by Ben Kane
His men had done well, holding their position as the Cherusci had swarmed down at them from the tree-covered slopes. Side by side with the other wedges, they had fought the tribesmen to a standstill, killing or wounding hundreds. The Cherusci had had some success – Bassius had been slain, and his wedge almost wiped out, but they hadn’t managed to capitalise on it. Foot by bloody foot, the wedges had ground forward, keeping their shape, slaughtering the enemy and robbing them of their will to fight.
The centurions of fresh-arrived units had seen what was happening and formed their soldiers into the same deadly formations. Faced with a gigantic ‘saw blade’, the Cherusci had begun to retreat. At one stage Tullus was sure he’d seen Maelo, Arminius’ second-in-command, trying to organise a counter-attack. He’d failed, and Tullus had been too far away to reach him. Maelo had disappeared in the chaos of the Cherusci withdrawal soon after. Tullus hoped that he was among the fallen, and Arminius too, but until both men’s corpses were found and identified, he wouldn’t believe it.
A passing unit of Chauci cavalry had reported that Arminius had led an attack on the auxiliary archers in the right flank. When his assault had failed, he’d fought his way free to the woods, the Chauci had reported. Tullus’ demand for more information had been met with uncaring shrugs and the throwaway comment that ‘Arminius was gone, and there was nothing more to be done’. Suspicious that there was more to this, Tullus had shouted after the Chauci that Germanicus would hear of it. There had been no response.
‘Fucking savages. You can’t trust half of them,’ he muttered. His words weren’t wholly true. The auxiliary cohorts, infantry and cavalry both, had acquitted themselves well. The bowmen had come off the worst, yet they had been saved by the Raeti, Vindelici and Gauls who’d stood in front of Tullus and his men the previous day. For all that the Chauci might have let Arminius escape, they had crushed the mass of retreating warriors on the right of the battlefield.
Roman legionaries could claim much of the glory too. It was they who had broken the enemy’s centre and left flank, and who had driven most of the warriors from the field. It had been a good day – a day when pride had been restored to the empire’s army, and in particular to those men who had seen their legions wiped out seven years before. If news were to come that Arminius had been slain and the Eighteenth’s eagle found, Tullus decided, it would be the finest day of his life.
He knew better than to waste time wishing these ephemeral hopes true. Arminius had been thoroughly beaten. For today, that would do.
Germanicus had ordered the erection of a tropaeum to celebrate his victory, and would arrive before sunset to inspect it. Tullus strode amongst his men as they pillaged the dead for weapons to display on the altar, valuables for themselves – and, most importantly, skins of water. By the time the fighting had ended, every man’s water carrier had long since been drained. Tullus had sent two contubernia to the river a while before, but they hadn’t yet returned.
Noticing Piso by the body of a fine-dressed chieftain, Tullus called, ‘Found much?’
Grinning, Piso proffered a thick silver torque. ‘This, sir!’
‘That’ll keep you in wine for a while,’ said Tullus with a wink. ‘Watch Metilius doesn’t sting you for more than his share, mind.’
‘I heard that, sir,’ said Metilius, walking towards the tropaeum, his arms full of swords. ‘I have enough coin in my purse to pay for my own.’
‘So you’ll stand me a cup sometime?’ asked Tullus.
‘I’d be honoured, sir.’
‘All of us would, sir,’ declared Piso. ‘You know that.’
Tullus let a smile cross his lips as his men – sweaty, covered in blood and dust – shouted their willingness to buy him drinks. ‘Ah, you’re good boys,’ he said.
They cheered him then, loud and lusty despite their dry throats. ‘TUL-LUS! TUL-LUS! TUL-LUS!’ The men of other units threw curious looks – the shouts until this point had been for Roma, Germanicus and the emperor, Tiberius.
‘Don’t think you can get round me so easy, you maggots. There’s work to be done yet!’ Tullus’ tone was a good deal gentler than usual, but he couldn’t help it. I’m getting soft, he thought, his heart full as he watched his men bend their backs without another word from him.
