Vespasian and his companions looked on in horror as Thumelicus chewed loudly on it, savouring its taste. He popped the other half into his mouth and, with equal relish, ate that as the two slaves, surprisingly, took a seat each on the far side of the desk.
Thumelicus washed down his snack with a swig of beer. ‘After the battle here and all the battles and actions that my father fought in our struggle for freedom we had almost sixty thousand testicles pickled; my father shared them out amongst the tribes. This is the last jar left to the Cherusci; I keep it for special occasions. Perhaps we should think about refilling our jars again soon?’
‘You’d be mad to try,’ Sabinus said, ‘you could never cross the Rhenus.’
Thumelicus inclined his head in agreement. ‘Not if we stay as disunited as we are now, and even if we could you would use the resources of your Empire to beat us back in time. But you still have the strength to cross the other way and that is why I am here talking to you against all my principles. One of you has something to show me, I believe.’
Vespasian got out his father’s knife and passed it to Thumelicus.
‘How did you come to be in possession of this?’ he asked, examining the blade.
Vespasian explained the knife’s history whilst Thumelicus traced the runes with a finger.
When he had finished, the German thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘You speak the truth; it is exactly how my father set it down in his memoirs.’
‘He wrote his memoirs!’ Vespasian exclaimed, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘You forget he was brought up in Rome from the age of nine. He learnt to read and write, although not that well as it had to be beaten into him; we do not consider them to be manly practices. However, he had a better idea: he would dictate his memoirs to his crushed enemies and he would keep them alive so that they could read them out whenever it was necessary, and today it may be necessary. Mother, would you join us?’
The curtain opened and a tall, proud, greying woman with the deepest blue eyes that Vespasian had ever seen entered. Her skin was lined and her breasts fell low but she had evidently been a beauty in her youth.
‘Mother, is it necessary to tell Father’s story to these Romans? What do the bones say?’
Thusnelda pulled from a leather bag at her waist five straight, carved, thin bones covered on all four sides in what Vespasian now knew to be runes. She breathed on them and muttered some half-heard incantations over them before casting them to the ground.
Stooping, she examined their fall for a few moments, pawing at them. ‘My husband would wish his story told to these men; to understand you they must understand where you come from, my son.’
Thumelicus nodded. ‘Then so be it, Mother, we shall begin.’
Vespasian indicated to the two slaves now sorting out scrolls and putting them in order on the desk. ‘So he spared these two to write down his life and read it out?’
‘Yes, who better to tell of the life of Arminius than the aquiliferi, the Eagle-bearers, of the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Legions?’
The sun was long set by the time the two old slaves, once proud bearers of their legions’ most sacred objects, finished the tale of Arminius’ life with their verbal account of how he was murdered by a kinsman. It had not just been a simple reading; Thusnelda had contributed parts from her recollection and Thumelicus had encouraged Vespasian and his friends to question Aius and Tiburtius about their memories of the battle at Teutoburg; he also ordered the old men to write their answers down. Magnus, who, whilst serving in the V Alaudae, had been present at the battle of the Long Bridges and the following year at the battles of the Angrivarii Ridge and Idistavisus, Arminius’ first defeat, had shared his memories of Germanicus’ two campaigns, six and seven years respectively after the massacre – before he had been recalled by Tiberius, jealous of, and frightened by, his success. Thumelicus had seemed genuinely pleased at hearing this new point of view and had told his slaves to make notes, which they duly did with misty looks of longing in their eyes as they heard the legions spoken of in plain, legionary-mule terms; their ageing faces registered the depth of their shame in not only losing their legions’ Eagles but also in being unable to face the fires afterwards and so being condemned to live without hope of redemption. Apart from the occasional question, Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus had nothing to contribute and sat listening as the tale unfolded, sipping their beer and nibbling at the food arrayed around in bowls; on numerous occasions they politely declined the offer of a treat from Thumelicus’ jar.
