Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  If he had had the time, Arminius would have lingered until the arrival of winter, destroying every last piece of evidence that the Romans had ever come here. He’d have ground to dust every piece of pottery, carried off every weapon and set of mail and armour, burned anything made of wood. Once the flames were hot enough, even the legionaries’ bones – and those of their mules and horses – could have been reduced to ash.

  He rubbed a hand across weary eyes. One day, perhaps, the chance to erase all memories of Varus and his lost legions would come his way. For now, Arminius had to decide on which of Germanicus’ three armies to follow. They were each only a few days’ march to the west. Slow, encumbered with their artillery and wagons, they would be easy to catch, as long as he did not tarry over-long in this forest of bones.

  It galled Arminius that he had enough warriors to make meaningful pursuit of only one army, yet the fracturing of Germanicus’ forces also brought the odds into his favour. If the right place to spring an ambush presented itself, victory would be within Arminius’ grasp – he could feel it. Wiping two, three or even four legions from the face of the earth wouldn’t topple the empire, but the body blow it delivered would rock the emperor on his throne, far away in Rome. In the years since his triumph here, Arminius had delighted in the stories of the haunted Augustus, wandering his corridors at night, banging his head off doors and crying, ‘Quinctilius Varus, give me back my legions!’ Repeating the injury, delivering the same humiliation, would be a searing, savage test of his successor Tiberius’ mettle.

  Tiberius was no youth either, thought Arminius. He was an old man, with an old man’s aches and pains, and worries. The responsibilities of power would be weighing on his bowed shoulders. Excitement filled Arminius, set his nerves to tingling. If he slaughtered thousands of legionaries inside the next month, Tiberius’ course of aggressive campaigns in Germania would die a natural death. The legions would stay on their side of the river, the way whipped hounds cower in their kennels.

  A smile wiped away the scowl that had lasted since his failed attack. It was time to gather the chieftains again, and decide which enemy army they would destroy.

  ‘I say we hunt down Germanicus. Imagine slaying the emperor’s own kin!’ said Stick Thin in a triumphant voice. He glanced around the gathering, a score of chieftains sitting around a large fire in the centre of Arminius’ camp. Stick Thin frowned when only a few men voiced their agreement. ‘What better message could we send Tiberius?’

  ‘The empire has no shortage of capable generals,’ said Arminius, wishing that Stick Thin would shut up and listen to his betters – in particular, to him – and let them decide what to do. ‘One less will make no difference to their warlike policies here, be Germanicus royal scion or no.’

  ‘You say that, Arminius, because your desire to avenge Thusnelda burns bright in your heart.’ Stick Thin made a gesture that could have been interpreted as sympathetic, or irritated. ‘But not all men see the world as you do. If Tiberius loses Germanicus, who is dear to him, he will find that his appetite for conquest has forever been soured.’

  ‘In my mind, the grieving Tiberius would be likely to send even stronger forces against us. Do not forget either that the force with Germanicus is two legions strong. I doubt even your warriors could annihilate upwards of eight thousand legionaries,’ said Arminius, using his eyes to urge the chieftains into agreement. Inguiomerus, his uncle, gave him an approving look. A handful of others muttered ‘Aye’, but many others held their counsel. Arminius felt his anger growing. Why did he have to persuade them every time anything needed to be done? ‘We need to strike a single hammer blow, as we did six years ago.’

  ‘I say we can do both! My warriors are well capable of wiping out Germanicus and his escort. The majority of our force can stay with you, and attack one of the other Roman armies.’ Heads began to nod, and Stick Thin grinned. ‘What say you to that idea, Arminius?’

  Curse you for a fool. You’ll lead your warriors into a trap, or make a full-frontal attack, and all wind up dead, Arminius wanted to say. He held back, seeking the best way forward. At first appearances, he and the other chieftains were equals, yet he was the most experienced in the art of war – by a considerable degree. He was the man who’d engineered every last detail of the ambush against Varus. If he rubbed Stick Thin’s nose in the mud, however, he risked losing not just his support, but that of the others too.

