The name made Tubero stiffen. ‘Give it here.’
The clerk hesitated, then did as he was told.
‘I’ll give it to Varus with my own hands,’ Tubero promised, stowing it in his purse. This had been Tullus’ reason for coming here, he thought. Why had the dog lied? He would find out later, when he’d read the letter. After that, Tubero decided, he would throw it away.
Tracking down the stag had taken the entire morning and at least half the afternoon. Despite the partial cloud cover and the protection of the trees, it had been warm and muggy. Hot, sweating, talking little with the other hunters, Varus’ mind had been occupied with following the stag’s trail and being among the first to take a shot at it if the chance arose.
Maelo had been scouting ahead of the main party, and was the one to spy their quarry as it grazed in a clearing. When Varus clapped eyes on it, he was even more impressed by Maelo’s restraint in not taking it down himself. The stag was a king among deer, bull-necked and as tall as a large horse. It had more than ten tines on each of its large, curved antlers, and its mounted skull would be the talk of every dinner party, Varus thought, his heart pounding with excitement. In all his years of hunting, he had never killed such a majestic beast.
It took an age to creep close enough to loose an arrow. Varus was conscious that both Arminius and Maelo, the only ones to accompany him, could have brought down the stag much sooner than he. They had refrained because he was the guest. Determined to repay their generosity with a well-aimed arrow, he was mortified when, fifty paces from the stag, he stepped on a twig. With flared nostrils, the mighty deer glanced to and fro, its gaze fixed in their direction. ‘Let us all loose,’ Arminius mouthed. ‘This is our only chance.’
It was a bitter medicine to swallow. Never the best marksman, Varus was at the limit of his bow range. He took a shot anyway and, within a heartbeat of his arrow hissing into the air, so did the two Cheruscans’. Black streaks, they flew faster than the eye could see. The stag was running by the time the shafts came scudding down, but two struck it, one in the haunches and the other in the chest. The last arrow, which Varus suspected was his, landed short. Their quarry thundered off into the forest at full tilt, for now at least appearing uninjured.
‘Hades!’ muttered Varus. ‘I am sorry, Arminius. I’m not the hunter that either of you are.’
‘Rubbish,’ Arminius replied. ‘And you hit it anyway.’
‘You flatter me. Mine was the shaft that didn’t have the range.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
Varus grimaced in denial. ‘Will the arrow in its chest kill?’
‘I don’t know. It depends how deep the head penetrated. Even if the stag does collapse, it could be miles from here. Fetch the dogs, Maelo.’
Maelo slipped away, following the trail they’d taken. A good distance to their rear, a party of warriors had been keeping the noisy hounds away from their quarry. On this occasion, there were no legionaries accompanying Varus. Vala would have protested. So too would his other senior officers, but none of them knew. It had been a trifle childish, like Varus’ desire to escape his duties, but he had decided to hunt with his friend Arminius without an escort. And here they were, deep in the forest, alone. Varus didn’t feel concerned in the slightest; he was more annoyed that he’d alerted the stag to their presence. He took a mouthful of watered-down wine from the skin that hung over his shoulder, and handed it to Arminius. ‘When the dogs arrive, we follow them, eh?’
‘We can do, but there’s no certainty of tracking it down before sunset. Our best bet is to leave the job to Maelo and the men with the dogs. You and I will return to Porta Westfalica, to my tent, where an amphora of the best Italian wine awaits us. I was saving it to mark our success in the hunt, but I don’t see any problem in opening it early. With a little good fortune, Maelo will bring the stag to bay.’ Arminius drank deep and handed back the skin. ‘What do you say?’
Varus’ pride made him reply, ‘I had thought to carry the hunt through to its conclusion.’
‘So had I, but there’s no pleasure to be had in spending hours sweating through the forest with a pack of noisy dogs. We’ve played our part, don’t you think?’
‘Your argument is persuasive,’ Varus conceded. ‘Let us go back then.’
‘I’ll wager that Maelo will return with the carcase in time for us to dine like the emperor himself. The head will be yours, of course.’ Arminius lifted a hand, stilling Varus’ protest. ‘I won’t have it any other way. None of us can say with any certainty whose arrows struck the beast. In any case, you are my honoured guest, and friend.’
‘My thanks.’ Varus smiled in acceptance. Any thought he had of mentioning Segestes’ rant disappeared from his mind. To bring it up would be insulting to Arminius, the finest of men.
XIX
Bone-weary from supervising the soldiers of the dysentery-affected cohort as they moved their tents, Tubero looked at Tullus’ letter that evening. In his wildest dreams, he could not have predicted the contents. If the notion that Arminius was a traitor was shocking, the revelation that he purportedly intended to ambush the army was doubly so. Before he had read the note, Tubero would have laughed at such a preposterous suggestion. Now the notion, however crazy, kept spinning around his head. Tubero hadn’t liked Tullus from the start, but the senior centurion was no fool. He wouldn’t compose a letter like this without being convinced that Arminius was traitorous.
If Tullus’ hunch was correct, thought Tubero with growing glee, by intercepting the letter he had just been handed the chance to steal the glory. What more glittering start to his career could there be than foiling such an evil plan? The unfortunate episode with the Sugambri cattle-herders would be forgotten. In Rome, his taskmaster father and even Augustus would hear of his initiative. Everyone would know his name.
It didn’t trouble Tubero that he had no German servant who could ‘overhear’ Arminius’ warriors’ conversation about the ambush. If Varus demanded to meet Tubero’s ‘witness’, he could employ the Phoenican merchant who sold wine in the camp. The greybeard was a skilled and convincing liar – the day before, Tubero had caught him out when ordering an expensive vintage only because he’d known the going price. For a few gold coins, Tubero suspected, the man would sell his own mother. Getting him to swear that he had eavesdropped on a group of Cherusci would be easy.
Tubero reined in his growing enthusiasm. Tullus’ theory was still just that, a theory. There was no proof to be had, just the word of two tribesmen, one a lowlife servant, the other a chieftain who might have reasons to discredit Arminius. If Tullus was wrong, he, Tubero, risked monumental embarrassment by bringing the matter to light. Indeed, his intention to tell Varus could be a career-ending move. Discretion was the key, Tubero decided. He would broach the topic with Varus in an indirect, vague manner. If the governor appeared open-minded, he would proceed. If not, well, the conversation could end before it had started, with Varus none the wiser.
By the following morning, however, Tubero’s hopes of glory were in ashes. He had called on Varus early, and been welcomed into the governor’s quarters. Varus’ good humour had soon changed to irritation in the face of Tubero’s suggestion that Arminius might be disloyal. As Tubero’s ears rang with Varus’ praise for Arminius, he had been swift to row back from his initial approach. Cursing inside, he had tried another tack, mentioning camp gossip that he’d heard, about unrest among the tribes.
Varus had poured scorn on that theory too, saying that his sources were telling him no such thing. He’d smiled then, and told Tubero not to worry, that the mission to track down the Usipetes’ raiding party would not be his only experience of combat during the year of his posting. Deciding that Tullus must be deluded, and discretion was the better part of valour, Tubero had given Varus an apologetic smile, and thanked him for his understanding.