Bassius arched an eyebrow. ‘There is something to the rumours then. Would the woman in question be the proprietor of the Ox and Plough?’
‘Does everybody in the cursed legion know my business?’ cried Tullus in frustration.
‘Every centurion does, that’s certain,’ replied Bassius with a chuckle. ‘I’m glad for you, Tullus. Sirona’s a good woman.’
‘She is that, sir,’ said Tullus, pleased by Bassius’ regard. ‘But there’s a war to win before I see her again.’
‘Arminius to kill.’
‘Two eagles to hunt down.’
‘Achieve those objectives, and I’ll sacrifice a bull to Mars,’ said Bassius with feeling.
‘So will I, sir,’ swore Tullus, ‘and maybe one to Fortuna as well.’
‘I gave up offering that unreliable old witch anything years ago. She been good to you?’
‘Once or twice, sir.’ Despite his cynicism, Tullus had prayed to Fortuna during the muddy bloodbath that had been Arminius’ ambush. Several times during the living nightmare, Tullus’ luck had held against all possible odds, making him wonder ever since if the goddess of luck had been smiling down on him.
Whether she might do so again was – as ever – unclear.
Chapter IX
SOMEONE COUGHED, THE harsh noise breaking the silence. Tullus, who had been peering eastward, whirled in fury on his soldiers, hidden with him among the trees a short distance from the gravelled road to Aliso. ‘Quiet!’ he ordered in an angry hiss. ‘The next man to make a fucking sound will rue the day he was born.’
A day and a half had passed since the army had left Vetera, and the fort of Aliso was about a mile away. Returning auxiliary scouts had revealed that it was under attack from several thousand tribesmen. Although Germanicus’ forces outnumbered the attackers many times, the general was wary of a trap. The column had therefore halted some way further to the west, and a strong patrol sent to assess the situation.
Tullus had been put in command of the two centuries of legionaries, fifty Chauci warriors and three turmae of cavalry. A dozen bemused trumpeters, poached from other centuries with the permission of their officers, were mixed among the infantry. They had marched for about three miles under a cloudy sky before his caution – and an upcoming large area of open ground – had had them move off the road and into the trees on either side.
Tullus had been studying the spruce, beech and sessile oaks on the far side of the exposed, boggy terrain for some time. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said in German to the lead scout, a surly Chauci warrior with fetid breath. ‘Can you?’
‘I see nothing. As I said, no one there.’
The warrior’s flippant answer irritated Tullus, although by now he was used to the Germans’ disregard for authority. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘We went through there yesterday. No one watching then, so no one watching now.’
‘That makes no sense,’ muttered Tullus. ‘The warriors besieging Aliso must know that Germanicus’ army is coming.’
‘They know.’ A smirk. ‘Is game of bravery.’
‘Eh?’
‘Warriors from three tribes are attacking Aliso. Each wants to show the others that they are the bravest.’
‘So the tribe who puts out sentries are cowards?’
The Chauci warrior laughed. ‘Aye.’
‘That’s fucking stupid,’ Tullus declared with contempt. ‘And an easy fucking way for an enemy to creep up on you unawares.’
The warrior shrugged his indifference to Tullus’ opinion. ‘Is the tribal way,’ he said. ‘Courage more important than anything.’
‘If Arminius were here, there’d be sentries on the road.’
‘Arminius.’ The warrior hawked and spat, and mumbled something else.
‘What’s that?’
The warrior met Tullus’ gaze with a hard one of his own. ‘Arminius too much like a Roman. He has lost his tribal heart.’
This revelation from a supposed ally was unwelcome. ‘You serve Rome, and follow Germanicus’ orders. You fight with us.’
‘Aye.’
‘But your heart remains tribal.’
‘Of course,’ said the warrior, giving Tullus a scornful look.
Defeated by the man’s logic, and wondering about his loyalty, Tullus returned to more pressing matters, such as his patrol. To reach Aliso, they had to cross the open ground one way or another. Even if the scout was wrong, he decided, it was improbable that more than a few warriors were keeping watch, because their only job would be to carry word to their fellows. He might as well lead his entire patrol onward. Mind made up, Tullus gave the order.
