All day we fought; the men retiring in little groups back to the camp, to squat, exhausted on the ground and eat a hot mess of crumbled biscuit, chopped up veal and beans, with trembling fingers; and swallow wine with mouths dry with fear.
In his second charge, Quintus lost, in two minutes, three tribunes, four decurions, fifty-seven men and thirty-nine horses. And with each charge that followed, our losses grew heavier and heavier. The cavalry, backed by Fredegar’s Franks, held the wings; and the cohorts, and the auxiliaries, held the centre. We tried to save arrows and missiles as much as possible, and volunteers would rush out during a lull to snatch the arrows from the dead, as well as the spears that littered the ground beyond the palisade, like timber in a builder’s yard. They were the only weapons that broke up the terrible rushes of maddened, angry men, who stormed the ditches, now choked and full, climbing the bodies of their own dead, as they had done at Moguntiacum, to reach us behind our thin fence. And, at the end of each fresh assault, I would ride along the crooked rank of dark faced men, black with dirt and sweat, who leaned, panting, upon their swords or their spears, and do my best to encourage them with a smile and a jest. But each time I did so the lines of men in Roman helmets grew thinner, until there were few reserves left, except those who were wounded.
My right shoulder was stiff and painful from the arrow wound, and I could only lift the arm with difficulty. My left shoulder was damaged, too, but I knew that when the time came I should have to use my sword left-handed. I was of little use as a fighting man now. I walked back along the palisade, and stumbled over a bundle of fur huddled in the snow. I turned it over, mechanically, and looked at the blind, still face. It was Fredbal. He had had his wish, and he was happy now. He was not alone any more.
Outside the signal tower I found Agilio, sitting exhausted upon the steps. He was so tired he did not even look up as I passed him. I climbed the ladder, it was the tenth time that day, and went out on to the platform. I turned and looked back towards the west, in the hope of seeing signs that the relief forces from Gaul were on their way. But nothing moved in that vast and desolate waste of snow. It was empty of human beings and of hope. I descended the ladder and sat down on a bench, my sword unbuckled, and took the bowl of food that my orderly offered me. Quintus came in then, rubbing the snow from off his shoulders. He looked exhausted, and the stubble of his beard was white, like my own. We did not speak until we had eaten and drunk. He said, tiredly, “Flavius is dead. He went with me on my last charge. When we got back to camp he was still on his horse, with four arrows in him. He was always a good rider.”
I nodded. I felt very tired. I said, “I wanted so much to see Rome. My father once told me how he had stood in the Curia, the senate house down in the Forum, watching the senators offering incense to the figure of Victory before they went to their meeting. It stood on a pedestal at the end of the chamber, opposite the entrance, but it has gone now, like all the best things in our world. I wanted to see that, too.”
He said, “Oh, Maximus,” and touched my arm.
They came again and the fighting was as before. During a pause in the battle, while they prepared for yet another assault with ladders and planks, I walked down to the southern end of our defences to where Artorius stood, surrounded by his handful of battered gladiators and freed slaves. He held his sword as though it belonged to him now, and he grinned and saluted me as I came up.
“Artorius.”
“Sir.”
I took him by the shoulder and spoke quietly, “Where are those reinforcements that you promised us? Where is the Army of Gaul? The advance guard should have been here by now. Tell me.”
He said simply, “I don’t know.”
I held him close. I said, “It was a lie, wasn’t it? It was a lie to keep up morale? All lies?”
“Yes,” he said. He stuck his sword into the ground and rubbed his hands. They were covered with chilblains and he had difficulty in moving his fingers. He said, “We asked for help, and when the message came that there would be no help, we thought it best to pretend that everything would be all right. It is an old merchant’s trick, of course.” He spoke quietly and with confidence. Whatever else he was—he was not frightened any more.
I said, “You did right. You should have been on my staff.”
A trooper came up, dragging his right foot upon the ground. He said, “General Veronius sent me. If you do not need your horse, sir, could I have it? We are short of mounts.”
I nodded. “Take it. I do not need a horse now.”
He saluted his thanks, swung himself awkwardly into the saddle and disappeared in a flurry of snow.
I called out then, for Aquila. “Tell my bodyguard to join General Veronius. He has need of all the horsemen he can get.”
He looked shocked. “But, sir—”
I clapped him on the back. “You and I, Aquila, will walk out of this world on our feet. It is just as easy.”
And then, during another lull when the sun, low behind us, was in their eyes, came the moment that I had dreaded all day.
Aquila came up to me and said, “We are nearly out of missiles. What do we do when they attack us again?”
Fredegar, gulping wine, rinsed his mouth and spat. “None of my archers has arrows left. What do I do next when they come round on the flanks?”
I walked down the line, pausing to ask each man a question. No-one smiled now. They held out their hands and showed me their weapons, and that was all. Fabianus said, “The ballistae are now useless, like my horse.” He began to make patterns in the snow with the point of his sword. He knew, as I did, that he would never see the daughter of Rando again, but he did not speak of it. His life’s span was now little more than the length of his sword; but he was worth more to me dead, than to her living, though I did not tell him so.
I said nothing, but shut my eyes to avoid the sight of his young face.
Quintus walked up to me, limping heavily, his horse following with lowered head. He had changed horses four times this day, and the present beast was a bay with a white star on his forehead.
He said, bleakly, “I can mount four hundred men. That is all. What are the orders, O my general?”
I opened my eyes. The sun was just above the hills and the short day would soon be ended. “Where is Julius Optatus? Hurry.”
“Sir.” He came up to me, still the same stocky, cheerful man, slow in the uptake but careful in his accounts, whom I had first met, so long ago, in Segontium in the west. I owed him so much for his efforts to keep us supplied with everything that we needed; but I did not tell him so. He would only have been embarrassed. I said, “What have we left?”
He held out his hands. “Nothing, sir. I have issued every last weapon and missile in the camp.” His deep voice cracked for a moment. “I am a quartermaster without any stores. Friend Aquila at least still has some men.” He was almost crying with rage and frustration.
“Never mind. Bring everyone up from the camp who can walk, and put them into the firing line. Yourself included.”
“Couldn’t we hold the camp, sir?”