Paetus caught up with him. ‘They understood; it wasn’t a problem. I’ll deal with those chaps if that’s all right, sir; I think that I know what to say.’
They did not have long to wait; by the time they had covered another couple of hundred paces the cavalry had cut them off and were formed up across their path. Paetus brought the Batavians to a halt and walked forward with a look of righteous indignation on his patrician face. ‘Just what do you think you are up to, decurion?’ he roared at the leading officer in the central turma. ‘How dare you block my unit’s path as if we were part of the rabble that we’ve just defeated? We did the hard work whilst you were pissing about on your horses pretending that it’s dangerous on the extreme right flank.’
The decurion, clean-shaven and in his late twenties, looked nervously down at Paetus from under the thin rim of his cavalry helmet. ‘I’m sorry, prefect, my commander wanted me to find out what you were doing.’
‘None of his fucking business is what we’re doing; I suggest that he carries on occupying himself with chasing small contingents of beaten Germans around the countryside whilst proper soldiers take the body of a chieftain, whom they’ve just despatched to German Hades, back to the fleet so that we can dispose of his body a long way from here. Now move out of the way, soldier.’
The decurion looked behind Paetus to where Thumelicus’ men stood with his body in the midst of Ansigar’s turma. ‘But you’re cavalry, sir.’
Paetus went puce. ‘Of course we’re fucking cavalry, you idiot, but when cavalry lose their horses because the cock-hungry sailors of the transports failed to keep up with the rest of the fleet, what happens then? They become sodding infantry, decurion, that’s what happens; now fuck off before I get cross.’
The decurion saluted briskly. ‘My apologies, sir.’ With a quick hand signal the turmae parted to let them through. Paetus gave a bad-tempered growl; Ansigar bellowed an order and the Batavians moved forward, jeering at the mounted auxiliaries until a huge roar from Ansigar made them decide to keep their opinions to themselves.
Vespasian breathed deeply again as he passed by the rear ranks of troopers, keeping his eyes fixed on the copse, now only half a mile distant. ‘You reminded me of your father when he was making his report to Poppaeus, our commanding officer in Thracia, Paetus.’
Paetus smiled ruefully. ‘He used to do his centurion voice for me when I was small, it always made me laugh.’
Vespasian patted Paetus’ shoulder, remembering with affection his long-dead friend. After they had gone a couple of hundred paces he looked over his right shoulder; the turmae were galloping east to catch up with the rest of their ala. ‘Time to run, Paetus.’ He broke into a jog and then slowly increased his pace so that the men behind him would not lose their formation. To the front of the township was a mass of bodies splayed out over the plain; walking wounded and surgeons’ stretcher parties picked their way through it back to the hospital tents by the fleet.
They soon passed into the copse, leaving the burning township and the desolation behind, and pressed on towards the river with the rearguard falling in behind them.
Vespasian eased the pace off, well aware that the men were exhausted and there was a long, fast row ahead of them to slip past the Roman fleet. ‘We’d do best to abandon a couple of the boats, Paetus, and fill the other two so we can row in shifts and have men to fight off an attack if we’re unlucky enough to be followed.’
Paetus did a quick mental calculation and then called back to Ansigar: ‘Can the boats take almost seventy men each?’
‘Yes, but they’ll be lower in the water and slower.’
‘We’ll take three, then,’ Vespasian decided as the river came in sight.
The turma guarding the boats started pushing them off the bank, floating them ready, as they pounded down the gentle grassy slope to the river’s edge.
Ansigar shouted orders to his fellow decurions and somehow the turmae sorted themselves out, two to a boat.
‘What are Thumelicus’ men going to do?’ Vespasian asked the decurion once he had finished terrorising his men.
After a brief conversation with the Cherusci Ansigar came back. ‘They’ll take the last boat south to return Thumelicus’ body to his mother, sir.’
‘Just five of them to row that?’
Ansigar shrugged. ‘They say they can manage if they keep close to the bank away from the main current.’ He stuck his finger in his mouth, wetted it and then held it in the air. ‘They think that this slight northerly breeze will grow and they’ll be able to hoist the sail soon.’
Vespasian looked at Ansigar’s finger and then wetted his own and held it up. The side facing north felt slightly colder. ‘That’ll mean it will be blowing against us. Well, wish them luck and thank them for me.’ He turned back to the Batavian boats that were now almost fully loaded and waded out and climbed aboard using a rope ladder slung over the stern.
Magnus hauled him over the rail. ‘Time to go, wouldn’t you say, sir?’
‘Long overdue, Magnus,’ Vespasian replied as Ansigar clambered up the ladder after him. He took the steering oar and shouted what Vespasian took to be a series of numbers, then as one the Batavians dipped their oars in the water and heaved back; the boats slid forward into the gently flowing river.
*
Vespasian ordered Ansigar to steer a direct course for the opposite bank to keep as far away as possible from the Roman fleet; the current pushed them downstream as they crossed and by the time they had reached the far side they were almost level with the fleet, plainly visible now that the mist had lifted, five hundred paces to the east. A couple of miles ahead the river curved away to the west.
‘Increase the stroke rate, Ansigar,’ Vespasian commanded as the decurion eased the steering oar away from him, turning the longboat north. ‘If we can get round that bend before they notice us we’ll be away.’ He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the Roman ships, mainly biremes, hauled up along a half-mile stretch of riverbank. The shouts of their crews drifted across the flat water, which shone like a mirror, reflecting the noonday sun.
‘We’ll be lucky to escape their notice,’ Sabinus said, hugging the Eagle in its leather wrapping to his chest. ‘I should imagine that right about now Gabinius is discovering that we got there before him, thanks to Thumelicus.’
‘That’s another fucking irony, isn’t it? This country’s full of them,’ Magnus declared. ‘The son of Arminius tried to steal a Roman Eagle that his father captured, so that he could return it to Rome, thus breaking an oath to Donar who struck him down from above with a German trap. And all because three ex-slaves want to keep their master and themselves in power, but at the same time they fight each other for the privilege of being considered the most useful by a drooling fool.’
Vespasian’s brow creased into a frown. ‘It does make you wonder what sort of government we’re going to have under Claudius.’
‘The same as always, I suppose.’
‘No, it’s been different with each Emperor. Augustus managed to rule with the Senate without making it seem that he was ultimately in charge although everybody knew he was. Tiberius wasn’t subtle enough to play that game so the relationship broke down because neither could understand what the other wanted. Caligula then drew all power into his own hands, ruling with the approval of the mob whilst the Senate cowered, scared of arbitrary execution every time the Emperor ran out of money. And now we’ve got a figurehead emperor who distrusts the Senate because it didn’t support him and who’s manipulated by three Greek freedmen that no one can trust — even though I would call one a friend — who seem to be running the Empire for their own benefit.’
‘That’s why I keep out of politics,’ Magnus commented. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck how we’re ruled or by whom, so long as they leave me alone in my little corner of Rome, which they do because I don’t give a shit about them. If you had the same attitude I’d have a much quieter life, if you take my meaning?’