by David Black
Thusnelda wiped the tears from her face. Breathing deeply, she composed herself. When she felt calm enough, she began her story.
‘I am promised in marriage to the son of a friend of my father’s, but I defied him and refused to marry the man. My father wants me to marry a stupid drunken beast, and I hated him from the first moment I saw his ugly face. I begged him, but my father wouldn’t listen to me so I ran away, but they caught me and took me back. My father beat me for shaming him.’
Her hand went involuntarily to her bruised face. ‘I am due to be married when the moon wanes but I couldn’t face the thought of being joined to such a brute and bearing his children. I’d rather die than suffer his touch.’ Thusnelda shuddered with revulsion in the darkness.
Arminius glanced at his cousin, and then quickly looked back at the frightened girl.
‘So why did you follow us?’
In the darkness, Thusnelda sighed. Arminius felt her eyes boring into him.
‘When I first saw you, I was forbidden to speak to you, but I felt...something. I felt safe when I was close to you. I don’t understand it, I don’t even know you, but I desperately needed someone to save me. Time is running out and you were my only chance. I came after you to plead for your protection!’
Arminius stared at the girl with unashamed surprise. He felt his heartbeat quicken in his chest. He hadn’t admitted it to his cousin, but the girl’s face hadn’t left him since he’d first seen her. Something had stirred in him too. This unexpected turn had taken him by surprise. Looking into her lovely face, for once he permitted himself the luxury of his heart ruling his head. Before he agreed, there was a question he must ask, but he feared he already knew the answer.
‘Who is your father?’
Thusnelda let out a frightened sob. ‘You already know him...my father is Segestes, Lord of the Ampsivarii!’
There was silence from both men. Arminius felt trapped. He had no doubt the girl’s fears were right if they returned her to her father. Having seen the twisted pleasure on the Ampsivarii leader’s face during the human sacrifice, Arminius harboured no doubt that Segestes was capable of murdering his own daughter over her defiance; if Segestes found out that they had smuggled Thusnelda to safety, there would be trouble but it was too late to change his plans now... It was unthinkable to return her to her father, so Arminius had to think fast.
‘Very well Thusnelda. I will give you my protection and see you safely from Ampsivarii territory. We will re-join my escort and take you to my father’s village. I know he will give you the sanctuary of my tribe if I ask him. After that...’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
Arminius stood up and climbed back onto his horse. Staring at the girl he reached down and offered her his hand.
‘You’d better ride with me.’ Hastily he added. ‘We’ll make better time that way.’ Thusnelda smiled and gratefully grasped his hand. He hauled her up and waited until she was sitting safely behind him. She reached around his body and grasped the front of his cloak. Resting her head gently against his broad back she smelt his musk and felt the warmth of his body.
Gruffly Arminius spoke over his shoulder.
‘Pull up your hood and keep your face covered girl. As long as your father doesn’t know you’ve escaped with us, he will search in all the wrong places for you. I will report to my superiors that I have taken you hostage, but until we are far from your father’s territory it’s vital you are not recognised in our company.’
Arminius turned to his cousin. Clearing his throat he said urgently.
‘We must go quickly Rolf.’
Rolf raised an eyebrow. With a knowing grin he whistled softly at his cousin’s audacity.
Arminius ignored him. Tapping his horse’s flanks he led off into the night. In the darkness, for once, Arminius was smiling too.
CHAPTER 15
Light filtered silently through the broad valley; dawn’s watery sun cast long shadows across its browning autumn mantle.
Hidden in the dense canopy of trees on the hillside, three men lay concealed, spying in silence on the village below. A narrow silver stream sparkled and splashed through its deserted centre. The men could see smoke rising lazily from holes cut in the apex of a few thatched roofs within the sleeping Tencteri village. Somewhere in the settlement a dog caught their scent and barked a warning, startling a cockerel to lift its head towards the clear sky. It crowed loudly.
