Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  In single file behind Tullus came two centuries of legionaries. His column was mirrored by two others, each fifty paces apart, making their way on a parallel path. Pairs of Chauci scouts ranged ahead of the legionaries, their task to spot any Marsi sentries, and to report to Tullus at regular intervals. Thus far, they had seen no one, which tallied with Mallovendus’ information. The forest was sacred, he’d said, and it was bad luck to venture within unless sanctioned by one of the tribe’s priests. Tullus and his troops would only encounter the priest assigned to watch over the eagle, and the ten warriors who acted as guards. The outcome of the mission seemed certain.

  Trusted by Germanicus, about to see his deepest longing fulfilled, Tullus hadn’t had such a spring in his step for years.

  Krrruk.

  Tullus came to an immediate halt. His skin crawled as the raven called again. Krrruk. Krrruk. There was nothing special about hearing a raven – they were common enough birds – but here in this place, sacred to the Marsi, there was a mystical, gods-given feel to the harsh, repetitive sound. Tullus set aside his unease. No wretched bird was going to stop him taking what was his. Nothing would get in his way now. He muttered encouragement to the soldier behind and started walking again.

  Nerves taut despite his determination, Tullus trod light from then on. When one of the Chauci scouts emerged from the bushes, he had his blade out and levelled in a trice.

  ‘Not enemy,’ said the warrior, a gaunt-cheeked type with almost no teeth. ‘Friend.’

  ‘Don’t creep up like that then,’ snapped Tullus, annoyed that he hadn’t heard the scout approach. ‘What news?’

  ‘We … close.’ The warrior’s Latin was bad. ‘Holy place … near.’

  Tullus’ heart thumped. ‘You’ve seen the eagle?’

  A shake of the head. ‘Is hidden. Saw … warriors, and priest.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Nine warriors. One priest.’

  ‘Mallovendus said ten guards.’

  A shrug. ‘Perhaps tenth … sleeping. Or having shit … in trees. Or Mallovendus wrong.’

  One warrior more or less would make no difference, thought Tullus. He nodded his approval and sent messengers to the other columns, which were to halt until he and the warrior had spoken to their centurions. There would be no half-baked plan: everyone would know their task, ensuring the mission’s success.

  Tullus stood in a circle of his fellow centurions. The gaunt-cheeked warrior was by his side, a rough sketch of the Marsi shrine – the best name for the place – drawn in the dirt at his feet. A trio of stone altars dominated the centre of the sacred area. Close by were a number of small wooden huts, with tents, lean-tos and firepits in between. Given that the eagle wasn’t visible, it was probable, the warrior had said, that it would be in a building. Tullus had agreed. The other, temporary structures belonged to the guards and the priest.

  ‘Tell us the warriors’ locations again,’ ordered Tullus.

  The warrior poked with his stick at the junction of the open ground and the tree line. ‘Path to settlement here. Two warriors.’ He jabbed at the largest firepit. ‘Five here, cooking, sitting.’ In front of one tent: ‘Two here, cleaning weapons.’ By the altar: ‘Priest here, praying.’

  ‘The clearing is about ten score paces across, you say?’ enquired Tullus.

  ‘Aye.’

  Quick and precise, Tullus ordered four centuries to approach from the north, west and south. He would close in from the east with his units. The signal to move would be a sharp blast from his whistle. ‘None of the filth are to escape. Clear?’ His eyes raked the others until he was satisfied they had understood.

  ‘Back to your men. I’ll see you there, with the eagle.’ In a low voice, Tullus added, ‘Roma Victrix!’

  His companions’ fierce replies couldn’t quite drown out the pounding feet of another of the Chauci scouts. Chest heaving, face streaming with sweat, he pulled up in front of Tullus. ‘Someone in forest!’

  Tullus’ stomach lurched. ‘Explain yourself!’

  ‘Noise in trees … to the south. Large group moving … towards sacred place.’

  ‘Mallovendus, the treacherous dog.’ Tullus glanced at the centurions. ‘Back to your soldiers. Make for the clearing as fast as you can. When you reach it, secure the eagle at all costs! GO!’

  And then he was sprinting for his own men.

  Tullus could feel Piso’s ghost hovering over his shoulders as he ran. Why had he given Piso command at that precise moment? Fenestela would have handled the situation better – he would have anticipated what had happened, and been ready for the last boy’s spear. It was a useless wish, but Tullus couldn’t keep it from his mind. I’m a fool, he thought. An old fool.

