Eagles at War

XXIII

By nightfall, the vast majority of Varus’ troops were safe behind the unfinished defences of the vast camp on the hillside. The tribesmen were no fools, Varus decided, leaving his command tent. They had withdrawn not long since, unprepared to lose more casualties in open battle. Secure in the knowledge that his soldiers would have a night’s respite, he had decided to walk around the camp. The calamity that had befallen his army that day, and the casualties it had suffered, had stunned his soldiers. He had seen the proof of that in the haggard faces as he’d entered the camp some time before. Showing his face might raise morale.

The savagery of the day’s attacks had ensured that their problems would continue overnight. Thanks to the number of abandoned wagons and mules that had gone missing, a good number of Varus’ men didn’t have tents to sleep in that night or dry wood to use in cooking fires. The rain that was still falling wouldn’t kill them, nor would the cooling temperatures, but the added privations would be further blows to their confidence.

Ordering a wagon loaded with his entire personal supply of wine, Varus began walking the avenues of the camp, with a reluctant Aristides and a score of soldiers from the First Cohort as company. At every turn, there was evidence that the disorder and chaos affecting his army that day continued. The main streets, the via principalis and the via praetoria, had not been measured and set by an engineer with a groma. Their usual right angles to one another were absent, and there was a noticeable crookedness in the way they ran to the entrances. There were tree stumps everywhere, the remnants of the forest that had covered the hill until a short time before. They varied in size from a lethal tripping-over ankle height to easier-to-spot waist-high affairs. The positions occupied by each unit had been preserved, Varus was pleased to see, but there were far too few tents, and less than half the expected number of mules.

Those legionaries who’d been fortunate enough to locate their heavier gear were safe inside their tents, but other groups of men crouched in miserable huddles in the spots where theirs should have been. Some were using their propped-up scuta and draped-over cloaks as makeshift protection against the rain. Several contubernia had even built mini testudos, utilising the slope of the hill as a backdrop. Chopped branches held up their shields, and on top they had laid blankets and spare garments. Varus took the time to commend them on this ingenious solution to their lack of shelter. It was heart-warming to note how many centurions were ordering men under the leather porticos of their own capacious tents, and even into them.

Before long, Varus decided to start doling out the wine. Picking a spot at random, he called out, ‘Wine ration!’ It amused him that the soldiers’ response was more rapid, more dramatic, than if he’d followed more normal procedure and had his presence announced. They charged over, uncaring of the mud. At first, no one recognised Varus, clad in an ordinary soldier’s cloak, without his helmet. They swarmed around him, smiling, jostling and demanding to know which blessed officer had sanctioned the wine. No one paid any attention to Aristides’ disapproving face and muttered comments about their overfamiliarity.

‘I did,’ said Varus. ‘This is my own supply.’

Incomprehension played across the sweaty, dirt-caked faces around him for a heartbeat. Then there was shock, and surprise, and fear. Soldiers who had pressed close to Varus in their eagerness to get some wine shoved backwards against the crowd, while trying to salute and tell their comrades who had appeared in their midst.

‘Governor Varus! You honour us with your presence,’ cried a legionary with more wherewithal than most.

‘It’s the governor!’ ‘Jupiter, it’s Varus!’ ‘Varus has brought his own wine to share with us!’ went the incredulous remarks.

A cheer went up, and then another.

Smiling, Varus raised his hands for silence. ‘It’s been a hard day for every one of us. You’ve done well, all of you. I am proud of you. Rome is proud of you!’

They cheered again then. ‘ROMA! ROMA! ROMA!’ It was a hoarse, defiant sound that rose into the darkening sky until it was lost in the clouds.

‘Tomorrow will be tough too, I can promise you that,’ said Varus, when they had quietened. ‘But the going will be easier. We will abandon the baggage train, and leave the forest. The Angrivarii can be dealt with another time. Our destination will be the forts on the Lupia River. Two to three days’ march should see us to safety there.’

They liked that, thought Varus, pleased to see the life returning to men’s eyes. When he ordered that each soldier was to receive a second, brimming cup of wine, they roared louder and longer than before. ‘I’d give you more,’ said Varus, ‘but I have a whole army to see to.’ Laughter broke out now, and by the time he’d signalled the wagon to start moving again, the legionaries were even joking with one another.

