Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER X

‘This is it!’ Magnus exclaimed as the column, led by twenty of Adgandestrius’ warriors, slowed owing to the path narrowing, hemmed in by a marsh on the north side and a hill on the south. ‘I remember this, it’s where Arminius trapped the remnants of our lads after four days of running battles; there were only seven or eight thousand or so left out of almost twenty-five thousand. Varus had been driving them steadily northwest through the pissing rain trying to outrun the Germans but they managed to get ahead of them by taking a short cut across the hills and were waiting in the trees above an area of open ground. Our lads never saw them until five thousand of the hairy bastards started flinging javelins at them. Fifty thousand missiles in under a hundred heartbeats, can you imagine it?’

Vespasian could; he shuddered at the thought. ‘That would bring a column to a halt.’

‘It did. They couldn’t go into the marsh because it had been raining constantly for days, those who tried just sank; they couldn’t go forward or back because another five thousand had blocked off their retreat and the path ahead had been dug up and obstacles placed over it.’

‘So they had no choice but to fight?’

‘No. Soon we’ll see a long earth wall that they threw up as a last defence; it goes on for about a quarter of a mile. The survivors managed to hold the savages off for a while but then the rest of the tribes who had been watching decided to join in. Varus saw the futility of the situation and did the decent thing and after that most of our lads were dead within the hour. Only a few escaped and some of them joined us as guides when we went back; I got to know a couple of them quite well.’

‘What happened at the beginning?’ Sabinus asked.

‘Well, Varus was taking his men back from the summer camp on the Visurgis River to winter quarters on the Rhenus; three legions, six auxiliary cohorts and three cavalry alae, over twenty thousand men, minus a few cohorts that had been left at the German tribes’ request to preserve Rome’s peace. Sneaky bastards did that to lull Varus into complacency, which worked; he’d even sent the legates and some of the tribunes back home to Rome for the winter. He thought everything was fine as he set out west along the military road that followed the River Lupia; it was called the Long Bridges on account of how many bridges it has. Nasty place; we nearly shared Varus’ fate when we tried to go home that way a few years later.’

‘We crossed what’s left of that fifty miles south of here,’ Paetus remarked. ‘How did they stray so far from their path?’

‘Arminius sent a false message saying that there was a rebellion up north of here. Varus trusted and liked him and therefore believed him — even though he had been warned that he was plotting against him — so he decided not to split his column and took everybody north, even the camp followers and slow baggage train, into this terrain of hills thick with trees and cut by deep ravines; fucking idiot! Varus allowed his lumbering, six- or seven-mile-long column to be led by German guides into a valley a few miles back, southeast of here, that was heaving with tribesmen hiding in the trees.’

‘Didn’t they have scouts out on the flanks?’ Vespasian asked, looking up the hill to his left through the oak, beech and birch trees and imagining how easy it would be to hide an army from view.

‘Yeah, according to the few lads who survived, they had lots of scouts; trouble was they were Arminius’ men and they accidentally missed seeing five thousand or so warriors on either side of the hills above them plus another ten thousand who had decided to come along and watch on the understanding that they would join in if it went well for Arminius. Anyway, Varus thought that it was natural to use Cherusci and Chatti auxiliaries as scouts; the tribes were loyal after all and it meant that he could have all his legionaries marching in nice neat ranks and files, eight abreast, all very lovely and military fashion, just how generals like it.’

‘But very slow.’

‘Exactly; and they kept on having to fell trees so that the formation wouldn’t break up. Also, it was pouring with rain and there was a howling wind blowing in from the west with a force that I’ve only ever seen in Germania; none of our lads could see or hear the savages until they felt their spears and slingshots crash into the centre of the column. The boys still had their pila tied to their pack-yokes; it was a fucking shambles from all accounts. Then the savages and our own auxiliaries came whooping and hollering down the hill and it all got very personal, if you take my meaning, and before long the column was cut in two.’

‘How did they make it here to die along this path?’ Sabinus asked, looking at the Nineteenth’s emblem and wondering where it had fallen.

‘Eventually they regained some semblance of order and Varus got half the lads to build a camp whilst the rest held the bastards off; they finally withdrew at nightfall and Varus allowed a few hours’ wet sleep before destroying all the carts and sneaking out of the camp a couple of hours before dawn. The Germans woke up to find the camp empty of legionaries but full of abandoned supplies; well, as you can imagine, they were in no mood to chase our boys until they’d had a good rummage through it all. Meanwhile Varus kept on trying to go northwest to come to Arminius’ aid, thinking that the attack was an attempt to stop him from getting to the source of the rebellion rather than Arminius himself; pompous idiot! The army’s never been in short supply of them.’

