by Ben Kane
They came upon the camp of the Usipetes and Sugambri first, a sprawling affair of lean-tos made from branches and leaves, small tents and animal hides tacked up between close-growing trees. Judging by the whoops and cheers that met their arrival, things had gone well thus far.
‘Welcome, Arminius,’ cried a massive warrior, brandishing a cohort standard in the air. ‘Our spears are well blooded, but we left plenty of Romans for you and your men.’
‘My warriors will thank you for that,’ replied Arminius, noting the plentiful signs of a victorious clash with Varus’ soldiers. There were many men wearing Roman-issue helmets, and over there, he saw a pair play-threatening each other with gladii.
At that point, he was spied by Red Head, who was in the midst of a group of warriors standing around a makeshift firepit covered by an ox skin. He came striding over. ‘Well met, Arminius.’
Arminius dismounted, and embraced Red Head. ‘It went as we’d hoped, I take it?’ he asked.
Red Head threw back his head and laughed, uncaring of the rain that spattered his face. ‘It was as if the gods had come down to earth and fought with us! The filthy Romans had no idea that we were there until the first spears and stones landed among them. You should have heard their wails – they were like swine in a slaughterman’s pens. Their cries grew even more pathetic when they heard the barritus. They died in their hundreds, while not a single warrior fell. We withdrew and let them march on awhile before attacking them again, with almost the same results. Give them credit, the bastards kept moving forward, and at the hill where they chose to camp, they gave a good account of themselves. We lost more men than we should have there, because some of our warriors had grown cocky with the ambush’s success, and tried to take the enemy head-on.’
Angry at this departure from his plan, Arminius began to interrupt, but Red Head was having none of it. ‘I see you shaking your head,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘but remember how four hundred of our young men died not three months since.’ Arminius made an apologetic gesture, and Red Head’s frown eased. ‘It’s easy for you to remember how disciplined the Romans are. You’ve fought alongside them for many years. Our chieftains managed to regain control of the warriors soon enough when a couple of charges had come to naught. So did the Sugambri’s leaders. We left the Romans to lick their wounds and wonder what in the name of all the gods had happened to them.’
‘You did well,’ said Arminius in a hearty tone, aware that nothing held his alliance together other than a mutual hatred of the Romans. If he tried to exert more than a subtle authority over the other tribes, they would fade away like stars in a brightening sky. A few dozen dead warriors would make no difference to the size of his army. ‘How many men are watching their camp?’
‘Two score. They’re hidden close to every entrance. Not even a rat can leave the place without us knowing.’
‘Fine work,’ cried Arminius, throwing an arm over Red Head’s shoulders.
‘Many thousands of the Romans remain living,’ said Red Head. ‘Did the other tribes honour their pledge?’
‘I am also the bearer of good – nay – excellent tidings,’ replied Arminius, smiling. ‘Four thousand Cheruscan warriors marched here with me. The Marsi are nearby, with all of their strength. So too are the Angrivarii, Bructeri and some of the Chauci. The Chatti have also sworn to help, although they might not arrive before we have massacred every last Roman in Varus’ army. Without taking their strength into consideration, there are still more than eighteen thousand warriors within three miles of here.’
Red Head’s eyes were full of respect. ‘Never did I think to hear of so many tribes united with one purpose. Truly, the gods blessed you with a silver tongue, Arminius of the Cherusci. To think I came close to killing you.’
If you had even an inkling of my men’s role in the slaying of your young warriors, thought Arminius, you still would. ‘I thank Donar every day that you had the wisdom to let me speak. My success is in great part thanks to men like you – and so will the final result, when we annihilate Varus’ legions and drive Rome from our lands forever.’
If Red Head had had a tail, he would have wagged it then. ‘This calls for a drink! Come, there is beer by my fire. The other chieftains will want to hear your news, and to question you about tomorrow.’
Arminius allowed Red Head to lead him towards the group of warriors. His heart was singing. Donar had been patient with him for many years, but tomorrow he would fulfil his vow at last.
