Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  ‘Make way, you filth,’ he roared, clattering his vitis on helmets, arms and backs alike. ‘Make way!’

  His own century had just reached the gate when Tullus cleared through the last stragglers of the Sixth Cohort and re-entered the camp. ‘HALT!’ he bellowed in his best parade voice. ‘HALT!’

  Fenestela, who was in Tullus’ usual position, repeated the order.

  After the slightest hesitation, the front rank stopped. The second came to a halt quicker. After that, things went as smooth as they ever would, each rank coming to a standstill with a one, two stamp of their hobnails. Tullus described the chaotic scene outside the gate to Fenestela, who swore long and hard. ‘Those rebellious pricks will be the death of us all.’

  ‘Let’s fucking hope not.’ Tullus’ gaze roamed beyond their men, to the troops further down the column. Could he hold back the rest of the legion? He came to a snap decision. ‘The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Cohorts will want to go with the others, not stay here with us. The best chance of stopping the rot is to go to the Twentieth’s primus pilus.’

  ‘So we move away from the gateway?’

  ‘Do it now. Keep the men focused. Tell them how we’re about to slaughter the bastard Germans. Come down hard on anyone who even looks as if he wants to follow the rest. See that the other centurions do the same.’ Tullus left Fenestela to it.

  He had bigger fish to fry.

  Time passed – it had to have been close to an hour, but Tullus had no way of knowing. The Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Cohorts of the Fifth had joined the rest of the legion and the First on the flat ground outside the camp. But thanks to his intervention, the Twentieth Legion, which had still been within the walls, had been kept in order on the intervallum. Together with Tullus’ cohort, the Twentieth had waited until Caecina, his officers and the baggage train had followed the still loyal First Legion towards the Rhenus. Then it had set out too, making up the rearguard.

  The mutinous Fifth and Twenty-First were to be left where they were, Caecina had ordered. ‘They’ll come to their senses quick enough when they see us marching away,’ he’d said. It was a massive gamble, but no one had had a better suggestion. Delaying – staying behind to try and win the rebellious soldiers over – was far too dangerous. The Germans would attack at any moment.

  Tullus had suggested that his cohort precede the Twentieth, and Caecina had agreed. Too late, Tullus realised this would leave him and his men right behind the baggage train. Under normal circumstances, this position would have been unpleasant, aromatic and shit-spattered. Today, it left Tullus’ cohort as the men who would have to help push the wagons if they became stuck in the mud.

  If, thought Tullus with a lingering sourness. More like when. The army had travelled perhaps half a mile westward before its snail-like pace ground to a complete halt. He tramped forward to the tail-end wagon, a low-sided vehicle laden with dismantled bolt-throwers. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded of the driver, a tiny old man with wispy white hair.

  ‘Wagons in front have stopped, sir,’ came the obsequious but sly reply.

  ‘I can see that,’ replied Tullus in an acid tone. ‘Why are they not moving? Because the ones in front of them are at a standstill,’ he said, before White Hair could tell him the same thing.

  ‘I’d wager that’s the reason, sir.’ White Hair was perched on his seat, the reins to his mule team dangling from one hand. The forefinger of his other hand was buried inside a nostril. He seemed to have not the slightest interest in what was happening around him. ‘Aye.’

  Irritated at first, Tullus then decided that the ancient’s attitude was understandable, and practical. He could not shift his wagon until the ones in front moved forward. Frail, old, White Hair was powerless to help with digging out the bogged-down vehicles. He could not run from the Germans, nor even defend himself. Tullus left him to his excavations, and worked his way through the quagmire past a score of wagons. Many were stuck fast.

  There was no point continuing, he concluded. Everything with wheels would be axle-deep in mud along the length of the baggage train. It would require his cohort and a good number of legionaries from the Twentieth to dig them out – and it would take time. We couldn’t have handed a better opportunity to Arminius if we tried, thought Tullus with bitterness, and wondered if repairing the road first would have been a better option. Spotting the Twenty-First and most of the Fifth still milling about, he cursed and cursed again. If Arminius was shrewd enough to split his forces and attack both the wagons and the disorganised, mutinous soldiers—

  Think like that, and you might as well give up now, Tullus told himself. He retraced his steps, eager to reach his men.

