They had not, however, forgotten their ancestral habits, their native manners, their old life of independence, or the power derived from arms. (Cassius Dio)
Baduhenna bless her, Konrada didn’t shed a tear as she told me how her oldest brother had been pressed into service in the Germani ala, the auxiliary cavalry squadron. The tears glassed her big dark eyes, but she refused to shed the first one. Anger and fear mottled her skin a ruddy red, and she sniffed through her tale. Only a day had passed since the arrest, and already her life was irreparably altered.
“They just took him from the stocks. They didn’t even let us say goodbye.” She stuffed her brother’s bedding into a basket for washing under the dim light of their closed roundhouse. Her mother lay abed in the darkness, where she’d been since her son was first arrested. Konrada’s father and other siblings kept to the fields during the day, choosing to focus on daily mundanities.
Where Konrada got her spark was a mystery to me.
It seemed Arminius was true to his word and had secured auxiliary positions for the thieves, an outcome far better than execution or Roman enslavement. Perhaps even better than being bartered as a scalc to another tribe. Twenty years in service to Rome over a few stolen amphoras of olive oil and preserved fruits was excessive, however, and twenty years gone was twenty years gone regardless.
I toed the edge of her brother’s cot. “Do you think you’ll need this? Luter and Fred offered to take Adelfried in until he passes, but Adelfried’s bed is too large.”
My question distracted Konrada long enough to clear some of the red mottling from her cheeks, as I hoped it would. She pursed her lips and looked to her silent, unmoving mother.
Useless bitch. You have five other children and working limbs. Get up and be a mother to your family. Don’t make this child do your job.
“That’s fine,” Konrada said. “Wandis hasn’t shut up since last spring about building a new pantry and cooking table. Now she’ll have room.”
From there, Konrada made swift work of piling her erstwhile brother’s belongings into three separate piles: keep for the other men in her family; give away in the village, and items too soiled, old, or damaged to salvage. When it was all done, we stood over the piles, looking down at the remnants of a young man’s old life.
After a long silence, she asked, “Am I ever going to see him again?”
How easy it would be to lie to her. “I don’t know. As long as he stays with this ala, he’ll be close enough to visit.”
“And when they get called somewhere else?”
For lack of better answers, I pulled her into my arms for a hug. She stiffened in shock at first, then melted.
“Thank you for your help.” Her words were muffled in my chest.
“Whatever you need.” I stroked her hair. “You don’t have to shoulder all this on your own.”
* * *
Three nights later, I didn’t sleep, then took off to our meeting place hours earlier than necessary with my sword, cloak, a water flask, and a small sack of food. For the hundredth time, my mind insisted this was a trap. A lifetime of hating anyone and anything that marched under a Roman eagle insisted Arminius must be treacherous. A lifetime learning that miracles were children’s stories insisted Ermin died, the way Mama died, and boons were temporary at best, and crippling snares the rest of the time. I’d spent so many years praying for my Ermin to fulfill his promise and return for me, only for Arminius to arrive in his stead.
It was slower going to this spot than I expected. The predawn darkness brought the native dangers lurking in the wald to life. The animals turned bold, and each step I took on the mist-wet earth filled me with dread. Wolves lurked in these woods.
I reached the spot with the doggedness of an experienced hunter. Tree bark dug into my back, and my trousers were soaked through within minutes of sitting on the ground. The mist thickened as the sun began its slow journey over the horizon. I tugged my cloak tighter around my shoulders. It was always colder as the sun rose.
I needed to eat, but tension tied my stomach in knots. My nose scrunched in protest at the sight of the hard roll I’d packed. Too restless to sleep, too anxious to eat, and far too committed to listening for the first sound that announced their arrival. I jerked at every whispered breeze through the trees, only to collapse back against the tree in defeat.
Anything could have happened. He might have been delayed, his orders might have changed, he could have met resistance on the road. That thought made my heart race, surely because he’d promised to show me something, and if he was plotting against the Cherusci, I needed to know. I did not need him getting himself killed before I uncovered his treachery.
The scent of horses reached me first, followed by low masculine chatter. Like before, I tucked myself out of sight. Between the mist and shadows, they’d have to know where to look to find me, and even then might not see me.
