by Ben Kane
Derogatory comments from his men filled the air. ‘They’re all shining armour and polished helmets – I doubt there’s a veteran among them.’ ‘Ever used those swords in battle?’ ‘Overpaid, noses-in-the-air sons of whores!’
Knowing Tullus for a primus pilus, the glowering Praetorians didn’t dare respond to the jibes until he’d moved out of earshot.
The slanging match with the Praetorians kept his soldiers occupied for most of the distance to the enemy rampart. A grim silence fell thereafter, for the final section had a plentiful covering of Roman dead and dying. It was a familiar scene, but desolating in its savagery. Pleas for help, requests for water and more plaintive cries filled Tullus’ ears. Disturbed by his men’s arrival, clouds of flies rose from gaping wounds, staring eyeballs and shining loops of bowel. Unerring in their ability to spot carrion, scores of buzzards hung overhead.
‘Mother,’ groaned an auxiliary with a spear through his belly. ‘Mother.’ A blank-faced legionary sat cradling his bloodied right arm, which was missing a hand. ‘Hot sausages, four for an as,’ he said. The slowing spurts of blood from the man’s savage wound revealed he’d soon be dead. ‘Hot sausages, four for an as. Hot sausages, four for an as.’ The words rolled around in Tullus’ head.
A hundred paces out, and the German warriors manning the top of the rampart were in full cry. HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM! Spears hurled by the strongest flew high into the air and streaked down into the mass of advancing legionaries and Praetorians. Faint cries carried; none of the injured were close by. That would change fast, thought Tullus. ‘Raise shields,’ he bellowed. ‘Keep moving, brothers!’
Sixty paces, and the enemy spears fell like rain. Thin-bladed and thick, leaf-shaped and almost triangular, they punched into the legionaries’ shields. Every so often, one scythed through a gap. Shrieks and curses followed, but most were turned by the armour of the men beneath. Tullus remained calm. The Germans’ barrage was already ending. There would be a respite at the rampart’s foot, an opportunity for those with undamaged shields to hand them to the men at the front. Opportunity might present itself to tug out the spears.
Thirty paces out, and the enemy barrage had ceased. Naked berserkers prowled up and down, beating their chests and screaming insults at the Romans. One turned his back to the legionaries, crouching and parting his arse cheeks in the ultimate gesture of contempt. Roars of coarse laughter went up from his fellows. The barritus reached a new crescendo. HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
‘Let them sing, brothers,’ shouted Tullus. ‘We don’t fucking care, do we?’
‘NOOOOOOOOOO!’ the nearest men bellowed.
‘Ready javelins. Aim high,’ Tullus ordered. ‘In your own time, loose!’
His sweating men cocked their right arms back and threw. More uneven than a training-ground effort, the volley damaged plenty of enemy shields. From the screams, some warriors had also been injured.
Slowing, Tullus repeated his previous commands. ‘At the base of the rampart, the soldiers in the front rank will move forward. Work in fours. Two men from each group are to stand against the earthwork, shields over their heads. The next pair will kneel close behind, shields angled against those of the soldiers in front. Pass it on!’
‘Aye, sir!’ ‘Yes, sir!’ ‘We’re ready, sir!’
‘The instant the “ramps” are ready, the men of the second rank are to charge up, in fours also. Once they’re up, the third rank follows.’
Again his soldiers rumbled their understanding.
They tramped closer, keeping pace with the cohorts on either side. Fifteen steps separated them from the bottom of the enemy earthwork. The barritus continued to batter their ears, the berserkers to threaten their worst. Great waves of heat rose from the earth, carrying throat-clawing, fresh-corpse odours: blood, shit and piss. The sun beat down, burning exposed skin and heating helmets and armour until they were painful to the touch.
‘That’s it, brothers,’ said Tullus. ‘Almost there.’
Ten paces. Try as they might, the legionaries could not avoid walking on their fallen comrades; some were still alive, yet Tullus kept his gaze fixed on the enemy. His men were all that mattered right now.
More crazed than his fellows, a tall berserker leaped down to confront the legionaries. Stumbling as he landed, he was unable to stop Piso’s neat sword thrust, made without breaking formation. In between the ribs went the blade, a few fingers’ breadth, and out. The berserker fell on to his knees, as if praying, but a solid blow from Piso’s shield sent him backward to lie staring, blank-eyed, up at his shocked companions. ‘That for your stupidity.’ Piso stamped down with a hobnailed sandal, and his comrades cheered.
