go.’

Ansigar spat. ‘Surrender our swords to Chatti! And so few of them? Never!’

All along the Batavian line there was much spitting and growling in agreement.

Ansigar turned to Vespasian. ‘The Chatti fight mainly on foot, these aren’t cavalry, they’re just mounted infantry; they’re no match for us.’

Vespasian nodded. ‘Thank you, decurion. I think we’ve heard enough, prefect, let’s get this over with.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, sir.’ Paetus waved a hand dismissively at the Chatti leader. ‘Get back to your men, the parley is over.’

‘So be it.’ He replaced his helmet and rode quickly back to the wedge of cavalry. A rider met him and gave him a shield that he slipped on his maimed right arm and then drew his sword with his left.

‘Decurions, watch for my signal to release, then split,’ Paetus shouted. ‘Batavians, at a trot, advance!’

With a jingling of harnesses and a stamping of hooves the six turmae moved forward. From up the hill came a roar and the Chatti began to descend towards them.

‘Canter!’ Paetus yelled when the two forces were four hundred paces apart.

The effect was instantaneous and Vespasian found himself lagging behind as he failed to respond to the order with the alacrity of Paetus’ well-trained men.

With the hill in their favour, the Chatti were now hell-forleather, keeping roughly to their wedge shape, screaming their war cries through spittle-flecked beards whilst brandishing spears or javelins or swords over their heads.

‘Batavians, charge!’ Paetus screamed at two hundred paces and the troopers surged forward; a wall of horseflesh, shields and chain mail.

Vespasian felt the thrill of the charge as he let his horse extend itself into a full gallop; his mouth had dried and blood pumped fiercely around his body, heightening his senses, as the pounding of hundreds of hooves and the cries of man and beast filled his ears. Two ranks ahead of him, Paetus raised his sword over his head, his red horsehair plume streaming from his burnished iron helmet, as the gap narrowed inexorably with terrifying speed. The four front rank decurions followed their prefect’s lead and raised their weapons; their men pulled their right arms back, keeping a firm grip on their javelins. At fifty paces to impact Paetus’ sword flashed down, immediately followed by those of his subordinates. As the Chatti released their throwing weapons one hundred and twenty javelins hurtled into the air towards the oncoming wedge. The two sets of missiles flashed by each other in midair as, without a shouted command, Ansigar’s turma veered to the right at forty-five degrees taking the turma outside it with it, sweeping their swords from their scabbards as they went. Vespasian pulled his horse to follow; the two turmae to his left swerved away in the opposite direction splitting the formation down the middle.

The first of the missile-hail landed amongst the Batavians, felling two troopers in front of him in a screaming flurry of animal and human limbs; unbidden by him, Vespasian’s mount leapt the thrashing obstacle as the screeches of the wounded cut through the thunder of the charge. Landing with a spine-jarring jolt, Vespasian looked up; the one-handed man at the apex of the arrowhead was now level with him but had no one to face as he ploughed through the thirty-foot gap. Although now disorganised by felled horses within it, the momentum of the warriors behind him drove the wedge forward as Ansigar’s turma sped on at their angle directly at the rear third of the Chatti formation. In the time it took Vespasian to blink the dust from his eyes the two sides’ mounts shied as they closed, unwilling to charge home into fellow beasts; however, the momentum carried them on to a shattering impact of metal upon metal, beast upon screeching beast in a maelstrom of terror, battle-joy and blood-lust. The shock of impact, mirrored on the far side of the wedge, split it in two; as the back third was brought to a bone-breaking halt the rest flew through the gap. Vespasian chanced a quick look round, worried that they might turn and fall on the Batavians’ rear. His concern was groundless; the troopers in the rear two turmae had turned at ninety degrees from a column into two lines and had charged; Vespasian turned back to the melee before him as they simultaneously hit either flank of the wedge’s severed head.

