Hunting the Eagles

Chapter XXXVIII

Using a spear as a staff, Arminius was picking his way through the bog towards his camp. Maelo and a group of his best warriors were with him; they had spent the previous few hours in the darkness close to the Roman fortifications. Drawn at first by the uproar – shouts, cries of fear, and a horse of all things – Arminius had lingered because of the degree of panic among the enemy troops. The cause of the widespread alarm was unclear, but by the time small groups of dishevelled, fearful legionaries began wandering out of the northern gate, it seemed that the chaos was very real.

Wary still of the possibility of a trap, Arminius had held his eager warriors back. With Maelo by his side, he had crept closer to the enemy camp’s north gate. The staggered construction of the entrance had prevented him from seeing events unfold inside, but he’d been able to glean much of the goings on from the shouted conversations wafting over the defences.

What a pity he had not slain Tullus six years before, brooded Arminius. The man was indefatigable. First he had thwarted Arminius on the battlefield, and then he had won over the terrified mob of legionaries by the gate with talk of his legion’s eagle, and how their own must not be lost to the enemy. It was infuriating – yet it was also hard not to feel a certain admiration for the man. Realising that Caecina had been there too, Arminius had determined to storm the gate and try to kill both Tullus and general in one fell swoop, but Maelo had stood in his way. Arminius had cursed him for it, but as the first fingers of light stole up the sky from the horizon, he had to admit that his second-in-command had been right. They might have succeeded, but some of the legionaries at least would have fought back. Maelo or he might have been slain.

Dying didn’t scare Arminius – since Thusnelda’s abduction there had been many occasions when he would have welcomed the oblivion it granted. He had allowed Maelo to step in because without him, the charismatic leader, it would be too easy for the tribes’ assault on the battered legions to fragment and fail. With him, it would succeed. The legionaries were terrified – the evidence of that had filled Arminius’ ears. When they emerged from the camp at last and his warriors fell on them in their thousands, what remained of their resolve would vanish, as it had for Varus and the unfortunates who’d followed him.

It was bittersweet that despite the magnitude of Arminius’ impending victory, Thusnelda and their baby would never return home. His suspicion had been borne out some time before by news that had reached him from the west bank of the Rhenus. No matter how many Romans he slaughtered, she was gone forever – sent to Rome as a prestigious captive. Arminius ground his teeth until his jaws ached. You bastard, Germanicus, he thought. You cold-hearted, motherless get. I’ll capture you one day, and by the gods, you’ll live to regret the day you were born.

‘We’re almost there.’ Maelo’s voice pulled Arminius back to the moment. He dampened his rage. Now was a time for calm, for control.

‘D’you want me to wake the others?’ asked Maelo.

‘Aye. Every chieftain needs to be here – we haven’t got long. Caecina will want to march soon, before his men’s new-found resolve deserts them.’

‘Today’s the day – I can feel it,’ said Maelo, slapping Arminius’ back before he slipped off into the lightening gloom.

An hour later, neither man’s outlook was so rosy. Encouraged by Arminius’ reports of the panic among the enemy ranks, Inguiomerus had proposed an all-out attack on the Roman camp. To Arminius’ dismay, the other chieftains had loved the idea, roaring their approval at the leaden skies. Again and again, he repeated the risks of fighting the legionaries face-to-face. ‘Why not let them march out, into the wet and broken country? They’re easy prey there.’

His protests and suggestions fell on deaf ears. Even Big Chin, who had listened to Arminius before, wanted to strike at the Romans. ‘They’re soiling their undergarments like newborn babes – you said so yourself,’ he declared to loud acclaim. ‘Their defences are poor. Better still, the legions are in one place.’

‘It will be easy to take the eagles,’ said Inguiomerus. ‘Imagine that.’

The chieftains cheered. ‘I’ll have one.’ ‘Not if my warriors get there first.’ ‘I want two!’

Arminius’ foul temper worsened as he watched the grinning chieftains shoving at each other like youths squabbling over a barrel of stolen beer. ‘There’s no need to attack the camp,’ he repeated. ‘Let the filth march out into the bog. We can pick them off there at our leisure.’

