Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They marched on, soon hearing for the first time the German barritus. Whether because of the fine conditions, or the distance from which it was coming, the deep-voiced chant had little impact on the legionaries. ‘Trying to stiffen their backbones by singing, are they? The whoresons must be shitting themselves at the size of our army,’ cried Metilius to widespread laughter.

  A grim smile creased Tullus’ face. The contrast from seven years before could not be more stark. In the pelting rain and limb-sucking mud of the forest, constant renditions of the barritus had eaten away at his legionaries’ morale like rats at a store of grain. Eerie, sung by invisible enemies, it had been easy to think that evil spirits were to blame.

  The barritus presaged the beginning of the battle. Even as the chanting grew louder, the auxiliary cohorts came to a sudden halt, causing Tullus – again unable to see what was going on to their front – to conclude that the front units must be close to the eastern end of the plain. The auxiliaries’ leaders – their own chieftains – began shouting. Horns were sounded, drums beaten. The auxiliaries roared war cries in Gaulish, German and other tongues, and pounded their feet on the rock-hard ground. Weapons battered off shields.

  The din went on for some time, which Tullus expected. Before any carnage began, men on both sides needed to go through the same ritual. To draw on their courage and dampen down their fear. To prepare themselves to meet enemies who would kill them. They had to be ready to protect their comrades and, if needs be, to die.

  The barritus fell away to nothing. As if ordered to do so, the auxiliaries’ clamour also came to a gradual end. So it begins, Tullus thought, palms damp with unwelcome sweat. Fortuna, be good to us today. I’ve given you enough rams and bulls over the years – and there’ll be more if we win.

  Among Tullus’ soldiers, men cleared their throats. Spat. Muttered prayers. The auxiliaries were doing the same, but their ranks were solid. They too were ready for the fight.

  A mighty cheer, coming from thousands of throats, went up beyond the auxiliaries’ position.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Tullus, setting his jaw.

  Time slowed from that point, forming a succession of crystal-sharp memories in Tullus’ mind. The enemy’s centre charged the auxiliaries – this was clear from the din, and also from messengers who ran back, warning that the legions should be ready. Savage fighting erupted as the tribesmen struck – the auxiliaries’ formation wavered with the force of it, before they steadied themselves and shoved forward again. Trumpet calls to left and right sent the Roman cavalry galloping off to assail the German flanks. The legionary cohorts on either side were attacked by warriors storming out of the trees. Safe for now in the middle of the second line, the Fifth’s soldiers had to listen to the shouts, screams, clash of weapons – and wait.

  Tension gnawed at Tullus. The same strain was in his soldiers’ faces. Someone had vomited – he could smell shit too, and piss. Sweating, rosy-cheeked, Calvus was repeating the same prayer, over and over. Even Fenestela, come to have a word, looked uneasy. ‘It’ll be us soon,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ muttered Tullus, hating the delay. It was nigh on impossible that he and Arminius would meet on the field, but Tullus asked that it happen anyway. He’d have given his entire life savings to lay Arminius in the mud. His own life too, if he hadn’t had the extra task of trying to recover the Eighteenth’s eagle. Killing Arminius would be sweet, but retrieving his legion’s standard sweeter still.

  In front of Tullus, the auxiliaries’ lines swayed to and fro, and began to move forward. Ten steps they went, then another five, and twenty more. Cheering broke out in their ranks. Horns were blown. Amid the din, chieftains’ voices, hoarse with effort, issued commands.

  Tullus’ men muttered among themselves. Two soldiers took a step forward. ‘Back into line!’ bellowed Tullus. ‘Steady! Our turn will come soon, brothers – very soon. You know the drill. Check the laces on your sandals one more time. Get your comrade to look at the straps on your armour. Loosen your swords in their sheaths. Swallow a little water to wet your mouths.’ He patrolled along the front rank, watching as they did his bidding. ‘Good boys,’ he said every few steps. ‘That’s it. When the fighting starts, stick with the man to your left and right. Look out for them, as they will for you. Remember your training. Shield high, sword ready. Punch and stab. Punch and stab.’

  The auxiliaries in front of Tullus moved forward again, this time more than fifty steps. Elated cries rose from their ranks. Gaps appeared between the different units, opening up the battlefield. Tullus’ excitement grew as the rest of the auxiliary line also began to advance. Still no order came from Germanicus. He was in the same line as Tullus’ cohort, but in the middle. From his horse’s back, he would have a good view of the unfolding battle – he’d give the order when the time was right.

