XVI
From behind Caldus Caelius came the usual racket of a Roman army on the march, somewhat muffled by the rain’s dank plashing. Legionaries squelched through puddles on the track they were following. The ground to either side was worse - much worse. Chainmail clinked faintly. Like most of the other soldiers, Caelius had rubbed his mailshirt and helmet with greasy wool. That would help hold rust at bay, but only so much. He’d have a lot of scrubbing and polishing to do once the legions got back to Vetera.
Ahead? Through the rain, he could see a couple of horses’ rumps, and also the glum-looking cavalrymen atop the animals. The way the riders’ shoulders slumped said they wished they were anywhere but here.
As a matter of fact, Caldus Caelius felt the same way. That German who’d served with the auxiliaries over in Pannonia had told the governor this part of Germany had better weather than Mindenum did - so scuttlebutt insisted. As far as Caelius could see, the barbarian had sold Quinctilius Varus a bill of goods. It was coming down like a mad bastard.
Caelius stepped into a puddle - and went in deeper than he’d expected. He swore wearily. His voice was only one note in a massive grumbling chorus. The legionaries would complain marching on a paved road in perfect weather. Since this was neither, they groused and groused.
Water dripped from the visor of his helmet. Most of the time, it didn’t drip onto his face. Every so often, though, the wind would swing and blow the drips - and the rest of the rain - into his eyes . . . and into his mouth, and onto his nose, so he had new drips from the end of it. With his feet soaked, too, chances were he’d come down with catarrh. Just my luck, he thought.
He shook his head, as much to look to right and left as to try to get rid of some of the water. Not much to see in either direction: only swamp that was starting to fill up with nasty little puddles. He didn’t spot any Germans. He hadn’t for some time now. Part of him was unsurprised - they wouldn’t have wanted to live in this gods-forsaken country, either. But Germany was full - much too full - of savages. He’d seen worse terrain packed with big blonds trying to scratch out a living. Why weren’t more of them doing the same thing here?
Maybe Varus could ask his pet German. As soon as that thought crossed Caelius’ mind, he shook his head again, this time annoyed at himself. The accursed German was off dealing with his woman. His father had buggered off, too; nobody quite knew why. But it was unsettling. The neck-guard on Caelius’ helm kept water from dripping down his back. He had that chilly, unsettling feeling all the same.
Something a little more substantial than usual in this marshy landscape loomed up ahead and to the left: a low, grassy hillock. Not just grassy, Caelius saw as the path brought him closer to it. Branches and bushes sprouted from it. Caelius wished he could get a better look, but the rain wouldn’t let him. His mailshirt clattered about him as he shrugged. You could find anything in Germany. Why get all hot and bothered about one poorly manicured little hill?
It looks funny, a voice inside him said. He told the voice to shut up and go away. It wouldn’t. That hill doesn’t look right.
Caldus Caelius shrugged again, this time in exasperation. If anything were wrong, the horsemen up ahead would be catching it right now, as they rode past. And they weren’t. They were riding along wishing they were somewhere else, the same way he was marching. At least their feet weren’t soaked.
Something’s wrong, the small voice shrilled. Ignoring it, Caelius pulled his left foot out of the mud and stuck his right foot into it.
Arminius peered out between two lovingly transplanted bushes. Roman cavalrymen rode by on their big horses, almost near enough for him to reach out and touch them. One looked his way. He froze. The Roman looked straight ahead again - he hadn’t noticed a thing.
The gods are with us, Arminius thought jubilantly. To make sure they stayed on the Germans’ side, he hissed, “I’ll kill the man who casts now - d’you hear me? I’ll gut him like a swine. Remember - you’ve got to wait.”
Behind the rampart they’d built, the German warriors seethed like boiling soup. They jumped up and down, nerving themselves for the fight ahead. They brandished their spears. They brandished them, yes, but nobody threw one. They all understood what the plan was. And if that wasn’t a gods-given miracle, Arminius didn’t know what would be.
His own right hand clutched a spearshaft tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He was ready himself, ready and then some. But he too needed to wait. This was the one chance he’d have. He had to remember that. If he moved too soon, if the Romans got a chance to recoil and to fight on ground that gave them any kind of chance ... In that case, who could say when his folk would be able to try again with the odds on their side? Who could say if they ever would?
More horsemen rode past, and more still. The Romans were going through the motions of protecting their van, but their leaders didn’t really believe trouble was anywhere close. That attitude rubbed off on the men. They were laughing and joking and grumbling about the weather and bragging of what they’d do to the whores once they got back to Vetera. They weren’t paying so much attention to what lay around them as they might have.
The rain did make it harder for them. On Arminius’ side of the barricade rose a growing hum and murmur of excitement. He’d charged every leader here and in the woods off to the right - which held even more warriors - with keeping his men quiet. The chieftains were doing what they could, but it wasn’t enough. Arminius fidgeted like a man with the shits. Killing wasn’t near enough for the loudmouthed fool who betrayed his comrades because he couldn’t shut up.
But the Romans never twigged. The drumming rainfall muffled the noise from the German host. Truly the gods favor us, Arminius thought. When we conquer, we have to give them rich offerings indeed.
He peered out again. The last Roman cavalrymen were going by. There would be a little gap, and then. . . . Oh, and then!
“When?” someone beside him asked. For a wonder, the other German didn’t look out to see for himself. It wasn’t Roman discipline - it wasn’t anything close to Roman discipline - but it was more than Arminius could reliably expect from a man of his own blood.
“Soon,” he answered. “Very soon.” Here came the foot sloggers. Arminius waved. The chieftains were supposed to be waiting for that signal. They were supposed to ready the fighters who’d accompanied them and to pass it on to the men in the woods. Had Arminius been leading legionaries or auxiliaries, he would have been confident that what was supposed to happen really would. With his own folk, he could only hope.
Very soon indeed. He could see the Roman foot soldiers’ faces through the rain. They looked less lighthearted than the riders. And well they might - they were doing the work themselves, not letting their mounts carry them along.
As soon as the first rank passed that bush . . . Arminius had promised himself that as soon as he came back from his long stretch lulling the Roman, lulling Quinctilius Varus in particular.
Idly, he wondered how things would have gone had Varus not had a son about his age. He shrugged. I would have found some other way to do what wanted doing, he told himself. Was it true? He thought it was, which was all that really mattered.
On came the legionaries. Closer . . . Closer . . . The nearest man in the lead rank had a long chin and a broken nose. Arminius’ right arm went back on its own, as if freed at last from some unjust imprisonment.
“Cast!” he roared. His arm shot forward. Like an eagle, like a god’s thunderbolt, his spear flew free.
Caldus Caelius kept staring at the little rise off to the left of the track. It just didn’t look the way it should have. He’d tried getting some of the Romans near him to pay more attention to him. He hadn’t had much luck. They didn’t want to think about funny-looking landscape. All they wanted to do was get through this gods-despised muddy stretch of ground and make tracks for the Rhine. Since that was all he really wanted, too, how could he blame them?