‘Understood, sir.’ I will find the clerk and kick his arse, thought Tullus.
Varus didn’t waste any more words on him, just waved a hand in dismissal.
As Tullus made his way back to his tent, his disappointment was leavened somewhat by the knowledge that there would be no demotion, no punishment for his rash behaviour. This awareness didn’t remove the sour taste from his mouth, or the bitter feeling in his heart. Arminius was beyond reproach. Unassailable. Tullus could only watch and wait.
And pray that his gut feeling was wrong.
Tullus was kept busy in the warm, sunny days that followed as preparations got under way to ready the cohort for the hundred-mile journey back to Vetera. The right amount of grain and meat for each man had to be requisitioned, which meant an inevitable clash with the quartermasters, each of whom seemed to have been born with a reluctance ever to release any foodstuffs or goods in their care. Assessments of soldiers who were unwell, or suffering from injuries, went on every day. Places in the baggage wagons for individuals unfit to march were in high demand, for no centurion wanted to have to order soldiers to carry a comrade back to Vetera.
Endless equipment checks were necessary, to ensure that every legionary’s kit was in good order. Tullus paid particular attention to his men’s sandals, and the iron hobnails that decorated their soles. Soldiers tended not to replace them as often as needs be, because the cost of the hobs came out of their own purses. Wise to this, Tullus inspected his men’s footwear every two days before a long march.
He was afforded no chance to track down the scrawny clerk he’d paid to deliver the letter. What was the point? Varus had heard him out, and refused to give any weight to his concerns. Despite his workload, he kept abreast of the news entering the camp, and of Arminius’ activities. If Arminius was up to something, he was making a fine job of concealing it. According to the senior centurion in the cohort stationed beside Arminius’ tent lines, the Cheruscan’s auxiliaries did little apart from perform their routine duties and, like everyone else in the vast camp, prepare for the march to Vetera. Tullus could have ascribed a malign motive to the shunning of Degmar by the Cherusci – the Marsi warrior had failed to uncover more information – but that too could have been down to something mundane, such as Degmar’s truculent manner, or the mere fact that he was not Cheruscan.
In any case, Tullus had no time to ponder anything. What had happened to his letter to Varus. Why Varus would hear nothing said against Arminius. Why there had been no unrest. Whether Degmar had overheard idle gossip of no import, and if Segestes had been trying to discredit Arminius. Each night, Tullus dropped on to his blankets, bone-weary, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Woken by the trumpets at dawn, he tackled the mountain of work before him. It was not until the evening before the legions’ planned departure from Porta Westfalica – his tasks complete at last – that he had a chance to consider Arminius. Knowing that nothing short of a miracle would stop the army from marching, his worries rekindled with a vengeance. If anything was to happen, it would be in the next few days.
He and Fenestela were sitting by the fire outside Tullus’ tent, cloaks over their shoulders to ward off the evening chill, and cups of wine in hand. He had not confided in his optio before because of Fenestela’s deep cynicism towards non-Romans, and Germans in particular. Living with his concerns about Arminius had been preferable to having his ear bent about it ten times a day. Now, Tullus decided he had nothing to lose by revealing all.
‘Looking forward to getting back to Vetera?’ asked Fenestela.
‘Aye. You can’t beat a decent mattress under you at night, or a pillow to lay your head upon. And when the winter weather arrives, blankets alone won’t keep you warm. A brazier in the room, and a sturdy roof overhead, is what you need.’
‘Damn right,’ said Fenestela. ‘We’re not getting any younger.’
Nor will we, if Arminius has his way, thought Tullus. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
Fenestela’s eyes narrowed. Positioning his cloak, he nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
Checking again that they were alone, Tullus explained everything to Fenestela, from the uncomfortable feeling that he’d had about Arminius upon meeting him at Vetera, to the looks he’d seen Arminius giving Maelo, and, later on, Segestes’ story. ‘You heard what Degmar overheard, of course.’
Fenestela’s face had grown angrier by the moment. ‘The miserable cocksucker! Pox-ridden goat-fucker!’
Tullus grinned. It felt good to have someone who took him at his word, even if that someone was as jaundiced as Fenestela.
‘You told Varus all that, and he didn’t believe you?’
‘Why should he think there’s a real threat? There’s not a single piece of solid evidence in what I’ve said.’
‘When you take each thing on its own, maybe,’ said Fenestela, ‘but place them together and they fit as snug as the tesserae on a nobleman’s bathhouse floor.’
Tullus sucked on the marrow of that, and didn’t like what he tasted. ‘It could still be coincidence. You have to admit that.’
‘Maybe,’ muttered Fenestela. ‘Let’s hope that it is. Otherwise we could be about to plant ourselves in a big, steaming pile of shit. Could you approach Varus another time?’
‘And say what?’ challenged Tullus, his frustration spilling over. ‘Beg your pardon, governor, but my optio, a trusty veteran, thinks that I’m right about Arminius being a traitor.’
Fenestela’s teeth flashed in the gloom. ‘He would kick your arse out of his office so fast you wouldn’t even know you’d arrived.’
‘That would be the least of it. Without proof, I can’t go near Varus again.’
Fenestela issued another set of ripe oaths. ‘If Arminius is up to no good, and we do nothing, many men will lose their lives.’
Bitterness coursed through Tullus’ veins. ‘That’s right.’
‘What can we do then?’
‘Hope for the best. Ask the gods to prove us wrong for thinking Arminius is a traitor, and, regardless, to watch over our every step on the road home. We must be ready for treachery, right up until the moment we cross the damn bridge over the Rhenus.’
‘I will never have been so glad to feel its planking below my feet.’
‘You and me both.’ Tullus took a sup more wine. They would be all right, he thought. Maybe he was mistaken about Arminius.
It was then that he noticed the luminous disc rising above the level of the tents. His skin crawled. At harvest time, the moon was often deep white or yellow in colour, sometimes with shades of orange. It was rare indeed for it to be tinged with crimson. In normal circumstances, Tullus didn’t place much store in natural phenomena, but this moon seemed gods-sent. He nudged Fenestela. ‘Look. In the sky.’
Fenestela swore. ‘That’s not a good omen.’
‘No. Pass the wine.’
‘Here.’
Tullus hefted the near-empty skin and poured what he thought was half into his cup before handing it back. ‘Where did you get this stuff? It’s not bad.’
‘The old Phoenician.’
‘The old rogue who was at Aliso?’
‘One and the same. Most of what he flogs is worse than bad vinegar, but he has some decent stuff stashed away. I thought it’d be a treat, tonight being our last here at Porta Westfalica.’
Tullus shoved away the idea that this could be their last night anywhere laughing at himself for remembering the crazed soothsayer he had met in Mogontiacum fifteen years before. ‘Do you think he’s abed? I’ve a notion to stay up a while yet.’
‘So have I,’ said Fenestela. ‘The Phoenician won’t care about being woken up. Sleep is less important than profit to his kind. I’ll go.’
Tullus brooded as he waited for Fenestela. Wild possibilities tumbled around his mind, foremost among which was the idea of killing Arminius tonight, ending the matter with a few thrusts of a blade. It would be simple, and not that hard to achieve. There would be a significant chance of being slain by Arminius’ warriors, of course. Even if he survived, there would be consequences. Varus would have thrown him out of the legions in disgrace, at the very least.