Eagles in the Storm

  His leg throbbed with pain and, suddenly nervous, Arminius opened his eyes again. Would he pay a terrible price for delaying the healer’s inspection? Although there was no smell and the pain had been bearable, the cut could still be festering. Over the years he had seen countless men sicken and die from smaller wounds than his. First they became inflamed. Purulent discharge and spreading redness up the limb followed. Next came fever, severe discomfort and gangrene.

  Gods, Arminius prayed, don’t let me die like that. Needle darts shot up his leg as the last of the bandage had to be tugged free. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  Instead of answering, the healer, an amiable Marsi old enough to be his father, placed the crusted strips of cloth to his nostrils and took a deep sniff.

  Arminius presumed the worst. ‘Has it gone bad?’

  The healer glanced at Maelo, who was standing beside Arminius. ‘Is he always so stiff-necked?’

  ‘Aye, most of the time,’ said Maelo with a chuckle.

  Irritated, Arminius bent forward to study his wound, a shallow slash that ran down the side of his calf. Its edges were dark red, but the tissue further away was of normal colour. Sanguineous fluid oozed from the cut, yet he could see no pus. Relief filled him. ‘It hasn’t gone bad!’

  ‘Not yet anyway,’ came the healer’s dry reply. He slapped away Arminius’ fingers. ‘Don’t touch!’

  Arminius reined in his temper. There were already too few healers to deal with the numbers of injured warriors, and this man was reputed to be the best of the lot.

  The healer probed with his fingertips along the line of the cut. He smiled as Arminius hissed in pain. ‘You can feel that. Good. How about here?’ He was pressing on the tissue three fingers’ breadth further away.

  ‘It hurts, but not as much.’

  ‘Here?’ The healer had reached the back of Arminius’ knee.

  ‘Nothing.’ He studied the healer’s face. ‘Which is good.’

  ‘It’s doing well, considering you haven’t been off your feet except to sleep. I advised that you lie down when possible.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done when there’s an army to marshal, and chieftains to meet with,’ countered Arminius. ‘How long will it take to heal?’

  ‘Fully? A month. Ten days before it won’t bleed if you use the limb too much.’

  Arminius let out a sarcastic snort. ‘I knew you’d say something along those lines. Germanicus won’t wait, I’m afraid.’

  Tutting, the healer ferreted in his basket. Opening a pot of pungent-smelling salve, he applied a fine layer to the cut. ‘Do what you must, but understand that the more hours spent standing, the greater the chance of bleeding and poison setting in.’

  ‘I’ll be astride my horse.’

  The healer gave him a contemptuous look. ‘That’s almost the same thing, and you know it. As for fighting, well …’

  ‘I am grateful for your treatment, old man, but I can no more rest than I can fly like a bird. Germanicus’ host is close at hand. Another battle looms, and I must be there to lead the tribes. If I am not—’ Arminius stopped, unwilling to vocalise the growing worry in his heart, that his warriors, well beaten two days before, might not prevail when the armies met again. ‘Treat the wound as best you may, and let the gods do the rest.’

  Tutting some more, the healer applied a fresh bandage. ‘That will last a day – if you rest. If you don’t, these will come in useful.’ He handed Maelo three rolls of cloth and a small pot of the salve. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘I’ve dressed a few wounds, aye,’ said Maelo.

  The healer’s knees clicked as he stood. ‘My work’s done then.’

  ‘Let me pay you,’ said Arminius, reaching for his purse.

  ‘Beating Germanicus is all the reward I need.’ Pain twisted the healer’s face.

  ‘You lost family last year?’ asked Arminius. The Marsi tribe’s suffering when the legions had entered their territory had been grievous.

  ‘My wife. Thirty-two summers we’d been married.’

  ‘My wife was also taken,’ said Arminius, dark memories clawing at him. ‘She’s not dead, but I will never see her again.’

  ‘I heard what the Romans did. It was a cruel thing.’ The healer’s eyes, damp with unshed tears, locked with those of Arminius. ‘Promise that you will crush Germanicus and his legions.’

