Hunting the Eagles

  He found a smouldering ruin. The walls remained, and the great oaken truss at each end that had held up the roof, but that was it. Even the doors had been burned away. The smell of charred flesh, whether animal or human, lingered in the air. The shock brought him to his knees, slumped his shoulders and bowed his head. Tears, such as Arminius never cried, welled in his eyes and poured unchecked down his cheeks. ‘Thusnelda,’ he whispered.

  The attack was beyond anything he could have imagined from the Romans. It was so fucking clever. They must have known my warriors weren’t here, Arminius decided, and that I was away. The realisation crashed in at once. Flavus had sent spies to the settlement beforehand. Finding its defences weakened, he had gone ahead with the raid, taking not just Segestes but the extra prize of Thusnelda.

  ‘You’re here,’ croaked a familiar voice.

  Arminius twisted around. Shock filled him. His left arm wrapped in a grubby bandage, his face spattered with mud and sweat, and with hair sticking out at every angle and purple craters under his eyes, Maelo was almost unrecognisable. Filthy-clothed, limping, he looked like a bog-buried corpse brought to life. Arminius rose. ‘What news?’

  Maelo shook his head, and the motion sent knives stabbing through every part of Arminius.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Maelo. ‘I sent warriors after Segestes and Thusnelda on foot the moment I got back from my uncle’s village, while we tried to round up the horses. Doing that took more than half a day. We then rode after them day and night, but the Romans’ lead was too great, and Germanicus had five cohorts lying in wait thirty miles away to meet them. I led one attack anyway, and lost more than half the men with me. I thought about going at the whoresons again, but it would have been suicide.’

  Arminius bunched his fists, and breathed deep, and unclenched them again. ‘Tell me everything. Do not leave out a single detail.’ He listened in grim silence as Maelo laid out the sorry tale from beginning to end.

  ‘I should have been in the settlement. If I had, maybe I could have got her away to safety,’ said Maelo, his eyes tortured. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you have been visiting your uncle?’ The words almost choked in Arminius’ throat, so great was his own feeling of guilt. Why hadn’t he been here? ‘Gods,’ he said. ‘She’ll be on the Roman side of the river by now. With her father.’

  ‘Aye.’ Again Maelo’s gaze met Arminius’. ‘Do you want me to raise a war party and see if we can free her?’

  Arminius sighed. ‘You’re a good man, Maelo. There’s nothing I would like more, but think of the strength of the Roman forces on the west bank of the Rhenus. We would be throwing away our own lives, and those of the warriors with us, for nothing. Thusnelda will be taken to Italy at once, as a trophy. The Romans want to ensure I never see her again, and that my son grows up without a father.’ A wall of grief hit him, and he closed his eyes.

  Maelo’s hand on his shoulder, unasked for, gave him strength and focused his mind. The situation could have been far worse. The casualties suffered during the raid had been light. If Germanicus had attacked with greater force, they would have been cataclysmic. Not to do that, Arminius decided, had been a grave mistake by the Roman general. He let his rage swell again, letting its power fill every corner of his being.

  ‘I will renew my war against Rome, not by treasonous means, nor against pregnant women, nor in darkness, but with honour, attacking its soldiers in daylight. If our fellow tribesmen love their lands and forefathers and their ancient ways more than life under the emperor’s heel, then they will follow me. I will lead them to glory and to freedom rather than Segestes’ – Arminius spat the word – ‘who would give them nothing but shame and slavery.’

  ‘Give me the chance, great Donar, and I will slay not just Segestes and my motherless get of a brother, but Germanicus too,’ he vowed, his voice throbbing with fury. ‘And every legionary and auxiliary that follows in their wake.’

  Vengeance had become the sole reason for Arminius’ existence.

  Chapter XXI

  HIS STOMACH CHURNING, Piso studied the mainsail with jaundiced eyes. It had been hanging limp for some time, but now it fluttered and fell back against the mast. A heartbeat later, it did the same. And again. Air moved against Piso’s cheek. A wind had come up at last. Standing close to the mast amongst his comrades, he watched as the great hemp rectangle billowed forward and sagged back by turns. Before long, it had swelled to its maximum, aiding the sweating oarsmen and driving the long, shallow-bottomed craft out into the Mare Germanicum. Less than a month had passed since the morale-boosting capture of Arminius’ wife and freeing of his father-in-law, and Germanicus had been swift to act, launching a three-pronged attack into the enemy hinterland.

