by Ben Kane
Fenestela hadn’t queried their orders before Tubero or the men, but he’d served with Tullus long enough to do so in private. In low tones, Tullus explained what had happened. ‘I was trying to stop lives being thrown away without need. The prick wouldn’t listen. No doubt his head’s full of the glory that this “stunning” victory will earn him. The quicker it’s done, the better it will sound in his report to Varus.’ He sighed. ‘I lost it for a moment, Fenestela. I made it clear that it wasn’t he who was in charge, but I. That’s why we’re on this fucking suicide mission.’
‘I would have done the same, sir,’ said Fenestela, spitting. ‘He’s a cunning bastard. Even if we fail, those tribesmen won’t be able to hold out for long, so whatever happens, Tubero comes out smelling of roses. We’ll just have to do the job without getting killed, eh? That’s the best way of pissing him off.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Fenestela,’ said Tullus, taking heart.
‘I’ve no idea what that means, sir, but I’ll take it as a compliment.’
Tullus laughed. ‘It means, Fenestela, that there’s no one else I’d rather have with me.’
Fenestela’s grin made him uglier than ever. ‘Likewise, sir.’
Tullus was pleased to find a small copse of beech and hornbeam northwest of the settlement. Whether it held a sacred purpose, he wasn’t sure, but it ran quite close to part of the palisaded compound. He couldn’t have asked for a better way to conceal his men. Leaving them in the depths of the trees, he and Fenestela crept to the copse’s edge, where they took refuge behind a towering beech. They waited in silence, scanning the top of the palisade. There was still a considerable clamour going on, but it appeared to be coming from over by the gate.
‘If there are any sentries, they’re not doing a good job,’ Tullus said after a time.
‘Why don’t I have a look, sir?’ Fenestela indicated the branches above. ‘I was a dab hand at climbing trees when I was a lad.’
‘That was neither today nor yesterday,’ said Tullus, watching with some amusement as Fenestela shed his belts and shucked off his mail shirt and the padded subarmalis below.
‘Gods, but that feels good,’ said Fenestela, raising and lowering his arms to let air waft under his sweat-sodden wool tunic.
‘Get up there,’ growled Tullus, linking his two hands.
Boosted to the first branch, Fenestela had soon scrambled above that to the second and then the third. Tullus’ nerves jangled as he watched. If any of the Usipetes spied Fenestela, any chance of a surprise attack would vanish. To his relief, no shouts rose from within – close by at least – but he didn’t relax until Fenestela leaped down to rejoin him. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘There are a couple of warriors patrolling the walkway. They’ll pass by soon.’
‘We wait, then, until after they’ve gone.’ Tullus clapped Fenestela on the arm. ‘Keep an eye out as you get your kit on. I’ll fetch the men.’
When Tullus returned, Fenestela reported that the sentries had gone by, oblivious to his presence. ‘Fifty heartbeats ago, sir.’
‘We move now.’ Tullus didn’t waste any time encouraging his soldiers. They knew what needed to be done – he’d already made that clear. Urging the men with the ladders out of the trees first, Tullus felt his pulse racing as if he were facing an enemy charge. Fortuna, give me two sixes now, he prayed.
They tramped through the greenery to the base of the palisade, which was about one and a half times a man’s height. Muttered curses rose from the soldiers in the lead as brambles tore at their hands. Tullus glanced to the left and right, along the top of the palisade, but could see nothing. ‘Up, up as fast as you can,’ he said to the assembled legionaries. ‘We’ll regroup on the other side, and then head for the gate as if Cerberus was about to tear chunks out of our arses. Clear?’
‘Aye, sir.’ It was pleasing that, despite the danger, most of his men grinned.
Four ladders. Four men to lead the way. Four men to risk their lives first. Tullus was one, Fenestela another. The two others were legionaries who’d volunteered before Tullus had asked. The rest took their places behind the climbers, in little lines. Tullus’ guts churned. They were few, so few. Fucking Tubero, he thought, you’d better order the attack when the fighting starts. He began to ascend. Beside him, the others did the same. One rung. Two. Three, and Tullus’ head was almost over the spiked edge of the wooden rampart. It was then he realised that the red horsehair crest of his helmet would already be visible. Other than shouting, there was no better way to advertise his presence. Heart pounding like a smith’s hammer on a white-hot blade, he placed his feet on the last rung, gripped the timbers with both hands and threw himself over the top of the palisade without checking if there were any warriors close by.