  Moved, Arminius nodded. ‘I will do everything in my power.’

  ‘A man can ask for no more than that,’ said the healer, hobbling away.

  ‘He’d fight if he was able,’ Arminius observed.

  ‘Revenge is a powerful emotion,’ said Maelo. ‘It sustains you.’

  Arminius could see Thusnelda’s face close to his, her lips upturned to kiss. He blinked, blotting out the painful image, and was grateful for Maelo’s squeeze of his shoulder.

  ‘I can only imagine how hard it is for you. I’m lucky to have no wife, no children.’

  ‘You must want a son,’ said Arminius in an effort to lighten the mood. ‘I can see a little Maelo charging about, creating havoc wherever he goes.’

  ‘Maybe one day. Let’s win the battle first, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Arminius drew lines in the dirt with a twig, sketching the lie of the land around their massive earthwork, nicknamed ‘the Angrivarian wall’ by his warriors thanks to its position on that tribe’s land. Still under construction on the ground discovered by Maelo, it would be ready by the next day. With a river and bog on one side and a forest on the other, the defence would give his warriors a powerful advantage of height over the advancing Romans. ‘We’ll go over my plan first, then talk to the chieftains.’

  Midday – sunny and baking hot – was upon them the next day before Germanicus’ army had deployed. Made aware by his scouts of Arminius’ forces’ position, he had been unable to pass up the opportunity of battle, and another victory over the tribes. Arminius’ scouts had brought news of the legions marching in their direction hours since. Safe and shaded in the trees that lined one side of the battleground, he had waited for the enemy’s arrival and then the legions’ preparation for combat. It was a lengthy but familiar process, one in which he had participated many times during his service to the empire.

  First came the auxiliaries, a mixture of archers, slingers and infantry. Legions formed the next rank, four today, and with them Germanicus and his Praetorian cohorts. Another four legions comprised the third rank. Groups of cavalry guarded the flanks. It was a huge army, outnumbering Arminius’ diminished forces by at least ten thousand men. That was not an issue, he convinced himself. Hemmed in by swampy ground and dense forest, their path blocked by the earthen rampart before them, the Romans would struggle to bring more than a third of their men to the fray.

  Maelo padded to his side. ‘Can we do it?’

  ‘Ever the plain speaker,’ said Arminius, his tone cynical.

  Maelo shrugged. ‘I see no point being any other way.’

  ‘We can do it if everything goes to plan, aye.’

  ‘Driving the enemy from the field is the best we can hope for. There’s no chance of wiping out eight legions. If that was going to happen, we would have already succeeded.’

  Arminius sucked on the harsh truth of Maelo’s words. ‘Perhaps, but give Germanicus a bloody nose today, and his campaign will end. His supply lines can’t be stretched any further. When his forces split up, we can harry them all the way home. Sooner or later, Rome will realise that its legions will get the same reception every time they cross the Rhenus.’

  ‘It’ll be a close-run affair.’ Maelo’s gaze was fixed on the vast enemy host.

  ‘Life isn’t meant to be easy.’ Arminius punched Maelo’s arm.

  An amused snort. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Remember your task?’

  ‘Do you think me a dotard?’ Maelo relented before Arminius’ frown. ‘I’m to stay here. My cavalry are to strike the enemy’s flank as they advance towards your position at the earthwork. My warriors will form a second
wave, to attack when I judge the time right.’ Maelo cocked his head at Arminius. ‘But the main brunt of the legions’ assault will fall on your men.’

  ‘Let them come. We’ll be ready.’ Despite the bluff tone, Arminius could not rid himself of doubt. He quelled it as best he could. The scene was set, and both armies were in place. Battle would soon commence. There was little to do but offer a final prayer to Donar, and to trust his warriors.

  Throbs of pain rose from Arminius’ wounded leg as he shuffled to the edge of the rampart. A sticky feeling in his boot told him the bleeding had started again. Energised by his warriors’ efforts – the ground below was littered with Roman dead and wounded – he gave consideration to neither. The fighting had been going on for some time – an hour perhaps – and in that time the Romans had launched two massive attacks on the earthwork. Both had been thrown back in decisive fashion, and now the enemy had retreated a short distance to rest and regroup. Clouds of dust rose as fresh units marched forward into the front line. Riders galloped to and fro, carrying orders.

