Despite the Germans’ ferocity, and the losses they’d inflicted on the Romans up to that point, seeing them steadied the legionaries. A face-to-face confrontation with the assailants who’d plagued them for hours was a relief. They weren’t forest spirits or demons. They were men, like themselves, who sweated, and bled if they were stuck with a blade. Few had any armour, and most had only spears to fight with. They could be defeated – had been defeated, many times, by the legions. And, as Tullus and other centurions roared at their soldiers, there was no reason that they couldn’t be beaten again.
The assault was short and vicious, but the legionaries threw back the warriors, inflicting heavy losses. Undeterred, the Germans rallied and attacked again, but more and more Roman troops – from the column – were arriving on the scene. Their officers flung their soldiers into combat, driving back the warriors for a second time. A third effort also failed. The tribesmen withdrew into the trees and were gone.
Piso did not share in the widespread jubilation that broke out as this happened. He too was pleased by the Romans’ success, but he’d listened in on Tullus as he talked with Fenestela not long before. What he’d heard was most unsettling. Tullus didn’t think that they’d been ambushed solely by Angrivarii. In his opinion, there were thousands more warriors out there in the forest, ready to fall upon them. His final words to Fenestela rang in Piso’s head over and over. ‘The tribes have joined forces. Only one man could have done this – and that is someone who knows the legions inside out. From now on, it’s about survival, pure and simple. What’s important is to get as many of our brothers out as we can.’
That implied that Tullus thought more men would die, thought Piso, his belly clenching tight with fear.
Many more men.
XXIII
By nightfall, the vast majority of Varus’ troops were safe behind the unfinished defences of the vast camp on the hillside. The tribesmen were no fools, Varus decided, leaving his command tent. They had withdrawn not long since, unprepared to lose more casualties in open battle. Secure in the knowledge that his soldiers would have a night’s respite, he had decided to walk around the camp. The calamity that had befallen his army that day, and the casualties it had suffered, had stunned his soldiers. He had seen the proof of that in the haggard faces as he’d entered the camp some time before. Showing his face might raise morale.
The savagery of the day’s attacks had ensured that their problems would continue overnight. Thanks to the number of abandoned wagons and mules that had gone missing, a good number of Varus’ men didn’t have tents to sleep in that night or dry wood to use in cooking fires. The rain that was still falling wouldn’t kill them, nor would the cooling temperatures, but the added privations would be further blows to their confidence.
Ordering a wagon loaded with his entire personal supply of wine, Varus began walking the avenues of the camp, with a reluctant Aristides and a score of soldiers from the First Cohort as company. At every turn, there was evidence that the disorder and chaos affecting his army that day continued. The main streets, the via principalis and the via praetoria, had not been measured and set by an engineer with a groma. Their usual right angles to one another were absent, and there was a noticeable crookedness in the way they ran to the entrances. There were tree stumps everywhere, the remnants of the forest that had covered the hill until a short time before. They varied in size from a lethal tripping-over ankle height to easier-to-spot waist-high affairs. The positions occupied by each unit had been preserved, Varus was pleased to see, but there were far too few tents, and less than half the expected number of mules.
Those legionaries who’d been fortunate enough to locate their heavier gear were safe inside their tents, but other groups of men crouched in miserable huddles in the spots where theirs should have been. Some were using their propped-up scuta and draped-over cloaks as makeshift protection against the rain. Several contubernia had even built mini testudos, utilising the slope of the hill as a backdrop. Chopped branches held up their shields, and on top they had laid blankets and spare garments. Varus took the time to commend them on this ingenious solution to their lack of shelter. It was heart-warming to note how many centurions were ordering men under the leather porticos of their own capacious tents, and even into them.
Before long, Varus decided to start doling out the wine. Picking a spot at random, he called out, ‘Wine ration!’ It amused him that the soldiers’ response was more rapid, more dramatic, than if he’d followed more normal procedure and had his presence announced. They charged over, uncaring of the mud. At first, no one recognised Varus, clad in an ordinary soldier’s cloak, without his helmet. They swarmed around him, smiling, jostling and demanding to know which blessed officer had sanctioned the wine. No one paid any attention to Aristides’ disapproving face and muttered comments about their overfamiliarity.
‘I did,’ said Varus. ‘This is my own supply.’
Incomprehension played across the sweaty, dirt-caked faces around him for a heartbeat. Then there was shock, and surprise, and fear. Soldiers who had pressed close to Varus in their eagerness to get some wine shoved backwards against the crowd, while trying to salute and tell their comrades who had appeared in their midst.
‘Governor Varus! You honour us with your presence,’ cried a legionary with more wherewithal than most.
‘It’s the governor!’ ‘Jupiter, it’s Varus!’ ‘Varus has brought his own wine to share with us!’ went the incredulous remarks.
A cheer went up, and then another.
Smiling, Varus raised his hands for silence. ‘It’s been a hard day for every one of us. You’ve done well, all of you. I am proud of you. Rome is proud of you!’
They cheered again then. ‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ It was a hoarse, defiant sound that rose into the darkening sky until it was lost in the clouds.
‘Tomorrow will be tough too, I can promise you that,’ said Varus, when they had quietened. ‘But the going will be easier. We will abandon the baggage train, and leave the forest. The Angrivarii can be dealt with another time. Our destination will be the forts on the Lupia River. Two to three days’ march should see us to safety there.’
They liked that, thought Varus, pleased to see the life returning to men’s eyes. When he ordered that each soldier was to receive a second, brimming cup of wine, they roared louder and longer than before. ‘I’d give you more,’ said Varus, ‘but I have a whole army to see to.’ Laughter broke out now, and by the time he’d signalled the wagon to start moving again, the legionaries were even joking with one another.
Varus had had little idea how successful the wine-delivering mission would prove to be. He was received everywhere by a rapturous audience of soldiers. It seemed that the distribution of free wine by the governor himself was worth a great deal more than a few missing tents. What was supposed to have taken an hour or so soon became something that would occupy much of the evening. At length, Varus reined in his enthusiasm. The meeting with his officers was also vital. ‘Aristides, you’re to finish this,’ he ordered.
Aristides’ face registered many kinds of unhappiness, but somehow he restricted it to a plaintive, ‘Me, master?’
Varus found his heart hardening, even though Aristides looked exhausted. The Greek had trudged the last five miles on foot, after the wagon he’d been riding on lost a wheel. Yet he wasn’t dead, or injured. ‘Yes, damn it,’ said Varus. ‘You can’t fight, but you can make yourself useful. To get to Vetera, you need these soldiers’ protection. Keeping their spirits up is therefore vital – can’t you see that?’