by Ben Kane
Arminius’ temper flared. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Far from it, Arminius,’ replied Gerulf with a sly look. Letting his eyes wander from chieftain to chieftain, he sneered, ‘Was there ever to be a debate about who commands us in this venture, in which many of us might lose our lives, or were we going to follow him like sheep? What gives this silver-tongued weasel the right to lead us? Have I forgotten a vote-casting, in which we elected him to take charge?’
‘There has been no vote,’ said a jowly-jawed Tencteri chieftain with clear resentment.
‘Aye,’ muttered a few discontented voices.
‘Why ever not?’ demanded Gerulf. ‘Who’s to say that you’ – here he pointed at Mallovendus – ‘or you’ – and now he indicated Horsa – ‘couldn’t do just as good a job?’
‘I could lead the army,’ declared the Tencteri chieftain.
‘And I!’ cried several others.
‘I too could do it,’ said Gerulf, puffing out his chest. ‘Let us put it to a vote. That will be the fairest way.’
Donar take him, thought Arminius with rising fury. The whole thing’s going to hell now. Half a dozen of the fools will challenge my right to command. If my luck holds, I’ll come out on top, but the bad atmosphere created will divide the alliance. Everyone who stood but didn’t win will feel wronged. Images of chieftains arguing over battle tactics, or worse still, leaving with their warriors at a pivotal moment, filled his mind. I cannot let that happen. I will not, Arminius decided, even if I have to gamble everything. Standing, he beat his cup on the table.
A surprised silence fell.
‘Vote if you wish. Pick your leader,’ Arminius declared. ‘You are your own masters, but I have no wish to quarrel with you, like children. Nor does my uncle. Our warriors will stay under our command.’ A quick look was enough to see that Inguiomerus remained of a mind with him, and Arminius took heart. His tactic might yet work.
Chaos erupted. Angry shouts filled the air. ‘Come now, Arminius,’ roared Mallovendus, purple-faced. ‘You must stand with us!’
‘Will you let us fight the Romans on our own?’ Gerulf’s voice was furious.
‘I will not be part of this madness, no, but you may act as you will. Choose a man to lead you. Fight, or sue for peace. Maybe even abandon your tribal lands as some have done and travel east, beyond Rome’s reach.’ Arminius cast around, staring at each chieftain. ‘Voting for a leader might seem fairer, but it will not give you the man who can crush the Romans once and for all.’
No one spoke for one heartbeat, two, and, desperate to keep the initiative, Arminius leaped to the attack again. He jabbed a forefinger at Gerulf. ‘Can you devise and execute a plan that will defeat eighty thousand Roman soldiers?’
Gerulf’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
‘I thought not!’ shouted Arminius. ‘We’d follow you to a glorious death.’ He rounded on Mallovendus. ‘Are you the man to command our warriors, the man who’ll defeat Germanicus’ host?’
‘I would do my best,’ replied Mallovendus, bristling.
‘Your best? That’s not good enough, and never will be,’ derided Arminius. ‘Against that many Romans we need more than someone’s best! We deserve a man with a plan that will work. A plan that will see Germanicus’ army wiped from the face of the earth, or as near as. Who of you will take that weighty burden on his shoulders?’
‘Not I,’ admitted Horsa with a shake of his head. ‘You can be an arrogant whoreson, Arminius, but you are a natural leader, and a fine tactician. You think it can be done?’
‘I know it,’ cried Arminius, encouraged by Horsa’s reluctant approval. ‘If we deliver such a crushing blow, I swear to you that the empire will leave us in peace – forever.’
The chieftains began talking among themselves. Sitting down, Arminius left them to it. ‘Fine words, well said,’ Inguiomerus mouthed from his seat.
‘A risky strategy,’ whispered Maelo, but his eyes were shining. ‘They’ll have to follow you now – you’ve given them no option. Even the most bull-headed among them knows the only decent general here is you.’ He jerked his head to the side. ‘Gerulf won’t forgive you in a hurry, though.’
Arminius glanced sidelong at Gerulf, whose frowning, pinched expression couldn’t have been missed by a blind man. Thwarted, he’s going to be even more of a ball ache from now on, Arminius realised, coming to a sudden, drastic decision. Leaning close to Maelo, he said, ‘Next time the dog goes for a leak, follow him. Kill him outside.’
