Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XI

At mid-morning the following day the column rode into the dilapidated remains of a small, Roman military riverport, uncared for since the final withdrawal of the legions back across the Rhenus twenty-five years previously. Although the roofs of most of the single-storey barrack buildings and warehouses were still reasonably intact, their brick walls were being eaten into by dense, dark ivy and other climbing plants. Barn swallows swooped in and out of open windows, whose shutters had long since rotted away, constructing their mud nests in the eaves of the deserted buildings. A pack of wild dogs, which seemed to be the only other inhabitants, trailed the column as they made their way along a grass-tufted, paved street down to the river.

‘My people didn’t burn this port because my father felt that it was of some strategic use,’ Thumelicus explained; he had divested himself of Varus’ uniform and wore a simple tunic and trousers, in the manner of his people. ‘He made it a supply depot from where he could provision his forces quickly using the river, but after his murder it was abandoned to rot.’

‘Why?’ Vespasian asked. ‘It could still be extremely useful to you.’

‘Yeah, you would have thought so; but the problem would be: who would stock it and who would guard it?’ Magnus pointed out. ‘I imagine there would be a lot of competition for the latter but very few volunteers for the former.’

Thumelicus laughed. ‘I’m afraid that you have understood my countrymen all too well. No clan chief is going to give up his grain and salted meat to be guarded by men from another clan, even though they are all Cherusci. My father had the strength to make them do it but since he’s gone they’ve returned to the old ways of bickering amongst themselves and only ever uniting in the face of an external threat from another tribe.’

‘It makes you realise just how close we were to subduing the whole province,’ Paetus said as they passed a crumbling brickbuilt temple. ‘To have built all this so deep into Germania shows that we must have been pretty confident of remaining here.’

‘It was confidence or rather overconfidence that was Varus’ problem.’

Magnus scowled. ‘Arrogance more like; yet another pompous arsehole.’

Vespasian opened his mouth to defend the long-dead general again but the pointless argument was driven from his mind as they passed between a line of storehouses and onto the riverside quay. Before them, each tied to a wooden jetty, were four sleek boats; long with fat bellies and high prows and sterns with a single mast amidships and benches for fifteen rowers on each side.

‘We live in longhouses and we sail in longboats,’ Thumelicus quipped. ‘We Germans think that it’s quite a good joke.’ When no one laughed he frowned and looked around at Vespasian and his companions; their expressions were all similar: confusion. ‘What’s the matter?’

Paetus turned to him. ‘Horses, Thumelicus, that’s what the matter is. How do we take our horses with us?’

‘You don’t. The horses are the price for the boats.’

‘Then how do we get back across the Rhenus?’

‘You’ll get home by sailing on out to the sea and then follow the coast west. Your Batavians can handle this sort of boat, they’re good seamen.’

‘But good seamanship won’t protect us against storms,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Last time Germanicus sailed back to Gaul he lost half his fleet in the Northern Sea. Some of the poor buggers were even driven ashore in Britannia.’

‘Then you’ll be there, ready and waiting, when the invasion fleet finally arrives.’

Sabinus looked sourly at Thumelicus. ‘Is that another German joke because I didn’t find that one particularly funny either?’ His sense of humour was not helped by contemplating a sea voyage; he was not the best of sailors.

‘No, merely an observation. But that’s the deal: horses for boats and you’ll be in the Chauci’s lands tomorrow.’

Vespasian pulled Sabinus and Magnus aside. ‘We’ve got no choice but to take it; if Gabinius beats us to that Eagle then Callistus will take the credit and Narcissus could easily say that Sabinus didn’t keep his end of the bargain and his life is still forfeit. Besides, it will be a lot easier trying to get back by sea rather than overland with Chauci cavalry chasing us all the way.’

‘But at the least the contents of my stomach will be staying where they belong.’

‘Not if you get gutted by a Chauci spear,’ Vespasian observed.

Sabinus paused to reflect upon this detail. ‘Well, brother, I suppose you’ve got a point. Boats it is, then.’

Vespasian looked at Thumelicus. ‘It’s a deal.’

