Hunting the Eagles (16 page)

A faint line marked Segimundus’ brow. ‘How long do you plan to hold him prisoner?’

‘Until the end of next year’s campaigning season.’

‘By which time his counsel to Inguiomerus will be useless.’

‘Aye.’ Arminius searched Segimundus’ face again for an indication of his feelings, but could detect nothing that indicated his visitor was angry with him.

After a long moment, Segimundus said, ‘What you’ve done is for the best.’

Despite himself, Arminius’ breath came out long and slow. ‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

‘How else could I take it?’ Segimundus’ grip on his arm was solid. He added, ‘You won’t hold it against me if I visit him?’

‘Please – you don’t have to ask. Spend as long with your father as you wish,’ said Arminius with an expansive gesture. It might keep the old dog quiet for a time, he thought, which would be a gods-sent blessing for everyone.

Segimundus’ visit to his father was brief, pleasing Arminius. He turned out to be a pleasant house guest as well, charming Thusnelda with his compliments by day, and content by night to listen to, and comment on, Arminius’ plans. The warriors also took to Segimundus, relishing the unusual company of a priest who wrestled
and
drank.

On the second night, Arminius took Segimundus to the sacred grove. Barley beer and blankets kept the worst of the chill away during the long, unnerving hours of darkness. Arminius saw nothing, and dreamed less during the fitful periods of sleep that came to him. Creaking branches, wind rustling the last leaves on the trees, the hooting of an owl, mice skittering about in the undergrowth – these and Segimundus’ pacing were the only sounds he heard, and could not be assigned to Donar. Hugely frustrated by the time dawn had come, Arminius had given up hope that a sign would be revealed to them. Red-eyed, belly rumbling and muscles stiff from inaction, he motioned to Segimundus that they should go.

Segimundus shook his head – no.

Arminius was about to ask why, but Segimundus motioned for him to remain silent.

Krrruk.

The hair on the back of Arminius’ neck prickled. Only one bird made that sound.

Krrruk. Krrruk.

He turned his head to see not one but two ravens alighting in the largest of the oak trees that ringed the sacred space. The birds were common enough in the area, but he had never seen one in
this
place. When first one and then the other raven flew down to the rough-hewn stone altars that sat in the centre of the circle, Arminius thought his heart would stop.

The birds began tapping to and fro on the stone with their powerful beaks. Of course, thought Arminius. The sacrifices practised here meant that there would be congealed blood, and perhaps more, on the altars – appealing food. Nonetheless, it felt god-sent for the ravens to arrive when he and Segimundus were present. It seemed that Segimundus had drawn the same conclusion, for his lips were moving in fervent prayer.

Arminius squeezed his eyes shut and did the same. Great Donar, I thank you for this sign of your favour. I will have a fine ram killed here in your honour before the sun sets. In return, I ask for your help in uniting the tribes. If the Romans are to be defeated once and for all, they
must
follow me to battle. Let my words, and those of Segimundus, fall on the chieftains’ ears as spring rain on young barley, and when the time comes, let us reap Roman legionaries as we did for you in the forest.

Krrruk. Krrruk.

Startled, Arminius looked up. The nearest raven had cocked its head to the side; a red string of ichor trailed from its beak on to the altar. One beady black eye regarded him, as if to say, ‘This is my price.’ With a flick of its neck, the blood clot was thrown up in the air. It flashed, crimson red, for a heartbeat, before disappearing down the raven’s throat.

Krrruk
. The satisfied note in the bird’s voice was distinct.
Krrruk.

Krrruk.
Its partner replied in kind from the other altar.

Donar
did
regard his mission as worthy, thought Arminius. Surely he could take that meaning from what had just transpired? He glanced at Segimundus, whose eyes were still closed, whose lips yet moved in reverential prayer. Eager that he should be seen in the same light by the god, Arminius bent his head and did likewise. He remained in this humble position for some time. Even when his knees began to ache, and his lower back to complain, he did not stir.