Maelo’s arched eyebrows were his only comment.
‘It has to look accidental.’
‘Leave it to me.’
Satisfied, Arminius sat back. Gerulf would soon be removed from the equation, but an election to choose a war leader remained a distinct possibility. Arminius twitched with impatience as they conferred. With a show of nonchalance, he picked up a pair of discarded dice. To his surprise, he kept rolling fives and sixes.
After a time, Mallovendus was the one to put him out of his misery. ‘We have come to a decision,’ he announced.
Arminius’ stomach knotted itself, and he set down the dice. ‘I see.’
‘The victory you described – you will lead us to it?’ Mallovendus’ voice was gruff.
‘I will,’ swore Arminius with utter conviction. ‘I have done it before – most of you have witnessed the proof of that with your own eyes. With your help, and your warriors, I will do it again, but we have to be united! Are you with me?’
‘Aye,’ growled Mallovendus. ‘We are.’
‘You’ll let me decide when and where to fight?’
‘We will,’ said Mallovendus in a grudging tone.
‘Aye,’ said Horsa, the set of his jaw evidence that he wasn’t entirely happy. The others’ ‘Ayes’ were also muted, but all the chieftains met Arminius’ eyes – except Gerulf.
‘My warriors will fight,’ he announced, ‘but if I don’t like your plan, Arminius, I will take them back to our settlements.’
‘Very well,’ snapped Arminius. ‘But do not expect to be given much in the way of responsibility come the spring.’ Clambering on to the table, he snatched up the eagle and turned in a circle so that all might witness its glittering majesty at close quarters. ‘Together, we will vanquish Rome’s legions. Together, we will capture not just three of these, but half a dozen!’
The chieftains cheered then, loud and lusty, and Arminius gave fervent thanks to Donar. Most of the time, it was impossible to tell if the thunder god had any interest in the affairs of men, but on occasions like this, when Arminius had fought against the odds and emerged victorious, it felt as if he had divine approval.
Shoving his chair back, Gerulf muttered something under his breath as he made for the door. Few noticed him leave bar Arminius and his second-in-command; Maelo waited a dozen heartbeats before he too slipped away.
‘Tell us your plan,’ invited Mallovendus, pouring more beer for Arminius.
‘Wait.’ Arminius threw back the contents of his cup and held it out for a refill. ‘It’s thirsty work persuading you bastards to fight.’
The belly laughs and embarrassed looks that broke out following this risky comment filled Arminius with a dark delight. Gerulf had almost sunk his efforts, but he had triumphed in the end. The chieftains would follow his lead, to victory, and Gerulf’s voice would never trouble him again.
The night had been a good one, Arminius thought. Catching the widow’s eye, he smiled. It wasn’t over yet.
Chapter VI
MONTHS HAD PASSED, and in the Roman camp of Vetera, the bitter weather was becoming a distant memory. Spring was here at last, bringing with it more pleasant temperatures. Birds trilled their joy from the new-leafed trees and buds bloomed on every plant. It was late afternoon, but bright sunlight continued to stream through the windblown breaks in the cloud. A short distance downhill from the massive fort, legionary Marcus Piso was wandering the riverbank.
A tall, gangling man w
ith spiky black hair, he had been in Tullus’ original century in the Eighteenth, and a newish recruit at the time their legion had been wiped out. Piso was a wiser, tougher man now, and devoted to Tullus. Beside him strode Metilius, his friend and comrade, and another of Tullus’ old soldiers. They were off duty and on the hunt for some fish. Neither felt the urge to throw a line in the water, but there were enough legionaries doing so for trade or purchase to be possible. The rich variety of fish in the Rhenus ensured that catching them was a popular off-duty pastime. Some enterprising individuals also netted water birds – duck, crane, snipe and, in the winter, goose. Beaver meat was available on occasion too, although it was expensive.