‘But what about my horses?’ Paetus asked through clenched teeth. ‘It takes months to train them and-’

‘And you’ll do as you’re told, prefect,’ Vespasian snapped before turning back to Thumelicus again. ‘But we keep the saddles and bridles.’

‘Agreed.’

Paetus relaxed somewhat but still did not look happy. ‘I’ll get the men dismounted and start the embarkation.’

‘I think that’s a very good idea, prefect,’ Vespasian said, slipping off his horse.

‘I think it’s a shit idea,’ Magnus mumbled, staying put on his.

‘Oh, so you like being a cavalry trooper now all of a sudden, do you?’

‘It’s better than having to swim home.’

The Batavians sang low and melancholically, with a slow beat to match the rhythm of the stroke, as they rowed the longboats downstream; their shields were slung over the sides next to them to afford some protection against a surprise arrow attack. Birds flitted in the still air, replaying spring mating rituals over the smooth surface of the river and in amongst the trees, fresh with new leaves, overhanging its banks. The sweet smells of the new season occasionally broke through the musky tang of the Batavians as they sweated at the oars, stripped to the waist, their arm, chest and stomach muscles toned, squinting into the midday sun as they glided northwards through mainly flat lands towards the sea.

Vespasian and Magnus stood at the stern of the second ship, on a small fighting platform, next to Ansigar at the steering oar who kept a course directly down the middle of the hundredpaces-wide river; ahead of them Thumelicus commanded the lead vessel with one of his men as the steersman.

The current was sluggish and their pace was not quick, despite the crews’ exertions; Vespasian was growing impatient. He glanced at Magnus, next to him, who had not said a word since reluctantly getting off his horse and coming aboard once it had become apparent that he had no choice other than to be left behind. ‘You said that you knew how the Germans hid the Eagles.’

Magnus looked glumly ahead as if he had not heard.

‘Oh, come on, Magnus, this boat isn’t that bad.’

Magnus roused himself from his gloom. ‘It ain’t that, sir. It’s just that Germania seems to bring nothing but bad luck. When you look at all those Roman bones just lying there it makes you think that there’s some sort of curse against us in this land. Somewhere around here we fought Arminius’ army at a place called Idistavisus; the Germans withdrew with heavy casualties and Germanicus claimed a victory, but it weren’t so straight forward. I lost a good few mates that day.’ He looked to the east bank. ‘They’re lying out there somewhere, just like Ziri is lying at the bottom of a river; all of them dead in a land with different gods.’

‘Surely your gods follow you wherever you go if you believe in them and worship them.’

‘Perhaps they do, but their power gets weaker the further they get from their homeland. Here in Germania the power of Wotan and Donar and whatever other gods they have is strong, you can tell. You saw that grove on the way to Thumelicus’ tent; those heads didn’t just grow on the trees, they were put there after being sacrificed. We ain’t had nothing but trouble since we crossed the Rhenus and now we’re sailing into a whole lot more; even if we sacrifice a whole herd of white bulls to Neptune to keep us safe on the Northern Sea how’s he going to hear us and help us if the local gods are getting human victims?’

‘Human sacrifice is abominable.’

‘You tell that to the German gods; I don’t think that they’ll agree with you judging by how well they look after their people. I don’t like the idea of stealing back the Eagle and then going to sea with it with the wrath of the German gods following us.’

‘Why should they be angry with us? We won’t be taking it from them, we’ll be taking it from the tribe.’

Magnus looked at his friend with an expression of incredulous amazement. ‘Of course we’ll be stealing it from the gods; I told you that I’ve seen how the Germans hide an Eagle. It’ll be in one of their sacred groves dedicated to whichever one of their bloodthirsty gods they think can best protect it and they won’t be too pleased with us when we take it; if we take it, for that matter, because it ain’t as simple as walking through the trees into the clearing and pulling the Eagle’s pole out of the ground. Oh no, they make traps.’

‘What sort of traps?’

‘Nasty fucking traps.’

‘How nasty?’

