Hunting the Eagles (44 page)

PISO WOKE GROANING.
His head throbbed, the pain worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. There was gritty mud in his mouth, and drops of something – rain? – were hitting his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He was also bouncing up and down as he was dragged along the ground. The discomfort was such that he couldn’t be dead, he reasoned. Rain didn’t fall in the underworld either, or so he’d been told. He opened his eyes. Above him, the clouds were still lowering, and the same grim, uniform grey. To either side, gorse and bog cotton plants were moving past at a slow pace. From everywhere came the familiar sounds of marching men: clinking mail, creaking leather and squelching mud.

Piso hawked and spat out the grit. His fingers traced the outline of branches on either side of him, wrapped in blankets. I’m on a homemade stretcher, he thought. At once cold fear roiled in his belly. Had he been taken prisoner? Relief flooded through him as his gaze travelled upward, falling upon two cloaked backs and above them, the characteristic shape of Roman helmets. ‘I’m awake,’ he rasped.

Vitellius’ head turned, and his lips turned up. ‘Welcome back.’

Metilius looked around too. ‘You’ve been out for a while.’

Piso couldn’t hear the barritus, or fighting, but that meant little. ‘The Germans. Are they—?’

‘The attacks are over for the day,’ said Metilius. ‘How are you feeling?’ Piso probed his scalp with care, finding a large, soft and painful swelling on his crown. ‘My skull feels as if Tullus has been beating it with his vitis for an hour, but I think I’ll live.’

‘Your helmet’s fucked,’ said Vitellius. ‘We had a struggle getting it off.’

Piso’s memory of how he had fallen – and the last blow he’d struck – returned. ‘Tullus?’

‘He’s all right,’ said Metilius.

‘Thanks to you,’ added Vitellius.

A needle stabbed Piso behind his left orbit, and he moaned. ‘I saved him?’ he asked.

‘So he says. You injured the warrior who was about to spit him. It gave him the chance to kill the bastard.’

Piso digested this news with closed eyes. Tullus owes me his life. A sneaking pride filled him.

‘You up to walking yet?’ demanded Metilius. ‘You’re a dead weight to pull.’

‘Let him alone,’ chided Vitellius, his usual acid tone absent. ‘It can’t be long until we set up camp.’

Metilius let out a
phhhh
of contempt. ‘Camp?’

‘You know what I mean,’ retorted Vitellius.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Piso, unsettled.

‘Nothing,’ replied Vitellius, although his voice suggested otherwise. ‘Lie back. Rest. We’ll explain later.’

I can’t fight, thought Piso, exhaustion and pain blurring his ability to think. I doubt I can even walk. Despite the bumpy, uncomfortable ride, it was easy to let himself sink into the blackness.

When Piso came to for the second time, it was dark. Raindrops continued to patter on his face. A blanket covered his body, but under it he was damp all over. He didn’t smell of urine, which meant that someone had changed his undergarment. To his surprise Piso wasn’t embarrassed. It was more of a concern that he was lying on the bare ground. Outside. He lifted his head. Vitellius, Metilius and the rest of his tent mates were a few paces away, crouched around a miserable fire. With an effort, Piso leaned up on his elbow. ‘Where’s our tent?’

Six faces turned to regard him. ‘He’s awake!’ said Vitellius, coming over.

‘There you are,’ said Metilius, grinning.

Piso gestured at their surroundings, confused. ‘We’re in the open.’

‘Look around,’ answered Vitellius.

Piso obeyed. Not a tent was to be seen. On both sides, and opposite, groups of legionaries were sitting around fires, or lying in the mud, as he was. ‘Where is the baggage train?’ he demanded.

‘It’s gone,’ grated Vitellius.

‘Gone,’ repeated Piso. ‘But that’s where Saxa is – with the rest of the injured.’

The gloom couldn’t hide the sudden change in his comrades’ expressions. Several turned back to the fire. Vitellius cursed. Metilius studied the bitten fingernails on one hand.

Piso’s spirits sank as he remembered when this had happened during Arminius’ ambush.

