Eagles at War (36 page)

Varus scowled. ‘In Jupiter’s name, why?’

‘The new tax, it seems.’

‘Taxes are sent to plague us all! One might as well fight the rain as resist them,’ said Varus in a weary voice.

‘If everyone realised that, the world would be a simpler place,’ agreed Arminius.

‘The Angrivarii live to the north of here – not far, is it?’

‘Some thirty to forty miles, no more.’ Heart thumping, Arminius kept his mind fixed on the image of an iron fish hook, decorated with a fat worm, sinking delicately below the surface of a river. A short distance below, a fine trout watched it with beady eyes. Take it, thought Arminius. It’s there just for you.

‘Your second-in-command – Maelo, isn’t it – is he all right?’ asked Varus. ‘He seems unwell.’

Arminius threw a casual glance over his shoulder at Maelo. It was a small consolation that his face was no longer running with sweat, but his complexion was a pasty shade of grey. Arminius made a dismissive gesture. ‘The fool ate some fish last night, governor. Fish that was reputed to have come from the sea! He’s been paying for his thoughtlessness since dawn. Coming out both ends, it is, regular as anything.’

‘Enough, Arminius,’ ordered Varus, looking pained. ‘I have more to be concerned about than Maelo’s insides. Tell me every word that this traveller said.’

Relief flooded through Arminius. He was careful not to add many specifics to his fictitious report. An innocent bystander would not be someone to note warrior numbers and suchlike. ‘The man was terrified,’ he concluded. ‘He lingered long enough only to tell me his tale before riding south.’

‘How strong a tribe are the Angrivarii?’ asked Varus.

‘They’re not numerous. If every stripling and greybeard among them took up a spear, I’d wager they could field three and a half thousand warriors. Maybe four,’ replied Arminius.

‘Did the traveller say anything about neighbouring tribes?’

Varus was no fool, thought Arminius. He didn’t want to lead his soldiers towards a widespread uprising. ‘No, nothing.’

Varus rode on without replying, and Arminius’ stomach churned. In the bright sunlight, his story seemed as thin as old gruel. He wanted to keep talking, to ensure that Varus was persuaded to act, but feared to say too much. Remaining silent was as hard, however.

His heart beat out an unhappy score. To his rear, he heard Maelo retch. Arminius clutched at the sound like an ill-fed beggar seizes a thrown crust. ‘I told you not to eat that fish,’ he said. ‘The sea lies more than a hundred miles to the north. That should be enough to put any man off.’

‘I know,’ Maelo replied, groaning.

‘The timing of this uprising is inauspicious,’ declared Varus. ‘What do they hope to achieve this late in the season?’

Arminius felt a line of sweat trickle down his back. The usual time to go raiding, or to start a war, was at the end of spring, or in early summer, when there were months of campaigning available. ‘If I know the Angrivarii aright, reason will have had little to do with it,’ he said in a confiding tone. ‘Hot hearts are wont to overpower cold minds, they say among the tribes. Even now, it would be my instinct to react in the manner the Angrivarii have. It’s my Roman training that allows me to hold back, to think before I act.’

Varus regarded him with a smile. ‘Whatever the reason, their treachery cannot be overlooked. It’s fortunate that word reached us so soon, before they have had a chance to rally other tribes to their cause. Imagine also how difficult – and unpopular – it would have been to turn the army around close to Vetera. All we have to do now is, what – take a route to the north?’

It took a mighty effort for Arminius not to cheer. Instead, he said in a calm voice, ‘Correct, governor. We can follow the track upon which my men and I met the traveller.’

‘Good.’ Varus was already calling for his staff officers, and ordering that the engineers, and as much of their equipment as was feasible, be brought forward to their usual position. His legates were to be summoned, that they might discuss the best strategies to take against the Angrivarii. Word was to be passed along the entire column of the change in route, and the reasons why. Although contact with the enemy was not anticipated for a day or more, security was to be raised. ‘I want every man on the alert,’ commanded Varus. He turned back to Arminius. ‘Once again, I am in your debt.’

