Eagles at War

  Varus wanted to scream, Why this, now? Dysentery was a serious matter. ‘Do so at once, but position their tents close to the camp rampart. Use the healthy men in the cohort to dig the ditch and move the tents.’ There wasn’t much more he could do, thought Varus, but it might be best if he didn’t go hunting. If the disease spread any further …

  It was as if Tubero had discerned his reluctance to stay. ‘I can manage the situation, sir,’ he offered. ‘I’ll oversee everything, and report back to you this evening.’

  Varus hesitated. How hard is it to isolate a cohort? he wondered and said with a smile, ‘Excellent, tribune. I leave things in your capable hands. We shall speak again later.’ He advanced from behind his desk. With confused faces, the officers stood to attention. ‘As you were,’ he said, sweeping past. ‘Aristides will take note of your queries, and Vala will deal with them later.’

  ‘Sir—’ protested a senior centurion, but Varus had gone. The last of his guilt evaporated as the officers vanished from sight. He spent his life enslaved to the demands of others. The world wouldn’t end if he wasn’t there for a day, the dysenteric cohort would not all die, and his legions wouldn’t fall apart. He’d be back at his desk tomorrow and, if needs be, he would stay at it until the backlog of administration had been cleared. Even the idea of that living hell wasn’t enough to take the spring from Varus’ step as he emerged from the principia. The sun wasn’t that high in the sky, and there was a hint of cloud cover moving in from the east. The day wouldn’t get too hot, and Arminius was a man of his word – he’d be waiting for Varus still, by his tent lines.

  Varus’ high spirits lasted until the headquarters was perhaps fifty paces behind him. ‘Governor! Governor Varus!’ called a voice. Hunching his shoulders, Varus stopped. The junior officer responsible – an optio, by his appearance – hurried over at once. Varus’ hopes that he might yet get away rallied – he’d put a flea in the upstart’s ear damn quick – before slumping once more. The brawny, silver-haired chieftain dogging the optio’s footsteps was none other than Segestes, leader of part of the Cheruscan tribe. Segestes was a fierce ally of Rome, which made him a valuable asset, but he was also a rambling, loud-mouthed boor with a love of his own voice. Varus despised him.

  ‘Governor!’ Segestes called. ‘A word, if I could.’

  Wishing for the power to make himself invisible, Varus instead pulled on his politician’s cloak. The smile, the cordial salute, the warm tone. ‘Segestes. What an unexpected pleasure. In ordinary circumstances, I would invite you to share a cup of wine, but I have a pressing engagement—’

  ‘That can wait,’ interrupted Segestes.

  Varus took a breath of outrage. Ally or no, Roman citizen or no, he would not be spoken to in this manner, in particular by someone who resembled one of his elderly, hirsute house slaves.

  ‘Want us to get rid of him, sir?’ asked the lead soldier in his escort. There was a hopeful look in his eyes.

  Varus was about to give the order, but Segestes beat him to it. ‘My pardon, governor,’ he called out. ‘I did not mean to cause offence. It’s urgent that I speak with you.’

  Varus waved a hand at his escort. ‘Stand down.’

  The optio stepped aside, allowing Segestes past. Close up, the sweat beading his brow was evident. He bent his head towards Varus. ‘Governor.’

  ‘Segestes. It has been too long,’ lied Varus. ‘What has brought you to the camp this fine morning, and in such a hurry?’

  Segestes’ wild eyes roamed over Varus’ escort and the optio. ‘We need to talk – alone. There are far too many sets of ears here. How about your headquarters?’

  Varus pictured the queue of officers. ‘Out of the question.’

  Segestes’ face grew pained, even frantic. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone, governor. Please.’

  Varus was about to refuse, but Segestes’ uncharacteristic humility – and his distress – piqued his interest. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered his escort. The soldier began to object, and Varus silenced him with a look. ‘You too,’ he directed the optio. ‘Walk with me, Segestes. If we converse in low tones, no one will hear.’

