CHAPTER XVII

‘I SPIKED ARMINIUS?’ The street-fighter could not conceal his pride. ‘Who would have thought it?’ He looked at the younger brother. ‘What do you think of that, sir?’

‘Somehow, after all we’ve heard, the coincidence doesn’t surprise me, what with my father escorting the young Arminius to Rome and then giving us his knife to return to the son he never met. It seems that we’re all in some way woven into his tale.’

Thumelicatz nodded in slow agreement. ‘Yes, that’s the way of the gods. But further than that, the wound did more than just hurt Erminatz: it prevented him from functioning at his best as his army was chased north to a ridge that the Angrivarii had built along the southern border of their territory on the east bank of the Visurgis. It was here that he had thought to make a stand and, perhaps, had it been successful and he had beaten Germanicus back then things would have been different. But it was not to be and that wound was a major reason why it failed: it meant that my father did not organise the defence with his normal energy. Thus, the final factor that wove the miracle was put in place: Germanicus’ second victory in as many days was too much for Tiberius’ jealousy to bear when it came to his ears not long after and, afraid of Germanicus’ rising star and the power that his wife, Agrippina, had over the troops on the Rhenus, he recalled him, ostensibly to celebrate his triumph. Germanicus pleaded to be allowed one more year to campaign, but was refused; that year, had he been granted it, would have fighter could not conceal been all he needed to finish the job and pull Germania Magna back into the empire.

‘Rome withdrew and we fell to fighting amongst ourselves. My father fought a war with Maroboduus of the Marcomanni but failed to break through the natural defences of Bojohaemum and it ended as an insignificant sideshow that had no bearing on history whatsoever; as did all the other wars between the tribes that were fought.

‘And so, with our land secure and our freedom to do as we wished returned to us, my father, realising that he would never unite all the tribes under his rule and pose a threat to Rome, was content to take Siegimeri’s place as king of the Cherusci and spend much of his time dictating his story to his two slaves. What we have heard is barely a third of it, but it has been enough and now, seeing as I have the manuscript, I shall read the last lines he dictated. “As I contemplate Chlodochar’s message and Segestes’ guarantee of my safe passage, for his daughter’s sake, I know them to be false. And yet how can I not go if there is the smallest chance that I might be wrong and my brother really is returning my wife and son to my side? But if they really are false and they mean to kill me, then, with my long-dead friend, Lucius, in mind, I shall give them the grandest of gestures.”’ Thumelicatz looked at Thusnelda. ‘Where were you, Mother? Did Flavus bring you back to this land, because he certainly didn’t bring me?’

Thusnelda spat. ‘He was false and we have dealt him just retribution. No, it was merely a way of snaring Erminatz; his love for me meant that he could but go.’

‘So, tell our guests what happened,’ Thumelicatz ordered the two slaves.

It was Aius who spoke first. ‘It was so obvious a trap that there seemed a good chance that it was genuine; who would believe that they could ensnare the great Erminatz with such a simple device? And so he went and took us with him to act as witnesses should he be betrayed. We travelled to the arranged meeting place on the banks of a small tributary of the Rhenus and there he ordered us to conceal ourselves and watch the proceedings. And so, shivering in the dawn, because it was the time of the Ice Gods, we watched from a distance as two men approached our master.’

Tiburtius interrupted. ‘There weren’t just two men; behind them were a dozen or so warriors and, although they looked to be Germanic, it was evident that they had been equipped in the empire. However, they held back as Erminatz approached the two men. “Chlodochar, Segestes,” my master called as they neared each other, “where are my wife and son?” They made no reply.’

Aius took up the tale from Tiburtius who was visibly upset by recalling the memory. ‘It was now that our master knew that what he had hoped against hope for was not to be and at that point he lost his will to carry on. Walking forward, he opened his arms, a sword held in one hand, exposing his chest to his brother and kinsman. “I do not run from traitors,” he shouted, “nor will I demean myself by fighting them. The coward strikes down the man who refuses to defend himself and the cursed murder their own kin. I call down Donar’s curse upon you, Flavus and Segestes, and I seal that curse with my own blood.” And with a cry to the gods for vengeance in this life or the next he allowed them to strike him down with a weapon in his hand so that he would attain Walhalla.’

‘The grandest of gestures, I think you’ll agree,’ Thumelicatz said. ‘When life has no value left to you then sacrifice it to curse your enemies; his mother also understood that too. Tell us the end, slaves.’

Aius began. ‘When they had gone we crept from our hiding place and took our master’s body back to his mother; we told her that it was her youngest son who bore the responsibility for her eldest son’s death.’

Tiburtius finished. ‘She saw to Erminatz’s funeral rites, laid a curse woven with much magic on her youngest son and his descendants hereafter and then, to seal it with her own blood, threw herself on the pyre.’

