Hunting the Eagles (34 page)

It was remarkable how effective the constant harassment was, Tullus grumbled to Fenestela. Their soldiers were tired, irritable and prone to jump at the slightest noise. Stories were rife of men who’d gone for a piss in the night being stabbed by a comrade upon their return, and of panicked individuals who had deserted, never to be seen again. ‘Just like it was, six fucking years ago,’ retorted Fenestela, making the fire hiss as he spat into it. By mutual consent, neither spoke further on the subject.

Tullus did his best to combat the ebbing morale, riding the length of the cohort each day, exhorting his soldiers to do their best, and to ignore their brutish enemies, whose monotone singing made a pack of feral dogs sound tuneful. Every evening, he paced the tent lines, repeating what he’d said, doling out his own wine and rewarding any man whose actions had stood out during the most recent fighting.

Several more unhappy days passed. The weather remained stifling, even hotter than before. Germanicus’ army ground eastward like a massive serpent, assailed on all sides by a multitude of biting rodents. It was unstoppable, thought Tullus, yet maddened by its enemies’ incessant and unrelenting attacks.

On the thirty-ninth morning, Tullus and his cohort were no longer in the vanguard. The duty had fallen to the Twenty-First Legion, while the Fifth was marching in the main body of the column, in front of the other legions, but behind just about everyone else in the army. Even the senior officers’ baggage went before them, Tullus heard his men complaining. Germanicus’ soft bed, his personal stores of wine, were more important than they were, moaned a former conscript. It wasn’t fair. ‘Get used to it, you fool. Be grateful that we’re not right at the back, swallowing thirty thousand more men’s dust,’ Piso advised, making Tullus smile.

Once again the sun beat down from a radiant blue sky, devoid of cloud. The prolonged, baking hot weather had parched the landscape. Brown grass, stubble and cracked earth filled the fields. Even the leaves on the trees seemed shrunken, desiccated by the heat. The paths followed by the army were powder dry, and the rivers running low. Finding water had become a vital daily priority. Tens of thousands of thirsty men and animals needed the most enormous quantity. Wise to this, Arminius had his warriors poison many streams with dead sheep and cattle. The wagons were full of soldiers suffering from vomiting and diarrhoea.

Pure luck and nothing more had stopped any of his men coming down with the affliction, thought Tullus, eyeing his water flask and battling not to drain its contents in one go. Waves of heat rose from his armour. It and his helmet both seemed to have doubled in weight. No matter what way he positioned his scarf, his baldric strap kept pinching at his neck. His back ached, and the old injury in his left calf throbbed from time to time. The harsh tang of his own sweat and the whiff of sheep from his woollen tunic were a constant, cloying presence in his nostrils. He squinted at the baleful white-gold orb that was the sun, hoping that it would be near the horizon. It was but a fraction lower in the sky than it had been the last time he’d looked. Midday had been four hours ago, he decided, resigning himself to two or three more hours on the road.

When the column ground to a halt – again – Tullus groaned. Such stops were normal enough, and could happen for any number of reasons, but that didn’t stop them being frustrating. The vanguard could have reached a river, or another obstacle. A mule might have been panicked, or a wagon axle snapped. It was possible that Germanicus wanted to have a look at something.

His men felt none of his irritation. To them, the halt was a welcome break from marching. When Tullus gave the order to lower their yokes soon after, they were even more pleased. Jokes were bandied about, brows mopped and water drunk. Several soldiers asked leave to empty their bladders, and Tullus let them break ranks. Legionaries were doing the same as far as the eye could see, and there was no harm in it – the land to either side was empty of life except for a few birds. Tullus climbed down from his horse and let it pick at the brown grass.

Time passed. A heat haze rippled the air, rendering everything in the distance out of focus. Waves of warmth rose from the packed earth beneath their feet. A lone crow flapped by. From somewhere to their front, mules brayed. The humour that had been widespread among Tullus’ soldiers when they’d first stopped had died away. Men were sweating now, slapping away the flies that hung in clouds around their heads, and propping themselves up with their javelins.

