Chapter Four
I debriefed the Arminius crew personally as soon as they emerged from Sick Bay and they were all discharged within hours except for Bashford who had suffered his customary blow to the head and was still recovering.
‘I’m not sure I’d recognise him without concussion,’ said Ian Guthrie, handing me his report.
‘There’s not a lot of difference,’ said Sykes, grinning, ‘but just for future reference, he is extraordinarily suggestible for several hours after the initial blow.’
We regarded her with some confusion.
‘To the head, I mean,’ she said indignantly, and we breathed again.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s get started. Mr Clerk, would you like to begin?’
They went suddenly quiet, then Clerk spoke. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, Max. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the Teutoburg Forest today, let alone in 9 AD,’ and the others nodded.
‘Quinctilius Varus must have been out of his mind to take his legions there. Dark, wet, and completely silent, Max. No birdsong, no small animals, no signs of life anywhere. God knows, it was spooky enough before the battle, and now there’s the ghosts of twenty thousand dead Romans and their auxiliaries flitting through the glades.’
‘I don’t know what Varus was thinking,’ said Prentiss. ‘Not only did he act on dubious intel, but he didn’t even send out any recon parties and he allowed his forces to become separated. They were easy meat. The slaughter was massive.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Mostly up a tree. You’ll see though, when you read our report, that visibility was poor. Mist, fog, not a lot of daylight getting through the thick trees. Our recorders weren’t a lot of use so mainly we had to rely on our ears.’
I imagined them, clinging to trees, balancing precariously on branches, as below them, an entire army was slaughtered. And not just any old army. A Roman army. This was what being an historian was all about – not chasing fat princesses around Westminster Abbey.
They talked on and I saw it all. The damp, dark forest. The narrow road – a hill on one side, a swamp on the other. The ferocious German tribes, united under Arminius. The increasingly desperate Romans. Some fought. Some fled. Varus fell on his sword. His second in command deserted, taking the cavalry with him.
The aftermath was no less bloody for the survivors. Some were sacrificed in religious ceremonies – their bodies cooked in pots. A lucky few were ransomed. Some were enslaved; most died horribly – and the Romans never crossed the Rhine again.
I talked to them all, collated their reports, watched such footage as they had, initialled everything, sighed deeply because I’d missed it, and took it all off to Dr Bairstow. Who wanted a word.
‘Caer Guorthigirn,’ he announced, passing over a file and two data cubes.
I brightened immediately. A British hill fort near the Welsh borders. This sounded considerably more interesting than watching the Royal Bosom come adrift from its moorings.
‘Excellent, sir. Pre or post Roman?’
‘Post,’ he said. ‘Mid-6th century. I require you to ascertain whether this particular fort was built for defence or some other purpose. Ceremonial, possibly. Whether it was refortified after the Romans left. This is the age of Saxon incursions after all. You will map and survey the site and its surrounding area. I would be grateful if you could settle, once and for all, the vexing question of revetments before the Professor and Dr Dowson actually come to blows. You may select your own team, but I would like you to include Dr Peterson.’
‘Is he back on the active list, sir?’
Some months previously, Peterson had been injured in Rouen, 1431. Someone else had died. The Time Police had turned up and I had lied through my teeth to them. That’s all I’m prepared to say about that particular assignment.
Peterson’s wound had been severe and although he’d flung himself into physiotherapy and rehabilitation sessions (usually organised by Markham and therefore borderline illegal in civilised countries), he would never again have full use of his left arm. Since he was right-handed, he was insistent this hardly slowed him down at all. He still had bad days, however, when he had to wear a sling. Mrs Enderby had run up a few for him.
Black silk: ‘For formal occasions,’ Peterson said, messing about as he always did when something was serious.
A jaunty red and white spotted affair: ‘For casual or sportswear.’
Blue, the History Department colour: ‘For everyday use.’
And a wicked, rich, dark crimson silk: ‘For romantic occasions,’ he said. ‘For when I want to impress Helen.’