Eagles in the Storm
Piso could have cried with relief. Ashamed not to have saved Tullus, he said, ‘My apologies, sir, I—’
‘Later, Piso,’ said Tullus in his parade-ground voice. ‘FORWARD!’
Awed by Tullus’ resilience, Piso knew it had been a close-run thing. He determined to stick to Tullus as tight as a flea to a dog’s ball sack from that point on.
The wedge pressed on. Battered by the legionaries’ unrelenting assault, the warriors began to edge backwards. Roman morale rose, and fresh war cries went up. The formation’s pace picked up. At its front, Tullus was like a man possessed, hacking down any German to come within reach of his blade. Chests heaving with the effort, Piso and Metilius stayed at his shoulders, playing their part. Behind, their comrades punched and stabbed, stabbed and punched.
‘Push!’ cried Tullus. ‘They’re breaking!’
Baying like hunting hounds, his soldiers drove forward. Braver warriors, few in number now, died beneath their blades or fell screaming to the rutted earth. Fear twisting their faces, others turned to run. The slow were cut down, and the legionaries advanced another ten steps. More Germans were slain. Tullus killed a chieftain and, with clinical precision, beheaded him. With a mighty heave, he lobbed the severed head high into the air. Turning end over end, showering those below with blood, it dropped into the maelstrom. With startling swiftness, every German who’d seen lost the will to fight. Courage vanished, terror blossomed, and the warriors dropped their weapons and fled. Anyone who stumbled or fell was crushed underfoot. Tullus continued to move forward at a steady pace. ‘Kill the injured and the fallen if you can, but keep walking!’
Piso was filled with the same mad, soaring joy that he’d felt on the Long Bridges the year before when Arminius’ army had crumbled. At any moment, Tullus and the other centurions would unleash them on the fleeing enemy. Piso was startled, therefore, when a sharp peeeeep signalled the halt. Not expecting the order, Dulcius collided with him.
Other soldiers were also caught unawares, and Tullus twisted his head. ‘HALT!’
The wedge ground to a stop. ‘They’re running, sir,’ protested several voices.
‘I can see that, you maggots,’ Tullus barked. ‘But Arminius will have fresh men in the trees. We’re not walking into their embrace. Catch your breath. Dress your wounds. Have a drink – and stay in formation!’ Craning his head to left and right, he assessed the situation.
Piso’s bladder was twinging. How could it have filled again? he wondered, irritated. Ready for his comrades’ jibes, he was relieved to hear other men’s urine pattering off the ground as he did the necessary. All done, he eyed Metilius. ‘You hurt?’
‘A scratch on my sword arm.’ Wincing, Metilius let Piso bandage him up.
‘Dulcius, you all right?’ called Piso.
‘Aye. We all are in this row. There’s a man injured just behind us, but he’s not too bad.’
Shouted questions soon revealed that the century had suffered two men dead and six wounded. Tullus grinned when he was given the news. ‘Light casualties – we did well. Bassius has halted,’ he announced. ‘So has the century to our right. We hold this line for the present.’
Piso studied their front afresh. Scores of fleeing warriors remained in sight, but their numbers were thinning fast. The majority had reached the shelter of the tree line, and therein Tullus had seen the danger. A dart of fear struck Piso as he too realised.
The German counter-attack began almost at once. Hundreds of chanting warriors came loping from between the beeches and spruces. This was no frantic charge – they took time to form a solid line. Sunlight flashed off their spears. A good number were wearing mail, which signified them as Arminius’ best fighters. More and more emerged, until several thousand stood before the Roman wedges, a powerful rendition of the barritus resonating from their throats.
As the Germans began advancing, a grim-faced Metilius thumbed his phallus amulet. ‘It’s not over yet.’
Chapter XXII
BLACK FURY CONSUMED Arminius as he watched the battle from his forces’ left flank. The Marsi and his Cherusci warriors had done well at first, and even though the determined auxiliaries had shoved them back, the warriors had been more than ready to renew their assault. The unexpected appearance of a group of eagles over the forest could not have come at a worse time. There had been an unstoppable momentum to the legionaries’ armoured wedges. Even if he’d been in the thick of it, Arminius wasn’t sure their line could have held. Broken moments before, the terrified warriors were now running for their lives.