Still the army didn’t move. No word had come about what was going on. Tullus wasn’t concerned yet. He had his troops unsling their shields from their backs and set them standing on the hard ground. Every third soldier was allowed to sit down if he wished – the others would soon get their turn, Tullus told them. ‘Eat something if you’re hungry. Have another piss. Have a shit. Stay alert, you maggots,’ he advised, before riding along the side of the cohort.

Everything was as it should be, which was something. Tullus took the time to greet those men he recognised, and to say encouraging words to their comrades. His centurions met the lack of information with the same resignation that he felt. There was nothing they could do but wait – and cook in the heat.

Tullus was talking with the Fifth Century’s centurion when, without warning, trumpets blared from the front. There was no mistaking the signal for ‘enemy in sight’.

‘See to your men!’ ordered Tullus, riding off. He repeated the command as he cantered along the column. ‘Yokes to the side. Shield covers off. Javelins ready.’

Fenestela was waiting as Tullus neared the First Century – and he’d already had the soldiers stand to. It was as Tullus would have expected, but he still gave Fenestela a pleased nod. ‘Any word from the front?’

‘Not a thing.’ Fenestela hawked, then saved his spit. ‘What do you think?’

‘Who fucking knows? It could be just a few tribal hotheads, or a major attack.’ Tullus peered ahead. Sunlight flashed off armour, helmet crests bobbed about as officers conferred, but the column wasn’t moving. ‘I’ve a mind to ride up the line. The senior officers will know more.’

‘I’ll keep the men in order.’

Fenestela’s reliability dispelled the last of Tullus’ doubt about leaving his command. ‘I won’t be long.’

He hadn’t gone far when he spied a messenger galloping in his direction. The soldiers of the cohort in front – the Sixth – were already discarding their yokes and extra equipment on both sides of the road. Uneasy, Tullus reined in and waited until the messenger drew near.

The rider brought his mount to a juddering halt and saluted. ‘There’s been an ambush, sir, on the scouts and the cavalry outriders. For whatever reason, the cavalry panicked and fled back down the track – straight into the vanguard.’

Tullus didn’t like the sound of this one bit. ‘What did the Twenty-First do?’

‘It seems they too were startled, sir. They’ve broken formation. The tribesmen have pressed home their attack, causing a good number of casualties. The Twenty-First is retreating to the right, away from the army.’

Tullus digested this with alarm. Units were supposed never to break off from the main force without express orders to do so. ‘Why would they do that?’

The messenger was quick to adopt a blank face.

‘What are our orders?’ demanded Tullus.

‘The entire Fifth is to move at once, sir, on either side of the column, up as far as Germanicus’ position. He will lead the legion towards the fighting. With your permission, sir? I have to pass on the command.’

‘On you go.’ Tullus spun his horse. It was fortunate that the ground around them was flat, he thought. He and his cohort could march parallel to the track. Speed was vital.

Reaching Fenestela, he had Germanicus’ order relayed into the next century and onward. His men formed up, half on the left and half on the right of the track, outside the position of those in front who would not be advancing. Then they began to march slowly, following the Sixth Cohort, and those before it. Chafing with impatience, Tullus kept rising up on his saddle blanket, but he could determine nothing about what was happening further along the column. He ground his teeth and tried to be patient.

Confusion reigned as Tullus and his men continued past each section of the army positioned in front of their own location. First were the senior officers, who were arguing among themselves, with legates shouting at each other and the tribunes bickering in the background. Tullus spied Tubero in the midst of it all, holding forth with his theory about what had gone wrong. Few men seemed interested.

