Eagles at War (13 page)

IT WAS A
baking hot day, with few clouds in the sky. Arminius was sitting cross-kneed on the ground outside his tent, scratching patterns in the dirt with the tip of a dagger. Maelo squatted beside him. A third warrior stood over them, waiting. Around them, Arminius’ troops’ tents formed the long sides of an open-ended rectangle, with pens containing their horses taking up the short side. The ‘open end’ faced on to one of the many avenues in the sprawling temporary camp that had sprung up outside Vetera as Varus’ summons was answered by the troops along the Rhenus. Despite the number of tents, it was quiet. Most of the men had headed for the inns and brothels the instant that they had been given permission.

‘I want to hear every word of what you just told me again,’ Arminius ordered.

‘Some young Tencteri have been rustling cattle from the Usipetes over the last moon or so,’ said the warrior. ‘The Usipetes had begun to think about reprisals, but the Romans at Aliso heard about the latest raid before they had a chance to act. A patrol that was making its way back from there chanced on a group of Usipetes youngsters who were herding some cattle to fresh pasture. One of them – it sounds as if it might have been Tubero, a new senior tribune – assumed that the boys were the rustlers. He attacked them, killing several. A bloodbath was prevented only by the intervention of a centurion who’d discovered that the youngsters were not Tencteri.’

‘Was any apology made?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘This is how they treat men from a tribe who are at peace with Rome?’ spat Maelo. ‘The dirty Roman bastards.’

‘Peace, Maelo,’ said Arminius, although his eyes remained ice-cold. He glanced at the warrior. ‘My thanks. You’re going for a drink now, I assume? Or two.’

A sheepish grin. ‘Aye.’

‘A favour. Go into as many of the taverns as you can before you get pissed. Make sure that every tribesman you meet hears the story.’

‘You have my word, Arminius.’

When the warrior had gone, he regarded Maelo again. ‘The deaths of those youngsters are regrettable, but they’re also a godsend.’

‘Their deaths will push the Usipetes to join us.’

‘Indeed.’ Arminius’ smile was tight. Precise. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better way for it to happen.’

‘But—’

Arminius bent towards Maelo. ‘I wish those youngsters hadn’t been slain, you know that more than anyone. But if their deaths guarantee that the Usipetes join our cause, and that other tribes do too? Does that not make it worthwhile?’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘It does, curse it,’ Maelo said with a shake of his head.

‘Think about the blood price we will extract from the Romans when the time comes.’

‘When the time comes,’ repeated Maelo. ‘It seems as if I’ve been waiting all my life for an opportunity to hit Rome where it really hurts.’ He made a rueful face. ‘As if you haven’t too.’

‘It’s been a long time for us both,’ Arminius agreed, ‘but the waiting will soon be over.’

The sound of approaching footsteps brought their conversation to a close. Soon a young legionary appeared from the direction of the camp. Sweat was running down his face, evidence of how hot it was to wear full kit in summer weather. His pace slackened at the sight of Arminius and Maelo. ‘Sir,’ he said with a perfunctory salute.

‘Greetings,’ Arminius replied, annoyed that even a low-ranker could indicate his disapproval with such ease.

‘I’m looking for Arminius of the Cherusci, sir.’

‘I am the man you seek,’ offered Arminius, and was pleased to see the legionary’s face redden with embarrassment. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Varus asks you to the principia for the start of the ninth hour, sir. He’s to hold an enquiry into the incident with the supposed cattle rustlers.’

Maelo stiffened, but the legionary didn’t appear to notice. ‘Thank Varus,’ said Arminius, ‘and tell him that I will be delighted to be there.’

‘Very good, sir.’ With another salute, the legionary withdrew.

‘
Supposed
rustlers? What were they doing then: stealing cattle from themselves?’ hissed Maelo.

‘Peace, brother. If Varus didn’t keep up the pretence, he’d be as good as admitting that the tribune murdered innocent men.’

‘Which he did!’

‘You and I know that. The centurion who intervened knows it. Varus must do as well, but he’s not going to hurl shit at one of his own, especially a senior tribune, before he’s heard what happened.’

‘I’ll wager you my best sword that even when he has listened to everyone’s story, and it’s clear that the officer in question acted without good reason, Varus won’t punish the whoreson. At least, not in the way he deserves. Being pressed face first into a bog by a wicker hurdle would be too good for him.’ Maelo was referring to the common tribal method of executing criminals.

