by Ben Kane
‘Rubbish,’ Arminius replied. ‘And you hit it anyway.’
‘You flatter me. Mine was the shaft that didn’t have the range.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
Varus grimaced in denial. ‘Will the arrow in its chest kill?’
‘I don’t know. It depends how deep the head penetrated. Even if the stag does collapse, it could be miles from here. Fetch the dogs, Maelo.’
Maelo slipped away, following the trail they’d taken. A good distance to their rear, a party of warriors had been keeping the noisy hounds away from their quarry. On this occasion, there were no legionaries accompanying Varus. Vala would have protested. So too would his other senior officers, but none of them knew. It had been a trifle childish, like Varus’ desire to escape his duties, but he had decided to hunt with his friend Arminius without an escort. And here they were, deep in the forest, alone. Varus didn’t feel concerned in the slightest; he was more annoyed that he’d alerted the stag to their presence. He took a mouthful of watered-down wine from the skin that hung over his shoulder, and handed it to Arminius. ‘When the dogs arrive, we follow them, eh?’
‘We can do, but there’s no certainty of tracking it down before sunset. Our best bet is to leave the job to Maelo and the men with the dogs. You and I will return to Porta Westfalica, to my tent, where an amphora of the best Italian wine awaits us. I was saving it to mark our success in the hunt, but I don’t see any problem in opening it early. With a little good fortune, Maelo will bring the stag to bay.’ Arminius drank deep and handed back the skin. ‘What do you say?’
Varus’ pride made him reply, ‘I had thought to carry the hunt through to its conclusion.’
‘So had I, but there’s no pleasure to be had in spending hours sweating through the forest with a pack of noisy dogs. We’ve played our part, don’t you think?’
‘Your argument is persuasive,’ Varus conceded. ‘Let us go back then.’
‘I’ll wager that Maelo will return with the carcase in time for us to dine like the emperor himself. The head will be yours, of course.’ Arminius lifted a hand, stilling Varus’ protest. ‘I won’t have it any other way. None of us can say with any certainty whose arrows struck the beast. In any case, you are my honoured guest, and friend.’
‘My thanks.’ Varus smiled in acceptance. Any thought he had of mentioning Segestes’ rant disappeared from his mind. To bring it up would be insulting to Arminius, the finest of men.
XIX
BONE-WEARY FROM SUPERVISING the soldiers of the dysentery-affected cohort as they moved their tents, Tubero looked at Tullus’ letter that evening. In his wildest dreams, he could not have predicted the contents. If the notion that Arminius was a traitor was shocking, the revelation that he purportedly intended to ambush the army was doubly so. Before he had read the note, Tubero would have laughed at such a preposterous suggestion. Now the notion, however crazy, kept spinning around his head. Tubero hadn’t liked Tullus from the start, but the senior centurion was no fool. He wouldn’t compose a letter like this without being convinced that Arminius was traitorous.
If Tullus’ hunch was correct, thought Tubero with growing glee, by intercepting the letter he had just been handed the chance to steal the glory. What more glittering start to his career could there be than foiling such an evil plan? The unfortunate episode with the Sugambri cattle-herders would be forgotten. In Rome, his taskmaster father and even Augustus would hear of his initiative. Everyone would know his name.
It didn’t trouble Tubero that he had no German servant who could ‘overhear’ Arminius’ warriors’ conversation about the ambush. If Varus demanded to meet Tubero’s ‘witness’, he could employ the Phoenican merchant who sold wine in the camp. The greybeard was a skilled and convincing liar – the day before, Tubero had caught him out when ordering an expensive vintage only because he’d known the going price. For a few gold coins, Tubero suspected, the man would sell his own mother. Getting him to swear that he had eavesdropped on a group of Cherusci would be easy.
Tubero reined in his growing enthusiasm. Tullus’ theory was still just that, a theory. There was no proof to be had, just the word of two tribesmen, one a lowlife servant, the other a chieftain who might have reasons to discredit Arminius. If Tullus was wrong, he, Tubero, risked monumental embarrassment by bringing the matter to light. Indeed, his intention to tell Varus could be a career-ending move. Discretion was the key, Tubero decided. He would broach the topic with Varus in an indirect, vague manner. If the governor appeared open-minded, he would proceed. If not, well, the conversation could end before it had started, with Varus none the wiser.
