by Ben Kane
Metilius looked around too. ‘You’ve been out for a while.’
Piso couldn’t hear the barritus, or fighting, but that meant little. ‘The Germans. Are they—?’
‘The attacks are over for the day,’ said Metilius. ‘How are you feeling?’ Piso probed his scalp with care, finding a large, soft and painful swelling on his crown. ‘My skull feels as if Tullus has been beating it with his vitis for an hour, but I think I’ll live.’
‘Your helmet’s fucked,’ said Vitellius. ‘We had a struggle getting it off.’
Piso’s memory of how he had fallen – and the last blow he’d struck – returned. ‘Tullus?’
‘He’s all right,’ said Metilius.
‘Thanks to you,’ added Vitellius.
A needle stabbed Piso behind his left orbit, and he moaned. ‘I saved him?’ he asked.
‘So he says. You injured the warrior who was about to spit him. It gave him the chance to kill the bastard.’
Piso digested this news with closed eyes. Tullus owes me his life. A sneaking pride filled him.
‘You up to walking yet?’ demanded Metilius. ‘You’re a dead weight to pull.’
‘Let him alone,’ chided Vitellius, his usual acid tone absent. ‘It can’t be long until we set up camp.’
Metilius let out a phhhh of contempt. ‘Camp?’
‘You know what I mean,’ retorted Vitellius.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Piso, unsettled.
‘Nothing,’ replied Vitellius, although his voice suggested otherwise. ‘Lie back. Rest. We’ll explain later.’
I can’t fight, thought Piso, exhaustion and pain blurring his ability to think. I doubt I can even walk. Despite the bumpy, uncomfortable ride, it was easy to let himself sink into the blackness.
When Piso came to for the second time, it was dark. Raindrops continued to patter on his face. A blanket covered his body, but under it he was damp all over. He didn’t smell of urine, which meant that someone had changed his undergarment. To his surprise Piso wasn’t embarrassed. It was more of a concern that he was lying on the bare ground. Outside. He lifted his head. Vitellius, Metilius and the rest of his tent mates were a few paces away, crouched around a miserable fire. With an effort, Piso leaned up on his elbow. ‘Where’s our tent?’
Six faces turned to regard him. ‘He’s awake!’ said Vitellius, coming over.
‘There you are,’ said Metilius, grinning.
Piso gestured at their surroundings, confused. ‘We’re in the open.’
‘Look around,’ answered Vitellius.
Piso obeyed. Not a tent was to be seen. On both sides, and opposite, groups of legionaries were sitting around fires, or lying in the mud, as he was. ‘Where is the baggage train?’ he demanded.
‘It’s gone,’ grated Vitellius.
‘Gone,’ repeated Piso. ‘But that’s where Saxa is – with the rest of the injured.’
The gloom couldn’t hide the sudden change in his comrades’ expressions. Several turned back to the fire. Vitellius cursed. Metilius studied the bitten fingernails on one hand.
Piso’s spirits sank as he remembered when this had happened during Arminius’ ambush.
After a long moment, Vitellius spoke. ‘While we were saving Caecina, the Germans fell on the baggage train in great numbers. When the First Legion returned – that was after you’d been knocked out – the warriors fighting us fled that way too. Tullus led us back to see if we could do anything, but the wagons had already been overrun. Our cohort had withdrawn, suffering heavy losses.’
‘Saxa—’ Piso began.
‘I’m sure he died with a blade in his hand,’ said Vitellius with a sigh.
Piso pictured Saxa glugging down the wine he’d brought to him. Had it only been the night before? Angry, grieving, tears pricked his eyes, but he wiped them away. ‘Our tents. The artillery?’
‘Taken, or destroyed,’ Vitellius replied. ‘We’ve got whatever food we were carrying, and that’s it.’
‘My yoke must be wherever I left it,’ said Piso in a wistful voice. He was famished. ‘I’ve got nothing.’
‘We picked up our yokes – not yours, mind, but I salvaged your blanket and grain. It hasn’t all been eaten – yet.’ Metilius snickered.
‘You bastards!’ cried Piso.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Vitellius, winking. ‘We’re sharing the food. The fire’s not hot enough to bake bread of course – it’s too fucking wet – but there’s a pot of broth. Want some?’
‘Aye.’ Piso was about to curse Metilius for teasing him, but he couldn’t. ‘What you did, ’Tellius, Metilius – I mean, making the stretcher, dragging me however many miles—’
‘Five at least,’ interrupted Metilius. ‘But it felt like ten.’
‘I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’ Piso’s gaze moved from one to the other and back again. ‘Gratitude.’
‘It wasn’t just us,’ said Vitellius. ‘The others had to carry our yokes so we could pull your lard arse.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Piso, his voice husky.
Vitellius gave him a nod; both of them knew its meaning. Piso had saved Vitellius in the forest six years before. Today, he had been repaying the debt.
‘You’d do the same for us,’ said Metilius.
‘Everyone but you, you fat bastard.’ Piso grinned as a barrage of insults rained down on Metilius, who liked to moan about his tendency to a paunch.
‘Screw you too,’ said Metilius, the firelight illuminating his smiling face. ‘I was going to carry this over, but you seem to have made a full recovery.’ He held up a steaming bowl. ‘If you want it, up off your backside!’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ grumbled Piso, easing up into a sitting position. His head swam, and the pain behind his eyes worsened. He took a deep breath.
‘Stay where you are.’ Vitellius’ gentle hand was on his chest.
‘I’m fine,’ lied Piso. He set his jaw, willed the pain and dizziness away. After a few deep breaths, he pushed himself first to his knees and then to his feet. Aided by Vitellius, he made his way to the fire with careful steps. His comrades shifted over to give him room. Piso’s head spun again as he sat, and he was grateful for the support of Metilius’ upraised arm. Everyone was watching him, he realised. Six filthy, blood-spattered faces. Gods, but he loved them, gaunt with exhaustion or no. They were his comrades. His brothers. His family. They meant more to him than anyone in the world, bar Tullus and Fenestela. And they were still here, alive.
