Eagles at War

  ‘Listen, sir.’ Fenestela leaned forward. ‘I hear something.’

  Tullus pricked his ears, held his breath. For ten heartbeats, he discerned nothing other than the moaning of some poor bastard nearby, but then – beyond belief – he heard the whimper of a child, quickly hushed. It was coming from under the trees, a short distance away. Tullus’ spirits rose, but he had to be careful. If the woman took fright, she might run off into the forest, where they’d never find her. ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he called out in Latin. ‘I am a senior centurion of the Roman army. I seek a woman and child.’

  There was no reply. Indicating to Fenestela that he and the rest stay put, Tullus walked towards where he thought the sound had come from. After fifteen paces, he stopped and repeated what he’d said. Still there was no response, but nor was there a panicked departure into the dark. Either he had misheard the noise, or the woman wasn’t moving. Ten steps more, and he tried again to get her to answer.

  This time there was a sob, which was stifled at once, but it gave Tullus heart. He extended his arm, letting his torch shine deeper into the gloom before him. Then he saw her, a huddled figure under a fallen trunk, a natural place to seek shelter. It was the woman he’d seen, and in her arms was a little shape, her child. To Tullus’ delight, the pup was there too, curled up at the woman’s feet. ‘My name is Lucius Cominius Tullus,’ he said in a low, reassuring voice. ‘I saw you earlier. Come. You’ll be safe with me.’

  She rose and stumbled towards him, the sleepy pup following. ‘My other child, he—’ Her voice broke.

  ‘I know,’ said Tullus. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I buried him as best I could before dark, just here.’

  There was a small grave at Tullus’ feet, which he hadn’t spotted. The woman had covered it with rocks, which would be enough, he thought. The wolves and other predators would have more than they could eat for days to come. ‘Had you a coin to place in his mouth?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Let us commend his soul to the gods, and go.’ Now that he’d found her, Tullus’ unease was taking control. This grim forest, among the dead and, quite possibly, the enemy, was no place for the living. He scooped up the pup, which tried to lick his face. ‘Is your child unharmed?’

  ‘She is, thank the gods. The poor mite has been asleep for hours.’

  ‘We’ll find her a blanket in the camp, and you.’ He made to go, but she caught his arm.

  ‘I-I had given up all hope. You came to save us. Thank you.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Tullus, feeling pleased and awkward. ‘Best get back to the camp before we get too excited.’ He led the way back to his men. He was still bone-jarringly tired, and grieving for the soldiers he’d lost, and unsure what terrors the next day would hold. Yet finding this still-unnamed woman and her child, and the pup, felt good.

  Maybe the gods hadn’t abandoned him altogether.

  XXVII

  VARUS SAT IN his tent, brooding. The dim light cast by a handful of small oil lights on the floor couldn’t conceal the fact that it was a tent meant for a contubernium of legionaries. It might have held eight men under normal circumstances, but compared to the vast pavilion he was used to on campaign, it seemed tiny. I should feel grateful, he thought, listening to the rain drumming off the oiled leather. Most of the troops – the ones that survive, his conscience needled – don’t have any protection against the weather. It’s only because I am commander that I have this. Yet he didn’t feel a bit appreciative of his good fortune. He raised his hands, studied the dirt under his fingernails, and the mud splatters that covered every exposed part of his flesh. What he felt was dirty. Wet. Hungry.

  These feelings paled before his humiliation, however. Never in his life had he been so degraded. Varus now agreed with Tullus, which made the revelation of Arminius’ treachery all the more terrible. Tullus and perhaps Tubero aside, Arminius had tricked every one of them – and him in particular – the way a duplicitous adult cons a small child of its sweets. I am a fool, thought Varus, letting his hands fall into his lap. A complete fool. He had had no idea that his army was about to be ambushed when it had turned off the main road to hunt for the Angrivarii.

  Varus had no excuses for his ignorance either: he had been alerted, not just once, but several times. Instead of listening to Segestes and later to Tullus, he had laughed off their warnings, or reprimanded them, or both. Yet they were the ones who’d been correct, and he was the one who’d been a blind idiot. What the emperor would make of it, Varus dreaded to think. Whether he would ever have to explain himself to Augustus was another matter, of course, one he didn’t like to linger upon.

