He was encouraged by the large numbers of civilians throughout the column. Mobile vendors of food and drink, who’d been supplying the army through the summer months, walked up and down alongside the files of legionaries, selling watered-down wine, bread and sausages. There were women too – soldiers’ common-law wives, or whores – carrying bundles of clothing and pots, and packs of shrieking children running along, playing chase. Here and there, in the breaks between cohorts, were wagons laden down with baggage, injured men and what looked like more than one officer’s personal belongings. Arminius even spotted a soothsayer, promising anyone who’d listen that he could read the future from the way a scatter of crows was flying overhead, or the pattern of clouds in the sky. His spirits rose further. Everything he was seeing was against military regulations. Non-combatants – women, children, merchants and the rest of the raggletaggle that followed an army – were banned from walking with the legionaries, in particular the vanguard. All vehicles were supposed to travel with the baggage train, much further down the column.
By rights, the next section of troops in the column should have been ten soldiers from every century in the three legions, eighteen hundred men, carrying the tools necessary to dig out a marching camp. There was no sign of them. Their absence was understandable, thought Arminius with grim satisfaction, because Varus and his legates were expecting the army to utilise the temporary earthworks built close to the road in previous years, and later on, parts of the permanent camps such as Aliso. Once he had delivered his calamitous ‘news’, and the legions began travelling in a different direction, a marching camp would be required that night. Work parties would have to be separated out from each legion, and sent forward. Even if this were done the moment he’d spoken to Varus, the site would not be ready when the main body of the army arrived. It was a small thing, thought Arminius, but it would begin to unsettle the Roman troops.
The engineers, who should have come after the camp-builders, were nowhere to be seen either. This was not unreasonable: the army was travelling along a paved road, straight back to Vetera. Once the column headed off this route, however, things would change. The first deep stream would bring the army’s progress to a standstill until the engineers and their equipment had been brought forward.
The ox-drawn wagons carrying Varus’ and the most senior officers’ baggage were in the correct place at least. Escorted front and back by half a cohort of legionaries, they were a score or more of heavy-laden vehicles with creaking axles, sweating drivers and passengers who’d cadged a free ride. Arminius spotted Aristides in the back of one wagon, his face screwed up with discontent. He had a rolled-up document in each hand, and was vainly attempting to keep away the clouds of flies that hung overhead.
‘Enjoying the ride?’ Arminius called out. Surprised to see him, Aristides shook his head in vehement denial.
‘I’m being eaten alive.’
‘The biting flies are attracted by the cattle. Get out and march with the legionaries,’ Arminius suggested, knowing full well that the scribe wouldn’t be up to walking twenty miles a day.
Aristides gave him a dark look. ‘I’ll stay where I am.’
‘As you please,’ said Arminius as Maelo chortled.
They rode on, soon catching sight of the First Cohort of the Nineteenth Legion, Varus’ designated protection for the march back to Vetera. Everything about these troops stood in contrast to the soldiers who’d gone before. Sunlight flashed off their standards, polished armour and helmets, and their ranks were as neat and straight as if drawn by a carpenter’s rule. The measured tread of their hobnailed sandals added a deep cadence to the general clamour. They were an impressive sight, and reminded Arminius again why he would always try to avoid direct confrontation with the legions. German warriors were stout-hearted fighters and unafraid of dying, but standing toe-to-toe with legionaries in battle was a poor idea.
The more vigilant manner of Varus’ escort was borne out when a challenge rang out as the pair drew near. ‘Halt! Identify yourselves,’ bellowed a centurion from the front rank.
Arminius raised a hand in a peaceful gesture. ‘I am Arminius of the Cherusci, commander of the ala attached to the Seventeenth. I bring urgent news for Governor Varus.’
A few words saw Arminius and Maelo waved on, past the marching legionaries. A large party of horsemen followed on the soldiers’ heels. Despite his confidence, Arminius’ stomach did a neat roll as he spotted Varus in the midst of his staff officers. If his story was in any way unconvincing, his entire plan could unravel.
He glanced at Maelo, and alarm filled him. Sweat was rolling down his second-in-command’s face. There was a wild look to his eyes too, such as a sheep has, seized by the slaughterman, a moment before its throat is slit.
‘What in Donar’s name is wrong with you?’ hissed Arminius.
‘He’ll know. Varus will know what we’re up to.’
‘He fucking won’t!’ Arminius smiled and waved at Varus, who had seen him. ‘In his mind, we are trusted and proven allies. For us to commit treachery would be unthinkable.’ Maelo swallowed, nodded, but looked no less panicked. Twenty paces away, Varus was beckoning. ‘Control yourself, Maelo, or I swear I’ll cut your balls off, and shove them down your damn throat.’
Maelo swept an arm across his face and forced a grin.
‘Arminius!’ called Varus.
‘Greetings, governor,’ said Arminius, adopting a sombre tone.
Varus’ smile vanished. ‘Is something wrong?’
Donar, help me now, Arminius asked, turning his horse so that he was on Varus’ right side and moving in the direction of travel. Head down, Maelo copied him. The army stopped for no man. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ said Arminius. ‘We encountered a merchant fleeing south while scouting. He reported that the Angrivarii have risen in numbers against Rome.’
Varus scowled. ‘In Jupiter’s name, why?’
‘The new tax, it seems.’
‘Taxes are sent to plague us all! One might as well fight the rain as resist them,’ said Varus in a weary voice.
‘If everyone realised that, the world would be a simpler place,’ agreed Arminius.
‘The Angrivarii live to the north of here – not far, is it?’
‘Some thirty to forty miles, no more.’ Heart thumping, Arminius kept his mind fixed on the image of an iron fish hook, decorated with a fat worm, sinking delicately below the surface of a river. A short distance below, a fine trout watched it with beady eyes. Take it, thought Arminius. It’s there just for you.
‘Your second-in-command – Maelo, isn’t it – is he all right?’ asked Varus. ‘He seems unwell.’
Arminius threw a casual glance over his shoulder at Maelo. It was a small consolation that his face was no longer running with sweat, but his complexion was a pasty shade of grey. Arminius made a dismissive gesture. ‘The fool ate some fish last night, governor. Fish that was reputed to have come from the sea! He’s been paying for his thoughtlessness since dawn. Coming out both ends, it is, regular as anything.’
‘Enough, Arminius,’ ordered Varus, looking pained. ‘I have more to be concerned about than Maelo’s insides. Tell me every word that this traveller said.’
Relief flooded through Arminius. He was careful not to add many specifics to his fictitious report. An innocent bystander would not be someone to note warrior numbers and suchlike. ‘The man was terrified,’ he concluded. ‘He lingered long enough only to tell me his tale before riding south.’
‘How strong a tribe are the Angrivarii?’ asked Varus.