The Wolf's Gold: Empire V

by Anthony Riches

  ‘It seems to me that we have a delicate situation here, Tribune. Outside the walls are enough men to slaughter us all, were they to break in, but for the time being they content themselves with waiting for some news of their attack on the northern side of the valley, and the fate of their king. Surely if we keep him alive we can . . .’

  ‘Unacceptable!’ Belletor had become used to shouting when he felt he was being disregarded, and the volume to which his voice had risen was a clue to the depth of his anger. ‘This man led an attack on the empire with the simple aim of plunder, and he can pay the price for seeking to profit from Rome’s industry. I’ll have him executed before he has the chance to die of his wounds. I’ll have his head put on a spear and see that his body is thrown to the dogs as soon as there’s enough light for those animals beyond the wall to see it carried out.’

  An uneasy silence had ruled the gathering for a moment, as each of the attendees had imagined the likely response of the thousands of warriors camped in the lower valley to their leader’s execution, until Prefect Gerwulf had coughed softly. All eyes had turned to him, most of them registering surprise at the mannered way in which he waited for permission to speak. Belletor had raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless nodded to the German.

  ‘You have something to say, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf’s blue eyes had been free of any trace of guile, but to Marcus’s ear his voice had been edged with a faint trace of irony.

  ‘Tribune Belletor, I have fought these people camped in front of our wall for most of my adult life. When I was taken hostage in my people’s war with Rome I determined to learn your language and adopt your customs. As both a warrior and a willing convert to the civilised way of life, I was appointed as a junior officer in the army that went to war against the Marcomanni and my own tribe. Through good fortune I was appointed to command the forces that my tribe had volunteered for the service of Rome, under the treaty that ended that war . . .’

  Belletor had stirred uncomfortably, clearly already bored.

  ‘There is a point to your life story, I presume, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf had nodded equably, ignoring the impatient note in Belletor’s voice.

  ‘Indeed there is, Tribune. Since the treaty to end the German Wars was agreed, most of the army’s efforts have been directed at the control of the Sarmatae tribes that live on the great plain that lies north of the Danubius. And if taking part in those operations has taught me one thing, it is that killing this man will only prolong a fight that might otherwise be brought to a successful close within a day or two.’

  ‘Within days? How so?’

  Gerwulf had bowed slightly.

  ‘Tribune, it is my experience that when a Sarmatae tribal king wishes to make war, he first sacrifices a bull, cooks the animal’s meat and lays the skin out on the ground. He then sits on the skin with his hands held behind his back as if bound at the wrist and elbow, and each of the men who consider themselves his followers approach to offer him their fealty. They eat their share of the meat and then place a foot on the bull’s hide, which is the symbol of their thunder god Targitai, pledging whatever strength they feel able to bring to his cause. My point, Tribune, is that this man will undoubtedly have blood brothers out there beyond our wall, and more than likely sons too. If we kill him now we will simply perpetuate their shared cause against Rome, and make it highly likely that they will attack again.’

  Marcus had seen the German’s face harden slightly, as he had flicked a calculating glance at Belletor.

  ‘Tribune, whilst you have worked marvels given the time you had, our defences cannot be considered to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination. In the event of continued hostilities with this people, the best that we can hope for is that they will ride away to join up with the forces further to the north, and remain a problem for the empire. Whereas if we return him to them with both his skin and his honour intact, demanding that they swear to depart in peace in return for his release and perhaps even demanding hostages in return, then perhaps we can send him away with his army bound to his word not to make war against Rome. With one stroke you would have saved this valley from capture and taken a sizeable piece of the enemy’s strength out of the field.’

  Belletor had fixed the German with a hard stare.

  ‘And you’re sure that these people will respond to such an approach?’

  Gerwulf had shrugged, rubbing at his closely cropped blond hair with a big hand.

  ‘No Tribune, I am not. The Sarmatae have always tended to be scrupulous about their honour, but there is an exception which is the proving of every rule. And whoever goes over the wall to negotiate with the tribesmen must clearly be at some risk.’