‘Put it this way; when we found the Nineteenth’s Eagle in the Marsi’s territory the young tribune who tried to lift from the altar that it was laid upon ended up in a pit ten foot below the ground, with a stake so far up his arse that his last sensation was the taste of his own shit.’

‘That is nasty.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it. Then the lads that went to try and help him got smashed to a pulp by two swinging boulders that came out of the trees. You saw how the Chatti got those corpses to swing down on us; they’re good at that sort of thing here.’

‘Then we’ll just have to be very careful. Anyway, they got the Eagle in the end.’

‘But that’s just my point, they did get the Eagle but they took it straight back across the Rhenus; if we find this Eagle then we’re going to take it back by sea. When Germanicus took us back by that route after his victories here the German gods sent the storm after us in vengeance and you know the rest. And we’re about to do the very same thing.’

‘Then we shall make sure that we sacrifice to the right gods. The Batavians worship them after all.’ Vespasian turned to Ansigar who looked concerned; he had evidently been listening to the conversation. ‘Who is your god of the sea, Ansigar?’

‘There’s a few who could help but I think we should be specific in this case and sacrifice to Nehalennia, the goddess of the Northern Sea. We always call on her before a voyage; if anyone can help us she can.’

‘What does she require?’

The decurion scratched his beard. ‘The more that we can give her the more she’ll help us.’

A pale mist had settled as dawn broke the following morning and a thin layer of snow lay on the ground, making the flat countryside seem monochrome; trees and other natural features in the distance were just two-dimensional, slightly darker shades of grey. As Vespasian sat up blinking his eyes, the troopers were rousing themselves from their damp blankets, their breath steaming in the cold air, complaining about their stiff and aching limbs. Apart from a couple of hours in the late afternoon when there had been enough of a breeze to warrant the hoisting of the sails — emblazoned with the boar’s head emblem of the Cherusci — they had rowed constantly until nearly midnight with the almost full, waning moon, sparkling on the river’s surface, guiding them; their arms and legs were now suffering after a chill few hours sleeping on hard ground, dusted white.

‘The Ice Gods,’ Ansigar informed Vespasian as he brushed the snow from his blanket.

‘What?’

‘Every May the Ice Gods walk through Germania for three days, surveying the country before they return to their realms until it is time to bring winter back to the land. Only once they’ve completed their journey do the spirits of spring feel it safe to emerge.’

‘You see,’ Magnus said, clutching his thumb again, ‘they do have weird gods.’

Within half an hour, after a decent breakfast of bread and pickled cabbage that had been stowed in the boats, they pushed off from the riverbank and continued downstream. The shroud of mist that obscured both banks, as well as the disembodied, muffled calls of birds, gave the river a foreboding air. The rhythmical dipping of the oars, breaking the water with soft splashes, and the creaking of the wooden vessels seemed loud compared to the deadened sounds around them, and the Batavians started looking nervously over their shoulders as they rowed, now that they were, as Thumelicus had informed them upon departure, in the lands of the Chauci.

They rowed on through the early morning and, although it cleared somewhat as the sun rose higher and fought off the effects of the Ice Gods, the mist remained.

‘What sort of people are the Chauci?’ Vespasian asked Ansigar in order to take his mind off the unease that had been growing within him.

‘Like their neighbours, the Frisii, they divide into two. On the coast where the land is low, wet and unproductive they’re seafaring — fishing and raiding up and down the coastline in boats like these. But here, further inland, they have cattle and horses and good land for cultivation. They have treaties with Rome to provide men for the auxiliaries, which they fulfil, as well as paying a nominal tax. Like most of the tribes, they want to stay on good terms with Rome so that they can concentrate on fighting their neighbours and the tribes further east who would dearly love to have our lands. They, along with the Langobardi, hold the wilder tribes at bay on the eastern side of the Albis.’

‘What tribes are out there?’

