Progress was slow, thanks to the uneven, boggy terrain, and their formation, two centuries wide and three deep, didn’t help. The troops at the front turned the marshy ground into a complete quagmire for the rest, yet a wider arrangement would have made it harder for Tullus to retain control, and left them more susceptible to attack.
After three hundred paces of labouring from hummock to hummock and through pools of cold, peaty-brown water, Tullus paused. Runnels of sweat ran from under his helmet, and his pulse was racing. His men were in better shape, because each of them had at least a decade on him, but he didn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. Instead he gazed with calculating eyes at the tree line, which lay up a gentle slope, ten score paces further on.
It took but a few heartbeats to spy the warriors skulking between the beeches and hornbeams. Tullus had been expecting the enemy, but his heart still lurched. Arminius would be here as well – Tullus could feel it in his gut. ‘See them, brothers?’ he muttered to his legionaries. ‘Not a sound. We advance another hundred paces, at the walk. Pass the word on.’
To retreat now would give the wrong message. It was vital the Germans knew that they weren’t scared, that the legionaries were ready to fight, to do whatever it took to cross the bog. Posturing in this way before battle often reaped rich rewards. The performance was akin to the way two men circled in a tavern, eyeballing one another as they decided whether or not to come to blows. It wasn’t always about the skill or size of the individual, thought Tullus, although that helped. Sometimes having bigger balls than your opponent was enough to end the contest before it started. To achieve this meant being close enough to stare the other in the eye. In this case, it meant trudging uphill through the mud, each step giving the enemy more of an advantage.
Tullus’ certainty that advancing was a good idea soon began to wane. The closer they went, the greater the likelihood that he would have to commit to battle. Forming the usual shield wall would be almost impossible on this undulating ground. If enough warriors came charging from the trees, there was no guarantee that his men would prevail.
Tullus had just signalled the halt when a lone figure strode forth from the trees. An immense warrior with long blond hair, he was stark naked and carried a club. Roaring insults, he made straight for the Romans. Perhaps a hundred paces lay between them.
‘Gods, his prick is big as a mule’s!’ shouted Tullus.
As he’d hoped, his men hooted and roared. ‘Come down here. We’ll trim it to a proper size!’ challenged Piso. ‘Or cut it off altogether!’ said Vitellius. A barrage of similar jibes followed.
Mule Prick didn’t hear or couldn’t understand their insults. He sauntered closer, bawling in his own tongue and beating his chest with one fist. His mighty club swung to and fro, promising death to any man who came close enough. Despite the fact that Tullus’ soldiers outnumbered him hundreds to one, his advance was intimidating. The legionaries’ abuse began to die away.
Mule Prick’s companions sensed their uncertainty. First came seven other naked berserkers, shouting their contempt of the Romans. Then, in threes and fours, the rest began to emerge from the trees. Soon fifty warriors had gathered, then a hundred. Two hundred. Four. Five hundred. They were like rats swarming out of a burning granary, thought Tullus with unease. Tall, short, broad and skinny, snaggle-toothed and smooth-cheeked, the tribesmen were clad in woven shirts and patterned trousers. Most bore shields, hexagonal or round, with painted designs. A small number had helmets. Even fewer had swords. Perhaps a dozen had mail shirts.
Every last warrior carried a handful of frameae. Tullus knew well the danger posed by those versatile spears which could be hurled from close or long range or used as thrusting weapons.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM! From a thousand throats, the sonorous barritus began.
Tullus hissed a curse. Until this point, the scales had been more or less balanced. In the space of five heartbeats, they had shifted, in the warriors’ favour.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
Mule Prick grinned as the mass of warriors advanced towards his position. He increased his own pace, which in turn made them speed up.
Worry gnawed at Tullus now. Mule Prick was fifty paces away. When his comrades reached him, they would charge. If that happened, the situation would disintegrate into bloody chaos. The cohorts on the level ground would be watching the drama unfold, but they’d never be able to reach Tullus’ men before they were overwhelmed. It was possible too that thousands more warriors might appear from the trees and threaten the whole legion.
