Hunting the Eagles (19 page)

How they would find the four legionaries in the mayhem, Tullus wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t forget the glee with which Bony Face had executed Septimius. The whoreson needed to pay for his actions, and if Tullus could be the one who dispensed justice, so much the better.

They didn’t find their quarry at the Eighth Cohort’s barracks, where the situation was also under control. Numerous bodies lay outside the buildings, and there were plenty of wounded too. A weary-looking centurion told Tullus how the mutineers had armed themselves and fought back. A small group had broken through his men’s lines. ‘My boys had slain most of those on the list. They weren’t up to chasing the rest,’ he said, unable to hold Tullus’ eyes.

With little chance of finding Bony Face, who could have been anywhere in the vast camp, Tullus decided to head for the principia, to help extinguish the fire. An abrupt change to his plans was forced upon him as he entered the
via praetoria
. He glanced towards the main gate, some hundred paces away. There a desperate fight was taking place: men strived against each other, weapons rang, shrieks of pain and war cries combined in a familiar cadence.

The sentries were trying to prevent a mob of soldiers from leaving the camp, Tullus decided – and losing. ‘To the gate!’ he roared. ‘They’re killing our brothers at the gate!’

By the time they made it to the entrance, only two of the sentries were left. They went down just as Tullus and his men struck their attackers from behind. Some of the mutinous legionaries heard them coming and turned, but the rest were concentrating on getting out of the camp. Tullus’ legionaries hit them with a great crash, thumping their shield bosses into men’s backs, using their swords with short, efficient thrusts, trampling the fallen. Enraged by the innocent sentries’ fate, they needed no encouragement to kill.

Tullus’ temper was up too. He met the shield thrust at him by a swarthy-faced legionary with a savage thwack from the iron boss of his own. The shock of the impact rippled through wood and metal into his arm, and Tullus struggled to keep the shield high, but his opponent, surprised by the move, had fared worse. His top shield rim had bashed backwards into his face, smashing a couple of teeth. He was still moaning and dribbling blood through split lips when Tullus’ blade sank deep into his throat.

Tullus closed his eyes as his sword slid free. Crimson droplets showered the top of his shield and his cheeks, and then the legionary had dropped out of sight. Just like that, Tullus was in the mutineers’ midst.

‘With me!’ he roared.

Tullus sensed someone shoving in behind him, but he was too busy stabbing, barging and creating panic to see who it was. One of the twins died beneath his blade, and another legionary he recognised. Tullus wounded two more men, and then he found himself on the far side of the melee. He twisted his head to left and right, searching for Bony Face. There was no sign of him or Fat Nose, and Tullus spat an oath. The hammer of hobnails on the road dragged his attention back to the road out of the camp. Two armed figures were sprinting away from the fight.

Tullus
knew
that one of them was Bony Face. Like as not, the other was Fat Nose or the second twin. ‘Fenestela! Piso! Grab a
pilum
!’ Sheathing his bloodied sword, he lifted a discarded javelin from the detritus on the ground and ran after the fleeing pair. Tullus didn’t trust his legs to catch them, but he had an outside chance with a javelin if he could just close the distance – already some seventy paces.

Within two dozen fevered heartbeats, he was being outpaced by his quarry. It was now or never. Tullus came to a screaming halt, steadied himself by planting his left leg in front, and cocked back his right arm. With one eye closed, he took aim, heaved his arm back a little further, and threw. Up, up, up went the javelin. His prayers that it found a target rose alongside.

I don’t have the range any more, thought Tullus. Curse it all.

But to his astonishment, the javelin struck one of the legionaries in the lower leg as it plummeted to earth. Mortal wound it was not, but that didn’t matter. With an agonised cry, the man collapsed. His comrade threw a look over his shoulder, and Tullus recognised Fat Nose. He prayed that he had hit Bony Face.

Some words passed between the two – but Fat Nose didn’t slow down, or even stop.

What kind of cocksucking coward leaves a friend to die? wondered Tullus.

