On the morning of the second day’s march, Varus gazed up at a sky so blue it made his head hurt. He watched a murder of crows flying south as he patted his mare’s neck with pride. She was a magnificent animal, the envy of many officers under his command. Glancing at Numonius beside him, he had to hide the smirk he felt twitching his mouth. His second-in-command sat astride a cabullum, a real carthorse. Varus believed an officer revealed much with the life choices he made. Riding a carthorse as a leader in Rome’s elite cavalry spoke of negligence, or if not negligence, then at least sloppiness. Each time they rode together, Varus became embarrassed, not for himself but for the soldiers under his command. Martial discipline forced the men to keep themselves in pristine condition. It did not matter how often an officer sanded his gallea if he then insisted on sitting on a carthorse.
The man’s a farmer, and it shows.
Varus decided to speak with him after the campaign was complete. With the spoils, the officer could buy a more suitable mount—more than one, even.
“What do you think they augur?” he asked, pointing at the birds. Numonius shrugged and spat on the ground between the horses.
Unsure whether he intended disrespect, Varus ignored the gesture. Instead, he studied the road, wondering what his officers could have been afraid of. Some trees sprouted from the scrub of bracken fronds, but there were few, and they offered no obstacle to the marching legions. A slight rise in the path prevented him from seeing too far. However, he was confident the forest would continue as nothing more than a spindly copse, a forest only in the overripe imaginations of the people who served him.
“There is still no sign of Arminius,” he mused.
“No, Publius,” Numonius said, frowning down at him. Varus hated having to look up at his subordinate sitting astride his farm animal. “Are we sure of his loyalty?”
“You will address me as Imperial Legate, sir, or lord,” Varus snapped. Calling him by name might be acceptable when in the privacy of the command tent, but to do so in front of the soldiers was a severe breach of the military code.
He does not give a fig for the military code.
“Are we sure of his loyalty… Sir?” Numonius asked, turning away and pausing only long enough to make his insubordination evident but not sufficient to warrant punishment.
“Of course, we’re sure of his loyalty. He’s a patrician.”
Where you are not, he wanted to add.
The cavalry commander had risen through the officer ranks after a feat of extraordinary courage when he stormed a rampart and palisade single-handedly. He believed that the act of valor gave him the right to treat his superiors with disdain, which upset Varus even more than the man’s laxity. He was about to order Numonius on some menial task to put the man back in his place when he heard a roar. He watched in amazement as thousands of barbarian warriors rose out of the scrublands on either side of the road. With the roaring, the warriors began banging short spears against their shields.
Despite himself, Varus was impressed with the sight of the Germanics surrounding his legions. He had always believed the barbarian fighters to be ill-armed and ill-disciplined. Nearly all of these wore coats of mail and carried oblong shields, not unlike the Roman scuta. Some had their infamous longswords, useless in a shield wall battle, but all carried short stabbing spears that would be lethal in a contest with shield against shield. Perhaps even more effective than his soldiers’ gladii.
Varus was pleased to see each cohort in view move into their defensive squares with efficiency. At the first sign of missiles, they would form testudi seamlessly and be mainly impervious to anything loosed or thrown at them. Although a horde surrounded them, it would take a skilled and determined enemy to break through the shield wall unless they had weapons like onagers.
Surrounded by the first cohort of the Nineteenth, Varus felt safe. However, his mare was a little twitchy and nervous at the barbarians’ noise. She skittered left and then right. He tried calming her by stroking her neck and making cooing sounds, to little effect. The banging and roaring continued for several moments.
“Why do they not attack?” Varus asked.
“They’re building up courage and trying to unnerve us,” Numonius said.
“Does that work?”
“Well, they’re certainly unnerving your mare… Sir,” his subordinate said with a snort.
Varus opened his mouth to reprimand the officer again when he noticed the carthorse standing calmly, swishing flies with its tail. Instead, he asked, “Should we attack?”
Varus felt his heart skip when Numonius turned a look on him that he thought might stop a cavalry charge. The officer evidently thought attacking would be a bad idea. However, there was something else in the man’s expression warning Varus not to react. He suddenly felt very alone in this place, even though Rome’s elite surrounded him. Because his second-in-command came from the lower officer ranks, he would have much more in common with the soldiers. Numonius could cut Varus’s throat and claim the enemy killed him. The Imperial Legate doubted any of the soldiers in the three legions would contradict anything Numonius claimed.
Perhaps all the crucifixions were not a good idea.
He recalled the second-in-command cautioning leniency for all but the most severe offenses. Varus insisted on the letter of the law, ordering the crucifixion of any who had infringed on the code in a way that the regulations demanded an execution. Gazing around at the soldiers with their backs to him, he was sure none would show loyalty. They considered him better suited to pushing a stylus behind an ornate desk.
A scream from the attackers broke into his thoughts, and he watched thousands of warriors run forward a few paces, throw their short spears—weapons Varus thought better for stabbing—and run away. Most of the spears thumped against raised shields and fell harmlessly to the ground. Shaking his head, Varus turned in his saddle to see that the same attack had happened to all of the cohorts he could see and to the same effect.
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“What are they doing?” he wondered aloud.
Numonius shook his head and looked around from his elevated position. Varus felt a momentary surge of elation when confusion clouded his second-in-command’s face. He felt somehow vindicated that he was not alone in failing to understand what the barbarians intended with the futile attack.
When runners arrived from the commanders of the three legions demanding orders, Numonius did not consult Varus as he said, “Inform your Legates that we march.”
“Direction?” Anquirinnius sent his runner back to ask.