Two-thirds of his cavalry rode at the front, interspersed with the Chauci scouts. Tullus, his century and the trumpeters marched next – he had left his horse with the column – and were followed by the other century. This, the third in his cohort, was commanded by a good-natured centurion named Potitius. At the rear came the final turma.
‘Keep a sharp eye out, brothers,’ Tullus commanded as they began. ‘If you see anything, let me know at once. I’d rather a false alarm over a deer or a wildfowl than to see German spears flying at us.’
The proximity of Aliso and the possibility of ambush wasn’t lost on his men. An uncomfortable silence reigned as they covered the quarter-mile of marshy ground, which was dotted with heather, bog rosemary and goatweed. Long-stalked water avens nodded here and there. A solitary crane perched by the side of a murky pool, its black eyes studying the horses and soldiers as they passed. The clouds, dark grey and heavy now with moisture, felt as if they were pressing down from above. Pattering rain began to fall, and Tullus’ spirits dipped despite himself.
The scene bore a close resemblance to Arminius’ ambush, and to the battles they had fought with his tribesmen the previous year. Coincidence, Tullus told himself. It’s coincidence and nothing more. Half the terrain for three hundred miles consists of mud, bog and water. When it rains, which it does most of the year, one part of this godsforsaken wasteland looks the same as anywhere else. The scout said that there were no sentries, and there’ll be none. Tullus managed to quell his unease, but the moments it took to reach the trees dragged by. With each step, he expected volleys of spears to come humming in, or to hear a rousing rendition of the fearsome barritus.
His suspicions were misplaced. Other than the chattering of an aggrieved blackbird, nothing happened. Tullus sent the Chauci warriors ranging off to seek for signs of the enemy. He kept the rest of the patrol on the road, waiting, until they had returned.
That too was a fraught time, but Tullus paced among his men, issuing advice. ‘There’s nothing worse than an untied lace on a sandal when you’re in the thick of it,’ he said for the ten-thousandth time in his career. ‘Laces, belt, chinstrap, armour strapping – check them all, or do it for your comrade. Loosen your sword in the scabbard. Make sure your mail is sitting right. If you need a piss, have it now.’
As always, the last instruction persuaded a number of soldiers to empty their bladders, prompting the usual jibes and insults. Tullus watched with some amusement. Such wisecracks were good for morale, and helped keep the men’s minds from the battle they could soon be fighting.
The Chauci scouts came loping back a short time later. ‘No warriors anywhere close,’ the warrior with fetid breath announced in an I-told-you-so voice. ‘What now?’
‘We make for Aliso through the trees,’ said Tullus. ‘Which side of the road provides better cover?’
He conferred with his fellows. ‘Left side.’
‘We go that way then. Dismount and follow us,’ Tullus ordered the cavalry. ‘You’ll wait for us in the first glade.’ Commanding Potitius to dog his footsteps with his soldiers, he nodded at the warrior. ‘Take us to the fort.’
The nerve-racking walk, about three-quarters of a mile, was made with care, but more than two hundred men could not move through the woods in complete silence. Twigs cracked as soldiers trod on them, and curses were muttered as s
hins collided with fallen timber. Now and again, javelins knocked against shield rims. The man with the cough spluttered once or twice. Tullus, at the front with the Chauci warriors, fretted about the noise they were making. At regular intervals, he halted the entire patrol to listen for cries of alarm or running feet as frightened warriors fled back to their camp.
He heard nothing, and so they went closer and closer, until sounds from Aliso could be discerned. Shouted voices – at this distance, it was impossible to tell if they were Roman or German – held conversations with one another. Horses whinnied. Men sang. There was no indication of battle, which set Tullus to thinking. According to the scouts, the fort showed no signs of falling. The attackers might be organising an assault, but Tullus decided it more probable that the warriors were getting on with day-to-day tasks in their encampment. That increased his patrol’s risk of being discovered. Warriors would be using the woods to empty their bowels, go hunting, even to lie with their women.
It was as if Fortuna, filthy-tempered, had been listening to Tullus’ thoughts, and cackled to herself. Not ten heartbeats later, half a dozen warriors ambled out of the trees in front of Tullus. Carrying spears but no shields, it was obvious that they were in search of something for the pot. Their easy banter came to an abrupt halt as they froze, shock writ large on their faces.
