Hunting the Eagles (45 page)

Tullus let out a pleased grunt. ‘I’ll get to them soon.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘No. Sit by the fire. Get some rest.’ Fenestela began to protest, and Tullus growled, ‘You’re as tired as I am, if not more so. Thieving supplies is tiring work, or so I’m told.’

‘Ha! Those are fighting words.’

‘We’re both too old for that,’ said Tullus, pushing Fenestela towards his blanket. ‘Sit. Stay. That’s an order.’

‘Yes,
sir
.’ Fenestela’s tone was mocking, but the look he gave Tullus was full of feeling. ‘I’ll save this until you get back.’ Out of nowhere, it seemed, he had a small leather bag in one hand. It made a welcome, slopping sound. ‘Tastes like vinegar, this stuff, but it leaves a warm glow inside.’

‘I knew there was a reason I promoted you to optio,’ said Tullus, grinning.

Perhaps he would get some sleep after all.

Leaving Fenestela by his fire, Tullus wandered the muddy avenues, using the light cast by the soldiers’ fires to find his way. As before, he held brief conversations with the centurions of each century. He also kept talking to the men, making sure that their morale remained as high as possible. Whether the officers in the other cohorts were doing the same, he had no way of knowing, but Tullus hoped so. Chance alone, or perhaps Fortuna’s goodwill, had been all that had prevented the earlier foolishness of the Twenty-First and Fifth resulting in complete catastrophe.

Having spent time with all but one of the remaining centuries, and conferred with their centurions, he at last approached the lines where his own unit was camping out. His bone-shattering weariness eased by the warmth of his reception, Tullus moved between the contubernia, sharing a joke here, praising soldiers whose actions had stood out there. It touched him how many men offered him food and drink, although they themselves had so little. ‘I’ve sunk low before, but stealing from the mouths of you scoundrels would be a step too far,’ he demurred as they chuckled.

‘Today was hard, brothers, but tomorrow will be worse. Our losses will have given the savages a real appetite,’ Tullus told each group. ‘More of us will get hurt. Some will join our comrades in the underworld. Stick together, though, and we
will
get out of this fucking bog. I’ll be with you, every cursed, muddy step of the way, worse luck. My vitis will be with me too, so best watch out!’

It was usual for soldiers to wince, scowl or even look away when Tullus mentioned his vine stick, but tonight they let out full-throated roars of approval. Satisfied, he worked his way down the century, coming last to the contubernium in which Piso and Vitellius served. Before he approached, Tullus hung back in the darkness, watching the seven men as they sat talking by their fire.

Tullus would never admit to having favourites among his soldiers, but those who’d been with him in the Eighteenth did hold a special place in his heart. The still-gangling Piso and his acerbic comrade Vitellius ranked highest in his opinion – Piso’s actions earlier that day had cemented this feeling. Since they had helped to rescue Degmar’s family, Tullus also held Saxa and Metilius in particular regard.

Poor Saxa, thought Tullus. Like Ambiorix and White Hair the wagon driver, he was dead. Everyone unfortunate enough to have been with the baggage train would have met the same grisly fate. If Saxa and Ambiorix weren’t worm food, they were being tortured this very moment by German warriors. Tullus hoped it was the former.

‘Greetings, brothers,’ he said, stepping into the light. They made to jump up, but he waved a hand. ‘Rest easy.’

They grinned at him, eager as puppies, and Tullus’ heart warmed. ‘How are things?’ he asked, moving to stand near the crackling blaze.

‘All right, sir.’ ‘Not too bad, sir.’ ‘Things have been worse, sir.’

Tullus glanced at Vitellius, who hadn’t yet spoken. ‘And you?’

‘I’m wet through, sir. Half-starved too. My nose hurts like a bastard,’ replied Vitellius, giving him a sour look. ‘The front of me is toasty, thanks to the fire, but my back is fucking freezing. Oh yes – Saxa’s dead. Apart from that, I’m fine, sir. Thanks for asking.’

Surprised, Tullus roared with laughter. ‘Honest as always, Vitellius. I can’t offer you much succour.’

‘Didn’t think you could, sir.’ Vitellius’ shrug was resigned.

‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ asked Tullus.

‘I’ll be there, sir, you know that.’

