‘Wise words.’ Fenestela’s voice was huskier than usual.
Tullus raised the skin high. ‘To friends and comrades.’ He drank and handed it to Fenestela.
‘To friends and comrades.’ Fenestela took two long swallows, then another.
Tullus breathed in and out. Out and in. In the long, bitter years since the ambush in the forest, anything less than vengeance on Arminius and the recovery of his old legion’s eagle would have seemed unthinkable, a betrayal of the dead. Reality was forcing Tullus to be pragmatic. He’d given his utmost to this summer’s campaign. Germanicus had done well – better than any Roman general since his father – yet every prize had not been won. That was sometimes how life was, thought Tullus. A man might not like his fate, but he dealt with it. Accepted it. If he didn’t, bitterness could eat him up from the inside, like maggots in a corpse’s belly. Tullus didn’t want to be a sour old wine sponge, the type that sat complaining into his drink, whom men avoided.
‘I was thinking that when we get back, I’d promote Piso to tesserarius. What do you think?’ The century’s tesserarius had died at the Angrivarian wall.
‘A fine idea. He’s been a good soldier this past year or two. Foolish at times, but that will soon stop if he’s given responsibility.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Tullus, pleased. ‘I could even recommend you for centurion.’
Disbelief and then shock twisted Fenestela’s features. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’
‘You wouldn’t like it?’ Tullus made his tone as innocent as possible.
‘You know I wouldn’t, sir. Too much responsibility.’ He cursed as Tullus began to chortle. ‘Very fucking funny!’
‘It never fails,’ said Tullus, wiping tears from his eyes.
‘Screw you, sir.’
Tullus shoved the bag at Fenestela. ‘I’m for my bed. You turning in?’
After a long pull, Fenestela lowered the skin. ‘Aye. This is finished.’
Tullus was glad of a clear head the following morning. As primus pilus, there was no pressing need to supervise his men as they guarded the camp’s main gate and a section of the defences, but long years of monitoring those under his command meant that he did it anyway. His presence meant that he witnessed the arrival near midday of an exhausted, mud-spattered messenger on a blown horse. Thirty auxiliaries, equally tired-looking, accompanied him. Tullus clattered down the ladder, meeting the rider as he urged his mount through the gateway.
‘Greetings!’ cried Tullus.
With a perfunctory salute, the messenger made to ride by. He scowled as Tullus took hold of the reins. ‘I bear important news for the legates!’
‘I’m the primus pilus of the Fifth, maggot.’ Tullus’ smile was icy. ‘You can call me sir!’
‘Your pardon, sir. Now, if I could get past?’
Tullus felt a prickle of unease. ‘Nothing terrible has happened, I trust? Is Germanicus well?’ The governor had taken ship with one army group some days since, his plan to skirt the southern edges of the German Sea before reaching the shelter of the Flevo Lacus.
‘There was a storm, sir. Germanicus is safe, but many ships in the fleet foundered or were carried out into the open ocean. Hundreds of men have drowned.’
Tullus again felt grateful that his legion hadn’t been chosen to return by ship. ‘The gods be thanked that Germanicus is unharmed. Where is he now?’
‘In the Chauci lands, but he’s marching this way.’
‘And we’re to go and meet him.’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘Of course not. On your way.’ Tullus stepped back.
With a respectful salute, the messenger rode into the camp, his escort on his heels.
Tullus peered up at Fenestela, who was standing on the rampart. ‘D’you hear that?’
‘Aye, sir. It’s a relief that Germanicus is alive.’
‘Too bloody right,’ said Tullus. The last thing the army needed was to lose such a charismatic leader.
‘Another messenger approaching, sir!’ roared Piso.
What now? wondered Tullus, taking his foot off the first rung of the ladder. He returned to his position. This messenger knew him, and reined in the instant Tullus stepped into his path.
‘Sir!’
‘Come far?’ asked Tullus.
‘From the south, sir. The Marsi have regrouped, and are attacking our patrols.’ The messenger’s eyes roved towards the centre of the camp and his destination, the headquarters.
