Rome’s Fallen Eagle (22 page)

‘We crossed what’s left of that fifty miles south of here,’ Paetus remarked. ‘How did they stray so far from their path?’

‘Arminius sent a false message saying that there was a rebellion up north of here. Varus trusted and liked him and therefore believed him – even though he had been warned that he was plotting against him – so he decided not to split his column and took everybody north, even the camp followers and slow baggage train, into this terrain of hills thick with trees and cut by deep ravines; fucking idiot! Varus allowed his lumbering, six- or seven-mile-long column to be led by German guides into a valley a few miles back, southeast of here, that was heaving with tribesmen hiding in the trees.’

‘Didn’t they have scouts out on the flanks?’ Vespasian asked, looking up the hill to his left through the oak, beech and birch trees and imagining how easy it would be to hide an army from view.

‘Yeah, according to the few lads who survived, they had lots of scouts; trouble was they were Arminius’ men and they accidentally missed seeing five thousand or so warriors on either side of the hills above them plus another ten thousand who had decided to come along and watch on the understanding that they would join in if it went well for Arminius. Anyway, Varus thought that it was natural to use Cherusci and Chatti auxiliaries as scouts; the tribes were loyal after all and it meant that he could have all his
legionaries marching in nice neat ranks and files, eight abreast, all very lovely and military fashion, just how generals like it.’

‘But very slow.’

‘Exactly; and they kept on having to fell trees so that the formation wouldn’t break up. Also, it was pouring with rain and there was a howling wind blowing in from the west with a force that I’ve only ever seen in Germania; none of our lads could see or hear the savages until they felt their spears and slingshots crash into the centre of the column. The boys still had their pila tied to their pack-yokes; it was a fucking shambles from all accounts. Then the savages and our own auxiliaries came whooping and hollering down the hill and it all got very personal, if you take my meaning, and before long the column was cut in two.’

‘How did they make it here to die along this path?’ Sabinus asked, looking at the Nineteenth’s emblem and wondering where it had fallen.

‘Eventually they regained some semblance of order and Varus got half the lads to build a camp whilst the rest held the bastards off; they finally withdrew at nightfall and Varus allowed a few hours’ wet sleep before destroying all the carts and sneaking out of the camp a couple of hours before dawn. The Germans woke up to find the camp empty of legionaries but full of abandoned supplies; well, as you can imagine, they were in no mood to chase our boys until they’d had a good rummage through it all. Meanwhile Varus kept on trying to go northwest to come to Arminius’ aid, thinking that the attack was an attempt to stop him from getting to the source of the rebellion rather than Arminius himself; pompous idiot! The army’s never been in short supply of them.’

‘I’d say he was acting honourably,’ Vespasian observed. ‘After all, he didn’t know the message was false so he was trying to do his duty to Rome and to his friend by going to Arminius’ aid.’

Magnus grunted and looked dubiously at Vespasian. ‘Anyway, they pressed on all day with a few minor skirmishes and made another camp. The following day the main body of the Germans had caught up and that night our lads fought almost without reprieve to keep the savages out of the camp; then in the morning
of the fourth day the Germans withdrew and the remnants of the column moved on. But the Germans harried them all the time, making sure that they always travelled in this direction and eventually they ended up here. And that was that, they were surrounded; nowhere to run to. The surviving cavalry tried to make a break but were ridden down. Varus fell on his sword and the lads had a choice between going down fighting, suicide or surrender to either be sacrificed or to endure a life of slavery. Only a very few managed to slip away; under fifty, out of all those lads.’ Magnus pulled up his horse suddenly. ‘Shit! We took all those down.’

Ahead of them on either side of the path skulls had been nailed to trees by long spikes through the eyes.

‘Looks like the Germans put them back up,’ Sabinus observed.

Magnus spat in disgust and clenched his right thumb in protection from the evil-eye. Past the skulls, the path opened up into a wide sandy area, two hundred paces across and half a mile in length; strewn all around it were thousands of human bones of all shapes and sizes, weathered and tinged with lichen. ‘They’ve done more than that; they’ve dug a lot of the lads back up.’