He cursed Donar for letting the mighty birds be seen, and also for not changing the weather. Why had the god not lashed the Romans with heavy wind and rain, and terrified them with his thunder and lightning, as he had seven years before? We are your followers, Donar, and this is your land, thought Arminius. Help us, not the invaders.
More warriors were being cut down in the centre. Those few still fighting were surrounded and slain. Trumpets sounded, and fresh cohorts emerged, moving forward towards the fray. Bitterness swelled in Arminius’ chest, but he thrust the feeling away. The struggle was far from over. He could see hundreds of his mail-clad warriors, held in reserve until now, moving out into the sunlight. Tired from their advance, the legionaries in the wedges might not withstand an assault from these veteran fighters. Spying Maelo at the front, Arminius took heart. If anyone were to drive the Romans back, it would be his second-in-command.
Arminius had planned to be there, but moving about his army and dealing with his cursed chieftains had seen him caught on the left flank as the fighting started. Keen to do what he could, he had led two stinging attacks on the nearest section of the Roman line, comprised of auxiliary archers. Running in with raised shields, his warriors had reached the bowmen with minimal casualties, and caused chaos each time. Their lines remained ragged. One more charge and we’ll break them, thought Arminius. Smash into the side of the troops beyond, and panic will set in. Victory could be ours.
It worried him that most of Germanicus’ legions still hadn’t been deployed, but this attack was as good a chance as they’d get this day. Arminius set to rallying the warriors with whom he found himself, a mixture of Angrivarii, Sugambri and Bructeri. Encouraged by their successes, they bellowed their enthusiasm for his rousing cries. Placing himself in their centre with a large group of mounted warriors, he gave the signal.
With a thundering of hooves, the horsemen charged the thinned ranks of the auxiliary archers, followed by the running warriors. Arrows shot up at once, but not in the disciplined volleys of before. That was as well, thought Arminius, his nerves twitching. Able to cover his own body with his shield, he had no way of protecting his mount. If it was struck by an arrow, he would be thrown, and trampled to death by the horses behind. Several of his companions were hit, but Arminius’ luck held. Closing on the archers, he aimed for a gap in the front rank, between a scared-looking, thin-faced man and a veteran bowman who was loosing shafts with ruthless efficiency.
Thin Face quailed and dropped his bow as Arminius galloped in. Wrapped up with his shooting, the veteran didn’t look up until the last moment. It was a fatal mistake. With one stroke, Arminius sliced through the veteran’s bow shaft and took off the top of his head. A quick glance to his left – Thin Face was no danger – and Arminius’ horse had taken him another five strides into the auxiliaries’ midst. Wails rose from under its belly as someone was trodden on; Arminius paid no heed. Cracking down his shield rim on an archer to his left, he broke the man’s arm. He looked right, and thrust his blade into a bowman who was about to send a shaft into him from an arm’s length away.
Arminius drove on another fifteen paces, other riders close on each side. He slew another two of the enemy, and crippled another. Resistance from the confused, fearful archers crumbled further as the warriors on foot arrived, pouring into the space left by the horsemen. Unused to fighting their enemies at close quarters, most bowmen chose to run. Arminius and his companions slew them in
scores, easier than spearing fish in a pool.
He began to rally his men: with so many fresh Roman troops on the field, it was rash to pursue the bowmen without reorganising first. Frustration filled Arminius to see the warriors who’d charged already plundering the dead. Precious time was lost restoring order. ‘Move,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got to chase the bastards quickly, or they will regroup – and Germanicus will send other troops against us.’
Surly-faced, the warriors assembled in a line. Arminius took heart. There had been few casualties, and these men were hungry for Roman blood. More of their brethren were appearing from the woods, drawn by the prospect of defeating the enemy. ‘Ready?’ he cried.
‘AYE!’ shouted the warriors.
Arminius had raised his arm, ready to give the order when a familiar sound reached his ears. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
No, he thought, NO! Raising himself up on his horse’s back, he peered beyond the archers. The bright sunlight made it impossible to see far, but spotting clouds of rising dust was enough. The nearest Roman units – whether auxiliary or regular legion, Arminius couldn’t tell – were coming. They had to be stopped. If one part of the tribal line was driven back, defeat beckoned.
