Eagles at War (30 page)

The cohort returned to Porta Westfalica in baking afternoon heat. Every field of grain beside the road had been full of tribesmen and women taking in the harvest, both sexes stripped to the waist under the sun’s blinding orb. Tullus’ soldiers had loved the sight of so many bare breasts, and they filled the air with whistles and catcalls. The tribesmen shouted back insults, but Tullus didn’t try to silence his soldiers’ barrage. If a woman went about half naked, she could expect but one response.

Reaching the camp, Tullus had dismissed the cohort. He’d overseen his own century as they stripped off their equipment, taking the time to praise the men who’d led the pace, or who had impressed with their well-presented kit. That done, he had made for his own tent, where Ambiorix and Degmar had been waiting. It was amusing, but the feud he’d seen coming between his two servants had never materialised. Gaul and German, old man and young, they had formed an odd friendship that revolved around a sharing of duties. Ambiorix lit the fire. He did the cooking too – that was one of his favourite tasks. The rest, however – the clothes-washing, cleaning of weapons and armour and sleeping by the tent entrance – he was happy to relinquish to Degmar.

Once Tullus had washed, using the bucket of river water carried up by Degmar, he parked himself outside his tent on an old stool. It had been with him on campaign many times; he liked to sit on it, cup of wine in hand, and observe his soldiers with a benevolent but watchful eye. On this occasion, however, he found his attention drawn by Ambiorix and Degmar. More often by Degmar, who looked to be in a foul humour.

Assuming that they had quarrelled, Tullus began to listen in. Ambiorix was busy preparing the evening meal. From the smell emanating from the pot that hung over the fire, Tullus reckoned it was fish stew of some kind. Degmar was sitting cross-legged alongside, Tullus’ phalerae in his lap, and was using a strip of cloth to polish the individual decorations.

‘Want a taste?’ Ambiorix was proffering a wooden spoon. ‘I think it needs a little salt.’

Degmar grunted something that might have been ‘No’ or ‘Yes’.

Ambiorix frowned. ‘What was that?’

‘Decide for yourself. I don’t care,’ Degmar muttered in his poor Latin.

‘Don’t take out your bad mood on me! We agreed that you’re the one who has to clean his kit.’

‘It’s not about that,’ said Degmar, scowling.

‘What’s wrong then?’ demanded Ambiorix.

Degmar didn’t answer; he redoubled his efforts with one of the phalerae, polishing away until Tullus thought he would wear the thing down to a nub.

Tullus forgot about Degmar for a time as Fenestela came to report on a legionary who’d gone lame during the march. ‘I sent him to see the surgeon. Piso isn’t the best soldier, but he’s no shirker,’ said Fenestela.

Tullus chuckled. ‘It was Piso? I should have known.’

‘He’s coming on, as you said he would,’ opined Fenestela. ‘Slow progress, but steady.’

‘Wine?’ Tullus raised the jug.

‘Why not?’

‘Degmar, another cup,’ called Tullus.

Degmar sloped over with a vessel for Fenestela, who raised his eyebrows at his set, angry face.

I’m not imagining it, thought Tullus. ‘What has you in a temper?’

Degmar’s mouth turned down further. ‘It’s nothing of any import.’ He glanced down, to either side, anywhere but at Tullus.

Tullus’ curiosity grew. Apart from Ambiorix and Fenestela, there was no one within earshot. ‘It is odd for you to be in such a foul mood, and even more for you not to want anyone to know you’re talking to me. Spit it out.’

Degmar squatted down on his haunches, close enough that he could mutter. Fenestela looked surprised by this familiarity, but Tullus didn’t comment. It continued to amuse him that Degmar didn’t call him ‘master’, yet served him like a faithful hunting dog. If it ever came to it, Tullus was gut-sure that Degmar would die in his defence. ‘Tell me,’ he ordered in German.

‘I was over by the auxiliary lines earlier,’ Degmar began.

In itself, that wasn’t unusual. ‘Swapping boastful stories, were you?’

Degmar’s lips twitched. ‘Something like that. I drank a skin of wine with some of the Cherusci I know. When I took my leave, I stopped by their horse pens. They have some fine mounts. A little time passed. I was leaning over the enclosing rail; the Cherusci must have thought I’d gone. They started talking among themselves.’ He cast another furtive glance around.

