Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  Within a dozen steps, the comments began. ‘Listen to him,’ muttered Metilius. ‘A proper optio!’

  ‘Centurion, you mean,’ said Dulcius.

  ‘I thought he sounded like a tribune myself,’ added another voice with a chuckle.

  Piso held a brief debate with himself. Better to quench flames at once rather than watch them grow, he decided, not least because Tullus was watching.

  ‘Enough!’ Piso barked. ‘Keep your eyes peeled and your javelins ready. There could be warriors hidden in the buildings.’

  In the pasture adjoining the longhouse, a solitary calf bellowed for its mother, which was grazing nearby.

  ‘Listen: that’s their call to arms,’ declared Metilius.

  Snorts of suppressed laughter rose.

  Piso wheeled, furious. ‘Fucking shut up, Metilius!’

  Metilius’ lips thinned, but he didn’t answer back. Piso raked the rest of his comrades with flint-hard eyes. Some were surly-faced and resentful, but they held their peace. Most avoided his gaze, which was gratifying. Tullus’ voice echoed in Piso’s head. Discipline. It’s all about discipline. They understand that.

  He studied the calf and cow, wondering why such valuable livestock hadn’t been moved into hiding. Responding to the bellows, the cow began walking towards its calf. It had a pronounced limp and, looking closer, he could see that its left hock was swollen. The cow was too lame to reach the forest, Piso decided, and the calf had remained because it still needed its mother’s milk to survive. His grip on his javelin tightened. ‘Someone will have stayed behind to watch over those beasts – keep your eyes open!’

  There were no smart comments this time. Splitting his men into three groups, he sent two to search the outbuildings while he led half a dozen towards the longhouse. Smaller than most, its mildewed roof, sagging door and crumbling walls were evidence of poor maintenance. Piso’s nervousness eased a fraction – this was no farmstead run by a father with many sons. Like as not, its only inhabitants were old, as slow on their feet as the cow in the field.

  His German wasn’t good, but he could make himself understood. ‘Is anyone home?’ he called when they were twenty paces from the door. ‘Come outside!’ There was no answer, and Piso tramped closer. A quick glance at the other groups gave him no cause for concern. Ten steps from the threshold, and he repeated his command. ‘Outside!’

  Something, or someone, stirred inside, but the doorway remained empty.

  Piso ran his tongue over dry lips. ‘Form a line! Javelins ready.’ As his men obeyed, he shouted, ‘Come out! If you are unarmed, you have nothing to fear.’

  Dragging footsteps within had him level his javelin. With tense faces, his comrades did the same. A half-incredulous, half-relieved laugh escaped Piso as a stoop-shouldered, white-haired old man shuffled into view. Dressed in threadbare tunic and patterned trousers, and using a walking stick, he was four score years in age if he was a day. He regarded Piso with rheumy eyes and croaked, ‘Kill me, but spare my grandsons.’

  Piso’s belly tightened afresh. ‘Grandsons – how many? Where are they?’

  ‘Three.’ Rheumy Eyes inclined his head. ‘Inside.’

  ‘Tell them to get out here!’ Piso snapped, unhappy with the potential risk of entering the gloom of the longhouse. ‘Now!’

  ‘You won’t kill them?’

  ‘We’re here for food and supplies,’ said Piso. ‘No one will be harmed.’ His steady gaze met that of Rheumy Eyes. ‘But if we have to go in there—’

  Rheumy Eyes let out a long sigh. ‘I know.’ He turned his head towards the door. ‘Come out, boys, slowly. You have nothing to fear.’

  More noise inside. Piso’s heart thumped, but he smiled as a tousle-headed boy of about seven years walked out, blinking in the bright sunshine. Darting to his grandfather’s side, he stared at Piso and his companions with a terrified expression.

  Second to emerge was a stockier version of the first child. A few years older, with a truculent set to his jaw, he stood on the threshold, clutching an old framea.

  ‘Put that down!’ squawked Rheumy Eyes.

  ‘Drop the spear!’ ordered Piso.

  The boy didn’t obey. ‘You killed my father!’ he cried.

  ‘We’ve killed nobody,’ answered Piso, keeping his tone jovial. ‘Let go of the spear, and go to your grandfather.’

