Eagles at War (48 page)

The first assault came soon after. A tide of warriors poured out from behind the earthen ramparts, led by a dozen naked berserkers. Lucky for Piso and Vitellius, the berserkers hit the unit behind them, where they wreaked fearful casualties. It took a charge by Tullus and Fenestela, with all that was left of their century, to kill the berserkers and repulse the attack. It seemed then that a madness had taken their centurion, because he didn’t stop when their lines had been secured. With a roar of ‘ROMA!’ he ran straight after the retreating tribesmen. Fenestela was only a few steps behind him. Piso’s bowels turned to water, but he pelted after, screaming at the top of his lungs. So did every legionary who could. It seemed every man knew that if Tullus died, they would
all
end up in the mud. He
had
to be kept alive.

There was a savage beauty in the way that they threw back the enemy in that too-short time. The warriors were hacked down in scores, stabbed from behind as they fought to get away through the gaps in their earthen wall, or hurled down into the space behind when the legionaries stormed the rampart with an energy born of utter desperation. The Romans used their swords for the most part, but Piso saw spears, daggers, trenching tools and even clubs seized from the enemy in his comrades’ hands. Euphoric from their tiny victory, they would have remained where they were, roaring abuse at the warriors who were already regrouping deeper into the trees. Tullus it was who took control, dispersing the red battle mist with sharp blasts from his whistle and occasional thwacks of the flat of his sword blade.

Whether it was the killing of the berserkers or the fact that they had won a brief victory, no one knew, but Tullus and his cohort were left alone for a short time. The unit to their rear had fallen behind, so Tullus was quick to order a break so that his soldiers could catch their breaths. This was most welcome, yet the sound of savage fighting coming from back down the track wasn’t. To further dampen the rise in their spirits, the rain that had plagued them returned with a vengeance, pouring from the heavens in such quantities that any notion of being dry vanished forever. As drenched as rats in a drain, as weary as oarsmen who’ve rowed at ramming speed for a mile, as fearful as criminals in the arena before the wild beasts are released, the legionaries were glad when Tullus gave the order to get moving.

The First Cohort appeared to have been blessed with similar success to theirs – the track ahead was empty – which meant that Tullus’ cohort’s initial progress was good. The centurion stalked up and down the column, his face covered in spatters of blood and mud, haranguing his men in a monologue that never ended. For the most part, as Piso complained to Vitellius, and Vitellius complained to Piso, they kept going only because Tullus was so fucking annoying.

It was too good to last.

At a curve in the track, the noise of combat – from the front – became audible. A ripple of unease, of anticipation passed over the legionaries. Tullus’ pace didn’t alter.

‘The First Cohort’s run into trouble again,’ said Piso.

‘No surprise there,’ grumbled Vitellius.

They rounded the bend. A few hundred paces ahead, a dense mass of warriors surrounded the soldiers of the First. Even at a distance, it was clear that their comrades were fighting for their lives. Tullus blew his whistle, the trumpeter sounded the advance, and the weary legionaries forced their legs into the semblance of a trot.

They had covered less than half the ground when, with an ear-splitting
crrreeeeaaakkk
, a mighty beech fell sideways from the left, hitting the track with an almighty thud and separating the two groups of legionaries. There was open ground to the right, but it looked to be boggy. Crowds of warriors spilled at once from the earthen embankment and lined up behind the fallen trunk, facing Tullus and his men. They began to sing the barritus, at the same time clattering their spears off their shields. Dismay filled Piso; he could see the same emotion twisting Vitellius’ face. ‘We’re fucked,’ said someone in the rank behind.

‘HALT!’ Tullus spun around, his expression furious. ‘I heard that!’ he yelled. ‘Think like that, and you
will
go to Hades. Decide that you’ll fight until the last breath leaves your body, though, and you could make it out of this stinking shithole. Think of that tree as the low wall of a town. All we’ve got to do is get over it, and we can keep going. You maggots can scale a little thing like that, surely?’

No one laughed. They groaned back at him, but it was a sound of assent rather than refusal.

‘When we reach it, I want the first two ranks – twelve men – to form a small testudo. First rank, lean up against the trunk with your shields over your heads. Second rank, kneel behind them and do the same thing. Third rank, split to either side, and protect the formation’s sides. Fourth rank, you’ll come with me. On my command, we’ll tear up the shields, and straight over the fucking tree. The savages won’t know what’s hit them! Understand?’ Tullus paced to and fro, studying their faces.