‘Well at least something’s awake down there’ whispered one of the soldiers, blowing softly into his cupped hands to ward of the early morning chill. The stiff red plume mounted across his helmet betrayed his station as a Centurion of the 18th Imperial Legion. Close beside him laid Optio Praxus, the veteran Centurion’s second in command. A few feet to his right lay Tribune Lucius Flavia Crastus, a young staff officer.
Much to Centurion Rufus’ annoyance the young inexperienced Tribune had been temporarily attached to the 2nd Cohort to gain some much needed field experience. To add to Rufus’ frustration, on the direct orders from General Varus, he had placed all six of the Legions’ young Tribunes in temporary command of the last weeks tax gathering missions across the province, before the three Legions finished their summer duties and returned to the warmth and safety of their winter quarters, built on the west bank of the mighty River Rhine.
True, admitted Rufus silently to himself, these junior Tribunes were of officer rank but usually acted as assistant administrators in charge of pay and the equipment stores within each Legion. They were secretly laughed at; not considered real fighting soldiers by any of the men serving in front line Cohorts. When Rufus and several other Centurions heard the news at officer’s call the previous day they had all groaned inwardly. They were equally mystified by the sudden change of policy, but with the usual resignation of experienced soldiers they accepted that orders were orders whether the Legion’s Centurions liked them or not, especially when they filtered down from the very top.
It had been a difficult forced march through the night. The track through the forest had been poor by Roman standards and the sickle moon had done little to lift the darkness beneath the thick canopy as the Century marched through the vast tract of forest towards their distant destination. But now, the Century had arrived safely at the very edge of the pacified Germania Magna province, deep within the hunting grounds of the Tencteri tribe, situated on the northern edge of the known world.
Still staring down at the silent village Centurion Rufus sniffed absently and rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Abruptly, his mind made up he looked towards the man on his left.
‘Seems a bit quiet down there somehow?’ Still rubbing his chin he shrugged to himself. ‘Still, there’s been no trouble with the Tencteri tribe for years now but it’s probably best you take three sections and sweep the tree line beyond the village. When you signal the all clear I’ll bring the rest of the lads down from this side of the hill.’
Optio Praxus nodded. Remaining low he slid back to recover his broad oblong shield emblazed with the 17th Legion’s emblem of a running boar. Tribune Crastus stood up and coughed.
‘I believe I am in command here Centurion... am I not?’
The Optio froze. Rufus stared for a moment in silence at the young Tribune. The chain of command in the Roman Legions was clear cut. Tribunes, even junior ones, outranked Centurions by a country mile, no matter how young, snot-nosed or inexperienced they might be.
Rufus nodded. He suppressed the sigh he felt rising deep in his chest. The twenty-two year old Tribune had been with the 17th for only a few months, but already had fallen into the trap of believing himself both master tactician and leader of men. Rufus had seen this happen all too often before to bother getting angry any more. The boy came from a good family, who owned a huge winery on the banks of the River Tiber. Rufus had come across his type more than once before: with plenty of money behind him, suffering from the usual wealthy class maladies of arrogance and overconfidence. Having done a short tour in the army the Tribune would so
on be heading back triumphantly to Rome, a hero to his family. While his father still lived, he’d probably spend the next few years slithering his way into some cushy job, probably a secretary in the Forum or an administrator in one of the Ministries at Rome’s heart. If he could pick up a decoration or two during his short term with the 17th, well, so much the better for his future prospects in Roman society.
Common sense said to check around the outskirts of the village before committing his main force, but there was no point in arguing. The Centurion held up his hand towards Praxus.
‘Hold there.’
He turned his attention back to the impatient Tribune.
‘Exactly what are your orders...Sir?’ he enquired straight faced and just a little too formally for the young Tribune’s liking.
Crastus’ eyes narrowed, unsure if the veteran Centurion was being insubordinate. He failed to see the silent grin spread across the Optio’s face behind him. Rufus’ expression remained impassive.
