Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Maelo, frowning. ‘What if it’s a trap?’

  The same unhappy thought had been niggling at Arminius since Inguiomerus’ plan had been carried, but he’d managed to ignore it. Until now. ‘There’s not much we can do,’ he said in a bullish tone. ‘The attack is about to begin.’

  ‘You could hold the men back.’

  ‘Half the warriors wouldn’t listen. Look at them – their blood’s up. The rest would call me a coward. If the assault succeeds and I’ve stood by, every last man will want to see me replaced as leader.’ Arminius had convinced himself – almost. ‘We have to go ahead with the plan.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Maelo. ‘It’s too fucking quiet.’

  Arminius knew what Maelo meant, but to either side he could see warriors leaving the cover of the trees: Inguiomerus’ and the other chieftains’ followers were on the move. His own men were shifting from foot to foot and looking to him for the order to advance. Each passing moment increased the chance of some taking matters into their own hands, which would also undermine his authority. ‘I hope you’re wrong. It’s too late anyway.’

  Maelo’s scowl deepened, but he strode out with the rest. A more loyal follower I could not have, thought Arminius with pride. If every man were cut from the same cloth as him, I would have crushed the Romans five times over.

  It was full daylight now, and they were in sight of the enemy sentries. Encouraged by Arminius and the other leaders, the warriors swarmed down the hill slopes and towards the camp. They had gone perhaps a third of the distance when the alarm was sounded from the nearest wall. Arminius’ nerves jangled, but no general call to arms followed. He could see five sentries watching them. All were roaring at the top of their voices, and they sounded terrified. Arminius was delighted. ‘On!’ he roared to his men. ‘Quick as you can!’

  By the time the warriors had covered another three hundred paces, two of the Romans had abandoned their positions. Inguiomerus and Big Chin were right, Arminius decided. He didn’t mind losing face to them if Caecina’s army was destroyed. Arminius began to run, urging his men to do the same. When the barritus began, he joined in with gusto.

  HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

  Mud-splattered, legs soaked to the knee and chest heaving, Arminius looked back. Two-thirds of the ground was to their backs now. A few men had fallen behind with twisted ankles and the like, but the vast majority were with him, faces contorting as they bellowed their war cry over and over. A third sentry vanished from sight, leaving two legionaries to face Arminius’ thousands. The pair who remained continued to shout for help, but they were wavering. From inside the camp, Arminius could hear what sounded like frightened cries. Blood thrummed in his ears, and his sword felt good in his hand. A hundred steps remained.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted with rising excitement. ‘Get over the ditch and up the wall!’

  At seventy paces, one of the sentries lobbed his javelin. It soared up into the air – a fine throw – and landed close to Osbert, who roared an obscenity in reply. The second sentry waited until the warriors were much closer before hurling his javelin. His was a poor effort, landing just beyond the defensive ditch. The barrage of insults from the warriors that followed was deafening, and both legionaries vanished from sight. The sounds of panic from within continued.

  ‘What do you think?’ Arminius called to Maelo, a short way to his right.

  ‘I’ll tell you from the top of the wall,’ came the terse reply.

  ‘Have some faith,’ said Arminius, the bloodlust thick in his veins. ‘They’re terrified!’

  ‘Maybe.’ Maelo threw his bundle of branches into the ditch and began directing the warriors. ‘Put them on top of mine! You, build another crossing over there. Every twenty paces or so should do it. Move!’

  It wasn’t long before there was enough footing to traverse the ditch in numerous places. Warriors scrambled over the makeshift bridges and leaned their ladders against the wall. Arminius was in their midst. Being so close to the Roman defences, manned or no, was intimidating. Part of him expected a wave of javelins to come hissing down from above, but nothing happened. There was no sign of the fearful sentries either, and the panicked noises from inside hadn’t stopped. Really beginning to believe that the Romans had given up hope, Arminius accepted the lead position on a ladder from one of his men. He would be among the first to scale the rampart.

  Sword sheathed, and with shield and spear gripped in his left hand, he climbed one rung. Two. Three. To either side, warriors were ascending fast, including Maelo and Osbert. I’ll keep them calm, thought Arminius. Play it safe. Their initial objective would be to gain a strong foothold, and then to open one of the gates. After that, the slaughter could begin in earnest.