Arminius made an awkward gesture. ‘I was only doing my duty.’

‘As ever, you did it well. Now, though, you’d best return to your men. Leave some to ensure that the vanguard chooses the right path north, but I must ask you to take the rest ranging ahead – to see what you can find. For all we know, the Angrivarii could have sent raiding parties south.’

‘A wise decision,’ said Arminius. ‘I will also need to send riders to fetch the few men who missed our departure this morning.’

‘Do what you must, Arminius,’ replied Varus, waving him away. ‘Send any urgent news to me at once. Otherwise, report to me tonight, in camp.’

‘Very good,’ said Arminius. The next time I see you, I’ll plant a blade in your throat, he thought. ‘Come on, Maelo.’

‘Arminius!’ called Varus when they had ridden only a dozen paces.

Beside him, Arminius sensed Maelo stiffen. He turned, pulling a confident smile. ‘Yes?’

Varus raised a hand. ‘You didn’t say farewell.’

‘Pardon my haste. I wished only to begin my patrol. Farewell.’ Thank you, great Donar, Arminius thought, feeling a tide of relief as they rode on. ‘Gods above, I’m glad that’s over.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ muttered Maelo.

‘I should have left you with the men. You’re a warrior, not a spy.’ Arminius’ grin was half serious, half joking. ‘I still would have cut your balls off if you’d given the game away, mind.’

‘I’d have deserved it,’ Maelo admitted.

Easing their horses into a trot, they made their way towards the vanguard. Although no one questioned their passage, Arminius did not relax. It was yet possible that things could go wrong. Varus could develop doubts, and send a messenger to recall him. He had no idea where Tullus was, but if the centurion saw them, he might do something. So might that prick Tubero, if he appeared. It wasn’t likely that Flavus would catch sight of him either, riding as he was at the rear of the column, but Arminius kept a wary eye out for his brother too.

At length, they had left the legionaries of the vanguard behind, and the Gaulish cavalry too, and reached the safety of the open road. Only then did the events of the previous hour begin to seem real.

After so many years, the time for retribution was at hand.

XXI

IT WASN’T LONG
after dawn, and Varus was sitting in one of the partitioned rooms in his large tent, comfortable stool beneath him, thick carpets underfoot, oil lamps on gilded stands illuminating the chamber. The sound of orders, and grunts as furniture was lifted, came from all around him – the entire structure was being dismantled, ready for the day’s march – but where he was remained a little island of calm. The forest that had surrounded them since their departure from the main road the previous day was invisible yet, which was a pleasure. Varus had already seen enough trees to last him a lifetime.

‘Some bread, sir?’ asked Varus’ cook, a dour veteran who had been with him since he took up his governor’s post.

Varus, who hadn’t slept well, gave an irritable shake of his head. Already he was preoccupied with the impending day’s march, along the narrow path that Arminius had specified. The previous afternoon’s journey had been difficult and unpleasant. A night’s rain would have worsened the conditions further. It was as well, Varus thought, that the legions didn’t have to travel far.

Wise to his master’s mood, the cook retreated in silence with the plate of fresh-baked flatbreads.

‘Aristides,’ said Varus.

The Greek hurried over from his desk, and the mounds of documents that he’d been poring over. ‘Master?’

‘Has there been any sign of Arminius?’

Aristides knew that his master was well aware there hadn’t – they had had no visitors other than the cook since the last time Varus had asked. He scratched at one of the multitude of bites that decorated his face and arms and, after a moment, ventured, ‘No, master. Should I go outside and ask the guards?’

‘Yes. Have a soldier sent to the main gate as well, in case he’s arrived there. Have the auxiliary lines checked too, for the few of his riders who stayed behind yesterday.’

‘Master.’

Varus glared at Aristides’ retreating back. How one word could reveal that the Greek didn’t understand – or appreciate – his concern about Arminius’ absence, Varus wasn’t sure, but it did. All he has to be worried about is his damn bites, thought Varus, feeling jealous. I have a whole army to think of, and a tribe of damn Germans to find and subjugate.