‘You’re right.’ Arminius got to his feet and dusted down the backs of his trousers. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t make Varus squirm, can’t embarrass him into paying heavy reparations to the families of the dead men.’ He added in a low voice, ‘The Usipetes will be furious at the travesty of justice offered to their slain. Every last warrior of theirs will want to take part in the ambush.’

‘Donar, but I can’t wait for that day,’ said Maelo.

‘Patience, brother. It draws near,’ said Arminius, his expression fierce as a hawk’s.

Varus was irritated. Irritated by the meeting he was having to convene, irritated with Tubero, who was its cause, irritated by how long it was taking to get ready. He slapped his body slave’s hand away from the pteryges on his left shoulder. ‘By all that’s sacred, you must be done by now!’ The slave bowed his head and stepped back. With a critical eye, Varus stared into the tall bronze mirror that stood alongside the stand for his armour. He had bathed, and been shaved. His cuirass was gleaming; the red sash of his office was sitting in the correct place; his ornate sword hung at the right angle. He glanced at his feet, which were encased in a pair of well-polished calf-high leather boots. ‘Well?’ he asked, returning his gaze to the mirror.

‘You look perfect, master,’ said Aristides. ‘The governor from head to toe.’

‘Not quite,’ replied Varus in a dry tone. He clicked his fingers. ‘Helmet.’

The slave hurried forward again, felt liner and horsehair-crested helmet in hand.

When he’d tied the chinstrap in place, Varus checked the mirror once more, and then threw an enquiring glance at Aristides.

‘You’re the personification of Rome, master,’ said the Greek.

‘Ah, you could charm the birds down from the trees, Aristides,’ Varus mocked, but was pleased nonetheless. ‘I’d best get to the principia. It wouldn’t do to arrive after the Usipetes. Is Vala ready?’

‘He’s waiting for you in the courtyard, master.’

‘Good.’ Varus brushed a hand over the statuettes on the little shrine by his bed. Ancestors, grant that this goes well, he asked. Pushing his unease deep inside, he walked to the bedroom door. Aristides got there before him, and opened it with a flourish. ‘Master.’

Varus gave him a cordial nod, but his face changed as he stalked out into the corridor, becoming stern, even intimidating. When the legionary on duty outside saluted, he affected not to see. The legate Vala’s cordial greeting he met with a small smile, but he did not respond to the honour guard of ten legionaries outside the praetorium, which stiffened to attention as the two emerged. Varus looked neither to left nor right as, preceded by the legionaries, he and Vala made their way down an avenue towards the principia. It was all deliberate. Until the meeting was over, he intended to be seen as the governor of Germania, a man appointed by Augustus himself, worthy of the deepest respect.

Reaching the headquarters, Varus strode towards the monumental front archway. The duty optio barked an order, and the sentries snapped to attention. Vala acknowledged the officer, but Varus had already entered. Within, the courtyard was its usual hive of activity. Officers stood talking in twos and threes while low-rankers and slaves hurried to and fro between the offices that lay to either side. Ignoring the salutes, calls of ‘Governor!’ and ‘Well met, sir!’ and other greetings, Varus made straight for the great hall.

Inside, Varus was pleased to note that the cloth screens concealing the shrine’s entrance and the standards within had been pulled back, as per his instructions. Extra lights had been placed in the chamber, drawing men’s eyes to the glint of silver and gold. It was natural that the golden eagle – the most precious talisman of the Eighteenth – attracted most attention. Everything about the bird, from its elegant form to its upturned wings and the thunderbolts it gripped, demanded respect, thought Varus. For it. For the legion. For Rome.

More than a dozen officers were standing at the foot of a low, central platform: the tribunes and ten most senior centurions, including Marcus Caelius, the primus pilus. Like Varus, they were all dressed in their finest uniforms. Tubero and Tullus were among them, and Varus wasn’t surprised that they were standing at opposite ends of the group. Their written reports, which he had demanded soon after the patrol had returned, had intimated that there was some animosity between the two men. Varus felt his irritation towards Tubero recur. Despite the accusation of heavy drinking he had made against Tullus, it was as clear as the sun in the sky that the tribune’s actions had been rash, and without basis. Moreover, four innocent tribesmen were dead.

