His legates, Numonius Vala among them, and Lucius Eggius and Ceionius, his camp commanders, were waiting outside. They greeted him with smiles and salutes. ‘It’s a fine morning for hunting rebel tribesmen, sir,’ declared Vala.
Varus cast an eye upwards. Most of the clouds that had deluged the land a few hours before had gone. A watery sun was climbing above the treetops to the east. It was no guarantee that the weather would remain dry, but Varus had long found it best to remain positive. ‘Indeed it is. Make your reports.’
The Eighteenth Legion had been selected to form the vanguard that day, Varus was told. The Gaulish cavalry would precede it. To avoid the problems of the previous day, the engineers would march behind the first two cohorts of the Eighteenth, the better to be able to swing into action when their services were needed, as they would be.
‘As you’re aware, sir, some of the non-combatants and wagons have been travelling together with the soldiers,’ said Vala. ‘Do you wish them separated as if we were on campaign?’
All eyes swivelled to Varus, who smiled in dismissal. ‘The Angrivarii are a small tribe, who live more than thirty miles away. I see no reason to travel as if we are afraid. Besides, there may be points at which soldiers are needed to help move wagons over streams and so on. Is there anything else? No? To your positions, then.’
By late morning, Varus’ good humour was again wearing thin. Not long after the army had left camp, the wind had picked up, bringing with it banks of dark clouds that had emptied themselves over the forest and the slow-moving column. Although there had been breaks in the downpour, they had been scant. The wind continued to gain in strength, delivering more clouds – and rain – from the north. While the trees to either side afforded more protection than if they had been on a plain, there was no escaping the sheets of precipitation which hammered down from above. All a man could do was to hunch his shoulders and ride – or walk – on.
Varus could have summoned a covered wagon – there was even an official litter somewhere in the baggage train – but he didn’t wish to be perceived as a ‘soft’ general, who could not endure what his soldiers had to. Leading by example was important. He wasn’t going to be above calling for a new, dry cloak when the time came, however. Wool that had been soaked in lanolin could keep out the rain for a decent period, yet it became waterlogged in the end. Varus pitied his legionaries, each of whom possessed but one cloak. By the day’s end, they would be like bedraggled rats. And the smell in their tents – Varus wrinkled his nose at the mere thought. The odour of men who’d marched twenty miles carrying heavy kit was ripe at the best of times, but the confines of a tent, and wet wool – which stank – increased it manyfold.
The constant downpour, and the passage of so many feet, both animals and men, had turned the forest track into a quagmire. Mud had splattered up to Varus’ horse’s fetlocks. The legionaries in his escort had dirty cloak hems, and brown legs from the knee down. The group of slaves following Varus and his staff officers, most of whom wore no protection against the rain, were muddy, and drenched to the skin. However bad it was here, near the vanguard, he brooded, things would be worse further along the column. Like as not, the wagons carrying the artillery were getting bogged down, even stuck.
Varus felt his temper – and frustration – rise, but there was nothing he could do other than to keep his forces moving forward. Dealing with the threat of the Angrivarii was a necessity, and there was no way of turning around. His army was like a large wagon which had gone down a narrow alleyway. How long the alley was, Varus had no idea. Arminius would know, but there was no sign of him. For the umpteenth time that morning, Varus wondered where he was, and what he was up to. Ordering a messenger to the vanguard, Varus commanded word be brought from his remaining cavalry, the Gauls, about the ground to the north. ‘I want to know when the damn forest ends,’ he called after the rider. ‘As soon as possible!’
He received the information he’d requested from an unexpected source soon after, not from the messenger, but a bedraggled-looking Tubero, who sought him out. ‘The Gauls have ridden five miles and more in front of the vanguard, sir,’ he reported. ‘There are clearings here and there, and a patch or two of bog, but the forest appears to continue for some distance.’
‘I see.’ Varus digested this, holding in his urge to rant and roar, to lambast Tubero for not reporting what he wanted to hear. Stay level-headed, he told himself. A day’s bad weather isn’t going to kill us. Nor is a forest. ‘Why were you with the vanguard?’
‘I wanted to see what was going on, sir.’
Varus smiled in approval. ‘A worthy attitude.’
‘It’s hard to remain patient when you’re stuck back down the line, sir – you know how it is.’
‘You’ve identified one of the most aggravating things about an army on the move. As a commander, you often don’t have an idea in Hades what’s going on. What did you discover?’
‘Not a great deal, sir. The engineers are working as hard as they can. Chopping down trees and widening the track is simple enough, but building bridges takes time. According to their senior centurion, they’ve constructed two already this morning. They’re working on a third as we speak.’
‘Are there more watercourses?’
‘Four or five, sir, according to the Gauls. All but one are fordable on foot, though. The wagons will get through if they have soldiers to help keep them moving.’
‘I suppose that’s something,’ said Varus. ‘But we’ll never make twenty miles today.’
‘No, sir.’ Tubero’s voice was emphatic.
‘Has anyone seen Arminius?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘If he’s run into some kind of problem, he should have sent word back,’ Varus grumbled. ‘Maybe he’s clashed with a party of Angrivarii.’
‘Do you think it possible that he has abandoned us, sir?’ ventured Tubero.
‘Arminius has been an ally of Rome for many years. He’ll be back soon, you’ll see,’ replied Varus in a bluff tone.
‘As you say, sir,’ said Tubero, looking awkward. ‘With your permission, then, I’ll be off.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Varus, remembering how he had dismissed Tubero’s vague querying of Arminius’ loyalty. Before you go, though …’
‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing with a cavalry helmet?’ asked Varus, gesturing.
‘This?’ Tubero tapped the ornate, silvered helm that was hanging by a loop from his belt. ‘It was a gift from my father, sir, before I left Rome. Most likely, I’ll never get to wear it in a charge, but I like to imagine that I might, one day.’
It was a little odd for a tribune to carry such a helmet, but it wasn’t against regulations, thought Varus. As he watched Tubero ride away, his mood threatened to sink a little further into the mud. His mind was taken from his worries soon after, however, when word came that the engineers had finished their bridge. The way forward was clear for another mile and a half, the messenger reported. Things were improving, thought Varus.
His feeling was buoyed up when the rain eased and stopped a short while later. The cloud broke up, allowing warm sunshine to bathe the forest, and the soaking, mud-covered Romans. Varus took the opportunity to change his cloak, and to eat a hunk of bread and cheese. Drier than he had been for hours, and with his rumbling belly silenced, he decided that he had been unfair to Arminius. The Cheruscan hadn’t made the route towards the Angrivarii difficult. He hadn’t brought down the rain either, or churned the ground into mud. Morale was still high, as evinced by the bawdy marching song that the nearest legionaries had begun to sing. The engineers would ensure that the army maintained some kind of momentum. The desired total of twenty miles might not be reached, and it might be late before the marching camp was built, thought Varus, but the day would end well.