by Ben Kane
‘All right?’ Vitellius had nudged him.
‘Aye,’ replied Piso, glad of the comradeship. ‘I’m alive. That’s what you said counts.’
‘Damn right. We’re here, and we’re alive, and no fucking tribesman is going to stop us getting back to Vetera.’
A couple of the soldiers nearby muttered in agreement, but most didn’t say a word. Despite Tullus’ and Fenestela’s best efforts, morale was poor. Piso wouldn’t admit to it, but if it hadn’t been for Vitellius, he would have fallen by the wayside long before. The fears he had nursed since the first, terrible ambush by the tribesmen had come true. Tullus had been right. There had been thousands of Germans ready to attack the army, of every tribe in the land it seemed. Over the previous two rainswept days, they had slain legionaries the way farmers reaped wheat at harvest time. Nowhere had the horrific losses been driven home more than around Piso. Of his original contubernium, just he, Vitellius and one other soldier remained.
Piso’s grief for four of the men – three dead, and one maimed – was still raw, but it was Afer’s death that had made him want to give up. Afer, hairy, round as a barrel and hard as nails, had provided the backbone, and the humour, to the eight-man unit. He’d looked out for Piso from the start. He had done so until the end, dying so that Piso could live. Tears pricked Piso’s eyes at the memory. A huge warrior with a club had smashed his shield with one blow. Piso had been helpless, panicked as the warrior swung again, but Afer had leaped in front of him, dying even as he buried his gladius in the brute’s unprotected belly. Piso hadn’t even been able to thank Afer. By the time there’d been a break in the fighting, Afer was dead, the grey soup of his brains oozing from under his felt liner into the viscous mud.
‘Right, you shower of shits!’ Tullus was back.
Piso shoved away the horrific image of Afer’s crushed skull and stood straighter.
‘You might not know it, but the Nineteenth Legion has suffered more losses than us or the Seventeenth. Varus has seen fit, therefore, to allow us the honour of forming the vanguard today.’ He flashed a grim smile as heads began to nod. ‘You’re not as stupid as you look, you maggots. This duty is indeed a blessing in disguise. It might be more dangerous at the front, but it also means that we can lead the way for the rest. Set the pace. Most important of all, reach one of our forts before anyone else.’
At this, the assembled men raised a cry. It had little of their usual vigour, but was better than nothing, thought Piso. He prayed that Tullus would get them out of this shithole.
When they had quietened, Tullus began speaking again. This time, his tone was grave. ‘Varus has also given the order that any soldiers who cannot march are to be given the option of dying at a comrade’s hands, or being left here. Once we’re on the move, anyone who cannot keep up is also to be left behind. It grieves me that things have come to this. I did not become a soldier to slay my own men – yet I cannot disagree with the governor’s command. You’ve seen for yourselves what the enemy is capable of. Things will be no different today. Those bastards will come at us in even greater numbers than before, or I’m no judge. Men who cannot stay with us will hinder our progress, and we can’t let that happen, or we’ll all fucking die.’
There was an uncomfortable silence, during which men tried not to look at their injured comrades. Piso’s gaze wandered to the legionary with the injured foot; receiving a ferocious scowl, he was quick to turn his head away.
‘The trumpets will sound any moment,’ Tullus went on. ‘It doesn’t grant much time for a man to make up his mind on such a heavy matter. I’ll therefore turn a blind eye to any of the injured who try to march. Keep up, and you will reach safety with the rest of us. Fall behind, and I will finish you myself. It’s your choice, brothers.’
Piso didn’t look at the lame soldier as the trumpets sounded. ‘May the gods be with us,’ he said to Vitellius.
‘We’ll bloody need their help,’ muttered Vitellius. ‘I’ve sworn a donation to Mars worth a month’s pay if I make it.’
‘He can have my entire quarter’s pay,’ said Piso with feeling. ‘You can’t take coins to Hades, my father used to say, but for the one they put in your mouth, and that’s not much fucking use.’
‘Except to the ferryman,’ replied Vitellius with a sour chuckle.
With the remnants of the First Cohort leading the way, they began to march.