  The warriors with Arminius, a combination of Angrivarii and his own Cherusci, were in ebullient spirits. Good numbers were using the lull as an opportunity to leap down from the rampart and strip the dead legionaries and auxiliaries of their mail shirts, water bags and valuables. Following his instructions, they were leaving the enemy wounded alive. Not even the Romans liked tramping over their own comrades, Arminius announced to a chorus of laughter.

  ‘Retrieve any undamaged spears,’ he shouted. ‘Javelins and shields too. Spread the word.’

  The nearest warriors grinned and waved acknowledgement.

  Squinting into the bright light, Arminius gazed to his right, and the narrow space between the earthwork’s end and the marshy ground. In the days prior to the battle, he had ordered the rampart be constructed well into the bog, but the warriors he’d chosen had given it up as a bad job. Harassed, trying to do a dozen things at once, Arminius had not found out until it was too late. The best he’d been able to do was to task Mallovendus and his best warriors with the weak point’s defence.

  It had not come as a surprise that a keen-eyed Roman had noticed the gap. Shrewd as a fox, Germanicus had sent four cohorts on a probing attack when the fighting had begun. Thanks to the prolonged hot spell, the bog had hardened, providing a solid surface to fight upon. A savage struggle ensued, and despite the warriors’ best efforts, they had been driven back step by bloody step. Alerted to the situation by a messenger, Arminius had sent his half of his reserves to Mallovendus’ aid. The five hundred Cherusci warriors had stopped the gap for a time, but even they had begun to struggle. If the rest of the Roman line hadn’t been thrown back, Arminius brooded, the four cohorts would have swarmed around to threaten his right flank. As it was, they had had to withdraw, or face being isolated.

  Once the battle recommenced, they would be back, sure as a slighted woman seeking revenge. Arminius wondered again if he should command from the weak spot, but it wasn’t feasible. The most important place for him to be was here, in the centre. Mallovendus would do his best, and the extension of the rampart using stacked Roman corpses would be a brutal deterrent to the attacking legionaries.

  Arminius’ attention moved to his left flank, and the trees hiding Maelo and his forces. The dust clouds and distance between their positions meant that it had been hard to know what was going on during the fighting. The break in hostilities had revealed large numbers of slain: from the glints of sunlight off armour, Arminius judged the majority to be Roman. Maelo was playing his part, he thought with satisfaction. If matters continued in this vein, the battle was winnable.

  He closed his eyes and prayed. My thanks for your help thus far, great Donar. Stay with us. A rumble of distant thunder suggested that the god was watching. Arminius took heart.

  Officers’ shouts carried from the enemy lines. Sandals tramped the earth. Dust rose, cohorts moved. Cavalry units began deploying on the Roman right flank.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Arminius yelled at the warriors below the rampart. ‘Get back up here!’

  ‘There’s time yet,’ called back a burly warrior with swirling tattoos on his chest.

  A brief buzzing sound, not unlike a swarm of angry bees, filled Arminius’ ears. Again it came, and again. Puzzled, he stared at the Roman positions. Men dressed in simple tunics, no armour, were arranging themselves in front of the legions. More high-pitched buzzing sounds carried through the baking-hot air. Two heartbeats later, soft thuds off the earth below the earthwork announced the arrival of missiles. Realisation sank in, and Arminius roared, ‘Slingers! Enemy slingers! Get back up here, NOW!’

  The burly warrior was still smiling when a slingshot bullet struck him in the side of the head. A faint expression of surprise marked his face as he fell, dead before he landed.

  It had been a lucky strike – the slingers were still finding their range – but the remaining warriors came scrambling up the rampart with alacrity. Arminius had everyone withdraw thirty paces. Soon a wall of mismatched hexagonal tribal shields and curved Roman ones had formed, facing forward and overhead. More buzzing sounds, and thunks as the bullets landed, followed. As the slingers settled into a rhythm, the volley became continuous, sounding like a violent hailstorm battering a barrack roof. Arminius was grateful for his shield; the burly warrior’s death had been a fluke, but the hen’s-egg-sized lead bullets were lethal. Thanks to the shield wall, however, there were few further casualties.

