‘Enemy approaching!’ Piso shouted.
An instant tension crackled the air. Men lifted their shields and javelins even before Tullus and Fenestela had given the order to do so.
‘Sound the call for “enemy in sight”!’ Tullus, gaze fixed on the riders, was striding back and forth in front of his men.
Soldiers in the other centuries had also seen the horsemen, and their musicians added their own clamour to that made by Tullus’ trumpeter. By the time the party of perhaps fifty men had reached the water’s edge, the centuries had formed up two wide, three deep, blocking the path on their side of the Visurgis. The auxiliary archers were positioned to either side, nocked shafts ready to shoot.
An odd and uneasy calm fell as the two forces watched each other.
‘That’s Arminius, or I’m a camp prefect,’ hissed Piso, spying a fine-dressed, bearded figure on a chestnut stallion.
‘Fortuna’s saggy tits, you’re right. What’s he want?’ demanded Metilius.
‘Only the gods know,’ said Piso, hoping Tullus would order them to charge over the river. Risky that might be, but Piso was ready. There – so close – was the evil bastard who’d engineered the deaths of many of his friends.
They watched, agog, as Arminius cupped a hand to his lips and called out in Latin, ‘Ho, Romans! Is your general near?’
Bassius, the most senior officer present, stepped forward from his men. ‘What savage is asking for him?’ he shouted.
Arminius smiled, revealing his teeth. ‘I had forgotten what boors you Romans could be. Savage you call me, but you are the ones who murder women and children!’
His companions’ threats and insults carried over the water.
‘I see you, Arminius, you treacherous dog,’ yelled Tullus, joining Bassius. ‘Come over and fight me! One to one, eh?’
Piso and Metilius exchanged an excited look. Despite Arminius’ youth, Tullus would win such a contest – they were sure of it. Justice would be served.
‘Centurion Tullus – what a pleasant surprise!’ answered Arminius with a mocking half-bow. ‘I am not here to seek a single combat, much as it would please me to end your life. I wish to speak with my brother Flavus. Is he here?’
‘It’s no business of yours whether he is or he isn’t,’ retorted Bassius.
‘Why don’t you piss off back to your camp?’ demanded Tullus. ‘While you’re there, try to persuade the yellow-livered, spineless rabble who follow at your tail to fight us.’
‘Have they lost their courage after we whipped your arses last year?’ added Bassius. He glanced to either side. ‘ARCHERS, READY!’
Arminius’ face tensed, but he did not retreat. Nor did his nervous-faced companions. ‘I come in peace,’ he called.
‘Loose,’ hissed Piso. ‘Go on, Bassius, give them the order. Kill the whoreson and the war will be over! There’s not another chieftain like Arminius in all of Germania, Tullus says.’
Ten heartbeats passed, and no command fell from Bassius’ lips.
‘So you will not fetch my brother?’ enquired Arminius.
‘Tell him “No”,’ muttered Piso, but to his surprise, Bassius and Tullus bent their heads together in conferral.
After a short time, Bassius cried, ‘We will ask Germanicus for an answer. You can wait for that?’
‘It seems I have little choice,’ came Arminius’ stiff reply. ‘As long as your archers can be trusted to stay their hands?’
‘They will release whenever I tell them to,’ answered Bassius.
This veiled threat made Arminius and his party uncertain enough to withdraw a safe distance from the bank. His move, made while muttering dire imprecations, was met with disdainful shouts and jeers from the assembled legionaries.
Piso watched in disgust as one of the messengers stationed by their position was sent to seek out their general. ‘Why did they do that?’ he asked of no one in particular.
‘Germanicus is the commander – he has to be consulted on important matters, I suppose,’ said Metilius, taking a pull from his water skin.
‘He’ll say the same thing as Tullus,’ opined Piso. ‘Piss off.’
Piso was wrong. The messenger returned not long after, bringing the surprising news that Germanicus had given his permission for Flavus to talk with his brother. Bassius relayed this to Arminius, who seemed pleased but suspicious. It wasn’t surprising, thought Piso. The auxiliary archers were still in place, and during the wait, perhaps ordered by a mischievous Bassius, some had shot arrows over the river. The shafts had landed short of Arminius’ position, but left no doubt that he was within range at the water’s edge. Despite this danger, he had ridden down to the bank to talk with Bassius, almost daring the archers to loose again, it seemed to Piso.
