Hunting the Eagles
‘Aye,’ said Fenestela. ‘I can’t recall him falling either. One of the others must have grabbed the standard when he did, and tried to get away with it.’
‘We must have already gone.’ Feeling guilty all over again, Tullus reached down and patted the dead man’s skull. ‘You did your best, brother. Rest in peace now. The standard is back with us.’
Straightening, he found every soldier in sight watching. It wasn’t surprising, thought Tullus. Fenestela calling him over would have alerted them. He cupped a hand to his lips. ‘We’ve found our century’s standard. Tread light, brothers. Every skeleton lying around you is that of a comrade.’
The words were barely out of Tullus’ mouth before his long-held-in grief struck him with the force of a storm wave hitting a harbour wall. He dropped to one knee beside the skeleton, and a sob escaped him. Beside him he heard Fenestela, a man he’d never known to give in to sorrow, weeping.
No one spoke for a long time.
In the end, Tullus mastered his pain by force of will. Getting to his feet, he ordered his men to begin the terrible task of burying their comrades.
They had started before midday. Now the sun was low on the horizon and every part of Tullus ached. His arms, his shoulders, his thighs, his back – especially his back. Hours of swinging a pickaxe had brought up blisters – new, ruptured, forming – over both his palms. The neck scarf that he’d tied around his forehead was soaked through with sweat and, under his mail, his tunic was stuck fast to his back. Waves of exhaustion battered at him, and at last he had to stop digging. He had done his bit, Tullus told himself, and there were plenty of willing and able men. Every one of his old legionaries was there, labouring with grim purpose on the mass grave. His and Fenestela’s voices weren’t needed, nor his vitis. In fact, Tullus hadn’t heard a single complaint in that time, nor seen a man stop working other than to take a mouthful of water.
He could not rest for long – he wasn’t able. Six years he’d been unable to do anything for his slain men. Now his moment had come. Wielding a pickaxe was beyond him, so Tullus began carrying the skeletons they had wrapped in blankets and, with great reverence, lowering them down into the pit. It was emotional, horrific work, and he couldn’t help but wonder which legionary each bundle of bones might have been.
A tight band of pain wrapped itself around his chest after a while, but he ignored it. He would not stand by and watch, even if the effort killed him. These are my men, Tullus thought, my fucking men. I couldn’t save their lives, but I can see them into the ground and say a prayer over their remains. Let me do that, Mars, d’you hear me? Fortuna, are you listening? I will do this. And next time you show yourself, Arminius, things will be different. I’ll be ready.
Chapter XXV
A MONTH HAD passed, and Germanicus’ reprisals against the German tribes continued. The army moved ever eastward, searching out fresh settlements to destroy. No more eagles had been found, and Arminius had not been brought to bay, but Tullus remained hopeful. He forced his horse a few paces to the right, and off the road. ‘Keep marching,’ he bellowed.
‘Another piss stop for the centurion,’ commented one of the legionaries. ‘He’s been on the wine again,’ said another. Tullus pretended not to hear – his men could have their fun as long as they obeyed orders. He didn’t need to empty his bladder – they would see that soon enough.
Under his watchful eye, his century marched past, tramp, tramp, tramp, pounding flat the grass. By the time the rest of the vast army had passed, there would be nothing left underfoot but a fine powder. One of the benefits of being in the vanguard, thought Tullus, was not having to breathe in the dust cast into the air by tens of thousands of others. Another was that he had a good idea of what was going on – both from his viewpoint, and thanks to regular reports from the scouts and cavalry.
He craned his head, searching for Fenestela’s staff of office, a difficult thing to spot over the bobbing rows of helmets, yokes and javelins. It was a pain in the arse, Tullus decided for the ten-thousandth time in his career, that army protocol dictated an optio should march at the back of his century, while the centurion rode or walked at the front. Talking to Fenestela would leaven the drudgery of each day’s long march. Instead Tullus had to rely on occasional moments like this, when he broke ranks to have a word. Despite his irritation, the positioning made sense. If and when they were attacked, Fenestela’s role at the back would be vital, as was his own at the front.
