I said, “I can only repeat what I said before at Moguntiacum. If any man wishes to go, then let him go now— quickly.”
Aquila touched the standard with his big hands. “I carried this many times through many years when it had the right to be ashamed of the soldiers who called it theirs. Now I am not ashamed. I have no wish to be a Vandal slave.”
The door rattled in the wind, and I was reminded of the night when Stilicho came to my tent with an officer, or an order—what it was I could not remember; I was too tired. It did not matter anyway. It had all led to this—this narrow circle of existence: a dozen exhausted men, gathered in a wooden hut on a winter’s night, and planning quite calmly how best they might end their lives.
Aquila said, “We have a thousand men under arms on foot.”
“Eight hundred horse,” said Quintus.
“Four hundred of my people,” said Fredegar proudly.
“And I have fifteen hundred of the city,” said Artorius.
Scudilio coughed on to the back of his hand, and I saw that there was blood on his mouth. “Five hundred auxiliaries, all told,” he spluttered.
I turned to Artorius. “Your men fought well to-day. You have a right to be proud of them.”
He fingered a cut above his left eye, and smiled. He had the look of a man who was at peace with himself. He said, “There is something I forgot. The Bishop sent a message. He has sent the girl away into safety.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” he said. “Tell Maximus I shall see him again. That was the message.”
“In heaven, no doubt. Did the girl have any messages for us?”
“I gave it to him,” said Artorius, drily.
I looked at Fabianus. He was smiling. I did not ask what the message was.
“We are almost a legion still,” I said. Quintus gave me a long, steady look. He remembered, I think, as I did too, that day I landed in Gaul, and he met me at the camp, and we had been so absurdly proud and so happy at the greatness of our command.
“What about the Eagle?” asked Fabianus.
“It will not fall into their hands,” I said. “That I promise you.”
Aquila said anxiously, “You are sure?”
“I swear it upon the sword of Agricola.”
They went out then and I was alone with Quintus.
I said, “We were both wrong. I would never have thought our casualties could have been so heavy, or that our supplies would have been used up so quickly. I would never have thought the barbarians could have fought the way they did these last two days.”
“Nor I,” he said. “But you know, Maximus, they have their women and their children in their camp behind them. That makes a great difference. And they do not mind dying either; our men do. That makes a difference also.”
The wind had dropped and, in the ghastly, grey light of the dawn, we lined the palisades with the last of our men. The bodies of horses were dragged into the gaps where the fencing had been smashed or burnt, and the dead bodies of our men were pulled clear and laid in rows inside the tents they had last occupied when alive. All the spare weapons that could be found had been collected and stuck into the ground by our feet, for ease of use. Under Aquila’s direction, small parties hurriedly crossed the ditch into the killing area to pick up whatever weapons and missiles they could find; on the flanks the cavalry were saddling up their horses, while Quintus walked along the line, checking the girths; and in the camp behind us the cooks were lighting fires and preparing the morning meal. Huddled against a carroballista I saw a man I recognised.
“Fredbal,” I said. “What the devil are you doing here?”
He looked up at me defiantly. “I come back,” he said. “I saw your message delivered. I done what you told me.”
“But—”
“They killed my woman and my children. Thirty years ago, that was. So I come back.”
There was nothing to say. I touched him on the shoulder and smiled, and then turned away. Agilio, who was at my side, said suddenly, “I did not know you believed in devils, my emperor.”
I laughed. “It is through living too long with christians I expect. I find myself talking as they do.”
“My lord Bishop will make another convert yet.”
“I doubt that very much.”
We walked back towards the signal tower. I rubbed my cold hands together, and had a sudden absurd wish that my cloak could have been clean instead of dirty. A voice cried suddenly out of the half dark, and a figure approached and I heard the words, “Truce… truce… we want a truce… we would speak with you.”
“Hold your fire,” I cried.
Quintus cantered up. “Steady, it may be a trap.”
The man came up to the outer ditch. “King Gunderic would speak with your general. Let him come out alone to the ditch and talk. I, his brother, will be a hostage for our good faith.”
“Don’t go, sir,” said Agilio. “It is a trick.”
“Has he a brother?”
“Three,” said Fredegar. “The youngest is a wolf cub called Gaiseric. But this is the eldest by his voice.”
“Don’t go, my Lord.”
“Why not?” I said. “It will give us time to breathe for five minutes.”
A gap was made in the palisade and a plank run out across the first ditch. Gunderic’s men came forward and threw a plank over the outer ditch, and then stood back.
Quintus said, in exasperation, “If you must go, then take my shield. But be careful.”
“Watch the flanks,” I said to Aquila. “Kill the first man who moves.”
I put the shield on my right side, under my red cloak, and went forward, my sword in my left hand. Before me, Gunderic stepped out on to the bridge, and we met alone on the hard, frozen surface between the outer ditches, that forty feet we called the killing area, and over which so many Vandals had run and died. The ditches were three-quarters filled with dead, and there were dead, too, on this ground, over which we had to pick our way carefully to avoid stumbling. We met in the centre, Gunderic and I. He looked more gaunt than ever. There was a rag tied round his right arm and a long cut above his eyes, which looked to be swollen and bloodshot. He had the angry, famished look of a beast of prey that has missed its kill, and I was suddenly afraid. I could smell the danger in our meeting through the sweat of my own fear.
He said, “You refused our offer. I shall not make it again.”
“I did not expect you to do so.” He was a tall man, but he had to look up to me as I spoke, and this he did not like. “But I will make you an offer.” I spoke through my teeth. “Give me the wife of Marcomir living, and I will let you return across the Rhenus unharmed.”
“She is dead.”
“In the Roman fashion?”
“Yes.” He spoke coldly.
“Ah!”
“Unharmed you say?” He glared at me, and said in a blaze of hatred, “Unharmed. You poisoned the wells— butcher. My wife and my children died; and I watched them and could do nothing.”
I said, “I watched you of what would happen.”
He looked at me coldly, “You are a great fighter,” he said softly. “When I am old, I shall be able to boast of how I destroyed Maximus, a Roman general, who barred my way into new lands.”
“Will you also tell them how few men it was who barred your way, and for how long?”
“Of course. That is what makes the story that my people will sing.” He spoke coolly now, but with respect, and I was surprised. I knew so little, really, about these people.
“Will you also say how you were aided by the Marcomanni, the Quadi, and the Alans?”
His teeth snapped. “We have done the hard fighting,” he said. “Their share has been small.”
He lifted his head and looked at the sky. “The moon sets,” he said. “In a little while you will be destroyed with all your men; and your bleached bones will litter the snow. A good end for warriors, but a waste of life. Unbar
