Hunting the Eagles (38 page)

‘You did well. How many are they – could you see?’

‘I counted about a thousand, sir, but there looked to be plenty more in the trees. Arminius won’t be here unless he has a good-sized host. Six years ago, he must have had fifteen to twenty thousand spears.’ The enormous figures were a stark reminder of their own situation. Caecina commanded more legionaries than Varus had had, but in an ambush, superior numbers often counted for little. The potential for Arminius’ ambush to be repeated was there, thought Tullus. The Long Bridges road was a good place to attack, because of the vast bogs that rolled away into the distance. If the legions broke, they would have nowhere to run.

‘I always wondered how Varus could have been led astray,’ said Bassius. ‘I’m beginning to understand.’

Tullus’ festering anger towards Arminius flared. ‘The same thing is
not
going to happen to us!’ He flushed and added, ‘Sir.’

Bassius seemed amused. ‘I’m glad to have you in my legion.’ He gave Tullus an approving nod, but then he was all business again. ‘The camp won’t get built on its own. Caecina has sent word to continue what we’ve started. Get your lot digging over there, by the Sixth Cohort. We’ll talk later. There’s to be a meeting of high-ranking officers, including senior centurions.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus approved.

An unexpected break appeared in the clouds, spilling shafts of late-afternoon sunshine on to the damp landscape. A moment later, the rain eased off and stopped. The effect was remarkable. Their surroundings, which had been so forbidding, almost seemed welcoming. Deep in the bog, a hidden grouse let out a satisfied
ku-ku-ku-ku-kerrooo
. Elsewhere, a legionary was whistling. Another man cracked a joke. Morale remained high, and Tullus smiled.

He glanced up the hill where they’d slain the berserker, and his good humour vanished as fast as it had arrived. Along the tree line stretched an unending row of tribesmen. It was no better on the hillock opposite. They had to number four thousand, thought Tullus, resentful of the cold sweat trickling down his back. Worse still, they were but a proportion of Arminius’ host.

To a man, the warriors were motionless. Their presence was enough threat, enough of a message to every Roman in the bogland below.

We will kill you all.

NIGHT HAD FALLEN
over the vast Roman camp for the second time since Caecina’s army had arrived at the beginning of the Long Bridges road. Drizzling rain, dense and cold, yet fell. Cloud hid the moon and stars, as it had the sun – all that day and the ones before it. The only light came from small, sputtering fires by the soldiers’ tents, and from their personal oil lamps within. Piso was trudging the muddy avenues towards the tent that served as a temporary hospital. The poor light, uneven surface and protruding rocks meant that it had taken him three times as long as normal to come this distance from his cohort’s position. He consoled himself with the thought of the injured Saxa, who would appreciate his company and, more, the wine slopping about in the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

From beyond the ramparts came the sound of singing: Arminius’ tribesmen carousing. Piso had been doing his best to block his ears to the unsettling, alien sound, but it was a real struggle. Hades take them and soon, he thought, and keep our sentries alert. Reaching the hospital tent’s entrance, he let two stretcher-bearers emerge, carrying a legionary’s body. Piso couldn’t help but lean in to see if it was Saxa, or anyone else he knew.

Shamed by his relief at not recognising the corpse, he fumbled in his purse. ‘Wait.’ Both orderlies looked irritated, but they paused. Proffering a denarius, Piso muttered, ‘He’ll need to pay the ferryman.’

‘You’re a good man,’ said the senior stretcher-bearer, a veteran old enough to be Piso’s father. ‘Go on.’

The corpse’s still warm lips were disquieting to the touch, but Piso had done the same for more than one comrade over the years. He laid the coin on the bloody tongue, and pushed the jaw shut. ‘May your journey be swift. Give that brute Cerberus a kick from me.’

The stretcher-bearers gave him a friendly nod and went on their way. Piso knew their destination: a vast pit against one wall of the camp. Dug the previous day, even as the fortifications were being finished, its bottom was waist-deep in bog water. Within, the result of today’s fighting, were the bodies of more than five hundred legionaries. None of his friends were among them, which was something to be grateful for, but two men from Tullus’ century were, and upwards of fifty from the cohort. The Germans’ attacks had been relentless through the day, on both the soldiers fetching timber and those engaged in repairing the neglected road.

