Tiberius (14 page)

I summoned a council, for I have never believed that a general should embark on a course of action without discussing it with his officers. The greater the danger, the more necessary it is that they understand the position. Yet, paradoxically, the greater and more immediate the danger, the more necessary it is that the commander display authority. Debate is then a luxury; yet without granting the opportunity for debate, the commander may lose the chance of obtaining a valuable suggestion. Speed is of the essence, but there is much truth in the proverb
festina lente:
hasten slowly.

I outlined the position, and told them of my conversation with Segestes.

"What reason have we to trust in the word of a barbarian?"

The speaker was Marcus Lollius, a man whom, had I had full freedom to choose my officers, I would never have had on my staff. A few years previously, in Gaul, he had suffered a defeat at the hands of raiding Germans, brought on, in my opinion, by his neglect of security, represented by his failure to keep himself properly informed. However, it seemed the wrong moment to make reference to that episode and I knew I had to treat Lollius with kid gloves, as they say, for he was a favourite of Augustus, whom he flattered absurdly. But no flattery is too absurd for a dynast.

"Drusus trusted Segestes, and I trust my brother's judgment."

This was a politic answer rather than a truthful one; in fact, I had trusted everything about Drusus except his judgment of men, for he was too easily carried away by the generosity of his nature and was therefore apt to take the word for the deed.

"Moreover," I said, "I think Segestes' interest is bound up with the success of our arms and with the fortune of the Roman people."

Lollius threw back his head and laughed, a calculated gesture.

"So, the campaign plan of a Roman army is now to be dictated by a barbarian deserter. I have never heard of such a thing. You would have us march into unknown territory at his word, when we have behind us a fortified line of march, which we know well . . ."

"And which lies through a forest which the enemy know better, and where we cannot deploy . . ."

There was a shifting of feet, as every man imagined the dreams that afflicted us by night in those accursed forests.

We debated the merits of the course open to us. Some were in agreement with Marcus Lollius that we should disregard the advice given by Segestes, and retrace the route by which we had advanced.

"It is only fifty miles to our first base," they insisted.

"You can destroy an army in less time than it takes to march five," I answered.

My reasoning carried weight, though Lollius continued to sneer. After all, everyone knew that the responsibility was mine, that they would themselves be free of blame even if I chose wrong. Then I outlined the merits of the two courses Segestes had proposed.

"It's clear, isn't it. . . ?" the speaker hesitated, with habitual diffidence. This was Caius Velleius Paterculus, an honest man whose grandfather had fought by my father's side in the terrible siege of Perugia, and then fallen on his sword when all was lost. "It's clear," he repeated. "Segestes thinks you should follow the high route because they will not think of it. But he thought of it himself, and so it seems likely that one of their chiefs will also do so. Therefore we should go downstream to join the Elbe."

"No," said Cossus Cornelius Lentulus, speaking sleepily as was his wont, "have you never played the game the soldiers call 'spoof? It's a matter of guessing how many coins you each hold in your hand. Well, we are in the same position. We must always take the guessing game one stage further. For that reason I say we take the high road . . ."

There comes a time in war, as in political affairs, when argument falls away. It is a matter then of decision. All courses have been examined, and all found to have their own virtue and their own danger. None possesses any transcendent merit. Very well, the man in command must act and he must follow his course as if there had never been an alternative. I looked round my staff. I saw hesitation, uncertainty, fear. I thought of how both Paterculus and Lentulus were men worthy of the highest admiration. I said:

"Gentlemen, you have considered the problem wisely. You have laid out the arguments for either course with a lucidity which I commend. I will ponder these matters, and issue orders in the morning."

I spoke with an assurance I did not feel - precisely the circumstances in which assurance is necessary. I retired to my tent. I sent for the soothsayer, and drank a cup of wine while
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was waiting. The German boy, the young Segestes, crouched in a corner of my tent. He had pulled a blanket round his shoulders and buried his face in it. A mop of yellow hair emerged from its folds, and though the rest of him was hidden I could sense the tension in which he held himself. I put my hand on his head. "Don't be afraid," I said. "Do you speak any Latin?" He shook my hand off.

