by Ben Kane
There was a little sigh. ‘Of course, master.’
‘Good.’ Varus threw a baleful look at the stack of correspondence, which was still substantial. ‘Although I’ll miss the comforts of a permanent camp, it will be good to leave this place behind.’
‘You mean our summer march to the east, master?’ This time, Aristides made no attempt to conceal his distaste.
‘Yes. Three months of good weather and hunting, during which official letters will find it difficult to find me. There’ll be bookkeeping to be done, but it will be nothing compared to the volume I receive here. You’ll be able to deal with most of it. When we return in the autumn, a mountain of documents will cover this desk, but I don’t care.’ Varus saw Aristides’ expression, and chuckled. ‘You shall have your hot baths while we’re away, from time to time at least. Slave you might be, but you cannot say I do not look after you.’
‘You do, master, thank you,’ said Aristides, his frown easing. ‘I am ever grateful.’
‘I haven’t forgotten my promise to you either. When my term as governor is up, you will receive your manumission. You’ve served me well; it’s the least I can do.’
‘Publius Quinctilius Varus, you are the finest master that a slave could wish for,’ said Aristides, beaming from ear to ear. He bowed. ‘Gratitude.’
‘Are you now content to travel into the wilds of Germania?’ asked Varus with a smile.
‘Will there be any fighting, master?’
Varus didn’t look down on Aristides for being afraid. He was a scholar, not a soldier. ‘I doubt it. Things seem to be quiet on the other side of the river. Besides, more than ten thousand legionaries will be accompanying us. No hostile tribesmen in their right minds would come within miles of our camp.’
Aristides looked pleased. ‘Very good, master.’
‘Back to work then.’ Varus picked up a wooden tablet and broke the seal on the string that held its two parts together. Opening it, he began to read. ‘Ah. This is from the commander at Fectio. His news is good, and he asks for nothing, which makes a change from most of these wretched communications.’
‘What does he say, master?’
‘Almost his entire fleet – triremes, biremes and troop transports – is seaworthy. He places them at my disposal for the coming months, and awaits any orders.’ Varus rubbed a finger along his lips. ‘It’s a shame that I won’t have reason to call on him this summer. Still, never mind. Better to have ships that I don’t need rather than the other way around.’
‘True, master. Do you wish to reply?’
‘Yes. Congratulate him on his fleet’s readiness. There are no special plans for the fleet at this time, so the normal patrols of the seas and the local waterways are to continue. Inform him that I will be marching east for the summer, taking legions Seventeen, Eighteen and Nineteen. Once the taxes have been collected, and the harvest is in, we will return to the Rhenus and winter quarters. He can expect a visit from me soon after that.’
Varus was still waiting for Aristides to finish writing down his instructions when there was a rap on the door. ‘Come,’ he called.
One of the two legionaries stationed outside marched in and saluted. ‘The new tribune is here to see you, sir.’
Varus’ eyebrows rose, and he shot a look at Aristides. ‘Again?’
Aristides gave a faint, diplomatic shrug.
‘Send him in,’ ordered Varus.
A moment later, the tribune entered. He marched to within a few steps of Varus’ desk and stood to attention. ‘Senior tribune Lucius Seius Tubero, sir!’
‘Tribune.’ Varus studied Tubero’s blue eyes, blond curls and chiselled chin. His breastplate and boots had been buffed beyond even parade standard. Good looks and shiny kit don’t make you a soldier, Varus thought. Be fair, he told himself a heartbeat later. This is the boy’s first military posting. He’s young and enthusiastic, and wants to prove his worth. I was like that once.
‘Did I come at a bad time, sir?’ Tubero glanced at the mounds of paperwork.