By the following morning, however, Tubero’s hopes of glory were in ashes. He had called on Varus early, and been welcomed into the governor’s quarters. Varus’ good humour had soon changed to irritation in the face of Tubero’s suggestion that Arminius might be disloyal. As Tubero’s ears rang with Varus’ praise for Arminius, he had been swift to row back from his initial approach. Cursing inside, he had tried another tack, mentioning camp gossip that he’d heard, about unrest among the tribes.
Varus had poured scorn on that theory too, saying that his sources were telling him no such thing. He’d smiled then, and told Tubero not to worry, that the mission to track down the Usipetes’ raiding party would not be his only experience of combat during the year of his posting. Deciding that Tullus must be deluded, and discretion was the better part of valour, Tubero had given Varus an apologetic smile, and thanked him for his understanding.
Relieved that he had not been found out, and angry that he had come so near to making a complete fool of himself, Tubero had thrown the letter into the latrine trench nearest his quarters.
Two days had passed, and there had been no response from Varus. Arminius was as visible as ever, drilling his men outside the camp, or leading out patrols, which told its own story. Tullus had no way of knowing whether Varus had received his note, but the coin he’d given the clerk should have ensured that he had. Why then had he done nothing? Tullus was consumed by a gnawing frustration. The least that Varus could have done was to question him about what he knew. Wary of acting above his station, he bided his time, hoping that each successive day would bring with it a messenger summoning him to Varus’ presence.
No summons arrived.
In the end, Tullus was spurred into action by a chance encounter with Arminius. A week had gone by, and Tullus was by the camp’s main entrance, talking to the centurion in charge of the sentries, an old friend of his. The pair were standing out of sight of those approaching the defences, so Tullus heard Arminius’ voice before he saw him. It was clear from the Cheruscan’s tone that he was annoyed. For reasons Tullus couldn’t explain, he placed a finger to his lips, interrupting his friend, and moved to the entrance. He poked his head around the wall, seeing Arminius riding up with a group of his men. His angry gesticulations confirmed his bad temper. It was frustrating that Tullus wasn’t able to make out Arminius’ words, but his interest – and suspicion – increased further when the Cheruscan silenced his men as they drew near. Why had he done that? wondered Tullus. Most Romans spoke no more than a smattering of German.
Despite Tullus’ suspicion of Arminius, it was illogical to ascribe a malevolent motive to his actions. Even more frustrated, Tullus returned to his friend with a laughing explanation that he thought he’d heard some of his men coming back from patrol and had wanted to hear what they were saying.
Tullus might have done nothing further but Arminius’ exaggerated reaction a moment later changed his mind on the spot. Entering the camp, Arminius greeted Tullus like a friend whom he hadn’t seen for twenty years. The scowl he’d worn outside had been replaced by a beaming smile. ‘It’s been too long since we shared a skin of wine. Come to my tent this evening and we’ll put that right,’ he cried. Tullus had muttered his thanks, and thought: The dog is up to something. I have to talk to Varus.
Tullus wasn’t sure when the best hour to visit Varus was – too early i
n the morning, and the governor might be angered; too late, and Tullus would have to compete with the host of officers with requests to make of Varus. Arriving at mealtimes could be considered rude, and Varus’ afternoons were taken up with more paperwork and other official duties. In the end, Tullus decided that there was no good time. Telling himself that Varus would listen to him, he made his way to the praetorium around the usual hour for the midday meal.
Varus was there, which was an excellent start. Once the sentry outside the front gate had carried word of Tullus’ presence inside, he was admitted without delay, which was also heartening. Tullus’ wait in the atrium wasn’t that long either, but that didn’t stop his palms sweating or his stomach from churning. He was escorted into Varus’ presence by the scribe Aristides, a man whom Tullus knew little, but who seemed a decent type. ‘He’s in a good mood,’ Aristides confided as they entered the central courtyard. ‘Cook prepared a venison stew using meat from a stag that Varus helped Arminius to bring down.’
