Eagles at War Read online

  Like as not, he was the officer in charge of the unsettled cohort, thought Arminius in amusement. He didn’t look happy.

  ‘Centurion.’ Arminius inclined his head, but not much. As an equestrian, he was of higher rank, and the centurion knew it. Arminius could tell from his posture that this difference was not something that sat well with him. In his eyes, no doubt, Arminius was a jumped-up barbarian. The great effort that he’d put into winning over every senior officer worked with many, but it wouldn’t with this one. Bitter memories flooded in, of when his father had sent him to Rome, aged ten. Like Arminius’ subsequent enlistment in the legions, it had been part of Segimer’s plan. Arminius was to be immersed in the Roman way of life, learning everything there was to know – while never forgetting his tribal roots, or his true loyalties.

  To the high-born Roman youths he’d been thrown in with, however, he had been little better than a slave. After several bloody fights, not all of which Arminius had won, they had learned to respect his fists and boots at least, and to keep their lips sealed when he was around. Despite their fear, few had been prepared to extend to him the hand of friendship. Arminius had learned to be self-sufficient, and mistrusting of all.

  He caught the centurion’s eyes on his chin. Once more he gauged the thought before it had reached the man’s eyes. You’re so superior, aren’t you, you whoreson? He made a point of stroking his beard, to the Roman a mark of an uncivilised nature, but to him a symbol of his culture. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your men under better control.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ lied Arminius with relish.

  ‘Your troops charged a moment ago. They all but closed with my soldiers! It caused great …’ The centurion searched for a word that didn’t imply fear. ‘… confusion.’

  ‘They didn’t go that close.’

  ‘It was close enough to panic …’ Again the centurion thought. ‘… some of the new recruits.’

  Arminius raised his eyebrows. ‘Panic? Since when did legionaries of the Seventeenth panic?’

  ‘It’s a normal enough reaction for men who haven’t seen charging cavalry before,’ replied the centurion, bristling.

  ‘The next time you open your mouth, you will call me sir,’ retorted Arminius, his own temper rising.

  The centurion gaped, swallowed, muttered, ‘Sir.’

  ‘I paid no attention to your overfamiliarity at first, centurion, because I’m not one to stand on ceremony. When someone is disrespectful, however, I remind them that I command the ala attached to the Seventeenth. I am no simple Roman citizen – like you. I am an equestrian. Had you forgotten that?’ Arminius pinned the centurion’s eyes with his own.

  ‘No, sir. My apologies, sir,’ replied the centurion, flushing.

  Arminius waited for several heartbeats, driving his superiority further home. ‘You were saying …?’

  ‘Some of my men aren’t used to cavalry, sir. Yet,’ added the centurion quickly. ‘If your riders could refrain from coming too close to them, I’d be most appreciative.’

  ‘I can promise nothing, centurion. I suggest instead that you move elsewhere, and expose your men to cavalry more than you have done up to this point. Otherwise they could be routed the first time they face them in battle,’ said Arminius with a cold smile. ‘Dismissed.’

  ‘Sir.’ The centurion somehow managed to convey his dislike with his salute. It was a clever stroke, stripping Arminius of much of his gratification. By way of retaliation, he had his riders repeat the manoeuvre that had scared the cohort’s new recruits. After the third charge, the centurion conceded defeat by leading his soldiers to another part of the parade ground. Arminius watched them go with cold pleasure. The move would win him no new friends among the centurionate. If the prick complained to the legate, he might receive a rap across the knuckles. Arminius didn’t care. It had been worth it, and the centurion wouldn’t cross him again.

  Several hours later, Arminius was in his quarters, still brooding over his best course of action. Time and again, he paced the floor of his simple office. Ten paces from wall to wall, and back. A scowl at the bust of Augustus, placed there to give the impression that he loved the emperor as much as the next man. Every so often, his eyes would stray to the map unrolled on his desk, its corners held down by clay oil lights. A thick ribbon marked the Rhenus, running north to south; smaller, winding ones the waterways running through Germania. Inked-in squares showed the positions of the Roman camps and forts throughout the region. There were fewer east of the Rhenus than to the west, as was natural, but things were changing, thought Arminius angrily. With every passing year, Rome’s influence spread, and the chances of rebellion grew slimmer. If it doesn’t happen this summer, it never will, he decided.