I’m alive and unharmed, thought Piso, and so are the rest of us, apart from Saxa. A
framea
had pierced his comrade’s lower left arm as he helped to chop down a tree. Unless Saxa was unlucky, the wound would heal. Be grateful, thought Piso. Other men haven’t fared so well.

A wall of warm, fuggy air met him as he entered the hospital tent, bringing with it a mixture of powerful smells. The harsh tang of
acetum
was welcome beside the other odours: piss and shit, blood, damp wool and men’s sweat. Breathing through his mouth, Piso paced along the lines of wounded, bandaged men, his eyes searching for Saxa. Like their hale comrades elsewhere in the camp, the patients’ only bedding was an army blanket each. Many were sleeping, or comatose, either drugged with poppy juice or so far gone that they were beyond needing it. Others moaned softly to themselves. A few held muttered conversations with their neighbours. Someone was humming the tune of a popular marching song, over and over. A man was whimpering, ‘Mother. Mother. Mother.’ Piso glanced at him, and wished he hadn’t. Heavy bandaging covered the soldier’s right eye, but dark red blood continued to seep through from the wound beneath. The pain had to be excruciating.

Piso felt helpless, frustrated. He could do nothing for the soldier but pray, same as he had for every other poor bastard he’d come across. As if that did any good. With clenched jaw, he moved on. ‘Saxa?’ he called.

‘Halt!’ Despite his strident tone, the surgeon confronting Piso looked fit to drop. His sallow face had a waxen hue, and deep bags were carved out beneath his eyes. Plentiful blood spatters had rendered his tunic red instead of cream. Similar stains marked both his arms to the elbow. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘I’m looking for a comrade, sir.’

Seeing Piso’s wine bag, the surgeon sniffed. ‘You’re planning to ply him with drink.’

Too late, Piso tried to conceal what he was carrying. He pulled what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘You have me, sir. My friend was wounded earlier. I thought a drop of this would warm him up.’

‘This is a hospital, not a tavern,’ retorted the surgeon, pointing at the entrance. ‘Out. Your friend can find you when he’s discharged.’

‘I’ll only stay a few moments, sir.’

‘That’s what they
all
say. Half a watch later, my orderlies have to eject them, leaving my patients drunk as noble youths the day they take the toga. Out.’

‘I was in the Eighteenth, sir. So was my mate,’ said Piso, throwing caution to the wind. ‘I took an oath after the ambush never to leave another comrade without giving him a taste of wine first.’

The surgeon frowned. ‘We’re not abandoning anyone.’

‘I know we’re not, sir, but …’ Piso didn’t want to suggest what might happen in the next few days. It felt like tempting the Fates, and they were fickle Greek bitches at the best of times.

The surgeon moved aside with a sigh. ‘Be quick. He can have a few mouthfuls of wine, and that’s it.’

‘My thanks, sir.’ Before the surgeon could change his mind, Piso darted around him and resumed his walk between the lines of wounded men. Saxa was lying twenty paces further on, his injured arm wrapped in a clean piece of ripped tunic. He seemed to be asleep. Piso nudged his leg. ‘Thirsty?’

Saxa twitched and woke, then focused on Piso. A smile split his face. ‘How did you get in? The surgeon is as crusty as an old whore’ s—’

‘Shhhh,’ hissed Piso, aware that the surgeon was close by. ‘He’s not too bad. Even said I could stay for a bit. You’re allowed some of this.’ He swung the bag down off his shoulder and unstoppered it.

‘You’re a marvel. Give that here!’ Saxa reached out with his good hand. Piso held the bottom of the bag and tipped it up so his friend could drink. Saxa’s throat worked as he swallowed two, three big mouthfuls. ‘Gods, that’s good,’ he said, pulling away at last.

Piso was watching the surgeon, and held it up, out of reach. ‘Maybe that’s enough.’

‘Balls. Give it back!’ Saxa relented when Piso indicated the surgeon with a jerk of his head. Saxa lay back on his blanket. ‘That was good. Gratitude, brother.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘My arm aches, but then a fucking spear went through it, and it’s been sluiced with acetum. The surgeon says I’ll be back to light duties within the month. Full duty within two. That is, if …’ Saxa stopped. ‘How are things out there?’