After a long moment, Vitellius spoke. ‘While we were saving Caecina, the Germans fell on the baggage train in great numbers. When the First Legion returned – that was after you’d been knocked out – the warriors fighting us fled that way too. Tullus led us back to see if we could do anything, but the wagons had already been overrun. Our cohort had withdrawn, suffering heavy losses.’

‘Saxa—’ Piso began.

‘I’m sure he died with a blade in his hand,’ said Vitellius with a sigh.

Piso pictured Saxa glugging down the wine he’d brought to him. Had it only been the night before? Angry, grieving, tears pricked his eyes, but he wiped them away. ‘Our tents. The artillery?’

‘Taken, or destroyed,’ Vitellius replied. ‘We’ve got whatever food we were carrying, and that’s it.’

‘My yoke must be wherever I left it,’ said Piso in a wistful voice. He was famished. ‘I’ve got nothing.’

‘We picked up our yokes – not yours, mind, but I salvaged your blanket and grain. It hasn’t all been eaten – yet.’ Metilius snickered.

‘You bastards!’ cried Piso.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Vitellius, winking. ‘We’re sharing the food. The fire’s not hot enough to bake bread of course – it’s too fucking wet – but there’s a pot of broth. Want some?’

‘Aye.’ Piso was about to curse Metilius for teasing him, but he couldn’t. ‘What you did, ’Tellius, Metilius – I mean, making the stretcher, dragging me however many miles—’

‘Five at least,’ interrupted Metilius. ‘But it felt like ten.’

‘I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’ Piso’s gaze moved from one to the other and back again. ‘Gratitude.’

‘It wasn’t just us,’ said Vitellius. ‘The others had to carry our yokes so we could pull your lard arse.’

‘I’m grateful,’ said Piso, his voice husky.

Vitellius gave him a nod; both of them knew its meaning. Piso had saved Vitellius in the forest six years before. Today, he had been repaying the debt.

‘You’d do the same for us,’ said Metilius.

‘Everyone but you, you fat bastard.’ Piso grinned as a barrage of insults rained down on Metilius, who liked to moan about his tendency to a paunch.

‘Screw you too,’ said Metilius, the firelight illuminating his smiling face. ‘I was going to carry this over, but you seem to have made a full recovery.’ He held up a steaming bowl. ‘If you want it, up off your backside!’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ grumbled Piso, easing up into a sitting position. His head swam, and the pain behind his eyes worsened. He took a deep breath.

‘Stay where you are.’ Vitellius’ gentle hand was on his chest.

‘I’m fine,’ lied Piso. He set his jaw, willed the pain and dizziness away. After a few deep breaths, he pushed himself first to his knees and then to his feet. Aided by Vitellius, he made his way to the fire with careful steps. His comrades shifted over to give him room. Piso’s head spun again as he sat, and he was grateful for the support of Metilius’ upraised arm. Everyone was watching him, he realised. Six filthy, blood-spattered faces. Gods, but he loved them, gaunt with exhaustion or no. They were his comrades. His brothers. His family. They meant more to him than anyone in the world, bar Tullus and Fenestela. And they were still here, alive.

‘Here.’ Aromatic odours rose from the bowl in Metilius’ grasp. The handle of a spoon protruded from the depths. ‘That’s mine, so don’t fucking lose it.’

Soup made from half-ground grain, or flour, had never been a favourite of Piso’s. It was only eaten in the direst of circumstances, when bread couldn’t be baked, and it tasted worse than the poorest of oat porridges. Someone had put garlic in this concoction, though. There was even a hint of oregano.

Piso was reaching for the bowl when a wave of nausea hit him. ‘I can’t. I’ll vomit. One of you others have it.’

‘These greedy whoresons would have wolfed it already if I hadn’t prevented them,’ said Metilius. ‘I’ll keep it for you. They can pretend they’ve got some cheese.’

Chuckles rose from around the fire.

‘And some olives,’ said Vitellius. ‘
And
wine.’

Piso thought of Saxa again, and his mood soured. ‘Where are we?’

‘Still on the Long Bridges road,’ replied Metilius.

‘And the Germans?’

‘Most of them stayed at the baggage train, like vultures on carrion. Some of the more disciplined ones tracked us – so the rest could follow on after, no doubt.’ Vitellius glanced at Piso. ‘The good news is that the fools in the rest of our legion saw sense and rejoined the column. So did the Twenty-First. They’re scared, and jumping at every sound, but they’re here – in camp.’

