by Ben Kane
‘As you’re aware, sir, some of the non-combatants and wagons have been travelling together with the soldiers,’ said Vala. ‘Do you wish them separated as if we were on campaign?’
All eyes swivelled to Varus, who smiled in dismissal. ‘The Angrivarii are a small tribe, who live more than thirty miles away. I see no reason to travel as if we are afraid. Besides, there may be points at which soldiers are needed to help move wagons over streams and so on. Is there anything else? No? To your positions, then.’
By late morning, Varus’ good humour was again wearing thin. Not long after the army had left camp, the wind had picked up, bringing with it banks of dark clouds that had emptied themselves over the forest and the slow-moving column. Although there had been breaks in the downpour, they had been scant. The wind continued to gain in strength, delivering more clouds – and rain – from the north. While the trees to either side afforded more protection than if they had been on a plain, there was no escaping the sheets of precipitation which hammered down from above. All a man could do was to hunch his shoulders and ride – or walk – on.
Varus could have summoned a covered wagon – there was even an official litter somewhere in the baggage train – but he didn’t wish to be perceived as a ‘soft’ general, who could not endure what his soldiers had to. Leading by example was important. He wasn’t going to be above calling for a new, dry cloak when the time came, however. Wool that had been soaked in lanolin could keep out the rain for a decent period, yet it became waterlogged in the end. Varus pitied his legionaries, each of whom possessed but one cloak. By the day’s end, they would be like bedraggled rats. And the smell in their tents – Varus wrinkled his nose at the mere thought. The odour of men who’d marched twenty miles carrying heavy kit was ripe at the best of times, but the confines of a tent, and wet wool – which stank – increased it manyfold.
The constant downpour, and the passage of so many feet, both animals and men, had turned the forest track into a quagmire. Mud had splattered up to Varus’ horse’s fetlocks. The legionaries in his escort had dirty cloak hems, and brown legs from the knee down. The group of slaves following Varus and his staff officers, most of whom wore no protection against the rain, were muddy, and drenched to the skin. However bad it was here, near the vanguard, he brooded, things would be worse further along the column. Like as not, the wagons carrying the artillery were getting bogged down, even stuck.
Varus felt his temper – and frustration – rise, but there was nothing he could do other than to keep his forces moving forward. Dealing with the threat of the Angrivarii was a necessity, and there was no way of turning around. His army was like a large wagon which had gone down a narrow alleyway. How long the alley was, Varus had no idea. Arminius would know, but there was no sign of him. For the umpteenth time that morning, Varus wondered where he was, and what he was up to. Ordering a messenger to the vanguard, Varus commanded word be brought from his remaining cavalry, the Gauls, about the ground to the north. ‘I want to know when the damn forest ends,’ he called after the rider. ‘As soon as possible!’
He received the information he’d requested from an unexpected source soon after, not from the messenger, but a bedraggled-looking Tubero, who sought him out. ‘The Gauls have ridden five miles and more in front of the vanguard, sir,’ he reported. ‘There are clearings here and there, and a patch or two of bog, but the forest appears to continue for some distance.’
‘I see.’ Varus digested this, holding in his urge to rant and roar, to lambast Tubero for not reporting what he wanted to hear. Stay level-headed, he told himself. A day’s bad weather isn’t going to kill us. Nor is a forest. ‘Why were you with the vanguard?’
‘I wanted to see what was going on, sir.’
Varus smiled in approval. ‘A worthy attitude.’
‘It’s hard to remain patient when you’re stuck back down the line, sir – you know how it is.’
‘You’ve identified one of the most aggravating things about an army on the move. As a commander, you often don’t have an idea in Hades what’s going on. What did you discover?’
‘Not a great deal, sir. The engineers are working as hard as they can. Chopping down trees and widening the track is simple enough, but building bridges takes time. According to their senior centurion, they’ve constructed two already this morning. They’re working on a third as we speak.’
‘Are there more watercourses?’
‘Four or five, sir, according to the Gauls. All but one are fordable on foot, though. The wagons will get through if they have soldiers to help keep them moving.’
