‘They will be, sir.’ Tullus could sense the enemy, could almost feel their hatred pulsing through the humid, mosquito-filled air. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they show themselves.’
‘Let them come,’ said Bassius, scowling. He eyed the other officers. ‘Hate it or love it, this shithole is home for the next few days, brothers. Caecina will have us build a camp on that level ground to the left, or I’m no judge.’
‘We’re going to need a lot of timber, sir. Shall I take a look at the nearest trees?’ offered Tullus. ‘It might allow me to assess the Germans’ strength.’
‘A good plan,’ said Bassius with an approving nod. ‘Cordus, patrol the road as far as the first bridge. Four of the remaining cohorts are to form a screen, two to the left, and two to the right of the flat ground. The rest will start digging the fortifications.’
Tullus walked the length of his cohort’s position before they set out, addressing his men. Few would be happy to present themselves on a plate to the enemy, as they were possibly about to do. He reminded them, therefore, of what had happened the last time Arminius’ warriors had tried an ambush. ‘We routed them, brothers, didn’t we? Sent them running back into the forest with their mangy tails tucked between their hind legs. If even one of the filth shows his face up there, we’ll do the same to him. We’re not about to let those sheep-humping maggots stop us from seeing the whores of Vetera again, are we?’
‘No!’ they roared back at him. Some laughed, and others made obscene gestures. Tullus wasn’t sure if they were mimicking what they’d do to the prostitutes in the vicus, or to Arminius’ warriors, but it didn’t matter: their spirits had been raised. When he led them off, unencumbered by their yokes, they followed with a will.
Progress was slow, thanks to the uneven, boggy terrain, and their formation, two centuries wide and three deep, didn’t help. The troops at the front turned the marshy ground into a complete quagmire for the rest, yet a wider arrangement would have made it harder for Tullus to retain control, and left them more susceptible to attack.
After three hundred paces of labouring from hummock to hummock and through pools of cold, peaty-brown water, Tullus paused. Runnels of sweat ran from under his helmet, and his pulse was racing. His men were in better shape, because each of them had at least a decade on him, but he didn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. Instead he gazed with calculating eyes at the tree line, which lay up a gentle slope, ten score paces further on.
It took but a few heartbeats to spy the warriors skulking between the beeches and hornbeams. Tullus had been expecting the enemy, but his heart still lurched. Arminius would be here as well – Tullus could feel it in his gut. ‘See them, brothers?’ he muttered to his legionaries. ‘Not a sound. We advance another hundred paces, at the walk. Pass the word on.’
To retreat now would give the wrong message. It was vital the Germans knew that they weren’t scared, that the legionaries were ready to fight, to do whatever it took to cross the bog. Posturing in this way before battle often reaped rich rewards. The performance was akin to the way two men circled in a tavern, eyeballing one another as they decided whether or not to come to blows. It wasn’t always about the skill or size of the individual, thought Tullus, although that helped. Sometimes having bigger balls than your opponent was enough to end the contest before it started. To achieve this meant being close enough to stare the other in the eye. In this case, it meant trudging uphill through the mud, each step giving the enemy more of an advantage.
Tullus’ certainty that advancing was a good idea soon began to wane. The closer they went, the greater the likelihood that he would have to commit to battle. Forming the usual shield wall would be almost impossible on this undulating ground. If enough warriors came charging from the trees, there was no guarantee that his men would prevail.
Tullus had just signalled the halt when a lone figure strode forth from the trees. An immense warrior with long blond hair, he was stark naked and carried a club. Roaring insults, he made straight for the Romans. Perhaps a hundred paces lay between them.
‘Gods, his prick is big as a mule’s!’ shouted Tullus.
As he’d hoped, his men hooted and roared. ‘Come down here. We’ll trim it to a proper size!’ challenged Piso. ‘Or cut it off altogether!’ said Vitellius. A barrage of similar jibes followed.
Mule Prick didn’t hear or couldn’t understand their insults. He sauntered closer, bawling in his own tongue and beating his chest with one fist. His mighty club swung to and fro, promising death to any man who came close enough. Despite the fact that Tullus’ soldiers outnumbered him hundreds to one, his advance was intimidating. The legionaries’ abuse began to die away.
Mule Prick’s companions sensed their uncertainty. First came seven other naked berserkers, shouting their contempt of the Romans. Then, in threes and fours, the rest began to emerge from the trees. Soon fifty warriors had gathered, then a hundred. Two hundred. Four. Five hundred. They were like rats swarming out of a burning granary, thought Tullus with unease. Tall, short, broad and skinny, snaggle-toothed and smooth-cheeked, the tribesmen were clad in woven shirts and patterned trousers. Most bore shields, hexagonal or round, with painted designs. A small number had helmets. Even fewer had swords. Perhaps a dozen had mail shirts.
Every last warrior carried a handful of frameae. Tullus knew well the danger posed by those versatile spears which could be hurled from close or long range or used as thrusting weapons.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm ! From a thousand throats, the sonorous barritus began.
Tullus hissed a curse. Until this point, the scales had been more or less balanced. In the space of five heartbeats, they had shifted, in the warriors’ favour.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
Mule Prick grinned as the mass of warriors advanced towards his position. He increased his own pace, which in turn made them speed up.
Worry gnawed at Tullus now. Mule Prick was fifty paces away. When his comrades reached him, they would charge. If that happened, the situation would disintegrate into bloody chaos. The cohorts on the level ground would be watching the drama unfold, but they’d never be able to reach Tullus’ men before they were overwhelmed. It was possible too that thousands more warriors might appear from the trees and threaten the whole legion.
‘Front two ranks, ready javelins. Whoever takes down the brute with the giant cock earns an amphora of good wine. On my command,’ Tullus said to left and right. ‘Pass it on – quick!’
Mule Prick swaggered another five paces nearer. Tattoos on his muscled limbs writhed with each step, and his outsized member flopped from side to side, a mockery of ordinary men’s genitalia. Spying Tullus, perhaps because of his crested helmet, he pointed his club. ‘Fight!’ he roared in accented Latin. ‘Come and fight!’
‘I’ve no wish to be bludgeoned to death by your cheesy dick!’ Tullus shot back in German. He repeated his words in Latin and every legionary within earshot laughed.
Mule Prick’s face purpled, and he continued advancing towards Tullus. ‘Fight, coward!’
Tullus checked. The first two ranks were ready, their right arms back. ‘LOOSE!’ he bellowed.
Mule Prick sensed the danger at last. He halted. Now he took a step back, then another. The maggot was forty paces away if he was one, thought Tullus as his gaze followed two score javelins up into the air. Thirty was the limit of most men’s effective range with the javelin. Throwing uphill reduced that distance. Tension knotted his belly as the shafts plummeted earthward.
A heartbeat later, Tullus let out an incredulous laugh. No less than three javelins had struck Mule Prick. Two had taken him in the belly, one high and one low, and the other had run through his right bicep, forcing him to drop his club. Mule Prick bellowed with rage and pain, and gave a useless tug at the shafts in his stomach. Then his legs buckled, and he fell to one knee, moaning as the javelins moved and wrenched in his flesh.