‘Front two ranks, ready javelins. Whoever takes down the brute with the giant cock earns an amphora of good wine. On my command,’ Tullus said to left and right. ‘Pass it on – quick!’
Mule Prick swaggered another five paces nearer. Tattoos on his muscled limbs writhed with each step, and his outsized member flopped from side to side, a mockery of ordinary men’s genitalia. Spying Tullus, perhaps because of his crested helmet, he pointed his club. ‘Fight!’ he roared in accented Latin. ‘Come and fight!’
‘I’ve no wish to be bludgeoned to death by your cheesy dick!’ Tullus shot back in German. He repeated his words in Latin and every legionary within earshot laughed.
Mule Prick’s face purpled, and he continued advancing towards Tullus. ‘Fight, coward!’
Tullus checked. The first two ranks were ready, their right arms back. ‘LOOSE!’ he bellowed.
Mule Prick sensed the danger at last. He halted. Now he took a step back, then another. The maggot was forty paces away if he was one, thought Tullus as his gaze followed two score javelins up into the air. Thirty was the limit of most men’s effective range with the javelin. Throwing uphill reduced that distance. Tension knotted his belly as the shafts plummeted earthward.
A heartbeat later, Tullus let out an incredulous laugh. No less than three javelins had struck Mule Prick. Two had taken him in the belly, one high and one low, and the other had run through his right bicep, forcing him to drop his club. Mule Prick bellowed with rage and pain, and gave a useless tug at the shafts in his stomach. Then his legs buckled, and he fell to one knee, moaning as the javelins moved and wrenched in his flesh.
To Tullus’ relief, Mule Prick’s plight had stopped the avalanche of warriors in its tracks. He and his men weren’t out of danger yet, however. ‘Third rank, pass your javelins to the front!’ he shouted. ‘First rank, ready!’
Another volley of javelins went up. Only one hit Mule Prick this time, but it speared him through the chest, killing him. An audible sound of dismay went up from the tribesmen as his bloodied corpse fell backwards into the bog, and the javelins transfixing him jerked upright like so many fence posts.
‘Draw swords. Keep your faces to the front,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Walk backwards, nice and slow.’
Eyes fixed on the enemy, they stepped back the way they had come. Progress was slower than before. Unable to see what was behind them, men tripped and cursed, and a number turned an ankle or wrenched a knee. One fool suffered a flesh wound to the buttocks when he stumbled backwards on to the sword wielded by the soldier in the next rank.
Tullus didn’t care, because there had been no pursuit, and by the time they reached more level ground, the warriors had vanished into the trees, taking the berserker’s corpse with them. At least a dozen legionaries began taking the credit for hitting Mule Prick. Tullus laughed and said that the century would have four amphorae to share between them, one for each javelin that had struck home. ‘When we get back to Vetera, of course,’ he added. Despite this sobering comment, the soldiers cheered.
As Tullus neared the other cohorts, Bassius was waiting with a small escort. ‘That was a close call.’
‘It reminded me of kicking a wasps’ nest, sir,’ said Tullus in sober tone. ‘Not the wisest thing to do.’
‘It was clever to bring down the berserker.’
Tullus fell out of rank, and indicated that his men should keep marching. He lowered his voice. ‘If he
hadn’t fallen, sir, we’d have been finished.’
‘You did well. How many are they – could you see?’
‘I counted about a thousand, sir, but there looked to be plenty more in the trees. Arminius won’t be here unless he has a good-sized host. Six years ago, he must have had fifteen to twenty thousand spears.’ The enormous figures were a stark reminder of their own situation. Caecina commanded more legionaries than Varus had had, but in an ambush, superior numbers often counted for little. The potential for Arminius’ ambush to be repeated was there, thought Tullus. The Long Bridges road was a good place to attack, because of the vast bogs that rolled away into the distance. If the legions broke, they would have nowhere to run.
‘I always wondered how Varus could have been led astray,’ said Bassius. ‘I’m beginning to understand.’
Tullus’ festering anger towards Arminius flared. ‘The same thing is not going to happen to us!’ He flushed and added, ‘Sir.’
