‘The optio’s told you what we’re going to do?’ Tullus’ eyes moved over the soldiers, who all gave him resolute nods. ‘I’d wager that the enemy have long since withdrawn to their tents and their fires. They’ll be as hungry and bone-weary as we are. It’s a simple job – nothing more than a short walk in the dark.’
They managed a laugh, but he could tell it was forced. They were here, and that was what mattered, thought Tullus. He couldn’t also expect them to be happy about it. ‘Do we take torches, sir?’ asked one legionary.
Tullus hadn’t come to a decision on that yet. Without light, they wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing, but if they carried torches, they would attract the attention of any tribesmen who might still be around, and that would end with only one result. Fuck it, he thought. They’ll have gone back to their camps. I’m not skulking down the path like a scared child. ‘We do. One at the front, for me, and one at the back, with the last man. That’s all. If we hear anything, we can douse them swift enough.’ He glanced at Fenestela. ‘You coming?’
‘You know me, sir. I’m always game for a fool’s errand.’ Fenestela raised an arm, revealing a pair of wooden torches.
Tullus gave his optio a tight smile. ‘Come on.’
The sentries at the camp’s edge gave them incredulous looks when Tullus announced where he was going, but they knew better than to question a mad senior centurion. The path along which they had come wasn’t hard to follow, littered as it was with weapons and corpses. The latter were challenging to pick their way past, and over, not least because some of them were yet living. When they realised that their own kind had come among them, the poor creatures sent up a lament, pleading to be saved, to be carried to safety, or to have an end to their suffering. Aware that this would happen, Tullus had already instructed his men to say that they’d help those they could on the way back. Despite their best efforts to quieten the wounded, the noise of their cries was considerable. As Fenestela observed drily, only a deaf man would have missed their passage.
Whether Arminius’ tribesmen had gone, or thought they were ghosts, Tullus had no idea, but there was no sign of them. He walked on, peering at every tree and bush for signs of the woman and her children. Try as he might, he could not remember the point where he’d seen her. In the darkness, each dripping plant, each lowering tree, looked the same as the next. Judging time was impossible, so he counted his steps. At one thousand – the point at which he’d told himself they would turn back – there had been no sign, or sound, of his quarry.
They had to return, Tullus thought, weariness blurring his vision. Sooner or later, a fucking warrior who’d come to pillage the dead would hear them. He would fetch his friends, and then …
An image of the woman cradling her living child while her other one’s corpse cooled beside them filled Tullus’ mind. If they survived the night, the tribesmen would find them the next day. Slavery, or worse, would be their fate. ‘Gods damn it,’ he whispered to himself, and then, over his shoulder at Fenestela, ‘Two hundred and fifty paces more.’
Three hundred paces later, Tullus came to a reluctant halt. To continue was madness. It was a miracle that they’d come this far without any problems. Fuck you, Fortuna! he thought. I’m never offering to you again, you heartless bitch. He turned. ‘Back to the camp,’ he said to Fenestela.
Fenestela didn’t obey, which rankled Tullus. ‘Back, I said.’
‘Listen, sir.’ Fenestela leaned forward. ‘I hear something.’
Tullus pricked his ears, held his breath. For ten heartbeats, he discerned nothing other than the moaning of some poor bastard nearby, but then – beyond belief – he heard the whimper of a child, quickly hushed. It was coming from under the trees, a short distance away. Tullus’ spirits rose, but he had to be careful. If the woman took fright, she might run off into the forest, where they’d never find her. ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he called out in Latin. ‘I am a senior centurion of the Roman army. I seek a woman and child.’
There was no reply. Indicating to Fenestela that he and the rest stay put, Tullus walked towards where he thought the sound had come from. After fifteen paces, he stopped and repeated what he’d said. Still there was no response, but nor was there a panicked departure into the dark. Either he had misheard the noise, or the woman wasn’t moving. Ten steps more, and he tried again to get her to answer.
This time there was a sob, which was stifled at once, but it gave Tullus heart. He extended his arm, letting his torch shine deeper into the gloom before him. Then he saw her, a huddled figure under a fallen trunk, a natural place to seek shelter. It was the woman he’d seen, and in her arms was a little shape, her child. To Tullus’ delight, the pup was there too, curled up at the woman’s feet. ‘My name is Lucius Cominius Tullus,’ he said in a low, reassuring voice. ‘I saw you earlier. Come. You’ll be safe with me.’
She rose and stumbled towards him, the sleepy pup following. ‘My other child, he-’ Her voice broke.
‘I know,’ said Tullus. ‘Where is he?’
‘I buried him as best I could before dark, just here.’
There was a small grave at Tullus’ feet, which he hadn’t spotted. The woman had covered it with rocks, which would be enough, he thought. The wolves and other predators would have more than they could eat for days to come. ‘Had you a coin to place in his mouth?’
She nodded.
‘Let us commend his soul to the gods, and go.’ Now that he’d found her, Tullus’ unease was taking control. This grim forest, among the dead and, quite possibly, the enemy, was no place for the living. He scooped up the pup, which tried to lick his face. ‘Is your child unharmed?’
‘She is, thank the gods. The poor mite has been asleep for hours.’
‘We’ll find her a blanket in the camp, and you.’ He made to go, but she caught his arm.
‘I-I had given up all hope. You came to save us. Thank you.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Tullus, feeling pleased and awkward. ‘Best get back to the camp before we get too excited.’ He led the way back to his men. He was still bone-jarringly tired, and grieving for the soldiers he’d lost, and unsure what terrors the next day would hold. Yet finding this still-unnamed woman and her child, and the pup, felt good.
Maybe the gods hadn’t abandoned him altogether.
XXVII
Varus sat in his tent, brooding. The dim light cast by a handful of small oil lights on the floor couldn’t conceal the fact that it was a tent meant for a contubernium of legionaries. It might have held eight men under normal circumstances, but compared to the vast pavilion he was used to on campaign, it seemed tiny. I should feel grateful, he thought, listening to the rain drumming off the oiled leather. Most of the troops – the ones that survive, his conscience needled – don’t have any protection against the weather. It’s only because I am commander that I have this. Yet he didn’t feel a bit appreciative of his good fortune. He raised his hands, studied the dirt under his fingernails, and the mud splatters that covered every exposed part of his flesh. What he felt was dirty. Wet. Hungry.
These feelings paled before his humiliation, however. Never in his life had he been so degraded. Varus now agreed with Tullus, which made the revelation of Arminius’ treachery all the more terrible. Tullus and perhaps Tubero aside, Arminius had tricked every one of them – and him in particular – the way a duplicitous adult cons a small child of its sweets. I am a fool, thought Varus, letting his hands fall into his lap. A complete fool. He had had no idea that his army was about to be ambushed when it had turned off the main road to hunt for the Angrivarii.
Varus had no excuses for his ignorance either: he had been alerted, not just once, but several times. Instead of listening to Segestes and later to Tullus, he had laughed off their warnings, or reprimanded them, or both. Yet they were the ones who’d been correct, and he was the one who’d been a blind idiot. What the emperor would make of it, Varus dreaded to think. Whether he would ever have to explain himself to Augustus was another matter, of course, one he didn’t like to linger upon.