Hunting the Eagles (35 page)

There was loud agreement from the legionaries who’d been there. Other soldiers voiced their approval of Tullus, and the dissenter’s confidence slipped away. The trumpets off to their right continued to blare, though, and a good number of men looked unhappy. ‘If they keep that up, even Tullus will find it hard to lead us on,’ Piso said to Metilius, on his right.

‘Not much we can do,’ replied Metilius, scowling. ‘Besides, the retreat isn’t sounded by mistake too often. Perhaps they’re right to be scared.’

Piso’s own confidence began to waver. He glanced at Vitellius and Saxa, who were to his left. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think we stay here until Tullus tells us otherwise,’ growled Vitellius, jutting his chin.

‘Aye,’ said Piso, feeling guilty that he’d doubted Tullus for even a moment.

Hooves struck the ground in a familiar rhythm as a horse approached at the gallop. A ripple of excitement swept through the cohort. ‘Germanicus!’ ‘It’s Germanicus!’ ‘The general is here!’

Piso’s spirits lifted as he spied Germanicus astride a magnificent grey stallion. Resplendent in ornate armour, red sash and crested helmet, he was the vision of a leader. He reined in before the cohort, and gave Tullus a friendly nod before facing the men. ‘Soldiers of the glorious Fifth Legion!’

The legionaries cheered and pounded their javelins off their metal shield rims. Germanicus made an impatient gesture, silencing them. ‘Your comrades in the Twenty-First are hard pressed by the enemy, over on the right. You are to go to their rescue at once, as the first six cohorts have already done. Drive the enemy back! Kill as many as you can. Keep moving forward. For Rome!’ Germanicus raised a fist.

‘FOR ROME! FOR ROME!’ Piso and the rest yelled.

Germanicus spoke a few words to Tullus, and then he was off, riding left towards the Fifth’s other cohorts.

‘This will be close up and dirty, brothers,’ shouted Tullus, pacing to and fro. ‘Set your javelins down, and draw your swords.’

Piso’s heart thumped off his ribs. ‘Ever done this before?’ he asked Vitellius as they followed Tullus’ next order, to form a column eight men wide.

‘Once.’

‘And?’

‘We slaughtered the bastards.’ Vitellius’ grin was unpleasant, but Piso was reassured. When Tullus ordered them forward at the double, he charged with the rest.

After a day’s march in furnace-like heat, running in full armour was exhausting. Piso’s left arm began to burn first. He was well used to carrying his shield on his back, but holding it before him was altogether different. Pulling it closer to his body helped a little. He gritted his teeth and carried on. Another hundred paces went by, and his thighs were throbbing too. Runnels of sweat ran down his back, yet Piso’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Every time his left foot hit the ground, the water in his leather bag sloshed, reminding him of how near it was, and how impossibly far. His next drink might not be for hours. If things didn’t go well, he might never need water again. He buried the disquieting idea deep. Focus on the moment, he thought. On the here and now.

At 250 paces, Tullus lifted a hand. ‘Slow down. Continue forward, at the walk.’

Piso sucked in a grateful breath. Around him, his comrades were as scarlet-faced and drenched in sweat as he was. They were nearer the fighting now – the clamour of men’s screams and iron on iron was loud indeed – but he still could not see the enemy. The cohorts that preceded them had vanished into the confusion. Before them, facing forwards and to the side, was a Roman unit, presumably a cohort of the Twenty-First. The shouts of its officers carried, as did the cries of German tribesmen. Parts of the unit at least were engaged with the enemy. Trees loomed on the unit’s left, and to its right was an area of bog. The Germans’ plan became clear to Piso, and his fear returned. He nudged Vitellius. ‘Remind you of anything?’

‘Aye,’ growled Vitellius. ‘Arminius must be here.’

‘The enemy’s pushing our comrades towards the bog,’ cried Tullus.

‘That must not happen. Are you with me?’

‘AYE!’ yelled Piso and his comrades.

Tullus leered at them and swung down from his horse. Turning its head, he gave it a slap on the rump and sent it cantering towards their rear. ‘I’ll find you later.’ Stamping over to Piso and his comrades, he barked, ‘Make room.’

