‘ROMA!’ bellowed Tullus, and jumped, smashing the bottom rim of his shield off a warrior’s head.
Piso followed, before his fear paralysed him. Trying to take a less risky approach, he still collided with a tribesman’s shoulder. The warrior went down under Piso, who landed partly on him and partly on his arse. Lucky for Piso, another legionary was hard on his heels. He landed in front of them both, and was able to take on, for a moment at least, the enemies who were swarming forward. The warrior under Piso reared up his head, and, releasing his shield, Piso managed to punch him hard in the face. Piso scrambled to his feet, aware that if he didn’t do so fast, he’d be dead. Stab. From close range, he thrust his blade into the upturned face of the warrior beneath his feet. The blade entered via the left eye socket; there was a little spurt of vitreous fluid and the iron ran on, into the man’s brain. He let out a grunt of what might have been surprise and dropped to the mud, floppy-limbed, dead.
Retrieving his scutum, Piso pushed forward to stand beside the legionary who’d just arrived. Shoulder to shoulder, shields as close as they could hold them, they fought like men possessed. To their good fortune, the press of enemy warriors was so great that the majority could not reach them. Some men were squeezed so tight that they couldn’t wield their weapons. Piso and his companion went to work with grim determination.
Thrust. Stab. Punch with the shield boss. Stab. Stamp a sandal on a warrior’s bare foot. Piso killed or disabled two men, and then three. Four. Five. He even head-butted a warrior who came close enough, smashing his nose with two blows of his helmet rim before running him through the belly. That opponent went down, screaming, and the next warrior hung back. For the first time, Piso had time to breathe, to glance to either side. His heart lifted. There were three legionaries on his left. By some miracle, the first soldier over the trunk was still alive, to his right, and beyond him Piso was overjoyed to see Tullus’ helmet, bobbing up and down. The thuds behind told him more soldiers were arriving with every heartbeat.
Punch. Stab. Advance. Punch. Stab. Advance.
Step by bloody step, they pushed on, bowing outward from the trunk in a half-moon shape. The warriors pulled back after a time, giving the legionaries a chance to count their casualties – five dead, the same number injured – and rest. Close combat was exhausting work, and the men sagged on their shields, letting the sweat stream from their faces on to the crimson-soaked mud. Those who had a wine skin drank, and passed it around. More than one man had a piss, and there were loud curses from the unfortunates whose calves got splashed from the result. The woman stood with her back against the tree, eyes closed, rocking her child. The pup, which she had tied up in a sling around her chest, kept silent. Tullus walked among the little group, slapping backs, telling his men they had balls of iron and waving fresh legionaries into the front line.
Rather than relax, Piso left his shield behind and clambered back over the fallen tree. He swore as his purse caught on a jutting twig, and opened. Out fell Aius’ bronze fasteners and a few coins. Piso made no effort to retrieve them. Too much was going on. His annoyance at the loss of his possessions vanished on the other side, however, when he found Vitellius alive. His friend was leaning against the great trunk, teeth gritted, shoulder half wrapped in a strip of dirty linen. How he would manage without a shield, Piso didn’t know, or care – he was alive. Piso helped Vitellius over the tree, cursing at the soldiers who made comments about leaving the wounded behind.
The respite their fierce attack had earned them was sufficient to get what remained of Tullus’ unit over the fallen tree. The next cohort was lining up to cross it, even as they were being attacked by warriors on their side. By the enemy’s rampart on Piso’s side, the warriors were massing again. What concerned Piso even more was the fact that the First Cohort had vanished, and the trunk, which was as thick around as three men, would take time to cut through. Eight legionaries were chopping at it with axes, but the tribesmen would be on them like a pack of wild dogs long before they succeeded, that was certain. The barritus, which had stopped, was being sung again, louder and louder. Three berserkers were running up and down before their fellows, exhorting them to follow. In an attempt to stop himself from panicking, Piso concentrated on getting a decent bandage on Vitellius’ arm with strips torn from his own tunic.
He could hear Tullus conferring with Fenestela. ‘We’ll lose half our men holding this position,’ said the optio, grim-faced. ‘Or more.’
‘If we don’t move this damn tree, or hack through it, every cohort will have to fight its way across,’ said Tullus.
‘Not if each unit holds its place until the next is coming over.’
‘What are the chances of that? The fucking First have abandoned us. Other cohorts will be no different.’
‘Then why should our lads die for them?’ cried Fenestela.
‘Because removing the obstacle will save lives,’ snapped Tullus.
‘So the men should continue cutting the trunk, while the rest of us defend them, sir?’ demanded Fenestela, laying heavy emphasis on the last word.
‘That’s right, optio.’
‘As you say, sir.’
‘Ready, brothers?’ called Tullus. ‘The savages are coming again. Close order! Second rank, stand in tight against the men in front. The bastards mustn’t break our line. The poor fools coming after are relying on us to clear the path.’
Tullus’ words sounded like a death sentence, thought Piso. Hundreds of warriors were charging towards them, and the men with the axes had a lot of work to do yet. Bog lay to their right, and to their rear the track was blocked by thousands of other legionaries. Only to their front did any chance of salvation lie – but they had to stand where they were. We’re all dead, he thought. A glance at Vitellius, who had far less chance of surviving, made him feel ashamed.
He took his place in the second rank, and prepared to die.
To Piso’s surprise, the tribesmen’s advance faltered and slowed right down fifty paces out. Then it stopped altogether. Confused, the legionaries glanced at one another, at Tullus – and at last behind them, where more soldiers were appearing over the top of the trunk. Their leader, a fierce-looking centurion whose crest had been sheared off his helmet, made a beeline for Tullus.
‘Well met,’ said Tullus, grinning. ‘We’ll be sure to hold the filth back now.’
‘Hold them back?’ No Crest let out a wild laugh, and lowered his voice. ‘There’s no point. The battle is lost.’
Despite No Crest’s attempt to speak quietly, a number of Tullus’ soldiers had heard him, not least Piso.
‘What in Hades are you talking about?’ demanded Tullus.
‘The last legate is dead – slain. So too is Lucius Eggius. All but two of the tribunes have been killed or taken prisoner. Fucking Ceionius surrendered.’
Piso couldn’t believe his ears. Vitellius’ face had lost the little colour it had. They stared at one another, aghast, their terror rising.
‘And Varus – what about him?’ asked Tullus.
‘He’s wounded,’ replied No Crest. There was a short pause, and then he added, ‘The rumour is that he’s talking about suicide.’
‘How sure are you of any of this?’ hissed Tullus.
‘The casualties are as bad as I say. A mate of mine who was in the senior officers’ escort told me. Thousands of the bastards hit them about an hour back, for the second time – targeting them deliberately, it seemed. They were almost wiped out – soldiers and officers alike. About Varus – I’m not certain, but that’s what everyone’s saying. It’s total chaos back there. Discipline’s vanished, except where a few centurions have kept their heads. Men are running into the bog, surrendering, killing one another. A second eagle has been taken. It’s over, brother. Time to run.’ No Crest clapped Tullus on the shoulder, and marshalling his men, led them forward on to the track. A section of the waiting warriors moved off at once and aimed for this breakaway group.