by Ben Kane
He wheeled right, shoved in against the next man, prayed that the legionaries behind him were doing the same, or he’d end up with a spear in his back. The tribesmen were closer, only twenty paces away. Tullus could see their bared teeth, the sweat beading their brows, the sharp points of their frameae. It was risky, but: ‘PILA! NOW!’
Not all the soldiers with javelins heard his order, or responded in time, but some did. A light shower of shafts shot out from the Romans’ ranks. At such close range, every one hit something. A man, a shield, it didn’t matter, thought Tullus. The volley checked the warriors’ charge a fraction, which was vital. Their barritus caught for a heartbeat and, into that silence, Tullus screamed, ‘DRAW SWORDS, AND HOLD!’
The tribesmen were no fools. They came on with speed, and maintaining their cohesion. Less than a dozen paces out, they separated at last, the barritus replaced by screams of hatred. Four of them made for Tullus, no doubt because of his crested helmet – or perhaps because he was the last man in the line. A trace of panic entered his mind. If they snaked around him and drove in between the two ranks, it was all over. ‘IS THERE ANYONE BEHIND ME?’ he shouted.
The answering ‘Ayes’ had never been more welcome. There were still some spare men, those who had been in the middle of the six-wide column. ‘FACE FORWARD! CLOSE THE GAP!’ Tullus bawled without looking to see if they obeyed.
Back to his enemies. Two men in the prime of life, shoulder to shoulder, both with spears, one with a hexagonal, blue and red painted shield, the other with a distinctive tribal hair knot at the side of his head. A pox-scarred youth, rough-spun tunic, carrying only a club. And the most dangerous of the lot, a wiry man, similar in age to Tullus, armed with an iron-rimmed shield and a nasty-looking sword. ‘Take the one with the club,’ he ordered the legionary to his right.
‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier roared insults at the youngster, getting his attention.
Tullus ducked his head until his eyes were level with the top of his scutum. The pair with the spears would reach him first, he saw, while the older man hung back, waiting for his chance. Roaring like angry bulls, the two warriors closed in. Stab! Stab! Their spears thrust forward in unison. Tullus bent his knees, heard one whistle overhead, felt the second drive into his shield. The impact rocked him back; if it hadn’t been for the soldier behind, bracing him with his scutum, he might have fallen. Using the muscles in his thighs, Tullus drove up, looked, and shoved his gladius into the belly of the warrior whose spear had caught in his shield. His actions were exact, precise. In, no more than a handspan, twist a little, out. The man went down, blood blossoming on his tunic, crying like a baby taken off the tit too soon.
The spear hanging from Tullus’ scutum made it unwieldy and nigh-on impossible to hold. Yet he had to, because the second spear-wielding warrior was driving his weapon at Tullus’ head. The older man had joined him, sword jabbing back and forth, searching for a gap in Tullus’ defences. Arm muscles screaming, desperate, Tullus lobbed his shield straight at the spearman. Doing what he always told new recruits never to do, he broke ranks and leaped forward at the warriors, making use of their confusion. Trying to shove away Tullus’ shield, the man with the spear didn’t even see him coming. Tullus smashed his left shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him flying backwards. Tullus also lunged at the older warrior’s midriff from the side. He hadn’t been expecting Tullus’ attack either, but still managed to twist away, avoiding a death wound. Instead the gladius ripped open the back of his tunic, drawing only a line of blood across his flank and an outraged hiss of pain.
Tullus spun back to the man he’d barged, managed to stab him through the lower leg, and then he was retreating, fast as he could, still facing the enemy. The older warrior followed him, like a cat on a mouse, and Tullus thought: I’m done. My own fault. They feinted at each other, sparred and then, to Tullus’ immense relief, the legionary who’d been on his right shuffled forward a couple of steps, roaring abuse, forcing the tribesman to withdraw.
Tullus resumed his place in the line, called for a shield and was handed one from behind. He had no time to thank the legionary who’d saved him, no time to assess how the rest of his soldiers were doing, because the tribesmen were attacking again. A third less in number than they had been, but advancing nonetheless. The older warrior whom Tullus had injured was among them. In a testament to his bravery, so too was the man he’d wounded in the leg.
