After a hundred steps, the warriors hadn’t moved. Tullus cast a look over his shoulder at them. Maybe he and his men were in luck at last. Maybe the bastards were going to wait for the next legionaries. They covered another fifty steps, and his hope was borne out. Summoning what remained of his reserves of energy, Tullus drove his men into a speed that approached the double pace. Not long after, he was delighted to see a massive stony outcrop to their left, which had prevented the rampart from being continuous. From the look of it, it went on for some distance. Who knew what lay beyond, but having a guaranteed respite from the enemy’s attacks felt like a gods-given gift. Tullus let his tired soldiers slow down, bandaged a man’s leg, gave several a hearty clap on the back, smiled at the woman, squeezed Fenestela’s arm. He kept moving, however. In this pit of despair, to stop was to die.
The rise in his spirits did not last.
Around the far side of the outcrop, more earthen ramparts loomed. Atop them, a mob of screaming warriors was raining spears down on what had to be what was left of the First Cohort. Heaps of bodies on the track were evidence that the fighting had been going on for some time. Tullus slowed up, stopped, and fought a rising despair. He’d cursed the First for deserting them, but had also hoped they had escaped. Here was a warning sign as to their own probable fate.
It was as if Tullus’ body realised how beaten he was feeling. Every part of him began to protest at the same time. His thighs ached; his arms shook with fatigue. The base of his spine throbbed, as if an unhappy smith were beating on it with his heaviest hammer. Darts of pain radiated from the point beneath where the sling bullet had struck his mail shirt. A miserable crone was stabbing needles into the old injury in his calf. His eyes felt as if they were full of sand, his mouth and throat were dry and sore, yet his face ran with sweat. What he wanted – longed for – was to lie down, and close his eyes. The fucking soothsayer had been right, he decided. The mud would be the end of them all.
‘Don’t give up on me, you dog.’
‘Eh?’ Annoyed that he hadn’t noticed Fenestela creep up, shocked by what he’d hissed, Tullus wheeled. His optio was close enough for it to be uncomfortable, eyes understanding, but flint-hard. He sees the fear in me, thought Tullus, feeling like an old man, like a failure.
‘If you give up, Tullus, we’re fucked. Fucked. All of us,’ whispered Fenestela. ‘Take a look at the men. One look! They’re only marching because you’re leading them. You are giving them hope. You. If you can’t find a way out of this shithole, there’s no chance that they will. As for the woman and her child – they’ll be dead by sundown.’
Fenestela was right, thought Tullus. He had been watching his soldiers sidelong since they had set out that morning, seen their morale being nibbled away, piece by tiny piece, with each successive attack. Like as not, they were doomed, but he owed it to the men not to give up. And the woman. What point would there have been in saving her if he abandoned her now? He took a deep breath, straightened his creaking back. ‘I hear you. We keep going.’
Fenestela looked relieved. He jerked his head at the beleaguered legionaries ahead. ‘The way I see it, our best chance is to avoid fighting and barrel on past them, heads down, right along the edge of the bog.’
Tullus studied the maelstrom and saw that Fenestela’s eyes had been sharp indeed. Fear of the marshy ground had kept both sides away from it, which had left a narrow strip at its border clear of combatants. ‘A good plan,’ he said. ‘Form the men up in single file. We’ll take it at a slow pace until I blow my whistle, then double-time it through the fighting. Instruct everyone to focus on the ground, not the enemy.’
‘Aye.’ Fenestela went to leave, and Tullus reached out to stop him.
‘What you said. I-I thank you.’
‘You’d do the same for me.’
Tullus’ heart clenched. ‘I would. See you on the other side.’
‘On the other side,’ repeated Fenestela, winking. Off he went, repeating Tullus’ orders.
‘Ready, brothers?’ asked Tullus, battening down his fear that Fenestela’s flimsy plan would fail.
‘Yes, sir,’ his soldiers croaked back. ‘Aye.’ ‘Get us out of here, sir.’
With a low blast of his whistle, Tullus led the way.
