Arminius Read online

  ‘When you cast them last night and this morning, what did they say?’

  Thusnelda looked at the bones in her hand and shook her head slowly. ‘I didn’t cast them either last night or this morning, nor will I cast them tonight.’

  Thumelicatz frowned. ‘Why not, Mother? You’ve always read the bones at the rise of the sun and at its setting.’

  ‘I’m afraid to see what I know in my heart they will say.’

  ‘You think that Donar won’t release me from my oath?’

  ‘I know the Thunderer won’t; an oath to him is binding for all time.’

  ‘Mother, if he does see fit to strike me down for helping to secure the freedom of all his people then I will go to Walhalla willingly. This act will reduce Rome’s legions on our frontiers. We can go back to fighting amongst ourselves and posing no threat to Rome. A balance will be drawn along the Rhenus and Danuvius; Rome won’t have the legions to invade us because they’d be busy in Britannia, but nor would they feel they needed to do so because we would be disunited and pose no threat to Gaul. And then we wait – maybe for generations – until disease, soft living and years of peace take their toll on Rome, and then we will pour across the Rhenus.’

  ‘But you will be dead.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be dead, the wait will be long.’

  ‘No, I mean you’ll be dead if you do this thing.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Then cast the Rune Bones and let us see for sure whether Donar will release me from my oath on this one occasion.’

  With a look of sorrow to her son, Thusnelda brought the bones to her mouth and breathed on them four times before shaking them in the palms of her hands. ‘I call upon Air, the spirit of spring and of sunrise, the breath of new life and new growth. I call upon Fire, the spirit of summer and of the noonday sun, the heat of vitality and abundance. I call upon Water, the spirit of autumn and of twilight, of open seas, running streams and cleansing rain. I call upon Earth, the spirit of winter and of the night, deep roots, ancient stones and winter snows. I call on all these spirits, Air, Fire, Water and Earth, to come now and guide these bones.’ She cast the five bones at Thumelicatz’s feet; they clattered briefly along the deck and then were still.

  Thusnelda knelt and passed her hands over the bones, examining them; they were intertwined but only one touched all the other four. Her face clouded. ‘If you stay on this path all that you have said could come to pass. The bones tell me that you risk much, perhaps even death, but they cannot see into the mind of the Thunderer; it isn’t clear whether he will release you from your oath. But what is clear is that one comes who will have the fate of Germania Magna in his hands one day; that man must leave with what he wants and feel no need ever to come back.’

  Thumelicatz looked back along the boat, past Aius and Tiburtius tending the horses and on to the boar’s head painted on the sail: the boar of the Cherusci, the emblem of the tribe that he loved as much as his life; the tribe that had existed for him only with Thusnelda’s tales for all those years whilst he lived in the empire but now was a solid reality. ‘What is my life against the survival of the Cherusci and the other tribes of our Fatherland? I will risk the Thunderer’s wrath even though it is for his children that I break my oath. If my life is forfeit then so be it; I care not, Mother, because I have acted in the same way as my father would.’

  Thusnelda smiled, thin, looking out at the endless procession of trees lining the bank. ‘Of that there is no doubt.’

  The horses’ hooves crunched down onto green-tinted human bones of every variety. From the smallest finger to the pelvis, all were there strewn out along the path; all were there in abundance.

  Thumelicatz glanced at the skulls nailed to tree trunks on either side of the path as it broke out from under the trees into a clearing, almost a mile long and three hundred paces across, surrounded by a low, wooded hill on one side and a reeking marsh on the other. The ground was mainly sand and would have been yellow had it not been for tens of thousands of bones; the bones of Varus’ legionaries still lying on the field where they had been slaughtered on the final day of the battle. Germanicus had visited this place and spent days having his men bury the dead but, since his return, Thumelicatz had had many of them, at least half, dug up again and spread over the killing ground.

  ‘That is a fitting memorial to your father,’ Thusnelda declared as she surveyed the bleak carpet of death.

  ‘I’m not sure Aius and Tiburtius would agree, Mother.’