‘All men, shields ready! First three ranks, move to my left. Fourth, fifth and sixth ranks, to my right. The rest form up behind them in turn. DO IT NOW!’ Tullus took several steps towards the enemy. ‘Ready to die, you whoresons?’ he roared in German. The Chauci scouts began hurling abuse in their own tongue.
The startled warriors, Usipetes from their trouser patterns, turned to flee. Only one had the presence of mind to lob his spear at Tullus. It was a good throw, penetrating the middle of his shield and protruding a couple of fingers’ breadth on the other side. With a curse, Tullus tossed the useless thing at the warriors and ordered one to be handed to him from behind. In the time that took, the warriors had broken and run. Chauci spears hummed after them.
‘We go now, back to the army,’ said the warrior with bad breath, jerking his head the way they’d come. ‘Too many warriors for us to fight.’
‘You think they’ll pursue us?’ asked Tullus, picturing a repetition of the horrors he’d endured with his soldiers during Arminius’ ambush.
Another shrug. ‘Maybe, maybe not. We go now, more chance to get away.’
The warrior’s apparent indifference was masking fear, Tullus was sure of it. Remembering the terror on the faces of the hunting party, he said, ‘They have no sentries out. For all those warriors know, we could be the vanguard of Germanicus’ entire fucking army.’ Ordering his men to follow him, he stole towards the fort.
The Chauci scouts obeyed, but with poor grace.
Tullus soon came to the tree line. The scene that greeted him could have been painted by a now beaming, good-willed Fortuna. The warriors who’d chanced upon the patrol were in full flight. Several hundred paces away, the fort stood, strong and robust – Tullus could even see sentries pacing on the ramparts. Earthworks had been built to surround it, but they were incomplete and of varying quality.
Closer to the trees, a chaotic arrangement of tents ran in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Trails of smoke rose from scores of fires. Warriors lazed about in small groups, sharpening spear blades, cooking or talking with their friends. Larger numbers of their fellows were watching wrestling matches or mock combats. Grazing horses filled the grassy areas; there were also a number of sheep.
Of sentries there was no sign, anywhere. The contrast with a Roman encampment near an enemy position was stark. All that was missing, thought Tullus in bemusement, were women and children. Two heartbeats later, he spotted several women washing clothes in timber buckets. At their feet, a couple of toddlers were crawling about.
He glanced again at the hunting party, who were still running and shouting. Heads were beginning to turn, but no one had realised what the warriors had seen. Tullus sensed a golden opportunity. A risky one, true, but he was ready to seize it. German tribesmen were as brave as any enemies he’d come across, but they could also be as flighty as livestock caught in a sudden thunderstorm. He sprinted back towards his patrol.
‘Potitius!’ Tullus bellowed. ‘Send two men to fetch the cavalry. When they arrive, they’re to attack to the left and right of our positions. Tell them to listen for the trumpets sounding the recall.’
‘Get the cavalry. Attack to left and right. Listen for the trumpets. Yes, sir,’ replied Potitius. ‘What are we to do?’
‘Charge!’ yelled Tullus. ‘The Germans are at sixes and sevens, and those pricks who saw us can’t know we’re only a patrol. We could be Germanicus’ army, come to slaughter them. We ARE Germanicus’ army!’ Seeing his men’s surprise, Tullus explained, pacing to and fro in front of them. ‘Attack their camp now, and they’ll panic – I know it.’
Piso’s face lit up. ‘This is why you brought the trumpeters, sir!’
‘Aye, Piso, that’s right,’ said Tullus with an evil smile. When he and a motley group of soldiers had fled from Aliso in the aftermath of Varus’ army’s massacre, the pursuing tribesmen had been scared off with a ruse similar to what Tullus planned now. ‘Sound the advance with enough vigour, and the savages will be convinced Germanicus’ eight legions have arrived. Trumpeters, get up here! Potitius, bring your men along the side of my century. Quick!’
While Tullus waited for Potitius’ soldiers, he had the grinning trumpeters ready themselves. ‘You will move forward with me to the tree line. Then I want the charge sounded, loud as you can. Understand?’