The air drove from his lungs as he landed on a narrow walkway; his nostrils filled with the tang of untreated timber. Tullus’ flesh crawled; he was as helpless as a newborn that had fallen from the cot. He struggled to his knees and stood, finding to his relief that he could see no tribesmen, nearby at least. The compound was dominated by a large, grassy mound. Past it, he made out the gate and, around it, scores of warriors. They were too far away – three hundred paces or more – for him to estimate their exact number, but they outnumbered his force several times over. Loud thuds announced the arrival of Fenestela and the two legionaries. Tullus leaned out over the edge and beckoned at the rest. ‘Move it! Move!’
By the time that the last of his men were atop the palisade, Tullus, Fenestela and the others had clambered down to the inside of the compound.Crazy though it was, they had still not been seen. Unslinging their shields, they waited for the final soldiers to join them. To calm his jangling nerves, Tullus studied the large space. It was typical of local villages, a gathering point for the entire community, where religious ceremonies, weddings and festivals could be held. The only structure was a large stone altar that stood in front of the earth mound. Tullus’ jaw clenched. They would have no shelter as they made for the gate.
‘Gather round,’ he ordered. ‘Our task is simple. We sprint to the gate like runners at an Olympic games. They’ll notice us long before we get there, but we keep moving at all costs. Once we reach the gate, we open the bastard and let our brothers in.’ They wouldn’t get that far of course, but sounding confident was vital.
‘Will our boys attack when they hear the fighting, sir?’ asked a soldier.
‘They will,’ replied Tullus, thinking: I wouldn’t trust Tubero as far as I could throw him, the miserable whoreson. ‘But we don’t need any help, do we?’
‘No, sir!’ said Fenestela. ‘We’ll shit on those Usipetes bastards from a height!’
Not every soldier’s face registered the same certainty as Fenestela’s. Some looked plain scared, but Tullus had no time to indulge them. ‘Form up. Five wide, four deep. I’ll take my usual place. Optio, stand in the rear rank, on the left.’ The unspoken part of Fenestela’s job would be to ensure that no one tried to retreat. Cynicism filled Tullus. Not that there was any point, here. ‘Draw swords. Follow!’
He broke into a run, and twenty-one soldiers chased after. Tullus counted his steps, as he had since his first battle. It made the stomach-churning job of charging towards men who would kill him if they could a little easier.
A little.
Ten paces. Twenty. Thirty, forty, fifty. There had been no cries of alarm yet, no shouts from the Usipetes by the gate, or from the sentries on the walkway. Where in Hades were they anyway? Tullus didn’t look, didn’t move his eyes even a fraction from the main body of warriors. His mouth was dry, but sweat was running from under his felt arming cap. He swept it away with his right arm. Sixty paces. Seventy. Gods, are they blind and deaf? he wondered. Despite himself, he began to hope. Maybe the racket from without the palisade was concealing the noise of their approach?
At ninety-one paces, Tullus heard a cracked shout, then another. They’d been seen. He risked a look to the left, and to the right. One of the sent
ries was dancing up and down like a cat thrown on to still-hot embers, and yelling at the top of his voice. Tullus’ eyes slid back to the gate, and the men defending it. Heads were turning, incredulity was registering, but no one had moved yet.
‘DO NOT SLOW DOWN!’ he ordered.
Content that a good number of the Usipetes were holed up in the palisade, Arminius had taken Maelo and a dozen of his best warriors to ride through the settlement and see how the rest of the raiders were faring. The one-sided nature of most of the fighting was most gratifying. So too was the lack of prisoners. The red mist of combat was affecting the legionaries as well as his own men, thought Arminius with satisfaction, which was just what he’d hoped for. Apart from at the palisade, it wouldn’t be long before the battle ended. With luck, there would be almost no captives. It was time to seek out Tubero once more, to see that the same happened there.