‘We hear rumours of many names but we only know a few: Saxones and Anglii along the coast and Suebi along the Albis and then further east the Gothones, Burgundiones and Vandilii; they’re all Germanic. We have no contact with most of them, although occasionally a Saxon or Angle trading or raiding party comes south and we have to deal with them; sometimes with force.’ Ansigar suddenly pushed on the steering oar and the boat veered around sharply. Vespasian looked back towards the lead boat; it was doing the same. Beyond it he could see the cause for the sudden manoeuvre: as the mist rose, faint silhouettes were turning into sharper outlines; a Roman fleet was drawn up on the bank and was disembarking thousands of legionaries.

Publius Gabinius had beaten them.

‘That’s the Chauci’s main township,’ Thumelicus whispered, pointing to a large settlement about a mile away, built along a low ridge; the only high land in an otherwise flat and dismal snowdusted landscape still swathed in a light mist. ‘Their sacred groves are in the woods to the east; the Eagle will be in one of those.’

But Vespasian was not interested in the Chauci’s town or the woodland as he peered out from the cover of a copse. His eyes were fixed on the six cohorts of auxiliary infantry formed up, to the northwest of it, in a line across frosted farmland, shielding a legion deploying from column to battle order behind it. Before the Roman force was a massed formation of Chauci, growing all the time as men rushed in from the surrounding areas, answering the booming, warning calls of horns that echoed all around and off into the distance.

‘This could be a welcome diversion for us,’ Vespasian suggested, his breath steaming.

‘First bit of luck we’ve had,’ Magnus agreed with a grin. ‘It looks like they’re all going to have plenty to keep them occupied for a while.’

Sabinus looked equally pleased. ‘We should get going before we freeze our bollocks off; if we skirt around to the south the mist will obscure us and we should be able to reach that woodland undetected.’

Thumelicus did not look so sure. ‘It’s not ideal; the Chauci will know why they’ve come and will either be moving the Eagle or sending a large force to defend it.’

‘Then we should do this as fast as possible,’ Vespasian said, blowing into his chilled hands. ‘It’s a mile back to the boats and a mile and a half to that woodland; with luck we could be on the river with the Eagle within an hour.’ As he spoke a group of mounted warriors emerged from the Chauci ranks and rode slowly towards the Roman line; one held a branch in full leaf in the air.

Thumelicus smiled. ‘They’re going to parley; that may give us more time. Let’s get moving.’

They made their way back through the copse to where Ansigar and five turmae of the Batavians crouched, waiting; the sixth had been left guarding the boats pulled up on the bank out of view from the Roman fleet.

‘Leave a turma here to cover our escape,’ Paetus ordered, ‘and bring the rest with us, they need to keep low and move fast.’

Thumelicus and his men led them at a fast jog across the flat terrain; to the north the two armies were mainly obscured by the freezing mist but it was thinning all the time as the sun climbed higher. Every now and then it lifted slightly and figures could be seen; but they were still stationary.

A huge shout rose up after they had covered nearly a mile, followed by a roar and then the rhythmical hammering of weapons against shields as the Chauci began to work themselves up into battle fever.

‘Sounds like they’ve decided not to become friends,’ Magnus puffed, his chest heaving with the exertion. ‘Let’s hope they’re evenly matched and they slog it out for a while.’

They broke into a run, splashing through an icy stream, brown with the filth discharged from the Chauci’s settlement, and pressed on, keeping well to the south of the ridge.

Cornua started their low, rumbling calls, signalling orders throughout the cohorts; these were countered by the blaring of Chauci horns used more to intimidate the enemy than to inform comrades.

More bellows and war cries filled the air until there came the unmistakeable yells and ululations of a barbarian charge. As Thumelicus led them into the wood the first clashes of iron against iron and the dull thumps of shields taking blows resonated in the air; they were soon followed by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying.

‘The first grove is due east, about four hundred paces away,’ Thumelicus said, increasing his speed.

They ran on, following a weaving snow-patched path deeper into the wood, occasionally having to hurdle the fallen branch of an oak or beech. Behind them the decurions were struggling to keep their turmae in some sort of semblance of a two-abreast column but were losing the fight, their men being unused to acting as infantry.

