Eagles at War (39 page)

Rare breaks in the endless treeline included areas of bog and the damnable streams and rivers that had to be forded. The dangers posed by the former were played out in grisly detail when a mule that had broken away from its handler charged headlong into the middle of a patch, where it sank at once to its hocks. Braying with indignation, it struggled to get free, succeeding only in burying itself to its belly. Further frantic efforts saw it end up chest deep in the mud. Its plight attracted the attention of everyone within sight, but nobody moved to help it. Grateful that they were not the ones trapped, many soldiers hurled insults at the unfortunate beast. Piso considered throwing a javelin at it, to try and end its misery before it endured a slow death by drowning, but his aim wasn’t good enough, and if Tullus or Fenestela saw him ‘wasting’ a weapon, there’d be hell to pay. And as Afer reminded him, it was a damn mule, not a man.

The watercourses were less perilous than the bog, but there was still ample opportunity to trip and fall thanks to the moss-covered, slimy rocks lining their banks, and the difficulty in negotiating them carrying shield, javelins and unwieldy yoke. A legionary in the contubernium ahead of Piso and his comrades slipped and broke a leg, and others sprained ankles or bloodied their kneecaps. As the cursing soldiers reminded one another, they were fortunate not to be in charge of any vehicles. ‘The poor bastards with the artillery must be cursing Fortuna high and low. Imagine trying to heave a fucking wagon with a
ballista
on the back of it through this,’ said Vitellius during the crossing of the deepest stream yet.

Their relative ‘good luck’ did nothing for Piso’s flagging spirits. They had covered perhaps a mile in the previous hour.

Without warning, their attackers reappeared, like invisible wraiths. Once again, the first indication of trouble was when volleys of spears and sling bullets began landing among the legionaries. Curses mixed with cries of pain. Unperturbed, Tullus ordered an immediate volley of javelins to one side of the track, and then the other. Not every soldier had two
pila
remaining – many had been discarded or lost at the site of the previous ambush – and their ragged effort lacked its usual power, but the screams that rose when the missiles landed was proof that they had at last inflicted casualties on the enemy.

A ragged cheer went up, but Piso wasn’t alone in being relieved when Tullus ordered them to continue marching rather than standing their ground. ‘There’s no fucking point in waiting to be killed,’ he bellowed. ‘We keep moving. Somewhere, there’ll be a spot where we can build a camp.’

No one argued. Leaving the three dead soldiers where they had fallen, and hauling the handful of wounded along as best they could, the legionaries trudged on. The men on either side used their shields to protect those in the middle. Frameae and stones were still able to come in from above, but that was a danger that had to be borne. Their waterlogged
scuta
were so heavy that walking with them raised beyond head level was impossible for more than twenty paces.

It didn’t take the enemy long to exploit this weakness. Raising the barritus again, they threw their spears up in steep-angled arcs, which sent them scudding down into the midst of the bunched Romans, where they could not miss. Two such volleys had half a dozen legionaries down, dead or injured. Cursing, Tullus ordered the men in the centre to discard their yokes and raise their shields in defence. He kept them walking, but their progress on the narrow track slowed down to snail’s pace thanks to the weight of their scuta, and the number of casualties that they were supporting or carrying.

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
A heartbeat’s pause, then:
CLASH! CLASH! CLASH!
It was repeated over and over.

Piso wished he could block his ears to the chilling sounds, wished he could confront the men who were killing them. At least then they could fight back. All he could see, however, were shadowy figures deep within the trees. Pursuing them would be suicide.

‘Keep moving, you stupid fucking bastards!’ shouted Tullus at the soldiers in front, who had halted again.

‘Our centurion’s been hit, sir,’ shouted a legionary in their midst.

‘Keep your shields up,’ Tullus ordered his men. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

Piso and his comrades watched in disbelief as Tullus walked, casual as a man taking a stroll through the forum, around the side of the unit before them. The instant that their attackers saw his horsehair-crested helmet, they began hurling spears and stones.

Piso couldn’t watch. He closed his eyes and prayed: Mars, protect him, please.

To his astonishment, Tullus sauntered back not long after. A few paces from his men’s shield wall, he even paused to make obscene gestures at the forest, and their hidden attackers. ‘Fuck you,’ he shouted in German. ‘And your pox-ridden mothers!’

His legionaries let out a loud cheer.

Angry cries rose from the trees, and a fresh shower of stones and spears were thrown. There was a loud
clang
as a sling bullet struck Tullus in the back, on his mail shirt. Piso heard the centurion let out a short grunt, but Tullus swaggered back into his position at the front of their formation. The legionaries closed ranks with him at once.

‘You all right, sir?’ asked Afer, his face creased with concern.

‘Aye,’ said Tullus, wincing now that he was out of sight of their enemies. ‘I’ll have a fine bruise, but that’s it.’ The soldiers in front began to move, and Tullus cried, ‘Ready, brothers? Forward, march!’

Despite the showers of enemy missiles and stones, and the unremitting downpour from the clouds above, they managed to make decent progress from that point on. Their march was made easier in no small part by the track, which began to run straight as a Roman road. There were no more large streams either, just shallow affairs that could be splashed through.

After a time, the warriors attacking Tullus and the rest of the vanguard withdrew again. One moment, they were there, and the next, they had disappeared. There was no way of knowing if this ploy applied to the rest of the column. For all Piso and his comrades knew, it was still under attack – communication with other parts of the army bordered on non-existent. It didn’t appear to concern Tullus – ‘We’ve been ordered to locate a campsite,’ he said, as if they were on a training exercise near Vetera. ‘And that’s what we’ll do.’ His calm manner and bloody-minded determination rubbed off on his men, including Piso. They began singing a bawdy marching tune, which Tullus encouraged by joining in lustily with the chorus.

