Eagles at War (54 page)

As Tullus watched the light leaching from the sky, his worries grew. He found a degree of solace in gripping the ivory hilt of his sword and sliding it a way out of its sheath. It had taken him an age to clean the blood from the blade, and the base of the pommel was still a faint pink colour. Stain or no, it was sharper than ever – he had seen to that. Whatever happened, he and his men would extract a heavy price from anyone impeding their path to Vetera.

The evening dragged by, however, and Tullus felt more and more on edge. There were only so many times that he could go over his kit and weapons, check on his soldiers, spy on the enemy camp from the fort’s rampart and check the weather. Following his own advice, he’d had some food, mutton stew, which had warmed his bones for a couple of hours. His nerve-racked guts had betrayed him then, and Tullus had been grateful that none of his men were in the latrines when it had poured out. In the end, reluctant for anyone to see his disquiet, he paced up and down inside the great hall of the principia like a caged beast before it is sent to its death in the circus. The emptiness of the shrine there, its standards and eagle long since departed, seemed to mock him, but Tullus preferred to stay dry and unhappy than to take his restlessness out into the heavy rain, where he risked catching a chill before they even left.

Perhaps three hours had passed when Fenestela came to find him. ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Caedicius has given the order.’

Tullus’ guts gave a final lurch, but there was nothing left to be voided. ‘At last. One more soaking, and we’ll reach Vetera. I swear I never want to be wet again.’

Fenestela chuckled. ‘Nor I. I’d only just managed to dry out my cloak too.’

‘Are the men ready?’

‘They are. None of the boys with wounds would travel with the rest of the injured. Said they’d rather take their chances with us.’

Tullus rolled his eyes, but pride rippled through him. ‘You told them they’d be left behind if anything happens?’

‘Aye. It didn’t change their minds.’

Tullus cracked a grim smile. ‘So be it.’

From the moment that the gate opened, and the first men filed out, Tullus’ heart began to beat like that of a trapped wild bird. At the back with Caedicius, he could see nothing of what was going on beyond the wall, which raised the tension even higher. On tiptoe, as if that would help his hearing, he listened and waited and held his breath. His expectation was that there would be a shout, or a cry of alarm from the enemy, and the situation would dissolve into total confusion and panic, but there was nothing, nothing other than the pounding rain beating down off their helmets, and the flapping in the wind of loose tiles on the barrack roofs.

Some time later, word came that the cavalry and the First Cohort had passed beyond the enemy tents without discovery, and that the civilians and wounded were on their way. It was good news, and so was the fact that the rain continued to hammer down. Rather than relax, Tullus’ nerves were stretched tighter. It was a relief to see that Caedicius – even he – was affected by their wait. Caedicius paced to and fro, watching the gate as if it were the entrance to Hades, and a host of demons was about to emerge from it.

After what seemed like an age, the men before them began to move, treading lightly to prevent their hobs clashing on the ground. At the back came two cavalrymen, leading their horses – messengers, should Caedicius need them. Through the gate the soldiers walked, and over a little pathway that traversed the defensive ditches. Tullus’ eyes flickered from side to side, searching for the enemy, but he saw nothing. It meant little, though, for the place was as dark as a cavern. Getting lost was going to be easier than finding their way through the tribesmen’s lines.

A bolt of lightning flashed out of the clouds, rendering the area as bright as day, outlining his men’s fear-struck faces, the sheeting rain, the mud beneath their feet, and the enemy tents and lean-tos. There were scores, Tullus saw, and they would have to pass gut-wrenchingly close to them. The blackness closed in again, but his spirits had risen a fraction. Like him, the men in the lead would have seen where to go. As long as there was more lightning – and the rumbling thunder seemed to promise that – they ought not to trample over an enemy tent. That didn’t mean the sentries wouldn’t see them, of course, but it was something.

The time that followed was as nerve-shredding as anything Tullus had experienced. Surreal, even otherworldly, because of the darkness, the crashing thunder, the driving rain and the irregular, blinding flashes of lightning. Difficult thanks to the mud, the proximity of the enemy and of so many other soldiers, each trying not to trip or to bang into his fellows. Fearful because of the insanity of what they were doing, the numbers of the Germans surrounding them, the worry that the storm might ease. At any stage, the horses might be panicked by the thunder and whinny or, worse, stampede. Overriding everything was the stark knowledge that their fates rested on a knife edge. A razor-sharp, hair-thin knife edge.