Tomorrow.
XXIV
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Tullus rose when it was still dark. Leaving his tent, he found the world cloaked in a damp, cold mist. He ordered the unit’s dead fires to be rekindled at once. Some of the oil that had to be destroyed was at hand, making it easy to ignite the damp wood. By the time the trumpets sounded, a reasonable amount of mule flesh had been cooked for his men.
Soldiers with full bellies marched better than hungry ones, he thought with satisfaction as he patrolled the lines, noting the pleasure with which the meat was being consumed. Exhorting each man to do his best that day, he ordered every third legionary to retain his trenching tool. This was against Varus’ command, which was to leave behind everything that wasn’t a weapon, but Tullus didn’t care. It was one thing to discard their heavy leather tents and excess equipment, but it was foolish to divest themselves of all of the tools with which to dig defences.
Following Varus’ orders, the Seventeenth was in the vanguard. It was standard procedure for the first legion to change, but Tullus was most unhappy. Stuck in the middle of the miles-long column, surrounded on both sides by interminable trees or marshy fenland, he and his soldiers had not the slightest clue what was happening. Worse, they were helpless to do anything but follow in the quagmire left by those who had gone before. In the depths of Tullus’ mind, barely admitted, there was also the niggling concern that if things went really wrong, he and his men would be trapped. He buried the worry as best he could: resignation would get him nowhere. Today was about marching. Surviving. Protecting his troops.
Despite his unease, things went well at first. Everyone was keen to vacate the temporary camp, and the legions got moving with a minimum of delay. The soldiers with common-law wives and families grumbled and bitched, yet they had to follow their orders, like everyone else. Leaving those who could not travel fast – even their injured comrades in the few wagons that had been retained – was easy for the rest. Nevertheless, Tullus was glad when he could no longer hear the wails of distressed babies, the laments of their overburdened mothers and the moans of men who knew that they were, to all intents and purposes, being abandoned. As the legions left the hill, palls of smoke from the burning wagons streaked the sky, and the air was rich with the smell of the olive oil used to set them alight.
There was universal relief when the tribesmen who had plagued them the previous day did not appear. Spirits rose further as the trees were replaced by an area of scrubby grass, not unlike the lands around Porta Westfalica. The open ground meant that the marching pace could pick up, and soon the speed was approaching half of what could be made on a decent Roman road. This was a vast improvement compared to their pitiful progress the day before, and men began to sing. By the time they had bawled their way through three old favourites, Tullus was starting to enjoy himself. He’d heard each of the chants a thousand times before, but when sung loud enough, they still had the power to bring him back to his youth, and the campaigns he had made as a wide-eyed low-ranker.
It was then that the army ground to a halt.
Tullus’ soldiers continued to sing, but he waved them into silence. There was no apparent cause for the stop, no sounds of combat, no officers shouting orders. No tribesmen were visible on either side of the cohort’s position. It could have been a river or stream that had blocked their passage, but Tullus had a nasty feeling that somewhere up ahead, another ambush had been sprung.
He had his soldiers stand to arms. A sombre air fell as they waited, shields up,
javelins at the ready. Nothing happened for a hundred heartbeats. Two hundred. Tullus roared out a question to the legionaries in front, the First Cohort. Beyond them were the legates and tribunes, who were the most likely to know what was going on. After a short delay, he was told that ‘You have as much idea as we do’, which did nothing for his darkening mood.
The enemy did not appear. Time ground by in a succession of gusty squalls and heavy showers, and an occasional view from behind the ever-present clouds of a beleaguered, pale yellow sun. At length, Tullus ordered his men to ground their shields. They seemed if not happy, then satisfied, drinking from their water bags and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Scanning the landscape, Tullus could see no cause for alarm. That didn’t stop his gut from knotting as if he had a bad case of the shits. He’d have liked to confer with Degmar, but there had been no sign of him since the previous day, when he had gone off scouting. Tullus hoped he was still alive.
