by Ben Kane
Low voices off to his left, the direction from which the arrow had come, told him that his assailant wasn’t alone. Were there two men, three, more? Fresh sweat beaded Arminius’ brow. Maelo and the rest of his warriors – hundreds strong – could have been in Rome for all the good they were to him now. If he stood, the archer would loose again. So too would his companions, if they were similarly armed. By the time Arminius had restrung his own bow, he’d have at least one shaft in him – and his attackers would have closed in. They would have spears too.
Voices conferred. Twigs crackled. Footsteps drew nearer.
I’m not leaving this life cowering in the mud like a spineless worm, thought Arminius with rising fury. Go out fighting, and he had some chance of being welcomed into the warriors’ paradise. Quick as he could, he slipped off his bow and quiver and unslung the rabbits from his belt – they would hinder use of his spear. Praying that his enemies weren’t on top of him, he gripped his spear shaft and threw himself up on to his knees. A quick glance to his left, to his right, and behind revealed six approaching figures, none of whom he recognised. They were no more than twenty paces away, and Arminius’ stomach clenched. Unless this was some kind of dreadful mistake, someone really wanted him dead.
Ssshhhewww.
An arrow ripped through his tunic, opening a shallow, stinging cut in his left side, and sped off into the undergrowth. Arminius ducked down out of reflex but, two heartbeats later, he had to risk another look at his attackers. A second man was armed with a bow, but the rest appeared to be wielding spears. If he ran for the settlement, the archers could take him down with ease, and the same would happen if he charged the spearmen. Mind made up, Arminius sprinted towards the bowman who’d just shot at him. With bared teeth and levelled weapon, he screamed a mad, desperate war cry.
A shaft from the second archer winged past, embedding itself in the gnarled trunk of an old beech, but the first bowman flinched before Arminius’ wild dash, his nerves making him fumble with his next arrow. Arminius had closed to within ten paces before he had managed to nock it, and to six by the time he had pulled the string to half draw. With no option but to release, he let the string go with a pathetic-sounding twang.
Arminius ducked, and the arrow flew over his head. Using his momentum, he drove his spear deep into the archer’s belly. The man’s oomph of shock was followed by a prolonged shriek of pain. Arminius jerked to a halt and ripped his blade free. Ignoring the archer, who sank whimpering to the mud, he cast about for the others.
The spearmen were running forward, and the second bowman was about to loose. Spear discarded, Arminius wrenched his victim up by his shoulders, protecting himself from further arrows. A meaty thump, and a fresh howl of agony from his captive signalled the arrival of another arrow. He had acted in the nick of time. Flinging the doubly wounded warrior towards the spearmen, he turned and fled.
He had a good pair of legs, and therefore a decent chance of outstripping his attackers, yet his skin crawled with every pounding step. Unless the archer was a hopeless shot, he also had every likelihood of taking an arrow in the back before reaching the tree line. Twenty paces hurtled by. The man had to be ready to release again, thought Arminius, terror gnawing his belly. He made a sudden jink to the right, and hurdled a fallen tree. Immense satisfaction filled him as an arrow flew off to his left.
Another thirty-something paces, and still the archer had not loosed again, although loud curses and hammering footsteps told Arminius that the spearmen were on his trail yet. The thick undergrowth and profusion of fallen wood made the risk of tripping too great to look back. Ten more steps, and he began to wonder if he’d run beyond the archer’s effective range. If he could reach the edge of the trees, and there bellow for help, any warriors within earshot would come running. His pursuers might be put off. He might survive.
Ssshhhewww-tthhuunnkk.
A ball of blinding agony – such as Arminius had never felt – burst from the back of his right thigh. He stumbled, hearing at the same time a triumphant cry from behind. Hissing with discomfort, and balancing on his left foot, he looked down. The barbed head of an arrow was jutting clear of the front of his right trouser leg, and a quick feel behind revealed its shaft protruding from his thigh. There was no time to snap it off, still less pull it out. If he even tried, the pain would make him faint.
A hobble was all he could manage – walking was out of the question. Arminius glanced back, and his hopes plummeted. The spearmen were less than fifty paces away, and the archer was but a little further off. All five were running straight at him.