The barritus was being sung even before they cleared the edge of their temporary camp.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
Around Piso, soldiers quailed and cursed, and cursed again. Braver individuals spat their contempt on the ground. More prayed, and rubbed their phallic amulets. At least one man started to weep. His comrades soon shut him up, but the crying had an instantaneous effect, dragging their morale further towards the mud that their feet were already sinking into.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
Piso might have been imagining it, but it seemed that the noise had a keener, hungrier timbre to it than it had before. It wouldn’t be surprising if it had, he thought. Savages they might be, but they’re damn clever – using sound to intimidate, as Hannibal’s Gauls did at Lake Trasimene. The story of how the Gaulish had sounded their carnyxes, or vertical trumpets, in the fog at the start of the battle was renowned. The unearthly sound had panicked the legionaries they’d faced, and helped the Carthaginians to inflict a crushing defeat on Rome.
A thousand paces out, and the soldier with the leg wound was struggling, barritus or no. Grunting with pain, he hobbled out of formation. ‘Mars protect you, brothers,’ he said, holding his head low. Blessings rained down on him, but no one intervened. No one offered to help him walk. To do so would risk their own lives.
‘Have a swift journey, brother,’ said Piso, feeling like a coward for not doing something.
The soldier made no acknowledgement. ‘Centurion!’ he shouted. ‘A moment of your time.’
It was as if Tullus had been expecting the summons. Wheeling out of position at the front of the century, he came striding down the line. Piso and Vitellius had gone past the lame soldier, so they couldn’t see what happened next. They shared a glance full of foreboding, but neither said a word. Tullus came past them again not long after, marching back to his place. He was wiping his sword clean on the hem of his tunic. The friends shared another look, but still neither spoke. There was no damn point.
No one fell out of rank after that, in part because the tribesmen’s attack had begun. To constant renditions of the barritus, dense volleys of frameae and stones rained down on the Roman column. The legionaries used their scuta as defence as best they could, but there were still casualties. Stones found the gaps, however small, and frameae injured men, or lodged in shields so that they had to be discarded. Those who tried to pull the spears from their scuta became instant targets for the enemy slingers. It was safer to hide in the middle of the column, and grab a shield from the next man who was slain.
The first assault came soon after. A tide of warriors poured out from behind the earthen ramparts, led by a dozen naked berserkers. Lucky for Piso and Vitellius, the berserkers hit the unit behind them, where they wreaked fearful casualties. It took a charge by Tullus and Fenestela, with all that was left of their century, to kill the berserkers and repulse the attack. It seemed then that a madness had taken their centurion, because he didn’t stop when their lines had been secured. With a roar of ‘ROMA!’ he ran straight after the retreating tribesmen. Fenestela was only a few steps behind him. Piso’s bowels turned to water, but he pelted after, screaming at the top of his lungs. So did every legionary who could. It seemed every man knew that if Tullus died, they would all end up in the mud. He had to be kept alive.
There was a savage beauty in the way that they threw back the enemy in that too-short time. The warriors were hacked down in scores, stabbed from behind as they fought to get away through the gaps in their earthen wall, or hurled down into the space behind when the legionaries stormed the rampart w
ith an energy born of utter desperation. The Romans used their swords for the most part, but Piso saw spears, daggers, trenching tools and even clubs seized from the enemy in his comrades’ hands. Euphoric from their tiny victory, they would have remained where they were, roaring abuse at the warriors who were already regrouping deeper into the trees. Tullus it was who took control, dispersing the red battle mist with sharp blasts from his whistle and occasional thwacks of the flat of his sword blade.
Whether it was the killing of the berserkers or the fact that they had won a brief victory, no one knew, but Tullus and his cohort were left alone for a short time. The unit to their rear had fallen behind, so Tullus was quick to order a break so that his soldiers could catch their breaths. This was most welcome, yet the sound of savage fighting coming from back down the track wasn’t. To further dampen the rise in their spirits, the rain that had plagued them returned with a vengeance, pouring from the heavens in such quantities that any notion of being dry vanished forever. As drenched as rats in a drain, as weary as oarsmen who’ve rowed at ramming speed for a mile, as fearful as criminals in the arena before the wild beasts are released, the legionaries were glad when Tullus gave the order to get moving.
