Eagle in the Snow: The Classic Bestseller

  The auxiliaries numbered five thousand now, so that not only could I leave all signal towers to be manned by them, but I could also use them to garrison Treverorum, as well as those forts upon which I knew no real attack would fall. This cheered us all enormously. As I said to Quintus, with a few more volunteers we should be able to turn the whole of the Twentieth into a field army when the time came, which would be something the Vandals had not bargained on.

  He said stiffly, “Is it not about time you told me what our plan is to be? What are you going to do when the time comes?”

  I was silent.

  He misunderstood my silence. He said, “Of course, if I am not in your confidence—”

  I said, “You are still my Master of Horse.”

  “But not your friend.”

  I said, “While we have the Rhenus fleet they cannot cross.”

  He looked at me for a moment and then stared at the bare wall of my office. “Let us suppose there is no fleet.”

  “Very well. This is what I think. They must cross at Moguntiacum. Only here, is the country flat enough to bring everyone over. There are so many of them; there can be no secret of their intention when the time comes. They will, however, make small attacks on all the other forts. At any one of those places, if they land a small force they might, with luck, outflank the forts and either move directly on Treverorum—but they don’t know how many men we have there—or cut our lines of communication and make nuisance attacks on us from the rear. But when the time comes, however, I shall hold those forts only with auxiliaries and concentrate the legion here.”

  “All of it?” he said, intently.

  “Yes, all of it.”

  “No reserves?”

  “No reserves. That is where I shall fight.” I put my finger on the map that lay on the table between us. “My left wing will secure itself to the new camp on the road to Bingium, and my right wing will rest on the north wall of the town. If the fort below us at Moguntiacum is still holding out—and I expect it to—they will have to attack us up a slope, with the river to their backs and an enemy fort firing on them behind their left shoulder. It is a position of great strength. They will have enormous difficulty dislodging us and we shall have the advantage of fighting behind ditches and stakes.”

  He said slowly, “Yes, I see. It will not be a cavalry action then?”

  “Not as you would like it, Quintus. If I had enough men I would fortify the whole length of the bank and destroy them in the water. But I have not. So I shall use your cavalry to break them up when they have failed in their attacks. I must be economical.”

  “I understand,” he said in a flat voice. “And if they succeed?”

  “They will only be too strong if we get tired first or run out of missiles. But if that does happen, I shall withdraw the legion to Bingium, cross the Nava and hold the further bank, leaving the garrison to defend the fort. It is an easy place to defend.”

  “And if we still have to retreat?”

  I said, “You are very sanguine about this?”

  “Yes. I have never contemplated fighting at these odds before. Besides, something always goes wrong.”

  “Well then, we shall pull straight back, leaving delaying ambushes, and hold the junction where the road splits for Confluentes and Bingium, at the thirtieth milestone. I shall have defensive positions prepared there as well.”

  “And after that?”

  “Oh, after that, if we have any men left we shall try to hold Treverorum.” I was silent for a moment. I said, “But if it goes like that there won’t be any legion left to worry about.”

  He stood up, fiddling with the strap of his sword belt, a look of uncertainty upon his face. He glanced at me as though he would say something more, hesitated, and then turned upon his heel. “Thank you,” he said politely. “I thought that might be the plan.” He went from the room slowly, like an old man, and I returned to my papers.

  It was a hot summer and we all sweated as the ditches were dug by night on the slopes behind Moguntiacum, for I had no wish that the enemy should see what we were doing and so guess at the truth of our weak state. The soldiers continued to come and go on leave, and the smoke from the fires on the east bank seemed to multiply each day. But my six ships patrolled the river as before and we were safe.

  Sometimes in the afternoons I would ride to the training ground to watch Quintus exercising his men. He had great enthusiasm, great patience and great understanding. He was tireless in his efforts to perfect the small shock force under his command. The horses’ coats glistened in the sunlight and the sweat dripped from the faces of their riders as they tried for the tenth time, perhaps, to carry out some complicated pattern of movement. The troops and squadrons wheeled, broke and formed shifting patterns of geometrical precision at the snap of a voice or the thin high sound of the trumpet. Finally, as the climax to the afternoon’s work, they practiced attacks upon prepared positions and afterwards, while the led horses were being circled to cool off slowly, the decurions, squadron commanders and officers gathered about the tall figure in the burnished armour to hear his comments. He looked hot and tired but he held himself rigidly under control.

  I drew closer. I had heard him give this same talk half a hundred times before but I always enjoyed hearing it again.

  On horseback, Quintus and the animal were one. I had never seen such a rider, not even among the men of Treverorum, and they had a reputation for their skill in these matters. An officer from the Eastern Empire, who had fought with Stilicho in Italia, had told me that he was a good deal better as a rider than any Hun, and a better horse soldier than any Goth. The officer had met both in his time and I could believe him.