His only weapon now was a short-bladed dagger – useless against men with spears and a bow. He tugged it free nonetheless, and hopped around to face his enemies. What a pointless way to die, he thought with supreme bitterness. After all that he’d done, after the crushing defeat he had inflicted on Rome, he would end his life like a wounded deer, powerless to stop those who had hunted him down.
Foliage rustled behind him. Guts lurching, Arminius tried to turn to face the attacker who had somehow got between him and the village. Before he fell, he had a brief impression of a slight figure leaning forward into the arch of a full-drawn bow, and then: ssshhhewww. An arrow flew past him, coming to rest a heartbeat later in the throat of the lead spearman, who dropped without a sound.
HUUUUMMMMMMMM! HUUUUMMMMMMMM!
The tone was reedy, surely made by a child, but there was no mistaking the barritus, the war chant used by most tribes. A second voice took it up, somewhere close to the first, and through the dizzying waves of agony that enveloped him, Arminius heard two more arrows scudding overhead. A third volley resulted in another casualty. All the while, Arminius’ saviours kept up the barritus, interspersing their chant with aspersions on his attackers’ parentage and relationship to swine, rats and other animals.
‘Let us at him,’ a man demanded. ‘This ain’t your quarrel.’
‘How is it not?’ The boy was standing over Arminius. ‘He’s my chieftain, and you’re trying to kill him. Clear off to whatever shithole you call home, before we put a shaft in you, as we did with your friends.’
Despite the boy’s bravado, there was a tremor in his voice.
Stars flashed across Arminius’ vision, and nausea clawed the back of his throat, but a desperate sense of urgency helped him to half sit up. His rescuers were two boys, one tousle-headed, the other short and stocky, both close to manhood and brandishing full-drawn bows. They were ranged against four warriors, one of whom was wounded in the arm. Worse luck, one of the uninjured was the archer, who had a shaft ready to loose.
Seeing Arminius, he swept his bow round and down. The barbed iron head of his arrow pointed straight at Arminius’ face, and he thought, I’m done.
Ssshhhewww-tthhuunnkk.
The archer was punched backward by a shaft that took him through the chest.
‘Here.’ With a kick of his foot, the boy who’d shot pushed a hunting spear towards Arminius. Using it as a crutch, he struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the stabbing blades of pain from his thigh, and the sticky feeling of blood pouring down the inside of his leg. Upright, he was able to balance on his good foot and hold the spear ready to use.
There were three spearmen left, but one was hurt. Their hesitation when the boy who’d killed the archer was nocking a fresh arrow had been fatal, and they knew it. Now they faced a pair of ready bows, and Arminius’ spear. They glanced at one another, uncertain.
‘Come on, you filth,’ snarled Arminius. ‘At least one of you is going to die – if not all of you.’
His insult might have spurred the trio into action, but the sound of men approaching from the village put paid to any notion of finishing what they’d come to do. With a few choice curses, the warriors turned and ran.
Ssshhhewww! The second boy loosed, and missed.
‘Let the cowards go,’ said Arminius, slurring his words. His world spun, and his eyes could no longer focus. He would have fallen if the first boy hadn�
��t gripped his left arm and steadied him. Arminius’ head seemed too large and heavy for his shoulders, but he managed to look at his rescuer, whom he dimly recognised as the grandson of Tudrus, one of his father’s most trusted men. ‘My thanks …’
After that, he was falling, falling, down a bottomless, pitch-black well.
The first face Arminius saw when his eyes opened was Thusnelda’s. Red-eyed, cheeks drawn, it was clear that she’d been crying. Her gaze was fixed over him, towards someone on his other side. He was flat on his back. Above him, he recognised the roof of his longhouse.
Thusnelda let out a happy gasp, and caressed his face. ‘You’ve woken up!’
Arminius ran his tongue around a dry mouth. ‘It appears so,’ he said wryly. ‘A drink, please.’ After a mouthful of water, he asked, ‘How long was I unconscious?’
‘Perhaps an hour.’ She mopped his forehead with a damp cloth. ‘Long enough for the priest to remove the arrow.’
