Eagles at War (27 page)

Summer,
AD
9

The Roman Camp of Porta Westfalica, Deep in Germania

XV

FALLING FROM THE
narrow gap between door and doorframe, a thin beam of sunlight on Varus’ face woke him up. He stirred, aware that he’d been too hot under the blanket. Curse it, he thought, refusing to open his eyes and admit that another day had begun. What paperwork will Aristides have to torture me with? What officers and chieftains will come whinging to my office? It would be the same shit; just another day, as it always was.

A faint, dusty smell – the odour of not just his bedchamber, but his entire quarters – reminded him that he had woken in Porta Westfalica, not Vetera. Varus’ burgeoning sour mood vanished in a heartbeat. He opened his eyes, and sat up with a smile. He was in Porta Westfalica! Here his duties were far lighter. The room’s faded grandeur and its dark red-painted walls, the latest fashion in Rome five or more years before, were of no concern. He didn’t mind that the absence of regular occupants and, as a consequence, lack of heating during the winter meant that patches of mould had bloomed in the corners. They had been cleaned off, but the smell remained. This and the numerous cracks in the plaster were badges of his summer sojourn, to be relished.

Opening the door, Varus exhilarated in the warm sunlight that swept in, lighting up the room. Even the temperature seemed warmer than in Vetera. He took a step outside, acknowledging the sentry’s salute with a cordial nod. Along with other chambers, a dining room and the kitchen, his bedroom faced on to a large, colonnaded courtyard, the centre of which was occupied by a herb garden, apple trees and a selection of statues. All of it had seen better days. Although it was the commandant’s quarters, the entire place had a shabby air, like a holiday villa at Capri that hadn’t been used for several summers.

Other than the principia, few other permanent buildings had been constructed here. Porta Westfalica was only occupied during the summer, so there was little point in erecting barracks and suchlike until the place became a fixed camp. The large house had been Varus’ home since their arrival a month before, and would remain so until their departure. He had the slaves burn fires daily in every room with a fireplace, and the place was being scrubbed from top to bottom. It wouldn’t be long before the building was as good as new, he thought.

Freed of his wife, who had refused – again – to accompany him, he was free to behave as he wished within these walls. Sleep all day, drink all night, if he wanted to. Varus smiled. He didn’t want to act like a carefree, single tribune again, but it was nice to know that he could do so without being nagged. Outside, he was also master – governor of the whole region, come to monitor the tribes, to see that Rome’s laws were being followed and its taxes being paid. Vetera lay just over a hundred miles to the west. The distance gave Varus immense satisfaction. Only a fraction of the official messages and letters that were the bane of his life in Vetera managed to reach this island of refuge. It wasn’t a coincidence. The important ones did get to Porta Westfalica, but the rest were dealt with on the spot – Varus had delegated the camp commander at Vetera to open every last letter – relieving him, for the summer at least, of a considerable amount of arse-ache.

He took a deep breath of the dawn-crisp air. Gods, but he felt five years younger.

Footsteps behind made him turn. ‘Morning, Aristides.’

‘Good morning, master.’ Aristides was already dressed, and his hair oiled.

Varus couldn’t resist poking fun. His slave didn’t like his room here, or his bed, or much else, as far as Varus could tell. Even the baths – in particular the baths – weren’t up to standard. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Aristides made a face. ‘My rest was tolerable, master, thank you. And you?’

‘I slept like a babe. Now, I’m ravenous.’ Varus clapped his hands and a moment later, a slave emerged from the kitchen. ‘I want a table and chairs out here,’ he said, pointing at a sunny spot in the centre of the courtyard. ‘And food. Lots of it.’

‘At once, master.’ The slave hurried from view.

‘Enjoy your meal, master,’ said Aristides.