  If he’d been able to see Piso’s shade behind him, it would have been smiling. Fail to recover the eagle and you’ll shame me and my fallen comrades forever, it whispered in his ear. Cursing, Tullus pushed his legs even harder, until the gaunt-cheeked warrior was within sight once more. Trailing lengths of bramble dragged across Tullus’ face and tugged at his helmet crest. The thorns left beaded lines of blood on his cheek. He didn’t notice.

  What he would have given to be twenty-odd years younger. The legionaries pounding behind kept pace with ease, the dead weight of their armour and weapons seeming half the burden of Tullus’ equipment. His protesting knees crunched with every step; the muscles in his legs ached almost as much as his hips; his neck and wrists hurt too, from the weight of his helmet and shield. Piso’s ghost and the burning image of the eagle kept Tullus moving. Allowed him to ignore the tight band around his chest, the crone with her needle in his calf and the stabbing agony of his injured toe.

  Eyes fixed on the uneven track, he collided with the gaunt-cheeked warrior. The legionary next in line did well not to slam into Tullus.

  ‘Listen,’ said the warrior.

  Tullus obeyed. Cold dread tickled his guts as shouts and cries carried through the trees. It wasn’t Latin. ‘Who are they – Marsi?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘How many?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Move.’ Tullus shoved Gaunt Cheeks on.

  ‘They could be … many. Too many.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck. Lead on, or you’ll feel the point of this.’ Tullus indicated his sword.

  Sullen-faced, the warrior obeyed.

  The brief respite had given Tullus a new lease of life, as had the proximity of the eagle. Heart pumping with pride, he almost didn’t care how many savages there were at the shrine. He had more than four hundred of the empire’s finest soldiers, among them every veteran of the Eighteenth. They would fight like demigods to recover the lost standard.

  They burst out of the trees into a scene of utter confusion. Of the two sentries mentioned by the gaunt-cheeked warrior there was no sign. A thin, bearded priest stood atop the largest altar, brandishing a staff and shouting orders. Mail-clad warriors were ranged from one side of the clearing to the other, in a line facing Tullus. Behind, men were hurrying between the tents and huts, and beyond that, trees loomed. Tullus saw the warriors’ purpose. If the legionaries were held back until the eagle had been carried into the forest, it would be lost again, possibly forever.

  ‘First Century, spread out! Form a line, twenty wide, three deep. MOVE!’ He could see the Second Century’s men emerging now. Tullus barked out the same orders again, and threw a desperate look at the huts. A metallic glitter – something carried by a bearded man exiting a hut – changed his mind. Time, he had no time. ‘First Century, form wedge instead. Behind me! Second Century, form wedge and follow!’ With no idea if his order had carried to the second unit, he blew his whistle to signal an all-out attack from the rest of the cohort.

  Tullus seethed with impatience as his men hurried in behind him. Metilius and Dulcius were there. More of his veterans from the Eighteenth had formed a third row, but the other soldiers were taking an age to get in place. Tullus stared again. It was impossible to tell at this distance,
but he could have sworn the man carrying the eagle resembled Arminius. Bastard! thought Tullus. It would be just like him to try and take the eagle for his own. Tullus checked again – there were five ranks in the wedge now, still too few to be sure of success, but if he waited any longer—

  ‘With me!’ he bellowed, and charged.

  Chapter XL

  ‘ARMINIUS!’ ROARED TULLUS. Close now to the line of warriors, he could see the Cherusci leader conferring with several of his men. The eagle, tarnished and missing its lightning bolts, glinted on his shoulder. ‘I see you, whoreson!’ Tullus cried.

  Arminius gave no sign of having heard. He pointed here and there, giving orders, and then headed away from the battle lines. Stricken, Tullus whipped a glance over each shoulder: Metilius and Dulcius were there. There were more men behind, but Tullus had no idea how many. It would be enough, he decided. ‘We do this for Piso, and for our brothers from the Eighteenth. Yes?’

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  Tullus was fifteen paces out from the enemy line. Steady, well armed, the warriors looked to be some of Arminius’ best. It was madness to attack without being fully prepared, but every heartbeat mattered. Jupiter, stay with me. Fortuna— Tullus killed that thought. Better not to tempt the old bitch.

