Then there would be Tiberius to deal with. Arminius shuddered at the thought. He knew after such a disaster as this, the Emperor Augustus would not hesitate to send his best General to deal with the situation. Varus had been a coward and a fool. Tiberius Claudius Nero was another matter completely. Had Tiberius been in command of the Army of the Rhine, Arminius highly doubted he would have contemplated such a bold move as that which had just brought him victory. Surely the outcome would have been different with Tiberius in command. Arminius’ father and uncles had all faced Tiberius and his brother Drusus in battle and felt the full effect of their wrath. Two uncles had been slain, one by Tiberius’ own hand. Mercifully, Drusus died in a horse riding accident years ago, but his brother had lost none of his skill or venom. Arminius’ one surviving uncle, Ingiomerus, still walked with a slight limp from a javelin wound in the thigh, suffered in battle with Tiberius’ army.
Lesser known was Tiberius’ nephew, Germanicus, so named in honor of his father Drusus’ military achievements in Germania. Arminius scoffed at the very notion. Germanicus was the protégé of Tiberius, having served directly under him in Pannonia. There was little doubt he would accompany the General, possibly even in a position of high command. Still, while Germanicus was virtually an unknown factor, Arminius knew he had been trained by his uncle, who surely passed on some of his cunning, tactical savvy and ruthlessness on the battlefield.
If I face Tiberius on the battlefield, I will have sealed the fate of the entire Germanic nation, Arminius thought to himself. While he was brave, knowledgeable in the tactics and techniques of the Roman Army, and had won one of the greatest feats of arms in memory, he was no fool. He knew his limitations, and he was not too proud to admit when he was outmatched. Tiberius was skillful, his troops superbly drilled. Most battles were virtually over before the first blow was even struck. No, against Tiberius there could be no victory, even if he were able to keep the numerical advantage. At that moment, he made his decision and would pull his army back across the Rhine. They would continue to conduct raids and skirmishes to harass the Romans, of course. But above all, they would pray to their gods that Tiberius would not venture across the Rhine.
News of the disaster came hard to Rome. Families wept, mourning the loss of loved ones, and a general panic ensued. Many citizens were convinced that with no army to speak of on the frontier, it was only a matter of time before the barbarians reached the gates of Rome. Such thoughts were nonsense to the sensible person, however, so had been the destruction of the Army of the Rhine. How could this have happened? How could an entire army have been annihilated? Stories ran rampant of how Germania was a land of seven-foot tall giants who could crush legionaries with their bare hands. And there were thousands of them. Tens of thousands …no, hundreds of thousands. They spawned in those dark forests, watching, waiting for the moment to strike. And now they would come for the head of Rome itself.
None took the news harder than Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome. Three of his legions, the Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Nineteenth were gone. The barbarians had taken his beloved Eagles, the sacred symbols of each legion. Such a disgrace was unbearable. Equally appalling was the sheer loss of life. Twenty thousand Roman citizens had perished in the carnage. Now, the Emperor had to make some rapid decisions before the barbarians invaded the provinces in Gaul. Retribution was a given; the barbarians must be made to pay for this atrocity. However, the first thing that needed to be done was securing the Rhine bridges and eliminating any chance of invasion. And, by all the gods, someone had to quell the masses that were panicking and spreading stories borne more out of fantasy and fear than fact! For these things, he looked to Tiberius and Germanicus. They would save Rome or else nobody would. The Emperor was so consumed with grief and despair, he could do little to help in preparations for war. In the midst of council, he would suddenly cry out, ‘Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions!’ The 72-year-old Emperor would be of little help when it came to planning the actual campaign. Late one night, Tiberius and Germanicus were poring over a map of the Rhine frontier when Germanicus brought this point up to his uncle.
“Let Augustus mourn,” Tiberius said without looking up from the map. “And let the public see that he mourns with them. Reprisal, securing of the frontiers, and salvaging the public’s sanity is now our responsibility.”
Germanicus nodded in assent. “We have two legions, Second Augusta and Twentieth Valeria, we can send to the frontier almost immediately. Auxiliaries can be picked up at garrison stations along the way. I suggest we expedite the move by leaving the artillery wagons, at least temporarily, and stripping all baggage trains to the bare essentials.”
“Leave the auxiliaries,” Tiberius said. “They take too long to get organized. What we need right now is speed. They can be picked up later with the follow-on forces. Right now, all that matters is getting to the bridges as quickly as possible. I’ll take both legions and start immediately. I’ve already sent dispatches to the legates of each. Once we reach the frontier, we’ll secure and reinforce whatever forts remain. Supply won’t be an issue while on the march. It may be another matter once we reach the Rhine. We don’t know what’s been plundered from the frontier forts nor do we know if the countryside has been scavenged or not.”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” Germanicus replied. “I’ve sent word to the auxiliary commanders to send out as many foraging parties as they can. They’ll have extra stockpiles of rations available for pickup. We can use them to escort the baggage trains and artillery wagons once they come up, thereby freeing up more legionary forces. I’ll bring them as soon as I can rally at least another legion.”
“You’re not coming,” Tiberius said, “at least not right away. There has been much panic since word of the disaster broke out. Augustus feels that you’d be best suited staying back to calm the masses for the time being.”
“My place is with you, uncle,” Germanicus protested. “My place is with my men.”
“Your place is where the Emperor tells you it is.” Tiberius snapped.
Germanicus looked crestfallen. Tiberius was a hard, practical man, but he was not entirely unsympathetic. He remembered what it was like to be left behind on an important campaign. In his case, it had been the campaign where his beloved brother died. Oh yes, he understood how his nephew felt. He suddenly felt the need to console the young man who had served him so well in the past.
“Germanicus, I know your quality as a soldier and as a leader of men. You have learned your lessons, both in study and on the battlefield. I dare say you rival your father as a tactician.”
Germanicus smiled at the compliment.
“I also know,” Tiberius continued, “that you have a way with the people of the city. They look to you for inspiration and guidance. The Emperor, while dearly loved, is an old man. He is tired. He looks to the young to breathe life and hope back into the city. You alone can do that. You have the gift. It is the gift many lack, to include myself.”
Tiberius, while a capable administrator with strong ethics and principles, lacked the ability to convey these to the public. He was seen as a bitter, spiteful individual, preferring solitude over companionship. This, of course, was an exaggeration brought on by the gossips. His closest companions were philosophers and scholars, and that damned astrologer of his. At forty-nine, he was still in amazing health, though his face bore the scars of acne and his body the ravages of war. Drusus, his late brother and the father of Germanicus, had been a good-looking and charming young man with the same gift for words that his son now possessed. The force of his aura and personality could inspire even the bleakest of souls to do great things. He had been adored by the public and was loved like a father by his men. And he had been one of the few people Tiberius, himself, ever truly loved. While he did possess a certain fondness for his own son, also named Drusus, for some reason the feelings just didn’t run as deep as they should have between a father and son.