Eagles at War

by Ben Kane

  ‘Go on,’ said Arminius, intrigued.

  ‘I saw a golden eagle, a standard like the one each legion possesses.’ Segimundus appraised Arminius before he added, ‘It was being consumed by fire.’

  Hope stirred in Arminius’ heart. ‘That is a powerful image indeed. Was it a sign from the gods, do you think?’

  ‘I feel sure that it was. It came to me in a sacred grove belonging to the Sugambri. Yesterday I was on the other side of the river, on official duty,’ Segimundus explained. ‘The hour had grown late before my business was concluded, and the settlement’s priest invited me to stay. As night fell, I decided to spend some time in the grove, to see if Donar would commune with me. I went alone, as I always do, and prayed to the god. I drank some barley beer. At first, nothing happened. Some time passed, and I fell asleep.’

  Arminius could feel a pulse beating at the base of his throat.

  ‘The dream of the burning eagle was so vivid, so intense, that I woke from it. I was covered in sweat.’ Segimundus’ eyes were alive with passion. ‘Donar sent me the vision. I know it. The rams today are further proof.’

  The two men studied each other for a long moment.

  Arminius spoke first. ‘It gladdens my heart to hear you speak so. Too long have I served Rome. Too long have I done nothing while the empire mistreats the different tribes. Are we Cherusci not kin to each other, and to the Chatti, the Marsi and the Angrivarii? We share more with one another than we ever will with the Romans.’

  ‘I cannot fault your logic,’ said Segimundus. His expression grew serious. ‘Have you a plan?’

  Segimundus’ words made Arminius throw caution to the wind. ‘I plan to forge an alliance of the tribes. We will drive Rome’s legions west of the river once and for all.’

  Segimundus looked surprised, and wary. ‘No modest aim, then.’

  ‘My part of the tribe is with me. I hope that soon the Chatti and the Usipetes will be too. It’s possible too that the rest of the Cherusci could be won over. If you were by my side, or better, elsewhere, spreading the word of your dream and what happened here today, we’d be sure to convince others to join us. What do you say?’

  Segimundus did not reply. Arminius’ heart hammered out a few unhappy beats, and he found that he was clenching his fists. Perhaps he had misjudged the priest? Damn it, he thought, his anger rising. I’ll shut him up rather than let him squeal to the legate. Quite how he could get away with murdering Segimundus in the temple, he had no idea. A surreptitious look to either side, and down the room, told him that they were still alone. Turning a little so that Segimundus could not see, he let his right hand creep towards his sword hilt.

  ‘Donar must have sent you.’

  The fervour in the priest’s voice was unmistakeable. Letting his hand drop to his side, Arminius faced Segimundus. ‘Really?’

  ‘Why else would things happen in such close succession? The dream, the diseased rams, and then you telling me of your plan?’

  ‘So you’ll help?’

  ‘As Donar is my witness,’ replied Segimundus, solemn-faced.

  ‘I am grateful,’ said Arminius, shaking his hand hard.

  ‘We can talk tonight, in my quarters.’

  Arminius felt a broad smile break out. ‘I look forward to that.’

  He walked out into the warm sunshine. Like his first ally, it seemed to have been sent by the thunder god himself.

  Win over the chieftains of the various tribes next, he thought, and I will have an army.

  Real excitement filled Arminius at that prospect. As for a time and a place to ambush Varus’ legions, well, he had those in mind too.

  Gods, but he could not wait until his plan came to fruition.

  II

  SENIOR CENTURION LUCIUS Cominius Tullus stood on the side of the road, close to the main, arched gate of Vetera. A rectangular, fortified camp, some nine hundred paces by six hundred in size, it was home to his legion, the Eighteenth, and had been a Roman base for more than twenty years. His wasn’t an old unit by any means – it had been founded by Augustus half a century before, during the civil war that had brought him to power. The Eighteenth’s first period of service had been in Aquitania. Just a few years later, it had been transferred to Vetera on the River Rhenus. When Tullus had been promoted to the centurionate fifteen years ago, he had been transferred into the Eighteenth from his old legion.

