by Ben Kane
Piso’s hunch was right. The brothers and Short Arse were trying to kill Tullus, and the weight of their attack – two stabbing spear blades and a probing sword – was such that Tullus could not fight back. He had ducked down behind his shield. Blind, he could do nothing but brace himself and wait for a chance to strike. Already both brothers were trying to thrust down over the top of Tullus’ shield. Piso digested this information in perhaps six fevered heartbeats. Cursing, he stuck his sword into the only portion of Brother One that was visible – his flank, above the waistband of his patterned trousers. Blood blossomed, Piso felt the blade grate off the hipbone and Brother One roared in agony.
Piso wrenched on his sword, feeling it slide off the bone again as it came out in a spray of red. Most men would have gone down with such a wound, but Brother One was set on killing Tullus, regardless of cost. Hissing with pain, he stabbed again with his spear, over Tullus’ shield.
The point caught in Tullus’ mail, where Piso couldn’t see, but Tullus let out a bull’s bellow. He must have struck back in reflex, because someone very close – not Brother One – let out a strangled cry. Brother One pulled back his spear with a snarl. Piso was about to stick him again when something hit the top of his head with an almighty crash. Stars burst across his vision, and his strength vanished. He dropped to one knee, letting go of his shield. His over-tight bladder began to empty itself. Above him, someone roared in triumph.
I’m done, thought Piso. Whoever did that to me is about to smash in my skull. Most of him didn’t care. The smell of his own piss was thick in his nostrils. His other knee trembled, and he almost fell on to his face. The death blow didn’t fall, though, which was baffling. Fuzzy-headed, swaying, and lapsing in and out of consciousness, Piso stared at the confusion of moving legs and churned-up ground before him. Bloodied and limp, a corpse lay right in front, and was being trampled by those above it. There was plenty of mud, as always. Several weapons were visible: two spears, a Roman sword. A tiny ladybird was balanced on a sprig of heather, oblivious to the carnage being waged around it.
Strong legs in patterned trousers shuffled back and forth just to Piso’s right. Brother One? he wondered dully, trying to focus on the trousers again. He’s still on Tullus.
Piso’s sword was lying by his side, his weak fingers still resting on the hilt. He eyed it, a new urgency thrumming through his slow-pulsing veins. He lifted it up a handspan. Then another. Fixed his gaze on the trousers. Raised his blade a little more, tensed his arm muscles. Thrust. Connected. Sliced through the fabric and into the meat of the trousers’ owner’s calf. The blow wasn’t powerful, but it was true. Piso’s sharp-edged blade went in – deep. A piercing shriek battered his eardrums, and the trouser-wearer staggered, wrenching the sword from Piso’s grasp.
His strength was gone. White light surrounded him. Piso let go.
Chapter XXXIV
NOT FAR AWAY, Arminius was also in the thick of the fighting. Sweat slicked down his face and into his eyes. He blinked away the salty sting and met the shield thrust from his enemy, a grimacing legionary, with braced legs. His willow shield splintered with the impact, and the legionary let out a pleased grunt. He still had a satisfied look on his face when Arminius’ sword glanced off his shield rim and rammed into his left eye. With a soft pop, almost indiscernible, and a spray of watery fluid, the globe ruptured. Steel ground off bone. His brain pithed, the legionary was dead before Arminius had freed his blade.
‘Change!’ Arminius roared. He didn’t want to leave the fight, but his cracked shield guaranteed a quick death from his next opponent. There was time for a man to take his place before the legionary in the next rank was close enough.
‘Change!’ cried Osbert, the warrior to his rear.
In a move they’d rehearsed scores of times, Arminius half turned, pulling his shield in close to his body. With his shield arm extended, Osbert slipped past to Arminius’ left, allowing his chieftain to withdraw at the same time.
‘Donar!’ cried Osbert, causing the legionary facing him to flinch. Letting out a triumphant roar, Osbert shoved his spear into the Roman’s neck. A fountain of blood jetted from the vicious wound it left, and the legionary fell on top of his comrade. ‘Donar!’ cried Osbert again.