No one spoke as the two old men finished and began rolling up the scrolls and replacing them in their cases, their eyes never leaving the work on the desk in front of them.

Thumelicatz looked thoughtfully into his beer cup. ‘My father was a great man and it is my loss that I never met him.’ His eyes flicked up and bored into the Romans one by one. ‘But I’ve not had you sit here with me and listen to his story just so that I can wallow in a bit of self-pity afterwards. I wanted you to hear it so that you can understand my motives in what I shall do next; I intend to go against everything that my father stood for.’

The elder brother’s face grew intense. ‘Does that mean you can tell us where the Eagle is hidden?’

Thumelicatz could sense the desperate hope behind the question. ‘I can tell you which tribe it is with, that is easy; the Chauci on the coast to the north of here have it, but how and where they’ve hidden it only they would know. But I’ll do more than that; I will actively help you find it.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘My father tried to make himself king of a Greater Germania, uniting all the tribes under one leader. Imagine the power he would have had if he’d succeeded. He would perhaps have had the strength to take Gaul; but would he have had the strength to hold it? I don’t think so; not yet, while Rome is so strong. But that was his dream, it’s not mine. I look far into the future to a time when Rome starts its inevitable decline as all empires have done before. For the present I see the idea of a Greater Germania as a threat to all the constituent tribes. It is the potential cause for a hundred years of war with Rome; a war that, for the next few generations, we don’t have the manpower to win.

‘So I do not desire to be the leader of a united Germanic people but there are many of my countrymen who suspect that I do. Some actively encourage me by sending messages of support but others are jealous of me and would see my death as furthering their own ambitions. But I just want to be left in peace to live, in the manner that was denied me all my youth, to live as a Cherusci in a free Germania. I want nothing of Rome, neither vengeance nor justice. We’ve freed ourselves from her once; it would be foolish to put ourselves in the position where we have to fight for our freedom again.

‘However, Rome will always want her Eagle back and while it’s on our soil she will continually come looking for it. The Chauci will not give it up and why should they; but their keeping it puts us all at risk. I want you to take it, Romans; take and use it for your invasion and leave us in peace. So I’ll help you steal it and the tribes will learn that I helped Rome and they will no longer want me to become – or fear me becoming – an image of my father.’

‘Won’t the Chauci see that as a declaration of war against them?’ the younger brother asked.

‘They would if there weren’t other circumstances involved. You see, in my position I get to hear things: I know that Rome collects tribute from many of the tribes in Germania and I also know that recently Publius Gabinius, the Governor of Germania Inferior, has been demanding ships from the coastal tribes instead of gold. Now, the Chauci’s neighbours, the Frisii, are very fond of their ships and I heard that to avoid handing too many of them over they sold the secret of where the last Eagle is to—’

‘Publius Gabinius!’

‘Exactly. So the Chauci are going to lose their Eagle soon but if we can get it before Publius Gabinius arrives with a Roman army then many Chauci lives will be saved.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Thirty miles east of here is the Visurgis River; that takes us all the way to the Chauci’s lands on the northern coast. We’ll be there the day after tomorrow if we go by boat.’

Thumelicatz held his mother’s hands and looked into her eyes; he had divested himself of Varus’ uniform and wore a simple tunic and trousers. The flame of the single tallow candle burning in the tent played on Thusnelda’s pupils; tears fell down her cheeks. From outside came the muffled noise of men striking camp as dawn edged over the eastern horizon.

‘This morning is colder than yesterday,’ Thusnelda whispered. ‘The Ice Gods will be here tomorrow; that has always been a time of ill-omen for our family. Can you not wait three days until they have gone back under the ground?’

Thumelicatz put a hand on the back of her neck and drew her towards him; he kissed her forehead. ‘No, Mother; this must be done now in order to save lives. Besides, I’ve already spoken with Romans and worn the uniform of one of their governors. Donar has not struck me yet and if he does hold me to my oath he’ll strike me down whether the Ice Gods are roaming the earth or not.’

‘Their chill will add bitterness to his wrath.’

‘No, Mother, it will make no difference; what does the Thunderer care for the Ice Gods?’

Aldhard stepped into the tent. ‘The Romans are almost ready, my lord; we should go soon if we want to be at the river by midmorning.’

‘I’ll be with you shortly.’

Aldhard bowed his head and withdrew.

Thumelicatz looked back to his mother. ‘Do you remember the tales you used to tell me when I was young?’

‘Every one of them.’

‘If I don’t return then compose one about me. Tell how I braved the wrath of the Thunderer to keep our land, the land of All Men, free until we have the strength to take on Rome and beat her.’ He kissed her again as the tears continued to trickle unevenly down her age-lined face; he turned and left her behind him.