‘Reinforcements are coming,’ he shouted. ‘We advance on my command.’
‘Lead on, Arminius,’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘The Usipetes are with you!’
Recognising Gervas for the first time that day, Arminius smiled. ‘Are the Sugambri and Bructeri also ready?’
‘AYE!’ roared a thousand voices.
Stiff-armed, Arminius pointed towards the approaching Romans. Gods only knew where this attack would take them – he could only hope for success, and that Maelo was also triumphant. They would meet somewhere in the middle, and carve a victory even more glorious than his ambush in the forest.
Darts of pain radiated from Arminius’ top lip, the shallow cut made by the dying blow of his last opponent. He also had a more serious injury, a slash on his right calf. Blood oozed down his leg and the wound pulsed with a life of its own. He blocked out the throbbing ache. Composed, driven by relentless purpose, he fought on. The other riders were with him, but the situation on either side of their little formation was slipping from his grasp.
How much time had passed since the auxiliary infantry had appeared to support the archers, Arminius wasn’t sure. The hammer blow of their arrival had stopped his warriors’ advance. The delay in reorganising his men had been fatal, allowing the two sides to meet on flat, open ground, negating any advantage his warriors might have had. To their credit, thought Arminius, they had brought the auxiliaries to a standstill – and even driven them back in a few places.
Their success had been short-lived, however.
Sour-faced, Arminius watched an auxiliary officer organise a small wedge of his men; moments later, they punched a hole in his warriors’ line. Excited yells went up, and more auxiliaries poured into the gap. Arminius’ warriors fought on with grim purpose, but the process had a slow, inevitable feel to it, like watching the sea creep in and destroy a child’s sand fort. Curse it all, thought Arminius. We’ve lost, here at least.
The time to retreat had come. If he delayed any longer, the slaughter of his warriors would be total. Arminius hated Rome with every particle of his being, but he had a grudging admiration for the ruthless intensity with which its soldiers hunted down beaten enemies. Discipline, it was always their fucking discipline that won out. Arminius swung his gore-spattered sword arm around to the rear. ‘Pull back!’ he bellowed at the riders around him. ‘With me! Fighting withdrawal!’
No one argued, and Arminius knew he had made the right decision. Gervas was among the dozen horsemen who stayed with him; together they made a series of sallies against the nearest auxiliaries, allowing their comrades and the warriors on foot to retreat some distance. Seeing what was going on, the auxiliaries redoubled their efforts, and Arminius lost five riders in one brutal charge, cut down, pulled to the ground or crushed beneath their hamstrung mounts.
No longer capable of holding back the enemy, he aimed his horse towards the tree line. Perhaps there they could make a stand. It was a futile wish, he thought with increasing bitterness. Only at Cannae, more than two centuries before, had retreating soldiers returned to the fray, and his men were not Hannibal’s Gauls.
‘Look out!’ cried Gervas.
The noise of pounding hooves filled Arminius’ ears. Confused, he glanced to his rear. Waves of auxiliary infantry there, but no horsemen.
‘To the right!’ Gervas screamed.
Arminius looked, and his heart sank. Scores of enemy cavalrymen, more auxiliaries, were riding hard in their direction from Germanicus’ right flank. A clever move, Arminius thought. Many of the retreating warriors hadn’t seen them yet. A few heartbeats later, it was clear that the Roman cavalry had judged the angle of their attack to perfection. They would strike the main body of warriors – and Arminius’ riders – before they reached safety.
He sheathed his sword – no easy feat when riding – and, ignoring the pain, rubbed hard at the cut on his top lip with the palm of his hand. That done, he smeared his cheeks and forehead with blood. Better to escape unrecognised than to die here, for nothing, he thought, as the shame of his action lashed him. Tugging out his blade again, he felt the weight of someone’s stare and, looking to his right, realised that Gervas had seen. Uncomfortable, Arminius turned his head away.