Tullus wanted to pummel his fists against the wall. Arminius would be present at the meeting, even though he wasn’t here in person. There was nothing to be done about it, so he squared his shoulders and ran his fingers through his helmet crest, ensuring the feathers were all straight.
‘You look good, sir,’ whispered Aristides.
Tullus gave him a brittle smile. They were nearing Varus, who was seated at a table strewn with the evidence of a fine meal: platters of bread, vegetables, meat and fish, and jugs of wine. Varus looked up as Aristides announced Tullus. Smiling, he indicated that Tullus should take a seat.
‘My thanks, sir.’ Tullus’ flagging hopes revived. This was an honour indeed.
‘Wine?’ asked Varus.
‘A small cup only, sir. My duties for the day aren’t over yet.’
Varus gave him an approving look. ‘Aristides, do the necessary.’
After a toast to the emperor, the pair made small talk for a time. Varus asked about Tullus’ unit, whether he was happy with how the summer had gone, and if he was ready for the march back to Vetera. Tullus would have been uncomfortable to be in the governor’s presence under normal circumstances; in these, he felt most ill at ease, and his answers bordered on monosyllabic. It didn’t take long for the conversation to peter out.
‘I don’t imagine that you came to exchange pleasantries.’ Varus’ tone was jovial but commanding.
Tullus cleared his throat and did his best to calm his pounding heart. ‘No, sir. I came to see you about Arminius.’
Varus looked surprised. ‘Arminius? What about him?’
Tullus felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a cliff, but there was no backing away, not unless he made up a story on the spot – something he doubted his blank mind could do right now. ‘I’ve had my suspicions about him for some time, sir.’
‘I remember,’ said Varus, interrupting. ‘You thought his men too bloodthirsty.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus ploughed on. ‘A short while ago, I sent you a letter laying out my concerns.’
‘I received no letter.’
Tullus blinked. Fool of a clerk, he thought. Did he really think I wouldn’t check up on him? ‘That’s strange, sir. Let me explain.’ Ignoring Varus’ disapproving expression as best he could, he continued, ‘It hasn’t been anything solid, just a look here, or a comment there. In my mind, he’s just too genial, sir, too friendly to us Romans. Equestrian he may be, but the man’s a tribesman. See him with his warriors, and he’s a different beast to the one he is with us.’
Varus held up a hand, stopping him. ‘Spit out whatever it is you have to say.’
Dry-mouthed, and concerned that his efforts would be in vain, but determined to make his point, Tullus obeyed. Varus listened in tight-lipped silence.
‘Is that it?’ he demanded when Tullus had finished.
‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus held Varus’ gaze.
‘Your bravado is commendable,’ said Varus, his voice icy. ‘You stroll in here, accept my hospitality, drink my wine and then have the barefaced cheek to make unfounded, wild accusations about a personal friend of mine, a man who is a loyal servant of the emperor. You would have me believe not only that Arminius is a traitor, but that he’s planning to annihilate my army!’
‘My intent is always to serve the empire, sir, and nothing more,’ Tullus protested.
‘Arminius’ credentials are beyond suspicion. He stands recognised by Augustus himself,’ snapped Varus, his colour rising. ‘Do you question our emperor’s judgement?’
‘Of course not, sir,’ replied Tullus, realising that coming here had been a complete waste of time.
‘If you had even a single shred of evidence, I might feel inclined to listen to you, but you come to me with nothing. Nothing!’ Varus pointed, stiff-armed, towards the door. ‘Leave, before I lose my temper.’
‘Sir.’ Resigned, angry, impotent, Tullus rose and snapped off a parade-standard salute. He had almost reached the door when Varus called out:
‘Centurion.’
‘Sir?’
‘Because your service record up to this point has been exemplary, I will pretend that this meeting never happened. In return, you will speak of our conversation, and of Arminius, to no one. No one. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’ I will find the clerk and kick his arse, thought Tullus.