At mid-morning the column rode into the dilapidated remains of a small, Roman military river port, uncared for since the final withdrawal of the legions back across the Rhenus twenty-five years previously. Although the roofs of most of the singlestorey barrack buildings and warehouses were still reasonably intact, their brick walls were being eaten into by dense, dark ivy and other climbing plants. Barn swallows swooped in and out of open windows, whose shutters had long since rotted away, constructing their mud nests in the eaves of the deserted buildings. A pack of wild dogs, which seemed to be the only other inhabitants, trailed the column as they made their way along a grass-tufted, paved street down to the river.

‘My people didn’t burn this port because my father felt that it was of some strategic use,’ Thumelicatz explained. ‘He made it a supply depot from where he could provision his forces quickly using the river, but after his murder it was abandoned to rot.’

‘Why?’ the younger brother asked. ‘It could still be extremely useful to you.’

‘Yeah, you would have thought so; but the problem would be: who would stock it and who would guard it?’ the street-fighter pointed out. ‘I imagine there would be a lot of competition for the latter but very few volunteers for the former.’

Thumelicatz laughed. ‘I’m afraid that you have understood my countrymen all too well. No clan chief is going to give up his grain and salted meat to be guarded by men from another clan, even though they are all Cherusci. My father had the strength to make them do it but since he’s gone they’ve returned to the old ways of bickering amongst themselves and only ever uniting in the face of an external threat from another tribe.’

‘It makes you realise just how close we were to subduing the whole province,’ the patrician said as they passed a crumbling brick-built temple. ‘To have built all this so deep into Germania shows that we must have been pretty confident of remaining here.’

‘It was confidence or rather overconfidence that was Varus’ problem.’

The street-fighter scowled. ‘Arrogance more like; yet another pompous arsehole.’

Any more opinions the Romans may have had were pushed aside as they passed between a line of storehouses and onto the riverside quay. Before them, each tied to a wooden jetty, were four sleek boats; long with fat bellies and high prows and sterns with a single mast amidships and benches for fifteen rowers on each side.

‘We live in longhouses and we sail in longboats,’ Thumelicatz quipped. ‘We Germans think that it’s quite a good joke.’

None of the Romans shared his amusement; instead their expressions were all similar: confusion.

‘What’s the matter?’

The patrician turned to him. ‘Horses, Thumelicus, that’s what the matter is. How do we take our horses with us?’

‘You don’t. The horses are the price for the boats.’

‘Then how do we get back across the Rhenus?’

‘You’ll get home by sailing on out to the sea and then follow the coast west. Your Batavians can handle this sort of boat, they’re good seamen.’

‘But good seamanship won’t protect us against storms,’ the street-fighter muttered. ‘Last time Germanicus sailed back to Gaul he lost half his fleet in the Northern Sea. Some of the poor buggers were even driven ashore in Britannia.’

‘Then you’ll be there, ready and waiting, when the invasion fleet finally arrives.’

The elder brother looked sourly at Thumelicatz. ‘Is that another Germanic joke, because I didn’t find that one particularly funny either?’

‘No, merely an observation. But that’s the deal: horses for boats and you’ll be in the Chauci’s lands tomorrow.’

The Romans pulled their horses closer, talking in hushed tones.

‘There’s Rome for you,’ Thumelicatz observed to Aldhard. ‘Just wanting to take and unwilling to give anything in return.

‘What if they don’t agree?’

‘They will; they have to. The prize is too great for them, ultimately, to worry overmuch about a few horses; they just can’t bear letting go of anything. Have the horses put into one of the warehouses and leave a man to look after them until we return.’

The younger brother looked over to Thumelicatz. ‘It’s a deal.’

‘But what about my horses?’ the patrician asked through clenched teeth. ‘It takes months to train them and—’

‘And you’ll do as you’re told, prefect,’ the younger brother snapped before turning back to Thumelicatz again. ‘But we keep the saddles and bridles.’

‘Agreed.’ Thumelicatz smiled to himself, and, as the Romans dismounted, whispered out of the corner of his mouth: ‘What did I tell you?’

‘He really doesn’t want to give up his horse,’ Aldhard observed seeing the street-fighter remain stubbornly in the saddle.

His expression solemn, Thumelicatz turned to Aldhard. ‘The one that looks like a street-fighter—’

Aldhard held up his hand, interrupting him. ‘I know; he killed my father and your grandfather as well as wounding Erminatz. I heard; I listened to the whole story and strangely enough I wasn’t surprised. I knew that it was more than just a coincidence. Your father’s life was spun in a way that it still resounds here on this Middle-Earth even as he feasts in Walhalla.’

Slipping from his horse, Thumelicatz stepped into a boat. ‘The story of Erminatz’s deeds and their effect upon the Roman empire and Germania will go down through the centuries; of that I am in no doubt.’