No one spoke as the two old men finished and began rolling up the scrolls and replacing them in their cases, their eyes never leaving the work on the desk in front of them.
Thumelicus looked thoughtfully into his beer cup. ‘My father was a great man and it is my loss that I never met him.’ His eyes flicked up and bored into Vespasian. ‘But I’ve not had you sit here with me and listen to his story just so that I can wallow in a bit of self-pity afterwards. I wanted you to hear it so that you can understand my motives in what I shall do next; I intend to go against everything that my father stood for.’
Sabinus leant forward. ‘Does that mean you can tell us where the Eagle is hidden?’
‘I can tell you which tribe it is with, that is easy; the Chauci, on the coast to the north of here, have it. But I’ll do more than that; I will actively help you find it.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘My father tried to make himself king of a Greater Germania, uniting all the tribes under one leader. Imagine the power he would’ve had if he’d succeeded. He would have had the strength to take Gaul; but would he have had the strength to hold it? I don’t think so; not yet, whilst Rome is so strong. But that was his dream, it’s not mine. I look far into the future to a time when Rome starts her inevitable decline as all empires have done before. For the present I see the idea of a Greater Germania as a threat to all the constituent tribes. It is the potential cause for a hundred years of war with Rome; a war for the next few generations that we don’t yet have the manpower to win.
‘So I do not desire to be the leader of a united Germanic people but there are many of my countrymen who suspect that I do. Some actively encourage me by sending messages of support but others are jealous of me and would see my death as furthering their own ambitions. But I just want to be left in peace to live, in the manner that was denied me all my youth, to live as a Cherusci in a free Germania. I want nothing of Rome, neither vengeance nor justice. We’ve freed ourselves from her once; it would be foolish to put ourselves in the position where we have to fight for our freedom again.
‘However, Rome will always want her Eagle back and whilst it’s on our soil she will come looking for it. The Chauci will not give it up and why should they; but their keeping it puts us all at risk. I want you to have it, Romans; take it and use it for your invasion and leave us in peace. So I’ll help you steal it and the tribes will learn that I helped Rome and they will no longer want me to become – or fear me becoming – an image of my father.’
‘Won’t the Chauci see that as a declaration of war against them?’ Vespasian asked.
‘They would if there weren’t other circumstances involved. I know that Rome collects tribute from many of the tribes in Germania and I also know that recently she has been demanding ships from the coastal tribes instead of gold. Now, the Chauci’s neighbours the Frisii are very fond of their ships and I heard that to avoid handing too many of them over they sold the secret of where the lost Eagle is to—’
‘Publius Gabinius!’
‘Exactly. So the Chauci are going to lose their Eagle soon, but if we can get it before Publius Gabinius arrives with a Roman army then many Chauci lives might be saved.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Thirty miles east of here is the Visurgis River; that takes us all the way to the Chauci’s lands on the northern coast. We’ll be there the day after tomorrow if we go by boat.’
AT MID-MORNING the following day the column rode into the dilapidated remains of a small, Roman military riverport, uncared for since the final withdrawal of the legions back across the Rhenus twenty-five years previously. Although the roofs of most of the single-storey barrack buildings and warehouses were still reasonably intact, their brick walls were being eaten into by dense, dark ivy and other climbing plants. Barn swallows swooped in and out of open windows, whose shutters had long since rotted away, constructing their mud nests in the eaves of the deserted buildings. A pack of wild dogs, which seemed to be the only other inhabitants, trailed the column as they made their way along a grass-tufted, paved street down to the river.
‘My people didn’t burn this port because my father felt that it was of some strategic use,’ Thumelicus explained; he had divested himself of Varus’ uniform and wore a simple tunic and trousers, in the manner of his people. ‘He made it a supply depot from where he could provision his forces quickly using the river, but after his murder it was abandoned to rot.’
‘Why?’ Vespasian asked. ‘It could still be extremely useful to you.’
