by Ben Kane
Jupiter, Greatest and Best, grant that I see my final days out whole in mind and body, Tullus prayed. If that is not to happen, I wish for a swift death. In reflex, he rubbed the phallus amulet that hung from his neck. Why this dark mood? he asked himself as they took the street that ran towards the river. There’s no call for it on this fine day.
‘Off on patrol, sir?’ called the lead sentry, one of eight legionaries outside a small building by the side of the crossing. The position was manned day and night.
‘Yes. Lucius Cominius Tullus, senior centurion, Second Cohort of the Eighteenth.’
‘Today’s password, sir, if you please.’
‘Roma Victrix.’
With a salute, the soldier stood aside.
Tullus led the way on to the stone arched bridge, which was wide enough for two carts or eight legionaries to pass abreast, and which spanned a section of the river that was a hundred and fifty paces wide. Beyond it, in midstream, was a narrow island, dotted with thickets of crab-apple trees. A party of off-duty soldiers joked with one another as they fished from the bank nearest the vicus. Further off, a crane perched by the water’s edge. A paved road led straight across the islet to another island, via another, bigger bridge. Beyond that, a third bridge took the road to the eastern bank. The last one had been a bitch to construct, Tullus remembered. The river there was deep and fast-flowing. A number of men had drowned before the massive wooden piles that formed the foundations had been manoeuvred into place. Halfway across, a plaque commemorated the unit that had built it, and venerated Augustus with the words Pontem perpetui mansurum in saecula – ‘I have built a bridge that will last forever’. You didn’t build it, thought Tullus with a trace of anger. We did, with our sweat and blood. The names of the dead legionaries ought to have been inscribed on the stonework, but that was not Rome’s way, or the army’s, worse luck.
A second sentry post stood some five hundred paces away, over the widest section of the river. Being on the German side, it was a good deal larger than its fellow on the near bank, and held half a century of legionaries. As Tullus drew near to the bridge’s end, an ox-drawn cart hove into view. The pair of beasts pulling it seemed most unhappy, bellowing and refusing to walk in a straight line. His view was obstructed as a trader leading two wagons full of dead-eyed slaves passed by. By the time he could see again, the cart driver – a soldier by his appearance – had been forced to take his vehicle off the road. Some of the men from the sentry post had gathered to watch. Their rude comments reached Tullus’ ears. ‘Call yourself a legionary?’ ‘You can’t even control two damn bullocks!’
‘Piss off!’ retorted the man. ‘It’s not me that has them agitated, it’s the smell of the damn bear.’
Tullus could feel his legionaries’ gaze moving, as his was, to the rough-hewn cage that was tethered to the cart. The soldier and his companions were ursarii, whose job was to trap bears that could be used in the wooden amphitheatre which stood outside the camp. Beast hunts were an ever-popular form of entertainment for the garrison. To ensure a regular supply of animals, it had long been the practice to delegate soldiers to catch bears, wolves and deer in the forests east of the river. In Tullus’ mind, hunting was far more enjoyable, but the displays were an easy way to keep the troops happy, and that mattered.
‘Come on, Jupiter, the bear can’t touch you. Easy, Mars!’ said the ursarius, rubbing the bullocks’ heads in turn. ‘Nearly there. Just three bridges, and the vicus, and you’ll be back in your pen.’
Tullus forgot the ursarius’ woes as he greeted the officer in charge of the outpost. Their conversation had only just begun, however, before it was interrupted by the bawling of oxen.
‘Excuse me,’ said Tullus. He took a couple of steps towards the cart. ‘Soldier!’
Despite the clamour of his beasts, the sweating ursarius heard him. He threw off a quick salute. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Name?’
‘Cessorinius Ammausias, sir. Ursarius to the Eighteenth.’
‘Why in Hades’ name are your oxen so panicked?’
‘These are a new pair of oxen, sir. It’s their first time with a bear in the cage. They’ll be all right after a little rest, after I’ve talked to them.’
Several comments were hurled about Ammausias’ relationship with his cattle, and he bunched his fists.
It wasn’t the ursarius’ fault, thought Tullus. ‘Enough,’ he cried, raising his vitis.
The jibes died away.
Ammausias threw him a grateful look. ‘The bear will put on a good spectacle, sir. The brute is half again as big as any I’ve seen.’