A thin, freezing mist draped both banks the following morning, as they made their way north on the second day of their journey; the Ice Gods had passed that night. In the wake of their progress through Germania, the flat land to either side of the river was carpeted in their frost; their chilled breath, biting into his flesh, made Thumelicatz uncomfortably aware of their proximity and the adverse portents they had always brought for his family. He shivered and touched the hammer amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck, praying to Donar for his forgiveness but knowing that, whether it would be manifest or not, he had to continue on his path for his father’s sake.

The sweat of the Batavian auxiliaries heaving upon the oars permeated the chilled air, already melancholic with their ponderous, deep-noted song that blended with that of the oarsmen in the following boats.

‘What do you feel, Aldhard, now there has been some time to think about it, knowing that he was the ugly little legionary who killed your father?’ Thumelicatz asked, looking at the street-fighter standing with his companions in the stern of the ship behind him.

Aldhard shrugged. ‘It was battle and from his account he did it with honour. I cannot in truth hold him to blame for what happened in a fair fight; as neither can you for his taking your grandfather’s life.’

‘No, I can’t. If anything we should be grateful to him for his wounding of my father and making him less than effective at the Battle of the Angrivarii Ridge. Germanicus claimed the easy victory that could be argued to be the final factor that caused Tiberius to recall him. We might be looking at the unknowing saviour of Germania.’

Aldhard grinned. ‘Or we might be looking at just an ugly little legionary.’

Thumelicatz joined in his cousin’s amusement. ‘That too but what a strange whim of the Norns to weave him into my life; it can only mean that this was meant to be the course of action that I should take.’ A cry from the lookout in the bow of the ship as it rounded a bend in the river took his attention; a mile distant the eastern bank was filled with ships disgorging troops. Thumelicatz’s face hardened. ‘It looks as if Publius Gabinius has come for the Eagle; we had better make haste if we want to get it.’ He turned to the helmsman. ‘We’ll land here; take us in.’

‘That’s the Chauci’s main township,’ Thumelicatz whispered, pointing to a large settlement about a mile away, built along a low ridge; the only high land in an otherwise flat and dismal landscape still swathed in a light mist. To the northwest of it, six cohorts of auxiliary infantry formed up, in a line across frosted farmland, shielding a legion deploying from column to battle order behind it. Before the Roman force was a massed formation of Chauci, growing all the time as men rushed in from the surrounding areas, answering the booming, warning calls of horns that echoed all around and off into the distance. ‘Their sacred groves are in the woods to the east, the Eagle will be in one of those.’

‘This could be a welcome diversion for us,’ the younger brother suggested, his breath steaming.

The street-fighter grinned. ‘First bit of luck we’ve had; it looks like they’re all going to have plenty to keep them occupied for a while.’

The elder brother looked equally pleased. ‘We should get going before we freeze our bollocks off; if we skirt around to the south the mist will obscure us and we should be able to reach that woodland undetected.’

Thumelicatz was not so sure. ‘It’s not ideal; the Chauci will know why they’ve come and will either be moving the Eagle or sending a large force to defend it.’

The younger brother blew into his chilled hands. ‘Then we should do this as fast as possible. It’s a mile back to the boats and a mile and a half to that woodland; with luck we could be on the river within an hour.’ As he spoke a group of mounted warriors emerged from the Chauci ranks and rode slowly towards the Roman line; one held a branch in full leaf in the air.

Thumelicatz smiled. ‘They’re going to parley, that may give us more time; let’s get moving.’

The Romans moved back into the copse where their Batavian auxiliaries waited as Aldhard crouched down next to Thumelicatz. ‘Do you still mean to go through with this, my lord? It makes no difference now which Romans get to the Eagle first, ours or the legion; Chauci blood will still be spilled. Your actions cannot stop that now; we could just leave.’

‘We could; but would that guarantee that they would find it? The Chauci hide them well. I need to be sure that it’s found so I must go on. I’ve seen the path that has been woven for me, Aldhard, and, like my father, I must dare to follow it.’

Thumelicatz and Aldhard led the Romans and their auxiliaries at a fast jog across the flat terrain; to the north the two armies were mainly obscured by the freezing mist but it was thinning all the time as the sun climbed higher. Every now and then it lifted slightly and figures could be seen; but they were still stationary.

A huge shout rose up after they had covered nearly a mile.

‘The Norns are preparing to cut many a man’s life-thread,’ Aldhard said as the Chauci began to hammer their swords against their shields, roaring their defiance at the invaders.

Thumelicatz increased his speed. ‘The Chauci are brave but they cannot withstand a legion for too long.’

They broke into a run, splashing through an icy stream, brown with the filth discharged from the Chauci’s settlement, and pressed on, keeping well to the south of the ridge.

