Eagles in the Storm

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Eagles in the Storm Page 15

by Ben Kane


  They grinned like wolves then, and the anxious atmosphere that had been present before was gone, as if carried away by the wind.

  It soon returned as they waited. The air filled with a cacophony of noise. Horses galloped, men shouted. Horns blared. The German barritus grew louder. Screams rang out, weapons clashed. In front of Tullus, the auxiliaries were roaring encouragement at their mounted comrades. He took heart from that – the fight wasn’t going badly, in this moment at least. Despite this, his nerves were as taut as a bowstring at full draw. To distract himself, Tullus spoke again to his men, telling them how the enemy would run once the legionaries were brought into play.

  Cheering broke out a short time later as, accompanied by four Praetorian cohorts, Germanicus forded the river, his intent to find out first-hand what was going on. The auxiliary infantry, who would be ordered forward next, began chanting in their own languages and sounding their horns and battle trumpets.

  Tullus’ soldiers shifted from foot to foot, also eager to end the interminable wait. Every so often, he had them check their equipment. Already emptied bladders had to be drained again, but without the soldiers leaving their positions. Loud complaints rose from those within splashing distance. The worst offender was Calvus. Rather than piss himself, he projectile-vomited down the back of the legionary in front – Piso, who promptly gave him a black eye. Tullus affected not to notice the altercation. Piso’s reaction was reasonable enough. Amused, Tullus listened as Calvus was told in no uncertain terms how he would clean Piso’s armour that evening. ‘You’ll keep at it until it’s shinier than the day it was made, you stupid shit. D’you hear me?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Calvus, puce with embarrassment.

  ‘It’s a little late for that,’ snarled Piso. ‘You sure there’s no bread left in there, no last bits of porridge?’

  Calvus gave a miserable shake of his head.

  Piso turned his back, and fresh jokes rained down on the unfortunate Calvus. Tullus made a mental note to pretend that night that he could smell vomit on Piso, whether it was true or not.

  Time dragged by. The din from across the river continued, yet it was impossible to discern who was winning or losing. The Germans were holding their ground against the cavalry, Tullus decided, because the auxiliaries still hadn’t been ordered to cross. That wasn’t good – the Roman horsemen should have gained the upper hand by now. In his experience, prolonged encounters weren’t a strength of cavalry.

  A deep-throated Ahhhhh of dismay rose from the auxiliaries. Things were not going according to plan, Tullus thought grimly. He could bear the tension no longer. Ordering Fenestela to take command, he made for the nearest gap between the auxiliary units. Less than halfway to their front ranks, his eyes drinking in the savage cavalry–infantry battle playing out on the other side of the river, Tullus heard the trumpeters with Germanicus sound the retreat.

  ‘What happened, sir?’ asked Piso as he returned to his position.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ replied Tullus. ‘It’s not good, though.’

  Some hours later, versions of what had transpired were racing through the camp. Aware that at least half would be unfounded rumours, Tullus reserved his opinion until he had spoken to someone who’d been there. Lingering around the main gate, he chanced on an acquaintance, an optio known to one and all as Iron Fist. One of the best boxers Tullus had ever seen, he was still Vetera’s champion at thirty-five years of age. According to Iron Fist, the initial two groups of cavalry had crossed the river without incident and aimed for the enemy flanks. Soon after, the Batavians had splashed through the water. Led by their charismatic, dashing leader Chariovalda, they had charged at Arminius’ army, whereupon a small mounted force of the enemy, appearing to be caught in the open by his advance, had retreated in haste. Taken in, the Batavians had given pursuit, but it had been a trap.

  ‘As they chased their quarry to the woods on one side of the plain, hundreds of warriors appeared. Out of nowhere it seemed, but the filth had been hiding among the trees,’ said Iron Fist. ‘It was a slaughter at first, sir, but you know the Batavians. They formed a circle and fought like wild beasts. Plenty of them died, but they took down good numbers of the enemy. Chariovalda fell along with many of his nobles, but the rest of his men held out until we drove off the enemy.’

  ‘It’s no surprise that Germanicus pulled everyone back,’ said Tullus.

