Paetus’ red plume could be seen deep in the chaos with Batavians to either side; their swords, streaked with crimson, flashed around him as they carved their way forward through the tangle of Chatti now so compact that all they could do was fight where their horses stood. An instant later a mighty crash ripped through the screams and clash of weapons: the two outermost turmae had rounded the wedge’s flanks and charged its unprotected rear. The Batavians, sensing victory, roared in triumph and worked their blades harder, pressing forward onto an enemy that had no place to go but down. And down they went beneath the hissing edges of the auxiliaries’ swords, pushed from all sides, as the remnants of the wedge’s severed head were forced back by the two rear turmae. The Chatti were penned in.
Vespasian’s heart pounded as he felt a surge of joy well up inside him and knew he had to control himself. He desired nothing more than to kill; and kill he did but not in a mad frenzy but with measured determination. For how long the killing lasted, he did not know; it felt like an age as time was slowed by his heightened senses but in reality it was no more than the length of a chariot race, seven rounds of the track.
And then suddenly it was over.
The brutal cacophony of combat had given way to a dissonant mixture of pitiful cries and whimpers of wounded men and beasts; the Batavians found themselves without opponents. Not all had died, however; more than a score of the warriors from the tip of the wedge had broken out and were now fleeing towards the river. Here and there around the hillside, either singly or in pairs, a few others, who had been as fortunate, rode to join them but most now lay beneath the hooves of the Batavian’s mounts; almost thirty Batavians lay with them. Magnus, Ziri and a couple of unhorsed troopers stalked around, finishing off the Chatti wounded and those Batavians too cut up to ride.
Vespasian surveyed the carnage, gasping for breath and then looked down at his blood-splattered arms and legs in sheer wonder that they were still there. Having satisfied himself that he was indeed in one piece a sense of urgency came over him. ‘Magnus, keep a couple alive and that one-handed bastard if you find him.’ He dismounted and began looking at the Chatti dead.
Sabinus rode over; blood oozed from a cut on his forehead. ‘Thanks for your help, brother; I just managed the bastard in the end, but just is good enough.’
‘You can thank me by helping to look for that one-handed man.’
‘What was it about him?’ Sabinus asked, swinging off his horse. ‘You were about to tell me something.’
Vespasian turned a corpse over with his foot. ‘I recognised him from Rome.’
‘Where’ve you seen him?’
‘On the day of Caligula’s assassination, Uncle Gaius and I were in the theatre as you know. We managed to get out and then slipped down an alley to get away from the crush. We passed a dead German Bodyguard, and then at the end of the alley there was another one, leaning up against the wall, wounded; he was bald with a blond beard and you had just cut off his right hand.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. I came out of the alley and saw a man in a cloak limping away with a wounded right thigh; that was you, wasn’t it?’
Sabinus thought for a moment and then nodded his head. ‘Yes, I suppose it was; two of the surviving Bodyguards followed me from the palace. I know that I killed one but whatever I did to the other I don’t know because he wounded me at the same time; but he went down screaming and I stayed standing and managed to escape. So you think that this is all about vengeance for me depriving him of his drinking hand?’
‘No, it’s more than that. If we assume that Magnus is right and only Claudius’ freedmen know where we’re going then it has to be one of them who is trying to stop us. It was Pallas’ idea, so why would he try and sabotage it? It also doesn’t make sense, as you said, for Narcissus to spare you and then try and kill you here. So that leaves Callistus; I’m sure that he’s behind it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s something that Pallas said when he told me how he knew that you were wounded and therefore must be still in the city. He said that Callistus had questioned the wounded Bodyguard.’
Sabinus wiped a drop of blood from his eye and looked thoughtfully at it. ‘Fair enough; that connects the one-handed bastard with Callistus but it doesn’t explain what Callistus has to gain by stopping us from finding the Eagle. He needs Claudius to gain favour with the army as much as Pallas and Narcissus do.’
‘Yes, but he’s also in a power struggle with them. Pallas told me that Narcissus is the most powerful of the three and he and Callistus are secondary. I watched them leave the dais on the night that the Senate went to see Claudius outside the Praetorian camp. Narcissus had the place of honour, helping Claudius down; then Pallas and Callistus both tried to patronise one another by offering the other the second place. Neither would accept the other’s condescension and they ended up going down together. Now if Pallas’ idea works and we come back with the Eagle then Claudius will favour him greatly and Callistus will feel that he’s relegated to third place.’
‘But if we fail then Pallas will take the blame.’
‘Exactly, Sabinus; and Callistus will feel he’s won this round.’
‘Even though he’s jeopardised the grander strategy of gaining Claudius a victory in Britannia?’
‘Not if at the same time he has his own scheme for gaining Claudius popularity with the army.’
‘How?’
Vespasian sucked on his lip and shook his head. ‘I don’t know; but Callistus isn’t stupid so he’ll have one.’
‘We’ve got two who are alive enough to answer some questions,’ Magnus said, walking up to the brothers, ‘but no sign of old one-handed matey-boy. He must have made it out and is across the river by now; but I reckon we’ll see him again.’
Vespasian turned and looked north; on the far bank two hundred or so warriors stood holding the river against them. ‘We won’t be able to cross here but we’ll worry about that once we’ve found out what the prisoners know.’
‘Take another one, Ansigar,’ Vespasian ordered, ‘and then ask him again.’
Ansigar pushed his weight down on his knife; after a moment’s pressure it cut through the bone and, with a spurt of blood, the ring finger was severed, falling to the ground to land next to its smaller, erstwhile neighbour. Ansigar growled again in German but his victim, an older Chatti warrior held down on his back by two auxiliaries, just screwed up his face against the pain and said nothing; his chest heaved unevenly, glistening with sweat. He had a deep stab wound in his left shoulder, just below his iron collar.
Vespasian looked down at the wreckage of the man’s left hand on the blood-drenched stone that was the chopping board; it was limp and extended at a strange angle from his forearm, which had been brutally broken after his first refusal to say why the Chatti had attacked them. ‘Take the third,’ he hissed, ‘although I’ve a feeling that it’s going to be a waste of time with this one. But it may encourage our other friend to talk.’ He glanced over at the second prisoner, a younger man, kneeling with his hands bound behind him, staring with terrified eyes at his tormented comrade; he tried to tear himself loose from the two Batavians holding him as the third finger dropped to the ground.
The older man still refused to talk.
‘Shall I take off his hand, sir?’ Ansigar asked.
‘Yes.’
Ansigar drew his sword and laid it on the wrist; the warrior tensed at the touch. The young man let out a sob.
‘Wait!’ Vespasian shouted as Ansigar raised the blade. ‘Take his friend’s right hand.’
The maimed warrior was dragged away and the younger man’s bonds were cut. He started to scream and writhe like a landed eel as his two guards hauled him towards the stone. They forced him down onto his back and pulled out his right arm. Ansigar showed him the sword; a stream of German poured from the terrified man’s mouth.