Eagles at War

by Ben Kane

  ‘Why should he think there’s a real threat? There’s not a single piece of solid evidence in what I’ve said.’

  ‘When you take each thing on its own, maybe,’ said Fenestela, ‘but place them together and they fit as snug as the tesserae on a nobleman’s bathhouse floor.’

  Tullus sucked on the marrow of that, and didn’t like what he tasted. ‘It could still be coincidence. You have to admit that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ muttered Fenestela. ‘Let’s hope that it is. Otherwise we could be about to plant ourselves in a big, steaming pile of shit. Could you approach Varus another time?’

  ‘And say what?’ challenged Tullus, his frustration spilling over. ‘Beg your pardon, governor, but my optio, a trusty veteran, thinks that I’m right about Arminius being a traitor.’

  Fenestela’s teeth flashed in the gloom. ‘He would kick your arse out of his office so fast you wouldn’t even know you’d arrived.’

  ‘That would be the least of it. Without proof, I can’t go near Varus again.’

  Fenestela issued another set of ripe oaths. ‘If Arminius is up to no good, and we do nothing, many men will lose their lives.’

  Bitterness coursed through Tullus’ veins. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What can we do then?’

  ‘Hope for the best. Ask the gods to prove us wrong for thinking Arminius is a traitor, and, regardless, to watch over our every step on the road home. We must be ready for treachery, right up until the moment we cross the damn bridge over the Rhenus.’

  ‘I will never have been so glad to feel its planking below my feet.’

  ‘You and me both.’ Tullus took a sup more wine. They would be all right, he thought. Maybe he was mistaken about Arminius.

  It was then that he noticed the luminous disc rising above the level of the tents. His skin crawled. At harvest time, the moon was often deep white or yellow in colour, sometimes with shades of orange. It was rare indeed for it to be tinged with crimson. In normal circumstances, Tullus didn’t place much store in natural phenomena, but this moon seemed gods-sent. He nudged Fenestela. ‘Look. In the sky.’

  Fenestela swore. ‘That’s not a good omen.’

  ‘No. Pass the wine.’

  ‘Here.’

  Tullus hefted the near-empty skin and poured what he thought was half into his cup before handing it back. ‘Where did you get this stuff? It’s not bad.’

  ‘The old Phoenician.’

  ‘The old rogue who was at Aliso?’

  ‘One and the same. Most of what he flogs is worse than bad vinegar, but he has some decent stuff stashed away. I thought it’d be a treat, tonight being our last here at Porta Westfalica.’

  Tullus shoved away the idea that this could be their last night anywhere laughing at himself for remembering the crazed soothsayer he had met in Mogontiacum fifteen years before. ‘Do you think he’s abed? I’ve a notion to stay up a while yet.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Fenestela. ‘The Phoenician won’t care about being woken up. Sleep is less important than profit to his kind. I’ll go.’

  Tullus brooded as he waited for Fenestela. Wild possibilities tumbled around his mind, foremost among which was the idea of killing Arminius tonight, ending the matter with a few thrusts of a blade. It would be simple, and not that hard to achieve. There would be a significant chance of being slain by Arminius’ warriors, of course. Even if he survived, there would be consequences. Varus would have thrown him out of the legions in disgrace, at the very least.

  After a time, Tullus abandoned the idea. His career aside, murdering men in the dark wasn’t his way. He let out a gusty sigh. Apart from doing nothing, which went against his entire nature, the only option left was to risk Varus’ displeasure by approaching him again. It was an even more daunting prospect than before. In the morning, Varus would be wrapped up with the logistics of getting his army on the road. Officers of every rank would be hanging off him, asking for orders and reporting problems of every kind. Tullus’ intervention – in public, with a huge audience – would be about as welcome as a flooded sewer on the street down which the emperor was about to pass.

  Yet he had to do something.

  Fenestela’s return soon after was welcome. Tullus had a thirst on him as great as if he’d walked the length of the Syrian desert without a water skin. A hangover might imperil his chances of convincing Varus, but his frustration and anger needed releasing. Getting pissed with Fenestela, his oldest comrade, was the best way Tullus could think of doing that, and the only way of keeping the demons at bay.