‘It’s unlike you to be the faint-heart, nephew,’ Inguiomerus mocked. ‘It will be a slaughter – can you not see that?’

The insult stung Arminius to the quick. He stared at his uncle and then at Big Chin, who was enthusing about spearing fish in a pool. Stick Thin and the others were nodding or miming how they’d stab the legionaries. The attack was going to go ahead with or without his participation, Arminius decided. Frustrated and for the moment impotent, he considered his options.

If he gave the order, most of his warriors would refrain from taking part in the assault. The men who held back – five and a half thousand spears, perhaps – were a sizeable and important part of the entire host. Trained, better-armed than most, and veterans, their absence would affect the battle to come, and could even hand victory to the Romans. If that happened, a widespread rout was likely, bringing with it heavy casualties. Apart from the human price of such a disaster, there were other considerations. Bravehearted though they were, the defeated tribesmen would lose all interest in pursuing the enemy. They would return to their settlements, and any chance of wiping out Caecina’s army would be lost. Arminius’ entire campaign would have come to nothing.

He locked eyes with Big Chin, and wondered if the Angrivarii chieftain was thinking the same thing. ‘Fall on them in the open, in the bog, and we’ll fare better,’ Arminius said, trying one more time. ‘Yesterday was just the start.’

‘Hit them right now, when they’re groggy with lack of sleep, and still terrified from the panicked horse, and victory will be ours,’ Big Chin responded.

‘He’s right,’ declared Inguiomerus in a confident tone. ‘Are you with us?’

Everyone’s attention turned towards Arminius. He glanced at Maelo, who gave a minute, frustrated shrug. Curse it, thought Arminius. ‘My warriors will also fight. I don’t want to hear for evermore about the glory being yours, or how you won the day,’ he snapped at Big Chin. ‘The same applies to you, uncle.’

‘We can share the glory,’ declared Big Chin, grinning.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Inguiomerus, but he wasn’t smiling. He stared at Arminius, his eyes sparking with anger.

Arminius returned the look with cold intensity. I know what you’re doing, he thought. You’re trying to assume the mantle. Had the situation been different, he would have spoken up, even challenged Inguiomerus to a fight. Today, though, it would be better to wait until the day’s end, when the battle was over and the casualties counted. If his uncle’s plan succeeded, Arminius would face a real challenge to his authority. If the assault failed, as he thought it would, Inguiomerus would have to be put back in his place with an iron fist.

Cross that bridge when you come to it, thought Arminius. Crush the Romans first.

Dawn had broken not long before, and Arminius’ warriors had gathered around him. Many bore bundles of branches or sections of heather bushes. Others carried rough-hewn ladders, the result of their labours since he’d given the orders to prepare for an attack. The vegetation would be used to fill the Roman defensive ditch, giving the warriors a chance of gaining a rapid foothold on the ramparts.

Arminius studied the enemy camp again. The rain had stopped at last, making it easier to see the sentries still pacing the walkways. Fine lines of smoke trickled up into the sky from within the walls, marking the location of the soldiers’ fires. An occasional voice carried through the air, but there seemed to be little activity. Perhaps Inguiomerus was right, thought Arminius. He would have expected the legions to be exiting the north gate by now, and setting out on the wooden road.

There was no sign of them. It wasn’t as if he could even hear the legionaries preparing to march. Upwards of four and a half thousand men made plenty of noise, and there was no chance that quadruple that number could assemble in silence. ‘They are scared,’ said Arminius to Maelo, by his side. ‘They must be huddled together like frightened pups, hoping we’ll go away.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Maelo, frowning. ‘What if it’s a trap?’

The same unhappy thought had been niggling at Arminius since Inguiomerus’ plan had been carried, but he’d managed to ignore it. Until now. ‘There’s not much we can do,’ he said in a bullish tone. ‘The attack is about to begin.’

‘You could hold the men back.’

‘Half the warriors wouldn’t listen. Look at them – their blood’s up. The rest would call me a coward. If the assault succeeds and I’ve stood by, every last man will want to see me replaced as leader.’ Arminius had convinced himself – almost. ‘We have to go ahead with the plan.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Maelo. ‘It’s too fucking quiet.’