Bassius seemed amused. ‘I’m glad to have you in my legion.’ He gave Tullus an approving nod, but then he was all business again. ‘The camp won’t get built on its own. Caecina has sent word to continue what we’ve started. Get your lot digging over there, by the Sixth Cohort. We’ll talk later. There’s to be a meeting of high-ranking officers, including senior centurions.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus approved.
An unexpected break appeared in the clouds, spilling shafts of late-afternoon sunshine on to the damp landscape. A moment later, the rain eased off and stopped. The effect was remarkable. Their surroundings, which had been so forbidding, almost seemed welcoming. Deep in the bog, a hidden grouse let out a satisfied ku-ku-ku-ku-kerrooo. Elsewhere, a legionary was whistling. Another man cracked a joke. Morale remained high, and Tullus smiled.
He glanced up the hill where they’d slain the berserker, and his good humour vanished as fast as it had arrived. Along the tree line stretched an unending row of tribesmen. It was no better on the hillock opposite. They had to number four thousand, thought Tullus, resentful of the cold sweat trickling down his back. Worse still, they were but a proportion of Arminius’ host.
To a man, the warriors were motionless. Their presence was enough threat, enough of a message to every Roman in the bogland below.
We will kill you all.
Chapter XXIX
NIGHT HAD FALLEN over the vast Roman camp for the second time since Caecina’s army had arrived at the beginning of the Long Bridges road. Drizzling rain, dense and cold, yet fell. Cloud hid the moon and stars, as it had the sun – all that day and the ones before it. The only light came from small, sputtering fires by the soldiers’ tents, and from their personal oil lamps within. Piso was trudging the muddy avenues towards the tent that served as a temporary hospital. The poor light, uneven surface and protruding rocks meant that it had taken him three times as long as normal to come this distance from his cohort’s position. He consoled himself with the thought of the injured Saxa, who would appreciate his company and, more, the wine slopping about in the leather bag slung over his shoulder.
From beyond the ramparts came the sound of singing: Arminius’ tribesmen carousing. Piso had been doing his best to block his ears to the unsettling, alien sound, but it was a real struggle. Hades take them and soon, he thought, and keep our sentries alert. Reaching the hospital tent’s entrance, he let two stretcher-bearers emerge, carrying a legionary’s body. Piso couldn’t help but lean in to see if it was Saxa, or anyone else he knew.
Shamed by his relief at not recognising the corpse, he fumbled in his purse. ‘Wait.’ Both orderlies looked irritated, but they paused. Proffering a denarius, Piso muttered, ‘He’ll need to pay the ferryman.’
‘You’re a good man,’ said the senior stretcher-bearer, a veteran old enough to be Piso’s father. ‘Go on.’
The corpse’s still warm lips were disquieting to the touch, but Piso had done the same for more than one comrade over the years. He laid the coin on the bloody tongue, and pushed the jaw shut. ‘May your journey be swift. Give that brute Cerberus a kick from me.’
The stretcher-bearers gave him a friendly nod and went on their way. Piso knew their destination: a vast pit against one wall of the camp. Dug the previous day, even as the fortifications were being finished, its bottom was waist-deep in bog water. Within, the result of today’s fighting, were the bodies of more than five hundred legionaries. None of his friends were among them, which was something to be grateful for, but two men from Tullus’ century were, and upwards of fifty from the cohort. The Germans’ attacks had been relentless through the day, on both the soldiers fetching timber and those engaged in repairing the neglected road.
I’m alive and unharmed, thought Piso, and so are the rest of us, apart from Saxa. A framea had pierced his comrade’s lower left arm as he helped to chop down a tree. Unless Saxa was unlucky, the wound would heal. Be grateful, thought Piso. Other men haven’t fared so well.
A wall of warm, fuggy air met him as he entered the hospital tent, bringing with it a mixture of powerful smells. The harsh tang of acetum was welcome beside the other odours: piss and shit, blood, damp wool and men’s sweat. Breathing through his mouth, Piso paced along the lines of wounded, bandaged men, his eyes searching for Saxa. Like their hale comrades elsewhere in the camp, the patients’ only bedding was an army blanket each. Many were sleeping, or comatose, either drugged with poppy juice or so far gone that they were beyond needing it. Others moaned softly to themselves. A few held muttered conversations with their neighbours. Someone was humming the tune of a popular marching song, over and over. A man was whimpering, ‘Mother. Mother. Mother.’ Piso glanced at him, and wished he hadn’t. Heavy bandaging covered the soldier’s right eye, but dark red blood continued to seep through from the wound beneath. The pain had to be excruciating.
