by Ben Kane
A shocked look. ‘It is not for me to predict the future. I can only speak of what I see in the prisoner’s blood and entrails.’
‘You can say what you fucking like,’ hissed Arminius, thrusting his face into the priest’s. ‘Think I don’t know that?’
The priest took a step back, his colour rising. ‘Sacrilege!’
Arminius hesitated, but only for a moment. Something positive had to be said as the Roman was sent to the underworld, he thought. Good omens had to be predicted from his blood and organs. If they weren’t, his warriors’ morale would plummet. They might even refuse to fight the legions in the spring. He could not – would not – let that happen to his own people. Arminius abandoned caution. ‘Listen, fool. The Roman is going to die, slowly and painfully. You will tell the warriors that Donar likes his agony. When his blood flows into the cauldron, it will steam with the god’s fury at the empire’s brutality. His organs will be healthy, and foretell Rome’s defeat at our hands.’
The priest wasn’t beaten yet. ‘And if I won’t say that?’
‘You’ll die in your bed. Maybe not tonight, but it will happen – and you’ll lose your balls before your throat is cut.’ Arminius’ grey eyes bored into the priest’s horrified ones. ‘Understand?’
A jerky nod.
‘Good.’ Arminius flashed a broad grin at the acolytes restraining the Roman. ‘We were deciding the best way for this filth to die. Open his belly first. Take his eyes second. Then you can break his arms and legs.’
Attention diverted, the acolytes shoved the prisoner down on to the platform. He kicked and struggled to no avail.
Arminius folded his arms. I did this for you, great Donar, he thought. Accept this Roman’s suffering and death as but the start of what I will offer you. With your help, I will raise another army from among the tribes, and destroy Germanicus—
‘What in all the gods’ names was that about?’ Gervas spoke in a whisper.
Arminius gave a little shrug. ‘I was making sure the right omens were revealed.’
‘You can’t do that!’
Arminius bridled. ‘I need my people confident in my leadership, not terrified because an idiot priest didn’t see what was coming to him. With their spears at my back, I can forge another alliance to fight Rome.’
‘You’re not the only one who can unite the tribes!’
‘No one else is capable.’ Arminius gave Gervas a withering look. ‘No one else has the ability to defeat the legions.’ If he’d been paying attention, he would have seen again the odd expression that had skimmed over Gervas’ face as they’d searched for Maelo’s body, but Arminius had been carried away by his enthusiasm, his all-consuming desire for victory over the empire.
The omens for the future would be good, he thought, listening to the Roman’s screams. Come the spring, the tribes would join with the Cherusci once more and when Germanicus’ legions crossed the river, victory would be theirs.
Arminius could feel it in his bones.
Chapter XLIII
A MONTH HAD passed since the army’s return over the Rhenus, and autumn had the land full in its grip. Mornings were fine, but damp and chilly. Dew lingered in shady spots until after midday. Dusk fell early. The leaves on the trees had turned red-gold, and the bushes were heavy with blackberries and early sloes. Storms and rainy weather were common. Today was typical: cold, grey and overcast with frequent showers.
Tullus was at the heart of a little procession, leading the other mourners towards the fort’s main gate. He’d been honoured when Piso’s tent mates had asked him to take charge of the ceremony.
At the front strode two legionaries in plain tunics and metalled belts, the guards who would clear their path if needs be. They carried clubs, in place of the axes and rods borne by the bodyguards who marched at rich men’s funerals. Next came a pair of musicians, trumpeters from Tullus’ centuries. It was normal to have flute-players as well, but Metilius’ opinion that they had no place at a soldier’s burial had prevailed. The trumpets’ harsh tones alone had accompanied them on their sad walk from their barrack building.
Fresh grief beat at Tullus. It wasn’t a real funeral; Piso’s body lay in a hidden grave deep in Germania. Unable to mark his death then in more than a simple fashion, he and Piso’s comrades were putting things right with this act of remembrance. There were no hired mourners, women with white-painted faces to keen and tear their hair in make-believe sorrow at Piso’s passing – that wasn’t the tradition among soldiers – but Tullus had had three wax death masks made to represent Piso, his grandfather and great-grandfather. They weren’t the best resemblance of Piso, let alone his long-dead ancestors, but they would do. The gods would understand, thought Tullus.
