Eagles at War by Ben Kane Page A

his relief, the bear was soon trapped. The moment that everyone had taken up his position, Ammausias and his comrades went into action. As one man distracted the bear by taunting it with a spear, the others crept in on it from behind. An angry charge at its tormentor was brought short by a well-flung rope that landed around its neck. That was drawn taut. A large weighted net followed, covering the bear from head to foot. It snapped, and ripped at the netting with its front paws, but soon entangled itself. Several men darted in, more cords in their hands. Tullus watched in amazement as they seized first one back paw and then the other, slipping loops of rope over the bear’s limbs and securing them with running knots. One soldier got clawed on the arm, but his was the only wound suffered as the bear was trussed up like a giant hen for the pot.
    Ammausias regarded Tullus and the German chieftain with satisfaction.
    ‘You know how to restrain a beast,’ said Tullus with respect.
    ‘Aye, sir, I have to. My thanks to you both for your help. Once we’ve chopped down a few large branches for carrying poles, we can hump him back to the road. I’ll commandeer a wagon to carry him back to the camp.’
    The warrior’s gaze fell on the bear. ‘My people hunt these beasts, but in the wild. I do not understand why you would trap a creature only to kill it before thousands of people.’
    Ammausias looked scornful, but was prudent enough to say nothing. With a salute, he left them to it.
    ‘It is the Roman way,’ Tullus explained. ‘I too prefer to hunt, but the majority like to watch such spectacles from the safety of amphitheatre seats. There must be men of your kind who would do the same.’
    The German laughed. ‘You speak the truth. I may surround myself with warriors, but not everyone in my tribe is a fighter.’
    Close up, the German was an impressive specimen. Muscles rippled under his wool shirt, and his thighs were as thick as small tree trunks. The fine silver brooch pinning his cloak at the shoulder and the yellow tassels on the garment’s border revealed his high-born status. ‘What tribe are you?’ asked Tullus.
    ‘Cherusci,’ came the proud answer. Then, a wink. ‘From the part of the tribe that’s friendly towards Rome.’
    ‘Ha!’ said Tullus. Certain branches of the Cherusci had been indomitable enemies of the empire just a few years before. ‘You’re not one of Arminius’ men, by any chance?’ A centurion friend of Tullus had a high opinion of the Cheruscan officer, in the main because of his valour in the three-year Pannonian war, which was still dragging on.
    There was a loud chuckle, and Tullus realised. ‘ You are Arminius.’
    ‘One and the same.’ He leaned down, extending a hand.
    ‘Lucius Cominius Tullus. Tullus.’
    Arminius jerked a thumb at Tullus’ helmet. ‘Senior centurion?’
    ‘Aye. You’re an auxiliary prefect, I understand. I should call you “sir”, by rights.’
    Arminius chuckled again. ‘There’s no need for that. We’re not on parade, are we?’
    Tullus found himself warming to Arminius’ informal and genial manner. ‘Where are you stationed?’
    ‘I command the ala that’s attached to the Seventeenth, at Ara Ubiorum.’
    The great base at Ara Ubiorum, home to two legions, was more than fifty miles away. It was also on the west bank of the Rhenus, but Tullus was used to German tribesmen taking the longer route north, via the opposite side. ‘Been on leave?’
    ‘We have been, me and my boys. The camp commander let us go ten days ago. Told us to meet up with the Seventeenth again here, before the summer march into Germania.’
    Tullus nodded. That made sense.
    ‘Varus wants to talk to me.’
    Publius Quinctilius Varus was the governor of Germania, and the commander of five legions. He’d been in the Eighteenth’s camp for some time, preparing for the campaign ahead. Tullus knew him by sight, and had heard him speak on a number of occasions, but he had