Metal scraped off stone as someone ran past him and skidded to a halt some twenty paces distant. With a heave and a grunt, Piso lobbed his javelin up in a steep arc. Fenestela appeared next, running further down the road before he too released his pilum.

Piso’s effort was so Herculean that his shaft smacked into the ground in front of Fat Nose, who let out a terrified squeal. He jinked to the side, put off his pace by the shock, and then Fenestela’s javelin came down like a bolt of lightning and skewered him between the shoulder blades. Fat Nose went down in a sprawl of limbs.

‘You might have missed, Piso, but that throw was worthy of an Olympian athlete,’ said Tullus. ‘You only succeeded by chance, Fenestela!’

Fenestela jutted out his beard, his habit when annoyed. ‘Who’s to say that I didn’t take Piso’s effort into account?’

‘Ha! It was well cast, though.’ Tullus stared at the gate with relief – the fighting there was all but done. ‘Follow me,’ he ordered. He, Fenestela and Piso tramped after the wounded legionary, who had managed to pull the javelin from his flesh and was hobbling as fast as he could towards the settlement. Spatters of blood marked his trail, and his face was desperate as he looked back. To Tullus’ delight, it was Bony Face. They caught up in no time, Tullus outpacing him to block his path while Fenestela and Piso stood at his back.

Bony Face threw down his sword with a clang, and raised his hands. ‘I surrender. Don’t kill me, please, sir!’ His voice was taut with fear.

Tullus felt a deep loathing for the man. His actions had wiped out any justification for his grievances. ‘You murdered Septimius in cold blood, filth, yet you expect mercy for yourself?’

Bony Face quailed before Tullus’ rage. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Septimius was a good man – he deserved better.’

‘You’re wrong there. Septimius was a prick of the first order.’

Bony Face blinked in surprise.

‘But you are also right. He deserved better. Most men do, because being slain in cold blood is a shitty way to die.’ With a smooth motion, Tullus unsheathed his sword and placed its tip under Bony Face’s chin.

‘I—’ began Bony Face, and stopped as Tullus’ blade slid through skin, muscle, blood vessels, cartilage, parting all with ease. Bony Face’s spinal column brought it to a shuddering halt.

Tullus stared into Bony Face’s wide, horrified eyes, listened to the odd, choking sound issuing from his bloody lips. With other enemies, he might have felt some regret, but not with this one. He was glad the man was suffering – if it hadn’t been for men like him, Septimius and so many others, mutineers included, would still be alive. ‘Die, you scum.’ Tullus let Bony Face hang on the sharp steel until the life left him, and then he kicked the corpse off, on to the ground. ‘The second twin?’ he demanded. ‘Has anyone seen him?’

‘He’s dead, sir,’ said Fenestela. ‘I saw him fall.’

Tullus’ anger drained away as fast as the blood pouring from Bony Face’s gaping throat. A pathetic figure now, he lay at Tullus’ feet like an outsized children’s puppet. Yet he wasn’t a plaything, thought Tullus, regret sweeping in. Bony Face had been a man who had lost his way, and paid the ultimate price for his mistake. ‘On another day, on a battlefield, he might have saved my life,’ he muttered. ‘And I killed him.’

‘You did what you had to,’ said Fenestela.

Tullus gave him a bleak look. ‘Gods, but it had better end here. Today.’

If it doesn’t, he thought, we will all become monsters.

DUSK WAS FALLING
as Arminius traced his way along one of the myriad of paths that led from the woods back towards the settlement. A bow hung from one shoulder, a hide quiver from the other, and he carried a broad-bladed hunting spear. He stamped the worst of the mud from his ankle boots as he walked, making the pair of rabbits hanging from his belt twitch as if still alive. They weren’t much to show for a day spent freezing his balls off, he thought, tugging the hood of his cloak tighter around his numb ears. It wasn’t as if he’d brought his catch down with his arrows either: they had been in two of the snares he had set several days before.