Varus didn’t waste any more words on him, just waved a hand in dismissal.
As Tullus made his way back to his tent, his disappointment was leavened somewhat by the knowledge that there would be no demotion, no punishment for his rash behaviour. This awareness didn’t remove the sour taste from his mouth, or the bitter feeling in his heart. Arminius was beyond reproach. Unassailable. Tullus could only watch and wait.
And pray that his gut feeling was wrong.
Tullus was kept busy in the warm, sunny days that followed as preparations got under way to ready the cohort for the hundred-mile journey back to Vetera. The right amount of grain and meat for each man had to be requisitioned, which meant an inevitable clash with the quartermasters, each of whom seemed to have been born with a reluctance ever to release any foodstuffs or goods in their care. Assessments of soldiers who were unwell, or suffering from injuries, went on every day. Places in the baggage wagons for individuals unfit to march were in high demand, for no centurion wanted to have to order soldiers to carry a comrade back to Vetera.
Endless equipment checks were necessary, to ensure that every legionary’s kit was in good order. Tullus paid particular attention to his men’s sandals, and the iron hobnails that decorated their soles. Soldiers tended not to replace them as often as needs be, because the cost of the hobs came out of their own purses. Wise to this, Tullus inspected his men’s footwear every two days before a long march.
He was afforded no chance to track down the scrawny clerk he’d paid to deliver the letter. What was the point? Varus had heard him out, and refused to give any weight to his concerns. Despite his workload, he kept abreast of the news entering the camp, and of Arminius’ activities. If Arminius was up to something, he was making a fine job of concealing it. According to the senior centurion in the cohort stationed beside Arminius’ tent lines, the Cheruscan’s auxiliaries did little apart from perform their routine duties and, like everyone else in the vast camp, prepare for the march to Vetera. Tullus could have ascribed a malign motive to the shunning of Degmar by the Cherusci – the Marsi warrior had failed to uncover more information – but that too could have been down to something mundane, such as Degmar’s truculent manner, or the mere fact that he was not Cheruscan.
In any case, Tullus had no time to ponder anything. What had happened to his letter to Varus. Why Varus would hear nothing said against Arminius. Why there had been no unrest. Whether Degmar had overheard idle gossip of no import, and if Segestes had been trying to discredit Arminius. Each night, Tullus dropped on to his blankets, bone-weary, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Woken by the trumpets at dawn, he tackled the mountai
n of work before him. It was not until the evening before the legions’ planned departure from Porta Westfalica – his tasks complete at last – that he had a chance to consider Arminius. Knowing that nothing short of a miracle would stop the army from marching, his worries rekindled with a vengeance. If anything was to happen, it would be in the next few days.
He and Fenestela were sitting by the fire outside Tullus’ tent, cloaks over their shoulders to ward off the evening chill, and cups of wine in hand. He had not confided in his optio before because of Fenestela’s deep cynicism towards non-Romans, and Germans in particular. Living with his concerns about Arminius had been preferable to having his ear bent about it ten times a day. Now, Tullus decided he had nothing to lose by revealing all.
‘Looking forward to getting back to Vetera?’ asked Fenestela.
‘Aye. You can’t beat a decent mattress under you at night, or a pillow to lay your head upon. And when the winter weather arrives, blankets alone won’t keep you warm. A brazier in the room, and a sturdy roof overhead, is what you need.’
‘Damn right,’ said Fenestela. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’
Nor will we, if Arminius has his way, thought Tullus. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
Fenestela’s eyes narrowed. Positioning his cloak, he nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
Checking again that they were alone, Tullus explained everything to Fenestela, from the uncomfortable feeling that he’d had about Arminius upon meeting him at Vetera, to the looks he’d seen Arminius giving Maelo, and, later on, Segestes’ story. ‘You heard what Degmar overheard, of course.’
Fenestela’s face had grown angrier by the moment. ‘The miserable cocksucker! Pox-ridden goat-fucker!’
Tullus grinned. It felt good to have someone who took him at his word, even if that someone was as jaundiced as Fenestela.
‘You told Varus all that, and he didn’t believe you?’