  Thusnelda looked over her shoulder at the two Roman slaves, their eyes streaming with tears as they looked upon their erstwhile comrades who had been allowed no dignity in defeat.

  Although they were the remains of soldiers of the hated empire, Thumelicatz shivered at the sight of such mass loss of life; about seven thousand had died here in Varus’ last stand.

  Aldhard rode down the hill out of the trees and across the last desperate earthwork of Varus’ legions: a low wall that stretched for almost the whole length of the clearing, facing the hill. It was broken down in many places as if trampled upon by hundreds of feet; the decomposed hoof of a dead mule protruded from one section.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ Thumelicatz called, pulling his horse to the left to face Aldhard.

  ‘Yes, my lord, the tent is up and decorated and the appropriate sacrifice is being made.’

  ‘Good. Have the keepers of the bones been rewarded and sent away?’

  ‘Yes, they will leave after they have helped Odila make the sacrifice; they won’t return for three days.’ He gestured around at all the bones. ‘Nature won’t make much impact on all them in that time. It’s just us and the priestess of the grove here.’

  ‘Thank you, Aldhard, you’ve done well; have some men stay down here to lead the Romans up when they arrive.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘I shall go up the hill and wait.’

  It was not a high hill, just three hundred and fifty feet; Thumelicatz led his mother and slaves swiftly up although it was thickly wooded. Towards the summit they came to a clearing with a grove of beech trees at its centre; a tethered white horse grazed peacefully within it near to an altar dripping with blood. A wildhaired woman, reciting rapidly to herself, was tying a freshly severed head by the hair to a branch at the clearing’s edge. Two other heads, in different states of decomposition, hung close by; skulls with scraps of flesh and hair still clinging to them lay on the ground all around the perimeter. In the shadows of the trees beyond the clearing Thumelicatz just glimpsed two men dragging away a headless corpse.

  ‘Odila has cleansed the hill,’ Aldhard observed with an approving nod. ‘All is set. Now we have to wait to see what the Norns have woven for you.’

  ‘You knew my father well, Aldhard; did he believe that every man’s destiny is set out in advance and inevitable?’

  ‘Of course; that’s why he dared do so much. He knew that if he saw an opportunity, however outrageous, however far-fetched, then he should follow it through because the very fact that he’d seen it meant that the Norns must have already woven it; it was therefore his fate to follow that path.’

  ‘Destroying three legions, for example?’

  ‘Exactly; and abducting your mother from her father’s house on the day of her marriage.’

  The slope eased and they reached the summit; it had been cleared of trees to leave a meadow, sprinkled with wild-flowers. Set in its midst was a ten-foot-high, fifty-foot-square, red-leather tent next to a solitary, ancient oak.

  ‘You did well to set that up with only four men to help you, Aldhard,’ Thumelicatz commented, swinging off his horse.

  ‘It would have taken twenty slaves just two hours to set up Varus’ command tent but it took the five of us most of yesterday. The leather is damp and musty as it hasn’t been unpacked since your father captured Varus’ baggage, thirty-two years ago, but we’ve washed it as best we could as well as clean the furniture and silver
plate.’

  ‘And his uniform?’

  ‘His uniform is polished and ready, my lord; you’ll find it laid out in the sleeping compartment.’

  Thumelicatz looked at his reflection in a half-length bronze mirror as Aius and Tiburtius fastened his hobnailed sandals; he shuddered at the sight. Looking back from beneath the distorted surface was a Roman governor in full military uniform: muscled bronze breastplate inlaid in silver figures around the edges, representing the former owner’s household gods as well as Mars Victorious; a crimson sash was tied high around the midriff and a cloak of the same colour hung from one shoulder and was swept back from the other. From a red-leather belt hung a pugio and a gladius – the sleek and deadly two-foot-long sword that eviscerated with ease. Thumelicatz completed the image by placing a burnished iron helmet with thick, articulated cheekguards, inlaid with bronze, upon his head; crowned with a high horsehair plume, dyed red, he took on the appearance of a person he despised the most: a Roman of the officer class. Yet one thing was out of place: his full beard; that at least distinguished him from the hated enemy.