  Segestes’ disgruntlement eased, and he fell into step with Varus as he paced along the via praetoria. There were incredulous looks from everyone they met. Ordinary soldiers, officers low- and high-ranking: none could believe that the governor of Germania was strolling about the camp with a tribal chieftain. Varus wondered if it had been rash to leave his escort behind, or to leave Segestes with his sword. He discounted the idea in the same breath. Segestes – an old man in poor physical shape – wasn’t here to assassinate him.

  ‘I bring you calamitous news,’ muttered Segestes.

  Unease stirred in Varus’ belly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Arminius is a traitor.’

  Despite his shock, Varus kept walking. Ignoring a surprised mule-handler, he stared at Segestes. ‘A traitor. Arminius.’

  ‘As the gods are my witness, it’s true.’

  ‘Arminius is as loyal as you are! He has served the empire since he was a boy, fought with the legions for nigh on a decade. Augustus saw fit to elevate him to the equestrian class.’ Varus could reel off Arminius’ list of achievements by rote.

  ‘He has done all of those things,’ agreed Segestes, ‘but he’s also a treacherous, scheming whoreson. He plans to attack your legions as they return to Vetera.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Heads turned, and Varus realised that he had raised his voice. He leaned close to Segestes. ‘What you’re talking about … it’s insane.’

  ‘It may seem that way, governor, but it’s true. Every word.’

  ‘How have you come by this information?’

  ‘A warrior whom I trust, whom I have known my entire life, heard Arminius talking to Inguiomerus, trying to persuade him to join forces. It seems that Arminius has been recruiting chieftains among the tribes for some time. Knowing my loyalty to the empire, the dog didn’t approach me. The idea of twenty thousand spears behind his banner might have won over other chiefs, but not I,’ Segestes said, his jaw jutting.

  Inguiomerus led another faction of the Cherusci tribe. Varus regarded him in the same light as Segestes. Loyal. This unwelcome revelation felt like part of a bad dream. ‘Twenty thousand warriors?’

  ‘That’s what he said. As well as his portion of the Cherusci, the Chatti and Bructeri are with him, and the Usipetes. The Angrivarii and Marsi too.’

  This was the proof that Segestes’ source was lying, or that the old man was rambling, thought Varus. ‘You expect me to believe that six tribes have united? Arminius is many things, but he’s not a worker of magic, to persuade men to set aside vendettas that go back generations.’

  ‘The warrior who told me was not lying.’

  ‘I would give more weight to your words if you brought before me someone to corroborate them,’ challenged Varus. ‘The warrior himself perhaps.’

  Segestes’ face darkened. ‘He would not come.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because you imagined him,’ challenged Varus.

  ‘I’m old but no dotard!’ protested Segestes. ‘It was too dangerous for him to accompany me.’

  ‘I dined with Inguiomerus not seven days since,’ said Varus. ‘It’s hard to imagine a more pleasant evening, or a steadier ally of Rome.’

  ‘Looks deceive, governor. You are in great danger.’ Segestes clutched at Varus’ arm.

  Varus regarded Segestes’ hand as if it were a fresh-landed splatter of horse shit. Realising that he had gone too far, Segestes released his grip. ‘You must listen to me.’

  ‘I must do nothing!’ erupted Varus. ‘You are no one to command me, old man.’

  ‘The tribes’ cohesion will fade away without Arminius. Have the bastard clapped in chains at least,’ Segestes pleaded.

  The notion of imprisoning Arminius because of one man’s testimony, even if that man was an ally, was inconceivable. ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. Not only is Arminius l
oyal to Rome, he’s a personal friend of mine.’

  Segestes laughed. ‘I’d hate to see your enemies.’

  Varus stopped dead. ‘Enough! Find your own way to the gate.’ Beckoning to his escort, he strode back towards the principia. He was going to meet Arminius, and hunt down a fine stag.

  Tullus sat on his horse at the edge of the parade ground beyond the camp’s perimeter, drilling his cohort. The moves were an age-old routine, performed every three to five days, wherever they were. Just because they had done the same manoeuvres hundreds of times before didn’t mean that they didn’t need to keep practising, he bawled whenever he heard a soldier grumble. If there was a war on, they might be excused, but there wasn’t, so they could shut their damn mouths or feel the weight of his vitis across their backs. Tullus would have been worried if they hadn’t complained – that, and his tough response, were part of the ritual.

