Eagles at War (43 page)

The significance of what they were seeing sank home faster than a stone dropped down a well. Where there were trees, there was solid ground. A bad place to fight, but it could be done. Men could run away into the forest, if it came to it. But bog?

Fenestela cleared his throat and spat a juicy chunk of phlegm into the mud. ‘That for you, Fortuna, you treacherous old whore.’

On another day, Tullus – cynic though he was – might have counselled against such blasphemy. Now, though, he added his contribution to Fenestela’s with an energetic hawk and spit. ‘The raddled crone is in an evil mood with us – of that there’s no fucking doubt.’

Fenestela lowered his voice further, so the soldiers marching alongside – most of whom, locked in their own worlds of misery, did not appear to have noticed the marshy ground – couldn’t hear. ‘What can we do?’

Tullus cast a jaundiced look at his optio. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’

When the thunder came, it was even louder than before – right above their heads.

The heavens opened, releasing fresh deluges of water, and it truly felt as if the gods were laughing at them. Groans – of weariness, resignation, despair – rippled down the line of marching soldiers. A man could only get so wet, thought Tullus, but his spirits could be dragged lower and lower, until they were in the actual mud. In that moment, he felt his own slide several notches downward.

It was impossible to pick the thing he hated most. The gnawing worry that they were about to be attacked, that he might lose all of his men, that he might die himself. The notion that the mad-eyed soothsayer in Mogontiacum so many years before had been right all along. The brown sludge squelching between his toes with each step, and how the grit within it worked its way further and further into his open-toed boots. The twinging ache in his lower back, and the constant stabbing pain from the old injury in his calf. The strength-sapping feeling of cold, soaking wool against his skin, made degrees worse by the biting wind. The apparent ever-growing weight of his armour. The fact that his shield, combat-ready in his left fist rather than slung from his back, appeared to have been magicked into a single piece of lead. The way his sword hilt pinched the skin on the inside of his elbow with each swing of his arm. The infuriating path that rain took from the rim of his helmet on to his forehead, and onward into his sweat-stung eyes.

Fuck it, thought Tullus. Fuck this wet, dreary shithole. Fuck its savage people, and their barbaric ways. Fuck the weather. Fuck the forest. Fuck the stinking mud. Fuck Varus for being a blind fool. And most of all, fuck Arminius for being a traitorous whore’s get.

The internal rant took his mind from their miserable situation for all of a couple of hundred paces. Then it was back to the numbing grind. Place one foot before the other; keep up a decent speed so that they remained close to the First. Wipe the rain from his face. Shift the hilt of his sword – again. Grip the edge of his shield with his right hand for twenty steps, to ease the load on his left shoulder. Study the trees to their left with great care for signs of the enemy, and then his men, with equal intensity, to monitor their spirits. Growl encouragement at the laggards; shout back to Fenestela, so that he knew what was going on behind him.

Repeat the whole procedure again and again and again. And again.

Tullus dragged his cohort thus another mile.

The next attack was a hammer blow, far worse than any of the previous assaults.

Wily veteran though he was, Tullus was caught by surprise. So too were his soldiers. Who could have predicted that the tribesmen would have constructed huge earthworks, protected by wicker fencing and cut branches, behind which they could hide in their thousands? Yet that is exactly what they had done – what Arminius, the genius, had had them do.

One moment Tullus was trudging along, half counting his steps, half listening to the filthy joke being told in the rank behind, and the next the world filled again with that damnable sound, the barritus. Before his disbelieving eyes, scores of warriors burst into sight from his left, charging straight at his astonished soldiers. More followed, and more, until there were hundreds of the enemy, emerging from gaps in what Tullus realised – far too late – was a manmade embankment thirty to forty paces back into the trees.

There was nothing to their right – even though it was bog, Tullus checked again – which was something. ‘HALT! FACE LEFT! CLOSE ORDER!’ he roared, his voice cracking with effort. He was already shoving his way forward so that he could stand on the right of the first rank. ‘PLACE THE WOUNDED BEHIND. QUICKLY!’

