Hunting the Eagles (37 page)

‘FUCK,’ SAID TULLUS,
staring at the crumbling, sodden remnants of planking that led off into the distance, disappearing amid a confusion of heather, gorse and mud. He was on the way back to Vetera with Caecina’s army, and this mockery of a road across the bog was supposed to be their route, but a blind man could see that it was falling to pieces. The Long Bridges, it was called, but Tullus doubted a single one remained. No one appeared to have laid a hand to a plank of it since Ahenobarbus’ legions had constructed the road fifteen years before.

There was no sun – Tullus hadn’t seen it in days. Dense layers of cloud pressed down from overhead, deadening the landscape’s colour. Light rain fell in a constant and depressing drizzle.
Euuhh-eeee. Euuhh-eeee-uh.
From somewhere off to his left came the high-pitched, mournful cry of a crane.
Euuhh-eeee.
Tullus scowled. Like as not, the stupid bird was calling to its mate, but it seemed to be asking what he was doing here. I’m here following my general, Tullus answered. You went into a similar place because of another general, remember, his cynical side added. Varus. Unsettling memories stirred in Tullus’ mind, making him scowl.

The scouts had brought news of the road’s catastrophic state to the vanguard some time before. Tullus had hoped they’d been mistaken, or at least had exaggerated what they had seen, but it was clear their assessment had been correct. The grim faces of the Fifth Legion’s other senior centurions – standing nearby – showed that they felt the same way as Tullus.

‘Fuck,’ Tullus said, and again for good measure, ‘Fuck.’

Cordus threw him a sour glance. ‘Swearing isn’t going to get us anywhere.’

‘It might not, but I’m with Tullus,’ said Bassius, the
primus pilus
, with a chuckle. A thin figure with a gaunt complexion and a mouth that had been left lopsided by a sword cut, he was tough, courageous and popular with everyone. Bassius had also always treated Tullus with respect, which raised him in Tullus’ esteem no end. ‘Fuck it all to Hades,’ said Bassius. ‘And back.’

Cordus fumed as everyone but he laughed.

‘We’re going to have to build the whole cursed thing again, or most of it,’ observed Bassius. He eyed Tullus. ‘Don’t you think?’

Several centurions who were more senior to Tullus looked disgruntled that they hadn’t been asked the question, but Tullus was beyond caring. He took a few steps on to the road. Stagnant brown water oozed at once from the rotten wood, and he could feel the planks sinking into the semi-liquid ground beneath. He walked on for fifty paces, taking care where he placed his feet. A good number of the strips of wood that formed the road had rotted away in their entirety. Others broke beneath his weight. The surface that remained was irregular and treacherous, and Tullus saw no reason to think that the road would improve as it led westward. According to the scouts, the terrain – wooded hills on either side, with plentiful streams discharging into the bog – went on for miles.

He tramped back to an expectant-looking Bassius, who demanded, ‘Well?’

‘The scouts were right, sir. A few soldiers, perhaps even a century or two might cross, but no more than that.’ Tullus could picture men’s legs disappearing to the knee in limb-sucking mud, could see panicked mules buried to their bellies in the brown morass. Hard though it was to walk on foot, he’d done the right thing to send his horse back to the wagon train. ‘The legionaries might pass by, but there’s no way the carts, in particular those with the artillery, could make it. As for the bridges, well …’

They considered their surroundings in grim silence. A quagmire dotted with bog cotton and goatweed sprawled away on either side, laced by numerous rivulets and streams. The low, tree-covered hills beyond could be swarming with hostile tribesmen, thought Tullus. To the east and south – where they’d come from – lay nothing but hundreds of miles of hostile territory. The sea lay to the north, but Germanicus’ force needed every ship to carry
them
along the storm-ridden coastline to the safety of the Flevo Lacus. The only option left to Caecina’s army was the rotten planking before them. The situation could be even worse a few miles into the bog, thought Tullus. The Germans might have destroyed the road entirely there.

‘Arminius and his mongrels are watching us even now, I’d wager,’ said Bassius.

‘They will be, sir.’ Tullus could sense the enemy, could almost feel their hatred pulsing through the humid, mosquito-filled air. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they show themselves.’

‘Let them come,’ said Bassius, scowling. He eyed the other officers. ‘Hate it or love it, this shithole is home for the next few days, brothers. Caecina will have us build a camp on that level ground to the left, or I’m no judge.’