More than an hour passed. A cooling breeze had arisen from the north, reducing the stifling heat. Tullus was supervising work on the almost finished tropaeum. Soldiers from different legions had shared the work from the start. Chosen by Tullus, a fine oak – the tree favoured by Jupiter – had been felled, and its branches and foliage cut away. From this had been fashioned a length of timber the height of two tall men and as thick around as Tullus’ thigh. A strong branch had been trimmed to make the crosspiece and attached to the vertical section with rope.
Countless large stones had been hauled from a nearby slope covered in scree and piled into a great heap. Tullus had chosen the spot because it was where he had first seen the Cherusci turn and run. In truth, there would be many locations on the battlefield where men would say the enemy broke, but he was the officer organising the building of the tropaeum. He still wasn’t sure how that had happened. Bassius’ death had left Tullus as the ranking centurion of the Fifth, but officers of similar rank from other legions had also been present.
He suspected it had come about because of his ordeal with Varus. Once Tullus might have refused the job, but not today. It was fitting that he, a veteran of the Saltus Teutoburgiensis and contributor to this victory, should take primacy. It moved him that the legionaries of other units seemed to feel the same way – not long since, they had laid down their tools and let Tullus’ men put the finishing touches to the tropaeum.
The large wooden cross had been dressed as if it were a person, with a fine mail shirt and iron helmet stripped from the corpse of a senior Angrivarii chieftain. Bloodstains caked the mail and the helm had a long, blade-shaped dent in the crown. Over the left ‘shoulder’, a baldric had been draped; from it hung a sword in a silver-bound scabbard. Two hexagonal shields, both splintered, had been affixed to the left ‘arm’. Scores of helmets, swords and shields had been heaped at the mound’s base. A hole at its top lay ready. Lines of rope trailed away from the vertical section.
Managing to look eager despite their exhaustion, Piso and his comrades stood ready to manoeuvre the structure aloft. Hundreds of legionaries and officers were on hand, eager to witness the first celebration of their triumph over Arminius’ forces. Scores of tied-up prisoners, many injured, knelt nearby.
A clinking noise made Tullus turn his head. Fenestela, who had been absent for some time, was emerging from the throng, dragging lengths of chain. Four legionaries accompanied him, similarly encumbered. ‘What in Hades is that?’ demanded Tullus.
‘Chains, sir,’ replied Fenestela, ever droll. ‘Lots of them.’
‘I can see that,’ rumbled Tullus, ignoring his men’s stifled laughter. ‘Care to explain?’
‘I went scouting into the trees, sir, making sure all the enemy had fled,’ said Fenestela. ‘I found the chains about a quarter of a mile away, along with some food and water, supplies and so on.’
‘You think the Germans brought them to use on us?’
‘That’s what it looks like, aye.’
‘Arrogant fucking savages!’ Tullus seized a length of the chain and raised it high. ‘See this, brothers? This was for the Cherusci to bind us with, after they had defeated us!’
The eruption of angry shouts, whistles and catcalls that followed soon morphed into chants of ‘TUL-LUS!’ and ‘GER-MAN-I-CUS!’
‘And, with perfect timing, here he is,’ said Tullus, hearing horsemen. ‘Your general comes!’ he roared.
‘GER-MAN-I-CUS! GER-MAN-I-CUS! GER-MAN-I-CUS!’ The cheering grew deafening.
The crowd nearest the Visurgis parted, allowing a party of riders to canter in. Germanicus led, and was followed by Caecina, Tubero and many of the army’s senior commanders. Tullus and Fenestela both came to attenti
on and saluted.
Almost as dirty as the soldiers, and as covered in sweat, Germanicus continued to look every part the general, every part the victorious leader. ‘This triumph was Tiberius’, Tullus, not mine,’ he said, smiling to show that, despite his words, he was pleased by the recognition.
Far away in Rome, Tiberius didn’t even know this battle had taken place yet. He hadn’t ever had anything to do with Germanicus’ army – everyone knew that. This was politics talking, but Tullus knew his place. ‘As you say, sir.’ He quietened the men with a gesture, and cried, ‘TI-BER-I-US!’
Surprise bathed the nearest faces, then realisation sank in. ‘TI-BER-I-US!’ shouted the soldiers. ‘TI-BER-I-US!’
