Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

Arminius knew what Maelo meant, but to either side he could see warriors leaving the cover of the trees: Inguiomerus’ and the other chieftains’ followers were on the move. His own men were shifting from foot to foot and looking to him for the order to advance. Each passing moment increased the chance of some taking matters into their own hands, which would also undermine his authority. ‘I hope you’re wrong. It’s too late anyway.’

Maelo’s scowl deepened, but he strode out with the rest. A more loyal follower I could not have, thought Arminius with pride. If every man were cut from the same cloth as him, I would have crushed the Romans five times over.

It was full daylight now, and they were in sight of the enemy sentries. Encouraged by Arminius and the other leaders, the warriors swarmed down the hill slopes and towards the camp. They had gone perhaps a third of the distance when the alarm was sounded from the nearest wall. Arminius’ nerves jangled, but no general call to arms followed. He could see five sentries watching them. All were roaring at the top of their voices, and they sounded terrified. Arminius was delighted. ‘On!’ he roared to his men. ‘Quick as you can!’

By the time the warriors had covered another three hundred paces, two of the Romans had abandoned their positions. Inguiomerus and Big Chin were right, Arminius decided. He didn’t mind losing face to them if Caecina’s army was destroyed. Arminius began to run, urging his men to do the same. When the barritus began, he joined in with gusto.

Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !

Mud-splattered, legs soaked to the knee and chest heaving, Arminius looked back. Two-thirds of the ground was to their backs now. A few men had fallen behind with twisted ankles and the like, but the vast majority were with him, faces contorting as they bellowed their war cry over and over. A third sentry vanished from sight, leaving two legionaries to face Arminius’ thousands. The pair who remained continued to shout for help, but they were wavering. From inside the camp, Arminius could hear what sounded like frightened cries. Blood thrummed in his ears, and his sword felt good in his hand. A hundred steps remained.

‘Come on,’ he shouted with rising excitement. ‘Get over the ditch and up the wall!’

At seventy paces, one of the sentries lobbed his javelin. It soared up into the air – a fine throw – and landed close to Osbert, who roared an obscenity in reply. The second sentry waited until the warriors were much closer before hurling his javelin. His was a poor effort, landing just beyond the defensive ditch. The barrage of insults from the warriors that followed was deafening, and both legionaries vanished from sight. The sounds of panic from within continued.

‘What do you think?’ Arminius called to Maelo, a short way to his right.

‘I’ll tell you from the top of the wall,’ came the terse reply.

‘Have some faith,’ said Arminius, the bloodlust thick in his veins. ‘They’re terrified!’

‘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.

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.’