Bolanus saw him approaching, and gave him a friendly look, but when Tubero noticed, he got only a haughty nod. What a prick, thought Arminius. But a useful one, potentially.
‘Arminius,’ said Bolanus. ‘Is all well?’
‘It is. Any remaining resistance will soon be crushed.’
Tubero glanced at the warriors atop the palisade. ‘These ones won’t hold out for long either.’
Arminius noted legionaries’ bodies before the entrance that had not been there when he’d left. It seemed the boy still wasn’t using his brain. ‘Have you sent for the bolt-throwers, tribune?’
‘For the love of Jupiter! You asked before. Tullus said the same thing,’ Tubero snapped. ‘No, I have not. I want to finish this before sundown. Tullus and twenty legionaries are going to scale the other side of the palisade and open the gate.’
‘That’s not very many men, tribune.’
‘It is if I order an attack the moment fighting begins within,’ retorted Tubero with a sniff.
Arminius set aside Tubero’s annoying self-importance and the fact that Tullus and his men stood a good chance of being killed. The palisade would be taken soon, one way or another. Hundreds of legionaries were on hand now, and he could do nothing about the prisoners who might be taken from this point on. What concerned him as much was the chance of raiders escaping over the palisade’s unguarded back wall. He had to intervene, because success was within his grasp. Arminius lowered his voice so that the others present couldn’t hear – the better to protect Tubero’s fragile ego. ‘It’s clear that the gate must be taken, tribune, but I wonder if a multi-pronged attack would work better.’
Tubero scowled, but he didn’t protest as Arminius explained how his men could split up and stand on their horses’ backs to climb the palisade – in different places. ‘The mission will be an unqualified success whatever happens, tribune, but fewer legionaries might die if you thought my advice worthwhile. The loss of a senior centurion would be a grievous loss. Varus—’
‘All right, I see what you’re driving at,’ Tubero admitted, his colour rising. ‘Order your men into position. They’re to attack when the trumpets sound.’
‘A fine plan, tribune.’ Arminius inclined his head, feigning respect. ‘You heard, Maelo. See that it’s done.’ Maelo muttered his agreement and Arminius added, in German, ‘I want none of the Usipetes to escape, d’you understand?’
‘Aye.’ Maelo dragged his horse’s head around and rode off.
‘What did you just say?’ demanded Tubero.
‘I told him that you were relying on our men, that they must not fail,’ he lied.
Even with an approving nod, Tubero could convey disdain.
Arminius didn’t care. It wouldn’t be long before almost every Usipetes warrior was dead. What few captives were taken could be dealt with back at Vetera. His secret would be safe. If Tubero’s arrogance was the price he had to suffer to achieve that end, so be it.
XI
A HUNDRED PACES, Tullus counted. A hundred and five. A hundred and ten, and the old injury in his left calf began to register its unhappiness. He ignored the darts of pain it sent up his leg, and the slight tightness in his chest. By the time he’d counted to a hundred and thirty, the warriors by the gate had begun to charge. They came in a great, disorganised mob, chanting and waving their spears. The distance between the two groups narrowed fast. Tullus kept up his fierce pace; so did his men.
At a hundred and sixty, however, he was forced to admit that the gate was too far away. He could not reach it before the warriors got to them. Shit, Tullus thought. Shit. The legionaries were keeping pace, and he knew in his gut that they, much younger than he, could maintain this speed right to the end. But he couldn’t. The pain from his left calf was agonising, and there was a burning sensation filling his lungs. He would have to live with the consequences of covering less ground. Or, more likely, die with them.
‘Slow down,’ Tullus croaked. He dragged in a breath, let it out, took another, spat a great string of phlegm on the ground. He had lost count, but it didn’t matter. The Usipetes were fifty paces away, and closing fast. They were spreading out as they came, in a widening circle that would soon envelop Tullus’ small band. The gate was at least eighty paces beyond them. It might as well have been in Judaea, he thought. If Tubero hadn’t been out for his blood, this was the moment to send his troops surging to the attack, but Tullus still couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the palisade. They were on their own.
‘HALT!’