  If only for a night.

  XX

  ARMINIUS HAD SLEPT little. Despite his best efforts, he had spent the night trying to come up with details he might have forgotten, and worrying that Varus would realise what was going on before he and his warriors rode away for the last time. His lack of rest should have left him feeling gritty-eyed and weary, and prone to losing his temper. This was an extraordinary day, however. When the first hint of light entered his tent, Arminius sprang from his bed, his spirits buoyant. Tomorrow, I will fulfil my oath, he thought.

  Donar will have his blood offering.

  Arminius made his way to the centre of the rectangular space formed by his men’s tents, shivering a little from the predawn chill and, if he were honest, nerves. A faint line of red marked the eastern horizon, an indication that sunrise was not long off. The sky, yet glittering with stars, was almost clear of cloud. There was no wind. It would be another glorious autumn day, he thought, like the previous seven days or more. These weren’t the best conditions for an ambush – fog or rain was preferable – but it might change later, or by the following day. If fine weather were all he had to complain about, however, he’d be a lucky man. Donar, be good to us, Arminius prayed. Let Varus and his men remain unsuspecting until it is too late.

  He wasn’t surprised when Maelo appeared. They embraced. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ asked Arminius.

  ‘Not much. You?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘We can rest when it’s over,’ said Maelo with a smile. ‘Our plan remains the same?’

  ‘It does. We leave camp at the head of the column, following protocol. It’s important that we range far enough ahead that the other auxiliaries don’t see us. By mid-morning, having “heard” the “news” of unrest among the Angrivarii from a passing traveller, we ride back and inform Varus.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t believe you?’ asked Maelo, ever wary.

  ‘He won’t be able to resist,’ said Arminius with confidence. ‘The territory of the Angrivarii is so close, and if word reached Augustus that Varus had ridden past a tribal uprising without bothering to investigate, there’d be hell to pay.’

  ‘You’re a clever bastard.’

  Most of the time, this would have made Arminius smile, but he was feeling a deal more superstitious than normal. ‘Call me that in a few days, when we have succeeded. Until then, pray as you’ve never done before.’

  Maelo thumbed his hammer amulet. ‘And this afternoon, we find the other tribes?’

  ‘Aye. Varus won’t be alarmed that I want to scout a little of the route ahead. By this evening, gods willing, we will have met up with our allies. Varus’ legions will continue marching north, further from their roads. We’ll fall on them tomorrow.’

  A trumpet called from the legions’ lines. A second joined it, and then a third. Within a few heartbeats, innumerable others had begun to blare, shredding the once peaceful air with their strident summons.

  ‘It begins,’ declared Arminius, squaring his shoulders. ‘Let’s rouse the men.’

  Woolly-headed from the wine he had drunk with Fenestela, Tullus had traced his way to the principia before dawn, which was where he had the bad luck to run into Tubero yet again. The tribune looked as if he were about to go on parade: armour shining, boots buffed, fresh-dyed helmet crest. He frowned at Tullus. ‘Drinking last night, centurion?’

  ‘I had a drop, sir, same as you probably did,’ replied Tullus, cursing
inside his inability to hold back. He and Fenestela were like twins in that respect, each as bad as the other.

  ‘I don’t touch wine before an important march,’ said Tubero, in a smug tone. ‘Whereas you look as if you tried to outdo Bacchus – and lost.’

  A passing centurion threw Tullus a disapproving glance. Tullus didn’t have the energy to react, or to mention Tubero’s drinking when they had been in Aliso. ‘I’m fine, sir,’ he said, making to walk past.

  Tubero blocked his path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To speak to Varus, sir.’

  ‘Do you know how busy the governor is at this moment?’

  Tullus’ temper flared. ‘After a lifetime in the army, I’ve got more of an idea than you do, sir.’ He grated out the last word.

  The sentries’ eyes almost fell out of their heads, and Tubero’s face turned crimson. ‘How dare you be so impertinent?’

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ said Tullus, cursing inside.

  ‘We’ll have words about this later. Back to your unit! Varus doesn’t wish to speak to you.’