Hazy memories of an agony even worse than when the shaft struck floated around Arminius’ mind. His right hand roamed down, finding heavy bandaging on his thigh. A throbbing pain radiated from the area, not as sharp than before, but no less uncomfortable. ‘Did it come out easily?’
‘Easy enough,’ said Maelo.
Arminius rolled his head and grinned at his second-in-command, who was sitting on the other side of the bed. ‘Where were you when I needed you?’
Maelo made a guilty face. ‘I came the instant I heard the racket.’
‘Did you catch any of them?’ Maelo shook his head, and Arminius added, ‘Who were they – have you any idea?’
‘They were Cherusci, like us; I know that much.’ Maelo’s eyes glittered. ‘Who else could they have been but Segestes’ men?’
‘Killing me wouldn’t free Segestes,’ said Arminius, confused.
‘Maybe they were here to try and rescue him, but the dogs chanced upon you while scouting out the village. Seeing who you were, a hothead loosed an arrow. The rest had to follow suit.’
Maelo’s reasoning made sense, thought Arminius, feeling a swelling anger. He heaved himself upright, clenching his jaw against the stabbing needles this elicited from his thigh.
Thusnelda laid a restraining hand on his chest. ‘You have to stay abed.’
‘I must talk to your father,’ Arminius snapped. ‘Did you know about his men?’ Hurt filled her eyes, and her hand dropped away. He felt an instant remorse. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘No, you shouldn’t!’ She rose and stepped away from the bed. ‘Do as you wish. Start the bleeding again. I don’t care.’
Arminius watched her go.
‘Maybe you’d best stay here and rest. Segestes can wait,’ advised Maelo.
‘Help me stand,’ ordered Arminius. ‘Nothing’s going to stop me giving the old bastard a going-over.’ He chuckled. ‘I should say, watching while you give him a going-over.’
The discomfort from his wound was so great that he had to ask Maelo for help before they’d reached the door. Even with his arm around Maelo’s broad shoulders, it took three times as long as normal to hobble to the longhouse where Segestes was being held. The eight warriors on guard leaped up, their faces concerned.
He made a shushing gesture. ‘I’ve had worse wounds from sharpening a sword,’ he added, low enough for Segestes not to hear.
The warriors responded with unconvinced looks.
‘Any news?’ asked Arminius.
‘Not a thing,’ replied the first warrior. ‘He has eaten, and had his walk. Like as not, he’s having a nap. That’s what he tends to do much of the time.’
‘We’ll wake him up,’ declared Arminius with an evil smile. ‘Fetch a bucket of water.’ One man hurried off, and he eased down on to the low bench used by the sentries and closed his eyes. He would rest out here, so he didn’t look like complete shit before Segestes.
His strength had rallied somewhat by the time the warrior returned with a slopping wooden pail. The locking bar was lifted from its hooks with gentle hands and placed on the ground. A few creaks were unavoidable when the door was opened, but there was no cry of alarm. One of the sentries eased within, soon returning with the news that Segestes was still asleep. His two men were awake, however. ‘They’ll keep quiet if they know what’s good for them,’ muttered Arminius. ‘Tie them up as soon as we’re inside. Silence them if needs be.’
In they went, on tiptoe, all ten of them. Segestes’ followers looked startled, and one asked what in Donar’s name they wanted, but Arminius’ warriors had swarmed forward and overpowered the pair, and gagged them, before too much noise had been made. It gave Arminius huge satisfaction that Segestes’ slumber continued through the scuffle. He lay on his straw-filled mattress, a blanket half-covering him. Loud snores echoed from his open mouth, and a trickle of saliva ran from one corner of his lips.
They drew near enough to stand right over him. The man with the bucket stood ready. Arminius paused, taking deep breaths to control the waves of pain radiating from his thigh. Thinking of the warriors who’d ambushed him helped. Ready at last, he nodded.
The contents of the pail landed on Segestes with a mighty splash. He jerked up, roaring with fright and shock. Arminius’ warriors hooted with amusement, but he kept his expression stony hard.
Spluttering, wiping his face, Segestes focused at last on Arminius. ‘What was that for, you bastard?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ retorted Arminius, jabbing a thumb at his bandaged thigh.
