Eagles at War (45 page)

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.

XXVI

ARMINIUS COULDN’T TAKE
his eyes from the eagle. He’d been near one, and had been impressed by its beauty, but he’d never before laid hands on one, never been able to study one close up. It was typical of a legion’s standard, with the golden eagle positioned lying forward, on its chest, wings upraised behind. Staring eyes and an open beak gave the eagle a fierce, imperious expression, which impressed and amused Arminius by turn. You’re mine now, he thought, tipping over the wooden staff to feel the eagle’s weight. Cast from gold, it was impressively heavy.

The eagle had been brought to him as soon as it had reached their earthworks, borne by the same warrior who’d snatched it from the dying aquilifer: Osbert. Arminius had been delighted that the glory belonged to one of his own. A jostling mob of cheering warriors had accompanied Osbert, but he had suffered no one else to touch the eagle until it had been presented to Arminius.

Arminius had at once repaid the gesture by asking him to stay by his side, so that every man in their host might see who had seized such an illustrious prize. Osbert was still grinning from ear to ear, and seemed oblivious to the small bleeding cuts that marked his arms and chest.

Having taunted the battered legionaries with the eagle, Arminius traced his way along the earthworks for half a mile or more. The standard had a rapturous reception from the warriors assembled behind the defences. There were spontaneous renditions of the barritus, repeated chants of Arminius’ name and shouted oaths that the remaining eagles would soon be taken.

Its appearance before the soldiers of a different Roman cohort – who until that point had had no knowledge of its loss – also had a dramatic effect. Emerging from a gap in the fortifications, Osbert and his companions roared and shouted to get their enemies’ attention. Arminius watched as the legionaries – no longer in recognisable ranks or files – pointed and cried out in dismay. Their ragged lines even wavered,
away
from the triumphant warriors.

It was an incredible spectacle, thought Arminius with delight, to see the arrogant Romans brought so low. Their marching speed was pathetic, their usual impressive formation absent. Their mud-spattered cloaks were rain-sodden, their armour dulled and rusting. Few of them had javelins, and even fewer carried any equipment. Many sported crimson-spotted bandages, or were limping. Those with more severe injuries were being helped along by their comrades. At regular intervals, dying men, or those who could not keep up, were being abandoned by the side of the track.

Arminius noted that the Roman officers – what few there were – looked no better than their men. This was telling. The centurions, optiones and other officers were the backbone of every century, every cohort and every legion. It was usual for them to lead by example, and if that leadership were absent, the legionaries would soon give up.

Arminius studied the Romans again with care, and decided that that had in fact already happened. To all intents and purposes, the Eighteenth was spent as a fighting force. Once the Seventeenth and Nineteenth had been as well battered, victory would be his.

He could taste it.

Tullus trudged on. A brown-green wall taller than a man – the enemy earthworks – ran alongside the track without end, sometimes as close as twenty paces from the marching legionaries. Behind it were apparently inexhaustible reserves of warriors, every one of whom thirsted for Roman blood. When the bastards weren’t attacking, they were singing their infernal barritus, or showering the legionaries with volleys of frameae from atop the rampart.

Tullus’ men had long since used up their pila, and had grown accustomed to picking up the enemy missiles and lobbing them at their owners when given the order. To begin with, their efforts – thrown at a foe above them, by arms that were already tired – caused few casualties compared to those they were suffering. Incensed, Tullus gave his soldiers a dressing-down during a rest break snatched when they weren’t under attack. ‘You all fucking know how to throw a spear! Ground your shield. Pick a target. Don’t loose the damn things until I give the order! Do that, and you’ll
kill
men. Throw them like panicked children chucking rocks at a feral dog, and you’ll miss!’

His telling-off worked. The next time Tullus directed his men to throw, more than half a dozen warriors were punched back off the top of the earthwork into their fellows. That put an end to the tribesmen standing on the rampart to better use their spears, which reduced Tullus’ losses by some degree – at least when hand-to-hand fighting wasn’t going on, but that wasn’t much of the time.