‘ROMA!’ Tullus yelled. ‘ROMA!’
It was heartening that the response from his soldiers was loud, and came from plenty of throats.
Tullus put down the man with the leg wound with his first thrust, but the older warrior was killing the legionary on his right as he did. With an animal cry, the warrior leaped into the gap left by the dying soldier. Several tribesmen followed him. Tullus was fortunate to have no one before him, or he’d have been slain as he half turned, exposing his left side, and pushed his sword into the first body he saw – a warrior wearing a dark blue tunic. A frantic look to his left – no one there still – and he killed a second tribesman.
Pounding feet forced him to face front again, to take on first another club-wielding warrior, and then a stripling youth as skinny as his own framea. Expecting to be hacked down from behind by the enemies who’d broken the Roman line, Tullus pushed himself to his limit. He took down the club-carrying warrior with a savage thrust to the belly, and then tackled the stripling – who fell for the age-old ruse of a feint to the face with the shield, never anticipating the precise stab to the throat of Tullus’ gladius. With both opponents dead or dying, Tullus had a moment, a heartbeat to recover. He was suddenly intensely aware of the bands of pain wrapping his chest, the breath ragged in his throat, the sheer relief that he was alive, not dead.
There were no more warriors in front of him. The rest appeared to be pulling back. Tullus looked over his shoulder, could see no tribesmen, just sweaty, bloody, grinning legionaries’ faces. ‘Are they all dead?’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied a veteran who’d been with Tullus almost as long as Fenestela. ‘Or going that way.’ His head disappeared from sight, there was a grunt, a moan cut short, and he popped up again. ‘That was the last one, sir.’
‘Good work.’ Tullus cast a look to his left, where the First Cohort was still advancing. Urgency filled him. They had to keep moving if they weren’t to be left behind. He glanced to his right, along the line. Pride swelled his heart. He had no idea how many of his soldiers were down, but they had held. They had fucking held!
‘Should we go after them, sir?’ asked a voice.
Tullus regarded the remaining tribesmen, who were loping off towards the forest. In other circumstances, other battles, he might have agreed, but not today. Among the trees, there would be more warriors waiting, of that he had no doubt, and they were the ones with the advantage in such confined, awkward places. ‘Let the cocksuckers go. Check the wounded; treat them if you can. Strip the dead of any equipment you need, and do it fast. We move now.’
Tullus stalked down the line, repeating his orders, assessing his losses and his soldiers’ mood. They were bloodied and battered. Six of them would never leave this place, and nearly a dozen more sported wounds of varying severity. These were grievous losses for one clash in an ongoing battle, thought Tullus, especially if they were being repeated throughout the army. His rising sense of concern was countered, however, by the fierce grins his men gave him, and the promises that they’d be ready to march as soon as the injured had been looked at.
They’d make it through – one way or another, he decided.
Nonetheless, Tullus couldn’t quite shake off his unease as they resumed their advance. Scores of dead legionaries – the casualties suffered by the First Cohort – were strewn across their path. Many had been dragged to the side of the road by their comrades, but the unit’s officers had been keen to move on. That meant that Tullus and his soldiers had to pick their way past – and in some cases walk on – the mud-spattered, bloodied corpses and,
worse still, those who had not yet succumbed to their wounds. Having to behave in such a callous manner dampened the brief elevation in Tullus’ men’s mood like a bucket of water emptied over a smouldering fire.
Rather than say anything, Tullus saved his breath; they’d need rallying later, when the enemy hit them again. Thoughts of Arminius filled his head: how they had first met, how he had charmed everyone, in particular Varus. He was a clever man, a battle-hardened warrior, and a leader of men. He would not attack a force of three legions, even from ambush, unless he had an army at his command. It was feasible, even likely, that the warriors who’d attacked thus far were but a small part of Arminius’ host. The rest were in the forest ahead of them.
Where they had to go.
Curse Arminius for a treacherous dog, thought Tullus, wishing that he was back in Vetera, dry, warm – and safe.
In that moment, it seemed as far away as the moon.
