Eagles in the Storm

by Ben Kane

  The jeweller quailed before Tullus’ fury. ‘What if I cannot find any soldiers, sir? What if no one listens to me?’

  Tullus seized his arm. ‘This is a military fucking settlement! There’ll be legionaries in the restaurants, the inns, the shops. Shout if you have to – I don’t care as long as you get help. D’you understand me?’

  ‘Y-you’re hurting me, sir,’ said the jeweller, wincing.

  ‘If you don’t do as I say, I’ll do a lot fucking worse!’

  The threat brought the jeweller to his senses. ‘Find soldiers. Centurion Tullus’ orders. Go to the wine merchant’s. Save Germanicus.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Tullus released his hold. ‘Go. Go!’

  ‘But my stock, sir, my jewellery – it will be stolen.’

  ‘Don’t you have craftsmen in the back? Family?’

  ‘Only my wife, sir. The workers have gone home.’

  ‘Tell her to close the shop then, fool. Move!’ Tullus gave him a shove. He himself could wait no longer and tiptoed to the door, broom clutched in his hands. A furtive glance down the street through the driving snow told him nothing – anything beyond ten paces was invisible. ‘How far is the wine merchant’s?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Twenty-five paces or so, sir,’ came the answer. ‘On the same side as my premises.’

  Deciding his helmet would give him away as he closed on the enemy, Tullus left it behind. He shed his cloak and eased out on to the street, his heart pounding as hard and fast as a smith’s hammer. What he was doing was insane – by the time he arrived, Germanicus’ bodyguards might well be dead. One middle-aged centurion with a broom and a sword could no more take on nine young warriors than a man could stop the sun from rising in the east.

  Yet Tullus could not stand by, not if he wanted to hold his head up in public again. Germanicus was his commander, and a prominent member of the imperial family. More important, he had trusted in Tullus when few others would, and had since raised his career from the abyss. I owe you my life, Germanicus, he thought, stealing after the warriors.

  If dying was the price of repaying his debt, so be it.

  Chapter III

  A HUNDRED MILES east of Vetera, Arminius and his second-in-command Maelo were stamping through the snow in a Marsi settlement, their destination the chieftain’s longhouse. Dusk blanketed the village; it was diluted but a little by the golden aura of their torches. The pair had arrived with a score of warriors an hour before, just as the sun was setting. It wasn’t far from their home to these lands – the Cherusci and Marsi tribes’ territory adjoined – but the harsh conditions had made the journey a longer one than usual.

  ‘D’you think they’ll all be here?’ asked Maelo. Of medium build, with long brown hair and a typical beard, he could have passed for any warrior in a dozen tribes. Nonetheless, he was a skilled, dangerous fighter, and brave as a cornered bear. His sword had slain more men than Arminius’ own, which was saying something. ‘It’s a good deal further to the Usipetes’ lands than it is from ours,’ he declared. ‘No man likes to travel far from his hearth at this time of year.’

  ‘Winter is a season for feasting and fornicating,’ said Arminius, repeating the old expression. A large-framed man in the prime of life with striking looks and intense grey eyes, he had black hair and a jutting beard of the same colour. With his bearskin cloak, richly made clothing, silver-decorated baldric and fine spatha, or long Roman cavalry sword, he looked every part the chieftain. ‘But they’ll have come. My reasons for calling the gathering are sound. Germanicus will cross the river again in the spring. His army will be as big as it was this year, or larger. If we are not to be ground down piecemeal, tribe by tribe, we must lay well-made plans.’

  Maelo nodded; this was an oft-discussed subject. ‘Have you spoken to Inguiomerus yet?’

  ‘As soon as we got here.’ Arminius’ uncle had reached the settlement a day before. Despite his weariness after their own journey, Arminius had wasted no time in meeting him. Inguiomerus led another part of the Cherusci tribe, and although his warriors had joined Arminius’ forces during the previous summer, he had engineered the disastrous attack on a Roman camp at the campaign’s end. Arminius had argued long and hard against that assault, but Inguiomerus’ opinion had prevailed. In the resulting catastrophe, thousands of warriors had died. Soon after, Inguiomerus had acknowledged that his nephew should lead their warriors in the future. This meeting, called by Arminius, was the first since the tribes had returned to their settlements, bloodied and bowed. If things were to go well, it was vital that Inguiomerus’ position had not changed.