The smell of hot wine dragged his mind back to the present. His cook had reappeared, unasked, this time with a silver goblet, from which wisps of steam were rising. ‘I thought you might like some wine instead, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s your favourite vintage, heated up and diluted a little. I’ve laced it with honey as well.’

Varus felt a smile break out. ‘Good man.’ Taking a sip, he toasted the cook. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘If you need another, sir, just call. I’ll keep my brazier hot until the last moment.’ The cook retreated towards the back of the tent, where his kitchen was situated.

Good mood restored, Varus decided that Arminius had been delayed by something – like as not being unable to track down some of his men – but he would appear sometime during the day. Even when Aristides returned to report that there had been no sign of the Cheruscan, and that his last riders had left before dawn to scout out the route ahead, Varus remained ebullient. When had Arminius ever let him down? A second, smaller goblet of wine fortified his spirits further. He put on his full general’s uniform: bronze, muscled breastplate, red sash, baldric, fine sword and crested helmet. Donning his crimson cloak last, Varus sallied from his tent, head held high. Mud squelched beneath his boots. It had rained even more than he’d realised overnight, which was annoying, for it would slow their progress on the narrow track.

His legates, Numonius Vala among them, and Lucius Eggius and Ceionius, his camp commanders, were waiting outside. They greeted him with smiles and salutes. ‘It’s a fine morning for hunting rebel tribesmen, sir,’ declared Vala.

Varus cast an eye upwards. Most of the clouds that had deluged the land a few hours before had gone. A watery sun was climbing above the treetops to the east. It was no guarantee that the weather would remain dry, but Varus had long found it best to remain positive. ‘Indeed it is. Make your reports.’

The Eighteenth Legion had been selected to form the vanguard that day, Varus was told. The Gaulish cavalry would precede it. To avoid the problems of the previous day, the engineers would march behind the first two cohorts of the Eighteenth, the better to be able to swing into action when their services were needed, as they would be.

‘As you’re aware, sir, some of the non-combatants and wagons have been travelling together with the soldiers,’ said Vala. ‘Do you wish them separated as if we were on campaign?’

All eyes swivelled to Varus, who smiled in dismissal. ‘The Angrivarii are a small tribe, who live more than thirty miles away. I see no reason to travel as if we are afraid. Besides, there may be points at which soldiers are needed to help move wagons over streams and so on. Is there anything else? No? To your positions, then.’

By late morning, Varus’ good humour was again wearing thin. Not long after the army had left camp, the wind had picked up, bringing with it banks of dark clouds that had emptied themselves over the forest and the slow-moving column. Although there had been breaks in the downpour, they had been scant. The wind continued to gain in strength, delivering more clouds – and rain – from the north. While the trees to either side afforded more protection than if they had been on a plain, there was no escaping the sheets of precipitation which hammered down from above. All a man could do was to hunch his shoulders and ride – or walk – on.

Varus could have summoned a covered wagon – there was even an official litter somewhere in the baggage train – but he didn’t wish to be perceived as a ‘soft’ general, who could not endure what his soldiers had to. Leading by example was important. He wasn’t going to be above calling for a new, dry cloak when the time came, however. Wool that had been soaked in lanolin could keep out the rain for a decent period, yet it became waterlogged in the end. Varus pitied his legionaries, each of whom possessed but one cloak. By the day’s end, they would be like bedraggled rats. And the smell in their tents – Varus wrinkled his nose at the mere thought. The odour of men who’d marched twenty miles carrying heavy kit was ripe at the best of times, but the confines of a tent, and wet wool – which stank – increased it manyfold.

The constant downpour, and the passage of so many feet, both animals and men, had turned the forest track into a quagmire. Mud had splattered up to Varus’ horse’s fetlocks. The legionaries in his escort had dirty cloak hems, and brown legs from the knee down. The group of slaves following Varus and his staff officers, most of whom wore no protection against the rain, were muddy, and drenched to the skin. However bad it was here, near the vanguard, he brooded, things would be worse further along the column. Like as not, the wagons carrying the artillery were getting bogged down, even stuck.