After a time, Tullus abandoned the idea. His career aside, murdering men in the dark wasn’t his way. He let out a gusty sigh. Apart from doing nothing, which went against his entire nature, the only option left was to risk Varus’ displeasure by approaching him again. It was an even more daunting prospect than before. In the morning, Varus would be wrapped up with the logistics of getting his army on the road. Officers of every rank would be hanging off him, asking for orders and reporting problems of every kind. Tullus’ intervention – in public, with a huge audience – would be about as welcome as a flooded sewer on the street down which the emperor was about to pass.
Yet he had to do something.
Fenestela’s return soon after was welcome. Tullus had a thirst on him as great as if he’d walked the length of the Syrian desert without a water skin. A hangover might imperil his chances of convincing Varus, but his frustration and anger needed releasing. Getting pissed with Fenestela, his oldest comrade, was the best way Tullus could think of doing that, and the only way of keeping the demons at bay.
If only for a night.
XX
Arminius had slept little. Despite his best efforts, he had spent the night trying to come up with details he might have forgotten, and worrying that Varus would realise what was going on before he and his warriors rode away for the last time. His lack of rest should have left him feeling gritty-eyed and weary, and prone to losing his temper. This was an extraordinary day, however. When the first hint of light entered his tent, Arminius sprang from his bed, his spirits buoyant. Tomorrow, I will fulfil my oath, he thought.
Donar will have his blood offering.
Arminius made his way to the centre of the rectangular space formed by his men’s tents, shivering a little from the predawn chill and, if he were honest, nerves. A faint line of red marked the eastern horizon, an indication that sunrise was not long off. The sky, yet glittering with stars, was almost clear of cloud. There was no wind. It would be another glorious autumn day, he thought, like the previous seven days or more. These weren’t the best conditions for an ambush – fog or rain was preferable – but it might change later, or by the following day. If fine weather were all he had to complain about, however, he’d be a lucky man. Donar, be good to us, Arminius prayed. Let Varus and his men remain unsuspecting until it is too late.
He wasn’t surprised when Maelo appeared. They embraced. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ asked Arminius.
‘Not much. You?’
‘The same.’
‘We can rest when it’s over,’ said Maelo with a smile. ‘Our plan remains the same?’
‘It does. We leave camp at the head of the column, following protocol. It’s important that we range far enough ahead that the other auxiliaries don’t see us. By mid-morning, having “heard” the “news” of unrest among the Angrivarii from a passing traveller, we ride back and inform Varus.’
‘What if he doesn’t believe you?’ asked Maelo, ever wary.
‘He won’t be able to resist,’ said Arminius with confidence. ‘The territory of the Angrivarii is so close, and if word reached Augustus that Varus had ridden past a tribal uprising without bothering to investigate, there’d be hell to pay.’
‘You’re a clever bastard.’
Most of the time, this would have made Arminius smile, but he was feeling a deal more superstitious than normal. ‘Call me that in a few days, when we have succeeded. Until then, pray as you’ve never done before.’
Maelo thumbed his hammer amulet. ‘And this afternoon, we find the other tribes?’
‘Aye. Varus won’t be alarmed that I want to scout a little of the route ahead. By this evening, gods willing, we will have met up with our allies. Varus’ legions will continue marching north, further from their roads. We’ll fall on them tomorrow.’
A trumpet called from the legions’ lines. A second joined it, and then a third. Within a few heartbeats, innumerable others had begun to blare, shredding the once peaceful air with their strident summons.
‘It begins,’ declared Arminius, squaring his shoulders. ‘Let’s rouse the men.’
Woolly-headed from the wine he had drunk with Fenestela, Tullus had traced his way to the principia before dawn, which was where he had the bad luck to run into Tubero yet again. The tribune looked as if he were about to go on parade: armour shining, boots buffed, fresh-dyed helmet crest. He frowned at Tullus. ‘Drinking last night, centurion?’
‘I had a drop, sir, same as you probably did,’ replied Tullus, cursing inside his inability to hold back. He and Fenestela were like twins in that respect, each as bad as the other.
‘I don’t touch wine before an important march,’ said Tubero, in a smug tone. ‘Whereas you look as if you tried to outdo Bacchus – and lost.’
A passing centurion threw Tullus a disapproving glance. Tullus didn’t have the energy to react, or to mention Tubero’s drinking when they had been in Aliso. ‘I’m fine, sir,’ he said, making to walk past.
Tubero blocked his path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To speak to Varus, sir.’
‘Do you know how busy the governor is at this moment?’
Tullus’ temper flared. ‘After a lifetime in the army, I’ve got more of an idea than you do, sir.’ He grated out the last word.
The sentries’ eyes almost fell out of their heads, and Tubero’s face turned crimson. ‘How dare you be so impertinent?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ said Tullus, cursing inside.
‘We’ll have words about this later. Back to your unit! Varus doesn’t wish to speak to you.’
The bile welling up at the back of Tullus’ throat wasn’t because of the wine he’d drunk. Like as not, Varus wouldn’t have paid his warning any heed, but now he would never know – and it was all because of his big mouth. He longed to enter the principia regardless, but that would give the tribune permission to have him arrested. ‘Yes, sir.’
If Tubero hadn’t been there, Tullus would have regarded Varus’ sallying from the entrance at that very moment as nothing short of divine intervention. As it was, it only added to the shit he was in. Despite the gaggle of staff officers around him, Varus caught sight of Tullus and smiled.
Tullus stepped forward, called out, ‘Governor!’ but Tubero intervened.
‘I’m just getting rid of this centurion, sir! He accosted me with a wild tale of wanting to speak to you, but as you can see, he’s much the worse for wear. I’ve ordered him back to his cohort.’
Varus studied Tullus, frowning. His staff officers did the same. ‘You do look seedy, centurion,’ said Varus. ‘That’s poor behaviour from a veteran of your standing – particularly today of all days.’
‘I’m fine, sir,’ protested Tullus.
‘You had better be.’ Varus’ tone was acidic. ‘Why are you here?’
Tullus did his best to ignore the line of disapproving faces. This was his final chance. ‘It’s about Arminius, sir.’
‘Not that, again!’ snapped Varus. ‘You’ve given me your opinion of him. I do not wish to hear it yet another time. Arminius is a tried and trusted Roman ally, and that’s an end to it. If I hear of you spreading sedition about him, you can expect to end your career in the ranks. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Tullus, staring at the ground.
‘Get out of my sight,’ ordered Varus.
As Tullus walked away, defeated, he could see Tubero smiling from the corner of his eye. His ears were full of the other officers’ muttered comments. Cynicism filled him. Why had he even bothered? The army’s route was set and, if his hunch was correct, it was a path to Hades.