by Ben Kane
Arminius’ eyes pinned the warrior’s, but he did not look away. ‘Go on,’ ordered Arminius.
‘I can’t remember everything that was said. I was quite drunk by that stage, you see. The talk was all to do with how surprised the Romans would be, and of how many legionaries each of us would kill, and how much booty we would take.’ Ashamed, the warrior dropped his gaze. ‘It was a rash thing to do.’
‘Young warriors like you have always been full of bravado, and always will be. There’s nothing wrong with that. What was stupid beyond belief was the fact that you mentioned such things, drunk, in a tavern adjacent to the very force we want to destroy.’ Arminius sighed, imagining how Tullus might have reacted if he’d overheard the youths. ‘Your comments could have endangered the whole enterprise, could have ended something that I have planned to do for many years – before it had even started. Have you any idea how angry that makes me?’ This last was delivered in a furious hiss.
The warrior’s shoulders drooped further. His companions shuffled their feet. Around them, Maelo and Arminius’ men stood ready. It would take but a word, and the youths would go down under a flurry of blows.
I have a number of choices now, thought Arminius. We could kill them, and send a message to their villages that the same fate would meet anyone else as foolish. The second option was to slay just one or two, and to free the others, letting them carry word far and wide of his punishment. A third possibility was for his men to beat the warriors black and blue, and send them away with a warning.
Roughing them up would not be effective enough, Arminius decided. Killing a few would be, however. He was reminded of the rare Roman practice of decimation, which he had once witnessed: the condemned legionaries had broken and run during a battle.
As soon as it had arrived, his certainty about executing some of the youths faded. How had he become so Roman? Arminius wondered. German warriors who fled from an enemy had to live with the shame of their actions, and remained outcasts from their tribe until they proved their bravery again. Not only was this form of punishment effective, but it was far less savage than men having to murder their comrades with clubs or their fists.
The youths’ crime was nowhere near as severe as those who had shown cowardice during a battle. Their loose talk could have had disastrous consequences, but it appeared from Varus’ decision to do nothing that they – and he – had got away with it. What was his best course of action? Arminius wondered.
‘Shall we kill them?’ This from Maelo.
Several of the young warriors began to pray aloud.
‘They deserve it,’ replied Arminius in an iron tone. Let them think that that’s their fate.
‘Give us the word,’ said Maelo, picking at his nails with a long dagger.
The blade gave Arminius an idea – a perfect one. Drawing his own knife, he approached the prisoners. Unhappy glances shot between them as he drew near.
The ringleader was one of the few not to back away. He squared his shoulders as the blade moved towards his face.
‘I have every right to slay you for what you did,’ said Arminius.
‘You do.’ The warrior met Arminius’ gaze. ‘Maelo knows my family. I ask that they be told I died well.’
Arminius let the dagger point come to rest on the warrior’s cheekbone, just under his eye. There were horrified looks from the other youths. At first, his victim only flinched a little, but Arminius left it there until tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. ‘Rather than remove your eye before I kill you, maybe I should take your tongue,’ he said, dragging the blade lower, to the warrior’s lips. ‘That would stop you talking out of turn, even in the underworld.’
The youth’s face was dripping with perspiration now, but he did not retreat. ‘Kill me and have done,’ he muttered.
This one was a warrior, thought Arminius. One of his companions looked as if he might be too. The rest, well, they too would fight for him after what he was about to do. Lifting his dagger a fraction, he opened the warrior’s cheek with a quick flick of his wrist. Not a deep wound, or a long one, but enough to leave a permanent scar. The warrior let out a gasp of pain, but held his position, ready for whatever else Arminius might have planned.
‘Each of you will receive this mark,’ Arminius announced, moving to the next warrior. Realising that perhaps he wasn’t to die, the man straightened his back and prepared himself.
Flick. Arminius opened his cheek. Another gasp.
‘You will receive it not only as punishment, but to mark you out as men who are to fight in my ambush,’ said Arminius. He saw their surprise, and smiled. ‘You still want to take part, I assume? Still want to redden your spears with Roman blood?’