The First Cohort appeared to have been blessed with similar success to theirs – the track ahead was empty – which meant that Tullus’ cohort’s initial progress was good. The centurion stalked up and down the column, his face covered in spatters of blood and mud, haranguing his men in a monologue that never ended. For the most part, as Piso complained to Vitellius, and Vitellius complained to Piso, they kept going only because Tullus was so fucking annoying.
It was too good to last.
At a curve in the track, the noise of combat – from the front – became audible. A ripple of unease, of anticipation passed over the legionaries. Tullus’ pace didn’t alter.
‘The First Cohort’s run into trouble again,’ said Piso.
‘No surprise there,’ grumbled Vitellius.
They rounded the bend. A few hundred paces ahead, a dense mass of warriors surrounded the soldiers of the First. Even at a distance, it was clear that their comrades were fighting for their lives. Tullus blew his whistle, the trumpeter sounded the advance, and the weary legionaries forced their legs into the semblance of a trot.
They had covered less than half the ground when, with an ear-splitting crrreeeeaaakkk, a mighty beech fell sideways from the left, hitting the track with an almighty thud and separating the two groups of legionaries. There was open ground to the right, but it looked to be boggy. Crowds of warriors spilled at once from the earthen embankment and lined up behind the fallen trunk, facing Tullus and his men. They began to sing the barritus, at the same time clattering their spears off their shields. Dismay filled Piso; he could see the same emotion twisting Vitellius’ face. ‘We’re fucked,’ said someone in the rank behind.
‘HALT!’ Tullus spun around, his expression furious. ‘I heard that!’ he yelled. ‘Think like that, and you will go to Hades. Decide that you’ll fight until the last breath leaves your body, though, and you could make it out of this stinking shithole. Think of that tree as the low wall of a town. All we’ve got to do is get over it, and we can keep going. You maggots can scale a little thing like that, surely?’
No one laughed. They groaned back at him, but it was a sound of assent rather than refusal.
‘When we reach it, I want the first two ranks – twelve men – to form a small testudo. First rank, lean up against the trunk with your shields over your heads. Second rank, kneel behind them and do the same thing. Third rank, split to either side, and protect the formation’s sides. Fourth rank, you’ll come with me. On my command, we’ll tear up the shields, and straight over the fucking tree. The savages won’t know what’s hit them! Understand?’ Tullus paced to and fro, studying their faces.
‘It won’t work,’ hissed Piso, who was in the fourth rank with Vitellius. Soldiers liked to boast sometimes that an ox and cart could be driven over a testudo, but it was an old wives’ tale. Men were far lighter, thought Piso, but even still …
‘Have you got a better idea?’ Vitellius answered.
Piso hadn’t, so he stitched his lip.
‘When the last men have gone over, the next century will form a new testudo and our first two ranks can climb over. The woman and child come last. Then the rest of the new unit follows, and so on. We do not stop until we’ve thrown the bastards back, and we can move the tree. Fenestela, you hear that?’ Tullus called.
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Pass it on.’ Tullus resumed his position and led them forward, at a walk this time.
If Piso had been scared during the previous days, he felt twice as bad now. Sweat slicked his cold, wet back. Fear roiled in his belly, churned his guts. The desire to have a shit was overwhelming, and to piss. From the foul smells assailing his nostrils, some men had already done both. Piso gathered the last shreds of his self-respect – Tullus had muscled in beside him, and Vitellius was on his other side – and managed not to do the same.
It was about two hundred paces to the hacked-down tree.
Two hundred paces during which Tullus’ men had to endure the barritus, repeated over and over. It seemed that every warrior in Arminius’ host had climbed atop the earthen rampart to sing, or to hurl abuse at them. They did not attack, however, or throw spears, which magnified Piso’s feeling of dread. The bastards were waiting until they were all bunched up in front of the obstacle.
A hundred and fifty paces. The sound of fighting beyond the trunk was loud enough to be heard beneath the barritus now. Piso could make out scores of heads and spear tips on the other side. The gods alone knew how many of the whoresons there were – hundreds, maybe. They could be hurling themselves from the frying pan into the fire – they probably were. A hundred and twenty paces.
