by Ben Kane
The Usipetes were not alone in their misfortune. Disobeying Arminius’ orders to link up with his army in secret, thereby keeping the Romans unaware, the Angrivarii tribe had risen in rebellion some ten days before. Germanicus’ instantaneous reaction had seen a strong, fast-moving force of cavalry and skirmishers dispatched to the Angrivarii territory. News since had been scant. Even if the fighting was going against the Romans, which was less likely than Arminius wished, the tribe would be bogged down for some time and therefore unable to add to his numbers.
‘Ho, Osbert!’ Arminius stopped by the tent of one of his best warriors. Thickset, massive-chested, and fond of fighting and drinking, Osbert looked to have been indulging in too much of the latter. His eyes were bloodshot and flecks of food matter, perhaps even vomit, decorated his bushy beard.
‘A big night last night?’ asked Arminius.
‘Aye,’ croaked Osbert with a rueful rub of his head. ‘There was light in the sky when we called an end to it.’
Osbert’s tent mates – three of his friends – were in no better shape. With a resigned sigh, Arminius left them to it. Good numbers of others were in a similar state as he made his way through the disorganisation that was his tribe’s section of the camp. He would have preferred his warriors not to indulge so, but nothing would be gained by calling them to task. As Gerulf had always been quick to point out, Arminius was not their master. To be fair, it was hard to blame his men for their behaviour.
The Roman army was more than thirty miles away as the bird flew, fifty as the warrior ran. Battle would not be joined today or the next, even if Arminius decided to fight. While he and Germanicus played cat and mouse, as they had done for days, those men who weren’t scouting or harassing the enemy – the vast majority of Arminius’ forces – had to sit on their hands. When it was dry, they could hunt, train, and practise the various battle drills taught them by Arminius and Maelo. When it rained, however, there was little to do but huddle in their tents, gamble and drink.
‘Arminius! Where is Arminius?’ The voice belonged to a warrior who’d come running from the direction of the Marsi tents, which lay a short distance away.
‘I’m here,’ replied Arminius, raising a hand. He waited for the warrior to draw near, hoping that his urgency didn’t signify a surprise attack by Germanicus. ‘Greetings,’ he said as the warrior, a lean-framed man with a wispy moustache, reached him. ‘You bring news?’
‘One of our patrols has returned. They clashed with the enemy two evenings ago as it was growing dark. The fight went well, and they took a number of prisoners – Chatti auxiliaries for the most part, but one is a Roman officer.’
‘These are good tidings.’ Arminius felt his ill humour lifting.
‘Mallovendus said you would want to be there when they’re questioned,’ added the warrior.
‘Mallovendus was right. Take me to him.’ He grilled the messenger as they walked but learned little, for the prisoners had only just arrived. Even so, Arminius’ excitement grew with each step. There was no certainty that he would learn anything of worth, but thanks to the Romans’ bitter determination to defend their comrades, prisoners were rare.
Reaching the Marsi area of the camp, they spied a crowd of warriors gathered in a circle. Every neck was craned. Men stood on tiptoe and leaned on their comrades to see. The protests at Arminius’ shoving through their midst died away as he was recognised. Emerging into the centre, Arminius found Mallovendus and a dozen tired-looking warriors ranged around the bound prisoners, who were kneeling by a large, sputtering fire. Eight in number, all were tribesmen but the last. Helmetless but dressed in a mail shirt, he wore a typical Roman metalled belt. His lack of phalerae or torques reduced the chance of him being a centurion, thought Arminius, fighting disappointment.
‘You arrived quicker than a crow to a corpse!’ boomed Mallovendus.
‘My thanks for sending word,’ said Arminius, nodding his recognition to the warrior who’d guided him. ‘Have you found out anything?’
‘They’ve been softened up a little, but I haven’t bothered asking any questions yet.’ Mallovendus’ smile was all teeth.
Arminius stalked towards the prisoners. ‘These men are Chatti?’
‘Aye,’ replied Mallovendus.
