Hunting the Eagles

by Ben Kane

  In this stinking, endless bogland, that was the only thing that mattered.

  Chapter XLII

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN, and Arminius was sitting on a blanket by his fire, sharpening his sword. Even with the flames, the light was poor. There was no need to do this routine, mindless task now, but he needed something to take his mind off what had happened. The bag of wine by his feet was one method. Scouring his weapon was another. His first efforts, with a damp rag cloth, had washed off the caked blood. There was no removing the ichor from the junction of blade and hilt – it tended to soak in there – but Arminius regarded that deep-lying stain as part of the sword’s substance. He didn’t want to clean away all evidence of the men he’d wounded and slain.

  He squinted along the blade, searching for the nicks left from impacts with other metal objects – swords, shield rims, helmets. Finding three close together, he ran his pumice stone over the area with firm, regular strokes, keeping it angled just so towards the steel. Six strokes one way, six the opposite. Arminius studied the sword again, could no longer see two of the marks, but the third lingered. He concentrated on the area again, working the stone until no trace of the damage remained. On he moved, to another part of the blade. It was satisfying work, easy to focus on, and because he’d done it so many times before, a pleasure rather than a burden.

  ‘There you are.’ Maelo had appeared.

  Arminius grunted, but didn’t look up. Their disastrous attack would have to be discussed, but he didn’t want to do it now. Having an empty mind at times such as this was a useful thing. He pointed the sword towards the flames, searching for more imperfections.

  ‘Thirsty?’ asked Maelo.

  ‘No.’ Spotting another nick, Arminius began to hone it down.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘No.’ The stone made a gentle, scraping sound as it slid over the blade, and repeated itself as he dragged the pumice the opposite way.

  ‘Want to talk?’

  ‘No.’ Arminius ran the stone over and back, over and back. He rubbed at the spot with a finger, could feel nothing but smooth steel. The edge was keen there too. Again aiming the sword at the fire, he peered along its length.

  ‘Arminius.’

  He didn’t react.

  ‘Arminius.’ Maelo’s voice was harder this time.

  He raised his head, gave his second-in-command a cold glance.

  ‘What happened today wasn’t your fault.’

  Despite his intentions, Arminius’ fury burst free. ‘The whole thing was a fucking disaster – from beginning to end!’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault – you tried to stop the attack.’

  ‘Tried? Much use it did the poor whoresons who lie dead out there.’ Arminius made an angry gesture towards the bog. ‘How many were slain?’

  Maelo shrugged. ‘No one knows yet. Six, seven thousand at least.’

  ‘Wasted lives! Men who won’t be there to fight next year – if I can even rally the tribes again.’ Arminius curled his lip. ‘What number were Cherusci?’

  ‘Three, four hundred. Far fewer than there would have been if you’d run, as Inguiomerus did.’

  ‘The faithless dog made no effort to hold his warriors together. I should have gutted him this morning and taken charge of them.’

  Maelo raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you really think they’d have followed you after that?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it might have stopped the attack altogether. Donar curse the other chieftains for being headstrong fools, for listening to Inguiomerus!’ Arminius flung down his sword and pumice stone, and stared into the flames, scowling.

  Maelo watched him for several moments, then he said, ‘It’s done. It’s over.’

  Arminius bunched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Only when the sensation began to leave his fingers did he relax his grip. ‘It’s so frustrating to see months’ worth of planning pissed away! To know that thousands of brave men died needless deaths. And all because my uncle is – or was – an empty-headed, over-confident fool.’ He cocked his head. ‘Has there been any sign of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good riddance to the dog.’

  ‘What about the Romans? They haven’t reached safety yet. It’s three days’ hard march to the open ground near the river.’

  ‘Not everyone is like you, Maelo,’ said Arminius. ‘Our warriors are the finest in the land, but I doubt they have the belly for another assault. There’s no chance that the other tribes would take part – they’ve been hounded to within a hair’s breadth of their lives. Even if our men would help us attack Caecina, four thousand spears can do little against so many legions. Our campaign is over until next spring.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ admitted Maelo, glowering.

