by Ben Kane
‘It must have grieved you to see it.’ Germanicus’ voice was soft.
‘I was glad and sorry at the same time, sir, if you know what I mean.’
‘You must wish it had been the Eighteenth’s eagle that was recovered.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Tullus with a sigh.
Germanicus thumped the desk with a fist. ‘Your eagle will be found. This is just the start.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
A silence fell, during which Tullus’ mind spun in ever faster circles, trying to guess the reason for Germanicus’ summons. Tullus couldn’t take the suspense for long. ‘I’m thinking that you didn’t order me here for my opinion of your wine, sir.’
Germanicus guffawed. Unsure what was going on, Tullus didn’t join in.
‘If only more of my officers were cut from your cloth, Tullus. They fawn and creep before me, when all I want them to do is speak their minds.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Tullus, as non-committally as he could. Who can blame them? he reflected. Despite Germanicus’ words, it paid to be careful what one said to members of the royal family. Utter the wrong opinion and a man’s career – even his life – could be ended just like that.
‘You are right, of course,’ said Germanicus. ‘I asked you here for a favour.’
How the rich and powerful like to make it seem as if we have a choice, thought Tullus. Despite Germanicus’ overtures of friendship, he was under no illusions about their relationship. He was the servant, and Germanicus the master. And yet with the staff officer’s words fresh in his mind, he wondered if Germanicus’ request might not be altogether bad. ‘The empire means everything to me, sir. If I can help, I will.’
‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Germanicus’ expression grew sombre. ‘I wish to visit the site of Arminius’ ambush.’
‘Tubero was also there, sir,’ said Tullus in confusion. ‘He is a more senior officer.’
‘He is young. Very young.’
‘But—’
‘I have no proof, but I’m not altogether sure I believe Tubero’s account of what happened.’ Here Germanicus pointed a warning finger. ‘That’s to stay between you and me, d’you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, exulting and despairing at the same time. At last someone else knew, or suspected, Tubero to be the liar he was. Whether Germanicus wasn’t prepared to challenge Tubero’s story for lack of proof or because it served the empire to have a high-ranking hero, Tullus wasn’t sure. More likely the latter, he thought with bitterness. Tubero was a senior officer who couldn’t be blamed for what happened, and who had come through the affair thanks to his virtus, his courage and moral fibre.
‘So you will take me around the battlefield? I want to see where the various attacks took place, and, if you know it, where Varus and his commanders died.’
Tullus hesitated as the full realisation of what was being asked of him sank in. He had never imagined returning to the exact site where he’d seen his soldiers wiped out – it was bad luck to tread upon such bloodstained ground. How would it feel to show another where they had camped, wet, cold and miserable, on the first night – ignorant of what would happen to them? To point out his men’s whitened bones, scattered along that corridor of death? To stand where his legion’s eagle had been lost, where the Eighteenth’s pride had been stripped away in the most shameful manner? For a moment, Tullus found himself unable to speak.
‘I know it will be an agonising task,’ said Germanicus in a quiet voice. ‘If you wish not to do it, I will not insist. There will be no repercussions. None. May Jupiter strike me down if I lie.’
Germanicus’ face was earnest, and Tullus saw that he did understand how his exalted position made men think that they couldn’t say no. He was granting a way out to Tullus – and he meant it. Tullus cleared his throat. ‘It would be a good thing to seek out my men’s remains, sir, those that are possible to find, and give them a decent burial.’
‘All of our dead deserve the same. I intend to erect a tumulus on the battlefield, a sacred mound, by which they may be remembered forever.’
Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Tullus nodded. ‘I would be proud to show you what happened, sir, and where.’
Chapter XXIII
DRENCHED IN SWEAT, his heart thumping, Arminius jerked upright. ‘Thusnelda!’ he screamed.