The dull flap of wing beats signalled the ravens’ departure.

‘They have gone,’ said Segimundus a moment later.

Arminius studied the priest’s face. ‘Were they sent by Donar?’

‘Aye.’ Conviction throbbed in Segimundus’ voice.

‘And the meaning of their presence?’

‘I cannot yet be certain.’

‘They must have been a good omen.’

‘Perhaps. I will have to think on it.’

To show his disappointment would appear weak. Although he wanted to shake Segimundus and demand an immediate interpretation, Arminius did nothing more than nod solemnly. ‘I understand.’

‘It’s time to return. I would rest, and afterwards visit my father.’

‘Of course.’ Irritated as well now, Arminius made a show of collecting up the vessels that had contained their beer, and folding his blanket. In his eyes, Donar had shown approval for his plans, and so, during their silent walk back to the settlement, Segimundus’ refusal to comment niggled away at him, like an itch that cannot be scratched.

Did the priest have another motive?

GERMANICUS DID NOT
deign to show his face as the money was presented by Tullus and his men to the cheering mutineers. Fighting broke out the instant the mule-drawn wagon had left Tullus’ control; legionaries scrambled aboard, seizing money bags or slitting them with their daggers. Showers of
denarii
and sestertii rained down on the frenzied crowd as men hurled handfuls of them at their fellows.

Tullus looked on in disgust. ‘They’re a disgrace to the uniform,’ he muttered to Fenestela.

‘If they’d been paid what was due, this whole situation mightn’t have happened,’ said Fenestela.

It was an uncomfortable truth, thought Tullus, but rebelling against their commanders, not to mention murdering centurions, went too far against the grain. Military discipline had to be maintained, or the world would descend into bloody chaos.

Retribution would also have to be taken for what had happened.

Tullus wasn’t looking forward to that.

The day after the legionaries had been paid, Germanicus ordered the Fifth and Twenty-First back to Vetera. Bony Face and the rest agreed, bringing the mutiny to an end, and in theory allowing normal life to resume. It didn’t for Tullus. The brutal and unexpected events had tainted his love of the legions, for so many years his main reason for existence. He wasn’t alone – the mutiny had had a profound impact on everyone. The abiding sense of order, a reassuring and solid part of army life, had been destroyed.

Its absence was palpable everywhere, from the surly looks cast at officers by the legionaries, to the units lacking centurions and the waste that still littered the avenues. The rubbish could be cleaned up, and the camp abandoned, but it would take far more than that to restore the sense of trust that had been lost between officers and men. Tullus wasn’t sure if it could be done at all.

To his relief, Degmar had returned from over the river to lurk in one of the rough ‘boarding house’ tents outside the camp. His reappearance was an enormous relief to Tullus. Degmar brought with him a rumour – heard from an itinerant trader – that one of the three eagles taken during Arminius’ ambush had been given to the Marsi tribe, his people. This intrigued Tullus, and he resolved to tell Caecina or even Germanicus about it when the opportunity arose.

During the sixty-plus-mile journey to Vetera, which took place with little of the usual singing and banter among the legionaries, Tullus had plenty of time to brood. There was no doubt that most of the slain officers had been unpopular taskmasters. A number
had
been corrupt. A few had perhaps deserved to die for what they had done, but no more, and
not
at the hands of common soldiers. So many men had been complicit in the killings that it would have been impossible to punish them all, but if life were to return to normal, action had to be taken against some. That meant the ringleaders: men such as Bony Face, Fat Nose and the twins.

Germanicus had been right, Tullus concluded. Mouldy apples had to be removed from the barrel before the decay spread. That way, the other fruit would last for months. The rotten items in this case were men, not fruit, but the harsh principle was the same. Bony Face and his cronies would have to die. Life, as Tullus said to Fenestela, was often like that. Brutal.

