by Ben Kane
Disappointment filled Arminius’ eyes. He tensed.
Tullus intuited his purpose – to try and seize the standard. ‘Forward, Metilius, quickly!’ They drove at Arminius, shoulder to shoulder, forcing him into the water, leaving the eagle behind. He floundered, fell and was taken by the current. His head appeared a short distance away, and went under again. Tullus hoped Arminius might drown, but wasn’t surprised to see his enemy break the surface again and with powerful strokes swim to the opposite side. Arminius clambered out, threw Tullus a vengeful glance and vanished among the trees.
Too weary to contemplate pursuit, unprepared to risk his men’s lives and overcome with emotion, Tullus bent to pick up the eagle. The legion number had been hacked off, but he knew the standard for the Eighteenth’s because of a deep scratch on one of the eagle’s wings, damage sustained once when the aquilifer had fallen, smacking it off the side of a building.
With a shock, Tullus remembered Degmar. The warrior lay unmoving amid a puddle of his own blood.
‘Hold this.’ Tullus pressed the standard into a delighted Metilius’ hands.
Degmar stirred at Tullus’ approach. ‘You have the eagle?’ he whispered.
‘Aye.’ Kneeling, Tullus gripped Degmar’s hand. There was a weak response.
Tullus’ joy at recovering the eagle was leavened by a jagged grief. Degmar had saved his life and those of fifteen of his men in the savage aftermath of Arminius’ ambush. Now he was dying, and there was nothing to be done: the quantity of blood around and under him was too great. Tullus leaned closer. ‘In different times, we could have been friends.’
‘We still can be, on the other side.’ A shallow cough. ‘I’ll wait for you.’
Tears blurred Tullus’ vision. ‘I would be honoured.’
‘I’m cold. So cold.’ Degmar’s gaze had gone out of focus. ‘Tullus?’
‘I’m here.’ Tullus squeezed Degmar’s hand tight. ‘I’m here with you, brother.’
Degmar’s lips twitched. ‘Broth—’
Like that, he was gone, and Tullus’ heart wrenched. He knelt for a time in silence, wishing that things might have been different, and then, gentle as if he were moving a stray hair from Sirona’s face, he closed Degmar’s staring eyes.
Chapter XLI
TULLUS SPEARED THE staff bearing the eagle into the earth, standing it upright. He, Metilius and Dulcius fell to their knees before the golden bird. No one spoke. Choked sobs escaped Tullus’ throat, but he felt no shame. Metilius and Dulcius were also weeping. After so long, after so much suffering and so many deaths, the Eighteenth’s eagle was theirs once more.
Thank you, great Jupiter. Gratitude, mighty Mars. Fortuna, you are the finest goddess of all, Tullus thought. Each of you will have a prize bull on my return to Vetera. He lifted his gaze to the eagle. Despite its years of captivity, the damage sustained, it had lost none of its majesty. The hairs on Tullus’ arms prickled. The eagle seemed to be staring at him – it was. Imperious as ever, its gaze penetrated his soul. Soldier of Rome, he fancied it said. You have ended my captivity. For this I am grateful.
Old grief surged in Tullus, and his eyes closed. For the ten-thousandth time, he relived the ambush seven years before. Rain. Wind. Thunder. Marsh. Trees. Mud, mud everywhere. The Germans’ chanting, coming unseen from the forest. Volleys of spears humming in. Naked berserkers. Hordes of screaming warriors. Men – his men – dying in droves, no matter how he tried to keep them alive.
Battered and bloodied, Tullus and those who yet lived struggled on, hoping against hope to survive. He hadn’t been there when the Eighteenth’s eagle had been taken. Senior centurion of the Second Cohort, it hadn’t been his job to be with the iconic standard, but that hadn’t stopped the pain and shame of its loss cutting like a blade. In those moments of black despair, Tullus had wanted to lie down and die. His soldiers’ lives, which he’d held in the palm of his hand, had stopped him. Without him, as Fenestela had snarled, they would have perished. And yet I saved so few, thought Tullus, scourged by shame.
His eyes were drawn again to the eagle. He started. Around the golden bird, shadowy figures loomed. Afer and Vitellius. Piso, and scores of his men, too numerous to count. Convinced they had come to curse him, Tullus quailed. Nothing happened, and he gathered the courage to stare more closely. To his astonishment, the ghosts were smiling. Giving nods of approval. Some were saluting. You recovered the eagle, said a voice in his head. The Eighteenth’s honour has been restored.
