Ben Kane: Eagles at War

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 his 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.’