Arminius did. The moment his eyes found mine flashed all the way to the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. His gaze slid away, and he continued easy conversation with the other soldiers in his party. I recognized a few, but the optio riding alongside Arminius was new. I had seen men like him before in passing, the ones with skin so dark they looked to have been painted specially by the sun. Before the Romans ever crossed the Rhine with their diverse soldiers, traders from across the world had ventured to our land. We weren’t nearly as insular as Rome thought we were. Haustblot in particular brought traders and merchants from the far edges of the world.
This man was small, wiry, with a wide white smile splitting his face. Arminius called him Berut.
After some time trotting behind their small party, I realized we were heading to Sugambri territory. The men talked of nothing important, but the gentle rumble of Arminius’s voice, his barks of laughter, made oddly pleasant music. I gagged silently at the thought. Plenty of men had deep, bark roughened voices and strange accents. Berut certainly did, so I chose to listen to him.
The presence of an optio from the main body of Varus’ army added more intrigue to the day’s plot. I hoped Arminius didn’t plan on killing him just to lure me into his trap. Contrary to most outward appearances, I didn’t hate most legionaries on sight. Victims of Rome understood quite well the inevitability of surrender, and auxiliary recruiters never stopped crowing about the myriad benefits of joining their army. Berut appeared to be a nice enough fellow with an easy smile and bright laugh. There was nothing of the low predator in him, not like Patrin and that vile patrol.
Arminius never hinted at my presence. The group fell quiet the closer they got to the heart of Sugambri lands. Instead of staying on the main road—though calling it such was an affront to the Roman concept of a road—they paused at a trail too narrow for horses.
“What is this one’s name again?” Berut asked as they dismounted. “Duter? Tuetonius?”
“Deudorix, Chief of the Sugambri, and you will address him as such if you value your limbs.”
“Rome doesn’t call them that.”
Arminius snorted. “Of course not, but if you call them Sicambri, this will be over before it starts.”
Behind them, the man Arminius called Ermin chuckled. He had some leadership with the ala, but without the benefit of proper Roman uniforms, I couldn’t say what. I guessed him to be in his thirties, not much older than Arminius or me, with ashy brown hair he kept in a side knot beneath his helmet.
I waited until the whole of them disappeared down the trail before following. We traveled at least two miles before they stopped in a small clearing. Much like any other, soft green grass filled a gap between the towering, ancient trees. Birdsong added to the scene, light and happy. It would have been downright cheery had six soldiers and four Germani tribesmen not filled the clearing.
An older man, thick in the chest with a long graying beard to match his silvery braids, stood front and center. His golden torque and jewels marked him as the chief. Three younger men flanked him, no doubt sons or close relatives. When Arminius approached, the man spat at his feet.
“What do you people want now?” he asked in the Sugambri tongue. Their language was close enough to follow, having been our regional neighbors since time began.
“Deudorix, I presume?” Arminius gave no indication he even saw the glob of mucus congealing in the packed dirt. Deudorix grunted a reply, so Arminius continued. “We’re here to talk.”
The older man’s lip curled beneath his bushy mustache. He turned his nose up as his hand fell to the hilt of his battle scarred sword.
“It’s true, then? The eldest son of my great rival is now a Roman toy? Prancing about like a little girl in a fancy dress, playing at being one of them?”
Berut took a step forward, prepared to unsheathe his own weapon before Arminius reached out a staying hand. He shook his head once, and Berut obediently, if reluctantly, resumed his place.
“Where did you people find this one?” Deudorix all but shouted, inspecting Berut closely, with none of the unvarnished hostility he’d shown Arminius. “Left him cooking too long over the fire, did you?”
Berut shifted under the scrutiny and asked Arminius in Latin, “What is he saying?”
“He thinks we left you cooking too long over a fire.”
“I’ve traded with men like you,” Deudorix said in Latin, addressing Berut directly. “But none so…”
My hand fell to my sword, and my muscles tensed, preparing to pounce. Whose side I would defend remained elusive, but I knew a brewing fight when I saw one.
“So handsome?” Berut’s face split into one of his blinding smiles. “You are right, I’m one of a kind.”