‘In that case, it should impress,’ said Tullus, wondering how dangerous it would have been to hunt the bear.
A clatter of hooves on the road announced the arrival of a troop of German horsemen perhaps sixty strong. Cloaked, bearded, armed with shields and spears, they trotted towards the bridge in a disorganised mob. The behaviour wasn’t uncommon, and Tullus rolled his eyes at the guard officer. ‘They can wait until I get my men off the bridge. It’s our road, not theirs.’
‘I’ll stop them, sir,’ said the officer, stepping forward.
Before he could say a word, events took on a life of their own. This time, it wasn’t the oxen that grew alarmed, but the bear. As some of the tribesmen rode up to the side of the cage for a better look, it launched itself at the bars, snapping and growling. Jupiter and Mars took instant fright. The lead rope was ripped from a startled Ammausias’ hands and he was thrown to one side as the oxen barged down the gravelled embankment by the roadside. Their angle of descent forced the cart to take a different path to theirs, which unbalanced it at once. Within a few heartbeats, it had overturned. Wood splintered, oxen bellowed and Ammausias cursed in vain.
For all that he was in full armour, with almost eighty legionaries at his back, Tullus’ heart skipped a beat as the bear burst free from the wreckage of the cage. Ammausias had not been exaggerating. It was a magnificent beast, with dense brown-yellowish fur and a large, rounded head with small ears. Yet for all its size, the bear wanted nothing more than to escape. Ignoring the oxen, and the crowd of watching soldiers, it lumbered down the slope towards the nearest stand of trees.
‘Damn tribesmen,’ Ammausias cried.
Fresh laughter broke out among those on the bridge, and Tullus smiled despite himself.
‘Fetch the nets and ropes,’ Ammausias called to his companions. ‘We might still have a chance of catching it.’
Rather you than me, thought Tullus. Chasing down a large, angry bear, and then trying to restrain it, was a fearsome prospect. Even if the hunters succeeded, there was the tricky matter of transporting the beast to the camp. The cage was smashed beyond repair.
He hadn’t expected the German horsemen to do anything other than look on in amusement. Urged on by their leader, however, a broad-shouldered man with a black mane of hair, they broke up and rode after the bear.
‘This is more entertainment than I get in days of sentry duty, sir,’ said the guard officer, chuckling.
‘It’s more than I get too,’ replied Tullus. ‘But it doesn’t seem right that we’re standing by while the Germans help to catch the creature.’
‘They’re the ones that scared the bear, sir.’
‘All the same, it reflects badly on us if we do nothing.’ Tullus turned his head. ‘Fenestela! Get up here.’
Leaving his optio in charge of the patrol, Tullus led fifteen men off the road, following the direction taken by the bear. To his surprise, the Germans had already cornered the beast by the time they had caught up. The riders had driven it out of the shelter of a group of birch trees, and surrounded it in a loose circle of horses and inward-pointing spears. Every time it tried to flee, it was driven back by fierce charges from the warriors. Growling with rage, the bear roamed to and fro, probing their defences to no avail. Ammausias was conferring with the Germans’ leader; his companions stood by, nets in hand.
Tullus stalked up, unnoticed.
‘Can y
ou catch it?’ demanded the German in accented Latin.
‘We’ve done it once, so we can do it again,’ asserted Ammausias. ‘It’s roping the brute tight enough to carry it as far as the amphitheatre that will prove dangerous.’
‘I can always order my men to back off,’ said the German with a smile.
‘No!’
‘I jest with you.’
Ammausias let out a rueful chuckle.
Tullus cleared his throat. ‘Can I be of help?’
Looking pleased, Ammausias glanced from Tullus to the German, who smiled, and back again. ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Your men could strengthen the circle, using their shields to fill the gaps between the horsemen.’
‘Very good. You’ll do the rest?’
‘We’ll net him as soon as your soldiers are in place, sir,’ replied Ammausias, watching the bear. ‘Best move fast, though. Soon he’ll charge his way out, or get speared as he tries to do so.’
Tullus issued orders to his soldiers. ‘Do your best not to get injured, brothers,’ he urged, eliciting nervous laughs. Unslinging his own shield and stepping into the ring of men and horses, Tullus threw back his shoulders. They were here now. They would get it done.
