GERMANIA MAGNA

Forest of Teutoburg, 9 September 9 A.D.

“Stop!”

The tribune grasped the reins and pulled at them as if he were attempting to extract a harpoon from the carcass of an ox. The annoyed animal neighed and reared up, almost making him lose his balance, but the young officer remained stubbornly in the saddle and turned around to look at the long column of legionnaires that disappeared behind him into the forest. The storm had surprised the marching soldiers at the first light of day: hailstones as large as river pearls crashed down onto their iron helmets while the wind howled among the trees with a violence that forced the soldiers to set their feet on the ground as firmly as tent pegs .

Genieri, to me!” shouted the tribune over the din produced by the storm. Struggling against the wind, half a dozen legionnaires with picks and axe made their way with difficulty to the officer’s horse. They were as wet as if they had just pulled their heads out of a barrel full of water.

“Get those trees out of the way,” ordered the tribune, gesturing vaguely to a green spot obstructing the path, “I’ve no intention of looking like some green recruit in front of Quinctilius Varus just because of some bushes.”

“It has never happened to me before, but I suddenly feel boundless envy for Sibiam. I wish I had lost that game of dice. At this moment I would be in Leptis Magna training recruits under the hot African sun while that ball of lard would be here getting his head soaked with Juno’s tears. “ His face hidden by a woollen cap that looked to be taking on water like a ship in the midst of the ocean, Jago was struggling to shelter himself from the hail. Surrounded by the three rows of auxiliaries on horseback who protected the flank of the 19th Legio, he could not see what was happening around him but he could tell from the sounds that came to his ears that the expedition led by Publius Quinctilius Varus had ended up in a dead end.

“Yes, but you’d also be hundreds of miles away from me.” The filly with the snow-coloured coat upon which Dryantilla sat kicked in agitation as she smiled mischievously at her partner, as though he were able to see.

“Do you think that at my age I am still jealous of that charcoal-skinned pachyderm?”

“Judging by the tone of your answer, yes,” she replied with satisfaction.

“Tell me what’s going on,” said Jago, pulling his sagum more tightly around him. “From what I can hear, it sounds as if the fauns that inhabit this godforsaken place have decided to get drunk all together and then play their drums on our heads and their flutes in our ears.”

“We’ve stopped. They are cutting down some trees that are blocking the road. And it’s raining.”

“I’d worked that out for myself,” snapped Jago with an angry gesture. “But where are we?”

“You should ask Varus. To me, “said Dryantilla, raising her head and peering about her, “it looks as though it might be hell itself.”

The blind Lusitanian shook his head in disapproval. Publius Quinctilius Varus had taken command of three legions to lead them to the winter quarters in Aliso before autumn. The legatus had been told by Augustus to restore order in the Germanic lands, where the numerous local tribes had not yet made up their mind whether to stay with the Romans or join forces with their countrymen. As the situation had evolved, especially in recent months, it had manifested itself in the form of continuous revolts which cost the Empire time and money, as well as constituting an annoying distraction from the Illyrian question which had engaged the bulk of the troops in the last four years. At dawn, Varus had said farewell to the Cherusci allies who had been escorting him until they were forced to retreat north due to an unexpected tribal revolt, and had stubbornly ploughed on through that natural bottleneck of marshes full of mosquitoes, quicksand and jagged shards of rock without listening to his scouts.

Jago did not know Varus well. Everyone spoke of him as a politician who had been lent to the battlefields. In Syria, where he served as governor, he cultivated relationships and peace more through banquets than through the swords of his soldiers. It was not reassuring now to think of him at the head of a column almost four miles long which was squeezed in the grip of bad weather and entrusted to the experience of young officers who had just emerged from the pools of the Roman baths.

With Dryantilla and a few other travelling companions, Jago had been added to the expedition almost by force. They needed help in Castra Vetera, but the specialists stationed in Germania Magna had not been deemed suitable by Victor Felix who thus, using a game of dice to choose between the contenders, had sent his most experienced men. The prefect had wanted to organise a meeting between the old and new guard of his legion in the Roman city that would have been on the way, if only Varus had not decided to ignore the itineraries and to listen to the natives.

The best route was the one that skirted the course of the river Weser for a stretch and then crossed the Doren pass to reach the course of the Lippe up to Aliso, the first of the Roman fortresses. But Varus was convinced that the locals knew the region better and thus, going against the advice of all his officers, right down to the last of the centurions, had dragged three legions, six cohorts and three units of cavalry plus an unknown number of chariots, pack animals and civilians, into the middle of the most hostile forest Jago had ever found himself in all his many years of experience. About twenty thousand men now had to deal not only with the bad weather but also with the danger of ambush.

“Where are the others?” asked Jago as the engineers started cutting down trees.

“The fortune teller and the necromancer are with the 17th Legio while the novices are all in the lead with the 18th Legio,” replied Dryantilla.

“This means that we are in the middle of the column.”

“Yes,” was all she said as the signifer of the 19th Legio passed by her at a trot. His horse’s legs sank up to the ankles in the mud while the legion’s banner looked like a wet rag hanging from a pole.

Jago noticed her sudden silence.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t try that with me,” insisted the Lusitanian.

“I thought I saw something, but it was just a moment.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It must have been the sound of the rain that confused me. “

“I don’t believe you.”

