Eagles at War

XXXI

By the end of the third day, Arminius had been aware of the scale of his victory, but the knowledge didn’t really sink in until the following morning, when he went to survey the battlefield alone. The contrast between the riotous, drunken atmosphere in the various tribes’ camps and the calm of the woodlands beyond was stark, but neither bore any comparison to the staggering scenes of carnage that greeted him on and around the route taken by the ill-fated Romans. His horse, a combat veteran, was first to protest, shying and jinking along the path. Its reaction wasn’t altogether surprising, thought Arminius, his nostrils laden with the odour of blood, shit and the gas that bloats dead men’s bellies, his ears full of the buzzing of flies and the harsh cawing of the corpse-feeding ravens and crows.

The vast majority of slain warriors had been carried away by their fellows for honourable burial, but the legionaries’ bodies lay everywhere, like household rubbish scattered on a midden. Most had been stripped of their armour and weapons, leaving them the indignity of exiting this world in their tunics or undergarments. Face down in the bog, half submerged in murky pools, on their backs, staring at the sky. Alone, in pairs, in groups, under a speared horse, heaped on top of one another like a pile of toys discarded by a child. Back to back, or in circles, where they had fought and died together, or in lines, cut down one by one as they ran. One unfortunate was still on his knees. Several thrusts of a framea had opened his throat, and Arminius wondered if the legionary had been arranged in the position after he’d died, in mockery of his cowardice.

Crushing the heads of the dead had been popular, for, in the Germans’ minds, that prevented a man’s soul from leaving his body. Scores of legionaries had had their eyes gouged out, and more had been decapitated, with the severed heads being nailed to trees afterwards, as victory symbols and warnings both. The mutilations didn’t stop there. Ears had been bitten off. There were legs missing, and feet, hands, even testicles. Stone altars had been erected in a number of places, and there high-ranking officers had been burned alive. Blackened, twisted shapes were all that remained of their bodies. Arminius’ gorge rose at the sight, but he was not sorry that it had happened, nor that the legionaries had died in so many other brutal ways. The innumerable corpses were physical proof of his sacrifice to Donar, the bloody embodiment of his oath, laid out in terms so uncertain that no one could miss their intent. This was Rome’s reward for its aggressive role in the region for the past quarter-century: divine justice, delivered by his warriors’ spears.

Those in the empire’s capital would call what had been done here savagery, Arminius thought, but this was how his people – his people – treated their enemies’ dead. Even if that hadn’t been their tradition, the Romans were the invaders here, the wrongdoers, not he and his fellow tribesmen.

What they had done – what he had done – was to wipe out Varus and his wolves, the ruthless enforcers of Augustus’ rule. In the days that followed, obeying Arminius’ orders, thousands of warriors would sack and burn every settlement east of the Rhenus, cleansing the land of Roman influence. He wondered how fast news of the initial calamity – his ambush – would reach the emperor. It wouldn’t be long: in extremis, the imperial messengers could travel extraordinary distances each day. Tremble in your palace, old man, he thought. With a stroke, I have wiped out three legions. One tenth of your army. One tenth!

It was frustrating that amidst such incredible success, only two eagles had been taken by the tribes. A third one was missing, and it was this that had taken Arminius from his blankets. His victory, the defeat inflicted on Rome, could not be complete without the last eagle. The gold birds were the ultimate symbol of Rome’s power, the beating heart of every legion, and therefore one of the highest battle honours that a leader could bestow on his allies. Varus’ head was another, it was true, but that was to be sent to Maroboduus, leader of the Marcomanni tribe, in an effort to win him over to the war against Rome. Arminius had gifted the Nineteenth’s eagle to the Bructeri, who had inflicted huge casualties on the enemy, and that of the Twentieth to the Chauci, a tribe that had arrived late, but with six thousand warriors. Without the last golden standard, he could not give the Marsi the reward he’d promised them. The eagle would do more than cement their alliance, it would recognise the tribe’s valiance. Their small numbers had not prevented them from wiping out the senior officers and their escort – a pivotal moment in the ambush, when Roman resistance had crumbled beyond repair.

A wailing cry caught Arminius’ attention. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a sound – the women who followed after his warriors were here already, working their way through the dead, searching for money and other treasures. Anyone they found alive received a swift knife between the ribs. This victim was receiving different treatment, for his protest went on and on, a trailing sound of agony and despair. Curious, Arminius urged his horse towards its point of origin, a clearing in the trees hard by a section of the earthen rampart he’d had built. As he drew nearer, sunlight glinted off something metallic at its base, and he saw the facepiece of a Roman cavalry helmet, sitting upright, as a man’s decapitated head might. There was no sign of the main body of the helm, and the valuable silver sheeting had been prised away from the facepiece with a blade. The eyeholes in the blackened piece of iron in the shape of a human face seemed to watch Arminius, and he found himself averting his gaze.

Gods, let that have belonged to Tubero, he thought. Arminius had retained an intense dislike of the tribune. To his frustration, there had been no word of Tubero among the high-rankers who’d been slain or captured. In an odd way, Arminius decided, it would be apt if the young politician-in-waiting had escaped – proving him to be as greasy as he appeared.

The man being tortured – by four warriors – wasn’t Tubero. From the look of his armour and helmet, which lay alongside him, he was just an ordinary legionary. What wounds he’d had from the battle, Arminius couldn’t tell, but since being discovered, he had had his tongue cut out. Red-lipped, dripping gore from his mouth, emitting a high-pitched, agonised wail, he knelt before his captors, hands raised in supplication.

The warriors were so engrossed that they didn’t notice Arminius. They were Usipetes, which didn’t surprise him. While other warriors preferred to sleep off their hangovers, they had the youths who’d been in the raiding party to avenge.

‘I can’t understand you,’ said one of the warriors, sniggering.

