by Ben Kane
Arminius was riding back towards the battlefield with Gervas and a dozen warriors. Arminius’ companions were wary, reacting to the slightest sound, but he, driven by intense grief and overwhelming anger, looked neither right nor left.
He had had no rest. By the previous day’s end, the battle lost, he’d been so exhausted he could barely speak. Merciful sleep had not come to him. The fall of darkness had made no difference, nor the rising of the moon. Furious, frustrated, burning with the desire for revenge, he had watched it trace a slow, gradual path across the sky. He had lain awake as the owls screeched from the forest and injured warriors’ moans had filled the cool air. Tortured by the chances that had been missed, worried by his army’s huge losses, and in great pain with his wound, he had tossed and turned on his sweat-soaked blanket all night.
Gritty-eyed and drawn-faced now, his gaze roved over the ground before him, searching for movement, any sign of the enemy. Every so often, he would glance back at his lagging escorts. ‘Keep up, you whoresons!’ he snarled.
Ashamed, they closed the gap, but didn’t speak.
It’s bad luck to return to a battlefield where you have been beaten, thought Arminius. Dangerous too. Already the eastern horizon was tinged red. Germanicus might not have left any soldiers here, but they would return once it was light, sure as night followed day. Rather than act as a deterrent, the danger spurred Arminius on. Maelo was lying, stiff and cold, somewhere on the rampart. He could not be left there, carrion for the wild beasts, a feast for ravens and kites. Nothing mattered to Arminius at this moment but retrieving his friend’s corpse. Most faithful servant, loyal-hearted and courageous, Maelo deserved a warrior’s burial.
It was more than the rest of the slain would get, thought Arminius as the first whiff of putrefaction hit his nostrils. The bodies appeared soon after, and with them came the flies. Clouds of blue- and greenbottles, types he had never seen before, rose out of his way, circled, and settled to feed again. His stomach turned to think of the ripening meat’s smell by nightfall.
The fighting had taken place some distance away, so these men had fled, only to die from their wounds before reaching safety. Perhaps they had been slain by the pursuing legionaries. It mattered not either way. Slack-limbed, open-mouthed, blood-spattered, they lay staring at the lightening sky, or face down in the grass, or half-submerged in muddy pools. None would ever stir again. Some were on their own, others with companions, lying together in death’s cold embrace. Arrows feathered the bodies of men around the base of a tree. Arminius’ mouth tightened – this was proof that some warriors had been used as sport by enemy archers. Roman filth, he thought.
The numbers of slain increased fast, and soon Arminius had to pick a meandering path between the sprawled bodies. Unhappy with the overpowering smell of death, shit and rotting flesh, his horse balked now and again. Ruthless, Arminius whipped it on. Unable to help the fallen and certain because of their location that none were Maelo, he himself paid the dead no heed.
Loud grunting drew Arminius’ attention. His belly roiled again as he spied through the trees a group of wild boar – sows, piglets and males – feeding on corpses. He spat, but made no attempt to drive the creatures off – they would only return when he’d gone. His determination to find Maelo’s body hardened. There would be no flesh rent by teeth for his friend, no eyeballs punctured by beak. No mutilations by vengeful legionaries. No swarm of fly-laid eggs, no resulting maggot infestation. No rotting away to bare bones. No long, gradual decay to dust under a cold sky.
Maelo would rot, be eaten by worms, but he would do so deep in the earth, after fitting words had been said. Dressed in fine clothes, with weapons and armour of the best quality, he would go to the next world as a man of his bravery and stature deserved. We’ll toast you long into the night, until the stars dim in the dawn sky, thought Arminius, claws of grief tearing at him. You will never be forgotten – the brother I should have had.
Again his mount jinked. Cursing, Arminius raised his whip, only to notice that they had reached the rampart’s edge. Sorry for his harsh treatment, he patted his horse’s neck. It snorted, still disquieted by the carnage. Aware that their position was exposed, Arminius spent a few moments studying the plain beyond. Reassured to see no sign of the enemy, he concentrated on the nearer ground.
