Eagles at War

I

Arminius sat astride a fine chestnut horse, watching eight turmae of his cavalry canter to and fro across the vast parade ground outside the fortified camp of Ara Ubiorum. It was a fine morning, cool and crisp. The last signs of winter had vanished, and the fertile landscape around the camp was a bright shade of green. Skylarks swooped and darted overhead, but their delicate cries were drowned out by the pounding of horses’ hooves on the packed earth, and the shouted commands of Arminius’ junior officers.

Like his troops, his dress was a mixture of Roman and German: a mail shirt and silvered cavalry helmet contrasted with a tribesman’s wool cloak, tunic, patterned trousers and ankle boots. A fine spatha, or long cavalry sword, hung from a gilt-decorated baldric over his shoulder. He was in the prime of life, large-framed and striking-looking, with intense grey eyes, black hair and a bushy beard of the same colour.

His five hundred Cheruscan warriors formed the ala, or cavalry unit, attached to the Seventeenth Legion. They served as scouts, and provided flanking cover to marching legionaries, but they could also be used in battle. This necessitated training on a regular basis, and Arminius was here to supervise his men to do just that. He had watched these exercises countless times, and knew every move inside out. His well-trained riders made few mistakes, so it wasn’t long before his mind began to wander. The previous day, he’d had his ear bent by a chieftain in a village on the far bank of the River Rhenus. The man had made vociferous complaints about the new imperial tax. It wasn’t the first time Arminius had encountered such resentment. Here in Gaul, the only Germans were auxiliaries in the legions, well-paid men who were content with their lot. On the other side of the river, among the tribes, it was a different story.

Governor Varus and his contemporaries were oblivious to the discontent, Arminius thought. In their minds, the Romanisation of Germania was proceeding just as it should. There were numerous permanent and temporary military camps scattered throughout a vast area more than three hundred miles deep and half that across. At least half the region’s tribes were allied to the empire, or had made treaties with it. A few skirmishes aside, peace had reigned for several years. The legions’ engineering works each summer meant that an increasing number of roads were being paved. One settlement – Pons Laugona – was well on the way to becoming the first Roman town east of the Rhenus, with its forum, municipal buildings and sewerage system. There were other communities eager to follow this example. Even in the villages, it was becoming common to hold a regular market. Imperial law was permeating into tribal society; magistrates from Ara Ubiorum and other camps west of the Rhenus now made regular journeys over the river to adjudicate in land disputes and other legal matters.

These social changes had angered some tribesmen, thought Arminius, but a good number had been happy enough, in the main because living standards had risen. Legionaries required vast quantities of food, drink and clothing. Farmers who lived near the camps could sell livestock, grain and vegetables, wool and leather. Their women were able to peddle clothing, and if they desired, their hair. Prisoners taken in clashes with other tribes could be sold as slaves, and trapped wild animals – for use in the military camps’ amphitheatres – fetched considerable sums. Young men could join the Roman army, escaping their mundane lives on farms. Enterprising individuals opened taverns and restaurants beside the military bases, or found employment inside them.

Yes, there were many benefits to being part of the empire, Arminius admitted to himself, but they came at a high price. First among these was having an absolute ruler, a so-called emperor – Augustus. A man to whom everyone had to pay obeisance; a man who had to be venerated almost as a god. Germanic tribes did have leaders, but they were regarded in a different manner than Augustus. They were esteemed, thought Arminius. Feared – likely. Revered – perhaps. Loved – possibly. But superior to all others? Never. A chieftain who acted as if he were better than others would not last long at the head of a tribe. Warriors followed him out of respect, and if for some reason their high opinion of him changed, they walked away, or began backing another chieftain. As a leader of the Cherusci, Arminius was mindful of the need to retain this support, in particular because he spent the majority of his time away from home, with the legions.

The second price of being part of the empire – Arminius’ lips quirked, because it was just that, a price – was its damnable taxes. This summer, the collecting of tax was to be extended beyond the Rhenus for the first time. While imperial officials would gather the money and trading goods that many would use in lieu of coin, it would be the legions’ presence close by that ensured its payment. The chieftain who had approached Arminius – regarding him as trustworthy because he too was German – had been incandescent. ‘The tax is an outrage! I can afford to pay, but many of my people will find it difficult to come up with goods to the value of the coin that has been spoken of. Why should we pay anyway?’

Arminius had muttered various platitudes about the protection offered by the empire, and the benefits to all and sundry that it brought, but his heart hadn’t been in it. He suspected that the chieftain had seen this too. The contentious tax issue didn’t just apply to the tribes who lived in the border zone that comprised the thirty miles east of the Rhenus, but to all those who lived under Rome’s influence. The tribes further afield were accustomed to sending their sons to serve with the legions, and they were becoming used to other aspects of Roman society. Accepting these things was one matter, thought Arminius, but the imposition of tax was altogether different. The old anger came to life in his belly, the resentment towards Rome that fuelled his very being.