  ‘Things bad?’ White Hair was still in his position, but he’d given up on the exploration of his nostrils. Now a nasty-looking club, its end studded with sharp pieces of iron, was balanced on his knees.

  ‘They’re bad enough, aye,’ replied Tullus. He gestured at the club. ‘Planning to fight?’

  ‘My wife’s twenty-five years younger ’n me. She’s keeping the bed warm in Vetera,’ White Hair disclosed with a wink. ‘That’s worth fighting for, ain’t it?’

  ‘Without doubt,’ said Tullus, amused and heartened by White Hair’s pluck. ‘I’ll be back. We’ll have your wagon out of the mud in no time.’

  HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

  ‘Bastards,’ snarled Tullus, already moving past White Hair and studying the slope to his left for signs of the enemy. Before long, he’d picked out the shapes of men in the trees. They would be gathering on the other side of the baggage train too – and the cohorts had had little time to form up. The fighting was going to be disorganised and even more brutal than usual. ‘Fenestela!’ he roared.

  ‘I’m here, sir!’

  ‘One in every four or five wagons is stuck,’ said Tullus. ‘It’ll take hundreds of men to shift them.’

  ‘All to be done while the savages attack us,’ said Fenestela, curling his lip. ‘O, Fortuna, what did we do to piss you off so?’

  ‘There’s no pleasing that old whore.’

  Fenestela’s shoulders went up and down in a fatalistic shrug. ‘What are your orders?’

  ‘Three centuries to the left and three to the right of the wagons. We need to move up the train as far as possible before the savages strike. That’ll allow legionaries from the Twentieth to follow on and dig out the vehicles at the back.’

  ‘And if the Germans attack Caecina?’

  They exchanged unhappy stares, and Tullus chewed a nail. ‘It’d be just like Arminius to try something like that,’ he said, picturing hundreds of tribesmen descending on the governor and his escort. ‘Gather the century, and do it fast.’

  ‘Will that be sufficient?’

  ‘Any more, and we won’t get there quick enough.’

  Fenestela nodded and hurried off.

  A light rain began to fall. It progressed fast to a constant, driving sheet that soaked a man through within twenty heartbeats. Thunder rumbled overhead. Flashes of lightning tore strips across the sky. The barritus rang out again, a great deal louder than before. The unpleasant scene was all too familiar. Arminius’ warriors were coming, thought Tullus, and in great strength.

  They would be fighting not for the wagon train, but for their lives.

  Chapter XXXIII

  ‘RUN!’ BELLOWED TULLUS. ‘Fucking RUN!’

  Piso was two men back from Tullus, and pounding along as best he could. They had travelled forward a short time before, along the length of the wagon train towards Caecina’s position and the front of the column. Mud was sucking at his sandals, his yoke rattled and swayed on his right shoulder and his shield was dragging down his left arm. Yet Piso was not going to let his centurion – an old man – outstrip him. Nor was he going to get left behind by his comrades, Vitellius and Metilius, who were in front of and behind him. Another three files of soldiers – the rest of the century – were picking their way through the morass to his right. They had to stick together, thought Piso,
just as they had six years before.

  Heavy rain hammered off his helmet, almost deafening him. Over that rang a chorus of thunder, screams and the infernal barritus. Discerning even a single word from Tullus, or the others, was difficult unless it was shouted – and close. ‘Where are we going?’ Piso yelled.

  ‘What?’ replied Metilius, without looking back.

  ‘Where – are – we – going?’ repeated Piso, slower and louder. They had travelled along the length of the baggage train, halting at regular intervals to fight off German attacks. Their javelins had been thrown in the first assault, and were impossible to retrieve. Piso had put down three warriors: a stinging cut on his left cheek the painful memento from a slicing German spear. Whenever Vitellius got a chance, he liked to complain about his broken nose, smashed in the first exchange by a warrior’s swinging club. None of the five legionaries who’d died thus far had been tent mates, for which Piso was grateful.

  His question had gone unanswered, so he bellowed it again, offering up the cry to the oppressive grey sky and the drifting, hateful rain.

  Vitellius slowed for a moment. ‘I heard Tullus say that Caecina’s in danger. That must be where we’re going.’