Three more savage attacks he and his men battled through that terrible afternoon, two of which were in heavy rain, with yet more thunder and lightning. Another six soldiers from his century died, and more were injured. The already muddy track was transformed into a swamp in which a man’s leg could sink to mid-calf, making combat twice as treacherous. Bodies of the fallen – most Roman, but a good number of tribesmen – lay on it,
in
it, among the trees, slumped over bushes. Thanks to the volumes of blood being shed, the mud was often dark red in colour rather than brown. In a sarcastic moment, his face planted in it after he’d tripped over a body, Tullus thought it similar in hue to a good Sicilian wine.

Mules, cavalry horses and men’s corpses weren’t the only things to break an ankle over. Weapons – pila, frameae, swords – were everywhere. So too were shields, pickaxes, pots, pans, blankets and more. Not all the civilians had been weeded out of the army’s ranks, as their bodies and belongings proved. Here lay a soothsayer, a startled look on his face, still clutching his
lituus
, or rod of office. There sprawled a merchant, his smashed, empty money box close by. A dead-eyed woman sat on a tree stump, a lifeless infant in her lap and a bawling toddler cradled in her arms. The child’s wails mixed with the piteous whining of a tiny mongrel pup, which had stayed by its dead master, a pedlar. Despite his own dreadful situation, Tullus’ conscience was pricked by the woman
and
the little dog. He hardened his heart and walked by both. His responsibility was to look after his century, and his cohort. No one else.

When the light began – at last – to dim so much that it was difficult to see his hand in front of his face, Tullus wanted to cry out with relief. His throat was far too dry, however, and his voice spent from shouting orders. The gloom was yet sufficient to see the tribesmen withdrawing from their earthwork in some numbers, and to receive word that a site had been picked for the night’s camp by what remained of the vanguard. The quarter-mile it took to reach the spot felt to Tullus like a full day’s march. His body hurt as if someone had taken a hammer to every part of him. His bones ached, his muscles shuddered with exhaustion and the old injury in his calf needled at him like the probing in a wound by a drunk, incompetent surgeon. Yet the end – of the day, and their torment, for the hours of darkness – was in sight. The one thing he had to do was to keep his legs moving, to call out a few more encouraging words to his men. This he managed.

Tullus also found the strength to direct his cohort to the centre of what would be the camp – nothing more than an open area of ground by the track – and to have his soldiers prepare what shelters they could. Only when this had been done did he unlock his knees and sit down, propping his back against a boulder. It would have been a good idea to do some stretches, to drink some wine, or water, to eat whatever food there was, but Tullus was too tired. Never had he felt so drained. The instant his eyes closed, he was asleep.

He dreamed not of his soldiers who’d died, but of the woman and her children, one dead, one living, and the whining pup.

Tullus jerked awake, instinct making him reach for his sword. Realising he was among his own, in their ‘camp’, he relaxed. Night had not entirely fallen, so he couldn’t have been dozing for long. As the light from the sky disappeared, the only illumination came from the fires that had been lit. Thanks to the lack of dry wood, there weren’t many. The air resounded with the moans of the wounded, dulling the soldiers’ muted conversation.

‘Damn it all to Hades,’ Tullus muttered, unable to put the woman from his mind. How far down the track had she been?

‘You’re awake.’ Fenestela loomed over him, his face concerned. He proffered a wine skin.

‘Aye.’ Tullus took it and slugged back a couple of mouthfuls. Despite the wine’s acidity, he’d have had more, but the skin was light, and it wasn’t his. He handed it back with a grateful nod.

‘I’d hoped you’d rest a while longer. You were like a beast today. It must have taken it out of you.’

‘It had to be done,’ said Tullus, worried that he would be unable to repeat the supreme physical effort again. ‘How many men left uninjured – in the century?’