Fenestela spotted him and lifted his staff in salute.
‘Everything all right, optio?’ Tullus called.
‘Yes, sir.’ Fenestela made a swift turn to his right, and with a few steps passed into the gap behind the last rank and the next century. He resumed marching to the left of their men, and Tullus nudged his horse forward, beside him. It was something they’d done innumerable times.
Fenestela spoke first. ‘Any news from the scouts?’
‘Not a thing. The countryside is empty, they say,’ replied Tullus, scowling. It wasn’t surprising that the tribespeople should flee into the forests and that Arminius and his warriors were avoiding direct confrontation, but gods, it was frustrating. A man could derive scant satisfaction from razing empty villages to the ground, and knowing that the last eagles were secreted deep in a cave or the like, far from the Romans. There had been some attacks, in the main ambushes on scouts and soldiers searching for food, but they had been inconsequential. Losing a handful of legionaries here and a dozen auxiliaries there harmed Germanicus’ army no more than a wasp sting bothered a bear.
‘How many days have we been looking for Arminius?’
‘Thirty-one.’ Tullus glanced at the fields of stubble sprawling off to his left. The harvest had been taken in, and for the most part, hidden from the Romans. Summer was drawing to a close. As vast and invulnerable as it was, the army couldn’t remain here, hundreds of miles from the Rhenus, for much longer. Supplies would soon begin to run low, and only a fool would countenance staying in enemy territory until they ran out. ‘Thirty-fucking-one.’
‘I wish Arminius would just fight,’ said Fenestela.
‘Every man in the army thinks the same, but time is on his side – not ours. The clever bastard has no great need to worry about food, or when autumn comes.’
Fenestela cocked his head. ‘Has Germanicus decided when we’ll return to camp?’ Tullus had been to a meeting of senior officers at dawn, but they hadn’t yet spoken about it.
‘No. He’s as frustrated as everyone else, and wants a victory before we go home.’
‘It would do all of us good,’ said Fenestela with a scowl.
Tullus’ ‘Aye’ was heartfelt, yet it wouldn’t magic the Germans out of thin air. Nor would Fenestela’s sentiments. It was crazy, even foolhardy, but Tullus almost wished that Arminius would spring another ambush. At least they would then have a chance to face him.
Tullus’ wishes were in vain. The day passed like the thirty before it, without incident.
Things changed on the thirty-third day. Whether it was because Arminius now had sufficient numbers of warriors, or because the Romans were so far from home, no one knew, but his forces began to harry the legions. From dawn until dusk, stinging attacks were launched on the marching column – first the scouts, then the vanguard or the baggage train and next the rearguard. They never lasted for long, and the tribesmen were careful not to engage the Romans head-on.
Deep-throated renditions of the barritus frayed the legionaries’ nerves, in particular when no assault followed. At other times, volleys of spears and sling bullets would come hurtling out of the trees without warning. Casualties were often light – several men injured, an occasional fatality, but the air of tension hanging over the army was ratcheted ever higher. No one had any idea when or where the next attack would fall, which kept everyone from Tullus to the lowest ranker on edge every waking hour of the day.
Darkness did not grant the Romans peace. The tribesmen seemed to have no end of tricks in their i
nventory. The first night, it was intermittent performances of the barritus; the next saw numerous pigs being slaughtered over several hours, close to the camp; during a third, parties of warriors, their faces and hands blackened, scaled the walls and slit the throats of half a dozen sentries.
It was remarkable how effective the constant harassment was, Tullus grumbled to Fenestela. Their soldiers were tired, irritable and prone to jump at the slightest noise. Stories were rife of men who’d gone for a piss in the night being stabbed by a comrade upon their return, and of panicked individuals who had deserted, never to be seen again. ‘Just like it was, six fucking years ago,’ retorted Fenestela, making the fire hiss as he spat into it. By mutual consent, neither spoke further on the subject.