‘Aye!’ cried the ringleader; his comrades quickly joined in.
‘Excellent,’ said Arminius, cutting another man’s face. He sliced the fourth warrior’s cheek, and then the fifth. Despite their pain, their relief was palpable. Then Arminius caught one of the men smirking. He cursed inside. The wounding would not be enough. Without hesitation, he confronted the one who’d smirked. ‘You think this is funny?’
Panic flared in the warrior’s eyes. ‘No, I—’
He couldn’t say any more, because Arminius’ dagger was buried in his chest. Arminius twisted the blade to and fro, making sure. When he tugged it out, gouts of warm blood spattered his hand and tunic. The warrior dropped at his feet like a bag of wheat. He kicked once and was still. Blood began to pool around him. His companions looked on in horror.
Arminius let them think that there would be nothing more for a dozen heartbeats. He stepped back, his bloodied dagger by his side, moved his harsh gaze across the remaining warriors. ‘Does anyone else think this situation is amusing?’
No one answered.
‘Know that you will be among the first warriors to attack the Romans.’
His words fell like lead slingshot bullets from the sky. The command was as good as a death sentence, and the young warriors knew it, but an end in battle was preferable to a blade between the ribs in this glade.
‘Before that, though, some of my men will take you to the ambush site,’ said Arminius. ‘You will help to erect the earthworks that will hide us from the Romans. Work parties from other tribes will be there too. I command you to go among them, explaining what happened here, and why you have been marked so.’ This was the sting in the tail. If any of the warriors did not comply, they would be forever known – because of their scars – as cowards. The only other option would be to abandon their tribe and become outcasts, friends to none. That in itself would be a death sentence to most men.
The ringleader was first to respond. He stepped forward, chin held high, blood yet trickling down his cheek. ‘Before mighty Donar, bringer of thunder, I swear to follow your every command. May the god strike me down if I fail you.’
Arminius bent his head a fraction.
One by one, the warrior’s companions swore similar oaths.
When they were done, Arminius dismissed them. ‘Word will reach you of the time to meet. It will be soon after the harvest. Keep your spears sharp.’
Arminius’ mind was made up by the time he’d reached the huge camp outside Porta Westfalica. Not only would he call in on Varus, but he would issue the governor with an invitation to go deer hunting. With Varus to himself for a day, there’d be plenty of opportunities to discover if he had any reason to be concerned.
Wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t spot the woman squatting by the roadside until the last moment. Her woollen shawl was cast over her head, and from beneath it came the sound of weeping. The sight was unusual enough to make Arminius rein in. Maelo and his men did the same. Arminius glanced at the nearest sentries, a pair of legionaries who were slouched over their shields. ‘You there! What’s going on?’ he demanded in Latin.
Realising his rank, the soldiers straightened with alacrity. ‘The stupid bitch came to the gate two hours ago, sir. Wanted to speak to the governor himself,’ said the olde
r, a man with a heavily stubbled jaw. His companion, who was short and thin, snorted. ‘Goes without saying, we didn’t let her in,’ the stubbled legionary went on. ‘She wouldn’t take “No” for an answer, though. Eventually the officer in charge of the guard came out and had a word. She was screaming that her daughter had been raped by one of our boys, that something had to be done, that he had to be found and punished.’
Arminius glanced at the woman, whose sobbing continued unabated. If she was play-acting, she was putting on a fine performance. ‘What did the officer do?’
There was a contemptuous sniff. ‘He asked a few questions, sir, about what had happened. Whether any coin had changed hands, what the man’s name was, what century he served in and so on. She grew angry, shouting that her daughter was no whore. How could anyone know what the bastard’s name or unit was, when he hadn’t said? “I demand to speak to Publius Quinctilius Varus,” she repeated over and over.’
‘Did he agree to take it any further?’ asked Arminius, knowing what the answer would be.
The sentry gave him an incredulous look. ‘No, sir. He tossed her a few coins and told her to clear off.’