Tullus threw him a pleased look and turned to Piso. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Sore, sir.’ Piso’s smile was lopsided.

‘You able to march?’

‘Aye, sir, and to fight.’

‘You’re a good man. If it wasn’t for you, well …’ Tullus found himself at an unusual loss for words. ‘… I wouldn’t be here. Thank you.’

‘Any one of us would have done the same, sir,’ protested Piso.

‘Maybe so, but it was you who did it today. You who saved my life.’ Tullus held Piso’s gaze for a moment. ‘I won’t forget that.’

Piso gave him a solemn nod. ‘Sir.’

‘I’ll leave you lot to it,’ said Tullus. ‘Get some rest – tomorrow will be no joke. Sleep in your armour, just in case. Arminius is craftier than a fox.’

Thoughts of the Cherusci leader filled Tullus’ mind as he paced back to Fenestela. After so long, it had been startling to see Arminius again – and galling beyond belief to have crossed blades with him, lost men to him, but not to have slain the whoreson. The Fates must be sitting up there, watching me and still cackling, thought Tullus with a dour glance at the sky. Miserable Greek bitches. You separate our threads for six years, then bring them close enough to touch, but whip them away again before I had a decent chance to put the treacherous rat in the mud.

Give me another opportunity, he swore now, and I won’t waste it.

Tullus was deep in a most pleasant dream involving Sirona – he had managed to persuade her to lie with him at last – when a loud cry interrupted it. In the dream, it sounded as if someone was shouting outside Sirona’s room, or downstairs in the inn. Tullus did his best to ignore it, and kissed Sirona again. ‘Gods, but I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he murmured.

She smiled. ‘So have I.’

A hand shook Tullus’ shoulder, hard. ‘Wake up!’ demanded a voice.

Sirona vanished. Instead of her warm bed, Tullus found himself lying face down in the muck under a damp blanket. He was in his armour, cold and uncomfortable, and whoever was responsible for his rude awakening had not given up. ‘Curse it all, wake up!’ said the voice.

Still exhausted, Tullus realised that the culprit responsible for the rude ending to his dream was Fenestela. Opening his eyes, he found his optio kneeling alongside. ‘What is it?’ His breath clouded in the chilly air.

‘I’m not sure.’

Tullus bit back an acid response. It was pitch black – the middle of the night – but Fenestela wouldn’t rouse him for no reason. He sat up, wincing as his back protested. ‘Tell me.’

‘Listen.’

Tullus obeyed. At this godsforsaken hour, he’d have expected to hear little. The occasional call of an owl. Perhaps a sound or two from the cavalry lines, or the mule pens. Maybe the tramp of a sentry along the nearest walkway, but nothing else. A whinnying horse and the sound of galloping hooves, therefore, was of note. So too were the dim cries of alarm. The last tendrils of fog vanished from Tullus’ mind, and he was on his feet. ‘Where’s it coming from?’

Fenestela gestured towards the area occupied by the cavalry, off to their right.

‘Have you taken a look?’

‘I came to find you first.’

It was usual to wait for orders, to wait for the trumpets’ call. Acting on initiative was not the army’s way. This was different, Tullus decided. The man who hesitated around an enemy like Arminius wound up dead. ‘I’ll get the men up. You wake every centurion in the cohort. Tell them to ready their legionaries for battle, and to wait for my summons – the advance, sounded twice, a delay, and once more. If they don’t hear it, they’re to stay put until further orders come in.’

‘And the other cohorts?’

Alerting the rest of the legion would waste time, thought Tullus. A rapid response would have the best chance of containing an attack. ‘Don’t worry about them yet. Go.’

Fenestela vanished into the gloom. Tullus adjusted his mail, pulling it down where it had rucked up above his belt. He straightened his scabbard, which tended to move a little too far towards his back. A scrabble around where he’d been lying produced his arming cap and helmet. These donned, and a battered shield in his fist, he was ready. Tullus stalked to the first contubernium, a mass of sprawled shapes lying close to each other. He poked the nearest one with the toe of his boot. ‘Up, you maggot!’

His first demand was met by a groan. Tullus drew back and kicked the man. Leaning over, he stamped on his closest companion. They both woke up, cursing. ‘UP!’ roared Tullus. ‘NOW!’