Satisfied that the line would hold, Arminius cast around for a new shield. There were a number lying about, dropped by injured and slain warriors. Finding one to his liking, he took the opportunity to step back. When the crimson mist fell, it was too easy to forget everything but reddening the blade. Just a short remove from the fighting, Arminius’ zeal cooled, and he looked to his left. Things seemed to be going well there. As he watched, a wedge of warriors drove deep into the Roman lines, unhorsing a senior officer and panicking nearby riders’ mounts. Hooves kicked to and fro, and men wailed as they were thrown backwards into the bog.
In front of Arminius, six legionaries and some dismounted cavalrymen had made a stand together, but they were cut down by an overwhelming charge led by Osbert. The section’s remaining defenders faltered, and then broke as Osbert tossed a severed head into their midst. The warriors charged after the Romans with vengeful cries. Arminius smiled.
Find and kill Caecina next, he thought, and his chances of overall victory would soar. And yet that task was almost impossible to achieve. Things were going well, but utter confusion reigned. The heavy rain had reduced visibility to fifty paces or less, and the thick mud impeded everyone, light-armoured or not. His battle-mad warriors were unlikely to recognise Caecina, or to be able to find Arminius and tell him even if they wanted to. His best option was to oversee the massacre of every Roman in this small area, and to hope that Caecina was among them before moving on.
Arminius also had to trust that the other chieftains – Inguiomerus, Big Chin, Stick Thin and the rest – were doing what he’d asked of them. As well as attacking the wagons and the two legions which had broken away from the column, each of the eagle standards was to be targeted. ‘Take one of those,’ Arminius had told them, ‘and you cut off a legion’s balls.’ He hoped that they’d emphasised this to their warriors, and that the attraction of the wagon train – a booty-rich, easy target – wasn’t too great a temptation.
‘ROMA!’
The shout – and the subsequent crash of bodies and shields – was close enough to turn Arminius’ head. Distracted, he hadn’t until then looked to his right. That had been a mistake, he thought, cursing his stupidity. A party of the enemy – it wasn’t clear how many – had just driven into his warriors. Some must have seen the attack coming, because the legionaries had been checked, but there was a noticeable bowing in the line. Arminius watched with grim intent. On the far side of his assailed men’s position, the Romans seemed to have taken heart and redoubled their efforts. His warriors were now caught between two groups of the enemy.
‘You, you and you!’ Arminius shouted to get the attention of nearby men. Ten, a dozen, fifteen formed a ring around him. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered, urgency throbbing in his voice.
Fresh thunder rolled overhead. The rain pattered down with relentless intensity, disturbing the pools of stagnant water. Ripples caused by wading men lapped off muddy banks. Brown, peaty water splashed high, dripping off the heather and bog cotton. Spongy grass on the hummocks compressed and sprang back from the impact of the warriors’ passage. The mire made reluctant, sucking sounds as it released their feet. Gorse thorns tore at their arms and legs. Arminius cursed as he lumbered along. Their progress was slow, too slow.
His bad luck was compounded by the Romans’ leader, who saw them coming. By the time Arminius drew near, ten legionaries were waiting for them in a small shield wall. Weighed down by their armour, knee-deep in the mud, they were still a fearsome prospect. To hesitate was to die, thought Arminius. Ordering four warriors to flank the enemy, he led the rest forward in a little wedge. It was a tactic he’d learned in the legions.
‘Donar!’ he roared.
The warrior to Arminius’ left broke free of their f
ormation and struck the Roman line first. Run through by two swords, he died before his spear thrust had found a home in enemy flesh. His sacrifice allowed Arminius to close unscathed, and to kill a legionary. The warrior to Arminius’ right slew another even as he took a mortal wound.
Arminius shoved his way into the gap, careless of the danger he was in. Wheeling, he stabbed a legionary in the base of the spine, below his armour. Three steps on, and he slashed another’s legs from under him. The next Roman half turned, his face frantic, and Arminius stuck him through the throat. Assailed from in front and behind, the outnumbered legionaries did not give up, downing two more of his followers and maiming another before they died.
‘That was well done,’ said Arminius to his ten surviving warriors. He was no longer sure if they were enough to make a difference to his beleaguered men, but they had to try, or his attempt to kill Caecina would come to a premature end. ‘Can you do the same again?’