‘Camp?’ Metilius echoed his comment from earlier. ‘What a fucking joke. I remember—’

‘Don’t,’ warned Piso, dark memories filling his mind. ‘We all remember
that
.’

AFTER DRIVING OFF
the Germans, the legions had travelled perhaps ten miles that day before Caecina ordered the construction of a camp. The distance covered was half that of a normal day’s march, but in Tullus’ mind, that was satisfactory. The army had not been annihilated and, baggage train aside, their losses had been light. It worried him that the ramparts were less high than they should have been, and that the ditch beyond was only calf-deep, but there was nothing to be done about it, because too many tools had been lost with the wagons. At least the entrances were traps in themselves, he told himself. The walls on each side overran one another, forming a narrow corridor through which one had to pass, and they had been blocked with cut branches. As long as the sentries remained alert, the night should pass without incident.

Tullus was tired. Bone-weary, in fact. Tramping, running and fighting through bogland sapped a man’s strength much faster than it did in easier terrain. He had managed because he had
had
to. His soldiers depended on him, and Caecina might have died if they hadn’t intervened. Gods, thought Tullus, but he was paying for it now. Every part of him ached, stung or throbbed. He reeked of his own sweat, and others’ blood.

The only time he could remember being more exhausted was during the terrible fight to survive Arminius’ ambush, and the flight to Aliso fort afterwards. Tullus blinked those memories away – dwelling on that nightmare would get him nowhere. Nor would brooding about his legion’s eagle, still held somewhere in this godsforsaken land. Better to deal with the tasks at hand, which were to ensure that the injured among his men had been treated, that the rest were in the best possible spirits, and that every soldier had had some food at least.

Tullus had already checked up on half the cohort, and had halted only because his body would have betrayed him otherwise. A short rest would do him no harm, he had decided. So here he was, sitting on a folded blanket, gazing into a hissing fire. Despite the damp, his grumbling belly and the watery, scant heat from his little blaze, he did feel better. Whether he’d be able to get up was another matter. With a heave, he managed it, grimacing as the movement triggered a surge of stabbing pains from new parts of his body.

He rolled his hips one way and then the opposite, trying to loosen them before they locked. His tactic worked in part, but the joints weren’t as mobile as they had been even a year before. Not for the first time, Tullus wished that he’d valued his youth more. Physical fitness then had been a given, not a blessing. Recovery from injury just happened – it didn’t have to be worked on. At least I have more sense now, he decided. Back then I had none. If that’s true, what in Hades are you doing here? his younger self seemed to ask.

Tullus had no answer.

He tried not to be despondent. Casualties that day had been heavy, but not overwhelming. Arminius wasn’t dead, but he’d been thwarted in his attempt to kill Caecina. The baggage train had been lost, yet the rest of the army – including the rebellious soldiers – had made it here. Morale throughout the legions was poor, but not at its nadir. Despite his effort to be optimistic, Tullus knew that another day of heavy assaults could break the legionaries.

‘Eaten anything yet?’ Fenestela followed his voice out of the darkness.

‘My food was in the baggage train. Along with old Ambiorix,’ said Tullus, hoping that the Gaul had died fast. His nose twitched. ‘What are you hiding?’

From behind his back Fenestela produced a chunk of sweaty-looking ham. ‘This.’

Saliva filled Tullus’ mouth. ‘Where’d you find that, you dog?’

‘I have my sources.’ It was a typical Fenestela remark. He got to work with his dagger, hacking off a slice. ‘Here.’

‘Jupiter’s arse crack, but that’s good,’ said Tullus, chewing.

‘A hungry man isn’t the best critic,’ replied Fenestela with a chuckle. ‘It’s seen better days, this meat, but I’d rather have it than nothing.’

They didn’t talk further until every scrap was gone.

‘How are the men?’ asked Tullus. The legionaries of the entire cohort were his responsibility, but between him and Fenestela, the ‘men’ would always be those in his century.

‘Cold, wet and hungry. Apart from that, they’re not too bad.’ Fenestela’s expression grew serious. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll follow you, and they will fight. They’d appreciate seeing your face, though.’