  This knowledge could not ease Tullus’ eagerness, his overwhelming passion to reach the enemy. He stared at the sky. The sun was still high, but it had moved from its position overhead. It was an hour after midday, perhaps two. There was plenty of time to finish the Germans, Tullus decided.

  His gaze dropped. The brightness above was blinding, three-quarters-closed eyes or not, but something – a movement above – attracted his attention, and he looked up again. His heart almost stopped in his chest. High, high in the sky, a great bird with characteristic finger-like wing tips and a fan-shaped tail was soaring east. An eagle. It was an eagle, thought Tullus in disbelief, and utter delight. No other bird had such a wingspan. Further movement caught his eye, and he let out an incredulous laugh. There were four of them. No, five, six – eight. Symbols of the legions, most regal of birds, they were flying for Germanicus’ army, Tullus decided. More concrete proof of the gods’ approval there could not be.

  ‘Look!’ he shouted in his best parade-ground voice, pointing upwards. ‘FUCKING LOOK!’

  Heads lifted. Men gasped. Arms were raised, prayers offered. ‘It’s a sign!’ cried Piso. ‘A sign from Jupiter!’

  ‘See, brothers?’ Tullus was beside himself with excitement. ‘EIGHT eagles in flight, travelling over Arminius’ army! They are the guardian spirits of every legion here today!’

  ‘Roma!’ shouted his men. ‘Roma!’

  More and more soldiers began to notice the majestic birds, and soon the cheer was rolling off in all directions. ‘ROMA! ROMA!’

  Germanicus must have seen the eagles too. He has to give the order now, thought Tullus.

  Twenty feverish heartbeats later, the trumpets sounded the advance. It would be a chaotic affair: the legionaries would have to work their way between the auxiliary units, but it was worth the risk, thought Tullus. The din of battle had been drowned out by the continuing shouts of ‘ROMA! ROMA!’ It seemed every legionary in the army had joined in.

  A rapid consultation with Bassius, and their tactics were set. The six centuries would file forward into the nearest ‘tunnel’ between groups of auxiliaries. Closer to the fighting, they would fan out one by one into wedge formations. ‘Punch into the enemy lines like that, and we could break ’em at first pass,’ declared Bassius, an evil light in his eyes.

  ‘Aye, sir.’ As centurion, Tullus’ place was at the most dangerous point, the tip of the wedge. Instead of fear, he felt an odd exultation. This was no soaking-wet, mud-encrusted struggle for survival in the bog or the forest. This was a proper battle, when Rome’s legions could fight at their best. This was what he’d been waiting for. He would seize the opportunity with both hands. ‘My boys are ready.’

  ‘May the gods give us victory.’ Bassius gave Tullus a measured nod. ‘I’ll see you afterwards.’

  ‘We’ll share a cup of wine, sir.’ Neither knew if the other would survive, but it was bad luck to wish anything but the best outcome.

  Tullus waited until Bassius and his soldiers were going by. Lifting the whistle that hung round his neck, he blew three short blasts. Trained to recognise his commands, his men stilled. ‘We foll
ow the Roman birds, brothers!’ shouted Tullus. ‘Shall we have our vengeance on Arminius?’

  They screamed their enthusiasm back at him.

  ‘Shields up. Javelins ready. With me!’ Hefting his shield, Tullus strode after Bassius’ century.

  Danger and death beckoned, yet Tullus hadn’t felt this alive in years.

  Chapter XXI

  THE SUN BEAT down, its heat unforgiving, its light blinding. Piso’s entire body was covered in sweat, his mouth drier than a month-old hunk of bread. His heart beat off his ribs as if he’d just run ten miles, and in his left fist, his shield had metamorphosed into pure lead. Any metal Piso was wearing: his helmet, armour, javelin head, was too hot to touch. He cared not a jot. He was near the point of the wedge, a position of huge honour.

  Tullus was at the apex, with Piso and Metilius right behind him. Dulcius, Calvus and another tent mate comprised the third row, behind Piso and Metilius. Four men made up the next rank, five the next and so on: eleven rows of soldiers, shaped into an armoured triangle. A few paces separated each man from the next: room was needed to hurl javelins. That done, the legionaries would close up tighter than tight.

