‘Afraid not, sir. Every man in the camp knows you.’
‘True.’ Germanicus complied at last.
Thanks to the late hour, the thoroughfares were almost empty, but activity continued around many tents. The bright moon above lit the scene brightly enough to make out every cohort’s position, and each century’s tent lines. Keen to eavesdrop, Germanicus soon strayed close to one side of the avenue.
‘We could go to the auxiliaries’ positions this way, sir,’ Tullus suggested. ‘You can listen to the chatter as we walk.’
‘These soldiers are from the Twentieth, aren’t they?’
Tullus cast a look at the nearest standard. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘They have little reason to love me.’
‘Because of the mutiny, sir?’
‘Aye.’ Germanicus’ eyes held no regret. ‘There was no other way to bring it to an end, whatever they may think. If the troublemakers hadn’t been dealt with, the trouble would have festered like an untended wound.’
The bloody conclusion to the legionaries’ uprising had seen hundreds of men, guilty and innocent, slain in the camps along the Rhenus. Tullus had played his part to restore peace to Vetera – and the bloody memories of that time sometimes played out in his dreams, the only occasion he had been forced to turn his blade on his own kind. Yet almost eighteen months later, he too could think of no fast and efficient alternative that would have suppressed the mutiny.
‘You disagree with me?’
Startled, Tullus realised his silence had been taken for disapproval. He met Germanicus’ stare with a firm one of his own. ‘I don’t, sir. It was a terrible few days, but men who have slain their officers and defied their general can’t be left alive. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then – the soldiers have spent months in Germania under your command, and beaten numerous tribes in battle. One of the eagles is back in our hands. The men respect these achievements. They’ll follow you anywhere. Listen in, sir, and you’ll see.’
Germanicus looked pleased.
Tullus was almost sure that he was right, but his nerves began to jangle as they wandered into the tent lines of the Twentieth’s Fifth Cohort. First in their path were the tents belonging to the Fourth Century. They looked the same as every other unit’s lines: at the near end, a large tent for the three junior officers and an even bigger one for the centurion; after that, ten tents, each one used by a contubernium of legionaries. Getting past the tents belonging to the centurion and other officers was the riskiest part – by dint of their rank, they tended to stare at passers-by more than ordinary soldiers. Their luck was in, however – the flaps of all the large tents were laced shut.
Outside the first legionaries’ tent, a fire yet smouldered. Three blanketed shapes were lying around it, propped up on their elbows. None looked at Tullus and Germanicus.
‘I’m telling you, Sextus, you’ve picked up something nasty from one of those whores you keep visiting.’ This from the man closest to the tent.
‘Feeling as if you’re pissing tiny shards of pottery is not right,’ added one of his companions. ‘You’ve been complaining about that since before we left Vetera.’
Tullus glanced at the third man, whose unhappiness was plain. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he protested.
‘Go to the surgeon,’ urged the first man.
‘I’ll be the laughing stock of the century,’ said the afflicted soldier.
Tullus knew what would be said next, and had to contain his mirth as the second legionary growled, ‘You already are, Sextus!’
‘Are … complaints of that type common?’ asked Germanicus once they were a safe distance away.
‘Aye, sir. Men will be men, and the brothels are always busier before the start of a campaign. The risk of catching a disease rises accordingly.’
‘I had no idea.’ Germanicus sounded bemused rather than annoyed.
‘No reason you should, sir. It’s down to the likes of me and my junior officers – and the surgeons, of course – to deal with ailments and illnesses. That man will be able to fight tomorrow, never fear.’
‘How can you be sure?’
Tullus let out a grim chuckle. ‘There’s not much a vine stick can’t encourage a soldier to do, sir. A man’s really got to be ill before a centurion lets him go to the hospital.’
They had passed two more tents by this stage, and at the next the occupants had retired for the night. The men of the fifth and sixth tents were gathered around a single fire, gambling and drinking wine. One spotted Tullus and Germanicus and cried, ‘Ho, friends! Care to try your luck at dice?’
