Hunting the Eagles

  A cry of alarm rose from the ramparts of the Roman camp. Another voice joined in at once. The words were indiscernible, but their tone was not. ‘We’ve been seen,’ said Arminius. ‘Best get back to the trees, in case Caecina sends out a cohort or two.’

  With sharp whistles, he rounded up his men. They were about to set off when Maelo turned back. ‘A little present for the Romans,’ he cried. Opening his breeches, he released an arc of urine into the stream. The warriors hurried to join him, and Arminius chuckled. Their efforts would soon be washing over the wooden road.

  ‘We should have shit all over the first section of timbers,’ a broad-shouldered warrior declared as they began the tramp back to their positions. ‘Imagine them having to march through that!’

  ‘Do that tomorrow,’ suggested Maelo, winking.

  The tribesmen cheered. From the trees, their comrades began to sing the barritus. Louder and louder it rose, a defiant, fear-inducing chant that challenged the Romans to come forth to another day of mud and slaughter.

  Exulting in its sound, Arminius took one last glance at their overnight efforts. As far as the eye could see, the road was submerged. Inguiomerus cannot fail to see the effect, he thought. Grinding down the enemy day and night and impeding his progress at every step are tactics that work. Wolves do not try to take down the bull elk at first pass – he is too big a prey. Instead, they chase him to exhaustion. When he can run no further, they attack from all sides, tearing at the hindquarters and neck until the bull falls. Only then does the lead male grab his throat and choke the life out of him.

  ‘You will die here, Caecina,’ whispered Arminius as the first legionaries began issuing from the nearest gate. ‘Just as Varus did in the forest.’

  Chapter XXXI

  SHOCKED AND ANGRY, Tullus stood atop the camp fortifications. Thanks to the Germans’ efforts, the ground was a veritable morass. The three cohorts marching out had no chance of catching the warriors who’d diverted the streams. Men clad in tunics and trousers could outstrip armoured legionaries with ease. The tribesmen still in sight knew it too – many were shouting obscenities at the Romans.

  Tullus spied one turn back to empty his bladder into the largest stream, and urging his companions to do the same. One figure alone did not join in. Their obvious leader watched with evident amusement, shouting encouragement, clapping the piss-instigator on the shoulder as the group traced a path back to the safety of the trees. At this distance, there was no way of knowing who he was, but Tullus couldn’t help wondering if it was Arminius. It would be like him to stay until the last moment, he thought, wishing that the bolt-throwers were up here, rather than in their wagons, dismantled and useless.

  The barritus started up again from the trees, and Tullus cursed. Like most, he had got little rest thanks to the enemy’s incessant singing overnight. This rendition had a taunting edge to it, or so it seemed to his foggy, sleep-deprived brain. He spat over the ramparts at the Germans. ‘You’re a clever bastard, Arminius, and no mistake. Don’t think we’re done yet, though.’

  Despite Tullus’ fighting words, their situation had worsened a great deal. Caecina’s orders, issued the night before, had been to move out after dawn, but marching on to the just-submerged road was an altogether different proposition to crossing it over dry, repaired sections. This new dilemma would have been bad enough without the news brought to Tullus by Piso late the previous night.

  Tullus’ men seemed happy enough, all things considered, and he hadn’t been aware of ill feeling elsewhere in the legion, but Piso wasn’t one to concoct stories out of thin air. As he was recounting his tale for the second time, Tullus had sent Fenestela wandering the tent lines, seeking out those junior officers who were still awake. It had been dispiriting when Fenestela returned with confirmation of Piso’s story.

  A good number of the Fifth’s legionaries were talking again of rebellion, he reported. Rumour was that the men of the Twenty-First felt the same way. Wary of disturbing Caecina’s rest, even with such tidings, Tullus had decided to tell his general in the morning. He had mulled on it all night. Singling out and killing the culprits, as they had before, would have a disastrous effect on morale. In any case, every man who could wield a sword was needed, or they’d never fight their way out of this forsaken spot.