‘That’s more than I’d have offered her, sir,’ commented the second legionary. ‘She’s giving me a damn headache.’ He spat in the woman’s direction. ‘Leave, before we make you,’ he said in poor German.
The soldiers’ offhand cruelty incensed Arminius. Throwing his reins to Maelo, he dismounted and crouched by the woman’s side. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he murmured in German. There was no response, and he touched her shoulder. With a wail, she recoiled. ‘I mean you no harm,’ he said. ‘I am of the tribes, like you.’
The shawl moved a fraction, revealing a pair of terrified eyes. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Arminius, a chieftain of the Cherusci. You also look to be Cheruscan.’
A slight nod. Suspicion had replaced the fear. ‘You serve the Romans?’
‘I do, but that does not mean I will see injustice unanswered.’
The shawl fell away. Lines of worry, old and new, scored the woman’s tear-stained face, and her straggling hair was more grey than blonde. There were red scratches on her cheeks, the marks of her fingernails, yet she was still striking. Strip the care and the years away, thought Arminius, and she’d be a real looker. Like as not, her daughter was too, which would explain much.
Arminius paid no heed to the sound of an approaching horse – riders passed by all the time in a spot such as this – until it stopped a little distance behind him. ‘Out of my way!’ barked a familiar voice: Tubero’s. Anger kindled in Arminius’ belly, but he didn’t look up.
‘Greetings, tribune,’ said Maelo.
‘Ah, Maelo. I didn’t recognise you.’ The aggression vanished from Tubero’s voice – almost.
‘Off the road. Let the tribune past,’ ordered Maelo in German.
Arminius decided to stand as Tubero and his escort began to ride past. Surprise creased Tubero’s face as he recognised Arminius, and took in the woman behind him. His lip curled a fraction, but he made no comment. ‘Arminius,’ he said with a civil nod.
‘Tribune.’ Arminius watched Tubero go by, thinking: You piece of shit. Arrogant Roman bastards like you are proof that I am doing the right thing.
‘Ignore that worthless dog,’ he muttered, returning to the woman’s side. ‘Reared at the top, but he still acts as if he was born on a dungheap.’
The woman threw him a pathetic smile.
Arminius set aside his fury and spoke in a calm, gentle tone. ‘Tell me what happened to your daughter.’
‘We-we came here yesterday. With the wool from our sheep, to sell. It was late by the time we had sold it, so I found us a room in an inn. It was a rough place, but the landlord swore no harm would come to us. All the same, we retired straight after some food, to avoid any trouble. One of the soldiers who was drinking there must have seen my daughter, though. We hadn’t been asleep for long when he shouldered the door open.’ She wiped away fresh tears. ‘I screamed, but one of his friends was outside to stop anyone helping. He held a knife to my daughter’s throat while he, while he …’ A cracked sob left her lips.
Arminius ground his teeth. Crimes such as this were common in and around Roman camps. More often than not, the perpetrators got away with it, because senior officers were out to protect their own rather than see justice done. Yet again, Arminius thought, one rule applied to the rulers, and another to the subjects. The response from the guard officer, and in particular the coins he’d thrown, was more than the woman could have expected.
‘I am sorry for the harm done to your daughter,’ he said at length.
‘Will you help?’ For the first time, there was hope in her expression.
Arminius struggled to meet her gaze. ‘Finding the soldier who did it – well, it would be nigh-on impossible without a name, or a unit.’
‘Gaius. I’m sure that his friend called him Gaius,’ she said at once.
‘That’s one of the most common Roman names,’ he countered.
‘His face was covered in pox scars.’
‘Plenty of men have been so marked.’
It was as if she sensed him wavering. ‘My daughter – she’s fifteen years old! She’s still bleeding from what the brute did to her. You must be able to do something. Please, I beg you!’
A red mist blurred Arminius’ vision as he remembered his aunt, who must have suffered a similar fate before she had to watch her son being tortured to death. Before she herself was slain. He squeezed the woman’s arm until she gazed into his eyes. ‘The man who raped your daughter will pay for what he did. Trust me. I swear by almighty Donar that vengeance will be yours.’
