He found her in the cooking area, which lay at the end of the longhouse closest to their sleeping area. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, which made Arminius’ groin stir. ‘You’re back,’ she said, stepping away from the fire and the pot of stew bubbling over it. ‘You look tired.’
‘Not too tired,’ he replied, pulling her into an embrace.
They kissed, long and hard. Arminius’ hands began to roam over her dress, down to her buttocks, and up again, to her breasts. Thusnelda didn’t pull away, and he decided his luck was in. ‘Come to bed. Your chores can wait.’
‘The slaves will hear,’ she said, laughing and glancing towards the other end of the building. Two figures, one an old man, the other a stripling girl, were using pitchforks to heave hay from the doorway to its usual place by the animal stalls. ‘They’ll see.’
‘What do we care?’ retorted Arminius. ‘They know enough not to look, or to stare.’
‘It’s not dark,’ said Thusnelda, colouring.
‘I didn’t hear you complain the times we’ve lain together in daytime – in the woods, or by the river,’ challenged Arminius gently.
‘There was no one about then.’
‘Come.’ He trailed his fingertips along her jawline, and down the side of her neck the way he knew she loved. Her protest, more muted this time, died away before another kiss, and he edged her towards their low bed, which sat against the end wall.
Arminius was just about to ease Thusnelda down on to the blanket-covered hay mattress when someone with a purposeful footstep entered the longhouse. Arminius ignored the sound for as long as he could, but when Thusnelda placed a gentle finger on his lips, he could disregard it no more. He half turned. Recognising Maelo, his trusted second-in-command, he swallowed his angry comment. ‘What is it?’
‘I called out at the door, but there was no answer,’ said Maelo by way of apology. At a passing glance, he was unremarkable-looking – of medium build, with longish brown hair and a typical tribal beard. He was as solid as a slab of granite, however, and one of the most dangerous warriors in the tribe. The sword at his belt had ended more men’s lives than Arminius’ weapon.
‘It’s all right.’ Arminius stepped away from Thusnelda, who brushed down her dress and returned to her pot of stew. Arminius motioned Maelo closer. ‘You wouldn’t come in without good reason.’
‘Segestes is coming.’
Arminius had not been expecting that. ‘To our village?’
‘So it seems. A warrior from the next settlement ran all the way here so we’d know about it before he arrived. Segestes has an honour guard with him, but no more.’
The shock on Thusnelda’s face told Arminius that she hadn’t known either. ‘What’s the old goat playing at?’ he demanded.
‘Who knows?’ replied Maelo.
‘Maybe he’s just paying me a visit,’ said Thusnelda. ‘I am his only daughter.’
‘But to arrive unannounced? There’s more to it than that.’ Arminius eyed Maelo. ‘Gather up fifty men and scout out the land between here and Segestes’ position, in case he has anyone hidden in the woods. I want the rest of the warriors ready to fight.’
Thusnelda frowned. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘He cannot be trusted, my love, your father or no,’ replied Arminius. ‘He was the one who tried to warn Varus, remember?’
‘That was only rumour,’ said Thusnelda, with little conviction.
‘Maybe so, but it wouldn’t have been out of character for him to do so,’ Arminius retorted. ‘Rome has few allies more loyal.’
Thusnelda’s sigh was answer enough.
While Maelo headed off to see his orders carried out, Arminius opted for a wash and a change of clothes. It would not do to be abed when Segestes appeared. Old he might be, yet his mind remained sharp – and devious.
It was mid-morning before Segestes and his party reached the settlement. Maelo’s search of the surrounding area had found nothing, and Arminius had had ample time to prepare for the visitors’ arrival. Six piglets had been slaughtered, and were already turning on spits over fires tended by a gaggle of high-spirited youths. Barrels of beer were being set up on trestles in the central meeting area. The tribe’s high priest, a whitebeard in a dark green robe, was there too, attended by his acolytes. A hundred of Arminius’ best warriors lounged about in their finest war gear, comparing weapons, swapping boastful stories, and wrestling. They were an overt demonstration of his power and protection against treachery rolled into one. Thusnelda was in their longhouse, clad in her finest raiment, and ready for Arminius’ summons. He himself played dice with Maelo at a table by the door, appearing not to have a care in the world.
‘Ha! I win again,’ said Maelo. ‘That’s two silver coins you owe me.’
Arminius focused on the dice – Maelo had just rolled a five and a four. ‘I scored ten, no?’
Maelo snorted. ‘If you were anyone else, I’d call you a cheat. You got eight.’
‘My mind’s not on the game.’
‘That’s clear. I’d best make the most of it, eh?’ Maelo handed over the dice. ‘Your turn to roll.’
‘Can it be as simple as coming to see his daughter? Surely not.’
‘Perhaps he’s coming to offer you his allegiance?’ The outlandish idea made them both chuckle, before Maelo continued, ‘The dog will have something up his sleeve. You’ll see his intent before he has time to act it out, though.’
‘Ah, Maelo, life would be a great deal harder without you,’ said Arminius with real feeling. ‘Here.’ He laid a pair of Roman coins on the table top. They and their type were the last vestiges of the empire’s influence east of the river, he thought with considerable satisfaction. ‘Your winnings. I’ll take them back the next time we play, and more.’
‘In your dreams!’ said Maelo, grinning.
They fell to talking about the tribes. Which ones would answer Arminius’ call to fight the Romans, and which would not? How easy would it be to win over those who lay in-between? What number of spears would each tribe send, and would they follow him for a whole campaigning season? It was frustrating how few of the questions they had answers to. Despite the promises of support he’d had from other chieftains, it wasn’t uncommon for loyalties to shift. Like it or not, Arminius would have to visit each of his allies before the spring.
A new realisation sank in as Segestes and his party hove into sight. ‘Could the prick be on his way to see Inguiomerus?’ Arminius hissed.
‘Perhaps,’ said Maelo, his brows lowering. ‘If he’s heard the news about him.’
‘He must have.’ It had been a real battle to win the leader of the third Cheruscan faction over – Inguiomerus had not helped to ambush Varus five years before – but Arminius had succeeded in doing so not long before the harvest. ‘Word of it will have travelled – you know how it is.’
‘Aye, probably.’ Maelo studied the approaching group, who numbered about twenty. Warriors all, with Segestes in the middle of them. ‘Mayhap you’re right. Segestes won’t like it that Inguiomerus now stands with us.’
‘Here he is.’ Arminius got to his feet. ‘Welcome, Segestes, defender of Rome!’
Arminius’ men rumbled their disapproval of Segestes’ allegiance.
Glowering at this veiled insult, Segestes’ warriors parted, allowing him to walk towards Arminius. Segestes’ smile stayed in place, but anger glinted in his eyes. Less brawny, more silver-haired and with fewer teeth than he’d had five years before, he still cut an imposing figure, in tunic and trousers of fine-woven wool, and wearing a sword as expensive as that of Arminius.
Ten steps from Arminius, he stopped. If the nod that followed was perfunctory, his return greeting spoke even louder. ‘I greet you, Arminius, oathbreaker.’
Arminius raised a hand to quell his men’s rage. ‘In my mind, an oath made to a hated overlord is never binding. A pledge made between equals – that is something to honour.’