It wasn’t possible to double-time it through the combat area – in places they had to wade through the edge of the bog, sinking to their calves. Yet thanks to the savagery of the battle and the mud that covered them from head to toe, they went unnoticed by tribesmen and legionaries alike. Tullus was reminded of the thieves who had once robbed the largest wine merchant in Rome of his best stock by simply overpowering the workers inside his premises and loading the amphorae into their wagons on the street, before everyone’s eyes. Men often go unseen, if they act with purpose, as if they were born to be there.
Perhaps half a mile later, they had left the doomed First behind. Breaks in the German rampart started to appear. To everyone’s amazement – and relief – they were unmanned. Tullus took heart. Clever though he was, Arminius wasn’t fully able to instil Roman discipline into his allies. Like as not, the warriors who’d been assigned to these positions had grown tired of waiting for legionaries to arrive, and decamped to where the fighting was.
His hunch proved correct. Some distance further on, they came across the corpses of the last auxiliaries, Gauls, sprawled along a section of track only a few hundred paces in length. The Gauls had stayed together, and forced the tribesmen to pay a heavy toll before they had fallen. The mounds of corpses were the only signs of the enemy to be seen, however. Tullus began to hope again. The further they travelled without hindrance, the more likely it was that they had gone beyond the last of Arminius’ forces.
The cynic in him thought that it was too good to last, and he was right. A short while later, the only thing that saved them from immediate discovery was a slight bend in the track. Hearing the sound of men coming from beyond it, Tullus forced, shoved, cursed his soldiers off the path, behind the enemy rampart. If there had been a single warrior still in position there, they would have been undone, but they were met by nothing more than pools of flood water, a few discarded rinds of cheese and the smell of men’s piss. Tullus’ men sagged against the banked earth and turf wall as if it were the softest of beds, while he kept a lookout from a gap in the fortifications.
Tullus watched, dry-mouthed, as several hundred tribesmen went by, heading towards the fighting. Not a single one as much as glanced towards their position – until, that was, the girl let out a whimper. Tullus saw a warrior’s head turn at the back of the group. Fucking brat, he thought, wheeling around. You’ll be the death of us all. The woman had already clamped a hand over her daughter’s mouth, and he gestured furiously that she should continue to do so, and that his men should also stay silent. Peering back, his heart sank. The warrior had broken away from the party, and was sauntering their way. A comrade called out; Tullus heard the man reply that he had heard something, which was probably nothing, but he needed a shit. He’d catch up soon.
Tullus looked out of the gap until the risk of being seen was too great. The warrior still appeared to be on his own, which was something. Leaning his sword against the earthen wall, Tullus tugged out his dagger and stepped to the other side of the gap. Fortuna, I’ve tested your patience more than once, he thought, but be good to me one more time, and I swear I’ll offer you the finest bull money can buy. Heart thudding, knife ready, he waited. Listened.
Nothing. Tullus breathed in and out, in and out through his nose. His backache got worse. Still he heard nothing. Had the warrior decided to empty his bowels in front of the rampart? Seeing a questioning look on more than one man’s face, he pointed outside, squatted in mime, and put a finger to his lips. They might escape discovery yet. It was possible that the warrior wouldn’t check behind the fortification.
The unmistakeable sound of a footstep close to the gap put paid to that hope.
Tullus pressed his back against the earth, cursing hi
mself for a fool. He should have got Fenestela or one of the others to wait opposite, so that there would be someone to kill the warrior whichever way he looked upon entering. It was too late, however. Tullus had to hope that the warrior turned his head to the right, or that if he looked in his direction, there would be enough time to kill the man before he shouted an alarm.
Sweat coated Tullus’ palm, loosened his grip on the dagger. He clenched his fist, pricked his ears. A loud fart from outside almost made him laugh. The sound of a man shitting – diarrhoea, it sounded like – was enough to propel him into action. He wouldn’t get a better chance. Tullus stuck his head around the gap a fraction, enough to check that the group of tribesmen had passed out of sight – they had – and then he came round the corner as fast as his legs would carry him. The warrior was crouched against the rampart, breeches down, frown of concentration on his face. Too late he heard Tullus coming, too late his mouth opened in horror.
Stab, stab. Stab, stab. With the urgency of a smith beating a white-hot sword into shape, Tullus hammered the blade into the side of the warrior’s neck and chest. Four, five, six times. Blood gouted from the wounds on to Tullus’ hand. A choking gurgle left his victim’s lips, and Tullus stabbed him twice more for good measure. There was a final, bubbling fart, and the warrior slipped sideways to the ground, his expression still disbelieving.