Tullus did his best to combat the ebbing morale, riding the length of the cohort each day, exhorting his soldiers to do their best, and to ignore their brutish enemies, whose monotone singing made a pack of feral dogs sound tuneful. Every evening, he paced the tent lines, repeating what he’d said, doling out his own wine and rewarding any man whose actions had stood out during the most recent fighting.
Several more unhappy days passed. The weather remained stifling, even hotter than before. Germanicus’ army ground eastward like a massive serpent, assailed on all sides by a multitude of biting rodents. It was unstoppable, thought Tullus, yet maddened by its enemies’ incessant and unrelenting attacks.
On the thirty-ninth morning, Tullus and his cohort were no longer in the vanguard. The duty had fallen to the Twenty-First Legion, while the Fifth was marching in the main body of the column, in front of the other legions, but behind just about everyone else in the army. Even the senior officers’ baggage went before them, Tullus heard his men complaining. Germanicus’ soft bed, his personal stores of wine, were more important than they were, moaned a former conscript. It wasn’t fair. ‘Get used to it, you fool. Be grateful that we’re not right at the back, swallowing thirty thousand more men’s dust,’ Piso advised, making Tullus smile.
Once again the sun beat down from a radiant blue sky, devoid of cloud. The prolonged, baking hot weather had parched the landscape. Brown grass, stubble and cracked earth filled the fields. Even the leaves on the trees seemed shrunken, desiccated by the heat. The paths followed by the army were powder dry, and the rivers running low. Finding water had become a vital daily priority. Tens of thousands of thirsty men and animals needed the most enormous quantity. Wise to this, Arminius had his warriors poison many streams with dead sheep and cattle. The wagons were full of soldiers suffering from vomiting and diarrhoea.
Pure luck and nothing more had stopped any of his men coming down with the affliction, thought Tullus, eyeing his water flask and battling not to drain its contents in one go. Waves of heat rose from his armour. It and his helmet both seemed to have doubled in weight. No matter what way he positioned his scarf, his baldric strap kept pinching at his neck. His back ached, and the old injury in his left calf throbbed from time to time. The harsh tang of his own sweat and the whiff of sheep from his woollen tunic were a constant, cloying presence in his nostrils. He squinted at the baleful white-gold orb that was the sun, hoping that it would be near the horizon. It was but a fraction lower in the sky than it had been the last time he’d looked. Midday had been four hours ago, he decided, resigning himself to two or three more hours on the road.
When the column ground to a halt – again – Tullus groaned. Such stops were normal enough, and could happen for any number of reasons, but that didn’t stop them being frustrating. The vanguard could have reached a river, or another obstacle. A mule might have been panicked, or a wagon axle snapped. It was possible that Germanicus wanted to have a look at something.
His men felt none of his irritation. To them, the halt was a welcome break from marching. When Tullus gave the order to lower their yokes soon after, they were even more pleased. Jokes were bandied about, brows mopped and water drunk. Several soldiers asked leave to empty their bladders, and Tullus let them break ranks. Legionaries were doing the same as far as the eye could see, and there was no harm in it – the land to either side was empty of life except for a few birds. Tullus climbed down from his horse and let it pick at the brown grass.
Time passed. A heat haze rippled the air, rendering everything in the distance out of focus. Waves of warmth rose from the packed earth beneath their feet. A lone crow flapped by. From somewhere to their front, mules brayed. The humour that had been widespread among Tullus’ soldiers when they’d first stopped had died away. Men were sweating now, slapping away the flies that hung in clouds around their heads, and propping themselves up with their javelins.
Still the army didn’t move. No word had come about what was going on. Tullus wasn’t concerned yet. He had his troops unsling their shields from their backs and set them standing on the hard ground. Every third soldier was allowed to sit down if he wished – the others would soon get their turn, Tullus told them. ‘Eat something if you’re hungry. Have another piss. Have a shit. Stay alert, you maggots,’ he advised, before riding along the side of the cohort.
Everything was as it should be, which was something. Tullus took the time to greet those men he recognised, and to say encouraging words to their comrades. His centurions met the lack of information with the same resignation that he felt. There was nothing they could do but wait – and cook in the heat.
