by Ben Kane
Saxa drank like a newborn baby on its mother’s breast. He relinquished the wine bag with reluctance.
‘You will sleep well tonight.’
Saxa lifted a clay jug that had been lying by his side, and winked. ‘I can even piss without going out in the rain.’
‘Trust you to have every comfort arranged!’ said Piso with a chuckle. He gripped his friend’s good hand. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow evening.’
‘You gathering timber or road-building?’
‘Working on the road, Tullus says.’
‘Were there many attacks there today?’
‘A lot, aye.’
Saxa’s face grew sombre. ‘Stay alive.’
‘I will. You too.’ They clasped hands again, hard.
As Piso walked away, he did not look back.
Piso wandered towards his century’s tent positions in a foul mood. His pleasure at seeing his friend had been soured by their last exchange. Saxa shared his concern that the enemy’s attacks would intensify, and that casualties would mount even further. The same doom couldn’t befall us again, Piso thought. Could it? He was unable to shake off the gnawing worry that Arminius was about to repeat his success of six years before. Old, terrible memories returned: the shock of the first German attack, the miles of corpse-filled mud, and the terrified wails of the civilians left in their camp. Piso blinked them away, cursing, and began swigging his wine. There was just enough in the bag to give him dreamless sleep, he decided.
Laughter carried from a nearby tent. ‘Got you, Benignus!’ said a voice. ‘Pay up.’
A muttered protest was drowned out by a chorus of voices. ‘Aemilius won, you dog!’ ‘Give the man his money.’ ‘Fair’s fair, Benignus. You lost.’
Piso hesitated, and his fingers traced the outline of his two pairs of dice, secure in his purse. A few games would be just the thing to make his worries disappear. If he won some coin, even better. Slapping his hand off the tent’s wet leather, he cried, ‘Ho, brothers! Have you space for another gambler?’
After a short silence, a voice said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
Piso waited as someone unlaced the flaps. Fortuna, be good to me, he prayed.
‘There.’ A wiry legionary was profiled in the dim light cast by the oil lamps within. ‘Enter, friend.’
‘My thanks.’ Piso squeezed inside after his host. The tent’s warm interior was confining, as his own was. Eight men and their equipment filled it from side wall to side wall and end to end. Weapons and segmented armour were piled by the entrance, but the soldiers with mail shirts had kept theirs on. No one had taken their sandals off. ‘You’re ready for a fight,’ Piso observed.
‘Our centurion insisted. He’d have had us wear our plate too, except it’s impossible to sleep in,’ grumbled the wiry man who’d let him in. ‘Prick.’
Piso swallowed his compliment about their readiness. ‘All centurions are hard taskmasters.’
‘Yours is the same, no doubt. Find a seat. I’m Aemilius, by the way. Second Century, Eighth Cohort.’ The wiry man eased down beside a big soldier with bad pox scars. ‘This prick’s Benignus. He’s down to his last few coins.’
‘Nothing new about that,’ sneered one of the four men opposite, a thin-faced individual with a hook nose. ‘I’m Gaius.’
‘But you can call him Beaky,’ said his neighbour, a man with a short, bristling beard.
Beaky gave him an elbow in the ribs. ‘Shut up, Pubes.’
Piso hid his amusement at Pubes’ apt nickname. It was a wonder no one had ever thought to use the same one for Fenestela. ‘Piso, they call me. I’m in the First Century of the Seventh.’ He sat down beside Beaky, opposite Aemilius. As the other four legionaries introduced themselves, Aemilius leaned over and shook Piso’s wine bag. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Aye.’ Knowing it would be drained, Piso took a big slug before he handed it over. The bag passed from man to man, with constant complaints from those at the tent’s far end about how much was being drunk.
‘Not bad.’ Aemilius wiped his lips. ‘Gratitude.’ His comrades echoed his thanks.
‘A guest shouldn’t come empty-handed,’ said Piso, rummaging for his second best pair of dice. Benignus swept them up from the tent floor at once, his eyes suspicious.
‘Rigged, are they?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Piso protested, thankful that he’d left his other dice, which were weighted, nestling at the bottom of his purse.
Benignus rolled them, getting a four and a three. He grunted and threw again. This time a five and a one stared up at him, but it wasn’t until he’d made another half-dozen rolls that he handed Piso’s dice back. ‘They’re all right,’ he growled.