Tullus gagged, not from the coppery tang of blood, but from the harsh reek of fresh shit. A quick check down the track – he saw no warriors – was enough to make him swear to Fortuna that the bull was hers. If he made it, that was. Remember that, Fortuna, he thought. I have to reach Vetera to be able to fulfil my vow. It wasn’t wise to hold a deity to account, but the slaughter had seen Tullus lose all inhibition in that regard.
If it had been the pup that had made a sound, he might have slit its throat, but it wasn’t in Tullus to kill a child, in particular one whom he’d rescued. It was almost as if the woman knew – she gave him a pathetic smile as he urged his men from behind the rampart.
‘I’ll keep her quiet in future,’ she whispered.
‘See that you do,’ Tullus replied, grim-faced. ‘We won’t be so fortunate again.’
Aware that their fate yet hung by a thread, Tullus sent ahead Piso, one of the three uninjured men. His instructions were to spy out any tribesmen before the group was seen, a difficult task. Piso set off without a word of protest, however, asking only that someone keep an eye on his friend Vitellius. The battle had turned him into a proper soldier, thought Tullus with a degree of pride.
Piso proved his worth twice in the hours before nightfall, loping back down the path to warn them that warriors were approaching. They hid behind the rampart on the first occasion, but the second time there was nowhere to go but into the bog. Shrinking behind the inadequate cover of heather bushes, worming themselves chest deep into the mud, lying flat behind goatweed plants, the terrified party waited for what seemed an age before the tribesmen, many of whom sounded drunk, had gone on their way.
As it grew dark, Tullus picked a spot to spend the night. It was nothing more than a dense copse of beech, to the left of the track, but at a hundred and fifty paces’ distance, it was too far for a tribesman to stray for a piss or shit. The rampart had finished some time before, meaning that they were once more in the forest. Despite his little group’s miraculous escape, Tullus felt ill at ease. Bands of warriors would pass their position at some point, and see them. The child or the pup might give them away again. They had no food or blankets. Water could be had from the pools lying about, it was true, but his shattered men needed more than that. It was too dangerous to light a fire, even if they had had dry wood. The list of Tullus’ fears was endless, and they gnawed away at his guts, an incessant pain that rivalled any of his other aches.
What concerned him too was that he had spotted a fork in the track. He had no idea which way was the fastest route to the Lupia and a Roman fort. In the morning, he would have to choose, and if he made the wrong decision, their survival that day would have meant nothing.
In spite of all his worries, Tullus fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
He dreamed of slaughter.
He was fighting for his life against two berserkers. Just as they had that day, the pair split up, one attacking Tullus from the front while the other circled around to his rear. Struggling to hold his own against the first berserker, he could do nothing about the second. As he clashed with the opponent before him, Tullus felt someone grab him by the left arm. Expecting a blade across his throat next, Tullus twisted, tried to turn, spat a curse. Even if he stopped the second berserker, the first would gut him where he stood.
A hand was placed across his mouth. ‘Quiet! It’s me, Fenestela!’
Tullus came awake with an unpleasant jolt. There were no berserkers attacking him. He was lying on his side, chilled to the bone, under a tree. Fenestela was crouched by him, covering his mouth. Tullus shook his head to show he understood, and moved Fenestela’s fingers away. ‘A bad dream. I’m all right,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’
‘Piso’s here, sir. He was on sentry duty. He’s got someone with him.’
Fenestela’s tone drove the last woolliness from Tullus’ brain. He sat up, wincing at the pain that issued from every part of his body. ‘Who?’
Fenestela leaned in close. ‘That warrior of yours, sir. Degmar.’
Tullus’ heart leaped. ‘Degmar? Here?’
‘Aye. He’s just over there, with Piso.’ Fenestela jerked a thumb at the edge of the copse.
Tullus hurried over with Fenestela, stumbling over tree roots and the outstretched bodies of his resting men. He spied Degmar squatting on his haunches, chewing on something. Piso stood behind him, half watching the ground that led down to the track, half watching the Marsi warrior. Degmar rose as Tullus drew near; his teeth flashed white in the dim light. ‘Well met,’ muttered Tullus, extending a hand. They shook, hard. ‘Well met,’ Tullus said again, grinning. ‘It’s good to see you – alive.’