‘Chatti warriors helped to steal my wife. Chatti warriors deprived me of ever seeing my child. Could any of you whoresons have been in my settlement that day, I wonder?’ grated Arminius, his flinty gaze wandering over each of the seven. In the middle of the line, a skinny man’s eyes made an involuntary flicker to the right. Arminius honed in on the movement with lightning speed. ‘Donar has answered my prayers,’ he cried, jabbing a finger in the faces of the three warriors the man could have been looking at. ‘One or more of you was there, or your friend thinks you were.’ He regarded the thin prisoner. ‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ protested Skinny.
‘Wrong answer,’ replied Arminius, kicking him in the solar plexus. He dropped face first to the ground and lay, groaning.
Arminius breathed, setting aside his rage and his inclination to start torturing the three warriors. His desire for vengeance on those who had abducted Thusnelda was unimportant at this juncture. Discovering something of Germanicus’ plans was vital. Moving towards the Roman, Arminius caught Mallovendus’ watchful eyes on him, and knew he’d made the right decision. Appearances had to be kept up, and his revenge could wait. ‘Name. Rank. Cohort. Legion,’ he barked in Latin at the officer, a fine-featured young man with a long, straight nose.
‘You speak our tongue,’ said the officer. Surprise twisted his face. Understanding dawned next; it was followed by fear. ‘You are Arminius,’ he muttered.
‘How observant,’ replied Arminius in a dry tone. ‘Your name. Rank. Cohort. Legion.’
‘Gnaeus Aelius Gallus, optio, Third Century, Ninth Cohort, Twenty-First Legion.’
Arminius could taste disappointment in his throat, cloying and bitter. A junior officer from a low-ranking cohort would know next to nothing of Germanicus’ intentions, and still less of Thusnelda, far away in Italy. Arminius studied him through jaundiced eyes. Could Gallus be lying about his rank?
Gallus was in his mid-twenties, and therefore young to be a centurion. His armour was rusted in places, not unusual when an army was in the field, but also not something that Arminius imagined centurions in the more senior cohorts would tolerate. If Gallus served in a higher-ranked cohort, he was a poor example, Arminius decided, concluding he was telling the truth. There was little chance of extracting useful intelligence from him, nor could he save the poor fool from being tortured and killed – not that Arminius wanted to anyway.
I’ve got to ask, he thought. ‘What does Germanicus plan next?’
‘You’re going to kill me whatever I say.’ Gallus’ voice was resigned.
‘I’ll be busy with the warriors,’ confided Arminius. ‘But my friends here will kill you, yes. It will be slow and rather painful, I would think.’
Gallus looked as if he might be sick. ‘If I tell you what I know, can you give me a quick end?’
‘I can,’ Arminius declared.
Gallus stared, trying to gauge if Arminius was lying or not. After a moment, he gave a little shrug. ‘Rumour has it that the army is to make for the tropaeum erected by Germanicus’ father, Drusus.’
‘Tropaeum?’ Arminius could not recall the word’s meaning.
‘It’s an altar of sorts, made from helmets, shields, spears, armour and so on. Drusus’ tropaeum was built out of spoil taken from the Marcomanni. I’m not sure of its exact location, but it lies to the north or northeast. It marks the furthest point a Roman army has ever journeyed into Germania,’ Gallus added with a hint of pride.
‘Ah, that. I know where it is,’ said Arminius, his good humour returning. He glanced at Mallovendus, who didn’t speak any Latin. ‘It seems that Germanicus is to march to the altar constructed by his father more than twenty years ago. You know th
e one on the west bank of the River Albis, in Dolgubnii territory?’
‘Aye. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and was torn down years ago by the locals.’ Mallovendus shook his head in disbelief. ‘What help will visiting a pile of rusting metal offer his campaign?’
‘Perhaps he wishes to achieve the same glories as his father. Asking the gods for their blessing there would be a powerful gesture,’ said Arminius. ‘Whatever his reason, the journey will take his legions almost a hundred miles further to the east. More tribes will want to join us because of this, not least the Dolgubnii – they will be unhappy to have their lands invaded. I’d wager the Semnones will also be feeling nervous – and there will be opportunities for us to fight the Romans. If we can manoeuvre Germanicus to one of the rivers, say the Alara or the Amisia, and place our forces on one side while his are on the other, that would be a fine thing, would it not?’