  It was time to sound out the chieftains of the other tribes, and gauge their loyalty. He had the perfect opportunity to do so in the coming days. Varus, the governor of Germania, had summoned him to Vetera, some sixty miles to the north. Rather than travelling along the faster, paved roads west of the Rhenus, he could do as most auxiliaries, and make the journey on the other bank. A diversion to visit his family on the way to Vetera, as the ordinary soldiers did, would take too long. The Cheruscan lands lay far to the east. Instead, he would meet with tribal leaders whom he hoped to win over to his cause.

  His plan wasn’t without risk. Any lowlife chieftain with a need to show his loyalty to Rome could inform on him. The instant that Varus or any other senior officer believed such a tale, his life would be forfeit. Damn the risks, thought Arminius fiercely, picturing his aunt and cousins, slain in the cruellest fashion by the Romans. Their shades would haunt him in the afterlife if he hadn’t avenged them. It was a shame that his own brother Flavus didn’t feel the same way, but there was nothing to be done about that. Several years younger than Arminius, Flavus had always been a tempestuous character. They had never got on, even as boys, so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Flavus was loyal to Rome, heart and soul. Arminius had revealed his hatred of the empire’s grip over Germania once, some years before. Flavus’ violent reaction meant he had never mentioned it since; nor would he now.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. The heavy raps on his door brought him back. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Osbert.’

  Even if the name hadn’t been Cheruscan, the man outside could not have been Roman. He hadn’t said ‘sir’. If one of his men had addressed him so, Arminius would have fallen over with surprise. It was another of his people’s ways, one which many Roman officers tended to look down on. They couldn’t see it for what it was, thought Arminius: that chieftains did not treat their followers as inferior. ‘Enter.’

  In came a warrior with a beard that matched his own. Short, barrel-chested, prone to drinking and fighting, Osbert was one of his best men. ‘Arminius.’ He stalked up to the map without ceremony, grunted and dragged a stubby finger along the road that led east. ‘Thinking about the journey?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It should be routine enough, Donar willing.’

  ‘Aye.’ But not if I have my way, Arminius thought, reining in his desire to let Osbert in on his plan. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘The priest Segimundus is sacrificing at the altar, in honour of Augustus. He’s happy to accept offerings when that’s done, so a group of us are taking some rams. I know you’re not a great one for seeking favours of the gods, but the men will be pleased to receive Segimundus’ blessing before we leave the camp.’

  Attending the ceremony would be good for morale, Arminius decided. ‘I’ll come. There’s no harm in knowing that the gods are on our side.’

  The great altar to Rome and Augustus had been erected by the order of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, the first official governor of Germania, some eight years earlier. To commemorate its elevation to a cult centre, the settlement had changed its name from Oppidum Ubiorum to Ara Ubiorum. The great rectangle of stone sat upon a plinth carved with scenes of Augustus and h
is family presenting sacrifices to the gods, and dwarfed the usual daises seen outside temples. It was so large that the shrine building to Augustus, which stood behind, looked small by comparison. Yet this too was built on a grand scale, with six mighty columns forming its frontage.

  The religious sector, a vast area enclosed by a low wall, sat outside the town, close to the Rhenus. In addition to the main temple and the great altar, there were smaller shrines, living quarters for the priests, classrooms for the instruction of acolytes and stables for livestock. There was even a lodging house and tavern for pilgrims who had travelled from afar.

  The place was packed with worshippers.

  Accompanied by Osbert, a score of his men and three young rams, Arminius worked his way through the multitude towards the side of the altar. In front of it were several hundred legionaries and officers, including the legate, watching the priest Segimundus conclude the offerings to Augustus. There were numerous similar celebrations throughout the year. Arminius attended only the ones he had to, when an official invitation came from the principia. The sacred days were a clever ploy, helping to reinforce Augustus’ authority and to foster the notion that he was a divine being.