‘First rank, ready,’ shouted Tullus. ‘GO!’ Shield raised against spears, he stood side on and watched. With pleasing efficiency, the dozen soldiers broke into fours. One pair from each quartet rushed to the rampart and lifted their shields high, while the third and fourth men knelt behind and did the same.
‘Second rank, move!’ Tullus longed to charge up the shield ramp at the screaming enemy, but he had to see the bulk of his century to the top of the earthwork first.
Metal clashed above his head. A man screamed. Another cursed, in German. Thunk went a shield boss as it hit something. ‘ROMA!’ bellowed a voice. ‘Die, whoreson!’ Air moved close to Tullus and, with a meaty sound, a body landed nearby. A second followed it. Hoping they weren’t both Roman, he sent the third rank to the attack.
The instant that the twelve soldiers had gone, Tullus had the men forming the bridges move aside. Piso and Metilius were among them, faces purple from the effort of their toil. ‘Ready?’ asked Tullus.
‘Aye, sir,’ panted Metilius.
Tullus clouted him on the shoulder.
The new ramps were in place. Tullus beckoned to Piso, Metilius and the two others who would accompany him. Drawing his sword, he shouted, ‘Fifth rank, ready!’ Then, to the four men, ‘With me!’
Tullus got a fresh glimpse of the top of the rampart as his hobs clattered off the first shield. The struggle was savage. Twenty-four soldiers had gone up, but a good deal fewer than that were standing. Another went down as he watched. Worried that he and his men might have bitten off more than they could chew, Tullus pounded on to the second shield, skidding a little on its domed surface, and on to the earthwork. There was no time to savour the solid earth beneath his feet, no chance to feel anything but gut-clenching fear. The soldier in front of him was making a terrible, high-pitched sound – he was dying.
Tullus got there in time to step into the space left by the soldier as he slumped to the ground, and to stick his opponent, a grey-bearded warrior, before he had a chance to tug free his spear. Greybeard went down, looking surprised, and Tullus lunged forward, stabbing the next German in the mouth. Teeth splintered, blood bubbled and, with a horrible gurgling noise, the warrior died. Wary of being isolated, Tullus stepped back and checked he had a legionary to either side.
Perhaps intimidated by the sight of two of his companions dropping so fast, the next warrior approached Tullus with care. Caution was his undoing. As his eyes shifted downward, checking that he didn’t trip over a corpse, Tullus slammed into him with a mighty blow of his shield boss. The warrior stumbled backwards and Tullus felt men at his back – reinforcements. ‘Small wedge!’ he roared. With a soldier at each shoulder, Tullus moved forward. Apprehensive, the nearest warriors edged back, and he pushed on three steps. Screaming a war cry, a man with braided hair came at him, spear held overhead, ready to lunge.
Knees bent, head dropped so that only his eyes showed above his shield, Tullus rammed his sword into the warrior’s belly before the spear thrust came. Not too far – he didn’t want the blade to wedge in the backbone. A little twist to slice the guts and Tullus tugged it out. Bawling like a newborn, the man fell.
Tullus’ eyes roved left to right and back. The nearest warriors were scared – he could see it in their faces. ‘Bigger wedge!’ he bellowed. ‘FORWARD!’ Trusti
ng that men were at his back, he took another step.
A berserker was next to hurl himself at Tullus. He died spitting curses with Tullus’ and Piso’s blades in his chest. More warriors shuffled forward, brave in spite of Tullus’ lethality, but he was like a man possessed. A tiny part of him imagined each foe to be Arminius, and all Tullus had lived for since the rain-sodden carnage in the forest was to lay the Cherusci chieftain in the mud. Never mind that Arminius was who knew where on the battlefield, each warrior was in some way part of him. Kill enough of the filth, Tullus reasoned dimly through his battle fury, and Arminius would be revealed.
In that sweltering, blurred-focus time, the gods seemed to furnish Tullus with energy. His customary aches – at the base of his spine, in his neck, in his left calf – vanished. Once more a twenty-year-old, his muscles were made of steel, his heart strong as an ox’s. Every warrior in front of him died. Big, small, tall, short, young or old, it didn’t matter – he killed them all. As each gasped his way to Hades and he saw they were not Arminius, Tullus pressed on, his blade imbued with a life of its own. A living extension of his untiring arm, the sharp steel thirsted for a home in enemy flesh; it longed to cleave faces and slash wide throats.
