Ben Kane: Eagles at War

In its centre stood a pair of altars, enormous slabs of stone that looked to have been hewn by giants. On top of one, a pyre had been built; ominous dark red-brown stains marked the surface of the other. Before the altars, a large fire burned, the only source of light in the grove. One of two tables beside it was covered in an impressive array of bladed and serrated instruments, probes, tongs and hammers. The second was bare-topped. Ropes dangled from its four legs, testimony to its purpose.

The boy had expected to see animals tethered here. Religious ceremonies he’d attended in the settlement had seen cattle and sheep offered to the gods. Once, he’d witnessed – had his ears bombarded by – a boar being sacrificed. He could hear its screams still.

BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! The sound originated from behind the altars.

‘Here they come,’ whispered his father.

Curious now, the boy stood on tiptoe, craning his neck to see.

A procession wound its way out of the trees. First came two robed priests, blowing long cattle horns. Next were two magnificent white mares, led by acolytes, and pulling a chariot in which stood an old, stooped priest. His head was bent, and the boy knew that he was listening to the sounds made by the sacred horses. Important messages from the gods could be ascertained from their whinnies and nickers. Behind the chariot walked four more priests blowing horns, but it was the miserable figures who shambled after that really drew the boy’s gaze.

Eight men, roped together at the neck and wrists. Seven of them wore belted, off-white tunics that ended above the knee. The last’s garment was red, and he alone wore a helmet, which bore an impressive transverse crest of red and white feathers.

‘Romans,’ the boy whispered in awe. He’d seen bodies of his people’s enemies once before, left behind after a patrol had been ambushed by his father and the tribe’s warriors. These were the first Romans he’d seen alive. They weren’t unharmed, however. Even at a distance, and in dim light, the bruises and welts that covered the prisoners’ bodies were obvious. Behind the Romans paced a dozen strapping acolytes, armed with long spears.

A queasy feeling rose from the boy’s belly. Whatever happened to these men, it wouldn’t be good.

His father seized his shoulder in a grip of iron and bent to his ear. ‘See those bastards?’

He nodded.

‘The Romans stand for everything that we do not, boy. Their empire stretches further than a man could walk in a year, yet they’re not content. They seek always to conquer new lands. For decades now, their leader, Augustus ’ – his father spat the word – ‘has desired to be emperor over us. Over our brethren, the Chatti, the Marsi and Angrivarii. He wants to make us his subjects, to be ground forever beneath the heels of his soldiers. He must never succeed!’

‘Never, Father,’ agreed the boy, remembering what had happened when the Romans had come to the area before. A nearby settlement had been torched; many had been slain, including his aunt and two cousins. ‘We will stop him.’

‘Stop him we will, and his cursed legions. So I will swear, with these other warriors. Donar will be our witness.’ He gave the boy a rare smile. ‘You will take the oath too.’

Wonder filled him. ‘I, Father?’

‘Yes, little bear. That is why you are here.’ Segimer placed a finger on his lips, and then pointed.

Moving to the sides of the altars, the horn-blowers fell silent. All eyes watched the old priest as he dismounted from the chariot and shuffled to a position at the fire. The horses were led away, and the prisoners shoved forward by the acolytes until they stood by the tables.

‘We give thanks to you, Great Donar, for watching over us.’ The priest’s voice was strong for all his apparent frailty. ‘Your thunderbolts protect us, and your storm clouds bring us the rain without which our crops would wither and die. When we fight our enemies, your strength aids our struggle, and for this we are always grateful.’

Throughout the gathering, men were murmuring in agreement, rubbing hammer amulets, whispering prayers.

‘Of recent years, we have had need of your aid every summer. Vermin such as these’ – the priest stabbed a long fingernail at the prisoners – ‘come in their thousands to visit destruction on our lands. No one is safe from the Romans’ depredations, their bloodlust. Men, women, children, the old, the sick are slain or enslaved. Our villages are burned, and the crops and livestock stolen.’

Warriors made angry comments. The boy’s father’s knuckles were white upon the hilt of his sword. He felt his own fury surge. His aunt and her sons – his cousins – had been his favourite relations. These Romans had to be punished.

‘We gather tonight to make you an offering, Great Donar,’ intoned the priest. ‘To ask for your help in fighting these invaders. To ensure that they flee, defeated, to the far side of the river they like to call the Rhenus . To ensure that once there, they never return to your lands, and ours.’

‘DONAR!’ shouted Segimer.

‘DO-NAR! DO-NAR! DO-NAR!’ roared the warriors in reply. The boy joined in, but his reedy tones were lost in the deafening chorus. ‘DO-NAR! DO-NAR! DO-NAR!’

‘Make your oaths,’ ordered the priest when the noise had died down.

Pride filled the boy as Segimer stood forward first.

‘I, Segimer of the Cherusci, swear before Donar never to rest until the Romans have been driven from our lands forever. The gods strike me down if I ever stray from this path.’

The priest watched in silence as, one by one, the warriors pledged to toil without rest until their enemies had been vanquished and thrown back over the river. The boy’s turn came last. Nervous before so many men, his voice faltered a little, but to his relief no one laughed or looked angry. The priest even gave him a nod of approval, and his father squeezed his shoulder when he returned to stand with the rest.

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.’