Tullus was talking with the Fifth Century’s centurion when, without warning, trumpets blared from the front. There was no mistaking the signal for ‘enemy in sight’.
‘See to your men!’ ordered Tullus, riding off. He repeated the command as he cantered along the column. ‘Yokes to the side. Shield covers off. Javelins ready.’
Fenestela was waiting as Tullus neared the First Century – and he’d already had the soldiers stand to. It was as Tullus would have expected, but he still gave Fenestela a pleased nod. ‘Any word from the front?’
‘Not a thing.’ Fenestela hawked, then saved his spit. ‘What do you think?’
‘Who fucking knows? It could be just a few tribal hotheads, or a major attack.’ Tullus peered ahead. Sunlight flashed off armour, helmet crests bobbed about as officers conferred, but the column wasn’t moving. ‘I’ve a mind to ride up the line. The senior officers will know more.’
‘I’ll keep the men in order.’
Fenestela’s reliability dispelled the last of Tullus’ doubt about leaving his command. ‘I won’t be long.’
He hadn’t gone far when he spied a messenger galloping in his direction. The soldiers of the cohort in front – the Sixth – were already discarding their yokes and extra equipment on both sides of the road. Uneasy, Tullus reined in and waited until the messenger drew near.
The rider brought his mount to a juddering halt and saluted. ‘There’s been an ambush, sir, on the scouts and the cavalry outriders. For whatever reason, the cavalry panicked and fled back down the track – straight into the vanguard.’
Tullus didn’t like the sound of this one bit. ‘What did the Twenty-First do?’
‘It seems they too were startled, sir. They’ve broken formation. The tribesmen have pressed home their attack, causing a good number of casualties. The Twenty-First is retreating to the right, away from the army.’
Tullus digested this with alarm. Units were supposed never to break off from the main force without express orders to do so. ‘Why would they do that?’
The messenger was quick to adopt a blank face.
‘What are our orders?’ demanded Tullus.
‘The entire Fifth is to move at once, sir, on either side of the column, up as far as Germanicus’ position. He will lead the legion towards the fighting. With your permission, sir? I have to pass on the command.’
‘On you go.’ Tullus spun his horse. It was fortunate that the ground around them was flat, he thought. He and his cohort could march parallel to the track. Speed was vital.
Reaching Fenestela, he had Germanicus’ order relayed into the next century and onward.
His men formed up, half on the left and half on the right of the track, outside the position of those in front who would not be advancing. Then they began to march slowly, following the Sixth Cohort, and those before it. Chafing with impatience, Tullus kept rising up on his saddle blanket, but he could determine nothing about what was happening further along the column. He ground his teeth and tried to be patient.
Confusion reigned as Tullus and his men continued past each section of the army positioned in front of their own location. First were the senior officers, who were arguing among themselves, with legates shouting at each other and the tribunes bickering in the background. Tullus spied Tubero in the midst of it all, holding forth with his theory about what had gone wrong. Few men seemed interested.
They passed the artillerymen next. Trees were growing close to the track by their position, forcing Tullus and his soldiers to edge around the wagons loaded with dismantled ballistae and other catapults. Their speed slowed to a crawl, allowing Tullus to eavesdrop on the artillery crews, who were blaming the legion in the vanguard for being fools, and lamenting the fact that they almost never got to use their heavy weaponry. Even their mules were irritable, biting at each other’s necks and kicking out at legionaries who strayed too close.
What Tullus liked least was the lack of attention paid by the artillerymen to their surroundings. For all any of them knew, another attack could be sprung right here. He advised the officers in charge to set some guards. There was no time to see if his suggestion was followed, for his cohort had to keep moving. It was imperative that they didn’t fall behind the Sixth Cohort.
The next units – the cavalry – were in no better mood, laying the blame for the panic on the scouts whose job it had been to ride in front of the army. As with the artillerymen, no one appeared to be watching the trees. Again Tullus said something to the officers. There had never been much love lost between infantry and cavalry, and most met his comments with poorly concealed disdain.