‘ROMA!’ Tullus yelled. ‘ROMA!’
It was heartening that the response from his soldiers was loud, and came from plenty of throats.
Tullus put down the man with the leg wound with his first thrust, but the older warrior was killing the legionary on his right as he did. With an animal cry, the warrior leaped into the gap left by the dying soldier. Several tribesmen followed him. Tullus was fortunate to have no one before him, or he’d have been slain as he half turned, exposing his left side, and pushed his sword into the first body he saw – a warrior wearing a dark blue tunic. A frantic look to his left – no one there still – and he killed a second tribesman.
Pounding feet forced him to face front again, to take on first another club-wielding warrior, and then a stripling youth as skinny as his own framea. Expecting to be hacked down from behind by the enemies who’d broken the Roman line, Tullus pushed himself to his limit. He took down the club-carrying warrior with a savage thrust to the belly, and then tackled the stripling – who fell for the age-old ruse of a feint to the face with the shield, never anticipating the precise stab to the throat of Tullus’ gladius. With both opponents dead or dying, Tullus had a moment, a heartbeat to recover. He was suddenly intensely aware of the bands of pain wrapping his chest, the breath ragged in his throat, the sheer relief that he was alive, not dead.
There were no more warriors in front of him. The rest appeared to be pulling back. Tullus looked over his shoulder, could see no tribesmen, just sweaty, bloody, grinning legionaries’ faces. ‘Are they all dead?’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied a veteran who’d been with Tullus almost as long as Fenestela. ‘Or going that way.’ His head disappeared from sight, there was a grunt, a moan cut short, and he popped up again. ‘That was the last one, sir.’
‘Good work.’ Tullus cast a look to his left, where the First Cohort was still advancing. Urgency filled him. They had to keep moving if they weren’t to be left behind. He glanced to his right, along the line. Pride swelled his heart. He had no idea how many of his soldiers were down, but they had held. They had fucking held!
‘Should we go after them, sir?’ asked a voice.
Tullus regarded the remaining tribesmen, who were loping off towards the forest. In other circumstances, other battles, he might have agreed, but not today. Among the trees, there would be more warriors waiting, of that he had no doubt, and they were the ones with the advantage in such confined, awkward places. ‘Let the cocksuckers go. Check the wounded; treat them if you can. Strip the dead of any equipment you need, and do it fast. We move now.’
Tullus stalked down the line, repeating his orders, assessing his losses and his soldiers’ mood. They were bloodied and battered. Six of them would never leave this place, and nearly a dozen more sported wounds of varying severity. These were grievous losses for one clash in an ongoing battle, thought Tullus, especially if they were being repeated throughout the army. His rising sense of concern was countered, however, by the fierce grins his men gave him, and the promises that they’d be ready to march as soon as the injured had been looked at.
They’d make it through – one way or another, he decided.
Nonetheless, Tullus couldn’t quite shake off his unease as they resumed their advance. Scores of dead legionaries – the casualties suffered by the First Cohort – were strewn across their path. Many had been dragged to the side of the road by their comrades, but the unit’s officers had been keen to move on. That meant that Tullus and his soldiers had to pick their way past – and in some cases walk on – the mud-spattered, bloodied corpses and, worse still, those who had not yet succumbed to their wounds. Having to behave in such a callous manner dampened the brief elevation in Tullus’ men’s mood like a bucket of water emptied over a smouldering fire.
Rather than say anything, Tullus saved his breath; they’d need rallying later, when the enemy hit them again. Thoughts of Arminius filled his head: how they had first met, how he had charmed everyone, in particular Varus. He was a clever man, a battle-hardened warrior, and a leader of men. He would not attack a force of three legions, even from ambush, unless he had an army at his command. It was feasible, even likely, that the warriors who’d attacked thus far were but a small part of Arminius’ host. The rest were in the forest ahead of them.
Where they had to go.
Curse Arminius for a treacherous dog, thought Tullus, wishing that he was back in Vetera, dry, warm – and safe.
In that moment, it seemed as far away as the moon.
XXV
Tullus wasn’t happy. The ground had begun to climb, and although the gradient wasn’t steep, and the path didn’t lead straight up the hill, it opened his men up to potential attacks from above. Sure enough, fresh volleys of stones and frameae were soon raining down on them. His cohort and the First – the only unit that appeared to be with them by this stage – now had to fight off a strong assault by hundreds of fresh warriors. Their shields bore different patterns to those borne by their previous assailants, telling Tullus that they were from another tribe, which cemented his conviction that Arminius had rallied more than just his own people.
It didn’t take long for Tullus to lose three soldiers in the clash, with almost twice that number injured – losses that were roughly replicated throughout the cohort. Once the enemy had pulled back – there was no point pursuing them – the Romans’ march had continued. The slain had been left where they had fallen, the luckiest among them with a coin in their mouths placed there in haste by a comrade. Grim-faced but resolute, Tullus and his men slogged on through the mud, the wind and the constant downpour.
Only the gods knew what time of day it was – the morning had to have passed, but with storm clouds reducing their world to a rain-soaked, grey twilight, it was impossible to be more specific. They had covered perhaps a mile, and the forest began to die away to their right. At first it was only a few gaps in the trees, but after another half-mile, during which they had not come under further attack, the woodland came to an end. Tullus felt like cheering – the open ground meant that they would be safe from attack on one side at least.
His hopes were soon dashed.
‘It’s fucking bog,’ he said to Fenestela, who’d come to report on the wounded. ‘That prick Arminius is even cleverer than I thought, choosing to fight us here.’
They both looked, hoping Tullus was wrong, but there could be no mistaking it. Two to three hundred paces of scrubby grass and a few bushes further on, the land’s profile changed. Patches of heather and bracken nestled alongside one another; they continued as far as the eye could see. Between them were countless nodding heads of water avens and the unmistakeable yellow flowers of goatweed. These were plants fond of damp, marshy ground. As if to prove the point, the resentful, rattling cry of a grouse rose to meet them.
The significance of what they were seeing sank home faster than a stone dropped down a well. Where there were trees, there was solid ground. A bad place to fight, but it could be done. Men could run away into the forest, if it came to it. But bog?
Fenestela cleared his throat and spat a juicy chunk of phlegm into the mud. ‘That for you, Fortuna, you treacherous old whore.’
On another day, Tullus – cynic though he was – might have counselled against such blasphemy. Now, though, he added his contribution to Fenestela’s with an energetic hawk and spit. ‘The raddled crone is in an evil mood with us – of that there’s no fucking doubt.’
Fenestela lowered his voice further, so the soldiers marching alongside – most of whom, locked in their own worlds of misery, did not appear to have noticed the marshy ground – couldn’t hear. ‘What can we do?’