The column crunched along through the clearing; the last desperate earthwork of Varus’ legions to their left was broken down in places as if trampled upon by hundreds of feet; the rotted hoof of a dead mule protruded from one section. The reek of stagnant water wafted across from the extensive bog to their right and ahead the trees closed in again making it a perfect killing ground. Although birds were singing in the boughs of trees laden with spring-green leaves, Vespasian found the atmosphere oppressive, as if thousands of eyes were watching them. He tried not to look down at the bones of the long-dead legionaries but his morbid curiosity got the better of him. Leg bones, arm bones, vertebrae, ribs, skulls and pelvises were all scattered haphazardly; some were whole, others had been cut or hacked into and more than a few showed signs of being gnawed at by wild animals. Here and there they passed crude altars fashioned out of stone; on them more bones lay but these were blackened by fire. ‘How long ago were you here, Magnus?’

‘Must be twenty-five years now.’

‘What’s so strange is that they haven’t been buried over that time by nature. It’s as if someone looks after them.’

‘Them, perhaps?’ Magnus suggested as a group of five horsemen rode out of the trees and blocked their path a hundred paces ahead of them.

The Chatti warriors leading the column raised their hands to signal a halt. Two of them rode forward to talk briefly with the new arrivals before returning and speaking to Ansigar.

The decurion nodded and turned to the Roman officers. ‘They are Cherusci; Thumelicus is waiting for us at the summit of this hill.’

The hill was not high, no more than three hundred and fifty feet, and they mounted it swiftly, even though it was thick with trees; Vespasian could well imagine how so many warriors could have concealed themselves on its slopes. Towards the summit they took a detour around a clearing with a grove of beech trees at its centre in which a tethered white horse grazed peacefully next to an altar. Three heads, one of them fresh but the rest in various states of decomposition, hung by their long hair from branches around its edge; skulls with scraps of flesh and hair still clinging to them lay on the ground beneath them as testament to the ripening of this ghastly fruit. Blood dripped from the altar.

As the slope petered out so did the wood; they reached the summit, which had been cleared of trees to leave an incongruous meadow, alive with spring flowers, but dominated by the most unlikely of sights: a ten-foot-high, fifty-foot-square, red leather tent next to a solitary, ancient oak.

Vespasian took one look at it and knew what he was staring at.

‘Mercury’s sweet arse,’ Magnus exclaimed, ‘that must be Varus’ command tent, captured amongst the abandoned baggage all those years ago.’

Sabinus was equally awed. ‘I suppose they got everything that the column was carrying; they couldn’t have burnt it because it would’ve been too wet.’

The five Cherusci riders dismounted at the tent’s entrance and signalled for the column to do the same; their leader, an older man in his sixties, went inside. After a few moments he reappeared and spoke to Ansigar.

‘You may go in,’ the decurion informed Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus. ‘We’ll graze the horses whilst you’re gone.’

‘Coming this time?’ Vespasian asked Magnus, heading for the entrance.

‘Does the Emperor stutter?’

Vespasian pushed the leather flaps aside and found himself in a short, leather-walled corridor, just like the praetorium tent in Poppaeus’ camp back in Thracia, although this one did not have a transportable marble floor and made do only with waxed bare boards. He walked a few steps down the corridor and through a door into the main part of the tent. Tallow candles flickered all about, illuminating a room elegantly furnished with wellupholstered couches, finely carved chairs and tables and decorated with small bronze statues in amongst ceramic or glass bowls and vessels. At the far end was a sturdy oaken desk with rolled-up scrolls arranged on it; next to it, on a curule chair, sat a Roman Governor in full military uniform. And yet it could not be, for he was too young to be a governor and he wore a full black beard.

‘Welcome, Romans,’ the Governor said, ‘I am Thumelicus, son of Erminatz.’

Vespasian opened his mouth to greet Thumelicus but was halted by the raising of a hand.

‘Do not tell me your names,’ Thumelicus insisted, staring at him from beneath a firm brow with penetrating, blue eyes, devoid of feeling. ‘I have no wish to know them; after I escaped from your Empire I swore to Donar the Thunderer to strike me down with a lightning bolt from above if I ever have anything to do with Rome again. However, at the behest of my old enemy, Adgandestrius, I have asked the god to make an exception this one time for the sake of my tribe and Germania.’ He indicated to the couches around the room. ‘Sit down.’