To his relief, the bear was soon trapped. The moment that everyone had taken up his position, Ammausias and his comrades went into action. As one man distracted the bear by taunting it with a spear, the others crept in on it from behind. An angry charge at its tormentor was brought short by a well-flung rope that landed around its neck. That was drawn taut. A large weighted net followed, covering the bear from head to foot. It snapped, and ripped at the netting with its front paws, but soon entangled itself. Several men darted in, more cords in their hands. Tullus watched in amazement as they seized first one back paw and then the other, slipping loops of rope over the bear’s limbs and securing them with running knots. One soldier got clawed on the arm, but his was the only wound suffered as the bear was trussed up like a giant hen for the pot.
Ammausias regarded Tullus and the German chieftain with satisfaction.
‘You know how to restrain a beast,’ said Tullus with respect.
‘Aye, sir, I have to. My thanks to you both for your help. Once we’ve chopped down a few large branches for carrying poles, we can hump him back to the road. I’ll commandeer a wagon to carry him back to the camp.’
The warrior’s gaze fell on the bear. ‘My people hunt these beasts, but in the wild. I do not understand why you would trap a creature only to kill it before thousands of people.’
Ammausias looked scornful, but was prudent enough to say nothing. With a salute, he left them to it.
‘It is the Roman way,’ Tullus explained. ‘I too prefer to hunt, but the majority like to watch such spectacles from the safety of amphitheatre seats. There must be men of your kind who would do the same.’
The German laughed. ‘You speak the truth. I may surround myself with warriors, but not everyone in my tribe is a fighter.’
Close up, the German was an impressive specimen. Muscles rippled under his wool shirt, and his thighs were as thick as small tree trunks. The fine silver brooch pinning his cloak at the shoulder and the yellow tassels on the garment’s border revealed his high-born status. ‘What tribe are you?’ asked Tullus.
‘Cherusci,’ came the proud answer. Then, a wink. ‘From the part of the tribe that’s friendly towards Rome.’
‘Ha!’ said Tullus. Certain branches of the Cherusci had been indomitable enemies of the empire just a few years before. ‘You’re not one of Arminius’ men, by any chance?’ A centurion friend of Tullus had a high opinion of the Cheruscan officer, in the main because of his valour in the three-year Pannonian war, which was still dragging on.
There was a loud chuckle, and Tullus realised. ‘You are Arminius.’
‘One and the same.’ He leaned down, extending a hand.
‘Lucius Cominius Tullus. Tullus.’
Arminius jerked a thumb at Tullus’ helmet. ‘Senior centurion?’
‘Aye. You’re an auxiliary prefect, I understand. I should call you “sir”, by rights.’
Arminius chuckled again. ‘There’s no need for that. We’re not on parade, are we?’
Tullus found himself warming to Arminius’ informal and genial manner. ‘Where are you stationed?’
‘I command the ala that’s attached to the Seventeenth, at Ara Ubiorum.’
The great base at Ara Ubiorum, home to two legions, was more than fifty miles away. It was also on the west bank of the Rhenus, but Tullus was used to German tribesmen taking the longer route north, via the opposite side. ‘Been on leave?’
‘We have been, me and my boys. The camp commander let us go ten days ago. Told us to meet up with the Seventeenth again here, before the summer march into Germania.’
Tullus nodded. That made sense.
‘Varus wants to talk to me.’
Publius Quinctilius Varus was the governor of Germania, and the commander of five legions. He’d been in the Eighteenth’s camp for some time, preparing for the campaign ahead. Tullus knew him by sight, and had heard him speak on a number of occasions, but he had never been introduced to the man. ‘You know Varus?’
Arminius shrugged. ‘We get on well, aye.’
Tullus felt a flicker of irritation that a German chieftain should be a friend of his supreme commander, when he, a veteran Roman officer of more than twenty-five years’ service, was not. It wasn’t altogether surprising, though. Arminius’ cavalry detachment was similar in size to a cohort. He was a high-ranking noble of his tribe, a Roman citizen and, as everyone knew, an honorary equestrian. The last detail rankled a little. Just a little. ‘Well, when Varus has finished with you, come to my barracks. We can share a jug of wine.’
