Ben Kane: Eagles at War

‘Shut your mouth!’ said Piso, but the harm had been done. Fear poured through the ranks. The men at the front began backing away from the enemy. There was precious little space to move – the trunk was only ten steps behind Piso. Despite his own fear, he shoved back, trying to stop the soldier in front from retreating.

‘HOLD, YOU SHOWER OF SHIT-EATING MAGGOTS!’

His men stopped, gaped. Tullus was in front of them, with nothing between him and the enemy.

Seeing Tullus, the berserkers increased their speed. Perhaps thirty paces separated them from the Romans. Their fellows thundered after them in a great, death-offering tide.

‘We’re going down that track, brothers,’ said Tullus in a loud but calm voice, even as he sidled back into the front rank. ‘First, though, we have to throw back these whoresons. Can you do that for me? CAN YOU?’

Twenty-five paces.

‘Yes, sir,’ Piso and the rest shouted.

Twenty paces.

‘I can’t fucking hear you!’

Fifteen.

‘YES, SIR!’

Ten.

‘ROMA!’ Tullus roared.

Five.

And then the tribesmen hit.

Varus stood in the middle of a circle of legionaries, holding a ripped piece of tunic to the wound on his thigh, and watching as the last men of his escort fought for their lives. They were in the middle of the track, surrounded by a horde of screaming warriors. Rain sheeted in from overhead, as it had since dawn, drenching Roman and German alike. The ground was long-since sodden, and water was gathering everywhere. Pooling in the ruts and footprints that had been left in the mud. Lying around the bodies. Filling the curve of a dropped shield, an upturned helmet, and dripping into the open mouths of dead men. Most were legionaries, Varus noted, feeling a dull sense of shame. The empire’s soldiers. Augustus’ soldiers. His soldiers.

I should have listened to Tullus, Varus thought for the hundredth time. That bastard Arminius was responsible for it all.

Deafening rumbles of thunder were accompanied by dull white-yellow flashes in the clouds. The light was poor enough to make a man think it was near sunset, but Varus knew it couldn’t be much after midday. Gloom or no, he could still make out the damnable bog. It ran along their right side, close by, a brown-green blur of heather, cotton grass, goatweed and bog rosemary. There was nowhere to go in that direction. To their left, there would be no escape either. The earthen rampart appeared to have no beginning or end, and behind it were an endless supply of warriors.

To Varus’ rear, most of the legionaries appeared to have given up hope. Many were trying to run, even shoving past his escort. The tribesmen were cutting them down in droves, easy prey for their stabbing, flickering frameae. Other soldiers were slaying their injured comrades, or falling on their own swords. A few clusters still fought on, as did the men around Varus, but they were too few, too isolated. They would die soon, as would the men around him. Had Aristides been slain yet? he wondered. He hoped that whenever the Greek met his end, it was swift. What a pity that he hadn’t left him in Vetera. At least his wife was there, safe. Despite her incessant carping, it would have been good to have seen her one last time, and their grown-up children. The thought of his family caused a different type of fear to tear at Varus. His name would be mud for evermore, and it was easy to see the same happening to his loved ones, who were blameless. Gods, let them not be harmed because of my mistakes, he prayed.

‘What are your orders, sir?’

The question had been repeated twice more before Varus realised it was being directed at him. He blinked, focused. A bloodied centurion stood before him, sword dripping gore, shield peppered with holes made by enemy spears. Varus didn’t recognise him, which was irritating. ‘What’s your name?’

The centurion frowned. ‘Claudius Cornelius Antonius, sir. What should-’

‘Which cohort do you serve in, and what legion?’

‘Never mind that, sir!’ cried Antonius, gesturing at the warriors around them. ‘I think we should make a break for it. You, me, and a dozen men. Replace your commander’s cloak and helmet with those of an ordinary legionary. We’ll get through somehow.’

‘Flee, like a coward?’ Varus gave him a sad smile. ‘The imperial governor of Germania does not run.’

‘There aren’t too many other options, sir,’ said Antonius, failing to keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘We’re being butchered. These legionaries are brave, but they won’t hold for much longer.’

A sense of deep calm eased over Varus. It was pointless that more soldiers should die defending him. ‘My time has come,’ he said, starting to unbuckle his breastplate. ‘Help me take this off.’

Shock rose in the centurion’s eyes.

‘At least two eagles have been lost. All my senior officers are dead, or taken prisoner, and most of my army is food for the wild animals. It is over,’ said Varus. ‘I deem it best to die by my own hand rather than be taken or slain by the enemy.’

‘Sir, I must protest. You-’

‘Enough!’ barked Varus. ‘When I am gone, do with your soldiers as you see fit. Run, surrender, or die fighting – it’s your decision.’

‘Very well, sir.’ With a resigned look, Antonius began to help Varus unbuckle his armour.

‘Burn my body if you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion watched, stony-faced, as Varus dropped his breast- and backplate into the mud and drew his sword.

It was ironic, thought Varus, that his blade was as yet unbloodied. The closest he’d come to killing one of the enemy was the warrior who’d speared his thigh, but an anonymous legionary had slain the man before Varus had had a chance to do so.

He knelt. Rain cooled his sweaty face as he stared at the heavens, offering a brief prayer to Jupiter, and another to Mars. Thunder rumbled, as if to tell him that only the Germans’ god, Donar, was listening. Varus tried not to think like that, and pictured his dead father and grandfather, who had both died in this manner. He asked them to ensure he didn’t botch the job, as he had with his entire army. Gripping the ivory hilt of his sword with two hands, he reversed the blade so that its tip was sitting under the bottom rib on his left side. Its sharp point dug into his flesh a little, but he welcomed the pain. This was the best place, he had been told, near the heart.

Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm ! Fresh screams, the clash of metal on metal, the thud of something heavy – a club? – cracking on to flesh. The bubbling sound of blood filling a man’s throat. Antonius cursed, roared at his men to fucking hold! The sounds, and the deaths they signified, came to Varus down a long, dark tunnel. More than anything now, he wanted to go somewhere else. A place where he could forget the infernal mud, the bloodshed, his dead soldiers and, most of all, his failure. He bent at the waist. If his thrust wasn’t enough, his body had to slide on to the sword and finish what he had started.

He could taste bile in his mouth now, feel his heart racing, almost as if it was trying to escape his blade. Varus clenched his fists on the ivory and tensed his muscles. With a mighty effort, he wrenched the sword towards himself. A ball of white-hot pain exploded in his core, eclipsing anything he had ever felt. Varus used the last of his strength to pull the iron deeper into his body – and to fall forward.

The mud came up to meet him with sickening speed.

Arminius, he thought.

Tullus didn’t know how he had dragged any of his men away from the tree trunk. If there had been more berserkers, they would have all died there. As it was, half the surviving soldiers in his century had fallen before they’d slain the berserkers and thrown the tribesmen back. Despite this tiny success, their enemies didn’t withdraw more than a couple of dozen paces. There was no need. Tullus’ men were too exhausted – and outnumbered – even to contemplate a counterattack. The warriors were human too, though. They had also suffered many casualties. When men had survived the storm of iron – again – they needed a few moments to catch ragged breath, to let screaming muscles rest, to piss the few drops that felt like an amphora’s worth.