‘I suppose that’s something,’ said Varus. ‘But we’ll never make twenty miles today.’
‘No, sir.’ Tubero’s voice was emphatic.
‘Has anyone seen Arminius?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘If he’s run into some kind of problem, he should have sent word back,’ Varus grumbled. ‘Maybe he’s clashed with a party of Angrivarii.’
‘Do you think it possible that he has abandoned us, sir?’ ventured Tubero.
‘Arminius has been an ally of Rome for many years. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see,’ replied Varus in a bluff tone.
‘As you say, sir,’ said Tubero, looking awkward. ‘With your permission, then, I’ll be off.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Varus, remembering how he had dismissed Tubero’s vague querying of Arminius’ loyalty. Before you go, though …’
‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing with a cavalry helmet?’ asked Varus, gesturing.
‘This?’ Tubero tapped the ornate, silvered helm that was hanging by a loop from his belt. ‘It was a gift from my father, sir, before I left Rome. Most likely, I’ll never get to wear it in a charge, but I like to imagine that I might, one day.’
It was a little odd for a tribune to carry such a helmet, but it wasn’t against regulations, thought Varus. As he watched Tubero ride away, his mood threatened to sink a little further into the mud. His mind was taken from his worries soon after, however, when word came that the engineers had finished their bridge. The way forward was clear for another mile and a half, the messenger reported. Things were improving, thought Varus.
His feeling was buoyed up when the rain eased and stopped a short while later. The cloud broke up, allowing warm sunshine to bathe the forest, and the soaking, mud-covered Romans. Varus took the opportunity to change his cloak, and to eat a hunk of bread and cheese. Drier than he had been for hours, and with his rumbling belly silenced, he decided that he had been unfair to Arminius. The Cheruscan hadn’t made the route towards the Angrivarii difficult. He hadn’t brought down the rain either, or churned the ground into mud. Morale was still high, as evinced by the bawdy marching song that the nearest legionaries had begun to sing. The engineers would ensure that the army maintained some kind of momentum. The desired total of twenty miles might not be reached, and it might be late before the marching camp was built, thought Varus, but the day would end well.
Piso was a short distance off the track, widening the route of the approaching army along with his comrades and the soldiers of another century. Two of the other centuries under Tullus’ command were spread out around them in a loose formation among the trees, watching for signs of the Angrivarii. The rest of Tullus’ cohort was with the engineers, who were assessing the next stream, a quarter of a mile to their front. Despite his warnings to stay alert, few men were concerned about being ambushed. The Angrivarii lived many miles away, and the army was three legions strong. Only a fool or a madman would attack such a force. All the same, Piso laid down his equipment close to where he was working. Regulations stated that a man’s shield and javelin had to be within five to ten paces when he was working, and the unit’s officers enforced this with zeal.
Wet, stinking with sweat, but relieved to have set down his kit, he walked around the beech, deciding where to place his first axe blow. He was grateful that it was a young tree – some of those that lay only a few pa
ces deeper into the forest were as thick as his waist, or even larger. This one, Piso reckoned, was at least twenty years old. It stood the height of five men, and its trunk was about the size of his thigh.
‘I can see you, Piso!’ bellowed Tullus from the road.
Piso jumped. Where in damnation had he come from? he wondered. Tullus was supposed to be with the engineers, making their lives hell.
‘You’re not here to admire the bloody trees, just chop them down,’ shouted Tullus. ‘Start using that axe, or you’ll feel my vitis across your back.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Piso called out, trying to ignore Vitellius, who was snorting with laughter from his position by another beech. Afer, off to his right, was also chuckling.
