Eagles at War

  Retrieving his scutum, Piso pushed forward to stand beside the legionary who’d just arrived. Shoulder to shoulder, shields as close as they could hold them, they fought like men possessed. To their good fortune, the press of enemy warriors was so great that the majority could not reach them. Some men were squeezed so tight that they couldn’t wield their weapons. Piso and his companion went to work with grim determination.

  Thrust. Stab. Punch with the shield boss. Stab. Stamp a sandal on a warrior’s bare foot. Piso killed or disabled two men, and then three. Four. Five. He even head-butted a warrior who came close enough, smashing his nose with two blows of his helmet rim before running him through the belly. That opponent went down, screaming, and the next warrior hung back. For the first time, Piso had time to breathe, to glance to either side. His heart lifted. There were three legionaries on his left. By some miracle, the first soldier over the trunk was still alive, to his right, and beyond him Piso was overjoyed to see Tullus’ helmet, bobbing up and down. The thuds behind told him more soldiers were arriving with every heartbeat.

  Punch. Stab. Advance. Punch. Stab. Advance.

  Step by bloody step, they pushed on, bowing outward from the trunk in a half-moon shape. The warriors pulled back after a time, giving the legionaries a chance to count their casualties – five dead, the same number injured – and rest. Close combat was exhausting work, and the men sagged on their shields, letting the sweat stream from their faces on to the crimson-soaked mud. Those who had a wine skin drank, and passed it around. More than one man had a piss, and there were loud curses from the unfortunates whose calves got splashed from the result. The woman stood with her back against the tree, eyes closed, rocking her child. The pup, which she had tied up in a sling around her chest, kept silent. Tullus walked among the little group, slapping backs, telling his men they had balls of iron and waving fresh legionaries into the front line.

  Rather than relax, Piso left his shield behind and clambered back over the fallen tree. He swore as his purse caught on a jutting twig, and opened. Out fell Aius’ bronze fasteners and a few coins. Piso made no effort to retrieve them. Too much was going on. His annoyance at the loss of his possessions vanished on the other side, however, when he found Vitellius alive. His friend was leaning against the great trunk, teeth gritted, shoulder half wrapped in a strip of dirty linen. How he would manage without a shield, Piso didn’t know, or care – he was alive. Piso helped Vitellius over the tree, cursing at the soldiers who made comments about leaving the wounded behind.

  The respite their fierce attack had earned them was sufficient to get what remained of Tullus’ unit over the fallen tree. The next cohort was lining up to cross it, even as they were being attacked by warriors on their side. By the enemy’s rampart on Piso’s side, the warriors were massing again. What concerned Piso even more was the fact that the First Cohort had vanished, and the trunk, which was as thick around as three men, would take time to cut through. Eight legionaries were chopping at it with axes, but the tribesmen would be on them like a pack of wild dogs long before they succeeded, that was certain. The barritus, which had stopped, was being sung again, louder and louder. Three berserkers were running up and down before their fellows, exhorting them to follow. In an attempt to stop himself from panicking, Piso concentrated on getting a decent bandage on Vitellius’ arm with strips torn from his own tunic.

  He could hear Tullus conferring with Fenestela. ‘We’ll lose half our men holding this position,’ said the optio, grim-faced. ‘Or more.’

  ‘If we don’t move this damn tree, or hack through it, every cohort will have to fight its way across,’ said Tullus.

  ‘Not if each unit holds its place until the next is coming over.’

  ‘What are the chances of that? The fucking First have abandoned us. Other cohorts will be no different.’

  ‘Then why should our lads die for them?’ cried Fenestela.

  ‘Because removing the obstacle will save lives,’ snapped Tullus.

  ‘So the men should continue cutting the trunk, while the rest of us defend them, sir?’ demanded Fenestela, laying heavy emphasis on the last word.

  ‘That’s right, optio.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘Ready, brothers?’ called Tullus. ‘The savages are coming again. Close order! Second rank, stand in tight against the men in front. The bastards mustn’t break our line. The poor fools coming after are relying on us to clear the path.’