‘On you go,’ said Tullus. ‘Tubero and the other legates need to hear your news.’ He watched the messenger and his escort ride off, before joining Fenestela on the walkway. They exchanged a grim look.
‘We won’t be going home just yet,’ said Tullus.
Chapter XXXIII
ARMINIUS DREAMED OF Maelo, blood and death every night. Maelo, alive, laughing, and then dying as an anonymous Roman stabbed him in the neck. Every time, Arminius screamed a warning and struggled to reach Maelo before the fatal blow. Always he failed, and woke drenched in sweat and sobbing for breath. Desperate to stay awake so that the nightmare might end, time and again Arminius was somehow drawn back into sleep, where the horror continued.
The blood he saw covered not just Maelo but thousands of corpses on the battlefield at the Angrivarian wall. It dripped from the feeding ravens’ beaks. Smeared the wild pigs’ snouts red. Great clotted pools of it filled ruts and indentations in the dusty ground. Blood caked Arminius’ own arms and body. If he touched his cheeks, his fingers came away crimson. Whether it was his own gore or that of others was never clear, but he could not cleanse himself, try as he might.
Sometimes he saw Thusnelda and their baby son standing on the body-strewn ground. His heart would give a painful squeeze, and he’d reach out, but they were never close enough to touch; she never heard his shouted greetings either. Most painful of all was that Arminius never saw his son’s face. It was always concealed by Thusnelda’s body, or a throw of the swaddling clothes. Once he got so close that another step would have seen him touch his son’s cheek, made him turn his head – only for a sentry to wake him about a late-arrived messenger. By the time Arminius had returned to bed, eager to resume his dream, the sky had been paling and the camp coming to life. Sleep had evaded him, and Arminius could have sworn he heard Donar laugh.
Gerulf also featured in his troubled night visions. Sour-faced, snide-voiced, he harangued Arminius, accusing him of pretensions towards kingship, poor leadership and overwhelming arrogance. ‘You’re dead,’ Arminius said, only to have Gerulf laugh in his face.
‘Murdered by Maelo, but my blood’s on your hands too, Arminius, along with that of thousands of others. We should never have listened to you.’
‘If you hadn’t followed my lead, this entire land would be part of the Roman Empire,’ Arminius would scream.
It was as if Gerulf couldn’t hear.
During yet another repetition of the nightmare, Arminius’ fury burst forth. He lunged at Gerulf, set on murder. Gerulf laughed and evaded him with ease. No matter how hard Arminius chased, his quarry could move faster. Arminius woke, clawing the air. Alone. Faint smears of light marked the tent seams – dawn was close. An inarticulate scream of rage, grief and frustration escaped Arminius, and he beat his fists against his skull, relishing the pain, wanting it to end his agony.
His eyes fell on his sword. Finish it now, he thought. Slide the blade in deep, the way Varus did. There’ll be brief agony, but then it will ease. The guilt and shame will vanish. The fools who surround me will disappear. Despair overwhelming him, Arminius eased the sword half out of its scabbard. Dull silver, etched with myriad pits and scratches but lethally sharp, it would give him a swift end.
Coward, said a voice in his head. Kill yourself now, and Donar will see that you never enter the heroes’ hall. Those who lie down after a beating, those who take the easy way out do not deserve to sit with heroes who died in battle, men who were brave to the end. Do it if you wish, wea
kling, but know that you will never see Maelo on the other side, or your family when the time comes for them to cross.
Jaw clenched tight, Arminius shoved the blade home again. Laid it down.
His pain would continue, and somehow he would find a way to live with it. Life is meant to be hard, he told himself. Brutal. The gods give sometimes, but they also take away. They humour us at times, but for the most part they smile at our antics, laugh at our misfortunes and watch as we stumble through this miserable existence. All we can do is keep living. Keep trying, while there is strength in our bodies.
Arminius flung back the tent flap. In the refreshing cool before dawn, the camp was yet silent. A fraction of its former size – now only his Cherusci kindred remained – it still filled him with pride. We are not beaten yet, he thought. My people think of me as leader, even my uncle Inguiomerus. We will continue the fight against Rome, do whatever it takes to remain free.
