Eagles at War Page 2

  The priest gestured. Four acolytes seized the nearest captive, a short Roman with a round face, and hauled him forward, kicking and struggling. Without ceremony, he was slammed down on to the empty table and his limbs tethered.

  A reverent silence fell, allowing the Roman’s whimpering to be heard.

  Still the boy didn’t quite believe what was about to happen. Yet when he glanced at the faces around him, which had grown hard and cruel, the cold certainty of it could not be denied. His eyes were drawn back to the table, and the victim stretched upon it.

  The old priest selected a curved iron probe and held it aloft. ‘Without eyes, the Romans will be blind. They will not see our warriors’ ambushes, or their secret camps.’

  A hungry Ahhhhh rose from those watching. Surely he isn’t …? The boy shuddered.

  Two of the acolytes held the Roman’s head immobile as the priest approached. His wailing intensified.

  A deep voice began shouting in a tongue the boy didn’t understand. It was the Roman in the helmet, who had pushed forward as far as his bonds allowed. He aimed his words at the priest, at the assembled warriors, at the acolytes.

  ‘What’s he saying, Father?’ asked the boy in a whisper. ‘Tudrus?’

  ‘They are soldiers,’ hissed Segimer. ‘Honourable men, who do not deserve to be treated like animals. He is asking that they be slain with respect.’

  ‘Is he right, Father?’

  Segimer’s eyes resembled two chips of ice. ‘Did they kill your cousins with honour? Or your aunt? Or the scores of unarmed villagers who also died that day?’

  The boy did not know how his relations had died. Neither had he understood everything that the older youths had said about the Romans’ atrocities, but he was certain that gutting a pregnant woman was an evil thing. He hardened his heart. ‘No, Father.’

  ‘That is why they will die like beasts.’

  They deserve nothing better, thought the boy.

  The Roman’s shouting came to an abrupt halt as he was beaten to the ground by several acolytes. A gag was tied around his mouth. When that had been done, the priest stooped over the man on the table. A hideous shriek shredded the air. It rose higher than the boy would have thought possible. The priest placed something small, red and wet by the man’s side, and his screaming eased a little. A heartbeat later, it returned to its previous level, as the priest used his probe to delve into the man’s second eye socket.

  Holding two small globes high with a scarlet-coated hand, the priest faced the warriors. ‘Blinded, the Roman cannot see us! Accept this offering, Great Donar!’

  ‘DO-NAR! DO-NAR! DO-NAR!’ the boy yelled until he felt his voice crack.

  Sparks flared as the priest tossed the eyeballs into the fire.

  ‘DO-NAR!’ roared the warriors.

  Replacing the probe, the priest selected a long-bladed knife. Dark blood gushed over his hands as he poked around in his victim’s mouth. A burbling scream rose, and the man thrashed about on the table.

  ‘Without a tongue, the Roman cannot speak his lies!’ A piece of flesh flew from the priest’s hand into the flames.

  The boy closed his eyes. The prisoner has to die, he thought. He could have been the one who slew my cousins. A sharp jab from his father’s elbow forced him to observe once more.

  ‘DO-NAR!’

  The priest plunged his blade into the Roman’s chest. With business-like intensity, he twisted it to and fro. The staccato rhythm of the man’s heels on the table went faster and faster, but then slowed right down. By the time the priest had discarded his knife in favour of a saw, they had stopped moving altogether. Before long, he had cracked open the man’s ribcage and freed his victim’s heart from the network of vessels that surrounded it. He brandished the small, bloody globe at the warriors like a battle trophy. ‘Without a heart, the Roman has no courage! No strength!’

  ‘DO-NAR! DO-NAR! DO-NAR!’

  The boy was grateful for the shouting. Despite his hatred of the Romans, the spectacle was turning his stomach. He watched through half-closed eyes as the victim’s body was heaved on to the pyre and set alight, and as the second, third and fourth Romans were dispatched in similar manner to the first.

