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

I tried to sit up. “They all do that,” I said. “Did she ask you to speak for her?”

He flushed and shook his head. “No, sir.”

“What did she say?”

He hesitated. He said, “She tried to spit at me and then said that she hoped you were dying.”

I lay down again. “She’ll live,” I said. “Haters like that are tenacious of life.”

The wound was clean and I made a good recovery. So did the girl, though her hurts took longer to heal. It was a long time before she left her bed, and each day the blue haze of smoke from the camp fires on the further bank seemed to grow thicker and more impenetrable.

Word reached me from Marcomir that he was happy, that his wife was a fine woman and that Goar had done as he promised, had left the barbarian camp and was now in the hills to the north. No other news came from across the river; no boat pushed out from the banks, bearing an invitation to a meeting; no embassy arrived, offering terms or insults. Nothing happened and I began to worry at the silence, at the inactivity. Where would they strike and when? It must be soon. They could not delay much longer, surely. In an excess of irritation, I sent suddenly for Quintus. He came, and I was driven to anger by the sight of his impassive face, his rigid salute and his carefully controlled politeness when he asked how my arm was getting on.

I said icily, “If you wanted to know that, you could have come to my hut more often when I was laid up. You want some fighting; well you can have it. Get six hundred of your men across the Rhenus with horses into Marcomir’s territory, and then report to me. We shall need help from Goar, from Marcomir and from Gallus. We shall want Fabianus also. You will be in command, and in the unlikely event of the expedition going wrong I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that understood?”

He flushed. I had spoken to him as I would to a young and inexperienced tribune. “Yes,” he said. “It is understood.” He went out quietly and I was left alone with my bad temper and my thoughts for company. Out in the camp the trumpet blew for the evening meal.

XIII

TEN DAYS LATER the Rhenus Fleet moved into the mouth of the Moenus. It was a little after midnight, and I stood on the poop of Gallus’ flagship, listening to the strong beat of the oars. Behind us, following in our wake, came all the merchant ships and small boats that I had been able to muster. On board them was a mixed cohort of heavy and light infantry, under the command of Fabianus. At the same time, Goar and Marcomir, with five thousand men, stiffened by a cohort of my own, together with the cavalry under Quintus, moved across the plateau towards the north side of the enemy camp. Quintus had crossed the river at Boudobrigo and it had taken a long time to get the horses over, for the boats were small and only held six animals at a time. It was growing light now and I could feel the wind on my cheek and see the faint, smudged line of the hills in the distance. “Now,” I said, and a fireball hurled into the air. It was the signal for the attack. The boats were jostling past us in the half light, loaded with men, arms and equipment, while the catapults of the fleet pitched fireballs and missiles in a steady stream onto the enemy’s fortifications. I could hear the grinding of the keels as the boats struck the beach, and then Fabianus was ashore, his men fanning out to right and left of him. He captured the off-shore island in one swift, bloody assault, and then poured his men onto the mainland. His attack was sudden and determined, and the surprise complete. Keeping his cohort in a tight, controlled battle formation, he struck straight into the camp before any serious attempt could be made to rally the astonished Marcomanni. Tents were fired, baggage destroyed, waggons broken and horses killed or stampeded.