  ‘And?’ demanded Maelo.

  ‘My uncle is still of a mind to follow me,’ said Arminius. ‘He swore it was so, and I believed him.’

  Maelo’s face split into a craggy grin. ‘That is heartening news. Counting his warriors and ours will give us eight thousand spears. Add the Marsi, and we’ll have ten, perhaps eleven thousand to call on.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean the other tribes will follow us,’ warned Arminius. ‘Or obey me, even if they do. Remember last summer—’

  Maelo laid a hand on Arminius’ shoulder. ‘Stop.’

  Most men with the audacity to act so would have died, but Maelo was Arminius’ most loyal follower, and one of his oldest friends – his only friend, if truth be told. Nonetheless he pinned Maelo with a baleful stare. ‘Say your piece.’

  ‘I recall as well as you how the chieftains acted. Refusing to listen to you. Always arguing, and half of them wanting to be the leader at any one time. Frustrating though it is, such is our people’s way. They might also have followed Inguiomerus’ lead at the end, but it wasn’t to attack our tribe, or to kill you – they were fighting Rome, all of them! They hate the empire as much as you—’

  ‘As much as I?’ Arminius’ laugh was bitter. ‘How many of them have lost a wife and child? How many of them have had their family taken prisoner by the Romans?’

  ‘Plenty have lost a wife, a babe, or worse, slain in the settlements destroyed by the legions.’

  Arminius wasn’t listening. ‘I’ll never see Thusnelda again, never see my child grow up. Curse Germanicus for a clever bastard!’ It had been the Roman general’s idea to abduct his pregnant wife the previous spring.

  Maelo’s grip tightened. ‘Their loss grieves me every day, Arminius, and I know that my pain is as nothing beside yours. Let sorrow and rage guide you, however, and we will fail. The chieftains need a steady leader, a single-minded man with clear purpose.’

  Arminius sucked in a lungful of cold air and stared at the glittering stars above. Somewhere in Italy, Thusnelda could be holding our baby and looking at the same sky, he thought. Bleak as the knowledge was, it calmed him. They were not dead. Stay well, my love, he thought. Guard my child. I shall see you both again one day.

  He exhaled and then smiled; it was not a pleasant expression. ‘I shall bury my wound deep, and the chieftains will listen to my counsel. They will follow me.’ He held up a hand, forestalling Maelo’s next comment. ‘Fear not. I will act as their fellow chieftain, not their leader or king. I shall be the first among equals.’

  ‘The gods be thanked. Your wits have not deserted you, Arminius, nor your silver tongue,’ said Maelo, his teeth flashing in the torchlight.

  Arminius’ eyes met Maelo’s. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ho! Is that Arminius I see?’ asked a familiar voice from the darkness. ‘That must be Maelo with him.’

  ‘Here we are. Show yourself,’ called Arminius.

  Snow crunched as the speaker drew nearer. He wasn’t carrying a torch, so it wasn’t until the light cast by Arminius’ and Maelo’s torches reached his face that his identity was revealed. Stocky, with plaited hair and a square-edged chin, he led the Angrivarii tribe. Often in agreement with Arminius, he was brave, resourceful and shrewder than most. ‘Well met,’ said Horsa, holding out a meaty paw.

  ‘Well met,’ said Arminius, giving his hand a firm shake; Maelo stepped up and did the
same. ‘How was your journey?’ asked Arminius. Horsa’s tribe lived almost a hundred miles to the north.

  ‘Long. Cold. Unpleasant. My arse still hurts from sitting on a horse, but I’m here.’ Horsa’s laugh was hearty. ‘Mallovendus’ lackeys promise me that there are six piglets roasting in his hall, and three times that number of barrels of good beer. Why aren’t you already partaking?’ He indicated the longhouse, which lay a short distance down the path.

  Arminius wasn’t about to share what they’d been talking about. ‘We heard you lumbering along behind us, louder than a charging bull, and stopped to see who it was,’ he jibed.

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ said Horsa, chuckling. If he noticed the neat deflection, he didn’t say. ‘No point standing outside, eh? Our balls will freeze solid.’