Varus cast a look at his scribe, who was also heading for the kitchen. It was Aristides’ habit to breakfast with the other slaves, a situation Varus knew he hated. It wasn’t surprising. The domestic slaves were of several different races, uneducated types who looked down on the learned Greek. Feeling a little sympathy – he wouldn’t want to break bread with most ordinary soldiers – Varus toyed with the idea of inviting Aristides to join him, before dismissing it. His manumission might be impending, but there was no point giving Aristides ideas above his station, something that sharing his master’s table was sure to do. Just because he’s been with me for half a lifetime doesn’t make him my friend, thought Varus.

After a busy morning receiving visitors, Varus had an agreeable meal with Vala, his deputy, a thoughtful, middle-aged man with a shiny bald pate. One cup of wine with the food – fresh-roasted venison in plum sauce – had turned into two, and then three. Varus had had the wherewithal to call a halt at that stage, but there was no denying the warm glow that encased him as he and Vala rode out of the vast camp towards the local settlement. Aristides’ disapproving expression and protestations about unfinished paperwork had not been enough to deter Varus from taking a look at the site of the proposed forum.

‘It will wait,’ he’d said to Aristides. ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’ Lips pursed, Aristides had retreated to Varus’ office in silent protest.

A century of legionaries followed on behind Varus and Vala, protection and a mark of the governor’s status rolled into one. Vala was pontificating about something or other to do with the relationship between Tiberius and Augustus. Varus’ attention began to wander, helped by the wine and Porta Westfalica’s surroundings, which fascinated him. The camp’s location was unusual. It had not been built in a strong site – a hilltop, or with good views all around. Instead it had been erected on the bank of the River Lupia. The reasoning for this was sound: equipment, food and supplies could be transported from Vetera to this point, so it needed to be well defended.

Varus was pleased to catch sight of a fleet of sizeable barges approaching from the west. Like as not, their cargo would include large quantities of grain, enough to feed the legionaries for a few days, or half a month, perhaps more. That would keep the quartermasters off his back at least.

‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Vala.

Varus realised that he didn’t have a clue what Vala had been saying. ‘About what?’ he said, without meeting his subordinate’s eye.

There was a short silence, during which Vala must have been wondering where his superior’s head had been, and then he replied, ‘Whether the rift between Tiberius and Augustus has been resolved for good, sir.’

‘I have no idea, Vala,’ replied Varus, a little irritated by this, one of the favourite topics for gossip among officers. ‘I’m not in Rome. Even if I were, I wouldn’t be party to such information. Most of what we hear is gossip, remember, stories that have travelled all the way from the capital, being twisted and distorted with each telling. They’re about as reliable as the ramblings of a drunk who props up a bar. Interesting, often. Funny, sometimes. But not to be believed.’

They had reached the outskirts of the settlement, which lay a short distance to the east of Porta Westfalica. The usual sprawl of premises lined each side of the dirt road. Carpenters and blacksmiths plied their trade alongside potters and cobblers. There were vendors selling olives and wine from Italy and Hispania, pottery and ceramics from Gaul, and furs taken from animals trapped locally. If the sellers of tinctures and potions were to be believed, there were cures on sale – at ‘the best prices’ – for blisters, aching muscles, sore backs, bladder infections and every venereal disease under the sun. The off-duty legionaries who were talking to a purveyor of the last were careful not to meet Varus’ eye as he rode by. Their efforts didn’t work with the soldiers accompanying Varus. A chorus of jeers and catcalls rained upon their comrades, who were too embarrassed to retaliate. Grinning, the officers in charge of Varus’ security detail did not intervene.

Varus pretended not to notice what was going on. Prostitutes and the infections that they were prone to carry had been around since the dawn of time, and so too had their customers. Trying to stamp out the practice would be as pointless as pushing water up a hill. Besides, it was up to lower-ranking officers to ensure that their soldiers were healthy enough to complete their duties, not him.

