by Ben Kane
‘Maybe so,’ said Arminius, staring at the table top.
Mallovendus poured him more beer. ‘A terrible thing, losing your wife like that.’
‘Aye.’ Arminius damped down his grief, kept his tone neutral. ‘But I’m not alone in having suffered. Your people’s woes in the summer were grievous, and not a person in this room can have escaped without the loss of someone dear to them.’
‘You speak true,’ said Mallovendus, his expression dark.
‘Discussing war on Rome is the only reason I am here,’ Arminius declared, before throwing a look at the attractive widow. ‘That’s not to say I wouldn’t welcome other activities once the talking is done.’
‘You’re a man after my own heart. First we’ll eat and drink, then we will talk. Once we’ve hammered out the details, you can do some private hammering of your own,’ said Mallovendus with a wink. They both laughed, and Arminius’ gaze wandered again to the widow, who gave him a bold glance that appeared to promise much. ‘See?’ urged Mallovendus. ‘Your luck’s in tonight.’ Pounding Arminius on the back, he went to drain his bladder.
Arminius’ good humour faded as his eyes met those of Gerulf, whose nasal voice carried over the clamour. ‘Worked out how you’re going to lord it over us yet, Arminius?’
‘That’s not what I am here for,’ said Arminius in a courteous tone. ‘We are here to plan our war with Rome.’
‘So you say,’ scoffed Gerulf. ‘But a man cannot change his character, no matter how much he tries. I know you, Arminius. You have wanted to rule the tribes from the start, and ever it will be so.’
‘That’s not true,’ lied Arminius, and praying that Horsa, who was listening, paid no heed.
‘Is it not?’ Gerulf’s tone was mocking.
‘No,’ protested Arminius, hating the Usipetes chieftain for seeing through him with such ease. While his primary aim was to defeat the Romans, he did also dream of kingship over the tribes. ‘I am here because of Germanicus. He is a dangerous enemy with a vast army. If we do not unite to fight him, we will all be enslaved sooner or later.’
With a sardonic, knowing smile, Gerulf fell to talking with Horsa once more.
Arminius studied the depths of his cup, fresh worries scourging him.
Was his alliance doomed to fail before it had even been assembled?
Chapter IV
PARTICLES OF STINGING snow whipped into Tullus’ face, making him squint. The cold was savage – already his armour was icy to the touch, the skin of his arms and lower legs numb – but he didn’t have far to go, and he’d fight better without the hindrance of his cloak.
He kept careful count of his steps. Eight, and he still couldn’t discern the entrance to the wine merchant’s. A dozen, and Tullus made out the dark shape of a doorway, and a shape within it – his gut told him this was the warriors’ sentry. There would only be one, he decided, because the tribesmen needed every advantage possible to overcome Germanicus’ well-trained bodyguards. Gripping the staff as if he were a hobbling greybeard and hoping that his armour would be concealed by the failing light and the snow, Tullus shuffled forward another three steps, then four, five, six.
‘Be on your way!’ cried the sentry in bad Latin.
Gods, it was Degmar, thought Tullus, whipping up the staff with both hands and darting forward with all his speed.
Degmar brought up his spear too slowly to prevent Tullus’ staff taking him across the throat. The blade shot past Tullus’ left ear with a nasty whoosh of air and then Degmar was pressed back against the wall, struggling to breathe. Wild-eyed, shocked to see Tullus, he struggled like a madman, soon dropping his spear in order to wrestle with the staff. Tullus pressed in with grim intent, aware that he had one chance. If Degmar broke free, he’d raise the alarm. Even if Tullus succeeded, time was of the essence. Germanicus could already be dead. ‘I thought you a better man than this, Degmar,’ he hissed. ‘Murdering a man while he buys wine?’
Degmar’s lips writhed, and his purple tongue protruded a little further, but he couldn’t answer.
Who am I to hurl insults? wondered Tullus. We attacked his village at dawn, the morning after a great feast. His people – the women and children in particular – didn’t stand a chance. Incapable of looking at Degmar any longer, but compelled to continue what he was doing, Tullus found a hidden reserve of strength. He pushed harder and, after a few heartbeats, the warrior’s eyes glazed, and then rolled upwards. His entire body went limp.