His wife was nowhere to be seen, and Arminius’ grief scourged him anew. He let out a savage oath, and another, and another. Thusnelda was gone forever, with his child – his son, if he’d been right. Arminius beat at his forehead with clenched fists, but the pain did not ease his sorrow. I’ll kill myself, he thought. The option appealed, yet he discarded it at once. He could end his misery, but not Thusnelda’s. Suicide would also deny him revenge on Germanicus. I must live, Arminius decided, his grief and fury melding into a white-hot flame. Live, and plan my retribution. Feeling calmer, he palmed the sweat from his brow.
His head was fuzzy, reminding him of every night’s pattern since Thusnelda’s abduction. Copious quantities of beer rendered him drowsy enough to sleep. Fitful slumber followed, visited by endless variations of a nightmare in which Thusnelda was abducted, injured, even raped by grinning legionaries, as he watched, powerless to intervene.
Curse it all, thought Arminius. The day hadn’t even begun, and he was exhausted. The faint light entering his hide tent revealed that it was still early, but he did not lie down. Bitter experience had taught him that falling asleep again would not conjure up Thusnelda, nor grant him the unconsciousness and memory loss which he so longed for. He threw the blanket off his legs, and rubbed at his gritty eyes. With his filthy mood entrenched for the day, he swilled a measure of wine to dilute the foul taste in his mouth, and shoved his way out of the tent.
‘Donar’s balls!’ The squat figure of Maelo – hands on hips, not ten paces away – made Arminius jump. He hoped that his second-in-command had not heard his cry.
‘Nightmare?’ asked Maelo.
Maelo was one of his best friends – one of his only friends – but Arminius considered lying. Appearing vulnerable was not something he had ever wanted to do – especially not now, with the task that lay ahead. Maelo’s knowing expression said it all, though. Arminius grimaced. ‘You heard?’
‘It was hard not to.’
Arminius gave thanks that Maelo’s tent was the only one within a hundred paces of his own. ‘I dreamed about Thusnelda.’
‘Any man would be the same,’ Maelo muttered. ‘It doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.’
Arminius couldn’t smile – he had not done so since Thusnelda’s abduction had shattered his world – but he nodded his appreciation.
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘You’ve found a supply of decent beer to replace the piss I’ve been forced to drink since we left the settlement.’
‘The man’s not completely without humour,’ said Maelo, chuckling. ‘I’d been wondering these last few days.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Arminius, but without heat. ‘What news?’
‘The scouts have returned. They almost made it here last night, but had to make camp when darkness fell. They set out again the moment it grew light.’
‘Where are they?’ Arminius craned his head, his eyes keen as a hawk’s. ‘Why didn’t you bring them to me?’
‘I knew you’d look like shit.’
Arminius ignored the rebuke. ‘What did they say?’
‘They can tell you better than I.’ Ignoring Arminius’ impatient hiss, Maelo raised the wooden pail gripped in his right fist. ‘I’d empty this over your head, but you’d get too angry and I might have to slap some sense into you. Wash your face, change your tunic and you’ll look more like a leader than a drunkard. Then I will take you to them.’
If Maelo had been anyone else, Arminius would have punched his teeth down his throat – or tried to, he thought, rueing not just the previous night’s quantity of beer, but his recent behaviour. Maelo was right. He had bee
n letting himself go to seed, allowing his grief supremacy. Keep it up and he would lose the respect of the tribesmen who had joined his alliance, and any chance of vengeance this year. The latter prospect did not bear thinking about, so he did as Maelo suggested.
They spoke not a word as Arminius got ready, but when he was wearing fresh clothes, and tugging his fingers through his wet hair, Maelo gave him an approving look. Still a little ashamed, Arminius acted as if he hadn’t seen, and followed his second-in-command. It took some time to reach the central area between the sprawling mass of tents. Arminius felt grateful again that Maelo had made him see sense. The warriors of no less than four tribes were here to follow him against the Romans. A fifth tribe – the Tencteri – were due to arrive any day, when Arminius would have close to fifteen thousand spears to lead.