Varus had a sour taste in his mouth just thinking about it. If Tubero were an ordinary soldier, he would have had him flogged, just to start. If a junior officer or a centurion, he’d have had him demoted to the ranks. Why does he have to be a senior tribune, whose father is friendly with Augustus? Varus fumed. If Tubero received anything more than a rap across the knuckles, he, Varus, risked censure from the emperor himself, and that was not a menace he wanted hanging over his head, dead tribesmen or no. The youths’ families would have to be content with a hefty payment of cash, he had decided, and a promise that such a thing would not happen again.

Tubero attempted to speak as Varus drew near, but shut up when Varus gave a fierce shake of his head. ‘If I order you to, you will agree that what happened was … most regrettable,’ Varus muttered. ‘It was a tragedy, and the men’s families must be recompensed. Refrain from apologising, however. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tubero replied. ‘I—’

Varus waved him away. ‘Tullus, a word if you please.’ He took pleasure in the anger that flared in Tubero’s eyes as the centurion joined him on the platform.

Tullus saluted. ‘At your service, sir.’

Varus glanced him up and down, and liked what he saw. Tullus looked as solid and as dependable as the camp ramparts. He was brave too – the gold torques, the
phalerae
on his chest harness and the silver bands on his wrists were proof of that. ‘I read your report.’

‘I see, sir.’ Tullus’ tone was neutral.

‘And Tubero’s, of course. The tribune accused you of having drunk to excess the night before, and of being unfit for duty on the day in question. He said fewer men would have died if you had responded to his orders faster.’ Varus let his words linger in the air before asking, ‘Is there any basis to this charge?’

‘I had a reasonable amount to drink, sir, yes. We were guests of Caedicius, whom I think you know?’

‘Indeed. He’s a fine officer.’

‘And a man who likes his wine, sir.’

Varus coughed. ‘I won’t argue with that.’

Tullus looked pleased. ‘I will
not
admit to being unfit for duty, though, sir. Until the incident with the Usipetes, everything had been running as well as any other day on patrol. The other centurions will testify to that.’

Varus had spoken to several of the officers who’d been present, but he made no mention of it, or of the fact that their testimony agreed with that of Tullus. Varus hadn’t been sure if they’d been telling the truth, or covering for their superior, to whom they felt loyal. ‘Tubero also dined with you and Caedicius?’

‘He did, sir, along with Aliso’s usual commander, Marcianus. He was most excited when the cattle rustlers were mentioned.’

‘Meeting them would be every unblooded officer’s dream. Did he drink much?’

‘I can’t recall, sir.’

‘I see,’ said Varus, amused by the obvious lie. ‘The following morning, how was he?’

‘He seemed all right to me, sir.’ Tullus’ gaze was fixed on a point somewhere over Varus’ right shoulder.

Varus came to a number of conclusions at the same time. Tubero had got as drunk as Tullus. Less likely to be a seasoned drinker than the centurion, he had been as sick as a dog the next day, whereas Tullus – no doubt practised at the art – might have been a little under the weather, but not much more. Tubero’s accusations against Tullus were a crude effort to cover up his mistake. Despite the allegations, which carried with them the risk of being disciplined, Tullus was unprepared to respond in kind against the tribune. It was a mark of the character of both men, Varus concluded, how they had acted. ‘Thank you, centurion. Dismissed.’

Varus had Vala, the Eighteenth’s six tribunes and the primus pilus stand close to the shrine’s entrance before the Usipetes’ chieftains arrived. Tullus and the other centurions arrayed themselves in front of the dais. It was a display intended to impress and intimidate: watched by Augustus’ statue, almost twenty senior officers in full regalia waited together, while half a century of legionaries from the First Cohort lined the chamber’s walls and the standards glimmered from the shrine. Varus was pleased with his preparations. Battles were often won by the general who got to choose the battlefield, and who used the terrain to his advantage. Here, he had achieved both of those things. All that needed to happen now was for him to deploy his forces – in this case, words and, if the time came, a suitably humble Tubero – and victory would be his.

Not long after, the duty optio from the gate led in the Usipetes’ leaders – and Arminius. The Cheruscan chieftain could not have made a balder statement of his intent, yet he continued to advance, right up to the officers before Varus. ‘I thank you for your invitation today, governor.’