Ben Kane: Hunting the Eagles

Piso’s appetite for playing dice was gone, and Vitellius made no objection when he suggested returning to their tent. They filed out with the rest, taking care to avoid Bony Face’s gaze, and those of the twins, who were still lingering by the door. The moment Piso judged it safe to speak without being overheard, he muttered, ‘Do you think they’re serious?’

‘They sounded it to me.’

‘I know our pay isn’t as good as it should be – that’s the way of things – but mutiny? It’s fucking crazy.’

‘Centurions like Tullus are rare creatures,’ said Vitellius. ‘He’s one in ten thousand, Piso. Many are decent enough types, but there are plenty of rotten apples in the barrel. You know the types, like Septimius, the cohort commander, and the prick they call “Bring me another”.’

The centurion with a habit of breaking vine sticks over his men’s backs and calling for replacements was renowned throughout the camp. Piso gave thanks that the man wasn’t his centurion. ‘Lucilius, isn’t that his name?’

‘Aye. It’s no surprise that men want to hammer seven shades of Hades out of whoresons like him, or to do even worse.’

‘It’s one thing to talk like that, though, and another to do it,’ said Piso.

Vitellius slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a good man, Piso. Too good in some ways. If I had a centurion like “Bring me another”, I’d slip a blade between his ribs given half a chance.’

Realising that Vitellius wasn’t joking was almost as shocking as hearing Bony Face’s proposal of all-out mutiny. ‘D’you want to be part of this?’ Piso whispered.

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ replied Vitellius. ‘But if Tullus weren’t my centurion, I probably would, yes. You aren’t happy with the idea, I take it?’

‘No chance! Tullus saved us in the forest. If it hadn’t been for him-’

‘Easy,’ said Vitellius. ‘I was there too, remember?’

‘Aye.’ Piso blinked away images of his friends and comrades – so many of them – dying.

‘I would never raise a hand to Tullus. Never. Doesn’t mean that a lot of officers don’t need a good seeing-to.’

‘But to murder them?’

‘It can’t end well, I know.’ Vitellius sucked in his lip, thinking, before adding, ‘Either way, Tullus needs to know.’

The tension pinching Piso’s shoulders eased. He’d wanted to go to Tullus at once, but their last few moments of conversation had begun to make him doubt whether he could trust Vitellius. He could, which was an enormous relief, and not just because they were old friends.

What faced them next – revealing Bony Face’s plan to Tullus – was even more terrifying.

After spending a day and a night in the oak-bound sacred grove close to his settlement, Arminius was walking back to his longhouse. Dawn had broken a short while before. It was cool and crisp and a little damp, one of those mornings when the smell in a man’s nostrils tells him that autumn is just around the corner. In the blue sky arcing over the woods, a handful of swifts still soared and dived, their melancholic cries a harbinger of their imminent departure.

Arminius was bone-weary from lack of sleep. The copious quantity of barley beer he’d drunk during the night had given him a thumping headache. Worse still, the thunder god Donar had given no sign of approval throughout his vigil – no sign of anything, if truth be told. Arminius tried to shrug off his disappointment. Why should a divine signal be given to him? Such a thing couldn’t be manufactured, and it wasn’t as if he was a devout follower of the deities. Compared to those – and there were many – who believed every thunderclap and winter storm to be sent by the gods, he was somewhat of a sceptic.

Despite his cynicism, Arminius could not forget the brutal ceremony he’d witnessed in the same grove as a boy, nor the wild weather that had so aided his warriors during the ambush five years before. His plans then had been meticulous, the Romans outnumbered, and his allies thirsty for Roman blood. Success had seemed probable, yet even the elements had come to their aid, to ensure it. The manner in which he had found the last Roman eagle had also been uncanny. His horse had been panicked by a corpse-feeding raven and had thrown Arminius, landing him arse-first in the bloody mire. Soon after, he’d discovered the golden eagle wrapped in the folds of a dead Roman’s cloak. With the raven’s disdainful croaks filling his ears – denoting its amusement at unhorsing him perhaps, or even a message from Donar? – Arminius had really felt as if the thunder god thought well of his actions.

Five long years had passed without a similar sign.

The Romans had not traversed the river they called the Rhenus much during that time, but that would change. Arminius had plenty of spies in the settlements outside the camps that dotted the western bank, and he’d heard the rumour on so many occasions that there had to be some truth to it. Come the spring, the tribes would have to be rallied for a second time, their chieftains persuaded to follow his lead once more. Arminius’ standing among his people remained high. He could do it without a seal of divine approval, he decided, but Donar’s backing would make his task far easier.

Give me a sign, Great One, he asked. Sometime soon.

The settlement was visible now, straight ahead through the thick-leaved beech and hornbeam trees. High-pitched cries and laughter from playing children mixed with the lower tones of cattle being herded to new grazing. The thud of a farmer’s axe splitting logs came from his left, the chatter of women working their vegetable patches from his right. He would start to meet people any moment: it was important he looked like a leader. Arminius palmed his gritty eyes, wiped the worst specks of mud from his trousers and summoned what remained of his energy reserves.

He was a large-framed man in the prime of life, striking-looking rather than handsome, with a mane of black hair and a bushy beard of the same colour. His chin was square, his eyes grey and intense: the kind that made most men look away. Befitting his status as chieftain of the Cherusci tribe, Arminius’ dark red tunic and patterned trousers had been woven from the finest wool, as had his tasselled green cloak. The long cavalry sword – a spatha to the Romans – that hung from his gilt-edged baldric was a work of art in its own right. Forged from the finest steel that money could buy, with a handle of rosewood and an ivory pommel, it was Arminius’ pride and joy. Many Romans it had slain – and would do many more, when the time came, he thought.

Emerging from the trees as he had so many times over the years, Arminius picked up his pace, striding along as if he’d had the best night’s sleep. He was soon noticed, for the trail led only to the sacred grove. Queries rained down from warriors standing at the doors to their longhouses, or talking together in small groups. Had Donar spoken to him? Was the death of Augustus, their emperor, a sign that the Romans’ gods were weakening? When were the legions going to attack?

Arminius told them with a confident smile that Augustus’ demise was a certain gift from their own gods, and that Rome’s legions would cross the river, like as not, the following spring. ‘The new emperor will want to make his mark, to punish us. What better way will he have to exact vengeance for what we did to that fool Varus? But we’ll teach him a good lesson, won’t we? Give the legions enough of a hiding and they won’t ever come back!’

The warriors bellowed their approval, allowing Arminius to pass without further questioning, for which he was grateful. His weariness and hangover had shorn him of his usual eloquence. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed for a few hours, and forget the world. If his wife Thusnelda happened to be near, he might even persuade her to join him for a time. There was no quicker – and better – way to send a man to sleep, he thought, than to empty his seed into a woman.