Fish wasn’t Piso’s favourite food – that was lamb – but it was more appetising than wheat porridge, which was all that was on offer today in the barrack room he shared with Metilius and four others. Theirs wasn’t a full-strength eight-man contubernium, or tent group, but last summer’s brutal campaign ensured their situation was far from unique. Piso had let slip his opinion of the evening’s proposed menu during their training some hours before, and the nominated cook for the day, a jovial, red-cheeked soldier called Dulcius, had not been impressed. ‘Boring, is it?’ he’d growled. ‘You cook then, or provide something tastier!’
And so it was that Piso found himself strolling the water’s edge with Metilius. He’d pay for whatever fish they decided upon, and Dulcius would do the rest upon their return. It was a good trade-off, thought Piso with a glance at Metilius. ‘Nice to be outside the walls and not in the settlement, eh?’
‘Aye. Even I can grow tired of taverns and inns, inns and taverns,’ replied Metilius. ‘Whorehouses now – they’re a different matter. I’d visit one of those every day, if I could but afford it.’
Piso chuckled. He too patronised the settlement’s brothels, but not with the same frequency as Metilius, whose slight build, innocuous expression and dimpled cheeks gave the lie to his massive sexual appetite. ‘You’d have more money to spend if you were good at dice. I’ve offered to teach you before—’
Metilius cut him off. ‘I’ve no head for gaming or wagers – you know me when it comes to gauging the odds.’
Piso shrugged. ‘If you change your mind, just ask.’
‘That’ll never happen,’ said Metilius, giving him a nudge.
Piso shoved back, glad of Metilius’ presence. His previous best friend had been Vitellius, another of Tullus’ old soldiers, but he had been slain in the previous year’s campaign. It had been a stupid, unnecessary way to die, brooded Piso, just as that of another good comrade, Saxa, had been unfortunate. Since their deaths, the bond between him and Metilius and the rest of their tent group had strengthened further. It would soon be tested, for the massive army gathering outside the camp’s northern wall was almost ready to cross the river.
‘Ho, brother,’ called Piso, addressing a balding soldier with a full wicker basket by his side. ‘You’ve been busy.’
Baldy didn’t take his eyes off his fishing line. ‘An as for the tench and carp, and the same for the catfish. The bream are bigger – they’re two asses each. The big bastard of a pike will cost you a sestertius. He took an age to haul in.’
Using the hazel twig he’d brought to carry his purchases, Piso poked through Baldy’s catch. ‘What do you fancy?’ he asked Metilius.
‘I’m not cooking, so I don’t care,’ said Metilius in a cheerful tone. ‘Not the catfish, though. They taste like mud.’
‘Bottom-dwellers are all the same,’ agreed Piso. He eyed Baldy. ‘How much for six tench?’
‘Six asses,’ came the tart reply.
‘I’m buying half a dozen,’ protested Piso. ‘Four asses.’
‘Five.’
‘Four.’
‘Go on then.’ For the first time, Baldy looked at them. He watched as Piso threaded his stick through the gills of six tench; then he held out a hand. What passed for a smile crossed his face as Piso’s coins clinked into his palm. ‘Gratitude.’
‘You here much?’ asked Piso.
‘If the weather’s like this, and I’m not on duty, aye. It’s a fine place to while away a few hours, not least because we’re about to spend months on the far bank, in danger of our fucking lives.’ Baldy swept an arm from left to right, encompassing the green, tree-bound islands in midstream, the plentiful birdlife and the fast-flowing water. ‘Beautiful, eh?’
‘I suppose.’ Piso cast a dour look at the far bank. ‘D’you see many tribesmen?’
‘On occasion, when the river patrols aren’t about. The bolder ones come out in boats, pretending to fish, but their weasel eyes are always on us and the fort. They know we’re coming for them.’ There was a metallic noise as Baldy slapped the grass beside him, where his sword lay. ‘Me and the other regulars, we always have these with us. Just in case, you know.’
‘A wise move,’ said Piso. It was unusual for off-duty soldiers to carry more than a dagger, but he couldn’t argue with Baldy’s reasoning. And yet things had been quiet since the assassination attempt on Germanicus during the winter, he thought. ‘Should we do the same, Metilius?’
‘I’m soon going to have to hump my cursed gladius everywhere, night and day,’ Metilius grumbled. ‘I’m not about to carry it when I’m off duty as well.’
