Eagles at War (47 page)

One by one, Varus’ subordinates made their reports, most of which had to do with their casualty estimates. This was bad enough, but an audible groan greeted the news of the loss of an eagle, that of the Eighteenth. More than half the soldiers in his army had been killed or wounded. The losses among the centurionate had also been fearful, which was a mark of the savagery of the day’s fighting. Of the hundred and eighty centurions in the three legions, ninety-five were dead or incapacitated. Although many of the injured had been left behind, there were perhaps two thousand in their camp. A good proportion of these men could march, but not fast, and the majority would need to be carried, or helped to walk. Perhaps six thousand combat-ready legionaries remained, along with about five hundred auxiliaries. These figures were made even starker when spoken out loud. No one mentioned how many warriors they faced, but everyone knew that they were now outnumbered. By some degree.

When the last officer fell silent, Varus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to banish his exhaustion and fear. He racked his brains.

‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Tubero, who was present despite a reddened bandage on his left arm.

His officers’ gaze felt like a physical weight – a large one, made of lead – on Varus’ shoulders.

‘Would Arminius be open to negotiation, sir?’ This was Ceionius, who looked scrawnier than ever.

Up to this point, no one had dared to mention Arminius, which needled Varus as much as if they’d all been bandying his name about. They were tiptoeing around him, because
he
was the one who had taken Arminius at his word about the supposed Angrivarii rebellion. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, he thought. ‘Arminius is a treacherous son of a pox-ridden whore. He’s given us no signs thus far that he’s interested in talking. Why do you ask?’

Ceionius hesitated, then blurted, ‘We could surrender, sir. Maybe he’d think about ransoming us.’

Several officers hissed with displeasure, but none shouted Ceionius down. Instead, all eyes returned to Varus.

It was odd, but Ceionius’ weakness rallied Varus’ strength. ‘Romans do not capitulate to savages or barbarians! It is beneath us. They are little more than animals. We fight on – to the end if necessary.’

As the rest agreed loudly with Varus, Ceionius hung his head.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ Lucius Eggius still had some fire in his eyes.

‘The wounded who cannot walk are to be given a choice,’ said Varus. ‘They can die at their comrades’ hands, or be left behind in the morning. The rest of the injured will have to keep up, or suffer the same fate. Regroup the most weakened centuries to form complete units, using men from the same legion where possible. I want an inventory made of every sword, spear and shield. Before we march out, every whole-bodied legionary is to be fully equipped.’

‘Which way shall we march, sir?’ asked Tubero.

‘We can’t go back, or into the bog, and the savages will prevent us from going up the hill. That leaves us one choice. The same route we took today: south-southwest, towards the Lupia,’ said Varus, seeing the disappointment rise in their faces. Fools, he thought. Did they expect me to magic a way for us to escape? Or to bring down the aid of the gods? ‘Clear?’

The responses were muted, but they came. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ ‘Understood, sir.’

‘It’s the turn of the Nineteenth to form the vanguard tomorrow, sir,’ said the last legate. ‘But they took a heavier battering than most. I thought perhaps one of the other legions should take their place instead.’

Varus thought at once of Tullus, whom he had wronged, and the Eighteenth. As far as he knew, Tullus was still alive. The next day’s fighting might be heaviest at the front of the column, but the soldiers there would also possess the best chance of breaking away of anyone in the army. If Fortuna or Mars were of a mind, a valiant soldier such as Tullus might survive. There was no other way that Varus could make amends – and no way of knowing if the gesture would even make any difference. ‘Fine. The Eighteenth will form the vanguard.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Back to your tents.’ Varus wanted to be alone. Not to sleep, because he knew that would elude him, but to plead with the gods, to make a case that
some
of his soldiers would avoid the slaughter on the morrow. Without their help, he feared that every one of them would be killed.

The bitter taste – of hemlock, it seemed again – returned to his mouth. Not for me the death of Socrates, thought Varus, gripping his sword hilt. If it comes to it, I will depart this life as a soldier.

XXVIII

PISO STOOD IN
the dark before dawn, shivering in a dripping wet cloak that now weighed twice what it did when dry. The thousands of men around him were in the same boat, which helped him not to complain. They were
all
soaking, cold, hungry and footsore. Many of them bore wounds, a good number of which would prove fatal if they didn’t reach a camp with a hospital soon. Piso was lucky in that regard: he was one of a handful to have escaped being wounded thus far. From the corner of his eye, he watched a nearby legionary with a deep slash on his left foot. It wasn’t usual for such an injury to be regarded as serious, but here, where to fall behind was to die, it was as bad as being gut-stuck. The man shifted position over and over. Even with the
pilum
he was using as a crutch, he was unable to take the weight on his bad foot for more than a few heartbeats. Poor bastard, thought Piso. He was a standing corpse.

Misery at his own plight soon overtook him again. He – every last one of them – might well be dead soon, and there was fuck all he could do about it.

They were waiting for Tullus to come back from checking the rest of their depleted cohort. When he returned, and the trumpets sounded – if there were any damn musicians left – they would leave the camp. Piso felt a tickle of bleak humour. With no defensive ditch, no rampart, no proper entrances, no avenues and only a few tents, it couldn’t really be called a camp. Small wonder then that the tribesmen had attacked during the night. Luckily for him and the rest of Tullus’ troops, they had been sleeping right in the middle of the army. The soldiers who’d been near the points at which the bastard savages had sneaked in hadn’t been so fortunate. According to the rumours, more than two hundred men had died or been hurt.

‘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.