Fenestela came to find him, his face sour with suspicion. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think the savages have fucking well sprung another ambush up ahead. All we can do is wait until the vanguard fights its way through.’
Fenestela spat by way of agreement. ‘Filthy animal-humping savages.’
Tullus came to an abrupt decision. ‘Might as well keep busy. It will stop the men worrying. Have an inventory made of the javelins that are left. The men are to check their equipment.’ Tullus began to say more, but chuckled instead at Fenestela’s know-it-all expression. ‘You’re aware of the drill.’
‘Aye,’ replied Fenestela, smirking. ‘You could say that.’
‘Go on, piss off. Report to me when you’re done,’ Tullus ordered with a smile, and thinking that whatever happened, Fenestela had to be among those who survived.
Some time passed – without a visible sun, it was impossible to say how long, but Tullus judged it less than an hour – before a messenger appeared. Tullus, who was talking again to Fenestela, beckoned as the legionary approached from the direction of the First Cohort. The man’s pulpy-looking nose, the recipient of many a punch, stirred his memory, but it wasn’t until the soldier reached him that Tullus recalled where they had met. It had been in Vetera, the night that Piso had won too many games of dice.
‘Centurion.’ Broken Nose saluted, giving no indication that he knew Tullus. ‘Are you in charge of the cohort?’
‘I am. What news?’
‘The vanguard ran into trouble a while back, sir. There was another section of forest, where the savages were lying in wait. Thousands of them, it seems, far more than yesterday.’
If Varus had been present, Tullus would have struggled not to gut him in that moment. Arminius is behind this devilry, he thought. He has to be. Fenestela’s scowl proved the same thought was in his mind. ‘Go on,’ Tullus commanded.
‘There was heavy fighting, sir. The Gaulish cavalry’s horses were panicked by the volleys of spears and stones. The Gauls pulled back, and got tangled up with the auxiliary cohorts, which allowed the enemy to attack at will. It sounds as if they’ve been almost wiped out. The Seventeenth lost quite a few men too, but they forced a way through eventually. The savages have pulled back now, and the column is moving again.’
‘Is there a battle plan?’ asked Tullus, knowing there wouldn’t – in this grimmest of situations, couldn’t – be.
Broken Nose looked uncomfortable. ‘Governor Varus has ordered that we continue to advance, at all costs. That’s what I was told to tell you, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Broken Nose saluted and made to go, but Tullus raised a hand. ‘Wait.’
‘Sir?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus Aius, sir,’ Broken Nose replied.
It is him, thought Tullus. ‘Fabricius is your centurion?’ He enjoyed the confusion playing across Aius’ face that he should know this. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, sir, he is.’
‘You lost a pair of bronze fasteners at dice a little while back, didn’t you? The ones for the shoulders of a mail shirt.’ Tullus noted the delayed recognition, and then fear, that flared in Aius’ eyes.
‘I did, sir.’
‘If I hear a single word about how the soldiers of the First Cohort didn’t fight as they should have today, or even how they ran away, I will come looking for you,’ warned Tullus. ‘It won’t be fasteners that I shove up your nostril this time either. Understand, you cocksucker?’
Aius nodded.
‘Fuck off then, and report to whoever else you’re supposed to.’
Tullus felt Fenestela’s gaze on him as Aius retreated. He muttered a quick explanation.
‘I’d give anything to be in the middle of a bar fight rather than what we’re heading into,’ Fenestela commented as trumpets ahead of them sounded the advance.
‘Aye, that’d be better.’ Tullus threw a grim glance at the sky, which was blacker than ever. More rain was coming. Thunder and lightning too. In this dark moment, it was difficult even for a hardened cynic not to think that the gods were unhappy with them, that the tribesmen’s deities, powerful in their own heartland, might pose a real threat to the lives of every man in Varus’ army.