‘I’d say he was acting honourably,’ Vespasian observed. ‘After all, he didn’t know the message was false so he was trying to do his duty to Rome and to his friend by going to Arminius’ aid.’

Magnus grunted and looked dubiously at Vespasian. ‘Anyway, they pressed on all day with a few minor skirmishes and made another camp. The following day the main body of the Germans had caught up and that night our lads fought almost without reprieve to keep the savages out of the camp; then in the morning of the fourth day the Germans withdrew and the remnants of the column moved on. But the Germans harried them all the time, making sure that they always travelled in this direction and eventually they ended up here. And that was that, they were surrounded; nowhere to run to. The surviving cavalry tried to make a break but were ridden down. Varus fell on his sword and the lads had a choice between going down fighting, suicide or surrender to either be sacrificed or to endure a life of slavery. Only a very few managed to slip away; under fifty, out of all those lads.’ Magnus pulled up his horse suddenly. ‘Shit! We took all those down.’

Ahead of them on either side of the path skulls had been nailed to trees by long spikes through the eyes.

‘Looks like the Germans put them back up,’ Sabinus observed.

Magnus spat in disgust and clenched his right thumb in protection from the evil-eye. Past the skulls, the path opened up into a wide sandy area, two hundred paces across and half a mile in length; strewn all around it were thousands of human bones of all shapes and sizes, weathered and tinged with lichen. ‘They’ve done more than that; they’ve dug a lot of the lads back up.’

The column crunched along through the clearing; the last desperate earthwork of Varus’ legions to their left was broken down in places as if trampled upon by hundreds of feet; the rotted hoof of a dead mule protruded from one section. The reek of stagnant water wafted across from the extensive bog to their right and ahead the trees closed in again making it a perfect killing ground. Although birds were singing in the boughs of trees laden with spring-green leaves, Vespasian found the atmosphere oppressive, as if thousands of eyes were watching them. He tried not to look down at the bones of the long-dead legionaries but his morbid curiosity got the better of him. Leg bones, arm bones, vertebrae, ribs, skulls and pelvises were all scattered haphazardly; some were whole, others had been cut or hacked into and more than a few showed signs of being gnawed at by wild animals. Here and there they passed crude altars fashioned out of stone; on them more bones lay but these were blackened by fire. ‘How long ago were you here, Magnus?’

‘Must be twenty-five years now.’

‘What’s so strange is that they haven’t been buried over that time by nature. It’s as if someone looks after them.’

‘Them, perhaps?’ Magnus suggested as a group of five horsemen rode out of the trees and blocked their path a hundred paces ahead of them.

The Chatti warriors leading the column raised their hands to signal a halt. Two of them rode forward to talk briefly with the new arrivals before returning and speaking to Ansigar.

The decurion nodded and turned to the Roman officers. ‘They are Cherusci; Thumelicus is waiting for us at the summit of this hill.’

The hill was not high, no more than three hundred and fifty feet, and they mounted it swiftly, even though it was thick with trees; Vespasian could well imagine how so many warriors could have concealed themselves on its slopes. Towards the summit they took a detour around a clearing with a grove of beech trees at its centre in which a tethered white horse grazed peacefully next to an altar. Three heads, one of them fresh but the rest in various states of decomposition, hung by their long hair from branches around its edge; skulls with scraps of flesh and hair still clinging to them lay on the ground beneath them as testament to the ripening of this ghastly fruit. Blood dripped from the altar.

As the slope petered out so did the wood; they reached the summit, which had been cleared of trees to leave an incongruous meadow, alive with spring flowers, but dominated by the most unlikely of sights: a ten-foot-high, fifty-foot-square, red leather tent next to a solitary, ancient oak.

Vespasian took one look at it and knew what he was staring at.

‘Mercury’s sweet arse,’ Magnus exclaimed, ‘that must be Varus’ command tent, captured amongst the abandoned baggage all those years ago.’

Sabinus was equally awed. ‘I suppose they got everything that the column was carrying; they couldn’t have burnt it because it would’ve been too wet.’

The five Cherusci riders dismounted at the tent’s entrance and signalled for the column to do the same; their leader, an older man in his sixties, went inside. After a few moments he reappeared and spoke to Ansigar.

‘You may go in,’ the decurion informed Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus. ‘We’ll graze the horses whilst you’re gone.’

