Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  ‘Tudrus. He’s Dolgubnii.’

  This man would be no relation to the warrior who had been one of Arminius’ most trusted followers, but his name rekindled bad memories of the older Tudrus’ death at the Romans’ hands. Rage filled him too at Germanicus’ savagery. Arminius waded in grim silence to the pebbled shore. Drying himself with his old tunic and throwing on a clean one, he beckoned to Tudrus.

  Every step the warrior took made him wince. Blood oozed from a long gash under his ribcage, and serous fluid oozed from others. His nose looked broken, and the tissue under his swollen right eye had turned a nasty blue-purple colour. ‘Arminius,’ he croaked. His eyes rose for a heartbeat before dropping again to regard his mud-encrusted feet.

  ‘Only a fool would say well met, but you are welcome nonetheless,’ said Arminius in his most charismatic voice. ‘You are Tudrus of the Dolgubnii, I’m told.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You must need a drink. Food. To have your wounds tended.’

  ‘Forty miles I’ve walked to find you. I’ll take some water.’

  ‘You bring word from Germanicus?’ How he wished the Roman general was before him instead. He’d have torn the bastard limb from limb.

  ‘Aye.’ Nothing could disguise the sorrow in Tudrus’ single-word answer.

  Arminius filled his skin from the river and handed it over. Tudrus drank like a man who’d crossed a desert without finding a single waterhole. Nodding his thanks, he sat with a grunt of pain.

  Arminius lowered himself down beside Tudrus and waited.

  ‘The Dolgubnii don’t have enough strength to fight Germanicus – who does? – but we did our best, picking off smaller patrols and attacking foraging parties while our women and children fled over the Albis to safety. About ten days ago the band I was with took on a Roman scouting party that was larger than it seemed. Most of my friends were slaughtered. A blow to the head knocked me out, or I would have been slain too. Better I had died.’ Bitterness oozed from Tudrus’ voice.

  ‘But you lived,’ said Arminius, eager to hear every detail.

  ‘Aye. I was taken as a slave, I and the other poor bastards made captive by the Romans. Tethered together like animals’ – Tudrus rubbed at his neck, which was still marked by rope burns – ‘we were marched in files at the army’s rear, swallowing its dust and treading in mule shit with every pace. Anyone who tried to escape was killed. Dying like that was pointless, stupid, so I bided my time. It’s a long way back to the Rhenus, I told myself. An opportunity would arise.’ He made an angry gesture. ‘Things changed when we reached the Albis. It seems Germanicus was overcome with emotion to stand where his father had, a quarter of a century ago. Nothing would satisfy the whoreson but to hold funeral games in celebration.’

  ‘That’s when the five hundred warriors were chosen,’ said Arminius, picturing the scene.

  ‘It was. The Romans have several thousand prisoners now – plenty to choose from. Centurions inspected us, picking out the biggest and strongest. There was no wasting time: we were led straight to the foot of the mound where Drusus’ altar had been. Legionaries had formed a great square with their shields; fifty of us were forced into it first. Germanicus ordered us to choose opponents and kill one another, or be crucified. When his command was translated, some warriors refused. They were nailed to crosses at once. The rest of us agreed, like cowards, and weapons were thrown in to us. Armed, a group of men charged Germanicus – they too were brought down, with javelins and arrows. Those who remained were given a final chance to obey, before we too were slain.’ Tudrus sighed.

  Gods, but Germanicus was cunning, thought Arminius. ‘So you fought?’

  ‘Aye. The winners of each bout were allowed to rest for a short time, and then we went at it again. We continued until only I was standing.’ Tudrus’ voice was muted, his gaze fixed on the ground between his bent knees. ‘I was tied up close to Germanicus then, and the next fifty were brought in and made to do the same. After them came the third set of men, and so on. The whole process took hours, and near the end there were ten of us left. We fought one another until there were five. Five left from five hundred.’ Tudrus’ voice died away.

  Arminius and Maelo had been riveted by the horrific story, their eyes fixed on Tudrus, but now their gaze met, each mirroring the same burning rage.

  ‘Germanicus had an officer toss a coin to decide which man would sit by while the other two pairs fought each other,’ Tudrus continued. ‘They did the same when there were three. You could say I was lucky – I “won” both times the throw was made, so I got to rest twice while the other poor bastards had no respite at all. The last warrior I had to fight was so tired he could barely hold a sword.’ Tudrus let out a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘At least his end was quick.’