The soothsayer entered. I asked him if he had taken the omens.

"But not yet interpreted them," he said.

"Good. We shall march by the high road. I trust the omens will be favourable."

There is relief in decision. I retired and slept soundly. But I woke in the darkest hours having dreamed of little Tiberius and of Julia grieving. A whimper came from the corner of the tent where young Segestes was stretched out. I called to him and there was silence. Then I called again and heard him rise to his feet. He stumbled as he crossed the floor and fell on top of me. I held him close and felt him relax and then spring to life. We rejoiced and took comfort in each other's maleness. He smelled of the stable. In the morning he held his head high and smiled at me.

For two days we saw no sign of the enemy but, keeping the river ever on our left hand, climbed high into the mountains. The track was poor, disappearing in places, and very early I gave orders that we should abandon the heavy waggons. For the first day I rode at the head of the column, but on the day following, judging that we had outstripped the enemy, and taken them by surprise, I transferred to the rear, from which direction I now judged an attack most likely to come. It is, moreover, the way of barbarian tribes to wage irregular war, and to try to cut off the rearguard of an army rather than risk frontal assault and wholehearted battle. Meanwhile the scouts who scoured the skirts of the forest reported no movement from the enemy. Our troops grew cheerful, and exchanged the opinion that we had given the Germans the slip. I could not share their confidence and when I consulted the elder Segestes, he declined to commit himself.

Towards evening on the second day it began to rain. The mist closed in upon us and soon we could see no further than a man can throw a spear in battle. Then one of the light waggons which we had retained slewed across the path, blocking our way. The accident happened in a narrow defile. While men struggled to free the cart, I sent a messenger after the main body of the army to warn them that we should be delayed. At that moment huge rocks descended from our right, blocking the pass. The crash was succeeded by silence broken only by the curses and heaving of our men trying to clear the way. A handful of them scrambled over the rocks, but the main body of the rearguard was held pressed together, unaware of what was happening, in the grip of incipient panic.

The attack came in at an angle on our rear through a beech wood. The steep slope and our unreadiness gave the barbarians an advantage. My first thought was one of shame, not fear, shame and anger. I have always prided myself on my use of intelligence, and it was our intelligence which had let us down, its failure which had exposed us to this risk. I shouted such instructions as I could, but this was not so much a battle as a countless number of individual fights going on at the same time. Only historians, secure in their studies, can make sense of such warfare. For those involved in it there is no comprehensive structure, merely a succession of encounters, one man against one, two against three and so on. It is a story of stabbing spears, swinging or jabbing swords, the clang of metal on armour, cries of anger and howls of pain. There is no possible coherence, no narrative even which can render the whole. Our men first gave way as they were pushed towards the cliff, then, here and there, the surge was checked. All at once I found empty space before me and ran forward to occupy it, shouting commands that no one heard. I thrust at a huge yellow-bearded figure and then almost fell over as I stumbled against his falling body and struggled to extract my sword. A blow on my shoulder sent me sprawling on top of him and I rolled over to see a figure swing an axe above his head and there was a smile of glee on the axeman's face. I struggled to get out of line, and heard a yell and then a shape thrust itself between me and the axe, and axeman and his assailant fell to the ground and rolled over and over. Axeman came uppermost, heaved himself to his knees, his arms rigid as he began to choke the life out of his attacker. I stabbed him in the neck. He toppled forward with a groan. His grip loosened. I put my boot against him and thrust him over, and the boy Segestes struggled out from under him. I held out my hand and raised him to his feet. There was, for a moment, a space around us, and then we were behind our legionaries who were now pursuing the suddenly fleeing enemy towards the wood. I saw worse disaster beckon, grabbed a nearby trumpeter and ordered him to sound the retreat. Legionaries hesitated at the trumpet's note, drew themselves up, drew together and, in almost orderly fashion, still facing the fleeing enemy, halted. Centurions held them in line till order was restored and we could resume the march.