  ‘Arminius!’

  Maelo’s tone propelled Arminius up the ladder as if every demon in the underworld was after him. He was hauling himself one-handed over the edge of the fortifications, when his ears filled with a familiar, terrible sound.

  Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. From every part of the Roman camp the trumpets’ summons rang, time and again. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.

  Not quite believing what he was hearing, Arminius stood, reaching Maelo’s side. His stomach gave a sickening lurch. Instead of chaos, he saw cohort upon cohort of legionaries, in firm ranks. Waiting. Watching. Ready.

  Chapter XXXIX

  LIKE THE REST of Caecina’s army, Piso was standing with his comrades, his gaze fixed on the top of the fortifications, waiting for signs of the enemy. His nerves were strung tight, and there was still a dull pain behind his eyes. They could only have been formed up for an hour or so, but it seemed like an eternity. Caecina’s order had arrived before dawn, and Tullus had had them ready soon after that. Now every cohort of the Fifth was positioned on the inner edge of the intervallum, facing the north wall in standard formation. Its lower than normal height was just enough to conceal them. A legion to a wall, Tullus had told them in confident tone. That was more than enough.

  Considering the level of fear that had prevailed a short time before, it was odd that the air could seem determined now, even buoyant, thought Piso. Yet it was. Caecina’s address, delivered from the back of his horse as he’d ridden around the intervallum, had hit the nail on the head. ‘Think of your loved ones in Vetera, and the welcome they’ll give you,’ he had cried. ‘Remember the battles we have won this summer. Win the struggle today, and you will cover yourselves in glory. Your prowess will be talked of for generations to come!’

  Rousing speeches were well and good, but there was more to be said for firm ground under a man’s feet and his comrades shoulder to shoulder beside him, Piso decided. He shot a grateful look at Vitellius and Metilius. These welcome comforts didn’t mean he liked the dry-mouthed wait, the twisting stomach and cold sweats, the full-once-more bladder that had just been emptied, the twitching muscles. When the sentries on the north wall bellowed the alarm, therefore, Piso felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Fear was there too, as usual, but the agony of waiting was over. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘At fucking last.’

  ‘I was thinking the savages wouldn’t fall for Caecina’s trick,’ muttered Vitellius, scowling.

  ‘They have, so cheer up.’ Metilius gave Vitellius a dig in the ribs.

  ‘Cheer up?’ scoffed Vitellius. ‘Thousands of the whoresons are about to throw themselves over that wall at us!’

  ‘Better this way than out in the bog, you grumpy bastard,’ jibed Piso.

  ‘Listen, you maggots,’ hissed Tullus. He came stalking along the front rank, the gnarled head of his vitis held threateningly at eyeball height. ‘Listen.’

  For a moment, Piso could only make out the pounding of his heart off his ribs and the usual leather creaks and metallic clinks from his comrades’ equipment. Then he heard it, in between the sentries’ alarm calls: men’s voices, carrying from beyond the north wall.

  ‘Prepare yourselves,’ said Tullus, pitching his voic
e low, but potent enough to carry. ‘I don’t want a fucking sound from any of you until I give the order. If I hear as much as a mouse fart from one man, I’ll rip you all new arseholes.’ This was said with another menacing gesture of his vine stick. No one dared answer, and Tullus leered. ‘Steady, brothers. When the sheep-humpers arrive, they’ll get the most unpleasant surprise of their mangy, fly-blown lives.’

  Piso focused on the sentries, his only means of determining how close the enemy were. Then, with hoarse shouts, two of them abandoned their positions, clattering down the nearest ladders. The moment they reached the bottom, the men’s frightened demeanour vanished and they rejoined their units. The remaining three continued to roar and point, and to beseech the gods for help. Any one of them could have been an actor, thought Piso, a little amused despite his fear.

  HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!

