by David Black
Still regarding his prisoner with a cold Imperial stare the General continued.
‘Second... Suitable tithes at a rate set annually will be paid by your people to our tax collectors soon after your harvest has been gathered in, every year.’
His head bowed again, the Cherusci’s leader nodded.
‘Thirdly, men will be released from your tribe into the service of the Roman army as auxiliaries.’
With shoulders slumped there came another sigh followed by another reluctant nod.
‘You will accept the occupation of your lands by the soldiers of Rome and obey the edicts of the appointed Governor of your province, and those officers and administrators under his command.’
The General began to roll the parchment scroll closed. There was one more clause to the agreement. Drusus knew that for the proud man kneeling before him it would be cruel; perhaps the harshest condition of all. He didn’t need to read from the scroll any more, he had read the last clause in similar treaties before; he knew its words by heart.
Decurion Vitellius and the General’s horses snorted suddenly as their ears pricked up. Both trampled the frozen ground nervously. Vitellius’ skittish horse reared, startled by the mournful howl of a wolf, carried on the winds from the distant snow covered hills which circled the Cherusci settlement. Vitellius leaned forward and talking softly stroked his animal’s neck, gradually calming it. As he straightened, he wondered for a moment if the superstitious barbarians would hear the lone wolf’s cry as an omen of good fortune or future evil. No matter he thought to himself with a smirk, his men knew what to do if his General gave the signal. The barbarian king would accept the treaty, or die where he knelt.
Staring at the chained Cherusci before him, with a sly self-satisfied grin General Drusus delivered the final and most damning part of the agreement.
‘These terms are of course offered subject to immediate agreement....But there is one more clause which is the final and most binding condition to seal this agreement between us.’
Segimer lowered his head once more. The treaty that Rome offered was harsh, but his life would be spared and his remaining people would survive if he agreed to honour it.
‘Finally, to ensure you loyal co-operation in the future, your firstborn son will be taken as Imperial hostage, and sent immediately to Rome.’
Segimer’s head snapped up once again, this time his face reflected a mixture of loathing and heartbreak. His woman suddenly cried out behind him as she wailed her pain and anguish.
Irritated by the interruption of the woman’s hysterical cries Vitellius held up his hand to give warning, and still the boy’s mother from further displays of grief.
Nodding his thanks to the cavalry officer, the General returned to explaining the detail of the final clause.
‘While the boy is hostage, as long as you adhere to the terms of this treaty your son will be kept in safety and educated as if he were a true Roman nobleman.’ With a slight condescending nod towards the shackled chieftain he added.
‘And of course be treated with the respect his father’s noble birth deserves.’
Segimer shuddered. He thought desperately. What could he do? If he refused to accept the terms, execution and no doubt the death of his entire family would be swift and final. He would not even live to see the breakup and enslavement of his people. If he accepted the conditions he would lose his beloved son. The heir to his throne would be taken away by the hated Roman conquerors.
Struggling to rise, Segimer shrugged off the rough hands of his guards. The General raised his hand to stay further restraint by his men. Segimer shook his hair back from his face and doing his best to restore some dignity squared himself before the mounted Romans. Segimer stared directly at the trooper sitting on his horse next to the commander of the Roman army. Being King was sometimes a terrible burden but only one course of action made any sense to him if the Cherusci people were to continue and survive. He had no alternative but to agree. With a contemptuous sneer he said.
‘Translate my words carefully, Bructeri dog!’
His eyes burning with feral hatred the translator hawked and spat on the ground in front of Segimer.
The General and the Decurion glared at the trooper. Both knew the hatred which existed between the wild Germanic tribes. Neither man reacted to the insult.
In a voice which pierced the winds Segimer’s words rang across the ruined settlement.
‘I agree to your terms Roman, but not while I am on my knees... I speak for my people when I give you my word bond to obey this treaty between the Cherusci and the Emperor of Rome.’