Germanicus gave a tiny nod of approval and slipped from his horse’s back. A servant took its reins. Beckoning to Tullus and Fenestela, the general paced to inspect the mound. Tullus took huge satisfaction from Tubero’s angry expression – he hated this recognition of him by Germanicus. Fuck you, Tubero, thought Tullus. You arrogant whoreson.
Stooping here and there, Germanicus examined the weaponry and helmets. His gaze lingered on the bloodied mail shirt and battered helmet on the ‘body’.
Tullus had been pleased with the tropaeum, but now a sudden nervousness took him. ‘Perhaps we should have searched more of the battlefield,’ he muttered to Fenestela. ‘There could be finer trophies out there.’
‘Nothing you can do now,’ came Fenestela’s unhelpful reply. He met Tullus’ sidelong glare with an innocent expression.
‘A fine display,’ Germanicus commented at last. He acknowledged Piso and his companions, who grinned like fools.
Mightily relieved, Tullus glanced at Germanicus. ‘Shall I give the order, sir?’
‘Aye.’
‘Haul it up, brothers!’ cried Tullus.
Piso and his comrades set to with a will. Lifting the cross, they worked its base into the hole at the mound’s top. Four men placed it on their shoulders so it was almost parallel with the ground, while Piso and Metilius moved to stand opposite them. Picking a rope each, the pair pulled on a count of three. Held from beneath by the four soldiers, who walked up the mound as Piso and Metilius heaved, the cross eased itself into the footings.
A huge cheer rose as it came upright. With eager hands, Piso and his companions moved rocks around the cross’s base, support to keep it standing. That done, they undid the ropes and moved away.
Germanicus clicked his fingers, and a scribe hurried forward with a calfskin parchment. An expectant silence fell as Germanicus unrolled it – even Tullus felt a rush of excitement.
‘This altar has been built to celebrate today’s famous victory, and is dedicated to the glory of the gods Mars, Jupiter and Augustus. In this place, the German tribes were beaten – slain in their thousands. The Cherusci. The Angrivarii, the Marsi and the Sugambri. The Usipetes, the Chatti. The Bructeri and the Dolgubnii – all vanquished by the army of Tiberius Caesar!’ Germanicus looked around, catching the eye of man after man. ‘You did this – all of you!’
‘TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US! TI-BER-I-US!’
Germanicus listened to the soldiers’ acclaim with a satisfied expression.
Tullus stole a look at the senior officers. Caecina and the rest seemed happy, but Tubero had a face that would have curdled milk. All the prick could see, thought Tullus, was him standing beside the governor. It was beyond Tubero to realise that Germanicus was recognising his soldiers’ achievement, but also binding them to him even more.
The legionaries’ yelling died away little by little. When silence had fallen, Germanicus spoke again. ‘Our losses were light today, the gods be thanked. Fewer than a thousand of our soldiers fell, while the enemy lost more than seven times that number. A grievous cost to us was the death of Primus Pilus Bassius of the Fifth Legion. He was a fine officer, who served the empire for almost forty years. He will never be forgotten.’ Germanicus bent his neck, showing his respect.
Every man copied him, even the commanding officers.
Tullus’ grief, held back until now, welled forth. Rest in peace, Bassius, old friend, he thought. He had already decided to burn Bassius’ body by the base of the tropaeum later that evening. Burial was out of the question. The local tribespeople who came to defile the altar would dig him up and mutilate his body. Instead Tullus and his men would watch the flames consume Bassius’ body, as Romans had done of old. On their return to Vetera, he would have a fine tombstone on the road leading from the legion’s fort – Tullus would see to that.
‘With the army still at war, the Fifth Legion needs a new primus pilus.’
Tullus’ heart jumped in his chest – Germanicus was looking straight at him.
‘I can think of no better officer to fill the position than Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus.’
Loud rumbles of agreement rose from the gathered soldiers. Tubero looked as if he’d swallowed a wasp.
More embarrassed than he’d ever been, Tullus fixed his gaze on the ground before Germanicus’ feet.
‘Approach, centurion!’ ordered Germanicus.
Tullus stamped forward, conscious of the dust and caked blood covering every part of him. ‘SIR!’ he bellowed and came to attention.