"It seems," I said, to young Segestes, "that there is a new bond between us . . ."

I have been in so many battles, and yet in my solitude it is that little skirmish - and it was no more — that comes to mind. I cannot forget it. When the youth leapt like a wild-cat at my attacker, it was in one sense no more than the sort of selfless action, performed without any reflection, which soldiers commit in every battle. And yet for me it was more than that. Other men have saved my life in other battles, and I have forgotten them. There is an anonymity in the comradeship of war. But this was different. The boy could have been honoured among his own race if he had stood by and cheered, if he had helped kill me and then run with his fellow barbarians. I could not have blamed him. He understood the ruthlessness with which I had been ready to use him, to compel his father's fidelity.

He wept that night and trembled, as I have known others do, when it comes to them that they have felt death's icy fingers. He shook with delayed terror and relief, and his legs and feet were as cold as the river below us. Then we reaffirmed life and he laughed with pleasure, as full of vigour as a young colt or pony. He slept and I stroked his dirty hair and drew sunshine back into my life.

It was tempting to keep him with me, to let myself be sustained and enlivened by his youth and strength and his ready acceptance of things as they are. But that simplicity - the simplicity of the Homeric world - has been corrupted. I could not let him grow to realise that he would become an object of scorn. He saw nothing wrong in it himself of course. Many of the German warriors have their boy-lovers and are said to fight the more bravely by their side. The Gauls too were accustomed to choose their charioteers for their beauty and courage. But, though we tolerate the love of boys, men who indulge in it are despised by others and come properly to despise themselves. Consequently the boys develop effeminate manners and become contemptible. Yet I looked at young Segestes sleeping in the crook of my arm with a smile on his face and thought that life would be better and simpler if we were indeed Achilles and Patroclus, and knew my thought to be absurd. This is not how it is now in our world.

He could not return to his own people, and I did not care to entrust him to his father who might, it occurred to me, have learned to find a use for him of which I would not approve. I told the elder Segestes of the debt of gratitude I owed his son, and of my intention to repay it by advancing the boy to a career within the auxiliary forces of our empire. He was, I said, to regard me henceforth as his patron, and in that role it seemed expedient to me that the boy should go to Rome to study Latin and then Roman Law, which would together fit him for a career either in the army or the civil service. The father was properly appreciative of my intentions and so it was arranged.

Young Segestes was loth to leave me, but I insisted. He told me, to my considerable embarrassment, that he had "fallen in love with his master as a German boy should". I made the break as tenderly as I could, supported by my knowledge that I was acting for his own good. He wept when he took leave of me, and my own eyes were not altogether dry. Unfortunately things did not work out quite as I hoped. Though he studied well, he soon fell into the habit of deep drinking to which Germans are all addicted. Soon after my arrival here,
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heard that he had been knifed to death in a tavern brawl. It was sad; he was a boy of promise and virtue. But it would not have done for me to have acted otherwise. I still think of him with pleasure and regret.

11

M
y last campaign in Germany met with unprecedented success. I took 40,000 prisoners, whom I carried across the Rhine and established in colonies in Gaul. The German tribes were themselves thoroughly demoralised and, for the moment at least, subdued. When I returned to Rome, which I had hardly visited for six years, I was greeted as a hero. I was accorded a triumph and granted triumphal regalia. My mother, whose hair had turned white during my years of absence, called me "worthy of my most illustrious ancestors". Augustus embraced me without shrinking and assured me that no man had done more for Rome than I. Clients flocked to my house every morning to do me honour and seek preferment at my hand. Even the common people with whom I had never been popular, since I scorned to court their favour, hailed me with cheers when I appeared in public. I should have been the happiest man in Rome, justified and recognised at last.