A little further on, his attention was drawn to the selection of amber laid out by a trader who was loudly declaiming that the woman bought such a gift would love her man for evermore. Varus admired the largest piece on the counter, an orange-gold lump the size of his clenched fist, and wondered whether his wife would like it. He rode on without stopping. It was beneath his station to haggle with a mere trader, never mind the fact that the man would quadruple the price the instant he realised who Varus was. Perhaps he’d send Aristides out to take a look, and see if he could purchase it for a reasonable sum. If it could be worked into a necklace, earrings and a set of bracelets, so much the better.

Gift ideas for his wife receded as the settlement’s centre drew near. ‘They’ve been busy,’ he said, pointing at several fine, stone-built houses. With their open fronts, which were filled by a smarter class of trader, and their staircases at the side which ran up to the floor above, they stood in stark contrast to the wooden shacks used by the shopkeepers they had passed. ‘These weren’t here last summer, I don’t think.’

‘I believe you’re right, sir. Give it a few more years, and this will be a proper little garrison town.’

‘Have you visited Pons Laugona? It’s impressive.’ Official duties had taken Varus to the civilian settlement a number of times. It lay on the River Laugona, some fifty miles to the east of the camp at Confluentes.

‘I haven’t yet had the chance to, sir.’

‘It’s like a town anywhere in the empire, really. There are blocks of apartments, factories producing pottery, statues and metalwork. An aqueduct has been built. Only the centre of the settlement has piped water so far, but that will change. But it’s the forum and in particular the municipal building that are the most inspiring. It’s fifty paces by forty-five, with a central courtyard, and annexes that are respectable in size. There’s a massive gilt statue of Augustus too, which wouldn’t look out of place in Rome.’

‘The locals are trying hard then,’ said Vala.

‘Aye,’ replied Varus. They were nearing the open space that would form the proposed forum. Catching sight of a group of the town’s leaders whom he’d already met – among them the unctuous ones he had disliked – he told himself that their enthusiasm was to be embraced, not spurned. Their energy would see what had happened at Pons Laugona replicated here. It was for the good of the empire. Perhaps it was because of the wine he’d consumed, perhaps the ease with which he could become the politician, but Varus felt his annoyance fade. He raised a hand, pulling a broad smile. ‘Greetings!’

The dignitaries, chieftains of one rank or another, approached together. Their salutations filled the air. ‘Governor, you honour us with your presence!’ ‘Welcome to our humble settlement, Governor Varus.’ ‘May Donar bless you, governor.’

‘Governor, what a delight.’ Aelwird, the portly man who’d got up Varus’ nose the most, stepped to the front and bowed. His long, greasy hair fell around the sides of his face. A whiff of ripe body odour reached Varus’ nostrils a moment later, and he had to work hard not to recoil in disgust. Aelwird might have taken to wearing a Roman tunic and sandals, but he didn’t yet appreciate that regular bathing was both good for the soul and one’s social interactions.

‘Aelwird. Have you met Legate Vala, my second-in-command?’

‘I have not yet had that pleasure.’ Aelwird bent at the waist again, as much as a fat man could. ‘I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance, Legate Vala.’

‘Greetings, Aelwird,’ replied Vala, inclining his head. His eyes flickered to Varus, who muttered under his breath:

‘A sycophant of the first order.’

Vala’s lips quirked.

‘These are my fellow council members.’ Aelwird, who hadn’t noticed the exchange, indicated his companions, and reeled off a list of Germanic names. As he said each one, a man bowed.

Varus made little effort to remember who the tribesmen were. They recognised him and Vala, and that’s what mattered.

With Aelwird by his right side, and Vala on his left, and the remainder of the council behind, they walked to where most of the activity was taking place.

‘I’ve been telling Vala about Pons Laugona,’ said Varus. ‘No doubt you want to emulate what’s been erected there, or even better it.’

Aelwird grinned like an urchin who’d been handed a coin. ‘I haven’t seen the forum at Pons Laugona, but two of my colleagues have. Of course we want to outdo what their council has had built, governor.’