‘I am sorry for the harm done to your daughter,’ he said at length.
‘Will you help?’ For the first time, there was hope in her expression.
Arminius struggled to meet her gaze. ‘Finding the soldier who did it – well, it would be nigh-on impossible without a name, or a unit.’
‘Gaius. I’m sure that his friend called him Gaius,’ she said at once.
‘That’s one of the most common Roman names,’ he countered.
‘His face was covered in pox scars.’
‘Plenty of men have been so marked.’
It was as if she sensed him wavering. ‘My daughter – she’s fifteen years old! She’s still bleeding from what the brute did to her. You must be able to do something. Please, I beg you!’
A red mist blurred Arminius’ vision as he remembered his aunt, who must have suffered a similar fate before she had to watch her son being tortured to death. Before she herself was slain. He squeezed the woman’s arm until she gazed into his eyes. ‘The man who raped your daughter will pay for what he did. Trust me. I swear by almighty Donar that vengeance will be yours.’
‘When?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Soon. I cannot say any more.’
‘I will wait,’ said the woman, palming the tears from her face. ‘How shall I know that he has been punished?’
‘You can speak to no one about this, do you understand? No one,’ ordered Arminius in a low tone.
‘I won’t. I swear it, on my daughter’s life.’
‘As I live and breathe, as my name is Arminius of the Cherusci, you will know that the whoreson has seen justice.’
Her eyes widened.
Arminius longed to tell her that soon the rapist – and all his comrades – would be food for the crows, but to say anything might endanger his plan. ‘Everyone will know,’ he said.
XVII
It had been a long, hot day – a twenty-mile patrol to the east, at the head of his cohort – but it was over, thought Tullus with some satisfaction. He had seen nothing untoward – far from it. The legionaries had been received well in the villages they had passed. The welcome had been tepid, it was true, but it was degrees warmer than when they had arrived, two months earlier. The whole process was a marked improvement from their reception in previous years. It was progress, Tullus decided, a sign that the tribes were growing used to Roman rule. Even his cynical optio Fenestela had commented on the locals’ more amenable attitude.
The cohort returned to Porta Westfalica in baking afternoon heat. Every field of grain beside the road had been full of tribesmen and women taking in the harvest, both sexes stripped to the waist under the sun’s blinding orb. Tullus’ soldiers had loved the sight of so many bare breasts, and they filled the air with whistles and catcalls. The tribesmen shouted back insults, but Tullus didn’t try to silence his soldiers’ barrage. If a woman went about half naked, she could expect but one response.
Reaching the camp, Tullus had dismissed the cohort. He’d overseen his own century as they stripped off their equipment, taking the time to praise the men who’d led the pace, or who had impressed with their well-presented kit. That done, he had made for his own tent, where Ambiorix and Degmar had been waiting. It was amusing, but the feud he’d seen coming between his two servants had never materialised. Gaul and German, old man and young, they had formed an odd friendship that revolved around a sharing of duties. Ambiorix lit the fire. He did the cooking too – that was one of his favourite tasks. The rest, however – the clothes-washing, cleaning of weapons and armour and sleeping by the tent entrance – he was happy to relinquish to Degmar.
Once Tullus had washed, using the bucket of river water carried up by Degmar, he parked himself outside his tent on an old stool. It had been with him on campaign many times; he liked to sit on it, cup of wine in hand, and observe his soldiers with a benevolent but watchful eye. On this occasion, however, he found his attention drawn by Ambiorix and Degmar. More often by Degmar, who looked to be in a foul humour.
Assuming that they had quarrelled, Tullus began to listen in. Ambiorix was busy preparing the evening meal. From the smell emanating from the pot that hung over the fire, Tullus reckoned it was fish stew of some kind. Degmar was sitting cross-legged alongside, Tullus’ phalerae in his lap, and was using a strip of cloth to polish the individual decorations.
‘Want a taste?’ Ambiorix was proffering a wooden spoon. ‘I think it needs a little salt.’
Degmar grunted something that might have been ‘No’ or ‘Yes’.
Ambiorix frowned. ‘What was that?’
‘Decide for yourself. I don’t care,’ Degmar muttered in his poor Latin.
‘Don’t take out your bad mood on me! We agreed that you’re the one who has to clean his kit.’
‘It’s not about that,’ said Degmar, scowling.
‘What’s wrong then?’ demanded Ambiorix.
Degmar didn’t answer; he redoubled his efforts with one of the phalerae, polishing away until Tullus thought he would wear the thing down to a nub.
Tullus forgot about Degmar for a time as Fenestela came to report on a legionary who’d gone lame during the march. ‘I sent him to see the surgeon. Piso isn’t the best soldier, but he’s no shirker,’ said Fenestela.
Tullus chuckled. ‘It was Piso? I should have known.’
‘He’s coming on, as you said he would,’ opined Fenestela. ‘Slow progress, but steady.’
‘Wine?’ Tullus raised the jug.
‘Why not?’
‘Degmar, another cup,’ called Tullus.
Degmar sloped over with a vessel for Fenestela, who raised his eyebrows at his set, angry face.
I’m not imagining it, thought Tullus. ‘What has you in a temper?’
Degmar’s mouth turned down further. ‘It’s nothing of any import.’ He glanced down, to either side, anywhere but at Tullus.
Tullus’ curiosity grew. Apart from Ambiorix and Fenestela, there was no one within earshot. ‘It is odd for you to be in such a foul mood, and even more for you not to want anyone to know you’re talking to me. Spit it out.’
Degmar squatted down on his haunches, close enough that he could mutter. Fenestela looked surprised by this familiarity, but Tullus didn’t comment. It continued to amuse him that Degmar didn’t call him ‘master’, yet served him like a faithful hunting dog. If it ever came to it, Tullus was gut-sure that Degmar would die in his defence. ‘Tell me,’ he ordered in German.
‘I was over by the auxiliary lines earlier,’ Degmar began.
In itself, that wasn’t unusual. ‘Swapping boastful stories, were you?’
Degmar’s lips twitched. ‘Something like that. I drank a skin of wine with some of the Cherusci I know. When I took my leave, I stopped by their horse pens. They have some fine mounts. A little time passed. I was leaning over the enclosing rail; the Cherusci must have thought I’d gone. They started talking among themselves.’ He cast another furtive glance around.
Tullus had never seen Degmar look so agitated. ‘What did you hear?’
‘I couldn’t catch everything they were saying – they were too far away – but there was something about a gathering of the tribes, and an ambush. That was mentioned several times. So was Arminius’ name.’
Having seen little to nothing of the Cheruscan leader since their arrival in Porta Westfalica, Tullus’ suspicions had lain dormant. Now, they tolled a loud alarm in his head. ‘Is that all?’
‘Aye.’
‘They could have been talking about the Dolgubnii, or another hostile tribe, even something in the past,’ said Tullus, forcing himself to be logical. He studied Degmar’s face. ‘You don’t agree.’
‘No.’ Degmar’s tone was vehement.
‘Why?’
‘There was something …’ Degmar struggled to express what he meant, before saying several words in his own tongue.