‘No surprise that you’re still here,’ replied Degmar, his lips turning upward.
‘Fortuna has been kind to a few of us at least,’ said Tullus, throwing a glance at his soldiers.
Degmar let out a sniff. ‘It was you who got them here, not Fortuna.’
It was true, thought Tullus. What a pity he had not been able to save more men. ‘I thought you were dead.’ He hesitated. Degmar chuckled and said:
‘Or that I’d run, eh?’
‘I did wonder that. It wouldn’t have been so surprising.’
‘I made an oath to you. Arminius’ ambush doesn’t change that. Until my debt has been repaid, I follow you.’
Tullus smiled. ‘To find me, here, you’re better than any scent hound I’ve ever come across.’
‘It was complete chance, to be honest. I couldn’t find you after I’d finished scouting, and it was too dangerous for me to join another unit – they’d have killed me. I hid for two more days, and then followed after the army. There was no point checking if you were among the dead – there were too many. I assumed that you’d survived and kept skirting around the fighting. That wasn’t hard, given the way I’m dressed.’ Degmar indicated his tunic and trousers, which were typical of any German warrior. ‘I continued moving when it grew dark today, listening out for anyone speaking Latin. I came across several little groups, but none had any senior officers among them. In the end, I started looking for shelter, and came upon this copse. Your sentry saw me first, and called out a challenge in Latin. Lucky for me, I was able to answer in the same tongue. I gave him my name – and he told me you were here.’ Degmar shrugged. ‘You’re making for the Lupia, I take it?’
‘Aye,’ replied Tullus, thinking of the fork in the track. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘I do.’
Weary or not, Tullus could have done a dance on the spot. ‘That’s more than I could have hoped for. How far is it to Aliso?’
‘Forty-five miles, maybe fifty
. Expect a slow journey. Three days, or four. We’ll have to take smaller paths through the forest. The main ways will be too dangerous.’
Tullus had been expecting this, but he still felt a fresh stab of fear. ‘Arminius’ warriors are going to attack the local forts?’
‘From what I heard, they’re going to set alight every Roman settlement east of the Rhenus. Aliso may well have fallen by the time we reach it,’ said Degmar. ‘If we reach it,’ he added without apparent irony.
‘Caedicius is a crafty old bird,’ Tullus said, remembering the night he and Tubero had spent with him in the spring, and the wine they had consumed. It seemed a lifetime ago. ‘The camp will prove hard to take with him in charge.’
Degmar’s grunt was non-committal. ‘May the gods grant it be so. The road between Aliso and Vetera will be long indeed if we have to march it on our own.’
XXXI
BY THE END of the third day, Arminius had been aware of the scale of his victory, but the knowledge didn’t really sink in until the following morning, when he went to survey the battlefield alone. The contrast between the riotous, drunken atmosphere in the various tribes’ camps and the calm of the woodlands beyond was stark, but neither bore any comparison to the staggering scenes of carnage that greeted him on and around the route taken by the ill-fated Romans. His horse, a combat veteran, was first to protest, shying and jinking along the path. Its reaction wasn’t altogether surprising, thought Arminius, his nostrils laden with the odour of blood, shit and the gas that bloats dead men’s bellies, his ears full of the buzzing of flies and the harsh cawing of the corpse-feeding ravens and crows.
The vast majority of slain warriors had been carried away by their fellows for honourable burial, but the legionaries’ bodies lay everywhere, like household rubbish scattered on a midden. Most had been stripped of their armour and weapons, leaving them the indignity of exiting this world in their tunics or undergarments. Face down in the bog, half submerged in murky pools, on their backs, staring at the sky. Alone, in pairs, in groups, under a speared horse, heaped on top of one another like a pile of toys discarded by a child. Back to back, or in circles, where they had fought and died together, or in lines, cut down one by one as they ran. One unfortunate was still on his knees. Several thrusts of a framea had opened his throat, and Arminius wondered if the legionary had been arranged in the position after he’d died, in mockery of his cowardice.