  ‘Your kind slew Father! He was at the Long Bridges, and he never came home. Curse you all!’ Fat tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks, and he raised his spear.

  ‘Stop,’ Piso shouted. Too late, he heard his comrades’ reactions. Too late he twisted around to order them to hold. Three javelins shot past, punching the boy to the dirt like a piece of skewered meat. ‘You fucking idiots!’ Piso screamed. ‘He wasn’t going to throw. He was too scared!’

  Even as his companions’ protests rose, feet pounded the earth. Piso spun. There was a blur of movement in the longhouse doorway. Face twisted with grief and rage, a burly youth came charging outside. He shot a look at his dead brother, then levelled the framea in his right fist and threw.

  Piso was still lifting his shield when the spear took him in the throat. Stars burst across his vision, and blinding agony consumed his brain. Falling, he was falling. He didn’t feel the dirt that struck his back but above him, he saw the bright blue bowl of the sky and the white-yellow disc of the sun. Gods, it was beautiful. Further thought escaped him as everything went dark. He tried to lift a hand to pull at the spear jutting from his flesh, but it was too much effort. ‘Piso! Piso!’ he heard a voice calling, as if down a long passageway.

  Was it Metilius? Or Vitellius? Piso wasn’t sure.

  He let go.

  Chapter XXXV

  THE GROUND HAD been roasted over the previous month, rendering every track and path concrete-hard, so Tullus heard the pounding hobnails long before he saw the running soldiers. Assuming that it was one of the men with him, he turned. There were no shouts of alarm, no enemy war cries. One of the wagons had lost a wheel, he decided. Perhaps a messenger had come from the army column with fresh orders.

  An unpleasant feeling crept over him, therefore, to recognise Metilius and Dulcius, purple-faced with effort, charging along the side of the patrol. ‘Halt!’ roared Tullus at the men. He strode in the pair’s direction. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  The pair came skidding to a halt. They exchanged a grim look.

  Cold fear uncoiled in Tullus’ belly. ‘What in Hades is going on?’

  ‘Piso, sir.’ Metilius’ face crumpled.

  ‘It’s Piso, sir,’ said Dulcius, panting. ‘He’s—’ Emotion overcame him too.

  ‘Dead,’ grated Tullus. ‘He’s dead?’

  They both nodded.

  They’ve gone mad, or I’m dreaming, thought Tullus. He clenched his jaw until it hurt. Metilius continued to cry. Dulcius looked as if he were about to vomit. Tullus wiped his brow and took a slow, deep breath. ‘Patrol, about turn! The wagons are to remain here.’ he yelled. ‘Walk with me,’ he ordered the two soldiers. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Tullus had fought so many battles that they tended to blur in his memory, but he would remember the simple yet stark scene at the longhouse for the rest of his days. The vivid blue sky and hot sun overhead. The still, heavy air. The narrow, ridged track. The beech trees surrounding the farm buildings. The lame cow, suckling its contented calf. His men, standing around, shocked-looking, grieving. The bodies of Piso, a sturdy-framed boy and a strapping youth laid out side by side. Bloodied spears scattered on the ground. An ancient, white-haired man on his knees, hugging a small, tousle-headed boy.

  Tullus’ heart wrenched as he stood over Piso. Another man of the Eighteenth gone, another body that will never be buried with his comrades, he thought. Bleakness swamped him. No one could have saved Piso, not the best surgeon in Rome. The gaping cut in his throat would have ended his life in the space of time it took a man to count to twenty.

  Granite-faced, Tullus regarded the men who’d stayed as
Metilius and Dulcius ran to find him. ‘Find anything worth taking?’

  ‘A small amount of grain, sir. A ham. Some vegetables. And the cow and calf, of course.’

  Piso had died for fucking nothing, thought Tullus, but he let none of his turmoil show. ‘See the goods loaded on the wagons and the beasts slaughtered for meat, then fire the buildings.’

  ‘Aye, sir. What should we do with the prisoners?’ Metilius’ voice.

  Tullus glared at the old man, who, like his grandson, was weeping. He was wholly unmoved. It was as if the pity he’d felt for the area’s farmers during the previous days had never existed. There was a taste of ash in his mouth.

  ‘Crucify them.’ Cold-hearted, he repeated the words in German.

  The old man cried out and, unnerved further, his grandson began to wail.