  They’d just cleared the auxiliaries’ ranks and seen the battlefield for the first time. A lull in the fighting reigned, an odd moment when by some unspoken consent enemies pulled back from each other, to rest, drink water and treat their injured. Piso stared. The area between the two armies was littered with bodies: most were German. Not fifty paces away stood Arminius’ warriors, a long line, many rows deep, stretching off to either side. Despite being bloodied and reduced in number, there was no sign of their wanting to withdraw. Their formation was solid, and chieftains strode about, shouting, gesticulating and making obscene gestures at the Romans.

  ‘They’re carrying on like Tullus,’ muttered Piso to Metilius. ‘But not one is half the man he is.’

  They both studied their centurion. Fierce concentration marked his face. His teeth were part bared, and his gaze was locked on the enemy, reminding Piso of a wolf watching a flock of sheep before it struck.

  ‘Seven years he has waited for this. No wonder he’s keen,’ said Metilius, throwing a glance at Piso. ‘I’m the same.’

  ‘Aye,’ growled Piso. ‘And me.’

  He could sense the same readiness in those behind him. Javelin butts thumped the ground in an uneven, repetitive rhythm. Hobnailed sandals stamped up and down. No one was foolish enough to step out of the wedge, but the men wanted to advance. They wanted to close with the enemy. Piso could feel it. Even Calvus seemed eager.

  ‘The cohorts to my left are almost in place, Tullus.’ Bassius’ voice carried from his position at the point of a wedge to their left. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tullus replied.

  ‘The other centuries, and the cohort beyond – what about them?’

  ‘A moment, sir.’ With a shout, Tullus caught the attention of the Third Century’s centurion, who passed on Bassius’ query.

  Waves of heat hammered down on Piso and the rest. He imagined stripping off his armour and jumping naked into the Visurgis, not a mile to their rear. Such pleasures would have to wait. Live through the slaughter first, Piso thought.

  ‘They’re ready, sir,’ bellowed Tullus. ‘On your command.’

  ‘GO!’ Pitched to carry, Bassius’ voice was followed by a long blast on his whistle.

  ‘ADVANCE!’ Tullus pointed his sword straight at the enemy. ‘Stay close, brothers!’ he ordered, tramping forward.

  ‘Here we go,’ whispered Piso, tightening his grip on his javelin. ‘At fucking last.’

  Five paces they went. Ten. Seeing them, the nearest warriors tightened their formation. The legionaries were walking towards a wall of shields, with a fierce, angry face over every last one. German spears began flying, and Tullus barked a command. Everyone on the outside of the wedge ducked behind their shields; those within raised theirs over their heads. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The spears landed in flurries. Piso’s shield wasn’t hit, though; nor were those of Tullus and Metilius. No one cried out in pain that Piso heard.

  ‘Men with damaged shields, rip the spears out!’ yelled Tullus. ‘There’s time!’

  Ten paces closer to the warriors, and Piso’s heart felt too big for his chest. Thirty paces was good killing distance, and the enemy spears were raining down thick and fast. It was time to throw their javelins, surely.

  Tullus took them even closer before he gave the order. ‘Javelins ready! LOOSE!’

  With the ease of long practice, Piso drew his right arm back. Picking a bull-necked warrior with a black beard, he took aim and threw. His javelin streaked the short distance in two heartbeats. Blood sprayed as the iron-tipped missile skewered the man’s throat. ‘I got him!’ Piso’s cry was lost in the crescendo of shouts and screams as his comrades’ javelins landed. At such close range, even Calvus could not miss. The devastating volley punched holes in the German line, and Tullus was ready. Ordering close formation, he broke into a half-run. ‘With me!’ he roared.

  Keeping pace, Piso blinked away the sweat stinging his eyes. Three steps, five, eight. The nearest warriors were screaming insults and raising their shields and spears – they were keen to fight.

  ‘Jupiter, Greatest and Best. Jupiter, Greatest and Best.’ Carrying from several ranks back, Calvus’ high-pitched voice was infuriating, but there was no time to tell him to shut his mouth. Piso blocked his ears to the sound.

  ‘With me, brothers!’ roared Tullus.

  They hit the German line with a massive crash, forcing their way into the warriors’ midst.

  Piso stepped over a body – the man he’d killed with his spear, perhaps – and now he had to clamber over a second, all the while keeping his eyes to the front, and staying close to Tullus. Cursing, for to stumble was to die, Piso smacked his shield into that of the first warrior to meet him. A youth of no more than eighteen, his eyes wide with fright, he pushed back at Piso as best he could. It was a one-sided contest; with his heavy armour and shield Piso outweighed him twice over.