  A nerve twitched in Piso’s face as the hated barritus began. ‘Bastards,’ whispered Metilius from the corner of his mouth. Piso felt Vitellius shift his weight from one foot to the other, and a man in the rank behind stifled a cough. In the century to their left, a soldier cried out. His centurion was on him in a flash, vitis in hand. Thwack. Thwack. The miscreant did not repeat his mistake. Piso took a furtive look around. The faces he could see were grim, edgy and sweaty. Some were scared. A few seemed terrified, yet the imposed silence held. It was because Tullus and his vitis were Everywhere, thought Piso. Along the front of the century, down its sides and at the rear – there was no way of knowing where he’d pop up next.

  The third of the five sentries took to his heels, and Tullus – now at the front of the century again – raised his arms. ‘That’s the signal, brothers,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Do your worst!’

  After the nerve-shredding wait, it was a release to be able to do something. Uproar descended as the legionaries gave tongue. ‘The Germans are here!’ roared Piso. Beside him, Vitellius was emitting a noise that sounded as if his throat was being cut. ‘Run!’ screamed Metilius. ‘RUN!’

  The din that rose in the next twenty heartbeats was being made only by every third cohort. That had been Caecina’s order – ‘We don’t want to overdo it,’ he’d said. Nonetheless, it was deafening, and rivalled the clamour of the night before. Piso’s bowels gave a painful twist even as he shouted: it was hard not to feel some of the fear they were portraying to the enemy. He watched as the last two sentries threw their javelins – this had also been arranged – and then fled. ‘Head for the east gate!’ Piso cried, almost wishing he could.

  Tullus had his back to them now, and was watching the ramparts like a hawk. Piso’s effort died away, and he sensed his comrades doing the same. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the same place. Thump, thump went Piso’s heart. The air was still loud with the false cries of other soldiers, but he could hear harsh voices on the far side of the wall. Thud. Thud. The sounds came from all along the defences. Guttural orders rang out. They’re throwing up ladders, thought Piso. The warriors are about to climb.

  ‘Here they come, brothers,’ hissed Tullus. ‘Wait for the trumpets.’

  The first figure pulled himself on to the walkway, and Piso couldn’t stop himself from gasping. Beside him, Vitellius snickered. ‘Piss yourself again?’

  The nearest men chortled.

  ‘Bastards. Plenty of you must have done the same,’ retorted Piso, but his cheeks were flaming.

  Already the first warrior had been joined by four others. In the space of a few heartbeats, that number had tripled. The tribesmen stood on the walkway, staring down in mute amazement at the waiting legions.

  Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Long and hard the trumpeters blew, ordering every legionary to arms. Tullus had his men draw their swords and close up.

  More and more warriors appeared at the top of the defences, and the first arrivals began descending the steps. No fools, they waited for their comrades to join them. Experienced warriors and chieftains rallied them into large groups. Berserkers roared threats and pounded their chests. Still Tullus did not give the order. Piso’s eyes searched the other walls – countless numbers of the enemy were swarming over them too. Gods, but he was glad there were four legions within the camp.

  ‘You’ve got to hand it to the whoresons,’ declared Vitellius. ‘They’re not short of courage.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Piso with feeling. ‘I wouldn’t fucking climb down here.’

  Metilius bared his teeth. ‘When are they going to sound the advance?’

  ‘The more filth that reach the intervallum, the more of them there are to squeeze against the walls,’ shouted Tullus. ‘Let none escape, eh?’

  Piso and his comrades cheered.

  It wasn’t long before several hundred of the enemy were grouped before Tullus’ cohort. Scores more warriors joined their comrades with every passing moment. Javelins would be useful now, thought Piso, but they were long gone, used up in the previous day’s fighting. It was going to be sword and shield work, up close and personal. Bloody, brutal and random.

  Men were about to die – on both sides.

  Chapter XL

  THE TRUMPETS WERE blaring again as Tullus laid down his vitis, pressing it into the earth with his boots. His smooth-worn vine stick was a prize possession, having been with him since his promotion to the centurionate, but it had no place in battle. It was possible he’d be unable to find it afterwards, but that was the least of his worries.

  He eyed the massing tribesmen before them. I might die today, he thought, but Fortuna would have to be at her most capricious. Arminius is a fool for leading his warriors into such an enclosed space.