‘Bastards,’ muttered Piso, hoping that Tullus would find fault with them too, so that he got a chance to mock. His luck wasn’t in this time. Tullus walked on, bawling encouragement and threats by turn at other soldiers. Piso focused on his beech. If he struck the bark just there, it wouldn’t land on anyone when it fell, he decided. He swung around at the hip and let fly. The axe head sank in with a satisfying thwack. Piso drew back his arms and hit it again. Thwack. This time, the blade landed several fingersbreadth from the spot where his first effort had struck. He cursed, aimed better and struck his first mark. Before long, he had removed a decent wedge, and could not miss. Switching sides when he’d hacked halfway through the trunk, Piso chopped until the muscles in his arms were burning. As the tree fell, he glanced around to see if his efforts had been enough for Tullus, but his centurion was gone.
‘It’s a trick he has,’ called Vitellius. ‘He stays long enough to make you think he’s still watching, and then he pisses off. Better not relax, though, because he’ll be back before you know it.’
Piso couldn’t see Tullus up or down the road. Resting the axe head on the ground, he wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘How many miles d’you reckon we’ll have to do this for?’
Vitellius swung his axe. Thunk. ‘How would I know? Never been in this godsforsaken spot in my life. We keep doing it as long as Tullus tells us to. It’s a break from marching, and that can’t be bad.’
‘True,’ admitted Piso grudgingly. He readied himself to split the trunk, and bring it as close to the ground as he could. That way, marching men could step over it with ease.
‘Alarm!’ roared a voice off to his left. ‘Raise the alarm!’
Piso froze; then he glanced at Vitellius, whose head had turned in the direction of the shout, and to Afer, who had already dropped his axe and grabbed his shield. Piso copied Afer. There was no time to remove the protective leather cover, heavy with absorbed rain. They drew their swords; Piso shuffled to Afer’s side, where they were soon joined by Vitellius and the rest of their contubernium. Other legionaries were also bunching together, but without an officer to direct them, no one tried to form a solid line. Piso did his best to stay calm, but there was already a vague sense of panic in the air – every legionary knew the dangers of fighting in open formation. If an enemy came at them fast, now, they would sweep into the gaps like a river through a half-built dam.
Through the trees to their left, it was possible to see the soldiers who’d been standing guard retreating in poor order. ‘Alarm!’ many of them were yelling. ‘Angrivarii!’
Piso felt sick. He glanced behind him, wondering where he’d run if he had to.
‘Steady,’ growled Afer.
Shamefaced, Piso fixed his gaze on the sentries. With a little luck, they’d be able to group together when they met, but that would depend somewhat on when the enemy hit them.
‘Close up! Close up! Form a line!’
Tullus’ arrival had a dramatic, calming effect. Men knew what to do; they steadied when a leader took charge. Piso and his comrades shuffled sideways until they met the legionaries of another contubernium. To either side, the rest of their comrades did the same. Tullus shoved himself in between Piso and Vitellius. ‘What can you see?’ he demanded.
Piso squinted. ‘Just our men, sir.’
‘I can’t make out a damn thing, apart from my soldiers,’ said Tullus. ‘Vitellius?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ Vitellius sounded a little embarrassed.
Tullus sounded his whistle to attract attention. ‘You there, with the rusty mail!’ he roared. ‘What’s going on? Where are the Angrivarii?’
There was a moment’s pause, and then the sentry he’d addressed replied, ‘There’s no sign of them, sir. It might have been a bear.’
Cries of disbelief – and relief, if Piso’s comrades felt anything like him – rose from the defensive line.
‘A bear? A FUCKING BEAR?’ cried Tullus, as general laughter broke out.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the sheepish reply. ‘I was sure it was a warrior – that’s why I raised the alarm – but when everyone started shouting, it thundered off through the undergrowth like a boulder down a hill. It couldn’t have been a man, sir.’
‘Damn fool,’ said Tullus, and more laughter erupted. ‘Remain in your positions,’ he ordered, and stamped forward to the soldier who’d spotted the bear. They conferred, and then Tullus advanced deeper into the trees, sword and shield at the ready. Despite the likelihood that the Angrivarii had not arrived, Piso didn’t relax until Tullus walked back and announced that ‘If a tribesman can leave a shit that big and smelly, my name’s Alexander of Macedon.’
Amused, relieved looks were exchanged all round.
