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

He said, “What do you intend to do, Maximus? If you will take my advice it would be best to hold our position here. Let them break themselves on the palisade, as they did at Moguntiacum. On the defensive we shall lose less men; and they will starve and grow weak out in the snow.”

I said, “We have supplies for only a few days. There will be no more help out of Treverorum now. What do we do when we are out of food and missiles? Beg for mercy?”

He was silent.

I said, “By rights, we should be in winter quarters; all campaigning over for the season.” I smiled bitterly. “But this is not a civilised war; it is a fight to the death.”

“You have a legion still,” he said quietly. “Are we to throw all away on a gamble then?”

I threw the towel on the bed. “Oh, Quintus, it has all been a gamble. What Stilicho proposed that night was only a gamble. I have known that all along.”

“Well then?”

“We might hold them, as you say, on the palisade. If the men were fresh I could be certain of it. But, in any case, you never win a battle by fighting on the defensive.”

He looked at me steadily. He said, “You are going out to fight them on the plain, in pitched battle.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. I doubt very much if we can beat them. But whatever we do is a gamble. We should never survive a retreat to Treverorum now. All generals, at the very last, must be gamblers at heart. I shall stake all on a last throw.”

He gave a long sigh. “In a way I am glad,” he said. “It is better to try, and fail, than not to try at all.”

“Oh, I am going to try all right.”

In the evening we walked through the camp, and I chatted to the men as I went, and inspected the defences carefully.

“Well?” said Quintus when I had finished. “What do you think?”

I said, “Even if they beat us, it will cost them more than they realise. We shall not have failed altogether.”

In the darkness we stood on the platform of the signal tower and watched the lights of their fires; little sparks, winking across the snow. Later, there was a single clash of arms when one of their patrols met one of ours by mistake. Both withdrew at once and there were no casualties. I went to bed early that night, and I slept well and I dreamed no dreams.

At dawn the legion marched out of camp, leaving only its wounded behind. The men paraded in their ranks, century by century, cohort by cohort, their backs to the palisade, while I inspected them. The light shone upon their scarlet standards, upon the polished armour of the officers and upon the white cloaks of the cavalry. Then, one of their number, who claimed to have been a priest in his time, blessed them. I sat my horse, with Quintus on my right hand and Fabianus on my left, and I spoke to them. It would be for the last time, I knew that. I had no illusions.

“You’ll be glad to know that we have stopped running away. What generals call a strategic withdrawal, and you a long bloody march, is now over.” There was a murmur at this and some laughter. I went on: “The tribune, Flavius, has told me that in a few days we shall have help. The Army of Gaul is marching to our aid. Like you, I think they have left it a bit late, but that’s better than not coming at all. Your old general, Stilicho, has kept his promise. I knew he would not let us down.” They cheered loudly at this.

I said, “You have held them already for fourteen days, and you can hold them for four or five days more. They, too, are tired, hungry and cold, and they have no supplies such as we have received from our gallant civilian friends at Treverorum.” They laughed.

I paused. I said, “Now, we are going out to do battle. I am not fighting behind ditches this time. We are going to beat them, as we beat the enemy before at Pollentia. One hard fight is all I ask, and then it will be over.” I paused again.

I said, in a loud voice, “You wanted once to elect me to the purple, and I refused. Win this battle for me, now, and I will not refuse if you do so again. I promised you gold when this campaign was over, and I shall keep my promise, if you will keep yours to me.” I turned and pointed at the Eagle, borne by the aquilifer at my back. The worn, polished bronze of that fierce head and outspread wings had been a silent witness to speeches like this before. Below, on the placard, were stamped the letters that had been carried into every corner of the empire—S.P.Q.R.

“A good many weak-headed people think that the empire is dying,” I said. “That is what the Alemanni of Sunno, the Quadi, the Marcomanni of Hermeric, the Alans of Respendial and the Vandals of Gunderic think.” At my signal, the aquilifer held the Eagle high, so that the early morning sun glinted on the polished metal. “Prove to me now, in the name of the Senate and the People of Rome, and of the Eagle of the Twentieth, that they are wrong.”