Ben Kane: Eagles at War

‘HALT!’ Tullus spun around, his expression furious. ‘I heard that!’ he yelled. ‘Think like that, and you will go to Hades. Decide that you’ll fight until the last breath leaves your body, though, and you could make it out of this stinking shithole. Think of that tree as the low wall of a town. All we’ve got to do is get over it, and we can keep going. You maggots can scale a little thing like that, surely?’

No one laughed. They groaned back at him, but it was a sound of assent rather than refusal.

‘When we reach it, I want the first two ranks – twelve men – to form a small testudo. First rank, lean up against the trunk with your shields over your heads. Second rank, kneel behind them and do the same thing. Third rank, split to either side, and protect the formation’s sides. Fourth rank, you’ll come with me. On my command, we’ll tear up the shields, and straight over the fucking tree. The savages won’t know what’s hit them! Understand?’ Tullus paced to and fro, studying their faces.

‘It won’t work,’ hissed Piso, who was in the fourth rank with Vitellius. Soldiers liked to boast sometimes that an ox and cart could be driven over a testudo, but it was an old wives’ tale. Men were far lighter, thought Piso, but even still …

‘Have you got a better idea?’ Vitellius answered.

Piso hadn’t, so he stitched his lip.

‘When the last men have gone over, the next century will form a new testudo and our first two ranks can climb over. The woman and child come last. Then the rest of the new unit follows, and so on. We do not stop until we’ve thrown the bastards back, and we can move the tree. Fenestela, you hear that?’ Tullus called.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Pass it on.’ Tullus resumed his position and led them forward, at a walk this time.

If Piso had been scared during the previous days, he felt twice as bad now. Sweat slicked his cold, wet back. Fear roiled in his belly, churned his guts. The desire to have a shit was overwhelming, and to piss. From the foul smells assailing his nostrils, some men had already done both. Piso gathered the last shreds of his self-respect – Tullus had muscled in beside him, and Vitellius was on his other side – and managed not to do the same.

It was about two hundred paces to the hacked-down tree.

Two hundred paces during which Tullus’ men had to endure the barritus, repeated over and over. It seemed that every warrior in Arminius’ host had climbed atop the earthen rampart to sing, or to hurl abuse at them. They did not attack, however, or throw spears, which magnified Piso’s feeling of dread. The bastards were waiting until they were all bunched up in front of the obstacle.

A hundred and fifty paces. The sound of fighting beyond the trunk was loud enough to be heard beneath the barritus now. Piso could make out scores of heads and spear tips on the other side. The gods alone knew how many of the whoresons there were – hundreds, maybe. They could be hurling themselves from the frying pan into the fire – they probably were . A hundred and twenty paces.

‘We’ve got one advantage, brothers. They won’t be expecting this tactic,’ said Tullus. ‘Make it count. Make it fucking count.’

No one answered him.

A hundred paces.

For the first time, Piso saw the lines of weariness on Tullus’ face, and he realised that their centurion was human. Tullus couldn’t do it on his own, just as they couldn’t succeed without him. Piso rallied his courage. ‘We’ll do it, sir,’ he said.

‘You can count on us, sir,’ added Vitellius.

A few other men muttered agreement.

Tullus smiled. ‘You’re good lads.’

At sixty paces, the enemy’s spears and stones came hammering down from either side, and from the front. Men gurgled and died as they were struck; others screamed and staggered on. Those who were unhurt cursed and sweated and hunched behind their shields as they closed in. Fifty paces. Forty, thirty. Piso could see the warriors facing him. Bearded, moustached, some so young that they were yet smooth-cheeked. Every face twisted with hate; every mouth open, roaring war cries, insults, the barritus. Each man brandishing a shield, and a spear, club or sword, threatening death in any number of ways. Behind stood rank upon rank of their fellows, also clamouring to get at their enemies, the Romans. Us, thought Piso, his belly clenching.

Twenty paces.

Ten.

‘Ready?’ shouted Tullus. ‘First rank, second rank, third rank, form testudo!’

Piso didn’t dare to look to the left, where another wave of attackers waited, or at the warriors behind the trunk, who were leaping up and down. He kept his gaze fixed on the soldiers in front of him, who were in place and raising their shields. Get it over with, gods, get it over with, he thought, his fear bubbling in great torrents.

‘Fourth rank, ready? Starting from the left, two at a time! Go!’ shouted Tullus.

Dry-mouthed, Piso watched the first pair of soldiers from his rank move forward and place their sandals on the angled shields. The shields wavered, but held, and up the men went, their hobs pounding off the wet leather covers. Reaching the top of the trunk, they jumped down, shouting at the tops of their voices.

Vitellius and Piso were next.

Thunk. The sound of a spear landing was so close that Piso almost soiled his undergarment. Feeling no pain, he exulted. It hadn’t hit him. What was probably only two frenzied heartbeats later, but felt like a lifetime, his head turned to the left. Vitellius’ eyes were wide, and he had dropped his shield. ‘Damn spear got me … just below … shoulder,’ he said, grimacing. And stepping aside.

‘No!’ yelled Piso, distraught. Anyone who was left behind would die.

‘Ready, Piso?’ Tullus’ breath was hot in his ear. ‘We go. Now!’

‘Vitellius …’ Piso began.

‘Fucking go!’ Vitellius ordered. ‘I’ll be straight after you.’

A great shove from Tullus’ shield, a loud curse, and Piso was charging forward and up, grief and rage tearing at him. Tullus was by his side, step for step. Crash! Crash! Crash! went their hobs on his comrades’ shields. Both were big men, yet the soldiers below them wavered but a little. In half a dozen steps, they were atop the trunk, its bark giving good grip for their sandals. Only one legionary was still alive, his back against the tree, fighting three warriors, while a horde more tried to reach him. Guilt stabbed at Piso. Had he caused the death of the other soldier by delaying?

‘ROMA!’ bellowed Tullus, and jumped, smashing the bottom rim of his shield off a warrior’s head.

Piso followed, before his fear paralysed him. Trying to take a less risky approach, he still collided with a tribesman’s shoulder. The warrior went down under Piso, who landed partly on him and partly on his arse. Lucky for Piso, another legionary was hard on his heels. He landed in front of them both, and was able to take on, for a moment at least, the enemies who were swarming forward. The warrior under Piso reared up his head, and, releasing his shield, Piso managed to punch him hard in the face. Piso scrambled to his feet, aware that if he didn’t do so fast, he’d be dead. Stab. From close range, he thrust his blade into the upturned face of the warrior beneath his feet. The blade entered via the left eye socket; there was a little spurt of vitreous fluid and the iron ran on, into the man’s brain. He let out a grunt of what might have been surprise and dropped to the mud, floppy-limbed, dead.

Retrieving his scutum, Piso pushed forward to stand beside the legionary who’d just arrived. Shoulder to shoulder, shields as close as they could hold them, they fought like men possessed. To their good fortune, the press of enemy warriors was so great that the majority could not reach them. Some men were squeezed so tight that they couldn’t wield their weapons. Piso and his companion went to work with grim determination.