Instinct and battle experience told Tullus not to try and shove his way into what was left of his soldiers’ formation. There lay only madness, panic, men jammed so close to each other that it was impossible to wield a sword. It was a ruthless decision: some of his soldiers would die because of it, but he could think of nothing else. Preparing himself, asking Mars for his help, Tullus stepped away from the swaying ranks a little, and raised his sword and shield.
A cry of agony, a despairing shout from a comrade, and a legionary sprawled backwards out of the line and on to his back. Blood spurted from the deep wound to his neck, turning the plates of his armour crimson. There was a triumphant shout, and the berserker who’d killed him leaped forward to stand over his victim, spear aimed down to deliver another blow.
Tullus had stuck him through and through before the man had even realised there was someone there. Quick as he could, Tullus tugged his blade free, twisting his head so that the blood sprays didn’t hit him in the face. He shuffled back a short way, and waited.
Another legionary died in similar fashion within a few heartbeats. So too did his killer, at Tullus’ hands. He repeated the simple manoeuvre on a third berserker as well, and was beginning to think he might do the impossible, but the last two crashed through his men together. Tullus managed to wound the nearest berserker in the arm, but it was the man’s left, not the one wielding his spear. The berserker turned on him like a rabid dog, baring his teeth and shrieking his pain – or was it contempt at Tullus’ effort? – and shoving his spear towards Tullus’ face and shield, shield and face. Tullus retreated, head as low as possible behind his scutum, noticing with alarm that the berserker’s companion was darting around to his rear. Resignation swamped him. He’d done well, for an old man, but to die with a wound in his back was a shitty way to go.
Thump. Tullus had to forget about his second enemy as he was shoved back a step by the first berserker’s spear driving into his shield. Even one-handed, the man had the strength of a boar. The sharp iron point sliced through the layered wood to strike Tullus’ mail under his sternum. He staggered, but managed to keep a tight hold on the shield grip. When the berserker tried to free his spear, Tullus countered by pushing forward – hard. The warrior’s face was a picture of surprise as he was twisted sideways by Tullus’ momentum. The move brought Tullus close enough to slide his sword deep into the side of the berserker’s chest. Iron grated off rib bone, then the resistance vanished as the blade sliced everything beyond that into ribbons.
The berserker was a dead man standing, yet he somehow found the strength to let go of his spear and punch Tullus in the head. The blow struck his helmet and despite the felt liner that cushioned his skull, stars flashed across his vision. ‘Fucking die!’ he shouted, running his sword in until the hilt touched the berserker’s flesh. With a shuddering gasp, and a dribble of pink froth from his lips, the man did as he asked. He fell off Tullus’ blade as he went down.
Remembering the second berserker, Tullus flinched. Why wasn’t he dead? The warrior had had more than enough time to kill him. He twisted his head, could see no one for a heartbeat. Turning, he was astonished to find the final berserker lying face down, chest heaving, almost at his feet. He’d been hamstrung in one leg, and slashed by a sword in the other. Behind him, two of the wounded legionaries were grinning like idiots at Tullus, who took in their bloodied gladii, and laughed with a combination of relief and pride. ‘My thanks,’ he said.
Tullus left them to finish the berserker off. Seizing a discarded shield, he went to fill the gap in his soldiers’ line. His men had almost managed to close it, but not quite. Tullus’ arrival came none too soon, and he took delight in the alarm that his appearance, crested helmet on, roaring like a madman, caused among their attackers. One moment they’d been shoving forward into a hole caused by their berserker brethren, and the next, it had been plugged by a centurion who appeared to be insane.
‘HOLD, BROTHERS!’ yelled Tullus. ‘STAY CLOSE!’
From that point, Tullus’ world became a tunnel. He lost all concept of weather, location, how much his body hurt, anything other than the man to either side, and the handful of warriors before him. It was galling that despite the berserkers’ deaths, the tribesmen continued to attack. Their morale had to have been affected, Tullus reasoned, forcing his screaming muscles to continue working.
