The nearest men chortled.
‘Bastards. Plenty of you must have done the same,’ retorted Piso, but his cheeks were flaming.
Already the first warrior had been joined by four others. In the space of a few heartbeats, that number had tripled. The tribesmen stood on the walkway, staring down in mute amazement at the waiting legions.
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Long and hard the trumpeters blew, ordering every legionary to arms. Tullus had his men draw their swords and close up.
More and more warriors appeared at the top of the defences, and the first arrivals began descending the steps. No fools, they waited for their comrades to join them. Experienced warriors and chieftains rallied them into large groups. Berserkers roared threats and pounded their chests. Still Tullus did not give the order. Piso’s eyes searched the other walls – countless numbers of the enemy were swarming over them too. Gods, but he was glad there were four legions within the camp.
‘You’ve got to hand it to the whoresons,’ declared Vitellius. ‘They’re not short of courage.’
‘Aye,’ said Piso with feeling. ‘I wouldn’t fucking climb down here.’
Metilius bared his teeth. ‘When are they going to sound the advance?’
‘The more filth that reach the intervallum, the more of them there are to squeeze against the walls,’ shouted Tullus. ‘Let none escape, eh?’
Piso and his comrades cheered.
It wasn’t long before several hundred of the enemy were grouped before Tullus’ cohort. Scores more warriors joined their comrades with every passing moment. Javelins would be useful now, thought Piso, but they were long gone, used up in the previous day’s fighting. It was going to be sword and shield work, up close and personal. Bloody, brutal and random.
Men were about to die – on both sides.
Chapter XL
The trumpets were blaring again as Tullus laid down his vitis, pressing it into the earth with his boots. His smooth-worn vine stick was a prize possession, having been with him since his promotion to the centurionate, but it had no place in battle. It was possible he’d be unable to find it afterwards, but that was the least of his worries.
He eyed the massing tribesmen before them. I might die today, he thought, but Fortuna would have to be at her most capricious. Arminius is a fool for leading his warriors into such an enclosed space.
Tullus’ chest felt tight, and his stomach was knotted, but he was ready. Piso was one side of him, and Vitellius, his broken nose a giant blue-black bruise, on the other. They were all there, Metilius and the rest of the Eighteenth’s veterans, and his soldiers from the Fifth. Every man was dear to Tullus now, even the ex-conscripts who’d rebelled the previous year. He would do anything for them. Fight, bleed with them, drag them out of the cursed bog. If it came to it, he would lay down his life for each and every soldier in his century.
It wouldn’t come to that today, he hoped. The savages were about to learn the harshest of lessons.
‘Shields up, swords ready, brothers. Advance, at the walk!’
They moved forward in a solid line, shield edge close to shield edge, blades protruding like teeth in between. To either side, he heard his centurions ordering their soldiers to do the same. The warriors shouted and battered their spears off their shields in response, working themselves into the state that allowed men to charge an impenetrable wall of wood and metal.
Twenty-five paces separated the two sides. A shout rang out, and many of the warriors threw spears. High, low, arcing and straight, they flashed towards the legionaries. Tullus bellowed for the front rank to duck down, and the soldiers behind to raise their shields. The volley landed before he’d even finished speaking. Cries of pain followed, and curses. Shields and bodies hit the ground. Someone in the second or third rank retched; a moment later, Tullus smelt acrid bile. The distinctive sounds of a man leaving this existence – a rattling, harsh gasp, the twitching of limbs – came from one rank back.
‘Everyone got a shield?’ Tullus demanded. ‘Get one from the man behind if you haven’t. Leave the wounded. Ready?’
‘Aye, sir,’ scores of voices said.
‘Forward!’ Tullus was disappointed not to recognise any of the warriors. Facing Arminius again would have been too great a coincidence, but he’d hoped for it nonetheless.
The tribesmen didn’t wait for the Romans to reach them. Roaring war cries, they charged in a great, disorganised mass. Faces twisted with hate, painted shields and brandished spears filled Tullus’ vision.
‘HALT!’ he yelled. ‘STEADY!’
It was odd, he thought afterwards, the things that a man remembered before, and during, the mayhem that was close-quarters combat. A Suebian knot on a warrior’s head – out of place, because that tribe was not at war with Rome. A shield with mesmeric, swirling black lines on a blue background. Behind him, one of his soldiers cursing, ‘Bastards. Bastards. Bastards.’ Stubby, gravestone-like teeth in the open mouth of a screaming greybeard. The most impressive moustache Tullus had ever seen – long, bushy, and with twisted end-points – decorating a chieftain’s face.
An almighty crash went up as the two sets of enemies collided. Beside Tullus, Piso was talking to himself. ‘Watch him. Thrust down, at his left foot. That’s it!’ Tullus’ own breath hissed in and out through his open mouth. Teeth splintered and blood spattered as he rammed his sword deep into the greybeard’s gullet. The crone was hard at work, stabbing her sewing needle into his left calf. Down went the greybeard, choking on his own gore.
He was replaced at once by a tall warrior with a club. Snarling, the warrior swung a death-delivering blow at Tullus’ head. Tullus twisted hard to the left. Something – a muscle? – tore in his side, and the club hit his shield rim, almost wrenching it from his hand. Tullus would have died then, but Vitellius was there, shoving his blade so deep into the club-wielder’s chest that the hilt slammed against the ribcage.
It was agony to raise his shield – the blow had damaged the muscles of Tullus’ forearm, but it was death to be without protection. Gritting his teeth, he resumed his place. There was no chance to see what was going on, or to thank Vitellius – another warrior, this one a heavy-set, bearded figure, was driving straight at him. Tullus’ anger towards Arminius, towards every cursed Germanic tribe, bubbled up. He rose above his aches and pains and shoved his shield boss into Beardy’s midriff. His opponent’s look of surprise and the Ooofff sound he made gave Tullus immense satisfaction. With clinical detachment, he drew back his shield and stabbed Beardy in the gut, twisted, wrenched and pulled the crimson-coated blade free. He watched as Beardy sank to his knees, an odd, keening sound issuing from his lips.
Tullus slew the next warrior as well, but he needed Piso’s aid to down the one after that. Tight bands of pain were squeezing his chest, his left arm was losing strength and black dots danced at the edges of his vision. The natural break that happened then – as the two sides pulled back a few steps by mutual, non-verbal agreement – saved his life. Grounding his shield, Tullus sucked in breath after ragged breath. His shield’s iron rim was crumpled where the club had landed, but it would serve. Whether his forearm would take any more pressure was another thing. Time to go back into the second rank, he decided, weariness flooding his veins. It’s that, or die during the next bout. The realisation tasted as bitter as hemlock; never had he needed to withdraw from the fighting so soon.
‘You all right, sir?’ Piso’s voice was by his ear.
‘Eh?’ Tullus glared at Piso. ‘Of course I am.’
‘They’re wavering, sir. Look.’ Piso jerked his head at the tribesmen.
Tullus stared. The warriors opposite – much reduced in number – didn’t seem happy. It wasn’t surprising. The ground was littered with their dead, and they had their backs to the wall. He glanced to either side, along the intervallum. The fighting was still raging to his left, but on his right it had paused. There, too, the tribesmen’s casualties appeared to have been heavy. The legionaries facing them were singing – and there was no barritus being hurled back at them. On the ramparts, he could see warriors climbing back on to their ladders. Retreating.