Roman cornua started their low rumbling calls, signalling orders throughout the cohorts; these were countered by the blaring of Chauci horns used more to intimidate the enemy than to inform comrades.

More bellows and war cries filled the air until there came the unmistakeable screeches and ululations of a Germanic charge. As Thumelicatz led them into the wood the first clashes of iron against iron and the dull thumps of shields taking blows resonated in the air; they were soon followed by the shrieks of the wounded and the dying.

Thumelicatz turned to the younger brother. ‘The first grove is due east, about four hundred paces away.’

They ran on, following a weaving path, deeper into the wood, occasionally having to hurdle the fallen branch of an oak or beech. Behind them the Batavian decurions were struggling to keep their turmae in some sort of semblance of a two-abreast column but were losing the fight, their men being unused to acting as infantry.

He started to slow; behind him the auxiliaries’ officers signalled their men to fan out into a line. They carried on, crouching low, taking care with their steps, easing forward through the trees, javelins at the ready. ‘It’s straight ahead,’ Thumelicatz whispered as he signalled a halt.

Before them, through the light haze of the wood shaded from sunlight by the thick canopy, the atmosphere was brighter where the sun shone down directly onto the thinning mist. The faint sounds of the battle could be heard far off, but nearer at hand the only sound to disturb the peace was birdsong. Thumelicatz crept forward; the two brothers and the street-fighter followed him having given orders for the auxiliaries to wait.

As they came closer to the grove the mist became more translucent revealing a clearing with four ancient oaks at its heart; in the middle of these, resting on two large flattened stones, was a slab of grey granite next to which was piled a mound of wood. Above it dangled a cage, swinging gently, made of thick wicker, the exact shape of, but slightly larger than, a crucified man.

The street-fighter spat and clenched his right thumb in his fingers, muttering to himself.

The younger brother crouched next to Thumelicatz. ‘There’s no one in it, I can see light coming though the gaps. Thumelicus, what do you think?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; if the Eagle’s here it’ll be close to the altar, but the lack of guards makes it seem unlikely.’ He walked out into the clearing, Aldhard and his men to either side of him; the three Romans followed, nervously poking the earth with their javelins, fearful of stakes concealed in hidden pits.

A search of the altar and the surrounding area proved fruitless. They looked for signs of the ground being disturbed, searched the wood pile and checked for crevices in the trees.

‘Our Roman friends seem fearful of the wicker man,’ Thumelicatz whispered to Aldhard, noticing the nervous glances at the ominous construction swaying gently above them.

‘As well they might; I’ve watched many a Roman shriek his last in honour of the gods.’

‘It’s not here,’ Thumelicatz concluded eventually. ‘We should move on to the next one about half a mile north of here.’

Thumelicatz and his men led the way accompanied by a turma, split up into pairs, scouting to either flank; the rest of the Romans followed behind just visible in the ever-thinning mist. The ringing cacophony of battle had escalated but had drawn no closer as they moved onwards. The fresh scents of damp vegetation, musty leaf-mulch rising from underfoot adding a tang to the clean bracing air, invigorated Thumelicatz; the smells of his homeland were in stark contrast to the swamps around Ravenna where he had spent so much of his life. A gentle neigh from up ahead stopped him dead; he raised a hand and went down onto one knee. The two brothers joined him.

‘Sacred horses,’ Thumelicatz whispered, pointing through a gap in the trees.

The second clearing was larger than the first and this time had a small grove of elm trees in its midst. Surrounding these was a henge of rough wooden columns, ten feet high and a pace apart; each had a skull placed upon its top. Four tethered white horses grazed on the lush grass around the circle. Three heads, one fresh and the other two decomposing, hung from the branches of the grove above a wooden altar.

After waiting for a few heartbeats it became apparent that, again, there was no one else around. The horses looked up at them curiously as they moved towards the grove and then resumed cropping the grass once satisfied that the intruders neither posed a threat nor possessed any equine treats.

Thumelicatz led the Romans between two of the wooden columns and into the grove; scattered around on the ground were more heads in various advanced states of decomposition. Clumps of hair tied to branches above showed where they had hung until decay had eaten away the scalp and they had fallen free.

‘Who were these men, Thumelicus?’ the younger brother asked

‘Slaves probably; or sometimes a warrior from another tribe captured in a skirmish; any man who is taken prisoner will know what he can expect.’ Thumelicatz indicated towards the altar; the wood was ingrained with dried blood.

‘Very lovely,’ the street-fighter muttered, prodding the ground with a javelin looking for signs of something being recently buried. ‘I suppose your gods lap it up.’

‘Our gods have kept us free so, yes, they must appreciate human sacrifice.’

‘Free to fight each other,’ the elder brother scoffed, checking the underside of the altar for anything attached beneath it.