Segestes looked down, and back up again, confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I was attacked not long since, just outside the village. Six warriors, all Cherusci.’ Something flickered in Segestes’ eyes, and Arminius cried, ‘Ha! They were your men. Were they here to liberate you – was that it?’
‘You’re raving. The wound has given you a fever.’
‘Not yet it hasn’t.’ Arminius gave the largest of his warriors a nod. The man lunged forward and grabbed the front of Segestes’ tunic, heaving him to the floor. Segestes let out a cry of pain, and tried to move backwards, on his hands. A mighty kick to his belly drove the air from his lungs, however, and he collapsed on to his side, sobbing for breath.
Arminius motioned the warrior to stand back. He waited until Segestes had managed to sit up. ‘Did you ask Segimundus to send a party of men to rescue you?’
‘Aye.’
‘I knew it,’ cried Maelo.
‘I wouldn’t have cared if they had slain you, but they had no orders to do so,’ said Segestes.
Segestes seemed to be telling the truth, but Arminius was still furious. If Segimundus’ followers hadn’t been in the forest, he would not have been attacked. ‘Bring his followers over here.’
‘Those men have done nothing,’ Segestes croaked as the pair were dragged forward.
‘They would slay me given half a chance, just as the others tried to do,’ snapped Arminius. He glanced at Maelo. ‘Kill them.’
For several heartbeats, Segestes’ shouted objections mingled with the gagged men’s muffled protests. Then blood gouted from one warrior’s throat, reducing the noise by some degree. His corpse flopped down, slack-limbed. Maelo moved on to his next victim without pause, slitting his throat with expert precision. Fresh torrents of blood spattered, darkening patches of the earthen floor. When the second body had been heaped on top of the first, right in front of Segestes, Arminius hobbled forward to glare down at the old man.
Fire flashed in Segestes’ eyes, and Arminius felt a tiny thrill of fear. Confrontation was the best tactic, he decided. ‘Go on, try! Wounded or not, I’ll take you.’
Segestes sagged, like a wine skin pricked with a blade. ‘Do what you must. May Thusnelda never give you a child, let alone a son.’
If Arminius had had a weapon in his hands at that moment, he would have slain Segestes, so great was his rage. In, out, he breathed, several times, until he was calm again.
He reac
hed for the support of Maelo’s arm. ‘Beat the shit out of him. Nice and slow. Break a few bones, but don’t kill him, or leave him so hurt he’ll die.’ Arminius spoke in a voice quiet enough for Segestes not to hear. The attack in the forest had been unplanned, Arminius decided, and Thusnelda would never forgive him if he had her father murdered. He could live with the disapproval she’d shower him with because of the beating, however. Had he not a grievous wound, caused by Segestes’ men?
‘Donar take you, Arminius!’ shouted Segestes.
Arminius didn’t reply, or stay to watch the old man’s punishment. His strength was waning fast. From the comfort of his bed, he could consider what to do about Segimundus.
Enemies within could be as dangerous as those without.
Chapter XIV
TULLUS WATCHED AS Germanicus arrived at Vetera two days later. Straight-backed, cold-faced, he rode in at the head of a mixed force of more than two thousand auxiliaries. His use of non-Roman soldiery – an intentional move – was a stinging rebuke to Caecina and every legionary in the camp. It was a relief, however, that they weren’t needed – the day of slaughter that had begun with the trumpets’ call had brought the unrest to a gruesome close. Almost six hundred soldiers had been slain between the two legions. The majority were mutineers, but more than five score loyal men had also died in the bitter fighting. These were grievous losses, a sorrowful Germanicus declared on his tour of the battered camp, in which the signs of destruction and death were still widespread. ‘This has been damage rather than remedy,’ he chided Caecina – and then cast a reproving look at the other senior officers present. ‘It should have been carried out in a more controlled manner.’
Flushing, Caecina muttered an apology. The others, Tubero among them, took great interest in their belt buckles, or sword hilts.
Tullus wanted to say to Germanicus that it was his orders which had brought about the carnage, but he held his tongue. In truth, there was nothing to say that the killings – a necessary evil – would have gone more smoothly if an alternative method had been used.