  At length, Segimer noticed. ‘Observe everything!’ he snapped.

  He obeyed with reluctance.

  Segimer’s breath was hot in his ear. ‘Do you know how one of your cousins died?’

  The boy wanted to answer, but his tongue felt like a plank in his mouth. He shook his head.

  ‘He had been trying to defend his mother, your aunt, from harm. He was only a boy, of course, so the Romans disarmed him with ease. They held him down, and one of them ran a spear up his arse. Right up, inside him. The whoreson didn’t shove it in far enough to kill him straightaway, though. He lingered on while they murdered his brother and violated his mother in front of him.’

  Hot tears – of rage, of fear – ran down the boy’s cheeks, but his father wasn’t done.

  ‘Your poor bastard of a cousin was still alive when we reached the village that evening. It was left to his father, your uncle, to end his life.’ Segimer pulled the boy’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. ‘These are the kind of creatures that the Romans are. D’you see?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Would you want something like that to happen to your mother, or your younger brother? To your grandmother?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Accept then that giving the Romans to Donar in this way is a good thing. A necessary thing. With the thunder god’s approval, we cannot fail to defeat them.’

  ‘I understand, Father.’

  Segimer’s eyes searched his, but the boy did not look away. At last his father nodded.

  He watched every moment of the rest of the gory ceremony. Runnels of clotted blood coated the sacrificial table, and the air filled with a cacophony of screams and the cloying smell of burning flesh. Whenever the boy’s stomach protested, he made himself think of his cousin, impaled on a spear, watching his mother and brother being abused and tortured. Those images drove all else before them. They made him thrum with rage, made him want to grab the priest’s knife and stick it in Roman flesh.

  I will remember this night forever, he pledged to himself. One day, as Donar is my witness, I will teach the Romans a lesson that they will never forget.

  I, Ermin of the Cherusci, swear this.

  PART ONE

  Spring, AD 9

  The German frontier

  I

  ARMINIUS SAT ASTRIDE a fine chestnut horse, watching eight turmae of his cavalry canter to and fro across the vast parade ground outside the fortified camp of Ara Ubiorum. It was a fine morning, cool and crisp. The last signs of winter had vanished, and the fertile landscape around the camp was a bright shade of green. Skylarks swooped and darted overhead, but their delicate cries were drowned out by the pounding of horses’ hooves on the packed earth, and the shouted commands of Arminius’ junior officers.

  Like his troops, his dress was a mixture of Roman and German: a mail shirt and silvered cavalry helmet contrasted with a tribesman’s wool cloak, tunic, patterned trousers and ankle boots. A fine spatha, or long cavalry sword, hung from a gilt-decorated baldric over his shoulder. He was in the prime of life, large-framed and striking-looking, with intense grey eyes, black hair and a bushy beard of the same colour.

  His five hundred Cheruscan warriors formed the ala, or cavalry unit, attached to the Seventeenth Legion. They served as scouts, and provided flanking cover to marching legionaries, but they could also be used in battle. This necessitated training on a regular basis, and Arminius was here to supervise his men to do just that. He had watched these exercises countless times, and knew every move inside out. His well-trained riders made few mistakes, so it wasn’t long before his mind began to wander. The previous day, he’d had his ear bent by a chieftain in a village on the far bank of the River Rhenus. The man had made vociferous complaints about the new imperial tax. It wasn’t the first tim
e Arminius had encountered such resentment. Here in Gaul, the only Germans were auxiliaries in the legions, well-paid men who were content with their lot. On the other side of the river, among the tribes, it was a different story.

  Governor Varus and his contemporaries were oblivious to the discontent, Arminius thought. In their minds, the Romanisation of Germania was proceeding just as it should. There were numerous permanent and temporary military camps scattered throughout a vast area more than three hundred miles deep and half that across. At least half the region’s tribes were allied to the empire, or had made treaties with it. A few skirmishes aside, peace had reigned for several years. The legions’ engineering works each summer meant that an increasing number of roads were being paved. One settlement – Pons Laugona – was well on the way to becoming the first Roman town east of the Rhenus, with its forum, municipal buildings and sewerage system. There were other communities eager to follow this example. Even in the villages, it was becoming common to hold a regular market. Imperial law was permeating into tribal society; magistrates from Ara Ubiorum and other camps west of the Rhenus now made regular journeys over the river to adjudicate in land disputes and other legal matters.