His vitality infected Piso and Metilius – the pair who had placed themselves at his shoulders – and they too fought like the Titans of legend. The ranks that came after were no different. With their centurion like this, every man could smell victory. Tullus pressed on, knowing that fear spread with the speed of a fire consuming a wooden tenement block.
Push the Germans hard enough, and they would crack.
Crack, and they would run.
Run, and the battle was won.
Chapter XXVII
TULLUS’ RELENTLESS MOMENTUM – that, and the mad light in his and his men’s eyes – soon had an effect. Warriors edged sideways, to fight different Romans, or backwards, beyond Tullus’ blade’s kiss. Ten steps, he went, and then another ten. The tribesmen’s ranks were thinning – he could see open ground beyond. He did not know it, but Fenestela and others of his soldiers had formed their own wedges. Cutting deep into the German ranks, they were adding to the casualties, and to the crumbling of the warriors’ resolve. Neither man was aware that to their right, Germanicus and his Praetorian cohorts were driving their own path into the enemy’s midst.
Bursting into open space, Tullus thought that they had done it, that the Germans had had enough. He had reckoned without Maelo. From nowhere he came, it seemed, a hundred or more warriors at his back. It had been almost seven years since Tullus had clapped eyes on Arminius’ second-in-command, but there was no mistaking him. To Tullus’ immense frustration, the next wedge over took the brunt of the enemy attack. Scores of warriors broke away to assail Tullus’ formation, but not Maelo.
‘Part turn to the right. Steady!’ Slow, careful, Tullus edged around, keeping himself at the point. His men came with him and when the warriors closed in, they met Tullus, bloody-handed, enraged, at its tip. The first German to near him fell, stabbed through the cheek. The next two were dispatched by Piso and Metilius. More warriors were on them even as the initial ones fell. Their mail, shields and helmets made them dangerous adversaries. Tired from their savage struggle thus far, Tullus and his men should have been driven back.
Should have been.
Tullus’ muscles were now screaming with weariness. His spine ached as if he’d been hammering in a forge all day. Constant sweat stung his eyes, and his mouth was drier than the bottom of an old, empty wine barrel. Stab and punch, punch and stab – he traded blows with a warrior in a conical helmet. Younger than he, and fresh to the fight, the tribesman seemed the natural victor. He hadn’t had a lifetime’s experience of war, however, nor did he have Tullus’ white-hot desire for vengeance.
‘Arse-fucker!’ snarled Tullus in German. ‘Filthy arse-fucker!’
The warrior’s face twisted with anger, and he drove forward, which was Tullus’ exact ploy. Thunk went their shield bosses as they closed, each trying to reach around the other’s shield with his sword. The blades caught and snagged in their mail shirts without penetrating. As the warrior drew back his arm for another attempt, Tullus shoved in with an almighty blow of his shield. He couldn’t have judged his moment better – the warrior was driven back, delaying his thrust. Tullus stabbed him above the neckline of his mail, right in the base of the throat.
Hot ichor showered Tullus, and he laughed.
He was still laughing when he killed the next warrior, and the one after that. A fleeting pause followed as Tullus’ next opponent hung back. From the corner of his eye he saw Metilius go down to a strike by a huge warrior with a hunting spear. Calvus stepped into his place, only to fall two heartbeats later. Another soldier – Tullus couldn’t see who – moved up; with a wolf’s snarl, the warrior leaped anew to the attack.
Grief-stricken for Metilius, Tullus stuck the German in the armpit as his spear went back, ready to thrust. Tullus was about to check on Metilius, but as the warrior fell Maelo somehow appeared in front of him.
Time stood still.
‘Maelo,’ croaked Tullus, fitting a world of hatred into one word.
‘I thought it was you.’ Maelo’s spear strike was lightning fast.
Tullus jinked his head to the right; Maelo’s blade hissed past, and then back. Tullus tried a fast one-two with his shield and sword, but Maelo danced out of reach. They gazed at each other with mutual loathing. ‘Where’s your mongrel leader?’ demanded Tullus. ‘Hiding in the trees? Why isn’t he here, fighting?’
