Eagles at War (31 page)

‘Arminius!’

‘It’s Arminius!’

Heads turned. Mattocks and spades were lowered, fabric-wrapped bundles of cut turves eased to the ground. Men began to gather.

Arminius donned his smile with impressive speed. ‘You’ve been working hard, I see!’

Hours later, he was still working his way along the great earthworks. He’d taken care to spend a period with each tribal grouping, and within those, he had talked to as many warriors as possible. It was natural for the Angrivarii to be here – their territory lay close by – but there were men here from the Usipetes, the Bructeri and even the Chatti, whose lands were more than a hundred miles to the southwest.

If Arminius had needed proof of the different tribes’ enthusiasm for his plan, and their willingness to take part in it, this was it. There was no more important time of the year than the harvest, when the food that would carry a man’s family through the winter was taken in. Yet here they were, hundreds of them, breaking their backs to build the fortifications that he’d asked them to. Their labour would stand them in good stead, he had told them, to roars of acclaim. The damn Romans would be unaware of their presence until it was far too late.

Arminius was talking with a small group of Chauci – a tribe that had not declared for his cause thus far – when Osbert appeared. Arminius gave Osbert a look to show he’d seen him, and continued to compliment the warriors for their hard work. The earthworks were well built, just the right height and depth. The drainage ditches to the rear were ingenious, he told them; they would prevent flooding if the usual heavy autumn rain fell. The warriors warmed to his tribute, and they cheered when he thanked them for their willingness to act when the rest of their kind would not. ‘When you return to your people,’ Arminius continued, ‘let them know how many tribes are labouring side by side. Be sure to tell them how remarkable the earthworks are, and how well they will hide us. They must hear of the narrowness of the track, and the streams that crisscross it, and of the treacherous bog that lies on its other side. This is the perfect spot to ambush Varus and his legions!’

The Chauci loved that, brandishing their tools as if they were spears, and promising Arminius that they would return with their tribe’s full strength. Content, Arminius slipped to Osbert’s side. They shook hands, and he gripped Osbert’s shoulder. ‘Progress has been excellent. I’m in your debt. If it continues in this way, the earthworks could be completed in …?’

‘Ten days, if all goes well,’ Osbert finished for him.

‘Ha!’ cried Arminius. ‘That’s better than I could have expected.’

‘I would love to take the credit, Arminius, but the talk each night over the fires is never about my persuasiveness. It’s about the new tax, and the wrongful punishment visited upon the Usipetes. Warriors speak of
you
as the leader who will strike off the shackles that Augustus wishes us to wear. In their eyes, you are the man to rid this land of the Romans’ blight.’

Arminius’ spirits lifted further. The hard work he’d put into winning over the tribes had paid off. Nonetheless, he would continue to mingle with the toiling warriors, ‘pressing the flesh’, so to speak, and recognising their contribution. When the labouring was done, and the warriors returned to their homes before the ambush, they would praise his endeavour to the skies. Arminius could think of no better way to ensure that their tribes honoured their pledge to him.

Within the month, thousands of spears would be at his command.

Here.

XVIII

IN PORTA WESTFALICA,
Varus was cursing. It had been a mistake to come to the principia. Aristides had promised it would take but an instant to sign off the orders for another consignment of grain before he went hunting, but of course things were never that simple. Officer after officer had appeared, each one with his own urgent request for Varus’ ruling. Soldiers in one cohort were demanding ‘nail money’ for the replacement hobnails they needed as a result of an extended patrol. A settlement ten miles to the east of Porta Westfalica claimed to have no money to pay the imperial taxes that were due. There were allegations of corruption among the boat captains who ferried goods along the river from Vetera – instead of army supplies, they were purported to be transporting quantities of valuable goods such as olive oil for unscrupulous merchants.

