Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  Tullus slew the next warrior as well, but he needed Piso’s aid to down the one after that. Tight bands of pain were squeezing his chest, his left arm was losing strength and black dots danced at the edges of his vision. The natural break that happened then – as the two sides pulled back a few steps by mutual, non-verbal agreement – saved his life. Grounding his shield, Tullus sucked in breath after ragged breath. His shield’s iron rim was crumpled where the club had landed, but it would serve. Whether his forearm would take any more pressure was another thing. Time to go back into the second rank, he decided, weariness flooding his veins. It’s that, or die during the next bout. The realisation tasted as bitter as hemlock; never had he needed to withdraw from the fighting so soon.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ Piso’s voice was by his ear.

  ‘Eh?’ Tullus glared at Piso. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘They’re wavering, sir. Look.’ Piso jerked his head at the tribesmen.

  Tullus stared. The warriors opposite – much reduced in number – didn’t seem happy. It wasn’t surprising. The ground was littered with their dead, and they had their backs to the wall. He glanced to either side, along the intervallum. The fighting was still raging to his left, but on his right it had paused. There, too, the tribesmen’s casualties appeared to have been heavy. The legionaries facing them were singing – and there was no barritus being hurled back at them. On the ramparts, he could see warriors climbing back on to their ladders. Retreating.

  The tide had turned. A strong attack now would smash the tribesmen facing his soldiers, thought Tullus with rising excitement. He hefted his shield, breathed into the discomfort that radiated from his forearm and let it mix with the needle darts from the torn muscle in his side. I can manage, he decided. It won’t take long. ‘READY, BROTHERS?’ he roared.

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  ‘See them, brothers? They’re tired. Scared. Half their inbred friends lie dead, thanks to you. Ready to finish the rest?’ As his soldiers roared back at him, Tullus struck his sword off his shield boss, one, two, three times. ‘Forward!’

  He led his men on at a slow but purposeful pace, and the warriors broke before they’d even closed. Pushing and shoving at one another in their panic, they ran to the nearest gate, or scrambled up to the walkway, there to leap over the ramparts. Backs against the earthworks, a few men stayed to fight, too courageous to retreat, Tullus thought, or perhaps giving their lives to save their comrades. He kept his soldiers in formation until those warriors had been cut down, and then he wheeled them to the right, towards the north gate. The intervallum was already a confusion of retreating tribesmen and legionaries from the Fifth’s other cohorts, falling on the enemy from the side. The instant his soldiers entered the maelstrom, control would be lost.

  That might happen anyway, Tullus decided, studying the blood-keen faces around him. Gut instinct also told him that the day was theirs. He had seen routs like this before – the surviving tribesmen would be hounded out of the gate and into the bog, where the slaughter would be immense. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help wondering if Arminius still had a trick up his sleeve. Would a hidden force of warriors swoop down on the legionaries as they emerged, disorganised, from the camp?

  Tullus wasn’t happy until he had clambered up a ladder and surveyed the surrounding terrain. There any doubts he’d had vanished. All he could see was warriors’ backs as they fled through the mud, and hordes of baying legionaries in hot pursuit. Discarded spears and shields were strewn everywhere. Corpses floated face down in the muddy pools, and lay tangled in the gorse bushes. Trapped in the mud, or too hurt to run any further, wounded tribesmen screamed their distress. Several ravens already hung in the air overhead. How did the corpse-feeders know to arrive so fast? Tullus wondered. There would be a glut of food for the birds; that was certain.

  Let Arminius be among the slain, he asked.

  Chapter XLI

  AS PISO AND his companions charged headlong after the fleeing tribesmen, they whooped their joy. Tullus and Fenestela followed, but at their own pace. So many legionaries were hunting the warriors that it was soon difficult to find any living within the walls. It seemed, thought Piso, as if every centurion in the army had sent his soldiers after the quarry the way hunters unleash their packs of hunting dogs. Tullus’ century splintered from the outset, but Piso and his comrades stuck together.

  Chasing men and stabbing them in the back was brutal, exhausting work, but Piso didn’t care. These were the whoresons who had evaded the army for months, who had hunted him and his brothers through the bog, and who had killed Saxa. Like as not, many had taken part in Arminius’ ambush six years before. As far as Piso was concerned, they deserved whatever was coming to them.