  Tullus had given up trying to sleep while it was still dark, and had come here to pace the defences and rack his brains some more. It would have been good if inspiration had struck. It hadn’t. Short of magicking a new road into existence, or having the gods destroy Arminius’ gathered host, nothing had come to mind. Caecina had to hear Piso’s tale. ‘Best get it over with,’ Tullus muttered.

  How the general would react to the damage done to the road, he did not know. Should they march on regardless, or stay to restart their repairs? Clattering down the wooden steps, he worried that whatever Caecina’s decision, the attacks today would be heavier than the day before. Arminius was about to throw his entire force at them – Tullus could feel it in his bones.

  If the Fifth and the Twenty-First also mutinied, disaster beckoned.

  Caecina was a veteran officer who had served more than forty years in the legions. Short, squat and with cropped white hair, he was a restless soul who liked to pace about, talking in a loud voice. Tullus heard Caecina deep inside the command tent long before he saw him. When he was ushered into Caecina’s presence, the man looked both irritated and exhausted, but catching sight of Tullus, he let a brief smile cross his lips. ‘Give me a moment,’ Caecina ordered, waving away the staff officers who surrounded him at the large table in the centre of his campaign room. ‘You did well to spot those warriors, Tullus.’

  ‘I was on the ramparts anyway, sir,’ Tullus demurred. ‘Sadly, the cohorts you sent out won’t catch them.’

  ‘I didn’t expect they would, but the Germans’ actions couldn’t go unanswered.’ Caecina seemed about to mention the road, but instead he proffered a brimming glass. ‘Don’t worry. It’s well watered down.’

  ‘A pick-me-up then, sir. Thank you.’ Tullus tasted the wine. Even dilute, it had a fine, rich flavour – there was no comparison with the vintage given him by Germanicus, but it was better than anything Tullus could afford. He glanced at Caecina, who was draining his own glass. Fuck it, thought Tullus. That was a long night, and it’ll be an even longer day. He threw back the contents of his own – and didn’t protest when Caecina offered a refill. ‘It’s tasty, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have some sent around to your tent tonight.’ Caecina batted away Tullus’ protest. ‘The more we drink, the less weight in the wagons, eh? We’ve got to think of the poor mules.’

  Tullus had to grin. ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘Much as you admire my wine, you didn’t come here to beg some of me.’ Caecina’s red-rimmed eyes, sharp as ever, bore down on Tullus. ‘What has you here at such an early hour?’

  ‘Something one of my men told me last night, sir.’ Caecina frowned and Tullus explained. ‘I have no proof that the legionaries of the Twenty-First are as disaffected, but, given the rumours, it seems probable. I thought you should know.’

  Caecina pressed a thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. ‘More bad news.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir—’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s your job to bring me word of such things. So, is the threat real? How does your cohort stand?’

  ‘My men are solid, sir,’ said Tullus with pride. ‘As for the rest, it’s hard to be sure. These things ebb and flow like the tide – you know how it is. One moment, they might all follow an order to attack, and the next, they might not.’

  ‘It depends in part on how today goes, I’d wager.’ Caecina’s face darkened. ‘How bad is the flooding?’

  ‘Bad, sir. Yesterday’s work has been destroyed, or I’m no judge.’

  ‘Curse Arminius!’

  ‘If I knew where he camped, sir, I’d ask to take a couple of cohorts and attack him at night. His alliance might fragment if he was dead.’
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  ‘It’s too easy for such a mission to go wrong, and I can’t afford to lose officers like you,’ said Caecina. ‘You’ve also been through this before, under Varus.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ replied Tullus in a grim tone.

  Caecina rubbed his eyes. ‘I must have slept for a time last night, because I dreamed of him.’

  A chill tickled Tullus’ guts. ‘Of Varus, sir?’

  ‘Aye. I heard a voice calling me. I awoke – in the dream – and walked out of my tent. There was no camp, just the stinking bog on all sides. High-pitched, mesmeric, the voice came from the midst of it – I could not see who or what was speaking to me. I waited, rigid with fear, and at length a pale figure rose from the depths. The wraith began to float over the marsh towards me, and as it drew near, horror filled me. It was Varus. Flesh-rotted, bloodied and with a gaping wound in his chest, but Varus nonetheless. Stretching out his arm, he called me to him.’