  Wood splintered as Piso’s iron boss split the youth’s willow shield; an oomph rose as the air left his lungs. Spear flailing in his right hand, he was driven backward, losing his footing. Down he went on to his back, and Piso stabbed him in the throat: in, out with the blade. Piso forgot the youth, quickly checking he was still near Tullus, and that Metilius and Dulcius were close by. That done, Piso met the charge of his next opponent, a yelling bare-chested warrior in green and brown woven trousers.

  Bang! went their shields, and Woven Trousers thrust with his spear, straight at Piso’s face. Air whistled and Piso fell into a crouch behind his shield, at the same time stabbing forward, blind, with his sword. Woven Trousers let out a mighty bellow. Confident now, Piso pushed hard with his blade, feeling it slide deeper into flesh. He stood. Woven Trousers had dropped his spear and shield; both his hands were wrapped around Piso’s razor-sharp sword, half buried in his side. Piso pulled his right arm back, slicing Woven Trousers’ fingers to ribbons, and, reversing the movement, stuck him again, higher up, under his ribcage. Woven Trousers’ mouth gaped like a fish out of water, and he died.

  ‘Help me, brother!’ It was Dulcius’ voice.

  Piso’s head twisted to the left. His comrade was engaged in a desperate fight with two warriors, both armed with spears. Focused on killing Dulcius, the closest, he did not even see Piso’s simple sword thrust that ended his life.

  ‘Manage the other, can you?’ Piso cried.

  ‘Aye!’ shouted Dulcius.

  Piso faced forward again; he watched Tullus smash a warrior so hard with his shield that he careered into the man behind him, and they both fell. With a snarl, Tullus advanced, stamping down with his hobnailed boots, once, twice, thrice. His crimson-coated blade rose and fell in a blur. Gurgling cries were cut short, and Tullus straightened. ‘With me?’ he roared over his shoulder.

  ‘Aye, sir!’ answered Piso and Metilius.

  ‘ON!’ Ther
e was a gap in front of Tullus; he moved forward several steps. ‘You maggots!’ he yelled at the nearest warriors. ‘Ready to die?’

  A trio of similar-looking warriors, cousins perhaps, glanced at each other. One said something and then they charged together, their clear target Tullus. Kill the centurion and the wedge would stop, thought Piso in alarm. ‘Metilius!’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘See the three whoresons?’

  ‘I do, aye!’

  Piso fitted himself tight against Tullus’ left side, felt Metilius do the same on his right. Sensing their urgency, Dulcius shoved up against Piso’s back; Calvus and their other comrade did the same behind him and Metilius.

  The first warrior to close died with Metilius’ blade in his left eye socket. Aqueous fluid spurted; the steel ran deeper, shearing bone and the softer brain matter beneath. Metilius cursed, trying to free his sword, and the other Germans arrived, hammering their spears at Tullus from two angles. Eager to retaliate, Tullus bent his knees a moment too late. A spear rammed into the brow of his helmet, snapping his head back.

  Piso saw this from the corner of his eye. Cursing, he plunged his blade into the armpit of Cousin One, who’d struck the blow. A simple strike, it was lethal. Blood sheeted the ground as Piso’s sword came out and Cousin One fell, thrashing like a hooked pike. Cousin Two now shoulder-charged a dazed Tullus and shoved him back a step. With a triumphant cry, Cousin Two raised his spear high and prepared to thrust down, over the top of Tullus’ shield.

  Piso didn’t know why Metilius wasn’t there to stop the blow falling. His own right arm wasn’t long enough to reach Cousin Two. If Piso left the wedge, he might save Tullus, but he would leave a hole for the enemy to drive into. That was a disaster he didn’t want to be responsible for – yet Tullus would die otherwise. Riven with indecision, aware that he had to make up his mind now, Piso hesitated.

  Cousin Two’s face took on a startled expression; then it twisted into a rictus of agony. A high-pitched wail left his throat, and he slumped down, out of Piso’s sight. ‘Take that, you filth,’ muttered Tullus, pulling free his blade, which he had somehow plunged into Cousin Two’s thigh. ‘And that,’ Tullus said with a precise stab into Cousin Two’s open mouth.