Vespasian’s heart was pounding as he worked his legs hard to push himself forward with the added weight of the cavalry chain mail tunic; he sighed with relief as Thumelicus started to slow. Paetus turned and signalled to Ansigar who, with a couple of movements of his hand above his head, ordered the columns to fan out into line, just as they would have done had they been mounted. They carried on, crouching low, taking care with their steps, easing forward through the trees, javelins at the ready.

‘It’s straight ahead,’ Thumelicus whispered as he signalled a halt.

Vespasian peered through the light haze of the wood shaded from sunlight by the thick canopy; up ahead the atmosphere was brighter where the sun shone down directly onto the thinning mist. The faint sounds of the battle could be heard far off, but nearer at hand the only sound to disturb the peace was birdsong. ‘Keep your men here,’ he told Paetus. ‘Sabinus, Magnus and I will go forward with Thumelicus and his men to have a look.’

Paetus nodded and whispered a few words to Ansigar as Thumelicus led them off at a crouch. As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent and Vespasian could see how the trees thinned leaving a clearing that had four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.

Magnus spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers. ‘It looks like they were planning one of their wicker sacrifices that they seem to be so fond of.’

‘There’s no one in it,’ Vespasian said, edging forward, ‘I can see light coming through the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, his men either side of him; Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus followed nervously, poking the ground with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.

A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees, all the time aware that capture could mean a ghastly fate burning in the wicker man above them.

‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicus concluded eventually, ‘we should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’

Vespasian signalled back to Paetus waiting on the edge of the clearing to move his men out as they began to head north.

This time they proceeded with even more caution, a turma, split up into pairs, scouting ahead with Thumelicus and his men, just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf mulch and clean bracing air made Vespasian wish he was taking a morning stroll in the woods on his estate at Cosa, so far away from this strange land full of danger and alien practices. With a quick, silent prayer to Mars, his guardian god, he asked never to have to return to Germania Magna should he escape this time. An answer seemed to form in his heart; it was not that: all would be well; it was one word: Britannia. He shivered as he imagined the terrors that awaited the Roman legions on that fog-bound island almost completely untouched by Roman civilisation, and for the first time it occurred to him that he and the II Augusta might be a part of the invasion force.

He pushed the unsettling thought from his mind and stalked on, glad of Magnus’ and Sabinus’ comforting presence either side of him; ahead, Thumelicus raised a hand and went down on one knee. Vespasian and his companions padded forward to join him.

‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicus whispered.

The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on hay spread out for them on the patchy snow around the circle, reminiscent of what they had seen on their way to meet Thumelicus; and, in an echo of that scene, three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.

After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed their meal, satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.

Vespasian passed between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various stages of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free. ‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’

‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicus swept the dusting of snow from the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.

‘Lovely,’ Magnus muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin and looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’

‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’

‘Free to fight each other,’ Sabinus pointed out, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.

‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east, if I remember rightly.’

They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing.

‘It sounds like our lads are pushing them back,’ Magnus observed after a while. ‘For once I’d say that ain’t a good thing.’

Sabinus shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it other than hurry up. I don’t fancy being caught by Gabinius with the very thing that he’s after; that would make for an interesting exchange of views.’

‘Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,’ Vespasian said as Thumelicus signalled for silence and crouched down.

‘What is it?’ Vespasian whispered, squatting down next to him.

Thumelicus cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’

Vespasian beckoned Paetus to join him. ‘Send a man forward to find out how many there are.’

The prefect nodded and slipped back to his men; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist and Paetus returned.

‘They’ll be expecting an attack from either the north or west,’ Vespasian said softly, ‘so we’ll split up. You take two turmae around to the north and I’ll take the other two to the south where, hopefully, they won’t be anticipating a threat. Wait until you hear us charge and make contact, then take them in the rear.’

‘I’ll give you Ansigar’s and Kuno’s turmae.’

Vespasian nodded his thanks and then peered forward. Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in a heavy accent.

Vespasian looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to Paetus. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’

‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicus warned the prefect as he left. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’

‘If it’s there,’ Magnus pointed out.

‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’

Magnus checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. ‘Fair point.’