Maelo didn’t answer. Cat-soft on his feet, he came closer. Stab! Stab! His spear licked forward, seeking a home in Tullus’ face. Punch. Punch. Tullus battered with his shield. Stab. Metal screeched as his sword point connected with Maelo’s armour. Tullus tried a headbutt, but Maelo saw the move coming and jerked out of the way. Next time he closed, he slid his shield down off Tullus’ with a powerful drive. If Tullus hadn’t known the move, he would have suffered several broken toes. As it was, the bottom rim of Maelo’s shield caught the front of his left boot, trapping it. Lifting his shield a fraction, Maelo thrust with his blade.
It was risking a maiming injury, but Tullus had to take his chance. Without moving his leg, he reared up over his shield. Pain shredded his foot as Maelo’s sword went in. With gritted teeth, Tullus stabbed with his blade. Pithed through the spine, Maelo went limp. As Tullus pulled back his arm, Maelo toppled slack-limbed to the dirt.
Tullus’ ruse had come at a price. Streaks of pure agony were radiating from his foot. Worried, he shot a glance over his shield. His left boot was ruined, the leather sliced open at the toe. The wound beneath was obscured by welling blood.
‘You all right, sir?’ This from Piso.
‘I’m fine, aye.’ I have to be, thought Tullus. Around them, the fighting was dying down, but it continued to rage off to their right, where the Praetorians were. ‘How’s Metilius?’
‘I’ll live, sir,’ croaked a voice before Piso could answer.
Tullus turned in delight. Ashen-faced, Metilius was sitting upright, left arm cradling his other. Tullus was so pleased that his own pain receded for a moment. ‘I was sure you were dead!’
‘If the blow had landed anywhere else, I would be, sir.’ Metilius pointed to a small hole in his mail at the right shoulder. ‘That brute was as strong as Hercules. He broke something, I’m sure.’
‘Better that than being halfway to the underworld!’ Tullus gave Metilius an approving nod.
‘Calvus didn’t fare so well, sir.’ Glazed-eyed, Piso was standing over his comrade’s gore-spattered corpse. The huge warrior’s spear had left a massive, lipped wound in Calvus’ throat. Flies blanketed the clotting blood, and his blank, staring eyes. His cracked lips gaped, as if he was trying to take a final breath.
‘He wouldn’t have known what hit him, the poor bastard,’ said Tullus. Putting Calvus from his mind, he checked again for signs of the enemy – there were none living close by – and called
for Fenestela. The optio appeared, looking as grimy and bloody as Tullus felt, but unharmed. The pair shared a brief look, full of relief. ‘I want a head count. Make it quick. Send word to the other centurions to do the same,’ said Tullus.
The losses in his century were bad, but not as severe as they could have been. Ten soldiers were dead, or soon would be. Five of the eleven injured wouldn’t be fighting again before next spring, but once the remaining half dozen had had their wounds dressed, they were able to join their comrades standing before Tullus.
‘Forty-six men ready for duty, sir,’ said Fenestela, saluting. Noting Tullus’ drawn expression, his gaze dropped. ‘You’re wounded.’
‘A scratch.’
‘Get your boot off. Let me see.’
‘There’s no time.’ The lacing would take an age to undo, he thought, let alone retie after Fenestela had inspected Maelo’s parting gift. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘You’re sure? It’s still bleeding.’
‘Only a little.’ The blood loss wouldn’t kill him, but the pain was reaching new heights. Tullus could no longer weight-bear on his left foot. To walk after the enemy would be difficult, never mind fight them.
‘I should take a look,’ said Fenestela, his voice concerned.
‘Leave it!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fenestela glowered.
Soon after Tullus had had the cohort’s casualty report – fifty-three dead, four score injured – a messenger arrived from Germanicus’ position. The enemy had been broken on the left, and the Twenty-First and auxiliaries were mopping up. Every other legion was to turn to the right and aim, two cohorts wide, for the trees that bordered the battlefield where Arminius and his best warriors had withdrawn. It wasn’t a full retreat by any means – according to the messenger, many of the Praetorian cohorts were still involved in bitter fighting.
‘There’s a story to dine out on, brothers. We drove back the enemy before the pretty-boy Praetorians,’ Tullus told his men as trumpet calls repeated the messenger’s order. ‘The glorious Fifth!’