‘How about yours?’ challenged Piso. He and Benignus stared at one another in a none-too-amiable way, and the tent’s temperature rose.
‘Fear not. We wouldn’t let the bugger cheat us,’ said Aemilius, making a placatory gesture.
‘Of course,’ said Piso, pulling a smile. ‘But I’m no cheat either.’
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ advised Beaky. ‘We didn’t know you until a few moments ago.’
Piso drew a quick breath. ‘Tricksters don’t bring their own wine – at least not the ones I’ve met,’ he joked, glad that this raised a laugh. The tension that had prickled the air disappeared. ‘What will we play for?’ he asked, rattling the contents of his purse. From memory, there were four denarii, ten sestertii and an assortment of lower denomination coins within. If he was careful, it was enough to while away a couple of hours.
‘We’ll start off easy. Poor Benignus here is sat on the bones of his arse,’ said Aemilius with a wink. Benignus let out an angry rumble, but didn’t protest as it was decided that an as per man was the cost for each game.
Pubes triumphed first, and then it was Beaky’s turn. Piso was victorious in the third and fourth games, but Aemilius took the fifth. Benignus cheered as he won the next three rolls, recovering most of his previous losses. They played on, with no particular individual winning to excess. Aemilius produced a small lump of hard cheese, and Beaky some olives. A convivial atmosphere descended as tales were told, blisters compared and aspersions cast on everyone from their centurions to Caecina and the cavalry, who got to ride home while they footsloggers had to walk. There was no mention of Arminius or the tribesmen for some time, but it was inevitable that the topic should arise in the end.
‘What were you at today?’ asked Aemilius of Piso. ‘Felling trees, same as us?’
‘Aye. A miserable task, but repairing the road can’t be any better. The Germans attacked the men there almost as much.’
‘Your unit suffer many casualties?’ This from Pubes.
‘Some. Two men from my century died. A tent mate got wounded, but not too bad,’ replied Piso. ‘I was on my way back from visiting him when I stopped by your tent. And your cohort?’
‘Sixty-seven dead, and more than twice that number injured,’ revealed Aemilius with an unhappy twitch of his lips. ‘We were the worst hit cohort in the Fifth, they say.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Piso, grateful for his unit’s lighter losses.
Aemilius cast a look at his seven comrades. ‘Our contubernium was blessed today, eh, brothers? We’re all here. Arms and legs, balls and pricks intact.’
‘For how much longer, eh?’ grumbled Benignus. ‘We’re walking into another trap, I know it.’
‘We’re already in it, you big ox,’ observed Pubes, his face sour. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Piss off.’ Benignus rubbed at his phallus amulet. ‘I have a bad feeling about this place. About the whole fucking “Long Bridges” road. It seems like nothing more than a march to the gates of Hades – through the River Styx.’
Everyone answered at the same time. ‘Aye.’ ‘You’re right.’ ‘Why did Caecina ever lead us here?’ ‘It’s as if he let Arminius tell him where to go.’
‘Things aren’t that bad, brothers,’ urged Piso.
�
��How aren’t they?’ demanded Beaky in truculent manner. ‘By rights some of us should be lying in that cursed pit by the wall. Half this contubernium will be in it tomorrow night, if Fortuna has anything to do with it. Treacherous old cunt.’
‘Listen, I used to be in the Eighteenth—’ Piso began.
‘Eh?’ interrupted Aemilius. ‘You don’t look half old enough.’
‘I was a wet-behind-the-ears recruit.’
‘Yet you survived?’ Benignus’ expression was disbelieving.
‘The Fates took their eyes off me, I guess,’ said Piso. ‘I also have Tullus for a centurion. You’ve heard of him?’
Every legionary nodded his head in assent, and Aemilius said, ‘Many men regard Tullus as the best centurion in the legion. Even better than the primus pilus.’
‘I’d agree with that. So would everyone in his century,’ Piso replied, his eyes bright with passion.
‘He’s got to be better than ours,’ said Benignus. He stared at Piso, sizing him up, before adding, ‘It’s a pity we didn’t do for the officious prick during the mutiny.’