‘Attack his soldiers as they cross, you mean?’ Mallovendus’ smile was brief. ‘Germanicus is no fool. He’ll see through our ruse.’
Arminius made a dismissive gesture. ‘One way or another, we’ll bring the dog to bay. When it happens, we’ll overwhelm his soldiers as we did before.’ He enveloped one fist with the fingers of his other hand. ‘There will be no escape.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ said Mallovendus, leering. ‘D’you wish to question the Roman further?’
‘I see no need – he’s a low-ranker.’
‘You’re more interested in interrogating those,’ stated Mallovendus, indicating the three warriors Arminius had singled out.
‘I am. With your permission?’
‘Do what you like to them. If they were part of the raiding party who took my wife, I’d, well …’ Mallovendus’ expression grew murderous. ‘My men will be happy with the others, and the Roman.’
‘Excellent.’ Arminius drew his dagger as he walked away from Gallus. The trio of warriors quailed; one started asking for mercy before Arminius had even reached him. Arminius didn’t utter a word. Grim-faced, he grabbed the pleader’s head with one hand and pulled him close. Babbling shrieks left the struggling warrior’s mouth as Arminius probed and sliced with his blade. There was a brief spurt of blood, a deeper sound of pain and the pleader’s eyeball dropped to the ground before him. His two companions stared in horror.
‘That’s just the start,’ said Arminius in a pleasant tone, still with a firm grip of his moaning victim. ‘Now, tell me. Did any of you take part in the raid that saw my wife Thusnelda taken prisoner, and her maggot of a father, Segestes, freed?’
The pair gaped at him, and Arminius let the tip of his dagger rest just below his victim’s second eye. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Arminius!’ cried Gallus, interrupting.
He twisted his head. Gallus had been pinned down, a warrior holding each of his limbs. A fifth was pulling down Gallus’ undergarment, the knife laid alongside clear indication of the warrior’s purpose. Arminius sneered. ‘What?’
‘You said I could have a swift death!’ Raw terror oozed from Gallus’ voice.
‘I lied,’ snarled Arminius, turning his back.
‘Noooo!’ wailed Gallus, his protest becoming a high-pitched scream as the knife-wielding warrior set to work.
Arminius felt no sympathy. Gallus deserved an agonising death, as did every Roman who crossed the Rhenus with fire and sword. Germanicus and his legions, so brutal in their treatment of the tribes, would learn this lesson – the hard way.
Before that, Arminius had the opportunity to revenge himself on some of those who had stolen away his wife. This was a scenario he had never imagined possible. He would savour it. Prolong it. Enjoy it.
Chapter XI
LOW CLOUD COVERED the landscape; an intermittent drizzle fell, as usual. Swarms of tiny flies hung in the humid air, biting any exposed areas of flesh. Piso and his comrades were tramping along behind the First Cohort of the Fifth. Piso’s feet hurt, in particular his left. A new blister, maybe two, had formed on its ball – he was sure of it. Another to add to the many he already had, Piso thought with grim resignation. He was loath to break from the security of the ranks to inspect it. Better to endure the pain and see to it later, in camp.
He wasn’t sure what to feel worst about: the blisters, new and old; his aching back and shoulders; or the numerous raw patches of skin where his new plate armour tended to rub. His plethora of insect bites and damp clothing were minor complaints in comparison. Piso’s comrades were in the same boat, more or less, which was some consolation. It meant saying nothing was the best policy. Anyone who grumbled was shouted down and made the butt of his comrades’ jokes until something else took their fancy, and that, he knew, could take time.
Today the Fifth was in the body of the miles-long column, a safer place than the vanguard, for which he was grateful. Whichever unit had to lead the army suffered frequent, stinging attacks by the enemy. Even if a man wasn’t injured or killed in the short but brutal clashes, it wore him down. If only the cursed enemy would fight, thought Piso for the hundredth time. But Arminius was too shrewd for that, too fox-like in his cunning. Battle wouldn’t be joined until he was good and ready, Tullus said, until his warriors had chewed more of the legionaries’ morale away.
