In the end, Metilius broke the quiet. ‘We’d best get back.’
Piso stirred, but didn’t get up.
‘Come on,’ said Metilius. ‘It’s a good distance to the camp, and we need to fashion a litter to carry him.’
‘Why did it have to be Vitellius?’ asked Piso, his voice raw with sorrow.
‘His time had come. That’s all there is to say.’ Metilius gave Piso’s shoulder an awkward pat. ‘Try not to dwell on it, or you’ll go mad.’
Metilius was right, Piso decided, clamping down on his jagged-edged grief. Vitellius’ death wasn’t right or wrong. It just was. The Fates had cut his thread today, not tomorrow, next year or in three decades. If the warrior with the dagger hadn’t done for him, someone else would have. He – Piso – was still alive, and so were Metilius and the others. Tullus and Fenestela had made it too.
In this stinking, endless bogland, that was the only thing that mattered.
Chapter XLII
Night had fallen, and Arminius was sitting on a blanket by his fire, sharpening his sword. Even with the flames, the light was poor. There was no need to do this routine, mindless task now, but he needed something to take his mind off what had happened. The bag of wine by his feet was one method. Scouring his weapon was another. His first efforts, with a damp rag cloth, had washed off the caked blood. There was no removing the ichor from the junction of blade and hilt – it tended to soak in there – but Arminius regarded that deep-lying stain as part of the sword’s substance. He didn’t want to clean away all evidence of the men he’d wounded and slain.
He squinted along the blade, searching for the nicks left from impacts with other metal objects – swords, shield rims, helmets. Finding three close together, he ran his pumice stone over the area with firm, regular strokes, keeping it angled just so towards the steel. Six strokes one way, six the opposite. Arminius studied the sword again, could no longer see two of the marks, but the third lingered. He concentrated on the area again, working the stone until no trace of the damage remained. On he moved, to another part of the blade. It was satisfying work, easy to focus on, and because he’d done it so many times before, a pleasure rather than a burden.
‘There you are.’ Maelo had appeared.
Arminius grunted, but didn’t look up. Their disastrous attack would have to be discussed, but he didn’t want to do it now. Having an empty mind at times such as this was a useful thing. He pointed the sword towards the flames, searching for more imperfections.
‘Thirsty?’ asked Maelo.
‘No.’ Spotting another nick, Arminius began to hone it down.
‘Hungry?’
‘No.’ The stone made a gentle, scraping sound as it slid over the blade, and repeated itself as he dragged the pumice the opposite way.
‘Want to talk?’
‘No.’ Arminius ran the stone over and back, over and back. He rubbed at the spot with a finger, could feel nothing but smooth steel. The edge was keen there too. Again aiming the sword at the fire, he peered along its length.
‘Arminius.’
He didn’t react.
‘Arminius.’ Maelo’s voice was harder this time.
He raised his head, gave his second-in-command a cold glance.
‘What happened today wasn’t your fault.’
Despite his intentions, Arminius’ fury burst free. ‘The whole thing was a fucking disaster – from beginning to end!’
‘It wasn’t your fault – you tried to stop the attack.’
‘Tried? Much use it did the poor whoresons who lie dead out there.’ Arminius made an angry gesture towards the bog. ‘How many were slain?’
Maelo shrugged. ‘No one knows yet. Six, seven thousand at least.’
‘Wasted lives! Men who won’t be there to fight next year – if I can even rally the tribes again.’ Arminius curled his lip. ‘What number were Cherusci?’
‘Three, four hundred. Far fewer than there would have been if you’d run, as Inguiomerus did.’
‘The faithless dog made no effort to hold his warriors together. I should have gutted him this morning and taken charge of them.’
Maelo raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you really think they’d have followed you after that?’
‘Perhaps not, but it might have stopped the attack altogether. Donar curse the other chieftains for being headstrong fools, for listening to Inguiomerus!’ Arminius flung down his sword and pumice stone, and stared into the flames, scowling.
Maelo watched him for several moments, then he said, ‘It’s done. It’s over.’
Arminius bunched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Only when the sensation began to leave his fingers did he relax his grip. ‘It’s so frustrating to see months’ worth of planning pissed away! To know that thousands of brave men died needless deaths. And all because my uncle is – or was – an empty-headed, over-confident fool.’ He cocked his head. ‘Has there been any sign of him?’
‘No.’
‘Good riddance to the dog.’
‘What about the Romans? They haven’t reached safety yet. It’s three days’ hard march to the open ground near the river.’
‘Not everyone is like you, Maelo,’ said Arminius. ‘Our warriors are the finest in the land, but I doubt they have the belly for another assault. There’s no chance that the other tribes would take part – they’ve been hounded to within a hair’s breadth of their lives. Even if our men would help us attack Caecina, four thousand spears can do little against so many legions. Our campaign is over until next spring.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ admitted Maelo, glowering.
Bitterness filled Arminius anew, and he kicked out against a projecting log, pushing it into the blaze. A stream of orange-white sparks trailed up into the night sky. Forgive me, Thusnelda, Arminius thought. I have wronged you twice over. I didn’t protect you and our unborn child from the enemy. Now I have failed to avenge you.
‘They’ll be back next year,’ said Maelo. ‘The fate of the Marsi and the Chatti will be the talk of every longhouse this winter. Recruits won’t be hard to find. You will raise a new army.’
It was true, thought Arminius. The tribes had been defeated, but that did not mean they were altogether beaten, that their courage had gone, never to return.
‘Arminius!’ Osbert appeared out of the darkness. Blood caked his arms, and dark lines ringed his eyes. ‘Inguiomerus has returned, badly wounded.’
‘Take me to him,’ ordered Arminius, sweeping his sword into its sheath. ‘Maybe I’ll finish what the Romans didn’t.’
Maelo’s face grew troubled. ‘If it has to be done, let me or Osbert take care of it. Such things need to happen in the dark of the night, with no witnesses.’
‘You’d best be somewhere else altogether,’ added Osbert.
Arminius threw them an approving look. ‘Let’s see how the land lies before we make that decision. Come with me.’
Things weren’t dreadful in the section of the camp occupied by Arminius’ followers. They didn’t have tents – no one did, thanks to the Romans’ pursuit – but they had their weapons, and their pride. Elsewhere was a different matter, and the journey to Inguiomerus’ tent was an unpleasant one. Bands of stragglers were still coming in, their wounds, dejected expressions and lack of spears and shields graphic evidence of their ordeal. The injured and dying sprawled everywhere between the trees. The few individuals with medical knowledge were hard at work, bandaging, cauterising and administering herbal tonics. Piles of corpses – those whom it had been impossible to save, or who had expired before being treated – lay in great piles. No barritus resonated in the cold night air – the chant had been replaced by a constant, low moaning, and calls for dressings and bowls of hot water.
Arminius kept his head down and pressed on. He’d seen to his own men already. There would be opportunity the next day to move among these casualties, praising and commiserating. To ensure that the warriors’ hatred of Rome had not been extinguished by their defeat. To plant fresh hope in their weary, grieving hearts.