  Reaching the longhouse first, Maelo flung wide the door. A blast of warm, fuggy air washed out, carrying with it smells – some appetising, some less so – and the noise of a great crowd. Music was playing within, and shouted conversations being held. Children were shrieking and laughing; an unhappy baby added its wail to the clamour; and from the animals’ section of the building cattle were making gentle lowing sounds.

  As was traditional, the family’s living and sleeping area occupied one end of the longhouse; their livestock were penned at the other, alongside stacks of hay and stores of wheat and barley. Torches blazed from brackets on the walls, and huge fires in the cooking area belched out waves of heat and the delicious aroma of roasting pork. Throngs of men, women and children were packed into the central open space, in the middle of which was a long, oak-hewn table. A hole had been cut in its centre, propping up one of the gold eagles taken from Varus’ legions. Majestic and awe-inspiring, it was a powerful symbol of what the tribes had done to Rome.

  It was shrewd to place the eagle in open sight, thought Arminius in approval. No better proof, no greater example of our success exists.

  Every seat around the table was taken by chieftains and the bravest warriors, and at its head sat Mallovendus, leader not just of the settlement but of the largest faction of the Marsi tribe. An ox of a man with coarse features and a mane of red hair, he was in the midst of an arm wrestle with one of his followers, a brute almost his size.

  Arminius made straight for Mallovendus. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but the Marsi chieftain was a stalwart enemy of Rome, and his warriors were valiant, stubborn fighters. Whether it was because of the eagle Arminius had gifted them or not, Germanicus had attacked the Marsi in great strength the previous autumn, killing thousands and laying numerous settlements to waste. The tribe had fought further battles with the Romans since, and lost. Burning for revenge, Mallovendus had agreed to hold the meeting, making Arminius sure that his men would stand with him come the spring. The Marsi weren’t enough, though, even when added to Arminius’ and Inguiomerus’ warriors’ strength. To crush Germanicus’ enormous host, Arminius would need every spear for two hundred miles or more.

  ‘Mallovendus!’ he shouted.

  The Marsi chieftain’s head turned. In the same instant, he spun back with a curse, but it was too late. With an exultant cry, his opponent slammed Mallovendus’ arm to the table top. ‘Two wins to one,’ he said, holding out his other hand.

  ‘I was distracted,’ Mallovendus protested.

  ‘My money,’ demanded the warrior.

  Arminius watched as Mallovendus paid up with good grace. He had his health toasted by the delighted warrior, who then swaggered back to his friends. His place was taken at once by another man, and Mallovendus threw a half-apologetic, half-amused glance at Arminius. ‘Give me a moment,’ he yelled.

  Arminius took up a stance beside one of the beer barrels with Maelo and Horsa. Cups in hand, they watched Mallovendus wrestling his new opponent.

  ‘I wonder if his loss was deliberate,’ muttered Arminius as Mallovendus wrenched the warrior’s arm to the table.

  Maelo smirked. ‘As a way to keep his followers loyal?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a man had done such a thing,’ said Horsa.

  Arminius nodded. In every tribe up and down the land, warriors obeyed their leaders out of respect, not because of any gods-given right. Using subterfuge – such as letting a man win at arm-wrestling – was just another trick of the trade.

  Mallovendus won the second contest with ease, and his opponent cursed him to heaven and hell. This was nothing unusual – Mallovendus gave back as good as he got, before clouting the warrior around the head and telling him to train harder if he ever wanted to beat his chieftain. Sheepish-faced, the warrior returned to his comrades, who rained good-natured abuse on him.

  The scene epitomised the differences between his people and the Romans, thought Arminius. No legionary would dare to challenge his commanding officer to such a contest, let alone defeat him as the first warrior had done, and then claim his winnings in an aggressive tone. Given the order, however, every legionary would march to the ends of the earth, endure harsh conditions and fight any foe, day after day and month after month. The Romans were fearsome, relentless enemies, united in purpose and, as Germanicus’ campaigns were proving, fond of revenge.

  Arminius’ fellow tribespeople were brave as wild boar and resilient fighters, but they were hot-headed and lacked the Romans’ discipline. Nor did they appreciate being told what to do, even when it made sense. The situation was what it was, Arminius reflected grimly. There wasn’t a thing to be done about it, other than to make the best of it, as he had done six years before.

