‘Pick up the pace, brothers,’ roared Tullus. ‘But watch your step!’
By the time a score of tribesmen had gathered to face them, Tullus and his men had covered almost half the distance. When they were thirty paces away, perhaps twice that number were readying themselves to fight. There were plenty more in the mob, but for whatever reason – confusion, close combat with Romans to the front – they hadn’t turned to meet Tullus’ charge.
At twenty-five paces, Tullus had his men slow again to a walk. ‘Shields high! Stay close! Forward!’
Piso’s breath rebounded off the inside of his shield, hot and fast and stinking of the garlic he’d eaten the day before. Mud and annoying pieces of grit squelched between his toes. His back ached too, where the boss had hit, but he kept his eyes fixed on the closest warriors. Many seemed to be focusing on Tullus, with his unmistakeable transverse-crested helmet. Piso noted three in particular. Two were burly, bare-chested men with similar features and swirling arm tattoos, brothers perhaps, and the last was a short-arsed little bastard with a mail shirt, decorated shield and a fine sword. Each of them was dangerous – Piso sensed it – and if they slew Tullus, Hades would have them all.
The warriors were fifteen paces away.
‘’Tellius!’ Piso roared.
‘Aye?’ answered Vitellius.
‘See those two inbreds with tattoos, and the little fucker with the mail and the fancy shield?’
Piso’s heart banged off his ribs three, four times and Vitellius said, ‘I see them.’
Ten.
‘They’re coming for the centurion,’ said Piso. ‘Watch them.’
‘I will!’
Six paces.
Tullus grunted – it might have been disdain, or even gratitude, Piso never knew – and then he shouted, ‘Swords off shields, and at them!’
Clatter, clatter. Sixty swords connected with shield rims. The brothers were nearest Piso, while Short Arse was closer to Tullus and Vitellius. Piso’s bladder was really hurting now. Pissing himself wouldn’t matter, he thought, as long as he protected Tullus.
Shouting war cries, the warriors charged.
Piso’s mouth was bone dry, his heart pounding. He readied his right arm, and decided to tackle Brother One, who had a longer moustache. Tullus would face Brother Two, and Piso hoped Vitellius would kill Short Arse. He had to rely on the legionary to his left to fight the brute to the right of his target. That was how the shield wall worked, in theory at least.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Up went the familiar noise of shields and bosses clashing off one another, or striking flesh. Men groaned with the pain of it, or with the effort of driving in behind their shields, trying to unbalance their enemies. Fast as a lightning bolt, the sound was followed by screams as blades were rammed home on both sides, and casualties taken.
Piso’s hunch was right. The brothers and Short Arse were trying to kill Tullus, and the weight of their attack – two stabbing spear blades and a probing sword – was such that Tullus could not fight back. He had ducked down behind his shield. Blind, he could do nothing but brace himself and wait for a chance to strike. Already both brothers were trying to thrust down over the top of Tullus’ shield. Piso digested this information in perhaps six fevered heartbeats. Cursing, he stuck his sword into the only portion of Brother One that was visible – his flank, above the waistband of his patterned trousers. Blood blossomed, Piso felt the blade grate off the hipbone and Brother One roared in agony.
Piso wrenched on his sword, feeling it slide off the bone again as it came out in a spray of red. Most men would have gone down with such a wound, but Brother One was set on killing Tullus, regardless of cost. Hissing with pain, he stabbed again with his spear, over Tullus’ shield.
The point caught in Tullus’ mail, where Piso couldn’t see, but Tullus let out a bull’s bellow. He must have struck back in reflex, because someone very close – not Brother One – let out a strangled cry. Brother One pulled back his spear with a snarl. Piso was about to stick him again when something hit the top of his head with an almighty crash. Stars burst across his vision, and his strength vanished. He dropped to one knee, letting go of his shield. His over-tight bladder began to empty itself. Above him, someone roared in triumph.
I’m done, thought Piso. Whoever did that to me is about to smash in my skull. Most of him didn’t care. The smell of his own piss was thick in his nostrils. His other knee trembled, and he almost fell on to his face. The death blow didn’t fall, though, which was baffling. Fuzzy-headed, swaying, and lapsing in and out of consciousness, Piso stared at the confusion of moving legs and churned-up ground before him. Bloodied and limp, a corpse lay right in front, and was being trampled by those above it. There was plenty of mud, as always. Several weapons were visible: two spears, a Roman sword. A tiny ladybird was balanced on a sprig of heather, oblivious to the carnage being waged around it.
Strong legs in patterned trousers shuffled back and forth just to Piso’s right. Brother One? he wondered dully, trying to focus on the trousers again. He’s still on Tullus.
Piso’s sword was lying by his side, his weak fingers still resting on the hilt. He eyed it, a new urgency thrumming through his slow-pulsing veins. He lifted it up a handspan. Then another. Fixed his gaze on the trousers. Raised his blade a little more, tensed his arm muscles. Thrust. Connected. Sliced through the fabric and into the meat of the trousers’ owner’s calf. The blow wasn’t powerful, but it was true. Piso’s sharp-edged blade went in – deep. A piercing shriek battered his eardrums, and the trouser-wearer staggered, wrenching the sword from Piso’s grasp.
His strength was gone. White light surrounded him. Piso let go.
Chapter XXXIV
Not far away, Arminius was also in the thick of the fighting. Sweat slicked down his face and into his eyes. He blinked away the salty sting and met the shield thrust from his enemy, a grimacing legionary, with braced legs. His willow shield splintered with the impact, and the legionary let out a pleased grunt. He still had a satisfied look on his face when Arminius’ sword glanced off his shield rim and rammed into his left eye. With a soft pop, almost indiscernible, and a spray of watery fluid, the globe ruptured. Steel ground off bone. His brain pithed, the legionary was dead before Arminius had freed his blade.
‘Change!’ Arminius roared. He didn’t want to leave the fight, but his cracked shield guaranteed a quick death from his next opponent. There was time for a man to take his place before the legionary in the next rank was close enough.
‘Change!’ cried Osbert, the warrior to his rear.
In a move they’d rehearsed scores of times, Arminius half turned, pulling his shield in close to his body. With his shield arm extended, Osbert slipped past to Arminius’ left, allowing his chieftain to withdraw at the same time.
‘Donar!’ cried Osbert, causing the legionary facing him to flinch. Letting out a triumphant roar, Osbert shoved his spear into the Roman’s neck. A fountain of blood jetted from the vicious wound it left, and the legionary fell on top of his comrade. ‘Donar!’ cried Osbert again.
Satisfied that the line would hold, Arminius cast around for a new shield. There were a number lying about, dropped by injured and slain warriors. Finding one to his liking, he took the opportunity to step back. When the crimson mist fell, it was too easy to forget everything but reddening the blade. Just a short remove from the fighting, Arminius’ zeal cooled, and he looked to his left. Things seemed to be going well there. As he watched, a wedge of warriors drove deep into the Roman lines, unhorsing a senior officer and panicking nearby riders’ mounts. Hooves kicked to and fro, and men wailed as they were thrown backwards into the bog.