‘That is the way of all men: your biggest enemy is closest at hand until foreign invasion makes that enemy your most valuable ally. But come, it’s not here; there’s one more grove to try to the east.’

They made their way deeper into the forest; here the mist remained in patches, clinging to ferns and low branches. Although they were travelling away from the battle the noise of it seemed to be growing. Thumelicatz ignored it and the muttering of the Romans behind him and pressed on at a crouch concentrating his senses ahead of him. A murmur floated through the air; he signalled for silence and crouched down.

‘What is it?’ the younger brother whispered, squatting down next to him.

Thumelicatz cocked his ear and pointed ahead. Faintly through the mist, voices could be heard, talking quietly. ‘They’re no more than a hundred paces away, which means that they must be guarding the grove; I think we’re in luck.’

The Roman nodded and gave orders for a scout to go on ahead; moments later a Batavian crept forward into the mist.

Thumelicatz left the Romans to plan their attack and moved over to Aldhard and his men. ‘This is not your concern; you don’t have to fight alongside these men.’

‘Will you fight with them, my lord?’ Aldhard asked.

‘Yes, although I’ve no wish to shed Chauci blood. However, I’ve led these Romans here to reclaim their Eagle and I cannot in honour stand by and watch while they risk their lives for something that will benefit me and my people far more than it will benefit them.’

‘Then we fight with you.’

Thumelicatz placed his hand on Aldhard’s shoulder. ‘So be it, my friend.’ With a nod to the other men he turned and rejoined the Romans.

Not long later the scout reappeared. ‘Fifty, maybe sixty,’ he said in Latin with a heavy accent.

The younger brother looked relieved. ‘Thank you, trooper.’ He turned back to the patrician. ‘Nothing we can’t manage. Get going, we’ll give you a count of five hundred to circle around them.’

‘These men will give no quarter,’ Thumelicatz warned the patrician as he left with half the Batavian force. ‘They’ve sworn to protect the Eagle with their lives.’

‘If it’s there,’ the street-fighter muttered.

‘Oh it’s there all right; why else would they be guarding this grove and not the other two?’

‘Fair point.’

The elder brother got to his feet. ‘Come on then, up and at them.’

The clearing came in and out of view as a light breeze got up and started playing with the mist. The Chauci warriors could be occasionally seen standing to the northeast of the grove of twenty or so trees of mixed species.

‘Donar, sharpen our swords and give us victory,’ Thumelicatz mumbled, clutching the hammer amulet around his neck. ‘With this Eagle we shall rid our Fatherland of Rome for ever.’

‘And you’re welcome to it,’ the street-fighter added.

Thumelicatz ignored the insult.

All along the line, men were going through their pre-combat rituals, checking weapons, tightening straps and muttering prayers to their guardian gods.

‘Right, let’s get this done,’ the younger brother said, signalling left and right for his men to move out.

Almost sixty men in two lines crept forward towards the edge of the clearing; ahead of them the Chauci talked amongst themselves, sharpening their swords and spear points on stones or flexing their muscles, suspecting nothing as the noise of the battle still raged.

The younger brother raised his arm, took a deep breath, looking left then right and then flung it forward. As one, the Batavians screamed their battle cry and then pelted out of the trees towards their enemy, shield to shield with javelins at the ready.

Taken completely by surprise the Chauci struggled to form up into two lines, their captains bellowing at them and shoving them into position as the low-trajectory javelin volley hit hard, tearing through the gaps in the incomplete shield wall. Screams filled the clearing as a dozen and more warriors were punched off their feet with the slender, bloodied tips of javelins protruding from their backs.

Thumelicatz and his men surged forward on the Batavians’ left flank, whipping their long swords from their scabbards and forming a small wedge with Thumelicatz at its head.

Keeping in good formation the Batavians hit the disorganised Chauci in unison, cracking their shield bosses, with explosive force, up into faces whilst thrusting low with their swords at fleshy groins and bellies, harvesting the slimy, grey contents within. In a couple of places a wall had been formed and these warriors fought back with the ferocity of desperate men, jabbing their long spears over the shield rims at their onrushing foe with such strength that, with the momentum of the charge, their tips cracked through the chainmail, to lodge half a thumb’s length in a few screaming Batavians’ chests; not deep enough to kill outright but painful enough to incapacitate whilst a killing blow was administered.

With a fleet, downwards slash of his sword, Thumelicatz sliced into the shoulder, splintering the collar-bone, of a wide-eyed, snarling man, whilst blocking his counter blow with an upwards thrust of his shield. Blood exploded from the deep wound, slopping over the man’s beard as he raised his head to the sky, lips curled back and mouth wide, issuing a scream that would summon the Valkyries. Using the weight of the howling man’s body as it slumped to the ground, Thumelicatz wrenched his sword free from the shattered bone as Aldhard, to his right, ducked underneath a wild slash, driving the tip of his sword with an explosive punch, up into the exposed neck of the perpetrator.

