‘Ready?’ he asked.
The trumpeter nodded.
‘Sound, as loud as you can.’ Tullus had told the trumpeter beforehand to play the set of notes used to announce the arrival of a general on a parade ground. The Usipetes wouldn’t know its real meaning, but he had little doubt it would tell them that they were being summoned.
The blaring noise died away.
There was no immediate response. Tullus studied the point where the road led into the settlement, but his eyes also roamed from left to right over the houses, searching again for signs of treachery. He saw nothing.
At a count of perhaps thirty heartbeats, the Usipetes’ leaders had still not appeared. Irritated, Tullus had the trumpeter sound again. If they didn’t emerge soon, a messenger would have to be sent in.
His anger eased as a party of men emerged into view from between the buildings. Perhaps twenty in number, there weren’t enough to pose a threat. Nonetheless, the tension among the legionaries became palpable as the tribesmen approached. ‘Steady,’ Tullus ordered. He rode out a short way to meet them – alone, straight-backed, confident – showing the Usipetes that Rome’s soldiers were scared of no one. In reality, his mouth was dry and his heart pounding. They wouldn’t dare harm me, Tullus told himself. To do so would guarantee the deaths of everyone in the settlement, and they know it.
He recognised many of the chieftains who had come to Vetera to petition Varus, among them Red Head. Half a dozen of the group were warriors, an honour guard no doubt, and a few appeared to be slaves, carrying extra spears for their masters. To a man, the Usipetes looked aggrieved. Good enough for them, thought Tullus, picturing the villagers murdered by the raiding party. We wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t turned a blind eye to their young warriors. He didn’t think about Tubero, whose stupidity was the root cause of it all.
‘That’s close enough,’ he cried when the Usipetes were fifteen paces away.
The chieftains shuffled to a resentful halt.
Tullus did not speak, letting them stew, letting them see close up how many soldiers he had.
Red Head broke the quiet. ‘Have you come to destroy our settlement?’
Tullus didn’t reply at once, and was glad to see fear replace the resentment in many of the chieftains’ eyes. His last doubts that they might spring an ambush, or fight, vanished. They would pay Varus’ taxes. ‘Thanks to the governor’s clemency, not today,’ he said, and let the silence build once more.
Red Head shifted from foot to foot as he listened to the other chieftains’ muttered questions. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked at length.
‘You know why.’
‘Because of what our warriors did,’ admitted Red Head.
‘That’s right. Governor Varus has sent me to deliver a message,’ said Tullus in his best German. Keen to reduce the chance of misinterpretation, he reverted back to Latin, speaking slowly so that Red Head could translate. ‘You will have heard that the raiding party was all but wiped out, and the survivors sold into slavery. The matter does not end there, however. Violations of the imperial peace will not be tolerated by the emperor. Will never be tolerated. A suitable punishment has to be visited upon your entire tribe, and Varus has decided it will take the form of taxes. Heavy taxes.’ Red Head’s shoulders bowed a little as his words sank in. Good, thought Tullus. This will teach the dogs not to break the peace in future. ‘Do you understand?’
Red Head interpreted. When he had done so in Vetera, there had been uproar. This time, there were weary nods and shrugs. A few hate-filled glances were thrown in Tullus’ direction, but that was to be expected. If there had been none, he would have been suspicious.
‘We understand,’ said Red Head, sounding like an old man. ‘How much will the taxes be?’
‘Forty-one Roman soldiers and auxiliaries died in the clash with your warriors. Twenty were wounded. Altogether, four hundred and eighty-seven villagers were murdered. Varus has set the death price at three hundred denarii per soldier, and half that amount for each wounded man. You will pay a hundred denarii for each slain villager. I believe that the total comes to …’ Tullus paused before delivering the hammer blow. ‘… sixty-four thousand denarii.’
There was pandemonium as Red Head translated his words. No one made a threatening move towards Tullus, however. He watched, cold-faced, until a modicum of calm had been restored.
‘You have to understand, centurion, that our people do not use money the way that you Romans do,’ said Red Head. ‘We are not rich. This tax will beggar us.’
‘That is none of my concern,’ barked Tullus. ‘You should have thought of the possible consequences before you let the raiding party leave.’
‘We didn’t know what they were going to do!’ cried Red Head.
Tullus’ smile was pitiless. ‘Governor Varus will take payment in currencies other than coin. Cattle, slaves, furs, even women’s hair is acceptable. Take them to Vetera, and a state official will value what’s presented.’ Tullus could see distaste mixed with the impotent anger writ on Red Head’s face, and the same emotion mirrored in his companions’ expressions. It was perhaps stooping low to mention their women’s hair, he thought, but the demand for the stuff in Rome, where it was used to manufacture wigs, was massive. A lot of money could be raised in this manner.
Red Head conferred with the other chieftains. ‘How long do we have to pay the tax?’
‘Varus wants half the amount paid within seven days – that’s thirty-two thousand denarii. You have until the end of harvest to find the rest, as well as the annual tax. Just over three months.’
Red Hair winced. ‘And if we have not come up with the full amount by then?’
‘Soldiers will return to take payment – by force.’ He didn’t need to add that as many of the settlement’s inhabitants as were required to make up the shortfall would be enslaved.
Red Head explained to his companions what he’d said. Tullus was satisfied to see dull acceptance instead of burning anger in the chieftains’ posture. ‘We accept Varus’ tax,’ said Red Head a moment later.
‘A wise decision,’ Tullus declared. ‘I want seventy sheep delivered to my camp within the hour as well.’
Red Head’s mouth opened in protest, and closed again. ‘I’ll see it’s done.’
Tullus was about to pull his horse’s head around when an altercation at the back of the group of Usipetes caught his eye. One of the chieftains, purple-faced with anger, was jabbing a slave in the chest with his forefinger, and saying the same words over and over. It was not Tullus’ business, and he would have turned away, but the slave reminded him strongly of a wounded legionary whom he’d had to leave behind once, in Illyricum. Ambushed on patrol by a superior force of enemy tribesmen, Tullus and his troops had had to execute a fighting withdrawal. It had been a snap decision to abandon the legionary, a man whom he’d known for years. Tullus had acted thus because of the barrage of rocks being heaved on them from above, inflicting serious and mounting casualties among his soldiers. It had been the right choice to make, but the legionary’s anguished cries haunted Tullus’ dreams on occasion. He still hoped that the man had died under a boulder rather than at the hands of the enemy, but there was no way of knowing.
Tullus watched as the chieftain began raining blows on the slave’s head and chest with his clenched fists. At last the slave defended himself, throwing a punch at his master, but his ankle fetters soon caused him to fall to the ground. Roaring abuse, his owner kicked him. Next, he drew his sword. Tullus’ conscience burned, as it had on that bloody day in Illyricum.
Without thinking, he urged his horse forwards. Red Head and the rest gaped as he rode past, right up to the furious chieftain, a large-framed man with tattooed biceps. He glared at Tullus while the slave looked on in confusion. What the chieftain muttered next was unclear, but it was far from complimentary. Tullus’ anger boiled over, and he moved his horse forward, separating the chieftain from his minion. ‘Your slave is coming with me,’ he said in Latin, and then in what he thought was the German equivalent.