‘There’s never a good time for a governor; perhaps you’ll learn that one day.’ It was Varus’ practice to find out everything possible about his new officers before they arrived. Tubero was only seventeen, young indeed to be a senior tribune, but his breeding was good. More important was that his father was a friend of Augustus, which explained his posting to the Eighteenth as its second-in-command. If Tubero kept his nose clean, and showed some ability over the next decade of his service and more, and if his family didn’t fall from favour, there was every chance that he might end up as the governor of a province. Varus hoped that Tubero would prove ‘easy to manage’. He had enough to do without having to nursemaid yet another spoiled brat.
‘If it’s not convenient now, sir, I—’
‘Stay,’ ordered Varus. ‘A short break from my administrative duties is always welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What brings you to my door?’
‘I’ve been here for a few days, sir …’ Tubero hesitated.
‘Are you settling in? I trust that your quarters are satisfactory?’
‘Everything’s fine in those regards, thank you, sir.’
‘Is the legate giving you a hard time?’
‘No, sir. He’s been very helpful, instructing me in my duties.’
‘Has one of the centurions been insolent?’ This was a common occurrence. Veteran centurions often took a dim view of the young aristocrats who swanned in from Rome to command them. ‘Or one of the junior tribunes?’
‘It’s not that, sir.’
Varus’ interest was piqued. ‘What is it then?’
‘It seems quiet, sir. There’s no … trouble.’
Here we go, thought Varus in amusement. ‘That’s a good thing, tribune. Peace is something to be valued. It means that the empire’s business can carry on without interruption.’
‘Of course, sir, it’s just that I …’
Remembering his early years in the army, Varus asked, ‘You want to see some action?’
‘Yes, sir!’
Varus ignored Aristides’ little phhhh of contempt. ‘Your posting here will be for at least a year, tribune. In other words, there will be plenty of time for you to draw your sword in anger.’
Tubero’s nod was unhappy.
‘Oh, for the eagerness of youth,’ said Varus, thinking: There’s nothing wrong with humouring him in this matter. He’s well connected, after all. ‘What would you like to do – lead a patrol over the river?’
‘That would be wonderful, thank you, sir,’ replied Tubero, his face lighting up.
‘Fine. You can take my latest orders to the camp commander at the fort of Aliso. It’s two days’ easy march to the east, on the River Lupia. You’ll pass a number of settlements as you go. Venturing that far into Germania should give you a feel for the land and the tribes. There shouldn’t be any trouble. After you’ve delivered the letters and received the commander’s replies, you will return.’
‘My sincere thanks, sir.’
‘A cohort should be more than sufficient. I’ll have a word with Vala. He can ensure that the senior centurion in charge of the men is a solid type.’
Tubero flushed a little. ‘I don’t need anyone to hold my hand, sir.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, tribune. That the imperial peace should continue in Germania is my responsibility, not yours.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tubero, the reluctance loud in his voice. ‘Had you anyone in mind?’
‘As it happens, I have – a senior centurion called Tullus. Have you come across him yet?’
‘No, sir.’ Tubero somehow conveyed in the two words his scorn for those lower in rank than he.
Varus began to grow a little irritated. ‘Two things, tribune. The first is that it behoves you to make the acquaintance of every cohort commander in the Eighteenth. In an ideal world, you would also get to know every centurion. It’s not been long since you arrived, yet you ought at least to have
heard of Tullus. He’s a highly decorated, well-thought-of officer, with more than twenty-five years’ service under his belt. Everyone esteems him, from Legate Vala to the lowest ranker. I’ve heard it said that he’s one of the best-loved officers in the legion.’
Like so many youths, Tubero could affect a disinterested look to perfection, thought Varus, his temper rising. ‘You will treat Tullus with the respect he deserves. Clear?’
Tubero cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Secondly, a word of advice. Going about with your nose in the air while you’re here will earn you few friends, and more than one enemy. Those of lower station have to obey you, but if you treat them like dirt, they will make your life difficult. Orders will be followed at the slowest pace possible, or “forgotten”, or misplaced. Do you understand?’
‘I do, sir,’ muttered Tubero.