  ‘You take this too far,’ Thusnelda muttered, a worried frown set on her forehead.

  ‘I do this so that these Romans will see the reality of their defeat all those years ago; their wounds must be opened again and salt applied.’ He turned to Aius and Tiburtius standing to one side now that they had finished dressing their master. ‘Is everything correct?’

  The two slaves surveyed him for a few moments and then nodded dumbly, averting their eyes as soon as possible from the vivid reminder of their former lives.

  ‘And the food?’

  ‘Is ready, master,’ Aius replied, ‘as are we should you require a reading.’

  ‘I haven’t decided that yet.’ Thumelicatz took one more look at himself in the mirror and then strode through the door into the main part of the tent. In the dim light seeping in through the few open flaps in the tent, bolstered by tallow candles flickering all about, he examined the elegant room furnished with couches, finely carved chairs and tables and decorated with small bronze statues in amongst ceramic or glass bowls and vessels. Wooden columns, painted to resemble marble, supported the ceiling; the floor was of waxed oak cut into three-foot squares for ease of transport. He made for a curule chair next to a sturdy wooden desk with scrolls arranged on it and sat down to wait.

  Sleep had almost taken him and he slipped between rational thoughts and semi-conscious dreams of no substance when footsteps entering the tent disturbed his peace.

  Aldhard pushed his head between two flaps at the far end of the room. ‘They’re here, my lord.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four who wish to see you; they’re escorted by about five turmae of Batavian auxiliary cavalry, a hundred and fifty men or so.’

  ‘Send the Romans in and make arrangements for their escort to camp in the clearing for the night.’

  With a nod Aldhard disappeared. A few moments later came more footsteps and then the flaps opened again to reveal four Romans dressed in the chainmail tunics of auxiliary cavalry. Two brothers were easy to discern: both had the same round, sunburnt faces, dark eyes and similar large, almost bulbous noses. Of the two the younger had a more open and accommodating expression and, to Thumelicatz’s surprise, seemed to be the leader as he preceded the party in. Of the other two men, one was young and unmistakeably patrician with a long, thin nose and a haughty look; the other, the oldest of the group, had a hard, battered face, cauliflower ears and quick searching eyes that would not miss a single detail: a street-fighter without a doubt. What strange company these officers keep, Thumelicatz thought, making no attempt to get up – although he was tempted to, just so that he could tower over these representatives of the stunted race that had brought so much misery to the world.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen, I am Thumelicatz, son of Erminatz.’

  The leader opened his mouth to greet Thumelicatz but was halted by the raising of a hand. ‘Do not tell me your names, Romans, I have no wish to know them; after I escaped from your empire I swore to Donar the Thunderer to strike me down with a lightning bolt from above if I ever have anything to do with Rome again. However, at the behest of my old enemy, Adgandestrius, I have asked the god to make an exception this one time for the sake of my tribe and Germania.’ He indicated to the couches around the room. ‘Sit down.’ The Romans accepted the invitation and settled down on a couch each. ‘Adgandestrius tells me that you wish for my help in finding the one remaining Eagle lost by your legions at my father’s victory here in the Teutoburg Wald.’

  ‘He is correct,’ the younger brother replied, holding Thumelicatz’s eye with a confident gaze.

  ‘And why do you think that I would help you?’

  ‘It would be in your interests to do so.’

  ‘How can it be in my interests to help Rome? At the age of two I was paraded, with my mother, Thusnelda, in Germanicus’ Triumph in Rome; a humiliation for my father. Then in another humiliation to him we were sent to Ravenna to live with his brother Flavus’ wife; Flavus, who always fought for Rome even against his own people. Then, in a third humiliation, I was taken at the age of eight and trained to be a gladiator; the son of the liberator of Germania fighting on the arena sand for the gratification of the mob of some provincial town. I fought my first bout when I was sixteen and I won my wooden sword of freedom fifty-two fights later, four years ago, at the age of twenty. The first thing that I did once I was free was settle my score with my Uncle Flavus and his wife and then, with my mother, I came back here to my tribe. With all that Rome has done to me, how could my own interests and yours ever coincide?’