‘Fine,’ lied Piso. ‘You don’t need to hide anything from me,’ said Saxa, scowling. ‘Is it bad?’

‘Not as bad as the first day with Varus,’ said Piso in a low tone. ‘We’ve lost four or five hundred men.’

‘May their shades not linger in this shithole. Did we kill many Germans?’

Piso spat the words out. ‘A hundred, they say, maybe more.’

Saxa swore again. ‘Tell me that a decent stretch of road got repaired at least.’

‘A mile.’

‘That’s it?’ Heads turned at Saxa’s cry, including the surgeon’s – who gave them both a disapproving look.

‘We’ll fare better tomorrow,’ said Piso, offering the bag. ‘Have a last swig. I’ll end up on a charge if I stay any longer.’

Saxa drank like a newborn baby on its mother’s breast. He relinquished the wine bag with reluctance.

‘You will sleep well tonight.’

Saxa lifted a clay jug that had been lying by his side, and winked. ‘I can even piss without going out in the rain.’

‘Trust you to have every comfort arranged!’ said Piso with a chuckle. He gripped his friend’s good hand. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow evening.’

‘You gathering timber or road-building?’

‘Working on the road, Tullus says.’

‘Were there many attacks there today?’

‘A lot, aye.’

Saxa’s face grew sombre. ‘Stay alive.’

‘I will. You too.’ They clasped hands again, hard.

As Piso walked away, he did not look back.

Piso wandered towards his century’s tent positions in a foul mood. His pleasure at seeing his friend had been soured by their last exchange. Saxa shared his concern that the enemy’s attacks would intensify, and that casualties would mount even further. The same doom couldn’t befall us again, Piso thought. Could it? He was unable to shake off the gnawing worry that Arminius was about to repeat his success of six years before. Old, terrible memories returned: the shock of the first German attack, the miles of corpse-filled mud, and the terrified wails of the civilians left in their camp. Piso blinked them away, cursing, and began swigging his wine. There was just enough in the bag to give him dreamless sleep, he decided.

Laughter carried from a nearby tent. ‘Got you, Benignus!’ said a voice. ‘Pay up.’

A muttered protest was drowned out by a chorus of voices. ‘Aemilius won, you dog!’ ‘Give the man his money.’ ‘Fair’s fair, Benignus. You lost.’

Piso hesitated, and his fingers traced the outline of his two pairs of dice, secure in his purse. A few games would be just the thing to make his worries disappear. If he won some coin, even better. Slapping his hand off the tent’s wet leather, he cried, ‘Ho, brothers! Have you space for another gambler?’

After a short silence, a voice said, ‘I don’t see why not.’

Piso waited as someone unlaced the flaps. Fortuna, be good to me, he prayed.

‘There.’ A wiry legionary was profiled in the dim light cast by the oil lamps within. ‘Enter, friend.’

‘My thanks.’ Piso squeezed inside after his host. The tent’s warm interior was confining, as his own was. Eight men and their equipment filled it from side wall to side wall and end to end. Weapons and segmented armour were piled by the entrance, but the soldiers with mail shirts had kept theirs on. No one had taken their sandals off. ‘You’re ready for a fight,’ Piso observed.

‘Our centurion insisted. He’d have had us wear our plate too, except it’s impossible to sleep in,’ grumbled the wiry man who’d let him in. ‘Prick.’

Piso swallowed his compliment about their readiness. ‘All centurions are hard taskmasters.’

‘Yours is the same, no doubt. Find a seat. I’m Aemilius, by the way. Second Century, Eighth Cohort.’ The wiry man eased down beside a big soldier with bad pox scars. ‘This prick’s Benignus. He’s down to his last few coins.’

‘Nothing new about that,’ sneered one of the four men opposite, a thin-faced individual with a hook nose. ‘I’m Gaius.’

‘But you can call him Beaky,’ said his neighbour, a man with a short, bristling beard.

Beaky gave him an elbow in the ribs. ‘Shut up, Pubes.’

Piso hid his amusement at Pubes’ apt nickname. It was a wonder no one had ever thought to use the same one for Fenestela. ‘Piso, they call me. I’m in the First Century of the Seventh.’ He sat down beside Beaky, opposite Aemilius. As the other four legionaries introduced themselves, Aemilius leaned over and shook Piso’s wine bag. ‘Is that what I think it is?’