The troopers in front of him lost cohesion as the two formations melded into a chaotic hand-to-hand struggle; iron clashed on iron, shields resounded to mighty blows, horses screeched, men screamed and gobbets of blood slopped through the air. A flashing blur of motion to his left caused Vespasian to raise his shield above his head; he blocked the downward swipe of a razor-sharp sword, jolting it to a halt, embedded in his shield boss. His left arm juddered at the impact but he forced it up as he twisted his torso round to bring his sword punching into the exposed, naked chest of his adversary. The man’s eyes, already wide with the thrill of carnage, bulged in agony and he shrieked a blood-misted cry as Vespasian twisted his blade, grinding ribs and forcing it further through the lung to jolt to a halt on the spinal column, pushing the dying man back. With a monumental effort and gripping his mount fiercely with his thighs, Vespasian ripped his sword clear, to avoid being dragged to the ground, as the dead man’s horse sank its bared teeth into the rump of his own; it reared up in pain, thrashing its forelegs. Vespasian lurched forward, pushing his head into the beast’s mane and wrapping his shield arm around its neck to steady himself. Behind him, Magnus thrust the point of his sword into the eye of his mount’s tormentor and on into its brain.

‘It ain’t fucking natural!’ Magnus bellowed as horse blood sprayed up his arm. His victim dropped its head, unbalancing Magnus, then all four legs buckled simultaneously; it collapsed, hauling Magnus with it.

Vespasian’s mount, released from the searing pain of ripping flesh, crashed back down, cracking a hoof on the mucusstreaming nose of a Chatti horse as it did so; Vespasian managed to cling onto its neck as it regained its balance. Out of the corner of his eye, to his right, he saw a mounted warrior had pushed Sabinus, next to him, back and was hammering blows down on his shield. He exploded up, flinging his right arm round to swipe the honed edge of his sword across the shoulder blades of his brother’s opponent. The man arched back as the blade tore sinew and split bone and Vespasian turned quickly back to his left, leaving Sabinus to fend for himself, just in time to see Magnus get to his feet, unarmed, in the path of a warrior forcing his spear, underarm, towards him. Vespasian punched his shield out, deflecting the thrust; Magnus reached forward grabbing the shaft and yanked it brutally, hauling the man out of his saddle.

‘Come down here, you hairy cunt!’ Magnus roared as the warrior toppled towards him. He ripped the spear free and slammed it down onto the back of the unhorsed man’s head as he hit the ground; he did not get up. Ziri jumped from his horse to stand at his master’s side, deflecting a slashing downward stroke with his shield from the left. Magnus spun the spear and jabbed forward into the chest of an oncoming horse as Vespasian flicked his concentration back ahead of him.

Paetus’ red plume could be seen deep in the chaos with Batavians to either side; their swords, streaked with crimson, flashed around him as they carved their way forward through the tangle of Chatti now so compact that all they could do was fight where their horses stood. An instant later a mighty crash ripped through the screams and clash of weapons: the two outermost turmae had rounded the wedge’s flanks and charged its unprotected rear. The Batavians, sensing victory, roared in triumph and worked their blades harder, pressing forward onto an enemy that had no place to go but down. And down they went beneath the hissing edges of the auxiliaries’ swords, pushed from all sides, as the remnants of the wedge’s severed head were forced back by the two rear turmae. The Chatti were penned in.

Vespasian’s heart pounded as he felt a surge of joy well up inside him and knew he had to control himself. He desired nothing more than to kill; and kill he did but not in a mad frenzy but with measured determination. For how long the killing lasted, he did not know; it felt like an age as time was slowed by his heightened senses but in reality it was no more than the length of a chariot race, seven rounds of the track.

And then suddenly it was over.

The brutal cacophony of combat had given way to a dissonant mixture of pitiful cries and whimpers of wounded men and beasts; the Batavians found themselves without opponents. Not all had died, however; more than a score of the warriors from the tip of the wedge had broken out and were now fleeing towards the river. Here and there around the hillside, either singly or in pairs, a few others, who had been as fortunate, rode to join them but most now lay beneath the hooves of the Batavian’s mounts; almost thirty Batavians lay with them. Magnus, Ziri and a couple of unhorsed troopers stalked around, finishing off the Chatti wounded and those Batavians too cut up to ride.

Vespasian surveyed the carnage, gasping for breath and then looked down at his blood-splattered arms and legs in sheer wonder that they were still there. Having satisfied himself that he was indeed in one piece a sense of urgency came over him. ‘Magnus, keep a couple alive and that one-handed bastard if you find him.’ He dismounted and began looking at the Chatti dead.

Sabinus rode over; blood oozed from a cut on his forehead. ‘Thanks for your help, brother; I just managed the bastard in the end, but just is good enough.’

‘You can thank me by helping to look for that one-handed man.’

‘What was it about him?’ Sabinus asked, swinging off his horse. ‘You were about to tell me something.’

Vespasian turned a corpse over with his foot. ‘I recognised him from Rome.’