‘Where is Flavus?’ demanded Arminius.
‘He’ll arrive soon,’ answered Bassius. ‘You could cross over and wait for him.’
‘You must think I came down in the last shower,’ said Arminius, chuckling. ‘I will stay where I am, and your archers will withdraw while I talk to my brother. It would be too easy for an over-eager officer to order a volley. That might even be your intent, when I am distracted.’
Piso’s hopes that Arminius would again be told to piss off were dashed once more. Sour-faced, Bassius sent a soldier to the cohort’s rear. Almost at once, the sounds of tramping feet became audible as the archers marched off for a short distance. Arminius dismounted and remained where he was, watching the Romans with a cold, calculating expression.
Piso’s muscles were still twitching with the desire to act. ‘What are the odds we could rush him – take him by surprise?’
Metilius snorted. ‘He’d be astride his mount before we got halfway across, and you know it. There’s not a man alive who can outrun a horse.’
‘Aye.’ Disappointed and frustrated, Piso spat into the water. ‘It’s so tempting, though.’
‘The archers were our best bet, and they’re gone. It’s time to see what the two brothers will say to each other.’
Cheered by the chance of witnessing this unusual encounter, Piso nodded.
The sun had dropped but a little further on the western horizon when Flavus cantered in on his horse from the direction of the camp. Piso knew him by sight – most men did. Blond-haired, stocky and with a commanding presence, Flavus was hard to miss. Lacking an eye – an old battle wound – he yet had the type of stare that most men avoided, and his status as auxiliary cohort commander and Arminius’ brother made him unique in Germanicus’ army. Dressed for the occasion in burnished mail and helmet, with his awards for valour prominent on his neck, chest and arms, he stopped to talk to Bassius – all the while acting as if his brother wasn’t present.
‘Arminius is furious,’ said Piso to Metilius with glee. ‘Look.’
Arminius’ scowl, stiff-legged stance and folded arms spoke volumes, but he held his peace until Flavus had left his horse with one of Bassius’ legionaries and come right to the river’s edge.
‘Greetings, brother. Are you well?’ Arminius called.
‘Well enough until I saw you,’ Flavus answered. ‘What do you want, traitor?’
‘You call me traitor?’ Arminius shouted. ‘I am not the one who has forgotten his own people. Who wears with such smugness the badges, the petty trinkets given by Rome, that are nothing more than the marks of slavery. Here I stand, a proud, free man, and there you slouch, fat-bellied and soft-handed, nothing more than Germanicus’ lapdog.’
‘I have kept my word, unlike you, oathbreaker! If you have only come to insult me, I have but one thing to say: your fate approaches.’ Flavus pointed at the sky. ‘Donar’s ravens are circling overhead, though you cannot see them yet.’ He turned his back and strode away.
There was time for a few bold men to surge through the water and take down Arminius with javelins, thought Piso, again hoping that Bassius or Tullus would give the order. No command came, though – it seemed that Germanicus had decreed the brothers’ meeting to be a form of
truce. A golden chance was being wasted, Piso decided bitterly, and he was powerless to intervene.
Flavus was halfway to his horse when Arminius called out again. ‘What of Thusnelda?’ The contempt he’d shown Flavus had gone – his tone was almost plaintive.
Flavus glanced over his shoulder. What might have been regret, even sadness, passed over his face. ‘She has been treated with respect, and dwells in a large house in Ravenna.’
‘And my child?’ The longing was palpable in Arminius’ voice.
‘You have a son,’ said Flavus.
‘A son,’ Arminius muttered, bowing his head. ‘I have a son.’ He eyed Flavus again. ‘What is his name?’
‘Thumelicus. He thrives, and has already learned to crawl, I am told.’
‘Will they ever be freed?’
‘You know the answer to that as well as I do, brother,’ replied Flavus with a scornful look. ‘Disband your army and submit yourself to Germanicus’ justice, and I promise to do what I can.’
