by Ben Kane
Despite his cynicism, Arminius could not forget the brutal ceremony he’d witnessed in the same grove as a boy, nor the wild weather that had so aided his warriors during the ambush five years before. His plans then had been meticulous, the Romans outnumbered, and his allies thirsty for Roman blood. Success had seemed probable, yet even the elements had come to their aid, to ensure it. The manner in which he had found the last Roman eagle had also been uncanny. His horse had been panicked by a corpse-feeding raven and had thrown Arminius, landing him arse-first in the bloody mire. Soon after, he’d discovered the golden eagle wrapped in the folds of a dead Roman’s cloak. With the raven’s disdainful croaks filling his ears – denoting its amusement at unhorsing him perhaps, or even a message from Donar? – Arminius had really felt as if the thunder god thought well of his actions.
Five long years had passed without a similar sign.
The Romans had not traversed the river they called the Rhenus much during that time, but that would change. Arminius had plenty of spies in the settlements outside the camps that dotted the western bank, and he’d heard the rumour on so many occasions that there had to be some truth to it. Come the spring, the tribes would have to be rallied for a second time, their chieftains persuaded to follow his lead once more. Arminius’ standing among his people remained high. He could do it without a seal of divine approval, he decided, but Donar’s backing would make his task far easier.
Give me a sign, Great One, he asked. Sometime soon.
The settlement was visible now, straight ahead through the thick-leaved beech and hornbeam trees. High-pitched cries and laughter from playing children mixed with the lower tones of cattle being herded to new grazing. The thud of a farmer’s axe splitting logs came from his left, the chatter of women working their vegetable patches from his right. He would start to meet people any moment: it was important he looked like a leader. Arminius palmed his gritty eyes, wiped the worst specks of mud from his trousers and summoned what remained of his energy reserves.
He was a large-framed man in the prime of life, striking-looking rather than handsome, with a mane of black hair and a bushy beard of the same colour. His chin was square, his eyes grey and intense: the kind that made most men look away. Befitting his status as chieftain of the Cherusci tribe, Arminius’ dark red tunic and patterned trousers had been woven from the finest wool, as had his tasselled green cloak. The long cavalry sword – a spatha to the Romans – that hung from his gilt-edged baldric was a work of art in its own right. Forged from the finest steel that money could buy, with a handle of rosewood and an ivory pommel, it was Arminius’ pride and joy. Many Romans it had slain – and would do many more, when the time came, he thought.
Emerging from the trees as he had so many times over the years, Arminius picked up his pace, striding along as if he’d had the best night’s sleep. He was soon noticed, for the trail led only to the sacred grove. Queries rained down from warriors standing at the doors to their longhouses, or talking together in small groups. Had Donar spoken to him? Was the death of Augustus, their emperor, a sign that the Romans’ gods were weakening? When were the legions going to attack?
Arminius told them with a confident smile that Augustus’ demise was a certain gift from their own gods, and that Rome’s legions would cross the river, like as not, the following spring. ‘The new emperor will want to make his mark, to punish us. What better way will he have to exact vengeance for what we did to that fool Varus? But we’ll teach him a good lesson, won’t we? Give the legions enough of a hiding and they won’t ever come back!’
The warriors bellowed their approval, allowing Arminius to pass without further questioning, for which he was grateful. His weariness and hangover had shorn him of his usual eloquence. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed for a few hours, and forget the world. If his wife Thusnelda happened to be near, he might even persuade her to join him for a time. There was no quicker – and better – way to send a man to sleep, he thought, than to empty his seed into a woman.
His hopes of lying with Thusnelda rose when he heard her singing in their longhouse, which lay in the middle of the settlement. His pace quickened. Willow-slender, but with womanly curves, she had long, dark brown hair and gods-crafted features. She had been – still was, he corrected himself – the envy of every Cheruscan warrior. Arminius had desired her from the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her, at a massive tribal gathering some years before. The fact that she was the daughter of Segestes, leader of another Cherusci faction and bitter rival to Arminius, had only made the chase sweeter. By the time that Segestes had found out about their love affair, it was too late. Thusnelda had not cared if her father approved or not.