His host wasn’t large enough to tackle Germanicus’ vast army in open battle, but was more than sufficient to harry its flanks and rear, and to cause significant casualties. When that happened, more tribes would rally to his cause, as had been the case six years before – and then they might be able to deliver the killer blow.
The wisdom of Maelo’s counsel was reiterated as men emerging from their tents greeted Arminius with pleased smiles. ‘Is today the day that we ambush the Romans?’ ‘The gods are with us, Arminius!’
‘They are watching us, and smiling. We’ll attack the legions soon.’ They walked on, and Arminius glanced at Maelo, who affected not to notice. Arminius’ irritation flared. ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
‘They say the best fisherman has patience to spare,’ said Maelo with a wink. ‘You can wait a little longer.’
Arminius wanted to box Maelo’s ears, but his second-in-command’s mention of a fisherman put him in mind of catching a fish, and that set his heart to racing, so he kept his peace.
Word had already got out about the scouts’ arrival, and the pair found them surrounded by Cherusci warriors. ‘Tell us what you saw!’ a voice cried. ‘Where are the cursed Romans?’ shouted a dozen more. ‘We’ll tell Arminius, and no one else,’ came the answer. Maelo pushed through the crowd, with Arminius on his heels. Three men were standing in the centre of the throng. Their faces bore pleased expressions, and Arminius’ hopes soared. He’d sent the trio out days before, their task to locate Germanicus’ army and, if possible, to determine its path.
They greeted him with broad grins. There was no bowing or saluting – that was not the tribes’ way – but there was respect in their eyes. ‘Arminius,’ they said in unison.
‘Well met,’ he replied, feeling, for the first time since Thusnelda’s capture, the beginnings of a smile creep on to his face. ‘What news?’
‘Germanicus is at the site of our ambush on Varus,’ said the oldest warrior, a broken-nosed, straggle-haired farmer whom Arminius had known since he was a child.
There was a general Ahhhhh of excitement.
‘What does he there?’ demanded Arminius.
‘His soldiers look set to bury their dead – what’s left of them,’ replied Straggle Hair, snickering.
Hoots of laughter rang out. ‘D’you think they’ll be able to take down the skulls we nailed to the trees?’ asked a warrior. More merriment ensued. The humour was excellent for morale, so Arminius waited until the noise had died down.
‘Is his entire army with him?’
Straggle Hair scowled for the first time. ‘Aye. Eight legions, and many thousands of auxiliaries.’
Uncertainty registered on a good number of faces, and Arminius bellowed, ‘All the more for us to slaughter! My intent is to lead them into another ambush. Mired in the bog, they will have to abandon their wagons and artillery as they did before. The barritus will curdle the Romans’ courage, and your spears will darken the skies above them. Their eagles will fall into our hands one by one. Blessed by Donar, we will attack until they break and run. When that happens, they will die – every last one.’ He let out a grim chuckle. ‘Save perhaps the miserable few who will carry word back to their camps.’
The warriors whooped their approval, and Arminius knew he had done enough with these, his faction of the Cherusci. His own self-assurance had been strengthened by the warriors’ enthusiasm. Next he would have to persuade the other chieftains in the camp to go along with his plan, which shouldn’t be too hard a task. Their presence here with their warriors meant they were of a mind with him already, did it not? Rather than talk to each one in turn, Arminius decided, he would gather them together and do it in one fell swoop. The sooner he had the chieftains in the palm of his hand, the sooner he could strike at the Romans. And that, he thought, an image of Thusnelda burning bright in his mind, was the only thing that mattered.
It was a little after midday, and the sun was beating down from a brilliant aquamarine sky. Swifts swooped and darted overhead, their high-pitched skirrs another reminder that it was high summer. Close to a score of chieftains were gathered in a circle near Arminius’ tent, which granted them privacy, but not shade. Temperatures had been climbing since dawn, and if they continued, this would be the hottest day of the year thus far. Arminius studied the sweating, unhappy faces around him, and felt the beads of moisture prickling the back of his own neck. Two annoying conclusions filled his mind: that evening would have been a better time to hold the meeting, and that he had been over-confident in assuming that the chieftains would be easy to win over.
