Eagles at War (52 page)

‘Aye,’ said Arminius.

‘I will take his eyes next.’ Black Hair chuckled as the legionary gurgled a protest, and said over his shoulder, ‘Promises to a Roman mean nothing, you fool.’

Arminius hid his growing distaste with a broad smile, and a promise to deliver more Romans into the Usipetes’ hands. They liked that. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Arminius as they returned their attention to the legionary. The four were so wrapped up that they barely acknowledged his farewell.

A piercing cry shredded the air before Arminius’ horse had taken more than a few steps. Unsettled, it skittered to and fro, nickering. Shushing it, Arminius ignored the terrible sound and rode off. The clamour died away at last. Whether it was through distance, or the victim’s death, Arminius couldn’t tell. He didn’t care either way.

Time passed – an hour, perhaps two – without any sign of the elusive third eagle. Arminius found himself studying the faces of the innumerable dead, wondering if Flavus could have survived. Despite his antipathy towards his brother, Arminius half hoped that that
had
been the case. There would be no way of knowing. Arminius could never again cross to the western bank of the Rhenus, and if Flavus lived, the same applied to him in reverse. My brother is dead to me from this day on, he decided, putting Flavus from his mind with grim deliberation.

Arminius found the site where Varus had committed suicide, and the blackened patch of ground where his aides had failed to burn his body. He counted the bodies of no fewer than thirty centurions; none of them was Tullus, which he was grateful for. Part of Arminius hoped that Tullus had been among the handful of survivors he’d heard of. Yet it was the eagle and the fact that it wasn’t in his possession that kept niggling at him. The damn thing might even have been carried away by the legionaries who had escaped.

Chewing his cheek, Arminius didn’t see the raven rise up from a body right at his horse’s hoofs. Its sharp, disapproving
kakakakaka
startled his mount so much that it reared in panic. Down he went, off its back like a child who’d never ridden before. Arse-first in the mud, splattered from head to toe in muck, he watched in disgust as the horse took off at a fine pace. The raven alighted on a nearby branch and watched him with a keen eye.
Krrruk
, it said, as if satisfied.
Krrruk. Krrruk.

Arminius threw a sardonic glance at the body it had been feeding on, a legionary with – now – only one eyeball. ‘Keeping you from your lunch, am I?’

Krrruk
, replied the raven.

‘It’s all yours.’ Arminius got to his feet, thinking: Donar is having the last laugh. Ah well, he’s entitled to it. His bird, his body, his victory.

It would be a long walk back to the camp and a change of clothing, but that didn’t matter, Arminius decided. He would think of other gifts that would honour the Marsi for what they had done. Perhaps a couple of cohort standards and an image of Augustus would do.

Something metallic glinted at the edge of his vision. Arminius turned his head, spotting a body face down in the bog some thirty paces away. It was just another corpse, but then he noticed that under its cloak, it was wearing scale armour. In general, only centurions and standard-bearers wore such mail, and it was unusual for either to run away. His interest piqued, Arminius began to squelch his way towards it. What was a little more mud in his boots?

There was no sign of a helmet near the body – like as not, the man had thrown it away to reduce his visibility to the enemy. There were no visible signs of mutilation either, which made Arminius wonder if the soldier had died of his wounds. This was confirmed when he rolled the corpse over and saw a deep wound in the man’s left thigh. He had bled to death, Arminius decided, or maybe the poor bastard had drowned, face down in the mud.

It was still unclear whether the man had been a centurion or standard-bearer, but it didn’t matter either way. You’re food for the ravens now, thought Arminius, using his boot to flip the body back on to its front. Pain radiated from his toes as they met something more solid than armour and flesh. So surprised that he didn’t even curse, he tugged at the man’s cloak. It took a moment or two to unwrap the woollen folds, and his heart began thumping as if he were about to go into battle. When the cloak fell away, a golden eagle with upraised wings was revealed. Arminius lifted the standard, savouring the
weight
of it, and the miracle that had delivered it into his hands. When he looked, the raven was still on its branch, watching him.

