Tullus worried that he was filling the air with useless words, but it seemed to give his men some solace. Their eyes were wary, fearful, and many were praying out loud or rubbing their phallus amulets. Nonetheless, they gave him nods, or shakes of their heads, as if to say, ‘We’re not done yet.’
At length, the trees in which the latest ambush had been sprung drew near. The sound of fighting – shouts, cries, the clash of arms – had been audible for a little while, even with the thunder. All eyes were fixed towards their front. To everyone’s frustration, most of what they could see was the back of the First Cohort. The only men with a wider range of vision were those to the far left and right; they shouted descriptions of what could be seen constantly in response to their comrades’ questions. Tullus did nothing to stop this. Information, even a little, was power of a kind. It gave men who felt helpless the idea that they had some degree of control over what was going on.
When he wasn’t issuing orders, Tullus also stared into the distance, where running figures were now visible to either side of the column. They were tribesmen attacking and retreating, he assumed. Bring them within reach of my sword soon, he prayed. Let this damn waiting be over!
Two hundred paces from the trees, Tullus was as shocked as anyone else when another ambush was sprung – on them. With loud shouts, scores of warriors rose up from the vegetation to either side of his soldiers. The bastards have lain there, letting thousands of us walk by, thought Tullus in alarm. They were close, dangerously close. Perhaps thirty paces separated their hiding places – nothing more than the bracken, cotton grass and bog rosemary that grew there – from the track, and the Roman column. Bearded, clad in dark colours, waving shields and spears, they charged forward in a muddy, disorganised mass. The barritus rose from their midst, like the wail of demons from the underworld.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
The chant didn’t have the volume of the previous day – there weren’t enough of them – but the effect was the same. With the memory of what had happened to their comrades bright in their minds, Tullus’ soldiers quailed at this unexpected assault. Fear oozed from them like pus from a lanced abscess, and their formation wavered.
Time fractured for Tullus. His eyes shot from left to right, behind him, took in a succession of random images. The terror in a nearby legionary’s face. Another man who had dropped his shield. A third had fallen to his knees and appeared to be praying to the gods for mercy. Fenestela was raining blows on soldiers’ backs with the flat of his blade, roaring at them to form a line to either side. One fool had broken ranks and was running towards the Germans, weaponless. It was moments such as this in which battles were won or lost. If his legionaries didn’t stand now, they’d be butchered.
Rage filled Tullus. I’m not going to fucking die here, he thought. Not here. Not now. Not today. ‘FACE LEFT! FACE RIGHT! SHIELDS UP!’ he roared. ‘CLOSE ORDER!’
He wheeled right, shoved in against the next man, prayed that the legionaries behind him were doing the same, or he’d end up with a spear in his back. The tribesmen were closer, only twenty paces away. Tullus could see their bared teeth, the sweat beading their brows, the sharp points of their frameae. It was risky, but: ‘PILA! NOW!’
Not all the soldiers with javelins heard his order, or responded in time, but some did. A light shower of shafts shot out from the Romans’ ranks. At such close range, every one hit something. A man, a shield, it didn’t matter, thought Tullus. The volley checked the warriors’ charge a fraction, which was vital. Their barritus caught for a heartbeat and, into that silence, Tullus screamed, ‘DRAW SWORDS, AND HOLD!’
The tribesmen were no fools. They came on with speed, and maintaining their cohesion. Less than a dozen paces out, they separated at last, the barritus replaced by screams of hatred. Four of them made for Tullus, no doubt because of his crested helmet – or perhaps because he was the last man in the line. A trace of panic entered his mind. If they snaked around him and drove in between the two ranks, it was all over. ‘IS THERE ANYONE BEHIND ME?’ he shouted.
The answering ‘Ayes’ had never been more welcome. There were still some spare men, those who had been in the middle of the six-wide column. ‘FACE FORWARD! CLOSE THE GAP!’ Tullus bawled without looking to see if they obeyed.
Back to his enemies. Two men in the prime of life, shoulder to shoulder, both with spears, one with a hexagonal, blue and red painted shield, the other with a distinctive tribal hair knot at the side of his head. A pox-scarred youth, rough-spun tunic, carrying only a club. And the most dangerous of the lot, a wiry man, similar in age to Tullus, armed with an iron-rimmed shield and a nasty-looking sword. ‘Take the one with the club,’ he ordered the legionary to his right.
‘Yes, sir!’ The soldier roared insults at the youngster, getting his attention.
Tullus ducked his head until his eyes were level with the top of his scutum. The pair with the spears would reach him first, he saw, while the older man hung back, waiting for his chance. Roaring like angry bulls, the two warriors closed in. Stab! Stab! Their spears thrust forward in unison. Tullus bent his knees, heard one whistle overhead, felt the second drive into his shield. The impact rocked him back; if it hadn’t been for the soldier behind, bracing him with his scutum, he might have fallen. Using the muscles in his thighs, Tullus drove up, looked, and shoved his gladius into the belly of the warrior whose spear had caught in his shield. His actions were exact, precise. In, no more than a handspan, twist a little, out. The man went down, blood blossoming on his tunic, crying like a baby taken off the tit too soon.
The spear hanging from Tullus’ scutum made it unwieldy and nigh-on impossible to hold. Yet he had to, because the second spear-wielding warrior was driving his weapon at Tullus’ head. The older man had joined him, sword jabbing back and forth, searching for a gap in Tullus’ defences. Arm muscles screaming, desperate, Tullus lobbed his shield straight at the spearman. Doing what he always told new recruits never to do, he broke ranks and leaped forward at the warriors, making use of their confusion. Trying to shove away Tullus’ shield, the man with the spear didn’t even see him coming. Tullus smashed his left shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him flying backwards. Tullus also lunged at the older warrior’s midriff from the side. He hadn’t been expecting Tullus’ attack either, but still managed to twist away, avoiding a death wound. Instead the gladius ripped open the back of his tunic, drawing only a line of blood across his flank and an outraged hiss of pain.
Tullus spun back to the man he’d barged, managed to stab him through the lower leg, and then he was retreating, fast as he could, still facing the enemy. The older warrior followed him, like a cat on a mouse, and Tullus thought: I’m done. My own fault. They feinted at each other, sparred and then, to Tullus’ immense relief, the legionary who’d been on his right shuffled forward a couple of steps, roaring abuse, forcing the tribesman to withdraw.
Tullus resumed his place in the line, called for a shield and was handed one from behind. He had no time to thank the legionary who’d saved him, no time to assess how the rest of his soldiers were doing, because the tribesmen were attacking again. A third less in number than they had been, but advancing nonetheless. The older warrior whom Tullus had injured was among them. In a testament to his bravery, so too was the man he’d wounded in the leg.