‘Who shall we attack then, Stertinius or Caecina?’ Stick Thin threw the question not at Arminius, but at the entire gathering.
In Arminius’ mind, there was only one choice. Caecina had the largest army: four legions and a good number of auxiliaries. He was also headed for a patch of rough country, with plenty of forests and bogland. His intent was surely to traverse the wooden road built fifteen years before by another campaigning Roman general. But Caecina didn’t know, as Arminius did, that the road had fallen into considerable disrepair, or that the location begged to be used for an ambush. His inclination was to demand that they follow Caecina, but sensitive to the other chieftains’ pride and the unexpected comment about his arrogance, he held back.
‘Our best option is to attack Caecina,’ said Big Chin, glancing first at Arminius and then at the rest. ‘His is the biggest army, but the path he seems to be taking is a good one for us to lay in wait on. The wooden road is in pieces, or so I hear. There’s no chance the artillery or the wagons will be able to travel on it. We can attack at our leisure, while the fools are trying to construct a new surface.’
The chieftains liked the sound of that, nodding and smiling at one another. Stick Thin continued to look put out, but he didn’t protest. ‘Arminius?’ asked Big Chin.
‘Ambushing Caecina would be my choice.’
‘Does anyone wish to attack Stertinius?’ Big Chin’s eyes roved over the gathering. ‘No? We have a decision then. Let us follow Caecina, and pick the right moment to fall on him and his mongrel legionaries. Four eagles will make a fine haul!’
A good-natured argument began over which tribe should have an eagle. Big Chin watched, his face amused. Arminius moved to his side. ‘My thanks,’ he muttered.
‘Destroying Caecina’s force will deliver the clearest message to Rome. To succeed, we will require every spear that’s available.’ Big Chin gave Arminius a hard look. ‘It’s still a pity that the Usipetes aren’t going after Germanicus.’
‘I disagree.’
‘You’re not our king, Arminius. You don’t rule us.’
‘I know that. I-’
Big Chin cut him off. ‘You may be the best general among us, but too often you act as if you’re the only one with a brain.’
It was rare indeed for Arminius to be lost for words, but he had no glib reply. After a short, awkward silence, he murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Save your apologies,’ said Big Chin with a brusque gesture. ‘Start treating us like your equals, not your subjects, or the Cherusci will end up fighting the Romans on their own.’
Arminius caught Stick Thin regarding him with a sour expression. Still smarting from Big Chin’s rebuke, he wanted to respond with an obscene gesture. Instead he gave Stick Thin a measured nod, as if he were an equal. Stick Thin’s face blackened, and he looked away. I’ll win him over again, Arminius resolved, but Big Chin’s intervention had brought home the narrowness of his escape. He’d had no idea how angry the other chieftains were feeling towards him. In future, he would have to be a great deal more diplomatic. Avenging Thusnelda and defeating the Romans would be impossible without allies.
And yet, he thought with rising excitement, his force had not splintered.
Caecina’s legions would soon feel its full force, and the news of their massacre would shake Rome to its foundations.
Chapter XXVIII
‘Fuck,’ said Tullus, staring at the crumbling, sodden remnants of planking that led off into the distance, disappearing amid a confusion of heather, gorse and mud. He was on the way back to Vetera with Caecina’s army, and this mockery of a road across the bog was supposed to be their route, but a blind man could see that it was falling to pieces. The Long Bridges, it was called, but Tullus doubted a single one remained. No one appeared to have laid a hand to a plank of it since Ahenobarbus’ legions had constructed the road fifteen years before.
There was no sun – Tullus hadn’t seen it in days. Dense layers of cloud pressed down from overhead, deadening the landscape’s colour. Light rain fell in a constant and depressing drizzle. Euuhh-eeee. Euuhh-eeee-uh. From somewhere off to his left came the high-pitched, mournful cry of a crane. Euuhh-eeee. Tullus scowled. Like as not, the stupid bird was calling to its mate, but it seemed to be asking what he was doing here. I’m here following my general, Tullus answered. You went into a similar place because of another general, remember, his cynical side added. Varus. Unsettling memories stirred in Tullus’ mind, making him scowl.
The scouts had brought news of the road’s catastrophic state to the vanguard some time before. Tullus had hoped they’d been mistaken, or at least had exaggerated what they had seen, but it was clear their assessment had been correct. The grim faces of the Fifth Legion’s other senior centurions – standing nearby – showed that they felt the same way as Tullus.
‘Fuck,’ Tullus said, and again for good measure, ‘Fuck.’
Cordus threw him a sour glance. ‘Swearing isn’t going to get us anywhere.’
‘It might not, but I’m with Tullus,’ said Bassius, the primus pilus, with a chuckle. A thin figure with a gaunt complexion and a mouth that had been left lopsided by a sword cut, he was tough, courageous and popular with everyone. Bassius had also always treated Tullus with respect, which raised him in Tullus’ esteem no end. ‘Fuck it all to Hades,’ said Bassius. ‘And back.’
Cordus fumed as everyone but he laughed.
‘We’re going to have to build the whole cursed thing again, or most of it,’ observed Bassius. He eyed Tullus. ‘Don’t you think?’
Several centurions who were more senior to Tullus looked disgruntled that they hadn’t been asked the question, but Tullus was beyond caring. He took a few steps on to the road. Stagnant brown water oozed at once from the rotten wood, and he could feel the planks sinking into the semi-liquid ground beneath. He walked on for fifty paces, taking care where he placed his feet. A good number of the strips of wood that formed the road had rotted away in their entirety. Others broke beneath his weight. The surface that remained was irregular and treacherous, and Tullus saw no reason to think that the road would improve as it led westward. According to the scouts, the terrain – wooded hills on either side, with plentiful streams discharging into the bog – went on for miles.
He tramped back to an expectant-looking Bassius, who demanded, ‘Well?’
‘The scouts were right, sir. A few soldiers, perhaps even a century or two might cross, but no more than that.’ Tullus could picture men’s legs disappearing to the knee in limb-sucking mud, could see panicked mules buried to their bellies in the brown morass. Hard though it was to walk on foot, he’d done the right thing to send his horse back to the wagon train. ‘The legionaries might pass by, but there’s no way the carts, in particular those with the artillery, could make it. As for the bridges, well …’
They considered their surroundings in grim silence. A quagmire dotted with bog cotton and goatweed sprawled away on either side, laced by numerous rivulets and streams. The low, tree-covered hills beyond could be swarming with hostile tribesmen, thought Tullus. To the east and south – where they’d come from – lay nothing but hundreds of miles of hostile territory. The sea lay to the north, but Germanicus’ force needed every ship to carry them along the storm-ridden coastline to the safety of the Flevo Lacus. The only option left to Caecina’s army was the rotten planking before them. The situation could be even worse a few miles into the bog, thought Tullus. The Germans might have destroyed the road entirely there.
‘Arminius and his mongrels are watching us even now, I’d wager,’ said Bassius.