‘Yeah, you would have thought so; but the problem would be: who would stock it and who would guard it?’ Magnus pointed out. ‘I imagine there would be a lot of competition for the latter but very few volunteers for the former.’
Thumelicus laughed. ‘I’m afraid that you have understood my countrymen all too well. No clan chief is going to give up his grain and salted meat to be guarded by men from another clan, even though they are all Cherusci. My father had the strength to make them do it but since he’s gone they’ve returned to the old ways of bickering amongst themselves and only ever uniting in the face of an external threat from another tribe.’
‘It makes you realise just how close we were to subduing the whole province,’ Paetus said as they passed a crumbling brickbuilt temple. ‘To have built all this so deep into Germania shows that we must have been pretty confident of remaining here.’
‘It was confidence or rather overconfidence that was Varus’ problem.’
Magnus scowled. ‘Arrogance more like; yet another pompous arsehole.’
Vespasian opened his mouth to defend the long-dead general again but the pointless argument was driven from his mind as they passed between a line of storehouses and onto the riverside quay. Before them, each tied to a wooden jetty, were four sleek boats; long with fat bellies and high prows and sterns with a single mast amidships and benches for fifteen rowers on each side.
‘We live in longhouses and we sail in longboats,’ Thumelicus quipped. ‘We Germans think that it’s quite a good joke.’ When no one laughed he frowned and looked around at Vespasian and his companions; their expressions were all similar: confusion. ‘What’s the matter?’
Paetus turned to him. ‘Horses, Thumelicus, that’s what the matter is. How do we take our horses with us?’
‘You don’t. The horses are the price for the boats.’
‘Then how do we get back across the Rhenus?’
‘You’ll get home by sailing on out to the sea and then follow the coast west. Your Batavians can handle this sort of boat, they’re good seamen.’
‘But good seamanship won’t protect us against storms,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Last time Germanicus sailed back to Gaul he lost half his fleet in the Northern Sea. Some of the poor buggers were even driven ashore in Britannia.’
‘Then you’ll be there, ready and waiting, when the invasion fleet finally arrives.’
Sabinus looked sourly at Thumelicus. ‘Is that another German joke because I didn’t find that one particularly funny either?’ His sense of humour was not helped by contemplating a sea voyage; he was not the best of sailors.
‘No, merely an observation. But that’s the deal: horses for boats and you’ll be in the Chauci’s lands tomorrow.’
Vespasian pulled Sabinus and Magnus aside. ‘We’ve got no choice but to take it; if Gabinius beats us to that Eagle then Callistus will take the credit and Narcissus could easily say that Sabinus didn’t keep his end of the bargain and his life is still forfeit. Besides, it will be a lot easier trying to get back by sea rather than overland with Chauci cavalry chasing us all the way.’
‘But at the least the contents of my stomach will be staying where they belong.’
‘Not if you get gutted by a Chauci spear,’ Vespasian observed.
Sabinus paused to reflect upon this detail. ‘Well, brother, I suppose you’ve got a point. Boats it is, then.’
Vespasian looked at Thumelicus. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘But what about my horses?’ Paetus asked through clenched teeth. ‘It takes months to train them and—’
‘And you’ll do as you’re told, prefect,’ Vespasian snapped before turning back to Thumelicus again. ‘But we keep the saddles and bridles.’
‘Agreed.’
Paetus relaxed somewhat but still did not look happy. ‘I’ll get the men dismounted and start the embarkation.’
‘I think that’s a very good idea, prefect,’ Vespasian said, slipping off his horse.
‘I think it’s a shit idea,’ Magnus mumbled, staying put on his.
‘Oh, so you like being a cavalry trooper now all of a sudden, do you?’
‘It’s better than having to swim home.’