  Tullus’ words sounded like a death sentence, thought Piso. Hundreds of warriors were charging towards them, and the men with the axes had a lot of work to do yet. Bog lay to their right, and to their rear the track was blocked by thousands of other legionaries. Only to their front did any chance of salvation lie – but they had to stand where they were. We’re all dead, he thought. A glance at Vitellius, who had far less chance of surviving, made him feel ashamed.

  He took his place in the second rank, and prepared to die.

  To Piso’s surprise, the tribesmen’s advance faltered and slowed right down fifty paces out. Then it stopped altogether. Confused, the legionaries glanced at one another, at Tullus – and at last behind them, where more soldiers were appearing over the top of the trunk. Their leader, a fierce-looking centurion whose crest had been sheared off his helmet, made a beeline for Tullus.

  ‘Well met,’ said Tullus, grinning. ‘We’ll be sure to hold the filth back now.’

  ‘Hold them back?’ No Crest let out a wild laugh, and lowered his voice. ‘There’s no point. The battle is lost.’

  Despite No Crest’s attempt to speak quietly, a number of Tullus’ soldiers had heard him, not least Piso.

  ‘What in Hades are you talking about?’ demanded Tullus.

  ‘The last legate is dead – slain. So too is Lucius Eggius. All but two of the tribunes have been killed or taken prisoner. Fucking Ceionius surrendered.’

  Piso couldn’t believe his ears. Vitellius’ face had lost the little colour it had. They stared at one another, aghast, their terror rising.

  ‘And Varus – what about him?’ asked Tullus.

  ‘He’s wounded,’ replied No Crest. There was a short pause, and then he added, ‘The rumour is that he’s talking about suicide.’

  ‘How sure are you of any of this?’ hissed Tullus.

  ‘The casualties are as bad as I say. A mate of mine who was in the senior officers’ escort told me. Thousands of the bastards hit them about an hour back, for the second time – targeting them deliberately, it seemed. They were almost wiped out – soldiers and officers alike. About Varus – I’m not certain, but that’s what everyone’s saying. It’s total chaos back there. Discipline’s vanished, except where a few centurions have kept their heads. Men are running into the bog, surrendering, killing one another. A second eagle has been taken. It’s over, brother. Time to run.’ No Crest clapped Tullus on the shoulder, and marshalling his men, led them forward on to the track. A section of the waiting warriors moved off at once and aimed for this breakaway group.

  Piso and those who had overheard shifted from foot to foot, their willingness to fight soaking away like piss down a sewer. The rest stared after No Crest and his soldiers, dismayed, not understanding what was going on. ‘You heard him,’ Piso heard Fenestela say to Tullus.

  ‘Not so loud.’

  ‘We can’t stay!’ hissed Fenestela.

  ‘It’s a rumour,’ replied Tullus, but his voice sounded uncertain.

  ‘Are all the men to die while we wait to see if it is or not? It’s Varus’ bloody fault that we’re here in the first place. If he’d listened to you—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Tullus. ‘Let me think.’

  ‘Do it fast. They’re going to hit us soon.’

  The moments that followed were the longest of Piso’s life. Between his comrades’ shoulders and heads, he could see the wave of tribesmen advancing once more. Hundreds of them, with a constant stream of reinforcements following from the gaps in the embankment. The warriors came at a
walk first, then a lope, and finally a full charge. The fearsome berserkers were in the lead – Piso could see six of them. One was frothing at the mouth, and another was wielding a club big enough to smash in a man’s helmet, or to split his shield in two. The soldier in front of Piso began to cry. ‘I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ said Piso, but the harm had been done. Fear poured through the ranks. The men at the front began backing away from the enemy. There was precious little space to move – the trunk was only ten steps behind Piso. Despite his own fear, he shoved back, trying to stop the soldier in front from retreating.

  ‘HOLD, YOU SHOWER OF SHIT-EATING MAGGOTS!’

  His men stopped, gaped. Tullus was in front of them, with nothing between him and the enemy.

