They greeted him with broad grins. There was no bowing or saluting – that was not the tribes’ way – but there was respect in their eyes. ‘Arminius,’ they said in unison.
‘Well met,’ he replied, feeling, for the first time since Thusnelda’s capture, the beginnings of a smile creep on to his face. ‘What news?’
‘Germanicus is at the site of our ambush on Varus,’ said the oldest warrior, a broken-nosed, straggle-haired farmer whom Arminius had known since he was a child.
There was a general Ahhhhh of excitement.
‘What does he there?’ demanded Arminius.
‘His soldiers look set to bury their dead – what’s left of them,’ replied Straggle Hair, snickering.
Hoots of laughter rang out. ‘D’you think they’ll be able to take down the skulls we nailed to the trees?’ asked a warrior. More merriment ensued. The humour was excellent for morale, so Arminius waited until the noise had died down.
‘Is his entire army with him?’
Straggle Hair scowled for the first time. ‘Aye. Eight legions, and many thousands of auxiliaries.’
Uncertainty registered on a good number of faces, and Arminius bellowed, ‘All the more for us to slaughter! My intent is to lead them into another ambush. Mired in the bog, they will have to abandon their wagons and artillery as they did before. The barritus will curdle the Romans’ courage, and your spears will darken the skies above them. Their eagles will fall into our hands one by one. Blessed by Donar, we will attack until they break and run. When that happens, they will die – every last one.’ He let out a grim chuckle. ‘Save perhaps the miserable few who will carry word back to their camps.’
The warriors whooped their approval, and Arminius knew he had done enough with these, his faction of the Cherusci. His own self-assurance had been strengthened by the warriors’ enthusiasm. Next he would have to persuade the other chieftains in the camp to go along with his plan, which shouldn’t be too hard a task. Their presence here with their warriors meant they were of a mind with him already, did it not? Rather than talk to each one in turn, Arminius decided, he would gather them together and do it in one fell swoop. The sooner he had the chieftains in the palm of his hand, the sooner he could strike at the Romans. And that, he thought, an image of Thusnelda burning bright in his mind, was the only thing that mattered.
It was a little after midday, and the sun was beating down from a brilliant aquamarine sky. Swifts swooped and darted overhead, their high-pitched skirrs another reminder that it was high summer. Close to a score of chieftains were gathered in a circle near Arminius’ tent, which granted them privacy, but not shade. Temperatures had been climbing since dawn, and if they continued, this would be the hottest day of the year thus far. Arminius studied the sweating, unhappy faces around him, and felt the beads of moisture prickling the back of his own neck. Two annoying conclusions filled his mind: that evening would have been a better time to hold the meeting, and that he had been over-confident in assuming that the chieftains would be easy to win over.
Things had started well. His announcement that Germanicus’ army was close by had been greeted with cheers, and his audience had loved his plan to ambush the legions as they had before. It was the Romans’ numbers which had snuffed out the chieftains’ enthusiasm. Since then the argument had been moving back and forth without resolution. There had been no suggestion yet of returning to their own lands, but the heaviness of that possibility hung in the warm air.
Arminius wanted to speak again, but he knew the value of when to stay silent, and it was now. Whether he liked it or not, the chieftains had to have their say. I am not their ruler, he thought, with more than a trace of regret.
A stick-thin leader of the Usipetes was the next to step forward. ‘I say it’s madness to attack an enemy with more than three times our strength – in particular when that enemy is the cursed Romans.’ He gave his moustache an unhappy tug. ‘In open battle, each legionary is worth three of our warriors, maybe four.’
‘On a bad day, five,’ muttered a voice.
‘I do not mean to fight them face-to-face-’ Arminius began, but Stick Thin interrupted:
‘Yes, yes. You talk of causing panic and driving them into the bog, but that’s easier said than done. We have, what, twelve thousand spears?’
‘Fifteen thousand when the Tencteri arrive,’ said Arminius, but Stick Thin crowed: ‘Twelve, fifteen thousand – what difference does it make? They cannot prevail against such a massive host. I am minded of a group of boys trying to herd a score of prize bulls somewhere they do not wish to go.’
‘An impossible task,’ said one of the Angrivarii chieftains, a big-chinned individual whom Arminius had always regarded as a solid ally.
Are we to let them move through our lands unhindered then, slaughtering and raping with impunity? Arminius wanted to scream, but he bit his lip. In situations like this, anger got a man nowhere. It was better to remain outwardly calm, appearing to listen to their opinions, and to delay speaking until the right moment presented itself.
‘We could wait for more tribes to join us,’ suggested Stick Thin.
Big Chin looked pleased. ‘The Tencteri are due any day, you say?’
‘Five thousand of them,’ repeated Arminius. ‘If the Mattiaci come, there’ll be even more.’
His answer made a few men smile.
‘And the Chatti – what of them?’ demanded Stick Thin, dampening the mood as fast as it improved. Germanicus’ savage campaign had shredded the Chatti tribe. No one knew how many of its people yet lived.
The weight of so many stares was hard to resist. ‘I have had word from one Chatti chieftain. He promises four score spears, maybe a hundred,’ said Arminius, cursing inside as he spoke. Compared to the Roman host, it was a pathetic number.
Stick Thin sucked in his top lip. ‘Perhaps we should go back to our settlements.’
No one voiced agreement, yet not a man shouted him down either. Arminius saw the chieftains’ mood wavering, and his fury broke free. ‘Do you think Germanicus will leave you be?’ he cried. ‘Have you forgotten the treatment already doled out to the Marsi, and to the Chatti, of whom we have just spoken? Germanicus does not want to treat with us. He is out for revenge! The whoreson wants to slaughter us by the thousand, and to enslave those who survive. He needs the two remaining eagles and the other standards I gifted to you. Will you roll over like beaten curs and just give him what he wants? Have you sunk that low?’
‘Those are fighting words, Arminius of the Cherusci.’ Big Chin was on his feet, his forefinger jabbing the air. ‘Be careful who you accuse of cowardice!’
‘I mean no disrespect,’ said Arminius, dipping his chin a little.
‘That’s not how it sounds,’ said Big Chin, and many men rumbled in agreement. ‘No one has called you a drunkard to your face at this meeting, yet that is how men name you in the camp.’
Arminius’ temper frayed so fast that his fingers strayed to his sword hilt. Control yourself, he thought, and managed to convert the move into a scratch of his belly. He listened as Big Chin continued, ‘Every chieftain here feels your sorrow, Arminius, but if you continue to seek comfort in the bottom of a mug, know that we will follow you no longer.’
The grim faces around the circle revealed that Big Chin had assessed the chieftains’ mood well. Maelo’s advice had come none too soon, thought Arminius. I risk losing everything.
‘You speak true,’ he said, adopting a humble tone. ‘My grief has overwhelmed me of late. I have been drinking too much. Maelo said the same this very morn. Hearing it from you brings it home harder.’ His gaze ranged from side to side, meeting every man’s eyes. ‘Not another drop shall pass my lips until this summer’s campaign is over – I swear this to you.’