Deudorix narrowed his eyes, and I caught Arminius reaching for his sword until Deudorix let out a loud laugh and clapped Berut on the shoulder. “Let’s get on with it, then. Tell me, Ermin, son of Segimer, now... what do the Romans call you?”
“Arminius. I’m a captain of the ala and Varus’ personal aide.”
“So,” Deudorix tipped his head in Arminius’ direction, “tell me what business Varus’ personal aide has for me? Raising taxes again?”
“No,” Arminius said. “I’ve come to ask what you want for the future of the Sugambri.”
I held my breath. This was it. This was what Arminius wanted me to witness.
Deudorix was aging, but his sharp warrior’s eyes missed nothing. He asked the same question I’d been asking myself for five days. “If you’ve come to ask me to incriminate myself, I’m afraid you should have started with my sons. They’re still hotheads.”
The three men with him grumbled and shifted on their feet but dared not rebut their father.
“My friend, Optio Berut, comes from Carthage. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard tales. You people love to crow about failed uprisings. Anything to cow us into fear, isn’t that right?”
“Of course that’s what they do,” Arminius said. I didn’t miss the way he referred to the Romans as they, not us. “They’re terrified of what will happen when the people they’ve worked so hard to oppress organize against them. Berut, tell him about Carthage.”
“Our hero, Hannibal, led many successful battles against the Roman invasion. For years he kept them out, but he became too bold. He determined we should conquer Italia and Rome herself. When he was defeated, they razed our great city to the ground. We were murdered or enslaved by the thousands. The Carthage where I grew up is Roman. They erased all traces of my people from the earth and remade us in their image. We speak Latin, worship their gods, eat their foods. Our ways have been lost for almost two centuries.”
Deudorix sighed and folded his hands in that way all disappointed fathers postured. “You tell me nothing the Romans haven’t already. Hostilities against this empire are futile and our people are doomed to become like this one.” He waved his hand in a lazy circle toward Berut.
“Don’t you wonder how things might have turned out for them if Hannibal hadn’t taken his war to the steps of Rome?” Arminius seized on the flicker of interest in Deudorix’s eyes. “What if, instead of attempting to conquer them, he had secured a dug in defensive force, a standing, unified army, powerful enough to keep Rome out for good?”
My heart stopped. Every conversation we’d had snapped into place. The way he’d spoken about the Romans, how he made a point of studying them. The pain that colored his features whenever I called him one of them.
No. It wasn’t possible this was anything but a trap. My hand gripped my sword, ready to launch myself between the two men. Deudorix didn’t deserve to die for this farce.
Deudorix shook his head. “It can’t be done.”
“Why?” As Arminius seized on the question, my heart galloped to keep pace with the very idea. It was too outlandish, too audacious. Unthinkable. Especially that Arminius suggested it. A Roman.
Deudorix snorted. “You know damn well why. No one will ever convince the tribes to unite for a single rebellion, let alone a prolonged war. It’s not our way.”
“Our people will not have a way if we don’t do something!” Arminius ran a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “We will cease to exist if we don’t fight back, and yes, that means making some changes.”
“You mean trading one emperor for another?”
“What would you prefer?” Arminius asked. “Rome swallowing you whole, knowing everything you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve ever believed, no longer exists? Or pledging fealty to a temporary king chosen by the chiefs to protect our people. That’s no different than how we chose a war chief. No taxes. No conscripts. Our children won’t be taken at random as slaves or bodies to fight their wars. We keep our traditions.”
The sons traded looks between themselves, shaking their heads, but wise enough to remain silent. Deudorix hummed in thought.
“Still impossible. If you manage to get a few tribes to unite under this cause—and I assure you, you won’t—even this one’s great Hannibal was no match for the Roman army. What honor is there in condemning my tribe to servitude because you want glory in battle?”
A sheep bleated somewhere in the distance. We were closer to at least a homestead, if not the Sugambri village itself, than I thought. All around, Sugambri life rolled on as it had for generations, each day not unlike the last. None but those here knew their chief and chieftains were either about to die or embark on the most monumentous journey in the history of my land.