  ‘He did the right thing, sir,’ agreed Iron Fist. ‘There was no room for the legions to get past the fighting and, like as not, there were more barbarians among the trees. But tomorrow’s another day, eh? We’ll not let the same thing happen to us twice.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Tullus, relieved that their losses had been light, and wondering what instructions would come from Germanicus.

  None had arrived by the time night fell, which wasn’t altogether surprising. Their general would be considering his tactics. Arminius was a clever, devious enemy. His army could have vanished by dawn, eager to find another spot for ambushing the legions. He might have had his warriors dig pits on the plain for the cavalry to ride into, or even attacked the Roman camps.

  Although it was sensible to see what the morrow brought, Tullus’ desire for revenge had been fanned white-hot by Arminius’ proximity. A chance had been missed to kill him during the confrontation with his brother Flavus. The battle should have been fought today. Still irritable as the moon rose, Tullus settled himself on the section of fortifications delegated to his century. Double the usual number of sentries had been ordered; an archer also stood every fifty paces along the rampart. He stared out into the darkening gloom and wondered what Arminius was planning in his camp, less than two miles away.

  Once Tullus might have asked permission to mount an assassination attempt on the Cheruscan leader, but he was an older, wiser man now. With Arminius’ exact whereabouts unknown, the mission would be doomed to fail. No, their best chance of slaying Arminius was in open battle.

  ‘You think we’ll fight tomorrow, sir?’ Piso’s shining armour – the result of Calvus’ work – was visible fifteen paces away.

  ‘That depends on Germanicus,’ Tullus snapped, ‘and I haven’t been talking to him lately.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Piso in a disappointed voice and set off on his allotted path, the short distance between him and the next sentry along.

  Tullus’ gaze returned to the ditch below the rampart, and beyond that the cleared terrain that ran east to the river. The trees which had been felled to prevent a secret approach by the enemy had been sawn up, serving as fuel for the soldiers’ fires, or mounted as sharpened stakes on the fortifications’ outer aspect. Tullus was grateful for the light cloud cover, which meant a bright moon and favourable conditions for spying the enemy. Strain his eyes as he might, however, nothing moved. An owl was calling in the distance, its lonely cry echoed by another even further off.

  ‘Who’s there?’ There was an alarmed note to Piso’s voice.

  ‘What is it?’ Tullus’ gaze shot to the ground before the camp and back to Piso again.

  ‘I saw something, sir, about two hundred paces out.’

  Cursing his middle-aged eyes, Tullus peered again. This time, he saw the crouching figure of a man, edging his way towards the ditch. Tullus was about to order the general alarm sounded, but he couldn’t see anyone with the newcomer. One warrior – warrior it had to be, for there were no Roman troops outside the walls – could do little harm, he decided, but it was best to be prepared anyway. ‘Tell the archer near you to light an arrow,’ he hissed at Piso. ‘On my command, he’s to shoot into the ditch and set the kindling on fire.’ Large bundles of dry twigs and branches had been placed in the defensive trench. In the event of an attack, the Romans would have illumination to kill the enemy by.

  Sparks flew beside Piso almost at once as the archer set to work with his flints.

  Tullus searched again for the stooping figure, found him about a hundred paces out and cried in first German, then Latin, ‘HALT!’


  The man stopped. ‘I … unarmed … I … come in peace,’ he called out, his bad Latin proving he was no Roman.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Tullus.

  Light flared close to Piso; the archer had lit the pitch coating the head of his arrow.

  ‘Loose!’ ordered Tullus.

  Yellow-orange flame streaked from the rampart to the bottom of the ditch. Light flickered, guttered, and then burst into new life as the dry timber ignited. Tullus waited until the blaze had taken a good hold before he cried, ‘Raise your hands! Walk forward, nice and slow, so that I can see you.’

  The man obeyed. Despite his slow advance, Tullus had the nearest trumpeter stand to. He also commanded the archer to ready another shaft, and every sentry close enough to prepare his javelin. ‘HALT!’ he roared when the warrior was thirty paces out.