  Piso cursed, and kept close to his friend’s heels.

  There had been no grateful halt by the wagons at the front of the train, nor any attempt to dig them out of the cursed mud. Instead, Tullus had led his own unit away from the shelter provided by the stranded vehicles. Piso wondered if Tullus had taken leave of his senses. Surely Caecina of all people was safe?

  With a high-pitched whinny, a dark brown horse appeared from nowhere. It flashed between Piso and Vitellius, who both did well not to be trampled. Piso got a brief impression of strings of saliva hanging from its lips, and blood seeping from a deep wound in its left haunch. There was no sign of its rider.

  If Piso hadn’t realised what was going on then, he did when a second and then a third horse charged past, both galloping in different directions. One had a white-faced auxiliary on its back, clutching on for dear life. The nearest horsemen were with Caecina. That was where they were heading, Piso decided, bile stinging the back of his throat.

  The familiar ring of metal off metal, and men’s screams, rose up. Through the sheeting rain ahead, over Vitellius’ shoulder and off to the right, Piso could see swarms of warriors. Beyond them, a few Romans were still mounted, while others were fighting afoot, but they were outnumbered by a large margin. Sixty-odd of them were going to go over there, to try and stop Arminius’ men from killing Caecina. Piso could taste bile now, thick and bitter, at the back of his throat.

  ‘QUICK!’ roared Tullus. ‘Caecina needs us!’

  Incredulous, Piso watched as Tullus somehow began to move even faster. ‘He’s going to burst his fucking heart,’ Vitellius shouted, but he too was picking up speed. So were the men in the files to Piso’s right. Open-mouthed, with yokes clanking and sweat streaming down their faces, they followed Tullus like hounds on a hare. Piso’s love for Tullus – and the shame of being left behind – drove him on. He would keep up, or die in the attempt. Mud coated his legs and spattered on to his face and arms as he powered through the bog. A clod landed in his open mouth. Piso spat it out, disgusted, and almost broke his neck crashing into a large hummock crested with bog rosemary.

  Tullus gave the order to halt and down yokes some hundred paces on. Piso could have wept with relief. Uncaring that a tribesman might spear him, he grounded his shield and crouched beside it, his chest working like a smith’s bellows and his leg muscles throbbing with pain. Around him, he sensed more than one comrade slump to the ground. Piso’s fear returned as his breathing eased, and he took the measure of his surroundings. It felt as if they were on an island. On every side, the battle flowed and swept, clusters of legionaries, cavalry and warriors locked in their own struggle for supremacy. No one appeared to have seen them. That wouldn’t last, thought Piso. They were out in the open – exposed and outnumbered.

  ‘Can anyone see Caecina?’ shouted Tullus. ‘Or the men of his bodyguard?’

  Everyone studied the confusion before them. ‘No, sir.’ ‘I can’t see him, sir.’ ‘Nor I, sir.’

  ‘Fuck it all. Gods grant that he’s not dead,’ said Tullus, his face still purple. He glanced at them. ‘On your feet! Form up, twelve wide, five or six deep. Signifer, behind me. The rest of you stay close to your comrades. Get your wind back as we walk.’ To Piso’s incredulity, Tullus gave him a wink.

  They bunched together, with Tullus in the centre of the first rank. Piso took his place to Tullus’ right and Vitellius stood to Tullus’ left – their usual spots, it seemed. Piso’s pride flared up to be where he was. Hades, but he felt alive.

  ‘Advance!’ called Tullus. ‘Breathe in, and think of fucking the prettiest whore you can imagine.’

  Piso sucked in a lungful of air, and imagined the blonde goddess who worked in Vetera’s most expensive brothel. Diana, she called herself. The huntress. Piso had eyed her up on countless occasions, but had only been able to afford her once, when he had made a huge sum gambling at a gladiator fight.

  ‘Give her one as you breathe out!’ ordered Tullus.

  An animal roar went up.

  ‘Take another breath. She’s telling you that you’re the best lover she’s had.’

  Piso whooped with the rest.

  ‘Exhale, and picture yourself emptying your load into her,’ roared Tullus.

  Diana was under Piso, smiling, her legs wrapped around his buttocks. Piso groaned as he exhaled. Self-conscious at first, he grinned to hear plenty of similar noises around him.