Tullus hung his head. Tears flowed down his cheeks. I did my best, he thought. It’s all I have ever done. He heard no reply, but a sense of acceptance washed over him, as if his dead soldiers were giving their blessing. Unmanned, Tullus wept like a child. ‘You were good boys,’ he whispered. ‘Good boys.’
It was some time before his tears stopped. Drained, spent, Tullus wasn’t surprised that his men’s shades had vanished. The eagle was again a carved piece of gold. Magnificent, but inanimate. He studied it for a long time, but it did not move. Its fierce gaze was fixed into the distance. Tullus wondered if the whole scenario had been a figment of his imagination.
The warm glow in his heart – a long-wished-for acceptance – meant that it didn’t matter either way.
Tullus didn’t care that they were deep in Germania rather than in Rome, or that he had only a cohort as escort – their return to the army felt like a triumph. He was the general, not carried in a chariot but pacing proudly before his cheering men with the eagle borne aloft. Beard bristling with delight, Fenestela strode beside him. These were moments to remember for the rest of their days, thought Tullus.
A cavalry patrol rode closer to see what was going on. Spotting the eagle, the riders shouted in appreciation. The legionaries of a scavenging party mobbed his men, promising to buy them wine. Even an official messenger paused to have an admiring look. It was he, Tullus decided later, who must have first spread the news among the main body of troops. The tumultuous welcome as they neared the marching column was heart-warming. In soldiers’ minds, the recovery of an eagle lost in battle ranked higher than almost anything, but Tullus hadn’t expected trumpets to sound, or for the men in their path to be ordered off the track.
‘What’s this?’ he asked a grinning centurion.
‘Everyone knows what you’ve done, primus pilus. You’re a hero. Take the eagle to Germanicus – he’ll be waiting.’ With a flourish, the centurion swept his arm in the direction of the governor’s position.
Tullus glanced at his men. They were beaming from ear to ear. Fenestela chuckled. Tullus smiled – and laughed out loud. They had done it. They had fucking done it! He squared his shoulders, gave a firm nod to the centurion, and called over his shoulder, ‘Follow!’
The walk thereafter passed as if in a dream. Tullus’ ears rang with cheers, with loud cries of ‘Roma Victrix!’ and ‘Germanicus!’ Soldiers chanted ‘Eighteenth! Eighteenth!’ which brought fresh tears to his eyes. When they reached the Fifth, the shouts became ‘Tullus! Tullus!’ His heart swelled by the unexpected acclaim, he nodded his thanks until his neck ached. He swigged from a wine skin offered by an optio he knew in the Twenty-First, and accepted claps on the back and praise from every centurion he came across. Tullus thought he would burst with pride. Small wonder triumphant generals had slaves to whisper in their ears that they were but mortal men, he thought.
His most public recognition came from Germanicus. Rather than wait for Tullus to approach, he slid from his horse and came striding to meet him, arms wide. ‘This is a joyous moment! Well met, Tullus.’
Tullus planted the standard and came to attention. ‘Sir!’
Germanicus came very close. His reverent fingers traced the outline of the eagle’s head and its raised wings. ‘You’re sure this belonged to the Eighteenth?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tullus explained about the scratch.
‘I’m glad. The Seventeenth’s eagle will come home one day, but this standard deserves to be yours. You have my congratulations.’
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br /> ‘If it weren’t for you, sir, none of it would have happened.’
Germanicus acknowledged the praise with a dip of his chin. ‘And without soldiers like you, I could do nothing.’
Tullus flushed like a beardless youth.
Germanicus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Shall we take your eagle back to Vetera?’
‘Aye, sir!’ This, thought Tullus, was the best suggestion he’d heard in his life.
Chapter XLII
TEN DAYS HAD passed since Arminius’ abortive attempt to seize the Marsi tribe’s eagle, and his mood was as dark as the lowering clouds. Dusk was falling as he stood by the edge of a large lake, deep in Cherusci territory. Close by, preparations for a long-awaited ceremony were well under way. Hammers rang as cauldrons were beaten flat. Armour was being cut up and spear shafts broken. Tethered horses grazed scrubby grass; the youths watching over them waited to be called forward. Six naked, ill-treated prisoners – five Chatti, one Roman – sat in miserable silence, guarded by a score of men. Those who had come to watch – hundreds of warriors, from various factions of the Cherusci tribe – had positioned themselves in a loose half-circle around the priests, who were chanting and praying to Donar.