Behind the musicians, a soldier carried the Piso mask. He made constant lewd jokes and acted the fool, in the process keeping evil spirits at bay. Piso had had no slaves, no freedmen – these would have been next in the procession. After came the soldiers pretending to be his grandfather and great-grandfather, wax masks hiding their faces from view. Even though there was no corpse to bury, Tullus had paid for a carved stone casket, large enough to contain some of Piso’s personal effects and the offerings made by his tent mates and friends. Borne on an ox cart and flanked by four more soldiers, it preceded Tullus, Fenestela, Metilius with Macula on a lead, Dulcius and the rest of Piso’s comrades from the Eighteenth. Scores of soldiers from the Fifth brought up the rear.
Whether it brought bad luck to wear fine clothing or not, Tullus could not be sure, but the traditions around funerals were deep-rooted. He and the others were dressed in just their tunics, metalled belts and hobnailed sandals. Cloaks afforded them protection against rain and the chill wind; daggers were their only weapons. Deep in thought, remembering Piso, they walked with slow and measured pace, keeping up with those in front.
It didn’t matter that the soldiers watching hadn’t known Piso. Recognising the procession for what it was, they broke off from their tasks and stood with bowed heads. ‘Swift passage to the other side, brother,’ many called. ‘Rest well, brother.’ Officers also showed their respect, although Tullus suspected that was because of his presence. Piso would have basked in the acknowledgement, he thought.
‘One of your men, primus pilus?’ Tubero’s voice.
His face blank, Tullus looked, found the legate watching him from astride his horse. A gaggle of staff officers and servants trailed in his wake. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘He fell in the summer campaign?’
‘Aye, sir. Piso had been with me for years. He was in the Eighteenth.’
Tubero’s eyebrows arched. ‘A good soldier?’
‘He was, sir. Just about to make tesserarius too.’ He once left dog shit everywhere in your quarters, thought Tullus, and I wager he’s laughing at you right now.
‘He will be missed, I have no doubt.’ With a stiff nod, Tubero rode past.
Tullus saluted. You won’t be, he thought, revelling again in the news that Tubero was to return to Rome, where a life in politics beckoned. He could backstab to his heart’s content there, and no soldiers would be harmed.
The mourners neared the main gate, where the sentries on duty were from the Fifth. Seeing the procession approach, the centurion in charge had his soldiers stand along the rampart as if on parade. Calling them to attention, he gave the casket a firm salute.
With a grateful look, Tullus passed into the gateway, but his despondency returned at once. Gods, Piso, if you had just killed the boy, you’d still be here, he thought. The screams of the child he’d had crucified after Piso’s death rang in his ears, and Tullus grimaced. His sleep since that traumatic day hadn’t been good, often broken by nightmares of the two piteous shapes on the crosses, and the burning longhouse behind. Whether it had been the right thing to do, he was no longer sure, but what was done couldn’t be undone. The dead couldn’t be brought back, and life went on.
He also had much to be thankful for. Fenestela was alive, as were the rest of his men
. Sirona and Artio were safe and well. The eagle too was secure in the fort’s shrine. There was talk that Germanicus would petition the emperor to rescind the ban on survivors of Varus’ legions entering Italy. Arminius had survived, but his alliance was shattered, and rumours from over the river spoke of a swelling tide of resentment towards him. The next year’s campaign into Germania would crush the last of the tribal resistance. After that, thought Tullus, he would consider retirement – maybe even marriage.
Under the great stone arch they went, out into the blustery autumnal air. Off to the right and past the downward slope of the gentle hill ran the wide, sinuous silver band of the Rhenus. Patrol vessels were visible on the water, tasked with ensuring there was no repeat of the night attack earlier that year. Scores of ships were moored at the wooden jetties, their crews repairing storm damage from the voyage home. The far bank, tree-bound and forbidding, was empty of human life. There’d be someone watching the fort, like as not, but Tullus wasn’t concerned. They could scheme and connive to their hearts’ content, but any attempt to cross the river would come at a heavy price.