Back in Vetera, it was even more apparent that the canker’s excision needed to be sooner rather than later. The men of Tullus’ century, whom he bound to him with a mixture of regular training and supplies of wine, remained solid. Things were different in the other centuries in his cohort, however. Bony Face and his cronies continued to foment unrest. Other mutineers did the same in other cohorts in the Fifth, and among the ranks of the Twenty-First. The discontent and ill discipline could have been overlooked in a few units perhaps, but spread over two entire legions they were a huge cause for concern.

The dawn trumpets, which were supposed to send every man tumbling from his blankets, were ignored. Routine tasks such as the felling of trees and transporting of firewood were not completed, or took twice as long as normal. Instead of patrolling the camp’s battlements as they were supposed to, sentries stayed in the watchtowers – dozing, according to some. Junior officers were disobeyed; even centurions found it hard to see their orders followed through. Tullus didn’t like to admit it, but he wasn’t in full control of his new command, the cohort previously led by Septimius. This didn’t weaken Tullus’ determination to establish control, though. Restoring him to his former rank was a mark of considerable favour from Germanicus, and such chances didn’t often come a man’s way.

Rumours abounded, of uprisings by legions elsewhere in the empire, of legates murdered in their beds, and of Germanicus’ auxiliaries being sent to Vetera, their mission to exact vengeance upon the mutinous legionaries. Gossip gleaned from the traders in the settlement outside the camp spoke of unrest among the German tribes on the far side of the river. Even the gods seemed to be unhappy. Winds and heavy rain flattened the last of the summer’s crops before they could be harvested, and on a local farm, a grotesque pair of calves, joined at the chest, were cut out of the mother that had died trying to birth them.

Under normal circumstances, such apparent divine intervention would have cowed the soldiers, most of whom were as superstitious as the ordinary man in the street. Now, though, it fuelled their resentment. The final proof that action had to be taken – as if Tullus needed evidence of that – came when news arrived from Ara Ubiorum, the camp that was still home to the First and Twentieth Legions, who had mutinied alongside the Fifth and Twenty-First.

Tullus was at the quartermaster’s office, demanding equipment needed by his unit, when word reached him. One of the quartermaster’s staff, a veteran with fewer teeth in his lower jaw than a newborn lamb, came barging through the door. ‘Jupiter’s cock, have you heard the news?’ He took in Tullus’ presence, and looked discomfited. A hasty salute followed. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.’

‘No matter.’ Tullus was pleased; the soldier had shown him the respect that he was due, which was more than could currently be said of many others. He indicated the quartermaster and the rest of his staff. ‘We all want to know what’s happened. Speak.’

‘A ship’s just come downriver from Ara Ubiorum, sir. Things have gone to hell there over the last ten days and more. Germanicus was away, placating the legions of Germania Superior, when a senatorial embassy arrived from Rome. By the time Germanicus had returned, the soldiers had panicked. They assumed that the embassy was there to order the deaths of their leaders, so they stormed the principia and seized their legions’ eagles. Germanicus’ wife and baby son were taken captive for a time.’

Stupid fools, thought Tullus, closing his eyes. ‘Were they harmed?’

‘No, sir, thank the gods,’ replied Toothless. ‘The soldiers love Agrippina and Little Boots too much to do them any injury. When they were released, Germanicus sent them away for their own safety to Augusta Treverorum, with auxiliaries as an escort. It seems that the legionaries were shocked to the core that he should entrust his family to the care of non-citizens, loyal though they are. When Germanicus addressed the troops the next day, and harangued them about their duty to Rome, they capitulated at once. The mutiny’s ringleaders were rounded up and handed over to the legions’ legates.’

‘They were executed, I assume?’ asked Tullus, dreading how many would have to die here, in Vetera.

A shadow passed over Toothless’ face. ‘About a hundred, they say, sir. It seems the prisoners were forced up on to platforms in front of their entire legion. A tribune called out to the troops, asking if each man was guilty or not. If the answer was yes, he was pushed off the platform into their midst, to be slain by his comrades.’