“Are they many?”
“The general thinks about eight hundred. They are armed with bows and axes, and are well placed.”
“Do you need me?”
The trooper grinned. “No, sir. I was told that the Legate was not to be troubled. The ala commander has the matter in hand.”
“Which ala?”
“The Fourth.”
“Ah! Marius. Very good.”
It was two hours, however, before the enemy position was taken and a cohort had to be called in to assist.
The Nava was wide but shallow, which was fortunate, for the ice did not hold, and we had to wade clumsily through the bitter water that rose to our waists and numbed us with the cold. Then we had a two and a half mile climb up a steep and twisting track that barely showed through the thickening fall of snow. It was hard work, walking in wet boots on a surface that made one slip back every time a step was taken. The horses had to be led also, and the waggons pushed and pulled by hand, ten men to a waggon. And all the time we were conscious of empty stomachs and tired eyes, and the wind cut through our cloaks, so that we were wet outside with the snow and wet through with our sweat. But no-one dropped out or complained.
Once at the top of the climb the going became easier and we walked through a pine forest that protected us a little from the eternal beat of the wind. We had had no sleep now for twenty-two hours and we stumbled on mechanically. The agony of marching was to be preferred to that which the enemy would offer if we fell alive into his hands. Two miles further on we dropped down a shallow slope and walked along the shoulder of a high ridge that banked a narrow, twisting stream. There was no track that one could see and the men marched in pairs, so that each might help the other; while the waggons were pushed and pulled between one tree and the next. Then we left the stream and struck a track that was deeply rutted beneath the loose surface snow. It was dawn now, and we could see each other’s faces, dark of eye, unshaven and deathly tired. Two hours later, walking as though in our sleep, with blistered feet, cramped muscles, and shoulders rubbed raw by the friction of our armour, we reached the road that led to Treverorum. To my front was a smooth, round pillar, nearly as tall as myself, and with a cap of snow upon it. It was one of the milestones set up by the Emperor Hadrianus, and the lettering upon it, I remember, was so worn that it was hardly legible. After I had seen it for the first time, I had complained to the officials at Treverorum but they had simply shrugged their shoulders, and nothing had been done. To the right of the stone, a cavalry picket slept beneath the tethered heads of their horses, and a tired sentry rocked on his feet, leaning upon his spear before the embers of a wood fire.
I kicked the squadron commander awake, and he yawned in my face, apologetically. “The signal posts between here and Bingium, sir, are in their hands. I burned the first four and we killed their men as they jumped to safety. At the fifth the enemy were guarding the road in strength, so we retired. The first three posts back up the road, however, are still loyal.”
Quintus said, “Can we hold the road here?” He looked at the high bank with the thick woods that stretched upwards to the sky-line. “It’s a strong position to defend.”
“Perhaps. I’m too tired to think. The men are dead on their feet, too. They had better camp here, off the road. Put the waggons across the pass in front of the tower. A pity we had to burn it.”
The squadron commander choked back a laugh. “We couldn’t force our own ditches, sir.”
“Yes, they were well sited. Put a guard inside the place anyway and tell off a party to repair the palisade.”
We slept for four hours and when we awoke it was to a black sky and falling snow. The nearest enemy had been three miles away when we slept, and the main force six miles further on at Bingium, where only the Alans, if they were not too drunk on the garrison’s wine, would have been in a fit state to march at dawn. Had they done so, we should have been attacked by now. Yet it was more probable, I thought, that they would remain there and leave matters in the hands of the Marcomanni. The Alans were leaderless now, and they had their own lands to look to. The Marcomanni under Hermeric were our nearest foe. So far they had proved to be clumsy and slow and stupid. Gunderic, I was sure, would never have let me get so far. The Vandal host was another matter. They needed food desperately and there was little enough in the surrounding countryside, with its pitiful handful of villages and its wasted land. They would march for Bingium where they knew there was food; but not enough. There would be quarrels between the chiefs, and fights between their men. It would all give us a little time.
“We have about three hours, possibly five, Quintus. In that time we must fell trees, build palisades and dig ditches. We have no ballistae worth speaking about.” I looked at the road. It looped and coiled, like the Mosella, between high hills whose steep slopes were covered with trees. “All they have to do to outflank us, is to climb through the woods. This road looks easy to defend, but it isn’t. And I can’t make any effective use of cavalry here.”
A bearded man, who had been drawing lines in the snow with a stick, said quietly, “Is it wise to go on fighting like a soldier?”
It was Fredegar.
I said, equally quietly, “It is the only way I know how to fight. We held them for seven days at Moguntiacum because I was a soldier.”
He said, “I understand.”
“How many of your people are with us now?”
He said calmly, “I have not been able to count them all. I am waiting, still, for more to come in. About three thousand.”
The man I had spoken to the night before came up and saluted. He said, “The commandant, Scudilio, will be all right, so the doctor says. The arrow has been removed, but without too much loss of blood. He is trying to get up, but the orderlies are holding him down on the waggon.”
“Keep him there. He can walk when he is fit and not before. Aquila, how many of his men are with us?”
“Two hundred and forty, sir.”
“Does that include the wounded?”
“It is all those who can fight.”
Fredegar said, “Let me hold the pass for you. Leave me two centuries of your men. Give me some auxiliaries also. I will hold this position for two days while you withdraw and set up further ambushes at each signal post down the road. Leave me one troop of horse, also, to act as messengers and to fight as a rear-guard. In this way we will slow them down and give time for your ballistae to arrive.”
I hesitated. He put his head on one side and smiled. “I am not a young man, but I am a good fighter.”
“Right. We will do as you suggest.”
At that moment the sentry shouted, and we saw a horseman coming down the road from Treverorum at a canter. Quintus shaded his eyes and swore softly. At first I thought the animal was riderless but, as it came nearer, I saw that its rider was lying along the beast’s neck. The horse trotted up, blowing froth, and then stood still before us with heaving flanks and lowered head. Its rider slipped sideways out of the saddle and fell to the ground before any one could catch him. He was one of the five men I had sent on to Treverorum the night before.
He was still alive but there was blood on his neck and on his left thigh. They looked like spear wounds. He was bleeding badly and his face had no colour in it. I bent down and took him in my arms.