  The interloper wasn’t an impressive specimen. Of slight build, wearing a ragged tunic and trousers, he had a pinched, narrow face that spoke of a hard life. Arms in the air, he stood looking up at the ramparts with a resigned expression. ‘I … wait,’ he said in his accented Latin.

  ‘Fucking right you wait,’ growled Tullus, struggling to see beyond the fierce glow in the ditch. ‘Can you spot anything – anything at all?’ he asked Piso and the sentry on his other side.

  After a short delay, the answers came back in the negative. Tullus couldn’t make out anything threatening either, nor hear it. ‘Walk towards me,’ he ordered the warrior. ‘Stop!’ he shouted when the man was right by the burning wood.

  Unarmed, the warrior posed no threat, Tullus decided. ‘Stay alert. Keep watching for signs of the enemy,’ he ordered Piso and the other sentries.

  ‘What do you want?’ Tullus demanded.

  ‘I … Chatti. I wish … talk.’

  ‘So you say! Your people will call you traitor just for standing here – why did you leave them?’

  The warrior’s bloodshot eyes flickered to and fro. ‘I … fight with comrades. I … drink too much. I … ordered to return to settlement … by chieftain.’

  Beware the spurned, Arminius, thought Tullus with some satisfaction. The Chatti warrior’s dishevelled appearance and blotchy complexion gave some credence to his story. ‘So you came here. Why?’ Tullus demanded.

  ‘I have information … about Arminius’ … plans.’

  Real excitement thrummed through Tullus. He cast a look at Piso. ‘See anything?’ Piso hadn’t; nor had any of the sentries for a hundred paces in either direction. If Arminius was planning an attack, it was a fucking bad one, thought Tullus. Instructing the warrior to make for the nearest gate, he clattered down the ladder and went to meet him.

  Chapter XVI

  PITCH-SOAKED TORCHES, THEIR ends planted in the ground, lit up the entrance to Germanicus’ vast tent. Stony-faced Praetorians were ranged around its entire perimeter, each man standing by another flaming brand. This was how things had been since the attempt on the general’s life in Vetera the previous autumn. Tullus found it reassuring – Germanicus meant a lot to him. Not only had he resurrected Tullus’ career, but he was an excellent leader. It was he who would see Arminius beaten, his army destroyed – and the Eighteenth’s eagle recovered.

  Tullus’ respect for the emperor’s nephew didn’t extend to his bodyguards, however. Paid worlds more than the average legionary, often with little combat experience, the Praetorians tended to regard themselves as superior beings to the rank and file. This attitude endeared them little to ordinary soldiers. Tullus stalked up to the pair on duty either side of the tent’s entrance. The Chatti warrior, whom he’d had searched, scuttled behind him. Piso and Metilius came after, hands ready on their sword hilts.

  ‘Halt!’ both sentries bellowed.

  With a hard stare, Tullus obeyed.

  ‘State your name, rank and business,’ snapped one, a slab-jawed monster two hands taller than Tullus.

  ‘Centurion Tullus, Second Century, First Cohort, Fifth Legion. I wish to speak with our commander.’

  The tall Praetorian raised an eyebrow at his companion. ‘He wants to see the governor, at this hour.’ His cold gaze returned to Tullus. ‘It’s a little late, sir.’

  There was so little emphasis on the last word that a red mist descended over Tullus. ‘I’m aware of the hour. My news is important,’ he snarled.

  ‘We’ve got our orders, sir. The governor has retired for the night.’ This was delivered with more than a suggestion of smugness.

  ‘He needs to hear this man’s news.’ Tullus jerked a thumb at his captive.

  The Praetorian’s contemptuous gaze travelled up and down the warrior, then over Piso and Metilius, and finally returned to Tullus. ‘News,’ he said. ‘From this creature, sir?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Tullus, his anger bubbling.

  ‘I don’t think the governor would appreciate being woken because of this piece of filth, sir.’

  Tullus had had enough. ‘You, think? Don’t make me laugh!’

  The Praetorian’s brows lowered in fury. ‘I—’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you jumped-up maggot!’ Tullus used his full parade-ground volume. ‘I’ve been a centurion longer than you’ve been wiping your own arse. I’ve fought twice as many battles as the times you have stood on parade, and I have killed more men than the number of times you’ve polished your fucking armour. Germanicus knows me, moreover, and this piece of filth is a deserter from Arminius’ camp! I suggest you go and speak with the governor. NOW!’