‘I will take you up on that offer,’ said Arminius, grinning. ‘Until then.’ So that was Arminius, thought Tullus, watching the Cheruscan ride away. He tries hard, but he seems like a good sort.
III
PUBLIUS QUINCTILIUS VARUS was sitting at a desk in the office of the legate Gaius Numonius Vala, a room that he had commandeered since his arrival. Although his red tunic was of the finest quality, he was an unremarkable-looking short man with thinning, curly grey hair and a slight paunch. Despite his luxurious surroundings – heavy wooden furniture, expensive busts of the emperor, an ornate candelabra – the office felt to him like a prison.
‘Are we nearly done?’ he asked, knowing from the heap of documents and tablets on the desk that they were not.
His secretary Aristides, a rotund Greek slave who’d been with him for longer than he could remember, let out a practised sigh. ‘No, master. We have worked our way through perhaps half of them.’
Varus rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. ‘If I’d known that my life would be ruled by paperwork, I never would have started this career,’ he grumbled.
Aristides, who was standing behind his left shoulder, said nothing.
‘Don’t give me that look,’ said Varus, whipping his head around.
Aristides’ face was a blank. ‘What look, master?’
‘The disbelieving one, when you lift an eyebrow.’
The corners of Aristides’ mouth moved a little. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, master.’
‘Liar. I just didn’t catch you.’ Varus smiled. ‘You know me too well, Aristides.’
A trace of smugness entered Aristides’ expression. ‘After this long, master, I would be a fool if I didn’t.’
‘I have no real reason to be unhappy,’ admitted Varus. ‘After returning to Rome from Syria, I spent my time moaning that I had nothing to do. When Augustus offered me the governorship of Germania a little more than two years ago, I was overjoyed. I am governor of one of the most important provinces in the empire. Better these, here’ – he slapped a hand on to the documents – ‘than having to sit on my hands, listening to my wife’s complaints about the prices that her dressmaker charges.’
‘You are happier when you’re working, master
.’
‘Yes, I am,’ declared Varus. ‘Fetch me some of that Gaulish vintage I like, and we’ll get through the rest of these papers in no time.’
Despite his master’s robust words, it was telling that he should ask for wine when it was just after midday. Ever discreet, Aristides kept his thoughts to himself. Calling for the slave who stood by the door to the office, he ordered wine to be brought.
By the time that Varus had finished his first cup, they had dealt with a bundle of letters from Lucius Nonius Asprenas, the legate based at Mogontiacum, two hundred miles up the river from Vetera. Asprenas, Varus’ nephew, was an able administrator and commander, and his communications consisted of reports and straightforward requests that were easy to deal with. Varus dictated his replies to Aristides, who scribbled notes in cursive on a waxed wooden tablet, to be written out in full later. This done, Varus tackled the next pile of documents, which consisted of grievances from German tribal leaders locally and further afield, and appeals for a surgeon from the camp commander at Aliso, and for supplies of iron and bronze from the senior officer at the fort of Confluentes. A merchant in Bonna complained about extortions he’d been forced to pay to soldiers when transporting his goods through the settlement. ‘When I protested,’ the merchant wrote, ‘I was beaten on the street, like a stray dog. I went at once to the camp commander, who laughed in my face. In desperation, I, a Roman citizen, write to you, Publius Quinctilius Varus, representative of Augustus himself. I ask for nothing but justice.’
‘Gods above,’ said Varus, frustrated. ‘What can I do to remedy this?’
Again Aristides said nothing. Like as not, the merchant was telling the truth. It was standard practice for soldiers guarding the empire’s roads to extract tolls from passing traders, and to manhandle those who objected. He knew it. Varus knew it.
Varus thought for a moment. ‘Write to the fort commander in Bonna. Tell him that he is to receive this merchant with respect, and listen to his accusations for a second time. If the man’s charges can be proved, he is to return what was stolen, using monies from the garrison’s pay chest. If they cannot, he is to give his soldiers an unofficial warning not to be so damn greedy. You are also to send word to the merchant, expressing regret that he is unhappy with the treatment he received from my troops. Be careful not to admit that there has been any wrongdoing. Inform him that I have instructed the commander to meet him and hear his complaint again, with an impartial ear.’ He waited until Aristides had finished scribbling on his wax tablet. ‘Got all that?’