  Tramp, tramp. The soldiers of Tullus’ century marched past. Led by the standard-bearer, they were six men wide, twelve deep – a unit was never at complete strength – with his optio Fenestela near the back.

  As each man passed Tullus, he took great care to square his shoulders and keep his shoulder-carried javelin at the right angle. Keen-eyed, expressionless, Tullus observed how good their equipment looked, and whether it showed any signs of wear, or damage. He’d spotted most of the problems when the legionaries had assembled outside their stone barracks: a loose armour plate here; a helmet cheekpiece missing its iron tie ring there. As then, none of it mattered enough to halt their progress. They’d been chastised, he thought, and would fix their kit upon their return. That, or they’d feel his vitis, vine cane, across their shoulders.

  Now and again, Tullus’ attention strayed to the camp’s impressive fortifications. His home had been within for a decade and a half, and he wasn’t yet tired of appreciating the defences. Everything about them exuded confidence, permanence and the power of Rome. First came the deep double ditch, with the spiked branches at the bottom of each. Behind those was the earthen rampart, built with the spoil from the ditches. It was taller than the loftiest cavalryman. The stone wall that sat atop it was even taller, and ran around the camp’s entire perimeter.

  Flashes of sunlight marked the sentries pacing to and fro on the rampart’s walkway. Those who were in the twin towers spanning the gate observed Tullus with a faint air of superiority, their height and his patrol duty giving them immunity to any potential reprimand. Tullus’ lips twitched with amusement. He’d acted much the same way as a young low-ranker, a lifetime before. As long as the sentries remained alert – and they appeared to be – he didn’t care.

  Even in these peaceful times, outside a camp containing a legion, it paid to be watchful. That was how he approached life, how he approached routine duties such as this. No one had had a problem with tribesmen this side of the river in years, but every time his legionaries marched beyond the walls, on duty, they – and he – were armed and equipped for battle.

  Tullus was a solid man; middle-aged, but in excellent physical shape. Under his centurion’s crested helmet and the felt liner that sat beneath it, he had short brown hair. A long jaw didn’t stop him from being good-looking; nor did the pattern of scars that marked his body. He jerked his head as his optio, Marcus Crassus Fenestela, drew level. They paced together to the front of the unit, their gaze roaming over the tramping legionaries.

  As Tullus walked, he studied Fenestela sidelong. It amused him that he and Fenestela were such physical opposites. Where he was solid, Fenestela was thin; where he was brawny, Fenestela was wiry. Fenestela’s auburn, curly hair was longer than regulation cut, and his features were, as Tullus liked to joke, uneven. His ugliness wasn’t helped by his bushy red beard. Tullus didn’t give a shit about Fenestela’s appearance, however. He and his optio had served together for many years. They had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, and trusted each other inside and out.

  ‘Happy?’ Tullus asked at length.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Fenestela replied, his keen eyes darting over the column. ‘They look all right.’

  ‘Even the green ones?’ asked Tullus as they drew alongside two ranks of newish recruits. He was amused: although the soldiers’ helmets and kit shone from polishing, and their gait was satisfactory, they were careful not to catch his eye.

  ‘They’re coming along,’ Fenestela murmured.

  ‘Look at Piso. He’s got mismatched feet, or I’m no judge.’ Tullus watched the tall soldier in the second
rank of recruits. Despite the fact that he was furthest from Tullus, it was easy to spot his rolling step, the shield hanging at an awkward angle on his back.

  ‘He’s learning, sir,’ said Fenestela. ‘Another few months and he’ll pass muster.’

  ‘Aye.’ Content that Piso, who’d made it through the tough initial training, would go on to become a decent soldier, Tullus’ gaze strayed to the shining silver band that was the Rhenus. The river came from behind them to the right and ran parallel to the road at a distance of a couple of hundred paces. Half a mile onward, it flowed past the vicus, or civilian settlement, that served the massive military camp – their legion’s base – to their rear. The watercourse’s span was interrupted close to the vicus by large islands covered in trees, making it impossible to see the far bank, as they could from their current position. Germania Magna began on the other side, and it was where they were heading.