Keep the scutum up, he thought. Pick a target. Let him come. Duck down, take the blow on the shield front, or its rim. Thrust forward, often without looking. Drive the blade in, sense the victim squirm away in vain, hear his screams. Blade out, feel the blood sheet over his forearm, peer over the shield to see his opponent fall. Glance to either side, check that his companions are alive, still fighting. Shuffle closer to one or the other. Yell at his men to hold, to stay close. Bellow his defiance at the tribesmen, throw whatever insults came to him in both German and Latin. Blink away the sweat that was running into his eyes.
In this fashion, Tullus slew two warriors and shared another kill with the soldier to his right, who had stabbed his opponent at the same time. By this stage, it was agony to breathe, and his every muscle was trembling with exhaustion. It was pathetic how grateful he felt when, without any warning, the warriors withdrew. He watched, panting and offering up silent prayers of thanks to Mars, as they loped back into the trees and their embankment, which had hidden them so well. Their wounded and dying were left behind: a decent covering, Tullus was pleased to see. Worry gnawed at him nonetheless. His losses, and those suffered by the cohort and the army in general, were far more pressing. They could not keep haemorrhaging men like this.
For now, though, they had won some space to recover. Tullus lowered his sword, let his shield sag to the ground. Felt the rain, softer now, drifting down on to his face in welcome drops. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes for a count of five. Ten. Crazy as it was in that blood-spattered place of death, sleep beckoned. Tullus rallied what was left of his energy and forced his gummy eyelids open. ‘Injured?’ he demanded of the soldiers to either side. One was fine; the other had a gaping wound to his left cheek, but averred that he could fight on. With constant glances towards the trees, Tullus marched to the end of his century, assessing his casualties. To his intense relief, they weren’t as bad as they could have been. Five – only five! – legionaries were dead or dying, and two would follow them within hours. Six more men had minor wounds. Heavy though these losses were, the berserkers’ charge could have ended everything. He was overjoyed to find Fenestela still alive: covered in other men’s blood, with a gash to his neck, but otherwise unharmed. Tullus grabbed him in a bear hug.
‘I heard what you did to those naked fuckers, sir,’ said Fenestela when they had separated, smiling. Respect shone from his eyes. ‘Few men could have done that.’
‘I was full sure I was dead. That helped, like as not,’ Tullus said, shrugging. ‘Mars was kind to me. So too were a couple of the wounded lads, who hamstrung the last whoreson. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be here.’ His vision blurred for a moment, and he swayed.
‘You all right, sir?’ asked Fenestela, steadying him.
Tullus straightened his spine, grimaced and shook off Fenestela’s hand. ‘Aye. I have to be. Is there anything to drink? I’m fucking parched.’
Fenestela called for a wine skin.
Reinvigorated a little by several mouthfuls of undiluted wine – Campanian, it tasted like – Tullus sent word to the other centuries in the cohort that they were to treat the injured fast, and to be ready to march. When the messenger returned, he wasn’t carrying good news. Three of Tullus’ centurions reported that they were down to half their usual strength. A fourth centurion was dead, and the last would not live another hour. Cursing at the delay dealing with this would cause – and with the First Cohort already on the move in front – Tullus ordered the depleted centuries to unite, forming two that were full strength, and for them to do it with all haste.
For a time after that, Fortuna appeared to have
cast her capricious gaze elsewhere, leaving Mars to hold his shield over Tullus and his soldiers. The thunder stopped, and the rain eased to a gentle drizzle. There was even a hint of sunshine through a few breaks in the cloud. A rainbow formed overhead, its beauty a stark contrast to the bloodbath taking place at ground level. From somewhere on the moorland beyond the bog came the lonely, warbling cries of curlews. With no sign of the tribesmen other than heads peering over the earthen rampart, Tullus’ soldiers regrouped and got moving.