Mud-covered, blood-encrusted, they nodded in assent.
‘After me then.’ Arminius took a step forward.
‘Over there!’ shouted a voice in Latin. ‘Three men from the two rear ranks, turn. Pick up any spears you can. Move, you maggots!’
The voice sounded familiar but, in the heat of battle, Arminius could not recall from where. He led his warriors on, towards the section of legionaries that was breaking away from the Roman formation. Curse the bastards, he thought. Even in these abominable conditions, their discipline remained impressive. Six legionaries were ready to take them on, with, in their middle, a veteran centurion.
Each party closed on the other with a measured, purposeful intent. No one shouted; no one ran. The loss of a single man to a twisted ankle at this point could prove the difference between victory and defeat. Arminius talked to his warriors in a calm voice, urging them on; he could see the centurion doing the same with his soldiers.
‘Let’s charge,’ muttered one of Arminius’ warriors when fifty paces remained. ‘Panic them.’
‘These ones won’t break,’ said Arminius. ‘Keep walking.’
‘But their armour—’ began the warrior.
‘I know,’ interrupted Arminius. Their own numerical advantage was countered to a large extent by the Romans’ armour and curved shields. ‘When we’re close, we’ll give them a volley of spears. Then you three are to go left, and you three move right. Get around to their rear while the rest of us distract them.’
‘Aye.’ The warrior’s grin was feral.
It was a simple plan, thought Arminius, but better than fighting the legionaries on their terms. Even when the Romans were calf-deep in the morass, it was inadvisable to take them on face-to-face.
Arminius had not expected the centurion’s next move. A shouted order, and his legionaries launched spears – scavenged frameae – at thirty paces. There was time, just, for his men to raise their shields, but the unexpected volley, and a second one, injured two warriors. They fell back, groaning in pain.
Arminius felt the first traces of doubt, and cursed himself in the same moment. To retreat now would be shameful. He still had two men more than the enemy, and the advantage of speed and mobility. Mud or no, they could run rings around these legionaries. It would be over and done in no time. How the rest of the Romans would quail when first their centurion’s helmet landed among them – and then his decapitated head. Arminius continued to advance.
‘Throw!’ he shouted at twenty paces.
Not all his warriors had enough frameae to loose at the enemy, but half a dozen hurtled up into the leaden sky. Arminius’ second shaft followed a heartbeat later. Down they came, like streaks of black lightning, one after another. The first found a home in a shield. Five thumped into the mud, or glanced off helmets and armour. The last, falling short, took a legionary in the foot. He bellowed like a stuck pig, but after a comrade had jerked out the weapon, resumed his position.
‘Charge!’ roared Arminius, breaking into a run. Move fast enough, and the legionary with a spear-encumbered shield would be defenceless, and the injured man still reeling with pain. ‘Go!’ Arminius ordered the warriors who were to break away on either side.
‘Shields up!’ ordered the centurion – a senior centurion by his helmet. ‘Steady!’
Again the voice tickled Arminius’ memory. He focused on the officer’s face, noted the long jaw, the steely eyes. A jolt of recognition struck him. It was Tullus, whom he’d first met close to the Rhenus, during the recapture of a bear destined for the arena. Six years older, his face more lined, but Tullus nonetheless.
Arminius chuckled. It seemed apt – and perhaps predictable – that he should have been one of the few to survive his ambush. Now, though, Tullus’ time had come. He would be hard to kill. I’d best do it, thought Arminius, changing the angle of his run to ensure that he came up against Tullus.
Arminius saw Tullus’ eyes flicker and register the warriors flanking his men. ‘Form rectangle!’ Tullus bawled. ‘Vitellius, into the middle!’
Just as Arminius and his warriors closed in, the Romans moved, assuming a shape that was two men wide and three deep. Tullus was one of the pair at the front, and the legionary who’d lost his shield stood safe in the middle, a one-man reserve.
Furious, Arminius thrust hard at Tullus’ face. The centurion ducked behind his shield and stabbed back without looking. Arminius had to jump away to avoid being spitted. Tullus popped up again, ready for Arminius’ next attack. They eyed each other for a moment, and Tullus frowned. ‘Arminius?’