In the light of Segestes’ opposition to their marriage, it wasn’t surprising that he continued to rebuff Arminius’ offers of alliance against the Romans. Entering the longhouse, Arminius shrugged. If Segestes’ refusal was the price for Thusnelda’s hand, he had won the better deal. Winning the allegiance of another grouping of the Cherusci people would have been useful, but there were other tribes who would join him in fighting the invaders, whereas there was only one Thusnelda.
He found her in the cooking area, which lay at the end of the longhouse closest to their sleeping area. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, which made Arminius’ groin stir. ‘You’re back,’ she said, stepping away from the fire and the pot of stew bubbling over it. ‘You look tired.’
‘Not too tired,’ he replied, pulling her into an embrace.
They kissed, long and hard. Arminius’ hands began to roam over her dress, down to her buttocks, and up again, to her breasts. Thusnelda didn’t pull away, and he decided his luck was in. ‘Come to bed. Your chores can wait.’
‘The slaves will hear,’ she said, laughing and glancing towards the other end of the building. Two figures, one an old man, the other a stripling girl, were using pitchforks to heave hay from the doorway to its usual place by the animal stalls. ‘They’ll see.’
‘What do we care?’ retorted Arminius. ‘They know enough not to look, or to stare.’
‘It’s not dark,’ said Thusnelda, colouring.
‘I didn’t hear you complain the times we’ve lain together in daytime – in the woods, or by the river,’ challenged Arminius gently.
‘There was no one about then.’
‘Come.’ He trailed his fingertips along her jawline, and down the side of her neck the way he knew she loved. Her protest, more muted this time, died away before another kiss, and he edged her towards their low bed, which sat against the end wall.
Arminius was just about to ease Thusnelda down on to the blanket-covered hay mattress when someone with a purposeful footstep entered the longhouse. Arminius ignored the sound for as long as he could, but when Thusnelda placed a gentle finger on his lips, he could disregard it no more. He half turned. Recognising Maelo, his trusted second-in-command, he swallowed his angry comment. ‘What is it?’
‘I called out at the door, but there was no answer,’ said Maelo by way of apology. At a passing glance, he was unremarkable-looking – of medium build, with longish brown hair and a typical tribal beard. He was as solid as a slab of granite, however, and one of the most dangerous warriors in the tribe. The sword at his belt had ended more men’s lives than Arminius’ weapon.
‘It’s all right.’ Arminius stepped away from Thusnelda, who brushed down her dress and returned to her pot of stew. Arminius motioned Maelo closer. ‘You wouldn’t come in without good reason.’
‘Segestes is coming.’
Arminius had not been expecting that. ‘To our village?’
‘So it seems. A warrior from the next settlement ran all the way here so we’d know about it before he arrived. Segestes has an honour guard with him, but no more.’
The shock on Thusnelda’s face told Arminius that she hadn’t known either. ‘What’s the old goat playing at?’ he demanded.
‘Who knows?’ replied Maelo.
‘Maybe he’s just paying m
e a visit,’ said Thusnelda. ‘I am his only daughter.’
‘But to arrive unannounced? There’s more to it than that.’ Arminius eyed Maelo. ‘Gather up fifty men and scout out the land between here and Segestes’ position, in case he has anyone hidden in the woods. I want the rest of the warriors ready to fight.’
Thusnelda frowned. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘He cannot be trusted, my love, your father or no,’ replied Arminius. ‘He was the one who tried to warn Varus, remember?’
‘That was only rumour,’ said Thusnelda, with little conviction.
‘Maybe so, but it wouldn’t have been out of character for him to do so,’ Arminius retorted. ‘Rome has few allies more loyal.’
Thusnelda’s sigh was answer enough.
While Maelo headed off to see his orders carried out, Arminius opted for a wash and a change of clothes. It would not do to be abed when Segestes appeared. Old he might be, yet his mind remained sharp – and devious.