‘Sir.’
Metilius’ voice brought Tullus back to the present. He was astonished to see Sirona, Artio and Scylax joining their party. They had been waiting a short distance from the front gate. Sirona was clad in a fine woven dress of dark red; Artio had her best clothes on. Scylax’s coat had been brushed until it shone. Caught off guard, Tullus managed a surprised ‘Sirona?’
She bustled in beside him. ‘Piso was a good man. He didn’t often get blind drunk, like some of your soldiers. I liked him. So did Artio, and Piso loved Scylax. We’re here to pay our respects.’
Tullus’ first thought had been to ask them to leave, but the set of Sirona’s jaw and Artio’s reddened eyes checked him. They had a right to be here, he decided. The women hadn’t known Piso over well, but the young soldier had been like family to him, just as Sirona and Artio were. By extension, the two women were grieving his loss. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Sirona answered by looping her arm into his. Artio took Sirona’s other hand.
Fenestela gave Tullus a look of genuine pleasure. Metilius and the rest seemed pleased too, which increased Tullus’ self-consciousness. He wasn’t going to shame Sirona by shaking her off, though, so he raised his chin and walked on. Despite his embarrassment, it didn’t take long before he began to feel good. A tiny smile creased Tullus’ face. In all his career, he could never have seen himself like this.
Some hundred paces beyond the fort’s defensive ditch, the first tombstones began to appear. Bodies could not be buried within a settlement’s walls, and the road to the vicus was lined with the graves of soldiers who had served in the local legions. One day, Tullus himself would lie there. Not today, however, and not, he hoped, for many years.
His eyes wandered over the stone slabs with their painted carvings of legionaries, cavalrymen and officers. Some of the dead he’d known, more than he felt comfortable with, truth be told. This was the price of having served in Vetera for upwards of two decades. At least these men have graves, Tullus thought, not like his men in the forest. He pushed the dark memories away. Today was about honouring Piso’s life, remembering him as he’d been. They would also celebrate the living, those who were here, who had survived the cauldron of blood, mud and death.
As if she were reading his mind, Sirona squeezed his arm. Tullus threw her a grateful glance.
Half a mile from the fort, the procession came to a halt. The trumpeters blew a final series of notes. The litter-bearers laid down their load. In silence, the mourners formed a part-circle around a new tombstone, its fresh colours vivid and eye-catching. Germanicus hadn’t paid for this one – Piso’s comrades had seen to that.
With Metilius and Dulcius, Tullus had chosen where it should be erected, a spot with a fine view of the fort, the vicus and the Rhenus. Most important, it was beside the memorial to Vitellius, Piso’s friend who had died the previous year. Tullus had seen the stone several times in the mason’s workshop during its commission, the last time only the day before, but he hadn’t expected the emotional punch of standing in front of it: tangible, unrelenting proof that Piso was dead.
Between two carved columns, under an angled roof, Piso stared out at the world. He was in full armour, shield in one hand, javelin in the other. Every piece of his equipment had been carved with startling accuracy, and well painted. Tullus approved. You would have made a good tesserarius, he thought.
‘We come to remember our brother, Piso,’ he said. ‘Some of you knew him better than others, but you all agree that he was a good soldier. Brave too, and not scared of risking his life for another. Piso would do anything for his friends. He loved a joke and, at times, his sense of humour took him into dangerous situations. I could say something about his dog Macula and a certain legate’s tent, but discretion is advised, even here.’ Tullus’ gaze moved over his smiling men.
He let their affection for Piso swell for a moment before continuing, ‘Piso’s death was unfortunate. It needn’t have happened, some might say. In the days following his passing, I was of that mind. I think differently now. It is not for we mortals to decide who lives and who dies. The gods give and they take away, whenever they please. Many say that the deities each of us favours in life are responsible for our deaths. Piso was fond of Fortuna. I see you nodding – most of you will have lost money to him at dice one time or another. I think that Fortuna, fickle as she is, decided to bring Piso home. Rather than grieve, fill your minds with an image of him on the other side, fleecing our comrades of their coin.’
Everyone smiled. Metilius managed a chuckle.