Varus had had little idea how successful the wine-delivering mission would prove to be. He was received everywhere by a rapturous audience of soldiers. It seemed that the distribution of free wine by the governor himself was worth a great deal more than a few missing tents. What was supposed to have taken an hour or so soon became something that would occupy much of the evening. At length, Varus reined in his enthusiasm. The meeting with his officers was also vital. ‘Aristides, you’re to finish this,’ he ordered.

Aristides’ face registered many kinds of unhappiness, but somehow he restricted it to a plaintive, ‘Me, master?’

Varus found his heart hardening, even though Aristides looked exhausted. The Greek had trudged the last five miles on foot, after the wagon he’d been riding on lost a wheel. Yet he wasn’t dead, or injured. ‘Yes, damn it,’ said Varus. ‘You can’t fight, but you can make yourself useful. To get to Vetera, you need these soldiers’ protection. Keeping their spirits up is therefore vital – can’t you see that?’

‘Yes, master,’ replied Aristides, humbled.

‘When you’re done, requisition the legates’ wine too. I want every soldier in the damn army to have had a cup of wine before the second watch sounds. This is my direct order. Anyone who hinders you does so at their own peril.’

The delegation of power made Aristides’ chin lift. ‘I will see that it’s done, master.’

Varus found his senior officers waiting for him in his tent, more than forty of them. They were legates, camp commanders, tribunes, senior centurions and auxiliary commanders. If every senior centurion had been present, there would have been in excess of fifty men. The absence of more than ten spoke volumes about the army’s losses that day. Invigorated by the reception he’d had from the soldiers, Varus thrust these grievous casualties from his mind. He stalked through the gathering to his desk, which had been set up with his favourite chair and the lampstands he always took on campaign.

Realising he had arrived, the officers cut short their conversations, smiled and saluted, greeting Varus. Inside a dozen heartbeats, he felt their unspoken hopes, expectations and fears as a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders like a full sack of grain. With an effort, he threw that off too. ‘I thank you for coming.’ Calling for a servant, he ordered wine be brought before remembering that he’d given it away. With a smile, he recounted the tale of what he’d done. His story met with what appeared to be unforced approval, which pleased him. Varus had long since learned that his high office tended to guarantee men’s support, whether they meant it or not. In this case, however, it mattered to him that they thought his move a good idea. They were all in the same boat. ‘First, I want a rough idea of our losses. Vala?’

With a grim nod, Vala began to speak. When he’d finished, his fellow legates made their reports, followed by the auxiliary commanders. Varus listened in silence, feeling a rising sense of fury that his scouts had not been able to prevent the ambush. Where in Hades were you, Arminius? he wondered as the last officer finished his report. ‘It’s to be expected that losses varied from unit to unit, and legion to legion, and that the cavalry suffered the most, because of the easy targets their horses made for enemy spears. What’s heartening is that our casualties were not more severe.’ Varus glanced at the centurions, whom everyone knew were the backbone of the army. When it came to fractured, close-quarters fighting, they were crucial. ‘I’m grateful for your leadership today, and that of your fellow officers. Your comrades who died or were wounded today will not be forgotten, nor will those ordinary soldiers who lost their lives.’

To a man, the centurions looked pleased.

‘I calculate that our overall strength has been reduced by a tenth, perhaps a little more,’ Varus continued. ‘These casualties are regrettable, but in the light of the element of surprise, the poor weather, and our inability to fight back, they’re acceptable. What’s vital is that they are not repeated. The best way of ensuring that is to get out of the damn forest, into the open. The savages won’t dare to attack us there, where our legionaries’ superior armour and weapons can be brought to bear.’

Loud rumbles of agreement followed, but Ceionius, a skinny officer whose uniform always seemed too large for him, cleared his throat. ‘You mentioned the baggage, sir. Do you mean to leave it behind? With it, we won’t be able to fight as you’ve described.’

‘That’s my exact intention, Ceionius. The baggage train is to be abandoned in the morning. The only equipment to be carried is what the men can carry on their backs, and the wounded, of course. Some of the wagons’ planking can be utilised to make litters for them, I would imagine.’

‘And the artillery, sir?’ asked one of the senior tribunes. ‘We don’t want the savages laying their hands on that.’