‘Where’ve you seen him?’

‘On the day of Caligula’s assassination, Uncle Gaius and I were in the theatre as you know. We managed to get out and then slipped down an alley to get away from the crush. We passed a dead German Bodyguard, and then at the end of the alley there was another one, leaning up against the wall, wounded; he was bald with a blond beard and you had just cut off his right hand.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. I came out of the alley and saw a man in a cloak limping away with a wounded right thigh; that was you, wasn’t it?’

Sabinus thought for a moment and then nodded his head. ‘Yes, I suppose it was; two of the surviving Bodyguards followed me from the palace. I know that I killed one but whatever I did to the other I don’t know because he wounded me at the same time; but he went down screaming and I stayed standing and managed to escape. So you think that this is all about vengeance for me depriving him of his drinking hand?’

‘No, it’s more than that. If we assume that Magnus is right and only Claudius’ freedmen know where we’re going then it has to be one of them who is trying to stop us. It was Pallas’ idea, so why would he try and sabotage it? It also doesn’t make sense, as you said, for Narcissus to spare you and then try and kill you here. So that leaves Callistus; I’m sure that he’s behind it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s something that Pallas said when he told me how he knew that you were wounded and therefore must be still in the city. He said that Callistus had questioned the wounded Bodyguard.’

Sabinus wiped a drop of blood from his eye and looked thoughtfully at it. ‘Fair enough; that connects the one-handed bastard with Callistus but it doesn’t explain what Callistus has to gain by stopping us from finding the Eagle. He needs Claudius to gain favour with the army as much as Pallas and Narcissus do.’

‘Yes, but he’s also in a power struggle with them. Pallas told me that Narcissus is the most powerful of the three and he and Callistus are secondary. I watched them leave the dais on the night that the Senate went to see Claudius outside the Praetorian camp. Narcissus had the place of honour, helping Claudius down; then Pallas and Callistus both tried to patronise one another by offering the other the second place. Neither would accept the other’s condescension and they ended up going down together. Now if Pallas’ idea works and we come back with the Eagle then Claudius will favour him greatly and Callistus will feel that he’s relegated to third place.’

‘But if we fail then Pallas will take the blame.’

‘Exactly, Sabinus; and Callistus will feel he’s won this round.’

‘Even though he’s jeopardised the grander strategy of gaining Claudius a victory in Britannia?’

‘Not if at the same time he has his own scheme for gaining Claudius popularity with the army.’

‘How?’

Vespasian sucked on his lip and shook his head. ‘I don’t know; but Callistus isn’t stupid so he’ll have one.’

‘We’ve got two who are alive enough to answer some questions,’ Magnus said, walking up to the brothers, ‘but no sign of old one-handed matey-boy. He must have made it out and is across the river by now; but I reckon we’ll see him again.’

Vespasian turned and looked north; on the far bank two hundred or so warriors stood holding the river against them. ‘We won’t be able to cross here but we’ll worry about that once we’ve found out what the prisoners know.’

‘Take another one, Ansigar,’ Vespasian ordered, ‘and then ask him again.’

Ansigar pushed his weight down on his knife; after a moment’s pressure it cut through the bone and, with a spurt of blood, the ring finger was severed, falling to the ground to land next to its smaller, erstwhile neighbour. Ansigar growled again in German but his victim, an older Chatti warrior held down on his back by two auxiliaries, just screwed up his face against the pain and said nothing; his chest heaved unevenly, glistening with sweat. He had a deep stab wound in his left shoulder, just below his iron collar.

Vespasian looked down at the wreckage of the man’s left hand on the blood-drenched stone that was the chopping board; it was limp and extended at a strange angle from his forearm, which had been brutally broken after his first refusal to say why the Chatti had attacked them. ‘Take the third,’ he hissed, ‘although I’ve a feeling that it’s going to be a waste of time with this one. But it may encourage our other friend to talk.’ He glanced over at the second prisoner, a younger man, kneeling with his hands bound behind him, staring with terrified eyes at his tormented comrade; he tried to tear himself loose from the two Batavians holding him as the third finger dropped to the ground.

The older man still refused to talk.

‘Shall I take off his hand, sir?’ Ansigar asked.

‘Yes.’

Ansigar drew his sword and laid it on the wrist; the warrior tensed at the touch. The young man let out a sob.

‘Wait!’ Vespasian shouted as Ansigar raised the blade. ‘Take his friend’s right hand.’

