Hunting the Eagles (42 page)

Piso was two men back from Tullus, and pounding along as best he could. They had travelled forward a short time before, along the length of the wagon train towards Caecina’s position and the front of the column. Mud was sucking at his sandals, his yoke rattled and swayed on his right shoulder and his shield was dragging down his left arm. Yet Piso was
not
going to let his centurion – an old man – outstrip him. Nor was he going to get left behind by his comrades, Vitellius and Metilius, who were in front of and behind him. Another three files of soldiers – the rest of the century – were picking their way through the morass to his right. They had to stick together, thought Piso, just as they had six years before.

Heavy rain hammered off his helmet, almost deafening him. Over that rang a chorus of thunder, screams and the infernal barritus. Discerning even a single word from Tullus, or the others, was difficult unless it was shouted – and close. ‘Where are we going?’ Piso yelled.

‘What?’ replied Metilius, without looking back.

‘Where – are – we – going?’ repeated Piso, slower and louder. They had travelled along the length of the baggage train, halting at regular intervals to fight off German attacks. Their javelins had been thrown in the first assault, and were impossible to retrieve. Piso had put down three warriors: a stinging cut on his left cheek the painful memento from a slicing German spear. Whenever Vitellius got a chance, he liked to complain about his broken nose, smashed in the first exchange by a warrior’s swinging club. None of the five legionaries who’d died thus far had been tent mates, for which Piso was grateful.

His question had gone unanswered, so he bellowed it again, offering up the cry to the oppressive grey sky and the drifting, hateful rain.

Vitellius slowed for a moment. ‘I heard Tullus say that Caecina’s in danger. That must be where we’re going.’

Piso cursed, and kept close to his friend’s heels.

There had been no grateful halt by the wagons at the front of the train, nor any attempt to dig them out of the cursed mud. Instead, Tullus had led his own unit away from the shelter provided by the stranded vehicles. Piso wondered if Tullus had taken leave of his senses. Surely Caecina of all people was safe?

With a high-pitched whinny, a dark brown horse appeared from nowhere. It flashed between Piso and Vitellius, who both did well not to be trampled. Piso got a brief impression of strings of saliva hanging from its lips, and blood seeping from a deep wound in its left haunch. There was no sign of its rider.

If Piso hadn’t realised what was going on then, he did when a second and then a third horse charged past, both galloping in different directions. One had a white-faced auxiliary on its back, clutching on for dear life. The nearest horsemen were with Caecina. That
was
where they were heading, Piso decided, bile stinging the back of his throat.

The familiar ring of metal off metal, and men’s screams, rose up. Through the sheeting rain ahead, over Vitellius’ shoulder and off to the right, Piso could see swarms of warriors. Beyond them, a few Romans were still mounted, while others were fighting afoot, but they were outnumbered by a large margin. Sixty-odd of them were going to go over there, to try and stop Arminius’ men from killing Caecina. Piso could taste bile now, thick and bitter, at the back of his throat.

‘QUICK!’ roared Tullus. ‘Caecina needs us!’

Incredulous, Piso watched as Tullus somehow began to move even faster. ‘He’s going to burst his fucking heart,’ Vitellius shouted, but he too was picking up speed. So were the men in the files to Piso’s right. Open-mouthed, with yokes clanking and sweat streaming down their faces, they followed Tullus like hounds on a hare. Piso’s love for Tullus – and the shame of being left behind – drove him on. He would keep up, or die in the attempt. Mud coated his legs and spattered on to his face and arms as he powered through the bog. A clod landed in his open mouth. Piso spat it out, disgusted, and almost broke his neck crashing into a large hummock crested with bog rosemary.

Tullus gave the order to halt and down yokes some hundred paces on. Piso could have wept with relief. Uncaring that a tribesman might spear him, he grounded his shield and crouched beside it, his chest working like a smith’s bellows and his leg muscles throbbing with pain. Around him, he sensed more than one comrade slump to the ground. Piso’s fear returned as his breathing eased, and he took the measure of his surroundings. It felt as if they were on an island. On every side, the battle flowed and swept, clusters of legionaries, cavalry and warriors locked in their own struggle for supremacy. No one appeared to have seen them. That wouldn’t last, thought Piso. They were out in the open – exposed and outnumbered.