The Batavians sang low and melancholically, with a slow beat to match the rhythm of the stroke, as they rowed the longboats downstream; their shields were slung over the sides next to them to afford some protection against a surprise arrow attack. Birds flitted in the still air, replaying spring mating rituals over the smooth surface of the river and in amongst the trees, fresh with new leaves, overhanging its banks. The sweet smells of the new season occasionally broke through the musky tang of the Batavians as they sweated at the oars, stripped to the waist, their arm, chest and stomach muscles toned, squinting into the midday sun as they glided northwards through mainly flat lands towards the sea.
Vespasian and Magnus stood at the stern of the second ship, on a small fighting platform, next to Ansigar at the steering oar who kept a course directly down the middle of the hundredpaces-wide river; ahead of them Thumelicus commanded the lead vessel with one of his men as the steersman.
The current was sluggish and their pace was not quick, despite the crews’ exertions; Vespasian was growing impatient. He glanced at Magnus, next to him, who had not said a word since reluctantly getting off his horse and coming aboard once it had become apparent that he had no choice other than to be left behind. ‘You said that you knew how the Germans hid the Eagles.’
Magnus looked glumly ahead as if he had not heard.
‘Oh, come on, Magnus, this boat isn’t that bad.’
Magnus roused himself from his gloom. ‘It ain’t that, sir. It’s just that Germania seems to bring nothing but bad luck. When you look at all those Roman bones just lying there it makes you think that there’s some sort of curse against us in this land. Somewhere around here we fought Arminius’ army at a place called Idistavisus; the Germans withdrew with heavy casualties and Germanicus claimed a victory, but it weren’t so straight forward. I lost a good few mates that day.’ He looked to the east bank. ‘They’re lying out there somewhere, just like Ziri is lying at the bottom of a river; all of them dead in a land with different gods.’
‘Surely your gods follow you wherever you go if you believe in them and worship them.’
‘Perhaps they do, but their power gets weaker the further they get from their homeland. Here in Germania the power of Wotan and Donar and whatever other gods they have is strong, you can tell. You saw that grove on the way to Thumelicus’ tent; those heads didn’t just grow on the trees, they were put there after being sacrificed. We ain’t had nothing but trouble since we crossed the Rhenus and now we’re sailing into a whole lot more; even if we sacrifice a whole herd of white bulls to Neptune to keep us safe on the Northern Sea how’s he going to hear us and help us if the local gods are getting human victim
s?’
‘Human sacrifice is abominable.’
‘You tell that to the German gods; I don’t think that they’ll agree with you judging by how well they look after their people. I don’t like the idea of stealing back the Eagle and then going to sea with it with the wrath of the German gods following us.’
‘Why should they be angry with us? We won’t be taking it from them, we’ll be taking it from the tribe.’
Magnus looked at his friend with an expression of incredulous amazement. ‘Of course we’ll be stealing it from the gods; I told you that I’ve seen how the Germans hide an Eagle. It’ll be in one of their sacred groves dedicated to whichever one of their bloodthirsty gods they think can best protect it and they won’t be too pleased with us when we take it; if we take it, for that matter, because it ain’t as simple as walking through the trees into the clearing and pulling the Eagle’s pole out of the ground. Oh no, they make traps.’
‘What sort of traps?’
‘Nasty fucking traps.’
‘How nasty?’
‘Put it this way; when we found the Nineteenth’s Eagle in the Marsi’s territory the young tribune who tried to lift from the altar that it was laid upon ended up in a pit ten foot below the ground, with a stake so far up his arse that his last sensation was the taste of his own shit.’
‘That is nasty.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it. Then the lads that went to try and help him got smashed to a pulp by two swinging boulders that came out of the trees. You saw how the Chatti got those corpses to swing down on us; they’re good at that sort of thing here.’
‘Then we’ll just have to be very careful. Anyway, they got the Eagle in the end.’
‘But that’s just my point, they did get the Eagle but they took it straight back across the Rhenus; if we find this Eagle then we’re going to take it back by sea. When Germanicus took us back by that route after his victories here the German gods sent the storm after us in vengeance and you know the rest. And we’re about to do the very same thing.’
Rome’s Fallen Eagle Page 18