‘Here.’ Aromatic odours rose from the bowl in Metilius’ grasp. The handle of a spoon protruded from the depths. ‘That’s mine, so don’t fucking lose it.’
Soup made from half-ground grain, or flour, had never been a favourite of Piso’s. It was only eaten in the direst of circumstances, when bread couldn’t be baked, and it tasted worse than the poorest of oat porridges. Someone had put garlic in this concoction, though. There was even a hint of oregano.
Piso was reaching for the bowl when a wave of nausea hit him. ‘I can’t. I’ll vomit. One of you others have it.’
‘These greedy whoresons would have wolfed it already if I hadn’t prevented them,’ said Metilius. ‘I’ll keep it for you. They can pretend they’ve got some cheese.’
Chuckles rose from around the fire.
‘And some olives,’ said Vitellius. ‘And wine.’
Piso thought of Saxa again, and his mood soured. ‘Where are we?’
‘Still on the Long Bridges road,’ replied Metilius.
‘And the Germans?’
‘Most of them stayed at the baggage train, like vultures on carrion. Some of the more disciplined ones tracked us – so the rest could follow on after, no doubt.’ Vitellius glanced at Piso. ‘The good news is that the fools in the rest of our legion saw sense and rejoined the column. So did the Twenty-First. They’re scared, and jumping at every sound, but they’re here – in camp.’
‘Camp?’ Metilius echoed his comment from earlier. ‘What a fuckin
g joke. I remember—’
‘Don’t,’ warned Piso, dark memories filling his mind. ‘We all remember that.’
Chapter XXXVI
AFTER DRIVING OFF the Germans, the legions had travelled perhaps ten miles that day before Caecina ordered the construction of a camp. The distance covered was half that of a normal day’s march, but in Tullus’ mind, that was satisfactory. The army had not been annihilated and, baggage train aside, their losses had been light. It worried him that the ramparts were less high than they should have been, and that the ditch beyond was only calf-deep, but there was nothing to be done about it, because too many tools had been lost with the wagons. At least the entrances were traps in themselves, he told himself. The walls on each side overran one another, forming a narrow corridor through which one had to pass, and they had been blocked with cut branches. As long as the sentries remained alert, the night should pass without incident.
Tullus was tired. Bone-weary, in fact. Tramping, running and fighting through bogland sapped a man’s strength much faster than it did in easier terrain. He had managed because he had had to. His soldiers depended on him, and Caecina might have died if they hadn’t intervened. Gods, thought Tullus, but he was paying for it now. Every part of him ached, stung or throbbed. He reeked of his own sweat, and others’ blood.
The only time he could remember being more exhausted was during the terrible fight to survive Arminius’ ambush, and the flight to Aliso fort afterwards. Tullus blinked those memories away – dwelling on that nightmare would get him nowhere. Nor would brooding about his legion’s eagle, still held somewhere in this godsforsaken land. Better to deal with the tasks at hand, which were to ensure that the injured among his men had been treated, that the rest were in the best possible spirits, and that every soldier had had some food at least.
Tullus had already checked up on half the cohort, and had halted only because his body would have betrayed him otherwise. A short rest would do him no harm, he had decided. So here he was, sitting on a folded blanket, gazing into a hissing fire. Despite the damp, his grumbling belly and the watery, scant heat from his little blaze, he did feel better. Whether he’d be able to get up was another matter. With a heave, he managed it, grimacing as the movement triggered a surge of stabbing pains from new parts of his body.
He rolled his hips one way and then the opposite, trying to loosen them before they locked. His tactic worked in part, but the joints weren’t as mobile as they had been even a year before. Not for the first time, Tullus wished that he’d valued his youth more. Physical fitness then had been a given, not a blessing. Recovery from injury just happened – it didn’t have to be worked on. At least I have more sense now, he decided. Back then I had none. If that’s true, what in Hades are you doing here? his younger self seemed to ask.
Tullus had no answer.
He tried not to be despondent. Casualties that day had been heavy, but not overwhelming. Arminius wasn’t dead, but he’d been thwarted in his attempt to kill Caecina. The baggage train had been lost, yet the rest of the army – including the rebellious soldiers – had made it here. Morale throughout the legions was poor, but not at its nadir. Despite his effort to be optimistic, Tullus knew that another day of heavy assaults could break the legionaries.
‘Eaten anything yet?’ Fenestela followed his voice out of the darkness.
‘My food was in the baggage train. Along with old Ambiorix,’ said Tullus, hoping that the Gaul had died fast. His nose twitched. ‘What are you hiding?’
From behind his back Fenestela produced a chunk of sweaty-looking ham. ‘This.’
Saliva filled Tullus’ mouth. ‘Where’d you find that, you dog?’
‘I have my sources.’ It was a typical Fenestela remark. He got to work with his dagger, hacking off a slice. ‘Here.’
‘Jupiter’s arse crack, but that’s good,’ said Tullus, chewing.
‘A hungry man isn’t the best critic,’ replied Fenestela with a chuckle. ‘It’s seen better days, this meat, but I’d rather have it than nothing.’
They didn’t talk further until every scrap was gone.
‘How are the men?’ asked Tullus. The legionaries of the entire cohort were his responsibility, but between him and Fenestela, the ‘men’ would always be those in his century.
‘Cold, wet and hungry. Apart from that, they’re not too bad.’ Fenestela’s expression grew serious. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll follow you, and they will fight. They’d appreciate seeing your face, though.’
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 wave
d 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.