‘Can anyone see Caecina?’ shouted Tullus. ‘Or the men of his bodyguard?’

Everyone studied the confusion before them. ‘No, sir.’ ‘I can’t see him, sir.’ ‘Nor I, sir.’

‘Fuck it all. Gods grant that he’s not dead,’ said Tullus, his face still purple. He glanced at them. ‘On your feet! Form up, twelve wide, five or six deep. Signifer, behind me. The rest of you stay close to your comrades. Get your wind back as we walk.’ To Piso’s incredulity, Tullus gave him a wink.

They bunched together, with Tullus in the centre of the first rank. Piso took his place to Tullus’ right and Vitellius stood to Tullus’ left – their usual spots, it seemed. Piso’s pride flared up to be where he was. Hades, but he felt alive.

‘Advance!’ called Tullus. ‘Breathe in, and think of fucking the prettiest whore you can imagine.’

Piso sucked in a lungful of air, and imagined the blonde goddess who worked in Vetera’s most expensive brothel. Diana, she called herself. The huntress. Piso had eyed her up on countless occasions, but had only been able to afford her once, when he had made a huge sum gambling at a gladiator fight.

‘Give her one as you breathe out!’ ordered Tullus.

An animal roar went up.

‘Take another breath. She’s telling you that you’re the best lover she’s had.’

Piso whooped with the rest.

‘Exhale, and picture yourself emptying your load into her,’ roared Tullus.

Diana was under Piso, smiling, her legs wrapped around his buttocks. Piso groaned as he exhaled. Self-conscious at first, he grinned to hear plenty of similar noises around him.

‘Feel better, brothers?’ asked Tullus.

‘AYE!’

‘Me too!’ Tullus laughed. So did every man there – it was a manic sound.

‘Who were you screwing, sir?’ called someone from the ranks behind.

There were snorts of amusement, and Piso pricked his ears. If Tullus visited whorehouses, he did so when nobody was looking.

‘None of your business,’ growled Tullus. ‘But I can tell you she screamed like a Fury!’

Piso and his comrades cheered him then, long and hard.

Tullus tramped on, and they followed. Perhaps 150 paces separated them from the nearest warriors, who were still engrossed with their attack. Piso’s grip on his sword was white-knuckled now, and his fantasies about Diana long gone. Men would die in the coming moments. Stay close to Tullus and I’ll be fine, Piso told himself over and over. His internal refrain didn’t stop the painful twinges radiating from his bladder.

Weee-oooo-weee! Oooo-we!
With startled cries, a lapwing shot into the air almost from under Piso’s feet. He leaped back with fright and, despite his mail, took a nasty knock from the shield boss of the next-ranked soldier.

He scrambled into position once more, back hurting and scarlet-faced with embarrassment. Hoots of derision from his comrades rained down, questioning his courage, his parentage and more. ‘All right?’ asked Tullus from the corner of his mouth.

‘Yes, sir,’ Piso replied, grateful that his bladder hadn’t got the better of him.

Eighty paces off, a pigtailed warrior turned away from his comrades and spat. He stared at the Romans in amazement, and then shouted an alarm.

‘Pick up the pace, brothers,’ roared Tullus. ‘But watch your step!’

By the time a score of tribesmen had gathered to face them, Tullus and his men had covered almost half the distance. When they were thirty paces away, perhaps twice that number were readying themselves to fight. There were plenty more in the mob, but for whatever reason – confusion, close combat with Romans to the front – they hadn’t turned to meet Tullus’ charge.

At twenty-five paces, Tullus had his men slow again to a walk. ‘Shields high! Stay close! Forward!’

Piso’s breath rebounded off the inside of his shield, hot and fast and stinking of the garlic he’d eaten the day before. Mud and annoying pieces of grit squelched between his toes. His back ached too, where the boss had hit, but he kept his eyes fixed on the closest warriors. Many seemed to be focusing on Tullus, with his unmistakeable transverse-crested helmet. Piso noted three in particular. Two were burly, bare-chested men with similar features and swirling arm tattoos, brothers perhaps, and the last was a short-arsed little bastard with a mail shirt, decorated shield and a fine sword. Each of them was dangerous – Piso sensed it – and if they slew Tullus, Hades would have them all.