The first hundred paces outward from the base of the rampart were coated with Roman dead – as many legionaries and auxiliaries as there were warriors along the top. Thereafter, he noted with growing sourness, they thinned out. Two hundred paces off, there were few indeed and further out, none. It was brutal proof of the difference in casualties between the sides.
He set aside his anger. Maelo had to be found, and soon. Dismounting, Arminius handed the reins to one of his companions, and directed the others to do the same. ‘We’ll spread out – two lines, ten paces between each of us.’ He pointed. ‘Half of you go that way, half come with me.’
During Arminius’ time with the legions, he’d fought many battles, but the massacre he had orchestrated in the forest had been the largest conflict by far, and until now the only one he’d visited afterwards. Although he was accustomed to bodies, and to the indignity of death, this place was hard to stomach. In the forest, nine out of every ten corpses had been Roman. Here it was the other way around. A toxic mixture of anger and sorrow swelled in his chest, making it hard to breathe the fetid air. You did this, his conscience screamed. You are responsible for this slaughter. This charnel house.
Arminius refused to let the idea take root. It would have happened anyway. Germanicus was always going to cross the river this summer. Even if I’d been dead, thought Arminius, the whoreson would have come seeking revenge on the tribes, each of which would have been ground down, piecemeal. If the chieftains had listened to me, had done what I told them from the start, we could have won here. It wouldn’t have been on the same scale as seven years ago: Germanicus’ army was too large. But we could have butchered enough of them to stop their campaign dead. Bloodied, battered, they would have retreated to the Rhenus, ripe pickings for the tribes every step of the way.
Arminius’ mind spun in tighter circles, envisaging different tactics or ground he could have chosen for the battle. None would have worked, he concluded, not with the numbers of warriors he had and the thick-headed chieftains who led them. It all boiled down to one indigestible truth. Avoiding a fight here would have been the wisest choice. The rest of the summer could have been spent targeting and wiping out groups of Roman scouts and smaller patrols.
Yet a more conservative approach would have seen his alliance splinter into its constituent tribes, Arminius decided. Hot-blooded, courageous, his people could not have let the enemy pillage their lands unanswered. On their own, they would have met the legions face-to-face, and lost. So the battles of the previous few days had been necessary. If only his orders had been followed, their outcomes might have been different.
The defeat threatened serious personal consequences for Arminius. Rather than teach the chieftains obedience or a willingness to listen, the bloodbath seemed likely to break up his loose coalition. Defeated men were quick to point the finger, to forget that they had disregarded his commands in the first place. Fools, thought Arminius. They cannot, or will not, see the battle for what it was: a failure to obey.
‘What’s that?’ Gervas was pacing to his left.
Arminius realised he’d been talking aloud. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered.
It was curious how Gervas, a warrior of another tribe, sought out his company. And yet it wasn’t, Arminius reflected – the youth had lost Gerulf, who had been his principal influence. The other Usipetes chieftains were brave, but a disorganised crowd. Not one stood out, like Mallovendus of the Marsi. Or himself, Arminius, who led the tribes. It was natural for Gervas to be attracted by his leadership, his charisma. Cultivate the lad a little, and he might develop into a useful right-hand man. Arminius’ heart squeezed with guilt. Here he was, thinking like this and Maelo wasn’t ev
en a day dead.
‘Look!’
Arminius’ head twisted. The warrior closest to the rampart’s edge had spoken. ‘What is it?’ demanded Arminius.
‘Over there. At the far end of the plain.’
Arminius focused his gaze on the distant ground, from where Germanicus’ cursed legions had come the day before. Telltale dust clouds were rising from the direction of the Visurgis. Arminius cursed. It would be Roman troops. ‘They’re come to collect their dead, curse them.’
‘We’d best go.’ This was from one of the oldest warriors, a salt-and-pepper bearded type whom Arminius had known from boyhood. Several men voiced agreement. Gervas, he noted, wasn’t one of them.
‘We haven’t found Maelo yet,’ said Arminius, glaring.
‘Linger here and the only thing we’ll find is death,’ said the old warrior, meeting Arminius’ stare with a hard one of his own.