  Tullus’ chest felt tight, and his stomach was knotted, but he was ready. Piso was one side of him, and Vitellius, his broken nose a giant blue-black bruise, on the other. They were all there, Metilius and the rest of the Eighteenth’s veterans, and his soldiers from the Fifth. Every man was dear to Tullus now, even the ex-conscripts who’d rebelled the previous year. He would do anything for them. Fight, bleed with them, drag them out of the cursed bog. If it came to it, he would lay down his life for each and every soldier in his century.

  It wouldn’t come to that today, he hoped. The savages were about to learn the harshest of lessons.

  ‘Shields up, swords ready, brothers. Advance, at the walk!’

  They moved forward in a solid line, shield edge close to shield edge, blades protruding like teeth in between. To either side, he heard his centurions ordering their soldiers to do the same. The warriors shouted and battered their spears off their shields in response, working themselves into the state that allowed men to charge an impenetrable wall of wood and metal.

  Twenty-five paces separated the two sides. A shout rang out, and many of the warriors threw spears. High, low, arcing and straight, they flashed towards the legionaries. Tullus bellowed for the front rank to duck down, and the soldiers behind to raise their shields. The volley landed before he’d even finished speaking. Cries of pain followed, and curses. Shields and bodies hit the ground. Someone in the second or third rank retched; a moment later, Tullus smelt acrid bile. The distinctive sounds of a man leaving this existence – a rattling, harsh gasp, the twitching of limbs – came from one rank back.

  ‘Everyone got a shield?’ Tullus demanded. ‘Get one from the man behind if you haven’t. Leave the wounded. Ready?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ scores of voices said.

  ‘Forward!’ Tullus was disappointed not to recognise any of the warriors. Facing Arminius again would have been too great a coincidence, but he’d hoped for it nonetheless.

  The tribesmen didn’t wait for the Romans to reach them. Roaring war cries, they charged in a great, disorganised mass. Faces twisted with hate, painted shields and brandished spears filled Tullus’ vision.

  ‘HALT!’ he yelled. ‘STEADY!’

  It was odd, he thought afterwards, the things that a man remembered before, and during, the mayhem that was close-quarters combat. A Suebian knot on a warrior’s head – out
of place, because that tribe was not at war with Rome. A shield with mesmeric, swirling black lines on a blue background. Behind him, one of his soldiers cursing, ‘Bastards. Bastards. Bastards.’ Stubby, gravestone-like teeth in the open mouth of a screaming greybeard. The most impressive moustache Tullus had ever seen – long, bushy, and with twisted end-points – decorating a chieftain’s face.

  An almighty crash went up as the two sets of enemies collided. Beside Tullus, Piso was talking to himself. ‘Watch him. Thrust down, at his left foot. That’s it!’ Tullus’ own breath hissed in and out through his open mouth. Teeth splintered and blood spattered as he rammed his sword deep into the greybeard’s gullet. The crone was hard at work, stabbing her sewing needle into his left calf. Down went the greybeard, choking on his own gore.

  He was replaced at once by a tall warrior with a club. Snarling, the warrior swung a death-delivering blow at Tullus’ head. Tullus twisted hard to the left. Something – a muscle? – tore in his side, and the club hit his shield rim, almost wrenching it from his hand. Tullus would have died then, but Vitellius was there, shoving his blade so deep into the club-wielder’s chest that the hilt slammed against the ribcage.

  It was agony to raise his shield – the blow had damaged the muscles of Tullus’ forearm, but it was death to be without protection. Gritting his teeth, he resumed his place. There was no chance to see what was going on, or to thank Vitellius – another warrior, this one a heavy-set, bearded figure, was driving straight at him. Tullus’ anger towards Arminius, towards every cursed Germanic tribe, bubbled up. He rose above his aches and pains and shoved his shield boss into Beardy’s midriff. His opponent’s look of surprise and the Ooofff sound he made gave Tullus immense satisfaction. With clinical detachment, he drew back his shield and stabbed Beardy in the gut, twisted, wrenched and pulled the crimson-coated blade free. He watched as Beardy sank to his knees, an odd, keening sound issuing from his lips.