When the last officer fell silent, Varus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to banish his exhaustion and fear. He racked his brains.
‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Tubero, who was present despite a reddened bandage on his left arm.
His officers’ gaze felt like a physical weight – a large one, made of lead – on Varus’ shoulders.
‘Would Arminius be open to negotiation, sir?’ This was Ceionius, who looked scrawnier than ever.
Up to this point, no one had dared to mention Arminius, which needled Varus as much as if they’d all been bandying his name about. They were tiptoeing around him, because he was the one who had taken Arminius at his word about the supposed Angrivarii rebellion. Well, the cat was out of the bag now, he thought. ‘Arminius is a treacherous son of a pox-ridden whore. He’s given us no signs thus far that he’s interested in talking. Why do you ask?’
Ceionius hesitated, then blurted, ‘We could surrender, sir. Maybe he’d think about ransoming us.’
Several officers hissed with displeasure, but none shouted Ceionius down. Instead, all eyes returned to Varus.
It was odd, but Ceionius’ weakness rallied Varus’ strength. ‘Romans do not capitulate to savages or barbarians! It is beneath us. They are little more than animals. We fight on – to the end if necessary.’
As the rest agreed loudly with Varus, Ceionius hung his head.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ Lucius Eggius still had some fire in his eyes.
‘The wounded who cannot walk are to be given a choice,’ said Varus. ‘They can die at their comrades’ hands, or be left behind in the morning. The rest of the injured will have to keep up, or suffer the same fate. Regroup the most weakened centuries to form complete units, using men from the same legion where possible. I want an inventory made of every sword, spear and shield. Before we march out, every whole-bodied legionary is to be fully equipped.’
‘Which way shall we march, sir?’ asked Tubero.
‘We can’t go back, or into the bog, and the savages will prevent us from going up the hill. That leaves us one choice. The same route we took today: south-southwest, towards the Lupia,’ said Varus, seeing the disappointment rise in their faces. Fools, he thought. Did they expect me to magic a way for us to escape? Or to bring down the aid of the gods? ‘Clear?’
The responses were muted, but they came. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Very well, sir.’ ‘Understood, sir.’
‘It’s the turn of the Nineteenth to form the vanguard tomorrow, sir,’ said the last legate. ‘But they took a heavier battering than most. I thought perhaps one of the other legions should take their place instead.’
Varus thought at once of Tullus, whom he had wronged, and the Eighteenth. As far as he knew, Tullus was still alive. The next day’s fighting might be heaviest at the front of the column, but the soldiers there would also possess the best chance of breaking away of anyone in the army. If Fortuna or Mars were of a mind, a valiant soldier such as Tullus might survive. There was no other way that Varus could make amends – and no way of knowing if the gesture would even make any difference. ‘Fine. The Eighteenth will form the vanguard.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Back to your tents.’ Varus wanted to be alone. Not to sleep, because he knew that would elude him, but to plead with the gods, to make a case that some of his soldiers would avoid the slaughter on the morrow. Without their help, he feared that every one of them would be killed.
The bitter taste – of hemlock, it seemed again – returned to his mouth. Not for me the death of Socrates, thought Varus, gripping his sword hilt. If it comes to it, I will depart this life as a soldier.
XXVIII
Piso stood in the dark before dawn, shivering in a dripping wet cloak that now weighed twice what it did when dry. The thousands of men around him were in the same boat, which helped him not to complain. They were all soaking, cold, hungry and footsore. Many of them bore wounds, a good number of which would prove fatal if they didn’t reach a camp with a hospital soon. Piso was lucky in that regard: he was one of a handful to have escaped being wounded thus far. From the corner of his eye, he watched a nearby legionary with a deep slash on his left foot. It wasn’t usual for such an injury to be regarded as serious, but here, where to fall behind was to die, it was as bad as being gut-stuck. The man shifted position over and over. Even with the pilum he was using as a crutch, he was unable to take the weight on his bad foot for more than a few heartbeats. Poor bastard, thought Piso. He was a standing corpse.
Misery at his own plight soon overtook him again. He – every last one of them – might well be dead soon, and there was fuck all he could do about it.
They were waiting for Tullus to come back from checking the rest of their depleted cohort. When he returned, and the trumpets sounded – if there were any damn musicians left – they would leave the camp. Piso felt a tickle of bleak humour. With no defensive ditch, no rampart, no proper entrances, no avenues and only a few tents, it couldn’t really be called a camp. Small wonder then that the tribesmen had attacked during the night. Luckily for him and the rest of Tullus’ troops, they had been sleeping right in the middle of the army. The soldiers who’d been near the points at which the bastard savages had sneaked in hadn’t been so fortunate. According to the rumours, more than two hundred men had died or been hurt.
‘All right?’ Vitellius had nudged him.
‘Aye,’ replied Piso, glad of the comradeship. ‘I’m alive. That’s what you said counts.’
‘Damn right. We’re here, and we’re alive, and no fucking tribesman is going to stop us getting back to Vetera.’
A couple of the soldiers nearby muttered in agreement, but most didn’t say a word. Despite Tullus’ and Fenestela’s best efforts, morale was poor. Piso wouldn’t admit to it, but if it hadn’t been for Vitellius, he would have fallen by the wayside long before. The fears he had nursed since the first, terrible ambush by the tribesmen had come true. Tullus had been right. There had been thousands of Germans ready to attack the army, of every tribe in the land it seemed. Over the previous two rainswept days, they had slain legionaries the way farmers reaped wheat at harvest time. Nowhere had the horrific losses been driven home more than around Piso. Of his original contubernium, just he, Vitellius and one other soldier remained.
Piso’s grief for four of the men – three dead, and one maimed – was still raw, but it was Afer’s death that had made him want to give up. Afer, hairy, round as a barrel and hard as nails, had provided the backbone, and the humour, to the eight-man unit. He’d looked out for Piso from the start. He had done so until the end, dying so that Piso could live. Tears pricked Piso’s eyes at the memory. A huge warrior with a club had smashed his shield with one blow. Piso had been helpless, panicked as the warrior swung again, but Afer had leaped in front of him, dying even as he buried his gladius in the brute’s unprotected belly. Piso hadn’t even been able to thank Afer. By the time there’d been a break in the fighting, Afer was dead, the grey soup of his brains oozing from under his felt liner into the viscous mud.