They passed the artillerymen next. Trees were growing close to the track by their position, forcing Tullus and his soldiers to edge around the wagons loaded with dismantled ballistae and other catapults. Their speed slowed to a crawl, allowing Tullus to eavesdrop on the artillery crews, who were blaming the legion in the vanguard for being fools, and lamenting the fact that they almost never got to use their heavy weaponry. Even their mules were irritable, biting at each other’s necks and kicking out at legionaries who strayed too close.

What Tullus liked least was the lack of attention paid by the artillerymen to their surroundings. For all any of them knew, another attack could be sprung right here. He advised the officers in charge to set some guards. There was no time to see if his suggestion was followed, for his cohort had to keep moving. It was imperative that they didn’t fall behind the Sixth Cohort.

The next units – the cavalry – were in no better mood, laying the blame for the panic on the scouts whose job it had been to ride in front of the army. As with the artillerymen, no one appeared to be watching the trees. Again Tullus said something to the officers. There had never been much love lost between infantry and cavalry, and most met his comments with poorly concealed disdain.

The trees closed in on either side once more as, in the distance, familiar sounds became audible: shouts, trumpets, the clash of arms. The Sixth Cohort’s pace picked up, and Tullus had ordered his men to do the same. They began to pass nervous-faced engineers and camp surveyors, who urged them onwards with loud shouts of encouragement. ‘Well they might cheer,’ Tullus heard Piso say. ‘Pickaxes and hammers aren’t much fucking use in a fight.’

‘Spin a surveyor’s measuring tool fast enough around your head and you’d knock down a warrior or two,’ quipped another soldier, raising a brief laugh.

Despite the chaos, Tullus hungered to meet the enemy again. ‘We’ll carve Arminius and his men new arseholes, brothers,’ he cried. ‘Won’t we?’

‘AYE!’

Their roar rose into the burning blue sky and disappeared.

Soon the trees gave way to scrubby grass and gorse; on the left, a low hill rose, its slopes covered in oaks. Whether there was anyone hiding among them, it was impossible to tell. In the centre and on the right, Tullus could see Roman units, which were in some disarray. He was afforded no chance to work out why, though, as waiting officers directed the cohorts to break up. Rank by rank, the Sixth wheeled off to the right, and Tullus was directed to follow. When he asked what the plan was, he was told further orders would be given out soon.

Tullus was far from happy as the noise of battle grew louder. Now he could hear screams, and the frenzied whinnies of injured horses. He’d experienced combat a hundred times before, but that didn’t stop his stomach from clenching tight. Soon men would begin to die – not just the enemy, but good Romans. Some of them would be his soldiers. If Arminius had his way, they would all be face down in the mud by sunset.

That cannot happen, Tullus thought, worry gnawing at him. It
must
not happen.

And then, from somewhere off to their right, the retreat was sounded.

PISO PEERED INTO
the distance. He was unhappy that the retreat had been ordered before they’d seen a single warrior, and when Tullus had just directed the cohort to form up, ready for battle. Piso and his comrades were in the first rank, which afforded some vision of the ground in front. They could make out little more than the mass of legionaries to their right, which appeared to be in complete confusion. Their ranks were wavering, and small groups of men had broken away at the rear. Piso was confused and unsettled by this; so too were his friends. ‘What in Hades is going on?’ he asked Vitellius.

‘Your guess is as good as anyone’s,’ muttered Vitellius, his voice even sourer than usual.

Fifteen paces to their front, Tullus sat astride his horse, a hand to his eyes as he too gazed at the chaos. Everyone watched him.

‘Tullus hasn’t got a clue,’ said a man in the rank behind after a time. The fear in his voice was palpable. The muttering among his companions, which had been muted, grew louder.

Piso knew how fast panic could spread. Ignoring regulations, he wheeled around. Pinning the man who’d spoken – an ex-conscript – with a hard stare, he snapped, ‘Shut your mouth, filth. Tullus
always
knows what to do.’

‘I was only saying—’ began the man, but Piso cut him off.

‘Tullus got us out of the forest six years ago, when no one else could. He’s not about to let us down now.’