‘My purse is empty,’ grumbled Tullus as he’d heard his men do countless times. ‘And my brother’s.’
‘Payday is always too far away, eh?’ said the soldier, giving them a friendly wave and turning back to his companions.
‘I wonder if Germanicus is playing dice with his staff officers,’ said a legionary closer to the fire.
‘If he is, he’s using aurei,’ cried another.
Germanicus had stiffened, and Tullus caught him by the elbow. ‘Keep walking, sir,’ he hissed. To his relief, the governor obeyed.
‘He’s not wasting his evening like us poor fools,’ retorted the soldier who’d spoken to them. ‘Germanicus will be tucked in his blankets already, getting his beauty sleep before the battle tomorrow.’
A rumble of approval went around the gathering, and the comments began to flow. ‘Germanicus is a good general – and no airs or graces about him either, not like some.’
‘He’s steady too – when the Batavi got it in the neck today, he didn’t panic.’
‘If there’s a fight tomorrow, we’ll teach those savages a lesson they’ll never forget,’ declared one of the legionaries. ‘Germanicus will be proud of us.’
‘See, sir?’ whispered Tullus. ‘They hold you in high regard.’
A wide smile spread across the governor’s face. ‘It seems so.’
After an hour of wandering the camp, it had become clear that the sentiments of other soldiers were no different. Even the auxiliaries were keen to fight, burning for revenge on the warriors who had slain so many of their kindred. Returning to Germanicus’ tent, word reached them of Latin-speaking German warriors who had ridden up to the walls, offering land, women and money to the sentries if they would change sides. Germanicus laughed as the messenger told him the sentries’ answer: that they would take the warriors’ wives and land for their own, but as spoils of war. Dismissing Tullus then, he made no indication of his intentions for the next day.
Tullus’ curiosity had become overwhelming, and so, taking a deep breath, he asked, ‘Are we to fight Arminius tomorrow, sir?’
‘Orders will be issued at dawn.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tullus, fighting disappointment. With a crisp salute, he walked away.
He’d passed the two Praetorians and was halfway across the next room when Germanicus called out. ‘Have a restful night, Tullus. See that your blade is sharp for the morning.’
Chapter XIX
ARMINIUS WAS SEETHING. His temper had been foul since a dejected Gervas had returned in the middle of the night, his mission an abject failure. Dawn had seen Arminius’ mood worsen steadily. It now took all of his effort to maintain a genial expression as he encouraged the warriors straggling back across the Visurgis. They had been hours too late, he brooded. As he’d emphasised to the chieftains the evening before, their best chance of success was to attack the Roman camps under cover of darkness. In the cold before dawn, most legionaries would be sound asleep, and the sentries dull with tiredness. Yet here they were, he thought with a furious glance at the sun’s position high above, after midday.
His own Cherusci had been ready at the appointed time of course, but the other tribes had not appeared at the arranged spot outside their camp. Arminius ground his teeth. He had waited a while, allowing his allies the benefit of the doubt. Once he’d realised they weren’t coming and sent men to investigate, upwards of a
n hour had been lost. Time had been wasted locating each of the chieftains’ tents in the sprawling camp, and more still rousing them. The laggards had been wrapped in their blankets – sheepish-faced, one Bructeri chieftain had even admitted that he and others had spent the night drinking to their victory today. Small wonder that many of their warriors had done the same. It was good that Maelo had stepped in, thought Arminius, and prevented him from attacking the Bructeri imbecile. That reaction would have seen his alliance splinter this very day.
It had been pointless even to approach the Roman camps. Unless the sentries were blind and deaf, any chance of a surprise attack had gone, hours since. It scarcely mattered whether the banished Chatti drunkard had reached Germanicus or not. But the chieftains, embarrassed by their failure to meet at the appointed hour, had insisted on trying. Losing control, Arminius had lambasted them loud and long before the warriors departed. He breathed deep. The attack had been called off the instant the alarm had sounded in the enemy camps. There had been no casualties.