“Our armies can’t win in open warfare against these people. What makes you so special?” Deudorix swatted a hand at a fly.
Arminius stood impossibly taller. “I know how they think, their tactics, their weaknesses.”
“Name one.”
“Without their formations, they fall apart. I know more than their tactics. They raised me as one of them. I can keep us ahead.”
Deudorix had the right of it: Germani warriors mostly didn’t stand a chance in a fight against a Roman legion, let alone more. Our people excelled in one-to-one combat, where warriors faced each other as individuals. Raw strength against raw strength.
Deudorix tapped his nearest son’s chest with the back of his hand, gesturing to one of their horses. The younger man hesitated but didn’t need to be told twice. “What makes you think they will not simply rain down upon us with all their legions?”
“They never have before.” Arminius did his best to be every inch the casual, confident leader, but in just a few meetings I caught his tells. His lazy grin didn’t meet his eyes. That overdeveloped muscle in his jaw jumped. “No one has ever attempted what I’m suggesting. Not like this. Rome’s armies are too spread out; they couldn’t consolidate their forces here if they wanted to. They’ve already pulled seven legions off the Rhine to put down the Pannonian uprising. I won’t tell you I have all the answers right now, because I don’t. If we organize, if we prepare our warriors, I can lead us to victory.”
The eldest son stepped forward, face pulled tight. “Rebellion? Father, he’s mad. He will get us all killed.”
“Perhaps.” Deudorix took a flask when his youngest returned. After taking a slow gulp, he passed it to Arminius. “However, you forget we all must die. Sugambri do not die on our knees.”
Just like that, Arminius’ grin lit his eyes. He took the flask and accepted a drink.
By all the gods above and below, he had done it. With a few choice words, he’d secured the loyalty of the Sugambri, and with them their nearly three thousand warriors. A smaller tribe, they were nevertheless less renowned in battle. No wonder I’d never met this Deudorix. He harbored rebellious desires. Segestes would diligently avoid such a man.
A rebellion. A proper rebellion. There was still time for Arminius to draw his weapon and order an attack on Deudorix and the Sugambri. Plenty of time for a massacre. Instead, they shared a drink.
Arminius returned the flask to Deudorix. “Then I can count on your support when the time comes?”
“The Sugambri will fight.” Deudorix raised his flask in a toast. “What would you have done if I’d told you to fuck off?”
Germani were a plainspoken people, and Deudorix wouldn’t appreciate anything short of the plainspoken truth.
“If you’d said no, you all would have lost your heads out here.”
Exactly as I suspected. Yet it hadn’t happen. They met like old friends.
A slow smile spread across Deudorix’s lips. Berut guffawed and the rest of the men followed.
Hope stirred in my chest. I quelled it as quickly as it sparked to life. If Arminius was true, if this wasn’t an elaborate trick, then he had neither the influence nor the knowledge to lead such an undertaking.
It was, however, a good idea. An excellent idea, in fact, for a trusted, influential Cherusci queen.
* * *
The most arduous task I’d ever undertaken was concentrating on my chores the next day, second only to keeping this new secret from Jotapa. It wasn’t for lack of trust, but more that I didn’t know what to do with this new information. When I was sure I was going to burst, I went to the one person who always gave me a fair perspective.
Ingomar kept a small roundhouse on the farthest outskirts of our village. Brother to Segimer, uncle to Arminius, he stayed far away in what most Cherusci believed his shame; shame for not dying with his brother, for not protecting his wife and daughter, for letting his nephews be taken, for doing nothing when Segimer’s wife disappeared into the wald, never to be seen again.
Insects came alive in the wet heat of late afternoon. I swatted and waved away mosquitoes and flies, though it was a useless battle. The dust at my feet puffed into pitiful bursts before quickly sinking back to the ground. I tired of the yet-to-arrive summer. Fall was my season, when the forest turned to a sea of reds and golds, when Haustblot bled slowly into the Vetrnaetr, winter in its truest and most reliable form. Our Haustblot celebrations served as a communal opportunity to celebrate our dead, of whom there were so many. Most importantly, Haustblot called for no sacrifices, since we considered the dead we celebrated an offering already made. We enjoyed a month-long festival of trading and peace amongst all the tribes.