He turned to the huddle of his family behind him and said softly ‘Herman, come here to me, my son.’
A small nervous boy dressed from head to toe in warm skins reluctantly pulled himself from his mother’s arms and walked obediently towards his father. He shivered; his face was pale and hot tears ran down his burning cheeks.
The boy’s thin reed-like voice pleaded and cut through Segimer like a knife.
‘Please father, I don’t want to go away, I want to stay here with you and Mama.’
Segimer shook his head. ‘No Herman, as my son it is your duty to go with them. One day you will understand...you will return to our lands and be king... It is my command that you will serve your people.’ Segimer knelt down beside his crying son and hugged him gently. He whispered. ‘You will keep us all alive by going with these men.’
Before releasing him, Segimer fixed the boy with a kindly stare and still in a whisper he said. ‘Go with your father’s love my son, and never forget who you really are. Remember too what I have taught you of our war against the Romans.’
There was something in his father’s eyes that shook the weeping boy. The message was unclear but something was certainly hidden in his father’s words. With the back of his sleeve Herman wiped away the tears as his father looked back at the two Roman officers.
General Drusus’ patience was at an end. Agreement was reached; there was no point in further discussion. Coldly he growled.
‘Enough of this!’ Angrily he snapped his fingers. ‘Bring the boy here.’
One of the auxiliaries grabbed the boy’s shoulder and pushed him roughly away from his father towards the General. Unprepared and off balance, Herman slipped on the ice hidden beneath the powdered snow and with a startled cry fell heavily. For a moment the auxiliaries laughed loudly at the child’s distress but stopped abruptly as Herman’s pet wolfhound leapt forward, snarling and straining against its rope leash.
Until now it had laid un-noticed, part covered with snow, silently watching from inside a darkened doorway. It was tied firmly to the door’s stout wooden frame. Suddenly alert, with fangs bared it desperately tried to wrench itself free and protect its young master. The beast struggled frantically against its leather collar, snarling and snapping as it tried to launch itself at the nearest dismounted cavalrymen.
Vitellius had seen enough. He had what he came for; the Treaty was sealed and the General and perhaps even the Emperor would be pleased with him. The Cherusci would stay on their lands and each year they would pay the high taxes demanded by Rome. Despite his thick cloak he was cold and wanted to start the long ride back to the Legion’s base quickly. Angrily turning in his saddle he motioned to one of the mounted auxiliaries behind him, then pointed directly at the snarling dog.
With a savage grin, the auxiliary understood. He lent forward and withdrew his powerful bow. In a quick practiced movement he notched an iron barbed arrow. Drawing back the bowstring he took careful aim. Herman yelled a warning but it was futile. With a twang the arrow was released and in a heartbeat flew across the frozen courtyard, plunging through shaggy grey fur into the hound’s heaving chest. With an agonised yelp the huge dog fell to the ground.
Seeing it fall, with a nod from his commander, one of the legionaries guarding Segimer swaggered with a spreading grin and the ringing laughter of the escort towards the wounded animal. Despite the pooling
blood which ran from its mouth and the arrow embedded in its chest the dying hound bared blood-stained teeth and growled weakly at the approaching auxiliary. Almost with contempt the soldier returned the animal’s snarl. Laughing, he drew back his muscular arm and drove his long cavalry blade into the dog’s exposed throat.
The boy screamed. The dog was his oldest friend, and now these terrifying men who served the Romans had killed it.
On a signal from General Drusus, Decurion Vitellius walked his horse forward and leaning down snatched up the sobbing boy and dropped him over his horse’s broad neck. Holding the boy firmly, he turned his head back towards the General.
With a nod of approval the General’s face changed abruptly. He roared.
‘Let that be a sound lesson Segimer, king of the Cherusci. Death is the only reward for defiance of Rome.’
Chapter 2
Rome – 4 years later
"The teacher must decide how to deal with his pupil. Some boys are lazy, unless forced to work; others do not like being controlled; some respond to fear but all respond to the discipline of my vine cane.”
