Ben Kane: Eagles at War

Tullus watched, dry-mouthed, as several hundred tribesmen went by, heading towards the fighting. Not a single one as much as glanced towards their position – until, that was, the girl let out a whimper. Tullus saw a warrior’s head turn at the back of the group. Fucking brat, he thought, wheeling around. You’ll be the death of us all. The woman had already clamped a hand over her daughter’s mouth, and he gestured furiously that she should continue to do so, and that his men should also stay silent. Peering back, his heart sank. The warrior had broken away from the party, and was sauntering their way. A comrade called out; Tullus heard the man reply that he had heard something, which was probably nothing, but he needed a shit. He’d catch up soon.

Tullus looked out of the gap until the risk of being seen was too great. The warrior still appeared to be on his own, which was something. Leaning his sword against the earthen wall, Tullus tugged out his dagger and stepped to the other side of the gap. Fortuna, I’ve tested your patience more than once, he thought, but be good to me one more time, and I swear I’ll offer you the finest bull money can buy. Heart thudding, knife ready, he waited. Listened.

Nothing. Tullus breathed in and out, in and out through his nose. His backache got worse. Still he heard nothing. Had the warrior decided to empty his bowels in front of the rampart? Seeing a questioning look on more than one man’s face, he pointed outside, squatted in mime, and put a finger to his lips. They might escape discovery yet. It was possible that the warrior wouldn’t check behind the fortification.

The unmistakeable sound of a footstep close to the gap put paid to that hope.

Tullus pressed his back against the earth, cursing himself for a fool. He should have got Fenestela or one of the others to wait opposite, so that there would be someone to kill the warrior whichever way he looked upon entering. It was too late, however. Tullus had to hope that the warrior turned his head to the right, or that if he looked in his direction, there would be enough time to kill the man before he shouted an alarm.

Sweat coated Tullus’ palm, loosened his grip on the dagger. He clenched his fist, pricked his ears. A loud fart from outside almost made him laugh. The sound of a man shitting – diarrhoea, it sounded like – was enough to propel him into action. He wouldn’t get a better chance. Tullus stuck his head around the gap a fraction, enough to check that the group of tribesmen had passed out of sight – they had – and then he came round the corner as fast as his legs would carry him. The warrior was crouched against the rampart, breeches down, frown of concentration on his face. Too late he heard Tullus coming, too late his mouth opened in horror.

Stab, stab. Stab, stab. With the urgency of a smith beating a white-hot sword into shape, Tullus hammered the blade into the side of the warrior’s neck and chest. Four, five, six times. Blood gouted from the wounds on to Tullus’ hand. A choking gurgle left his victim’s lips, and Tullus stabbed him twice more for good measure. There was a final, bubbling fart, and the warrior slipped sideways to the ground, his expression still disbelieving.

Tullus gagged, not from the coppery tang of blood, but from the harsh reek of fresh shit. A quick check down the track – he saw no warriors – was enough to make him swear to Fortuna that the bull was hers. If he made it, that was. Remember that, Fortuna, he thought. I have to reach Vetera to be able to fulfil my vow. It wasn’t wise to hold a deity to account, but the slaughter had seen Tullus lose all inhibition in that regard.

If it had been the pup that had made a sound, he might have slit its throat, but it wasn’t in Tullus to kill a child, in particular one whom he’d rescued. It was almost as if the woman knew – she gave him a pathetic smile as he urged his men from behind the rampart.

‘I’ll keep her quiet in future,’ she whispered.

‘See that you do,’ Tullus replied, grim-faced. ‘We won’t be so fortunate again.’

Aware that their fate yet hung by a thread, Tullus sent ahead Piso, one of the three uninjured men. His instructions were to spy out any tribesmen before the group was seen, a difficult task. Piso set off without a word of protest, however, asking only that someone keep an eye on his friend Vitellius. The battle had turned him into a proper soldier, thought Tullus with a degree of pride.

Piso proved his worth twice in the hours before nightfall, loping back down the path to warn them that warriors were approaching. They hid behind the rampart on the first occasion, but the second time there was nowhere to go but into the bog. Shrinking behind the inadequate cover of heather bushes, worming themselves chest deep into the mud, lying flat behind goatweed plants, the terrified party waited for what seemed an age before the tribesmen, many of whom sounded drunk, had gone on their way.

As it grew dark, Tullus picked a spot to spend the night. It was nothing more than a dense copse of beech, to the left of the track, but at a hundred and fifty paces’ distance, it was too far for a tribesman to stray for a piss or shit. The rampart had finished some time before, meaning that they were once more in the forest. Despite his little group’s miraculous escape, Tullus felt ill at ease. Bands of warriors would pass their position at some point, and see them. The child or the pup might give them away again. They had no food or blankets. Water could be had from the pools lying about, it was true, but his shattered men needed more than that. It was too dangerous to light a fire, even if they had had dry wood. The list of Tullus’ fears was endless, and they gnawed away at his guts, an incessant pain that rivalled any of his other aches.

What concerned him too was that he had spotted a fork in the track. He had no idea which way was the fastest route to the Lupia and a Roman fort. In the morning, he would have to choose, and if he made the wrong decision, their survival that day would have meant nothing.

In spite of all his worries, Tullus fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

He dreamed of slaughter.

He was fighting for his life against two berserkers. Just as they had that day, the pair split up, one attacking Tullus from the front while the other circled around to his rear. Struggling to hold his own against the first berserker, he could do nothing about the second. As he clashed with the opponent before him, Tullus felt someone grab him by the left arm. Expecting a blade across his throat next, Tullus twisted, tried to turn, spat a curse. Even if he stopped the second berserker, the first would gut him where he stood.

A hand was placed across his mouth. ‘Quiet! It’s me, Fenestela!’

Tullus came awake with an unpleasant jolt. There were no berserkers attacking him. He was lying on his side, chilled to the bone, under a tree. Fenestela was crouched by him, covering his mouth. Tullus shook his head to show he understood, and moved Fenestela’s fingers away. ‘A bad dream. I’m all right,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’

‘Piso’s here, sir. He was on sentry duty. He’s got someone with him.’

Fenestela’s tone drove the last woolliness from Tullus’ brain. He sat up, wincing at the pain that issued from every part of his body. ‘Who?’

Fenestela leaned in close. ‘That warrior of yours, sir. Degmar.’

Tullus’ heart leaped. ‘ Degmar?Here? ’

‘Aye. He’s just over there, with Piso.’ Fenestela jerked a thumb at the edge of the copse.

Tullus hurried over with Fenestela, stumbling over tree roots and the outstretched bodies of his resting men. He spied Degmar squatting on his haunches, chewing on something. Piso stood behind him, half watching the ground that led down to the track, half watching the Marsi warrior. Degmar rose as Tullus drew near; his teeth flashed white in the dim light. ‘Well met,’ muttered Tullus, extending a hand. They shook, hard. ‘ Well met ,’ Tullus said again, grinning. ‘It’s good to see you – alive.’