Vespasian and his companions accepted the invitation, making themselves as comfortable as was possible whilst under
the glare of Thumelicus’ intense gaze. His nose was pronounced but slender, showing signs of many breakages. His cheekbones were high and his luxuriant, well-combed black beard climbed almost up to them. The long hair of his moustache partially obscured thin, pale lips. Vespasian concentrated on his chin and was able to make out its outline beneath the beard; there was a cleft, this was definitely the man.

‘Adgandestrius tells me that you wish for my help in finding the one remaining Eagle lost by your legions at my father’s victory here in the Teutoburg Wald.’

‘He is correct.’

‘And why do you think that I would help you?’

‘It would be in your interests to do so.’

Thumelicus scoffed and leant forward, pointing his finger at Vespasian’s face. ‘Roman, at the age of two I was paraded, with my mother, Thusnelda, in Germanicus’ triumph; a humiliation for my father. Then in another humiliation to him we were sent to Ravenna to live with his brother Flavus’ wife; Flavus, who always fought for Rome even against his own people. Then in a third humiliation I was taken at the age of eight and trained to be a gladiator; the son of the liberator of Germania fighting on the arena sand for the gratification of the mob of some provincial town. I fought my first bout when I was sixteen and I won my wooden sword of freedom fifty-two fights later, four years ago, at the age of twenty. The first thing that I did once I was free was settle my score with my uncle Flavus and his wife, and then, with my mother, I came back here to my tribe. With all that Rome has done to me, how could my own interests and yours ever coincide?’

Vespasian told him of the planned invasion of Britannia and Adgandestrius’ strategic view of its consequences.

‘And you can guarantee that Rome won’t just raise three or four more legions and replace the ones in Britannia?’ Thumelicus asked. ‘Of course not; Rome has the manpower for many more legions and that old man should realise that. Unless the Empire is hit by a terrible plague it will continue to grow in population. Citizenship is being awarded to more and more communities in every province. All the time, slaves are being
freed and receiving citizenship; they aren’t eligible to join the legions but their sons are. But I agree with Adgandestrius in the short term: an invasion of Britannia will very likely keep us safe for a generation or so.’ Thumelicus removed the crested helmet and placed it on the desk; his hair fell to his shoulders. He looked at the Romans and laughed low and mirthlessly. ‘If it had not been for my father then there would still be a Roman wearing this uniform even now in Germania; but because of him I can wear it now as I deal with the successors of the man to whom it belonged. I can also entertain them in his tent and serve them refreshments on his plate.’

At a sharp double clap of Thumelicus’ hands, the entrance behind him opened; two bearded slaves in their fifties shuffled in with trays covered with silver cups, jugs of beer and plates of food. As they padded around the room placing food and drink on tables near their master’s guests Vespasian noticed with a shock that their hair was cut short, Roman style.

‘Yes, Aius and Tiburtius were both captured in this place, thirty-two years ago,’ Thumelicus confirmed, reading the look on Vespasian’s face. ‘They have been slaves here ever since. They have not tried to run away; have you, Aius?’

The slave serving Vespasian turned and bowed his head to Thumelicus. ‘No, master.’

‘Tell them why, Aius.’

‘I cannot return to Rome.’

‘Why not?’

‘Shame, master.’

‘Shame of what, Aius?’

Aius looked nervously at Vespasian and then back to his master.

‘You can tell them, Aius; they haven’t come to take you back.’

‘Shame of losing the Eagle, master.’

‘Losing the Eagle?’ Thumelicus ruminated, turning his blue eyes onto the old soldier.

The years of servitude and shame came to tell in Aius and he hung his head, and his chest heaved a couple of times with repressed sobs.

‘And you, Tiburtius?’ Thumelicus asked, giving the second man, slightly older and with almost silver hair, the full force of his stare. ‘Do you still feel shame?’

Tiburtius just nodded dumbly and placed his last jar on the desk next to Thumelicus.

Vespasian’s shock turned into anger as he looked at two Roman citizens so beaten down by years of disgrace and slavery. ‘Why haven’t you done the honourable thing and killed yourselves?’ he asked, barely concealing his disgust.

A smile played at the corners of Thumelicus’ mouth. ‘You may answer him, Aius.’