The notion of winning new allies made him think of his recent visit to the Angrivarii tribe, which had gone well. They would send their warriors to join with his in the late spring. So too would the ever-reliable Marsi. It had been likely from the outset that these two tribes – both haters of Rome – would ally themselves to him again, but it warmed Arminius’ heart to have heard their chieftains’ sworn promises before the first snow had fallen. If the mild weather returned before winter, he would range westward, to the Bructeri, and south, to the Chatti. Among these peoples, too, he hoped to find more allies. With luck, Segimundus would already have laid the groundwork for him.
And yet. And yet …
The memory of the two ravens in the sacred grove still shone bright in his mind, as did Segimundus’ inability – refusal? – to interpret the meaning of their appearance. The most Arminius had been able to glean from him was a dissatisfying ‘Ravens are Donar’s messengers. They go hither and thither, doing his bidding. Often it is impossible to discern the god’s purpose for their presence.’
Was it coincidence that Segimundus’ replies to Arminius’ questions had grown even more ambiguous after his last visit to his father? Or that Segestes, who had been so angry about his detention, should have become for no apparent reason the model prisoner? The only word for Segestes’ recent behaviour was smug, thought Arminius, ducking under a spindly length of bramble that hung over the track.
An unseen, jutting piece of deadwood made him stumble a moment later. Pain radiated from his left shin, unbalancing him. A sharp cry leaving his lips, Arminius toppled forward over the log, dropping his spear and trying not to land face first in the mud.
Ssshhhewww. The unmistakeable sound of an arrow shot over his head.
His desire to get up vanished as he pressed himself flat to the cold ground. He heard no questioning cry, no apologetic shout from a hunter who had released in error. The continuing silence revealed that the shaft had been meant for him. If he hadn’t tripped, it might well have done its work. His mind raced. Who in Donar’s name was trying to kill him – and so close to the settlement?
Low voices off to his left, the direction from which the arrow had come, told him that his assailant wasn’t alone. Were there two men, three, more? Fresh sweat beaded Arminius’ brow. Maelo and the rest of his warriors – hundreds strong – could have been in Rome for all the good they were to him now. If he stood, the archer would loose again. So too would his companions, if they were similarly armed. By the time Arminius had restrung his own bow, he’d have at least one shaft in him – and his attackers would have closed in. They would have spears too.
Voices conferred. Twigs crackled. Footsteps drew nearer.
I’m not leaving this life cowering in the mud like a spineless worm, thought Arminius with rising fury. Go out fighting, and he had some chance of being welcomed into the warriors’ paradise. Quick as he could, he slipped off his bow and quiver and unslung the rabbits from his belt – they would hinder use of his spear. Praying that his enemies weren’t on top of him, he gripped his spear shaft and threw himself up on to his knees. A quick glance to his left, to his right, and behind revealed six approaching figures, none of whom he recognised. They were no more than twenty paces away, and Arminius’ stomach clenched. Unless this was some kind of dreadful mistake, someone really wanted him dead.
Ssshhhewww.
An arrow ripped through his tunic, opening a shallow, stinging cut in his left side, and sped off into the undergrowth. Arminius ducked down out of reflex but, two heartbeats later, he had to risk another look at his attackers. A second man was armed with a bow, but the rest appeared to be wielding spears. If he ran for the settlement, the archers could take him down with ease, and the same would happen if he charged the spearmen. Mind made up, Arminius sprinted towards the bowman who’d just shot at him. With bared teeth and levelled weapon, he screamed a mad, desperate war cry.
A shaft from the second archer winged past, embedding itself in the gnarled trunk of an old beech, but the first bowman flinched before Arminius’ wild dash, his nerves making him fumble with his next arrow. Arminius had closed to within ten paces before he had managed to nock it, and to six by the time he had pulled the string to half draw. With no option but to release, he let the string go with a pathetic-sounding twang.
Arminius ducked, and the arrow flew over his head. Using his momentum, he drove his spear deep into the archer’s belly. The man’s oomph of shock was followed by a prolonged shriek of pain. Arminius jerked to a halt and ripped his blade free. Ignoring the archer, who sank whimpering to the mud, he cast about for the others.
The spearmen were running forward, and the second bowman was about to loose. Spear discarded, Arminius wrenched his victim up by his shoulders, protecting himself from further arrows. A meaty thump, and a fresh howl of agony from his captive signalled the arrival of another arrow. He had acted in the nick of time. Flinging the doubly wounded warrior towards the spearmen, he turned and fled.
He had a good pair of legs, and therefore a decent chance of outstripping his attackers, yet his skin crawled with every pounding step. Unless the archer was a hopeless shot, he also had every likelihood of taking an arrow in the back before reaching the tree line. Twenty paces hurtled by. The man had to be ready to release again, thought Arminius, terror gnawing his belly. He made a sudden jink to the right, and hurdled a fallen tree. Immense satisfaction filled him as an arrow flew off to his left.
Another thirty-something paces, and still the archer had not loosed again, although loud curses and hammering footsteps told Arminius that the spearmen were on his trail yet. The thick undergrowth and profusion of fallen wood made the risk of tripping too great to look back. Ten more steps, and he began to wonder if he’d run beyond the archer’s effective range. If he could reach the edge of the trees, and there bellow for help, any warriors within earshot would come running. His pursuers might be put off. He might survive.
Ssshhhewww-tthhuunnkk.
A ball of blinding agony – such as Arminius had never felt – burst from the back of his right thigh. He stumbled, hearing at the same time a triumphant cry from behind. Hissing with discomfort, and balancing on his left foot, he looked down. The barbed head of an arrow was jutting clear of the front of his right trouser leg, and a quick feel behind revealed its shaft protruding from his thigh. There was no time to snap it off, still less pull it out. If he even tried, the pain would make him faint.
A hobble was all he could manage – walking was out of the question. Arminius glanced back, and his hopes plummeted. The spearmen were less than fifty paces away, and the archer was but a little further off. All five were running straight at him.
His only weapon now was a short-bladed dagger – useless against men with spears and a bow. He tugged it free nonetheless, and hopped around to face his enemies. What a pointless way to die, he thought with supreme bitterness. After all that he’d done, after the crushing defeat he had inflicted on Rome, he would end his life like a wounded deer, powerless to stop those who had hunted him down.
Foliage rustled behind him. Guts lurching, Arminius tried to turn to face the attacker who had somehow got between him and the village. Before he fell, he had a brief impression of a slight figure leaning forward into the arch of a full-drawn bow, and then: ssshhhewww. An arrow flew past him, coming to rest a heartbeat later in the throat of the lead spearman, who dropped without a sound.
Huuuummmmmmmm! Huuuummmmmmmm !
The tone was reedy, surely made by a child, but there was no mistaking the barritus, the war chant used by most tribes. A second voice took it up, somewhere close to the first, and through the dizzying waves of agony that enveloped him, Arminius heard two more arrows scudding overhead. A third volley resulted in another casualty. All the while, Arminius’ saviours kept up the barritus, interspersing their chant with aspersions on his attackers’ parentage and relationship to swine, rats and other animals.