Quintilian: a teacher in the 1st Century AD.
Rome shimmered in the unrelenting heat of another hot and airless summer afternoon. Both citizens and branded slaves endured the burning sun, seeking temporary respite during their journey, beside the cool waters which hissed and sprayed from ornately carved fountains built on many of the city’s broader streets. Linked to the great masonry aqueducts outside the city, to the eternal relief of the sweating population, the fountains brought rainbows of cool sparkling water cascading down from the distant snow-capped mountains and were rightly considered a blessing and an engineering marvel of the Roman world.
Despite the open windows the temperature inside the airless classroom was oppressive. Sitting behind his small wooden desk, one of the boys’ thoughts began to wander again from the problem etched on the clay tablet in front of him. His dark eyes stole away to the bustling street below where merchants cried out beneath shaded stalls, extolling the virtues of their rapidly wilting produce. Groups of straining slaves passed by carrying heavy bundles across aching backs towards the grand houses of their masters, surrounded by the echoing rumble of iron shod cartwheels and the sharp clatter of horses’ hooves.
Absently, the boy sighed. Dressed like the others in open sandals and short cotton tunic, he still carried inside a dreadful sense of loss and loneliness, which his teachers had failed to notice or beat out of him. His heavy heart still yearned to return to his homeland.
The true torment of being a hostage of Rome had quickly become apparent when he arrived at the school where he was to be educated. They immediately ripped everything from his young life when he arrived in the Empire’s capital four years previously. His hair was shorn and his clothes had been stripped away and burnt before him on his first day. They had even forced him to bathe after he stood naked before the bonfire of his furs. His parents, his home and even his name had been stolen from him.
Since his first day in Rome, on the orders of his principal teacher he no longer cleaved to the name Herman, but instead he was addressed and allowed only to answer to the Roman name of Arminius.
The food, customs and rules of the bustling city were all equally foreign in the confusion of the months that followed. He had suffered the pain and humiliation of his teacher’s punishment more times than he could remember, as he began to grope his way forward and learn the strange language of his new masters. He wasn’t singled out; a classroom mistake by any unfortunate hostage of Rome was always punished with a painful beating. The young boys hailed from across the empire; among them were Nubians from Africa, Gaul’s from the west and swarthy boys from the desert lands of Palestine and Syria. In the eyes of their teachers, such punishment deterred the lazy, toughened their charges and made them much more attentive and willing to learn. Reading and writing in Latin came hard at first, but as Arminius began to understand the words of his teachers, the beatings diminished just a little.
Arminius hated everything about his new life. He desperately wanted to go back to his people but knew that escape was unthinkable. The repercussions of running away had been repeatedly beaten into him. He understood that his family would be executed long before he somehow found his way back to his homeland. Shunning the offered friendship of the other boys, the anger and hatred he felt towards his captors smouldered inside him. Wisely for a boy of tender age he learnt to hold his tongue and keep his loathing hidden.
Arminius had discovered quickly that open defiance led to the most severe of punishments. He had learned that to his cost when a teacher had him forced down on a bench, and held prostrate by two slaves. The teacher thrashed him mercilessly with a leather belt after he made the gross mistake of defiantly arguing when the teacher had casually cursed all barbarians during one lesson. Despite his lack of years, Arminius knew his only choice was to remember his father’s advice, remember who he really was, and quietly bide his time.
He was torn from further bitter reflection by the sudden entrance of his school’s principal Cepheus. The tall Greek ran his hand through his white hair then clapped his hands to get the boys’ attention.
‘Listen to me boys. I have an important announcement for you all.’
The room’s young occupants sat straighter and all eyes turned towards him.
‘A public holiday has been declared tomorrow in honour of the Emperor’s birthday. As a result, school will be closed for the day.’