‘We’ve got one advantage, brothers. They won’t be expecting this tactic,’ said Tullus. ‘Make it count. Make it fucking count.’
No one answered him.
A hundred paces.
For the first time, Piso saw the lines of weariness on Tullus’ face, and he realised that their centurion was human. Tullus couldn’t do it on his own, just as they couldn’t succeed without him. Piso rallied his courage. ‘We’ll do it, sir,’ he said.
‘You can count on us, sir,’ added Vitellius.
A few other men muttered agreement.
Tullus smiled. ‘You’re good lads.’
At sixty paces, the enemy’s spears and stones came hammering down from either side, and from the front. Men gurgled and died as they were struck; others screamed and staggered on. Those who were unhurt cursed and sweated and hunched behind their shields as they closed in. Fifty paces. Forty, thirty. Piso could see the warriors facing him. Bearded, moustached, some so young that they were yet smooth-cheeked. Every face twisted with hate; every mouth open, roaring war cries, insults, the barritus. Each man brandishing a shield, and a spear, club or sword, threatening death in any number of ways. Behind stood rank upon rank of their fellows, also clamouring to get at their enemies, the Romans. Us, thought Piso, his belly clenching.
Twenty paces.
Ten.
‘Ready?’ shouted Tullus. ‘First rank, second rank, third rank, form testudo!’
Piso didn’t dare to look to the left, where another wave of attackers waited, or at the warriors behind the trunk, who were leaping up and down. He kept his gaze fixed on the soldiers in front of him, who were in place and raising their shields. Get it over with, gods, get it over with, he thought, his fear bubbling in great torrents.
‘Fourth rank, ready? Starting from the left, two at a time! Go!’ shouted Tullus.
Dry-mouthed, Piso watched the first pair of soldiers from his rank move forward and place their sandals on the angled shields. The shields wavered, but held, and up the men went, their hobs pounding off the wet leather covers. Reaching the top of the trunk, they jumped down, shouting at the tops of their voices.
Vite
llius and Piso were next.
Thunk. The sound of a spear landing was so close that Piso almost soiled his undergarment. Feeling no pain, he exulted. It hadn’t hit him. What was probably only two frenzied heartbeats later, but felt like a lifetime, his head turned to the left. Vitellius’ eyes were wide, and he had dropped his shield. ‘Damn spear got me … just below … shoulder,’ he said, grimacing. And stepping aside.
‘No!’ yelled Piso, distraught. Anyone who was left behind would die.
‘Ready, Piso?’ Tullus’ breath was hot in his ear. ‘We go. Now!’
‘Vitellius …’ Piso began.
‘Fucking go!’ Vitellius ordered. ‘I’ll be straight after you.’
A great shove from Tullus’ shield, a loud curse, and Piso was charging forward and up, grief and rage tearing at him. Tullus was by his side, step for step. Crash! Crash! Crash! went their hobs on his comrades’ shields. Both were big men, yet the soldiers below them wavered but a little. In half a dozen steps, they were atop the trunk, its bark giving good grip for their sandals. Only one legionary was still alive, his back against the tree, fighting three warriors, while a horde more tried to reach him. Guilt stabbed at Piso. Had he caused the death of the other soldier by delaying?
‘ROMA!’ bellowed Tullus, and jumped, smashing the bottom rim of his shield off a warrior’s head.
Piso followed, before his fear paralysed him. Trying to take a less risky approach, he still collided with a tribesman’s shoulder. The warrior went down under Piso, who landed partly on him and partly on his arse. Lucky for Piso, another legionary was hard on his heels. He landed in front of them both, and was able to take on, for a moment at least, the enemies who were swarming forward. The warrior under Piso reared up his head, and, releasing his shield, Piso managed to punch him hard in the face. Piso scrambled to his feet, aware that if he didn’t do so fast, he’d be dead. Stab. From close range, he thrust his blade into the upturned face of the warrior beneath his feet. The blade entered via the left eye socket; there was a little spurt of vitreous fluid and the iron ran on, into the man’s brain. He let out a grunt of what might have been surprise and dropped to the mud, floppy-limbed, dead.