  Discerning the direction of his gaze, Fenestela scowled. ‘I don’t like going over there, sir,’ he muttered.

  ‘You always say that, Fenestela. Any tribes still hostile to Rome live a hundred miles to the east, or more. The ones who live closer know better than to resist our rule. They’ve been taught enough lessons over the last twenty years.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Fenestela’s tone revealed his doubt.

  Tullus didn’t comment. It was a topic that they had argued over countless times. According to Fenestela, he was overly trusting. Tullus thought his optio far too cynical. The longer Rome’s rule lay upon a land, the less likely it was that there would be trouble. There hadn’t been a major uprising close to the Rhenus for almost five years. If it continued, he mused, he could end his career in peacetime. That prospect appealed now more than it ever had – the price, perhaps, of seeing so many of his soldiers die in battle.

  Despite the attraction of retirement, Tullus knew that he would sometimes miss the insanity of combat, when the blood pounded in his ears, and the men around him felt closer than brothers. He increased his pace, indicating that Fenestela should walk with him.

  ‘Are we taking the usual route today, sir?’ asked a soldier from the depths of the ranks.

  ‘We are. Over the bridge at the vicus to the other side. Out the east road, alongside the River Lupia for about ten miles, and back again.’ Tullus saw the sideways glances of the legionaries, and heard the low grumbling that followed. ‘I make it just over twenty miles. An easy march,’ he added, winking at Fenestela.

  Fenestela returned the wink. ‘Without their full kit they’ll want to run it, sir.’

  More muttering.

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Tullus. ‘Maybe we’ll double-time it back to the camp.’

  As he’d expected, someone took the bait. ‘There’s no need for that, sir, surely?’ called a voice from another rank, rendering the speaker invisible.

  ‘I don’t know,’ declared Tullus, with a glance at Fenestela.

  The faceless soldier and several others groaned.

  ‘Don’t give me reason to insist on it,’ warned Tullus as Fenestela chuckled.

  The complaints died away fast.

  Tullus wasn’t going to force his men to return to the camp at that pace, but there was no harm in them thinking it might happen. The uncertainty kept them on their toes. The last ranks of the century marched past once more, and he conferred with the tesserarius, the most junior of his officers. No one was lagging. Content, he and Fenestela trotted back up the patrol, resuming their positions in turn.

  The straggling development of houses, businesses and stables that formed the outskirts of the vicus drew near. They harked back to the settlement’s humble beginnings. Nowadays, most wanted to forget those rough times. The council talked of little but knocking the shacks and brothels to the ground, of grand new building projects and of a wall around the settlement’s perimeter. Part of Tullus would be sorry when these inevitable changes came, because any sense that this was the frontier would depart with them. This part of Germania would be no different to anywhere in Italy, or Hispania, and the idea that one day citified dandies might look down their noses at him from the tables of a pricey inn stuck in his throat like a fish bone.

  If the damn bridge over the Rhenus had been built in a direct line east of the camp rather than just outside the settlement, thought Tullus, such a thing could never happen. Yet the camp’s position on high ground, back from the vicus, made tactical sense. As a result, soldiers had no option but to pass through it each time they had to venture over the river. And that, despite an officer’s best intentions, meant an inevitable slowing in their pace. The instant that legionaries were spotted, every shop and restaurant owner, every trickster and wild-eyed soothsayer, every whore and vendor of trinkets, thronged to the side of the road, where they harangued the passing business. He could see them gathering already, could hear a red-cheeked woman bellowing about her delicious, fresh-cooked sausages.

  Senior centurion and cohort commander Tullus might be, but he didn’t have any legal jurisdiction over civilians. Nevertheless, he readied his vitis. In practice, he could do as he wished. If someone got too enthusiastic, he wouldn’t hesitate to administer a sharp clout.

  In they tramped, hobnails clashing on the paving stones, past the miserable shacks in which the poorest of the poor lived. Snot-nosed children in rags watched the armoured legionaries with wide eyes. ‘Spare an as?’ shouted the most confident one to no one in particular. The call was like the first drop from a raincloud. The urchins darted forward, yelling, running alongside the soldiers with outstretched hands. ‘Got any bread, sir?’ ‘A coin, sir, a coin!’ ‘Want to screw my sister, sir? She’s beautiful!’