  Turning to Arminius, Mallovendus raised his cup.

  ‘Greetings!’ Arminius cried in a voice designed to carry. ‘I thank you for inviting me to your home.’

  ‘Welcome!’ Mallovendus got to his feet. ‘Maelo’s with you, I see, and Horsa, the finest leader the Angrivarii have had these twenty years and more. Welcome, all of you.’ Jerking his thumb at the warriors to either side of him, he bellowed, ‘Make room! No guest of mine shall stand by my table.’

  The four shook hands with one another, and then, prompted by their host, took their seats, Arminius in the most honoured place to Mallovendus’ right, and Horsa to his left. Inguiomerus, a striking-looking man, was sitting on Arminius’ right. Maelo took the space on Inguiomerus’ other side, showing the others present their unity.’

  Servants were quick to place slopping beakers of beer in front of the new arrivals. Prompted by Mallovendus, the chieftains toasted one another’s health, and drank; wished victory for their warriors, and death to Germanicus and his soldiers, and drank again; asked the gods to lend their support, as they had in previous years with storms and heavy rain, and drank once more; remembered the glorious dead who had fallen fighting the Romans, and threw down a fourth cup.

  That done, Mallovendus let out an enormous belch and slapped a palm on the table. ‘Donar’s beard, but it’s good to see you, Arminius. You too,’ he said to Horsa. ‘You must both be ravenous. I know I am. Anyone else hungry?’ Grinning at the loud cries of assent, Mallovendus cast around for a servant. ‘Bring food! One of those piglets must be ready!’

  Arminius noted that Horsa was already deep in conversation with the chieftain to his left, a cadaverous-faced man who led part of the Usipetes tribe. Arminius didn’t like Gerulf. He was always first to counter Arminius’ opinion, and first to propose alternative plans, often involving considerable risk to everyone involved. He never seemed to understand Arminius’ vision: to end Rome’s influence over the tribal lands forever through a second massive military defeat.

  ‘—journey?’

  Arminius’ gaze returned to Mallovendus. ‘Eh?’

  ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘As you’d expect. Long and tiring.’

  ‘You didn’t hear me the first time. Pissed already?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. I thought you might be going soft.’ Mallovendus refilled Arminius’ cup. ‘Get that down you.’

  Arminius made a pretence of swigging deep, but he on
ly took a mouthful. It was fine beer, strong and earthy-tasting, but slaking his thirst this early would not be wise. There would be food and more drink and singing before the talking began. He wouldn’t get to say his piece for hours, and there was too much at stake to risk being drunk when that time came.

  ‘The priests are predicting that this winter will be the harshest for many a year,’ said Mallovendus. He clouted Arminius on the back, spilling his beer. ‘Mayhap you’ll have to stay awhile!’

  Gods, I hope not, thought Arminius. Difficult though travel was, this was the month he had set aside to journey the land, winning chieftains to his cause. His forces needed to be ready the moment spring arrived. ‘I’d have plenty of time to practise my arm-wrestling skills,’ he replied, pulling a smile. ‘Your beer is excellent too.’

  ‘You’d not be short of a bed companion,’ said Mallovendus with a sly jerk of his head at a full-breasted, comely woman who was clearing cups from the table. ‘She’s had her eye on you since you came in – had you noticed?’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ said Arminius, surprised to feel pleased. He hadn’t lain with a woman since Thusnelda’s abduction – hadn’t wanted to, truth be told. His groin stirred, forcing him to acknowledge that the body’s needs were different to the mind’s. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘The widow of a good warrior who fell last summer. She’s a strong character – knows what she wants, and doesn’t ask for anything in return. I’d plough her myself, but’ – Mallovendus indicated his wife, a plump woman with a pleasant face – ‘her eyes are keener than an eagle’s. She’d know what I was up to before I’d even spilled my seed. Not only would she box my ears – I would never hear the end of it.’

  ‘You’ve strayed from home before?’

  Mallovendus leered. ‘What man hasn’t?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Arminius in truth.

  Mallovendus studied his face in surprise. ‘How long were you with Thusnelda?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘You were still star-struck then. Spend ten summers with the same woman, or twelve, and throw in a brood of children, and your eye will begin to wander. It’s the way of the world.’