Tullus had never seen Degmar look so agitated. ‘What did you hear?’

‘I couldn’t catch everything they were saying – they were too far away – but there was something about a gathering of the tribes, and an ambush. That was mentioned several times. So was Arminius’ name.’

Having seen little to nothing of the Cheruscan leader since their arrival in Porta Westfalica, Tullus’ suspicions had lain dormant. Now, they tolled a loud alarm in his head. ‘Is that all?’

‘Aye.’

‘They could have been talking about the Dolgubnii, or another hostile tribe, even something in the past,’ said Tullus, forcing himself to be logical. He studied Degmar’s face. ‘You don’t agree.’

‘No.’ Degmar’s tone was vehement.

‘Why?’

‘There was something …’ Degmar struggled to express what he meant, before saying several words in his own tongue.

Tullus thought he recognised one of them. ‘Furtive?’

‘Yes, furtive. That’s how they were acting. It was most noticeable when a warrior came over to the pens by chance a moment later, and was shocked to see me. He was angry too, although he tried to hide it. “Been eavesdropping?” he asked. I clutched one of my ears, and told him that I’ve been deaf in it since childhood. I had been admiring their horses, nothing else. He seemed to believe me, but I caught him watching as I walked away.’

‘That’s not much to go on. Have you nothing else?’

With a scowl, Degmar shook his head.

Tullus would have laughed off such a story from many men, but this was such a departure from Degmar’s normal behaviour that it demanded attention. ‘What are your thoughts?’

‘My head says it was nothing more than idle gossip, bragging about how they might like to act, or what other tribes might want to do.’

‘And your belly?’

Degmar met Tullus’ gaze. ‘It’s telling me that Arminius will betray Varus’ trust. The dog is planning something. An ambush, perhaps, maybe in alliance with other tribes.’

Tullus wondered again if the odd feeling he’d had about Arminius might have its basis in fact. It was almost too shocking to be true. ‘My thanks for telling me.’

‘You don’t believe it,’ said Degmar with a scowl.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Tullus replied, unwilling to speak his mind to a servant.

Degmar dropped his gaze. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’

He was looking out for me, thought Tullus, feeling bad. ‘Stay friendly with those Cherusci,’ he suggested. ‘See if you can learn any more.’

Degmar shrugged and stood. ‘They will be suspicious of me, but I’ll try.’

Tullus watched as Degmar wandered back to Ambiorix and the fire.

From that point, Degmar’s story would not leave him. After a time, Tullus realised that he had overlooked a crucial fact: Degmar didn’t give a damn about any Roman but him. An attack on Varus’ legions would be as joyful an occasion for him as for a rogue Cheruscan warrior. That meant he had approached Tullus out of fealty alone, so he
was
convinced that an attack of some kind was coming.

Was Arminius capable of such treachery? Tullus wondered. He had fought for Rome for years, and been decorated for his bravery numerous times. Varus’ trust in him was implicit. Everyone Tullus could think of considered the Cheruscan to be a solid and reliable individual. As far as he was aware, it was only he who had found Arminius’ winning persona a little hard to take, his hearty manner a trifle forced.

The moment from the boar hunt returned to mind, when Maelo had said something to Arminius about the sacred ground they had been on. There had been another soon after, when Arminius had suggested that Varus had no need of his escort. Maybe I did pick up on something then, thought Tullus, and perhaps my concern over the slaughter of the Usipetes at the stockade was well placed.

Yet if he was right, especially about the latter, why in all the gods’ names had Arminius done it? Tullus could not come up with a plausible reason – that was, until he reconsidered the possibility that Degmar
had
overheard something important. If Arminius was gathering together an alliance of tribes, it stood to reason that the Usipetes, living close to the Rhenus, might be part of it. Assuming that they were would explain why Arminius wanted the entire raiding party wiped out. If word had reached the tribe’s chieftains of his men’s involvement, the Usipetes would have withdrawn from the coalition. They would also have informed other tribes of Arminius’ treachery, ruining his entire plan.