‘Good. You’ll receive your orders for the patrol by nightfall. Dismissed.’ Varus’ acknowledgment of Tubero’s salute was curt. When they were alone, he looked at Aristides. ‘The young always know best, eh?’
‘It has ever been thus, sir.’
Varus sighed. ‘I was the same, I suppose, and so were you. If he’s tempered in the right way, Tubero will probably make a fine soldier.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I’ll dictate Tubero’s and Tullus’ orders later. For now, we had best finish with this damn lot’ – Varus slapped the stack of documents – ‘or we’ll still be here at dawn.’
Late-afternoon sun bathed the clearing where Arminius and his men had stopped, a short distance from the road that led east from Vetera to the fort of Aliso. The unit’s hobbled horses were grazing beyond the cluster of lean-tos and tents. Piles of equipment were stacked close by: standards, helmets, mail shirts, swords, spears and shields. Some of the warriors sat about on their blankets, talking and cooking, while others wrestled with one another or gathered fuel and water. From a nearby birch, a blackbird shrilled its indignation at the intruders on its territory.
Arminius was sitting with several men by the fire outside his lean-to when a sentry arrived, looking excited. ‘Maelo is here,’ he announced.
‘Bring him to me.’ Arminius had been expecting his second-in-command, who had left Ara Ubiorum a few days after him. The warrior hurried off, and Arminius leaned over the cauldron that was suspended from a tripod above the flames. The venison stew within was from a deer that he’d brought down with an arrow some hours before. Its butchered carcase was still hanging from a branch on the nearest tree.
‘Ho, Arminius!’ called a voice. Maelo stalked up, and he and Arminius embraced. The other warriors didn’t rise, but they greeted him with respect. Brown-haired, Maelo was of medium build, but he was as solid as a block of stone. He leaned over the pot. ‘It smells good. What is it, venison?’
‘Aye. We’ve been hunting.’ Arminius indicated the carcase.
After a little talk about the day’s sport, Maelo’s expression grew serious. ‘Which chieftains did you manage to speak to?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Only those of the Chatti and the Usipetes,’ Arminius replied.
‘There’ll be time enough to talk to the other tribes later, once the legions march east. How did you fare?’
Arminius’ eyes flickered at the others present, and back to Maelo.
Maelo took his meaning. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
‘Yes.’ Arminius stirred the stew, before tasting a spoonful. ‘It’s good. Don’t let it burn,’ he ordered one of his men. He scooped up two lengths of fishing line and hooks from the entrance to his lean-to. ‘Follow me,’ he said to Maelo. ‘There’s a stream not far off where we might catch some bream, even a salmon if we’re lucky.’
‘Salmon as well as venison? Lead on,’ said Maelo.
They walked a distance from the men before Arminius spoke again. ‘You shouldn’t have said a word until we were alone. They mix with Roman soldiers all the time!’
‘Every one of them is a warrior of your own damn clan, Arminius,’ protested Maelo.
Arminius’ frown eased, but then returned. ‘Imagine, though, what might happen when we’re on the other side of the river, and they’re on the piss in the inns and catching the pox in the whorehouses. A man’s tongue loosens when he’s got a bellyful of wine, or a whore has sucked him dry. Most people don’t pay any attention to drunken gossip, but it would only take one filthy Roman to hear something suspicious for word to reach Varus. All our hard work would be undone, just like that.’
‘I won’t mention it again.’
Arminius clapped him on the shoulder. He trusted Maelo as few others; the man had saved his life more than once.
Reaching the stream, they sat, baited their hooks and tossed the lines into the water. ‘Tell me then!’ demanded Maelo. ‘How were you received? Do you bring good news or bad?’
‘For the most part, it’s good. The Chatti didn’t take much convincing, which was no surprise. I think their chieftains might have been planning something. I was accused of being an upstart Cheruscan, and trying to steal their thunder. I kept calm, and praised them to the heavens as mighty warriors, and told them that they’d be free to do as they wished once the battle started.’
‘Will they wait?’