  The bile welling up at the back of Tullus’ throat wasn’t because of the wine he’d drunk. Like as not, Varus wouldn’t have paid his warning any heed, but now he would never know – and it was all because of his big mouth. He longed to enter the principia regardless, but that would give the tribune permission to have him arrested. ‘Yes, sir.’

  If Tubero hadn’t been there, Tullus would have regarded Varus’ sallying from the entrance at that very moment as nothing short of divine intervention. As it was, it only added to the shit he was in. Despite the gaggle of staff officers around him, Varus caught sight of Tullus and smiled.

  Tullus stepped forward, called out, ‘Governor!’ but Tubero intervened.

  ‘I’m just getting rid of this centurion, sir! He accosted me with a wild tale of wanting to speak to you, but as you can see, he’s much the worse for wear. I’ve ordered him back to his cohort.’

  Varus studied Tullus, frowning. His staff officers did the same. ‘You do look seedy, centurion,’ said Varus. ‘That’s poor behaviour from a veteran of your standing – particularly today of all days.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ protested Tullus.

  ‘You had better be.’ Varus’ tone was acidic. ‘Why are you here?’

  Tullus did his best to ignore the line of disapproving faces. This was his final chance. ‘It’s about Arminius, sir.’

  ‘Not that, again!’ snapped Varus. ‘You’ve given me your opinion of him. I do not wish to hear it yet another time. Arminius is a tried and trusted Roman ally, and that’s an end to it. If I hear of you spreading sedition about him, you can expect to end your career in the ranks. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Tullus, staring at the ground.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ ordered Varus.

  As Tullus walked away, defeated, he could see Tubero smiling from the corner of his eye. His ears were full of the other officers’ muttered comments. Cynicism filled him. Why had he even bothered? The army’s route was set and, if his hunch was correct, it was a path to Hades.

  Arminius and his men had ridden almost eight miles towards Vetera before they reached a crossroads, where a cattle-droving track crossed the road, running in a north-south direction. Arminius reined in, and gazed at the northward-leading section with a pensive eye. This was the spot he had chosen, and which he had visited several times over the previous year. It felt unreal – and exhilarating – to be here with Varus’ legions only a couple of hours behind.

  There had been no sign of the other auxiliary cavalry, a unit of Gauls, for some time, which was just as he’d wished. The Gauls had shown no inclination to increase their leisurely pace as Arminius’ riders left them behind. ‘What’s the hurry?’ some had shouted in poor Latin. ‘Vetera isn’t going anywhere.’ The same relaxed air had been apparent in the whole army before the legions had set out from Porta Westfalica, filling Arminius with a dark joy. Why wouldn’t it? he thought. The summer was over, the harvest in, the taxes collected. There had been no trouble among the tribes. It was time to return to their bases on the western bank of the Rhenus, and there enjoy the quieter period of winter.

  The same unperturbed attitude was evident among the contubernium – eight legionaries – whose job it was to guard the crossroads. Three were sitting by a fire outside their tent, while the rest stood at the junction, looking bored. They called out greetings to Arminius’ men, who responded with friendly salutes. The most senior, a veteran who looked similar in age to Tullus, sauntered over and saluted Arminius. ‘Scouting, sir?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve a mind to head that way.’ Arminius pointed north.

  The legionary shrugged. ‘Few people use that route, sir, just some of the local farmers. I doubt you’ll find much of interest.’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Arminius with a resigned-looking smile. ‘But even when there’s naught to see, a scout has to keep looking, eh? Just as a sentry has to stand watch, regardless of the fact that nothing will happen.’

  ‘I ain’t complaining, sir,’ said the legionary, chuckling.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Arminius, smiling and thinking: If only you knew the reason I am here. ‘See you upon our return.’ Aiming his horse towards the track, he signalled that his men should follow.

  He reached another junction after two miles, where an even tinier path crossed the one they were on. A band of Marsi warriors was waiting there, which Arminius had been expecting. The Marsi were the last tribe he had won over, not a month since. It was a feat he was proud of, because his people and theirs had a history of bitter feuding. The price had been high: one of the three legions’ eagles would go to the Marsi when the slaughter was over. Even this glittering prize had not persuaded all the Marsi, however. From the guarded looks on the waiting warriors’ faces, they fell into this undecided category.