The irritation of the moment was clear in the Tribune’s voice.
‘I will bring the entire Century forward, and we will approach the village in extended skirmish line. You will both wait here until I return with the men. Understand?’
As the Tribune turned and strode off through the trees towards the legionaries waiting on the other side of the hill, Centurion Rufus stood up and thrusting his outstretched fingers forward, saluted with a straight right arm. ‘Yes Sir, perfectly clear Sir.’
As Crastus disappeared quickly into trees up the forested slope, Rufus turned his head towards his Optio. His eyes narrowed to slits as he growled.
‘And you can wipe that bloody silly grin off your face my lad... or you’ll find yourself in charge of latrine duty when we get back to camp.’
‘Steady lads...keep the line straight.’
From his vantage point on the left of the line, Centurion Rufus kept one eye on the heavily armed legionaries marching shoulder to shoulder in extended line down the hill. The early morning sun glinted off their burnished helmets and segmented armour. Each man’s leather bound shield that protected his body from shoulder to calf was held close to the left hand side of their bodies and each long pilum throwing spear was held smartly at the regulation angle of 20 degrees all the way along the line. Centurion Rufus kept his other eye fixed on the silent village ahead. If the boy Tribune wanted a parade, he might as well make damn sure his men followed the close order drill they had practiced so many times before. The last thing Rufus wanted was the snot-nosed Tribune to find an excuse to punish him or his men when they returned to the Legion’s forward base around sunset.
‘Steady lads, you know the drill. Watch your dressing...’
Rufus allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile. Since he transferred in from the 3rd Legion and took command of his men ten months earlier, he had sweated them daily and deliberately hammered a new confident snap into their military drills. Many of his battle hardened men boasted more than ten years with the Eagle but even the most experienced among them would shirk repetitive training unless a firm hand was maintained.
Centurion Rufus had almost immediately raised eyebrows among his senior officers and not a little dissatisfaction within his own ranks after carefully reviewing his new command. Unsatisfied with their general appearance and standards he ordered extra sword drills, inspections and personally led daily route marches soon after assuming command. Ignoring their grumbles, endless hours spent on the Legion’s practice arena thrusting against a wooden post with the gladius, the army’s standard issue stabbing sword, and throwing countless practise pilum javelins had tightened slackening muscles and improved fitness and reflexes throughout his entire 80-man Century. An old soldier like Rufus and his experienced Optio Praxus both knew the truth of it. Their soldiers could make any number of clumsy mistakes in practice and live to tell the tale, but just one error with their shield and swordplay could cost them their lives in the deadly maelstrom of close quarter combat out here in the wilderness of Germania.
Now they had left the trees behind them it would take another minute or two for the Century to cross the broad sloping meadow before reaching the first line of crude daub and wattle huts. Rufus grew more concerned with every step. By now at least one of the locals should have heard or seen them coming and roused his neighbours. That’s what usually happened inside a pacified village when an army patrol arrived unannounced. Surrounded by excited and curious children dressed in filthy rags his men would search the settlement for weapons then herd the villagers together and sort them out into family groups. The head of each household would be separated, forced to line up and pay the taxes set by Rome’s Treasury, while his soldiers looked on and kept watch for any dissent from their families.
They probably wouldn’t pay up in gold and silver Rufus thought absently to himself, judging by the unkempt state of the huts in front of his marching line of men. The locals would probably trade off their debt in livestock or grain; either was perfectly acceptable in the correct quantities. The Tribune would no doubt enjoy sitting behind his tax collectors table, officiously scratching records on a series of clay tablets as individual payments were made. Jupiter help any poor sod the Tribune caught who came up short when their turn came to pay. Overseeing that Rufus though ruefully to himself, was about all the little snot was good for.