Germanicus’ gaze travelled over those watching, and then he said, ‘By the power vested in me, I name you primus pilus of the glorious Fifth Legion.’
As the soldiers gave loud voice to their approval, Germanicus added, ‘May you serve as well as Bassius.’
‘I will do my best, sir!’
‘I know you will,’ said Germanicus with a smile.
‘One request, sir.’ Risky though it was, he had to strike while the iron was hot.
Germanicus raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’
‘I would ask to move some of my men into the First Century, sir. Soldiers who were in the Eighteenth.’ Tullus licked dry lips.
‘After what you rescued them from, it’s not for me to separate you.’ Real respect marked Germanicus’ face. ‘Take as many as you wish.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Tears pricked Tullus’ eyes. It was, he thought, only fitting that Piso, Metilius and the rest of his men from the Eighteenth would share this victory with him.
Chapter XXIV
PISO AND HIS comrades were sprawled outside their tent. It was far too warm to consider sleeping in the close confines of its muggy interior. It was also late – hours had passed since sunset, but they had not long returned from the battlefield. Conversation was dwindling fast. The black and white stray dog adopted by the contubernium, Macula, had given itself up to sleep, its paws already twitching in a dream.
The day had been memorable, thought Piso, enjoying the fuzzy feeling that came with drinking a lot of wine. Victory over the Germans had been exhilarating, and erecting the tropaeum’s cross in front of Germanicus an unexpected bonus. Tullus’ promotion to Bassius’ post and their own elevation to the First Century had seemed to prove that Fortuna was in the best of moods.
Anxious that their fallen comrades would escape the attention of the local tribes, the legionaries had requested that all the bodies be burned. Tullus had agreed. Axes brought from the camp had allowed the felling of trees. The smell of burning flesh from the pyres had been awful, but Tullus had seen to it that wine was on hand. Proud of their hard-won victory, grieving for the fallen and lubricated by the wine, the carousing legionaries had stayed on the battlefield for some hours after sunset.
Metilius broke the drowsy silence. ‘It was a fitting way to send them off, eh? Bassius would have approved.’
‘Better to burn than be dug up by the savages, that’s for sure,’ Piso agreed, but he was brooding about Vitellius. After the battle of the Long Bridges the previous year, they had buried him in an isolated spot, hoping this would be enough to save his grave from discovery.
‘We couldn’t have cremated ’Tellius,’ muttered Metilius, reading Piso’s mind. ‘It was autumn, remember, and raining every day. Even if we’d got a fire lit, the smoke would have
attracted every warrior for miles.’
Piso sighed. There hadn’t been an alternative, but it still hurt that they had interred Vitellius’ body miles from anywhere. Good soldiers like him shouldn’t die, thought Piso. Bitterness coursed through his veins at the thought of a man like Tubero, who seemed set to sail through life without ever coming to harm. Arrogant and uncaring, he was disliked by every soldier in the legion. Worse still, his stupidity had almost got Tullus and twenty men killed once. Why couldn’t Tubero have died? Piso wondered.
A sudden devilment took him. If he were somehow to trim the legate to size, Tullus – as long as he didn’t know Piso had done it – would be pleased and amused. The prank wouldn’t bring Vitellius back either, but it would make his shade smile. Piso’s first idea was to cut most of the way through the legate’s saddle girth, but that was too risky. Even if Tubero was only injured, no effort would be spared to find the culprit, and the punishment would be extreme. Something demeaning would work better, Piso decided with regret. Something humiliating.
Nothing feasible offered itself to his drink-befuddled brain, hard as he tried. Metilius was snoring beside him, and drowsiness soon stole up on Piso. He was almost asleep when a foul smell brought him back to reality. Realising that the dog Macula had farted, Piso grimaced and rolled over. An instant later, a broad smile split his face.
He knew just the way to get at Tubero.
‘You want to do what?’ hissed Metilius in disbelief.
Noticing that Tullus had heard, Piso ignored his friend. It was early morning, and the First, Third and Fifth Centuries were heading towards the Visurgis to fetch water for the entire cohort. Enormous numbers of German dead remained in the river after the battle, so Tullus was marching them upstream. ‘We’ll come to fresh water in the end,’ he declared.