  ‘You had no choice,’ said Arminius.

  Tudrus’ tortured eyes regarded him. ‘Every man has a choice.’

  ‘They would have crucified you if you hadn’t fought.’

  ‘That’s right. I could have chosen to die right at the start, but I didn’t. Instead I slew eight warriors. Eight of my own kind. What kind of man does that make me?’ asked Tudrus, his voice cracking.

  ‘A survivor,’ said Arminius, thinking, I would have done the same.

  ‘This for being a survivor,’ said Tudrus, making an obscene gesture.

  The uncomfortable silence that fell was broken by Arminius. ‘Did Germanicus say aught to you?’

  ‘He said that his legions are ready, whenever you and the mongrels who follow at your heel can muster the courage to fight.’

  Blood pounded in Arminius’ ears. Aware that men were watching, he breathed deeply and asked, ‘What of Germanicus’ movements now?’

  ‘I heard talk of marching west to rejoin the troops that had been tasked with crushing the Angrivarii,’ said Tudrus.

  The nugget of information made sense, Arminius decided. His calm returned as he pondered the best course of action. He was Germanicus’ target, so the legions stood nothing to gain from crossing the River Albis and waging war in the east. To the north lay the ocean, to the northwest Roman allies. Heading south would take his enemies even deeper into tribal territory – an endeavour too risky even for Germanicus and his vast army. West or southwest were the only directions that made sense. ‘So our game of cat and mouse continues. Good. Time is on our side, not Germanicus’.’

  ‘He’s trying to provoke you into battle,’ said Maelo, entering the conversation.

  ‘He is, and he’ll fail. Sooner or later, we will catch his legions in the right place, and then we will fight.’ Standing, Arminius clasped Tudrus’ shoulder. ‘You did well. I thank you. Let my healers tend your wounds. Then you can rest, and take food and drink.’

  Tudrus didn’t appear to have heard. ‘Will you consult with the gods before breaking camp?’

  Arminius wasn’t a devout worshipper, but Donar had lent his aid in the victory over Varus, he was sure of that. It also looked good to follow tradition. ‘Aye, quite likely. Why?’

  Tudrus got to his feet. He stood a good hand and a half taller than Arminius, and despite his wounds was still a fine physical specimen. ‘I will give myself to the god. To Donar. My life for your success in battle.’

  Shocked, Arminius said, ‘You’re exhausted. You—’

  Tudrus cut him off. ‘My wife died two years hence, not long after our babe was taken by a fever. All my battle brothers are dead, or slaves. I have no reason to live, Arminius. I will hang from the tree. I will offer my flesh for Donar’s ravens to feast upon. Let my sacrifice appease the thunder god.’

  Arminius’ eyes moved to Maelo, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘Why not?’ Looking again at Tudrus, Arminius asked, ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’ve never been more certain. If you don’t permit this, I’ll hang myself anyway. There’s nothing left for me in this world.’ Tudrus’ tone was drained.

  It would be a powerful offering, thought Arminius. According to custom, those who went wil
lingly to their deaths were sure to catch the gods’ attention. Sitting in the heavens on his lightning-bound throne, with thunderclouds roiling around him, Donar would smile at Tudrus’ death, and lend his support to Arminius for a second, momentous battle.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Tudrus, his bloodshot eyes boring into Arminius.

  Arminius’ conscience pricked him then: Tudrus’ ordeal had unbalanced him. He needed rest, and nursing. Given those, he would return to his senses, and wish to live. Arminius considered this for little more than a heartbeat. ‘Yours is a noble offer. I will talk to the priests.’

  A rictus – it may have been an attempt to smile – twisted Tudrus’ face. ‘Make your words persuasive, Arminius of the Cherusci. Donar is watching.’

  Arminius nodded, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back.

  Evening was falling over the land, and in the depths of the forest close to the tribal camp, a murky twilight already reigned. An odd, unseasonal chill hung in the clammy air. Bird calls and animal sounds were commonplace elsewhere in the wood, but not here. Arminius and Maelo were waiting at the edge of a muddy clearing; among the trees to either side – decorated with horned cattle skulls and a number of human ones – stood every chieftain in his alliance. Eager to witness the rite but awed by the eerie atmosphere, no one spoke. More nervous than he would have expected, Arminius kept his expression stony.

