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  I followed their gaze, and saw that, in the darkness, a group of Roman soldiers had followed the Germans. Their swords were sheathed, and yet they were clearly agitated.

  ‘Nineteenth Legion,’ the man beside me said. ‘They have the fort’s guard tonight.’

  Following their chieftain – who was evidently uninterested in the collection of silver eagles – the Germans came to a stop in the centre of the square; the tall captive was forced down on to his knees.

  At the square’s edges, the Romans fanned out, facing inwards, watchful yet held back by doubt. There was a century’s worth of soldiers, and they could have overcome the Germans – powerfully built as they were – in mere moments.

  ‘They must value the hostage,’ I thought aloud.

  ‘Or the hostage-taker,’ the standard-bearer answered, observing the chieftain who wore golden wealth around his neck and arms. ‘Maybe both,’ he continued. ‘You don’t bring a hostage into the heart of a Roman camp unless you place a lot of worth on his head, and your own.’

  A further century of Roman soldiers arrived, but still they made no move against the Germans. The tribesmen held their ground, immobile, thickly bearded statues in chain mail.

  A centurion, his sword sheathed, strode up to the chieftain, and did him the courtesy of a small bow. They conferred, words lost to me, and the officer returned to his men. Considering that there was a man clad in irons, with two hundred armed warriors in attendance, it was all very calm.

  And then the cavalry arrived. Six of them.

  They were Germans, and I knew them well – Arminius’s men, but their leader was absent. Instead, his large bodyguard Berengar rode at the head of the handful of troopers, his ugly face twisted in a snarl.

  As the horses came to a stop, the stomp of their hooves echoing in the night, Arminius’s warrior yelled something in German that could only have been a challenge. The chieftain’s face showed his distaste, but he held his tongue, as well as his ground. Signalling with the slightest movement of his head, the hood was pulled from the captive, and I had my first look at the hostage.

  Arminius, of course. I had known it the second his soldiers appeared. Nothing else could have caused the angst they displayed so openly.

  The prince’s face was bloodied, and yet he smiled. He smiled at his captors and, turning his head, he smiled at his six loyal men on horseback.

  And they charged.

  No weapons were drawn, and I expect they hoped to use the bulk of their horses to press through the body of men, grab Arminius, and ride to safety.

  But the chieftain’s men were handpicked – the best warriors his tribe had to offer. With no orders needing to be given, they pulled into a tight knot of shields, Arminius and the chieftain at its centre, and, seeing the solid object ahead of them, the cavalry mounts pulled up, turning and rearing.

  Immediately the hostage-takers burst from behind their impromptu shield wall, taking hold of reins and riders. One man was felled by a flailing hoof, but the others had momentum on their side, and in seconds, three of Arminius’s men were out of the saddle.

  The rescue effort had ended in failure, to the dismay of the prince’s bodyguard. From their howls of rage and torment, I could only conclude that they did not expect their leader to survive the night.

  I should have stayed where I was. I should have left the German bastards to it.

  But loyalty is a potent drug, and I was already running.

  I ran into the rear of the melee. The pathetic cavalry charge had come from the opposite side of the square, and it was German backs I faced, not shields. Even the chieftain was struggling to pull the remaining troopers from their saddles, and so there was only one man between myself and Arminius.

  As I said, these Germans were seasoned warriors, and the principle of all-round defence was one that they knew well. Not allowing himself to be sucked into the scrap ahead of him, one warrior had kept his eyes on the shadows to their rear. He saw me coming from thirty paces away, which was twenty-nine more than he needed to decide how to kill me.

  But he couldn’t kill me. The violence in the square was no more bloody than a wrestling match, though I sensed that life was somehow at stake. Obviously under orders from the chieftain, the men were at pains to subdue their fellow countrymen with fists and elbows only, and so there was no way that the solitary German warrior could gut a Roman in the centre of the army’s fort.

  It was this indecision that let me beat him. The man finally attempted to tackle me as I was a pace away, but I’d expected his dive, and feinted to the side, pushing down on to his back so that his momentum ploughed his face into the dirt. With that simple move, and as the last of the cavalrymen were pulled to the ground and beaten, I was at Arminius’s side.