Had he just handed the advantage to Germanicus, however? The legionaries’ loud cheering as his warriors withdrew had been audible here, by the river. The chieftains whom he’d lectured were avoiding his gaze or throwing resentful looks in his direction. Worry gnawed Arminius’ guts, but he told himself that upwards of thirty-five thousand men had joined his cause over the previous month – it was a large enough figure to defeat Germanicus’ legions and, despite the chieftains’ surly attitude, the warriors’ hatred of Rome would see them fight well.
Idistaviso was also well suited for his purpose. Not far from the location of the previous day’s clash, the plain lay between the Visurgis and an undulating line of hills. Bounded to the east by a tree-covered slope, its breadth was varied to the west by the river’s weaving course, and to the north and south by jutting spurs of high ground. The legions would not all fit into the confined space, which would reduce their numerical superiority by a large degree, and his warriors could be positioned to fall on the Romans from three sides.
Victory would be theirs, thought Arminius. Try as he might, however, he could not stifle the niggling concern that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
The next two hours passed in a blur. Arminius rode hither and thither, conferring with the chieftains and telling them how the warriors were to be organised. Even with the Romans close at hand, and a prior agreement that they would obey his lead, this was no easy task. The chieftains questioned Arminius’ tactics, and more than one had to be won over – again. Valuable time was wasted coaxing and wheedling. Harassed and furious, he took to galloping between the tribal groupings and soon wore out his mount. Maelo, ever prepared, was on hand, exchanging his horse for Arminius’. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Do what you have to. I’ll be here, with our men.’
Arminius left his men, and set out to talk to Mallovendus again. The Marsi chieftain was central to his plans. His core of seasoned bodyguards included some of the finest warriors in Arminius’ forces. The Marsi would stand in the army’s centre with the Bructeri and the remnants of the Angrivarii, facing the brunt of the Roman assault. Right behind them, up the slope and sheltered amid the trees, Arminius’ Cherusci were ready to add their strength when the time came.
He found Mallovendus standing a hundred paces in front of his men, a deliberate move that showed every man watching that he was scared of no one. To reinforce the point, the Marsi chieftain had set his bodyguards to a spear-throwing competition, almost as if they were gathered for a feast day rather than a battle. Good-natured banter filled the air. Wagers were being made. All that was lacking was some wine and a piglet roasting on a spit, thought Arminius, amused despite his concerns. ‘Who’s winning?’
Turning from the display, Mallovendus grinned. ‘It’s an even match at the moment. A hundred and eighty paces this pair threw.’ He pointed at two warriors. Like many, the heat had made both strip to the waist. One was fair-haired and of slender build, but with well-defined muscles; the other was a shaggy-haired giant, half again as large as Mallovendus. ‘They’re big rivals.’
Sour-faced, the giant was striding to and fro, declaring to the assembled throng how his next spear would fly so far that the fair-haired warrior might as well go home. His opponent’s mild-mannered response, that he had a gold coin which said otherwise, made the assembled crowd cheer, but enraged the giant. Bunching his ham-like fists, he threw himself at the fair-haired man. Only the intervention of other bodyguards saved a fight from breaking out. Encouraged by the spontaneous aggression, warriors who were taking bets redoubled their efforts to part the spectators from their coin.
Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara-tara. From the westward end of the plain, Roman trumpets signalled the legions’ arrival.
Mallovendus stepped in at once. ‘Enough, you fools!’ he shouted. ‘ENOUGH!’
Surly-faced, the two rivals stepped away from each other. The crowd of Marsi fell silent, and the tramp of hobnailed sandals reverberated in the muggy air. Trumpets sounded again. Hooves struck the earth. The shouts of Roman officers could now be heard. Arminius felt the atmosphere, until this juncture full of good humour and bravado, change. A score more heartbeats, and the morale of his entire army would plummet.
Mallovendus had noticed too, and to Arminius’ relief, gave him a look as if to say, ‘Speak.’
Arminius raised his voice. ‘A fine contest. You are mighty warriors!’
Mallovendus’ bodyguards liked that, rumbling in approval and giving each other pleased glances. Even the giant and the fair-haired warrior seemed appeased.