Slamming his shield hard to the left, Thumelicatz cracked a skull as he exploded over his writhing victim, punching his sword-weighted fist forward, shattering the teeth of the next warrior in his path, ripping the skin from his knuckles. Ignoring the pain, he sliced his blade left, clean through the warrior’s right wrist as he tried to slash his sword down; with a surge of crimson, the hand fell, still clutching the sword as the arm carried on its descent, spewing blood from the fresh stump as yet unnoticed over the agony of the warrior’s ruined mouth. The man’s eyes rolled as he caught sight of his shortened arm flashing through the air; he screamed, spraying Thumelicatz with a fine red mist and shards of bloodied teeth. With a violent jerk, Thumelicatz brought his knee up to slam into the man’s testicles, doubling him over and the scream abruptly changed into a deep growl as the wind grated out of his body; a sharp downward crack of Thumelicatz’s sword hilt punched a hole in the back of his head and he crumpled down

Suddenly a shockwave rippled through the whole melee; the encircling force of auxiliaries had struck the Chauci in the rear. It was now just a matter of time. The Batavians pressed their advantage as the dwindling Chauci retaliated with ever-diminishing force until the last one slid to the churned grass with brains spilling out of what was left of his skull.

‘Halt and re-form!’ someone cried as the two opposing Batavian forces met either side of a ridge of mainly Chauci dead and moaning wounded. The officers bawled their wide-eyed, panting men back and into lines before they could do their own comrades any harm whilst under the influence of the rush of combat.

Thumelicatz looked at his sword arm; it was streaked with blood.

‘We should get searching,’ the young brother said, taking deep gulps of air.

Thumelicatz nodded and ordered Aldhard and his four men to follow him as he turned towards the grove.

The grove consisted of about two dozen trees of a variety of types that had been planted by man many years ago. Thumelicatz strode through them to a stone altar at the grove’s dark centre between an ancient holly and a venerable yew.

The altar was bare.

The Romans joined him; Thumelicatz looked at them in puzzlement. ‘There’s no sign of the Eagle here.’ He kicked at the mossy ground but it was solid and showed no signs of recent disturbance.

‘What about in the surrounding trees?’ the elder brother asked.

After a futile search Thumelicatz shook his head. ‘It’s not here.’

‘But you said it would be,’ the younger brother almost shouted in his frustration.

‘That doesn’t mean it has to be; perhaps they moved it deeper into their lands.’

‘Then why were they guarding this grove?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps they just wanted us to think it was here,’ the street-fighter suggested, ‘after all, fifty or so men aren’t going to stop determined people getting the Eagle, but it would be enough to convince people to look in the wrong place.’

The younger brother frowned. ‘So where could they have hidden it?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps we should ask one of their wounded.’

‘They won’t talk no matter what you threaten them with,’ Thumelicatz stated.

‘What about the prospect of a nasty time in that wicker man back at the first clearing? That might—’

‘Of course!’ the younger brother exclaimed, looking at the street-fighter. ‘You’re right. They were trying to draw attention away from where they had hidden it by guarding the wrong grove. It’s in the first grove; we checked everywhere but we didn’t look inside the wicker man as it seemed to be empty because light was shining through it and because it was so chilling to look at we wanted to avoid it. But how come it was swinging when there was no wind? Because they had just finished hanging it up when we arrived! We must have just missed them. It’s in there.’

The elder brother smacked himself on the back of the head. ‘Of course, how stupid. I almost said that would be a good place to hide it as a joke.’

‘Would that have been funny?’ Thumelicatz asked; he had never understood Roman humour.

‘Not really.’

‘Good, I thought not. We should go.’

Thumelicatz led them southwest along the side of the triangle they had not yet travelled. The raucous sounds of battle growing ever closer, away to his right, gave even more of a sense of urgency to the final sprint.

After a lung-tearing run of almost a mile they entered the first clearing from the opposite side. The wicker man was still visible hanging over the altar at the centre of the four oaks that made up the small grove. Thumelicatz ran over to it and stopped, looking up at the chilling artefact.

‘Can you see it?’ the younger brother asked, stopping next to him.

‘No, I can’t make out anything inside it; we need to get it down.’

‘We should be very careful.’

‘Do you really think that I don’t know what sort of traps could be protecting this?’ Thumelicatz turned to Aldhard. ‘Hrulfstan’s the lightest; get him up into the trees to spring the traps.’

Using their clasped hands as steps, Aldhard and his men immediately began to hoist the lightest of their number up onto the lowest branch in the grove. ‘Move away from the altar,’ Thumelicatz advised the Romans.

They stepped back, looking up nervously as the leaves above them started to rustle and the wicker man began to twist and sway as the man ascended higher.