  He recognized me at once, but the smile slid from his face as I drew my dagger and held it to his throat.

  Instantly, the square was still.

  ‘What are you doing, Felix?’ The words were as cool as a winter stream, his intense eyes betraying not a flicker of fear.

  I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure myself. Plans formed in a split second of adrenaline and emotion don’t usually hold up well to scrutiny.

  Seeing the blade pressing into the skin of their hostage and prince, the Germans stilled, breathing heavily.

  The chieftain, bushy eyebrows creased in puzzlement, repeated Arminius’s query in heavily accented Latin. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Back off, or I’ll kill him.’

  ‘You’ll kill him?’ There was an edge of amusement in his voice.

  Perhaps I’d miscalculated. The big man seemed to be considering the proposal with some seriousness.

  ‘Maybe it would be better if you did,’ he finally mused aloud, confirming my fears.

  ‘Uncle,’ Arminius said, ignoring my insistence that he shut up. ‘You’re wrong about this.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me, whelp,’ the chieftain spat, face quickly creasing with anger. ‘It’s only the feelings of my idiot girl that has kept your head on your shoulders.’

  So this was the uncle – father of Arminius’s eloped bride, and chieftain of the Cherusci tribe, to which Arminius belonged. There could be only one reason that the chieftain had put Arminius in chains. One reason he had brought him here, and one person he had come to see. Realizing who, and why, my world felt as if it were about to fall out of my stomach.

  Why had I done this? After every poisonous decision, every painful mile, I would die screaming on a crucifix. Why?

  But I knew the answer well enough.

  Loyalty. As deadly as love.

  The man I feared arrived moments later. I feared him not because of his prowess as a warrior – he had none – but because his power was immeasurable. Since donning the uniform of the legions, my life had been placed indirectly in his hands. Now, it was hanging from his manicured fingernails.

  ‘Governor Varus,’ the chieftain greeted him.

  Varus wore a simple toga, the expensive silk pulled tight around his spreading waist. His face was neutral: he was a politician, after all. The armoured troops that flanked him were enough of a reminder of his power.

  ‘Segestes.’ He spoke, tiredly, to the chieftain. Then he greeted the hostage: ‘Arminius.’ There was no mirth in his voice.

  I braced myself.

  ‘And who are you, soldier?’

  I attempted to pull myself to attention, while continuing to keep the dagger’s point at the prince’s throat. What a sight I must have made.

  ‘Beg to report, sir, Legionary Felix, Second Century, Second Cohort of the Seventeenth Legion, sir.’

  ‘And my friend, governor,’ Arminius added.

  ‘Your friend?’ Varus asked, clearly believing that the shock of arrest had addled the mind of his German protégé. ‘So what is he doing?’

  ‘Saving my life,’ Arminius told him with a smile that threatened to light up the parade square. ‘I think you can lower the blade now, Felix,’ he suggested.

  ‘
Yes, yes,’ Varus insisted. ‘Put the blade away, soldier. There will be no bloodshed, not here. Not against this man.’ These words were directed at Segestes, but the chieftain was not about to back down.

  ‘Varus, this man is plotting against you! He is a snake, a treacherous snake. You must imprison him before he leads you to ruin!’

  The governor winced at being addressed by his name, but let it slide, maintaining his composure and using his most calm yet convincing tone. Politics, always politics.

  ‘My friend, this is a member of your own family we are talking about—’

  ‘He stopped being family when he became a treacherous shit!’

  ‘—and I understand that you are justly offended by his actions with your daughter, but Arminius is a loyal officer.’

  ‘He’s loyal only to himself!’ Segestes thundered, clearly struggling to stop himself attacking his nephew. ‘By the gods, governor, if you won’t imprison him alone, then take me too. Put chains on every noble in my tribe, and those that claim fealty. I will gladly suffer the dungeons if it stops this worm from leading the army to ruin, and bringing bloodshed to my lands.’