  Most men would be happy as absolute rulers over half the world, thought Arminius, irritated as usual by the state propaganda. Why does he have to play at being a god too? Arminius suspected that many Romans held views close to his own, but he’d never heard anyone say so. It didn’t do for anyone in imperial service to badmouth the emperor.

  Nearer to the priest, Arminius realised that something was wrong. None of the assembled soldiers looked happy. Men were cupping hands and whispering in one another’s ears. At first glance, the pile of ram carcases – six at least – in front of the altar told him nothing. The emperor’s importance required large-scale offerings, after all. Segimundus, recognisable by his shock of unruly blond hair, was stooping over another ram, which was being restrained by a pair of acolytes. A number of others stood behind, held by more trainee priests. Blood gouted as Segimundus drew a blade across the ram’s neck. Its legs beat out a frantic rhythm on the ground as it died.

  ‘The beast met its end in fitting fashion,’ intoned Segimundus. ‘That bodes well.’

  ‘You said the same damn thing about the others,’ Arminius thought he heard one of the officers say. ‘Get on with it. Look at the liver,’ said another.

  With the ease of experience, the acolytes flipped the ram on to its back. Segimundus knelt at once and worked his knife into its belly, opening it from pelvis to ribcage. The scent of abdominal contents – thick and cloying – reached Arminius’ nostrils a few heartbeats later. Segimundus’ position blocked him from seeing the slippery loops of bowel and the grey-skinned stomachs, but he had butchered enough animals to be familiar with their appearance. In general, priests paid them scant attention, moving on to the most important organ, the liver. Its location, under the ribcage, snug against the diaphragm, was harder to access than the rest of the belly’s contents.

  Segimundus hadn’t had time to do that, however. He kneeled back on his haunches and gazed at his audience. ‘I see signs of disease in the intestines,’ he pronounced.

  An unhappy Ahhhhh rose from the officers.

  Despite his lack of belief in augury, Arminius’ heart beat a little faster. The rapt expressions on Osbert’s and the others’ faces told their own story. Although he was from another part of the tribe, Segimundus was also Cheruscan, which meant they placed great store by his words.

  As Segimundus resumed his examination of the ram’s insides, the legate strode up to the altar. A calm type in normal circumstances, he now looked rather irritated. ‘Hades below, Segimundus, how can this be? For one ram, even two, to be unhealthy would be one thing, but all of them?’

  ‘I can but tell you what I find,’ replied Segimundus in a grave voice. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘I hope – and anticipate – that this beast’s liver will prove to be unblemished,’ said the legate, breaking with custom and peering over Segimundus’ shoulder.

  Segimundus worked his blade to and fro; then he raised a bloodied hand high. On his palm sat a glistening, swollen lump of tissue. The legate started, recoiled. There were cries of dismay from the officers. Arminius blinked. Instead of the normal deep purple-red colour, the liver in Segimundus’ grip had a mottled, pale-pink appearance. Only a liar – or a madman – could claim it to be normal.

  ‘What does this mean?’ demanded the legate.

  ‘I cannot be sure,’ replied Segimundus, ‘but it does not augur well for the emperor, the gods preserve him forever. Or perhaps it’s his empire which is at risk.’

  The legate’s expression grew combative. ‘Bullshit! I say that these rams come from the worst flock for a hundred miles. Kill another. Keep killing until you find me one with a healthy liver.’

  ‘As you command, legate.’ Segimundus bowed his head. ‘Bring the next one forward.’

  Arminius eyed the gathered officers and legionaries. Although the legate’s attempt at reassurance had settled them, many still looked unhappy. When the next ram’s liver also proved to be diseased, and the next, their disquiet grew ever plainer. Arminius could see from his own men’s faces that they too were placing weight on Segimundus’ findings. A small part of him felt the same way. What were the chances of so many rams being unhealthy?