‘We’re going to need a lot of timber, sir. Shall I take a look at the nearest trees?’ offered Tullus. ‘It might allow me to assess the Germans’ strength.’

‘A good plan,’ said Bassius with an approving nod. ‘Cordus, patrol the road as far as the first bridge. Four of the remaining cohorts are to form a screen, two to the left, and two to the right of the flat ground. The rest will start digging the fortifications.’

Tullus walked the length of his cohort’s position before they set out, addressing his men. Few would be happy to present themselves on a plate to the enemy, as they were possibly about to do. He reminded them, therefore, of what had happened the last time Arminius’ warriors had tried an ambush. ‘We routed them, brothers, didn’t we? Sent them running back into the forest with their mangy tails tucked between their hind legs. If even one of the filth shows his face up there, we’ll do the same to him. We’re not about to let those sheep-humping maggots stop us from seeing the whores of Vetera again, are we?’

‘No!’ they roared back at him. Some laughed, and others made obscene gestures. Tullus wasn’t sure if they were mimicking what they’d do to the prostitutes in the vicus, or to Arminius’ warriors, but it didn’t matter: their spirits had been raised. When he led them off, unencumbered by their yokes, they followed with a will.

Progress was slow, thanks to the uneven, boggy terrain, and their formation, two centuries wide and three deep, didn’t help. The troops at the front turned the marshy ground into a complete quagmire for the rest, yet a wider arrangement would have made it harder for Tullus to retain control, and left them more susceptible to attack.

After three hundred paces of labouring from hummock to hummock and through pools of cold, peaty-brown water, Tullus paused. Runnels of sweat ran from under his helmet, and his pulse was racing. His men were in better shape, because each of them had at least a decade on him, but he didn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. Instead he gazed with calculating eyes at the tree line, which lay up a gentle slope, ten score paces further on.

It took but a few heartbeats to spy the warriors skulking between the beeches and hornbeams. Tullus had been expecting the enemy, but his heart still lurched. Arminius would be here as well – Tullus could feel it in his gut. ‘See them, brothers?’ he muttered to his legionaries. ‘Not a sound. We advance another hundred paces, at the walk. Pass the word on.’

To retreat now would give the wrong message. It was vital the Germans knew that they weren’t scared, that the legionaries were ready to fight, to do whatever it took to cross the bog. Posturing in this way before battle often reaped rich rewards. The performance was akin to the way two men circled in a tavern, eyeballing one another as they decided whether or not to come to blows. It wasn’t always about the skill or size of the individual, thought Tullus, although that helped. Sometimes having bigger balls than your opponent was enough to end the contest before it started. To achieve this meant being close enough to stare the other in the eye. In this case, it meant trudging uphill through the mud, each step giving the enemy more of an advantage.

Tullus’ certainty that advancing was a good idea soon began to wane. The closer they went, the greater the likelihood that he would have to commit to battle. Forming the usual shield wall would be almost impossible on this undulating ground. If enough warriors came charging from the trees, there was no guarantee that his men would prevail.

Tullus had just signalled the halt when a lone figure strode forth from the trees. An immense warrior with long blond hair, he was stark naked and carried a club. Roaring insults, he made straight for the Romans. Perhaps a hundred paces lay between them.

‘Gods, his prick is big as a mule’s!’ shouted Tullus.

As he’d hoped, his men hooted and roared. ‘Come down here. We’ll trim it to a proper size!’ challenged Piso. ‘Or cut it off altogether!’ said Vitellius. A barrage of similar jibes followed.

Mule Prick didn’t hear or couldn’t understand their insults. He sauntered closer, bawling in his own tongue and beating his chest with one fist. His mighty club swung to and fro, promising death to any man who came close enough. Despite the fact that Tullus’ soldiers outnumbered him hundreds to one, his advance was intimidating. The legionaries’ abuse began to die away.

Mule Prick’s companions sensed their uncertainty. First came seven other naked berserkers, shouting their contempt of the Romans. Then, in threes and fours, the rest began to emerge from the trees. Soon fifty warriors had gathered, then a hundred. Two hundred. Four. Five hundred. They were like rats swarming out of a burning granary, thought Tullus with unease. Tall, short, broad and skinny, snaggle-toothed and smooth-cheeked, the tribesmen were clad in woven shirts and patterned trousers. Most bore shields, hexagonal or round, with painted designs. A small number had helmets. Even fewer had swords. Perhaps a dozen had mail shirts.