It was mid-morning before Segestes and his party reached the settlement. Maelo’s search of the surrounding area had found nothing, and Arminius had had ample time to prepare for the visitors’ arrival. Six piglets had been slaughtered, and were already turning on spits over fires tended by a gaggle of high-spirited youths. Barrels of beer were being set up on trestles in the central meeting area. The tribe’s high priest, a whitebeard in a dark green robe, was there too, attended by his acolytes. A hundred of Arminius’ best warriors lounged about in their finest war gear, comparing weapons, swapping boastful stories, and wrestling. They were an overt demonstration of his power and protection against treachery rolled into one. Thusnelda was in their longhouse, clad in her finest raiment, and ready for Arminius’ summons. He himself played dice with Maelo at a table by the door, appearing not to have a care in the world.
‘Ha! I win again,’ said Maelo. ‘That’s two silver coins you owe me.’
Arminius focused on the dice – Maelo had just rolled a five and a four. ‘I scored ten, no?’
Maelo snorted. ‘If you were anyone else, I’d call you a cheat. You got eight.’
‘My mind’s not on the game.’
‘That’s clear. I’d best make the most of it, eh?’ Maelo handed over the dice. ‘Your turn to roll.’
‘Can it be as simple as coming to see his daughter? Surely not.’
‘Perhaps he’s coming to offer you his allegiance?’ The outlandish idea made them both chuckle, before Maelo continued, ‘The dog will have something up his sleeve. You’ll see his intent before he has time to act it out, though.’
‘Ah, Maelo, life would be a great deal harder without you,’ said Arminius with real feeling. ‘Here.’ He laid a pair of Roman coins on the table top. They and their type were the last vestiges of the empire’s influence east of the river, he thought with considerable satisfaction. ‘Your winnings. I’ll take them back the next time we play, and more.’
‘In your dreams!’ said Maelo, grinning.
They fell to talking about the tribes. Which ones would answer Arminius’ call to fight the Romans, and which would not? How easy would it be to win over those who lay in-between? What number of spears would each tribe send, and would they follow him for a whole campaigning season? It was frustrating how few of the questions they had answers to. Despite the promises of support he’d had from other chieftains, it wasn’t uncommon for loyalties to shift. Like it or not, Arminius would have to visit each of his allies before the spring.
A new realisation sank in as Segestes and his party hove into sight. ‘Could the prick be on his way to see Inguiomerus?’ Arminius hissed.
‘Perhaps,’ said Maelo, his brows lowering. ‘If he’s heard the news about him.’
‘He must have.’ It had been a real battle to win the leader of the third Cheruscan faction over – Inguiomerus had not helped to ambush Varus five years before – but Arminius had succeeded in doing so not long before the harvest. ‘Word of it will have travelled – you know how it is.’
‘Aye, probably.’ Maelo studied the approaching group, who numbered about twenty. Warriors all, with Segestes in the middle of them. ‘Mayhap you’re right. Segestes won’t like it that Inguiomerus now stands with us.’
‘Here he is.’ Arminius got to his feet. ‘Welcome, Segestes, defender of Rome!’
Arminius’ men rumbled their disapproval of Segestes’ allegiance.
Glowering at this veiled insult, Segestes’ warriors parted, allowing him to walk towards Arminius. Segestes’ smile stayed in place, but anger glinted in his eyes. Less brawny, more silver-haired and with fewer teeth than he’d had five years before, he still cut an imposing figure, in tunic and trousers of fine-woven wool, and wearing a sword as expensive as that of Arminius.
Ten steps from Arminius, he stopped. If the nod that followed was perfunctory, his return greeting spoke even louder. ‘I greet you, Arminius, oathbreaker.’
Arminius raised a hand to quell his men’s rage. ‘In my mind, an oath made to a hated overlord is never binding. A pledge made between equals – that is something to honour.’
The implication – that Segestes and others of his kind were nothing more than Rome’s lapdogs – was lost on no one. His warriors shifted about, poor at concealing their fury, yet aware that a single false move would seal their doom.