The warriors were fifteen paces away.

‘’Tellius!’ Piso roared.

‘Aye?’ answered Vitellius.

‘See those two inbreds with tattoos, and the little fucker with the mail and the fancy shield?’

Piso’s heart banged off his ribs three, four times and Vitellius said, ‘I see them.’

Ten.

‘They’re coming for the centurion,’ said Piso. ‘Watch them.’

‘I will!’

Six paces.

Tullus grunted – it might have been disdain, or even gratitude, Piso never knew – and then he shouted, ‘Swords off shields, and at them!’

Clatter, clatter.
Sixty swords connected with shield rims. The brothers were nearest Piso, while Short Arse was closer to Tullus and Vitellius. Piso’s bladder was really hurting now. Pissing himself wouldn’t matter, he thought, as long as he protected Tullus.

Shouting war cries, the warriors charged.

Piso’s mouth was bone dry, his heart pounding. He readied his right arm, and decided to tackle Brother One, who had a longer moustache. Tullus would face Brother Two, and Piso hoped Vitellius would kill Short Arse. He had to rely on the legionary to his left to fight the brute to the right of
his
target. That was how the shield wall worked, in theory at least.

Thump. Thump. Thump.
Up went the familiar noise of shields and bosses clashing off one another, or striking flesh. Men groaned with the pain of it, or with the effort of driving in behind their shields, trying to unbalance their enemies. Fast as a lightning bolt, the sound was followed by screams as blades were rammed home on both sides, and casualties taken.

Piso’s hunch was right. The brothers
and
Short Arse were trying to kill Tullus, and the weight of their attack – two stabbing spear blades and a probing sword – was such that Tullus could not fight back. He had ducked down behind his shield. Blind, he could do nothing but brace himself and wait for a chance to strike. Already both brothers were trying to thrust down over the top of Tullus’ shield. Piso digested this information in perhaps six fevered heartbeats. Cursing, he stuck his sword into the only portion of Brother One that was visible – his flank, above the waistband of his patterned trousers. Blood blossomed, Piso felt the blade grate off the hipbone and Brother One roared in agony.

Piso wrenched on his sword, feeling it slide off the bone again as it came out in a spray of red. Most men would have gone down with such a wound, but Brother One was set on killing Tullus, regardless of cost. Hissing with pain, he stabbed again with his spear, over Tullus’ shield.

The point caught in Tullus’ mail, where Piso couldn’t see, but Tullus let out a bull’s bellow. He must have struck back in reflex, because someone very close – not Brother One – let out a strangled cry. Brother One pulled back his spear with a snarl. Piso was about to stick him again when something hit the top of his head with an almighty crash. Stars burst across his vision, and his strength vanished. He dropped to one knee, letting go of his shield. His over-tight bladder began to empty itself. Above him, someone roared in triumph.

I’m done, thought Piso. Whoever did that to me is about to smash in my skull. Most of him didn’t care. The smell of his own piss was thick in his nostrils. His other knee trembled, and he almost fell on to his face. The death blow didn’t fall, though, which was baffling. Fuzzy-headed, swaying, and lapsing in and out of consciousness, Piso stared at the confusion of moving legs and churned-up ground before him. Bloodied and limp, a corpse lay right in front, and was being trampled by those above it. There was plenty of mud, as always. Several weapons were visible: two spears, a Roman sword. A tiny ladybird was balanced on a sprig of heather, oblivious to the carnage being waged around it.

Strong legs in patterned trousers shuffled back and forth just to Piso’s right. Brother One? he wondered dully, trying to focus on the trousers again. He’s still on Tullus.

Piso’s sword was lying by his side, his weak fingers still resting on the hilt. He eyed it, a new urgency thrumming through his slow-pulsing veins. He lifted it up a handspan. Then another. Fixed his gaze on the trousers. Raised his blade a little more, tensed his arm muscles. Thrust. Connected. Sliced through the fabric and into the meat of the trousers’ owner’s calf. The blow wasn’t powerful, but it was true. Piso’s sharp-edged blade went in – deep. A piercing shriek battered his eardrums, and the trouser-wearer staggered, wrenching the sword from Piso’s grasp.

His strength was gone. White light surrounded him. Piso let go.