Ben Kane: Eagles at War

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.’

‘Go on,’ said Arminius, intrigued.

‘I saw a golden eagle, a standard like the one each legion possesses.’ Segimundus appraised Arminius before he added, ‘It was being consumed by fire.’

Hope stirred in Arminius’ heart. ‘That is a powerful image indeed. Was it a sign from the gods, do you think?’

‘I feel sure that it was. It came to me in a sacred grove belonging to the Sugambri. Yesterday I was on the other side of the river, on official duty,’ Segimundus explained. ‘The hour had grown late before my business was concluded, and the settlement’s priest invited me to stay. As night fell, I decided to spend some time in the grove, to see if Donar would commune with me. I went alone, as I always do, and prayed to the god. I drank some barley beer. At first, nothing happened. Some time passed, and I fell asleep.’

Arminius could feel a pulse beating at the base of his throat.

‘The dream of the burning eagle was so vivid, so intense, that I woke from it. I was covered in sweat.’ Segimundus’ eyes were alive with passion. ‘Donar sent me the vision. I know it. The rams today are further proof.’

The two men studied each other for a long moment.

Arminius spoke first. ‘It gladdens my heart to hear you speak so. Too long have I served Rome. Too long have I done nothing while the empire mistreats the different tribes. Are we Cherusci not kin to each other, and to the Chatti, the Marsi and the Angrivarii? We share more with one another than we ever will with the Romans.’

‘I cannot fault your logic,’ said Segimundus. His expression grew serious. ‘Have you a plan?’

Segimundus’ words made Arminius throw caution to the wind. ‘I plan to forge an alliance of the tribes. We will drive Rome’s legions west of the river once and for all.’

Segimundus looked surprised, and wary. ‘No modest aim, then.’

‘My part of the tribe is with me. I hope that soon the Chatti and the Usipetes will be too. It’s possible too that the rest of the Cherusci could be won over. If you were by my side, or better, elsewhere, spreading the word of your dream and what happened here today, we’d be sure to convince others to join us. What do you say?’

Segimundus did not reply. Arminius’ heart hammered out a few unhappy beats, and he found that he was clenching his fists. Perhaps he had misjudged the priest? Damn it, he thought, his anger rising. I’ll shut him up rather than let him squeal to the legate. Quite how he could get away with murdering Segimundus in the temple, he had no idea. A surreptitious look to either side, and down the room, told him that they were still alone. Turning a little so that Segimundus could not see, he let his right hand creep towards his sword hilt.

‘Donar must have sent you.’

The fervour in the priest’s voice was unmistakeable. Letting his hand drop to his side, Arminius faced Segimundus. ‘Really?’

‘Why else would things happen in such close succession? The dream, the diseased rams, and then you telling me of your plan?’

‘So you’ll help?’

‘As Donar is my witness,’ replied Segimundus, solemn-faced.

‘I am grateful,’ said Arminius, shaking his hand hard.

‘We can talk tonight, in my quarters.’

Arminius felt a broad smile break out. ‘I look forward to that.’

He walked out into the warm sunshine. Like his first ally, it seemed to have been sent by the thunder god himself.

Win over the chieftains of the various tribes next, he thought, and I will have an army.

Real excitement filled Arminius at that prospect. As for a time and a place to ambush Varus’ legions, well, he had those in mind too.

Gods, but he could not wait until his plan came to fruition.

Senior Centurion Lucius Cominius Tullus stood on the side of the road, close to the main, arched gate of Vetera. A rectangular, fortified camp, some nine hundred paces by six hundred in size, it was home to his legion, the Eighteenth, and had been a Roman base for more than twenty years. His wasn’t an old unit by any means – it had been founded by Augustus half a century before, during the civil war that had brought him to power. The Eighteenth’s first period of service had been in Aquitania. Just a few years later, it had been transferred to Vetera on the River Rhenus. When Tullus had been promoted to the centurionate fifteen years ago, he had been transferred into the Eighteenth from his old legion.

Tramp, tramp. The soldiers of Tullus’ century marched past. Led by the standard-bearer, they were six men wide, twelve deep – a unit was never at complete strength – with his optio Fenestela near the back.