  It was Piso’s bad luck that his legion had been selected to sail around the northern coasts and make landfall in the sheltered estuary of the River Amisia. They would strike inland from there. He cast a mournful glance back at the Flevo Lacus, the sheltered lake that formed part of the Rhenus’ estuary, across which they had rowed over the previous days. Its rocky shores and populations of screeching seabirds that he’d so despised now seemed far more attractive than the blue-green waves beneath the hull and the desolate expanse on every side. He wasn’t alone in his misery, and Piso took a certain sour satisfaction from the number of unhappy faces around him, and the muttering about storms and sea monsters. Not a soldier of the two centuries packed on the vessel seemed happy with his lot. Even Vitellius, the stoic, was giving the bronze amulet at his neck a crafty rub.

  Tullus and Fenestela, heads bent together as usual, were unperturbed, but that was as it should be. Even if they were only pretending not to be scared, thought Piso, it didn’t matter. Their calm expressions and steady voices were there to reassure the men, whatever the situation.

  A wave crashed off the prow, showering everyone within thirty paces with freezing water. Groans and curses went up even as the ship’s captain, an old salt with white hair, laughed. ‘Better get used to it, boys,’ he cried from his platform above them. ‘This is nothing compared to what Neptunus can throw at us.’

  ‘Gods, what are we doing?’ Piso asked of no one in particular.

  ‘Following orders,’ said Vitellius.

  ‘As usual,’ added Saxa. ‘That’s all we ever do.’

  ‘The soldier’s lot.’ Metilius cast a look at each of them in turn. ‘But we’re together again, eh, and that’s what counts.’

  Everyone nodded. Piso managed a smile of sorts. Germanicus’ purpose – to wreak revenge for what had been done to Varus and his legions – didn’t count here, on this perilous sea. What mattered when a man felt as if he were about to drown at any moment were his comrades. Since their mission to rescue Degmar’s family, Piso and Vitellius had spent increasing amounts of time with Saxa and Metilius, both solid, decent men. The four were now tent mates as well – fortuitously, Piso and Vitellius’ contubernium had been two short.

  Piso got on better with Saxa, who was also fond of playing dice, but Metilius’ unflappable good humour was impossible not to like. Better to drown with them, or to vanish into the maw of a sea monster, Piso decided, than to die on his own.

  Another, bigger wave broke over the bows of the ship, and the resultant spray coated everyone from head to toe. Groans went up, and curses, but the loudest voices were those begging the gods for mercy. Muttering a prayer of his own, Piso pulled the front of his cloak lower, trying too late to protect his mail shirt.

  ‘The thing’s going to rust no matter what you do,’ advised Vitellius. ‘Besides, Tullus won’t make us clean them until we get back to Vetera.’

  ‘If we get back,’ added Saxa in a dour tone.

  The boat lurched as a wave slammed into its port side and, guts heaving, Piso forgot about his armour. The choppy motion had him concentrating on one thing – not vomiting – but it was a battle he soon lost. If there was any consolation to be taken from covering his feet and sandals with the contents of his stomach, it was tha
t plenty of others had done so before him, among them Saxa and Metilius. Vitellius held out for a time, but succumbed at last to the acrid stink of bile and the ship’s never-ending pitching and rolling.

  ‘Ha! You’re no sailor either,’ said Piso.

  Vitellius wiped a string of phlegm from his lips and flicked it downward on to the foul liquid that slopped around at their feet, a broth of seawater, vomit, piss and worse. He levelled a baleful stare at Piso. ‘Never said I was.’

  ‘Will Tullus throw up, d’you think?’

  They glanced at the centurion. To their disbelief, he was tucking into a hunk of bread. Between bites, he was conducting a shouted conversation with the captain. By his side, meanwhile, a green-faced Fenestela was staring everywhere but at Tullus’ food.

  Piso chuckled. ‘He won’t. Five denarii on it. Any takers?’