Fenestela’s chuckle was bitter. ‘There are five with
no
injuries. Just over twenty with minor wounds, or wounds that they tell me won’t stop them from fighting. Nearly a dozen injured worse than that – a lot of whom won’t survive the night. The rest of the cohort is in the same situation, or worse.’

Clenching his jaw, Tullus absorbed this shocking news as best he could. His entire unit was down to less than half strength. These were savage losses – and if they had been repeated throughout the army, which was probable – they were losses that threatened the survival of every man in Varus’ command. For some reason, the woman and her child came to his mind again. If they were still alive, they were out there in the dark. Cold, wet, hungry, alone. Tullus cursed. Cursed, and heaved himself upright, cursing again at the pain that radiated from each part of his body. He had every reason in the world not to act, but he couldn’t. He
couldn’t
. Doing nothing would make him as bad as that whoreson Arminius. ‘I’m going back down the track.’

Fenestela looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. ‘Why, sir?’

Tullus smiled. When they were alone, Fenestela tended to call him ‘sir’ only when he disapproved of what Tullus was doing. ‘There’s a woman back there, with a child. And a pup.’

Fenestela goggled. ‘That’s sad, sir, but … er, it’s really none of our concern.’

‘I’m making it my fucking concern, all right? Come with me if you wish. Tell the men I want five volunteers. Volunteers only. We leave at once.’

With a roll of his eyes, Fenestela turned on his heel. ‘You mad fuck,’ he threw over his shoulder.

Tullus let the insult slide, in the main because Fenestela was right. But he was going to do it anyway. If he could save her it would in some small way compensate for the staggering losses suffered by his cohort. So many had died. His heart bled. Fortuna, you’re a miserable old cunt, he thought. And what the fuck were you doing today, Mars? Having your flute played by Minerva? You didn’t look after us at all. Best do a better job tomorrow, or I’ll never sacrifice to you again. Startled by the vehemence of his thoughts, and uneasy that the gods might read his mind, Tullus concentrated on stretching his weary, cramping muscles.

Before long, Fenestela had returned with five legionaries. Three were injured, Tullus noted, his throat closing with emotion. ‘More would have come, sir, but I told them you only wanted five,’ said Fenestela, making him feel even prouder.

‘The optio’s told you what we’re going to do?’ Tullus’ eyes moved over the soldiers, who all gave him resolute nods. ‘I’d wager that the enemy have long since withdrawn to their tents and their fires. They’ll be as hungry and bone-weary as we are. It’s a simple job – nothing more than a short walk in the dark.’

They managed a laugh, but he could tell it was forced. They were here, and that was what mattered, thought Tullus. He couldn’t also expect them to be happy about it. ‘Do we take torches, sir?’ asked one legionary.

Tullus hadn’t come to a decision on that yet. Without light, they wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing, but if they carried torches, they would attract the attention of any tribesmen who might still be around, and
that
would end with only one result. Fuck it, he thought. They’ll have gone back to their camps. I’m not skulking down the path like a scared child. ‘We do. One at the front, for me, and one at the back, with the last man. That’s all. If we hear anything, we can douse them swift enough.’ He glanced at Fenestela. ‘You coming?’

‘You know me, sir. I’m always game for a fool’s errand.’ Fenestela raised an arm, revealing a pair of wooden torches.

Tullus gave his optio a tight smile. ‘Come on.’

The sentries at the camp’s edge gave them incredulous looks when Tullus announced where he was going, but they knew better than to question a mad senior centurion. The path along which they had come wasn’t hard to follow, littered as it was with weapons and corpses. The latter were challenging to pick their way past, and over, not least because some of them were yet living. When they realised that their own kind had come among them, the poor creatures sent up a lament, pleading to be saved, to be carried to safety, or to have an end to their suffering. Aware that this would happen, Tullus had already instructed his men to say that they’d help those they could on the way back. Despite their best efforts to quieten the wounded, the noise of their cries was considerable. As Fenestela observed drily, only a deaf man would have missed their passage.