Eagle in the Snow: A Novel of General Maximus and Rome's Last Stand

The river was silent now and the absolute quiet was frightening. I walked down to what I imagined must be the bank of the Rhenus. It had disappeared altogether beneath a desolate waste land of jagged, lumpy, broken fragments of ice and snow; distorted by the current, whipped by the winds into fantastic shapes of sculptured silence. There was no water to be seen at all. To the right, the broken hull of the abandoned galley stuck out upwards at a sharp angle. I walked on over the uneven surface and could not tell whether I stood on land or on ice. Nothing creaked beneath my weight. It must have been inches thick. I shaded my eyes against the hard dazzle and could see men in the distance, tiny black figures against an aching blaze of light. I did not know whether they stood upon the shore or upon the ice. Nothing separated us now, but a short walk that any man might take on a winter’s day. I turned and walked back to where my officers stood waiting for me, in a silent group on the high ground before the camp. It was then that my hands began to shake with fear.

“Fabianus, signal the fort commanders to move in with their men; the auxiliaries to take over. Tell the town council that the city is to be evacuated; everyone is to leave by midday tomorrow.

“Quintus, get your cavalry out to break up the snow on the road and on the main paths to the camp.

“Aquila, get those firing platforms cleared of snow. Send reliefs to the islands and issue them with five days’ rations.

“Barbatio, all houses within three hundred yards of the camp walls are to be evacuated and then destroyed. See to it now.

“One more thing, Fabianus. Tell the commander at Bingium to burn the bridge before he leaves. Get that message off at once. Scudilio is a good man but he’ll have enough to worry about without that on his mind.

“Quartermaster, issue all spare javelins and arrows. They will be no use to us in the storehouse now. Give out three days’ rations and tell the section commanders to grind their corn now.”

Trumpets blew, orders were shouted and the troops began to move about their business.

A centurion came up. “Sir, there is a man crossing the river. He’s alone. What shall we do?”

“Let me see,” I said. I went to the river wall and Quintus came with me. The tribesmen were still on the bank, a faint patch of dark against the snow, like a smear of dirt upon a toga. Coming across the broken ice was a man. As he came closer we could see that he was running gently, his sword in his right hand and a spear in his left.

“Is he mad?” said Quintus in amazement.

“A spy perhaps, sir,” said a legionary, standing by with a bow held loosely before him.

I shook my head. “My spies don’t come in like that. He’s not on an embassy either, not with those weapons out.”

The duty centurion said quietly, “Perhaps he is mad.”

He came closer and closer. We could see that he was a man of middle age, his beard was streaked with grey and his face was contorted, but whether with hate or merely with the effort of running I could not tell. There was something strange and terrible about this man’s approach. He came on steadily as though nothing would stop him. He was shouting in a loud voice, but at first we could not hear what he said.

Quintus said, “He is mad.”

“Shall I fire, sir.”

“No. Wait for my orders.”

The man wore the dress of the Siling Vandals and he was bareheaded. When he was two hundred yards away I put my hands to my mouth and shouted to him: “Stop where you are or we shall shoot. Put your weapons down and declare yourself.” He took no notice. He was crying in a loud, high voice: “Butchers . . . murderers . . . my wife . . . my wife . . . children . . . butchers . . . starved . . . butchers . . . barbarians. . . .” Fifty yards away he stopped, his chest heaving. “Butchers,” he cried. He straightened up and hurled the spear with tremendous force. It passed between two legionaries and buried itself on the parade ground at the feet of a startled soldier carrying a sack of grain. Then he ran forward again, his sword outstretched in his hand. I nodded swiftly to the centurion, who cried, “Fast . . . stand . . . loose.” Three arrows took him in the chest as he ran hard for the gate. He stopped dead. His body went backwards six feet with the force of the arrows, twisting as it did so and then, arching slightly, lay crumpled sideways upon the snow.

The soldiers lowered their bows and we all looked at each other in silence. No one knew what to say. It was bizarre and horrible, even for us who were professional soldiers. He had been a man out of his mind, as Quintus said.

“Collect his weapons,” I said. “Leave the body where it is. The wolves will deal with that.” I turned away and walked to the ladder. It was then that I made up my mind.

Quintus, following, said tersely, “Rando’s daughter?”

“Well?”

“Don’t do it. There’s no point now.”

I did not answer him and I left him standing by number four armoury, staring after me in bewilderment.