Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  His soldiers’ shoulders went back. ‘FIFTH! FIFTH! FIFTH!’

  The men in other centuries heard Tullus’ words, and took up the cry. It spread to other cohorts as they marched, increasing in volume until the sounds of fighting beyond their position were almost drowned out.

  At the right of the front rank, Tullus somehow managed to walk at the normal speed, limping and cursing. He ignored the pain lancing up his leg, the spatters of blood left behind in each print of his left boot, and kept a silent count. A hundred paces were achievable. After that, he had to match that target with another hundred. Twice that wasn’t impossible either, but by half a thousand, Tullus was fighting a losing struggle.

  He had never been more relieved to hear the halt sounded. Sweat streaming down his face, he leaned both arms on his grounded shield. A puddle of blood soon formed around his left boot. Curse it, he thought.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ asked Piso.

  ‘Aye,’ retorted Tullus, but with less certainty than before. Loath to admit his weakness, there was no denying he would be a liability in the fighting to come. He didn’t care about himself, but he wasn’t sure he could bear the responsibility – through negligence – for the death of one of his men. ‘Optio! Get up here,’ he shouted.

  Fenestela stomped up, his usual scowl in place. ‘Here I am, sir.’

  ‘Closer,’ ordered Tullus. Never had he had to pass over command to Fenestela during a battle, and his pride was stinging. He was the primus pilus, for Jupiter’s sake. Tullus lowered his voice. ‘I can’t go on.’

  Fenestela’s sour expression vanished. ‘Your foot?’

  ‘Still bleeding, and I can hardly walk. I’d die quicker than Calvus did when the fighting starts. That, or someone would die because of me.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Fenestela.

  ‘A fucking foot wound!’

  ‘You might lose the leg yet,’ Fenestela shot back. ‘Better to withdraw now, before you do more damage.’

  Fenestela was right, thought Tullus. ‘Take charge of the century. The centurion of the Second Century will assume command of the cohort. Send him word.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll limp back, out of the way. There’ll be a surgeon somewhere away from the fighting.’

  ‘You’re taking half a dozen men as escort.’

  The fierce light in Fenestela’s eyes caused Tullus’ protest to die in his throat. ‘Very well.’ Miserable, he watched Fenestela call Piso over, and mutter in his ear. Piso shot a look at him, and Tullus glowered back.

  ‘Message for the primus pilus!’ shouted a voice.

  Tullus spied the Praetorian fifty paces off, loping along the front of the Fifth’s position as he searched. ‘Here!’ Tullus shouted.

  The Praetorian was in his mid-twenties, thin-faced with deep-set, thoughtful eyes. Bloodstains marked his sword arm, evidence that he’d been at the fighting’s heart. He gave Tullus a crisp salute. ‘Orders from Germanicus, sir.’

  ‘Speak.’ I wonder what Germanicus will make of my having to leave the field, thought Tullus, shame lashing him.

  ‘Fresh legions are advancing from the third line, sir. The Fifth and the Twenty-First are to withdraw. The battle will go on until sunset, the governor says, and the day’s camps need building. The Fifth and the Twenty-First are to make a start.’

  Tullus threw back his head and laughed. ‘Optio – Piso doesn’t need to go anywhere.’

  Fenestela intuited the reason, and grinned. ‘Very good, sir.’

  The messenger looked on in confusion. ‘What shall I report, sir?’

  ‘Tell the governor that the Fifth will be honoured to help build the camps.’

  As the messenger returned whence he’d come, Tullus glanced at the heavens. Thank you, Fortuna, he thought. I needed this one.

  Chapter XXVIII

  ARMINIUS WAS DEEP among the beech and spruce trees, about halfway along the length of his warriors’ battle line – he hoped. It was impossible to be sure. Everything was confusion, and had been since the morale-wrecking barrages by the Roman artillery. Not that many men had been slain by the bolts and stones, or the infernal, whizzing slingshot bullets, but the fear and disorder they had sown had been widespread. It was hard to blame his warriors for their apprehension, Arminius decided. What man’s spirits wouldn’t be affected by skull-crushing stones hurtling in from afar?

