There was universal relief when the tribesmen who had plagued them the previous day did not appear. Spirits rose further as the trees were replaced by an area of scrubby grass, not unlike the lands around Porta Westfalica. The open ground meant that the marching pace could pick up, and soon the speed was approaching half of what could be made on a decent Roman road. This was a vast improvement compared to their pitiful progress the day before, and men began to sing. By the time they had bawled their way through three old favourites, Tullus was starting to enjoy himself. He’d heard each of the chants a thousand times before, but when sung loud enough, they still had the power to bring him back to his youth, and the campaigns he had made as a wide-eyed low-ranker.
It was then that the army ground to a halt.
Tullus’ soldiers continued to sing, but he waved them into silence. There was no apparent cause for the stop, no sounds of combat, no officers shouting orders. No tribesmen were visible on either side of the cohort’s position. It could have been a river or stream that had blocked their passage, but Tullus had a nasty feeling that somewhere up ahead, another ambush had been sprung.
He had his soldiers stand to arms. A sombre air fell as they waited, shields up, javelins at the ready. Nothing happened for a hundred heartbeats. Two hundred. Tullus roared out a question to the legionaries in front, the First Cohort. Beyond them were the legates and tribunes, who were the most likely to know what was going on. After a short delay, he was told that ‘You have as much idea as we do’, which did nothing for his darkening mood.
The enemy did not appear. Time ground by in a succession of gusty squalls and heavy showers, and an occasional view from behind the ever-present clouds of a beleaguered, pale yellow sun. At length, Tullus ordered his men to ground their shields. They seemed if not happy, then satisfied, drinking from their water bags and talking in low voices amongst themselves. Scanning the landscape, Tullus could see no cause for alarm. That didn’t stop his gut from knotting as if he had a bad case of the shits. He’d have liked to confer with Degmar, but there had been no sign of him since the previous day, when he had gone off scouting. Tullus hoped he was still alive.
Fenestela came to find him, his face sour with suspicion. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think the savages have fucking well sprung another ambush up ahead. All we can do is wait until the vanguard fights its way through.’
Fenestela spat by way of agreement. ‘Filthy animal-humping savages.’
Tullus came to an abrupt decision. ‘Might as well keep busy. It will stop the men worrying. Have an inventory made of the javelins that are left. The men are to check their equipment.’ Tullus began to say more, but chuckled instead at Fenestela’s know-it-all expression. ‘You’re aware of the drill.’
‘Aye,’ replied Fenestela, smirking. ‘You could say that.’
‘Go on, piss off. Report to me when you’re done,’ Tullus ordered with a smile, and thinking that whatever happened, Fenestela had to be among those who survived.
Some time passed – without a visible sun, it was impossible to say how long, but Tullus judged it less than an hour – before a messenger appeared. Tullus, who was talking again to Fenestela, beckoned as the legionary approached from the direction of the First Cohort. The man’s pulpy-looking nose, the recipient of many a punch, stirred his memory, but it wasn’t until the soldier reached him that Tullus recalled where they had met. It had been in Vetera, the night that Piso had won too many games of dice.
‘Centurion.’ Broken Nose saluted, giving no indication that he knew Tullus. ‘Are you in charge of the cohort?’
‘I am. What news?’
‘The vanguard ran into trouble a while back, sir. There was another section of forest, where the savages were lying in wait. Thousands of them, it seems, far more than yesterday.’
If Varus had been present, Tullus would have struggled not to gut him in that moment. Arminius is behind this devilry, he thought. He has to be. Fenestela’s scowl proved the same thought was in his mind. ‘Go on,’ Tullus commanded.
‘There was heavy fighting, sir. The Gaulish cavalry’s horses were panicked by the volleys of spears and stones. The Gauls pulled back, and got tangled up with the auxiliary cohorts, which allowed the enemy to attack at will. It sounds as if they’ve been almost wiped out. The Seventeenth lost quite a few men too, but they forced a way through eventually. The savages have pulled back now, and the column is moving again.’
‘Is there a battle plan?’ asked Tullus, knowing there wouldn’t – in this grimmest of situations, couldn’t – be.
Broken Nose looked uncomfortable. ‘Governor Varus has ordered that we continue to advance, at all costs. That’s what I was told to tell you, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Broken Nose saluted and made to go, but Tullus raised a hand. ‘Wait.’
‘Sir?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus Aius, sir,’ Broken Nose replied.
It is him, thought Tullus. ‘Fabricius is your centurion?’ He enjoyed the confusion playing across Aius’ face that he should know this. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, sir, he is.’
‘You lost a pair of bronze fasteners at dice a little while back, didn’t you? The ones for the shoulders of a mail shirt.’ Tullus noted the delayed recognition, and then fear, that flared in Aius’ eyes.
‘I did, sir.’
‘If I hear a single word about how the soldiers of the First Cohort didn’t fight as they should have today, or even how they ran away, I will come looking for you,’ warned Tullus. ‘It won’t be fasteners that I shove up your nostril this time either. Understand, you cocksucker?’
Aius nodded.
‘Fuck off then, and report to whoever else you’re supposed to.’
Tullus felt Fenestela’s gaze on him as Aius retreated. He muttered a quick explanation.
‘I’d give anything to be in the middle of a bar fight rather than what we’re heading into,’ Fenestela commented as trumpets ahead of them sounded the advance.
‘Aye, that’d be better.’ Tullus threw a grim glance at the sky, which was blacker than ever. More rain was coming. Thunder and lightning too. In this dark moment, it was difficult even for a hardened cynic not to think that the gods were unhappy with them, that the tribesmen’s deities, powerful in their own heartland, might pose a real threat to the lives of every man in Varus’ army.
Jupiter, Greatest and Best, Tullus asked, I beseech you to watch over us now, in our hour of need. Let your thunder terrify our enemies, and your lightning bolts strike them down – Arminius most of all.
Step by muddy step, Tullus and his cohort trudged forward. Their pace was no better than a slow walk, which frustrated and increased tension among his men. Tullus was not immune to the feelings either. When combat threatened, men hated to linger at its edges, waging a losing battle against nausea and the constant need to empty one’s bowels or bladder. Yet here in this Stygian gloom, where the only illumination was from lightning flashes, and rolling thunder made it hard to hear a man’s voice more than five paces away, it was hard to find the will to fight.
Their slow progress, in a line, reminded Tullus of the way a miller poured wheat into a grindstone. Once the stream of grains fell, there was no way back, just a descent into the hole in the stone’s centre, a brief, encompassing blackness, and then oblivion as the top stone moved over the bottom and ground everything to flour. The image made Tullus feel queasy. He ignored the feeling as best he could and concentrated instead on his soldiers, on their readiness, on their morale. His responsibility towards them was a heavy burden, but it was a sharp way of focusing his mind. ‘Hold steady, brothers,’ he called out at regular intervals as he paced alongside his century. ‘There’s hot wine waiting for you in Vetera! I’ll pay for the first round myself, for the whole damn cohort. Hold on to that happy thought as you march!’