No one agreed with Benignus’ comment, but Piso thought he caught a couple of the others nodding. ‘That business is finished with, thank the gods,’ said Pubes, his smile a little false. ‘What’s more concerning is where we find ourselves at the moment. What are we to do?’
‘March out of here, along the wooden road,’ said Piso, incredulous that another option was even being contemplated.
‘Why not face the savages on the flat ground?’ Pubes thumped one fist into the other. ‘Crush them is what we’d do!’
‘For a start, there isn’t enough space for the whole army to form up,’ Piso said. ‘Second, Arminius is too wily to lead his men out of the trees. That’s not how he destroyed Varus’ legions.’ His eyes roved over the others’ faces. To his dismay, they didn’t appear to believe him. ‘German warriors can’t beat us in open combat.’
‘That’s my exact point. Stick to the flat ground and we have nothing to fear,’ said Pubes with the smug conviction of someone who won’t hear an opinion opposed to his own. Most of his comrades muttered their agreement, chief among them Benignus and Beaky.
‘I’m not marching down that road,’ Pubes continued. ‘It’ll be the death of us all. If the fucking Germans don’t get us, the bog will.’ Again his companions rumbled in assent.
‘How many of you feel like this?’ asked Piso.
‘Plenty,’ said Aemilius, entering the conversation at last. ‘You and your comrades must think the same thing, surely?’
‘Not in my century. Tullus rescued too many of us from that cursed forest. Even if that road does lead to Hades, we’ll follow him down it. I’d say the rest of the cohort will stay …’ Piso was about to use the word ‘loyal’ but the glint in Aemilius’ eyes stopped him. ‘… with him,’ he finished.
‘I wouldn’t be so certain,’ said Aemilius.
Benignus added, ‘There’s been plenty of talk since we set up camp. Most of the Fifth and Twenty-First have had enough.’
‘Things won’t come to that,’ said Piso with a dismissive gesture. Inside, though, he worried how this level of discontent had passed him by.
It felt far too like the recent mutiny.
Chapter XXX
ARMINIUS WAS STANDING among the trees in the spot where they grew closest to the huge Roman camp. With him were Maelo, his uncle Inguiomerus and Big Chin; a score of his best warriors stood guard to either side. The darkness concealed them from the enemy’s position, less than two hundred paces away. It also prevented Arminius from seeing much more than the structure’s forbidding outline. Now and then, he spied a sentry walking along the walkway that spanned the ramparts, but that was it. Thanks to the loud singing coming from his own camp – instigated by him – he could hear nothing from within the Roman walls either.
No matter, Arminius thought. The bastards won’t be getting much sleep. Let them stew in their own fear. In the morning, we’ll renew the fight.
‘Why don’t we attack in a few hours?’ Inguiomerus’ voice came from his left. ‘Men’s spirits are at their lowest ebb in the dark of the night.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Big Chin commented. ‘My warriors are ready.’
‘And mine,’ said Inguiomerus at once.
You didn’t stand with me six years ago, Uncle. This time around, you were slow to join forces, yet all of a sudden you want to be at the forefront of every attack, thought Arminius, feeling the anger he’d long held back seeping forth. Out loud, he said, ‘My men are prepared too, but an assault tonight would be a mistake.’
‘The Romans are reeling from what we did to them,’ Inguiomerus shot back. ‘Our warriors must have slain half a thousand of the filth.’
‘With respect, Uncle, they are not reeling. Caecina’s army numbers almost twenty thousand men. We destroyed perhaps a fortieth of his total force. That’s a tiny proportion, and not enough to break their spirit.’
Inguiomerus huffed, but even in the darkness Arminius could see that Big Chin had taken his meaning, which was a start. He adopted his bluffest tone. ‘Let’s wear them down first, Uncle. Prevent them from sleeping. Sabotage their repairs to the road, so they have to start afresh each morning. Harass their work parties, as well as the soldiers tasked with defending those at toil. Drive off their mules and horses, perhaps even steal a standard or two.’
‘These are the words of a beardless youth, who hasn’t got the balls to take on an enemy face-to-face,’ Inguiomerus scoffed. ‘Do you doubt your warriors’ courage? Has the loss of your wife made you afraid?’
If Inguiomerus hadn’t led more than four thousand warriors, Arminius would have spitted him then and there, so great was his rage. He stared at the Roman camp and ground his jaws.