  They had rallied well enough once the artillery had ceased shooting, and the omens for holding the rampart had looked good. Thousands of battle-ready warriors standing on an earthwork a man’s height above the Romans. Hundreds more reinforcements sent to the boggy ground, including nigh on fifty berserkers. What Arminius hadn’t counted on was the legionaries’ renewed vigour. Heartened by seeing their enemies cower beneath the artillery barrage, and encouraged by Germanicus’ presence, they had attacked with bloody-minded purpose. A spectator couldn’t have guessed that they had lost many hundreds of men in their two previous failed assaults.

  It would have been wiser to remain there, brooded Arminius, and let my cursed leg bleed. If I’d stayed, we might have held them. For a time, his warriors had done just that, battering back the legionaries as they scrabbled desperately to climb up. Beginning to think that all would be well, Arminius had made his first mistake. Concerned that his men in the forest weren’t attacking the Roman flank as they’d been told, and having had no reply despite sending two messengers, he had taken it upon himself to go and remedy the situation.

  Raging, he punched one hand into the other. I should have known. Without his magnetism, his leadership, there had been an inevitability to the legionaries winning a foothold on the rampart. Since the dawn of time, soldiers had fought harder if their commander was close by.

  His second mistake had been not to leave Maelo in overall control of the forces in his absence. Arminius had suggested it of course, but the chieftains’ protests had been vociferous. Their biggest grievance had been that Maelo didn’t lead a tribe. Why should he tell them what to do? Frustrated, in severe pain with his leg, Arminius had argued, wheedled and lost his temper. He would have got his way in the end, but the chieftains’ surliness meant that their warriors would not have fought well. Exasperated by their hard-headedness, a furious Arminius had left the situation as it was, and ridden to the forest.

  He hadn’t been back since, because his hands had been full arranging the defence of the tree line. Needless to say, much of that time had been taken up negotiating with obstinate chieftains who didn’t want to listen to good counsel. Weakened by his wound, suffering from the extreme heat, it had taken an age to settle matters to Arminius’ satisfaction. It felt as if Donar was laughing at him then, for the situation in the centre had deteriorated. Despite the dazzling sunshine – hard to look out at from the shady trees – and clouds of dust enveloping the battlefield, it had been clear that the Romans had forced their way on to the earthwork. Worse still, they were holding the position, which meant legionaries were swarming up from the plain. Arminius could have wept. It was as if every cursed Roman sprang from the same father’s loins. They were brave as lions. Disciplined and pig-headed. The bastards just would not give up.

  Mind spinning, Arminius had been wavering – he cursed just to think of himself, in pain, indecisive – and thinking about returning to the rampart when word had come from Maelo. Germanicus’ Praetorian cohorts were atop the earthwork, but they weren’t alone. Soldiers from other legions had fought their way up too. ‘Maelo’s about to attack with his last reserves,’ the messenger had panted. ‘He’ll do his best, he said, but things are tough.’

  Arminius had made light of the news before his warriors, but inside, his worries flared into bright new life. He knew Maelo well. In someone else’s words, the message could have meant that the battle’s outcome hung in the balance, but in Maelo’s it felt like a final farewell. Claws of grief ripped at Arminius still. His friend was as good as dead.

  Arminius couldn’t let grief consume him. The battle
was still there for the taking, and it was time to see what was going on. He kneed his horse forward, towards the tree line. Warriors moved out of his way. Grim-faced, they gave him silent recognition. A nod here. A chin dipped, a head inclined there. There was no cheering. No threats about how they’d butcher the Romans. Even the few remaining berserkers were quiet. Deep in thought, worried, Arminius didn’t make any acknowledgement.

  ‘You promised us victory,’ shouted a voice. ‘From here it doesn’t look much like it’s going to happen.’

  ‘Nor from where I’m standing,’ said a sour-faced warrior close to Arminius. ‘Germanicus has eight legions out there, and it’s only taken three or four to seize the rampart. There are, what, ten thousand of us in the forest? We might defeat one or two legions, but eight?’

  Arminius lost all control. ‘If your fucking chieftains had obeyed my orders here and on the rampart,’ he shouted, ‘I would have been where I was needed – over there. You lot would have hit the Romans’ flank as we beat them back from our position. If you’d done that, you stupid bastards, maybe you wouldn’t be staring death in the face!’