  There was something about the man’s words, the sheer conviction, that stopped my heart. I could see that Varus felt it too, and the governor had to look into Arminius’s eyes for reassurance that the accusations were false, despite their venom. I looked at those eyes myself, and they were the eyes of a man at peace with the world. A man of his word. When I saw that, I believed again, and my heart resumed its thumping within my chest. Varus saw the same. He almost sagged with relief.

  ‘Release him.’ He spoke so softly that he had to repeat the order.

  Segestes’s look could have set the world on fire. He turned that gaze on to his nephew, spat, and then spun on his heel, his men following in his wake.

  Unbound, Arminius stood, and I felt his hand squeeze my elbow. His voice was so low that only I could hear. ‘Felix, no matter what, no matter when, you have a friend in me, and a place by my side.’

  ‘I owed you one, sir.’

  ‘You owed me two.’ He smiled, leaving me confused, but that was the end of our conversation. Varus embraced Arminius, the governor abandoning dignity, such was his relief at the release of a man he adored.

  They walked away together, Varus with an arm over the young prince’s shoulder, the two centuries of soldiers following in their wake. Arminius’s loyal soldiers, battered but buoyed, limped behind with their horses.

  I was left, forgotten, my eyes on the back of the enigma. When I rushed to his side, I had told myself that I was repaying a debt – balancing the books – but when he had called himself my friend I had believed him, and treasured the connotation.

  I watched him go until he was consumed by the hungry shadows at the far end of the parade square. Slowly, I sank to one knee, breathing deep of the night’s air.

  ‘Lucky, and heroic.’ It was the standard-bearer, the mouth beneath the shadows pulled up in amusement.

  ‘Just fucking stupid,’ I groaned.

  ‘Yes, that too, but lucky beats stupid.’ He offered his hand. I gripped his forearm, and he pulled me to my unsteady feet. ‘Just don’t push it too far.’ He looked towards the shadows. ‘These Germans will be the end of us.’

  With that warning in my ears, he took his leave. The next time we would meet, the fur of his bearskin would be matted with blood.

  I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, adrenaline I had not even known was there now seeping out of my body. Despite the shaking muscles, I felt a surge of heat and purpose course through my body. I had saved a worthy man’s life.

  I did not know that in doing so, I had condemned an army of others to their graves.

  Part Two

  * * *

  17

  I’m sure the average citizen has a romantic notion about how an army looks when it takes the field, its thousands of soldiers moving as one, a horde of individuals fused for a single purpose. After all, this is the image our rulers have pushed since the early days of the Republic, the bombast only growing under the Empire. We see it painted, sculpted, and acted out: the conquering heroes, sandalled legions stamping beneath the eagles.

  Perhaps, from a distance, that is how it appears. Or perhaps, if you are a citizen of some other land, it seems more like a venomous, multi-limbed insect inching its way across a landscape, stripping the fields and laying waste to the towns.

  Yet this beast is not romantic, or mystical; it is not a single creature, but a cluster of hollow-eyed individuals. Evidence of this humanity grows stronger still during a halt, when the limbs of the insect will be pissing and shitting alongside the trail, or even in place, depending on the degree of discipline on which their commanders insist.

  On the move, the sweat-coated soldiers at the head of the column hold a blessed position. They may be the first to walk into any ambush, but that is better than following in their wake. During the dry months, the vanguard’s advance kicks up dust that sinks into the throats, eyes and ears of those who trail them. In winter, the van’s shod feet churn any track into a viscous sludge through which the following soldiers have to slither and stamp, all while carrying a pack made heavier by the rain. The warriors of the rearguard will have the honour of marching through an army’s worth of piss and shit, their open sores and numerous blisters soon rife with painful, pus-weeping infection.

  Perhaps, if the dust is spread by the winds, or the soldier can raise his head from out of his exhaustion, then he may glimpse the rest of the army as it crosses some stretch of high ground, but on the whole, all the marching trooper will see is the men to his front and flanks, whether he is part of a group of twenty or twenty thousand. Only the aristocratic officers, and those with the highly dangerous job of cavalry scouts, will have the slightest notion as to the scale of the army. But, for a veteran and salt like Chickenhead, there are ways of making an educated guess.