  He fixed his eyes on the closest warrior, a solid-framed man with a bushy red beard not unlike Fenestela’s. ‘ROMA!’ cried Tullus, louder than he’d ever done. The warrior flinched, just a little, exactly what Tullus had hoped for. Desperate to win any kind of advantage, he repeated his cry. Crash went their shields, and even though the warrior had braced against the impact, Tullus’ momentum, with more than ten men behind, drove him back several steps. Tullus was already hooking his right arm around the warrior’s shield, his blade searching for contact. All it found was the outside of his enemy’s elbow, but that was sufficient. The warrior cried out, and Tullus shoved him back another three paces.

  Rising up on tiptoe, Tullus headbutted the warrior, the brow of his helmet catching him on the nose, splitting skin, mashing flesh. Blood sprayed, and the man groaned and stumbled. Tullus angled his left shoulder further forward, into the curve of the shield. With a powerful push of his thigh muscles, he drove the warrior, mouth open, eyes filled with fear, down on to his back. Tullus stamped on the injured warrior’s face in passing, but there was no time to finish him off.

  ‘WITH ME!’ Tullus ordered.

  ‘Here, sir!’ Metilius’ voice. ‘Yes, sir!’ added Dulcius.

  The rest of his men would follow through the gap in the enemy line, thought Tullus, driving his tired legs forward. They had to. He would push on regardless. Arminius was vanishing among the trees some fifty paces ahead, warriors on either side. A shout formed in Tullus’ throat, but he saved his breath.

  Screaming at the top of his voice, the priest leaped down from the altar right in front of Tullus. His only weapon a staff, he charged. A swingeing blow from it smashed the transverse crest on Tullus’ helmet. Tullus’ reply was to ram his blade into the man’s chest. A choking cry, and the priest’s eyes bulged. Sword wrenched free, Tullus didn’t wait to see him fall. Somehow managing to grasp his whistle with his fingertips, he put it to his mouth and blew a series of short blasts: the charge. Let Fenestela hear, and give chase, he prayed.

  On they ran, a hundred paces into the forest, and another hundred. Here the trees were older and bigger, mighty gnarled trunks from an earlier age, when the German gods had reigned supreme over the land. Many had horned cattle skulls nailed at eye level; there were also human ones. The light dimmed, and the ground underfoot turned soft. Somewhere above a raven called. Krrruk.

  This is Rome’s hour, thought Tullus, not the Germans’, curse them. Nonetheless, he slowed. An ambush by Arminius’ warriors could mean the difference between success and failure. ‘How many are we?’ he threw over his shoulder.

  ‘Ten, sir,’ came the shouted reply. ‘More are coming, I think.’

  Ten. Shit, thought Tullus. He hadn’t been able to count the number of men with Arminius, but it was more than he had. His hesitation was momentary. They had to press on. ‘Stay close,’ he ordered.

  His suspicions bore fruit inside fifty paces. Half a dozen warriors came screaming to the attack, three from each side. ‘Metilius, Dulcius. Stay with me,’ cried Tullus. ‘Third and fourth ranks, follow when you can!’ Gambling that the warriors wouldn’t expect him to break away, he broke into a sprint. By the time the enemy had realised his ploy, the seven remaining legionaries had engaged them. A brief rictus of satisfaction twisted Tullus’ face, but it vanished as the track split. Footprints led off in both directions. You clever bastard, Arminius, thought Tullus, lurching to a stop. Pick the wrong way, and he would never catch his adversary. Divide his forces further, and the lone man risked being outnumbered.

  ‘Which way?’ he asked of Metilius and Dulcius. ‘Any ideas?’

  Metilius dropped to a knee by the left path. He peered at the confusion of footprints, muttering under his breath and probing the earth here and there with a finger. Moving to the second track, he did the same.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘This one, sir.’ Metilius was pointing to the right.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Urgency oozed from Tullus’ voice.

  ‘One set of prints are much deeper, sir.’ Metilius saw Tullus’ confusion. ‘The eagle, sir. It’s made of gold.’

  ‘Of course!’ Tullus shoved past Metilius. ‘Come on!’

  They ran.

  A quarter of a mile.

  Half.