Arminius knew what Maelo meant, but to either side he could see warriors leaving the cover of the trees: Inguiomerus’ and the other chieftains’ followers were on the move. His own men were shifting from foot to foot and looking to him for the order to advance. Each passing moment increased the chance of some taking matters into their own hands, which would also undermine his authority. ‘I hope you’re wrong. It’s too late anyway.’

Maelo’s scowl deepened, but he strode out with the rest. A more loyal follower I could not have, thought Arminius with pride. If every man were cut from the same cloth as him, I would have crushed the Romans five times over.

It was full daylight now, and they were in sight of the enemy sentries. Encouraged by Arminius and the other leaders, the warriors swarmed down the hill slopes and towards the camp. They had gone perhaps a third of the distance when the alarm was sounded from the nearest wall. Arminius’ nerves jangled, but no general call to arms followed. He could see five sentries watching them. All were roaring at the top of their voices, and they sounded terrified. Arminius was delighted. ‘On!’ he roared to his men. ‘Quick as you can!’

By the time the warriors had covered another three hundred paces, two of the Romans had abandoned their positions. Inguiomerus and Big Chin were right, Arminius decided. He didn’t mind losing face to them if Caecina’s army was destroyed. Arminius began to run, urging his men to do the same. When the barritus began, he joined in with gusto.

Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !

Mud-splattered, legs soaked to the knee and chest heaving, Arminius looked back. Two-thirds of the ground was to their backs now. A few men had fallen behind with twisted ankles and the like, but the vast majority were with him, faces contorting as they bellowed their war cry over and over. A third sentry vanished from sight, leaving two legionaries to face Arminius’ thousands. The pair who remained continued to shout for help, but they were wavering. From inside the camp, Arminius could hear what sounded like frightened cries. Blood thrummed in his ears, and his sword felt good in his hand. A hundred steps remained.

‘Come on,’ he shouted with rising excitement. ‘Get over the ditch and up the wall!’

At seventy paces, one of the sentries lobbed his javelin. It soared up into the air – a fine throw – and landed close to Osbert, who roared an obscenity in reply. The second sentry waited until the warriors were much closer before hurling his javelin. His was a poor effort, landing just beyond the defensive ditch. The barrage of insults from the warriors that followed was deafening, and both legionaries vanished from sight. The sounds of panic from within continued.

‘What do you think?’ Arminius called to Maelo, a short way to his right.

‘I’ll tell you from the top of the wall,’ came the terse reply.

‘Have some faith,’ said Arminius, the bloodlust thick in his veins. ‘They’re terrified!’

‘Maybe.’ Maelo threw his bundle of branches into the ditch and began directing the warriors. ‘Put them on top of mine! You, build another crossing over there. Every twenty paces or so should do it. Move!’

It wasn’t long before there was enough footing to traverse the ditch in numerous places. Warriors scrambled over the makeshift bridges and leaned their ladders against the wall. Arminius was in their midst. Being so close to the Roman defences, manned or no, was intimidating. Part of him expected a wave of javelins to come hissing down from above, but nothing happened. There was no sign of the fearful sentries either, and the panicked noises from inside hadn’t stopped. Really beginning to believe that the Romans had given up hope, Arminius accepted the lead position on a ladder from one of his men. He would be among the first to scale the rampart.

Sword sheathed, and with shield and spear gripped in his left hand, he climbed one rung. Two. Three. To either side, warriors were ascending fast, including Maelo and Osbert. I’ll keep them calm, thought Arminius. Play it safe. Their initial objective would be to gain a strong foothold, and then to open one of the gates. After that, the slaughter could begin in earnest.

‘Arminius!’

Maelo’s tone propelled Arminius up the ladder as if every demon in the underworld was after him. He was hauling himself one-handed over the edge of the fortifications, when his ears filled with a familiar, terrible sound.

Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. From every part of the Roman camp the trumpets’ summons rang, time and again. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara. Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.

Not quite believing what he was hearing, Arminius stood, reaching Maelo’s side. His stomach gave a sickening lurch. Instead of chaos, he saw cohort upon cohort of legionaries, in firm ranks. Waiting. Watching. Ready.