This time, reduced numbers notwithstanding, they were able to form a decent line
and
throw their pila before the enemy came within gladius range. The paltry number of javelins remaining to them meant that the volley had little effect on the massed assault. Perhaps a dozen tribesmen were punched backward into their fellows, but the rest came on without pause, weapons raised and shouting their hatred. In the lead were five naked warriors, their bodies streaked with daubs of white and blue paint. An alarm sounded in Tullus’ head. He had faced berserkers before, and knew how dangerous they could be. Their manic expressions, large physical size and complete lack of fear, not to mention clothing, shouted that these specimens were to be feared. They weren’t going to hit the line anywhere near him either, worse luck.

Tullus was moving before he let himself think. With a shove, he forced the legionary behind him into his place; then he wheeled around the back of the formation. It was gut-wrenching that his soldiers only stood two deep now, because of their losses. The wounded who could not fight – almost a score of them – made a more pathetic sight. The ones who could sit upright were propped up against one another, daggers and swords in their hands, but the rest lay in the mud, piss-soaked, wounds bleeding and groaning in pain.

Ignoring this bitter reality, Tullus forced his weary legs into a trot. ‘HOLD THE BASTARDS!’ he shouted over and over. ‘STEADY!’ As he made his way towards the centre, he kept peering over his men’s shoulders, searching for the berserkers.

Acid filled his mouth as he realised he wouldn’t reach the point where they struck the line in time. Fortuna wasn’t finished with him yet, Tullus thought, imagining the goddess’s pitiless smile as her dice landed to reveal a pair of unbeatable sixes. If the berserkers smashed through, the battle would turn to a slaughter. Already demoralised, facing more warriors than ever before, his soldiers would break and run – into the bog, where they would be cut down to a man, or drown. Tullus set his jaw, managed to increase his pace a fraction, then a little more. The next few moments would cost him his life, but that was a fair price if he could prevent a wholescale rout.

Fierce cries went up, and then there was an almighty crash. The berserkers had hit the waiting legionaries. Their comrades, a short distance behind, yelled their approval. Tullus, still at the rear, and ten paces from the point of impact, had a perfect view of what happened. The force with which the naked warriors struck pushed
both
Roman ranks back a couple of steps. Shouts of anger and terror, and pain, competed with the sound of iron on iron and men’s screams. The coppery smell of blood filled the air; mixed with it were its inevitable companions – piss and shit. Tullus heard a man vomiting. His sense of urgency multiplied. All the signs were there. Within a dozen heartbeats, his worst fears would be confirmed. That was how fast the balance of a fight could tip one way or the other.

Instinct and battle experience told Tullus not to try and shove his way into what was left of his soldiers’ formation. There lay only madness, panic, men jammed so close to each other that it was impossible to wield a sword. It was a ruthless decision: some of his soldiers would die because of it, but he could think of nothing else. Preparing himself, asking Mars for his help, Tullus stepped away from the swaying ranks a little, and raised his sword and shield.

A cry of agony, a despairing shout from a comrade, and a legionary sprawled backwards out of the line and on to his back. Blood spurted from the deep wound to his neck, turning the plates of his armour crimson. There was a triumphant shout, and the berserker who’d killed him leaped forward to stand over his victim, spear aimed down to deliver another blow.

Tullus had stuck him through and through before the man had even realised there was someone there. Quick as he could, Tullus tugged his blade free, twisting his head so that the blood sprays didn’t hit him in the face. He shuffled back a short way, and waited.

Another legionary died in similar fashion within a few heartbeats. So too did his killer, at Tullus’ hands. He repeated the simple manoeuvre on a third berserker as well, and was beginning to think he might do the impossible, but the last two crashed through his men together. Tullus managed to wound the nearest berserker in the arm, but it was the man’s left, not the one wielding his spear. The berserker turned on him like a rabid dog, baring his teeth and shrieking his pain – or was it contempt at Tullus’ effort? – and shoving his spear towards Tullus’ face and shield, shield and face. Tullus retreated, head as low as possible behind his scutum, noticing with alarm that the berserker’s companion was darting around to his rear. Resignation swamped him. He’d done well, for an old man, but to die with a wound in his back was a shitty way to go.