The maimed warrior was dragged away and the younger man’s bonds were cut. He started to scream and writhe like a landed eel as his two guards hauled him towards the stone. They forced him down onto his back and pulled out his right arm. Ansigar showed him the sword; a stream of German poured from the terrified man’s mouth.

‘He says that the one-handed man came half a moon ago and spoke with their King, Adgandestrius,’ Ansigar translated. ‘He doesn’t know what was said but when the man left, the King ordered a hundred warriors to go with him and to obey him in all commands. He led them to the Rhenus, opposite Argentoratum, and told them to wait on the east bank whilst he took two fishing boats with three men in each over to the west.’ Ansigar looked at the man who spoke some more and then carried on the translation: ‘They waited for seven days then one of the boats came back at night with orders to ride north along the river until they met up with the one-handed man.’

‘What’s his name?’ Vespasian asked.

Ansigar asked the question.

‘Gisbert,’ came the reply followed by another stream of the harsh language.

‘When they found Gisbert,’ Ansigar continued, ‘he told them that he had followed a Roman raiding party; what’s more, they were Batavians, who are their enemies, and he proved it by showing them the body of one that he had killed. He said that they should track them and kill one or two every night but to always allow them to be holding a weapon when they died.’ Ansigar paused as the young man carried on his tale and then repeated it: ‘He said you would always be heading just east of north and they were to put the corpses ahead of you every day. They didn’t understand why but they obeyed him as they would their King. Yesterday Gisbert sent a message to Adgandestrius, in Mattium …’

‘What’s Mattium?’ Vespasian asked.

Ansigar asked the question and the young man looked at Vespasian, frowning quizzically before answering.

‘It’s the chief settlement of the Chatti, to the east of here,’ Ansigar translated. ‘The message was for two hundred men to wait on the northern bank of the river and kill you as you tried to swim it but they stupidly gave away their position by shooting at the patrol. Gisbert then told them that we’d come to kill their King in vengeance for the raid across the Rhenus.’

‘Kill their King? Are you sure?’

Ansigar questioned the man again; he answered, nodding, but with a look of puzzlement still on his face.

‘That’s what he said. He ordered them to charge us; they knew that they wouldn’t win because they normally fight as infantry and dislike fighting mounted, but the King had told them to obey so they had no choice.’

‘Ask him what he thought Gisbert was trying to achieve by sacrificing so many of them.’

‘He can only assume that he wanted to kill as many of us as possible,’ Ansigar said after listening to the answer, ‘so we’d have no chance of crossing the river against the two hundred men on the other side.’

‘He’s done a reasonable job of that,’ Paetus observed. ‘We’re down to just over a hundred and thirty troopers now; we won’t be able to force a crossing against those odds.’

‘Then we’ll follow the river until we find another place to cross,’ Sabinus suggested.

Vespasian looked at the force holding the north bank. ‘They’ll just keep pace with us. Ansigar, ask him if there’s a bridge anywhere.’

‘He says that there’s one at Mattium,’ Ansigar said after a brief conversation in German. ‘But it is very well guarded.’

‘I’m sure it is. Well, gentlemen, it looks as if we’re fucked; any suggestions?’

‘It seems to me that we either follow the river east and try and sneak across at night, or we storm the bridge, or we turn back.’

Vespasian and Sabinus looked at each other; they both knew what turning back would mean for Sabinus.

‘We’ll build a pyre for the dead,’ Vespasian said, ‘and then go east and see what Fortuna presents us with.’ He looked down at the Chatti captives. ‘Finish them, Ansigar.’

Ansigar took his sword and placed it on the young man’s throat; his eyes widened in terror and he began speaking with urgency. Ansigar lowered his weapon and the captive looked up at Vespasian, nodding furiously.

‘He says that he can help us cross the river,’ Ansigar informed them.

‘Oh really?’ Vespasian was unimpressed. ‘And just how does he think he can do that? Fly us across?’

‘No, he says that the men on the other side will shadow us wherever we go but they won’t cross because they’ll lose too much time in doing so. He says that the river does a large loop to the north and then curves back, about ten miles east of here; if we follow it until the point that it changes direction and then leave its course and head due east we’ll rejoin it again after three miles across country. The men on the other side will have to travel eight miles following the course, but we’ll have time to cross and be away before they catch up with us.’

Vespasian looked at the young man’s terrified eyes. ‘Do you trust him, Ansigar?’

‘There’s only one way to find out, sir.’