  ‘You’re a solid man and a brave warrior,’ Arminius said. ‘Yet Germanicus is a first-class general. He’s shown that time and again, curse him, from his unexpected attacks on the Chatti to his kidnap of Thusnelda and rescue of Segestes.’

  Stick Thin drew himself up straight. ‘So I’m not clever enough to fight him?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ denied Arminius, thinking, Yes, it is. He adopted a flattering smile. ‘You’re a great chieftain, but you haven’t received the military training, the lessons in tactics that Germanicus has.’

  ‘Nor has any tribal leader, yet many have beaten the Romans in the past. You’re not the only man with such skill,’ jibed Stick Thin, eliciting a few laughs.

  Stung, Arminius longed to demand which chieftain had been responsible for the annihilation of three legions. Instead he raised his hands, palms upward, in a placatory gesture. ‘Of course I’m not. But it’s a question of discipline too. That was something I had to learn during my time with the Romans. Your warriors are famous, are they not, for being the first into every battle?’

  No one missed Arminius’ meaning. The Usipetes were hotheads, who never waited for the order to advance. A chorus of chuckles rose, and Stick Thin flushed.

  ‘Their bravery is beyond doubt, but if they charged Germanicus at the wrong moment, they’d be butchered the same way Varus and his legions were. I need you and your men,’ said Arminius, speaking a mixture of truth and flattery. ‘Lose them, and we risk becoming too weak to prevent the Romans doing as they will.’

  Stick Thin harrumphed, part pleased, part annoyed. ‘I don’t know why you’re worried. Germanicus wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  They stared at one another, neither willing to back down. If I continue in this vein, thought Arminius, Stick Thin will take his warriors and leave. Nothing bound them to this venture but a shared hatred of the enemy. Arminius felt fresh resentment towards the Romans, whose legionaries were sworn to fight for whichever general led them. ‘I have said my piece,’ he cried. ‘What think the rest of you? Should we split our forces, or keep them together?’

  ‘I’ll see that Germanicus never troubles us again,’ said Stick Thin, sticking out his pigeon chest.

  Arminius had to hide a smile at Stick Thin’s posturing. His amusement soon died away, for the battle wasn’t over. He watched with hidden but growing nervousness as the chieftains gathered in little huddles. Stay with me, great Donar, he asked. I need your support still – and theirs. I cannot do this with my tribe alone.

  By the time the chieftains had finished conferring, it felt to Arminius as if a whole day had dragged by. Big Chin, the Angrivarii leader, was the spokesman. ‘Dividing our forces would be unwise, and Germanicus is an able general with two legions, plus cavalry. The Usipetes should stay here, with us.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Stick Thin. ‘Why?’

  ‘United, we’re far stronger. Germanicus could defeat any of us on our own, even Arminius.’ Big Chin cast a glance at Arminius, who was quick to say: ‘True enough.’

  ‘You might lose,’ added Big Chin to a general rumble of agreement.

  ‘That would never happen!’ Stick Thin puffed out his chest again. ‘Are we Arminius’ lap dogs then, to do everything he wishes?’

  Big Chin bristled. ‘Arminius can be an arrogant prick …’ At this, everyone laughed; Arminius joined in, half-heartedly, and Big Chin continued: ‘… but did you see him telling us what we should think? We’re free men like you. We make up our own minds.’

  ‘We do,’ said Stick Thin, his colour deepening.

  �
�So are you with us?’ boomed Big Chin.

  Arminius held his breath as Stick Thin hesitated.

  ‘I am,’ Stick Thin said at last. ‘Twenty heads are wiser than one, I suppose.’

  Arminius exhaled, long and slow. Thank you, Donar, for allowing others do the work for me. There was no doubt in his mind that if he’d continued to argue with Stick Thin, he would have attempted a madcap mission to assassinate Germanicus. Perhaps he would have succeeded, but Arminius doubted it.

  ‘Who shall we attack then, Stertinius or Caecina?’ Stick Thin threw the question not at Arminius, but at the entire gathering.