  The Praetorian floundered for words, and failed. His companion was also dumbstruck.

  ‘Do you understand, you useless piece of shit?’ thundered Tullus.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ With a ‘What else can I do?’ shrug of his massive shoulders at his shocked companion, he lumbered inside.

  Tullus acted as if the second sentry wasn’t even present while they waited. Both Piso and Metilius seemed mightily pleased – they would have loved seeing the Praetorian put in his place, thought Tullus with some amusement.

  The Praetorian soon emerged with news that Tullus was to wait for a staff officer. Said official appeared within twenty heartbeats, still adjusting his baldric and metalled belt. In his early thirties, thin, with oiled hair, he gave Tullus a tight smile – in other circumstances, his response might well have been hostile – and asked, ‘You are the Centurion Tullus?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Tullus took huge satisfaction from the dismay blossoming on the Praetorian’s face. Yes, I could end your career when I go inside, he thought. Stew on that, maggot.

  The staff officer’s supercilious expression eased a fraction. ‘You have news for the governor?’

  Tullus gestured at the Chatti warrior. ‘This man has come from Arminius’ camp, sir. I thought Germanicus would want to hear his news.’

  The officer sniffed. ‘As you say,’ he observed. ‘You and the savage come with me.’

  He led Tullus and the wary-faced Chatti warrior through an antechamber, carpeted throughout. Painted statues of Mars, Juno and Minerva, the sacred triad, watched their passage. The smell of burned wick laced the air, which told Tullus that the dozens of lamps on the vast bronze lampstands had been extinguished not long before. In all probability Germanicus hadn’t been asleep. Despite the urgency of Tullus’ visit, that was a good thing.

  Through several partitioned rooms they went, with one dedicated to Tiberius, the emperor, and another laid out as a lararium, the shrine found in every Roman household. The last was a large dining area, complete with three couches arrayed in the usual fashion around a low table. This is how the other half live, thought Tullus. Even on campaign, Germanicus dines as he would in his palace at Rome, while we soldiers eat sitting by our fires.

  The officer halted before a final woollen partition, decorated in clever fashion like a mosaic floor. Two Praetorians, as stony-faced as their comrades outside, stood outside. The officer gave them a nod and let out a nervous cough. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded Germanicus from the other side of th
e partition.

  ‘I have Centurion Tullus with me, sir, and a German tribesman he says carries important news.’

  ‘Send in Tullus.’

  ‘At once, sir.’ The officer gestured at Tullus, and mouthed, ‘Go.’

  The Chatti warrior looked none too happy.

  ‘They won’t harm you.’ Tullus lifted the partition.

  The room beyond wasn’t Germanicus’ bedchamber, he was relieved to find, but another reception area. A painted bust of a severe-faced Tiberius, fleshy-jowled as he was in life, watched over all. Comfortable-looking couches lined the ‘walls’. Documents, inkwells and iron styli covered the bronze-inlaid surface of an oak table with feet carved into lions’ paws. A tired-looking Germanicus raised his head from the paperwork as Tullus entered. Dressed in a purple-bordered belted tunic, he retained a majesty, a presence which demanded respect.

  ‘I might have known it would be you,’ he said as Tullus saluted.

  Never sure if Germanicus was joking or toying with him – often Tullus suspected it was both – he muttered, ‘Sorry to disturb your rest, sir. I came only because it’s serious.’

  Germanicus’ smile was broad. ‘Tell me.’

  Briefly Tullus explained the Chatti warrior’s presence, then summoned him inside. Germanicus listened, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘This is Germanicus, imperial governor of the military districts of Germania and nephew to the emperor Tiberius. He is one of the most important people in the empire,’ hissed Tullus. ‘Kneel!’

  With poor grace, the warrior obeyed.

  Exasperated – even this lowliest of Germans regarded himself equal to all – Tullus pushed the back of the warrior’s head, forcing him to look at the floor. ‘Do not move until given permission,’ Tullus ordered.

 

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