  His only replies were ribald comments about what he could do with his coins. Piso didn’t mind. With Tullus, the indestructible Tullus, unaffected by the conditions, he had nothing to worry about. Their ship would not sink, Piso knew it, because Tullus was on board. He wasn’t about to shout his defiance at the lowering grey sky, nor even to speak it aloud – Piso wasn’t that stupid – but Tullus’ presence felt like a heavens-sent guarantee that their miserable voyage would end with a successful landfall.

  He hoped that the rest of the flotilla – the scores of ships on either side, packed with troops, equipment and horses – fared as well. If they did, gods willing, the treacherous Germans wouldn’t know what had hit them. That was, Piso thought with a tinge of humour, once he and his comrades had stopped feeling sick.

  Piso’s convictions were well tested in the two days and nights that followed. Heavy seas and strong winds split up the fleet, driving the better ships ahead and causing the older, less well-constructed vessels no end of problems. If he had been grateful at the outset not to be ordered on to one of the half-derelict troop carriers left over from Drusus’ naval campaigns, Piso was doubly so once he’d seen other craft sinking. He and his comrades grew used, if not immune, to the despairing wails of drowning men that carried over the waves. Their own ship, a new build, sprang a leak at one stage, but constant bailing kept the water levels at a manageable depth. Soaked to the skin, nauseous, and thirstier than he’d ever been after a long summer’s day march, Piso endured with his comrades.

  It took four more days for the last of the stragglers to limp in to their destination, and a day after that for a final headcount. When that had been completed, the news that nine ships and more than seven hundred crewmen and soldiers had gone to the bottom travelled between the troops like wildfire. So did the revelation that several big-bellied transports loaded with grain and sour wine had foundered. Scores of horses had also been lost. Matters weren’t helped that day by the drowning of several legionaries as a ship was being unloaded. Their deaths were blamed by most on the new, heavy type of segmented armour they had been wearing. Whatever the reason for their demise, a dark mood fell over the entire camp.

  More alert to such things because of the previous year’s mutiny, Tullus bought a fat lamb from a local Chauci farmer and sacrificed it on the muddy beach, giving loud thanks to Neptunus for holding his net close beneath them as they sailed over his watery realm. Other centurions were quick to emulate his move, and when Germanicus ordered a wine ration to be doled out, morale soon lifted. Scores more sheep were purchased from the Chauci tribesmen, who were long-standing, trusted allies of Rome. As the sun set that evening – even the weather had improved – the air was rich with the scent of roasting mutton and filled with the sounds of half-drunk, happy soldiers.

  Despite the pounding heads that resulted from the night’s carousing, there were few objections the following morning when the trumpets sounded and the officers hounded the legionaries from their blankets. Germanicus had given the order to march and, hung over or not, the troops were keen to get on with the task in hand. They weren’t here to paddle in the sea and to look for shells along the shore, Tullus roared, but to find the tribes who had slain their comrades, and to wipe them out. His men yelled back their approval.

  Piso was in an optimistic mood. With solid ground underfoot, dry clothing and a full belly, it was easy to feel good about the world. Their force was strong, and it was a considerable distance to the borders of the Chauci lands. Although they would march in combat order, there was little chance of an immediate enemy attack. The Chauci were friendly, and many of their warriors served as auxiliaries with the legions. There was no silver-tongued Arminius figure to lead them astray here.

  After three days’ march, the safety of the Chauci territory was left behind. The next tribe in the army’s path, the Amisuarii, who lived in and around the southward-leading River Amisia, would cause no trouble, the Romans were told by the auxiliary cavalry. Emissaries were already on their way, with hostages and promises of loyalty to Rome.

  ‘If our journey was going to be this easy, we should have saved our hobnails and sailed downriver,’ Piso commented late on the fourth day. He raised a hand against Vitellius’ retort. ‘I know, too many of the ships needed repairs.’

  ‘Would you rather be on land or afloat if we’re attacked?’ asked Saxa, ever the wary one. ‘We’ll be reaching Bructeri territory soon. They laid an ambush on the River Amisia for Drusus, remember.’