XXV
TULLUS WASN’T HAPPY. The ground had begun to climb, and although the gradient wasn’t steep, and the path didn’t lead straight up the hill, it opened his men up to potential attacks from above. Sure enough, fresh volleys of stones and frameae were soon raining down on them. His cohort and the First – the only unit that appeared to be with them by this stage – now had to fight off a strong assault by hundreds of fresh warriors. Their shields bore different patterns to those borne by their previous assailants, telling Tullus that they were from another tribe, which cemented his conviction that Arminius had rallied more than just his own people.
It didn’t take long for Tullus to lose three soldiers in the clash, with almost twice that number injured – losses that were roughly replicated throughout the cohort. Once the enemy had pulled back – there was no point pursuing them – the Romans’ march had continued. The slain had been left where they had fallen, the luckiest among them with a coin in their mouths placed there in haste by a comrade. Grim-faced but resolute, Tullus and his men slogged on through the mud, the wind and the constant downpour.
Only the gods knew what time of day it was – the morning had to have passed, but with storm clouds reducing their world to a rain-soaked, grey twilight, it was impossible to be more specific. They had covered perhaps a mile, and the forest began to die away to their right. At first it was only a few gaps in the trees, but after another half-mile, during which they had not come under further attack, the woodland came to an end. Tullus felt like cheering – the open ground meant that they would be safe from attack on one side at least.
His hopes were soon dashed.
‘It’s fucking bog,’ he said to Fenestela, who’d come to report on the wounded. ‘That prick Arminius is even cleverer than I thought, choosing to fight us here.’
They both looked, hoping Tullus was wrong, but there could be no mistaking it. Two to three hundred paces of scrubby grass and a few bushes further on, the land’s profile changed. Patches of heather and bracken nestled alongside one another; they continued as far as the eye could see. Between them were countless nodding heads of water avens and the unmistakeable yellow flowers of goatweed. These were plants fond of damp, marshy ground. As if to prove the point, the resentful, rattling cry of a grouse rose to meet them.
The significance of what they were seeing sank home faster than a stone dropped down a well. Where there were trees, there was solid ground. A bad place to fight, but it could be done. Men could run away into the forest, if it came to it. But bog?
Fenestela cleared his throat and spat a juicy chunk of phlegm into the mud. ‘That for you, Fortuna, you treacherous old whore.’
On another day, Tullus – cynic though he was – might have counselled against such blasphemy. Now, though, he added his contribution to Fenestela’s with an energetic hawk and spit. ‘The raddled crone is in an evil mood with us – of that there’s no fucking doubt.’
Fenestela lowered his voice further, so the soldiers marching alongside – most of whom, locked in their own worlds of misery, did not appear to have noticed the marshy ground – couldn’t hear. ‘What can we do?’
Tullus cast a jaundiced look at his optio. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’
When the thunder came, it was even louder than before – right above their heads.
The heavens opened, releasing fresh deluges of water, and it truly felt as if the gods were laughing at them. Groans – of weariness, resignation, despair – rippled down the line of marching soldiers. A man could only get so wet, thought Tullus, but his spirits could be dragged lower and lower, until they were in the actual mud. In that moment, he felt his own slide several notches downward.
It was impossible to pick the thing he hated most. The gnawing worry that they were about to be attacked, that he might lose all of his men, that he might die himself. The notion that the mad-eyed soothsayer in Mogontiacum so many years before had been right all along. The brown sludge squelching between his toes with each step, and how the grit within it worked its way further and further into his open-toed boots. The twinging ache in his lower back, and the constant stabbing pain from the old injury in his calf. The strength-sapping feeling of cold, soaking wool against his skin, made degrees worse by the biting wind. The apparent ever-growing weight of his armour. The fact that his shield, combat-ready in his left fist rather than slung from his back, appeared to have been magicked into a single piece of lead. The way his sword hilt pinched the skin on the inside of his elbow with each swing of his arm. The infuriating path that rain took from the rim of his helmet on to his forehead, and onward into his sweat-stung eyes.
Fuck it, thought Tullus. Fuck this wet, dreary shithole. Fuck its savage people, and their barbaric ways. Fuck the weather. Fuck the forest. Fuck the stinking mud. Fuck Varus for being a blind fool. And most of all, fuck Arminius for being a traitorous whore’s get.