Tullus studied the words inscribed under the image of Piso, and slowly began to read them out loud. ‘“To the gods of the underworld. Marcus Piso, of the Fabian voting tribe, from Mutina. Soldier of the Fifth and Eighteenth Legions, he lived for twenty-seven years. He fell in Germania.”’ Tullus’ voice caught. ‘“His comrades had this stone completed.”’
Quiet fell. Heads were bowed. The wind hissed through the short grass. Scylax whined, and was copied by Macula, as if they too were mourning. Tullus caught Metilius’ eye, and nodded. Piso’s remaining tent mates slid ropes under the casket and, together, moved to the edge of the deep, square hole that had been dug in front of the tombstone. The mourners arranged themselves around the grave. Hand over hand, Piso’s comrades lowered the casket into the earth; then, with gentle tugs, they freed their lines. Sombre-faced, Metilius and Dulcius began to shovel dirt into the hole. A sob escaped Artio, and Tullus laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. He was thankful for the warmth of Sirona’s touch on his other side.
‘Rest in peace, brother,’ said Metilius when the ground had been levelled. He bent his neck, a signal for everyone to do the same.
Eyes closed, Tullus remembered his men who had died, not just in Arminius’ ambush and the campaigns since, but in the long years since he’d been promoted to the centurionate. There were so many that Tullus could not put a number to them. Good men, for the most part. Fine soldiers, who had followed his orders and stood shoulder to shoulder with their comrades to the end. Piso had been among the best. Tullus couldn’t have asked for any more than that. You will never be forgotten, brother, he thought. Rest in peace.
The silence lasted a long while.
At last, feeling the chill, Tullus spoke. ‘Time to toast Piso’s shade. Who’s with me?’
A loud chorus of approval rose.
‘To the Ox and Plough,’ said Tullus. ‘There’s an open bar – on me.’
‘Piso would have loved that, sir,’ said Metilius, grinning.
‘He would.’ How Tullus wished that Piso were standing there with the rest. The impossibility of the wish brought back his despondency as he led the mourners to the road. Doing his best not to show it, he smiled and pretended to listen to Artio’s chatter.
Tullus had not gone far when the towering banks of grey cloud overhead parted. On a whim, he turned. Sun
light lanced down on to Piso’s tombstone, illuminating his representation.
Tullus’ heart warmed.
Piso was watching – he was sure of it.
Epilogue
Spring, AD 20
Deep in Germania
A MASSIVE FIRE blazed in the centre of the packed longhouse, sending waves of heat towards the rectangle of tables ranged around it. The pig suspended on a spit over the flames had been cooking since dawn; the room was filled with a rich, mouth-watering smell. Red-faced women served platters of steaming meat to the gathered warriors as fast as the flesh could be sliced off the bone. Hunting dogs skulked underfoot, seeking out fallen scraps. Boys moved in an endless procession from the barrels stacked against one side wall, carrying mugs of beer to the thirsty men. Drunken singing, laughter and shouted conversations competed in a deafening cacophony of sound.
Gervas had arrived in the Chatti settlement earlier in the day, one of a select band of followers chosen to accompany Arminius on his quest for allies. It had been a never-ending task since their defeat by Germanicus’ legions at the Angrivarian wall. Futility coursed through Gervas’ veins. They were no longer rallying the tribes against the Romans. As year after year passed without another invasion, it seemed that – for whatever reason – the legions might never cross the Rhenus again in force. Arminius’ purpose now was to become king of the tribes. Why then do I still serve him? Gervas wondered. It was a question he had asked of himself more and more often of recent months.
And yet Arminius was dear to him now. Lacking purpose after the Romans’ victory four years before, eager for a father figure since Gerulf’s death, Gervas had been happy to stay with Arminius rather than return to his own tribe. The Cherusci chieftain was arrogant and mercurial, it was true, but he was also generous and warm-hearted, and quick to praise. During the springs and summers spent riding between the tribes’ territories, seeking allies, Gervas had become Arminius’ most trusted follower. Lavished with attention, he had buried his suspicion that his leader had been responsible for Gerulf’s death. His misgivings returned now and then, but enjoying his new, exalted position, Gervas ignored them.