Tullus took a look to his left. Four legionaries. Over his left shoulder, three ranks were resuming their shape. Between the helmets and red faces, he made out Fenestela, still in position. Gods, but he was proud of them. Many troops would have refused to charge towards certain death. His had done it, and in good order. ‘We can still make the damn gate,’ he cried. ‘Form square! Five men wide, four deep, two within. Fenestela, take the opposite corner to me.’ He let his men decide who would face the enemy first, and who would act as the reserve. Used to assuming this shape in training, they’d obeyed in a few heartbeats. ‘Forward. To the gate, at a walk,’ he shouted. ‘Now!’
Although his soldiers did not have javelins, Tullus saw that most of the warriors were in the same boat. The surprise attack had meant that most had grabbed only one spear when they woke, rather than the two or three per man that was normal. The missile storm that presaged face-to-face combat would be far lighter, and they would lose fewer shields to lodged spears. At thirty paces, perfect range, it came. ‘Shields up!’ he bellowed. ‘Walk!’
Thunk. Thunk. Tullus felt a surge of relief. His shield hadn’t been hit.
Thunk. A gurgling cry of pain from behind him, a dead weight hitting him in the back.
One down, thought Tullus. ‘Keep walking,’ he ordered.
Again his soldiers retained their discipline. They covered another ten paces, leaving behind the body of the legionary who’d been struck in the neck by a spear. Twenty-one of them, with twenty shields. A second volley from much closer saw those numbers reduced to twenty, and eighteen. They were surrounded now, yelling tribesmen edging towards them over the flat ground, spears ready to thrust. Tullus’ heart, which had slowed after their run, began hammering off the inside of his ribs again. ‘Halt! Close order!’
He shifted position, withdrawing a step and half turning to the right, so that the corner of the square became rounded, and gave his right side more protection than if he stayed facing forward. Feeling a spreading numbness in his sword hand, he relaxed his grip on the weapon’s hilt. Stay calm, he thought. Stay focused. ‘You know how to play this, brothers. Keep tight. Watch for their spears. Take ’em in the belly when you can.’
The nearest warriors were ten steps away. Three were bearing down on Tullus: a nervous-looking youth not old enough to shave; a thin, blackbearded man so similar in appearance to the boy that he had to be his father; and a shaggy-haired brute who looked to have the brains of a senile mongrel. Tullus could have taken the first two together, and the big one on his own, but all three was a different matter. Acid filled the back of his
throat.
Perhaps wanting to prove his courage, the youth attacked first, driving his spear overhand at Tullus’ face.
‘Spear!’ Tullus roared, ducking down to peer around the side of his shield, and praying that the soldier behind heard his warning. The weapon hissed overhead, the youth’s body following with the effort of his thrust. It was a simple matter for Tullus to stab him through the abdomen. Not too deep, just enough to slice his opponent’s guts to ribbons, and out again. Down went the youth, bleeding everywhere, bawling like a kicked child. His spear dropped from nerveless fingers, and Tullus eyed Blackbeard with contempt. ‘Your son’s going to die screaming at your feet! How do you like that?’ he cried in German.
Enraged, Blackbeard shoved forward, past the brute. He drove his hexagonal shield at Tullus’ scutum while trying to stab him with his spear. It was a crude move, one Tullus had seen before. He outweighed Blackbeard by some margin, so he bent his knees and braced himself behind his shield. The impact didn’t push him backward, but he hadn’t expected Blackbeard’s spear blade to snag in the mount for his horsehair crest. Tullus’ head was wrenched backwards. Waves of agony shot through his neck. His experience, and the bitter knowledge that he would die if he let go of his shield grip, kept his arm high.
Blackbeard cursed and tugged, tugged and cursed, pulling Tullus’ head to and fro and sending stabs of intense pain down into his chest. Without warning, the spear blade came free. Blackbeard cried out in triumph and drew back his arm to strike again. Sucking in a breath, Tullus somehow found the strength to slide his left foot forward a step and launch a counter-punch with his scutum. Blackbeard stumbled. With a quick lunge, Tullus stabbed him in the foot. He withdrew to the square, leaving his opponent to stagger away, bleeding and shouting.