Every last warrior carried a handful of frameae. Tullus knew well the danger posed by those versatile spears which could be hurled from close or long range or used as thrusting weapons.

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
From a thousand throats, the sonorous barritus began.

Tullus hissed a curse. Until this point, the scales had been more or less balanced. In the space of five heartbeats, they had shifted, in the warriors’ favour.

HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

Mule Prick grinned as the mass of warriors advanced towards his position. He increased his own pace, which in turn made them speed up.

Worry gnawed at Tullus now. Mule Prick was fifty paces away. When his comrades reached him, they
would
charge. If that happened, the situation would disintegrate into bloody chaos. The cohorts on the level ground would be watching the drama unfold, but they’d never be able to reach Tullus’ men before they were overwhelmed. It was possible too that thousands more warriors might appear from the trees and threaten the whole legion.

‘Front two ranks, ready javelins. Whoever takes down the brute with the giant cock earns an amphora of good wine. On my command,’ Tullus said to left and right. ‘Pass it on – quick!’

Mule Prick swaggered another five paces nearer. Tattoos on his muscled limbs writhed with each step, and his outsized member flopped from side to side, a mockery of ordinary men’s genitalia. Spying Tullus, perhaps because of his crested helmet, he pointed his club. ‘Fight!’ he roared in accented Latin. ‘Come and fight!’

‘I’ve no wish to be bludgeoned to death by your cheesy dick!’ Tullus shot back in German. He repeated his words in Latin and every legionary within earshot laughed.

Mule Prick’s face purpled, and he continued advancing towards Tullus. ‘Fight, coward!’

Tullus checked. The first two ranks were ready, their right arms back. ‘LOOSE!’ he bellowed.

Mule Prick sensed the danger at last. He halted. Now he took a step back, then another. The maggot was forty paces away if he was one, thought Tullus as his gaze followed two score javelins up into the air. Thirty was the limit of most men’s effective range with the javelin. Throwing uphill reduced that distance. Tension knotted his belly as the shafts plummeted earthward.

A heartbeat later, Tullus let out an incredulous laugh. No less than three javelins had struck Mule Prick. Two had taken him in the belly, one high and one low, and the other had run through his right bicep, forcing him to drop his club. Mule Prick bellowed with rage and pain, and gave a useless tug at the shafts in his stomach. Then his legs buckled, and he fell to one knee, moaning as the javelins moved and wrenched in his flesh.

To Tullus’ relief, Mule Prick’s plight had stopped the avalanche of warriors in its tracks. He and his men weren’t out of danger yet, however. ‘Third rank, pass your javelins to the front!’ he shouted. ‘First rank, ready!’

Another volley of javelins went up. Only one hit Mule Prick this time, but it speared him through the chest, killing him. An audible sound of dismay went up from the tribesmen as his bloodied corpse fell backwards into the bog, and the javelins transfixing him jerked upright like so many fence posts.

‘Draw swords. Keep your faces to the front,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Walk backwards, nice and slow.’

Eyes fixed on the enemy, they stepped back the way they had come. Progress was slower than before. Unable to see what was behind them, men tripped and cursed, and a number turned an ankle or wrenched a knee. One fool suffered a flesh wound to the buttocks when he stumbled backwards on to the sword wielded by the soldier in the next rank.

Tullus didn’t care, because there had been no pursuit, and by the time they reached more level ground, the warriors had vanished into the trees, taking the berserker’s corpse with them. At least a dozen legionaries began taking the credit for hitting Mule Prick. Tullus laughed and said that the century would have four amphorae to share between them, one for each javelin that had struck home. ‘When we get back to Vetera, of course,’ he added. Despite this sobering comment, the soldiers cheered.

As Tullus neared the other cohorts, Bassius was waiting with a small escort. ‘That was a close call.’

‘It reminded me of kicking a wasps’ nest, sir,’ said Tullus in sober tone. ‘Not the wisest thing to do.’

‘It was clever to bring down the berserker.’

Tullus fell out of rank, and indicated that his men should keep marching. He lowered his voice. ‘If he hadn’t fallen, sir, we’d have been finished.’