‘So you will take me around the battlefield? I want to see where the various attacks took place, and, if you know it, where Varus and his commanders died.’
Tullus hesitated as the full realisation of what was being asked of him sank in. He had never imagined returning to the exact site where he’d seen his soldiers wiped out – it was bad luck to tread upon such bloodstained ground. How would it feel to show another where they had camped, wet, cold and miserable, on the first night – ignorant of what would happen to them? To point out his men’s whitened bones, scattered along that corridor of death? To stand where his legion’s eagle had been lost, where the Eighteenth’s pride had been stripped away in the most shameful manner? For a moment, Tullus found himself unable to speak.
‘I know it will be an agonising task,’ said Germanicus in a quiet voice. ‘If you wish not to do it, I will not insist. There will be no repercussions. None. May Jupiter strike me down if I lie.’
Germanicus’ face was earnest, and Tullus saw that he did understand how his exalted position made men think that they couldn’t say no. He was granting a way out to Tullus – and he meant it. Tullus cleared his throat. ‘It would be a good thing to seek out my men’s remains, sir, those that are possible to find, and give them a decent burial.’
‘All of our dead deserve the same. I intend to erect a tumulus on the battlefield, a sacred mound, by which they may be remembered forever.’
Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Tullus nodded. ‘I would be proud to show you what happened, sir, and where.’
Chapter XXIII
Drenched in sweat, his heart thumping, Arminius jerked upright. ‘Thusnelda!’ he screamed.
His wife was nowhere to be seen, and Arminius’ grief scourged him anew. He let out a savage oath, and another, and another. Thusnelda was gone forever, with his child – his son, if he’d been right. Arminius beat at his forehead with clenched fists, but the pain did not ease his sorrow. I’ll kill myself, he thought. The option appealed, yet he discarded it at once. He could end his misery, but not Thusnelda’s. Suicide would also deny him revenge on Germanicus. I must live, Arminius decided, his grief and fury melding into a white-hot flame. Live, and plan my retribution. Feeling calmer, he palmed the sweat from his brow.
His head was fuzzy, reminding him of every night’s pattern since Thusnelda’s abduction. Copious quantities of beer rendered him drowsy enough to sleep. Fitful slumber followed, visited by endless variations of a nightmare in which Thusnelda was abducted, injured, even raped by grinning legionaries, as he watched, powerless to intervene.
Curse it all, thought Arminius. The day hadn’t even begun, and he was exhausted. The faint light entering his hide tent revealed that it was still early, but he did not lie down. Bitter experience had taught him that falling asleep again would not conjure up Thusnelda, nor grant him the unconsciousness and memory loss which he so longed for. He threw the blanket off his legs, and rubbed at his gritty eyes. With his filthy mood entrenched for the day, he swilled a measure of wine to dilute the foul taste in his mouth, and shoved his way out of the tent.
‘Donar’s balls!’ The squat figure of Maelo – hands on hips, not ten paces away – made Arminius jump. He hoped that his second-in-command had not heard his cry.
‘Nightmare?’ asked Maelo.
Maelo was one of his best friends – one of his only friends – but Arminius considered lying. Appearing vulnerable was not something he had ever wanted to do – especially not now, with the task that lay ahead. Maelo’s knowing expression said it all, though. Arminius grimaced. ‘You heard?’
‘It was hard not to.’
Arminius gave thanks that Maelo’s tent was the only one within a hundred paces of his own. ‘I dreamed about Thusnelda.’
‘Any man would be the same,’ Maelo muttered. ‘It doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.’
Arminius couldn’t smile – he had not done so since Thusnelda’s abduction had shattered his world – but he nodded his appreciation.
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘You’ve found a supply of decent beer to replace the piss I’ve been forced to drink since we left the settlement.’
‘The man’s not completely without humour,’ said Maelo, chuckling. ‘I’d been wondering these last few days.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Arminius, but without heat. ‘What news?’
‘The scouts have returned. They almost made it here last night, but had to make camp when darkness fell. They set out again the moment it grew light.’
‘Where are they?’ Arminius craned his head, his eyes keen as a hawk’s. ‘Why didn’t you bring them to me?’
‘I knew you’d look like shit.’
Arminius ignored the rebuke. ‘What did they say?’
‘They can tell you better than I.’ Ignoring Arminius’ impatient hiss, Maelo raised the wooden pail gripped in his right fist. ‘I’d empty this over your head, but you’d get too angry and I might have to slap some sense into you. Wash your face, change your tunic and you’ll look more like a leader than a drunkard. Then I will take you to them.’
If Maelo had been anyone else, Arminius would have punched his teeth down his throat – or tried to, he thought, rueing not just the previous night’s quantity of beer, but his recent behaviour. Maelo was right. He had been letting himself go to seed, allowing his grief supremacy. Keep it up and he would lose the respect of the tribesmen who had joined his alliance, and any chance of vengeance this year. The latter prospect did not bear thinking about, so he did as Maelo suggested.
They spoke not a word as Arminius got ready, but when he was wearing fresh clothes, and tugging his fingers through his wet hair, Maelo gave him an approving look. Still a little ashamed, Arminius acted as if he hadn’t seen, and followed his second-in-command. It took some time to reach the central area between the sprawling mass of tents. Arminius felt grateful again that Maelo had made him see sense. The warriors of no less than four tribes were here to follow him against the Romans. A fifth tribe – the Tencteri – were due to arrive any day, when Arminius would have close to fifteen thousand spears to lead.
His host wasn’t large enough to tackle Germanicus’ vast army in open battle, but was more than sufficient to harry its flanks and rear, and to cause significant casualties. When that happened, more tribes would rally to his cause, as had been the case six years before – and then they might be able to deliver the killer blow.
The wisdom of Maelo’s counsel was reiterated as men emerging from their tents greeted Arminius with pleased smiles. ‘Is today the day that we ambush the Romans?’ ‘The gods are with us, Arminius!’
‘They are watching us, and smiling. We’ll attack the legions soon.’ They walked on, and Arminius glanced at Maelo, who affected not to notice. Arminius’ irritation flared. ‘Are you going to tell me or not?’
‘They say the best fisherman has patience to spare,’ said Maelo with a wink. ‘You can wait a little longer.’
Arminius wanted to box Maelo’s ears, but his second-in-command’s mention of a fisherman put him in mind of catching a fish, and that set his heart to racing, so he kept his peace.
Word had already got out about the scouts’ arrival, and the pair found them surrounded by Cherusci warriors. ‘Tell us what you saw!’ a voice cried. ‘Where are the cursed Romans?’ shouted a dozen more. ‘We’ll tell Arminius, and no one else,’ came the answer. Maelo pushed through the crowd, with Arminius on his heels. Three men were standing in the centre of the throng. Their faces bore pleased expressions, and Arminius’ hopes soared. He’d sent the trio out days before, their task to locate Germanicus’ army and, if possible, to determine its path.