‘It won’t work,’ hissed Piso, who was in the fourth rank with Vitellius. Soldiers liked to boast sometimes that an ox and cart could be driven over a testudo, but it was an old wives’ tale. Men were far lighter, thought Piso, but even still …

‘Have you got a better idea?’ Vitellius answered.

Piso hadn’t, so he stitched his lip.

‘When the last men have gone over, the next century will form a new testudo and our first two ranks can climb over. The woman and child come last. Then the rest of the new unit follows, and so on. We do not stop until we’ve thrown the bastards back, and we can move the tree. Fenestela, you hear that?’ Tullus called.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Pass it on.’ Tullus resumed his position and led them forward, at a walk this time.

If Piso had been scared during the previous days, he felt twice as bad now. Sweat slicked his cold, wet back. Fear roiled in his belly, churned his guts. The desire to have a shit was overwhelming, and to piss. From the foul smells assailing his nostrils, some men had already done both. Piso gathered the last shreds of his self-respect – Tullus had muscled in beside him, and Vitellius was on his other side – and managed not to do the same.

It was about two hundred paces to the hacked-down tree.

Two hundred paces during which Tullus’ men had to endure the barritus, repeated over and over. It seemed that every warrior in Arminius’ host had climbed atop the earthen rampart to sing, or to hurl abuse at them. They did not attack, however, or throw spears, which magnified Piso’s feeling of dread. The bastards were waiting until they were all bunched up in front of the obstacle.

A hundred and fifty paces. The sound of fighting beyond the trunk was loud enough to be heard beneath the barritus now. Piso could make out scores of heads and spear tips on the other side. The gods alone knew how many of the whoresons there were – hundreds, maybe. They could be hurling themselves from the frying pan into the fire – they probably
were
. A hundred and twenty paces.

‘We’ve got one advantage, brothers. They won’t be expecting this tactic,’ said Tullus. ‘Make it count. Make it
fucking
count.’

No one answered him.

A hundred paces.

For the first time, Piso saw the lines of weariness on Tullus’ face, and he realised that their centurion was human. Tullus couldn’t do it on his own, just as they couldn’t succeed without him. Piso rallied his courage. ‘We’ll do it, sir,’ he said.

‘You can count on us, sir,’ added Vitellius.

A few other men muttered agreement.

Tullus smiled. ‘You’re good lads.’

At sixty paces, the enemy’s spears and stones came hammering down from either side, and from the front. Men gurgled and died as they were struck; others screamed and staggered on. Those who were unhurt cursed and sweated and hunched behind their shields as they closed in. Fifty paces. Forty, thirty. Piso could see the warriors facing him. Bearded, moustached, some so young that they were yet smooth-cheeked. Every face twisted with hate; every mouth open, roaring war cries, insults, the barritus. Each man brandishing a shield, and a spear, club or sword, threatening death in any number of ways. Behind stood rank upon rank of their fellows, also clamouring to get at their enemies, the Romans. Us, thought Piso, his belly clenching.

Twenty paces.

Ten.

‘Ready?’ shouted Tullus. ‘First rank, second rank, third rank, form testudo!’

Piso didn’t dare to look to the left, where another wave of attackers waited, or at the warriors behind the trunk, who were leaping up and down. He kept his gaze fixed on the soldiers in front of him, who were in place and raising their shields. Get it over with, gods, get it over with, he thought, his fear bubbling in great torrents.

‘Fourth rank, ready? Starting from the left, two at a time! Go!’ shouted Tullus.

Dry-mouthed, Piso watched the first pair of soldiers from his rank move forward and place their sandals on the angled shields. The shields wavered, but held, and up the men went, their hobs pounding off the wet leather covers. Reaching the top of the trunk, they jumped down, shouting at the tops of their voices.

Vitellius and Piso were next.

Thunk. The sound of a spear landing was so close that Piso almost soiled his undergarment. Feeling no pain, he exulted. It hadn’t hit him. What was probably only two frenzied heartbeats later, but felt like a lifetime, his head turned to the left. Vitellius’ eyes were wide, and he had dropped his shield. ‘Damn spear got me … just below … shoulder,’ he said, grimacing. And stepping aside.

‘No!’ yelled Piso, distraught. Anyone who was left behind would die.

‘Ready, Piso?’ Tullus’ breath was hot in his ear. ‘We go. Now!’

‘Vitellius …’ Piso began.

‘Fucking go!’ Vitellius ordered. ‘I’ll be straight after you.’