The boys’ faces lit up at the thought of a day away from their repetitive lessons and the inevitable punishments. From dawn to dusk, seven days a week they laboured in the cramped classroom learning everything by rote, and any religious festival or special occasion was a welcome break from the same grey monotony.
‘We have been invited by the House of Varus to join in the birthday celebrations. We shall watch the gladiatorial games being held tomorrow in the Emperor’s honour.’
An excited murmur broke out in the stifling classroom. With chariot racing, the games were considered the highest and most exciting entertainment Rome had to offer. Gladiators locked in combat often fought to the death in the arena. A few had become household names and wagers were often placed in dark corners on the outcome of the biggest fights. Sometimes, specially trained gladiators were even pitted against wild beasts for the further entertainment and enthrallment of the people.
None of the boys had ever been allowed to view the spectacle of combat in the arena before and their shinning eyes and excitement at the prospect was clearly evident to the elderly Greek.
Cepheus raised his hand to quieten the excited murmur of his students. Smiling for once he said.
‘The House of Varus is linked closely to that of the Emperor himself. As guests of the Empire and a further part of your education it has been decided that it is time for you to witness the greatest spectacle of all. Tomorrow, you will experience the arena, and the martial power of mighty Rome.’
* * * * * *
Beneath gaudy fluttering banners, to the echoing fanfare of the great arena’s trumpets Patrician Publius Quinctilius Varus stepped into the bright sunlight and entered the cushioned luxury of his private box. Grey haired and in his early sixties, dressed in a finely cut toga of pure white edged with the purple of the Senate of Rome, he waved benignly towards the cheering crowds who filled the stadium to capacity. As the roar of the throng began to subside, satisfied that the eager populace had seen him make his grand entrance, Senator Varus took his seat, surrounded by members of his high ranking family, privileged friends and honoured guests.
Sitting close to the Senator’s box, but higher in the arena Cepheus lent across to his students and said above the surrounding clammer.
‘That is Senator Varus. He served the Empire as a Legion commander in his younger years and has dedicated himself to public service ever since.’ Knowingly he added. ‘He is related to Emperor Augustus through marriage and has become one of the most powe
rful men in Rome. Soon, he is to leave Rome and become Governor of Syria.’
Impressed, Arminius and the other boys nodded eagerly. Cepheus continued.
‘He has paid for these games from his own purse as a tribute to the Emperor and we are here at his specific invitation. Senator Varus is our school’s greatest benefactor. Through his office in the Senate he is responsible for the lives of those of you who have been taken as hostages of Rome.’
Arminius’ eyes narrowed as he whistled softly to himself. He stared at the white haired man sitting below him. Casting his gaze around the crowd he estimated there must be as many as ten thousand people in the audience. How could one man have enough gold to pay for so many, he wondered?
Further questions were stifled by another loud peal of the arena’s trumpets, which heralded the Pompa; the grand opening parade of the Gladiators.
Released from their cells beneath the arena, led by their Lenistas’ who owned, fed and paid for their training, flanked by whip carrying Lorarius who maintained discipline in the gladiator schools, two rows of powerfully muscled men began to emerge from one of the iron gates below. Some entered the arena bare-chested, others wore half armour and carried metal rimmed wooden shields. Every man held a murderous looking weapon. A few were armed with wickedly curved Thracian swords; others carried the short Roman style gladius sword. Several wore greaves on one or both shins depending on their fighting style while two helmeted Retiarii marched in procession with nets cast over their broad shoulders, carrying long three pronged tridents tipped with lethal barbs. Many gladiators wore helmets of different design but a few paraded bare-headed, wearing only loin cloth and sandals. They were armed with long spears whose iron heads glinted menacingly in the bright sunshine.
To the roaring approval of the crowds, the gladiators marched in file, swaggering confidently around the arena. Many of these men were known and adored by the crowds but despite their prowess with the deadly weapons they carried, they were still slaves, whose lives were worthy only while they lived to entertain the cheering audience in the stands.