  These social changes had angered some tribesmen, thought Arminius, but a good number had been happy enough, in the main because living standards had risen. Legionaries required vast quantities of food, drink and clothing. Farmers who lived near the camps could sell livestock, grain and vegetables, wool and leather. Their women were able to peddle clothing, and if they desired, their hair. Prisoners taken in clashes with other tribes could be sold as slaves, and trapped wild animals – for use in the military camps’ amphitheatres – fetched considerable sums. Young men could join the Roman army, escaping their mundane lives on farms. Enterprising individuals opened taverns and restaurants beside the military bases, or found employment inside them.

  Yes, there were many benefits to being part of the empire, Arminius admitted to himself, but they came at a high price. First among these was having an absolute ruler, a so-called emperor – Augustus. A man to whom everyone had to pay obeisance; a man who had to be venerated almost as a god. Germanic tribes did have leaders, but they were regarded in a different manner than Augustus. They were esteemed, thought Arminius. Feared – likely. Revered – perhaps. Loved – possibly. But superior to all others? Never. A chieftain who acted as if he were better than others would not last long at the head of a tribe. Warriors followed him out of respect, and if for some reason their high opinion of him changed, they walked away, or began backing another chieftain. As a leader of the Cherusci, Arminius was mindful of the need to retain this support, in particular because he spent the majority of his time away from home, with the legions.

  The second price of being part of the empire – Arminius’ lips quirked, because it was just that, a price – was its damnable taxes. This summer, the collecting of tax was to be extended beyond the Rhenus for the first time. While imperial officials would gather the money and trading goods that many would use in lieu of coin, it would be the legions’ presence close by that ensured its payment. The chieftain who had approached Arminius – regarding him as trustworthy because he too was German – had been incandescent. ‘The tax is an outrage! I can afford to pay, but many of my people will find it difficult to come up with goods to the value of the coin that has been spoken of. Why should we pay anyway?’

  Arminius had muttered various platitudes about the protection offered by the empire, and the benefits to all and sundry that it brought, but his heart hadn’t been in it. He suspected that the chieftain had seen this too. The contentious tax issue didn’t just apply to the tribes who lived in the border zone that comprised the thirty miles east of the Rhenus, but to all those who lived under Rome’s influence. The tribes further afield were accustomed to sending their sons to serve with the legions, and they were becoming used to other aspects of Roman society. Accepting these things was one matter, thought Arminius, but the imposition of tax was altogether different. The old anger came to life in his belly, the resentment towards Rome that fuelled his very being.

  Hooves hammered the ground close to him, and Arminius’ attention was drawn to his men. Over and back the riders went, practising the same moves again and again. In close formation, they rode straight at a pile of training equipment. This was the ‘spear’, the pointed shape designed to smash open an enemy line. Their next move, a loose, upside-down ‘V’, was meant to do the same, but to unprepared foes who hadn’t had time to tighten up their position. The third move was the simplest: it consisted of a long line of charging horsemen, riding close to one another – almost ankle to ankle.

  As they advanced, the trumpeter in their midst sounded his instrument with all his might. BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! This, the most common attack against enemy infantry, worked almost every time. Whether it was daring, a desire to impress him or just poor control by the officer in charge, Arminius wasn’t sure, but his riders thundered to within a hundred paces of a cohort of training legionaries. The Roman troops would have known that the cavalry were friendly, but that didn’t stop their lines from bending away from the horsemen. Angry shouts from their centurions – directed towards the riders as well as their own troops – soon saw the soldiers re-form and resume their training, but there could be no denying the move’s efficacy, or the irritation it would have caused the legionaries’ officers.