‘You made it through the forest.’
‘No thanks to you!’ Tullus lunged with all his might at Arminius’ head.
Desperate, Arminius twisted to the side and felt the rush of air as the blade shot past his left ear. He struck back, and hit Tullus’ shield.
‘I’ve longed for this moment,’ cried Tullus. ‘Prepare yourself for Hades.’
‘You can’t take me, old man.’ Arminius lifted his shield so he could aim his spear at Tullus’ left foot. Stab! Tullus whipped back his leg just in time. A hammering response, and Tullus’ sword hit the top of Arminius’ shield, jarring his arm.
‘Oathbreaker!’ Tullus smashed his iron boss into Arminius’ shield, and his momentum drove Arminius back.
Wise to the fact that Tullus could not capitalise on his success without leaving the safety of his formation, Arminius steadied himself and followed as Tullus retreated. Thrust! Arminius’ spear drove through Tullus’ feathered crest, doing no harm. Arminius’ next lunge smacked into the brow of Tullus’ helmet, blunting the spear tip but eliciting a cry of pain. Many men would have staggered then, and died as Arminius struck again, but from somewhere Tullus found the strength to respond with his own sword. Mouthing curses, Arminius dodged to one side, and Tullus’ blade scored a deep line across the face of his shield.
The pair glowered at each other as they recovered their breath. Arminius took stock, and wasn’t happy with what he saw. Two of Tullus’ legionaries were down, dead or injured, but so were four of his warriors. They still outnumbered the Romans seven to five, but attacking their tight formation was laden with risk, as Arminius’ casualties proved. They might yet prevail – we would prevail, he thought angrily – but more warriors would die. He’d be left with too few men to make any difference to those caught between Tullus’ soldiers and the mixture of senior officers and cavalry. I’ll return with more warriors, he decided. Finish this once and for all.
‘Ready to go again?’ taunted Tullus.
‘Soon,’ Arminius spat, before rounding up his warriors, hale and injured.
‘Come back!’ Tullus’ shouts followed them across the bog. ‘Traitor!’
Humiliation burned Arminius like a hot iron. Sensing his rage, his men didn’t say a word as they followed him.
That there might not be a ‘next time’ was apparent by the time he had gathered a strong enough force to lead another attack on Tullus and his soldiers. The situation changed again as, with loud trumpet calls, the legion which
had formed Caecina’s vanguard came marching back to the aid of their beleaguered comrades. Dismayed, groups of Arminius’ warriors broke away in search of easier pickings, and he soon had to acknowledge that they were right. The returning legion seemed to be in good order as it deployed across the road in full battle formation; before long his men’s position would be untenable, and heavy casualties would follow. Incandescent at having to end his attack early, Arminius gave the order to pull back, plundering the wagon train in the process.
Not everything had gone awry, he told himself. Caecina might well be dead – without doubt, many of his senior officers were. Roman losses had been heavy, and a number of cohort standards had been taken.
These successes did not stop Tullus’ mocking laughter ringing in Arminius’ ears.
Chapter XXXV
PISO WOKE GROANING. His head throbbed, the pain worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. There was gritty mud in his mouth, and drops of something – rain? – were hitting his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He was also bouncing up and down as he was dragged along the ground. The discomfort was such that he couldn’t be dead, he reasoned. Rain didn’t fall in the underworld either, or so he’d been told. He opened his eyes. Above him, the clouds were still lowering, and the same grim, uniform grey. To either side, gorse and bog cotton plants were moving past at a slow pace. From everywhere came the familiar sounds of marching men: clinking mail, creaking leather and squelching mud.
Piso hawked and spat out the grit. His fingers traced the outline of branches on either side of him, wrapped in blankets. I’m on a homemade stretcher, he thought. At once cold fear roiled in his belly. Had he been taken prisoner? Relief flooded through him as his gaze travelled upward, falling upon two cloaked backs and above them, the characteristic shape of Roman helmets. ‘I’m awake,’ he rasped.
Vitellius’ head turned, and his lips turned up. ‘Welcome back.’