Defy Rome, and this will be your destiny, thought Tullus.
He said the same thing to his men. They were avenging their comrades, who had been so foully betrayed and murdered. Blood had to be shed – oceans of it – before the tormented ghosts of the dead could rest in peace.
He was glad when the trumpets sounded the advance. Glad that their waiting was over. Glad, after so long, to be in a position to begin avenging his slaughtered men.
His pleasure soured fast as they approached the now familiar Marsi settlement. Degmar had been correct, Tullus thought. Vast amounts of beer must have been consumed the night before, as the only figures visible as they neared the buildings were those of children. They clustered together as the lines of armoured legionaries closed in, crying out in fear, abandoning their play and forgetting their animal charges – sheep, goats and cattle. Alerted by the commotion, women rushed screaming from their doorways. Late – too late – warriors began to emerge from longhouses, or pick themselves up from where they’d been sleeping, staring in disbelief at the advancing Romans and grabbing whatever weapons were to hand. In twos and threes, they charged forward. Voices hoarse from drinking sang the barritus, but the rendition was thin, reedy. The last time Tullus and his men had heard it, his legionaries had quailed in fear, and even wept. Now they laughed. Jeered. Spat.
In unison, the centurions halted their troops. When the charging warriors were fifty paces away, a volley of javelins went up. Against so few enemies, its effect was devastating, and corpses and wounded men soon littered the ground. Only a few warriors remained unharmed, but, desperate to defend their families, they ran on, straight into the shield wall. They fell without killing a single legionary. They’re dying like men, thought Tullus, but to what purpose? If he had been in their place, with Sirona, say, he would have run. You’re getting soft, he told himself. Stop it.
The efficiency with which their fellows had been slain snapped the remaining Marsi warriors’ courage the way a child breaks a twig in two. Gathering their womenfolk and children, they fled from the advancing Romans. Hoots of derision rose from the legionaries. ‘Ah, don’t go!’ ‘You won’t get far!’ ‘There’s a nice surprise waiting for you on the other side of the village!’
‘Hold your lines,’ roared Tullus. Like cats with captured mice, his men’s instinctive reaction was to chase after their prey. The grim truth was that there was no need to run. ‘Shields ready. Draw swords. Forward, at the walk.’
When they reached the first longhouses, their lines had to break up. Parties of legionaries were sent in to search for anyone who hadn’t yet run. Tullus and the rest continued on into the settlement, cutting down a warrior here and there. It wasn’t long before the first screams reached Tullus’ ears – the voice was that of a woman, or perhaps even a girl. His stomach did a nauseating roll, but he didn’t intervene.
Rape was the norm during brutal situations like this. What was happening in the longhouse behind him was about to be repeated scores of times, all over the settlement. Tullus could no more prevent it than he could stop the tide. Stay focused, he thought. Keep control of your men as best you can. Make sure there are no casualties. Endure. It will end.
Despite his resolve, their time in the village seemed to last an eternity. Tullus grew weary of the sight of bodies, the piteous cries of the wounded, and the acrid stench of burning flesh wafting from burning houses. Men and women, children, greybeards and crones: they lay everywhere. On their backs, their fronts, sprawled on their sides, or heaped on top of one another in death’s emotionless embrace. Flies swarmed over the pools of clotting blood. Overhead, crows and ravens gathered, black-winged messengers of doom.
The animals weren’t immune from the savagery either. Dogs were slain out of hand. Hens had their necks wrung or were tossed, squawking, into the blazing houses. Shrieking pigs writhed on the javelins spitting them through and through. A horse that had been disembowelled walked in ever-decreasing circles, winding tight the sinuous loops of bowels around its lower legs. Laughing soldiers chased sheep around pens, stabbing them so many times that their wool turned crimson before they collapsed.
By midday or thereabouts, the slaughter was over. Faces blackened with soot and caked with blood, wild-eyed legionaries sat around, swilling the beer they’d found and arguing over who had killed the most tribesmen, and other, uglier things. Tullus issued orders to his officers, and then, calm and methodical, they re-established control over their troops, the way a rider of a bolted horse coaxes it back to his hand. According to a messenger, Germanicus had ordered the army to move on to the next village, which was some five miles distant. There was enough daylight left to reach it and put its inhabitants to the sword, the messenger said, before riding on.
At last the contubernia and centuries began to re-form under the direction of Tullus’ officers. He watched in silence, standing with his back towards a longhouse that was a little smaller than most. It was positioned at the edge of the settlement, almost as if the person living in it hadn’t really wanted to live close to anyone else. It hadn’t been burned down, but the smashed-in door and a couple of nearby dead sheep were evidence that it had been ransacked.
Or so Tullus thought.
Amidst the uproar of bellowed orders, tramping feet and the soldiers’ resentful comments, he heard a low cry, as a child might make in fear. It was stifled by something – or someone – which drew Tullus’ attention at once. He might have done nothing, but other men had heard it too. One of his centurions asked permission to send men into the longhouse. ‘I’ll do it,’ said Tullus. ‘Piso! Vitellius!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’
The two legionaries were with him in a few strides, their faces as sweat-covered and dirty as anyone’s. Vitellius had scratches running down one cheek, as might have been made by a woman’s fingernails. Tullus put that image from his mind. ‘Come with me.’
Tullus led the way. He stepped inside the longhouse with care, sword ready by his side, shield high enough that anyone hurling a spear would have to hit him in the face. Nothing was thrown, and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was a typical farmer’s dwelling, with a packed-earth floor. Livestock pens – empty – filled the space to his right, and living quarters – low beds, a stone ring fireplace, blackened pots and pans – the area to his left. Dried herbs and meats dangled from the beams above. Tools and implements – rakes, hammers, a twig broom, a saw, two axes – leaned against or hung from the walls to either side.
Tullus shuffled a few steps further inside, allowing Piso and Vitellius to enter. ‘Search the pens,’ he whispered. ‘Be careful.’
Ignoring their curious stares, Tullus moved towards the living area, treading light, eyes darting from side to side. There was no sign of life. Every few steps, he stopped to listen. The only audible sounds were Piso and Vitellius murmuring, and the creaking of wicker hurdles as they were moved aside. Closer to the fireplace, he could see that it had been used that morning – the embers at its heart were yet glowing. Some kind of broth steamed in a pot that hung from an iron tripod over the fire, and Tullus’ belly rumbled. He hadn’t eaten in many hours.
Whoever had been cooking appeared to have fled. So too did whoever, or whatever, had alerted him. Tullus propped his shield against a wooden pillar and picked up a ladle. Scooping up a measure, he blew on it until it was cool enough to swallow. The broth was delicious – root vegetables with herbs, he thought, bending over the pot for a second time.
A tiny sound behind him – a sandal scraping off the floor, perhaps – rang an alarm in his head. He wheeled around, ladle in one hand, sword in the other, feeling like a complete fool. To die because his hunger had got the better of him would be a stupid way to go. To his huge relief, he saw no hulking warrior with a ready spear, no woman brandishing a carving knife. He wasn’t alone, however. Tullus was sure of that. Laying down the ladle, he moved, cat-soft, towards the beds. There were six of them, three facing three, with narrow gaps between the head of one and the foot of the next.