No matter how evil Degmar’s intent, Tullus did not want to kill the Marsi warrior. Worried that he had done so, Tullus let him down easily. He felt an odd relief when a forefinger on Degmar’s bruised neck revealed a strong pulse.
The fighting had begun – from inside came the sound of raised voices, the ring of weapons and cries of pain. A prayer to Fortuna that he wasn’t too late slipped from Tullus’ lips. What he’d have given to have Fenestela at his side – Piso and Metilius too. They’re not here, Tullus told himself angrily. You are alone and outnumbered, and Germanicus needs you. Stay focused.
The first casualty was lying behind the counter in the shop, which fronted the business. A young, bearded man in rough-spun tunic and trousers, he lay on his back, a startled expression still on his face and a deep wound in his throat. Blood was pooling around him, saturating his clothes and filling the cracks between the floor tiles.
Poor bastard, thought Tullus, treading with light footsteps towards the half-open door, which led, he presumed, to storerooms and the merchant’s living quarters. He peered around the frame. Amphorae lined the chamber’s walls, laid on their sides in special frames, and protected with beds of straw. Others stood upright: small, medium, large and vast-sized ones. A table with two chairs sat in the room’s centre, several jugs and a dozen beakers on it the evidence of a wine tasting. Oil lamps hanging from bronze stands provided plenty of light. The only occupants were four sprawled bodies – the merchant, Tullus opined, given his paunch and fine clothes, and also two Praetorians and a warrior.
Seven to three, he thought. Terrible odds.
He stole towards the door in the far wall, broom still in hand. It was no weapon, but its length meant he might be able to take down another warrior before the inevitable blade work. Plentiful crimson droplets on the floor told him that at least one man was wounded. Let it be a warrior, Tullus asked, wondering with increasing dread if he’d come too late. Entering a passageway, he counted seven doorways, three to either side, with the last at the end. Another corpse, that of a warrior, was curled up ten paces in. Seeing no blood trail beyond him, Tullus deduced that he had been the bleeder. Six to three now – still poor odds, he thought. The noise of fighting, now much louder, appeared to be coming from the far end of the passage. The nearest two doors to Tullus were shut and, trusting that there was no one behind them, he hurried down the corridor. More closed doors – the next two – left him with a choice of three. All were open, and he could not yet discern if any were occupied.
‘Degmar! Get Degmar!’ someone shouted in German from the chamber at the passage’s end. The sound of approaching footsteps followed.
Tullus broke into a soft-footed run. It was probable that all the warriors were together – he had to hope so. To maintain the element of surprise, he had to get past the open doors and reach the final doorway first. Youth wasn’t on his side, and he prayed that he was closer than whoever was coming to fetch Degmar. Ten steps, then fifteen and a score, and Tullus was alongside the part-open door, standing on the hinge side. Fast and quiet as he could, he balanced the staff against the wall and slid his sword free.
‘GET DEGMAR!’
‘I’m going, I’m going,’ grumbled another voice just on the other side of the planking.
Holding his breath, Tullus raised his blade to shoulder height, its point forward.
Hinges creaked, the door opened wide, and a stocky, yellow-haired warrior emerged into the corridor. Sensing someone at the edge of his vision, he turned. Tullus’ sword rammed in
and out of his throat, and he died. Tullus grabbed the man by his shirt and lowered him to the floor even as he slid off the sharp steel. Blood gouted all over the bottom of Tullus’ mail and tunic, and his legs. Five to three, he thought. No – five to four, including me. His pleasure at the narrowing of the odds was brief. His numbers were theoretical, and it was likely that more of Germanicus’ bodyguards were dead.
The truth of that revealed itself as Tullus sneaked a look into the next chamber. A Praetorian was stretched out nearby, multiple stab wounds to the neck and groin his cause of expiry. Five to three again, calculated Tullus with fresh concern. The dim-lit storeroom was filled with stacked amphorae. Maker’s marks had been etched or stamped into their necks – the nearest ones to Tullus were from a part of Iberia famous for its smooth-tasting reds. Play this right, and he might survive to drink some again one day. Don’t be a fool, he thought. Like as not, he’d soon be bleeding out over the tiles, like the Praetorian.