  Seeing Tullus, the berserkers increased their speed. Perhaps thirty paces separated them from the Romans. Their fellows thundered after them in a great, death-offering tide.

  ‘We’re going down that track, brothers,’ said Tullus in a loud but calm voice, even as he sidled back into the front rank. ‘First, though, we have to throw back these whoresons. Can you do that for me? CAN YOU?’

  Twenty-five paces.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Piso and the rest shouted.

  Twenty paces.

  ‘I CAN’T FUCKING HEAR YOU!’

  Fifteen.

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  Ten.

  ‘ROMA!’ Tullus roared.

  Five.

  And then the tribesmen hit.

  XXIX

  VARUS STOOD IN the middle of a circle of legionaries, holding a ripped piece of tunic to the wound on his thigh, and watching as the last men of his escort fought for their lives. They were in the middle of the track, surrounded by a horde of screaming warriors. Rain sheeted in from overhead, as it had since dawn, drenching Roman and German alike. The ground was long-since sodden, and water was gathering everywhere. Pooling in the ruts and footprints that had been left in the mud. Lying around the bodies. Filling the curve of a dropped shield, an upturned helmet, and dripping into the open mouths of dead men. Most were legionaries, Varus noted, feeling a dull sense of shame. The empire’s soldiers. Augustus’ soldiers. His soldiers.

  I should have listened to Tullus, Varus thought for the hundredth time. That bastard Arminius was responsible for it all.

  Deafening rumbles of thunder were accompanied by dull white-yellow flashes in the clouds. The light was poor enough to make a man think it was near sunset, but Varus knew it couldn’t be much after midday. Gloom or no, he could still make out the damnable bog. It ran along their right side, close by, a brown-green blur of heather, cotton grass, goatweed and bog rosemary. There was nowhere to go in that direction. To their left, there would be no escape either. The earthen rampart appeared to have no beginning or end, and behind it were an endless supply of warriors.

  To Varus’ rear, most of the legionaries appeared to have given up hope. Many were trying to run, even shoving past his escort. The tribesmen were cutting them down in droves, easy prey for their stabbing, flickering frameae. Other soldiers were slaying their injured comrades, or falling on their own swords. A few clusters still fought on, as did the men around Varus, but they were too few, too isolated. They would die soon, as would the men around him. Had Aristides been slain yet? he wondered. He hoped that whenever the Greek met his end, it was swift. What a pity that he hadn’t left him in Vetera. At least his wife was there, safe. Despite her incessant carping, it would have been good to have seen her one last time, and their grown-up children. The thought of his family caused a different type of fear to tear at Varus. His name would be mud for evermore, and it was easy to see the same happening to his loved ones, who were blameless. Gods, let them not be harmed because of my mistakes, he prayed.

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  The question had been repeated twice more before Varus realised it was being directed at him. He blinked, focused. A bloodied centurion stood before him, sword dripping gore, shield peppered with holes made by enemy spears. Varus didn’t recognise him, which was irritating. ‘What’s your name?’

  The centurion frowned. ‘Claudius Cornelius Antonius, sir. What should—’

  ‘Which cohort do you serve in, and what legion?’

  ‘Never mind that, sir!’ cried Antonius, gesturing at the warriors around them. ‘I think we should make a break for it. You, me, and a dozen men. Replace your commander’s cloak and helmet with those of an ordinary legionary. We’ll get through somehow.’

  ‘Flee, like a coward?’ Varus gave him a sad smile. ‘The imperial governor of Germania does not run.’

  ‘There aren’t too many other options, sir,’ said Antonius, failing to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘We’re being butchered. These legionaries are brave, but they won’t hold for much longer.’

  A sense of deep calm eased over Varus. It was pointless that more soldiers should die defending him. ‘My time has come,’ he said, starting to unbuckle his breastplate. ‘Help me take this off.’

  Shock rose in the centurion’s eyes.

  ‘At least two eagles have been lost. All my senior officers are dead, or taken prisoner, and most of my army is food for the wild animals. It is over,’ said Varus. ‘I deem it best to die by my own hand rather than be taken or slain by the enemy.’