  ‘What did you do, sir?’ asked Tullus, fascinated and horrified.

  ‘I was frozen to the spot,’ Caecina admitted. ‘It was only when his cold hand touched mine, trying to drag me with him, that I found the strength to shove back the fell creature. “Go back whence you came,” I cried, and turned away. It was then that I awoke.’ He made a cynical noise. ‘There was no sleep to be had after that, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, sir,’ said Tullus, fighting the feeling that Caecina’s doom-laden vision might have been gods-sent.

  ‘What would you do?’ muttered Caecina.

  Tullus gave him a confused look. ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you were the army’s commander, what would your next move be?’

  For Caecina, a general with four legions under his command, to tell him of his dream about Varus was extraordinary enough, thought Tullus. To be asked for advice straight after – well, it showed how rattled Caecina was. He must not crumble, Tullus resolved. ‘How many days’ supplies have we, sir?’

  ‘Seven. Twice that if we cut rations in half.’

  ‘Seeking another route back to the Rhenus isn’t a good option then, sir.’

  Caecina’s headshake spoke volumes.

  ‘In that case,’ said Tullus, jutting his chin, ‘we have two choices, sir: to repair the damaged sections, again, and hold off the savages at the same time. Tomorrow or the next day, we can enter the marsh via the road. Or we can press on today, along the flattish ground to the right of the camp. In both instances, the Fifth and the Twenty-First are unknown quantities.’

  ‘Is it worse to remain here, and make the troops work under constant assault, or to march into the infernal bog, where the enemy can attack us at will?’ Caecina’s voice was unhappy.

  ‘Whatever we do, we should get going this morning, sir,’ said Tullus with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. ‘I suspect that the attacks today will be heavy, and the Fifth and the Twenty-First might break under the pressure. If we’re moving, their nerve is more likely to hold.’ Let that be true, great Mars, he prayed.

  A dozen heartbeats skipped past before Caecina spoke. ‘My mind is made up. We march out today, along the flat ground. Roman virtus will carry us through this, by the gods,’ he said. ‘It has to.’

  Chapter XXXII

  TULLUS WAS STANDING at the head of his cohort, on the intervallum, the wide open space between the camp walls and the defences. In front of him were the first six cohorts of the Fifth, behind him the last three. Unable to see more than the arse end of the cohort in front, abandoned avenues to the left and earthen ramparts to the right, he chafed with impatience. ‘Why aren’t we marching?’ he muttered to himself.

  Following Caecina’s orders, the four legions had formed up at dawn in the usual manner, cohort by cohort, all around the intervallum. The First Legion was to be in the vanguard today, so it had marched out first, along with the auxiliary cavalry. They were to travel along the flat ground that bordered the ruined Long Bridges road. Their departure had gone ahead without incident more than an hour before. The Twenty-First, whose job it was to form the left flank of the army column, had gone next. The Fifth would take the right flank, and should have been moving by now, thought Tullus, unease nagging at him.

  Caecina, his senior officers and large escort were ready to follow on after the Fifth. The wagon train, laden down not just with its usual cargo of food, equipment and artillery, but the injured as well, would come next, with the Twentieth Legion taking up the rear.

  Tullus could take the tension no longer. He could not leave his position; nor could Fenestela, at the back of the century. Both of them had to be ready to urge the men on when the time came. Tullus’ gaze shifted to his left, and found someone else. ‘Piso!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go and see what’s going on beyond the wall. Quickly!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Piso loped to the nearest set of steps. Clash, clash, clash went his hobnails on the wood. At the top, he propped his javelin against the rampart and raised a hand, shielding his eyes against the light. Tullus watched him with growing impatience. ‘Well?’ There was no immediate reply. ‘Piso!’

  Piso glanced down, his face unhappy.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Tullus.

  ‘The First has marched out of sight, sir, but the Twenty-First, it …’ Piso hesitated.

  Conscious of what he might say, and of the disastrous effect it could have on those listening – every soldier within earshot – Tullus roared, ‘Come back!’