Grinning with delight, the legionaries opened their ranks. Tullus shoved in between Piso and Vitellius. The century’s trumpeter, who had been with him, followed, taking a position in the second rank behind Tullus.

‘Shield!’ Tullus ordered. One was handed forward at once from the rear rank, over men’s heads, to his fist. ‘We’re heading left, along the tree line,’ he yelled. ‘Pass the word back. With me!’

Once Piso would have been surprised that they walked towards the enemy. Now he knew Tullus for a wily old bastard. Charging was effective from close range, but doing it from too far away exhausted men and stripped them of the energy to fight.

‘Gods know what we’ll find,’ shouted Tullus. ‘Be ready to break ranks when we get nearer. Form up in fours, or eights. Stick with your tent mates if you can. Be careful. On!’

Piso sucked his cheeks together, trying to find even a little moisture in his mouth. There was none. His eyes roved over the trees, and the lines of legionaries, who were still retreating towards the bog. At last he saw the enemy: darting figures in tunics and trousers, lobbing spears at the Romans from the safety of the forest. His stomach did a neat roll.

‘Faster! Swords ready,’ bawled Tullus.

They ran. The trees were closer now, beeches and hornbeams and oaks. The same types that had concealed Arminius’ horde six years before. Under their canopy, between their trunks, more and more tribesmen were visible. They were armed like all their kind, with spears. Few among them had shields; even fewer had swords, armour or helmets. Piso’s wariness didn’t lessen. German warriors were as brave as any alive, and their spears had sent many of his friends to the underworld.

Tullus didn’t lead them straight at the enemy. To do so, Piso realised, would make the entire cohort follow him. Their front would be too narrow, and would help only the nearest legionaries of the Twenty-First. Instead they ran along the edge of the trees. With every step, they screened more and more of their beleaguered comrades on the right. It was a risky manoeuvre, because it exposed their left sides to the tribesmen, who were quick to lob their spears. First it was only a few, which fell short. Before long, the warriors had run forward to get within range. The barritus began, and with it came a decent volley of spears.

Behind Piso, a man cried out.
Thud
went his shield on the ground; the sound of his body following it came next.
Thunk.
Another soldier shrieked like a whipped child. Unlike the first man, he kept screaming. At least the wretch wasn’t dead, thought Piso, trying to watch his step as well as keep his shield high. Be good to me, Fortuna, he prayed, and I’ll be good to you.

They covered another hundred paces. Spears scudded in thick and fast, causing more casualties, and lodging in numerous shields. Emboldened, the tribesmen began leaving the cover of the trees. It was as if Tullus had been waiting for this moment.

‘HALT!’ he bellowed. ‘FACE LEFT!’ The trumpeter repeated his command for the other centuries.

Piso was delighted to obey the order. Vitellius, who had been cursing under his breath during their entire run, uttered loud thanks to Mars. Saxa and Metilius had the silly, pleased expressions of men who are relieved to be alive.

‘Shoulder to shoulder, brothers!’ cried Tullus. ‘Close up.’ The trumpeter repeated his order.

Piso moved nearer to Tullus, felt Metilius shove in from his right. He relished the comforting, safe feeling. They wouldn’t be able to hold the shield wall together in the trees, but it felt good right now.

‘Ready?’ Tullus hissed in his ear.

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Move forward in silence,’ ordered Tullus. ‘ADVANCE!’

Roars of defiance went up from the warriors as the Romans approached. More spears hummed in, causing several casualties. The barritus was sung again.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

‘Quiet, brothers,’ growled Tullus. ‘Keep quiet.’

His steady voice fell like oil on water, calming the legionaries. On they marched. Fifty paces separated them from the tribesmen, and then forty. Still Tullus urged his men to silence. The barritus wavered, and then died away. So too did the number of spears being hurled. Piso’s heart leaped. They’re scared, he thought.

At thirty paces, Tullus began to bellow. ‘ROMA!’ He struck his sword off the side of his shield with a loud clatter. ‘ROMA!’

‘ROMA!’ Piso and his legionaries answered. ‘ROMA!’

Twenty-five paces. They continued to shout. The nearest tribesmen glanced at each other. One took a step backwards. So did his comrade.

Tullus’ reaction was as fast as a striking snake. ‘CHARGE!’

