Mere moments later, before even the commander’s body had hit the floor, Varus and his companion fell upon the Germans, carving them repeatedly, driven by rage and grief. The other four cavalrymen joined them and the sight of their rage being taken out upon the bodies of German warriors already dead sickened even the most veteran of the watching legionaries. For a moment it looked like the troopers were going to ride on and attack the entire German force, though Varus motioned them back. He was the last to leave the site, dismounting, heaving the body of his commander on to the Galician and leading it back with his own horse.
Fronto, stunned and shocked, realised that he was standing like a gawping idiot while the Germans were already engaging further along by the Eleventh. Here by the Tenth, they were still thirty feet or so away. He turned, wiping his face, and looked down at the pale and anguished face of Priscus.
“Do you feel like defending today?”
“No bloody way sir.”
He shouted above the noise of the oncoming Germans.
“Cornicen: sound the advance!”
The musician, taken by surprise, put the long, curved horn to his mouth and blew the call.
Crispus heard the bleating over the sounds of combat and glanced to the other end of the wall in surprise. The Tenth were swarming over the wall and toward the Germans. That wasn’t the plan; they were to defend the fort. Longinus and his men had done their job well and the legions had been prepared. The Eleventh had been hit by them a couple of minutes ago, but why the hell would Fronto abandon the plan and go for such foolhardy actions?
For a moment Crispus was dumbfounded, totally unsure what to do with this change of plan. He knew that the Roman position was strong; that they could hold the wall for ages without falling, and that a march into such a large army against unknown odds was risky at best. All of his knowledge of tactical histories urged him to sound the Tenth’s recall. For some reason, though, he found himself shouting at his cornicen “Sound the advance!”
The Eleventh, deep in the bloody business of Roman frontline warfare, heard the call. Despite their situation, the shield wall pulled a little tighter together and, slowly, smashing at German arms and faces with their huge, bronze shield bosses, they pushed the mass back from the slope.
Crispus smiled. Fronto wouldn’t be alone. The Eleventh would be there to defend his flank, as they always were. He had disagreed with everything Fronto had said this morning and was damned if he was going to see the man lying dead on this field due to lack of support.
All along the fortifications, the legions had swept forward into the Germans. Fronto had been the first down the bank, in front of the Tenth’s leading centurions. He had been the first member of the Tenth to take a German life. After almost an hour of brutality the news had reached Crispus, standing on the wall behind his troops and cheering them on, of the death of Longinus. He had been ashamed later for having temporarily left his legion, but he had to see. Varus, the cavalry prefect, had brought the body back, and had laid it on one of the platforms, where the body was in full view of the field. Crispus had looked down at the corpse and had felt something harden inside; a knot of twisted pain and cold anger.
The young man had fought in the engagements of the Eleventh before, but had fought carefully and calmly and usually at the edge or the rear, when only rarely the enemy actually reached him. Now white, cold, icy fire flowed through his veins and his senior officers, tribunes and centurions alike were shocked to see the young, educated, well-spoken and noble Crispus hauling his own soldiers out of the way in order to get to the enemy, growling like a starving wolf.
Fronto and Crispus met up as the sun began to sink behind the hills. The Germans were finally retreating into the safety of their camp, though many of their army’s rear ranks had returned considerably earlier. Countless dead of both sides lay strewn across the battlefield and as they walked, the two legates had to stumble and sidestep the grisly remains. The two, blood soaked and grimy, walked stiffly, tired and with no smile playing across their lips.
With the centuries of their legions moving slowly, victorious, across the field back to their camp, the legates paused at the embankment. Varus sat on the platform next to the body of his commander, drinking unwatered wine directly from the jug. He looked up as he saw the two approach and held the jug out wordlessly. Crispus reached out and took the container, upending it and pouring the wine into his mouth and across his face in a torrent, washing the blood from his skin. He threw the empty jug onto the platform. Fronto looked around at the Tenth, dragging themselves back to camp, and grasped the mail shirt of one of the immunes legionaries.
“Find me wine. Plenty of wine.”
The soldier took one look at Fronto’s face and hurried off into the camp as the legate turned back to see Crispus crouched by the body. He tore a long strip of blood-soaked tunic from the commander’s corpse and tied it round his upper arm. As Crispus turned back, there was a tear in the corner of his eye. The legates of the Tenth and Eleventh dropped heavily to the turf platform.
* * * * *
The sound of hundreds of hoof beats distracted Fronto from his train of thought and his voice trailed away. He dropped the wine jug to the turf and he, Varus and Crispus all turned to look at the new arrivals. Caesar sat astride his white charger, with Crassus beside him and Ingenuus with a number of the cavalry.
Crispus struggled to his feet and stood roughly to attention, faltering a little. Varus followed suit. Fronto merely hauled himself around to face the General and remained slumped. Caesar looked down at the scene with one eyebrow raised.
“What…”
His voice tailed off as his wandering gaze took in the body on the platform behind them.
“Longinus?”
Fronto sighed deeply and took another swig of wine.
“He fell protecting the legions while they got into position. We’ve been mourning him, as you can see. I’ve read his will. I think you should look too.”
Caesar dismounted and strode up the bank. Standing before the body, he lowered his head in respect and then sat with the others, motioning Varus and Crispus to do the same. Looking up briefly, he noticed the other riders. Crassus wore an impatient frown, Ingenuus a look of genuine distress.
“Crassus? Ingenuus? I think you should dismount and join us. The rest of you, go report to your comrades.”
As Ingenuus dismounted, Crassus coughed.
“Caesar, the cavalry are without a commander. Most of them are Gaulish levies. Perhaps I should go and make sure all is in order? They may desert without command.”
Varus rose to his feet, shaking.
“They are not cowards or animals, and they do not need shepherding! Will you not join us and drink to my commander?”
Crassus glanced at Caesar and then back at Varus.
“He is not your commander. He’s gone. When I am your commander, you will not speak to a superior officer like that. Caesar? Permission to take command of the cavalry?”
Fronto jumped to his feet just in time to wrestle Varus back to the grass.
“Don’t do anything stupid. Let the mindless fop make a fool of himself,” he hissed in the prefect’s ear. Turning to Caesar, he spoke in a more audible tone.