‘I think he wants his tongue back,’ declared another, a man with a mane of black hair. He waved a blob of red tissue under the legionary’s nose. The soldier recoiled, screaming louder, and Black Hair said, ‘At last, you viper, you have ceased to hiss.’

His companions fell about laughing.

Black Hair was first to grow serious. ‘Hold him,’ he ordered. Two of his fellows seized the legionary by his shoulders, and watched as Black Hair pulled a needle and thread from a pouch by his waist. Frowning with concentration, Black Hair began to sew the legionary’s lips together. His victim’s cries reached new heights, and he struggled so much that Black Hair cuffed him across the head and threatened, ‘Want me to scoop out your eyeballs as well?’

The terrified legionary shook his head in a vehement ‘No’.

‘Stay still, then!’ Black Hair bent and resumed his handiwork. Incredibly, the legionary managed to steady himself, although he could not refrain from making muffled groans. When Black Hair was done, he put away his needle and rubbed his hands together. ‘My workmanship is a little crooked, perhaps, but it’s not bad, eh?’

‘Next time there’s a hole in my tunic, I know where to come,’ said one of his comrades, grinning.

‘Greetings!’ Arminius called.

The warriors turned. Recognising Arminius, they hailed him as the conquering hero he was. Arminius dismounted, accepted their shoulder claps and hearty praise. ‘Been watching us?’ asked Black Hair, jerking a thumb at the legionary, who had slumped to the ground. His eyes were glazed with horror, and great sobs were racking his frame. He’d pissed himself as well.

‘Aye,’ said Arminius.

‘I will take his eyes next.’ Black Hair chuckled as the legionary gurgled a protest, and said over his shoulder, ‘Promises to a Roman mean nothing, you fool.’

Arminius hid his growing distaste with a broad smile, and a promise to deliver more Romans into the Usipetes’ hands. They liked that. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Arminius as they returned their attention to the legionary. The four were so wrapped up that they barely acknowledged his farewell.

A piercing cry shredded the air before Arminius’ horse had taken more than a few steps. Unsettled, it skittered to and fro, nickering. Shushing it, Arminius ignored the terrible sound and rode off. The clamour died away at last. Whether it was through distance, or the victim’s death, Arminius couldn’t tell. He didn’t care either way.

Time passed – an hour, perhaps two – without any sign of the elusive third eagle. Arminius found himself studying the faces of the innumerable dead, wondering if Flavus could have survived. Despite his antipathy towards his brother, Arminius half hoped that that had been the case. There would be no way of knowing. Arminius could never again cross to the western bank of the Rhenus, and if Flavus lived, the same applied to him in reverse. My brother is dead to me from this day on, he decided, putting Flavus from his mind with grim deliberation.

Arminius found the site where Varus had committed suicide, and the blackened patch of ground where his aides had failed to burn his body. He counted the bodies of no fewer than thirty centurions; none of them was Tullus, which he was grateful for. Part of Arminius hoped that Tullus had been among the handful of survivors he’d heard of. Yet it was the eagle and the fact that it wasn’t in his possession that kept niggling at him. The damn thing might even have been carried away by the legionaries who had escaped.

Chewing his cheek, Arminius didn’t see the raven rise up from a body right at his horse’s hoofs. Its sharp, disapproving kakakakaka startled his mount so much that it reared in panic. Down he went, off its back like a child who’d never ridden before. Arse-first in the mud, splattered from head to toe in muck, he watched in disgust as the horse took off at a fine pace. The raven alighted on a nearby branch and watched him with a keen eye. Krrruk, it said, as if satisfied. Krrruk. Krrruk.

Arminius threw a sardonic glance at the body it had been feeding on, a legionary with – now – only one eyeball. ‘Keeping you from your lunch, am I?’

Krrruk, replied the raven.

‘It’s all yours.’ Arminius got to his feet, thinking: Donar is having the last laugh. Ah well, he’s entitled to it. His bird, his body, his victory.

It would be a long walk back to the camp and a change of clothing, but that didn’t matter, Arminius decided. He would think of other gifts that would honour the Marsi for what they had done. Perhaps a couple of cohort standards and an image of Augustus would do.

Something metallic glinted at the edge of his vision. Arminius turned his head, spotting a body face down in the bog some thirty paces away. It was just another corpse, but then he noticed that under its cloak, it was wearing scale armour. In general, only centurions and standard-bearers wore such mail, and it was unusual for either to run away. His interest piqued, Arminius began to squelch his way towards it. What was a little more mud in his boots?

There was no sign of a helmet near the body – like as not, the man had thrown it away to reduce his visibility to the enemy. There were no visible signs of mutilation either, which made Arminius wonder if the soldier had died of his wounds. This was confirmed when he rolled the corpse over and saw a deep wound in the man’s left thigh. He had bled to death, Arminius decided, or maybe the poor bastard had drowned, face down in the mud.

It was still unclear whether the man had been a centurion or standard-bearer, but it didn’t matter either way. You’re food for the ravens now, thought Arminius, using his boot to flip the body back on to its front. Pain radiated from his toes as they met something more solid than armour and flesh. So surprised that he didn’t even curse, he tugged at the man’s cloak. It took a moment or two to unwrap the woollen folds, and his heart began thumping as if he were about to go into battle. When the cloak fell away, a golden eagle with upraised wings was revealed. Arminius lifted the standard, savouring the weight of it, and the miracle that had delivered it into his hands. When he looked, the raven was still on its branch, watching him.

Arminius shivered. Never had a creature seemed more like a messenger from Donar. Never had he been offered such tangible proof of the thunder god’s favour. He gave silent, fervent thanks. Anything seemed possible now. Donar was backing his mission to rid the tribal lands of all Roman influence.

What more could a man ask for?