  With hundreds of other legionaries, he and his comrades funnelled through the north gate and pursued the warriors outside. The majority of the enemy ran into the marsh, but some tried escaping on the wooden road. Piso and his comrades cheered as they stumbled over broken planking and fell into the pools of water that had formed under the damaged roadway. With a mob of other soldiers, they pounded after this group, hacking them to pieces even as they begged for mercy.

  Hearty warriors, greybeards, bare-faced youths, it didn’t matter. They slew them all. Piso chopped down a man old enough to have been his grandfather, and another who could have been his younger brother. He watched Metilius take on a berserker with an injured knee, laughing as the huge warrior tried in vain to strike at his friend from a squatting position. Dancing around the berserker, Metilius stabbed him three, four, five times in the chest and back, wounds that didn’t kill. ‘Come on, big man,’ he taunted in German. ‘You can take me.’ The berserker threw himself forward with a desperate lunge of his spear. Grinning, Metilius let him fall flat on his face, before straddling the warrior and, with a precise thrust, pithing him through the base of his neck.

  The chase went on for hours, so long that the legionaries took breaks to rest and to drink water. Once a place to be afraid – of the enemy, the land-scape’s alien appearance and the strange birdcalls – the bog now belonged to them. Deep into it they went, harassing the tribesmen with vicious intent. Every so often, a warrior would stand to fight back, sometimes aided by a comrade. These efforts drew the attention of every legionary within sight the way flies home in on fresh shit. Surrounded on all sides, the warriors died, often without even wounding an attacker.

  It was natural – one of the rewards of victory, opined Vitellius to whoever would listen – that soldiers would begin ransacking the dead for valuables. Many of the tribesmen had purses, but much of the yield within was poor, nothing more than a few copper coins. Pleasing everyone, though, bracelets and hammer pendants of silver were common. Vitellius crowed with delight as he pulled a gold torque from around a chieftain’s neck. ‘This is worth a year’s pay!’ He jumped as his victim’s arm moved, and a faint gurgle left his muddy lips. ‘Still alive, are you?’ Grabbing the chieftain by the hair, Vitellius shoved his head under the surface of a nearby pool. Piso watched, aghast. The chieftain soon went limp.

  ‘You didn’t have to finish him like that,’ said Piso.

  Vitellius threw him a jaundiced look. ‘What do you care? He’d have done the same to you, or worse.’

  It was true, thought Piso, but the cold-hearted killing had robbed him of his desire for blood. He cast an eye at the sun, which had been making regular appearances from behind the patchy cloud. Mid-afternoon was passing. Dusk was on the way. Piso could see legionaries turning around and beginning the walk back to camp. ‘How far have we come?’ he called out to the group in general.

  ‘Three miles,’ said Vitellius.

  ‘Four, maybe five,’ countered Metilius.

  A good number of estimates rained down, most of which fell somewhere between three and six miles. ‘Time to think about heading back, eh?’ suggested Piso. ‘I have no desire to spend a night out here.’

  The inevitable jibes followed, but heads were also nodding in agreement. Vitell
ius lifted his torque, letting the sunlight wink off it. ‘I’m with you, Piso. I don’t want to drop this in the dark.’

  ‘Don’t lose it,’ warned Piso. ‘I plan to take it from you at dice.’

  Laughter broke out, and Vitellius made an obscene gesture at them all. He tapped at the torque, which was now around his neck. ‘Once I’ve sold it to a goldsmith, I’m going to buy a new sword. The rest of the money will go on wine and whores. If you’re lucky, you might get a cup of wine each out of me, but that’ll be it!’

  Every man in the contubernium had plundered enough valuables to get pissed for a few nights, and some, like Vitellius, had done far better. As they trudged towards their camp, those with least engaged in merciless teasing of their more well-off comrades. The general mood, already buoyant from their welcome victory, was as jovial as that on a four-monthly payday. The legionaries were bone-weary and covered in mud and blood; there was no wine to drink, and little food, but the Germans had been beaten, and the path to the Rhenus lay open before them. Perhaps Arminius would rally his warriors, but given the casualties they’d suffered, it seemed doubtful.

