Rare breaks in the endless treeline included areas of bog and the damnable streams and rivers that had to be forded. The dangers posed by the former were played out in grisly detail when a mule that had broken away from its handler charged headlong into the middle of a patch, where it sank at once to its hocks. Braying with indignation, it struggled to get free, succeeding only in burying itself to its belly. Further frantic efforts saw it end up chest deep in the mud. Its plight attracted the attention of everyone within sight, but nobody moved to help it. Grateful that they were not the ones trapped, many soldiers hurled insults at the unfortunate beast. Piso considered throwing a javelin at it, to try and end its misery before it endured a slow death by drowning, but his aim wasn’t good enough, and if Tullus or Fenestela saw him ‘wasting’ a weapon, there’d be hell to pay. And as Afer reminded him, it was a damn mule, not a man.
The watercourses were less perilous than the bog, but there was still ample opportunity to trip and fall thanks to the moss-covered, slimy rocks lining their banks, and the difficulty in negotiating them carrying shield, javelins and unwieldy yoke. A legionary in the contubernium ahead of Piso and his comrades slipped and broke a leg, and others sprained ankles or bloodied their kneecaps. As the cursing soldiers reminded one another, they were fortunate not to be in charge of any vehicles. ‘The poor bastards with the artillery must be cursing Fortuna high and low. Imagine trying to heave a fucking wagon with a ballista on the back of it through this,’ said Vitellius during the crossing of the deepest stream yet.
Their relative ‘good luck’ did nothing for Piso’s flagging spirits. They had covered perhaps a mile in the previous hour.
Without warning, their attackers reappeared, like invisible wraiths. Once again, the first indication of trouble was when volleys of spears and sling bullets began landing among the legionaries. Curses mixed with cries of pain. Unperturbed, Tullus ordered an immediate volley of javelins to one side of the track, and then the other. Not every soldier had two pila remaining – many had been discarded or lost at the site of the previous ambush – and their ragged effort lacked its usual power, but the screams that rose when the missiles landed was proof that they had at last inflicted casualties on the enemy.
A ragged cheer went up, but Piso wasn’t alone in being relieved when Tullus ordered them to continue marching rather than standing their ground. ‘There’s no fucking point in waiting to be killed,’ he bellowed. ‘We keep moving. Somewhere, there’ll be a spot where we can build a camp.’
No one argued. Leaving the three dead soldiers where they had fallen, and hauling the handful of wounded along as best they could, the legionaries trudged on. The men on either side used their shields to protect those in the middle. Frameae and stones were still able to come in from above, but that was a danger that had to be borne. Their waterlogged scuta were so heavy that walking with them raised beyond head level was impossible for more than twenty paces.
It didn’t take the enemy long to exploit this weakness. Raising the barritus again, they threw their spears up in steep-angled arcs, which sent them scudding down into the midst of the bunched Romans, where they could not miss. Two such volleys had half a dozen legionaries down, dead or injured. Cursing, Tullus ordered the men in the centre to discard their yokes and raise their shields in defence. He kept them walking, but their progress on the narrow track slowed down to snail’s pace thanks to the weight of their scuta, and the number of casualties that they were supporting or carrying.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm!Huuuummmmmmmm! A heartbeat’s pause, then: Clash! Clash! Clash ! It was repeated over and over.
Piso wished he could block his ears to the chilling sounds, wished he could confront the men who were killing them. At least then they could fight back. All he could see, however, were shadowy figures deep within the trees. Pursuing them would be suicide.
‘Keep moving, you stupid fucking bastards!’ shouted Tullus at the soldiers in front, who had halted again.
‘Our centurion’s been hit, sir,’ shouted a legionary in their midst.
‘Keep your shields up,’ Tullus ordered his men. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Piso and his comrades watched in disbelief as Tullus walked, casual as a man taking a stroll through the forum, around the side of the unit before them. The instant that their attackers saw his horsehair-crested helmet, they began hurling spears and stones.
Piso couldn’t watch. He closed his eyes and prayed: Mars, protect him, please.
To his astonishment, Tullus sauntered back not long after. A few paces from his men’s shield wall, he even paused to make obscene gestures at the forest, and their hidden attackers. ‘Fuck you,’ he shouted in German. ‘And your pox-ridden mothers!’
His legionaries let out a loud cheer.
Angry cries rose from the trees, and a fresh shower of stones and spears were thrown. There was a loud clang as a sling bullet struck Tullus in the back, on his mail shirt. Piso heard the centurion let out a short grunt, but Tullus swaggered back into his position at the front of their formation. The legionaries closed ranks with him at once.
‘You all right, sir?’ asked Afer, his face creased with concern.
‘Aye,’ said Tullus, wincing now that he was out of sight of their enemies. ‘I’ll have a fine bruise, but that’s it.’ The soldiers in front began to move, and Tullus cried, ‘Ready, brothers? Forward, march!’
Despite the showers of enemy missiles and stones, and the unremitting downpour from the clouds above, they managed to make decent progress from that point on. Their march was made easier in no small part by the track, which began to run straight as a Roman road. There were no more large streams either, just shallow affairs that could be splashed through.
After a time, the warriors attacking Tullus and the rest of the vanguard withdrew again. One moment, they were there, and the next, they had disappeared. There was no way of knowing if this ploy applied to the rest of the column. For all Piso and his comrades knew, it was still under attack – communication with other parts of the army bordered on non-existent. It didn’t appear to concern Tullus – ‘We’ve been ordered to locate a campsite,’ he said, as if they were on a training exercise near Vetera. ‘And that’s what we’ll do.’ His calm manner and bloody-minded determination rubbed off on his men, including Piso. They began singing a bawdy marching tune, which Tullus encouraged by joining in lustily with the chorus.
Morale rose further when a low hill appeared close to the track, on the left-hand side. After a brief meeting, Tullus and the other centurions decided that this would be the spot to build the camp. Work began at once, in the traditional fashion, with half the available legionaries providing a protective screen around the remainder, who began felling trees and digging the position’s defensive ditch.
Their respite was brief. Their enemies reappeared soon after the construction had begun, emerging from the forest in a great, chanting horde. It was the first time that the Romans had had a proper glimpse of their foes. They were an intimidating sight, hundreds of burly tribesmen in brightly coloured tunics and trousers, with painted shields and spears, who advanced while singing the barritus. Their slingers walked behind, laying down volleys of stones far in front as the warriors moved forward.