Ben Kane - Hunting the Eagles

Metilius scowled, and felt. ‘A little,’ he said.

Piso heaved on the baldric until his arm muscles ached. ‘Now?’

‘That’s better.’

‘Put a finger on the knot,’ ordered Piso, tying it with grim intent. Metilius withdrew his finger as the leather squeezed tight. ‘Get your hand back on the wound,’ snapped Piso. ‘How does it feel now?’

‘The blood’s flowing faster than it was before you tied it off,’ replied Metilius, scowling.

Piso wanted to scream. Knots always loosened off like this. Most of the time it didn’t matter, but now every moment counted. He was about to shout for the stick again, when one of the others came skidding to a halt beside them. He proffered a section of gorse branch. ‘It’s all I could find,’ he said in an apologetic voice.

‘Cut some of the fucking thorns off. Quickly!’ Piso cried. He took a glance at Vitellius, and wished he hadn’t. His friend’s eyes were closed; shallow movements of his chest told Piso he was alive, but he was fading. ‘’Tellius. ’Tellius?’

There was no answer.

‘The stick. Now, or it’ll be too late!’ Piso’s comrade gave up slicing and passed it over. Fast as he could, Piso slid the still thorny piece of wood under the baldric and began to turn it towards him. One, two, three twists. The leather was good and tight, but he didn’t stop. Four twists. Five. He shot a look at Metilius. ‘Is the bleeding slowing?’

‘I think so.’ Metilius concentrated, then grinned like a fool. ‘It is! I can’t feel anything.’

Piso twisted the stick another full circle for good measure, and pushed one end of it under the leather to hold it in place. Aesculapius, he prayed, let that be enough – please. He took Vitellius’ cold hand in his. ‘’Tellius?’

Vitellius didn’t respond. Scared now, Piso leaned up to see his friend’s face. Vitellius’ complexion had gone waxen – the colour of the dead, or those near death. With trembling fingers, Piso felt at the side of Vitellius’ wrist.

‘Is he …?’ faltered Metilius.

Piso squeezed shut his eyes, and tried to block out everything but the sensation in his fingertips. Feeling a thready pulsing, his hopes rose, but they curdled almost at once. Vitellius’ pulse was fading with each beat of his weakened heart.

Riven with grief and hopelessness, Piso felt it dwindle under his touch until, after he didn’t know how long, it stopped. Distraught, blaming himself, he let his chin fall on to his chest.

‘He’s gone.’ Metilius’ tone was flat.

‘Aye,’ whispered Piso.

No one said anything as grief overcame them. Piso wept. Metilius slumped down beside him, laid a hand on Vitellius’ unmoving arm. Their comrade who’d brought the stick watched over them in grim silence with the others.

Time passed. Overhead, a raven called, and was answered by its mate. In the distance, legionaries shouted to one another as they retraced their steps towards the camp. How Piso longed for the corpse lying before him to be one of those men. They were good soldiers, no doubt, but they weren’t Vitellius, with whom he’d been through so much. Vitellius, who with Metilius had hauled him miles through the mud.

Warm sunshine began to beat down on their backs. After the dreadful weather of the previous days, it should have been welcome. Instead it felt hateful. It was almost as if the gods were mocking their friend, thought Piso, whose death had been so stupid, so pointless.

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.

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.