  In Arminius’ mind, there was only one choice. Caecina had the largest army: four legions and a good number of auxiliaries. He was also headed for a patch of rough country, with plenty of forests and bogland. His intent was surely to traverse the wooden road built fifteen years before by another campaigning Roman general. But Caecina didn’t know, as Arminius did, that the road had fallen into considerable disrepair, or that the location begged to be used for an ambush. His inclination was to demand that they follow Caecina, but sensitive to the other chieftains’ pride and the unexpected comment about his arrogance, he held back.

  ‘Our best option is to attack Caecina,’ said Big Chin, glancing first at Arminius and then at the rest. ‘His is the biggest army, but the path he seems to be taking is a good one for us to lay in wait on. The wooden road is in pieces, or so I hear. There’s no chance the artillery or the wagons will be able to travel on it. We can attack at our leisure, while the fools are trying to construct a new surface.’

  The chieftains liked the sound of that, nodding and smiling at one another. Stick Thin continued to look put out, but he didn’t protest. ‘Arminius?’ asked Big Chin.

  ‘Ambushing Caecina would be my choice.’

  ‘Does anyone wish to attack Stertinius?’ Big Chin’s eyes roved over the gathering. ‘No? We have a decision then. Let us follow Caecina, and pick the right moment to fall on him and his mongrel legionaries. Four eagles will make a fine haul!’

  A good-natured argument began over which tribe should have an eagle. Big Chin watched, his face amused. Arminius moved to his side. ‘My thanks,’ he muttered.

  ‘Destroying Caecina’s force will deliver the clearest message to Rome. To succeed, we will require every spear that’s available.’ Big Chin gave Arminius a hard look. ‘It’s still a pity that the Usipetes aren’t going after Germanicus.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘You’re not our king, Arminius. You don’t rule us.’

  ‘I know that. I—’

  Big Chin cut him off. ‘You may be the best general among us, but too often you act as if you’re the only one with a brain.’

  It was rare indeed for Arminius to be lost for words, but he had no glib reply. After a short, awkward silence, he murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Save your apologies,’ said Big Chin with a brusque gesture. ‘Start treating us like your equals, not your subjects, or the Cherusci will end up fighting the Romans on their own.’

  Arminius caught Stick Thin regarding him with a sour expression. Still smarting from Big Chin’s rebuke, he wanted to respond with an obscene gesture. Instead he gave Stick Thin a measured nod, as if he were an equal. Stick Thin’s face blackened, and he looked away. I’ll win him over again, Arminius resolved, but Big Chin’s intervention had brought home the narrowness of his escape. He’d had no idea how angry the other chieftains were feeling towards him. In future, he would have to be a great deal more diplomatic. Avenging Thusnelda and defeating the Romans would be impossible without allies.

  And yet, he thought with rising excitement, his force had not splintered.

  Caecina’s legions would soon feel its full force, and the news of their massacre would shake Rome to its foundations.

  Chapter XXVIII

  ‘FUCK,’ SAID TULLUS, staring at the crumbling, sodden remnants of planking that led off into the distance, disappearing amid a confusion of heather, gorse and mud. He was on the way back to Vetera with Caecina’s army, and this mockery of a road across the bog was supposed to be their route, but a blind man could see that it was falling to pieces. The Long Bridges, it was called, but Tullus doubted a single one remained. No one appeared to have laid a hand to a plank of it since Ahenobarbus’ legions had constructed the road fifteen years before.

  There was no sun – Tullus hadn’t seen it in days. Dense layers of cloud pressed down from overhead, deadening the landscape’s colour. Light rain fell in a constant and depressing drizzle. Euuhh-eeee. Euuhh-eeee-uh. From somewhere off to his left came the high-pitched, mournful cry of a crane. Euuhh-eeee. Tullus scowled. Like as not, the stupid bird was calling to its mate, but it seemed to be asking what he was doing here. I’m here following my general, Tullus answered. You went into a similar place because of another general, remember, his cynical side added. Varus. Unsettling memories stirred in Tullus’ mind, making him scowl.

  The scouts had brought news of the road’s catastrophic state to the vanguard some time before. Tullus had hoped they’d been mistaken, or at least had exaggerated what they had seen, but it was clear their assessment had been correct. The grim faces of the Fifth Legion’s other senior centurions – standing nearby – showed that they felt the same way as Tullus.