‘When?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Soon. I cannot say any more.’
‘I will wait,’ said the woman, palming the tears from her face. ‘How shall I know that he has been punished?’
‘You can speak to no one about this, do you understand? No one,’ ordered Arminius in a low tone.
‘I won’t. I swear it, on my daughter’s life.’
‘As I live and breathe, as my name is Arminius of the Cherusci, you will know that the whoreson has seen justice.’
Her eyes widened.
Arminius longed to tell her that soon the rapist – and all his comrades – would be food for the crows, but to say anything might endanger his plan. ‘Everyone will know,’ he said.
XVII
IT HAD BEEN a long, hot day – a twenty-mile patrol to the east, at the head of his cohort – but it was over, thought Tullus with some satisfaction. He had seen nothing untoward – far from it. The legionaries had been received well in the villages they had passed. The welcome had been tepid, it was true, but it was degrees warmer than when they had arrived, two months earlier. The whole process was a marked improvement from their reception in previous years. It was progress, Tullus decided, a sign that the tribes were growing used to Roman rule. Even his cynical optio Fenestela had commented on the locals’ more amenable attitude.
The cohort returned to Porta Westfalica in baking afternoon heat. Every field of grain beside the road had been full of tribesmen and women taking in the harvest, both sexes stripped to the waist under the sun’s blinding orb. Tullus’ soldiers had loved the sight of so many bare breasts, and they filled the air with whistles and catcalls. The tribesmen shouted back insults, but Tullus didn’t try to silence his soldiers’ barrage. If a woman went about half naked, she could expect but one response.
Reaching the camp, Tullus had dismissed the cohort. He’d overseen his own century as they stripped off their equipment, taking the time to praise the men who’d led the pace, or who had impressed with their well-presented kit. That done, he had made for his own tent, where Ambiorix and Degmar had been waiting. It was amusing, but the feud he’d seen coming between his two servants had never materialised. Gaul and German, old man and young, they had formed an odd friendship that revolved around a sharing of duties. Ambiorix l
it the fire. He did the cooking too – that was one of his favourite tasks. The rest, however – the clothes-washing, cleaning of weapons and armour and sleeping by the tent entrance – he was happy to relinquish to Degmar.
Once Tullus had washed, using the bucket of river water carried up by Degmar, he parked himself outside his tent on an old stool. It had been with him on campaign many times; he liked to sit on it, cup of wine in hand, and observe his soldiers with a benevolent but watchful eye. On this occasion, however, he found his attention drawn by Ambiorix and Degmar. More often by Degmar, who looked to be in a foul humour.
Assuming that they had quarrelled, Tullus began to listen in. Ambiorix was busy preparing the evening meal. From the smell emanating from the pot that hung over the fire, Tullus reckoned it was fish stew of some kind. Degmar was sitting cross-legged alongside, Tullus’ phalerae in his lap, and was using a strip of cloth to polish the individual decorations.
‘Want a taste?’ Ambiorix was proffering a wooden spoon. ‘I think it needs a little salt.’
Degmar grunted something that might have been ‘No’ or ‘Yes’.
Ambiorix frowned. ‘What was that?’
‘Decide for yourself. I don’t care,’ Degmar muttered in his poor Latin.
‘Don’t take out your bad mood on me! We agreed that you’re the one who has to clean his kit.’
‘It’s not about that,’ said Degmar, scowling.
‘What’s wrong then?’ demanded Ambiorix.
Degmar didn’t answer; he redoubled his efforts with one of the phalerae, polishing away until Tullus thought he would wear the thing down to a nub.
Tullus forgot about Degmar for a time as Fenestela came to report on a legionary who’d gone lame during the march. ‘I sent him to see the surgeon. Piso isn’t the best soldier, but he’s no shirker,’ said Fenestela.
Tullus chuckled. ‘It was Piso? I should have known.’
‘He’s coming on, as you said he would,’ opined Fenestela. ‘Slow progress, but steady.’
‘Wine?’ Tullus raised the jug.