‘Coming this time?’ Vespasian asked Magnus, heading for the entrance.

‘Does the Emperor stutter?’

Vespasian pushed the leather flaps aside and found himself in a short, leather-walled corridor, just like the praetorium tent in Poppaeus’ camp back in Thracia, although this one did not have a transportable marble floor and made do only with waxed bare boards. He walked a few steps down the corridor and through a door into the main part of the tent. Tallow candles flickered all about, illuminating a room elegantly furnished with wellupholstered couches, finely carved chairs and tables and decorated with small bronze statues in amongst ceramic or glass bowls and vessels. At the far end was a sturdy oaken desk with rolled-up scrolls arranged on it; next to it, on a curule chair, sat a Roman Governor in full military uniform. And yet it could not be, for he was too young to be a governor and he wore a full black beard.

‘Welcome, Romans,’ the Governor said, ‘I am Thumelicus, son of Erminatz.’

Vespasian opened his mouth to greet Thumelicus but was halted by the raising of a hand.

‘Do not tell me your names,’ Thumelicus insisted, staring at him from beneath a firm brow with penetrating, blue eyes, devoid of feeling. ‘I have no wish to know them; after I escaped from your Empire I swore to Donar the Thunderer to strike me down with a lightning bolt from above if I ever have anything to do with Rome again. However, at the behest of my old enemy, Adgandestrius, I have asked the god to make an exception this one time for the sake of my tribe and Germania.’ He indicated to the couches around the room. ‘Sit down.’

Vespasian and his companions accepted the invitation, making themselves as comfortable as was possible whilst under the glare of Thumelicus’ intense gaze. His nose was pronounced but slender, showing signs of many breakages. His cheekbones were high and his luxuriant, well-combed black beard climbed almost up to them. The long hair of his moustache partially obscured thin, pale lips. Vespasian concentrated on his chin and was able to make out its outline beneath the beard; there was a cleft, this was definitely the man.

‘Adgandestrius tells me that you wish for my help in finding the one remaining Eagle lost by your legions at my father’s victory here in the Teutoburg Wald.’

‘He is correct.’

‘And why do you think that I would help you?’

‘It would be in your interests to do so.’

Thumelicus scoffed and leant forward, pointing his finger at Vespasian’s face. ‘Roman, at the age of two I was paraded, with my mother, Thusnelda, in Germanicus’ triumph; a humiliation for my father. Then in another humiliation to him we were sent to Ravenna to live with his brother Flavus’ wife; Flavus, who always fought for Rome even against his own people. Then in a third humiliation I was taken at the age of eight and trained to be a gladiator; the son of the liberator of Germania fighting on the arena sand for the gratification of the mob of some provincial town. I fought my first bout when I was sixteen and I won my wooden sword of freedom fifty-two fights later, four years ago, at the age of twenty. The first thing that I did once I was free was settle my score with my uncle Flavus and his wife, and then, with my mother, I came back here to my tribe. With all that Rome has done to me, how could my own interests and yours ever coincide?’

Vespasian told him of the planned invasion of Britannia and Adgandestrius’ strategic view of its consequences.

‘And you can guarantee that Rome won’t just raise three or four more legions and replace the ones in Britannia?’ Thumelicus asked. ‘Of course not; Rome has the manpower for many more legions and that old man should realise that. Unless the Empire is hit by a terrible plague it will continue to grow in population. Citizenship is being awarded to more and more communities in every province. All the time, slaves are being freed and receiving citizenship; they aren’t eligible to join the legions but their sons are. But I agree with Adgandestrius in the short term: an invasion of Britannia will very likely keep us safe for a generation or so.’ Thumelicus removed the crested helmet and placed it on the desk; his hair fell to his shoulders. He looked at the Romans and laughed low and mirthlessly. ‘If it had not been for my father then there would still be a Roman wearing this uniform even now in Germania; but because of him I can wear it now as I deal with the successors of the man to whom it belonged. I can also entertain them in his tent and serve them refreshments on his plate.’

At a sharp double clap of Thumelicus’ hands, the entrance behind him opened; two bearded slaves in their fifties shuffled in with trays covered with silver cups, jugs of beer and plates of food. As they padded around the room placing food and drink on tables near their master’s guests Vespasian noticed with a shock that their hair was cut short, Roman style.

‘Yes, Aius and Tiburtius were both captured in this place, thirty-two years ago,’ Thumelicus confirmed, reading the look on Vespasian’s face. ‘They have been slaves here ever since. They have not tried to run away; have you, Aius?’

