Vespasian told him of the planned invasion of Britannia and Adgandestrius’ strategic view of its consequences.
‘And you can guarantee that Rome won’t just raise three or four more legions and replace the ones in Britannia?’ Thumelicus asked. ‘Of course not; Rome has the manpower for many more legions and that old man 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 generation or so.’ Thumelicus removed the crested helmet and placed it on the desk; his hair fell to his shoulders. He looked at the Romans and laughed low and mirthlessly. ‘If it had not been for my father then 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.’
At a sharp double clap of Thumelicus’ hands, the entrance behind him opened; two bearded slaves in their fifties 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 near their master’s guests Vespasian noticed with a shock that their hair was cut short, Roman style.
‘Yes, Aius and Tiburtius were both captured in this place, thirty-two years ago,’ Thumelicus confirmed, reading the look on Vespasian’s face. ‘They have been slaves here ever since. They have not tried to run away; have you, Aius?’
The slave serving Vespasian turned and bowed his head to Thumelicus. ‘No, master.’
‘Tell them why, Aius.’
‘I cannot return to Rome.’
‘Why not?’
‘Shame, master.’
‘Shame of what, Aius?’
Aius looked nervously at Vespasian 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?’ Thumelicus 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?’ Thumelicus asked, giving the second man, slightly older and with almost silver hair, the full force of his stare. ‘Do you still feel shame?’
Tiburtius just nodded dumbly and placed his last jar on the desk next to Thumelicus.
Vespasian’s shock turned into anger as he looked at two Roman citizens so beaten down by years of disgrace and slavery. ‘Why haven’t you done the honourable thing and killed yourselves?’ he asked, barely concealing his disgust.
A smile played at the corners of Thumelicus’ mouth. ‘You may answer him, Aius.’
‘Arminius 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,’ Magnus chipped in, getting a look of distant recognition from Aius at the use of such a familiar term. ‘The idea of my balls roasting over the fire would be enough to make me swear to anything.’
‘But they wouldn’t have roasted,’ Thumelicus informed him, taking the lid off the jar, ‘we always take care to remove the testicles first.’
‘That’s very considerate of you, I’m sure.’
Thumelicus dipped his fingers into the jar. ‘I can assure you that it’s not out of consideration for the victim that we do this.’ He 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.’
Vespasian and his companions looked on in horror as Thumelicus chewed loudly on it, savouring its taste. He popped the other half into his mouth and, with equal relish, ate that as the two slaves, surprisingly, took a seat each on the far side of the desk.
Thumelicus washed down his snack with a swig of beer. ‘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?’
‘You’d be mad to try,’ Sabinus said, ‘you could never cross the Rhenus.’
Thumelicus inclined his head in agreement. ‘Not if we stay as disunited as we are now, and even if we could you would use the resources of your Empire to beat us back in time. But you still have the strength to cross the other way and that is why I am here talking to you against all my principles. One of you has something to show me, I believe.’
Vespasian got out his father’s knife and passed it to Thumelicus.
‘How did you come to be in possession of this?’ he asked, examining the blade.
Vespasian explained the knife’s history whilst Thumelicus traced the runes with a finger.
When he had finished, the German thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘You speak the truth; it is exactly how my father set it down in his memoirs.’
‘He wrote his memoirs!’ Vespasian exclaimed, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘You forget he was brought up in Rome from the age of nine. He learnt to read and write, although not that well as it had to be beaten into him; we do not consider them to be manly practices. However, he had a better idea: he would dictate his memoirs to his crushed enemies and he would keep them alive so that they could read them out whenever it was necessary, and today it may be necessary. Mother, would you join us?’
The curtain opened and a tall, proud, greying woman with the deepest blue eyes that Vespasian had ever seen entered. Her skin was lined and her breasts fell low but she had evidently been a beauty in her youth.
‘Mother, is it necessary to tell Father’s story to these Romans? What do the bones say?’
Thusnelda pulled from a leather bag at her waist five straight, carved, thin bones covered on all four sides in what Vespasian now knew to be runes. She breathed on them and muttered some half-heard incantations over them before casting them to the ground.
Stooping, she examined their fall for a few moments, pawing at them. ‘My husband would wish his story told to these men; to understand you they must understand where you come from, my son.’
Thumelicus nodded. ‘Then so be it, Mother, we shall begin.’
Vespasian indicated to the two slaves now sorting out scrolls and putting them in order on the desk. ‘So he spared these two to write down his life and read it out?’
‘Yes, who better to tell of the life of Arminius than the aquiliferi, the Eagle-bearers, of the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Legions?’
The sun was long set by the time the two old slaves, once proud bearers of their legions’ most sacred objects, finished the tale of Arminius’ life with their verbal account of how he was murdered by a kinsman. It had not just been a simple reading; Thusnelda had contributed parts from her recollection and Thumelicus had encouraged Vespasian and his friends to question Aius and Tiburtius about their memories of the battle at Teutoburg; he also ordered the old men to write their answers down. Magnus, who, whilst serving in the V Alaudae, had been present at the battle of the Long Bridges and the following year at the battles of the Angrivarii Ridge and Idistavisus, Arminius’ first defeat, had shared his memories of Germanicus’ two campaigns, six and seven years respectively after the massacre — before he had been recalled by Tiberius, jealous of, and frightened by, his success. Thumelicus had seemed genuinely pleased at hearing this new point of view and had told his slaves to make notes, which they duly did with misty looks of longing in their eyes as they heard the legions spoken of in plain, legionary-mule terms; their ageing faces registered the depth of their shame in not only losing their legions’ Eagles but also in being unable to face the fires afterwards and so being condemned to live without hope of redemption. Apart from the occasional question, Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus had nothing to contribute and sat listening as the tale unfolded, sipping their beer and nibbling at the food arrayed around in bowls; on numerous occasions they politely declined the offer of a treat from Thumelicus’ jar.