Sabinus got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’

The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.

‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicus mumbled, clutching a hammer amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome forever.’

‘And you’re welcome to it,’ Magnus added.

All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.

‘Right, let’s get this done,’ Vespasian said, having made another entreaty to Mars Victorious to help him control himself in the heat of the fight; he had managed it against the Chatti, he could do it again. He signalled to Ansigar to his left and Kuno on his right to move out.

Almost sixty men, in two lines, crept forward towards the edge of the clearing; ahead of them the Chauci talked amongst themselves, sharpening their swords and spear points on stones or flexing their muscles, suspecting nothing as the noise of the battle still raged.

Vespasian raised his arm, took a deep breath, looking left then right to check the decurions were watching, and then flung it forward. As one, the Batavians screamed their battle cry and then pelted out of the trees towards their enemy, shield to shield with javelins at the ready.

Taken completely by surprise the Chauci struggled to form up into two lines, their captains bellowing at them and shoving them into position as the low-trajectory javelin volley hit hard, tearing through the gaps in the incomplete shield wall. Screams filled the clearing as a dozen and more warriors were punched off their feet with the slender, bloodied tips of javelins protruding from their backs. Vespasian watched his missile slam into the throat of a huge blond man, throwing him backwards in a spray of gore with his blood-soaked beard resting on the shaft; he charged across the clearing, whipping his sword from its scabbard.

Keeping in good formation, the two turmae hit the disorganised Germans in unison, cracking their shield bosses, with explosive force, up into faces whilst thrusting low with their long cavalry spathae at fleshy groins and bellies, harvesting the slimy grey contents within. In a couple of places a wall had been formed and these warriors fought back with the ferocity of desperate men, jabbing their long spears over the shield rims at their onrushing foe with such strength that, with the momentum of the charge, their tips cracked through the chain mail, to lodge half a thumb’s length in a few screaming Batavians’ chests; not deep enough to kill outright but painful enough to incapacitate whilst a killing blow was administered.

Vespasian pressed his left leg forward onto the back of his shield giving it further support; he rammed it against the flat wooden shield of a young warrior snarling at him with bared teeth as he slashed downwards with his long sword. Magnus, on Vespasian’s right shoulder, punched his shield up taking the blow on the iron rim with a cloud of sparks. Vespasian ducked involuntarily and in doing so saw his opponent’s left foot exposed; with a fleet, brutal motion he sent the tip of his spatha crunching through the unprotected bones and on into the earth beneath. With a high, piercing scream the young Chaucian staggered back pulling his skewered foot away; Vespasian heaved his shoulder into his shield with enough force to send his unbalanced opponent tumbling onto his back. Taking a quick pace forward, he kicked the grounded man’s shield away to reveal his groin and slid his blood-slick sword between the legs; he held his wrist firm as the German juddered violently in agony and then ground it left then right as the warrior’s shrieks intensified. With a spray of crimson he yanked his weapon back out and moved forward on to the next man as the Batavian behind him punched his sword down into the writhing warrior’s throat, stilling his cries and severing the cord of his life.

Vespasian cracked his sword against a shield ahead as Magnus and Sabinus, one to either side, drew forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, sweating and blood-spattered, roaring their defiance with inarticulate bellows. Suddenly a shockwave rippled through the whole melee; Paetus’ turmae had struck the Germans in the rear. It was now just a matter of time. The Batavians pressed their advantage as the dwindling Chauci retaliated with ever-diminishing force until the last one slid to the churned ground with brains spilling out of what was left of his skull.

‘Halt and re-form!’ Paetus cried as the two opposing Batavian forces met either side of a ridge of mainly German dead and moaning wounded. The decurions bawled their wide-eyed, panting men back and into lines before they could do their own comrades any harm whilst under the influence of the rush of combat.

Vespasian sucked in cool air as he tried to steady his heartbeat and calm himself after the short but ferocious clash, feeling relief at having not lapsed into the mindless battle-frenzy. ‘We should get searching,’ he puffed to Thumelicus whose sword arm was streaked with blood.