Apologies and yes sirs filled the air. Tullus watched the soldiers until he was sure they were all stirring, and then he moved on to the next contubernium. The men there had been woken by the noise and were getting up. By the time he’d reached the last few tent groups, the soldiers were waiting for him in combat order. Tullus gave them a nod of approval, and ordered the century to form a column. Fenestela returned, his task completed, and took his position at the back.

Tullus addressed his men. ‘It’s not clear what’s going on, but you can hear the racket.’ He waited, letting the cries of alarm speak for themselves. ‘That’s where we’re heading – to see if the cursed Germans are within the camp.’

His soldiers stamped from foot to foot. Some looked scared. Most seemed nervous, which Tullus also expected. Yet they were resolute enough, in particular Vitellius and Metilius. Even Piso, still glaze-eyed, stood ready. Tullus felt a stirring pride.

As they tramped after him into the blackness, the clamour from the cavalry lines intensified. It also seemed to be spreading. Fresh sweat beaded on Tullus’ brow.

What devilry was Arminius up to?

‘
THE SAVAGES HAVE
attacked!’ ‘Arminius is here!’ ‘Run!’

The cold night air rang with shouts and cries. Legionaries milled about, weapons at the ready, and demanding of their comrades in nearby units if
they
knew what was going on. Some men slumbered on regardless, either from exhaustion, quantities of wine consumed, or both. Centurions and junior officers paced up and down, telling everyone to stay calm, and to prepare themselves for battle.

As far as Tullus could see, marching past with his century, few of the troops were paying heed to their superiors’ commands. Panicked wasn’t the word he’d use to describe the mood, but it wasn’t far off. Frustration gnawed at him, yet he didn’t pause. Any intervention to calm things down would take time – and mightn’t succeed. The Fifth’s soldiers had shown how yellow-livered they were only hours before. Snuffing out the attack early on seemed a better gamble than trying to restore order, but if the situation deteriorated even a little further …

Stop it, Tullus told himself. Focus. Find out what’s going on. If the enemy
were
in the camp, he would summon the rest of his cohort and then contain the bastards until Caecina could respond. They had cleared the Fifth’s lines now, and were pushing through a mob of fearful Gaulish auxiliaries. Few seemed ready to fight, and scores were streaming towards the camp’s furthest entrances. Angered by their cowardice, Tullus ordered the formation of a wedge. No one liked a clatter from a shield boss, still less a whack with the flat of a sword blade.

The section occupied by the cavalry – also auxiliaries – came next. Beyond it lay the camp’s side wall. On edge now, Tullus slowed his pace to a walk. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, yet it was difficult to see more than the shape of the poor earthen rampart that had been dug out the previous evening. This weakness would have been noticed by the keen-eyed German scouts, Tullus suspected, and might have been why Arminius had ordered an assault. Try as he might, however, he could not see hordes of warriors climbing over the wall, nor groups of them charging across the intervallum.

The cavalrymen in sight seemed calm enough, which was also odd. Tullus approached the nearest figures, a group of five men settling their horses. One look at his crested helmet had them saluting and straightening their backs. ‘Any sign of the enemy?’ demanded Tullus. The cavalrymen exchanged baffled looks and, frustrated, he added, ‘Within the camp?’

‘Not as far as I know, sir,’ said one.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ demanded Tullus. ‘My optio and I were woken by the din over here. Horses were making noise. Men were shouting. It sounded like an attack.’ The cavalrymen’s expressions turned sheepish, and Tullus roared, ‘Tell me, before I ram this vitis somewhere the sun doesn’t shine!’

‘One of the lads in another turma has a nervous horse, sir,’ said the cavalryman who’d first spoken. ‘It was frightened by the thunder, or so we’ve heard. He was trying to calm it, but the stupid creature snapped its lead rope and took off down the avenue, towards the centre of the camp.’ He pointed in the direction that Tullus had come.

The explanation was so obvious that Tullus’ instinct told him that this
was
what had happened: that there were no warriors inside the walls, and the whole sorry affair had been started by a jittery horse. But for the gravity of the situation – gods only knew how the panic was spreading – he would have laughed. Warning the cavalrymen that if they valued their hides, they and their fellows were to keep their mounts under control, Tullus led his century towards the ramparts. There the sentries for two hundred paces in each direction, all present and correct, reported no sign of the enemy.