‘Seven. Twice that if we cut rations in half.’
‘Seeking another route back to the Rhenus isn’t a good option then, sir.’
Caecina’s headshake spoke volumes.
‘In that case,’ said Tullus, jutting his chin, ‘we have two choices, sir: to repair the damaged sections, again, and hold off the savages at the same time. Tomorrow or the next day, we can enter the marsh via the road. Or we can press on today, along the flattish ground to the right of the camp. In both instances, the Fifth and the Twenty-First are unknown quantities.’
‘Is it worse to remain here, and make the troops work under constant assault, or to march into the infernal bog, where the enemy can attack us at will?’ Caecina’s voice was unhappy.
‘Whatever we do, we should get going this morning, sir,’ said Tullus with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. ‘I suspect that the attacks today will be heavy, and the Fifth and the Twenty-First might break under the pressure. If we’re moving, their nerve is more likely to hold.’ Let that be true, great Mars, he prayed.
A dozen heartbeats skipped past before Caecina spoke. ‘My mind is made up. We march out today, along the flat ground. Roman virtus will carry us through this, by the gods,’ he said. ‘It has to.’
Chapter XXXII
Tullus was standing at the head of his cohort, on the intervallum, the wide open space between the camp walls and the defences. In front of him were the first six cohorts of the Fifth, behind him the last three. Unable to see more than the arse end of the cohort in front, abandoned avenues to the left and earthen ramparts to the right, he chafed with impatience. ‘Why aren’t we marching?’ he muttered to himself.
Following Caecina’s orders, the four legions had formed up at dawn in the usual manner, cohort by cohort, all around the intervallum. The First Legion was to be in the vanguard today, so it had marched out first, along with the auxiliary cavalry. They were to travel along the flat ground that bordered the ruined Long Bridges road. Their departure had gone ahead without incident more than an hour before. The Twenty-First, whose job it was to form the left flank of the army column, had gone next. The Fifth would take the right flank, and should have been moving by now, thought Tullus, unease nagging at him.
Caecina, his senior officers and large escort were ready to follow on after the Fifth. The wagon train, laden down not just with its usual cargo of food, equipment and artillery, but the injured as well, would come next, with the Twentieth Legion taking up the rear.
Tullus could take the tension no longer. He could not leave his position; nor could Fenestela, at the back of the century. Both of them had to be ready to urge the men on when the time came. Tullus’ gaze shifted to his left, and found someone else. ‘Piso!’
‘Sir?’
‘Go and see what’s going on beyond the wall. Quickly!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Piso loped to the nearest set of steps. Clash, clash, clash went his hobnails on the wood. At the top, he propped his javelin against the rampart and raised a hand, shielding his eyes against the light. Tullus watched him with growing impatience. ‘Well?’ There was no immediate reply. ‘Piso!’
Piso glanced down, his face unhappy.
‘What is it?’ demanded Tullus.
‘The First has marched out of sight, sir, but the Twenty-First, it …’ Piso hesitated.
Conscious of what he might say, and of the disastrous effect it could have on those listening – every soldier within earshot – Tullus roared, ‘Come back!’
The Sixth Cohort had begun to advance towards the gate by the time Piso had reached the bottom of the wall. Tullus had his soldiers move off, and indicated to Piso that he should walk alongside. He gave Piso a sharp look. The steady legionary seemed scared. ‘What in Hades did you see?’ muttered Tullus.
‘The Twenty-First hasn’t followed the First towards the Rhenus, sir. It’s broken away and marched to the right, to a large, flat area.’
Tullus let out a ripe oath. He would have given a year’s pay for his horse, so he could gallop out to remonstrate with the Twenty-First’s senior officers. He swallowed down his disappointment, sour as it was. Even if his mount had been close by, his intervention would make no difference. A marching legion was impossible to halt unless its trumpeters sounded – and there wasn’t much chance of that, given that the entire Twenty-First appeared to be disobeying orders.
Tullus’ worries now soared. Once the Fifth’s cohorts saw what their comrades were at, the likelihood was that they would do the same, rather than follow the First along the intended route of march. It might be too late – the first five cohorts had exited the gate, and would have seen what was going on. He had to move now. ‘Fenestela!’ he bellowed.
‘Sir?’
‘Get up here. The tesserarius is to take your place.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Maintain your pace,’ Tullus ordered the nearest legionaries.
Holding the hilt of his sword so that it didn’t knock off his leg, he began to run. Plenty of curious glances were thrown as he progressed along the side of the next cohort, the Sixth. The ordinary soldiers didn’t dare question him, but the centurions were curious. ‘Ho, Tullus! Can’t you wait to get at the Germans?’ ‘Why the hurry?’ ‘Forgetting your position, Tullus?’
He grinned and muttered vague replies, and kept running. All the while, he cursed the weight of his armour and his ageing body. Tullus’ back ached, so too did his knees, and the crone who liked to stab at the injury in his left calf was at it again. He had to reach the front of the legion, though, while there was still a chance of preventing it following the Twenty-First.
He shoved his way through the gateway, which was filled with soldiers of the Fifth Cohort. Men cursed the stranger pushing from behind until they saw Tullus’ rank, whereupon they fell over themselves to apologise. He ignored them and kept moving, but his heart sank as he emerged. All was confusion. Rather than follow the First Legion towards the Rhenus, the Fifth Cohorts had splintered into disorganised groups. Hundreds of legionaries milled about, ignoring the shouts of their officers. At least one band was marching off to join the rebellious Twenty-First. Several signiferi had joined the aquilifer, and were arguing. The fools were debating what to do, thought Tullus, oblivious to the danger posed by the Germans.
Tullus focused on finding the senior centurion of the Fifth Cohort – his intervention there might help, but it was a scant hope. As its soldiers spilled out from the gateway behind him, they broke ranks at once. A few centurions tried to stop them, but they were barged out of the way. ‘You’ll pay for this, you dogs,’ Tullus shouted as they swarmed past. ‘Running away won’t save you. Arminius will have taken your miserable hides by sunset!’
Discipline hadn’t altogether vanished. The nearest men averted their gaze as they streamed past, but Tullus soon had to abandon all hope of rallying the soldiers outside the camp. He ran back to the gate, hoping to stop the next cohort – the Sixth – from dispersing. Within a few heartbeats, it was apparent that this too was a lost cause. Sensing something, the legionaries had pressed forward into the gateway. The lead centurion, a podgy-cheeked, pink-complexioned individual by the name of Proculinus, stopped when he saw Tullus pushing back, into the camp. His face went puce as Tullus explained what was going on. In that short time, Proculinus’ century had passed by – and was beyond his control. The ranking centurion of the Second Century paused and asked Proculinus, ‘Is everything all right, sir?’