  Now he was saying, “You must learn to use your heads and take it slowly. If you know what you are doing, a cavalry charge is the slowest thing in the world. The temptation is always there to hurry when you see them massed to your front—but don’t. Never break from an amble until you are within their killing range. Outside that you are safe, so don’t waste your horse’s energy before it is needed. Don’t let your horse run unbalanced; get him collected well before you are in the killing range. Then, when you hear the order, move straight into a canter, but still keep him collected. Don’t try to outpace your left and right men; you are not having a race for a jug of wine. Watch them out of the corner of your eye. Keep in line and keep tightly together. And if you are going down hill, remember that those of your men riding big horses will have more difficulty bringing them down than those on the smaller animals. You must watch for that always. This is the most difficult part—when you can see their arrows or spears flickering towards you, and men and horses are going down. Then, you want to get on and be into them. You must resist the temptation. Stay together and wait patiently for that last trumpet. Then, when you hear it—sixty yards from the enemy line— throw your hands forward and break into the gallop. You will hit them with the most tremendous crash and you won’t have much time to use your weapons, so you must kill or maim with every stroke. There is no second chance. The man you miss will be behind you before you can strike again and he, then, may well kill a comrade of yours in the second rank. Now, if you hit them properly in a collected line, they will break; they always do. Remember to ride straight through them and out the other side. That is when you break up. Get well clear and then rally on the trumpets and the banner. You must rally quickly, because then you are at your weakest, facing the wrong way and surrounded by the enemy who, even if wounded and in flight, will still try to take advantage of you. So, rally quickly, reform and charge back while your horses are still warm; and, whatever you do, don’t stop to pick up a wounded comrade. If you try that you only endanger your mounted friends and lessen your own chances of getting back. The dismounted must look to themselves.” He paused. He said, “It is really quite easy.”

  “How long does it take, sir?” said a young decurion.

  “You can cover two hundred yards in thirty seconds, easily. It will be all over in fiv
e minutes. So you really have very little to do. But, your foot-soldier has to learn to fight for fifteen minutes at a stretch. That is a long time.”

  Quintus saw me and saluted, as though I was a stranger.

  I said, “You make it all sound so easy.”

  “The difficult things always do.”

  “You are a good soldier, Quintus.”

  He did not smile. He said, “I understand horses; that is all. I am not so good with people.”

  When August came I received a letter from Honorius. He regretted the inability of his generals to send troops from Italia but, as I knew so well, Stilicho handled these things for him; and besides, he had many problems on his hands. He reposed great confidence in me. He did not think the situation was so serious as I had suggested. There had been such alarms before. If, however, I felt I needed more support he was certain I could rely on the co-operation of Chariobaudes—a most excellent man. It was a relief to know that the barbarians were no longer massed along the Danubius, for Italia had suffered terribly on the last occasion. He had great hopes that Alaric would prove a powerful ally in the east. The news from Britannia was disturbing. Its army, of course, had always a bad reputation for mutinous behaviour. Perhaps, when things were quiet in Gaul again, I would cross to the island with full powers and bring it back in obedience to Rome. He had great confidence in me still and, as a mark of his regard, I was appointed Comes Galliarum, with all the appropriate allowances. Did I know that the climate of Ravenna was excellent for the breeding habits of chickens. . .?

  I told Quintus that he was now officially Master of Horse and that the appointment—it had been a joke between us once—had been ratified by the Emperor. He did not smile. He thanked me stiffly and went to his hut. Once, he would have enjoyed the letter with me. But now—now, we had nothing to say to each other.

  I had another letter from Saturninus. Marcus and Gratianus had in fact been killed by Constantinus who, it was rumoured, had his eyes on Gaul and Hispania. But he was frightened to move while I was still holding Gaul in strength. I laughed when I read that sentence. Many people wished that I would return. Constantinus was not liked and they thought the army—“two puny legions, Maximus, my old friend”—should stay to keep the Saxons out. Their raids were getting worse. Constans was the one who kept the troops loyal to his father. He was efficient and well liked. “But dragged in the wake of his father’s ambitions, I think. I saw him at Eburacum a week after Gratianus died. I warned him that no good would come of his father’s vanity. He laughed at me, bitterly, and said that he knew quite well it would all end in the same way as it ended for your namesake, but that life was short and he might as well get out of it what he could. I feel sorry for him. He would have done so much better to have joined you. Tell Fabianus to write to me. His mother worries a great deal. I am glad that he has turned out a soldier, and is of use to you. I would give much to have a talk of the old days. Perhaps, if the gods are kind, we shall meet again. And give my greetings. . . .”

  I read it all and then passed it to Quintus. It all seemed so far away.

  The weather held. Each day I prayed for rain and each day the sun shone and the wheat and barley ripened in the fields, while the vines about Treverorum were thick with grapes. The soldiers fished in the river at dawn and dusk, and some of them returned to the old habit of dicing their pay away in the baths while they soaked the sweat and dirt from their tired bodies.