  Shouting by the gate drew his eyes from his toiling legionaries. He squinted, making out a number of tribesmen leaving the camp. There had been no trouble for months, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen now. Tullus was preparing to summon one century of legionaries to his side when the altercation ended. Raining insults down on the sentries, the tribesmen, a party of ten or so, rode away. Tullus studied the group as it drew closer. The leader was a silver-haired, well-built older man – a chieftain – and the rest were his retainers, professional warriors, confident men with good-quality arms and armour. Tullus didn’t recognise any of them. The chieftain was busy giving vent to the remnants of the anger that had taken him at the gate. Tullus heard the name ‘Varus’, and the German for ‘idiot’, and then the tribesmen had passed by.

  Tullus’ curiosity was piqued. Telling Bolanus to take charge for a short time, he rode to the main gate. There he found the usual complement of sentries, and a flustered-looking optio. When Tullus reined in rather than pass inside, he didn’t quite manage to hide his dismay. He came to attention. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Who was it that just rode out?’ asked Tullus.

  A look of disgust. ‘Segestes, sir, a chieftain of the Cherusci.’

  Tullus knew the various factions of Arminius’ tribe, but had never clapped eyes on Segestes before. ‘What was he so pissed off about?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. A while back, he rode up to the gate, demanding to speak to Varus. He wouldn’t be fobbed off, so in the end I took him to the principia myself, minus his warriors of course. Varus happened to come out of his quarters just as we appeared, and they had a short conversation, which didn’t go well. There was a lot of shouting, most of it by Segestes, but at the end, Varus lost his temper and ordered him to leave. Segestes muttered to himself the whole way back, but I could only make out the occasional word. He kept mentioning Arminius, though, I heard that. He’s a traitor, Segestes said, a snake that couldn’t be trusted.’

  The words came to Tullus as if down a long, dark tunnel. ‘Say that again.’

  The optio blinked. ‘He kept saying that Arminius was a treacherous dog, sir, things like that. I have no idea why.’

  Tullus’ original suspicions mixed with Degmar’s story in his head, but he kept his focus. ‘And the disturbance at the gate?’

  ‘That wasn’t anything much, sir. When Segestes’ men realised how angry he was, they threw a few insults at my boys, who gave it back in kind. Segestes got his lot under control quick enough and rode out, still griping about Varus.’ The optio stared after Tullus, who had ridden away, into the camp. ‘What did I say, sir?’

  ‘Have no fear, optio, you told me everything I needed to know,’ Tullus called out. He would seek an audience with Varus. The half-suggestive tale that Degmar had chanced to hear wasn’t much in the way of evidence, but Segestes’ behaviour confirmed its veracity. He had to act.

  At the principia, Tullus was infuriated to discover that Varus had already departed, and wouldn’t be back until nightfall, perhaps even the next day. Demanding a writing tablet and stylus, he scribbled a short note to the governor about what Degmar had said, and how he’d heard Segestes shouting similar things. He had just sealed it with a lump of wax when, to his surprise and displeasure, Tubero emerged into the courtyard, a surgeon in tow behind. His brow furrowed. ‘Centurion Tullus.’

  ‘Tribune.’ Tullus snapped off a professional if uncaring salute and, in a casual move, dropped his hands, which were holding the tablet and stylus, to his sides.

  ‘What has you here, away from your men?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Governor Varus, sir.’

  In response, a humourless smile. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘So I found out, sir,’ said Tullus, trying not to show his irritation.

  ‘The place is empty, apart from a few clerks. When Varus left, everyone went about their tasks for the day. What did you want to see him for?’

  ‘Nothing important, sir,’ lied Tullus. ‘I’ll come back another time.’

  Tubero sniffed and walked off, the surgeon scurrying behind.

  Prick, thought Tullus, saluting again. He glanced about, and caught the eye of a passing clerk. ‘You there.’

  The clerk, a scrawny youth, pointed an ink-stained finger at himself. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Come here.’

  With shuffling feet, the clerk obeyed.

  ‘You work for Governor Varus?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, Aristides, his scribe. Both.’

  ‘Is Aristides about?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s gone for a bath.’