When they caught up with the First Cohort, it was travelling at a snail’s pace. Before long, it ground to a complete halt. The unit had come under attack again. Hundreds of warriors rushed out from behind the German earthworks, threatening to overwhelm the First through sheer weight of numbers. With worry gnawing at his guts, Tullus ordered his tired soldiers forward to its aid. They managed to fight their way to the unit’s rear after a time, with the loss of two men. If Tullus had thought things would prove easier having another cohort to one side, he was mistaken. It might have worked if the First hadn’t lost so many junior officers and centurions – but it had. From his position at the far right of his soldiers, abutting the First, he could see the unit’s legionaries weakening like an undercut riverbank hit by a winter flood.
It was unusual to mix troops from two different cohorts, but desperate times called for desperate measures. During a brief respite, Tullus had Fenestela take his place in the front rank. Then, leading half his own century, he made his way behind the First for a short distance, and forward, into the middle of its disrupted formation. The grey-faced, stoop-shouldered legionaries met their arrival with varying degrees of disbelief – and pathetic gratitude. Their spines stiffened too, however, which was what Tullus needed. He interspersed his soldiers between those of the First, all along a section of line eighty men wide, and placed himself in the middle. When the next wave of warriors came charging in, the legionaries stood solid, and threw the enemy back.
They did the same thing on a second occasion, wreaking fearful casualties on the tribesmen. During the short breaks between attacks, Tullus was able to ascertain that his cohort was also holding its own. The rest of the First – to his right – was a different matter altogether. Parts of it were standing their ground, but from the sounds and looks of it – loud cheering from the enemy, and an increase in the force of their assault – other sections were crumbling or had even broken. He began to wonder whether his move to strengthen the First had been wise – if the situation deteriorated much further, the soldiers around him would also crack. If that happened, he and his men would die. Even worse, so too would Fenestela and the rest of his beleaguered century – possibly even his entire cohort.
It was with a sense of real relief, therefore, that Tullus watched the enemy tribesmen pulling back a short time later. They hadn’t been beaten – too many of them were sauntering for that to be the case, and hurling insults over their shoulders at the Romans – but they were withdrawing. For a rest, like as not, he thought, feeling a great need for the same. The horns of an unpleasant dilemma now faced him. Another enemy assault would begin soon. Should he stay put, or return to his men? Or even, Tullus wondered, should he push on past these beaten legionaries, away from his allotted position, to where the legion’s eagle was? It was vital that the golden standard not be lost – and his men might make the difference in retaining it. That bitter realisation drove Tullus to throw caution – and army regulations – to the wind.
Ordering the First’s soldiers to do their best, he rallied his men – three fewer than he’d led in – and took them back to their own unit. Fenestela greeted him with unbridled relief. ‘We didn’t break, sir, but it was close. We won’t be able to hold on for much longer.’
‘If we stay here, we’ll be raven food by sunset,’ agreed Tullus. He pointed. ‘Look over there.’ He’d spotted an area of dry ground to their right, parallel to the track, increasing the distance between them and the boggy area. Fenestela took one look and also saw the chance it granted. Without further ado, Tullus led his soldiers on to it, around the still unmoving First Cohort. There were unhappy glances from its legionaries, and even a shout from an optio that they shouldn’t be changing formation without direct orders from Varus, but Tullus paid not a blind bit of notice.
Judging where the First’s centre was proved to be difficult, as the cohort had lost its usual formation. Approximating as best he could, Tullus returned to the path after a few hundred paces. The niggle of unease he’d felt about the eagle now became open disquiet. The casualties here had been horrendous. Legionaries were sprawled everywhere, dead, wounded, somewhere in between. The unit’s ranks were so full of gaps that they resembled an old fishing net that had never been repaired.
Not every centurion had been killed, however, and there were also standard-bearers dotted throughout the unit’s soldiers. What worried Tullus was that they were signiferi, the men who carried centuries’ standards. There was no sign – anywhere – of the aquilifer, and the eagle he carried.
‘Where’s the eagle?’ Tullus roared at an optio who was tending to the wounded.