Arminius shivered. Never had a creature seemed more like a messenger from Donar. Never had he been offered such tangible proof of the thunder god’s favour. He gave silent, fervent thanks. Anything seemed possible now. Donar was backing
his
mission to rid the tribal lands of all Roman influence.

What more could a man ask for?

XXXII

TULLUS AND HIS
men spent four long, wet, tiring days on the march. For that entire time, they were each and every one soaked, chilled to the bone and hungrier than a tied-up dog with an empty food bowl. If it hadn’t been for the plentiful supply of blackberries and an occasional rabbit trapped by Degmar, they would have gone without any sustenance. The tough conditions were too much for two of the wounded, who died in their sleep. Tullus was left with fifteen soldiers, the woman, her girl and the pup. It was a pathetic total, but he kept telling himself it was better than none at all. Twelve swords – Vitellius and three others wouldn’t be able to fight for a month at least – would be an addition of some sort to Caedicius’ garrison.

Their chances of reaching Aliso rested on Degmar’s shoulders, and Tullus felt ever more grateful that they had chanced upon each other. Without the Marsi’s unerring sense of direction, they would have lost their way. Appearing not to need the sun, which for the most part was hidden behind dense banks of rainclouds, Degmar led them along winding, narrow tracks through the forest. When they came across boglands, he seemed able to find a path through that didn’t involve drowning. He skirted past the areas of farmland at dusk or dawn, when the local inhabitants were in bed, without the alarm being raised. His one slip-up came when he took the group on to a larger track that led southwest. A close call with a party of Angrivarii warriors – they were not seen – ended the attempt soon after it had started.

Late on the afternoon of the fourth day, Degmar brought them to the top of a low hill. It was perhaps a mile from Aliso, he told Tullus, pointing to the south. Tullus peered through the drizzle, and cursed. Fenestela spat. Across the tops of the trees, in the direction that Degmar was pointing, rose spirals of smoke. There were so many of them, spread out, that they could not all be coming from the camp. ‘It’s under attack.’

‘As I said it would be.’ There was an I-told-you-so look on Degmar’s face.

Tullus swore again, long and hard. So did Fenestela.

‘Do you want to skirt around it and head for the river, a few miles downstream?’ asked Degmar. ‘Arminius might have set warriors to watch the road to Vetera, but it’s possible that they’re just concentrating on Aliso.’

Tullus remembered the sick, guilty feeling he’d had when they had fled from the fallen tree. ‘
No
. If the garrison is still holding out, and it’s possible to find a way in, we do so.’

‘You’re sure?’ Degmar’s expression now showed he thought Tullus was insane.

‘Aye, I’m fucking sure.’

Degmar shrugged. ‘Stay here – I’ll take a look.’

‘Straight from the frying pan into the fire.’ Fenestela’s voice was resigned.

‘Maybe,’ said Tullus. ‘We can’t leave them there, though, can we?’

‘It’s damn tempting, but I suppose we can’t.’

‘No, we can’t.’ Tullus tried not to consider the fact that Vetera lay less than forty miles to the west. Dying here would seem even more pointless than in the forest. Remember the bull I promised you, Fortuna, he thought. A big bastard he’ll be, with fine horns and broad shoulders, and balls so big that they almost touch the ground. That beast is yours when I cross that bridge. Not a moment before.

Degmar returned with the news that the tribesmen’s encirclement of Aliso was incomplete. He had also spotted a small gate in the northern wall which appeared to be unwatched. The information was enough to cement Tullus’ decision to enter the fort. During the late afternoon, the group crept close to Aliso’s northern side and hid themselves in the woods. When it was almost dark, they moved to the edge of the trees. Dots of light marked the fires in the enemy camp, which sprawled in disorder as far as the eye could see. The sound of men talking, laughing, arguing carried through the crisp autumn air. So too did the hunger-accentuating smell of cooking meat.