‘Aye.’ Baldy was being over-cautious, Piso told himself. ‘Come on. Let’s see how the ships are coming along, and then we’ll head back.’
Bidding farewell to Baldy, they continued their walk towards the new quay that lay beneath the fort. There was a jetty outside the settlement, but the huge numbers of vessels required for this year’s campaign had meant a second structure had been built close to the camp. Scores upon scores of troop transports had been constructed there over the winter months, and work continued building more. Rumour had it that Germanicus had ordered almost a thousand in total. Piso prayed – often – that his unit wasn’t among those selected to travel to Germania by sea. His stomach did a neat roll at the memory of the unpleasant voyage he and his comrades had endured the previous year.
Deciding that his luck would hold, and he’d be commanded to march into enemy territory, he studied the nearest ships, which were moored in rows, jutting out into the current. A carved wooden bird’s head arched over the prow of each, and an open-fronted cabin for the captain was positioned at the back. Long, graceful and sleek, they had a single bank of oars, fifteen to twenty a side, one steering oar and a central sail. One to two centuries could fit aboard, depending on their length.
‘They look seaworthy enough,’ said Piso, trying to sound confident. ‘But if Fortuna’s kind to us, we won’t ever have to try them out.’
‘I’m with you, brother,’ said Metilius, spitting. ‘Give me solid ground under my feet any day.’
‘Sea or land, victory will be ours – Germanicus will ensure that,’ said Piso, and Metilius rumbled in agreement. They weren’t alone in thinking this – since their return from Germania the previous autumn, morale had been high.
Their hobs clattered off the wooden planks, adding to the clamour. Sailmakers sat cross-legged on the dock, barking orders at their helpers as they made adjustments to great squares of hemp. Sawdust lay in deep piles around the carpenters, who were fashioning rowing benches for unfinished craft. Master shipbuilders, brought in from far and wide, strode about deep in conversation, followed by serious-faced clerks with writing tablets and styli. Soldiers and their officers clambered off vessels that had just come in from patrols. None of the men appeared to be nauseous, thought Piso, before remembering with disgust that the Rhenus was always calmer than the open sea.
At the far end of the quay was the shipbuilding area proper. Things here were quieter, for the day’s work had already ceased. Wooden frames held upturned hulls in various stages of construction from almost skeletons to the completed article. Tree trunks lay in stacks; beside them stood the tables where they were cut and planed into suitable lengths. The harsh tang of pine resin filled the air – Piso spie
d pots sitting near the craft that had been painted with it that day.
‘Seen enough?’ asked Metilius. ‘Let’s go back – my belly’s grumbling.’
A devilment took Piso. It was a lovely evening, and Baldy was right – the riverbank was beautiful. ‘Dulcius and the rest can wait,’ he said.
‘Eh?’
‘There’s sawdust and wood shavings everywhere. We’ll light a fire and cook our tench, stay out here while it’s bright. The others can eat their porridge and get annoyed. They will have their fish when we return.’
A grin cracked Metilius’ face. ‘A fine idea. I should have brought a skin of wine, and some bread.’
‘That will do for next time,’ said Piso. ‘Maybe the rest will come then too. We could even catch our own dinner.’
The matter settled, they set about gathering fuel.
Belly full, content, Piso stretched his feet towards the dying fire. It was dark now – hours had gone past – and Metilius was dozing beside him. The sky had cleared, and countless stars glittered in the vast blackness overhead. The murmur of the water as it sped by, the skitter of an animal in the rushes – an otter, perhaps – and the occasional bird call were the only sounds. Piso could have been by the mighty River Padus in Italy, where he’d grown up. At this hour, his widowed mother would soon be going to bed. His two younger brothers, both grown now, might still be at home, or they could have married and be living nearby.
Piso felt a pang of nostalgia. He hadn’t seen or heard from his family for several years, and he determined to include a letter with the next cash payment he sent to his mother. His reading and writing was laboured, but he could pen a few lines. He might receive a reply written on his mother’s behalf by the local scribe within the year, if he was lucky. Like most ordinary soldiers, Piso used migrant traders to carry his letters, men who acted as unofficial messengers for a fee. More reliable were veterans who’d taken their discharge and were returning to Italy, but finding one of those was easier said than done.