  Belletor had started with surprise.

  ‘Over the wall? You suggest that we send a man to speak with them?’

  Gerwulf’s expression had remained neutral, although to Marcus’s ear the tone of his response was perhaps a little more strained than before.

  ‘Of course, Tribune. We must open discussions with whoever rules the tribe in his absence in order to show them that we hold their king, and are doing everything we can to restore him to good health. Such a matter is one for men to discuss face-to-face, not for shouting from our defences, and besides, whoever leads that warband in the king’s absence will never consider venturing within bowshot. A man will have to go down into their camp if we are to achieve a treaty. I’d do it myself if I wasn’t sure that my cohort would dissolve into chaos without me.’

  He looked around the assembled officers with a sombre expression.

  ‘Be under no illusions, whoever goes to open discussions with them is putting himself at considerable risk.’

  Belletor had looked around at his officers.

  ‘Your thoughts, gentlemen? Should we attempt to make peace with these savages, and if so, who should we send to discuss terms with them?’

  After some further debate, with both Scaurus and the Thracian cohort’s tribune agreeing with Gerwulf that the possibility of concluding hostilities with the Sarmatae was too strong to be ignored, Belletor had reluctantly agreed with the idea. While his change of heart had come as something of a relief to the men who knew him well, the stipulation that accompanied it had narrowed Scaurus’s eyes with fresh anger.

  ‘Very well, if you’re all certain this is the right approach to these animals, then I am happy to go with the weight of opinion. But I won’t risk any of my senior officers being taken and butchered in front of our wall. Tribune Scaurus, you can send one of your centurions to talk to the tribesmen instead. That way if they decide to indulge their desire for revenge on the man we send to negotiate with them, we’ll have limited our losses. There, that’s a decision made. Wine, gentlemen?’

  With the conference completed Marcus had promptly volunteered for the task of going over the wall, and had resisted Scaurus’s efforts to persuade him that another man might be better suited.

  ‘With all respect, Tribune, who else can you send with a clear conscience? Both Otho and Clodius could start a fight in a temple of the Vestals, neither Milo nor Caelius has the words needed, and if you send Titus he’ll just spend the whole time looking down his nose at the Sarmatae and making it very clear to them what scum they are without ever saying a word. It has to be me.’

  Scaurus had played a calculating look on him for a moment before responding.

  ‘And Dubnus? I note you didn’t mention him? Dubnus doesn’t have a wife and small child to be left alone in the world, whereas you, Centurion, have responsibilities to worry about.’

  Marcus had shaken his head, putting a hand to his face.

  ‘But Dubnus isn’t Roman, Tribune. His skin and his eyes are the wrong colour. For this to work, these people need to believe they’re negotiating with a man with the power to make decisions. And that means it has to be me.’

  Scaurus was standing alongside Belletor in a small group of officers a dozen paces distant from where Julius was preparing Marcus for his descent
from the wall’s top, his face set in stony lines as he listened to Belletor holding forth on some subject or other, shooting the occasional glance at his centurions. Tribune Sigilis made an excuse and walked the short distance to join the Tungrian officers, holding his hand out to Marcus.

  ‘You’re a brave man, Centurion, and you have my respect. I’ll pray to Mars that you come back to us without suffering any harm.’

  Marcus smiled back at him, a wry grimace twisting his lips.

  ‘It seemed to work yesterday, Tribune.’

  Sigilis laughed, shaking his head gently.

  ‘Up there on the hillside? I never actually got round to praying, if the truth be told. I was rather too busy discovering what it was like to take sharp iron to my fellow man.’ He gave Julius a sideways look. ‘If I might have a moment with the centurion, First Spear?’

  Julius raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  He walked away down the wall, and the two men smiled at the sight of the soldiers in his path stiffening under his scrutiny.

  ‘Any second now he’ll see something that doesn’t match his expectations, and then there’ll be fur in the air . . .’