These were only the start of the woes filling Varus’ ears. Scores of mules were suffering with sweet itch, caused by the midges that hung in clouds over their pens. The senior veterinarian was at a loss. An outbreak of gonorrhoea in two centuries of the Nineteenth had put forty-one soldiers in the camp hospital. Varus had been astonished to hear that the patients all blamed one prostitute, a ‘beauty’ revelling in the name of Venus. Complaints were coming in from local farmers that legionaries were killing their livestock for meat at every opportunity. A quartermaster’s stores had been burgled, and two amphorae of fish sauce stolen.

Plagued by his conscience, Varus had dealt with each of these time-consuming problems in turn. As ever, most could not be resolved on the spot. More information would be required before a decision was possible. The centurions in charge of the men requesting ‘nail money’ would have to make official reports about the state of their troops’ sandals
before
the patrol. The impecunious settlement was to be given half a month to find the monies due before soldiers searched the place, with powers to seize goods in kind. A hearing into the dishonest ships’ captains was called for – Varus would have to preside over that one. Every veterinarian in the three legions was to be consulted about better treatments for sweet itch – and so on.

Several times Varus grew close to clearing the line of men before his desk, but then more appeared at its tail. Frustration stung him. The patch of sky visible through the window was brightening fast, and he could feel the warmth radiating from the rays of sun illuminating the floor by his feet. Dawn had gone; morning was here. Arminius, who had returned from visiting his sick mother, had stressed that the earlier they left the camp, the better. ‘We will be out all day, and it tends to be as hot as the day you killed that boar,’ he’d said. Any chance of tracking down a large stag would soon vanish, thought Varus, because
he
wouldn’t be up to slogging through the forest in the sapping heat. He came to a snap decision. ‘Aristides.’

The Greek was in his customary place, by his elbow. ‘Master?’

‘Find out why each of these officers are here. Unless it’s a matter of life or death, they can wait until Vala arrives.’

‘Of course.’

Varus watched sidelong as Aristides bustled from around the desk, writing tablet and stylus in hand. It amused him how much pleasure his scribe derived from moments like this, when he had a passing but real power over men whose social position towered above his own. A discreet cough from the tribune in front of him – Tubero – brought Varus back to the matter in hand: an outbreak of dysentery in the Eighteenth. ‘Tell me again how bad it is.’

Tubero nudged the surgeon he’d brought with him, a balding Greek with a protuberant wart on one cheek. ‘It’s not too severe yet, governor,’ he said. ‘Only three men have died, but it will be far more if the affected cohort isn’t isolated at once.’

Varus wanted to scream, Why this, now? Dysentery was a serious matter. ‘Do so at once, but position their tents close to the camp rampart. Use the healthy men in the cohort to dig the ditch and move the tents.’ There wasn’t much more he could do, thought Varus, but it might be best if he didn’t go hunting. If the disease spread any further …

It was as if Tubero had discerned his reluctance to stay. ‘I can manage the situation, sir,’ he offered. ‘I’ll oversee everything, and report back to you this evening.’

Varus hesitated. How hard is it to isolate a cohort? he wondered and said with a smile, ‘Excellent, tribune. I leave things in your capable hands. We shall speak again later.’ He advanced from behind his desk. With confused faces, the officers stood to attention. ‘As you were,’ he said, sweeping past. ‘Aristides will take note of your queries, and Vala will deal with them later.’

‘Sir—’ protested a senior centurion, but Varus had gone. The last of his guilt evaporated as the officers vanished from sight. He spent his life enslaved to the demands of others. The world wouldn’t end if he wasn’t there for a day, the dysenteric cohort would not all die, and his legions wouldn’t fall apart. He’d be back at his desk tomorrow and, if needs be, he would stay at it until the backlog of administration had been cleared. Even the idea of that living hell wasn’t enough to take the spring from Varus’ step as he emerged from the principia. The sun wasn’t
that
high in the sky, and there was a hint of cloud cover moving in from the east. The day wouldn’t get too hot, and Arminius was a man of his word – he’d be waiting for Varus still, by his tent lines.