The slave serving Vespasian turned and bowed his head to Thumelicus. ‘No, master.’

‘Tell them why, Aius.’

‘I cannot return to Rome.’

‘Why not?’

‘Shame, master.’

‘Shame of what, Aius?’

Aius looked nervously at Vespasian and then back to his master.

‘You can tell them, Aius; they haven’t come to take you back.’

‘Shame of losing the Eagle, master.’

‘Losing the Eagle?’ Thumelicus ruminated, turning his blue eyes onto the old soldier.

The years of servitude and shame came to tell in Aius and he hung his head, and his chest heaved a couple of times with repressed sobs.

‘And you, Tiburtius?’ Thumelicus asked, giving the second man, slightly older and with almost silver hair, the full force of his stare. ‘Do you still feel shame?’

Tiburtius just nodded dumbly and placed his last jar on the desk next to Thumelicus.

Vespasian’s shock turned into anger as he looked at two Roman citizens so beaten down by years of disgrace and slavery. ‘Why haven’t you done the honourable thing and killed yourselves?’ he asked, barely concealing his disgust.

A smile played at the corners of Thumelicus’ mouth. ‘You may answer him, Aius.’

‘Arminius gave us the choice of being sacrificed by burning in one of their wicker cages or swearing upon all our gods to stay alive for the task that he wanted us to perform. No one who has seen and heard a wicker sacrifice will face the fire; we chose what every man would.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that, mate,’ Magnus chipped in, getting a look of distant recognition from Aius at the use of such a familiar term. ‘The idea of my balls roasting over the fire would be enough to make me swear to anything.’

‘But they wouldn’t have roasted,’ Thumelicus informed him, taking the lid off the jar, ‘we always take care to remove the testicles first.’

‘That’s very considerate of you, I’m sure.’

Thumelicus dipped his fingers into the jar. ‘I can assure you that it’s not out of consideration for the victim that we do this.’ He pulled out a small, off-white, egg-shaped object and bit it in half. ‘We believe that eating our enemies’ testicles brings us strength and vigour.’

Vespasian and his companions looked on in horror as Thumelicus chewed loudly on it, savouring its taste. He popped the other half into his mouth and, with equal relish, ate that as the two slaves, surprisingly, took a seat each on the far side of the desk.

Thumelicus washed down his snack with a swig of beer. ‘After the battle here and all the battles and actions that my father fought in our struggle for freedom we had almost sixty thousand testicles pickled; my father shared them out amongst the tribes. This is the last jar left to the Cherusci; I keep it for special occasions. Perhaps we should think about refilling our jars again soon?’

‘You’d be mad to try,’ Sabinus said, ‘you could never cross the Rhenus.’

Thumelicus inclined his head in agreement. ‘Not if we stay as disunited as we are now, and even if we could you would use the resources of your Empire to beat us back in time. But you still have the strength to cross the other way and that is why I am here talking to you against all my principles. One of you has something to show me, I believe.’

Vespasian got out his father’s knife and passed it to Thumelicus.

‘How did you come to be in possession of this?’ he asked, examining the blade.

Vespasian explained the knife’s history whilst Thumelicus traced the runes with a finger.

When he had finished, the German thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘You speak the truth; it is exactly how my father set it down in his memoirs.’

‘He wrote his memoirs!’ Vespasian exclaimed, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘You forget he was brought up in Rome from the age of nine. He learnt to read and write, although not that well as it had to be beaten into him; we do not consider them to be manly practices. However, he had a better idea: he would dictate his memoirs to his crushed enemies and he would keep them alive so that they could read them out whenever it was necessary, and today it may be necessary. Mother, would you join us?’

The curtain opened and a tall, proud, greying woman with the deepest blue eyes that Vespasian had ever seen entered. Her skin was lined and her breasts fell low but she had evidently been a beauty in her youth.

‘Mother, is it necessary to tell Father’s story to these Romans? What do the bones say?’

Thusnelda pulled from a leather bag at her waist five straight, carved, thin bones covered on all four sides in what Vespasian now knew to be runes. She breathed on them and muttered some half-heard incantations over them before casting them to the ground.

Stooping, she examined their fall for a few moments, pawing at them. ‘My husband would wish his story told to these men; to understand you they must understand where you come from, my son.’

Thumelicus nodded. ‘Then so be it, Mother, we shall begin.’