  ‘It’s still nice to dream about not having to march. About not having to carry this.’ Piso indicated his unwieldy yoke with his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you should have joined the navy, Piso.’ Tullus had appeared to come, as he did so often, from nowhere. ‘I saw how much you enjoyed being out on the waves during our voyage.’

  Piso flushed as his comrades hooted with laughter. ‘I’m happy in the legions, sir. And with my yoke.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear.’ With a chuckle, Tullus rode off.

  ‘You could always try the river fleet,’ Vitellius suggested to Piso. He winked at Saxa and Metilius. ‘There’s far less bad weather than on the open ocean. You’d almost never have to go to sea.’

  ‘Piss off,’ retorted Piso. ‘Why don’t you become a sailor?’

  ‘I’m a happy footslogger, me,’ said Vitellius, his shrug setting the pots and pans on his yoke to clatter. ‘Always have been.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re whingeing about a blister, or a sore neck,’ said Piso with a triumphant look. When it came to complaining, Vitellius was one of the most vocal men in the century. Saxa and Metilius snickered; Vitellius glowered.

  Piso grinned. It was at times like this, he decided, that life was at its finest. He was with his closest friends, joking and carrying on like carefree youths. They were marching heavily laden, it was true, and sweating like mules, but the weather was pleasant and not too hot. Their rations were being supplemented daily by plenty of meat – sheep and cattle – bought from the local tribesmen, and, like the good centurion he was, Tullus saw to it that there was wine on offer each night.

  Battles were inevitable later in the campaign, but Piso knew they would take place on Germanicus’ terms. When this force met with the two others that had set out from various forts on the Rhenus, they would outnumber any foe who faced them. Vengeance will be ours, thought Piso, remembering with a pang Afer and the rest of his comrades who’d been slain in the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius can try his best, but we will send every last one of his warriors into the mud. Rome will emerge triumphant, he promised himself. Most important of all, the Eighteenth’s eagle would be recovered.

  Some days later, Piso was helping to dig the defensive trench for the night’s camp. For half the men of a campaigning army, this least-loved of tasks came at the end of every second day’s march. His turn was this afternoon, and despite the long job that lay before him and his already aching muscles, Piso was still in good spirits. Around him, his comrades were too. Saxa was halfway through a popular ditty about a brothel, and was bawling the filthiest chorus line in time with each strike of his pickaxe.

/>   The whole contubernium was taking part – Vitellius and others throwing in additional, imaginative lines whenever possible. Infected by their enthusiasm and volume, the men nearby had begun to join in too. Tullus, who was strolling along the top of the ditch, supervising, had a tiny smile on his face. Piso even thought he’d heard Fenestela whistling the song’s tune.

  The campaign had begun well, Piso decided. Their arrival from the north had caught the Bructeri napping, and their force was now deep in the tribe’s territory. Settlements and farms had been abandoned wholescale, their panicked inhabitants fleeing into the surrounding forests. Resistance had been sporadic and, for the most part, ineffectual. There’d been one serious attack, the previous day, but it had been thrown back with massive casualties among the Bructeri tribesmen. Piso hadn’t even seen the fighting, because the assault had struck a different part of the marching column.

  More promising news – swift to spread between the soldiers – had been brought by the Chauci scouts returning from the south. The two other parts of Germanicus’ army, one under the command of the general Caecina and the second under the legate Stertinius, had already combined and were less than twenty miles away. Together they had also laid waste to large numbers of Bructeri villages, and slain many hundreds of warriors.

  If things continued like this, thought Piso, there was a chance that they’d be back in Vetera before the harvest. He dampened his enthusiasm before it took root. Germanicus would not lead his vast army back to its camps early. Teaching the tribes who’d risen against Rome their lesson would take time, even if the legions won every battle. We’ll be here until the autumn, Piso told himself. Get used to it.

  Saxa had reached the last verse of his song, in which the hero – a legionary, naturally – is forced to choose between his comrades, who are leaving on campaign, and a big-breasted, willing whore. Conscious that every soldier within fifty paces was hanging off his words, he’d stopped digging – a risky move, with Tullus still about. Yet Saxa had made a calculated judgement. Piso spied their centurion close by, hands on hips. A broad and unusual grin was splitting his face – clear permission for Saxa to finish.