Step by tentative step, they pressed forward. Past the main body of tents, without glimpsing a single sentry. Past the enemy latrines, obvious because of the stench. On to a track that curved around to the front of the fort, and by yet more lean-tos and tents. The gravelled main road out of Aliso came next. A few hundred paces along it, they came upon what had to be a sentry point – a pair of tents by the roadside, and a stone-ring fireplace in between. The tents
had
to be in use, but there was no sign of their occupants – who were like as not within, sleeping. Tullus’ mouth felt as dry as his skin did wet, but they made it past. No sound came from the tents; no call to arms. Nothing.

A little further on, a second set of sentries was also dead to the world, and Tullus began to dream that their audacious escape would go unnoticed.

It was ironic that when they
were
seen, it was not by an alert sentry, but by a warrior who needed a piss. Tullus spotted him first: a stooped figure with a cloak over his head, stumbling from a tent by the side of the road, oblivious to the approaching file of Romans not twenty paces away. Once his bladder was empty, and the man turned, he could
not
fail to spot them. ‘Two of you, with me. The rest of you, keep moving,’ Tullus hissed at the soldier to his left. ‘Pass it on.’ Drawing his sword, he skidded down off the road, towards the urinating warrior. Two legionaries pounded after. So did Degmar, lithe as a shadow.

They got there a heartbeat too late. Tullus’ quarry had finished, shaken himself and turned. Tullus’ blade was ramming straight at his unprotected chest, too swift to prevent his escape, but not fast enough to stop him screaming before he died. There was immediate noise from the nearby tents. Pulse racing, Tullus wondered if there was any chance the four of them could kill all the men within. Any hope he had vanished as first two, then five warriors emerged, weapons in their hands. Before Tullus could react, Degmar was among them like a dancer, cutting down one, two men, gutting a third. A shout from the other side of the road announced the presence of more tribesmen Tullus hadn’t been aware of. Three more warriors spilled out of the tents by him. On the road, the last ranks of Caedicius’ unit were passing. To stay was to die, thought Tullus. Needlessly. ‘Fall back!’ he shouted. ‘Degmar!’

To his relief the Marsi obeyed. In the short time it took the four to rejoin Caedicius – who was in the rearmost rank – the alarm was being well and truly raised. A number of the sentries had horns, which they were blowing with gusto. ‘We killed a few, sir, but there were too many,’ Tullus said to Caedicius. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s done is done,’ replied Caedicius. ‘You did well to spot them before anyone else.’

Despite the wind and rain, Tullus could hear the enemy camp coming awake behind them. Soon thousands of warriors would be on their trail. His weariness, which had eased, returned with crashing force. Tullus shoved it away. He could endure this trial. He
had
to, for so many reasons. His men. The girl. Ridiculous it seemed, but saving her, and the pup, had become important. There was also his burning desire to recover his legion’s eagle, and to revenge himself on Arminius. Dead, he could not do any of these things. Alive, there was a chance.

At that point, the sentries who had woken ran on to the road and began hurling their spears. Two legionaries were wounded, one fatally. It was too dangerous to risk having all the men march backwards – they risked breaking their ankles – so Caedicius had only the rearmost soldiers turn to face the enemy. The rest had to march with their shields over their heads for a short time, until the warriors had run out of missiles. Although the tribesmen continued to follow them, jokes about having shelter from the rain at last – from their scuta – broke out, and Tullus’ heart warmed. If men began to think that they
might
cheat death, their spirits soon rallied.

Some of the legionaries had been issued with bags of
caltrops
, taken from the stores in the camp. At Caedicius’ order, they began to scatter the spiked devices across the road. More jokes were made, this time about the holes they’d make in the warriors’ feet. Sure enough, there were howls of pain as the unsuspecting enemy walked into the trap. After a quick volley of javelins, the tribesmen fell back.