  The Sixth Cohort had begun to advance towards the gate by the time Piso had reached the bottom of the wall. Tullus had his soldiers move off, and indicated to Piso that he should walk alongside. He gave Piso a sharp look. The steady legionary seemed scared. ‘What in Hades did you see?’ muttered Tullus.

  ‘The Twenty-First hasn’t followed the First towards the Rhenus, sir. It’s broken away and marched to the right, to a large, flat area.’

  Tullus let out a ripe oath. He would have given a year’s pay for his horse, so he could gallop out to remonstrate with the Twenty-First’s senior officers. He swallowed down his disappointment, sour as it was. Even if his mount had been close by, his intervention would make no difference. A marching legion was impossible to halt unless its trumpeters sounded – and there wasn’t much chance of that, given that the entire Twenty-First appeared to be disobeying orders.

  Tullus’ worries now soared. Once the Fifth’s cohorts saw what their comrades were at, the likelihood was that they would do the same, rather than follow the First along the intended route of march. It might be too late – the first five cohorts had exited the gate, and would have seen what was going on. He had to move now. ‘Fenestela!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get up here. The tesserarius is to take your place.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Maintain your pace,’ Tullus ordered the nearest legionaries.

  Holding the hilt of his sword so that it didn’t knock off his leg, he began to run. Plenty of curious glances were thrown as he progressed along the side of the next cohort, the Sixth. The ordinary soldiers didn’t dare question him, but the centurions were curious. ‘Ho, Tullus! Can’t you wait to get at the Germans?’ ‘Why the hurry?’ ‘Forgetting your position, Tullus?’

  He grinned and muttered vague replies, and kept running. All the while, he cursed the weight of his armour and his ageing body. Tullus’ back ached, so too did his knees, and the crone who liked to stab at the injury in his left calf was at it again. He had to reach the front of the legion, though, while there was still a chance of preventing it following the Twenty-First.

  He shoved his way through the gateway, which was filled with soldiers of the Fifth Cohort. Men cursed the stranger pushing from behind until they saw Tullus’ rank, whereupon they fell over themselves to apologise. He ignored them and kept moving, but his heart sank as he emerged. All was confusion. Rather than follow the First Legion towards the Rhenus, the Fifth Cohorts had splintered into disorganised groups. Hundreds of legionaries milled about
, ignoring the shouts of their officers. At least one band was marching off to join the rebellious Twenty-First. Several signiferi had joined the aquilifer, and were arguing. The fools were debating what to do, thought Tullus, oblivious to the danger posed by the Germans.

  Tullus focused on finding the senior centurion of the Fifth Cohort – his intervention there might help, but it was a scant hope. As its soldiers spilled out from the gateway behind him, they broke ranks at once. A few centurions tried to stop them, but they were barged out of the way. ‘You’ll pay for this, you dogs,’ Tullus shouted as they swarmed past. ‘Running away won’t save you. Arminius will have taken your miserable hides by sunset!’

  Discipline hadn’t altogether vanished. The nearest men averted their gaze as they streamed past, but Tullus soon had to abandon all hope of rallying the soldiers outside the camp. He ran back to the gate, hoping to stop the next cohort – the Sixth – from dispersing. Within a few heartbeats, it was apparent that this too was a lost cause. Sensing something, the legionaries had pressed forward into the gateway. The lead centurion, a podgy-cheeked, pink-complexioned individual by the name of Proculinus, stopped when he saw Tullus pushing back, into the camp. His face went puce as Tullus explained what was going on. In that short time, Proculinus’ century had passed by – and was beyond his control. The ranking centurion of the Second Century paused and asked Proculinus, ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘What should I do?’ hissed Proculinus to Tullus.

  ‘You can’t stop this – it’s like trying to stem the tide. Stay with your men. Try to keep them together, and be ready to answer the summons to rejoin the rest of the army. If you can’t bring them back, Arminius and his warriors will kill you all,’ warned Tullus. Proculinus nodded and hurried off.

  Tullus pushed on, into the crowd of jostling legionaries. He had to reach his troops, or they too would copy the rest, the way sheep follow those at the front of the flock.