Segestes was better at playing the game. ‘Many would hold that a vow taken before the gods should be kept irrespective of whom it is made to. My conscience is clear! I have honoured my oath to Rome these fifteen years and more.’
‘So you have.’ Arminius’ tone was contemptuous, and he made a dismissive gesture. ‘We could bandy words until the sun falls from the sky, Segestes. Unless I am a fool, you are not here to win me over, nor am I callow enough to try and convert you to my cause. I bid you welcome, nonetheless. As father of my wife, you are an esteemed guest.’
‘I thank you, Arminius.’ Segestes inclined his head a fraction more than the first time. ‘How is my daughter?’
‘See for yourself.’ Arminius turned his head. ‘Wife! Come forth.’
As Thusnelda emerged from the longhouse, there was a general intake of breath. The sight of her filled Arminius with pride – and not a little lust. She was lustrous-haired, statuesque and more beautiful than any woman in the tribe. Her long green dress was of modest cut, yet its figure-hugging shape left nothing to the imagination. Gold winked at her ears and wrists, and a priceless necklace of polished amber graced her throat.
The smile she gave Arminius made his heart pound. Her father received a cool dip of her chin – there was respect there, just. ‘You are welcome, Father.’
‘Daughter.’ Segestes’ eyes were bright with happiness. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘And you, Father.’ Thusnelda’s tone was warm, but Arminius was relieved also to hear wariness in it. ‘You will stay the night?’ she asked. ‘A feast is being prepared in your honour.’
‘I am flattered. Thank you,’ said Segestes, unbending a little more. ‘Our journey this morning has been short enough, but I am no longer a young man. Sleeping in unfamiliar beds takes its toll.’
‘Our home is your home,’ said Thusnelda, as custom dictated. ‘It is yours for as long as you wish.’
‘You’re a good daughter. We must depart tomorrow or the day after, however.’
‘Are we your last port of call?’ asked Arminius, fishing.
Thusnelda’s smile disappeared, and Segestes’ eyes narrowed. After a long moment, he said, ‘No.’
‘You will visit Inguiomerus after leaving here?’
‘I will.’
‘And your purpose?’ demanded Arminius, no longer trying to sound friendly.
‘My business with Inguiomerus is my own,’ replied Segestes, his tone, like that of Arminius, granite hard.
‘You will seek to break the alliance I have made with him.’
‘Your words, not mine.’ Segestes’ smile resembled that of a wolf.
‘Why else would you meet with h
im?’
‘Can a man not call on an old friend and fellow chieftain?’
‘Don’t play games with me!’ Despite himself, Arminius felt his temper rising.
‘Stop it!’ ordered Thusnelda. ‘I will brook no arguments.’
‘My apologies, dear wife. You will hear no more from me.’ Arminius put on his most winning smile, the one that persuaded men to place their trust in him.
‘Nor me.’ Segestes’ expression was as genial, and false, as Arminius’.
‘Come, Father.’ Thusnelda took his arm. ‘Let us walk together. I want to hear the news from home. How is Mother? Are my sisters and brothers well?’
‘It’s as you thought,’ muttered Maelo the instant the two were out of earshot.
‘Aye,’ said Arminius. ‘Why else would the filth want to see Inguiomerus other than to pour weasel words in his ear?’
‘There’s not much to do about it either, other than kill him,’ said Maelo. ‘Cool as his relationship with Thusnelda is, I’d wager that to do so would see you unwelcome in her bed for a year.’
‘Or more,’ replied Arminius, snorting with black amusement. ‘There is another option, just as effective, and nowhere near as like to turn her against me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Take the bastard hostage. Prevent him from seeing Inguiomerus and from returning to his own kind, there to foment further ill will against me.’
‘You’re suggesting we keep the loudmouth here for good?’ Maelo rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll send us all mad.’
‘It won’t be forever. We can release him when next year’s campaigning season is over. Men’s heads then will be full of our victories over the Romans. They won’t listen to him.’
‘And his guards?’ Maelo drew a sly finger across his throat.