Dryantilla snorted.

“Don’t worry, if I have a vision, you…”

The images passed in front of her face like an arrow shot a hand’s-distance from her eyes. She saw men completely covered in mud and gore, and a gigantic, immobile, white figure.

“Come on, don’t keep me waiting.”

“It’s impossible. I must be confused. I’m tired.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I had a vision that doesn’t make sense. I saw wounded soldiers, but we weren’t here.”

“How can you know that?”

“I couldn’t see any armour, and there was a huge white mountain.”

At that moment the tribune who had been observing the felling of the trees returned to the column of legionnaires. A breathless courier caught up with him, raising a cloud of slush.

“Shields in scabbards. Helmets, daggers and spears on the mule and furcilla on the shoulder. Order of the commander. We continue at a forced march to the high plain of Kalkriese.”

“What kind of idea is this?” snapped the irked tribune. “Who could have convinced him to give such a ludicrous order?”

“Tribune,” replied the courier phlegmatically, “I advise you to keep your tongue in check and to carry out the orders quickly. General Varus is reviewing the rear and will soon be here. This rain is bad enough as it is, but when it falls on the wounds of the whip it is truly torture.”

The tribune was about to spit out an answer but he held his tongue. A large group of riders was galloping in his direction, with Publius Quinctilius Varus himself in the midst of the high-ranking officers clad in long robes which concealed their armour. Not wearing a sagum or any other civilian garment, he sported shiny bronze armour and a helmet with a voluminous purple-coloured transverse crest. He was a stocky, plump man who looked exactly like the politician who had been lent to the battlefields he had been described as.

“Come on, lads,” he said as he trotted among the infantrymen, “or your shields will soon become mush.”

“Commander,” the tribune ventured, “permit me to say that perhaps it is not prudent to continue in marching formation. We are all so… defenceless.”

“And what are we supposed to be defending ourselves from, tribune? Arminius and his auxiliaries are dealing with the last rebels a few hundred miles from here and the route was indicated to me by a very experienced local guide. If it weren’t for the damned rain,” he continued, “I would have already pitched the tents for an outdoor lunch.”

The officers accompanying him laughed, and it was in that moment that Varus noticed Jago and his partner.

“And who are these?” he asked said contemptuously. “Why are we bringing beggars along with us?”

Dryantilla snapped upright in the saddle, all the muscles of her neck tense. Jago, instead, did not react, being more used than her to the reactions that his presence always aroused among the military.

“They are not beggars, commander,” explained the tribune, “they are the men of prefect Felix. There are others also at the front and rear.”

Varus raised his head and carefully examined the male figure holding a strange gnarled stick. “Ah yes, the silent prefect,” he nodded, “the one who fights with gestures.” Then, seeing the tension in the faces of the two civilians, he softened his tones. “Don’t worry. You are the pupils of Augustus and as long as you are under my protection nobody will pull your hair.” He looked at Dryantilla. Despite her mature age, the woman possessed an enviable beauty, even soaked as she was by the rain. “I would gladly stay to deepen our acquaintance, but duty calls me.” His men exchanged complicit looks.

Jago, who had caught the lustful undertone of those words reacted by grasping his staff even more tightly, but the sudden gesture and the slipperiness of the wet wood made him lose his grip. The staff fell to the ground and disappeared into the mud.

The Lusitanian dismounted from his horse and dropped to his knees to search for it, his hands immersed in the muddy grass which had been tramped into mush by thousands of hooves. It was like finding a needle in a haystack, and he cursed while Varus and his escort exchanged amused looks.

“Where is it? Where is my staff, damn it.”

“Wait, I’ll help you.” Dryantilla jumped off her horse and got down on all fours like her companion. She touched his hand with hers as the rain continued to lash their faces. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

At that moment there was a prolonged whistle like the cry of an eagle. Dryantilla raised her head and realised with amazement that the noise was not of animal origin. What she saw looked like an immense wooden and iron canopy which remained suspended for a few moments between the sky and the highest treetops before the descending like a sail deflating when the wind dies down.

“Spears!” cried the woman, instinctively jumping on top of Jago to protect him. Hurled from the embankment above the path, the barrage descended on the marching soldiers like the claws of a predator and as darkness suddenly fell as a storm of iron spikes struck the Roman army. Over twenty thousand shiny spear tips found defenceless flesh, and in a few moments, nearly two thousand legionnaires were killed.

Jago and Dryantilla were among the few survivors. To find the stick that the blind Lusitanian had lost, they had thrown themselves to the ground and ended up beneath their respective horses. The bodies of the animals had sheltered them from that deadly rain.

The salvo of spears had decimated the column, opening up their view of the middle distance: at the end of the clearing that bordered the embankment stood the tall white silhouette of a peak with rounded edges.

“That’s the mountain from my vision. It’s completely covered in snow – it looks like a colossus.”

“The chalk giant,” Jago pointed out, spitting mud. “Then what they say is true.”

“As true as my vision,” whispered the woman as Varus and his escort of officers tried to defend themselves under the carcasses of horses and behind the bodies of dead soldiers.

Following the smell of his partner, Jago crawled like a snake. They found the shelter of a large tree trunk just as the second barrage of spears started. “Damn that game of dice,” cursed the Lusitanian, leaning his back against the wet bark, “and damn the brazen good luck of Africans.”