Piso moved nearer to Tullus, felt Metilius shove in from his right. He relished the comforting, safe feeling. They wouldn’t be able to hold the shield wall together in the trees, but it felt good right now.
‘Ready?’ Tullus hissed in his ear.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Move forward in silence,’ ordered Tullus. ‘ADVANCE!’
Roars of defiance went up from the warriors as the Romans approached. More spears hummed in, causing several casualties. The barritus was sung again. HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
‘Quiet, brothers,’ growled Tullus. ‘Keep quiet.’
His steady voice fell like oil on water, calming the legionaries. On they marched. Fifty paces separated them from the tribesmen, and then forty. Still Tullus urged his men to silence. The barritus wavered, and then died away. So too did the number of spears being hurled. Piso’s heart leaped. They’re scared, he thought.
At thirty paces, Tullus began to bellow. ‘ROMA!’ He struck his sword off the side of his shield with a loud clatter. ‘ROMA!’
‘ROMA!’ Piso and his legionaries answered. ‘ROMA!’
Twenty-five paces. They continued to shout. The nearest tribesmen glanced at each other. One took a step backwards. So did his comrade.
Tullus’ reaction was as fast as a striking snake. ‘CHARGE!’
Piso broke into a run with Tullus, and felt Metilius on his right do the same. The soldiers to either side and behind were with them too. Piso’s shield, which had seemed so heavy, now weighed no more than a feather. His leg muscles, which had burned, felt strong as steel. His stomach was clenched tight with nerves, but he could ignore it. Increasing numbers of tribesmen were panicking, and running away. Many stayed to fight, but their resolve splintered as they realised how few comrades were standing with them.
Four warriors held their ground near Piso. Tullus aimed for the first one. Piso took the second, striking him in the chest with his shield boss and driving him back several steps. As the man tried to regain his balance and strike at Piso with his spear, Piso’s sword rammed deep into his belly. With a gurgling shriek, the warrior dropped his weapon and clutched at the steel spitting him. Piso ripped it free, slicing the warrior’s fingers to ribbons. Down he went, folding in on himself like a boneless corpse.
Piso looked for another opponent. Tullus had killed his man, and Metilius was finishing off a third. The fourth warrior had discarded his spear and fled. Piso caught up within twenty strides, cutting him down with a powerful thrust between the shoulder blades. His victim fell face first, with crimson blossoming on his patterned tunic. He kicked on the mossy ground like a rabbit caught in a trap. A quick stab to the back of his neck brought his jerking limbs to a shuddering halt. Chest heaving, Piso glanced to either side. Everywhere he could see, warriors were fleeing. Blood coursed in his ears; exultation filled him. This was how victory felt. He took several steps towards the retreating tribesmen.
‘HALT!’ Tullus’ voice stopped Piso in his tracks. He turned. Tullus’ bloodied sword was pointing straight at him. ‘Get back here, Piso. Chase them too far and they’ll turn. We’ve taught them a good lesson. If they want more, they know where to find us.’
Disgruntled, Piso joined Vitellius, who chortled at his discomfort. ‘The bloodlust is hard to resist, eh?’
‘It’s so good to see the bastards run,’ said Piso, wiping his blade clean on a corpse’s tunic.
His pleasure did not abate as the day wore on. The warriors made several more attacks, but they were half-hearted affairs, and the Fifth drove them back with ease. Each success gave Tullus’ men greater confidence, and by the time of the last assault, they were greeting the tribesmen’s arrival with catcalls and insults. It was remarkable how effective their vocal barrage was, Piso thought. After a final volley of spears that didn’t cause a single casualty, the disheartened Germans faded away into the trees.
Morale was high in the Roman camp that evening. Those lucky enough to have any wine drank their fill. Spirits rose further at the news from headquarters. The year’s campaign had ended. At dawn, the army would split up once more. Caecina and Stertinius were to lead their forces back to the Rhenus by separate routes, while Germanicus would make for the beached fleet of vessels left at the mouth of the River Amisia. Caecina’s army was to be the largest – four legions strong, including the Fifth. The happy announcement had Piso and his comrades singing long after the sun had set.
Yet, as Tullus reminded them before they retired, the war had not been won. The Eighteenth’s eagle had not been recovered. Arminius was still at large, and his warriors remained undefeated. ‘He’ll be tracking us home the way a wolf pack follows a lame deer,’ Tullus declared, the dancing firelight rendering his lined face even more forbidding. ‘Until your hobnails are hammering off the bridge into Vetera, brothers, do not let down your guard. Not for one fucking moment.’
Chapter XXVII
‘Dig.’ Arminius jabbed a forefinger at the large mound. ‘DIG!’ The warriors with him, a mob of two hundred or more, set to with a will. Their shovels sliced into the fresh-turned soil, fast raising piles of earth on either side of the tumulus that had been erected by Germanicus’ legionaries. The great carved stone that had towered at its top lay close by, already shattered into a hundred pieces by Arminius’ order.
He watched his men destroy the mound, his tapping foot the only sign of the fury raging through him. After his attempt to drive the Twenty-First Legion into the bog had failed, he’d had to let his warriors lick their wounds for a few days. Arminius hadn’t been surprised that Germanicus had taken the sensible option of starting the long journey back to the Rhenus, but was now keenly aware that he might have missed his last opportunity of the year to strike at the Romans, and to avenge Thusnelda. This realisation gnawed at Arminius the way a weeping bedsore troubles an ailing greybeard, the way a deep-buried thorn causes a man’s hand to throb day and night.
Defiling the memorials erected by Germanicus’ troops didn’t ease Arminius’ pain a great deal, but he could take some satisfaction from the destruction, from the loud message it delivered. This land does not belong to the empire, he thought as the first bones were hurled from the pit. Its legionaries cannot build tombs here. This is where I stripped fifteen thousand Romans of everything: their lives, their weapons, their standards, even their pride. Their remains deserve to be left to the mercy of the elements, to be picked over by the crows and wolves. Their bones will rot away into the ground, leaving nothing behind. Only the skulls I have had fresh-nailed to the trees will remain, a warning for years to come. Invade this land at your peril. Anger the tribes, and this will be your fate.
As if he had arranged it with Donar, a raven called overhead. There it was, a large black shape coasting high above, its distinctive irregular wingtips lifting and falling on the wind. Arminius wasn’t sure if it was watching him and his warriors, but it seemed that way. Not far from this spot, in the aftermath of his ambush, a similar bird had led him to the last of the three legions’ eagles. Since that time, and in particular since Thusnelda’s abduction, Arminius had been unsure if the thunder god approved of him. Seeing another here, now, he felt sure that Donar was smiling down from the heavens.
If he had had the time, Arminius would have lingered until the arrival of winter, destroying every last piece of evidence that the Romans had ever come here. He’d have ground to dust every piece of pottery, carried off every weapon and set of mail and armour, burned anything made of wood. Once the flames were hot enough, even the legionaries’ bones – and those of their mules and horses – could have been reduced to ash.
He rubbed a hand across weary eyes. One day, perhaps, the chance to erase all memories of Varus and his lost legions would come his way. For now, Arminius had to decide on which of Germanicus’ three armies to follow. They were each only a few days’ march to the west. Slow, encumbered with their artillery and wagons, they would be easy to catch, as long as he did not tarry over-long in this forest of bones.