No one was visible in the chamber’s gloomy central passage. Blade met blade a short distance away; Germanicus barked an order. A man cried out in pain, and another shouted in triumph. Tullus’ sense of urgency soared. Broom in one hand, scarlet-tipped sword in the other, he entered the room. Narrow ‘corridors’ had been left on either side to allow access to amphorae piled further in. Each one was a ready-made defensible position where a pair of men could stand abreast, fighting a maximum of two enemies. Hope flared in Tullus’ heart as he glanced to either side, seeking Germanicus and his assailants.
Tullus found them in the third corridor. Two warriors with their backs to him were attacking Germanicus and a Praetorian. A few paces nearer Tullus, a third warrior was propped, pale-faced, against an amphora. A sword cut to the meat of his right thigh had taken him out of the battle. Tullus didn’t have time to worry where the fourth and fifth men were, or if the injured tribesman saw him. There was blood on Germanicus’ face, and the Praetorian was wounded. Laying his staff against an amphora, for it would be no use now, Tullus tiptoed towards the mêlée.
He was halfway down the corridor when the hurt warrior’s head turned, and two-thirds down it when the man bellowed an alarm. His cry came to an abrupt halt as Tullus’ sword slid between his ribs. One of his companions glanced around at the commotion, and died in the same moment, as Germanicus took his chance. The second was a smarter individual, and his Praetorian opponent had also been distracted, allowing the warrior to stab him in the groin, between the strips of his leather skirt. Even as the Praetorian went down screaming, the warrior spun his weapon one-handed and thrust it at Germanicus. The blade screeched off the general’s breastplate, gouging a deep line in the polished bronze.
Germanicus’ sword had caught in his last opponent’s flesh and he was struggling to free it as the warrior drew back for another strike. Tullus darted forward and plunged his blade deep into the warrior’s back. A cry of agony rent the air and Tullus raised his boot to the man’s arse, shoving him away, on to his knees. A precise stab to the back of the neck and it was over.
‘Tullus? How in the all the gods’ names?’ Germanicus let out an incredulous, wild laugh. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with the blood, which was from a flesh wound to one cheek. He didn’t appear to be otherwise hurt. ‘Were you trailing me?’
‘No, sir.’ Tullus was still panting with effort. ‘I was in …’ Managing to swallow the words ‘a jeweller’s’, he continued, ‘… a shop on the same street, and I saw you pass by. Moments later, the warriors came past. It was clear that they were after you. I followed, but only then.’
‘We might have managed,’ said Germanicus, indicating the prone, bleeding figure of his last Praetorian behind him, ‘but I am doubtful. Once again, my decision to ignore your presence at Tiberius’ triumph seems well placed.’
Three years before, Tullus and Fenestela had broken the imperial ban on survivors of Arminius’ ambush travelling to Rome. Spotted and interrogated by Germanicus, their lives had been forfeit. Yet the general had seen something in Tullus, and been merciful. ‘I came in here because of what happened that day, sir,’ said Tullus.
‘I’m glad you did,’ replied Germanicus with feeling. ‘Now, where do you think the other two whoresons have got to?’
Clay ground off clay, a loud, grating sound close by.
Confused, Germanicus turned. Tullus also spun, staring with suspicion at the amphorae to their right. Before he’d quite realised what was happening, one began to topple; it was followed by a second and a third. Fear flared in his belly. Any one vessel had the weight and power to crush a man’s spine; more could kill. Dropping his left shoulder and wrapping his arm around a startled Germanicus, Tullus drove them towards the prone Praetorian and the room’s side wall. With a mighty crash, three amphorae fell into the corridor, pushed over by the remaining warriors. There was a moment’s shocked silence as the two parties stared at each other through the gap, and then one warrior made to hurl his spear at Germanicus.
Again Tullus manhandled the general, dragging him to the floor and the protection granted by the amphorae that were still standing. Air moved as the spear shot by; sparks flew as it struck a vessel to their rear and fell to the tiles, its energy spent. Tullus was about to reach for it when footsteps shuffled in the other corridor, and he stopped dead, his heart thumping. Would the warriors clamber over to attack, or try and knock over more of the massive amphorae? The latter choice was safer, and therefore more probable, he decided, but two could play at that game. He placed his lips against Germanicus’ ear, and miming pushing, whispered, ‘Help me, sir.’