A great shove from Tullus’ shield, a loud curse, and Piso was charging forward and up, grief and rage tearing at him. Tullus was by his side, step for step.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
went their hobs on his comrades’ shields. Both were big men, yet the soldiers below them wavered but a little. In half a dozen steps, they were atop the trunk, its bark giving good grip for their sandals. Only one legionary was still alive, his back against the tree, fighting three warriors, while a horde more tried to reach him. Guilt stabbed at Piso. Had he caused the death of the other soldier by delaying?

‘ROMA!’ bellowed Tullus, and jumped, smashing the bottom rim of his shield off a warrior’s head.

Piso followed, before his fear paralysed him. Trying to take a less risky approach, he still collided with a tribesman’s shoulder. The warrior went down under Piso, who landed partly on him and partly on his arse. Lucky for Piso, another legionary was hard on his heels. He landed in front of them both, and was able to take on, for a moment at least, the enemies who were swarming forward. The warrior under Piso reared up his head, and, releasing his shield, Piso managed to punch him hard in the face. Piso scrambled to his feet, aware that if he didn’t do so fast, he’d be dead. Stab. From close range, he thrust his blade into the upturned face of the warrior beneath his feet. The blade entered via the left eye socket; there was a little spurt of vitreous fluid and the iron ran on, into the man’s brain. He let out a grunt of what might have been surprise and dropped to the mud, floppy-limbed, dead.

Retrieving his scutum, Piso pushed forward to stand beside the legionary who’d just arrived. Shoulder to shoulder, shields as close as they could hold them, they fought like men possessed. To their good fortune, the press of enemy warriors was so great that the majority could not reach them. Some men were squeezed so tight that they couldn’t wield their weapons. Piso and his companion went to work with grim determination.

Thrust. Stab. Punch with the shield boss. Stab. Stamp a sandal on a warrior’s bare foot. Piso killed or disabled two men, and then three. Four. Five. He even head-butted a warrior who came close enough, smashing his nose with two blows of his helmet rim before running him through the belly. That opponent went down, screaming, and the next warrior hung back. For the first time, Piso had time to breathe, to glance to either side. His heart lifted. There were three legionaries on his left. By some miracle, the first soldier over the trunk was still alive, to his right, and beyond him Piso was overjoyed to see Tullus’ helmet, bobbing up and down. The thuds behind told him more soldiers were arriving with every heartbeat.

Punch. Stab. Advance. Punch. Stab. Advance.

Step by bloody step, they pushed on, bowing outward from the trunk in a half-moon shape. The warriors pulled back after a time, giving the legionaries a chance to count their casualties – five dead, the same number injured – and rest. Close combat was exhausting work, and the men sagged on their shields, letting the sweat stream from their faces on to the crimson-soaked mud. Those who had a wine skin drank, and passed it around. More than one man had a piss, and there were loud curses from the unfortunates whose calves got splashed from the result. The woman stood with her back against the tree, eyes closed, rocking her child. The pup, which she had tied up in a sling around her chest, kept silent. Tullus walked among the little group, slapping backs, telling his men they had balls of iron and waving fresh legionaries into the front line.

Rather than relax, Piso left his shield behind and clambered back over the fallen tree. He swore as his purse caught on a jutting twig, and opened. Out fell Aius’ bronze fasteners and a few coins. Piso made no effort to retrieve them. Too much was going on. His annoyance at the loss of his possessions vanished on the other side, however, when he found Vitellius alive. His friend was leaning against the great trunk, teeth gritted, shoulder half wrapped in a strip of dirty linen. How he would manage without a shield, Piso didn’t know, or care – he was alive. Piso helped Vitellius over the tree, cursing at the soldiers who made comments about leaving the wounded behind.

The respite their fierce attack had earned them was sufficient to get what remained of Tullus’ unit over the fallen tree. The next cohort was lining up to cross it, even as they were being attacked by warriors on
their
side. By the enemy’s rampart on Piso’s side, the warriors were massing again. What concerned Piso even more was the fact that the First Cohort had vanished, and the trunk, which was as thick around as three men, would take time to cut through. Eight legionaries were chopping at it with axes, but the tribesmen would be on them like a pack of wild dogs long before they succeeded, that was certain. The barritus, which had stopped, was being sung again, louder and louder. Three berserkers were running up and down before their fellows, exhorting them to follow. In an attempt to stop himself from panicking, Piso concentrated on getting a decent bandage on Vitellius’ arm with strips torn from his own tunic.