‘Indeed not. The ballistae and any weaponry left behind – including spare pila heads, sword blades and so on – must be broken or damaged so that it’s unusable. Burn the wagons. Despoil any grain that’s not being taken. The mules need to be killed too – the men can eat the meat tonight. Use the olive oil to start the cooking fires.’ Varus glanced at the assembled faces. ‘Equipment and mules can be replaced, but dead men can’t be brought back to life. Does anyone disagree?’

There was a chorus of ‘No, sir’.

‘What about the civilians, sir, and the hangers-on?’ asked Eggius, a block-headed officer with stubbly grey hair.

Everyone’s eyes focused on Varus, who might have been discomfited if he hadn’t prepared for this. Like as not, some of the officers had women following the army, but that wasn’t his concern. ‘The legions are to march in battle order,’ he said in an iron-hard voice. ‘All non-combatants are to take their proper place, at the rear of the column. They must keep up as best they can.’

The silence that fell was awkward. No one wanted to imagine the fate of those who fell into the Germans’ hands. Varus maintained his stony expression, and nobody dared question him. ‘We will strike out for the Lupia, and the forts along the road west. I’m told that it is open countryside for the most part. There’s some bog, and small areas of forest, but it’s nothing like what we travelled through today. Within two days, three at the most, we’ll be back in Vetera.’

‘That sounds good, sir,’ said Eggius with a grim smile, to a chorus of agreement.

Varus’ mind was already roving past their safe return. If he didn’t take decisive action soon after this setback, Augustus could relieve him of his governorship early. At his age, and after such an error, there would be little chance of redemption. It was repugnant to think of a slow decline in a seaside villa, his wife’s nagging voice in his ear, while the world went about its business without him. He steeled his resolve.

‘The weather won’t worsen much for a month or more, which affords us time to deal with this rebellion before winter. The moment we have regrouped on the west bank of the Rhenus, therefore, I intend to seek out these accursed Angrivarii and wipe them from the face of the earth.’

His officers liked that, and Varus prayed that Augustus would too.

‘Do you think Arminius is lost, sir?’ This was Tubero.

Varus noticed Tullus studying him with an intense expression. Tullus had been concerned about Arminius’ loyalties before, and had been courageous enough to raise this with him. Perhaps he’d been right all along? Nonsense, you’re thinking nonsense, Varus told himself. Arminius will turn up in the end, or we’ll hear news of his death in battle against the Angrivarii. At dawn, they would march out of this dreary, rain-soaked forest, and escape their attackers. Within a few days, this mess would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. ‘Yes, I do,’ he snapped. ‘Something must have befallen him and his men, or he would have returned by now.’

It was easier for Varus to ignore Tullus’ stony expression than to challenge it. He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. Calmer, he said, ‘The auxiliary cavalry and infantry are to stay closer to the vanguard than normal tomorrow – I want no units caught out on their own should the enemy attack. As custom dictates, a different legion will lead the army tomorrow. I nominate the Seventeenth. Every other unit will take its usual place in the column, with the exception of the baggage, obviously. Ten riders from each legion’s cavalry are to be used as messengers, to ensure that all of us know what’s going on.’ Varus was pleased at the determination he saw rising in his officers’ eyes. ‘If we keep our heads, and do not stop marching, we will be through the worst of it by tomorrow evening. A few thousand tribesmen aren’t going to stop three Roman legions, are they?’

The answering roar proved to Varus, as his mission to distribute the wine, that those who followed him were not even close to being beaten.

Tomorrow would be different, he decided. A better day for them all.

Arminius hadn’t wanted to be absent during the first part of the ambush, but it had been unavoidable. He’d had to coordinate the tribes as they rallied at the agreed point, some miles to the east of the Roman column, greeting their chieftains like conquering heroes, ensuring that old tribal enmities weren’t restarted and making certain that they dispersed to the areas that he had decided upon. He had broken the back of his tasks by mid-afternoon, at which point he led his four thousand Cheruscan warriors, eager-faced and armed to the teeth, westward, towards the foe. There would be time that evening to meet all of the chieftains together.