‘It’s time to put the competition from your minds. Soon there’ll be legionaries aplenty for everyone’s spears. Throw as these men can’ – here Arminius indicated the two rivals – ‘and hundreds of the enemy will fall before they even reach us. More still will have lost their shields, making them easy prey. Are you ready to do that? Ready to shed Roman blood?’
‘YESSSSSS!’
Arminius raised his sword high. Sunlight flashed off the polished steel: his weapon would be seen by every warrior within eyeshot. Even if they couldn’t hear his exact words, they would sense what was being said, and that was enough. ‘KILL!’ he roared. ‘KILL!’
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ yelled the bodyguards. Veins bulging in his neck, Mallovendus was also shouting.
Arminius faced the front of his army, sword aloft. Every man’s eyes were on him now – he sensed their expectant gaze. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
With a rumbling sound akin to thunder, his call was answered from three sides. Spears began to clatter off shields; that too was taken up by every warrior.
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’ Clash, clash, clash. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
The hairs on Arminius’ neck stood up. Donar was looking down with approval – the god’s gaze weighed heavy on his shoulders.
Come then, Germanicus, thought Arminius. Come, and die.
Chapter XX
GERMANICUS’ ARMY HAD crossed the river a short time before, and was moving on to a plain bounded on both sides by trees. Idistaviso, it was called, Tullus told his soldiers. This was where Arminius and his warriors now waited – and where they would meet their end. They cheered him long and hard after that declaration. Despite the strength-sapping heat, a sense of expectation hung over the marching legionaries. Jokes were being made. Piso was refusing bets on a Roman victory – that was certain, he said – but was offering four to one that Arminius would be slain by the day’s end.
Behind the auxiliary infantry for the second time in as many days, Tullus was chafing to get to the enemy. It made sense for non-Romans to enter the fray first, softening up the Germans while the more valuable legionaries waited, but he’d been waiting for this battle since Arminius’ destruction of Varus’ army, seven long years before. It was more than that, Tullus brooded – this confrontation was what he had lived for. Restless, sweating, he was unable to stay in position and paced up and down the gap between his century and the next as they advanced. ‘Ready, b
rothers?’ he asked, catching the gaze of each and every man. ‘Ready to avenge your fallen comrades of the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth? Ready for blood?’
‘Aye, sir.’ ‘Let me at ’em, sir!’
‘A word, sir?’ Fenestela appeared by Tullus’ elbow.
Tullus stopped, letting the ranks tramp by. Gods, but he loved that repetitive sound. It filled the air, reverberated from the ground up into his feet, physical proof of the legions’ might. ‘What is it?’
‘Leave them be. Keep talking the way you are, and you’ll unsettle them.’
Tullus’ anger flared, but he held his peace. Fenestela wasn’t just his optio – he was his most trusted friend. ‘Speak.’
‘I was in the forest too, remember. This is what I’ve been waiting for, as much as you, Tullus. Your passions are running high – it’s the heat, like as not. Settle down. Breathe. The men will play their part. They love you. They’ll follow you anywhere. Anywhere.’
From the somewhat taciturn Fenestela, this was a long speech. Tullus watched the legionaries’ faces as they passed him. They gave him resolute nods. Fierce smiles. Unblinking stares. Bare-toothed wolf leers. Tullus’ heart swelled. ‘They’re good boys – all of them.’
‘You’ve made them that way, Tullus. You. They’re some of the finest legionaries in the whole fucking army – just as our comrades in the Eighteenth were. They’ll do our fallen brothers proud today – have no fear of that.’
‘Aye,’ Tullus said, his voice thick. He gave Fenestela a grateful nod. ‘You’re right.’
‘They’ll need another talk before the fighting starts.’
‘Don’t try and tell me how to do my own job, you dog.’ Tullus threw Fenestela a baleful glance.
‘I was thinking the sun might have curdled your already addled brains, old man,’ said Fenestela in an innocent voice.
‘Piss off, optio,’ ordered Tullus, without heat. ‘Back to your position.’