‘Right, you shower of shits!’ Tullus was back.
Piso shoved away the horrific image of Afer’s crushed skull and stood straighter.
‘You might not know it, but the Nineteenth Legion has suffered more losses than us or the Seventeenth. Varus has seen fit, therefore, to allow us the honour of forming the vanguard today.’ He flashed a grim smile as heads began to nod. ‘You’re not as stupid as you look, you maggots. This duty is indeed a blessing in disguise. It might be more dangerous at the front, but it also means that we can lead the way for the rest. Set the pace. Most important of all, reach one of our forts before anyone else.’
At this, the assembled men raised a cry. It had little of their usual vigour, but was better than nothing, thought Piso. He prayed that Tullus would get them out of this shithole.
When they had quietened, Tullus began speaking again. This time, his tone was grave. ‘Varus has also given the order that any soldiers who cannot march are to be given the option of dying at a comrade’s hands, or being left here. Once we’re on the move, anyone who cannot keep up is also to be left behind. It grieves me that things have come to this. I did not become a soldier to slay my own men – yet I cannot disagree with the governor’s command. You’ve seen for yourselves what the enemy is capable of. Things will be no different today. Those bastards will come at us in even greater numbers than before, or I’m no judge. Men who cannot stay with us will hinder our progress, and we can’t let that happen, or we’ll all fucking die.’
There was an uncomfortable silence, during which men tried not to look at their injured comrades. Piso’s gaze wandered to the legionary with the injured foot; receiving a ferocious scowl, he was quick to turn his head away.
‘The trumpets will sound any moment,’ Tullus went on. ‘It doesn’t grant much time for a man to make up his mind on such a heavy matter. I’ll therefore turn a blind eye to any of the injured who try to march. Keep up, and you will reach safety with the rest of us. Fall behind, and I will finish you myself. It’s your choice, brothers.’
Piso didn’t look at the lame soldier as the trumpets sounded. ‘May the gods be with us,’ he said to Vitellius.
‘We’ll bloody need their help,’ muttered Vitellius. ‘I’ve sworn a donation to Mars worth a month’s pay if I make it.’
‘He can have my entire quarter’s pay,’ said Piso with feeling. ‘You can’t take coins to Hades, my father used to say, but for the one they put in your mouth, and that’s not much fucking use.’
‘Except to the ferryman,’ replied Vitellius with a sour chuckle.
With the remnants of the First Cohort leading the way, they began to march.
The barritus was being sung even before they cleared the edge of their temporary camp.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
Around Piso, soldiers quailed and cursed, and cursed again. Braver individuals spat their contempt on the ground. More prayed, and rubbed their phallic amulets. At least one man started to weep. His comrades soon shut him up, but the crying had an instantaneous effect, dragging their morale further towards the mud that their feet were already sinking into.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
Piso might have been imagining it, but it seemed that the noise had a keener, hungrier timbre to it than it had before. It wouldn’t be surprising if it had, he thought. Savages they might be, but they’re damn clever – using sound to intimidate, as Hannibal’s Gauls did at Lake Trasimene. The story of how the Gaulish had sounded their carnyxes, or vertical trumpets, in the fog at the start of the battle was renowned. The unearthly sound had panicked the legionaries they’d faced, and helped the Carthaginians to inflict a crushing defeat on Rome.
A thousand paces out, and the soldier with the leg wound was struggling, barritus or no. Grunting with pain, he hobbled out of formation. ‘Mars protect you, brothers,’ he said, holding his head low. Blessings rained down on him, but no one intervened. No one offered to help him walk. To do so would risk their own lives.
‘Have a swift journey, brother,’ said Piso, feeling like a coward for not doing something.
The soldier made no acknowledgement. ‘Centurion!’ he shouted. ‘A moment of your time.’
It was as if Tullus had been expecting the summons. Wheeling out of position at the front of the century, he came striding down the line. Piso and Vitellius had gone past the lame soldier, so they couldn’t see what happened next. They shared a glance full of foreboding, but neither said a word. Tullus came past them again not long after, marching back to his place. He was wiping his sword clean on the hem of his tunic. The friends shared another look, but still neither spoke. There was no damn point.
No one fell out of rank after that, in part because the tribesmen’s attack had begun. To constant renditions of the barritus, dense volleys of frameae and stones rained down on the Roman column. The legionaries used their scuta as defence as best they could, but there were still casualties. Stones found the gaps, however small, and frameae injured men, or lodged in shields so that they had to be discarded. Those who tried to pull the spears from their scuta became instant targets for the enemy slingers. It was safer to hide in the middle of the column, and grab a shield from the next man who was slain.
The first assault came soon after. A tide of warriors poured out from behind the earthen ramparts, led by a dozen naked berserkers. Lucky for Piso and Vitellius, the berserkers hit the unit behind them, where they wreaked fearful casualties. It took a charge by Tullus and Fenestela, with all that was left of their century, to kill the berserkers and repulse the attack. It seemed then that a madness had taken their centurion, because he didn’t stop when their lines had been secured. With a roar of ‘ROMA!’ he ran straight after the retreating tribesmen. Fenestela was only a few steps behind him. Piso’s bowels turned to water, but he pelted after, screaming at the top of his lungs. So did every legionary who could. It seemed every man knew that if Tullus died, they would all end up in the mud. He had to be kept alive.
There was a savage beauty in the way that they threw back the enemy in that too-short time. The warriors were hacked down in scores, stabbed from behind as they fought to get away through the gaps in their earthen wall, or hurled down into the space behind when the legionaries stormed the rampart with an energy born of utter desperation. The Romans used their swords for the most part, but Piso saw spears, daggers, trenching tools and even clubs seized from the enemy in his comrades’ hands. Euphoric from their tiny victory, they would have remained where they were, roaring abuse at the warriors who were already regrouping deeper into the trees. Tullus it was who took control, dispersing the red battle mist with sharp blasts from his whistle and occasional thwacks of the flat of his sword blade.
Whether it was the killing of the berserkers or the fact that they had won a brief victory, no one knew, but Tullus and his cohort were left alone for a short time. The unit to their rear had fallen behind, so Tullus was quick to order a break so that his soldiers could catch their breaths. This was most welcome, yet the sound of savage fighting coming from back down the track wasn’t. To further dampen the rise in their spirits, the rain that had plagued them returned with a vengeance, pouring from the heavens in such quantities that any notion of being dry vanished forever. As drenched as rats in a drain, as weary as oarsmen who’ve rowed at ramming speed for a mile, as fearful as criminals in the arena before the wild beasts are released, the legionaries were glad when Tullus gave the order to get moving.
The First Cohort appeared to have been blessed with similar success to theirs – the track ahead was empty – which meant that Tullus’ cohort’s initial progress was good. The centurion stalked up and down the column, his face covered in spatters of blood and mud, haranguing his men in a monologue that never ended. For the most part, as Piso complained to Vitellius, and Vitellius complained to Piso, they kept going only because Tullus was so fucking annoying.