“We carry on. The savages are behind us and on both flanks. There is a huge marsh to the north, so even if we fight through them on that flank, there’s nowhere to go.”
Varus was about to reiterate the orders when something came to mind. “Are they herding us northwards?”
“Does it matter, Varus? You have three legions. No barbarian horde can stand against you.”
You mean, you have three legions, the Imperial Legate thought but said nothing. Somehow, he had ceded command and was unsure what to do about it or if he should do anything.
They marched through the day. The enemy warriors attacked them intermittently as if hurrying them northwards. Each time they charged, the cohorts arranged themselves in defensive squares. The barbarians threw their short spears and then retreated. It was apparent to Varus that the attackers were using the same spears for each assault. When the cohorts marched, they left the weapons where they had fallen. The legionaries had their pila to carry, three per man, and could do without the extra burden. He considered ordering Numonius to have the spears collected, but memories of the look from earlier prevented him. He was sure there would be some flaw in the idea and that Numonius would delight in revealing it before spitting under his mare’s torso.
Are they toying with us? he asked himself when another attack came, and the cohorts formed defensive squares. It is like a game with obscure rules.
The game continued until lengthening shadows made Varus realize that night would soon fall. He watched as the barbarian warriors backed away and appeared to vanish into the shadows as twilight stretched its domain. Their retreat surprised Varus. He thought it would be a better tactic to harry them through the night, keeping them on edge and tired.
“Are they just incompetent?” he asked.
Eggius shrugged, and Numonius hawked and spat. Whatever had been the intention of the barbarians, all they had succeeded in doing was slowing the march with their intermittent attacks.
“Make a camp,” Numonius called before getting down from the carthorse.
Varus realized he had been sitting on his horse since early morning and was glad he was able to remain standing after he climbed off. Rubbing his buttocks, he walked around to try and relieve the stiffness.
“Are you all right, Lord?” Eggius asked.
“Yes. Thank you, Lucius. Order my tent erected as soon as can be and then get the senior officers to give me a status report.”
Eggius punched his chest and left to see to the orders. Varus looked for Numonius but could not see him anywhere. He had been unaware it was possible to hide such a large horse so effectively. Stretching his back, he was happy the day was finally over. He thought they would be safe inside their marching fort, but he wondered what the following day would bring.
***
As darkness fell, Varus sat behind his desk and gazed at the senior officers standing before him. “Where is Numonius?”
The officers glanced at each other. Varus thought he caught some of the same prejudice he had for the upstart officer. The shared emotion made him feel a little stronger and less isolated.
“We shall continue without him. Lucius, you have gathered the reports. Proceed.”
“Casualties are minimal because they refused to close with us,” Eggius said before listing the casualties for each cohort. What Varus had suspected during the day was borne out by the report. The attacks yielded no results.
They were herding us northwards, but why?
Eggius concluded his report by saying, “Throwing their short spears from a distance did little damage. However, they did nearly overrun the wagon train. This campaign will be impossible without supplies.”
“It was a mistake to position the wagons at the end of the column,” Anquirinnius said.
The other Legates and Banded Tribunes nodded their agreement. Varus frowned. The order had been his, but Numonius suggested it, claiming the supplies would be safer with three legions in front of them either ignoring or not considering the possibility of a flank attack.
“What can be done to protect the supplies?” Varus asked.
“I suggest we move the wagons to the middle of the column for tomorrow’s march,” Eggius said.
“Good. Give the orders, Lucius, would you.”
Varus watched the Banded Tribune leave the tent. As the tent flaps closed behind Eggius, he heard the guards challenging someone. After a few moments, the flaps opened, and Numonius came in, followed by two guards dragging a barbarian between them.
“Who is this?”
“Arminius’s turmae have deserted. The guards caught this one saddling his horse.”
“Deserted?” Varus asked, not because he had not heard; he was unsure what it meant.
“They are gone. All except this one.”
“Why would they desert? There have been no setbacks.”
“I say deserted. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say they returned to their master.”
“Arminius?” The second-in-command nodded but said nothing. Varus considered the implications of the auxiliary cavalry abandoning their posts. They were Cherusci, and their running at this time was a hard fact for him to accept.
Surely not? his mind continued to fight against the evident truth.
“Should we put him to the question?” Varus asked.
“I doubt he’ll talk; using hot irons on him will do nothing but waste time.”
“What is the punishment for desertion, Numonius?”
“Crucifixion.”
Varus watched the barbarian for signs of nervousness, but there were none. The man glared at him with so much hatred that he was glad the guards had tied the deserter’s arms behind his back.
“Just so. Crucify him some way up the road so the legionaries will see him when they march past.”
Another crucifixion, but this one is necessary. I cannot have the soldiers thinking desertion is a good idea.
As the guards dragged him backward, the captive spat at the map table, and Varus felt a moment’s confusion. He was not behaving like a deserter. If forced to give the man a title, Varus would call him an enemy. Suddenly, he could feel the blood surging behind his ears and gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself. If this man was an enemy and not a deserter, where would that put Arminius?
“Is there any news of Arminius?” he asked.
Numonius shook his head and said, “I’m beginning to think Segestes is telling the truth.”
“It cannot be, Numonius. He was educated in Rome. He fought so bravely in Pannonia. Why would he commit treason now?”
“To gain kingship over all the Germanic tribes. It would tempt most men, I think.”
“What, giving up civilization to be king of a barbarian horde? I think not.” The second-in-command shrugged. “So, not desertion but treason. If that man was not deserting, what was he doing?”
“I expect they’ve been spying. He was the last one and was going to report.”
“To Arminius, you mean?”
“Probably. But what does it matter? It is still a barbarian horde and no match for us,” Numonius said.