Rufus was torn from his thoughts by a loud horn blast from the centre of the marching line. It was the signal to stop. Like his men, the Centurion halted. He stepped back two paces and looked towards the line’s centre, to see what the Tribune wanted. At the other end of the line, Optio Praxus did the same. The boy had insisted that he should control the advance, and had taken prime position in the line’s centre next to the Century’s signum standard bearer and the Conicen, who carried the large circular buccina horn across his shoulder used for conveying orders to men beyond earshot of shouted commands. The Tribune was waving Rufus to him.
Centurion Rufus turned back to the soldier at the end of the line. Gruffly he snapped.
‘Legionary Severus, you will take control of the wing. If I’m not back before we advance, make sure you keep the line straight... or you’ll answer to me.’
Legionary Severus snapped to attention.
‘Yes Sir.’
Rufus had been watching Severus closely recently. He had impressed his Centurion with his military skills on a number of occasions, not least when Severus had saved him from drowning several months earlier. Rufus was considering putting his name forward for promotion to Optio in another century within the Cohort. The final decision could wait for now though, Rufus thought. Satisfied that the veteran understood his duty Rufus hefted the weight of his own shield and gripping his sword’s wooden handle tightly in his right hand he doubled swiftly towards the centre of the line.
Within moments he skidded to a halt besides the waiting Tribune, panting slightly after sprinting forty yards under the full weight of his shield and armour.
‘Your orders, Sir?
The Tribune regarded him coldly.
‘Send a section forward and wake the villagers up.’
Shocked, Rufus took an involuntary step backwards.
‘But Sir, regulations say to always use at least four sections...’
‘Silence!’ The young officer snarled angrily. ‘Don’t you dare quote regulations to me! You will carry out my instructions or I’ll have you in front of the Legion Commander on a charge of disobeying my order.’
Surprised and stung by the rebuke Rufus remained silent for a moment. The book said four sections forward when reconnoitring a small settlement but arguing between officers was bad for the men and the senior officer’s side was always taken anyway if a Centurion was brought before the Legate, the Legion’s Commander, on a disciple charge.
Rufus snapped to attention.
‘Yes Sir!’ His eyes flicked to his right. Out of the corner of his mouth he hissed.
‘Number one section... double forward into the village
... wake ‘em up!’
Five minutes later, a runner returned from the edge of the village. He planted himself directly in front of his Centurion and was about to make his report when the Tribune spluttered.
‘Damn your impertinence legionary! You will report to the senior officer present.’
Momentarily confused, the legionary stared back at his own officer for guidance. Rufus gave an almost imperceptible nod. The legionary blinked twice, turned and marched several steps towards the Tribune. Banging his heals together in the regulation manner of the parade square when addressing an officer he snapped to attention.
‘Sir, the village is empty. There’s no-one home, they’ve gone...all of them!’
‘What?’ The Tribune’s surprise was genuine. ‘Are you quite sure? It can’t be so! Look, there’s smoke coming from the huts.’
The legionary remained at attention and nodded. ‘There are still some cooking fires smouldering inside ‘em Sir.’ The soldier shrugged. ‘I saw a dog and a couple of stray chickens pecking about but no sign whatsoever of the Tencteri, or any of their livestock for that matter. Even the grain pits are empty. There’s nothing...?’
The Tribune ground his teeth in frustration. No Tencteri meant that any chance of collecting taxes was gone. He’d have to return to his Legion’s headquarters empty handed and admit his mission was a failure.
The Tribune whirled on Rufus. He had no intention of allowing this stain to tarnish his family name and or his own reputation in the eyes of the Legate.
‘This is your fault damn you! When I get back to headquarters I’m going to...’
The rest of the Tribunes truculent rant stopped abruptly. From the other side of the valley the booming blast of a dozen war horns rent the still air. The powerful baritone blasts echoed mournfully across the valley as hundreds of near naked warriors suddenly burst from cover, streaming like a foaming tide from the trees only a hundred yards across the valley floor from where the halted line of legionaries stood. They yelled their war cries and waved axes, spears and swords above their heads, which glinted chillingly in the early morning sun.