Morale rose further when a low hill appeared close to the track, on the left-hand side. After a brief meeting, Tullus and the other centurions decided that this would be the spot to build the camp. Work began at once, in the traditional fashion, with half the available legionaries providing a protective screen around the remainder, who began felling trees and digging the position’s defensive ditch.

Their respite was brief. Their enemies reappeared soon after the construction had begun, emerging from the forest in a great, chanting horde. It was the first time that the Romans had had a proper glimpse of their foes. They were an intimidating sight, hundreds of burly tribesmen in brightly coloured tunics and trousers, with painted shields and spears, who advanced while singing the barritus. Their slingers walked behind, laying down volleys of stones far in front as the warriors moved forward.

Despite the Germans’ ferocity, and the losses they’d inflicted on the Romans up to that point, seeing them steadied the legionaries. A face-to-face confrontation with the assailants who’d plagued them for hours was a relief. They weren’t forest spirits or demons. They were men, like themselves, who sweated, and bled if they were stuck with a blade. Few had any armour, and most had only spears to fight with. They could be defeated – had been defeated, many times, by the legions. And, as Tullus and other centurions roared at their soldiers, there was no reason that they couldn’t be beaten again.

The assault was short and vicious, but the legionaries threw back the warriors, inflicting heavy losses. Undeterred, the Germans rallied and attacked again, but more and more Roman troops – from the column – were arriving on the scene. Their officers flung their soldiers into combat, driving back the warriors for a second time. A third effort also failed. The tribesmen withdrew into the trees and were gone.

Piso did not share in the widespread jubilation that broke out as this happened. He too was pleased by the Romans’ success, but he’d listened in on Tullus as he talked with Fenestela not long before. What he’d heard was most unsettling. Tullus didn’t think that they’d been ambushed solely by Angrivarii. In his opinion, there were thousands more warriors out there in the forest, ready to fall upon them. His final words to Fenestela rang in Piso’s head over and over. ‘The tribes have joined forces. Only one man could have done this – and that is someone who knows the legions inside out. From now on, it’s about survival, pure and simple. What’s important is to get as many of our brothers out as we can.’

That
implied that Tullus thought more men would die, thought Piso, his belly clenching tight with fear.

Many more men.

XXIII

BY NIGHTFALL, THE
vast majority of Varus’ troops were safe behind the unfinished defences of the vast camp on the hillside. The tribesmen were no fools, Varus decided, leaving his command tent. They had withdrawn not long since, unprepared to lose more casualties in open battle. Secure in the knowledge that his soldiers would have a night’s respite, he had decided to walk around the camp. The calamity that had befallen his army that day, and the casualties it had suffered, had stunned his soldiers. He had seen the proof of that in the haggard faces as he’d entered the camp some time before. Showing his face might raise morale.

The savagery of the day’s attacks had ensured that their problems would continue overnight. Thanks to the number of abandoned wagons and mules that had gone missing, a good number of Varus’ men didn’t have tents to sleep in that night or dry wood to use in cooking fires. The rain that was still falling wouldn’t kill them, nor would the cooling temperatures, but the added privations would be further blows to their confidence.

Ordering a wagon loaded with his entire personal supply of wine, Varus began walking the avenues of the camp, with a reluctant Aristides and a score of soldiers from the First Cohort as company. At every turn, there was evidence that the disorder and chaos affecting his army that day continued. The main streets, the via principalis and the via praetoria, had not been measured and set by an engineer with a groma. Their usual right angles to one another were absent, and there was a noticeable crookedness in the way they ran to the entrances. There were tree stumps everywhere, the remnants of the forest that had covered the hill until a short time before. They varied in size from a lethal tripping-over ankle height to easier-to-spot waist-high affairs. The positions occupied by each unit had been preserved, Varus was pleased to see, but there were far too few tents, and less than half the expected number of mules.

Those legionaries who’d been fortunate enough to locate their heavier gear were safe inside their tents, but other groups of men crouched in miserable huddles in the spots where theirs should have been. Some were using their propped-up scuta and draped-over cloaks as makeshift protection against the rain. Several
contubernia
had even built mini
testudos
, utilising the slope of the hill as a backdrop. Chopped branches held up their shields, and on top they had laid blankets and spare garments. Varus took the time to commend them on this ingenious solution to their lack of shelter. It was heart-warming to note how many centurions were ordering men under the leather porticos of their own capacious tents, and even into them.

Before long, Varus decided to start doling out the wine. Picking a spot at random, he called out, ‘Wine ration!’ It amused him that the soldiers’ response was more rapid, more dramatic, than if he’d followed more normal procedure and had his presence announced. They charged over, uncaring of the mud. At first, no one recognised Varus, clad in an ordinary soldier’s cloak, without his helmet. They swarmed around him, smiling, jostling and demanding to know which blessed officer had sanctioned the wine. No one paid any attention to Aristides’ disapproving face and muttered comments about their overfamiliarity.

‘I did,’ said Varus. ‘This is my own supply.’

Incomprehension played across the sweaty, dirt-caked faces around him for a heartbeat. Then there was shock, and surprise, and fear. Soldiers who had pressed close to Varus in their eagerness to get some wine shoved backwards against the crowd, while trying to salute and tell their comrades who had appeared in their midst.

‘Governor Varus! You honour us with your presence,’ cried a legionary with more wherewithal than most.

‘It’s the governor!’ ‘Jupiter, it’s Varus!’ ‘Varus has brought his own wine to share with us!’ went the incredulous remarks.