To Tullus’ relief, Mule Prick’s plight had stopped the avalanche of warriors in its tracks. He and his men weren’t out of danger yet, however. ‘Third rank, pass your javelins to the front!’ he shouted. ‘First rank, ready!’
Another volley of javelins went up. Only one hit Mule Prick this time, but it speared him through the chest, killing him. An audible sound of dismay went up from the tribesmen as his bloodied corpse fell backwards into the bog, and the javelins transfixing him jerked upright like so many fence posts.
‘Draw swords. Keep your faces to the front,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Walk backwards, nice and slow.’
Eyes fixed on the enemy, they stepped back the way they had come. Progress was slower than before. Unable to see what was behind them, men tripped and cursed, and a number turned an ankle or wrenched a knee. One fool suffered a flesh wound to the buttocks when he stumbled backwards on to the sword wielded by the soldier in the next rank.
Tullus didn’t care, because there had been no pursuit, and by the time they reached more level ground, the warriors had vanished into the trees, taking the berserker’s corpse with them. At least a dozen legionaries began taking the credit for hitting Mule Prick. Tullus laughed and said that the century would have four amphorae to share between them, one for each javelin that had struck home. ‘When we get back to Vetera, of course,’ he added. Despite this sobering comment, the soldiers cheered.
As Tullus neared the other cohorts, Bassius was waiting with a small escort. ‘That was a close call.’
‘It reminded me of kicking a wasps’ nest, sir,’ said Tullus in sober tone. ‘Not the wisest thing to do.’
‘It was clever to bring down the berserker.’
Tullus fell out of rank, and indicated that his men should keep marching. He lowered his voice. ‘If he hadn’t fallen, sir, we’d have been finished.’
‘You did well. How many are they – could you see?’
‘I counted about a thousand, sir, but there looked to be plenty more in the trees. Arminius won’t be here unless he has a good-sized host. Six years ago, he must have had fifteen to twenty thousand spears.’ The enormous figures were a stark reminder of their own situation. Caecina commanded more legionaries than Varus had had, but in an ambush, superior numbers often counted for little. The potential for Arminius’ ambush to be repeated was there, thought Tullus. The Long Bridges road was a good place to attack, because of the vast bogs that rolled away into the distance. If the legions broke, they would have nowhere to run.
‘I always wondered how Varus could have been led astray,’ said Bassius. ‘I’m beginning to understand.’
Tullus’ festering anger towards Arminius flared. ‘The same thing is not going to happen to us!’ He flushed and added, ‘Sir.’
Bassius seemed amused. ‘I’m glad to have you in my legion.’ He gave Tullus an approving nod, but then he was all business again. ‘The camp won’t get built on its own. Caecina has sent word to continue what we’ve started. Get your lot digging over there, by the Sixth Cohort. We’ll talk later. There’s to be a meeting of high-ranking officers, including senior centurions.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus approved.
An unexpected break appeared in the clouds, spilling shafts of late-afternoon sunshine on to the damp landscape. A moment later, the rain eased off and stopped. The effect was remarkable. Their surroundings, which had been so forbidding, almost seemed welcoming. Deep in the bog, a hidden grouse let out a satisfied ku-ku-ku-ku-kerrooo. Elsewhere, a legionary was whistling. Another man cracked a joke. Morale remained high, and Tullus smiled.
He glanced up the hill where they’d slain the berserker, and his good humour vanished as fast as it had arrived. Along the tree line stretched an unending row of tribesmen. It was no better on the hillock opposite. They had to number four thousand, thought Tullus, resentful of the cold sweat trickling down his back. Worse still, they were but a proportion of Arminius’ host.
To a man, the warriors were motionless. Their presence was enough threat, enough of a message to every Roman in the bogland below.
We will kill you all.
Chapter XXIX
Night had fallen over the vast Roman camp for the second time since Caecina’s army had arrived at the beginning of the Long Bridges road. Drizzling rain, dense and cold, yet fell. Cloud hid the moon and stars, as it had the sun – all that day and the ones before it. The only light came from small, sputtering fires by the soldiers’ tents, and from their personal oil lamps within. Piso was trudging the muddy avenues towards the tent that served as a temporary hospital. The poor light, uneven surface and protruding rocks meant that it had taken him three times as long as normal to come this distance from his cohort’s position. He consoled himself with the thought of the injured Saxa, who would appreciate his company and, more, the wine slopping about in the leather bag slung over his shoulder.
From beyond the ramparts came the sound of singing: Arminius’ tribesmen carousing. Piso had been doing his best to block his ears to the unsettling, alien sound, but it was a real struggle. Hades take them and soon, he thought, and keep our sentries alert. Reaching the hospital tent’s entrance, he let two stretcher-bearers emerge, carrying a legionary’s body. Piso couldn’t help but lean in to see if it was Saxa, or anyone else he knew.
Shamed by his relief at not recognising the corpse, he fumbled in his purse. ‘Wait.’ Both orderlies looked irritated, but they paused. Proffering a denarius, Piso muttered, ‘He’ll need to pay the ferryman.’
‘You’re a good man,’ said the senior stretcher-bearer, a veteran old enough to be Piso’s father. ‘Go on.’
The corpse’s still warm lips were disquieting to the touch, but Piso had done the same for more than one comrade over the years. He laid the coin on the bloody tongue, and pushed the jaw shut. ‘May your journey be swift. Give that brute Cerberus a kick from me.’
The stretcher-bearers gave him a friendly nod and went on their way. Piso knew their destination: a vast pit against one wall of the camp. Dug the previous day, even as the fortifications were being finished, its bottom was waist-deep in bog water. Within, the result of today’s fighting, were the bodies of more than five hundred legionaries. None of his friends were among them, which was something to be grateful for, but two men from Tullus’ century were, and upwards of fifty from the cohort. The Germans’ attacks had been relentless through the day, on both the soldiers fetching timber and those engaged in repairing the neglected road.
I’m alive and unharmed, thought Piso, and so are the rest of us, apart from Saxa. A framea had pierced his comrade’s lower left arm as he helped to chop down a tree. Unless Saxa was unlucky, the wound would heal. Be grateful, thought Piso. Other men haven’t fared so well.
A wall of warm, fuggy air met him as he entered the hospital tent, bringing with it a mixture of powerful smells. The harsh tang of acetum was welcome beside the other odours: piss and shit, blood, damp wool and men’s sweat. Breathing through his mouth, Piso paced along the lines of wounded, bandaged men, his eyes searching for Saxa. Like their hale comrades elsewhere in the camp, the patients’ only bedding was an army blanket each. Many were sleeping, or comatose, either drugged with poppy juice or so far gone that they were beyond needing it. Others moaned softly to themselves. A few held muttered conversations with their neighbours. Someone was humming the tune of a popular marching song, over and over. A man was whimpering, ‘Mother. Mother. Mother.’ Piso glanced at him, and wished he hadn’t. Heavy bandaging covered the soldier’s right eye, but dark red blood continued to seep through from the wound beneath. The pain had to be excruciating.