  Almost on cue Julius snapped down on a soldier who had unwittingly attracted his ire, withering the offender with a swift and vicious tirade of abuse, and the two men shared a look of sympathy. Sigilis leaned forward and spoke quietly.

  ‘We still need to talk, Centurion. I had thought to wait until you decided that the time was right, but since you seem determined to put yourself in harm’s way it’s important for you to know that you may still have some blood relatives left alive. I don’t know who or where, but my father’s investigator told us that he suspected some other members of your family might also have avoided the destruction of their line, although he was unable to prove anything.’

  Marcus nodded, his face set in stonelike immobility.

  ‘That’s not a hope I can afford to encourage, given the likelihood of disappointment should I ever find myself in Rome again, but I thank you for the concern.’

  Sigilis shook his head urgently.

  ‘One more thing. When they lower you down from the wall, just remember that there is still revenge to be taken for all those who died unjustly alongside your father. Make sure you climb back onto this parapet, Centurion, since you are likely to be the only man left alive in the entire world with the ability to exact that revenge.’

  He nodded to Marcus and turned to his colleagues. Julius walked back to join his friend, signalling to his chosen man, who promptly issued orders for a rope ladder to be lowered from the parapet. Turning to his friend, he took Marcus’s hand and put an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Good luck. Come back alive.’

  The Roman eased his weight up and over the raised turf parapet, climbing carefully down the ladder until he felt solid ground beneath his boots, then looked up, gesturing to Julius for the ladder to be pulled up. Turning to face the Sarmatae, he saw that his presence on the ground before the wall had already been noticed. Half a dozen men had run forward to the edge of the safe distance from the defences, just outside the Thracian archers’ maximum range, and now stood with arrows nocked to their own bows, while another ran shouting to the sprawling mass of tents that had sprung up late the previous evening when the barbarians had realised that a swift victory would not be forthcoming. Taking a deep breath he stepped forward out of the wall’s shadow, pacing slowly forward with both arms raised well away from his sides. As he walked towards the barbarian camp, a group of horsemen cantered out of the tents, trotting steadily up the valley’s slope until they were abreast of the waiting archers. Continuing at the same slow pace, he walked to within a few paces of the bowmen, close enough to see that the bone heads that tipped their arrows were blackened and discoloured with the same poison that had killed his horse. One of the riders waiting behind them called out to him, his face grim below a helmet that was the matching twin of the one taken from their captive the night before, and which Marcus was carrying in his right hand. A long lance was couched loosely in his right hand, the point only feet from Marcus’s mailed chest.

  ‘No further, Roman. If you’ve come to gloat then you’ve picked the wrong man to make sport of. We saw the glow of your pyres on the northern peak reflected in the clouds last night, and I see you carry my father’s helm.’

  Marcus bent slowly, placing the helmet on the ground before him with what he deemed to be appropriate respect for its wearer’s status. The rider placed both hands on the horn of his saddle, bending forward to look at the Roman more closely.

  ‘I am Galatas Boraz, son of King Asander Boraz and in my father and my uncle’s absence, the leader of this host. State your purpose in putting your life in my hands, and do so quickly. My patience is not at its best today.’

  Marcus stepped forward a pace, and the arrowheads tracked his movement, the archers’ knuckles whitening on their bows. The men arrayed around the prince were hard faced, their expressions giving him nothing beyond simple enmity, while the warrior mounted on Galatas’s right stared down at him with evident disgust from beneath the brim of a dented legionary’s helmet clearly looted from the scene of a recent Roman defeat.

  ‘I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, Centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort and deputed by my tribune to enter discussions with you as to your intentions. I—’

  Galatas leaned back in his saddle, his laughter both harsh and terse.

  ‘My intentions? I intend getting my horsemen around that wall and riding down every man that hides behind it before I carry off the gold that waits for me.’ He sat forward in the saddle and regarded Marcus levelly for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will trade information with you, Roman, since you face my kontos without any sign of fear. Only a few of my father’s men have returned to our camp with the tale of defeat, and none of them know what happened to the king. Tell me truly, what was the fate of my father and my uncle?’