  ‘Fuck,’ Tullus said, and again for good measure, ‘Fuck.’

  Cordus threw him a sour glance. ‘Swearing isn’t going to get us anywhere.’

  ‘It might not, but I’m with Tullus,’ said Bassius, the primus pilus, with a chuckle. A thin figure with a gaunt complexion and a mouth that had been left lopsided by a sword cut, he was tough, courageous and popular with everyone. Bassius had also always treated Tullus with respect, which raised him in Tullus’ esteem no end. ‘Fuck it all to Hades,’ said Bassius. ‘And back.’

  Cordus fumed as everyone but he laughed.

  ‘We’re going to have to build the whole cursed thing again, or most of it,’ observed Bassius. He eyed Tullus. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Several centurions who were more senior to Tullus looked disgruntled that they hadn’t been asked the question, but Tullus was beyond caring. He took a few steps on to the road. Stagnant brown water oozed at once from the rotten wood, and he could feel the planks sinking into the semi-liquid ground beneath. He walked on for fifty paces, taking care where he placed his feet. A good number of the strips of wood that formed the road had rotted away in their entirety. Others broke beneath his weight. The surface that remained was irregular and treacherous, and Tullus saw no reason to think that the road would improve as it led westward. According to the scouts, the terrain – wooded hills on either side, with plentiful streams discharging into the bog – went on for miles.

  He tramped back to an expectant-looking Bassius, who demanded, ‘Well?’

  ‘The scouts were right, sir. A few soldiers, perhaps even a century or two might cross, but no more than that.’ Tullus could picture men’s legs disappearing to the knee in limb-sucking mud, could see panicked mules buried to their bellies in the brown morass. Hard though it was to walk on foot, he’d done the right thing to send his horse back to the wagon train. ‘The legionaries might pass by, but there’s no way the carts, in particular those with the artillery, could make it. As for the bridges, well …’

  They considered their surroundings in grim silence. A quagmire dotted with bog cotton and goatweed sprawled away on either side, laced by numerous rivulets and streams. The low, tree-covered hills beyond could be swarming with hostile tribesmen, thought Tullus. To the east and south – where they’d come from – lay nothing but hundreds of miles of hostile territory. The sea lay to the north, but Germanicus’ force needed every ship to carry them along the storm-ridden coastline to the safety of the Flevo Lacus. The only option left to Caecina’s army was the rotten planking before them. The situation could be even worse a few miles into the bog, thought Tullus. The Germans might have destroyed the road entirely there.

  ‘A
rminius and his mongrels are watching us even now, I’d wager,’ said Bassius.

  ‘They will be, sir.’ Tullus could sense the enemy, could almost feel their hatred pulsing through the humid, mosquito-filled air. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they show themselves.’

  ‘Let them come,’ said Bassius, scowling. He eyed the other officers. ‘Hate it or love it, this shithole is home for the next few days, brothers. Caecina will have us build a camp on that level ground to the left, or I’m no judge.’

  ‘We’re going to need a lot of timber, sir. Shall I take a look at the nearest trees?’ offered Tullus. ‘It might allow me to assess the Germans’ strength.’

  ‘A good plan,’ said Bassius with an approving nod. ‘Cordus, patrol the road as far as the first bridge. Four of the remaining cohorts are to form a screen, two to the left, and two to the right of the flat ground. The rest will start digging the fortifications.’

  Tullus walked the length of his cohort’s position before they set out, addressing his men. Few would be happy to present themselves on a plate to the enemy, as they were possibly about to do. He reminded them, therefore, of what had happened the last time Arminius’ warriors had tried an ambush. ‘We routed them, brothers, didn’t we? Sent them running back into the forest with their mangy tails tucked between their hind legs. If even one of the filth shows his face up there, we’ll do the same to him. We’re not about to let those sheep-humping maggots stop us from seeing the whores of Vetera again, are we?’

  ‘No!’ they roared back at him. Some laughed, and others made obscene gestures. Tullus wasn’t sure if they were mimicking what they’d do to the prostitutes in the vicus, or to Arminius’ warriors, but it didn’t matter: their spirits had been raised. When he led them off, unencumbered by their yokes, they followed with a will.