Thump. Tullus had to forget about his second enemy as he was shoved back a step by the first berserker’s spear driving into his shield. Even one-handed, the man had the strength of a boar. The sharp iron point sliced through the layered wood to strike Tullus’ mail under his sternum. He staggered, but managed to keep a tight hold on the shield grip. When the berserker tried to free his spear, Tullus countered by pushing forward – hard. The warrior’s face was a picture of surprise as he was twisted sideways by Tullus’ momentum. The move brought Tullus close enough to slide his sword deep into the side of the berserker’s chest. Iron grated off rib bone, then the resistance vanished as the blade sliced everything beyond that into ribbons.

The berserker was a dead man standing, yet he somehow found the strength to let go of his spear and punch Tullus in the head. The blow struck his helmet and despite the felt liner that cushioned his skull, stars flashed across his vision. ‘Fucking die!’ he shouted, running his sword in until the hilt touched the berserker’s flesh. With a shuddering gasp, and a dribble of pink froth from his lips, the man did as he asked. He fell off Tullus’ blade as he went down.

Remembering the second berserker, Tullus flinched. Why wasn’t he dead? The warrior had had more than enough time to kill him. He twisted his head, could see no one for a heartbeat. Turning, he was astonished to find the final berserker lying face down, chest heaving, almost at his feet. He’d been hamstrung in one leg, and slashed by a sword in the other. Behind him, two of the wounded legionaries were grinning like idiots at Tullus, who took in their bloodied gladii, and laughed with a combination of relief and pride. ‘My thanks,’ he said.

Tullus left them to finish the berserker off. Seizing a discarded shield, he went to fill the gap in his soldiers’ line. His men had almost managed to close it, but not quite. Tullus’ arrival came none too soon, and he took delight in the alarm that his appearance, crested helmet on, roaring like a madman, caused among their attackers. One moment they’d been shoving forward into a hole caused by their berserker brethren, and the next, it had been plugged by a centurion who appeared to be insane.

‘HOLD, BROTHERS!’ yelled Tullus. ‘STAY CLOSE!’

From that point, Tullus’ world became a tunnel. He lost all concept of weather, location, how much his body hurt, anything other than the man to either side, and the handful of warriors before him. It was galling that despite the berserkers’ deaths, the tribesmen continued to attack. Their morale
had
to have been affected, Tullus reasoned, forcing his screaming muscles to continue working.

Keep the scutum up, he thought. Pick a target. Let him come. Duck down, take the blow on the shield front, or its rim. Thrust forward, often without looking. Drive the blade in, sense the victim squirm away in vain, hear his screams. Blade out, feel the blood sheet over his forearm, peer over the shield to see his opponent fall. Glance to either side, check that his companions are alive, still fighting. Shuffle closer to one or the other. Yell at his men to hold, to stay close. Bellow his defiance at the tribesmen, throw whatever insults came to him in both German and Latin. Blink away the sweat that was running into his eyes.

In this fashion, Tullus slew two warriors and shared another kill with the soldier to his right, who had stabbed his opponent at the same time. By this stage, it was agony to breathe, and his every muscle was trembling with exhaustion. It was pathetic how grateful he felt when, without any warning, the warriors withdrew. He watched, panting and offering up silent prayers of thanks to Mars, as they loped back into the trees and their embankment, which had hidden them so well. Their wounded and dying were left behind: a decent covering, Tullus was pleased to see. Worry gnawed at him nonetheless.
His
losses, and those suffered by the cohort and the army in general, were far more pressing. They could not keep haemorrhaging men like this.

For now, though, they had won some space to recover. Tullus lowered his sword, let his shield sag to the ground. Felt the rain, softer now, drifting down on to his face in welcome drops. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes for a count of five. Ten. Crazy as it was in that blood-spattered place of death, sleep beckoned. Tullus rallied what was left of his energy and forced his gummy eyelids open. ‘Injured?’ he demanded of the soldiers to either side. One was fine; the other had a gaping wound to his left cheek, but averred that he could fight on. With constant glances towards the trees, Tullus marched to the end of his century, assessing his casualties. To his intense relief, they weren’t as bad as they
could
have been. Five – only five! – legionaries were dead or dying, and two would follow them within hours. Six more men had minor wounds. Heavy though these losses were, the berserkers’ charge could have ended everything. He was overjoyed to find Fenestela still alive: covered in other men’s blood, with a gash to his neck, but otherwise unharmed. Tullus grabbed him in a bear hug.