Germanicus gave him a grim nod of assent, and together they stood. Tullus laid down his sword. Close up against the rows of vessels, they could not be seen by the warriors, who appeared to have stopped moving. Their purpose became clear as the amphora nearest Tullus wobbled a little. ‘This one, sir,’ he hissed, planting his hands on it and bracing himself. Germanicus stepped in alongside and did the same.
‘On my count, sir,’ said Tullus, urgency throbbing in his voice. ‘One, two, three!’
They shoved in unison, fear giving them extra strength. There was no counter-thrust, Tullus thought afterwards, which meant that they must have acted a heartbeat before their enemies. Grinding off the vessels to either side, the amphora leaned and then fell away from them, taking another one with it. They struck the floor with a crash like thunder. Dust rose, and an agonised screaming began, similar to a rabbit caught in a snare.
‘We got one, sir.’ Tullus was grinning as he picked up the spear cast at them a moment before. A quick glance into the gap between the corridors revealed a frightened, bearded face. Even at close range Tullus was no spearman, so he yelled, ‘Come on, you dog!’
The last of the warrior’s resolve crumbled, and he was gone, his boots slapping off the floor.
Germanicus let out a long sigh, but Tullus didn’t let down his guard. It would be stupid to die because he had miscounted their foes. ‘Stay there if you would, sir,’ he muttered. Germanicus began to protest, and Tullus said, in a tone that brooked no argument, ‘They might not all be gone, sir.’ Exchanging the spear for his sword, he leaned into the space left by the fallen amphorae. A warrior – the screaming-rabbit one – stared wide-eyed up at him from underneath the vessel pinning him to the floor.
He was going nowhere, thought Tullus. With luck, he’d last long enough to be interrogated. Returning his attention to the corridor, Tullus paced towards the central passage nice and slow, his blade ready. An odd excitement filled him now – fear was yet part of it, but there was a joy thrumming in his veins too, the mad joy that comes upon a man when he has stared death in the eyes close up, and lived to tell the tale.
You’re in a good mood today, Fortuna, you old bitch, he thought. Most would have considered him insane to bait a goddess so – Tullus often called her filthy names in his head, and sometimes aloud – but he found it amusing. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if she was even real – not once in his life had he seen inco
ntrovertible proof that she was anything other than a concept, a way to explain life’s random nature. The same principle applied to all the deities, if he thought on it, but calling into question their existence was also not something that Tullus was prepared to do, even in his mind. Some of them must be up there in the clouds, he decided. Fortuna, Mars and Jupiter at the least. How else could I have made it through so many fucking battles?
He reached the central passage and peered to either side. Relief swamped him to see no one living. An open door off to his left, at the building’s rear, seemed to signify that the last warrior had made his escape. With such a head start, he wouldn’t be caught, but that wasn’t the end of the world. Germanicus was unharmed, and there was a prisoner to interrogate. Two, Tullus realised with a pang. Degmar was lying outside. What had the poor fool been thinking to be part of such a madcap mission? The answer was simple, Tullus decided. Degmar’s wife and babe were dead, and his family furious with him for ‘collaborating’ with the Romans. Life back with his tribe would not have been the idyll he’d imagined during his captivity.
‘Drop your blade!’
Tullus’ head turned in surprise. Two legionaries with drawn swords had entered from the doorway that led to the shop. Their flushed faces and unsteady gait told him where the pair had been before the jeweller had found them. Despite their drunkenness, their arrival meant the fight was over. Tullus threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’m no German warrior!’
‘Filth!’ shouted one, advancing with his comrade at his side. ‘Threaten our general, would you?’
‘Look again,’ barked Tullus in his parade-ground voice.
The first soldier blinked; his companion recognised Tullus, and his face paled. ‘It’s Tullus,’ he said in a drunken stage whisper, adding with grave ponderousness, ‘the hero of the Saltus T-T-Teutoburgiensis.’ He attempted to come to attention and, swaying to and fro, he saluted.
