Arminius saw Tullus’ eyes flicker and register the warriors flanking his men. ‘Form rectangle!’ Tullus bawled. ‘Vitellius, into the middle!’
Just as Arminius and his warriors closed in, the Romans moved, assuming a shape that was two men wide and three deep. Tullus was one of the pair at the front, and the legionary who’d lost his shield stood safe in the middle, a one-man reserve.
Furious, Arminius thrust hard at Tullus’ face. The centurion ducked behind his shield and stabbed back without looking. Arminius had to jump away to avoid being spitted. Tullus popped up again, ready for Arminius’ next attack. They eyed each other for a moment, and Tullus frowned. ‘Arminius?’
‘You made it through the forest.’
‘No thanks to you!’ Tullus lunged with all his might at Arminius’ head.
Desperate, Arminius twisted to the side and felt the rush of air as the blade shot past his left ear. He struck back, and hit Tullus’ shield.
‘I’ve longed for this moment,’ cried Tullus. ‘Prepare yourself for Hades.’
‘You can’t take me, old man.’ Arminius lifted his shield so he could aim his spear at Tullus’ left foot. Stab! Tullus whipped back his leg just in time. A hammering response, and Tullus’ sword hit the top of Arminius’ shield, jarring his arm.
‘Oathbreaker!’ Tullus smashed his iron boss into Arminius’ shield, and his momentum drove Arminius back.
Wise to the fact that Tullus could not capitalise on his success without leaving the safety of his formation, Arminius steadied himself and followed as Tullus retreated. Thrust! Arminius’ spear drove through Tullus’ feathered crest, doing no harm. Arminius’ next lunge smacked into the brow of Tullus’ helmet, blunting the spear tip but eliciting a cry of pain. Many men would have staggered then, and died as Arminius struck again, but from somewhere Tullus found the strength to respond with his own sword. Mouthing curses, Arminius dodged to one side, and Tullus’ blade scored a deep line across the face of his shield.
The pair glowered at each other as they recovered their breath. Arminius took stock, and wasn’t happy with what he saw. Two of Tullus’ legionaries were down, dead or injured, but so were four of his warriors. They still outnumbered the Romans seven to five, but attacking their tight formation was laden with risk, as Arminius’ casualties proved. They might yet prevail – we would prevail, he thought angrily – but more warriors would die. He’d be left with too few men to make any difference to those caught between Tullus’ soldiers and the mixture of senior officers and cavalry. I’ll return with more warriors, he decided. Finish this once and for all.
‘Ready to go again?’ taunted Tullus.
‘Soon,’ Arminius spat, before rounding up his warriors, hale and injured.
‘Come back!’ Tullus’ shouts followed them across the bog. ‘Traitor!’
Humiliation burned Arminius like a hot iron. Sensing his rage, his men didn’t say a word as they followed him.
That there might not be a ‘next time’ was apparent by the time he had gathered a strong enough force to lead another attack on Tullus and his soldiers. The situation changed again as, with loud trumpet calls, the legion which had formed Caecina’s vanguard came marching back to the aid of their beleaguered comrades. Dismayed, groups of Arminius’ warriors broke away in search of easier pickings, and he soon had to acknowledge that they were right. The returning legion seemed to be in good order as it deployed across the road in full battle formation; before long his men’s position would be untenable, and heavy casualties would follow. Incandescent at having to end his attack early, Arminius gave the order to pull back, plundering the wagon train in the process.
Not everything had gone awry, he told himself. Caecina might well be dead – without doubt, many of his senior officers were. Roman losses had been heavy, and a number of cohort standards had been taken.
These successes did not stop Tullus’ mocking laughter ringing in Arminius’ ears.
Chapter XXXV
Piso woke groaning. His head throbbed, the pain worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. There was gritty mud in his mouth, and drops of something – rain? – were hitting his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He was also bouncing up and down as he was dragged along the ground. The discomfort was such that he couldn’t be dead, he reasoned. Rain didn’t fall in the underworld either, or so he’d been told. He opened his eyes. Above him, the clouds were still lowering, and the same grim, uniform grey. To either side, gorse and bog cotton plants were moving past at a slow pace. From everywhere came the familiar sounds of marching men: clinking mail, creaking leather and squelching mud.
Piso hawked and spat out the grit. His fingers traced the outline of branches on either side of him, wrapped in blankets. I’m on a homemade stretcher, he thought. At once cold fear roiled in his belly. Had he been taken prisoner? Relief flooded through him as his gaze travelled upward, falling upon two cloaked backs and above them, the characteristic shape of Roman helmets. ‘I’m awake,’ he rasped.
Vitellius’ head turned, and his lips turned up. ‘Welcome back.’
Metilius looked around too. ‘You’ve been out for a while.’
Piso couldn’t hear the barritus, or fighting, but that meant little. ‘The Germans. Are they-?’
‘The attacks are over for the day,’ said Metilius. ‘How are you feeling?’ Piso probed his scalp with care, finding a large, soft and painful swelling on his crown. ‘My skull feels as if Tullus has been beating it with his vitis for an hour, but I think I’ll live.’
‘Your helmet’s fucked,’ said Vitellius. ‘We had a struggle getting it off.’
Piso’s memory of how he had fallen – and the last blow he’d struck – returned. ‘Tullus?’
‘He’s all right,’ said Metilius.
‘Thanks to you,’ added Vitellius.
A needle stabbed Piso behind his left orbit, and he moaned. ‘I saved him?’ he asked.
‘So he says. You injured the warrior who was about to spit him. It gave him the chance to kill the bastard.’
Piso digested this news with closed eyes. Tullus owes me his life. A sneaking pride filled him.
‘You up to walking yet?’ demanded Metilius. ‘You’re a dead weight to pull.’
‘Let him alone,’ chided Vitellius, his usual acid tone absent. ‘It can’t be long until we set up camp.’
Metilius let out a phhhh of contempt. ‘Camp?’
‘You know what I mean,’ retorted Vitellius.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Piso, unsettled.
‘Nothing,’ replied Vitellius, although his voice suggested otherwise. ‘Lie back. Rest. We’ll explain later.’
I can’t fight, thought Piso, exhaustion and pain blurring his ability to think. I doubt I can even walk. Despite the bumpy, uncomfortable ride, it was easy to let himself sink into the blackness.
When Piso came to for the second time, it was dark. Raindrops continued to patter on his face. A blanket covered his body, but under it he was damp all over. He didn’t smell of urine, which meant that someone had changed his undergarment. To his surprise Piso wasn’t embarrassed. It was more of a concern that he was lying on the bare ground. Outside. He lifted his head. Vitellius, Metilius and the rest of his tent mates were a few paces away, crouched around a miserable fire. With an effort, Piso leaned up on his elbow. ‘Where’s our tent?’
Six faces turned to regard him. ‘He’s awake!’ said Vitellius, coming over.
‘There you are,’ said Metilius, grinning.
Piso gestured at their surroundings, confused. ‘We’re in the open.’
‘Look around,’ answered Vitellius.
Piso obeyed. Not a tent was to be seen. On both sides, and opposite, groups of legionaries were sitting around fires, or lying in the mud, as he was. ‘Where is the baggage train?’ he demanded.