Ingomar appeared in his doorway with a friendly smile, familial and pleased. The old man didn’t suffer the benefits of regular visitors these days. He kept his peppery gray hair cropped short, close to his head, and he hadn’t allowed his beard to grow since his brother died. Having at last seen Ermin as an adult, I recognized Ingomar as an older, beaten down Arminius.
I slipped into his arms for a hug and let him usher me through the low wooden doorframe. Inside was the same as always—a small fire pit in the center, an ancient bench along the far wall, thick rugs covering dirt floors, and, despite not having kept horses in the past fourteen years, the soft scent of leather bridles and a hint of the animals themselves.
“What brings my lovely niece to an old man on such a fine day?” Ingomar asked as he poured a cup of ale for me.
After Arminius was taken, I had implored Ingomar to stop calling me his niece, but he never listened. He smiled and nodded like a doting father, then called me “niece” the next time I saw him. It grieved me, in my childish way, to be reminded of the family I’d hoped to join forever ripped from my grasp. As I grew, I eventually understood that Ingomar needed a family more than I did. I appreciated it for what it was: affection, something we lacked more and more each passing year.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing.” I pushed a stray hank of hair behind my ear. “It’s been too long.”
Ingomar’s eyes danced with mirth over his cup. “No, I haven’t seen him. Our parting was…” He trailed off into a hum and took another sip. “But I hear tell you have.”
The ale caught in my throat. I coughed it back down, all while my beloved uncle chortled at my expense.
“Just because I don’t get many visitors doesn’t mean I don’t get any,” he said. “Rumors as delightful as this have a way of reaching even my door.”
Presented with the opportunity to at last vent all my thoughts and questions, I hesitated. What did he know? What did he believe? One wrong move, and I might inadvertently condemn someone I loved.
“Perhaps it would benefit you both if you approached him next time he’s in the village.”
Wise blue eyes—so like Arminius’—crinkled at the corners and studied me. I expected an immediate rejection, maybe even shouting over the audacity to suggest he acknowledge his seemingly wayward nephew. Instead, Ingomar watched me placidly, not the least surprised.
I drained the rest of the sweet ale only he brewed. Ingomar favored cherries in his brew, which had once been quite popular here. Now things associated with his family left a bitter taste in Cherusci mouths. I found it delicious.
“Ah.” Ingomar rose and fetched a basket of old blankets. “Would you mind taking this to the barn loft? These old hands don’t climb a ladder as well as they used to.”
Given the strength still apparent in the older man’s muscles, I doubted this, but didn’t question him. If he wanted me out of the house for a few moments, then so be it.
“Of course.” I took the basket from his weathered hands.
From the shadows of his roundhouse, to the scorching sun, to the darkness of the barn, my eyes refused to adjust, and I found myself navigating the barn by memory rather than sight. I ascended the ladder, blinking hard to force my eyes to cooperate, and dropped the basket in a spare corner.
As I gripped the top of the ladder to descend, my vision finally adjusted, and I discovered why Ingomar sent me out here. Arminius sat on an overturned bucket, propped lazily against a sidewall snickering to himself. I almost didn’t recognize him without his usual armor. Dressed in a simple tunic, cloak, and boots, he might have passed for any other Cherusci. A bit. My worn-out clothes, covered in the dirt from the road, stains that may or may not have come from cleaning a deer, my unruly hair sticking to and fro, all popped into the forefront of my mind. I did my best to stamp the silly worries away, and instead focused on the most pressing matters.
I skipped the last two rungs and landed on the floor in a small puff of dust and old hay. “If you think you can trick me into getting myself and other Cherusci executed for sedition, you’re mistaken.”
Without taking my eyes from him, I pulled a scythe off the tool wall at my back and fell into a fighting stance. “Do you intend to betray your uncle, as well?”
He heaved a great, beleaguered sigh.
“Should have known you wouldn’t make this easy,” he muttered.
When he pushed to his feet, I hardened my stance. In the woods with the Sugambri he said he intended to kill any who didn’t join with him. I tensed myself, ready to see his mask drop, ready to confront the cold monster I knew in my bones must lurk beneath his affable facade.