Superstition prevented Piso from uttering it out loud, but their situation bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the ambush on Varus’ legions, and the attacks on Caecina’s army the year before. The latter assaults had failed, but the former had resulted in one of the worst defeats suffered by Rome for generations. Not since the disastrous campaigns by first Crassus and then Marcus Antonius into Parthia had so many legions been lost, Metilius liked to grumble. Piso was a gambling man, and the current odds were not something to place money on, let alone risk his life for. Not that he or his friends had much choice in the matter, he brooded. Germanicus’ mind was made up, and his army must follow.
The legions were marching north, or perhaps a little northeast, their target some long-forgotten monument Piso had never heard of. ‘Where in Hades are we going again?’ he asked.
Tullus heard, as he so often did. Materialising by Piso’s right shoulder with disconcerting speed, he matched his pace. ‘Drusus’ tropaeum. A monument erected after his magnificent victory over the Marcomanni. Twenty-five years ago, it was set up. You were still crawling about in the dirt then, I’d wager.’ He threw Piso a piercing look.
‘I was two, sir,’ muttered Piso, hating the immediate baby noises made by his comrades.
‘In that case, your mother was still wiping snot from your nose and shit from your arse, while I was there, with Drusus,’ Tullus revealed. ‘I was an optio then, and Fenestela an ordinary legionary. We fought the Marcomanni several times. Plenty of our brothers died, gods rest them, but we hammered seven shades of shit out of the tribesmen. The tropaeum may be old – indeed the entire structure might have been knocked down years ago by the savages – but it’s a sacred monument still. If Germanicus wants us to find it and restore it to its former glory, then that’s what we’ll do. With smiles on our faces. Understand?’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Piso, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. ‘I’m glad to be marching towards it.’
‘The right answer!’ declared Tullus. With what passed for his smile – a grimace in anyone else’s book – he marched off.
Fresh jeers and insults fell around Piso; well used to it, he gave back as good as he got. ‘As if any of you want to be searching for it,’ he snarled once Tullus was out of earshot.
Metilius let out an evil snicker. ‘Course we don’t, but we weren’t caught complaining about it.’
‘And you were.’ Dulcius pointed out the obvious, as was his wont.
Piso wasn’t done yet. ‘A pile of rusting spears and rotten shields is the most we’ll find – if we’re lucky.’
‘Better to have an objective than not,’ said Metilius. ‘And Germanicus might find a place to do battle with Arminius on the way.’
Metilius was right, Piso decided. Deep
in enemy territory, their supply lines lengthening by the day, they needed purpose. In the enemy’s absence, Drusus’ tropaeum would do.
That evening, Piso and his comrades were sitting around their fire, blankets draped over their shoulders and bare feet shoved close to the embers. Spring it might be, but the nights were yet cold and damp. Stomachs full of flat bread baked over the flames and the roasted quarter-lamb that Metilius had procured – ‘liberated’, in his words, which meant he’d pilfered the meat from some unfortunates in another cohort – they were passing around a leather wine bag owned by Piso.
‘One mouthful at a time, you dog,’ Piso barked at Dulcius, who was sucking from the skin like a babe at the breast. ‘My wine, my rules. Give it here!’
Dulcius made to hand it back, but with clear reluctance.
‘My turn,’ snarled Piso, slapping away Metilius’ grasping fingers. He took a long swallow, doing his best to ignore the vinegary taste, and passed it with a warning look to Metilius. ‘One mouthful!’
Metilius made a face when he’d swigged from the skin. ‘Not an expensive vintage, is it?’
‘Don’t like it, don’t drink it,’ Piso retorted, grabbing it back. ‘You could always provide your own.’
‘His is just there,’ said Dulcius, pointing.
‘See how he drinks my wine rather than his own,’ cried Piso.
‘That’s because he buys even cheaper piss than you,’ declared Rufus, one of the other soldiers in their contubernium, with triumph.