Instant frustration stung Arminius. It was well and good to have plans for the future, but in the short term there was little to be done. Seeking battle with the Romans again this summer was out of the question. Mauled and battered from the struggle thus far, his uninjured Cherusci warriors numbered little more than four thousand. Another fifteen hundred would live, but a greater number would never return home. Other tribes had fared worse – more than half the Angrivarii had been wiped out. Mallovendus’ Marsi had lost a similar number of warriors.
It was hard to know what the chieftains thought of Arminius now. With Germanicus’ legions out to harry the tribes, there had been no question of licking their wounds in one camp. A whipped dog seeks its kennel, thought Arminius, but whether each tribe’s lands would offer any security against the vast enemy army was far from certain. Informers among the Roman auxiliaries – there were still some, for which he was grateful – had reported that a large part of Germanicus’ host had already marched away to deal with the Chatti. Mallovendus, one of the few chieftains to seek out Arminius before he’d left, had been worried about this too. ‘It’s well for you, Arminius. Your people live far from the Rhenus, and the Romans can never linger such a distance from their forts. It’s different for the Marsi. Different for the Usipetes,’ he’d added, glancing at Gervas, who had given an unhappy nod of agreement.
A spark of hope flared in Arminius’ heart. Gervas would support him when it came to rallying the tribes again. He had said as much before leaving. The Usipetes were not numerous, it was true, and their strength was diminished from the struggle against Rome, but winning allies was all about having one to start with. If only it was that simple, thought Arminius, rubbing tired eyes. By the summer’s end, some of his recent supporters would have bent their necks to Roman rule. Such arrangements weren’t set in stone, of course: his own Cherusci had been allied to the empire before his ambush seven years before. Yet it was probable that tribes which had suffered a recent, resounding defeat in battle would be reluctant to join a fresh campaign.
Arminius sucked on the bitter marrow of that, and his fresh-found resolve faltered. It wasn’t surprising that two summers of indecisive clashes and heavy losses had sapped the tribes’ will to fight. He worried that his personal charisma, so useful in the past, would not win the chieftains over again. I need help, Arminius thought. Gervas was willing, but his youth would count against him when he stood before men twice his age. Mallovendus would suit well, if only he would accept Arminius’ leadership again.
Memories of the night he’d forged his alliance, when the chieftains had hung on his every word and his name had resounded to the rafters, spun in Arminius’ mind. The eagle, glittering, imperious despite its captivity, had focused men’s attention, a powerful reminder of Varus’ legions’ fate. Arminius laughed at the simplicity of it. With an eagle in his possession, men would be sure to listen. Germanicus’ army had recovered the one he’d gifted to the Bructeri, but the Marsi and the Chauci had theirs yet. Arminius was wary of entering Chauci lands: too many of the tribe fought for Rome; they’d also rebuffed his attempts to woo them to his cause. The Marsi hated the empire, however, and Mallovendus was still well disposed towards him.
It was settled, thought Arminius with satisfaction. He would persuade Mallovendus to hand over the tribe’s eagle. If the Marsi chieftain wouldn’t listen to reason, other methods could be used.
Chapter XXXIV
THE LEGIONS WERE now too far from the coast and navigable rivers to receive grain brought from the Rhenus forts, so Piso was on patrol, scavenging for supplies. Since the return of Germanicus and his forces, the army had grown to its previous size, necessitating the most enormous quantities of food daily. Strong detachments of troops ranged through the countryside either side of the marching column, their task to locate stores of grain, livestock and anything else worth appropriating. The task fell to the auxiliaries for the most part, but the volume of supplies required had also seen regular legionaries pressed into service. As primus pilus, Tullus would have been excused such duty, and his men too, but in his mind it was time to blow out the cobwebs and get some fresh air. ‘If I’d known how much fucking paperwork there was when I accepted the position, brothers, I’d never have said yes,’ he’d revealed amid much laughter.