  Varus would have given every last part of his considerable wealth to have had Arminius in chains before him at that moment. Despite his civilised appearance and gregarious nature, the Cheruscan was a lying, treacherous snake. His intent had always been to break the empire’s hold over Germania. The planning must have taken months, thought Varus. To unite the tribes – never fond of each other at the best of times – and then bring them together in one place was a considerable feat, and worthy of respect, however grudging. So too was the manner in which Arminius had kept his strategy secret, and how he had found such a perfect location for the ambush.

  Varus pictured the countless trees, which had pressed in on either side of the track, confining his soldiers and preventing them from forming up. All part of Arminius’ plan. The narrow track, which Varus had laughed about for slowing his army down, and the hellish mud bath that it had turned into. It had also been of Arminius’ design. How the legionaries had had to abandon their baggage and, worse, their artillery. That would have been something Arminius hoped for. The damnable hill, and the earthen embankments, which must have taken at least a month to build. Planned in advance too. The bog on one side, cutting off retreat in that direction. Yet another part of Arminius’ devilish enterprise.

  A sour smile found its way on to Varus’ face. Only the weather could be described as being outside Arminius’ control. His smile didn’t last. Perhaps the Cheruscan’s gods – the thunder god Donar being one of them – had intervened on the tribesmen’s behalf. After the lashing rains, and the thunder and lightning of the previous two days, the case could be argued.

  ‘Master?’ It was Aristides’ voice, right outside the tent.

  ‘Enter.’ Varus had been surprised, and relieved, to find that his servant had somehow made it through the day’s slaughter.

  Aristides unlaced the flap and ducked inside, balancing a tray in one hand. ‘I’ve brought you some food, master.’

  Whatever it was he bore – a stew of some kind? – smelled good. Despite his misery, and his shame, Varus’ belly rumbled. ‘You’re a miracle-worker. Where did you get that?’

  ‘You’re the governor, master. If anyone’s going to eat, even in a place like this, it will be you.’

  Varus reached out for the bowl and spoon. Close up, he could see that Aristides’ plump face had changed during the last two days. It bore a perpetual expression of anxiety, and there were deep bags under his eyes, lines that had not been there before. He’s not made for this, thought Varus. I should have left him in Vetera. ‘You look dreadful. Have you eaten? And found a place to sleep?’ Realising the stupidity of what he’d said, he cut off Aristides before his servant could pretend to have done either. ‘Have the bread.’ He gestured at the half-loaf on the tray.

  ‘No, master, I—’

  ‘Take it, I say,’ ordered Varus. ‘You will sleep in here, with me.’

  Aristides looked as if he might cry with gratitude. ‘Thank you, master.’ He fell on the bread like a starving man.

  When they had finished, Varus handed Aristides a small piece of parchment. The Greek looked at it, and at Varus, and back again. ‘What is this, master?’

  ‘Forgive the poor quality of the material. My seal has gone missing too, but the wording is clear. My signature is also plain to see.’ Still Aristides’ face remained blank, so Varus added in
a soft voice, ‘It’s your manumission. A little earlier than promised, but I wanted you to have it before …’ His throat closed. It wasn’t certain what would happen the next day, but the tribesmen hadn’t gone away for good. Their relentless attacks would resume at dawn. A bitterness that had become all too familiar coursed through Varus. If the reports were to be believed, half his army had been slain or wounded in the previous two days. The safety offered by the forts along the River Lupia still lay many miles away. What chance would his demoralised, soaking legionaries have tomorrow, against superior numbers of enemies, men with the taste of victory already in their mouths?

  In all probability, the fate of Aristides – old, fat, unable to fight – was even more certain. For that, Varus felt huge guilt. As the Greek stuttered his thanks, Varus replied, ‘I wish I could have done more. I advise that you find Centurion Tullus in the morning. Tell him that I sent you. Stick by his side, as if you were a limpet on a rock. If anyone makes it out of this hellhole, it will be him.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’ Aristides’ eyes were wide.