He started to take a step toward me, mouth open to spit more lies and venom, but he took me in and winced, freezing in place.
“You believe it,” he said. “You really believe I’d hurt you. And Ingomar.”
“That is what Romans do, and you are a Roman.”
For a moment, he looked so aghast I wondered if he’d had an apoplexy and would keel over dead. Instead, he exploded.
“I am Cherusci!” His meaty fist snatched a leather cord from his neck, and he held out an icon of Donar’s hammer.
Sweat accumulated on my palms. Tools clanked against my shoulders as I unconsciously retreated. His mask fell, and instead of cold calculation, he confronted me with a kind of rage I knew intimately: the rage of the beaten.
He ripped his cloak off and yanked at the collar of his tunic until he revealed dark blue ink etched into the skin over his heart. One more tug, and I made out the design of a wolf’s head. Not just any wolf’s head, but ours. The same sigil was painted on our shields and worked into our jewels.
“They beat me and threw me into the stockade for weeks when I did this. They only let me out when Flavus convinced our commander it was in honor of our mother.”
“Flavus…?”
“My brother. That’s the name they gave him. He doesn’t remember being called anything else. They took my brother, Elda. They killed my father in front of me, my aunt, my niece. They took everything from me, but not this.” He thumped his fist over the tattoo. “You don’t trust me? Fine, as long as you stay out of my way and keep your mouth shut about what you saw. I am not going to lose everything because of one sentimental mistake.”
My fingers tingled from the strength of my grip on the scythe handle. Of all possible reactions, I hadn’t considered this one. It was too real, too unpracticed, too raw. It didn’t fit any of the scenarios I’d considered when I painted him as a traitor.
In order to leave, he had to pass close to me, eyeing the scythe the entire time. I ignored the impulse to lower it. I believed his anger at Rome. I believed some part of him was still Cherusci. I did not believe him, however. He wore their armor and their sly smiles too well. He was a knight of Rome and Varus trusted him. His brother, his closest living kin, was all Roman, by the sound of it. When forced to choose, I couldn’t say which side he might take.
Before he left, before shutting the door completely, I asked, “What did you want from me? We both know sentiment had nothing to do with it.”
Arminius huffed a dry laugh. “Do we know that?”
I glared at him. “We also both know that you can’t do a damn thing you promised the Sugambri. Not without a trusted Germani in your corner. Is that why you’ve flirted with me? You think you can get into my trousers and use my name to bolster your cause?”
He blinked several times before turning back to me fully. “I’m not sure where to begin addressing all of that, so let me say this: While I have always appreciated your imagination, I don’t need your help. I don’t want it. I told you what I want, and that is for you to keep your nose out of it.”
This close I smelled him under the overwhelming barn odors. His scent didn’t overwhelm like so many legionaries. His was subtle, and I struggled to pinpoint what made it unique.
“It’s a good idea,” I said, “if you have the right connections. Which you don’t. You want my trust? Admit the real reason you wanted me to follow you yesterday.”
One more step and he was so close our chests brushed with each breath. Without my awareness, he’d pushed my scythe-wielding arm to the side and stepped into my guard.
“You’re so certain the only thing I want from you is clout, it doesn’t matter what I tell you right now. Perhaps you’re right and I need the beloved princess of the Cherusci to back my claims. Maybe I want you to get your Chatti prince on my side. Though,” he tapped a finger against his chin, “any idiot can see that flirting with you won’t get me there. Maybe I like the way you kill Romans. Maybe I just want you to trust me enough to let me have a taste of what I was promised.”
He reached for my cheek and for a heartbeat, I almost let him. The way he stared at my lips with a longing I’d never experienced rocked me off balance. Before his fingertips made contact, however, I brought the edge of the scythe up to his neck.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but it stops now. All of it.” I pushed a little harder against the skin above his apple. “All of it. You’re going to get good people killed. And I… I am to be queen of the Chatti.”
To his credit, he didn’t retreat from my blade. He even smiled as a drop of blood rounded on his skin. “Queen of the Chatti? Thusnelda, I would make you queen of Germania.”