Eagles at War (5 page)

Assessing the purse’s weight, Segimundus smiled. ‘You are generous indeed, Arminius.’

There’s no time like the present, thought Arminius. If Segimundus would be prepared to spread the word among the tribes that the gods were angry with Rome, his wish to defeat Varus’ legions could become more than a burning desire. He jerked a thumb at the diseased rams. In a low voice, he said, ‘Can your findings really be put down to the owner’s poor stockmanship?’

Segimundus threw him a sharp glance. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You seemed uncomfortable when the legate laid the blame at the farmer’s feet.’

Segimundus indicated his acolytes and the others present with his eyes. ‘If we are to discuss the matter, I would rather some privacy. Come into the temple.’

Arminius had been inside the shrine numerous times, yet it never failed to impress. Oil lamps on bronze stands lined the walls, filling the long, narrow interior with a golden-orange glow. As with the altar, the quality of the decoration and the statues was second to none. The grandest, a figure of Augustus, was more than twice the height of a man even without its waist-high plinth, and was reputed to be one of the most lifelike depictions of the emperor that had ever been carved. Augustus was dressed as a general, bareheaded, in an ornate cuirass, with
pteryges
and calf-high boots. His slight frown, direct gaze and steady jaw completed the look that the emperor was a born leader, a man capable of leading armies into battle and winning victory at any price. A god, almost.

Scorn filled Arminius. Augustus no longer looked like that. The likeness must have been taken a generation ago. He was an old man now, and like as not needed hot stones in his bed at night to keep the winter chills away.

It was clear that the room was empty, but Segimundus peered up and down before he was content. ‘Despite the legate’s protestations, even the least skilled farmer can raise animals that thrive. Would you not be concerned if every beast but one that you offered to the gods was unhealthy in some way?’

‘I would indeed,’ Arminius admitted. ‘I also fail to see how the healthiness of the last ram wipes out the ill omens that you determined from the others.’

‘It’s simple. It cannot.’

Arminius took a deep breath. He had reached a fork in the road. One path would see his plan to fruition, and the other to discovery by the Romans. The only way to determine which was the right route – or the wrong – was by revealing his hand. Then it came to him that Segimundus might have the same concerns as he – for all the priest knew,
he
was true to Rome. Realising the irony, Arminius laughed.

Segimundus cocked his head. ‘What’s funny?’

‘Here we are, dancing around each other, trying to gauge the other’s opinion, trying to see what the other really thinks.’

‘Is that what we’re doing?’

‘You know it is, Segimundus.’

A chuckle. ‘Perhaps I do.’ He paused. ‘I wonder how the legate would react if I told him of my dream last night.’

‘Go on,’ said Arminius, intrigued.

‘I saw a golden eagle, a standard like the one each legion possesses.’ Segimundus appraised Arminius before he added, ‘It was being consumed by fire.’

Hope stirred in Arminius’ heart. ‘That is a powerful image indeed. Was it a sign from the gods, do you think?’

‘I feel sure that it was. It came to me in a sacred grove belonging to the Sugambri. Yesterday I was on the other side of the river, on official duty,’ Segimundus explained. ‘The hour had grown late before my business was concluded, and the settlement’s priest invited me to stay. As night fell, I decided to spend some time in the grove, to see if Donar would commune with me. I went alone, as I always do, and prayed to the god. I drank some barley beer. At first, nothing happened. Some time passed, and I fell asleep.’

Arminius could feel a pulse beating at the base of his throat.

‘The dream of the burning eagle was so vivid, so intense, that I woke from it. I was covered in sweat.’ Segimundus’ eyes were alive with passion. ‘Donar sent me the vision. I know it. The rams today are further proof.’

The two men studied each other for a long moment.

Arminius spoke first. ‘It gladdens my heart to hear you speak so. Too long have I served Rome. Too long have I done nothing while the empire mistreats the different tribes. Are we Cherusci not kin to each other, and to the Chatti, the Marsi and the Angrivarii? We share more with one another than we ever will with the Romans.’