  Arminius pulled a broad smile and dismounted. ‘Well met, brothers!’

  Most of the warriors ignored him, or just grunted. Arminius’ riders muttered angrily, and one spat. Arminius threw them a furious glare, and they subsided.

  A tall, spindly man with twin braids of hair falling on his shoulders stood forth from the grouped Marsi. ‘You’re Arminius.’

  ‘I am. And you are …?’

  ‘Ecco.’ He stared at Arminius’ hand for a moment before he shook it. ‘We’ve been here for hours.’

  It was pointless for Ecco to be annoyed, thought Arminius, fighting irritation. He’d had no way of predicting the exact timing of his arrival, and the Marsi warrior would have known that. ‘I am grateful that you came,’ he said, dipping his head. ‘Your chieftains knew the path I had chosen, but I wanted there to be no chance for error when the time came. Many thousands of warriors have answered my call, but your spears will still be needed.’

  Ecco made a non-committal noise. He glanced up and down the narrow track, then gave Arminius a disbelieving look. ‘You’re going to lead the legions down this?’

  Arminius could feel Ecco’s companions’ eyes on him, as heavy as the lead weights that drag a fishing net into the depths. He struck a confident pose, and threw his voice so that all could hear. ‘I am. This very day.’

  Ecco curled his lip. ‘Why would they even consider it?’

  ‘Your misgivings are understandable, my friend.’ Arminius waved at the beech and hornbeam trees that pressed in on each side. ‘This is not a good route for an army to take. There’s no space for the legionaries to march in their normal formation. Their cavalry won’t be able to deploy – they’ll even have to dismount in places. The wagons and the artillery – well, you can imagine how difficult travelling through here will be. And as for what will happen when we reach the first stream …!’

  ‘There’s marsh up ahead too,’ said Ecco.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ agreed Arminius, grinning. ‘The track winds around a hill after that.’

  ‘These are things that Varus will hear from his scouts. Each one is a good
reason for him to keep his army on the road to Vetera. Taken together, well, only a madman or a fool would set out on this path,’ declared Ecco, glancing at his companions and receiving their approval.

  ‘Varus is not mad. Nor is he a fool,’ declared Arminius. ‘Better than either of those, he’s my friend. The man trusts me as he would his own flesh and blood. I have built a relationship with him these many months; I have taken him hunting, and shared enough wine with him to launch a warship. In his mind, I am a Roman, a nobleman such as he. Which, to all intents and purposes, I am! Did not Augustus himself, the emperor’ – Arminius spat the last word – ‘grant me equestrian status some years past? The notion that I could be a traitor is anathema to Varus.’

  ‘Even so, why would he agree to leave the main road?’

  Arminius threw a friendly arm around Ecco’s shoulders, and was pleased when the other did not pull away. ‘Because I – his chief scout – will ride back from here with urgent news. I’ll mention little about the track. Instead I will tell Varus that the Angrivarii have risen against Rome, in protest against the new tax. The temptation for Varus to crush a small tribe – whose territory lies so close to his army’s route – will be as irresistible as an overripe plum to a wasp.’

  Doubt lingered in Ecco’s eyes. ‘Why go to all this trouble? We could just attack Varus’ legions on the main road. Rumour has it that almost twenty thousand spears have rallied to your cause. With those numbers, victory is certain.’

  ‘Not certain. Underestimate the Romans at your own peril.’ Arminius’ tone was light, to avoid giving offence. ‘Let the legions take this narrow path, however, where they will have to march out of formation, their cavalry and artillery useless, with no way of turning back or striking out to either side, and victory becomes ever more likely.’ He gave Ecco a conspiratorial wink. ‘Have you seen the earthworks?’

  Ecco shook his head.

  ‘Some miles further on, the other tribes have been constructing fortifications along one side of the track. They’re hundreds of paces in length, taller than a man, and hidden by the trees. Thousands of warriors can conceal themselves behind them. When the signal’s given, they will fall upon the unsuspecting Romans with the speed and force of a landslide.’ Arminius glanced at Maelo for confirmation.