  Segimundus declared the omens from the final sacrifice to be good, but that wasn’t enough for the enterprising legate. He summoned the farmer who’d sold the sacrificed beasts to his officers. Seeing the man, Arminius’ rational side overpowered his nascent superstition. Ill-dressed, filthy and as scrawny as a plucked chicken, he looked a poor stockman from head to toe. As the legate humiliated the farmer by loudly accusing him of providing his officers with poor-quality beasts, the mood lightened.

  Yet Segimundus’ face remained troubled, and a flash of inspiration struck Arminius. His own kind were as superstitious as the Romans. What better way had he of winning tribes to his cause than to relate what had happened here? To make the story convincing in its entirety, he only had to leave out the farmer, and the last, healthy ram. This, this was the sign he’d needed. Thank you, great Donar, he thought. It would be useful to sound out Segimundus too. He had always been loyal to Rome and, by tradition, his section of the Cherusci tribe did not get on with Arminius’, but his support – if Arminius could get it – would prove useful indeed.

  Arminius’ certainty that the time was ripe to act solidified further as the rams brought by him and his men were sacrificed. The three beasts died without protest, and were each revealed to have healthy organs. The coming months, Segimundus pronounced, would be fruitful ones for their unit, and their families. Arminius’ men were delighted, and clustered around the priest, thanking him.

  Arminius used the opportunity to load the purse he’d brought with a great deal of extra coinage before he too approached. Pressing the bulging bag into Segimundus’ hand, he said, ‘I am grateful for your findings.’ More than you could imagine, he added inwardly. ‘The gods will be good to us this summer.’

  Assessing the purse’s weight, Segimundus smiled. ‘You are generous indeed, Arminius.’

  There’s no time like the present, thought Arminius. If Segimundus would be prepared to spread the word among the tribes that the gods were angry with Rome, his wish to defeat Varus’ legions could become more than a burning desire. He jerked a thumb at the diseased rams. In a low voice, he said, ‘Can your findings really be put down to the owner’s poor stockmanship?’

  Segimundus threw him a sharp glance. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You seemed uncomfortable when the legate laid the blame at the farmer’s feet.’

  Segimundus indicated his acolytes and the others present with his eyes. ‘If we are to discuss the matter, I would rather some privacy. Come into the temple.’

  Arminius had been inside the shrine numerous times, yet it never failed to impress. Oil lamps on bronze stands lined the walls,
filling the long, narrow interior with a golden-orange glow. As with the altar, the quality of the decoration and the statues was second to none. The grandest, a figure of Augustus, was more than twice the height of a man even without its waist-high plinth, and was reputed to be one of the most lifelike depictions of the emperor that had ever been carved. Augustus was dressed as a general, bareheaded, in an ornate cuirass, with pteryges and calf-high boots. His slight frown, direct gaze and steady jaw completed the look that the emperor was a born leader, a man capable of leading armies into battle and winning victory at any price. A god, almost.

  Scorn filled Arminius. Augustus no longer looked like that. The likeness must have been taken a generation ago. He was an old man now, and like as not needed hot stones in his bed at night to keep the winter chills away.

  It was clear that the room was empty, but Segimundus peered up and down before he was content. ‘Despite the legate’s protestations, even the least skilled farmer can raise animals that thrive. Would you not be concerned if every beast but one that you offered to the gods was unhealthy in some way?’

  ‘I would indeed,’ Arminius admitted. ‘I also fail to see how the healthiness of the last ram wipes out the ill omens that you determined from the others.’

  ‘It’s simple. It cannot.’

  Arminius took a deep breath. He had reached a fork in the road. One path would see his plan to fruition, and the other to discovery by the Romans. The only way to determine which was the right route – or the wrong – was by revealing his hand. Then it came to him that Segimundus might have the same concerns as he – for all the priest knew, he was true to Rome. Realising the irony, Arminius laughed.

  Segimundus cocked his head. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Here we are, dancing around each other, trying to gauge the other’s opinion, trying to see what the other really thinks.’

  ‘Is that what we’re doing?’

  ‘You know it is, Segimundus.’

  A chuckle. ‘Perhaps I do.’ He paused. ‘I wonder how the legate would react if I told him of my dream last night.’