  ‘Aye,’ grated Varus. ‘You saw what it was like today. More than half the army is dead or injured, Aristides, and we’re a long way from the river. Arminius’ warriors are like a flock of vultures about to pick the flesh from a corpse. Except that in this case, the corpse hasn’t yet died.’

  ‘Could we get away on some of the cavalry’s horses?’

  It was unfair to say that only a Greek would consider fleeing, thought Varus, yet that had been the first thing to enter his mind. ‘No, we couldn’t. I ordered Vala to take what riders remained earlier on.’ It had seemed a good idea in the middle of the battle, with his cavalry powerless to help in any way. Horsemen were useless in woodland, and on narrow paths, in particular when they were mixed with infantry. ‘Word reached me soon after we set up camp that they had been ambushed and killed to a man.’

  Fear filled Aristides’ eyes. ‘We’re doomed,’ he whispered.

  ‘Find Tullus. He’s a survivor,’ Varus repeated. And a better man than I, he thought. If I had listened to him, thousands of men would yet be alive, and thousands more would not die tomorrow. The last realisation tasted as bitter as hemlock, and Varus came to a sudden decision.

  ‘What use is this to me if we’re going to die?’ Aristides’ fear had been subsumed by anger, and he was waving his manumission under Varus’ nose.

  Despite the fact that Aristides had never done such a thing during his entire service, this was an offence that merited severe punishment, thought Varus in a detached way. In this moment, he wasn’t angered – if anything, Aristides’ show of spirit amused him. Maybe the Greek would use a sword if he had to. ‘Tullus is your man. That is my only advice to you,’ he said.

  Aristides seemed about to say more, but the arrival of Varus’ surviving senior officers put an end to their conversation. With Vala dead and another legate injured, but one legion commander remained. Somehow he and the eight remaining tribunes, the two camp prefects, and one primus pilus squeezed into Varus’ tent. Soon the space was warm and snug, and the smell of damp wool, leather and stale sweat overpowering.

  Varus bid them a sombre welcome. ‘I have no wine to offer you, or food. I apologise too for my quarters, which are a little smaller than usual.’

  Three men managed a chuckle, but the rest just stared at him, dull-eyed, unshaven, as mud-covered as he. They looked beaten, thought Varus. With an effort, he rallied his strength. Things were bad, but it had to be possible that they could still smash through the encircling tribesmen. Roman armies had come through situations as dire as this in the past. Think of Julius Caesar at Alesia, he told himself. With an image of that stirring victory against overwhelming odds in his mind, he regarded his assembled officers, trying to appear determined, undefeated. ‘How stand my legions tonight?’

  One by one, Varus’ subordinates made their reports, most of which had to do with their casualty estimates. This was bad enough, but an audible groan greeted the news of the loss of an eagle, that of the Eighteenth. More than half the soldiers in his army had been killed or wounded. The losses among the centurionate had also been fearful, which was a mark of the savagery of the day’s fighting. Of the hundred and eighty centurions in the three legions, ninety-five were dead or incapacitated. Although many of the injured had been left behind, there were perhaps two thousand in their camp. A good proportion of these men could march, but not fast, and the majority would need to be carried, or helped to walk. Perhaps six thousand combat-ready legionaries remained, along with about five hundred auxiliaries. These figures were made even starker when spoken out loud. No one mentioned how many warriors they faced, but everyone knew that they were now outnumbered. By some degree.

  When the last officer fell silent, Varus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to banish his exhaustion and fear. He racked his brains.

  ‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Tubero, who was present despite a reddened bandage on his left arm.

  His officers’ gaze felt like a physical weight – a large one, made of lead – on Varus’ shoulders.

  ‘Would Arminius be open to negotiation, sir?’ This was Ceionius, who looked scrawnier than ever.

  Up to this point, no one had dared to mention Arminius, which needled Varus as much as if they’d all been bandying his name about. They were tiptoeing around him, because he was the one who had taken Arminius at his word about the supposed Angrivarii rebellion. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, he thought. ‘Arminius is a treacherous son of a pox-ridden whore. He’s given us no signs thus far that he’s interested in talking. Why do you ask?’