Varus’ high spirits lasted until the headquarters was perhaps fifty paces behind him. ‘Governor! Governor Varus!’ called a voice. Hunching his shoulders, Varus stopped. The junior officer responsible – an optio, by his appearance – hurried over at once. Varus’ hopes that he might yet get away rallied – he’d put a flea in the upstart’s ear damn quick – before slumping once more. The brawny, silver-haired chieftain dogging the optio’s footsteps was none other than Segestes, leader of part of the Cheruscan tribe. Segestes was a fierce ally of Rome, which made him a valuable asset, but he was also a rambling, loud-mouthed boor with a love of his own voice. Varus despised him.

‘Governor!’ Segestes called. ‘A word, if I could.’

Wishing for the power to make himself invisible, Varus instead pulled on his politician’s cloak. The smile, the cordial salute, the warm tone. ‘Segestes. What an unexpected pleasure. In ordinary circumstances, I would invite you to share a cup of wine, but I have a pressing engagement—’

‘That can wait,’ interrupted Segestes.

Varus took a breath of outrage. Ally or no, Roman citizen or no, he would not be spoken to in this manner, in particular by someone who resembled one of his elderly, hirsute house slaves.

‘Want us to get rid of him, sir?’ asked the lead soldier in his escort. There was a hopeful look in his eyes.

Varus was about to give the order, but Segestes beat him to it. ‘My pardon, governor,’ he called out. ‘I did not mean to cause offence. It’s urgent that I speak with you.’

Varus waved a hand at his escort. ‘Stand down.’

The optio stepped aside, allowing Segestes past. Close up, the sweat beading his brow was evident. He bent his head towards Varus. ‘Governor.’

‘Segestes. It has been too long,’ lied Varus. ‘What has brought you to the camp this fine morning, and in such a hurry?’

Segestes’ wild eyes roamed over Varus’ escort and the optio. ‘We need to talk – alone. There are far too many sets of ears here. How about your headquarters?’

Varus pictured the queue of officers. ‘Out of the question.’

Segestes’ face grew pained, even frantic. ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone, governor. Please.’

Varus was about to refuse, but Segestes’ uncharacteristic humility – and his distress – piqued his interest. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered his escort. The soldier began to object, and Varus silenced him with a look. ‘You too,’ he directed the optio. ‘Walk with me, Segestes. If we converse in low tones, no one will hear.’

Segestes’ disgruntlement eased, and he fell into step with Varus as he paced along the via praetoria. There were incredulous looks from everyone they met. Ordinary soldiers, officers low- and high-ranking: none could believe that the governor of Germania was strolling about the camp with a tribal chieftain. Varus wondered if it had been rash to leave his escort behind, or to leave Segestes with his sword. He discounted the idea in the same breath. Segestes – an old man in poor physical shape – wasn’t here to assassinate him.

‘I bring you calamitous news,’ muttered Segestes.

Unease stirred in Varus’ belly. ‘Go on.’

‘Arminius is a traitor.’

Despite his shock, Varus kept walking. Ignoring a surprised mule-handler, he stared at Segestes. ‘A traitor. Arminius.’

‘As the gods are my witness, it’s true.’

‘Arminius is as loyal as you are! He has served the empire since he was a boy, fought with the legions for nigh on a decade. Augustus saw fit to elevate him to the equestrian class.’ Varus could reel off Arminius’ list of achievements by rote.

‘He has done all of those things,’ agreed Segestes, ‘but he’s also a treacherous, scheming whoreson. He plans to attack your legions as they return to Vetera.’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Heads turned, and Varus realised that he had raised his voice. He leaned close to Segestes. ‘What you’re talking about … it’s insane.’

‘It may seem that way, governor, but it’s true. Every word.’

‘How have you come by this information?’

‘A warrior whom I trust, whom I have known my entire life, heard Arminius talking to Inguiomerus, trying to persuade him to join forces. It seems that Arminius has been recruiting chieftains among the tribes for some time. Knowing my loyalty to the empire, the dog didn’t approach me. The idea of twenty thousand spears behind his banner might have won over other chiefs, but not I,’ Segestes said, his jaw jutting.