‘I cannot fault your logic,’ said Segimundus. His expression grew serious. ‘Have you a plan?’

Segimundus’ words made Arminius throw caution to the wind. ‘I plan to forge an alliance of the tribes. We will drive Rome’s legions west of the river once and for all.’

Segimundus looked surprised, and wary. ‘No modest aim, then.’

‘My part of the tribe is with me. I hope that soon the Chatti and the Usipetes will be too. It’s possible too that the rest of the Cherusci could be won over. If you were by my side, or better, elsewhere, spreading the word of your dream and what happened here today, we’d be sure to convince others to join us. What do you say?’

Segimundus did not reply. Arminius’ heart hammered out a few unhappy beats, and he found that he was clenching his fists. Perhaps he had misjudged the priest? Damn it, he thought, his anger rising. I’ll shut him up rather than let him squeal to the legate. Quite how he could get away with murdering Segimundus in the temple, he had no idea. A surreptitious look to either side, and down the room, told him that they were still alone. Turning a little so that Segimundus could not see, he let his right hand creep towards his sword hilt.

‘Donar must have sent you.’

The fervour in the priest’s voice was unmistakeable. Letting his hand drop to his side, Arminius faced Segimundus. ‘Really?’

‘Why else would things happen in such close succession? The dream, the diseased rams, and then you telling me of your plan?’

‘So you’ll help?’

‘As Donar is my witness,’ replied Segimundus, solemn-faced.

‘I am grateful,’ said Arminius, shaking his hand hard.

‘We can talk tonight, in my quarters.’

Arminius felt a broad smile break out. ‘I look forward to that.’

He walked out into the warm sunshine. Like his first ally, it seemed to have been sent by the thunder god himself.

Win over the chieftains of the various tribes next, he thought, and I will have an army.

Real excitement filled Arminius at that prospect. As for a time and a place to ambush Varus’ legions, well, he had those in mind too.

Gods, but he could not wait until his plan came to fruition.

II

SENIOR CENTURION LUCIUS
Cominius Tullus stood on the side of the road, close to the main, arched gate of Vetera. A rectangular, fortified camp, some nine hundred paces by six hundred in size, it was home to his legion, the Eighteenth, and had been a Roman base for more than twenty years. His wasn’t an old unit by any means – it had been founded by Augustus half a century before, during the civil war that had brought him to power. The Eighteenth’s first period of service had been in Aquitania. Just a few years later, it had been transferred to Vetera on the River Rhenus. When Tullus had been promoted to the centurionate fifteen years ago, he had been transferred into the Eighteenth from his old legion.

Tramp, tramp.
The soldiers of Tullus’ century marched past. Led by the standard-bearer, they were six men wide, twelve deep – a unit was never at complete strength – with his
optio
Fenestela near the back.

As each man passed Tullus, he took great care to square his shoulders and keep his shoulder-carried javelin at the right angle. Keen-eyed, expressionless, Tullus observed how good their equipment looked, and whether it showed any signs of wear, or damage. He’d spotted most of the problems when the legionaries had assembled outside their stone barracks: a loose armour plate here; a helmet cheekpiece missing its iron tie ring there. As then, none of it mattered enough to halt their progress. They’d been chastised, he thought, and would fix their kit upon their return. That, or they’d feel his
vitis
, vine cane, across their shoulders.

Now and again, Tullus’ attention strayed to the camp’s impressive fortifications. His home had been within for a decade and a half, and he wasn’t yet tired of appreciating the defences. Everything about them exuded confidence, permanence and the power of Rome. First came the deep double ditch, with the spiked branches at the bottom of each. Behind those was the earthen rampart, built with the spoil from the ditches. It was taller than the loftiest cavalryman. The stone wall that sat atop it was even taller, and ran around the camp’s entire perimeter.

