‘I think it was Julius Long Nose,’ answered Vitellius.
Piso chuckled, relieved yet again that his name was unusual. So many men went by the common first names – Julius, Marcus, Quintus and so on – that individuals had to be differentiated by their second or last names, or a nickname. ‘Long Nose,’ he yelled. ‘We’re not going to let you forget that bear!’
Long Nose’s sour response was drowned out by a chorus of laughter, whistles and cries of ‘Bear! Bear!’
‘Nice one, Piso,’ said Vitellius.
Piso grinned, relishing the comradeship he now felt. Even when the rain began to fall again later, his spirits didn’t falter. It was just water, and he could dry out by the fire in camp that evening. The trees in their path could be cut down, the streams crossed one way or another. In a day or two, they would sort out the Angrivarii and, that done, return to Vetera. Back in barracks, there would be time to have his name inscribed on the bronze fasteners he’d taken from Aius at dice. Between one thing and another, Piso had forgotten to have this done before leaving Porta Westfalica. Although it was unlikely that anyone would see Aius’ name etched on the back of the fasteners, and Tullus could vouch for him if needs be, Piso had felt uncomfortable about using them. As a result, they had been sitting in his purse since the night he had beaten Aius. In an odd way, the fasteners had begun to feel like a good-luck talisman, which was why Piso wanted to hold on to them.
He traced their irregular shape through the leather of his purse.
Fortuna, I am your faithful servant. Watch over me, as you always do, he prayed.
XXII
Piso was sick of trees. Beech trees. Hornbeam trees. Oak trees. He’d seen enough of them to last him for the rest of his life. He had lost count of the number he had cut down, or helped to fell that day. His arms ached like they had during his training, and it was a struggle to swing the axe more than a few times before having to rest. And brambles – he was sick of them too. They grew everywhere, in great dense patches. Every exposed part of Piso’s skin bore red lines where he had been caught or scratched by their thorns.
Lucky for him, everyone was in the same state, which meant that Tullus recognised it as generalised exhaustion rather than individuals shirking their duty. During the midday meal break, he ordered that the legionaries who’d been on sentry duty would change places with those who had been widening the track for the army. Piso felt a warm rush of gratitude towards his centurion. Watching out for bears and Angrivarii warriors – who everyone said were unlikely to appear – would be easy in comparison to hacking down trees.
The short rest was more welcome than the idea of cold food. Men squatted down on their haunches, or sat on fallen trunks, uncaring of the damp that soaked through their cloaks and tunics. Some even lay down under the trees, where the ground was a little drier. Few talked, and when they did, it was to complain about Varus, who had commanded them to march into this living hell instead of back to Vetera, where they belonged.
‘What a man needs on a day like this is soup, or at the least, hot wine,’ complained Vitellius, ripping up a chunk of bread and shoving it into his mouth.
There was a loud chorus of agreement from the rest of the contubernium, gathered in a circle around a flattish stone that was serving as a table. Helmets and sodden felt liners, yokes, equipment, javelins and shields covered the ground at their feet.
‘That would require a fire,’ observed Piso, indicating the sodden earth and dripping trees. ‘Even Vulcan would struggle to light one in this shithole.’
That raised a chuckle from some.
Tullus arrived then, as he so often did, out of nowhere. There was no sign of Degmar, his Marsi servant, but that didn’t surprise Piso. Like as not, he was off scouting somewhere. The horsehair crest of Tullus’ helmet had sagged down to either side, like an old man who combs his hair down the middle, and his cloak was soaked, same as everyone else’s, but his confident demeanour remained. ‘Men,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘Sir.’ Piso and the rest began to rise, but Tullus waved them back into their positions.
‘There’s no need to move. You look too comfortable.’ The legionaries managed a dutiful laugh, and he smiled. It didn’t last, though. Piso felt a tickle of unease as Tullus’ expression became grim. ‘You’re staying alert?’
‘Aye, sir.’ ‘Of course, sir.’ ‘You can rely on us, sir.’
A stern nod. ‘Good. Forget about Long Nose making the mistake with the bear. If you see anything unusual this afternoon, shout! I want the men at the front of the damn column to hear. There’ll be no reprimand if it’s a false alarm, I promise you. I’d rather know about something I don’t need to worry about than the other way round, if you get my drift.’
Piso wondered forever afterwards how Tullus could have timed his advice better.
Without warning, a shoal of spears flew out of the trees to their left, whipping into Piso’s vision as a blur of long, black streaks. A heartbeat later, a similar cloud was hurled from the right. Next came a succession of loud cracks, which was followed by a rain of slingstones, whizzing towards the Romans like so many angry bees. Caught unprepared, without their shields, legionaries were struck down in their dozens. Two of Piso’s contubernium slumped dead into the mud, without even the chance to cry out. A spear slammed into the tree behind him; another thumped into the ground by Afer’s feet. Behind Tullus, a legionary uttered a surprised ‘Ohhhh’ as his forehead was smashed by a stone; he dropped like a discarded child’s puppet. Piso and his comrades gaped, not believing what they were seeing.
Not far off, a mule brayed. It wasn’t the normal, complaining sound, but a deep, distressed cry. Another mule joined in, and then another, mixing with the screams and cries of men that filled the air around them.
Piso felt numb, nauseous, paralysed.
Tullus was on his feet, gesturing. ‘Up, you maggots, if you want to live! Grab your fucking shields!’
Guts churning with fear, expecting a spear between the shoulder blades, Piso scrambled towards his scutum. Uncaring that he had no time to take off the leather cover, he lifted it and faced to his left. Fresh fear coursed through him as another volley of spears hummed in from behind, from the trees on the other side. Fresh slingshots poured in as well, from the left, from the right, from above. Ten paces away, a legionary went down, roaring for his mother.
‘Pair up with another man,’ bawled Tullus, who was standing, shieldless, in the middle of the track. ‘Stand back to back – protect one another. Keep your heads down! MOVE!’
Piso shoved himself up against Afer, while Vitellius and Long Nose did the same alongside. Just doing that was respite of a kind, although they still weren’t wearing their helmets. Piso watched, amazed, as Tullus stalked up and down, ordering men to join them and form a line. He seemed oblivious to the spears raining down around him, and his calmness transferred in some measure at least to those he confronted. Little by little, man by man, the line began to take shape. As the storm of spears and stones eased, it became a solid file, perhaps thirty paired legionaries, facing both ways towards the once gloomy, now deadly forest.
Another scatter of spears flew out of the trees, wounding one soldier and killing an injured man.
There was a loud crack as a slinger released, and a last stone streaked into sight, thunking harmlessly into a tree.
No more followed.
‘Steady, brothers,’ cried Tullus. ‘It’s not over.’
The stunned legionaries glanced at their comrades, at the widespread carnage. Bodies were strewn everywhere: face down in the mud, staring blankly at the grey sky, propped against tree trunks, sprawled over each other. The spears that had silenced their banter forever protruded from their flesh at jaunty angles, like so many hedgehog spines. They stuck into the air from the mud and poked out from tree trunks: frameae, fearsome weapons that every Roman recognised. Their shafts varied in length from that of a man’s arm to one and a half times his height, and their short, sharp iron blades delivered a mortal wound with ease. Of the stones that had hammered down, there was less sign. Most had vanished into the mud, but occasional examples lay by the men they had slain, innocuous-looking shiny lumps of rock no bigger than hen’s eggs.