  It worked, thought Arminius with considerable satisfaction, because it was so terrifying. Many of his men were wearing silvered cavalry helmets that were less ornate than his, but similar in design. The hinged frontpieces of each had been shaped into human features, to resemble the individual wearing it. Like the rest of the helmet, the ‘face’ had been covered with a thin layer of silver foil. When pulled down, the wearer’s field of vision was much reduced, meaning only the most skilled riders could make use of them. Yet the masks’ effect – turning the wearer into an unearthly-looking creature that might have been from the underworld – made this sacrifice worthwhile. A massed charge with even a few such riders, accompanied by the blaring of trumpets, sent terror lancing into the hearts of the bravest foe.

  Arminius had been around long enough to have had to use all the tactics he’d just seen. He knew the effectiveness of each, and which one to choose at what moment. The cavalry were yet another part of the impressive Roman military machine, the centrepiece of which was always the damn lines of armoured legionaries. Again his grey eyes wandered towards the unit that his men had intimidated.

  It still felt odd to regard the Romans as allies. It had been so since the first day he’d served with the imperial army, eight years before. The campaigns and battles he’d taken part in – on Rome’s side – meant that he had a healthy respect for its soldiers and their officers. Their bravery, discipline and ability to stand firm against an enemy were remarkable. On more than one occasion, he and his men had been saved by the intervention of one such unit or another. He had endured lengthy marches with the legions, got pissed with their officers, and even whored with some of them. His loyalty to the empire had seen him first rewarded with citizenship and then elevated to equestrian status, the lower rank of Roman nobility.

  Despite these experiences and honours, Arminius felt less kinship with the Romans than might have been expected. In the main it was because he continued to regard himself, with pride, as German. The Romans’ superior attitude didn’t help either. Despite his exalted status, he was to many little more than a fur-wearing savage. He and his men were good enough to fight – and die – for Rome, but not to be recognised as equals. This had been hard enough to take during the years Arminius had served elsewhere in the empire, but being close to his homeland of recent months had accentuated his aggrieved feelings. Not two miles hence, on the eastern bank of the Rhenus, the tribal lands began. His people, the Cherusci, lived far away, yet he still had far more in common with the nearest tribe – the Usipetes – than he did with the Romans. He held the same values, spoke a
similar tongue, and worshipped the same gods.

  Arminius remembered the night in the sacred grove so long ago, and a line of sweat ran down his back. When the legions crossed the river to punish tribes who had risen against the empire’s rule, those they slew were not Dacian, Illyrian or Thracian. They were German. Like him. Like his warriors. Like his long-dead aunt and cousins. They were people who had a right to live their lives freely. Why should they be subjects of Augustus, who lives many hundreds of miles away, in Rome? Arminius asked himself. Why should I?

  It had been twenty-one years since he had stood among the trees with his father, but the words of his oath were as vivid in his head as they had been the first time he uttered them. One day, as Donar is my witness, I will teach the Romans a lesson that they will never forget. I, Ermin of the Cherusci, swear this.

  His eyes rose to the blue arc of the heavens, which was decorated with a scattering of lambswool clouds. The sun was warming, but not too hot. The skylarks yet trilled from on high, a sign that spring was passing. Summer would arrive soon, and when it did, Publius Quinctilius Varus, the governor of Germania, would lead his army east. Over the Rhenus, where his troops would collect taxes as far as the River Visurgis. Only the Romans could have come up with fucking taxes, thought Arminius. The tribes’ hard-earned silver would go towards gilding yet more statues of the emperor, and building paved roads upon which his armies could tramp. Great Donar, he prayed, I have waited long years to fulfil my oath. To wreak vengeance for those of my tribe slain by Rome. I ask that you let the right moment be this year.

  This summer.

  ‘Greetings!’ called a senior centurion. Wearing scale armour and sporting a helmet with a transverse crest of red feathers, he was hurrying across the parade ground in Arminius’ direction.