“Aulus Ingenuus, prefect of the Eighth.”
The Roman officer nodded, unable to raise his hand.
“Gaius Valerius Procillus, officer of Caesar’s staff. Forgive me for not returning the gesture. No…” he interrupted as Ingenuus lowered his arm, “you’d be better keeping that up. You’ll lose a lot of blood with it down.”
Ingenuus grinned.
“Procillus. Amazing, sir. How long have you been held by them? Must be weeks now. And you’re still alive and relatively well.”
The ragged officer smiled wearily.
“Relatively, yes. Borderline starvation I think, but I’m lucky. They won’t do anything without the say so of their Gods and the old crones checked the auspices three times but still said no. Good job, really. They were going to burn me to death. I think they were trying to take me back across the Rhine to bargain with later.”
Ingenuus nodded.
“Seems likely. I take it that was your voice that I heard silenced in the woods then, sir?”
“That’d be me, yes. I need to get back to camp. Can you give me a horse?”
Ingenuus grinned.
“I’ll do better than that. Caesar’s only ten minutes away, so I’ll take you to him. Then we’ll get someone to crack those chains for you and I’ll escort you back to camp personally. I need to have a medicus look at my hand, anyway.”
Several miles away, Varus kicked his horse to a greater turn of speed. Around him his own unit and one of the auxiliary alae raced for the river. They could see the small group of refugees ahead of them at the river’s edge, pushing off in three small boats. Other, more desperate Germans were leaping into the strong, dangerous currents of the wide, powerful Rhine and trying to swim across. A few were making it; most were not. He could still hear the clash of weapon on weapon and the cries of the wounded and dying not far behind.
Crassus and his wing had chased down many of the fleeing survivors from the battle and had come across a large collection of German warriors that had turned and prepared to give their pursuers a fight. With the odds as they were, Varus couldn’t in good conscience call it a battle. It was a slaughter and, to give him his due, Crassus had given them the opportunity to surrender. It had been in the depths of combat when he had realised why the warriors had given them such fierce resistance. Alone on the edge of the fray with only a couple of the auxiliary troopers, he had spotted a small knot of well-dressed and equipped men and women moving as unobtrusively as possible toward the river, covered by the fighting behind them. He had pointed them out to the auxiliaries and one of them, a Sequani warrior fighting alongside the Romans had identified them as the Royal party.
They had been so close to the river by then that Varus had no time to draw this to the attention of Crassus and had instead gathered all of the regulars and auxiliaries he could find at the edge, racing off in pursuit of Ariovistus and his family.
Concentrating, he slowed his horse as they reached the edge of the river. He didn’t dare ride into the current. Looking up and down the bank for other boats, he was disappointed. Presumably the Germans had not expected to have to flee across the Rhine and had been woefully unprepared. With an irritated growl, he realised that the King had escaped.
Suddenly a number of spears whistled over his head, crashing into and around the boats. Turning angrily, he saw a number of the auxiliary troopers hurling their weapons into the boats.
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill them all, and many of them are women!”
One of the auxiliaries looked down at him in surprise.
“They kill our women!”
Varus turned back to look at the boats and noticed that a few of the spears had, in fact hit home. The man Varus presumed to be Ariovistus himself stood nobly in the prow, shouting defiance in his guttural tongue. Slumped nearby were three women and two men.
Angrily, the prefect picked up a stone from the river bank and cast it after the boats, only to watch it fall very short and sink into the water. Turning, he gestured to the men around him.
“He’s gone. Back to your units.”
Varus mounted his horse once more and, with a last, longing look out at the small boats diminishing into the distance, sighed and wheeled his horse.
On the ride back across the hill and into the fray he kept berating himself for not having realised that the fight was a delaying tactic earlier. Had he been a little sharper, they could have caught Ariovistus on the way to the river and he would now be in chains on his way back to Caesar and, eventually, to Rome to be paraded before the public. Damn.
He looked up as they crested the hill and the bile rose in his throat. He was confronted with a scene of devastation. Without doubt the German warriors had surrendered, presumably when they’d realised that the King was either safe or they had failed. There was not a single warrior offering any resistance and, too proud to run from Crassus’ ‘no survivors’ policy were being cut down where they stood or knelt. With further horror, Varus realised that the Auxilia were sat ahorse in formation watching the grisly scene. The perpetrators were the regular cavalry. His ala was murdering surrendering men.
His fury rising, he kicked his horse into a gallop and made for the commanders, Crassus and several prefects and decurions sitting in a group in the centre of the field. He tried not to look around as he rode, but couldn’t fail to see the line of prisoners, a score or more, on their knees being beheaded systematically by his men. He fought the urge to draw his sword as he made for Crassus.
“What in the name of Mars, Jupiter and Fortuna is going on? These people are surrendering, Crassus. We need slaves, not corpses!”
Crassus merely turned his cold stare on the prefect and gestured to the officers around him. Obediently they rode away to attend to the butchery. Once they were alone, the commander trotted across to Varus.
“Don’t ever speak to me like that in front of the men, prefect. It doesn’t do for junior officers to question the judgement of their seniors, particularly in public.”
Varus stuttered, unable to believe the arrogance of the man.
“I’m not questioning your judgement, Crassus, I’m questioning your sanity! They’re valuable property now, and they’re people. Murdering them solves nothing.”
Crassus rounded on him.
“I am in command of this cavalry, Varus, not you, no matter how much you wished for it and angled for it. You may have been Longinus’ pet, but you’re an officer of the equestrian class, whereas I am a patrician and a senior commander. I will not be questioned by an equestrian.”
Varus growled.
“Being a Patrician entitles you to wealth and power; to sit in the Senate and to make policy decisions for the good of Rome. It does not give you the right to treat the lesser classes as cattle. Without the Equestrians, the Plebeians and even the slaves there would be no Rome. No army; no merchants; no builders. What good would your rank be without them?”
Crassus smiled a dead smile.
“Exactly what I would expect one of your class to come out with. Drivel. You don’t understand how it works.”
Varus reached out between the horses and grasped the military scarf around Crassus’ neck, hauling him closer and almost from his horse. Crassus’ sudden look of surprise and, Varus thought, of fright was soon replaced by his usual arrogant and complacent smile. The prefect resisted the urge to punch him.
“Crassus, I am one of the Patrician class, not an Equestrian. My father sat in the Senate and so shall I one day, so don’t you dare tell me I don’t know how it works. To hell with you and your nightmare command.”