  ‘Look,’ said Vitellius, pointing.

  Piso stared. A score of paces to their left, a warrior was lying on his side. Crimson stains marked the back of his tunic; a spear lay just beyond his uncurled fingers. Silver glinted on one of his wrists. Piso was tired, and couldn’t be bothered pillaging for more booty. He walked on. ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘That bracelet could be a big one,’ Vitellius announced, unsheathing his blade. He strode off through the mud.

  Rolling his eyes, Piso kept moving. So did the rest. They had just begun to argue over whose turn it was to cook their remaining food when a strangled cry interrupted them. Piso spun, his heart lurching. A gorse bush blocked part of his view, but he could see Vitellius stabbing downwards. Piso relaxed. The warrior hadn’t been dead, and had groaned as Vitellius slew him. ‘All right?’ Piso called.

  There was no reply. Vitellius thrust again, and straightened. His expression was pinched. ‘The whoreson had a blade.’

  Piso was already running, but Vitellius had fallen to the ground before he arrived. The warrior lay on his back, now clearly dead, but with a dagger still clutched in a fist. A grimacing Vitellius was sitting on his arse a few steps away, clutching at his groin, the mud between his outstretched legs an ominous dark red colour. Piso dropped to his knees, ripping at his neck scarf, the only thing he could think of to use as a bandage. ‘Where did he get you?’

  Vitellius’ face had gone pasty grey. ‘High up, in the thigh. He had the dagger ready – he must have been hoping some fool would roll him over, as I did. I didn’t even see him thrust – just felt the fucking pain.’

  ‘Let me look.’ As Vitellius took away his crimson-coated hand, Piso moved aside the metal-studded strips that dangled from his friend’s belt. With gentle hands, he lifted the bottom of Vitellius’ tunic, biting back a cry of dismay as he did so. Blood – bright-red blood – was welling from a deep wound in the meat of Vitellius’ right thigh. Piso was no surgeon, but the artery looked to have been cut.

  ‘What can you see?’ demanded Vitellius.

  ‘Your prick’s still there. Balls too,’ replied Piso, folding his sweat-soaked scarf into a thick pad and pressing it hard against the wound.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Metilius arrived, his face was twisted with concern.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Piso, mouthing, ‘It’s bad,’ at Metilius.

  Vitellius groaned. ‘Gods, it hurts.’

  Piso’s neck scarf was soaked through with blood. ‘Give me a dressing,’ he snapped at Metilius. ‘Your scarf. Anything!’

  Vitellius lay back in the mud. ‘I should have listened to you. I should have left the bastard alone. One gold torque is enough for any man.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Piso, replacing his scarf with that of Metilius’. They exchanged an anxious look.

  ‘Was his bracelet worth taking?’ Piso asked Vitellius, his tone light.

  ‘I haven’t taken it off him yet.’ Vitellius’ chuckle was forced.

  Using both his hands, Piso pressed the scarf against Vitellius’ wound. He knew this was what surgeons did to stem haemorrhage, but each pulse of blood against his fingers and the growing puddle of it between Vitellius’ legs told him it wasn’t working. ‘Belt – I need a leather belt, or a strap,’ he said to Metilius. ‘And a length of stick as thick as my thumb.’

  ‘To tie around his leg?’ Metilius was already unbuckling his belt. He unclipped his baldric from his sword and handed it over. ‘Get over here,’ he roared at the others. ‘Find a stout piece of wood, as long as your forearm. Piso needs it for Vitellius. Now!’

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ muttered Vitellius.

  ‘You’re not going to die,’ retorted Piso, thinking: you will if I don’t get a tie around your leg soon. ‘Help me,’ he ordered Metilius. ‘Hold the scarf against the wound, hard as you can.’ Once Metilius’ hands were in place, Piso pushed the baldric under Vitellius’ leg and worked it as high as he could, right into the groin. Panic clawed at Piso. The dagger had gone in so far up Vitellius’ thigh that it was unclear whether fastening the strap around it was going to make any difference. The growing quantity of blood on the ground was alarming. ‘Where’s that fucking piece of stick?’ Piso bellowed.