Short distance though it was to the trees, the ride took an age. Shouting fierce war cries, the auxiliary cavalry closed with Arminius’ forces. Sunlight flashed off spear tips; screams rose after. What courage had remained to his warriors vanished, turning them into a panicked mob. Caught up in the confusion – men running hither and thither, injured warriors and corpses littering the ground – Arminius and his remaining companions slowed their horses. More than once, he had to kick away those begging for help, asking to climb up behind him. I will not die here like a fool, he thought. At last the path before them was clear, and Arminius’ spirits lifted a fraction. He would live to fight another day.
In the same moment, a party of twenty Roman cavalrymen came galloping in from the right. Wheeling with impressive efficiency, they faced Arminius and his companions. Hooves, lots of them, hammered close behind. This was the advance party, Arminius decided, sent to delay his retreating warriors before the main body of horse arrived.
‘We’ve got to charge,’ he shouted to Gervas, the nearest. Twisting, he appraised the raggle-taggle band of horsemen and warriors with them. Every face was watching him. ‘Charging is our only hope,’ he repeated, thinking it was small hope indeed.
‘I’m with you.’ Gervas’ jaw was set.
‘And us,’ said the three other riders. Behind them, the warriors’ grim nods and rumbled agreement signified their willingness to try.
Black amusement mixed with Arminius’ anger and despair. It was probable he would die within the next few moments. Perhaps this was his punishment for having shown Donar such disrespect. ‘Ready?’
Without waiting for a response from Gervas or the others, he kneed his horse forward. Sword ready, shield held high, he covered perhaps a fifth of the distance to the enemy cavalrymen before they reacted. Challenge accepted, they rode towards him and his men. From the corner of his eye, he was aware of more horsemen arriving from the right – another unit of auxiliaries.
Close in, Arminius recognised the cavalrymen as Chauci. Although part of the tribe had fought with him before, many remained loyal allies of the empire. It was ironic that they rather than Roman legionaries would slay him. Death was the only fate Arminius would accept – he could think of nothing worse than being made captive. Not only would he be denied a joyous reunion with Thusnelda and his son; he would be displayed chained in a triumph, for the Roman public to abuse. No, death was preferable. Picking his target, a solidly built warrior with a swirling pattern-decorated shield, Arminius urged on his horse.
The tribesman drew back his spear ar
m. His nearest comrade, another experienced-looking warrior, had also seen him coming. It had been foolish to curse Donar, even to himself, thought Arminius. The god would always have the last laugh.
I’ll take at least one with me, he decided, judging that the first man was the weaker target.
Ten paces out, the warrior somehow recognised him. ‘Arminius?’
‘Aye,’ snarled Arminius, raising his sword.
With a sudden jerk of the reins, the warrior pulled his horse aside, leaving open the route to the trees. ‘Go,’ he ordered. ‘Go!’
Arminius needed no second telling. With a quick, grateful nod, he obeyed.
Chapter XXIII
ON THE PLAIN of Idistaviso, Tullus wiped his brow clear of sweat for perhaps the hundredth time since dawn. Lowering his arm, well tanned from the summer’s campaign, he noted it had turned a deep shade of red. No man could stay in this furnace and not get scorched, he thought. The sunburn would hurt tomorrow; for now, he had a dry mouth, cracked lips and a throat hoarse from shouting orders.
The muscles of his arms trembled with fatigue; wielding his shield and sword was exhausting. Pulses of pain throbbed from his neck, shoulders and lower back, the spots most affected by the dead weight of his mail. The old crone who niggled at the old injury in his left calf was hard at work, probing with her sewing needle. These were small prices to pay, however, given the carnage of the past six and more hours. Victory was theirs. Pride filled Tullus that only four men of his century had fallen.
The sun was dropping in the sky, and the worst of the heat had been and gone. The battle proper had ended some time since. Two legions and the cavalry were still pursuing the enemy off to the east and south, and archers were having sport by the Visurgis, shooting warriors trying to hide high in the trees. The voices of legionaries and auxiliaries mixed as they wandered about, searching for loot. Hundreds of injured warriors were wailing their pain at the unforgiving blue sky. They’d be quiet soon enough, thought Tullus. The legionaries were in no mood for clemency.