  Bloody Greek, thought Tullus. ‘Give him this. Say that it’s a note for Varus from Centurion Tullus. Understand?’

  The clerk looked from the tablet to Tullus and back again.

  With a curse, Tullus rummaged in his purse. He flicked a silver coin into the air. ‘This, if you see it into Aristides’, or Varus’, hands.’

  ‘Consider it done, sir.’ The coin vanished somewhere into the clerk’s tunic. The tablet he gripped against his bony chest.

  ‘About your business then.’ With Segestes’ accusations backing up Degmar’s story, Varus would act at last, thought Tullus. Content that he had done enough, he watched the clerk hurry into a nearby office.

  Tullus was most of the way back to the parade ground when Tubero returned to the principia in a foul mood, the surgeon still with him. ‘Without Varus’ official stamp, the damn quartermaster won’t release the medicines and equipment we need,’ he barked.

  ‘I could have come back for it, sir,’ said the surgeon.

  Tubero threw him a contemptuous look. ‘I wouldn’t trust you with it.’ He stormed into Varus’ office, past a pair of soldiers who were sweeping the floor and a clerk who was carrying bundles of letters from one room to another. The place was otherwise empty of the usual throng. A second clerk sat at Aristides’ desk, transferring figures from one document to another. He jumped up as Tubero entered. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Tribune Tubero. I’m looking for Varus’ stamp.’

  ‘It’s here, sir.’ The clerk pulled open a drawer and passed over the stamp, a solid lump of brass. An image of an imperial eagle and the words ‘QUINCTILIUS VARUS’ were etched into its base.

  Tubero took it with a grunt. He had half turned to go when something made him regard the clerk again. ‘What’s that in your other hand?’

  The clerk flushed. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Tubero sensed his reluctance with the speed of a predator smelling blood. ‘It’s a letter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who wrote it? Who’s it for?’

  ‘A centurion gave it to me, sir. It’s for Governor Varus. “Tell him it’s from Centurion Tullus,” he said.’

  The name made Tubero stiffen. ‘Give it here.’

  The clerk hesitated, then did as he was told.

  ‘I’ll give it to Varus with my own hands,’ Tubero promised, stowing it in his purse. This had been Tullus’ reason for coming here, he thought. Why had the dog lied? He would find out later, when he’d read the letter. After that, Tubero decided, he would throw i
t away.

  Tracking down the stag had taken the entire morning and at least half the afternoon. Despite the partial cloud cover and the protection of the trees, it had been warm and muggy. Hot, sweating, talking little with the other hunters, Varus’ mind had been occupied with following the stag’s trail and being among the first to take a shot at it if the chance arose.

  Maelo had been scouting ahead of the main party, and was the one to spy their quarry as it grazed in a clearing. When Varus clapped eyes on it, he was even more impressed by Maelo’s restraint in not taking it down himself. The stag was a king among deer, bull-necked and as tall as a large horse. It had more than ten tines on each of its large, curved antlers, and its mounted skull would be the talk of every dinner party, Varus thought, his heart pounding with excitement. In all his years of hunting, he had never killed such a majestic beast.

  It took an age to creep close enough to loose an arrow. Varus was conscious that both Arminius and Maelo, the only ones to accompany him, could have brought down the stag much sooner than he. They had refrained because he was the guest. Determined to repay their generosity with a well-aimed arrow, he was mortified when, fifty paces from the stag, he stepped on a twig. With flared nostrils, the mighty deer glanced to and fro, its gaze fixed in their direction. ‘Let us all loose,’ Arminius mouthed. ‘This is our only chance.’

  It was a bitter medicine to swallow. Never the best marksman, Varus was at the limit of his bow range. He took a shot anyway and, within a heartbeat of his arrow hissing into the air, so did the two Cheruscans’. Black streaks, they flew faster than the eye could see. The stag was running by the time the shafts came scudding down, but two struck it, one in the haunches and the other in the chest. The last arrow, which Varus suspected was his, landed short. Their quarry thundered off into the forest at full tilt, for now at least appearing uninjured.

  ‘Hades!’ muttered Varus. ‘I am sorry, Arminius. I’m not the hunter that either of you are.’