  ‘Feel better, brothers?’ asked Tullus.

  ‘AYE!’

  ‘Me too!’ Tullus laughed. So did every man there – it was a manic sound.

  ‘Who were you screwing, sir?’ called someone from the ranks behind.

  There were snorts of amusement, and Piso pricked his ears. If Tullus visited whorehouses, he did so when nobody was looking.

  ‘None of your business,’ growled Tullus. ‘But I can tell you she screamed like a Fury!’

  Piso and his comrades cheered him then, long and hard.

  Tullus tramped on, and they followed. Perhaps 150 paces separated them from the nearest warriors, who were still engrossed with their attack. Piso’s grip on his sword was white-knuckled now, and his fantasies about Diana long gone. Men would die in the coming moments. Stay close to Tullus and I’ll be fine, Piso told himself over and over. His internal refrain didn’t stop the painful twinges radiating from his bladder.

  Weee-oooo-weee! Oooo-we! With startled cries, a lapwing shot into the air almost from under Piso’s feet. He leaped back with fright and, despite his mail, took a nasty knock from the shield boss of the next-ranked soldier.

  He scrambled into position once more, back hurting and scarlet-faced with embarrassment. Hoots of derision from his comrades rained down, questioning his courage, his parentage and more. ‘All right?’ asked Tullus from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Piso replied, grateful that his bladder hadn’t got the better of him.

  Eighty paces off, a pigtailed warrior turned away from his comrades and spat. He stared at the Romans in amazement, and then shouted an alarm.

  ‘Pick up the pace, brothers,’ roared Tullus. ‘But watch your step!’

  By the time a score of tribesmen had gathered to face them, Tullus and his men had covered almost half the distance. When they were thirty paces away, perhaps twice that number were readying themselves to fight. There were plenty more in the mob, but for whatever reason – confusion, close combat with Romans to the front – they hadn’t turned to meet Tullus’ charge.

  At twenty-five paces, Tullus had his men slow again to a walk. ‘Shields high! Stay close! Forward!’

  Piso’s breath rebounded off the inside of his shield, hot and fast and stinking of the garlic he’d eaten the day before. Mud and annoying pieces of grit squelched between his toes. His back ached too, where the
boss had hit, but he kept his eyes fixed on the closest warriors. Many seemed to be focusing on Tullus, with his unmistakeable transverse-crested helmet. Piso noted three in particular. Two were burly, bare-chested men with similar features and swirling arm tattoos, brothers perhaps, and the last was a short-arsed little bastard with a mail shirt, decorated shield and a fine sword. Each of them was dangerous – Piso sensed it – and if they slew Tullus, Hades would have them all.

  The warriors were fifteen paces away.

  ‘’Tellius!’ Piso roared.

  ‘Aye?’ answered Vitellius.

  ‘See those two inbreds with tattoos, and the little fucker with the mail and the fancy shield?’

  Piso’s heart banged off his ribs three, four times and Vitellius said, ‘I see them.’

  Ten.

  ‘They’re coming for the centurion,’ said Piso. ‘Watch them.’

  ‘I will!’

  Six paces.

  Tullus grunted – it might have been disdain, or even gratitude, Piso never knew – and then he shouted, ‘Swords off shields, and at them!’

  Clatter, clatter. Sixty swords connected with shield rims. The brothers were nearest Piso, while Short Arse was closer to Tullus and Vitellius. Piso’s bladder was really hurting now. Pissing himself wouldn’t matter, he thought, as long as he protected Tullus.

  Shouting war cries, the warriors charged.

  Piso’s mouth was bone dry, his heart pounding. He readied his right arm, and decided to tackle Brother One, who had a longer moustache. Tullus would face Brother Two, and Piso hoped Vitellius would kill Short Arse. He had to rely on the legionary to his left to fight the brute to the right of his target. That was how the shield wall worked, in theory at least.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Up went the familiar noise of shields and bosses clashing off one another, or striking flesh. Men groaned with the pain of it, or with the effort of driving in behind their shields, trying to unbalance their enemies. Fast as a lightning bolt, the sound was followed by screams as blades were rammed home on both sides, and casualties taken.