  The young brother told him of the planned invasion of Britannia and Adgandestrius’ strategic view of its consequences.

  Thumelicatz listened and learnt nothing that he did not already know but was pleased to have it confirmed from the mouth of a Roman. ‘And you can guarantee that Rome won’t just raise three or four more legions and replace the ones in Britannia?’ he asked. ‘Of course not; Rome has the manpower for many more legions and that old man, Adgandestrius, should realise that. Unless the empire is hit by a terrible plague it will continue to grow in population. Citizenship is being awarded to more and more communities in every province. All the time, slaves are being freed and receiving citizenship; they aren’t eligible to join the legions but their sons are. But I agree with Adgandestrius in the short term: an invasion of Britannia will very likely keep us safe for a few generations.’ Thumelicatz removed the crested helmet and placed it on the desk, his hair falling to his shoulders. ‘If it had not been for my father there would still be a Roman wearing this uniform even now in Germania; but because of him I can wear it now as I deal with the successors of the man to whom it belonged. I can also entertain them in his tent and serve them refreshments on his plate.’ He gave a sharp double clap of his hands; Aius and Tiburtius shuffled in with trays covered with silver cups, jugs of beer and plates of food. As they padded around the room placing food and drink on tables, Thumelicatz noticed the shock on the Romans’ faces as they registered the old slaves’ Roman hair. ‘Yes, Aius and Tiburtius were both captured in this place, thirty-two years ago. They have been slaves here ever since. They have not tried to run away; have you, Aius?’

  ‘No, master.’

  ‘Tell them why, Aius.’

  ‘I cannot return to Rome.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shame, master.’

  ‘Shame of what, Aius?’

  Aius looked nervously at the younger Roman and then back to his master.

  ‘You can tell them, Aius, they haven’t come to take you back.’

  ‘Shame of losing the Eagle, master.’

  ‘Losing the Eagle?’ Thumelicatz ruminated, turning his blue eyes onto the old soldier.

  The years of servitude and shame came to tell in Aius and he hung his head and his chest heaved a couple of times with repressed sobs.

  ‘And you, Tiburtius?’ Thumelicat
z asked, staring at his other slave. ‘Do you still feel shame?’

  Tiburtius just nodded dumbly and placed his last jar on the desk next to his master.

  Thumelicatz was amused as he saw the shock turn to outrage on the face of the younger brother.

  ‘Why haven’t you done the honourable thing and killed yourselves?’ the young man asked, barely concealing his disgust.

  A smile played at the corners of Thumelicatz’s mouth. ‘You may answer him, Aius.’

  ‘Erminatz gave us the choice of being sacrificed by burning in one of their wicker cages or swearing upon all our gods to stay alive for the task that he wanted us to perform. No one who has seen and heard a wicker sacrifice will face the fire; we chose what every man would.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that, mate,’ the street-fighter chipped in; Thumelicatz noticed a look of distant longing pass over Aius’ face at the sound of street Latin. ‘The idea of my balls roasting over the fire would be enough to make me swear to anything.’

  Thumelicatz removed the lid from the jar. ‘But they wouldn’t have roasted; we always take care to remove the testicles first.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you, I’m sure.’

  ‘I can assure you that it’s not out of consideration for the victim that we do this.’ Dipping his fingers into the jar Thumelicatz pulled out a small off-white egg-shaped object and bit it in half. ‘We believe that eating our enemies’ testicles brings us strength and vigour.’ He chewed loudly on it, pretending to savour its taste whilst relishing the look of horror on his guests’ faces. He slipped the other half into his mouth and, with equal pretence of enjoyment, ate that while indicating to his slaves to take a seat on the far side of the desk.

  He took a swig of beer to rid his mouth of the very masculine flavour. ‘After the battle here and all the battles and actions that my father fought in our struggle for freedom, we had almost sixty thousand testicles pickled; my father shared them out amongst the tribes. This is the last jar left to the Cherusci; I keep it for special occasions. Perhaps we should think about refilling our jars again soon?’