  Marcus grimaced.

  ‘For a time it seemed as if your attack would force us off the hill, but we were reinforced at a vital time in the fight, and took the field with much slaughter. We burned a thousand bodies and took twice as many prisoners, including your father. He is being treated with the appropriate respect due to a king, but he is badly wounded. Our doctor is providing him with the best medical care possible, but it is not yet clear whether he will live or die. As to your uncle, I have no news.’

  The rider nodded grimly, shooting a meaningful glance at an older man on his left.

  ‘Very well.Your turn. What would you know from me?’

  Marcus looked up at him for a moment before speaking again.

  ‘You speak excellent Latin. I would very much like to know how this is.’

  Galatas pulled a face at the unexpected mundanity of the question, but answered quickly enough.

  ‘My father had all of his sons taught the Roman speech and letters. He said that we could never really understand our enemy unless we could read their writings, and so it has proven. Which makes it my turn again. What is so important that you have been sent out here to discuss? The news of my father’s capture could just as easily have been shouted down from your wall without putting a man such as yourself at risk of being killed by an overeager archer, or dragged apart by my household guard. I must warn you, the men around me are eager to have you for a plaything to avenge the harm done to our king.’

  The Roman looked up at the hard-faced man on Galatas’s right, meeting the murderous intent in his eyes with a flat stare.

  ‘You will have noted that I came to you unarmed, as a mark of our seriousness in seeking to negotiate some form of agreement to end this dispute.’ His voice hardened from its carefully controlled tone of reason, an edge of iron creeping in as his anger swelled at the looks being cast down at him. ‘But I will back down before no man. Grant me the loan of your sword and then release your dogs, and we’ll see who’s left standing by the time twenty heartbeats have
passed.’

  The Sarmatae leader laughed again, a little less tersely this time, and the smile that spread across his face appeared genuine.

  ‘If only you sat where I did, Roman! You must have fruits the size of an ox’s danglers to threaten this man.’ He gestured to the warrior wearing the captured helmet. ‘Amnoz here is the champion of my father’s bodyguard and a murderous bastard besides. There is not a man in this camp who could best him in combat.’

  Marcus shrugged.

  ‘No-one lives forever. Arm me, Prince Galatas, and I will demonstrate the truth of that statement to him. Either that, or tell your champion to treat an envoy who has come only to talk, and is not equipped to fight, with a little more respect.’

  Galatas’s smile was replaced by a frown.

  ‘For “an envoy that has come only to talk” you’re a little more aggressive than I would have expected. I have enough strength out here to wipe your army away without trace, given the favour of the gods, and yet here you are offering to take on my greatest warrior just for breathing heavily at you?’

  Marcus smiled and bowed slightly.

  ‘My apologies, Prince Galatas, it’s a bad habit of mine. By all means please tell your man Amnoz that his appearance is as terrifying as it is martial, and that I am quaking with fear just to be in his presence.’ The tone of his voice, and the smouldering look he cast at Amnoz left the bodyguard in no doubt as to his real feelings, but Marcus switched his gaze back to the prince and softened his tone. ‘So, to business, your highness?’

  The Sarmatae prince nodded wearily.

  ‘Say what you have to say.’

  ‘Simply this, Prince Galatas. We will do everything in our power to aid your father’s recovery from his wound, and your defeated kinsmen will not be harmed in any way as long as they remain peaceable. We have more than enough food for a long siege, and your warriors will be fed just as well as our own soldiers. You are more than welcome to camp here in the valley and stare at our wall for as long as you like, or at least for as long as you have the food to sustain you, but any further attempt to break into our defences will be met with the same rough treatment as your attempt to take the northern hill. We have an inexhaustible supply of wood for pyres, and we will burn as many men as you see fit to send at us. Or . . .’