  ‘Fifteen thousand,’ he told the section between shallow pants. ‘That scout said we’re about a quarter way from the front, and there’s already a load of shit on the track.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ Stumps agreed with a grimace. ‘Think the scouts have traded in their horses for elephants.’

  ‘You used that one last summer,’ Chickenhead replied tiredly. ‘You’re boring me now.’ Like all the other men of the section, his voice came from behind a legion-issued red neckerchief, tied about the face to keep out the dust cloud that had risen from the dry summer track.

  ‘I’m surprised you can remember a year ago, you old shit,’ Stumps countered, but when no reply came from his comrade, the younger veteran turned to Titus, who marched on his shoulder. ‘You reckon he’s right?’

  Titus’s mind seemed to be on other matters, his feet moving automatically. Stumps pressed again, and the big man finally slid from his reverie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many in the army? Chicken reckons fifteen thousand.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Titus rumbled, and Stumps clearly decided it was best to let the lump drift back to his own thoughts.

  ‘How many miles you reckon a soldier marches in his career?’ he asked Chickenhead instead.

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘Depends where you’re stationed,’ Moonface suggested. ‘I reckon up here we put in a lot more miles than the legions down south. Comfy life out in the desert.’

  ‘What the fuck would you know about the desert?’ Titus snarled, catching the conversation.

  ‘Nothing,’ Moonface admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Yeah. Nothing. So shut your fucking mouth.’

  We tramped on in silence, or at least devoid of conversation. Despite men’s efforts to secure their gear, helmets bounced off shields, scabbards off armour.

  ‘We sound like the world’s shittest musicians,’ Stumps observed.

  I tried to concentrate on the pack in front of me, wanting, like Titus, my mind to rise above the column, for the march had not brought with it the elation I h
ad expected.

  That was because, mere hours after the incident on the parade square, I had been sought out in my tent by one of the quartermaster’s minions. I had hoped that with his logistical workload of preparing for the legion to decamp, he would have been unable to call in my debt until we reached our winter quarters. Of course, by then, I planned to have been long gone, using my collection of coins to pay for passage to Britain, and what I hoped would be a new beginning. Instead, I had handed my purse to the ill-tempered loan shark.

  ‘Dead men don’t pay debts,’ he’d grunted, noticing my appraising eye on the line of sullen solders behind me.

  ‘You think the Germans will stand and fight, sir?’ I’d asked, appealing to his vanity. As I’d expected, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to display his insight.

  ‘Stand and fight us? No, not enough of the tribes making trouble. But these goat-fuckers didn’t bring Drusus and his legions to a standstill by being cowards. They’ll know what these raids of theirs will have set off, whether Varus is a lazy bastard or not, and so they’ll have some surprises for us, I’m tellin’ you. Anyway, I’m taking no chances. You’re two short.’ He snorted this final statement, his birthmarks darkening with anger. After fishing the coins from my pockets, I was near destitute once more.

  The army had broken camp the next morning. After a summer of inactivity, it was a blizzard of commotion, doubtless due to Varus’s eagerness to be on the road before Arminius and his uncle could resume their family feud. Word of the night’s stand-off had already begun to filter through the tented lines, but my century remained ignorant of my own involvement, and doubtless that was for the best, as Titus was already irritable. The other men of the section had no idea why, and even Rufus gave his close friend a wide berth, organizing the section’s decampment himself while Titus sat alone, digging his dagger into the earth in aggressive contemplation.

  With the tents and stores packed on to mules, Pavo marched the century out to a wide field to join the cohort. From there we joined the remainder of the legion, and even with the discipline and organization of the army, it was still a stop-start affair, the sun high in the sky by the time the host finally marched away from the hovels of Minden. Doubtless its citizens would be glad to see the backs of the drunken, sex-crazed soldiers, while at the same time missing the business and the coins they had brought in the wake of their excess.