‘I think so. Their priests said that as long as the omens continued to be good, the Chatti would do well by rising against Rome with us. One of their oldest chiefs spoke in my favour, saying that I knew the empire’s ways, and how its soldiers fought.’ Arminius’ grey eyes took on a darker, colder colour. ‘That I would spring the best ambush, which would cause the most casualties.’
‘And so you will, brother!’ Maelo agreed. ‘Varus likes you. He trusts you. When you fill his ears with tales of a tribal uprising, he’ll lead his army off the Roman road just as we have talked about.’
‘I need at least four tribes on our side first,’ said Arminius, chewing a nail. ‘Varus won’t march east of the Rhenus without two to three legions at his back.’
‘We have three tribes already.’
‘Two.’
‘The Usipetes weren’t convinced by your plan?’
‘I thought at first that the chieftains would agree, but when they took a vote, the majority voted against joining us.’
‘Pah! Was it because of their dislike of the Chatti?’
‘That was part of it only. I persuaded them that they need not have anything to do with each other. They could camp apart, and fight in different areas. It was more because their lands run right up to the bridge to Vetera.’
‘When the legions cross the river in anger, it’s their people who die first, and their settlements that are burned.’
‘If there was a way to guarantee victory, one priest said, they’d be with us, but without that, it pays to be prudent.’
‘Understandable. Nothing can be guaranteed in this life.’
‘Except death, and Roman taxes.’
There was a bitter tinge to their laughter. ‘If the Usipetes won’t join us, the other tribes might not either,’ Maelo said at length.
‘Aye.’
There was a silence, during which Arminius’ face grew stern and determined. When he spoke, his voice was granite hard. ‘We have the priest Segimundus’ support. His words, and his dream of the burning eagle, will convince many to join us. I know it.’
IV
TULLUS STRODE UP to the principia in the centre of the camp. Recognising him, if not by his face, then by his centurion’s crested helmet, the sentries guarding the headquarters saluted and stood back to allow him entrance. In the passageway beyond, Tullus returned the greetings of first one officer he knew, and then another. He was further delayed in the courtyard, waylaid by one of the Eighteenth’s tribunes, a talkative type who liked to do things by the book. Bored to tears by the tribune’s droning, Tullus could do nothing but endure. He managed to extricate himself in the end, promising the tribune that he would order spare winter cloaks for his cohort at the first opportunity, and che
ck that the other senior centurions had done so too.
It wasn’t unknown for the tribune to remember other ‘vital’ tasks the moment one had left his company, so Tullus hurried to put a party of document-carrying clerks between them. Affecting a nonchalant walk, he made it to the safety of the colonnaded walkway before the clerks broke away, one by one, into various offices. At that stage, Tullus was far enough from the tribune to be able to saunter around the passage to the great hall, the front of which formed the courtyard’s entire back wall.
The building’s massive, iron-bound doors stood wide open, as they did every day from dawn to dusk. They were only closed during the hours of darkness, and when important meetings were being held. The sentries here were present more to reflect the hall’s importance than the need for security. Tullus returned their salutes with a nod, and entered.
The vast room within was dominated by a double row of massive columns that ran from left to right, holding up the high roof. In the spaces between, larger-than-life-sized painted statues of Augustus and his immediate family had been placed. There were few people about. Three ordinary legionaries in belted tunics were sweeping the floor. A priest was praying before the largest effigy of the emperor. Puffed up with his own importance, a quartermaster stalked past, accompanied by two soldiers carrying a heavy chest. No one gave Tullus, a high-ranking officer, more than a cursory glance, which suited him well. He was not here for conversation, or to be accosted by those higher, or lower, in rank. As was his custom before going on patrol, he was here to pay his respects to his legion’s eagle.
Placing his boots down with care, so that his hobs didn’t make too much noise, he made his way across the mosaic floor to the back wall and the shrine. A pair of legionaries stood guard at its entrance, one either side of the double stone archway. They stiffened to attention. ‘Centurion,’ one murmured.