  Dulcius couldn’t conceal his shock. ‘Even the boy, sir?’

  ‘You fucking heard!’ screamed Tullus, spittle flying. ‘These two cunts are no different to the filth who slew Piso. They would do the same given half a chance. Crucify both of them – the boy first, so his pederast of a grandfather can watch. Do it now!’

  Chapter XXXVI

  THE LAST PART of Arminius’ journey had been the worst. Used to evading Roman forces, he and his hundred companions had had to use all their skill to avoid detection in the final five miles to Mallovendus’ settlement. The landscape swarmed with the enemy. Auxiliaries, both infantry and cavalry, ranged far and wide in their search for hostile tribesmen. Regular legionaries scavenged the area for food and livestock, destroying farms as they went, and were more than capable of dealing with Arminius’ small force. In the end, he split his men up and arranged to meet in the woods close to Mallovendus’ village. Hidden from prying eyes, they passed the hours until dusk brooding, whetting their blades and batting away the biting flies.

  Brimful of rage at the need for secrecy – this was tribal land, not the empire! – Arminius set out with Osbert and a score of warriors. The Marsi settlement appeared abandoned, or near as, but Arminius didn’t want to risk his entire force. The Romans might have set a trap.

  His concerns were soon set aside. Not a legionary was to be seen. Only a handful of longhouses had smoke spirals rising from their roofs. No bands of chattering children hurtled about, getting under adults’ feet. Instead of the usual cacophony of challenging barks from the resident dogs, silence reigned. No youths loitered, no gaggles of greybeards sat about, reminiscing about the past.

  Arminius and his companions were deep inside the settlement before anyone noticed, let alone questioned their presence.

  ‘Hold!’ Mail shinked as a tall warrior appeared from under the eaves of a longhouse. He levelled his spear. ‘State your name and business!’

  One sentry? Arminius’ first thought was that Mallovendus’ fortunes had sunk low, and his second that the lack of strength might prove useful if the Marsi leader proved uncooperative. ‘I am Arminius of the Cherusci,’ he said in a hearty tone, ‘come to seek counsel with your chieftain.’

  The sentry stepped closer, peering up at Arminius. He grinned. ‘It is you.’

  ‘As I said.’ Arminius’ tone was dry. ‘Is Mallovendus here?’

  ‘Aye. Come inside. I’ll announce you.’

  Taking only Osbert, Arminius followed the warrior. The aroma of roasting meat hit his nostrils crossing the threshold, and his belly twisted. It had been days since he’d eaten more than stale bread and cheese. The smell was all that remained of the welcoming scene that had greeted him upon his last visit. The longhouse was almost empty – half a dozen warriors lounged about on furs, talking in low voices. A bored-looking slave tended a haunch of beef that was roasting over the fire. Several women were preparing food in the kitchen area. Mallovendus sat alone at the table where the chieftains had discussed what to do, his head bowed over a beaker.

  Arminius crossed the floor with silent steps. ‘Mallovendus.’

  The Marsi chieftain jerked around; his face twisted in surprise. ‘Arminius?’

  ‘Here I am.’ There was pleasure in Mallovendus’ eyes, thought Arminius, and something else. Wariness – or was it more than that?

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure. Welcome!’ Mallovendus stood to embrace Arminius in a bear hug. He did the same to Osbert. ‘Come. Sit!’ Mallovendus clicked his fingers. ‘Bring cups, and more beer.’ To Arminius, he said, ‘You’re not alone, surely? Have you men outside?’

  ‘Some, aye.’

  ‘It would be too much to hope that you’d brought all of your strength.’ Mallovendus waved a hand as Arminius began to speak. ‘No need to explain. Even if we’d decided to fight on against the Romans, you’d be throwing your warriors’ lives away to have them join us. My tribe is weaker than ever before.’ He called to the sentry. ‘Arminius’ companions are to come in. Straitened times or no, guests must be made welcome.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Arminius watched as his warriors filed inside, outnumbering Mallovendus’ more than three to one. If he noticed, the Marsi chieftain didn’t seem perturbed, which was reassuring. One way or another, the eagle will be mine, thought Arminius. ‘Your settlement is empty – have your people taken to the forests?’