Maelo stepped in. ‘Arminius has no need to prove his bravery to anyone, Inguiomerus. What he did six years ago was demonstration enough.’ He added in a caustic tone, ‘I don’t recall you – or your warriors – being present when we slaughtered Varus’ legions.’
‘Nor I,’ said Big Chin.
‘You question my courage?’ Inguiomerus’ voice had sunk to a hiss.
‘More your loyalty,’ replied Maelo.
‘Watch your mouth,’ cried Inguiomerus.
‘Or what?’ demanded Maelo.
Arminius sensed the pair stepping apart and wheeled around before the situation degenerated further. ‘Come now. Let’s not argue.’
‘Maelo is treading on thin ice,’ snarled Inguiomerus.
So are you, you self-serving prick, thought Arminius. Maelo speaks the truth and nothing more. You are my own flesh and blood, yet you did not support my attack on Varus. Now you have the cheek to dispute my mettle? And yet he knew that to say either thing would risk losing his uncle’s hard-earned support.
Instead, he clapped first Inguiomerus, then Maelo, on the shoulder. ‘Today has been long and hard. Tempers fray when men are tired. Falling out between ourselves will achieve but one thing, and that’s helping the Romans.’ Arminius glared at Maelo, willing him also to make amends.
‘True enough,’ said Maelo. ‘I spoke in haste, Inguiomerus. I have no wish to question your honour. Let us remain allies.’ He stuck out his right hand.
Inguiomerus stared at Maelo without reacting. A heartbeat passed. Two.
Make him accept it, Great Donar, Arminius asked. I need his warriors.
‘We have a common enemy, Inguiomerus,’ said Big Chin. ‘And much to do in the coming days.’
Inguiomerus’ eyes swivelled to Big Chin, and back to Maelo. ‘We have a common enemy,’ repeated Inguiomerus, gripping Maelo’s hand at last. Arminius offered his hand then, and his uncle took it. Arminius’ distrust of him wasn’t eased. Inguiomerus’ gesture meant nothing – and yet he hadn’t walked away. He still wanted to defeat the Romans.
‘My warriors are about to divert the streams that flow down to the bog,’ revealed Arminius. ‘In the morning, the Romans will find that today’s work has
been ruined. Their morale will be lowered even more – and then we shall fall on them.’
Big Chin laughed. ‘My men will help.’
‘An assault now would be more effective,’ Inguiomerus grumbled. ‘But I suppose we can leave it for another night.’ He stalked off, without offering his warriors’ assistance.
‘Why won’t he just give up the idea?’ Arminius muttered, his frustration gnawing at him like a dog on a bone. ‘Attacking Roman fortifications is almost as unwise as fighting them in open battle. You both know that. I know that. Why doesn’t he?’
‘Inguiomerus covets the glory you won for yourself, I’d wager,’ said Maelo.
‘He doesn’t like being treated as if he’s your follower. He is your equal, Arminius, as am I. Remember what I said,’ observed Big Chin. With a cordial nod, he too strode off. ‘My warriors will be ready whenever you are,’ he called over his shoulder.
Arminius stared into the darkness, brooding. His alliance held, but it wouldn’t take much for the whole thing to smash into a thousand pieces, like a clay jar dropped on a hard surface.
Dawn was breaking, and Arminius was standing in the open, close to the beginning of the wooden road. He used the back of his arm to rub at his gritty eyes. He couldn’t use his hands, which were caked with mud from digging all night. It was growing dangerous to be here, he decided. The enemy sentries hadn’t seen them yet, but the mist that had coated the land was dissipating, and within the camp the trumpets had just sounded, summoning the legionaries from their blankets. Arminius had paced up and down several times, assessing his warriors’ labours. He had no need to do it again, yet a sense of devilment kept him walking the boggy ground. He wanted the Romans to see him and his men.
‘Have we done enough?’ He directed the question at Maelo, who was knee-deep in water, using a spade to slice out the sides of a channel that guided one of the larger streams towards a section of still-usable planking.
Maelo straightened and cast a look at the road, which was under a handspan of murky brown water. ‘I’d say it’s been a good night’s work. Caecina’s soldiers will go nowhere today, except to the underworld,’ he added with a leer.