‘The fun’s over, you maggots,’ warned Tullus. ‘Take a drink of water, and then back to work. The vanguard will catch up if you’re not careful, and I’m not having my arse roasted by a tribune because you’re too damn lazy to finish your task. I want every tree in the vicinity levelled by the time I come back! Those of you on guard, keep your eyes peeled. I want no more false alarms. D’you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the legionaries yelled.
‘Get to it, you dogs, because there are plenty more trees further along,’ announced Tullus, ignoring the chorus of groans that followed him down the track.
Piso reduced the trunk of his first tree to something less than ankle height before he paused for breath. That done, he cast around for Tullus, and saw his crested helmet disappearing to the north. An optio was approaching from the other direction, so there wasn’t much chance to talk. ‘Who was the fool who raised the alarm?’ he called out.
‘I think it was Julius Long Nose,’ answered Vitellius.
Piso chuckled, relieved yet again that his name was unusual. So many men went by the common first names – Julius, Marcus, Quintus and so on – that individuals had to be differentiated by their second or last names, or a nickname. ‘Long Nose,’ he yelled. ‘We’re not going to let you forget that bear!’
Long Nose’s sour response was drowned out by a chorus of laughter, whistles and cries of ‘Bear! Bear!’
‘Nice one, Piso,’ said Vitellius.
Piso grinned, relishing the comradeship he now felt. Even when the rain began to fall again later, his spirits didn’t falter. It was just water, and he could dry out by the fire in camp that evening. The trees in their path could be cut down, the streams crossed one way or another. In a day or two, they would sort out the Angrivarii and, that done, return to Vetera. Back in barracks, there would be time to have his name inscribed on the bronze fasteners he’d taken from Aius at dice. Between one thing and another, Piso had forgotten to have this done before leaving Porta Westfalica. Although it was unlikely that anyone would see Aius’ name etched on the back of the fasteners, and Tullus could vouch for him if needs be, Piso had felt uncomfortable about using them. As a result, they had been sitting in his purse since the night he had beaten Aius. In an odd way, the fasteners had begun to feel like a good-luck talisman, which was why Piso wanted to hold on to them.
He traced their irregular shape through the leather of his purse.
Fortuna, I am your faithful servant. Watch over me, as you always do, he prayed.
XXII
PISO WAS SICK of t
rees. Beech trees. Hornbeam trees. Oak trees. He’d seen enough of them to last him for the rest of his life. He had lost count of the number he had cut down, or helped to fell that day. His arms ached like they had during his training, and it was a struggle to swing the axe more than a few times before having to rest. And brambles – he was sick of them too. They grew everywhere, in great dense patches. Every exposed part of Piso’s skin bore red lines where he had been caught or scratched by their thorns.
Lucky for him, everyone was in the same state, which meant that Tullus recognised it as generalised exhaustion rather than individuals shirking their duty. During the midday meal break, he ordered that the legionaries who’d been on sentry duty would change places with those who had been widening the track for the army. Piso felt a warm rush of gratitude towards his centurion. Watching out for bears and Angrivarii warriors – who everyone said were unlikely to appear – would be easy in comparison to hacking down trees.
The short rest was more welcome than the idea of cold food. Men squatted down on their haunches, or sat on fallen trunks, uncaring of the damp that soaked through their cloaks and tunics. Some even lay down under the trees, where the ground was a little drier. Few talked, and when they did, it was to complain about Varus, who had commanded them to march into this living hell instead of back to Vetera, where they belonged.
‘What a man needs on a day like this is soup, or at the least, hot wine,’ complained Vitellius, ripping up a chunk of bread and shoving it into his mouth.
There was a loud chorus of agreement from the rest of the contubernium, gathered in a circle around a flattish stone that was serving as a table. Helmets and sodden felt liners, yokes, equipment, javelins and shields covered the ground at their feet.
‘That would require a fire,’ observed Piso, indicating the sodden earth and dripping trees. ‘Even Vulcan would struggle to light one in this shithole.’
