Tullus cast a jaundiced look at his optio. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’
When the thunder came, it was even louder than before – right above their heads.
The heavens opened, releasing fresh deluges of water, and it truly felt as if the gods were laughing at them. Groans – of weariness, resignation, despair – rippled down the line of marching soldiers. A man could only get so wet, thought Tullus, but his spirits could be dragged lower and lower, until they were in the actual mud. In that moment, he felt his own slide several notches downward.
It was impossible to pick the thing he hated most. The gnawing worry that they were about to be attacked, that he might lose all of his men, that he might die himself. The notion that the mad-eyed soothsayer in Mogontiacum so many years before had been right all along. The brown sludge squelching between his toes with each step, and how the grit within it worked its way further and further into his open-toed boots. The twinging ache in his lower back, and the constant stabbing pain from the old injury in his calf. The strength-sapping feeling of cold, soaking wool against his skin, made degrees worse by the biting wind. The apparent ever-growing weight of his armour. The fact that his shield, combat-ready in his left fist rather than slung from his back, appeared to have been magicked into a single piece of lead. The way his sword hilt pinched the skin on the inside of his elbow with each swing of his arm. The infuriating path that rain took from the rim of his helmet on to his forehead, and onward into his sweat-stung eyes.
Fuck it, thought Tullus. Fuck this wet, dreary shithole. Fuck its savage people, and their barbaric ways. Fuck the weather. Fuck the forest. Fuck the stinking mud. Fuck Varus for being a blind fool. And most of all, fuck Arminius for being a traitorous whore’s get.
The internal rant took his mind from their miserable situation for all of a couple of hundred paces. Then it was back to the numbing grind. Place one foot before the other; keep up a decent speed so that they remained close to the First. Wipe the rain from his face. Shift the hilt of his sword – again. Grip the edge of his shield with his right hand for twenty steps, to ease the load on his left shoulder. Study the trees to their left with great care for signs of the enemy, and then his men, with equal intensity, to monitor their spirits. Growl encouragement at the laggards; shout back to Fenestela, so that he knew what was going on behind him.
Repeat the whole procedure again and again and again. And again.
Tullus dragged his cohort thus another mile.
The next attack was a hammer blow, far worse than any of the previous assaults.
Wily veteran though he was, Tullus was caught by surprise. So too were his soldiers. Who could have predicted that the tribesmen would have constructed huge earthworks, protected by wicker fencing and cut branches, behind which they could hide in their thousands? Yet that is exactly what they had done – what Arminius, the genius, had had them do.
One moment Tullus was trudging along, half counting his steps, half listening to the filthy joke being told in the rank behind, and the next the world filled again with that damnable sound, the barritus. Before his disbelieving eyes, scores of warriors burst into sight from his left, charging straight at his astonished soldiers. More followed, and more, until there were hundreds of the enemy, emerging from gaps in what Tullus realised – far too late – was a manmade embankment thirty to forty paces back into the trees.
There was nothing to their right – even though it was bog, Tullus checked again – which was something. ‘HALT! FACE LEFT! CLOSE ORDER!’ he roared, his voice cracking with effort. He was already shoving his way forward so that he could stand on the right of the first rank. ‘PLACE THE WOUNDED BEHIND. QUICKLY!’
This time, reduced numbers notwithstanding, they were able to form a decent line and throw their pila before the enemy came within gladius range. The paltry number of javelins remaining to them meant that the volley had little effect on the massed assault. Perhaps a dozen tribesmen were punched backward into their fellows, but the rest came on without pause, weapons raised and shouting their hatred. In the lead were five naked warriors, their bodies streaked with daubs of white and blue paint. An alarm sounded in Tullus’ head. He had faced berserkers before, and knew how dangerous they could be. Their manic expressions, large physical size and complete lack of fear, not to mention clothing, shouted that these specimens were to be feared. They weren’t going to hit the line anywhere near him either, worse luck.
Tullus was moving before he let himself think. With a shove, he forced the legionary behind him into his place; then he wheeled around the back of the formation. It was gut-wrenching that his soldiers only stood two deep now, because of their losses. The wounded who could not fight – almost a score of them – made a more pathetic sight. The ones who could sit upright were propped up against one another, daggers and swords in their hands, but the rest lay in the mud, piss-soaked, wounds bleeding and groaning in pain.
Ignoring this bitter reality, Tullus forced his weary legs into a trot. ‘HOLD THE BASTARDS!’ he shouted over and over. ‘STEADY!’ As he made his way towards the centre, he kept peering over his men’s shoulders, searching for the berserkers.
Acid filled his mouth as he realised he wouldn’t reach the point where they struck the line in time. Fortuna wasn’t finished with him yet, Tullus thought, imagining the goddess’s pitiless smile as her dice landed to reveal a pair of unbeatable sixes. If the berserkers smashed through, the battle would turn to a slaughter. Already demoralised, facing more warriors than ever before, his soldiers would break and run – into the bog, where they would be cut down to a man, or drown. Tullus set his jaw, managed to increase his pace a fraction, then a little more. The next few moments would cost him his life, but that was a fair price if he could prevent a wholescale rout.
Fierce cries went up, and then there was an almighty crash. The berserkers had hit the waiting legionaries. Their comrades, a short distance behind, yelled their approval. Tullus, still at the rear, and ten paces from the point of impact, had a perfect view of what happened. The force with which the naked warriors struck pushed both Roman ranks back a couple of steps. Shouts of anger and terror, and pain, competed with the sound of iron on iron and men’s screams. The coppery smell of blood filled the air; mixed with it were its inevitable companions – piss and shit. Tullus heard a man vomiting. His sense of urgency multiplied. All the signs were there. Within a dozen heartbeats, his worst fears would be confirmed. That was how fast the balance of a fight could tip one way or the other.
Instinct and battle experience told Tullus not to try and shove his way into what was left of his soldiers’ formation. There lay only madness, panic, men jammed so close to each other that it was impossible to wield a sword. It was a ruthless decision: some of his soldiers would die because of it, but he could think of nothing else. Preparing himself, asking Mars for his help, Tullus stepped away from the swaying ranks a little, and raised his sword and shield.
A cry of agony, a despairing shout from a comrade, and a legionary sprawled backwards out of the line and on to his back. Blood spurted from the deep wound to his neck, turning the plates of his armour crimson. There was a triumphant shout, and the berserker who’d killed him leaped forward to stand over his victim, spear aimed down to deliver another blow.
Tullus had stuck him through and through before the man had even realised there was someone there. Quick as he could, Tullus tugged his blade free, twisting his head so that the blood sprays didn’t hit him in the face. He shuffled back a short way, and waited.
Another legionary died in similar fashion within a few heartbeats. So too did his killer, at Tullus’ hands. He repeated the simple manoeuvre on a third berserker as well, and was beginning to think he might do the impossible, but the last two crashed through his men together. Tullus managed to wound the nearest berserker in the arm, but it was the man’s left, not the one wielding his spear. The berserker turned on him like a rabid dog, baring his teeth and shrieking his pain – or was it contempt at Tullus’ effort? – and shoving his spear towards Tullus’ face and shield, shield and face. Tullus retreated, head as low as possible behind his scutum, noticing with alarm that the berserker’s companion was darting around to his rear. Resignation swamped him. He’d done well, for an old man, but to die with a wound in his back was a shitty way to go.