Hooves hammered the ground close to him, and Arminius’ attention was drawn to his men. Over and back the riders went, practising the same moves again and again. In close formation, they rode straight at a pile of training equipment. This was the ‘spear’, the pointed shape designed to smash open an enemy line. Their next move, a loose, upside-down ‘V’, was meant to do the same, but to unprepared foes who hadn’t had time to tighten up their position. The third move was the simplest: it consisted of a long line of charging horsemen, riding close to one another – almost ankle to ankle.

As they advanced, the trumpeter in their midst sounded his instrument with all his might. BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOO! This, the most common attack against enemy infantry, worked almost every time. Whether it was daring, a desire to impress him or just poor control by the officer in charge, Arminius wasn’t sure, but his riders thundered to within a hundred paces of a cohort of training legionaries. The Roman troops would have known that the cavalry were friendly, but that didn’t stop their lines from bending away from the horsemen. Angry shouts from their centurions – directed towards the riders as well as their own troops – soon saw the soldiers re-form and resume their training, but there could be no denying the move’s efficacy, or the irritation it would have caused the legionaries’ officers.

It worked, thought Arminius with considerable satisfaction, because it was so terrifying. Many of his men were wearing silvered cavalry helmets that were less ornate than his, but similar in design. The hinged frontpieces of each had been shaped into human features, to resemble the individual wearing it. Like the rest of the helmet, the ‘face’ had been covered with a thin layer of silver foil. When pulled down, the wearer’s field of vision was much reduced, meaning only the most skilled riders could make use of them. Yet the masks’ effect – turning the wearer into an unearthly-looking creature that might have been from the underworld – made this sacrifice worthwhile. A massed charge with even a few such riders, accompanied by the blaring of trumpets, sent terror lancing into the hearts of the bravest foe.

Arminius had been around long enough to have had to use all the tactics he’d just seen. He knew the effectiveness of each, and which one to choose at what moment. The cavalry were yet another part of the impressive Roman military machine, the centrepiece of which was always the damn lines of armoured legionaries. Again his grey eyes wandered towards the unit that his men had intimidated.

It still felt odd to regard the Romans as allies. It had been so since the first day he’d served with the imperial army, eight years before. The campaigns and battles he’d taken part in – on Rome’s side – meant that he had a healthy respect for its soldiers and their officers. Their bravery, discipline and ability to stand firm against an enemy were remarkable. On more than one occasion, he and his men had been saved by the intervention of one such unit or another. He had endured lengthy marches with the legions, got pissed with their officers, and even whored with some of them. His loyalty to the empire had seen him first rewarded with citizenship and then elevated to equestrian status, the lower rank of Roman nobility.

Despite these experiences and honours, Arminius felt less kinship with the Romans than might have been expected. In the main it was because he continued to regard himself, with pride, as German. The Romans’ superior attitude didn’t help either. Despite his exalted status, he was to many little more than a fur-wearing savage. He and his men were good enough to fight – and die – for Rome, but not to be recognised as equals. This had been hard enough to take during the years Arminius had served elsewhere in the empire, but being close to his homeland of recent months had accentuated his aggrieved feelings. Not two miles hence, on the eastern bank of the Rhenus, the tribal lands began. His people, the Cherusci, lived far away, yet he still had far more in common with the nearest tribe – the Usipetes – than he did with the Romans. He held the same values, spoke a similar tongue, and worshipped the same gods.

Arminius remembered the night in the sacred grove so long ago, and a line of sweat ran down his back. When the legions crossed the river to punish tribes who had risen against the empire’s rule, those they slew were not Dacian, Illyrian or Thracian. They were German. Like him. Like his warriors. Like his long-dead aunt and cousins. They were people who had a right to live their lives freely. Why should they be subjects of Augustus, who lives many hundreds of miles away, in Rome? Arminius asked himself. Why should I?

It had been twenty-one years since he had stood among the trees with his father, but the words of his oath were as vivid in his head as they had been the first time he uttered them. One day, as Donar is my witness, I will teach the Romans a lesson that they will never forget. I, Ermin of the Cherusci, swear this.

His eyes rose to the blue arc of the heavens, which was decorated with a scattering of lambswool clouds. The sun was warming, but not too hot. The skylarks yet trilled from on high, a sign that spring was passing. Summer would arrive soon, and when it did, Publius Quinctilius Varus, the governor of Germania, would lead his army east. Over the Rhenus, where his troops would collect taxes as far as the River Visurgis. Only the Romans could have come up with fucking taxes, thought Arminius. The tribes’ hard-earned silver would go towards gilding yet more statues of the emperor, and building paved roads upon which his armies could tramp. Great Donar, he prayed, I have waited long years to fulfil my oath. To wreak vengeance for those of my tribe slain by Rome. I ask that you let the right moment be this year.

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.’

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.’

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.