The rabbits weren’t the only creatures hiding from his bow. Arminius had had few sightings of other local wildlife – deer, boar and game birds – all day. Footprints, yes. Fresh-voided dung, yes. Traces of their passage and plants that had been eaten, or ground dug up, yes. But clapping his eyes on the quarry? Hardly ever. Twice, he’d come close to creeping up on something large – a boar, maybe – only to have it flee before he drew near enough to nock a shaft. A red deer on a ridge had been silhouetted against the sky, but it had heard or smelled him as soon as he’d started to try and work his way towards it, and vanished. Shooting birds with arrows was difficult even for a practised archer, and Arminius was no better than competent. No less than seven of his arrows had hissed off into the canopy without result before he’d given up trying.

His lack of success didn’t mean that Donar or Tamfana, the goddess of the trees, were angry with him, Arminius reasoned. He had two rabbits, did he not, and hunting was one of the hardest skills for a man to acquire. During his youth, when he might have learned it, he had been in Rome, a boy hostage sent by his father to learn the empire’s ways. After that, he’d joined the legions, to learn the art of war. I am a master at that, he thought with cold satisfaction, and I have a way with men. When I speak, they listen.

The notion of winning new allies made him think of his recent visit to the Angrivarii tribe, which had gone well. They would send their warriors to join with his in the late spring. So too would the ever-reliable Marsi. It had been likely from the outset that these two tribes – both haters of Rome – would ally themselves to him again, but it warmed Arminius’ heart to have heard their chieftains’ sworn promises before the first snow had fallen. If the mild weather returned before winter, he would range westward, to the Bructeri, and south, to the Chatti. Among these peoples, too, he hoped to find more allies. With luck, Segimundus would already have laid the groundwork for him.

And yet. And yet …

The memory of the two ravens in the sacred grove still shone bright in his mind, as did Segimundus’ inability – refusal? – to interpret the meaning of their appearance. The most Arminius had been able to glean from him was a dissatisfying ‘Ravens are Donar’s messengers. They go hither and thither, doing his bidding. Often it is impossible to discern the god’s purpose for their presence.’

Was it coincidence that Segimundus’ replies to Arminius’ questions had grown even more ambiguous after his last visit to his father? Or that Segestes, who had been
so
angry about his detention, should have become for no apparent reason the model prisoner? The only word for Segestes’ recent behaviour was smug, thought Arminius, ducking under a spindly length of bramble that hung over the track.

An unseen, jutting piece of deadwood made him stumble a moment later. Pain radiated from his left shin, unbalancing him. A sharp cry leaving his lips, Arminius toppled forward over the log, dropping his spear and trying not to land face first in the mud.

Ssshhhewww.
The unmistakeable sound of an arrow shot over his head.

His desire to get up vanished as he pressed himself flat to the cold ground. He heard no questioning cry, no apologetic shout from a hunter who had released in error. The continuing silence revealed that the shaft
had
been meant for him. If he hadn’t tripped, it might well have done its work. His mind raced. Who in Donar’s name was trying to kill him – and so close to the settlement?

Low voices off to his left, the direction from which the arrow had come, told him that his assailant wasn’t alone. Were there two men, three, more? Fresh sweat beaded Arminius’ brow. Maelo and the rest of his warriors – hundreds strong – could have been in Rome for all the good they were to him now. If he stood, the archer would loose again. So too would his companions, if they were similarly armed. By the time Arminius had restrung his own bow, he’d have at least one shaft in him – and his attackers would have closed in. They would have spears too.

Voices conferred. Twigs crackled. Footsteps drew nearer.

I’m not leaving this life cowering in the mud like a spineless worm, thought Arminius with rising fury. Go out fighting, and he had some chance of being welcomed into the warriors’ paradise. Quick as he could, he slipped off his bow and quiver and unslung the rabbits from his belt – they would hinder use of his spear. Praying that his enemies weren’t on top of him, he gripped his spear shaft and threw himself up on to his knees. A quick glance to his left, to his right, and behind revealed six approaching figures, none of whom he recognised. They were no more than twenty paces away, and Arminius’ stomach clenched. Unless this was some kind of dreadful mistake, someone really wanted him dead.