  ‘Aye. The Romans are close, and in great numbers. It’s for the best.’ Mallovendus’ face was angry and sorrowful. ‘Your journey must have been difficult. The legions are swarming like rats.’

  Arminius made a dismissive gesture. ‘My troubles are as nothing compared to yours at this moment. Has Germanicus sought meetings with you and the other chieftains?’

  ‘Any neighbours of mine who haven’t been slain have had to swear allegiance to the emperor. Those who refused were butchered, along with their people.’ Mallovendus thumped the table. ‘I am to be next. A Roman messenger came today, ordering me to present myself to Germanicus in the morning.’

  ‘Will you obey?’

  Mallovendus sighed. ‘I have no choice, Arminius, unlike you. My people are staring death in the face. Were we to escape it this time, my lands are close enough to the Rhenus always to be in danger. I will bend the knee, and accept Germanicus’ punishment. You would do the same.’

  ‘I would,’ admitted Arminius, gladder than ever for the hundreds of miles that lay between his home and the empire.

  ‘Forgive my mood. I should be playing the host.’ Mallovendus took the beakers brought by the widow who’d shared Arminius’ bed the previous winter. Filling ones for Arminius and Osbert, he raised his own high. ‘To better times.’

  ‘To better times,’ said Arminius, and drank. He caught the widow’s eyes on him, and his groin stirred. There might be time later for a swift tumble in the straw. He put the appealing notion aside. Spilling his seed mattered as nothing compared to securing the eagle.

  Mallovendus drained his cup. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he belched and poured everyone another measure. His expression grew sombre. ‘Welcome as you are, Arminius, what brings you to my door?’

  Arminius was ready for this plain speech; he’d prepared his words. ‘Our defeats this summer have been grievous, but they do not mean the end of our war with Rome. A fresh opportunity to destroy their legions will present itself.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Mallovendus sucked on his moustache. ‘One day, maybe. But my people are done fighting for now. I can promise nothing—’

  ‘I’m not asking for Marsi spears.’ Arminius fixed his eyes on Mallovendus. ‘I want the eagle I gifted to you after the ambush on Varus.’

  ‘This is why you’re here.’ Mallovendus’ expression grew crafty. ‘Why not ask the Chauci?’

  ‘Their lands are far off.’

  ‘Safer to travel to, however.’

  ‘Most of their chieftains are no longer well disposed towards me.’

  ‘Why might that be?’

  Arminius’ shrug was careless. ‘I asked several times for their support, yet their warriors preferred to fight with Rome. To ensure they understood the way things stood between us, I sent back their last messen
ger’s head in a basket.’

  Mallovendus let out a disbelieving hiss. ‘You are a fool, Arminius!’

  ‘My temper got the better of me.’

  ‘Just a little! You’ll live to regret it, mark my words.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Arminius shrugged again.

  ‘And so you come to me.’

  ‘Aye.’

  They stared at each other. Time passed, and neither spoke. At length, Arminius realised that Mallovendus wasn’t going to comply. He tried a different angle. ‘Men who’ve been beaten forget their past victories. I have to have visible proof that we crushed the Romans.’

  Mallovendus shook his head with evident regret. ‘I hear you, but I can’t give you the eagle.’

  Arminius fought to keep his tone calm. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Germanicus is a ruthless bastard, like all his kind. The terms he demands will be punishing. The eagle is a powerful bargaining chip, and he’ll pay a high price for it.’

  ‘No! I forbid you to make that trade.’

  All trace of friendliness left Mallovendus’ face. ‘Do not tell me what I can and cannot do in my own home!’

  Again they locked gazes, and Arminius thought: My dagger could be between his ribs before he’s put down his cup. But the eagle’s location might forever remain unknown if he did that, and so he nodded and sipped his beer. ‘I meant no insult.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Mallovendus’ smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I’ll take my leave. Gratitude for the drink.’ Arminius got to his feet.

  ‘Stay and eat with us.’ The protest was weak.

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ Catching Osbert’s eye, Arminius gave him the prearranged signal, a slow dip of the chin. His men, who had been waiting for this, moved, unobtrusive, calm, to stand over every Marsi warrior. Arminius, who was behind the still-seated Mallovendus, drew his dagger and pressed it to his host’s neck.

  Mallovendus went very still. ‘You dare to draw a blade under my roof?’