  The sour-faced warrior’s jaw dropped.

  Arminius gave him a contemptuous look, and his gaze raked the other shocked faces. ‘It’s the truth I speak.’ He clicked his tongue and aimed his horse for the tree line again. The hair on his neck prickled – he could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on him, could taste the warriors’ resentment. He’d ridden perhaps a quarter of the distance before the first cry went up.

  ‘You’re no better than us, Arminius of the Cherusci!’

  Stiff-backed, Arminius pretended he hadn’t heard, but more followed in its wake.

  ‘D’you think you’re king of the tribes, you dog?’ ‘Arrogant bastard!’ ‘Thusnelda must have been glad to see the back of you!’

  Arminius’ vision blurred, and he spun his mount in a tight circle. ‘Who said that? WHO SAID THAT?’ he screamed, driving forward, using his horse’s bulk to force a way.

  Already the warriors’ anger was muted. Few would meet Arminius’ gaze, and those that did seemed embarrassed, even ashamed. Some muttered things like, ‘Thusnelda was a good woman.’ ‘It was a terrible thing, taking her like that.’ Arminius paid them no heed. Nostrils white with fury, heart pounding, he twisted his head from side to side, demanding, ‘Who spoke? Who insulted me? Show yourself, you yellow-livered filth!’

  At this, a broad-shouldered warrior moved into Arminius’ path. Bructeri from his trouser patterns, his bare chest glistened with sweat. A battered, hexagonal shield dangled from his left fist. Red stains marked his spear blade. Hard-faced, he glared at Arminius. ‘I said it.’

  ‘It was you?’

  ‘Aye.’ The bare-chested warrior planted his feet a little wider. ‘Me.’

  ‘You motherless get. You filthy, sheep-fucking animal.’

  The warrior opened his mouth to issue an angry retort. He never saw Arminius’ sword slice through the air. Didn’t feel it cut until the blade had taken off the top of his head, and by then it was too late. Brain matter and blood showered. He dropped, lips still trying to talk. The shorn section of his skull, complete with hair, landed ten paces away. The corpse fell to one side, scattering the nearest men.

  ‘Anyone else care to slur my wife?’ Arminius sawed on the reins, bringing his horse around in a full circle.

  No one answered.

  ‘Good.’ Leaning over, he spat on the warrior’s body. ‘If I had time, I’d cut off his prick as well, but there’s a battle to fight. That is, if any of you still have the stomach for it.’ He glared around him; no one would meet his gaze.

  ‘Will you fight – or will you run, like whipped curs?’ he shouted. ‘If you’re going to flee, best do it now.’

  A semblance of calm returned to Arminius in the following silence, and the magnitude of what he’d done sank in. I went too far. Much too far, he thought. I could have lost them. He eased his stern expression, tried to look encouraging.

  Another ten heartbeats pattered by.

  ‘I won’t run.’ Gervas’ voice was loud. ‘The Romans have slain too many of my people. I’d never be able to hold my head up again if I fled.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said two of his companions.

  ‘And I,’ cried an unseen man off to Arminius’ left.

  Like an abrupt change in the direction of the wind, the warriors’ attention veered from Arminius to matters at hand. There was no loud chanting as he would have wished, but plenty of men clattered spears off their shields.

  Arminius’ relief was brief.

  His warriors would fight, but could they prevail?

  Chapter XXIX

  CLOSE TO THE defensive ditch of the still-in-construction camp, Tullus was sitting, grim-faced. The sun’s rays continued to hammer down, their heat merciless. Flies buzzed around his bloodied boot, returning no matter how many times he swatted them away. Perhaps an hour had passed since Germanicus’ order had come through. Rumours from the battlefield had it that Arminius’ warriors were being beaten back. It was satisfying news, but it increased Tullus’ frustration at not being there.

  The wounded surrounded him. Groans and muttered curses mingled with medical orderlies’ voices. Dozens of the specially trained soldiers were treating casualties laid in rows on the hard ground, placed there by more orderlies who, job done, raced back to the battle for more. Half the able-bodied legionaries were digging the ditch while the rest stood guard, forming a screen between the camp and the battlefield. Strong parties ferried skins of water from the River Visurgis.