‘I may as well offer my neck to the executioner’s blade,’ cried Arminius, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘Germanicus knows not the meaning of mercy! Ask the Marsi, the Chatti and the Angrivarii!’
His companions, who had ridden closer to listen to the conversation, set up an angry chorus. ‘Kill Germanicus!’ roared one in accented Latin. ‘Death to Tiberius!’
Flavus lost his temper. ‘Give me my horse,’ he ordered, snatching the reins from the startled legionary. He leaped on to its back and urged it towards the water. ‘Stay where you are, brother, and we can resolve this here and now.’
‘Good enough,’ screamed Arminius, pulling his mount closer. ‘I used to beat you every time we fought as boys! Nothing’s changed.’
Piso’s happy expectation of a brutal fight in the middle of the river was dashed as Bassius roared at Flavus to stay where he was. When he didn’t appear to hear, Bassius sent Tullus loping over. With a sharp tap on Flavus’ thigh, Tullus got his attention. Piso and the rest couldn’t hear what was said, but Flavus wasn’t happy, that was clear. He made an obscene gesture at Arminius, now astride his horse. ‘Our quarrel will have to wait,’ Flavus cried.
‘Coward!’ taunted Arminius.
‘Traitor!’ Flavus shot back.
‘Go back to Germanicus and lick his feet, spineless worm!’
Flavus seemed about to respond, but whatever Tullus said silenced him. Without a backward glance at Arminius, who continued showering him with insults, he turned his mount and urged it towards the Roman camp.
‘Fetch the archers,’ Bassius bellowed, and one of his soldiers sprinted off in the same direction as Flavus. During the time it took for them to reappear, Arminius ceased his tirade of abuse. Rather than retreating to safety, he took counsel with his fellows close to the river’s edge.
The legionaries didn’t like this cocky manoeuvre. Angry muttering broke out, and a few men stepped out of rank, towards the water. They were shouted back into place by furious officers.
‘He’s a cunning bastard,’ snarled Piso, still itching to charge Arminius.
‘That he is,’ said Tullus, who had somehow heard Piso again. ‘And he’s trying to get under our skins. Ignore the maggot. He’ll move quick enough when the archers arrive.’
Tullus was right, and the legionaries got to hurl their own insults as Arminius and his companions rode away. Bassius ordered a volley the instant the archers were close to the bank, and hilarity broke out among the Roman troops as their rain of arrows turned the Germans’ contemptuous, slow withdrawal into a panicked, headlong retreat.
‘That’ll teach ’em,’ Metilius proclaimed.
Piso was less sure. Removing himself from bow range didn’t mean Arminius was a coward – far from it. His confidence had been palpable from the other side of the river. Worry gnawed at Piso as the command to return to camp was given.
What was that devious trickster Arminius planning?
Chapter XV
TULLUS WAS READY, impatient, for battle. His soldiers, his cohort were ready. The legion was ready – so was the entire army. The meeting between Flavus and Arminius had taken place the previous day, and now scouts by the riverbank had brought word that Arminius’ warriors were massing on the far side. Germanicus’ response had been swift – his entire host was to deploy on their own side, ready to fight. Familiar though he was with the slow, methodical process, Tullus had chafed throughout, his desire for revenge on Arminius stoked by the previous day’s confrontation.
At last the waiting was over, and four lengthy lines had formed up. Under the mid-morning sun, they faced eastward, over the river. The whinny of excited horses and officers’ shouts had ceased; the thunder of hobnailed sandals striking the earth died away. From over the Visurgis came the Germans’ shouts and taunts, but on the Roman side an almost complete silence reigned. Tullus was used to this calm before the storm, but the tranquil atmosphere remained gut-clenching. Upwards of sixty thousand soldiers were waiting to fight Arminius’ host. Men would die in vast numbers, and soon.
Other things preyed on Tullus’ mind. Military procedure had seen the army’s front taken up by the auxiliary infantry, on this occasion a mixture of Raeti, Vindelici and Gauls. Although the Fifth Legion was near the centre of the second line, he could see nothing but auxiliaries in front of him. Blind to what was unfolding, Tullus had to rely on whatever formal orders were sent the Fifth’s way and the snippets of news he could wrest from passing messengers. His frustration mounted by the moment.