Tullus would have wished for a good plan of action, but that was impossible. What they were about to do bordered on madness. Even if they sneaked past the enemy camp, they risked being taken for attackers by the garrison. He quelled his disquiet. Taking the road to Vetera instead wouldn’t guarantee them a safe passage either. For all he knew, Arminius’ warriors were guarding the entire route.

By the time several hours had passed, peace had fallen over the tribesmen’s encampment. Most of the fires had gone out. There appeared to be few, if any, sentries. Degmar appeared by Tullus’ side. ‘Ready?’ he whispered.

The knot in Tullus’ stomach twisted a little tighter. There was no
good
time, no
right
time, he thought. ‘Aye.’

Out they slunk, Degmar leading the file with Tullus next and the legionaries after. The woman and child with the pup followed, and Fenestela took up the rear. Tullus was relying on his soldiers’ cloaks to disguise their armour; he’d ordered each man to sling his helmet around his neck, removing another tell-tale sign that they were Roman. More than that he could not do.

They reached the enemy position without difficulty, but from there, things became problematic. Finding the gap between the groupings of warriors’ tents and lean-tos that Degmar had spied proved close to impossible in the darkness. Unable to stop for long – that would attract attention – they had to walk
through
part of the camp, aiming for the black shape that was Aliso. It was beyond fortunate that any tribesmen in the vicinity who were still up had congregated around a large bonfire, allowing Tullus’ party not just to pass by, but to orientate themselves again.

Respect for the defenders’ ballistae meant that more than three hundred paces of empty ground lay between the last enemy tents and the fort’s walls. Tullus felt relieved to reach it, but too exposed. Any warrior who saw them from this point onward would be suspicious. An alert Roman sentry might raise the alarm, trapping them in no-man’s land. When Degmar glanced at him, therefore, he indicated that they should keep moving. ‘Quiet as you can,’ he hissed in the ear of the first soldier. ‘Pass it on.’

Dry-mouthed, with a thumping heart, Tullus stole after Degmar. Two hundred paces later, he began to dream that they might make it. After another twenty steps, though, a muffled curse from the rear gave the lie to that hope. Tullus halted Degmar, and the lead soldier, and paced down the line, asking, ‘Anything wrong?’

Every soldier said he was all right until he reached Fenestela. ‘What is it?’ demanded Tullus.

‘The woman’s gone.’

Tullus’ head jerked around to the final legionary – he hadn’t noticed she was absent. ‘Where is she?’

‘Her brat let go of the pup, and it ran off. The woman told her to forget the damn thing, but she went after it. The mother took off too,’ Fenestela muttered. ‘To Hades with both of them.’

Peering back at the enemy camp, Tullus could see nothing. He clenched his jaw. To go after the woman would put all of his men at risk. Bad as he felt, he couldn’t do it. ‘To the wall,’ he ordered.

The last eighty paces felt to Tullus like the final steps of a condemned man walking down the tunnel and into the arena. Yet there was no outcry from atop the rampart, and they were able to cross the defensive ditch over a section that the warriors had filled with turves. It didn’t take Degmar long to find the door. Throwing up a prayer, Tullus rapped on it with his fist.

There was no response, so he struck it with the hilt of his sword. The hollow thumping noise was loud, loud enough to carry. Tullus’ nerves were stretched as tight as wire as he waited but, to his huge relief, a sentry within responded before any of the enemy. Tullus met his suspicious challenge with a reply – in Latin. Quickly, Tullus said who he was, and to prove that he
had
to be Roman, gave Caedicius’ nickname, ‘Twenty-miler’, after his habit of doling out long punishment marches to soldiers. The dutiful sentry insisted on getting his officer, but the door was opened soon after, and in Tullus’ soldiers went.

Tullus hung back, unable to put the woman and child from his mind. Without being asked, Degmar stayed by his side.

Fenestela’s teeth flashed in the gloom as he reached the entrance. ‘We did it,’ he whispered.