Jupiter, Greatest and Best, Tullus asked, I beseech you to watch over us now, in our hour of need. Let your thunder terrify our enemies, and your lightning bolts strike them down – Arminius most of all.
Step by muddy step, Tullus and his cohort trudged forward. Their pace was no better than a slow walk, which frustrated and increased tension among his men. Tullus was not immune to the feelings either. When combat threatened, men hated to linger at its edges, waging a losing battle against nausea and the constant need to empty one’s bowels or bladder. Yet here in this Stygian gloom, where the only illumination was from lightning flashes, and rolling thunder made it hard to hear a man’s voice more than five paces away, it was hard to find the will to fight.
Their slow progress, in a line, reminded Tullus of the way a miller poured wheat into a grindstone. Once the stream of grains fell, there was no way back, just a descent into the hole in the stone’s centre, a brief, encompassing blackness, and then oblivion as the top stone moved over the bottom and ground everything to flour. The image made Tullus feel queasy. He ignored the feeling as best he could and concentrated instead on his soldiers, on their readiness, on their morale. His responsibility towards them was a heavy burden, but it was a sharp way of focusing his mind. ‘Hold steady, brothers,’ he called out at regular intervals as he paced alongside his century. ‘There’s hot wine waiting for you in Vetera! I’ll pay for the first round myself, for the whole damn cohort. Hold on to that happy thought as you march!’
Tullus worried that he was filling the air with useless words, but it seemed to give his men some solace. Their eyes were wary, fearful, and many were praying out loud or rubbing their phallus amulets. Nonetheless, they gave him nods, or shakes of their heads, as if to say, ‘We’re not done yet.’
At length, the trees in which the latest ambush had been sprung drew near. The sound of fighting – shouts, cries, the clash of arms – had been audible for a little while, even with the thunder. All eyes were fixed towards their front. To everyone’s frustration, most of what they could see was the back of the First Cohort. The only men with a wider range of vision were those to the far left and right; they shouted descriptions of what could be seen constantly in response to their comrades’ questions. Tullus did nothing to stop this. Information, even a little, was power of a kind. It gave men who felt helpless the idea that they had some degree of control over what was going on.
When he wasn’t issuing orders, Tullus also stared into the distance, where running figures were now visible to either side of the column. They were tribesmen attacking and retreating, he assumed. Bring them within reach of my sword soon, he prayed. Let this damn waiting be over!
Two hundred paces from the trees, Tullus was as shocked as anyone else when another ambush was sprung – on them. With lou
d shouts, scores of warriors rose up from the vegetation to either side of his soldiers. The bastards have lain there, letting thousands of us walk by, thought Tullus in alarm. They were close, dangerously close. Perhaps thirty paces separated their hiding places – nothing more than the bracken, cotton grass and bog rosemary that grew there – from the track, and the Roman column. Bearded, clad in dark colours, waving shields and spears, they charged forward in a muddy, disorganised mass. The barritus rose from their midst, like the wail of demons from the underworld.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
The chant didn’t have the volume of the previous day – there weren’t enough of them – but the effect was the same. With the memory of what had happened to their comrades bright in their minds, Tullus’ soldiers quailed at this unexpected assault. Fear oozed from them like pus from a lanced abscess, and their formation wavered.
Time fractured for Tullus. His eyes shot from left to right, behind him, took in a succession of random images. The terror in a nearby legionary’s face. Another man who had dropped his shield. A third had fallen to his knees and appeared to be praying to the gods for mercy. Fenestela was raining blows on soldiers’ backs with the flat of his blade, roaring at them to form a line to either side. One fool had broken ranks and was running towards the Germans, weaponless. It was moments such as this in which battles were won or lost. If his legionaries didn’t stand now, they’d be butchered.
Rage filled Tullus. I’m not going to fucking die here, he thought. Not here. Not now. Not today. ‘FACE LEFT! FACE RIGHT! SHIELDS UP!’ he roared. ‘CLOSE ORDER!’