No less annoyed, Fenestela came stamping up from his position at the century’s rear. ‘Heard anything new?’
‘Not since the last time, no.’
Fenestela cursed. After a moment, he said, ‘Arminius is going to wait for us to cross the river, isn’t he? The woods on either side of his army sound perfect for him to spring a trap.’
‘That’s why the cavalry has been ordered over first,’ said Tullus.
Fenestela rubbed his beard, and didn’t answer.
Horsemen could react faster than infantry, thought Tullus, but that didn’t mean the tactic was free of risk. Aware of the high stakes, Germanicus had chosen high-ranking officers to lead the double-pronged attack: the legate Stertinius and Aemilius, the primus pilus of the First Legion. The Batavian cavalry would follow straight after these units, their task to hit Arminius’ centre.
Mars, bring them success, Tullus prayed. Let us join them soon. Together we will crush Arminius’ warriors.
‘Have the cavalry gone yet?’
‘We would have heard them,’ said Tullus with an irritated shrug.
Trumpets rang out and the familiar rumble of hooves rose from first one side of their position, and then the other. Smiling, Fenestela observed, ‘There they go.’
‘Now we wait again,’ grumbled Tullus.
‘At least you’ve seen Arminius’ disposition,’ said Fenestela. ‘Explain it to me again.’ Once Tullus’ unit had been in place, he had secured permission from Bassius to spy out the battlefield, but Fenestela had remained with the men.
Grateful for the distraction, Tullus described what he’d seen from the riverbank some two hours before. ‘A large plain faces on to the river, bounded to left and right by beeches and oaks – as you know. Arminius’ warriors all appear to be drawn up at the far end of the open ground, with more forest behind them.’
‘He’ll have men hidden in the trees on either side.’
‘Aye. Stertinius and Aemilius best stay alert as they advance,’ said Tullus, chewing a knuckle. The odds seemed to be in their favour, but with Arminius, anything was possible.
Massive cheers from the auxiliaries at the front marked the advance of the Batavi horsemen a short time later. In the distance, Arminius’ warriors could be heard singing the barritus. Dim and unthreatening, it still conjured vivid and unpleasant memories to Tullus. Aware that the bizarre sound might affect his men’s morale, he patrolled the front rank of his century. He’d acted in the nick of time. Whether it was th
e barritus or not, his men seemed nervous. ‘You’re good boys,’ he told them. ‘Stick with me, and you’ll be fine.’
‘When will we get to fight, sir?’ asked Calvus.
‘Too fucking soon,’ muttered a soldier from the depths of the ranks.
The chuckles this elicited were uneasy.
Tullus held up a hand in warning, and his men quietened. ‘It depends on what happens with the cavalry. If things go well, they will break up the enemy formation somewhat. That news will prompt Germanicus to order the auxiliaries forward. It could be that they will smash the German line – do our job for us, if you like.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ added the hidden wit.
‘Enough,’ barked Tullus. It was pleasing that, several ranks in, harsh words were hissed in the culprit’s ears. Raising his voice for the benefit of those other than the inexperienced Calvus, Tullus said, ‘If the auxiliaries need a bit of help, we and the other three legions in this line will be sent in.’
Calvus gave him a determined nod. He was green but brave, thought Tullus. Fortuna grant that that was enough to keep him alive.
‘Remember your training, all of you,’ advised Tullus. ‘Stay close to your comrades on either side. Throw your javelin well. When you close with the enemy, keep your shield high. Remember to use your boss – it’s a weapon, not just something to polish for parades or to admire your face in. I’ve seen you preening, Antonius,’ he said, indicating the soldier who fancied himself the best-looking in the century. Tullus let his laughing men insult Antonius for a time before he continued. ‘Smash a warrior’s nose with the boss, and he’ll be hurting so much you can stick him with your blade. Even if he dodges out of the way, he will expose his neck, allowing you to prick him in the throat. It’s easy.’ He winked.