The Romans marched on for a time without further pursuit. The rain eased, as if it knew that it was no longer needed to obscure their escape. Tullus returned to his men. Caedicius sent orders ahead that if possible the pace should increase, but that the leading cohort was not to lose contact with the civilians and the wounded. Because of the non-combatants, however, there was little change in their speed thereafter. Tullus felt like a cripple trying to outrun a guard dog that has been released on to his trail a mile down the road. The light-armed, running tribesmen would catch them with ease.

He was pleased to be mistaken. A mile marker passed, and then another. By the third, he fell back from his position to confer with Caedicius. ‘Do you think they’re looting the camp, sir?’

‘A shrewd guess. Preferable to chasing after a thousand legionaries in the dark, eh? There’s plenty in Aliso to keep them busy. Wine, food, weapons. Soldiers’ savings, if they think to rip up the floorboards in the barracks.’

‘Gods, let them drink themselves stupid,’ said Tullus, thinking of the enormous barrels he’d seen in one of the storehouses, vessels bound with iron rings, almost as tall as two men, and as broad.

‘Some of them will do their best. What man wouldn’t, if he got the chance?’ Caedicius let out a wicked chuckle.

Their hopes were borne out in the hours that followed, as they marched five miles, and then seven, from Aliso. Tullus’ men, even the injured, managed to keep up with the rest. Dawn arrived, and a watery sun emerged from behind the clouds, lifting the general mood. The soldiers broke out whatever food they had, and shared it out. Sodden or not, the bread that Tullus was handed tasted divine. He washed it down with the neat wine that Fenestela had managed to procure.

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

The outbreak of the barritus was far to their rear, yet it set Tullus’ skin to tingling. His men’s faces changed too. ‘Ignore it, my brothers,’ he cried. ‘Five miles or so, and we’ll reach the next camp. Reinforcements will be on their way from Vetera as soon as the cavalry get there. All we’ll have to do is hold on!’

‘ROMA!’ a man – Piso? – yelled. His call was like the spark that falls into dry summer undergrowth and starts a wild fire. ‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ Tullus’ soldiers roared. Their chant was taken up by Caedicius’ legionaries, drowning out the barritus.

Tullus’ ploy to rally his men’s spirits had worked, but it would only be a temporary measure. The enemy would catch them before the next camp. He had no idea when their small group of cavalry would reach Vetera – Caedicius had ordered that they ride off at daybreak – and how long after that a force would be despatched to their rescue. Even if they reached the marching camp, would they be able to defend it successfully? When Degmar asked if he should drop off the road and spy on the men following, Tullus agreed with alacrity. Knowing the enemy’s disposition might prove useful.

Next he went to talk to Caedicius, his worries gnawing at his guts like a dog at a juicy bone.

‘Six of my riders remain at the front of the column,’ Caedicius told him, grinning like a madman. ‘They have trumpets.’

Tullus shook his head, confused, a little frustrated. ‘What use are musical instruments, sir?’

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
The sound was audible again, even though the legionaries were still chanting. Tullus glanced back along the road, and saw the first figures – berserkers, no doubt – loping ahead of a massed body of warriors. They were perhaps three-quarters of a mile away. Tullus felt more bitter than he had in the midst of the ambush, when his death had seemed inevitable. It had begun to seem possible that he might survive, that one day he might retrieve his legion’s eagle. That Arminius might come under his blade.

Vetera was perhaps thirty-five miles away, but it might as well have been Rome.

Stay calm, Tullus thought. He focused again on Caedicius, wondering how in Hades he managed it.

‘I’m holding back a rider until the enemy are nice and close,’ said Caedicius, indicating the two horsemen alongside their position. ‘When he reaches the trumpeters, they will sound’ – he winked, and added – ‘an advance, at double speed.’

‘Ha!’ cried Tullus with delight. ‘The Germans will think that it is troops marching from Vetera to our rescue.’

‘That’s what I am hoping. It’s a gamble, of course. If there are a few level-headed men among the enemy, who can steady their fellows, we’re done for,’ said Caedicius, looking sombre. ‘On the other hand, most of them could be pissed, thanks to the wine they found inside Aliso.’

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

The legionaries’ singing faltered, and died away.

‘Keep marching, brothers,’ shouted Caedicius. ‘I won’t let them hit us from behind. Pass it on.’