  ‘Sir, I must protest. You—’

  ‘Enough!’ barked Varus. ‘When I am gone, do with your soldiers as you see fit. Run, surrender, or die fighting – it’s your decision.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ With a resigned look, Antonius began to help Varus unbuckle his armour.

  ‘Burn my body if you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion watched, stony-faced, as Varus dropped his breast- and backplate into the mud and drew his sword.

  It was ironic, thought Varus, that his blade was as yet unbloodied. The closest he’d come to killing one of the enemy was the warrior who’d speared his thigh, but an anonymous legionary had slain the man before Varus had had a chance to do so.

  He knelt. Rain cooled his sweaty face as he stared at the heavens, offering a brief prayer to Jupiter, and another to Mars. Thunder rumbled, as if to tell him that only the Germans’ god, Donar, was listening. Varus tried not to think like that, and pictured his dead father and grandfather, who had both died in this manner. He asked them to ensure he didn’t botch the job, as he had with his entire army. Gripping the ivory hilt of his sword with two hands, he reversed the blade so that its tip was sitting under the bottom rib on his left side. Its sharp point dug into his flesh a little, but he welcomed the pain. This was the best place, he had been told, near the heart.

  HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM! Fresh screams, the clash of metal on metal, the thud of something heavy – a club? – cracking on to flesh. The bubbling sound of blood filling a man’s throat. Antonius cursed, roared at his men to fucking hold! The sounds, and the deaths they signified, came to Varus down a long, dark tunnel. More than anything now, he wanted to go somewhere else. A place where he could forget the infernal mud, the bloodshed, his dead soldiers and, most of all, his failure. He bent at the waist. If his thrust wasn’t enough, his body had to slide on to the sword and finish what he had started.

  He could taste bile in his mouth now, feel his heart racing, almost as if it was trying to escape his blade. Varus clenched his fists on the ivory and tensed his muscles. With a mighty effort, he wrenched the sword towards himself. A ball of white-hot pain exploded in his core, eclipsing anything he had ever felt. Varus used the last of his strength to pull the iron deeper into his body – and to fall forward.

  The mud came up to meet him with sickening speed.

  Arminius, he thought.

  XXX

  TULLUS DIDN’T KNOW how he had dragged any of his men away from the tree trunk. If there had been more berserkers, they would have all died there. As it was, half the surviving soldiers in his century had fallen before they’d slain the berserkers and thrown the trib
esmen back. Despite this tiny success, their enemies didn’t withdraw more than a couple of dozen paces. There was no need. Tullus’ men were too exhausted – and outnumbered – even to contemplate a counterattack. The warriors were human too, though. They had also suffered many casualties. When men had survived the storm of iron – again – they needed a few moments to catch ragged breath, to let screaming muscles rest, to piss the few drops that felt like an amphora’s worth.

  The tribesmen knew that they had the upper hand, of course. Tullus and his soldiers needed reinforcements, but their enemies required only a break before they swept to the attack again. So, ignoring the watching warriors the way a lame deer tries not to see stalking wolves, Tullus had started out along the muddy track once more, step by weary step. There had been no time to treat the wounded, no time to do anything other than order everyone who could to follow. ‘If you want to fucking live, come with me,’ Tullus said. Fewer than twenty men had broken away with him, the vast majority bearing at least one wound. Fenestela was still there, and the new recruit Piso, and his friend Vitellius, who wasn’t even able to hold a shield. Most incredibly, the woman he had rescued and her child had survived. So had the pup. It was far fewer than he’d wanted, but it was better than none, Tullus told himself. Better than none. Bitterness washed over him. How had it come to the point where he could envisage his soldiers being annihilated?

  Little groups from the rest of the cohort – sixes, tens, sometimes more soldiers – trailed in their wake, but Tullus didn’t stop to rally them. That was up to their centurions and optiones, if they lived. His command had reduced to his century, just his century. It was a brutal choice, but if he tried to save any more men than that, they wouldn’t make it. The tree had been the final straw. Such a simple thing to do, but so effective. You whoreson, Arminius, he thought.