  The open space was dominated by a hewn stone altar covered in spiderlike runes. The throat-slashed corpses of two legionaries sprawled to one side of the great rock slab. Their deaths and the reading of their bucket-collected blood had formed the ceremony’s opening act. Next had come the ritual bending and twisting of swords and spears, the hammering flat of vast silver cauldrons; these offerings would be tossed into a sacred lake at the first opportunity.

  Flanked by half a dozen acolytes, an old, red-robed priest was intoning prayers to Donar. Alone and naked before them, his body covered in wounds, stood Tudrus. Ropes bound his arms behind his back – he could not have been more vulnerable, and yet the proud set of his shoulders and his firm chin told those watching that he was ready to meet his end.

  The straggle-haired priest, a wizened, bent-shouldered figure who looked to have been spawned in an earlier, darker time, ceased his chant. An instant tension developed, and Arminius felt his pulse quicken.

  Placing a claw-like hand on Tudrus’ arm, the priest rasped, ‘Are you a freeborn man?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Tudrus in a loud, confident voice.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Tudrus, of the Dolgubnii tribe.’

  ‘And you are come to the god of your own free will?’

  ‘I am, if Donar will accept me.’

  A cold smile marked the priest’s lined face. ‘That depends on the manner of your death, Tudrus of the Dolgubnii. If but a single sound leaves your lips before you leave this life, Donar will be displeased. Your soul will be denied entry to the warriors’ hall, condemning you to roam the underworld forever.’

  A slight stiffening of Tudrus’ shoulders. ‘I understand.’

  Arminius didn’t care if Tudrus’ soul was cursed for all eternity – what mattered was winning Donar’s favour. Steel your courage, Tudrus, he thought. Stay strong, or your sacrifice will not serve me.

  The priest jerked his head, and an acolyte led Tudrus towards the branch of a great beech that hung inwards and into the clearing, some twenty paces from Arminius. A rope already hung from the bough, one end tied in a running loop. Reaching it, Tudrus faced Arminius and gave him a tiny dip of his chin, which said, ‘I do this for you.’

  Arminius’ acknowledgement was a grave nod. Again his conscience reared its head, but he stamped it down. Donar, accept this man’s death, he prayed. Grant me victory over Germanicus in return.

  Tudrus bent his head and allowed the acolyte to place the rope around his neck and tighten it. The acolyte’s companions, who had followed, took up the loose end with him and drew it taut. Tudrus braced himself.

  ‘Are you ready to meet the god, Tudrus?’ The priest’s voice carried from the altar.

  ‘Aye,’ came the firm reply.

  The priest issued an order, and the acolytes heaved as one. Tudrus’ body jerked a handspan from the leafy floor. His face contorted with pain, and his body jerked from side to side, but he made no sound. The acolytes’ next tug, even more powerful, saw his feet rise to the height of a ten-year-old boy. Face purple, veins bulging from his forehead, Tudrus thrashed to and fro in his agonies, but not a single whimper left his engorged lips. Protruding from their sockets, his bloodshot eyes stayed focused on Arminius, or so it seemed to the Cherusci chieftain.

  Disquieted but compelled, Arminius held Tudrus’ tortured gaze. Appearing to show respect, he did it because of his burning desire that Tudrus’ end should be soundless, and acceptable to the god.

  Most men hanged like this died fast, but the Dolgubnii warrior was made of stronger stuff. Arminius had counted seven times fifty, and still Tudrus writhed on the rope. Arminius felt sick. Tudrus’ agony was so great that in the end he would have to make some kind of noise.

  But he didn’t.

  As Arminius’ count neared five hundred, Tudrus stopped moving at last. His muscled legs went slack. Urine began to dribble from his shrunken member; the smell of shit laced the air. It was impossible to tell from his mottled, twisted features if the peace he had longed for was his.

  Arminius’ eyes shot to the old priest. ‘Well?’ he wanted to shout, but a rare superstition prevented him.

  With the support of an acolyte, the priest shuffled to stand alongside Tudrus’ gently swaying corpse. He prodded its thigh and, like every man watching, Arminius tensed.

  ‘The warrior died well,’ wheezed the priest. ‘Donar is pleased!’

  Relief flooded through Arminius. Victory would be his.