‘Have you lost your balls? They’re more than half a mile off,’ cried Arminius. He cupped a hand to his mouth so the other group could hear. ‘We have time yet. Keep searching!’
Cowed by his fury, the warriors obeyed, even the old warrior, although he was grumbling under his breath.
You turned your face away yesterday, Donar, thought Arminius. This is but a small thing. Let me find the body of my friend.
Perhaps twenty heartbeats later, he thought his prayer had been answered. Arminius chanced on a corpse that from behind resembled Maelo in more ways than one. Brown-haired, medium-framed. Under a mail shirt, a fine tunic. Thick woven trousers in dark green and brown. Nervous, Arminius rolled the man over. Instant disappointment filled him. Despite the sword cut to the face, the clotted blood everywhere, the mud in the mouth, it wasn’t his friend. Rest in peace, thought Arminius, letting the body flop back on to its front.
Three more dead warriors he examined, then five. Eight. He refused to look towards the plain and the approaching Romans. Fuck them, thought Arminius. Let the filth come. I’ll kill them all. He knew his words for fantasy, but his grief had given birth to a mad stubbornness.
‘The Romans have seen us. I’ll not stay and die for nothing. Coming?’ the old warrior asked his fellows. All but Gervas voiced agreement.
Arminius’ fury burst its banks. ‘Stay where you are!’ he screamed. ‘I did not give you leave to go!’
‘This for your permission.’ The old warrior made an obscene gesture. ‘Last time I looked, you were a chieftain of the Cherusci – not a king or a Roman centurion; and I was a free man – not a slave, or a fucking legionary.’ He set off towards the horses at a good pace. The others followed. The second group soon noticed, and joined them. So too did the warrior holding the mounts, calling with an apologetic shout that he’d tethered Arminius’ and Gervas’ horses to prevent them chasing after the rest.
‘Stupid, bull-necked, headstrong bastards,’ Arminius shouted, the veins bulging in his neck. ‘Like every cursed warrior under the sun, they know best. What they should do is listen, and obey!’ Wrapped up in his fury, he didn’t catch the odd expression that flitted over Gervas’ face. Muttering under his breath, Arminius resumed his search of the dead.
‘Maelo would not want this – he would not wish you to throw away your life,’ said Gervas.
‘What would you know?’ snapped Arminius, thinking: Not so long ago, Maelo came close to cutting your throat and burying your corpse in the forest. ‘Go – go! There’s no need for you to die.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Arminius’ shrug was fatalistic. Death would be a welcome release for him at least. His army had been battered into submission and thousands of his men were dead. What was left of his forces would fall apart in the coming days. Like whipped mongrels, the warriors would skulk back to their settlements, hoping that the Romans would leave them in peace.
During the long, dark winter to come, snug in their longhouses and with nothing to do but drink and talk, the survivors would brood, and begin to apportion blame. Arminius couldn’t imagine the chieftains agreeing to follow his leadership again, not after this. It was hard to see how even his uncle Inguiomerus would place his warriors under Arminius’ command once more, and when Germanicus’ legions crossed the river the following spring, as surely they would, resistance would be fractured. Guaranteed to fail.
With a chance of seeing his wife and child, Arminius would have had reason to look to the future, but they were captives in far-off Italy: as good as dead to him. Being slain now would end his suffering. Meeting Maelo on the far side, he’d have good company during his long wait for Thusnelda.
‘Look!’
Arminius turned and gasped. Gervas was standing over Maelo’s blood-soaked body. Arminius’ heart wrenched to see his friend so waxen. Grey. Dead. ‘You found him,’ he said stupidly.
‘Get the horses,’ said Gervas.
Arminius stared at Maelo, dazed with grief.
‘Fetch the horses. Now!’
Stumbling like a drunk, Arminius obeyed. At the edge of his vision, he saw the Roman riders rein in. Heard the officer shout in Latin, ‘Wait! It could be a trap.’