  Tullus didn’t care to be seen on his arse, but a surgeon had been found to examine his foot, and a hospital tent hadn’t yet been set up. The ground it had to be. Greek, as his kind so often were, the dark-skinned surgeon was thin, almost bald and harassed-looking. The tip of his tongue protruded from between his lips as he unlaced Tullus’ boot. ‘Tell me if the pain is too much, sir,’ he said.

  ‘It hurts like a bastard no matter what you do,’ replied Tullus with a grimace.

  ‘I have some poppy juice—’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘I’ll have to cut the boot off, sir,’ he said not long after.

  ‘Do what you must. It’s ruined anyway.’ A new pair of boots mattered not – it was what the surgeon might find that concerned Tullus. Unless Fortuna was in a foul humour, he wouldn’t die of the injury, but it was more than possible that his career was at an end. A soldier who couldn’t march – even a primus pilus – was no use to anyone.

  Despite his worries, Tullus hadn’t bothered looking for a surgeon until they reached the already chosen spot for the camp. Fenestela’s protests had fallen on deaf ears. ‘There are men in greater need of attention than me,’ Tullus had growled, putting an end to the conversation. Not long since, the wagons that had ferried the soldiers’ tents here had been organised to bring the casualties from the battlefield, and already a steady stream was coming and going. According to the most recently arrived mule-handlers, the fighting continued to be brutal, but the Germans were retreating. Victory seemed certain, Tullus decided, although he didn’t say it out loud.

  ‘Hades!’ Waves of sweet agony powered up his left leg.

  ‘My apologies, sir. There was a clot between your foot and the boot. I had to pull them apart.’ The surgeon washed his hands in the bronze bowl by his side, and then used a drying cloth passed to him by a medical orderly.

  ‘It’s started bleeding again,’ said Tullus.

  ‘That can’t be helped, sir. It will clean the wound.’

  Tullus peered down, but with the surgeon bent over his lower leg, there was little to be seen, so he leaned back on his hands and cast an irritable eye around him. ‘You there!’ he shouted.

  Visible only from the waist up, several soldiers in the nearby ditch glanced around.

  ‘You!’ Tullus shouted, pointing at a jug-eared man he recognised from the Third Century of his own cohort. ‘I see you, shirke
r! Put more energy into swinging that pickaxe or I’ll break the thing over your head. The rest of you, get back to work!’

  Every soldier took a sudden interest in the bottom of the ditch, and the rhythmic thumping as their pickaxes sank into the soil picked up speed.

  The surgeon sighed, drawing Tullus’ attention back to his foot. ‘Well? How bad is it?’ Tullus demanded.

  ‘I’ve seen worse, sir.’ The surgeon probed with his fingers, making Tullus hiss with discomfort.

  ‘Aye? So have I! What damage is there?’ Tullus wanted to ask if he’d always be lame, but a rare fear stilled his tongue.

  ‘Toes four and five are unscathed, sir. Your big toe and the third one are lacerated from whatever blade went through your boot. A couple of stitches will see them right.’ The surgeon held something up towards Tullus. ‘The second toe has been part amputated.’

  Tullus realised with disgust that the bloodied morsel of flesh being proffered by the surgeon was the tip of his toe. ‘Rot in Hades, Maelo,’ he muttered.

  A blank look from the surgeon.

  ‘Maelo was the warrior who did this to me.’

  The surgeon’s eyebrows arched. ‘You knew him, sir?’

  ‘He was Arminius’ second-in-command. I met him before he turned traitor.’

  ‘He’s dead, I take it, sir?’

  ‘Aye. Taking that wound was how I got the better of him.’ Tullus bent forward to examine the damage. His nostrils filled with the ripe cheesy smell of unwashed foot mixed with the coppery tang of blood. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Black-red clots and trailing smears coated his foot from the midpoint of his arch to his toes. Other than the second toe being half its original length, it was hard to make out much. Tullus’ unhappiness didn’t ease. ‘It looks nasty.’

  ‘The bleeding seems to have slowed, sir, which is good. You’ll disobey my advice to stay off your feet, I know’ – here the surgeon’s face became resigned – ‘so once I’ve finished, I’ll apply a pressure bandage, which should do the trick. It will need changing daily for a few days, to check that there’s no sign of sepsis.’