The German nodded and barked at his five men to follow him as he turned towards the grove.

‘Have the men ready to move out as soon as we come back,’ Vespasian ordered Paetus as he, Sabinus and Magnus followed.

The grove consisted of about two dozen trees of such a variety of types that Vespasian realised that it must have been planted by man many years ago. He found Thumelicus by the stone altar at its dark centre between an ancient holly and a venerable yew.

‘There’s no sign of the Eagle here,’ the German said, puzzled. He kicked at the mossy, frozen ground but it was solid and showed no signs of recent disturbance.

‘What about in the surrounding trees?’ Sabinus asked.

After a futile search Thumelicus shook his head. ‘It’s not here.’

‘But you said it would be,’ Vespasian almost shouted in his frustration.

‘That doesn’t mean it has to be; perhaps they moved it deeper into their lands.’

‘Then why were they guarding this grove?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps they just wanted us to think it was here,’ Magnus suggested. ‘After all, fifty or so men aren’t going to stop determined people getting the Eagle, but it would be enough to convince people to look in the wrong place.’

Vespasian frowned. ‘So where could they have hidden it?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps we should ask one of their wounded.’

‘They won’t talk no matter what you threaten them with,’ Thumelicus stated.

‘What about the prospect of a nasty time in that wicker man back at the first clearing? That might-’

‘Of course!’ Vespasian exclaimed, turning to Magnus. ‘You’re right. They were trying to draw attention away from where they had hidden it by guarding the wrong grove. It’s in the first grove; we checked everywhere but we didn’t look inside the wicker man — gods, who’d go near such an unnerving thing? And it seemed to be empty because light was shining through it. But how come it was swinging when there was no wind? Because they had just finished hanging it up when we arrived! We must have just missed them. It’s in there.’

Sabinus smacked himself on the back of the head. ‘Of course, how stupid. I almost said that would be a good place to hide it as a joke.’

‘Would that have been funny?’ Thumelicus asked.

‘Not really.’

‘I thought not. We should go.’

‘We’re looking in the wrong place,’ Vespasian called to Paetus as he followed Thumelicus out of the grove. ‘We need to hurry.’

‘What about my wounded?’

Vespasian did not reply; he knew that Paetus would know what to do with those too severely hurt to be carried fast.

Thumelicus led them southwest along the side of the triangle they had not yet travelled. Despite the exertion of the previous hour Vespasian did not feel weary but, rather, invigorated by the prospect of finding the Eagle. The raucous sounds of battle growing ever closer, away to his right, gave even more urgency to the final sprint; he knew that as soon as the Romans broke the Germans the wood would be filled with not only defeated fugitives but also with Gabinius’ troops hunting the same trophy.

After a lung-tearing run of almost a mile they entered the first clearing from the opposite side. The wicker man was still visible hanging over the altar at the centre of the four oaks that made up the small grove. Thumelicus ran over to it and stopped, looking up at the chilling artefact.

‘Can you see it?’ Vespasian asked, stopping next to him.

‘No, I can’t make out anything inside it; we need to get it down.’

‘We should be very careful.’

Thumelicus looked at Vespasian with a pained expression. ‘Do you really think that I don’t know what sort of traps could be protecting this?’ He turned to his five men and spoke to them in German; they immediately began to hoist the lightest of their number up on to the lowest branch in the grove using their clasped hands as steps. ‘Move away from the altar,’ Thumelicus advised Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus.

They stepped back, looking up nervously as the leaves above them started to rustle and the wicker man began to twist and sway as the man ascended higher. Thumelicus glanced at the swinging man and shouted what sounded to be a warning; the pace of the climb slowed and the wicker man’s movement lessened.

A cry of alarm followed by the creaking of straining ropes caused Thumelicus to jump back. ‘Get down!’

Vespasian threw himself to the ground as the strained creaking grew; two huge logs, sharpened to points at either end, swung down from the treetops, lengthways, arcing through the clearing so that at their lowest point they were chest high, passing just either side of the altar. The creaking rose in tone and volume as the logs swung through to their zenith, straining at the hemp ropes, pausing for a heartbeat at the extreme of their pendulum, before reversing direction.