Piso broke into a run with Tullus, and felt Metilius on his right do the same. The soldiers to either side and behind were with them too. Piso’s shield, which had seemed so heavy, now weighed no more than a feather. His leg muscles, which had burned, felt strong as steel. His stomach was clenched tight with nerves, but he could ignore it. Increasing numbers of tribesmen were panicking, and running away. Many stayed to fight, but their resolve splintered as they realised how few comrades were standing with them.

Four warriors held their ground near Piso. Tullus aimed for the first one. Piso took the second, striking him in the chest with his shield boss and driving him back several steps. As the man tried to regain his balance and strike at Piso with his spear, Piso’s sword rammed deep into his belly. With a gurgling shriek, the warrior dropped his weapon and clutched at the steel spitting him. Piso ripped it free, slicing the warrior’s fingers to ribbons. Down he went, folding in on himself like a boneless corpse.

Piso looked for another opponent. Tullus had killed his man, and Metilius was finishing off a third. The fourth warrior had discarded his spear and fled. Piso caught up within twenty strides, cutting him down with a powerful thrust between the shoulder blades. His victim fell face first, with crimson blossoming on his patterned tunic. He kicked on the mossy ground like a rabbit caught in a trap. A quick stab to the back of his neck brought his jerking limbs to a shuddering halt. Chest heaving, Piso glanced to either side. Everywhere he could see, warriors were fleeing. Blood coursed in his ears; exultation filled him. This was how victory felt. He took several steps towards the retreating tribesmen.

‘HALT!’ Tullus’ voice stopped Piso in his tracks. He turned. Tullus’ bloodied sword was pointing straight at him. ‘Get back here, Piso. Chase them too far and they’ll turn. We’ve taught them a good lesson. If they want more, they know where to find us.’

Disgruntled, Piso joined Vitellius, who chortled at his discomfort. ‘The bloodlust is hard to resist, eh?’

‘It’s so good to see the bastards run,’ said Piso, wiping his blade clean on a corpse’s tunic.

His pleasure did not abate as the day wore on. The warriors made several more attacks, but they were half-hearted affairs, and the Fifth drove them back with ease. Each success gave Tullus’ men greater confidence, and by the time of the last assault, they were greeting the tribesmen’s arrival with catcalls and insults. It was remarkable how effective their vocal barrage was, Piso thought. After a final volley of spears that didn’t cause a single casualty, the disheartened Germans faded away into the trees.

Morale was high in the Roman camp that evening. Those lucky enough to have any wine drank their fill. Spirits rose further at the news from headquarters. The year’s campaign had ended. At dawn, the army would split up once more. Caecina and Stertinius were to lead their forces back to the Rhenus by separate routes, while Germanicus would make for the beached fleet of vessels left at the mouth of the River Amisia. Caecina’s army was to be the largest – four legions strong, including the Fifth. The happy announcement had Piso and his comrades singing long after the sun had set.

Yet, as Tullus reminded them before they retired, the war had not been won. The Eighteenth’s eagle had not been recovered. Arminius was still at large, and his warriors remained undefeated. ‘He’ll be tracking us home the way a wolf pack follows a lame deer,’ Tullus declared, the dancing firelight rendering his lined face even more forbidding. ‘Until your hobnails are hammering off the bridge into Vetera, brothers, do not let down your guard. Not for one fucking moment.’

‘DIG.’ ARMINIUS JABBED
a forefinger at the large mound. ‘DIG!’ The warriors with him, a mob of two hundred or more, set to with a will. Their shovels sliced into the fresh-turned soil, fast raising piles of earth on either side of the tumulus that had been erected by Germanicus’ legionaries. The great carved stone that had towered at its top lay close by, already shattered into a hundred pieces by Arminius’ order.

He watched his men destroy the mound, his tapping foot the only sign of the fury raging through him. After his attempt to drive the Twenty-First Legion into the bog had failed, he’d had to let his warriors lick their wounds for a few days. Arminius hadn’t been surprised that Germanicus had taken the sensible option of starting the long journey back to the Rhenus, but was now keenly aware that he might have missed his last opportunity of the year to strike at the Romans, and to avenge Thusnelda. This realisation gnawed at Arminius the way a weeping bedsore troubles an ailing greybeard, the way a deep-buried thorn causes a man’s hand to throb day and night.