  ‘Let them shoot to their hearts’ content,’ declared a heavy-boned youth. He glanced at Arminius. ‘Is this the best the Romans can do?’

  Arminius was staring through a gap in the shields. Behind the slingers, he could see legionaries manhandling large wooden frames forward. ‘Those volleys were just the start,’ he grated.

  ‘The start?’ asked the youth.

  ‘The heavy artillery barrage comes next.’

  The youth’s grin vanished, and an unhappy silence fell.

  From far off, Arminius heard the familiar sound of torsion arms being wound back. Never had he imagined being on the receiving end of the legions’ deadly machines. If memory served him right, each legion had fifty-five bolt-throwers. Acid caught at the back of his throat. ‘Prepare yourselves!’ he cried.

  Chapter XXVI

  TULLUS WAS UNHAPPY from the first moment he’d marched on to the swamp- and forest-bordered plain with his men. It was far too similar to the ground Arminius had ambushed Varus’ legions on, and it was clear what tactics the Cherusci leader would try. This was a different day, Tullus told himself. A separate battle. Germanicus was a superior general to Varus, and his enormous army outnumbered the enemy forces, which had already lost thousands of men. This awareness settled Tullus’ nerves, but he remained on edge.

  More than an hour passed, and still Germanicus’ army baked in the searing-hot sun. Two attacks had been launched on the enemy positions. The fighting hadn’t gone the Romans’ way; in truth, most of the auxiliaries and legionaries had come off worst. Trying to reach an enemy standing on the rampart Arminius’ men had built – more than a man’s height above them – was insanely difficult, and yet spirits remained buoyant. Germanicus had seen to it that everyone had heard about the four cohorts who had forged a path across the marshy ground on the far left of the earthworks. That weak spot would be exploited in the next attack, after the slingers and artillery had softened up the enemy. Germanicus had also ordered his Praetorian cohorts and four legions into combat. Once again Tullus was filled with a mad excitement. He and his men had not yet drawn their weapons, but that time was at hand – and Germanicus would lead the army in person.

  ‘Today is our day. Our day! I can feel it in my bones,’ he told his soldiers.

  ‘How are we going to scale the enemy rampart, sir?’ asked Calvus.

  The question was in most men’s minds, thought Tullus. He glanced at Piso. ‘Remember that tree trunk in the forest?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Piso would never forget it
. It had been on the third day, when the slaughter had been almost complete. Splattered with mud and blood, exhausted and close to giving up, he and his comrades had been following Tullus because … well, because he was Tullus and he would not let them rest. The end had seemed nigh when a massive beech had been toppled in front of them, blocking the track. Rousing chants of the barritus had come from every side as hundreds of warriors prepared to wipe them out – and then Tullus’ mad instruction had come from nowhere. Somehow it had worked, getting them to the other side.

  ‘Tell Calvus. Tell them all,’ instructed Tullus with a fierce grin.

  ‘We’ll form a kind of testudo against the rampart,’ said Piso, proud to be chosen. ‘It’s the height of a man, so two ranks should be enough, the first kneeling, the second crouching. The rest of us will run up the shields at the enemy. Simple.’

  His comrades liked the sound of it. ‘Clever,’ said Calvus. ‘Good old Tullus,’ declared another. ‘Me to be part of the testudo,’ said a wag from the depths of the ranks. Men grinned; others chuckled.

  ‘I’ve sent word to every cohort, and to the other legions,’ shouted Tullus. ‘We’ll all be doing the same. The fucking savages won’t know what hit them!’

  Piso and his comrades cheered, and when the advance sounded not long after, they tramped towards the enemy positions with renewed purpose.

  ‘The Praetorians are beside us, brothers,’ Tullus muttered as he strode along the side of his century. ‘Look at the arrogant pricks!’