Arminius saw none of the unfolding spectacle, did not feel the bites of the swarming midges. Eyes fixed on the blurred junction between sky and land, he stood, unmoving as a statue. Since the defeat at the Angrivarian wall, Maelo’s death and the shattering of his alliance, things had gone from bad to worse. Thwarted by Mallovendus, then outmanoeuvred by Tullus, he had also lost most of the hundred warriors who’d been with him on his mission to capture the eagle. His humiliations seemed without end. Thunder crashed overhead, and Arminius stirred, throwing an angry glance at the blue-black sky. Everything I do, you turn against me, great Donar. Why?
The noise rumbled on. Light flashed deep in the clouds. One of the priests uttered a loud cry of ‘Donar!’ which was taken up with enthusiasm by his companions and the crowd. Unsettled by the chant, the horses flattened their ears and skittered to and fro. Aware that their time was approaching, the prisoners cowered.
Arminius’ scowl hardened. His appeals, the priests’ devotion and the sacrifices taking place would make no difference. The thunder god would remain silent, as he did so often. It was bitter to stand here in ignominious defeat, easy to think that Donar had never truly spoken to him. Perhaps the raven that had helped him to find the last eagle had been seeking fresh meat, and nothing more. Tudrus’ offering of his own life had been an empty gesture, a pointless suicide aided by the priest.
Arminius’ temper rose. Why bother with this contrived ritual? Gathering phlegm in his mouth, he made to spit but, despite his overwhelming cynicism, he could not do it. Maelo would have told him that testing the gods’ patience was a bad idea, and even if none of the priests saw, omniscient Donar would. Grief lashed Arminius at the memory of his second-in-command, who was buried not far from this spot. His funeral had been magnificent, befitting a warrior of his stature. Arminius had stayed by the grave long after the other mourners had gone. Trapped in a black pit of despair, much of him had wished to exchange places with Maelo, but a white-hot desire for revenge – on Germanicus, on his legions, on Mallovendus – had held him back. That, and the fact that Maelo – bloody-minded as he was – would have laughed in Arminius’ face for wanting to die rather than carry on.
Alone, this driving emotion could not grant success. Nor could his charisma. Like it or not, he still needed Donar’s help. A sour expression twisted his face. The thunder god was listening to his thoughts this very moment, like as not, and laughing. All-powerful, all-seeing and -knowing, the deities pleased themselves. People served as mere playthings, their petty desires ignored. This is the way of things, Arminius told himself. The gods are what they are. Keep faith for long enough, offer them plenty of sacrifices, and they can make wishes come true.
‘It is time,’ called a voice.
Arminius turned. The oldest priest, a wrinkled creature with sparse white hair, was standing next to the altar, a large, flat slab of rock close to the water’s edge. Pits and dark stains in its surface provided mute evidence of what was practised here. A timber platform had been erected close by, and a large bronze cauldron placed on the ground by one of its sides. Priests and acolytes clustered around, knives and ropes ready in their hands. Several of the prisoners began to wail. Arminius felt no pity. All that mattered was for Donar to be pleased by the offerings.
First to die were the horses. Led one by one to the altar, they had their throats opened. Wooden buckets were used to collect the blood, some of which was daubed on the prisoners’ faces. Acolytes poured the rest over the stone altar and into the lake. A large red cloud spread outwards, staining the water. Arminius was minded of the Carthaginian general Hannibal’s soldiers at Lake Trasimene, more than two centuries before. With Donar’s help, he might do the same one day.
Gervas appeared by his side as the prisoners were urged to their feet. ‘There should have been more.’
‘You did well to take six men,’ said Arminius with heart. After the clash with Tullus’ soldiers, the last thing on his mind had been taking prisoners. Gervas, determined and stubborn, had insisted it was a good idea as they travelled east. Bone-weary, spirits low, Arminius had given him permission to go out at night with a few men. The half-dozen captives were the result: sentries overpowered and unfortunates who’d strayed from their patrols to answer a call of nature. ‘Their lives will make a fine offering to the god.’ I hope, he thought.