  Bitterness filled Arminius anew, and he kicked out against a projecting log, pushing it into the blaze. A stream of orange-white sparks trailed up into the night sky. Forgive me, Thusnelda, Arminius thought. I have wronged you twice over. I didn’t protect you and our unborn child from the enemy. Now I have failed to avenge you.

  ‘They’ll be back next year,’ said Maelo. ‘The fate of the Marsi and the Chatti will be the talk of every longhouse this winter. Recruits won’t be hard to find. You will raise a new army.’

  It was true, thought Arminius. The tribes had been defeated, but that did not mean they were altogether beaten, that their courage had gone, never to return.

  ‘Arminius!’ Osbert appeared out of the darkness. Blood caked his arms, and dark lines ringed his eyes. ‘Inguiomerus has returned, badly wounded.’

  ‘Take me to him,’ ordered Arminius, sweeping his sword into its sheath. ‘Maybe I’ll finish what the Romans didn’t.’

  Maelo’s face grew troubled. ‘If it has to be done, let me or Osbert take care of it. Such things need to happen in the dark of the night, with no witnesses.’

  ‘You’d best be somewhere else altogether,’ added Osbert.

  Arminius threw them an approving look. ‘Let’s see how the land lies before we make that decision. Come with me.’

  Things weren’t dreadful in the section of the camp occupied by Arminius’ followers. They didn’t have tents – no one did, thanks to the Romans’ pursuit – but they had their weapons, and their pride. Elsewhere was a different matter, and the journey to Inguiomerus’ tent was an unpleasant one. Bands of stragglers were still coming in, their wounds, dejected expressions and lack of spears and shields graphic evidence of their ordeal. The injured and dying sprawled everywhere between the trees. The few individuals with medical knowledge were hard at work, bandaging, cauterising and administering herbal tonics. Piles of corpses – those whom it had been impossible to save, or who had expired before being treated – lay in great piles. No barritus resonated in the cold night air – the chant had been replaced by a constant, low moaning, and calls for dressings and bowls of hot water.

  Arminius kept his head down and pressed on. He’d seen to his own men already. There would be opportunity the next day to move among these casualties, praising and commiserating. To ensure that the warriors’ hatred of Rome had not been extinguished by their defeat. To plant fresh hope in their weary, grieving hearts.

  Arminius’ identity was enough to see them admitted to Inguiomerus’ spacious lean-to, constructed from a mixture of hides and blankets. Two warriors walked before and after the trio, however, making Arminius exchange glances with Maelo and Osbert. The distrust he felt towards his uncle was mutual, it seemed.

  Inguiomerus was lying flat on his back, a heavy bandage strapped around his left thigh. Another encased the top of his head. ‘What a surprise,’ he croaked as Arminius approached.

  The bearded, robed priest who’d been tending Inguiomerus rose, acknowledged Arminius and moved to the side of the lean-to. ‘Inguiomerus is tired and needs to sleep,’ he said, before beginning to pack up his vessels and instruments.

  With a little jerk of his head, Inguiomerus directed his warriors in front of Arminius to place themselves on eith
er side of him. The pair behind Arminius and his companions stayed where they were. ‘Nephew,’ said Inguiomerus, ‘have you come to gloat?’

  It would have given Arminius considerable satisfaction to do so, but he knew that taking the high ground now would destroy any chance of keeping Inguiomerus within the fold. For all that Arminius had talked about finishing the Romans’ job, he needed his uncle. Widely liked and respected, he had thousands of warriors in his faction of the Cherusci tribe. Arminius didn’t have the time or the energy to win them over. ‘I came because you are my kin. Is your injury serious?’

  ‘The priest says the wound is clean. I’ll have a limp when it’s healed, but I will be able to fight.’ Inguiomerus’ eyes were on Arminius, needle-sharp. ‘Have you naught else to say to me?’

  ‘The decision to attack the Roman camp this morning was unwise, but it was made by the majority. I have to respect that.’ Arminius was a good liar, but this was a real test. He waited, a little anxious, as Inguiomerus studied him.

  At length, his uncle’s frown eased. ‘It’s good to know that you can be humble. You may be surprised, but I can also. It’s clear now that the assault this morning was doomed to fail. We should have waited until the Romans had left the protection of their defences, as you suggested. It saddens me that so many warriors had to perish before I understood that. Their deaths will weigh on my conscience for evermore.’