  By the time they’d covered a mile, Tullus was losing hope, and struggling, thanks to his injured toe. They were still on Arminius’ trail – the footprints were plain to see – but they hadn’t had even a single glimpse of their quarry. It was time for drastic measures. ‘Metilius. Dulcius. Press ahead. I’ll follow.’

  They needed no second telling, and took off like a pair of hunting hounds.

  Tullus cursed his pride for not giving the order long before. Sucking in a lungful of muggy air, he dropped to a walk. Catch your breath, man, he thought, or you won’t be able to fight. A score of paces, and his heart rate had slowed. He broke into a lumbering run. Fifty paces, then walk. Twenty steps to recover, then run. In this manner, ignoring the pulsating pain from his toe, he covered perhaps a quarter of a mile.

  Loud shouts drew his attention like that of a hovering hawk to a mouse. Fresh energy flowed through Tullus’ veins, and he charged along the track, soon emerging on to a gentle slope that ran down to a river. A cry of triumph left his lips. The watercourse, wide and deep, had come to their aid. Four warriors – Arminius one of them – were trying to ford it. The first man was chest-deep, and perhaps a quarter of the way across. Buffeted by the strong current, weighed down by his armour, he was struggling to stay on his feet, which explained why Arminius, mail shirt off and the eagle clutched in his grasp, hadn’t yet joined him. The third and fourth warriors had been acting as sentinels, guarding Arminius’ back. They were yelling an alarm now, even as Metilius and Dulcius hared down the incline.

  With a roar, Tullus charged after.

  Shrewd to the last, Arminius laid down the eagle and joined his men. Kill one of the legionaries before he arrived, thought Tullus, and the Germans would maintain their numerical superiority. Cursing, he pushed his tired limbs to new efforts. To his relief, Metilius and Dulcius remained unhurt as he skidded in alongside, to face Arminius.

  The six men drove at each other with grim purpose. Young and fit, Metilius and Dulcius held their own. Tullus, weary and in great pain with his toe, soon began to flag. More than a decade Tullus’ junior, Arminius pressed home his attack with malevolent purpose. He began to taunt Tullus. ‘Ready to die close to your eagle? So near, and yet so far!’

  Tullus’ anger burst into flames, and he pounded Arminius’ shield with his sword, cracking it. His respite was momentary; Arminius came powering back at him, shield boss and blade performing a deadly one-two dance that threatened injury or death with e
very blow.

  ‘Degmar – it’s fucking Degmar, sir,’ cried Metilius.

  Tullus’ eyes flickered to the side. Astonishment seized him. It was Degmar, fighting with Arminius. His gaze shot back to his front, just as Arminius barrelled into him. The air was driven from Tullus’ lungs with a loud oomph. Winded, he stumbled backwards to fall first on his arse, and then his back. He had the wit to clutch his shield tight, protection for his body, but his sword fell from his grip. Arminius crouched over him with a fierce grin, and Tullus knew death was at hand.

  Arminius drew back his right arm.

  Tullus’ right hand scrabbled in the dirt for his blade, but it wasn’t there. What a stupid way to die, he thought.

  An inarticulate cry split the air. Arminius staggered as someone crashed into him, then fell.

  ‘Up! Get up!’ A hand appeared in his vision, beckoned.

  Tullus took the grip and was heaved to his feet. To his astonishment, he found himself face-to-face with Degmar, who gave him a tight smile. ‘Repaying my debt,’ he said.

  Before Tullus could speak, Degmar let out a quiet, surprised ‘Ooh’. His lips twisted, and the strength left him. He slumped sideways, and Tullus saw that Arminius, recovering his footing, had stabbed Degmar in the groin, below his mail shirt. Still weaponless, unable to save Degmar, Tullus shuffled back on a desperate search for his sword. He retrieved it just in time to face a triumphant Arminius. A few steps behind, Degmar had dropped to one knee. From between his cupped hands, bright red blood gouted.

  Driven now by anguish, Tullus advanced. ‘Come on, you whoreson!’

  ‘Old man!’ sneered Arminius.

  ‘Here I am, sir!’ Crimson smears across his face, Metilius materialised by Tullus’ right shoulder before Arminius could close in.

  ‘Where’s Dulcius?’ hissed Tullus.

  ‘Cutting apart the savage who was in the river, sir.’

  Tullus’ spirits soared. ‘Fortune turns against you, Arminius.’