The internal rant took his mind from their miserable situation for all of a couple of hundred paces. Then it was back to the numbing grind. Place one foot before the other; keep up a decent speed so that they remained close to the First. Wipe the rain from his face. Shift the hilt of his sword – again. Grip the edge of his shield with his right hand for twenty steps, to ease the load on his left shoulder. Study the trees to their left with great care for signs of the enemy, and then his men, with equal intensity, to monitor their spirits. Growl encouragement at the laggards; shout back to Fenestela, so that he knew what was going on behind him.
Repeat the whole procedure again and again and again. And again.
Tullus dragged his cohort thus another mile.
The next attack was a hammer blow, far worse than any of the previous assaults.
Wily veteran though he was, Tullus was caught by surprise. So too were his soldiers. Who could have predicted that the tribesmen would have constructed huge earthworks, protected by wicker fencing and cut branches, behind which they could hide in their thousands? Yet that is exactly what they had done – what Arminius, the genius, had had them do.
One moment Tullus was trudging along, half counting his steps, half listening to the filthy joke being told in the rank behind, and the next the world filled again with that damnable sound, the barritus. Before his disbelieving eyes, scores of warriors burst into sight from his left, charging straight at his astonished soldiers. More followed, and more, until there were hundreds of the enemy, emerging from gaps in what Tullus realised – far too late – was a manmade embankment thirty to forty paces back into the trees.
There was nothing to their right – even though it was bog, Tullus checked again – which was something. ‘HALT! FACE LEFT! CLOSE ORDER!’ he roared, his voice cracking with effort. He was already shoving his way forward so that he could stand on the right of the first rank. ‘PLACE THE WOUNDED BEHIND. QUICKLY!’
This time, reduced numbers notwithstanding, they were able to form a decent line and throw their pila before the enemy came within gladius range. The paltry number of javelins remaining to them meant that the volley had little effect on the massed a
ssault. Perhaps a dozen tribesmen were punched backward into their fellows, but the rest came on without pause, weapons raised and shouting their hatred. In the lead were five naked warriors, their bodies streaked with daubs of white and blue paint. An alarm sounded in Tullus’ head. He had faced berserkers before, and knew how dangerous they could be. Their manic expressions, large physical size and complete lack of fear, not to mention clothing, shouted that these specimens were to be feared. They weren’t going to hit the line anywhere near him either, worse luck.
Tullus was moving before he let himself think. With a shove, he forced the legionary behind him into his place; then he wheeled around the back of the formation. It was gut-wrenching that his soldiers only stood two deep now, because of their losses. The wounded who could not fight – almost a score of them – made a more pathetic sight. The ones who could sit upright were propped up against one another, daggers and swords in their hands, but the rest lay in the mud, piss-soaked, wounds bleeding and groaning in pain.
Ignoring this bitter reality, Tullus forced his weary legs into a trot. ‘HOLD THE BASTARDS!’ he shouted over and over. ‘STEADY!’ As he made his way towards the centre, he kept peering over his men’s shoulders, searching for the berserkers.
Acid filled his mouth as he realised he wouldn’t reach the point where they struck the line in time. Fortuna wasn’t finished with him yet, Tullus thought, imagining the goddess’s pitiless smile as her dice landed to reveal a pair of unbeatable sixes. If the berserkers smashed through, the battle would turn to a slaughter. Already demoralised, facing more warriors than ever before, his soldiers would break and run – into the bog, where they would be cut down to a man, or drown. Tullus set his jaw, managed to increase his pace a fraction, then a little more. The next few moments would cost him his life, but that was a fair price if he could prevent a wholescale rout.
Fierce cries went up, and then there was an almighty crash. The berserkers had hit the waiting legionaries. Their comrades, a short distance behind, yelled their approval. Tullus, still at the rear, and ten paces from the point of impact, had a perfect view of what happened. The force with which the naked warriors struck pushed both Roman ranks back a couple of steps. Shouts of anger and terror, and pain, competed with the sound of iron on iron and men’s screams. The coppery smell of blood filled the air; mixed with it were its inevitable companions – piss and shit. Tullus heard a man vomiting. His sense of urgency multiplied. All the signs were there. Within a dozen heartbeats, his worst fears would be confirmed. That was how fast the balance of a fight could tip one way or the other.