  Arminius could see no signs of guile in Inguiomerus’ face, and his suspicion eased a little. ‘I too am grieving. It was a brutal lesson.’

  ‘Because of me, our last chance to defeat the Romans this year has gone.’ Inguiomerus’ voice was bitter.

  That’s right, thought Arminius, his fury towards his uncle threatening to rekindle, but the bridge-building needed to continue, so he dampened it down. ‘The coming of spring will grant us fresh opportunities. Every tribe who fought today will want vengeance for their dead. With Donar’s aid, they will help us defeat the Romans once and for all.’

  ‘The tribes need a leader.’ Inguiomerus broke off as a fit of coughing took him.

  Arminius waited, his face patient, mind racing.

  ‘They need a single leader,’ said Inguiomerus at length. ‘You should be that man. You proved your worth six years ago, when you brought together the tribes and then destroyed Varus and his army. It was you who united us again this summer. If you’d had your way, Caecina’s head would be nailed to the nearest tree this night, and the corpses of his legionaries decorating the bogs for ten miles in every direction.’

  ‘Your words are music to my ears, uncle,’ said Arminius. ‘You will stand with me, then, when the Romans return?’

  ‘I will, and so will my warriors.’ Inguiomerus’ expression had grown fierce. He reached up with his right hand, and they shook, hard.

  Arminius took heart. Inguiomerus’ support would help persuade other chieftains to renew their alliance with him. Men such as Big Chin and Stick Thin would re-enter the fold. Another chance for final victory over the Romans would come his way, and when it did, Thusnelda would be avenged. Caecina would die, and Germanicus too.

  Once these tasks had been completed, he would rest.

  Not before.

  Chapter XLIII

  IT WAS EARLY, not long after dawn. Drops of dew winked and sparkled on the scrubby grass, and on every gorse bush and bog cotton plant. A quarter of a mile from the Roman camp, Piso and his comrades stood in dry-eyed silence around Vitellius’ corpse. Shovels lay close by. Their hands were black with mud, and sweat marked their faces: they had been digging his grave. At their feet, Vitellius was unrecognisable, a blanket-wrapped, human shape tied with strips of leather. Despite his shroud, he was still their friend. Their brother. No one wanted to make the first move.

  ‘It doesn’t seem right to bury him in the middle of nowhere,’ said Piso. They been arguing about this since the day before, when Vitellius had died. ‘He should be laid in the military graveyard at Vetera, beside other soldiers. I’d like to lie alongside him one day.’

  ‘I wish the same for myself, but that’s not the way it works.’ Metilius sighed. ‘Even if Tullus let us, there’s the small matter of transporting ’Tellius’ body back to the Rhenus.’

  Heads bent in resignation, but Piso wouldn’t give in. ‘We could make a litter, as you did for me. Drag him home on it.’

  ‘That’d break every kind of regulation. Tullus is sympathetic – you heard what he said about Vitellius before we left the camp – but he couldn’t allow that. Every contubernium which had lost a comrade would want to do the same, and then where would we be?’ demanded Metilius. ‘Arminius might have been beaten, but we’re in enemy territory still. The army has to march in combat formation, Piso.’

  ‘I know, I know. But Vitellius saved my arse in Aliso, when I got jumped by soldiers from another legion, and I repaid him in the forest. Since then, we’ve looked out for each other. He was my brother.’ Words failed Piso, and his tears began to flow again.

  ‘Fine words,’ said Metilius, his voice gruff. ‘’Tellius had a caustic sense of humour; some would say he was sour, even. I was never quite sure how to take him myself, but I do know that he was a loyal friend. When things went to shit, there was no better soldier to have by your side. We’ll miss you, ’Tellius. Brother.’

  Throat closed with emotion, Piso listened as the others muttered their goodbyes. ‘Farewell, brother.’ ‘Swift passage to the other side, brother.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ directed Metilius. He slid a rope under Vitellius’ body.