  Ceionius hesitated, then blurted, ‘We could surrender, sir. Maybe he’d think about ransoming us.’

  Several officers hissed with displeasure, but none shouted Ceionius down. Instead, all eyes returned to Varus.

  It was odd, but Ceionius’ weakness rallied Varus’ strength. ‘Romans do not capitulate to savages or barbarians! It is beneath us. They are little more than animals. We fight on – to the end if necessary.’

  As the rest agreed loudly with Varus, Ceionius hung his head.

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’ Lucius Eggius still had some fire in his eyes.

  ‘The wounded who cannot walk are to be given a choice,’ said Varus. ‘They can die at their comrades’ hands, or be left behind in the morning. The rest of the injured will have to keep up, or suffer the same fate. Regroup the most weakened centuries to form complete units, using men from the same legion where possible. I want an inventory made of every sword, spear and shield. Before we march out, every whole-bodied legionary is to be fully equipped.’

  ‘Which way shall we march, sir?’ asked Tubero.

  ‘We can’t go back, or into the bog, and the savages will prevent us from going up the hill. That leaves us one choice. The same route we took today: south-southwest, towards the Lupia,’ said Varus, seeing the disappointment rise in their faces. Fools, he thought. Did they expect me to magic a way for us to escape? Or to bring down the aid of the gods? ‘Clear?’

  The responses were muted, but they came. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘It’s the turn of the Nineteenth to form the vanguard tomorrow, sir,’ said the last legate. ‘But they took a heavier battering than most. I thought perhaps one of the other legions should take their place instead.’

  Varus thought at once of Tullus, whom he had wronged, and the Eighteenth. As far as he knew, Tullus was still alive. The next day’s fighting might be heaviest at the front of the column, but the soldiers there would also possess the best chance of breaking away of anyone in the army. If Fortuna or Mars were of a mind, a valiant soldier such as Tullus might survive. There was no other way that Varus could make amends – and no way of knowing if the gesture would even make any difference. ‘Fine. The Eighteenth will form the vanguard.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘Back to your tents.’ Varus wanted to be alone. Not to sleep, becau
se he knew that would elude him, but to plead with the gods, to make a case that some of his soldiers would avoid the slaughter on the morrow. Without their help, he feared that every one of them would be killed.

  The bitter taste – of hemlock, it seemed again – returned to his mouth. Not for me the death of Socrates, thought Varus, gripping his sword hilt. If it comes to it, I will depart this life as a soldier.

  XXVIII

  PISO STOOD IN the dark before dawn, shivering in a dripping wet cloak that now weighed twice what it did when dry. The thousands of men around him were in the same boat, which helped him not to complain. They were all soaking, cold, hungry and footsore. Many of them bore wounds, a good number of which would prove fatal if they didn’t reach a camp with a hospital soon. Piso was lucky in that regard: he was one of a handful to have escaped being wounded thus far. From the corner of his eye, he watched a nearby legionary with a deep slash on his left foot. It wasn’t usual for such an injury to be regarded as serious, but here, where to fall behind was to die, it was as bad as being gut-stuck. The man shifted position over and over. Even with the pilum he was using as a crutch, he was unable to take the weight on his bad foot for more than a few heartbeats. Poor bastard, thought Piso. He was a standing corpse.

  Misery at his own plight soon overtook him again. He – every last one of them – might well be dead soon, and there was fuck all he could do about it.

  They were waiting for Tullus to come back from checking the rest of their depleted cohort. When he returned, and the trumpets sounded – if there were any damn musicians left – they would leave the camp. Piso felt a tickle of bleak humour. With no defensive ditch, no rampart, no proper entrances, no avenues and only a few tents, it couldn’t really be called a camp. Small wonder then that the tribesmen had attacked during the night. Luckily for him and the rest of Tullus’ troops, they had been sleeping right in the middle of the army. The soldiers who’d been near the points at which the bastard savages had sneaked in hadn’t been so fortunate. According to the rumours, more than two hundred men had died or been hurt.