  PART TWO

  Summer, AD 16

  Deep in Germania

  Chapter XIV

  AFTERNOON WAS PASSING, and the sun beat down on Germania from a clear sky. The high temperature, welcomed at first after the cool spring, was on the verge of being unpleasant. Swarms of tiny, biting flies hung around the head of Piso and a group of his comrades as they stood calf-deep in the Visurgis, enjoying the caress of the swift-flowing river. Following Tullus’ orders, they were filling skins with water. Six days had passed since the funeral games, and Germanicus’ army was more than a hundred miles from Drusus’ tropaeum. It had crossed the Visurgis earlier that day, and halted on flat ground half a mile from the west bank. Four great encampments, which were still being completed, would provide enough space for the eight legions and auxiliaries; Germanicus had honoured the Fifth and the Twenty-First by placing them in the same camp as himself and his Praetorians.

  Piso’s cohort and four others had dug the defences the previous day, so they had the easier duty of keeping watch as the other half of the legion sweated over the construction of a deep ditch and a stout earthen rampart. This was an excellent development, because Piso and his comrades got to be here on the riverbank, slaking their thirst and cooling off. Although the scouts reported that Arminius and his forces were nearby, they were on the opposite side of the Visurgis. Attacking over the water this late in the day would be risky – half a cohort of auxiliary archers stood with Piso and his comrades, and the rest of Germanicus’ army was only a short distance to their rear.

  Out of the blue, someone splashed Piso from behind. ‘Hey!’ He spun to find a grinning Dulcius retreating at speed. Piso kicked out, sending up a shower of spray at his comrade. Dulcius slashed a hand over the river’s surface in reply, raining water over Piso. The others took one look and joined in the horseplay. Chaos reigned for a time. The best moment came when Metilius dunked Dulcius on his arse, soaking him from head to foot.

  Eventually, Piso put an end to it. ‘Tullus or another officer will see,’ he warned.

  They returned to their task not a moment too soon.

  ‘I saw you, you maggots!’
roared Tullus, wading into the shallows alongside Piso and his companions. ‘I ordered you to fill those water bags, not act like a gang of youths on a day out. Move it!’

  We didn’t do any harm, thought Piso resentfully, but he didn’t dare say so. He held his skin under the surface and let it swell with water. Once stoppered, he threw its carry strap over his shoulder and unslung another empty bag. ‘Tullus would do the same if he were an ordinary legionary,’ he muttered to Metilius, his closest neighbour.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tullus came striding over.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Piso, wishing he’d kept quiet.

  ‘Don’t fucking “nothing” me, Piso!’ Tullus’ vitis struck the water with a mighty plash.

  Knowing it could fall next on his back, Piso said, ‘I was wondering when we might get to fight Arminius, sir.’ He prayed Tullus would swallow the lie.

  ‘Wonder all you like when you’re sitting at your fire this evening,’ thundered Tullus. ‘Until then, stitch your lip and finish doing what I told you to do far too long ago! The same applies to the rest of you miserable dogs. Move!’

  Every man set to with a will, while Tullus watched with a stony expression. Not until they had filled every skin to bulging point and marched back to the rest of the cohort, a short way back from the shoreline, did he relent. Turning his back on the men, he studied the far bank with grim intensity. Some hundred paces away, it was accessible through the shallow water – this was one of the four fords used by the army to cross the Visurgis.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ whispered Piso, frowning. ‘Arminius is miles away – the scouts said so.’

  ‘He is jumpier than normal,’ agreed Metilius. ‘Maybe he knows something we don’t – or senses it.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps.’ Unhappy, Piso shuffled back and forth. If Tullus was concerned, then he needed to be too. From that point on, he disregarded his comrades’ muttered conversations, instead watching the other side of the river.

  Nothing much happened for an hour, and most men had long since ceased paying attention to the track on the far bank. They ignored too the flitting kingfishers, and the regular plops as fish gulped down insects at the water’s surface. Piso, on the other hand, had moved so little that his neck ached, and a knot had formed in the muscles under one shoulder blade. His gaze roved without pause, studying the path opposite, the trees, the bushes, the river. Nothing was going to stop his watch – Tullus’ disquiet had seen to that. It was almost a relief when arcing sunlight from the setting sun illuminated, as if from nowhere, a group of horsemen on the track east.