Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

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?’

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.

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!’