That
was why so few prisoners had been taken, thought Tullus. It all made perfect sense. Astounding though it was, Arminius
had to be
plotting an ambush. His excitement didn’t last. Without any proof, convincing his superiors of the Cheruscan’s guilt would prove impossible. Even if Tullus managed to convince one of the tribunes, say, Varus would also have to be persuaded, and in
his
mind, Arminius could do no wrong. When Tullus had suggested the killing of the Usipetes in the stockade might have been deliberate, Varus had not wanted to know. There was no one else Tullus could turn to – apart from Fenestela, whose lowly rank meant that he was even more powerless.

The only option left to him, Tullus concluded, was to listen, watch and wait.

It was a bitter realisation.

Every moment of travelling felt like time wasted, so Arminius had ridden hard to the ambush site, which lay some fifteen miles northwest of Porta Westfalica. Some miles from the camp, he had turned off the main road, on to a cattle-droving track, and worked his way cross country so that he wouldn’t be seen by the legionaries manning the regular outposts along the main route to Vetera. Now, with his horse sweating from the journey, he had emerged on to the path down which he would lead Varus’ legions in the near future. Gods willing, he added inwardly.

No one had given him a second look as he rode out of the Roman camp alone, which was a benefit of his high rank. To the average soldier and lower-ranking officer, an auxiliary prefect was above questioning. Other senior officers, such as legates and camp commanders, might have looked askance at his behaviour, but they weren’t around, or even aware of his departure. Varus might have wondered where he was going, but Arminius had been careful of recent days to mention how sick his mother was. When he’d asked permission to visit her, Varus had told him in no uncertain terms to go whenever he wished. ‘As long as your official duties are in order, I don’t care,’ Varus had said. ‘We won’t be in the area for much longer. Attend to your mother.’

Arminius was to take Varus hunting on the morrow, part of his ploy to keep the governor thinking he was a personal friend, a true ally of Rome. There would be plenty of opportunities then to spin Varus a fine tale of how his mother’s fever had broken, leaving her weak but on the road to recovery. He would have ‘to go and see her again’, of course, which would allow him to continue supervising the building of the earthworks that formed such an integral part of his plan.

Arminius was pleased to note scores and scores of men at work among the trees to the left of the narrow track, evidence that his requests for labour from the various tribes continued to be answered. It seemed that his original desire to remain at the site, encouraging and cajoling the disparate groups, had not been necessary. That was as well, Arminius knew, for he wouldn’t have been able to test Varus’ friendship – or trust – that far. Maelo could have done the job, but his absence would also have been noted after a day or two. It had been much easier to fabricate the ‘need’ for an ordinary ranker to spend time away from the camp, and had allowed Arminius to assign the job to another of his men, Osbert. Although not high-ranking, Osbert was tough, unafraid of hard work and fluent in the various tribal dialects. Most important, he was charismatic. Not as much as I am, thought Arminius, allowing his arrogance its head, but not far off.

He’d find Osbert soon, but checking on the earthworks’ construction – and letting his face be seen – came first. Once his horse had been watered and tied to a long, pegged rope so that it could graze, Arminius made for the nearest section of fortification. It was set back thirty to forty paces from the track, as per his instructions. Few among the toiling men noticed him approach. Those who did failed to recognise him at a distance, which gave Arminius the chance to study their handiwork.

The organisation he had set in place continued, but it had been refined – and improved. Osbert had been an excellent choice, Arminius decided. The workers’ industry was as impressive as that of the legions when they constructed roads. Some groups moved earth, while others built the fortifications, or dug drainage channels to its rear. Among the trees further back, axe-wielding warriors were chopping branches that would be used later to disguise the earthwork. Men had even been designated to fetch drinking water from the nearest stream, Arminius noted with pleasure.

The rampart had none of the straight lines so beloved of the Romans, but that didn’t matter. It snaked alongside the track, taller than a big man, uneven but roughly parallel. In its current unfinished state, the earthworks might go unnoticed by an incurious traveller, but anyone who looked closer would see the imposing manmade structure at once. Nonetheless, it
had
been built in the right place, Arminius decided. Any further back, and his warriors would be too far from the Romans to spring an effective ambush.

There was still time for the entire thing to be rendered almost invisible. Once the heavy work was finished, wicker fencing would be arranged before it, and the cut branches set at its top. The plants growing between the fortifications and the track – which had not been disturbed – also had another month of growing.