‘They’re not numerous. If every stripling and greybeard among them took up a spear, I’d wager they could field three and a half thousand warriors. Maybe four,’ replied Arminius.
‘Did the traveller say anything about neighbouring tribes?’
Varus was no fool, thought Arminius. He didn’t want to lead his soldiers towards a widespread uprising. ‘No, nothing.’
Varus rode on without replying, and Arminius’ stomach churned. In the bright sunlight, his story seemed as thin as old gruel. He wanted to keep talking, to ensure that Varus was persuaded to act, but feared to say too much. Remaining silent was as hard, however.
His heart beat out an unhappy score. To his rear, he heard Maelo retch. Arminius clutched at the sound like an ill-fed beggar seizes a thrown crust. ‘I told you not to eat that fish,’ he said. ‘The sea lies more than a hundred miles to the north. That should be enough to put any man off.’
‘I know,’ Maelo replied, groaning.
‘The timing of this uprising is inauspicious,’ declared Varus. ‘What do they hope to achieve this late in the season?’
Arminius felt a line of sweat trickle down his back. The usual time to go raiding, or to start a war, was at the end of spring, or in early summer, when there were months of campaigning available. ‘If I know the Angrivarii aright, reason will have had little to do with it,’ he said in a confiding tone. ‘Hot hearts are wont to overpower cold minds, they say among the tribes. Even now, it would be my instinct to react in the manner the Angrivarii have. It’s my Roman training that allows me to hold back, to think before I act.’
Varus regarded him with a smile. ‘Whatever the reason, their treachery cannot be overlooked. It’s fortunate that word reached us so soon, before they have had a chance to rally other tribes to their cause. Imagine also how difficult – and unpopular – it would have been to turn the army around close to Vetera. All we have to do now is, what – take a route to the north?’
It took a mighty effort for Arminius not to cheer. Instead, he said in a calm voice, ‘Correct, governor. We can follow the track upon which my men and I met the traveller.’
‘Good.’ Varus was already calling for his staff officers, and ordering that the engineers, and as much of their equipment as was feasible, be brought forward to their usual position. His legates were to be summoned, that they might discuss the best strategies to take against the Angrivarii. Word was to be passed along the entire column of the change in route, and the reasons why. Although contact with the enemy was not anticipated for a day or more, security was to be raised. ‘I want every man on the alert,’ commanded Varus. He turned back to Arminius. ‘Once again, I am in your debt.’
Arminius made an awkward gesture. ‘I was only doing my duty.’
‘As ever, you did it well. Now, though, you’d best return to your men. Leave some to ensure that the vanguard chooses the right path north, but I must ask you to take the rest ranging ahead – to see what you can find. For all we know, the Angrivarii could have sent raiding parties south.’
‘A wise decision,’ said Arminius. ‘I will also need to send riders to fetch the few men who missed our departure this morning.’
‘Do what you must, Arminius,’ replied Varus, waving him away. ‘Send any urgent news to me at once. Otherwise, report to me tonight, in camp.’
‘Very good,’ said Arminius. The next time I see you, I’ll plant a blade in your throat, he thought. ‘Come on, Maelo.’
‘Arminius!’ called Varus when they had ridden only a dozen paces.
Beside him, Arminius sensed Maelo stiffen. He turned, pulling a confident smile. ‘Yes?’
Varus raised a hand. ‘You didn’t say farewell.’
‘Pardon my haste. I wished only to begin my patrol. Farewell.’ Thank you, great Donar, Arminius thought, feeling a tide of relief as they rode on. ‘Gods above, I’m glad that’s over.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ muttered Maelo.
‘I should have left you with the men. You’re a warrior, not a spy.’ Arminius’ grin was half serious, half joking. ‘I still would have cut your balls off if you’d given the game away, mind.’
‘I’d have deserved it,’ Maelo admitted.
Easing their horses into a trot, they made their way towards the vanguard. Although no one questioned their passage, Arminius did not relax. It was yet possible that things could go wrong. Varus could develop doubts, and send a messenger to recall him. He had no idea where Tullus was, but if the centurion saw them, he might do something. So might that prick Tubero, if he appeared. It wasn’t likely that Flavus would catch sight of him either, riding as he was at the rear of the column, but Arminius kept a wary eye out for his brother too.
At length, they had left the legionaries of the vanguard behind, and the Gaulish cavalry too, and reached the safety of the open road. Only then did the events of the previous hour begin to seem real.
After so many years, the time for retribution was at hand.
XXI
It wasn’t long after dawn, and Varus was sitting in one of the partitioned rooms in his large tent, comfortable stool beneath him, thick carpets underfoot, oil lamps on gilded stands illuminating the chamber. The sound of orders, and grunts as furniture was lifted, came from all around him – the entire structure was being dismantled, ready for the day’s march – but where he was remained a little island of calm. The forest that had surrounded them since their departure from the main road the previous day was invisible yet, which was a pleasure. Varus had already seen enough trees to last him a lifetime.
‘Some bread, sir?’ asked Varus’ cook, a dour veteran who had been with him since he took up his governor’s post.
Varus, who hadn’t slept well, gave an irritable shake of his head. Already he was preoccupied with the impending day’s march, along the narrow path that Arminius had specified. The previous afternoon’s journey had been difficult and unpleasant. A night’s rain would have worsened the conditions further. It was as well, Varus thought, that the legions didn’t have to travel far.
Wise to his master’s mood, the cook retreated in silence with the plate of fresh-baked flatbreads.
‘Aristides,’ said Varus.
The Greek hurried over from his desk, and the mounds of documents that he’d been poring over. ‘Master?’
‘Has there been any sign of Arminius?’
Aristides knew that his master was well aware there hadn’t – they had had no visitors other than the cook since the last time Varus had asked. He scratched at one of the multitude of bites that decorated his face and arms and, after a moment, ventured, ‘No, master. Should I go outside and ask the guards?’
‘Yes. Have a soldier sent to the main gate as well, in case he’s arrived there. Have the auxiliary lines checked too, for the few of his riders who stayed behind yesterday.’
‘Master.’
Varus glared at Aristides’ retreating back. How one word could reveal that the Greek didn’t understand – or appreciate – his concern about Arminius’ absence, Varus wasn’t sure, but it did. All he has to be worried about is his damn bites, thought Varus, feeling jealous. I have a whole army to think of, and a tribe of damn Germans to find and subjugate.
The smell of hot wine dragged his mind back to the present. His cook had reappeared, unasked, this time with a silver goblet, from which wisps of steam were rising. ‘I thought you might like some wine instead, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s your favourite vintage, heated up and diluted a little. I’ve laced it with honey as well.’
Varus felt a smile break out. ‘Good man.’ Taking a sip, he toasted the cook. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘If you need another, sir, just call. I’ll keep my brazier hot until the last moment.’ The cook retreated towards the back of the tent, where his kitchen was situated.
Good mood restored, Varus decided that Arminius had been delayed by something – like as not being unable to track down some of his men – but he would appear sometime during the day. Even when Aristides returned to report that there had been no sign of the Cheruscan, and that his last riders had left before dawn to scout out the route ahead, Varus remained ebullient. When had Arminius ever let him down? A second, smaller goblet of wine fortified his spirits further. He put on his full general’s uniform: bronze, muscled breastplate, red sash, baldric, fine sword and crested helmet. Donning his crimson cloak last, Varus sallied from his tent, head held high. Mud squelched beneath his boots. It had rained even more than he’d realised overnight, which was annoying, for it would slow their progress on the narrow track.