  Each day I walked to the river and looked to the east. The barbarians’ camp stretched for two and a half miles along the bank and extended further back than the eye could see. Each day a blue haze covered the plain; it was the smoke from the camp fires of six tribes. At dusk the Vandals used to come down to the water’s edge to bathe, to wash their clothes and to dye their hair. One evening a small child fell into the water, the mother screamed and two of their men tried to reach it with poles, but it was swept out into mid-stream by a cross current. It was obvious that none of the men on the bank could swim. One, however, more quick witted than the rest, hurled a wooden shield onto the water. This, the child managed to clutch and hang onto. The current took the child across the river, and one of our men on the south island, dived into the water on the end of a rope and caught the brat. His comrades pulled him ashore and a boat was sent across to restore the child to its mother. The optio, who took the boat over, said to me afterwards. “They wouldn’t let us land. They didn’t even thank us. Just lined the bank and stared. I was glad to pull away into deep water again, I can tell you.”

  “What did you expect?” I said. “They are the enemy. If it had been a Roman child they would have let him drown.”

  In the second week of that hot month we had two days of storm and lightning and torrential rain, and, while the storm was at its worst, a boat slipped across the river to Bingium carrying a drenched messenger from the camp of Marcomir. A cavalry patrol brought him to me in the middle of the night, and I learned that the Vandals were collecting another fleet of ships up the Moenus and that they planned to make their attack on the night of the full moon. Marcomir’s information was always accurate so I sent word straight away to Gallus at Confluentes, and a week later two merchant ships were brought up river by night, towed by horses; a half century of my fittest men helping them. It was a long, slow haul, for the current was strong and the under-tow treacherous; and great care had to be taken to avoid noise, for I did not want the enemy to guess at my plans. Once past Moguntiacum the work became easier though the boat parties had a momentary alarm when fireballs were hurled over the water by the tribesmen guarding the east bank. Nothing came of it, however, and we concluded that a nervous sentry must have taken alarm at the movement of swans, for there were a great many on the river at that time. The merchant ships were weighed down at the stern with rocks and stones. Up forward, they were loaded with timber, wool and other inflammable material, and the decks sprayed with sulphur.

  Two nights before the full moon these ships, manned by a skeleton crew, towed by small boats and escorted by a warship, were taken into the mouth of the Moenus. Four hundred yards up they were half sunk onto shoals either side of the central channel, and the crews taken off by the two boats. When daylight came it would look as if an ineffectual effort had been made to block the river. The success of our plan depended on the enemy thinking that, because we had apparently failed, there was little point in boarding and examining the two wrecks, whose upper decks cleared the water line easily. They did not do so or, if they did, made nothing of it. The following night their boats came through the narrow channel, and when all were clear of the sunken ships our fleet moved into the river mouth and attacked them. We fired the two wrecks first and with these blazing behind them the enemy boats were thrown into a panic. Those who tried to turn back found the narrowness of the passage between the burning boats intimidating; the swiftness of the current made navigation up-stream difficult; and they were forced on to the shoals and sandbanks, while the armed men on board scrambled wetly ashore. Those who tried to break out of the river were swiftly destroyed by our warships. Only a few boats slipped by to drift silently down the Rhenus, manned by crews of dead men transfixed by arrows, whilst the survivors moaned a little as they died of their burns.

  Gallus was jubilant at his success and I gave a bonus to all who had taken part in the action.

  Three nights before his wedding, Marcomir led a night raid on the barbarian camp, with my permission. While a diversionary attack was made on the area where the Aleman king was sleeping (there was always the chance that a valuable hostage might be picked up) Marcomir and fifty men penetrated the cattle park where the herds of oxen, rounded up from the surrounding countryside, were penned. Fire arrows created the stampede that he desired, and four thousand or so maddened, angry beasts broke through the fences and lumbered blindly through the camp. I had told him the famous story about Hannibal, and to a number of the beasts his men had managed to attach lighted torches. In the panic caused by the sound of the stampede the tr
ibesmen, dazed with sleep, ran in all directions. Many were crushed to death, tents were brought down, shelters over-turned and fires started, which raged furiously in a score of places. In their first massed flight the cattle cut a clear swathe of ground, two hundred and fifty yards wide, through half a mile of tents. Thereafter, they broke up into small groups and did not stop until the torches on their horns had flickered out. When dawn came the camp was a shambles and cattle were everywhere. The damage was immense.

  When I met him afterwards Marcomir was in a good humour. The raid had been a great success, he had suffered few casualties, and four women, including a daughter of Rando’s, had been captured, together with a number of weapons and a quantity of silver.

  I said, “These successes are only pin-pricks on a host of that size. They are good for morale; they do a lot of damage, but they do not really affect the issue. What we need is a real victory.”

  Marcomir grinned, his mouth full of pork. He wiped his greasy fingers on his tunic and said, “True, but the kings quarrelled before our raid over the letters you had sent, accusing Hermeric of treason. He denied it and slew Talien, King of the Quadi, while they sat at meat.”

  I remembered that quiet, intelligent man. He was quiet for ever now. “A pity. Talien should have slain him. I had hoped for better than that.”

  “It is a beginning. No, there will be no blood feud. Hermeric will pay for his crimes in cattle; the Quadi will feed and the Marcomanni will go hungry and grumble a little, but that is all. It is the custom of these people to settle their affairs so. And yet, it is a beginning.” Marcomir paused and then said quietly, “Respendial and Goar quarrelled too, each accusing the other.”