  He laid the beginnings of a surgeon’s knot in the baldric – three throws, one after the other – and pulled it as taut as he could. ‘That make any difference?’ he asked Metilius.

  Metilius scowled, and felt. ‘A little,’ he said.

  Piso heaved on the baldric until his arm muscles ached. ‘Now?’

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Put a finger on the knot,’ ordered Piso, tying it with grim intent. Metilius withdrew his finger as the leather squeezed tight. ‘Get your hand back on the wound,’ snapped Piso. ‘How does it feel now?’

  ‘The blood’s flowing faster than it was before you tied it off,’ replied Metilius, scowling.

  Piso wanted to scream. Knots always loosened off like this. Most of the time it didn’t matter, but now every moment counted. He was about to shout for the stick again, when one of the others came skidding to a halt beside them. He proffered a section of gorse branch. ‘It’s all I could find,’ he said in an apologetic voice.

  ‘Cut some of the fucking thorns off. Quickly!’ Piso cried. He took a glance at Vitellius, and wished he hadn’t. His friend’s eyes were closed; shallow movements of his chest told Piso he was alive, but he was fading. ‘’Tellius. ’Tellius?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘The stick. Now, or it’ll be too late!’ Piso’s comrade gave up slicing and passed it over. Fast as he could, Piso slid the still thorny piece of wood under the baldric and began to turn it towards him. One, two, three twists. The leather was good and tight, but he didn’t stop. Four twists. Five. He shot a look at Metilius. ‘Is the bleeding slowing?’

  ‘I think so.’ Metilius concentrated, then grinned like a fool. ‘It is! I can’t feel anything.’

  Piso twisted the stick another full circle for good measure, and pushed one end of it under the leather to hold it in place. Aesculapius, he prayed, let that be enough – please. He took Vitellius’ cold hand in his. ‘’Tellius?’

  Vitellius didn’t respond. Scared now, Piso leaned up to see his friend’s face. Vitellius’ complexion had gone waxen – the colour of the dead, or those near death. With trembling fingers, Piso felt at the side of Vitellius’ wrist.

  ‘Is he …?’ faltered Metilius.

  Piso squeezed shut his eyes, and tried to block out everything but the sensation in his fingertips. Feeling a thready pulsing, his hopes rose, but they curdled almost at once. Vitellius’ pulse was fading with each beat of his weakened heart.

  Riven with grief and hopelessness, Piso felt it dwindle under his touch until, after he didn’t know how long, it stopped. Distraught, blaming himself, he let his chin fall on to his chest.


  ‘He’s gone.’ Metilius’ tone was flat.

  ‘Aye,’ whispered Piso.

  No one said anything as grief overcame them. Piso wept. Metilius slumped down beside him, laid a hand on Vitellius’ unmoving arm. Their comrade who’d brought the stick watched over them in grim silence with the others.

  Time passed. Overhead, a raven called, and was answered by its mate. In the distance, legionaries shouted to one another as they retraced their steps towards the camp. How Piso longed for the corpse lying before him to be one of those men. They were good soldiers, no doubt, but they weren’t Vitellius, with whom he’d been through so much. Vitellius, who with Metilius had hauled him miles through the mud.

  Warm sunshine began to beat down on their backs. After the dreadful weather of the previous days, it should have been welcome. Instead it felt hateful. It was almost as if the gods were mocking their friend, thought Piso, whose death had been so stupid, so pointless.

  In the end, Metilius broke the quiet. ‘We’d best get back.’

  Piso stirred, but didn’t get up.

  ‘Come on,’ said Metilius. ‘It’s a good distance to the camp, and we need to fashion a litter to carry him.’

  ‘Why did it have to be Vitellius?’ asked Piso, his voice raw with sorrow.

  ‘His time had come. That’s all there is to say.’ Metilius gave Piso’s shoulder an awkward pat. ‘Try not to dwell on it, or you’ll go mad.’

  Metilius was right, Piso decided, clamping down on his jagged-edged grief. Vitellius’ death wasn’t right or wrong. It just was. The Fates had cut his thread today, not tomorrow, next year or in three decades. If the warrior with the dagger hadn’t done for him, someone else would have. He – Piso – was still alive, and so were Metilius and the others. Tullus and Fenestela had made it too.