Flashes of sunlight marked the sentries pacing to and fro on the rampart’s walkway. Those who were in the twin towers spanning the gate observed Tullus with a faint air of superiority, their height and his patrol duty giving them immunity to any potential reprimand. Tullus’ lips twitched with amusement. He’d acted much the same way as a young low-ranker, a lifetime before. As long as the sentries remained alert – and they appeared to be – he didn’t care.

Even in these peaceful times, outside a camp containing a legion, it paid to be watchful. That was how he approached life, how he approached routine duties such as this. No one had had a problem with tribesmen this side of the river in years, but every time his legionaries marched beyond the walls, on duty, they – and he – were armed and equipped for battle.

Tullus was a solid man; middle-aged, but in excellent physical shape. Under his centurion’s crested helmet and the felt liner that sat beneath it, he had short brown hair. A long jaw didn’t stop him from being good-looking; nor did the pattern of scars that marked his body. He jerked his head as his optio, Marcus Crassus Fenestela, drew level. They paced together to the front of the unit, their gaze roaming over the tramping legionaries.

As Tullus walked, he studied Fenestela sidelong. It amused him that he and Fenestela were such physical opposites. Where he was solid, Fenestela was thin; where he was brawny, Fenestela was wiry. Fenestela’s auburn, curly hair was longer than regulation cut, and his features were, as Tullus liked to joke, uneven. His ugliness wasn’t helped by his bushy red beard. Tullus didn’t give a shit about Fenestela’s appearance, however. He and his optio had served together for many years. They had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, and trusted each other inside and out.

‘Happy?’ Tullus asked at length.

‘Aye, sir,’ Fenestela replied, his keen eyes darting over the column. ‘They look all right.’

‘Even the green ones?’ asked Tullus as they drew alongside two ranks of newish recruits. He was amused: although the soldiers’ helmets and kit shone from polishing, and their gait was satisfactory, they were careful not to catch his eye.

‘They’re coming along,’ Fenestela murmured.

‘Look at Piso. He’s got mismatched feet, or I’m no judge.’ Tullus watched the tall soldier in the second rank of recruits. Despite the fact that he was furthest from Tullus, it was easy to spot his rolling step, the shield hanging at an awkward angle on his back.

‘He’s learning, sir,’ said Fenestela. ‘Another few months and he’ll pass muster.’

‘Aye.’ Content that Piso, who’d made it through the tough initial training, would go on to become a decent soldier, Tullus’ gaze strayed to the shining silver band that was the Rhenus. The river came from behind them to the right and ran parallel to the road at a distance of a couple of hundred paces. Half a mile onward, it flowed past the
vicus
, or civilian settlement, that served the massive military camp – their legion’s base – to their rear. The watercourse’s span was interrupted close to the vicus by large islands covered in trees, making it impossible to see the far bank, as they could from their current position. Germania Magna began on the other side, and it was where they were heading.

Discerning the direction of his gaze, Fenestela scowled. ‘I don’t like going over there, sir,’ he muttered.

‘You always say that, Fenestela. Any tribes still hostile to Rome live a hundred miles to the east, or more. The ones who live closer know better than to resist our rule. They’ve been taught enough lessons over the last twenty years.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Fenestela’s tone revealed his doubt.

Tullus didn’t comment. It was a topic that they had argued over countless times. According to Fenestela, he was overly trusting. Tullus thought his optio far too cynical. The longer Rome’s rule lay upon a land, the less likely it was that there would be trouble. There hadn’t been a major uprising close to the Rhenus for almost five years. If it continued, he mused, he could end his career in peacetime. That prospect appealed now more than it ever had – the price, perhaps, of seeing so many of his soldiers die in battle.

Despite the attraction of retirement, Tullus knew that he would sometimes miss the insanity of combat, when the blood pounded in his ears, and the men around him felt closer than brothers. He increased his pace, indicating that Fenestela should walk with him.