Things had started well. His announcement that Germanicus’ army was close by had been greeted with cheers, and his audience had loved his plan to ambush the legions as they had before. It was the Romans’ numbers which had snuffed out the chieftains’ enthusiasm. Since then the argument had been moving back and forth without resolution. There had been no suggestion yet of returning to their own lands, but the heaviness of that possibility hung in the warm air.
Arminius wanted to speak again, but he knew the value of when to stay silent, and it was now. Whether he liked it or not, the chieftains had to have their say. I am not their ruler, he thought, with more than a trace of regret.
A stick-thin leader of the Usipetes was the next to step forward. ‘I say it’s madness to attack an enemy with more than three times our strength – in particular when that enemy is the cursed Romans.’ He gave his moustache an unhappy tug. ‘In open battle, each legionary is worth three of our warriors, maybe four.’
‘On a bad day, five,’ muttered a voice.
‘I do not mean to fight them face-to-face—’ Arminius began, but Stick Thin interrupted:
‘Yes, yes. You talk of causing panic and driving them into the bog, but that’s easier said than done. We have, what, twelve thousand spears?’
‘Fifteen thousand when the Tencteri arrive,’ said Arminius, but Stick Thin crowed: ‘Twelve, fifteen thousand – what difference does it make? They cannot prevail against such a massive host. I am minded of a group of boys trying to herd a score of prize bulls somewhere they do not wish to go.’
‘An impossible task,’ said one of the Angrivarii chieftains, a big-chinned individual whom Arminius had always regarded as a solid ally.
Are we to let them move through our lands unhindered then, slaughtering and raping with impunity? Arminius wanted to scream, but he bit his lip. In situations like this, anger got a man nowhere. It was better to remain outwardly calm, appearing to listen to their opinions, and to delay speaking until the right moment presented itself.
‘We could wait for more tribes to join us,’ suggested Stick Thin.
Big Chin looked pleased. ‘The Tencteri are due any day, you say?’
‘Five thousand of them,’ repeated Arminius. ‘If the Mattiaci come, there’ll be even more.’
His answer made a few men smile.
‘And the Chatti – what of them?’ demanded Stick Thin, dampening the mood as fast as it improved. Germanicus’ savage campaign had shredded the Chatti tribe. No one knew how many of its people yet lived.
The weight of so many stares was hard to resist. ‘I have had word fro
m one Chatti chieftain. He promises four score spears, maybe a hundred,’ said Arminius, cursing inside as he spoke. Compared to the Roman host, it was a pathetic number.
Stick Thin sucked in his top lip. ‘Perhaps we should go back to our settlements.’
No one voiced agreement, yet not a man shouted him down either. Arminius saw the chieftains’ mood wavering, and his fury broke free. ‘Do you think Germanicus will leave you be?’ he cried. ‘Have you forgotten the treatment already doled out to the Marsi, and to the Chatti, of whom we have just spoken? Germanicus does not want to treat with us. He is out for revenge! The whoreson wants to slaughter us by the thousand, and to enslave those who survive. He needs the two remaining eagles and the other standards I gifted to you. Will you roll over like beaten curs and just give him what he wants? Have you sunk that low?’
‘Those are fighting words, Arminius of the Cherusci.’ Big Chin was on his feet, his forefinger jabbing the air. ‘Be careful who you accuse of cowardice!’
‘I mean no disrespect,’ said Arminius, dipping his chin a little.
‘That’s not how it sounds,’ said Big Chin, and many men rumbled in agreement. ‘No one has called you a drunkard to your face at this meeting, yet that is how men name you in the camp.’
Arminius’ temper frayed so fast that his fingers strayed to his sword hilt. Control yourself, he thought, and managed to convert the move into a scratch of his belly. He listened as Big Chin continued, ‘Every chieftain here feels your sorrow, Arminius, but if you continue to seek comfort in the bottom of a mug, know that we will follow you no longer.’