Thumelicatz glanced at the swinging man. ‘Careful, Hrulfstan, don’t shake the branches so much.’ The pace of the climb slowed and the wicker man’s movement lessened.

A cry of alarm followed by the creaking of straining ropes caused Thumelicatz to jump back. ‘Get down!’

The strained creaking grew; two huge logs, sharpened to points at either end, swung down from the treetops, lengthways, arcing through the clearing so that at their lowest point they were chest high, passing just either side of the altar. The creaking rose in tone and volume as the logs swung through to their zenith, straining at the hemp ropes, pausing for a heartbeat at the extreme of their pendulum, before reversing their direction.

As they flashed back through the clearing it became apparent that they were not independent but, rather, joined by a thin iron blade at their centre that passed between the top of the altar and the feet of the wicker man. ‘That was designed to slice anyone in half who tried to take the man down.’

‘Nice lot, these Germans,’ the street-fighter growled, as the logs swung back through with lessening force.

‘And you think you Romans are nicer because you crucify people or throw them to the wild beasts?’ Thumelicatz asked, getting to his feet.

‘Another fair point.’

‘Aldhard, cut the ropes.’

The swinging lessened; Aldhard grabbed the logs and stilled them. His men began sawing through the ropes with their swords; they did so cautiously stepping back quickly as they cut each one, looking nervously up at the trees, but no more traps sprung from the heights.

‘Can you see any more ropes up there, Hrulfstan?’ Thumelicatz shouted.

‘Just the rope for the wicker man, my lord.’

‘He can’t see any more ropes up there other than the one supporting the wicker man,’ Thumelicatz translated for the Romans, ‘we should be safe to approach it.’ He climbed onto the altar and stood up so that his head was knee-height to the wicker man. ‘They’re made so that they can open, for obvious reasons,’ he said examining the thick wickerwork. ‘This one opens along either side; we’ll have to get it down.’ He drew his sword and stood on tiptoe; the end of the blade just reached the rope that hung dead-centre between all four trees disappearing into a thin mist that still clung to their dark, upper reaches. He started to saw; two of his men came to stand either side of the altar to catch the wicker man as it fell. The rope thrummed as the sharp edge worked its way through it.

Thumelicatz sawed harder as the strands of the rope sprang back, one by one, until there were only a couple left. He looked down at his men, checking that they were ready to catch and then worked his blade for the final cut. The rope parted; the loose end flew up into the trees and the wicker man fell, its feet landing with a crunch on the altar. His men grabbed the legs, preventing it from toppling in any direction as a faint metallic ring sounded from above. Thumelicatz thought for an instant and then turned his head up towards the noise as the sun broke through the mist; his eyes and mouth opened in alarm as flashes of burnished iron dropped out of the canopy like lightning bolts. ‘Donar!’ he shouted at the sky.

Two swords plummeted down from above.

A blade entered his throat at an exact perpendicular, slicing its way down through the internal organs until it came to a jarring halt on the base of the pelvis. The second hit the altar, bending and rebounding with a thunderous roll. Thumelicatz shuddered; his eyes focused in disbelief at the hilt just before them protruding from his mouth, like some cross perched upon a hill of execution. Blood flowed freely around it, trickling into his beard. He knew that his oath had not been cancelled. His legs started to buckle; a grating gargling sound exploded from his throat and blood slopped onto the pommel and the twine attached to it, leading up into the mist-shrouded branches. He fell against the wicker man, pushing it back off the altar, its centre of gravity being too high for the shocked men holding it to support it. Leaving an arced trail of blood globules marking his descent, Thumelicatz fell with it, crashing onto its chest as they hit the ground and then bouncing up slightly, owing to the springiness of the branches woven together. As he thumped back down a second time the wicker man broke open; a bundle wrapped in soft leather rolled out. His eyes began to mist over, white and swirling; as the younger brother picked up the bundle, he could see that it was heavy; it was the Eagle, he knew it.

Thumelicatz looked at the younger brother holding the Eagle and felt triumph as the life seeped from him; Rome had her prize and she would use it to lead her armies away to the north. Rome was about to make her greatest mistake. Germania, the land of All Men, the land his father had liberated from the conquest-hungry empire, was safe for generations. Safe to breed warriors, safe to grow strong, safe to wait until the time was ripe for Germania’s tribes to burst out from their dark forests and crush the hated empire.

The white mist thickened and Thumelicatz knew that he would soon meet his father, Erminatz, for the first time; he would be able to stand tall in his presence, look him in the eye and revel in the fact that between them, father and son, they had ensured a Germanic future for the West. With a final effort he grasped the hilt of the sword to ensure that Walhalla awaited him.

The mist became complete and all was white; white as the frost of the Ice Gods.