The brute’s face twisted with rage and he charged straight at Tullus, who leaned forward into his shield, left leg bent at the knee. Head below his shield rim, glancing around the side of it, he stabbed his opponent a heartbeat before they collided. There was a grunt of pain – Tullus shoved his blade forward with all his might – but the impact with the brute was still sufficient to send him stumbling backwards. He felt his enemy collapsing on top of him rather than saw it, fell down on to his arse and then his back. The dead weight pressing him into the earth prevented Tullus from moving much, other than his right arm. He had his sword yet, so he stabbed the brute again for good measure. Warm fluid sprayed over his hand. There was a groan and Tullus repeated the action over and over, until his fingers could no longer grip the ivory hilt. Unsure if the brute was dead, but prevented from rising by the body on his shield, he sagged back on to the earth and closed his eyes. His ears filled with the noise of battle: men’s shouts, heavy thunks as shields met shields, cries of pain.
The dice in his mind’s eye spun slower and slower, and came to a stop.
‘I think the centurion’s still alive,’ a voice shouted.
To his surprise, Tullus felt the brute being rolled away. Fenestela’s ugly mug peered down at him. ‘Having a rest, sir?’
Tullus could not think of a comeback. ‘I was.’
‘Are you hurt, sir?’
‘Winded, that’s all.’ Tullus let the optio pull him to his feet, realising that the Usipetes had retreated again. There were nine legionaries who could fight, and Fenestela, and he. It wasn’t enough. There was still no noise of an assault on the palisade. Despite their heavy casualties, more than two score warriors surrounded them, and the gate was thirty paces away.
Fenestela’s face was bitter as he jerked his head at it. ‘So near, and yet so far, eh?’
A devilment, a madness born of desperation, took flame in Tullus’ heart. ‘I say we can reach it. They won’t stand before a wedge, if we do it fast.’
Fenestela’s expression said that he didn’t believe Tullus’ words any more than Tullus did himself, but instead of arguing, he bared his teeth. ‘What do you say, brothers? Shall we show these savages how real soldiers can fight?’
Tullus’ heart filled as the legionaries rumbled their agreement. They also knew that forming the wedge was nothing more than choosing a way to die. ‘You’re good lads,’ he said. ‘Form up!’
Tullus was bone-weary, but he took position at the point of the wedge. It was the most dangerous position, and he was the centurion.
Tullus didn’t hear the shout from the top of the palisade. His soldiers had come in behind him. Fenestela was at his right shoulder, hurling insults at the Usipetes. A gap-toothed legionary who’d been in his century for ten years was at his left, muttering under his breath what he was going to do to the next warrior who came within reach of his blade. Without looking, Tullus knew that the rest were also there, a mass of sweaty, tired, blood-spattered figures who would follow him until they were dead. ‘Now!’ he shouted, and broke into a shambling run.
He fixed his gaze on a warrior with long braids of hair and an oval, blue-painted shield. Kill him first and drive on, he thought. Don’t think about anything else.
At last Tullus registered the shouting. Or more, he noted the alarm in the voices. His pace slowed a fraction; his eyes flickered up to the walkway over the gate, where two Usipetes were screaming and pointing. Tullus couldn’t make out their words, but he felt a flare of hope. When he saw a figure clambering over the rampart – one of Arminius’ tribesmen – and then another, his heart soared. He had no idea why the auxiliaries rather than legionaries were attacking, but he didn’t care. ‘Halt!’
His soldiers obeyed, but he could sense their confusion. ‘Why, sir?’ Fenestela’s breath was hot in Tullus’ ear.
Tullus pointed with his sword. Dismayed cries rose from the Usipetes by the gate as they too noticed the Cheruscans swarming over the top of the palisade. Five, eight, a dozen. There were warriors appearing all along the rampart. Confused – how were so many of them getting up? – Tullus laughed as he realised. The clever bastards were scrambling up from their horses’ backs. He studied the faces of the Usipetes who blocked their path, and let the panic seep in for a few more heartbeats, let them see the Cheruscans dispatching their sentries and leaping down into the compound. ‘Charge now, and they’ll break,’ he said.
‘Give us the word, sir,’ Fenestela replied.
Tullus shouted the order, and they moved forward. To his delight, the warriors melted away like morning mist before the sun. Three of the bravest stood their ground, backs to the gate, but Tullus and his reenergised soldiers cut them down in a frenzy of blows. Setting down shields and sheathing blades, they heaved and wrenched at the great, square length of timber that barred the entrance. Tullus could hear sword hilts being hammered on the planking from the outside. Fortuna hadn’t given up on him just yet, he thought as they lifted the locking bar to one side and pulled wide the doors. He was almost knocked over by the tide of Cheruscans who came barrelling in. Content that they would finish off the Usipetes, Tullus leaned against the wall and closed his eyes as they charged past. Gods, but he was tired.
‘You’re still alive then.’
Tullus looked up at the sound of Arminius’ voice. ‘Just. I wouldn’t be if it hadn’t been for your men.’ It was odd to feel grateful towards a man he wasn’t sure he trusted, but there it was.
Arminius dipped his chin in recognition. ‘I was surprised he gave you so few men, but it was even odder how he watched and listened like a fox outside a coop full of hens as you began your attack. I’m not sure when he would have sent his men forward.’
A dull anger pulsed behind Tullus’ eyeballs. The whoreson Tubero had hoped he would die.
‘Sir!’ Fenestela appeared by Tullus’ side. ‘The Cheruscans are killing all of the Usipetes, sir.’ He glanced at Arminius, who gave a casual shrug and said:
‘Their blood’s up, like yours.’
Tullus rubbed a hand across eyes that had gone gritty and painful. Did Arminius want every warrior dead? In that weary moment, he didn’t care. ‘The pieces of shit were for carving us new arseholes, Fenestela, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘Aye, screw them,’ said Fenestela. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘No,’ said Tullus, glad to be alive. ‘It doesn’t.’
Neither man saw the flicker of satisfaction in Arminius’ eyes.
When the patrol got back to Vetera, Tullus’ soldiers were dismissed to their barracks. After they’d dumped their kit, many of the tired legionaries headed straight for the baths. Afer and the rest of the contubernium decided to do the same, but Piso hung back. ‘I want to check on Vitellius, see that he’s settling into the hospital.’
‘It was only a flesh wound that he took,’ said one of his comrades. ‘Visit him later, after you’ve had a good soak.’
‘I’ll go and see him now,’ demurred Piso.
‘Tell him to get his arse back here,’ Afer threw in. ‘I’m already missing his sarcasm.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ Piso felt bad for Vitellius, who had not long recovered from the beating inflicted by Aius and his friends, and then been selected by Tullus to enter the stockade as part of the surprise attack ordered by Tubero. Piso felt a little guilty too, that Vitellius might not have been injured if he’d been fighting fit, so he stopped at the quartermaster’s long enough to buy some wine. It was illegal for army wine to be sold privately, but it could always be had if a man was prepared to pay. Armed with a covered jug of what was reputed to be some of Sicily’s finest, he made straight for the valetudinarium.