  Piso wasn’t ready to take leave of his friend, but the rest were easing lines under him too. With a lump in his throat, Piso moved to help. Six of them – the entire contubernium now – could lower him down in pairs. When the ropes were in place, Metilius called, ‘One, two, three. Up!’ and they raised Vitellius’ corpse to knee level. Shuffling to the graveside, they paused and looked in. The lowest point of the hole was a black, oozing morass. It was uninviting, even as the resting place for a dead man. Unhappy glances were exchanged.

  They had no option, thought Piso, mastering his grief by force of will. His eyes moved around his comrades. ‘’Tellius has already crossed the Styx. This is just somewhere for his bones to lie, to keep the wild beasts away, and the savages from despoiling them.’

  Reluctant nods followed his comment. ‘Ready?’ called Piso.

  They let the lines move through their hands little by little, easing Vitellius into his grave. Soft plashes and a slackening of the tension signalled his reaching the bottom. Piso knew that his friend was dead, gone – Vitellius had bled out in front of him – yet tugging out the muddied rope was one of the hardest things he had ever done. It felt like the worst kind of abandonment. On impulse, Piso took the gold torque from his purse and held it up. He had taken the valuable ornament from around Vitellius’ neck because his friend would not have wanted it to go to waste, as it were. Now, Piso wasn’t so sure that felt right. ‘Will I drop this in?’

  Everyone stared.

  ‘He’s got a coin to pay the ferryman,’ said Metilius after a moment.

  ‘It won’t be any use to him,’ declared one of the others.

  Every head was shaking – no – and, relenting, Piso said, ‘It’ll buy ’Tellius a headstone and us enough wine to float a boat. Maybe whores as well, if we’re not too extravagant. He’d approve, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Of the headstone, yes. Don’t be so sure about the rest. ’Tellius kept his fingers tight on his purse,’ said Metilius with a wicked grin. ‘Which means we should sell it and spend the money anyway. ’Tellius’ moaning and whingeing – that we’re carousing at his expense – will carry all the way from the underworld.’

  Everyone laughed, and like that it was settled. Piso tucked away the torque.

  Metilius indicated that the rest should fetch their shovels, and thrust one into Piso’s hands. Trying not to think, Piso bent his back and eased a load of earth on to the tool’s flat surface. He waited until
several comrades had heaved shovelfuls into the grave before doing the same. A soft thud marked its landing. Piso wanted to peer in, but he couldn’t bear to see his friend’s shroud-wrapped body disappearing under clods of earth. He picked up another load. In went the soil, mixing with the others’ efforts.

  They worked in grim silence until the spot where Vitellius’ body lay was nothing more than a rectangle of fresh-turned earth. Metilius and Piso patted it down with their shovels, and one of the others erected the oblong wooden marker they’d fashioned. On the front, Piso had used the white-hot tip of a dagger to scratch Vitellius’ name and age. In the line below, his century, cohort and legion were recorded.

  It didn’t seem enough, Piso thought, but there was no room for more writing. Worse, the elements would destroy the marker within a couple of years. Vitellius’ grave would then be lost forever.

  It seemed a cruel fate.

  Three days later, and Piso was exhausted. Fine weather, better conditions underfoot and the soldiers’ burning desire to reach Vetera had seen the army cover twenty-five, maybe even twenty-seven miles that day. Tullus’ cohort had been on camp construction duty, which had meant two hours of digging at the end of their energy-sapping march. Now Piso and his comrades sat on their blankets around their fire, dull-eyed, slump-shouldered, waiting for the miserable broth that was to be their supper. Despite the length of their journey and the lack of food and shelter, it had been a pleasant day. There had been no sign of the enemy whatsoever. Another two to three marches, and they’d reach the bridge over the Rhenus, or so the rumours went. Piso was relieved, yet he kept thinking of Vitellius, stiff and cold in his rough grave.

  ‘Will it be long?’ asked Metilius, jerking his chin at the pot hanging over the flames.

  Piso leaned forward and stirred again. He tasted a mouthful, and added a pinch of salt. ‘Be another while. You can’t rush good cooking, as my mother always used to say.’

  ‘Funny man,’ said Metilius with a droll chuckle. ‘Let’s sort out ’Tellius’ stuff while we wait.’