The optio looked up. The grief and shame on his face, and the streaks that tears had left on his cheeks, revealed everything. ‘It’s gone, sir. Lost.’
‘What?’ Tullus seized the optio’s arm, shoved his face into the other man’s. ‘How?’
‘There were too many of them, sir. They went straight for the eagle – twenty berserkers, at least. Our centurions did their best, they shoved us forward, sideways, every way they could to protect it. Three of them died, maybe more, defending it. Scores of ordinary soldiers too. I’m one of the only optiones left.’ The man hung his head. ‘I should have died – would have done, if I hadn’t been knocked out for a time.’
Numb, reeling, Tullus left the optio to his misery. Ordering his own cohort to regroup, he went in search of a more senior officer, hoping against hope that they would rebut what the optio had told him. The eagle’s loss was almost incomprehensible. Men would do anything – die, take a disabling wound, lose a limb – to prevent such an iconic symbol falling into enemy hands. Tullus would have done the same. He couldn’t remember the last time a legion had lost an eagle. The optio had been mistaken, he told himself.
Ignoring the nearby legionaries’ dejected, beaten expressions, his fantasy lasted until he came across Centurion Fabricius, of the Second Century – whom he knew – an officious type at the best of times. Now, though, Fabricius looked like a man whose family has just been butchered before him: dead-eyed, with a sickly grey complexion. He gave Tullus a puzzled look. ‘You’re not with the First.’
‘No. I’m Tullus. Senior centurion, Second Cohort.’
‘Ah.’ Fabricius’ disinterested gaze fell, and he picked at the hilt of his sword with bloodied fingernails.
‘Is it true?’ demanded Tullus. ‘Has the eagle been lost?’
There was no reply.
‘Answer me!’ shouted Tullus, uncaring that Fabricius outranked him.
‘Aye. It’s true,’ muttered Fabricius, unable to meet his eyes.
‘I brought my men forward as fast as I could. We would have – I meant to—’ Tullus stopped. Empty words and hollow promises would not magic the eagle back. He glanced at the earthworks, and the clamouring warriors atop it. ‘They took it back there?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago?’
‘I-I don’t know. Not long since.’
Tullus’ mind raced. If he gathered all of his men, and the soldiers around him, could they sweep forward and cross the enemy fortifications? Could they recover the eagle? He studied the nearest legionaries, and his hopes burned to a white ash. Everyone he could see looked exhausted. His own troops weren’t in a much better state. Such men couldn’t storm a higher position – against superior numbers – and expect to win, let alone take back a prize that would be defended to the bitter end. You bastard, Arminius, he thought. You filthy, scheming bastard.
Tullus had n
ever felt so bitter. Never been so ashamed. It was immaterial that he had not been present when the eagle had been seized: it belonged to the Eighteenth. His legion – the unit to which he had given fifteen years of his life. Their humiliation was all the greater because the Seventeenth and the Nineteenth still retained theirs. If they escaped this living hell, it would be the death of the Eighteenth. Legions without eagles were disbanded.
In that moment, Tullus’ despair threatened to overwhelm him. He longed to lie down in the mud and let the world fall to ruin.
One thing prevented him. His men.
He could not go to Hades knowing that he’d abandoned them. He had to keep his cohort moving. To stay was to die.
‘The gods be with you,’ he said to Fabricius.
Disbelief flitted across Fabricius’ face – then it was anger. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to my cohort.’
‘What about the eagle?’ demanded Fabricius. ‘It has to be recaptured!’
Shame scourged Tullus anew, not least because there was nothing to be done. ‘It’s thanks to the incompetence of you and your fellow officers that it was lost in the first place,’ he snarled.
Fabricius spat into the mud. ‘Varus will hear of this.’
‘I’ll tell him what I did myself,’ Tullus retorted. ‘He can be the judge of who did the right thing. It won’t be you, you fool. Mark my words: stay here, and you will all die. We can’t fight these whoresons, at least not the way we’d want. Our best chance – our only chance – is to keep marching.’