That had been several hours earlier. Perhaps eight miles from the army column, Tullus’ century and a second one were scouring the landscape with a dozen mule-drawn wagons in tow. Midday was at hand, and the still-climbing temperature bordered on the uncomfortable. A heat haze shimmered in the air, and the hard-baked ground radiated an unpleasant warmth of its own. Piso’s skin prickled, in particular at the points where his tunic, neck scarf and plate armour met. He ran a finger around the area, pulling at the fabric here and there where his flesh was being pinched. He was well used to wool garments, but the conditions made them hard to wear. Better for it to be overcast, cold or even raining, he thought with a sour glance at the sun’s burning orb. The humour of his opinion wasn’t lost on him. If the weather had been poor, he would be complaining about that instead. Men grumbled to pass the time, to keep the sense of dread at bay. The proof of it was listening to Metilius drone on about the slim pickings they’d had.
‘How many farms have we come across – ten?’ Metilius looked around for a response.
‘Nine,’ said Piso.
‘Ten,’ countered Dulcius, smirking.
Metilius glowered. ‘Who fucking cares? The wagons aren’t even a quarter filled.’
‘We’re like a cloud of locusts to the savages,’ said Piso. ‘They don’t want to starve this winter, so everything is being hidden.’
‘You’re not feeling sorry for them?’ sneered a man in the rank behind.
‘Who was at the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, maggot – you or me?’
‘I meant no insult,’ said the soldier, quailing a little before Piso’s glare.
‘Watch your mouth.’ The comment had hit a raw nerve. If there had been warriors in the farmsteads and longhouses, Piso would have had no compunction in killing them, but the only people they’d met today had been old, lame or sick and those few who were unwilling to abandon their homes. Not all were dead now, but some were. Spitted on swords and javelins. Stamped to death. He’d even seen a greybeard battered into the next world with a length of timber. And as for the women, well, lack of teeth and wizened dugs hadn’t stopped them being raped. Tullus and Fenestela didn’t condone such behaviour, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once.
‘Starve in the winter, or die today on our blades – what’s the difference?’ asked Metilius.
Piso didn’t have an answer. Maybe that was why Tullus hadn’t punished anyone. Perhaps a swift death was better than slow starvation during the long, dark months to come. This was what many of the tribespeople would face, for Germanicus had ordered that the as-yet-unharvested wheat and barley should be fired whenever possible. ‘If we can’t take it, the savages aren’t to have it either,’ Tullus had said at the outset of the patrol.
Curse the lot of them, Piso decided.
Why couldn’t the Germans just bend their knees, accept Roman rule, and stop fighting? This patrol, this whole campaign wouldn’t be necessary. Was it so hard to pay taxes and call the emperor a god? Millions of people throughout the empire did it and lived a peaceful existence. The tribes would learn the hard way in the end, he thought. Everyone did.
‘Think the Marsi will fight us again?’ asked Metilius. After a spate of attacks on Roman patrols, Germanicus was leading more than half his army to the tribe’s territory. The Fifth, along with several other legions, was part of the force.
‘They’d be fools if they did. We’ll outnumber them six – seven to one? The filth will surrender once we get there.’ This was Piso’s heartfelt desire and, he suspected, that of his tent mates. The summer’s campaign hadn’t been that long but it had been brutal. They would fight if needs be, but far better they got to march back to their forts without losing more comrades.
‘If they don’t, the bastards will get what’s coming to them.’ Metilius’ leer was unpleasant.
‘Piso!’
Tullus’ shout snapped Piso back to the present. ‘Sir?’
‘Farm, over there.’ Tullus was pointing off to their left. A quarter of a mile distant, surrounded by small fields, a single longhouse with a few outbuildings was visible. ‘Take twenty men and a wagon. See what you can find. Follow our trail after.’
Piso’s chest puffed up with pride – public acknowledgement by Tullus was rare, and such duties tended to fall to Fenestela or one of the other junior officers. ‘Yes, sir!’ Falling out of line, Piso called Metilius, Dulcius and his two remaining tent mates to join him, as well as some of the men from three other contubernia. Piso sent one man to the end of the patrol with instructions for a wagon to come after them down the narrow, rutted track that led towards the farm. ‘Form up, four wide, five deep,’ he bellowed. ‘After me.’ Feeling more than a little self-conscious because of this new responsibility, he set off along the path.