‘How long for, sir?’ asked one.
‘Until I tell you to stop. I want every warrior in that camp to shit his breeches. Think you can do that?’
‘Aye, sir,’ they answered, their eyes glinting.
Tullus gave them a satisfied nod. Potitius was ready too. ‘Follow alongside our column,’ Tullus ordered. Beckoning to his own men and the trumpeters, he tramped towards the fort. Let your good mood continue, Fortuna, he asked. I’ll make it worth your while.
At the edge of the trees, Tullus grinned. The hunting-party warriors had reached their encampment and were shouting and making wild gesticulations in the Romans’ direction, but word had not spread far. Tribesmen close by continued to cook, to talk with one another by their fires. His plan could yet work. He turned to the trumpeters. ‘Blow, as if your lives depended on it.’
Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara. The notes rang out, sharp and clear. Again and again they sounded, and Tullus watched the enemy camp with bated breath. Scores of surprised and fearful faces were regarding the tree line. The hapless warriors who had seen him and his men redoubled their efforts to warn their fellows.
Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
By the tenth rendition, Tullus could feel the earth trembling. His cavalry was close. Perfect timing, he thought. ‘Forward,’ he ordered. ‘Potitius, take up a position to my left. Spread your men out one rank deep – we want the enemy to think there are thousands of us. We advance at the walk. Trumpeters, keep sounding.’
Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
They emerged into the open to utter chaos. Shouts – frightened and angry – filled the air. Not a single warrior was ready to face them. All Tullus could see were men and a few women running to the east. Tents and possessions abandoned, they were fleeing for their lives. Those with horses were scrambling on to their backs and joining the deluge. Even the sheep had begun to move away from the woods.
‘FORWARD!’ Tullus shouted. ‘FOR ROME!’
‘FOR ROME!’ yelled his and Potitius’ men.
They had covered perhaps fifty paces when Tullus’ cavalry plunged out of the trees. Roaring their own war cries, they split up to form a small wing on either side of his troops. Fresh wails of dismay rose from the tribal camp, and Tullus grinned, scenting victory. His combined infantry and cavalry presente
d a fearsome proposition to a disorganised force, and expecting Germanicus’ army within the day, the tribesmen could have no idea how vulnerable they were.
Within fifty heartbeats, his gamble had paid off. Every warrior was in full flight to the east and south. Any chance that they might rally vanished as the fort gates opened to disgorge a strong force of legionaries and several turmae of cavalry. Alert to what was happening – and possibly thinking that the legions had arrived – Aliso’s commander was lending his support. Tullus’ heart sang, and loud cheering broke out among his men.
They had earned the right to shout, but he was under no illusions. The victory had been nothing more than a successful ruse – a clever one, it was true – but a ruse nonetheless. In ordinary circumstances, the tribesmen were fearsome fighters, and scared of no one. They would be back with thousands of their fellows, at a time and place of their choosing. Legionaries would die then, that was certain.
If Germanicus wasn’t careful, Arminius would recreate his terrible ambush for a second time.
Chapter X
IT WAS A clammy spring morning. Heavy rain had fallen on the tribal camp the previous day and during the night. Paths had become quagmires and lighting fires was nigh on impossible. The clouds were clearing little by little, but drops of water yet fell from the sodden trees, some finding their way with unerring accuracy on to the back of Arminius’ neck. He was trudging between his warriors’ tents, doing his best to lift their despondent mood.
He too was damp, tired after a poor night’s sleep, and hungry. It was hard not to fall into a foul temper, not least because of the pressing matters on his mind. The year’s campaign had not been under way for long – Germanicus’ host had crossed the Rhenus less than a month before, and thus far everything had gone the Romans’ way. The Usipetes besieging the fort of Aliso would never have withstood an onslaught by Germanicus’ legions, but to be caught with their cocks in their hands like a drunkard pissing on his neighbour’s vegetables had been stupid. The Usipetes should have known the enemy was nearby, and retreated in good time to the surrounding forests, from where skirmishing actions against the invaders could have been waged. Instead they had fled headlong to join with his warriors. One small consolation, Arminius supposed, was that they had suffered negligible casualties.