Unhindered, Arminius brought the horses to Gervas and together they manhandled Maelo’s leaden corpse on to the withers of one. Looking back as they rode away, Arminius smiled. Donar’s shield was protecting them. Why else would fifty Roman cavalrymen refrain from chasing two weary Germans?
Maelo would be buried in a fitting way after all.
PART THREE
Summer, AD 16
Deep in Germania
Chapter XXXII
IT WAS LATE. After another roasting-hot day, a calm, warm night beckoned. Thousands of stars dotted the huge expanse of the sky. In the legion camp where Tullus and his men were billeted, peace reigned. Sentries paced the ramparts, but most men had retired. Not Tullus. Restless, his shortened toe aching, he’d come to stand atop the defences and be alone with his thoughts. Eyes attuned to the darkness and ears pricked, he stared into the distance, wondering if Arminius had the balls to launch a surprise attack. Nothing broke the calm, however. All was as it should be. Owls called from the forest. Water pattered over stones in the nearby river. Undergrowth rustled as small, nocturnal creatures went about their business.
Almost a month had passed since the legions had crushed Arminius’ warriors at the massive earthen rampart – the Angrivarian wall, many of the prisoners called it. A lot had happened in that time, and much as they might have wished it, thought Tullus, his men were not home yet. Nor were they out of danger. More than a hundred miles separated them from the River Rhenus, and safety. Arminius’ alliance had been broken, but that didn’t mean every tribe had bent the knee to Rome. Far from it.
‘The brave, stubborn bastards,’ muttered Tullus to himself. ‘People should know when they’re beaten.’
‘Would you? Would I?’ Creaking sounds announced Fenestela scaling the nearest ladder. ‘We’d fight on to the bitter end.’
‘Aye, we would,’ said Tullus, sighing. Arminius and his people were murdering bastards, but their resistance was understandable. The Romans were the invaders of their land, not the other way around.
‘Talking to yourself again? It’s a habit of the old, I suppose.’
‘Who are you calling “old”?’ retorted Tullus, but with no heat.
Fenestela rested his forearms on the crude-hewn timbers that formed the top of the fortifications. ‘It seems like yesterday that we were in these parts with Drusus.’
‘A quarter of a century, eh? Gods, but it went fast.’
‘Now look at us. Greybeards, almost.’
‘There’s only going to be one greybeard between the two of us, and it’s not me!’
‘You’ve never understood its usefulness, have you?’ Fenestela pulled his fingers through the wiry bush that decorated his chin. ‘Warm in the winter, an attraction for women year round. It gives me … gravitas.’
‘You’re full of shit, Fenestela,’ said Tullus, yet he was laughing too.
/> They stood for a time in companionable silence, passing Fenestela’s wine skin to and fro.
Fenestela spoke first. ‘Up here because you couldn’t sleep?’
‘Aye.’
‘Thinking about the eagle?’
Tullus snorted. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘To me.’ Fenestela’s eyes glittered as he turned to Tullus. ‘Because I’m the same.’
Neither had to explain further. Arminius had been beaten and his followers scattered to the four winds. Some tribes continued to resist – first it had been the Angrivarii, returned from their campaign with Arminius, and now the Chatti and Marsi had risen up in rebellion – but Germanicus’ huge army would see them beaten into submission one by one. For most soldiers this was enough, yet a festering sore lingered in the soul of every veteran of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Legions. Their lost eagles remained unfound. Time was running out: another month and a half at the most and the legions would have returned to their forts, the year’s campaign over. Yes, they would cross the Rhenus to renew hostilities come the spring, thought Tullus, but that guaranteed nothing.
‘We have to face it: our eagle may never be recovered. Arminius may never be caught, or slain.’ Fenestela spat over the ramparts.
‘Aye,’ rumbled Tullus, who’d been thinking about little else since their victory at the Angrivarian wall. An important but tiny part of the vast machine that was Germanicus’ army, he could do little other than his duty, and pray for the best outcome.
‘What will you do if that proves to be the case?’
Tullus threw an arm around Fenestela’s shoulders. ‘I will thank the gods for you, and all the reprobates from the Eighteenth. You miserable lot are alive when so many aren’t. That counts for a lot. A lot.’