‘Maybe.’ Maelo threw his bundle of branches into the ditch and began directing the warriors. ‘Put them on top of mine! You, build another crossing over there. Every twenty paces or so should do it. Move!’
It wasn’t long before there was enough footing to traverse the ditch in numerous places. Warriors scrambled over the makeshift bridges and leaned their ladders against the wall. Arminius was in their midst. Being so close to the Roman defences, manned or no, was intimidating. Part of him expected a wave of javelins to come hissing down from above, but nothing happened. There was no sign of the fearful sentries either, and the panicked noises from inside hadn’t stopped. Really beginning to believe that the Romans had given up hope, Arminius accepted the lead position on a ladder from one of his men. He would be among the first to scale the rampart.
Sword sheathed, and with shield and spear gripped in his left hand, he climbed one rung. Two. Three. To either side, warriors were ascending fast, including Maelo and Osbert. I’ll keep them calm, thought Arminius. Play it safe. Their initial objective would be to gain a strong foothold, and then to open one of the gates. After that, the slaughter could begin in earnest.
‘Arminius!’
Maelo’s tone propelled Arminius up the ladder as if every demon in the underworld was after him. He was hauling himself one-handed over the edge of the fortifications, when his ears filled with a familiar, terrible sound.
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. From every part of the Roman camp the trumpets’ summons rang, time and again. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
Not quite believing what he was hearing, Arminius stood, reaching Maelo’s side. His stomach gave a sickening lurch. Instead of chaos, he saw cohort upon cohort of legionaries, in firm ranks. Waiting. Watching. Ready.
Chapter XXXIX
Like the rest of Caecina’s army, Piso was standing with his comrades, his gaze fixed on the top of the fortifications, waiting for signs of the enemy. His nerves were strung tight, and there was still a dull pain behind his eyes. They could only have been formed up for an hour or so, but it seemed like an eternity. Caecina’s order had arrived before dawn, and Tullus had had them ready soon after that. Now every cohort of the Fifth was positioned on the inner edge of the intervallum, facing the north wall in standard formation. Its lower than normal height was just enough to conceal them. A legion to a wall, Tullus had told them in confident tone. That was more than enough.
Considering the level of fear that had prevailed a short time before, it was odd that the air could seem determined now, even buoyant, thought Piso. Yet it was. Caecina’s address, delivered from the back of his horse as he’d ridden around the intervallum, had hit the nail on the head. ‘Think of your loved ones in Vetera, and the welcome they’ll give you,’ he had cried. ‘Remember the battles we have won this summer. Win the struggle today, and you will cover yourselves in glory. Your prowess will be talked of for generations to come!’
Rousing speeches were well and good, but there was more to be said for firm ground under a man’s feet and his comrades shoulder to shoulder beside him, Piso decided. He shot a grateful look at Vitellius and Metilius. These welcome comforts didn’t mean he liked the dry-mouthed wait, the twisting stomach and cold sweats, the full-once-more bladder that had just been emptied, the twitching muscles. When the sentries on the north wall bellowed the alarm, therefore, Piso felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Fear was there too, as usual, but the agony of waiting was over. ‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘At fucking last.’
‘I was thinking the savages wouldn’t fall for Caecina’s trick,’ muttered Vitellius, scowling.
‘They have, so cheer up.’ Metilius gave Vitellius a dig in the ribs.
‘Cheer up?’ scoffed Vitellius. ‘Thousands of the whoresons are about to throw themselves over that wall at us!’
‘Better this way than out in the bog, you grumpy bastard,’ jibed Piso.
‘Listen, you maggots,’ hissed Tullus. He came stalking along the front rank, the gnarled head of his vitis held threateningly at eyeball height. ‘Listen.’
For a moment, Piso could only make out the pounding of his heart off his ribs and the usual leather creaks and metallic clinks from his comrades’ equipment. Then he heard it, in between the sentries’ alarm calls: men’s voices, carrying from beyond the north wall.
‘Prepare yourselves,’ said Tullus, pitching his voice low, but potent enough to carry. ‘I don’t want a fucking sound from any of you until I give the order. If I hear as much as a mouse fart from one man, I’ll rip you all new arseholes.’ This was said with another menacing gesture of his vine stick. No one dared answer, and Tullus leered. ‘Steady, brothers. When the sheep-humpers arrive, they’ll get the most unpleasant surprise of their mangy, fly-blown lives.’
Piso focused on the sentries, his only means of determining how close the enemy were. Then, with hoarse shouts, two of them abandoned their positions, clattering down the nearest ladders. The moment they reached the bottom, the men’s frightened demeanour vanished and they rejoined their units. The remaining three continued to roar and point, and to beseech the gods for help. Any one of them could have been an actor, thought Piso, a little amused despite his fear.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
A nerve twitched in Piso’s face as the hated barritus began. ‘Bastards,’ whispered Metilius from the corner of his mouth. Piso felt Vitellius shift his weight from one foot to the other, and a man in the rank behind stifled a cough. In the century to their left, a soldier cried out. His centurion was on him in a flash, vitis in hand. Thwack. Thwack. The miscreant did not repeat his mistake. Piso took a furtive look around. The faces he could see were grim, edgy and sweaty. Some were scared. A few seemed terrified, yet the imposed silence held. It was because Tullus and his vitis were Everywhere, thought Piso. Along the front of the century, down its sides and at the rear – there was no way of knowing where he’d pop up next.
The third of the five sentries took to his heels, and Tullus – now at the front of the century again – raised his arms. ‘That’s the signal, brothers,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Do your worst!’
After the nerve-shredding wait, it was a release to be able to do something. Uproar descended as the legionaries gave tongue. ‘The Germans are here!’ roared Piso. Beside him, Vitellius was emitting a noise that sounded as if his throat was being cut. ‘Run!’ screamed Metilius. ‘RUN!’
The din that rose in the next twenty heartbeats was being made only by every third cohort. That had been Caecina’s order – ‘We don’t want to overdo it,’ he’d said. Nonetheless, it was deafening, and rivalled the clamour of the night before. Piso’s bowels gave a painful twist even as he shouted: it was hard not to feel some of the fear they were portraying to the enemy. He watched as the last two sentries threw their javelins – this had also been arranged – and then fled. ‘Head for the east gate!’ Piso cried, almost wishing he could.
Tullus had his back to them now, and was watching the ramparts like a hawk. Piso’s effort died away, and he sensed his comrades doing the same. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the same place. Thump, thump went Piso’s heart. The air was still loud with the false cries of other soldiers, but he could hear harsh voices on the far side of the wall. Thud. Thud. The sounds came from all along the defences. Guttural orders rang out. They’re throwing up ladders, thought Piso. The warriors are about to climb.
‘Here they come, brothers,’ hissed Tullus. ‘Wait for the trumpets.’
The first figure pulled himself on to the walkway, and Piso couldn’t stop himself from gasping. Beside him, Vitellius snickered. ‘Piss yourself again?’