  Few men were interested in this first wave. Used to Tullus’ close monitoring, they kept moving, giving as good as they got. ‘I haven’t got two asses to rub together,’ Tullus heard Piso say. ‘I wouldn’t waste my money on little tykes like you,’ declared another soldier. ‘Your sister?’ retorted a third. ‘If she’s got your looks, she’s got webbing between her fingers and toes!’

  Hurling insults, but quietly – they knew well the pain a kick from a studded sandal could deliver – the urchins withdrew.

  As the next flood of hopefuls descended, Tullus sighed, and readied his vitis once more.

  ‘Fresh bread, hot from the oven! Who’d like some?’ ‘A cup of wine for any of you brave men? I sell only the best vintages!’ ‘Look at you strong, handsome boys! One of you must have time for a little knee-trembler! Three sestertii, and I’ll even let you kiss me!’ The whore who’d made that offer wasn’t as raddled as most in the settlement, and Tullus sensed the step of the legionaries nearest her waver. Wheeling out of rank, he was on her in half a dozen strides.

  ‘They have other business right now. Clear off.’

  She leered and pulled down the neck of her grimy robe, exposing her still pert breasts. ‘A fine centurion like you must have the money to buy a feel of these – and more!’

  ‘Go on, piss off!’ Tullus’ eyes appraised her chest even as he raised his vitis.

  With a knowing pout, she retreated to the door of her hut, where she continued to entreat his men to come inside.

  Tullus let her be. Fenestela, who was in the tenth rank, and the tesserarius, at the back, would ensure that no one dared to break formation. If it hadn’t been for his other officers, however, he wouldn’t have put it past one of his men to try and have a ‘quickie’. It had been done by soldiers in other units before, without the centurion noticing, or so the gossip around the fires went in the evenings.

  In the event, he didn’t have to use his stick. The swarm of locals eased as they entered the vicus proper, where homes and businesses of a better class were situated. This was where many of the camp’s legionaries, and not a few of the officers, had common-law wives. Invitations to come and eat, to drink wine, to buy weapons or trinkets for their girls, continued to rain down, but their path wasn’t impeded. Laughter broke out among his soldiers when a pair of hefty tribeswomen with braided
hair, sisters perhaps, spotted their common-law husbands in the century’s midst and rained a barrage of abuse on both, complaining that neither man had given them as much as a denarius for the previous month. The miserable bastards needn’t come back over the Rhenus, the women squawked, or set foot in their houses, until they gave them some money. The soldiers’ muttered excuses that they hadn’t yet been paid brought down further abuse. Hoots and jeers from their comrades added to the clamour.

  ‘Keep moving!’ roared Tullus, quelling his men’s noise, if not that of their wives. He marched on, grateful to be free of such nagging. At times, he missed having a woman, but running his own soldiers as well as a cohort of six centuries more than filled his time. When the need came upon him, which was less often than it used to, he visited the best whorehouse in the settlement. Upon his retirement, there would be time to find a young bride, to raise a family. Until then, he was wedded to the army.

  The buildings close to the vicus’ forum were proud affairs, the homes of merchants who’d grown rich on the trade that flowed to and fro across the Rhenus. Studying a grandiose house, Tullus considered whether he’d have been happier selling wine, pottery and silver platters over the river in return for cattle, slaves and women’s hair – the goods that Rome desired from Germania. He’d have made a fortune – could have owned a large property with central heating, private toilet facilities and a courtyard. Then, from the pavement, a veteran in a faded military tunic gave him a proud salute – with the stump of his right arm. Tullus returned the gesture, ashamed that he might consider anything other than being a soldier. The comradeship granted by a life in the legion was beyond price. Money came second to that – and it always would. Besides, his centurion’s pension would be plenty to live on, and a sight more than the poor bastard with one hand received. He fumbled with the purse at his belt and tossed the man a denarius. Loud blessings followed him down the street.