Arminius didn’t care. It wouldn’t be long before almost every Usipetes warrior was dead. What few captives were taken could be dealt with back at Vetera. His secret would be safe. If Tubero’s arrogance was the price he had to suffer to achieve that end, so be it.
XI
A hundred paces, Tullus counted. A hundred and five. A hundred and ten, and the old injury in his left calf began to register its unhappiness. He ignored the darts of pain it sent up his leg, and the slight tightness in his chest. By the time he’d counted to a hundred and thirty, the warriors by the gate had begun to charge. They came in a great, disorganised mob, chanting and waving their spears. The distance between the two groups narrowed fast. Tullus kept up his fierce pace; so did his men.
At a hundred and sixty, however, he was forced to admit that the gate was too far away. He could not reach it before the warriors got to them. Shit, Tullus thought. Shit. The legionaries were keeping pace, and he knew in his gut that they, much younger than he, could maintain this speed right to the end. But he couldn’t. The pain from his left calf was agonising, and there was a burning sensation filling his lungs. He would have to live with the consequences of covering less ground. Or, more likely, die with them.
‘Slow down,’ Tullus croaked. He dragged in a breath, let it out, took another, spat a great string of phlegm on the ground. He had lost count, but it didn’t matter. The Usipetes were fifty paces away, and closing fast. They were spreading out as they came, in a widening circle that would soon envelop Tullus’ small band. The gate was at least eighty paces beyond them. It might as well have been in Judaea, he thought. If Tubero hadn’t been out for his blood, this was the moment to send his troops surging to the attack, but Tullus still couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the palisade. They were on their own.
‘HALT!’
Tullus took a look to his left. Four legionaries. Over his left shoulder, three ranks were resuming their shape. Between the helmets and red faces, he made out Fenestela, still in position. Gods, but he was proud of them. Many troops would have refused to charge towards certain death. His had done it, and in good order. ‘We can still make the damn gate,’ he cried. ‘Form square! Five men wide, four deep, two within. Fenestela, take the opposite corner to me.’ He let his men decide who would face the enemy first, and who would act as the reserve. Used to assuming this shape in training, they’d obeyed in a few heartbeats. ‘Forward. To the gate, at a walk,’ he shouted. ‘Now!’
Although his soldiers did not have javelins, Tullus saw that most of the warriors were in the same boat. The surprise attack had meant that most had grabbed only one spear when they woke, rather than the two or three per man that was normal. The missile storm that presaged face-to-face combat would be far lighter, and they would lose fewer shields to lodged spears. At thirty paces, perfect range, it came. ‘Shields up!’ he bellowed. ‘Walk!’
Thunk. Thunk. Tullus felt a surge of relief. His shield hadn’t been hit.
Thunk. A gurgling cry of pain from behind him, a dead weight hitting him in the back.
One down, thought Tullus. ‘Keep walking,’ he ordered.
Again his soldiers retained their discipline. They covered another ten paces, leaving behind the body of the legionary who’d been struck in the neck by a spear. Twenty-one of them, with twenty shields. A second volley from much closer saw those numbers reduced to twenty, and eighteen. They were surrounded now, yelling tribesmen edging towards them over the flat ground, spears ready to thrust. Tullus’ heart, which had slowed after their run, began hammering off the inside of his ribs again. ‘Halt! Close order!’
He shifted position, withdrawing a step and half turning to the right, so that the corner of the square became rounded, and gave his right side more protection than if he stayed facing forward. Feeling a spreading numbness in his sword hand, he relaxed his grip on the weapon’s hilt. Stay calm, he thought. Stay focused. ‘You know how to play this, brothers. Keep tight. Watch for their spears. Take ’em in the belly when you can.’
The nearest warriors were ten steps away. Three were bearing down on Tullus: a nervous-looking youth not old enough to shave; a thin, blackbearded man so similar in appearance to the boy that he had to be his father; and a shaggy-haired brute who looked to have the brains of a senile mongrel. Tullus could have taken the first two together, and the big one on his own, but all three was a different matter. Acid filled the back of his throat.
Perhaps wanting to prove his courage, the youth attacked first, driving his spear overhand at Tullus’ face.
‘Spear!’ Tullus roared, ducking down to peer around the side of his shield, and praying that the soldier behind heard his warning. The weapon hissed overhead, the youth’s body following with the effort of his thrust. It was a simple matter for Tullus to stab him through the abdomen. Not too deep, just enough to slice his opponent’s guts to ribbons, and out again. Down went the youth, bleeding everywhere, bawling like a kicked child. His spear dropped from nerveless fingers, and Tullus eyed Blackbeard with contempt. ‘Your son’s going to die screaming at your feet! How do you like that?’ he cried in German.
Enraged, Blackbeard shoved forward, past the brute. He drove his hexagonal shield at Tullus’ scutum while trying to stab him with his spear. It was a crude move, one Tullus had seen before. He outweighed Blackbeard by some margin, so he bent his knees and braced himself behind his shield. The impact didn’t push him backward, but he hadn’t expected Blackbeard’s spear blade to snag in the mount for his horsehair crest. Tullus’ head was wrenched backwards. Waves of agony shot through his neck. His experience, and the bitter knowledge that he would die if he let go of his shield grip, kept his arm high.
Blackbeard cursed and tugged, tugged and cursed, pulling Tullus’ head to and fro and sending stabs of intense pain down into his chest. Without warning, the spear blade came free. Blackbeard cried out in triumph and drew back his arm to strike again. Sucking in a breath, Tullus somehow found the strength to slide his left foot forward a step and launch a counter-punch with his scutum. Blackbeard stumbled. With a quick lunge, Tullus stabbed him in the foot. He withdrew to the square, leaving his opponent to stagger away, bleeding and shouting.
Tullus prepared to face the brute, but the warrior had taken several steps backwards. So too had the men to either side of him. Tullus’ gaze shot left to right, and back again, over his shoulder. There were wounded, dead and dying Usipetes all around the square. The remainder were pulling back, out of sword range. They weren’t beaten: this was the tribesmen’s way. Attack, retreat. Attack, retreat. It was an opportunity for his men to advance.
‘Towards the gate, at the walk. NOW!’
Leaving four legionaries on the ground – Tullus didn’t check to see if they were dead or alive – they tramped on. Like a shoal of fish threatened by a predator, the nearest tribesmen retreated, without breaking formation. A number of them broke into song again, chanting the barritus, the sonorous war chant for which all Germans were famed. Damn them, but they’re brave, thought Tullus. Not one of them has armour, yet they’ll still fight us. ‘Keep moving!’
Ten paces. Fifteen. Twenty. The gate was close enough to see the giant locking bar that had been dropped into place behind the two doors. It would take at least six men to shift the damn thing. Six men who wouldn’t be able to fight as they lifted it. What did it matter? thought Tullus as the Usipetes’ leader, a broad-shouldered chieftain in a red-patterned cloak, bellowed orders and his warriors surged forward once more. We’ll never get there. ‘For Rome, brothers! FOR ROME!’
‘ROME!’
The roar slowed their enemies a little, but no more than that. Scenting victory, for they yet outnumbered the legionaries by at least three to one, they darted forward, long spears at the ready. The shaggy-haired brute came for Tullus again, leering, uttering dire threats in his own language. His arms were thick as decent-sized tree branches and Tullus’ mouth felt even drier. One decent spear thrust anywhere – to his shield, or his body – and he’d be finished. ‘Did your mother fuck a bear?’ he cried in German, hoping he’d used the right words. ‘Or were both your parents animals?’