Piso felt helpless, frustrated. He could do nothing for the soldier but pray, same as he had for every other poor bastard he’d come across. As if that did any good. With clenched jaw, he moved on. ‘Saxa?’ he called.
‘Halt!’ Despite his strident tone, the surgeon confronting Piso looked fit to drop. His sallow face had a waxen hue, and deep bags were carved out beneath his eyes. Plentiful blood spatters had rendered his tunic red instead of cream. Similar stains marked both his arms to the elbow. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I’m looking for a comrade, sir.’
Seeing Piso’s wine bag, the surgeon sniffed. ‘You’re planning to ply him with drink.’
Too late, Piso tried to conceal what he was carrying. He pulled what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘You have me, sir. My friend was wounded earlier. I thought a drop of this would warm him up.’
‘This is a hospital, not a tavern,’ retorted the surgeon, pointing at the entrance. ‘Out. Your friend can find you when he’s discharged.’
‘I’ll only stay a few moments, sir.’
‘That’s what they all say. Half a watch later, my orderlies have to eject them, leaving my patients drunk as noble youths the day they take the toga. Out.’
‘I was in the Eighteenth, sir. So was my mate,’ said Piso, throwing caution to the wind. ‘I took an oath after the ambush never to leave another comrade without giving him a taste of wine first.’
The surgeon frowned. ‘We’re not abandoning anyone.’
‘I know we’re not, sir, but …’ Piso didn’t want to suggest what might happen in the next few days. It felt like tempting the Fates, and they were fickle Greek bitches at the best of times.
The surgeon moved aside with a sigh. ‘Be quick. He can have a few mouthfuls of wine, and that’s it.’
‘My thanks, sir.’ Before the surgeon could change his mind, Piso darted around him and resumed his walk between the lines of wounded men. Saxa was lying twenty paces further on, his injured arm wrapped in a clean piece of ripped tunic. He seemed to be asleep. Piso nudged his leg. ‘Thirsty?’
Saxa twitched and woke, then focused on Piso. A smile split his face. ‘How did you get in? The surge
on is as crusty as an old whore’ s—’
‘Shhhh,’ hissed Piso, aware that the surgeon was close by. ‘He’s not too bad. Even said I could stay for a bit. You’re allowed some of this.’ He swung the bag down off his shoulder and unstoppered it.
‘You’re a marvel. Give that here!’ Saxa reached out with his good hand. Piso held the bottom of the bag and tipped it up so his friend could drink. Saxa’s throat worked as he swallowed two, three big mouthfuls. ‘Gods, that’s good,’ he said, pulling away at last.
Piso was watching the surgeon, and held it up, out of reach. ‘Maybe that’s enough.’
‘Balls. Give it back!’ Saxa relented when Piso indicated the surgeon with a jerk of his head. Saxa lay back on his blanket. ‘That was good. Gratitude, brother.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘My arm aches, but then a fucking spear went through it, and it’s been sluiced with acetum. The surgeon says I’ll be back to light duties within the month. Full duty within two. That is, if …’ Saxa stopped. ‘How are things out there?’
‘Fine,’ lied Piso. ‘You don’t need to hide anything from me,’ said Saxa, scowling. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Not as bad as the first day with Varus,’ said Piso in a low tone. ‘We’ve lost four or five hundred men.’
‘May their shades not linger in this shithole. Did we kill many Germans?’
Piso spat the words out. ‘A hundred, they say, maybe more.’
Saxa swore again. ‘Tell me that a decent stretch of road got repaired at least.’
‘A mile.’
‘That’s it?’ Heads turned at Saxa’s cry, including the surgeon’s – who gave them both a disapproving look.
‘We’ll fare better tomorrow,’ said Piso, offering the bag. ‘Have a last swig. I’ll end up on a charge if I stay any longer.’