Gervas nodded.
The Chatti were driven to the base of the platform. Alone among his fellows to scorn death, a giant of a man offered himself to the waiting priest. Bundled up on to its flat surface, he lay down and peered into the bronze cauldron. Arminius felt a sneaking admiration – he couldn’t imagine presenting his throat to the executioner’s knife so easily, nor allowing an acolyte to grip him by the hair. A hush fell as the priest asked Donar in a sing-song voice to accept the prisoner’s life.
Smooth as if he’d just been whetting the blade, the priest drew back his right arm. The man’s body gave a violent jerk, and his feet drummed off the platform. Blood gushed in torrents, pattering into the cauldron. A reverent ‘Ahhhhh’ rose from the crowd. The acolyte held tight, keeping the corpse’s head up and the blood vessels open. Time passed. Not until the flow had eased to mere drips did the priest move again. Dipping a crook-fingered hand into the cauldron, he swirled about in the blood.
How can he see anything but red liquid and froth? Arminius wondered, but superstition kept him quiet.
The corpse was rolled to the platform’s edge, allowing the priest to open the belly. Soon glistening loops of grey-pink intestine had been laid out for inspection. The priest ran them though his hands like strings of sausage, mouth moving in a silent conversation. ‘I see no signs of disease,’ he announced at length.
‘Ahhhhh,’ went the crowd.
Fools. Arminius was unable to stop the thought.
‘He was a brave man,’ said the priest. ‘His blood is clean, and pure. His bowels are healthy. The signs are good.’
‘Nothing I couldn’t have said myself,’ muttered Arminius. He noticed Gervas’ shocked expression. ‘It’s true. The warrior volunteered to die first. His blood is red, and it flowed fast. He was young and healthy, so his guts are normal.’
Gervas shook his head. ‘You risk angering not just Donar, but the other gods.’
Arminius said nothing.
Blood-soaked, steeped in ritual, the ceremony continued. The four remaining Chatti warriors died one after another. Two cried like whipped children as they were manhandled to the platform’s edge, and were quietened only by the priest’s sharp blade. Their blood was pronounced sour, and their intestines unclean. Donar was asked to forgive their cowardice.
Cynicism aside, Arminius couldn’t help but hope that the last pair of warriors went to their deaths well. Relief swelled in his chest as they did just that,
silent, with clenched jaws and proud faces. In a loud voice, the priest pronounced the omens he saw in their blood and entrails to be propitious. ‘Donar is pleased!’ he said, eliciting fierce nods of approval from the crowd.
The Roman prisoner was the last to be dragged forward. Here was one of his people’s bitterest enemies, thought Arminius, one of those who had butchered thousands of Donar’s believers. The thunder god had to approve of his death.
Arminius looked on with satisfaction as the Roman showed his courage by walking up the steps to the platform and scorning the acolytes’ helping hands. A moment later, however, the prisoner refused to lie down. The lead acolyte barked an order, but he appeared not to hear. Angry, the priest stared up at the Roman from his position by the cauldron. ‘Down!’ he ordered.
‘Never,’ came the reply in Latin. ‘Cocksucker.’
Arminius sensed the looming danger, but he was too far away to stop what happened next.
Teeth bared, the Roman drew back his right leg and kicked the priest in the face. His hobnailed sandal smashed teeth, broke bone. The screaming priest flailed backwards, colliding with the altar. He fell and, with a solid clunk, the back of his head hit the stone. Limp as a greybeard’s prick, he slid off the altar to lie in a tangle of limbs. Dead.
With Gervas on his heels, Arminius sprinted to the platform. ‘Seize him!’
The shocked acolytes grabbed the laughing Roman, who did not resist.
Arminius checked the old man’s neck for a pulse. ‘He’s gone,’ he snarled at the first priest to approach, a younger, bearded version of his expired superior.
‘This is a bad omen,’ intoned the priest.
Arminius wanted to slit his scrawny throat. The situation had to be salvaged. Fear was spreading through those watching – he could see it. In a low voice, he said, ‘Tell them that the ill fortune brought on by the old man’s death will be washed away by the sacrifice of the Roman.’