Thump. Tullus had to forget about his second enemy as he was shoved back a step by the first berserker’s spear driving into his shield. Even one-handed, the man had the strength of a boar. The sharp iron point sliced through the layered wood to strike Tullus’ mail under his sternum. He staggered, but managed to keep a tight hold on the shield grip. When the berserker tried to free his spear, Tullus countered by pushing forward – hard. The warrior’s face was a picture of surprise as he was twisted sideways by Tullus’ momentum. The move brought Tullus close enough to slide his sword deep into the side of the berserker’s chest. Iron grated off rib bone, then the resistance vanished as the blade sliced everything beyond that into ribbons.
The berserker was a dead man standing, yet he somehow found the strength to let go of his spear and punch Tullus in the head. The blow struck his helmet and despite the felt liner that cushioned his skull, stars flashed across his vision. ‘Fucking die!’ he shouted, running his sword in until the hilt touched the berserker’s flesh. With a shuddering gasp, and a dribble of pink froth from his lips, the man did as he asked. He fell off Tullus’ blade as he went down.
Remembering the second berserker, Tullus flinched. Why wasn’t he dead? The warrior had had more than enough time to kill him. He twisted his head, could see no one for a heartbeat. Turning, he was astonished to find the final berserker lying face down, chest heaving, almost at his feet. He’d been hamstrung in one leg, and slashed by a sword in the other. Behind him, two of the wounded legionaries were grinning like idiots at Tullus, who took in their bloodied gladii, and laughed with a combination of relief and pride. ‘My thanks,’ he said.
Tullus left them to finish the berserker off. Seizing a discarded shield, he went to fill the gap in his soldiers’ line. His men had almost managed to close it, but not quite. Tullus’ arrival came none too soon, and he took delight in the alarm that his appearance, crested helmet on, roaring like a madman, caused among their attackers. One moment they’d been shoving forward into a hole caused by their berserker brethren, and the next, it had been plugged by a centurion who appeared to be insane.
‘HOLD, BROTHERS!’ yelled Tullus. ‘STAY CLOSE!’
From that point, Tullus’ world became a tunnel. He lost all concept of weather, location, how much his body hurt, anything other than the man to either side, and the handful of warriors before him. It was galling that despite the berserkers’ deaths, the tribesmen continued to attack. Their morale had to have been affected, Tullus reasoned, forcing his screaming muscles to continue working.
Keep the scutum up, he thought. Pick a target. Let him come. Duck down, take the blow on the shield front, or its rim. Thrust forward, often without looking. Drive the blade in, sense the victim squirm away in vain, hear his screams. Blade out, feel the blood sheet over his forearm, peer over the shield to see his opponent fall. Glance to either side, check that his companions are alive, still fighting. Shuffle closer to one or the other. Yell at his men to hold, to stay close. Bellow his defiance at the tribesmen, throw whatever insults came to him in both German and Latin. Blink away the sweat that was running into his eyes.
In this fashion, Tullus slew two warriors and shared another kill with the soldier to his right, who had stabbed his opponent at the same time. By this stage, it was agony to breathe, and his every muscle was trembling with exhaustion. It was pathetic how grateful he felt when, without any warning, the warriors withdrew. He watched, panting and offering up silent prayers of thanks to Mars, as they loped back into the trees and their embankment, which had hidden them so well. Their wounded and dying were left behind: a decent covering, Tullus was pleased to see. Worry gnawed at him nonetheless. His losses, and those suffered by the cohort and the army in general, were far more pressing. They could not keep haemorrhaging men like this.
For now, though, they had won some space to recover. Tullus lowered his sword, let his shield sag to the ground. Felt the rain, softer now, drifting down on to his face in welcome drops. Breathing deep, he closed his eyes for a count of five. Ten. Crazy as it was in that blood-spattered place of death, sleep beckoned. Tullus rallied what was left of his energy and forced his gummy eyelids open. ‘Injured?’ he demanded of the soldiers to either side. One was fine; the other had a gaping wound to his left cheek, but averred that he could fight on. With constant glances towards the trees, Tullus marched to the end of his century, assessing his casualties. To his intense relief, they weren’t as bad as they could have been. Five – only five! – legionaries were dead or dying, and two would follow them within hours. Six more men had minor wounds. Heavy though these losses were, the berserkers’ charge could have ended everything. He was overjoyed to find Fenestela still alive: covered in other men’s blood, with a gash to his neck, but otherwise unharmed. Tullus grabbed him in a bear hug.
‘I heard what you did to those naked fuckers, sir,’ said Fenestela when they had separated, smiling. Respect shone from his eyes. ‘Few men could have done that.’
‘I was full sure I was dead. That helped, like as not,’ Tullus said, shrugging. ‘Mars was kind to me. So too were a couple of the wounded lads, who hamstrung the last whoreson. If it hadn’t been for them, I wouldn’t be here.’ His vision blurred for a moment, and he swayed.
‘You all right, sir?’ asked Fenestela, steadying him.
Tullus straightened his spine, grimaced and shook off Fenestela’s hand. ‘Aye. I have to be. Is there anything to drink? I’m fucking parched.’
Fenestela called for a wine skin.
Reinvigorated a little by several mouthfuls of undiluted wine – Campanian, it tasted like – Tullus sent word to the other centuries in the cohort that they were to treat the injured fast, and to be ready to march. When the messenger returned, he wasn’t carrying good news. Three of Tullus’ centurions reported that they were down to half their usual strength. A fourth centurion was dead, and the last would not live another hour. Cursing at the delay dealing with this would cause – and with the First Cohort already on the move in front – Tullus ordered the depleted centuries to unite, forming two that were full strength, and for them to do it with all haste.
For a time after that, Fortuna appeared to have cast her capricious gaze elsewhere, leaving Mars to hold his shield over Tullus and his soldiers. The thunder stopped, and the rain eased to a gentle drizzle. There was even a hint of sunshine through a few breaks in the cloud. A rainbow formed overhead, its beauty a stark contrast to the bloodbath taking place at ground level. From somewhere on the moorland beyond the bog came the lonely, warbling cries of curlews. With no sign of the tribesmen other than heads peering over the earthen rampart, Tullus’ soldiers regrouped and got moving.
When they caught up with the First Cohort, it was travelling at a snail’s pace. Before long, it ground to a complete halt. The unit had come under attack again. Hundreds of warriors rushed out from behind the German earthworks, threatening to overwhelm the First through sheer weight of numbers. With worry gnawing at his guts, Tullus ordered his tired soldiers forward to its aid. They managed to fight their way to the unit’s rear after a time, with the loss of two men. If Tullus had thought things would prove easier having another cohort to one side, he was mistaken. It might have worked if the First hadn’t lost so many junior officers and centurions – but it had. From his position at the far right of his soldiers, abutting the First, he could see the unit’s legionaries weakening like an undercut riverbank hit by a winter flood.