Ben Kane: Eagles at War

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.

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.’