Ben Kane - Eagles at War

Tullus rolled his eyes, but pride rippled through him. ‘You told them they’d be left behind if anything happens?’

‘Aye. It didn’t change their minds.’

Tullus cracked a grim smile. ‘So be it.’

From the moment that the gate opened, and the first men filed out, Tullus’ heart began to beat like that of a trapped wild bird. At the back with Caedicius, he could see nothing of what was going on beyond the wall, which raised the tension even higher. On tiptoe, as if that would help his hearing, he listened and waited and held his breath. His expectation was that there would be a shout, or a cry of alarm from the enemy, and the situation would dissolve into total confusion and panic, but there was nothing, nothing other than the pounding rain beating down off their helmets, and the flapping in the wind of loose tiles on the barrack roofs.

Some time later, word came that the cavalry and the First Cohort had passed beyond the enemy tents without discovery, and that the civilians and wounded were on their way. It was good news, and so was the fact that the rain continued to hammer down. Rather than relax, Tullus’ nerves were stretched tighter. It was a relief to see that Caedicius – even he – was affected by their wait. Caedicius paced to and fro, watching the gate as if it were the entrance to Hades, and a host of demons was about to emerge from it.

After what seemed like an age, the men before them began to move, treading lightly to prevent their hobs clashing on the ground. At the back came two cavalrymen, leading their horses – messengers, should Caedicius need them. Through the gate the soldiers walked, and over a little pathway that traversed the defensive ditches. Tullus’ eyes flickered from side to side, searching for the enemy, but he saw nothing. It meant little, though, for the place was as dark as a cavern. Getting lost was going to be easier than finding their way through the tribesmen’s lines.

A bolt of lightning flashed out of the clouds, rendering the area as bright as day, outlining his men’s fear-struck faces, the sheeting rain, the mud beneath their feet, and the enemy tents and lean-tos. There were scores, Tullus saw, and they would have to pass gut-wrenchingly close to them. The blackness closed in again, but his spirits had risen a fraction. Like him, the men in the lead would have seen where to go. As long as there was more lightning – and the rumbling thunder seemed to promise that – they ought not to trample over an enemy tent. That didn’t mean the sentries wouldn’t see them, of course, but it was something.

The time that followed was as nerve-shredding as anything Tullus had experienced. Surreal, even otherworldly, because of the darkness, the crashing thunder, the driving rain and the irregular, blinding flashes of lightning. Difficult thanks to the mud, the proximity of the enemy and of so many other soldiers, each trying not to trip or to bang into his fellows. Fearful because of the insanity of what they were doing, the numbers of the Germans surrounding them, the worry that the storm might ease. At any stage, the horses might be panicked by the thunder and whinny or, worse, stampede. Overriding everything was the stark knowledge that their fates rested on a knife edge. A razor-sharp, hair-thin knife edge.

Step by tentative step, they pressed forward. Past the main body of tents, without glimpsing a single sentry. Past the enemy latrines, obvious because of the stench. On to a track that curved around to the front of the fort, and by yet more lean-tos and tents. The gravelled main road out of Aliso came next. A few hundred paces along it, they came upon what had to be a sentry point – a pair of tents by the roadside, and a stone-ring fireplace in between. The tents had to be in use, but there was no sign of their occupants – who were like as not within, sleeping. Tullus’ mouth felt as dry as his skin did wet, but they made it past. No sound came from the tents; no call to arms. Nothing.

A little further on, a second set of sentries was also dead to the world, and Tullus began to dream that their audacious escape would go unnoticed.

It was ironic that when they were seen, it was not by an alert sentry, but by a warrior who needed a piss. Tullus spotted him first: a stooped figure with a cloak over his head, stumbling from a tent by the side of the road, oblivious to the approaching file of Romans not twenty paces away. Once his bladder was empty, and the man turned, he could not fail to spot them. ‘Two of you, with me. The rest of you, keep moving,’ Tullus hissed at the soldier to his left. ‘Pass it on.’ Drawing his sword, he skidded down off the road, towards the urinating warrior. Two legionaries pounded after. So did Degmar, lithe as a shadow.

They got there a heartbeat too late. Tullus’ quarry had finished, shaken himself and turned. Tullus’ blade was ramming straight at his unprotected chest, too swift to prevent his escape, but not fast enough to stop him screaming before he died. There was immediate noise from the nearby tents. Pulse racing, Tullus wondered if there was any chance the four of them could kill all the men within. Any hope he had vanished as first two, then five warriors emerged, weapons in their hands. Before Tullus could react, Degmar was among them like a dancer, cutting down one, two men, gutting a third. A shout from the other side of the road announced the presence of more tribesmen Tullus hadn’t been aware of. Three more warriors spilled out of the tents by him. On the road, the last ranks of Caedicius’ unit were passing. To stay was to die, thought Tullus. Needlessly. ‘Fall back!’ he shouted. ‘Degmar!’

To his relief the Marsi obeyed. In the short time it took the four to rejoin Caedicius – who was in the rearmost rank – the alarm was being well and truly raised. A number of the sentries had horns, which they were blowing with gusto. ‘We killed a few, sir, but there were too many,’ Tullus said to Caedicius. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s done is done,’ replied Caedicius. ‘You did well to spot them before anyone else.’

Despite the wind and rain, Tullus could hear the enemy camp coming awake behind them. Soon thousands of warriors would be on their trail. His weariness, which had eased, returned with crashing force. Tullus shoved it away. He could endure this trial. He had to, for so many reasons. His men. The girl. Ridiculous it seemed, but saving her, and the pup, had become important. There was also his burning desire to recover his legion’s eagle, and to revenge himself on Arminius. Dead, he could not do any of these things. Alive, there was a chance.

At that point, the sentries who had woken ran on to the road and began hurling their spears. Two legionaries were wounded, one fatally. It was too dangerous to risk having all the men march backwards – they risked breaking their ankles – so Caedicius had only the rearmost soldiers turn to face the enemy. The rest had to march with their shields over their heads for a short time, until the warriors had run out of missiles. Although the tribesmen continued to follow them, jokes about having shelter from the rain at last – from their scuta – broke out, and Tullus’ heart warmed. If men began to think that they might cheat death, their spirits soon rallied.

Some of the legionaries had been issued with bags of caltrops , taken from the stores in the camp. At Caedicius’ order, they began to scatter the spiked devices across the road. More jokes were made, this time about the holes they’d make in the warriors’ feet. Sure enough, there were howls of pain as the unsuspecting enemy walked into the trap. After a quick volley of javelins, the tribesmen fell back.

The Romans marched on for a time without further pursuit. The rain eased, as if it knew that it was no longer needed to obscure their escape. Tullus returned to his men. Caedicius sent orders ahead that if possible the pace should increase, but that the leading cohort was not to lose contact with the civilians and the wounded. Because of the non-combatants, however, there was little change in their speed thereafter. Tullus felt like a cripple trying to outrun a guard dog that has been released on to his trail a mile down the road. The light-armed, running tribesmen would catch them with ease.