Vespasian indicated to the two slaves now sorting out scrolls and putting them in order on the desk. ‘So he spared these two to write down his life and read it out?’

‘Yes, who better to tell of the life of Arminius than the aquiliferi, the Eagle-bearers, of the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Legions?’

The sun was long set by the time the two old slaves, once proud bearers of their legions’ most sacred objects, finished the tale of Arminius’ life with their verbal account of how he was murdered by a kinsman. It had not just been a simple reading; Thusnelda had contributed parts from her recollection and Thumelicus had encouraged Vespasian and his friends to question Aius and Tiburtius about their memories of the battle at Teutoburg; he also ordered the old men to write their answers down. Magnus, who, whilst serving in the V Alaudae, had been present at the battle of the Long Bridges and the following year at the battles of the Angrivarii Ridge and Idistavisus, Arminius’ first defeat, had shared his memories of Germanicus’ two campaigns, six and seven years respectively after the massacre — before he had been recalled by Tiberius, jealous of, and frightened by, his success. Thumelicus had seemed genuinely pleased at hearing this new point of view and had told his slaves to make notes, which they duly did with misty looks of longing in their eyes as they heard the legions spoken of in plain, legionary-mule terms; their ageing faces registered the depth of their shame in not only losing their legions’ Eagles but also in being unable to face the fires afterwards and so being condemned to live without hope of redemption. Apart from the occasional question, Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus had nothing to contribute and sat listening as the tale unfolded, sipping their beer and nibbling at the food arrayed around in bowls; on numerous occasions they politely declined the offer of a treat from Thumelicus’ jar.

No one spoke as the two old men finished and began rolling up the scrolls and replacing them in their cases, their eyes never leaving the work on the desk in front of them.

Thumelicus looked thoughtfully into his beer cup. ‘My father was a great man and it is my loss that I never met him.’ His eyes flicked up and bored into Vespasian. ‘But I’ve not had you sit here with me and listen to his story just so that I can wallow in a bit of self-pity afterwards. I wanted you to hear it so that you can understand my motives in what I shall do next; I intend to go against everything that my father stood for.’

Sabinus leant forward. ‘Does that mean you can tell us where the Eagle is hidden?’

‘I can tell you which tribe it is with, that is easy; the Chauci, on the coast to the north of here, have it. But I’ll do more than that; I will actively help you find it.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Vespasian asked.

‘My father tried to make himself king of a Greater Germania, uniting all the tribes under one leader. Imagine the power he would’ve had if he’d succeeded. He would have had the strength to take Gaul; but would he have had the strength to hold it? I don’t think so; not yet, whilst Rome is so strong. But that was his dream, it’s not mine. I look far into the future to a time when Rome starts her inevitable decline as all empires have done before. For the present I see the idea of a Greater Germania as a threat to all the constituent tribes. It is the potential cause for a hundred years of war with Rome; a war for the next few generations that we don’t yet have the manpower to win.

‘So I do not desire to be the leader of a united Germanic people but there are many of my countrymen who suspect that I do. Some actively encourage me by sending messages of support but others are jealous of me and would see my death as furthering their own ambitions. But I just want to be left in peace to live, in the manner that was denied me all my youth, to live as a Cherusci in a free Germania. I want nothing of Rome, neither vengeance nor justice. We’ve freed ourselves from her once; it would be foolish to put ourselves in the position where we have to fight for our freedom again.

‘However, Rome will always want her Eagle back and whilst it’s on our soil she will come looking for it. The Chauci will not give it up and why should they; but their keeping it puts us all at risk. I want you to have it, Romans; take it and use it for your invasion and leave us in peace. So I’ll help you steal it and the tribes will learn that I helped Rome and they will no longer want me to become — or fear me becoming — an image of my father.’

‘Won’t the Chauci see that as a declaration of war against them?’ Vespasian asked.

‘They would if there weren’t other circumstances involved. I know that Rome collects tribute from many of the tribes in Germania and I also know that recently she has been demanding ships from the coastal tribes instead of gold. Now, the Chauci’s neighbours the Frisii are very fond of their ships and I heard that to avoid handing too many of them over they sold the secret of where the lost Eagle is to-’

‘Publius Gabinius!’

‘Exactly. So the Chauci are going to lose their Eagle soon, but if we can get it before Publius Gabinius arrives with a Roman army then many Chauci lives might be saved.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Thirty miles east of here is the Visurgis River; that takes us all the way to the Chauci’s lands on the northern coast. We’ll be there the day after tomorrow if we go by boat.’