As they flashed back through the clearing Vespasian saw that they were not independent but, rather, joined by a thin iron blade at their centre that passed between the top of the altar and the feet of the wicker man. ‘That was designed to slice in half anyone who tried to take the man down.’

‘Nice lot, these Germans,’ Magnus growled as the logs swung back through with lessening force.

‘And you think you Romans are nicer because you crucify people or throw them to the wild beasts?’ Thumelicus asked, getting to his feet.

‘Another fair point.’

As the swinging slowed, Thumelicus ordered his men to still the logs and then sever the ropes; they did so cautiously, stepping back quickly as they cut each one and looking nervously up at the trees, but no more traps sprang from the heights.

Thumelicus shouted to his man above, who replied briefly. ‘He can’t see any more ropes up there other than the one supporting the wicker man,’ Thumelicus informed Vespasian, ‘we should be safe to approach it.’ He climbed onto the altar and stood up so that his head was knee-height to the wicker man. ‘They’re made so that they can open, for obvious reasons,’ he said examining the thick wickerwork. ‘This one opens along either side; we’ll have to get it down.’ He drew his sword and stood on tiptoe; the end of the blade just reached the rope. He started to saw; two of his men came to stand either side of the altar to catch the wicker man as it fell. The rope thrummed as the sharp edge worked its way through it. Vespasian glanced up to see what it was attached to that made it hang dead centre between all four trees but they were too tall and a thin mist still clung to their dark, upper reaches.

Thumelicus sawed harder as the strands of the rope sprang back, one by one, until there were only a couple left. He looked down at his men, checking that they were ready to catch and then worked his blade for the final cut. The rope parted; the loose end flew up into the trees and the wicker man fell, its feet landing with a crunch on the altar. The two Cherusci grabbed the legs, preventing it from toppling in any direction as a faint metallic ring sounded from above. Vespasian saw Thumelicus freeze for an instant and then turn his head up towards the noise; his eyes and mouth opened in alarm as the sun broke through the mist and two flashes of burnished iron blazed like lightning down from the canopy. ‘Donar!’ he shouted at the sky.

With a crack a sword hit the altar, bending slightly before springing back up, vibrating with a thunderous roll and falling to the ground; a thin twine was knotted around its handle, leading up into the heights. Vespasian looked for the other only to see Thumelicus’ legs start to buckle. He raised his gaze; Thumelicus’ head was tipped back and protruding from his mouth, like some cross perched upon a hill of execution, was the hilt of the second sword. Blood flowed freely around it, trickling into Thumelicus’ beard; the blade had entered his throat at an exact perpendicular, slicing its way down through the internal organs until it came to a jarring halt on the base of the pelvis. Thumelicus’ eyes focused in disbelief at the hilt just before them, unable to comprehend how it got there. A grating gargling sound exploded from his throat and blood slopped onto the pommel and the twine attached to it; he fell against the wicker man, pushing it back off the altar. Leaving an arced trail of blood globules marking his descent, Thumelicus fell with it, crashing onto its chest as they hit the ground and then bouncing up slightly, owing to the springiness of the branches woven together. As Thumelicus thumped back down a second time the wicker man broke open; a bundle wrapped in soft leather rolled out.

Vespasian stooped down and picked it up; it was heavy. He glanced down at Thumelicus; the light faded from his eyes but Vespasian felt that he detected a glimmer of triumph. Sabinus looked at his brother with disbelief. Vespasian raised his eyebrows and hefted the bundle over to him.

Sabinus placed it down on the ground and pulled back the leather. ‘We’ve got it,’ he whispered as the last flap fell free to reveal a golden eagle, wings spread, neck arched, ready for the kill and holding Jupiter’s thunderbolts in its talons; the Eagle given by Augustus, more than fifty years before, to his XVII Legion.

Sabinus looked at Vespasian and for the first time ever there was genuine fraternal emotion in his eyes. ‘Thank you, brother. I owe you my life.’