The heavy rain and driving wind did nothing to lower their spirits. To Arminius’ followers, the severe weather was physical proof that Donar approved of their ambush. Arminius himself felt blessed. Despite a number of near escapes – Tullus’ suspicion, which he’d been aware of, the risks posed by the drunk young warriors, and Segestes’ warning, which he had heard about afterwards – he had succeeded in keeping his plan secret until the end. With flashes of lightning searing his eyeballs and thunder battering his eardrums, it was hard even for him to feel sceptical about the divine backing for his plan.

They came upon the camp of the Usipetes and Sugambri first, a sprawling affair of lean-tos made from branches and leaves, small tents and animal hides tacked up between close-growing trees. Judging by the whoops and cheers that met their arrival, things had gone well thus far.

‘Welcome, Arminius,’ cried a massive warrior, brandishing a cohort standard in the air. ‘Our spears are well blooded, but we left plenty of Romans for you and your men.’

‘My warriors will thank you for that,’ replied Arminius, noting the plentiful signs of a victorious clash with Varus’ soldiers. There were many men wearing Roman-issue helmets, and over there, he saw a pair play-threatening each other with gladii.

At that point, he was spied by Red Head, who was in the midst of a group of warriors standing around a makeshift firepit covered by an ox skin. He came striding over. ‘Well met, Arminius.’

Arminius dismounted, and embraced Red Head. ‘It went as we’d hoped, I take it?’ he asked.

Red Head threw back his head and laughed, uncaring of the rain that spattered his face. ‘It was as if the gods had come down to earth and fought with us! The filthy Romans had no idea that we were there until the first spears and stones landed among them. You should have heard their wails – they were like swine in a slaughterman’s pens. Their cries grew even more pathetic when they heard the barritus. They died in their hundreds, while not a single warrior fell. We withdrew and let them march on awhile before attacking them again, with almost the same results. Give them credit, the bastards kept moving forward, and at the hill where they chose to camp, they gave a good account of themselves. We lost more men than we should have there, because some of our warriors had grown cocky with the ambush’s success, and tried to take the enemy head-on.’

Angry at this departure from his plan, Arminius began to interrupt, but Red Head was having none of it. ‘I see you shaking your head,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘but remember how four hundred of our young men died not three months since.’ Arminius made an apologetic gesture, and Red Head’s frown eased. ‘It’s easy for you to remember how disciplined the Romans are. You’ve fought alongside them for many years. Our chieftains managed to regain control of the warriors soon enough when a couple of charges had come to naught. So did the Sugambri’s leaders. We left the Romans to lick their wounds and wonder what in the name of all the gods had happened to them.’

‘You did well,’ said Arminius in a hearty tone, aware that nothing held his alliance together other than a mutual hatred of the Romans. If he tried to exert more than a subtle authority over the other tribes, they would fade away like stars in a brightening sky. A few dozen dead warriors would make no difference to the size of his army. ‘How many men are watching their camp?’

‘Two score. They’re hidden close to every entrance. Not even a rat can leave the place without us knowing.’

‘Fine work,’ cried Arminius, throwing an arm over Red Head’s shoulders.

‘Many thousands of the Romans remain living,’ said Red Head. ‘Did the other tribes honour their pledge?’

‘I am also the bearer of good – nay – excellent tidings,’ replied Arminius, smiling. ‘Four thousand Cheruscan warriors marched here with me. The Marsi are nearby, with all of their strength. So too are the Angrivarii, Bructeri and some of the Chauci. The Chatti have also sworn to help, although they might not arrive before we have massacred every last Roman in Varus’ army. Without taking their strength into consideration, there are still more than eighteen thousand warriors within three miles of here.’

Red Head’s eyes were full of respect. ‘Never did I think to hear of so many tribes united with one purpose. Truly, the gods blessed you with a silver tongue, Arminius of the Cherusci. To think I came close to killing you.’

If you had even an inkling of my men’s role in the slaying of your young warriors, thought Arminius, you still would. ‘I thank Donar every day that you had the wisdom to let me speak. My success is in great part thanks to men like you – and so will the final result, when we annihilate Varus’ legions and drive Rome from our lands forever.’

If Red Head had had a tail, he would have wagged it then. ‘This calls for a drink! Come, there is beer by my fire. The other chieftains will want to hear your news, and to question you about tomorrow.’

Arminius allowed Red Head to lead him towards the group of warriors. His heart was singing. Donar had been patient with him for many years, but tomorrow he would fulfil his vow at last.

Tomorrow.