Wolves of Rome

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  VALERIO MASSIMO MANFREDI

  WOLVES OF ROME

  Translated from the Italian by Christine Feddersen-Manfredi

  PAN BOOKS

  To Alessandro

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  PART TWO

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  PART THREE

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  THE LEGIONARY SONG

  THE IDES OF MARCH

  EMPIRE OF DRAGONS

  THE LAST LEGION

  CHILD OF A DREAM

  Thereupon appeared a young man of noble birth, brave in action and alert in mind, possessing an intelligence quite beyond the ordinary barbarian; he was, namely, Arminius, the son of Sigmer, a prince of that nation, and he showed in his countenance and in his eyes the fire of the mind within.

  Compendium of Roman History (Book Two)

  by Velleius Paterculus,

  translated by Frederick W. Shipley

  Prologue

  WIHAZ FOREST, GERMANIA, AD 7

  THREE HORSEMEN ARMED with swords, spears and shields made their way slowly along the shore of the pitch-black swamp. The sun had begun to set, its light silhouetting the dense forest that lay beyond the swamp, thick with colossal oaks and fir trees as black in the twilight as the brackish water and the far-off mountain peaks. Two of the men were escorting the third, a warrior prince no longer in his prime; strands of white hair mixed with his long blond locks.

  He was wearing his best armour and his long sword hung from a silver baldric. As the sky darkened in the west, the prince urged his horse on, suddenly eager to quicken his pace. The autumn rains had swollen the swamp, causing it to spill out onto the lowlands all around it, and it was taking far longer than he had expected. He would arrive at his destination neither by day nor by night, but with the false, deceptive light of the gloaming, when reality blended into dream or nightmare, when the forest filled with ghosts.

  A rock at the side of the road bore signs of ancient runes, once carved deep but faded with time so they could no longer be deciphered. Nonetheless, they told the prince that he was on the right path.

  ‘How far do we have to go, my lord?’ asked one of the two young warriors, the best of all his guard.

  ‘Not much further,’ he replied. ‘When the shadow of that mountain peak reaches the edge of the swamp, we’ll be there.’

  The two youths fell silent. They clutched their swords tighter and their eyes strained to miss no movement in the half-light, every sense as taut as a bowstring. The prince began to ascend the slope of a small hill. He was the first to reach its top and he waited for his warriors to join him, one on each side. He pointed at a spot in the direction of the setting sun and said, ‘It’s there, that cave belongs to the Germanic oracle.’ The long deep whistle of an owl sounded from the boughs of an oak tree.

  The two warriors shivered but their hearts did not falter. ‘Let us go first. We’ve sworn to keep you safe.’

  ‘No. It is I who must do battle with the virago within the cave. She is huge and horrible to see. It is said that she never misses.’ It wasn’t clear whether he meant with the deftness of her blows or the truth revealed in her utterances. ‘To hear her words, one must first contend with her. Many men have died trying.’ The prince drew his sword, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and began to descend the slope alone.

  All at once a creature, a feral beast, came out of the mouth of the cave, so enormous that she looked like a bear. She threw a great bundle of sticks onto a fire that had been smouldering just outside the entrance, giving rise to a flurry of sparks.

  The fire reflected in the faces and the eyes of the two young warriors as they sought their next move. They wanted to gallop straight at the awful hag but they dared not disobey the command of their lord. He couldn’t have been clearer: only if he fell were they allowed to come to his aid. They were not to attack unless his life was at risk. But they did draw closer, so they could see and hear whatever was about to ensue.

  When the giantess realized that a warrior with his unsheathed sword stood before her, and that two more warriors were close behind him, she let out a roar that dwindled slowly to a hoarse rasp. The two warriors were stunned to hear her voice begin to take on a human tone.

  ‘Hermundur,’ said one to the other. ‘She just said, “Who are you?” ’

  ‘You don’t recognize me?’ said the prince, looking straight into the virago’s eyes. Her face contorted and the raw animal hides that only half covered her let off a disgusting stench. She gave out another roar and lifted her axe as she croaked, again in Hermundur, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Give me your prophecy,’ replied the silver-baldricked horseman as he swung his blade. Axe and sword met with a loud crash and one of the two young warriors lunged forward but his companion stopped him.

  ‘We promised. He has to fight her alone.’

  The blows came fast and strong, blades clashing with violence. As the fighting grew harsher, the prince could hear that the frightening hag was beginning to groan. Certainly no one had come to challenge her for a very long time. The strength she had once been able to depend on was failing her, but her sheer size made her indomitable still. She lurched at her querent with a burning stick from the fire in one hand and her axe still in the other. He dodged her blows, twisted around and rammed at her with all his might. She was thrown off balance, threw up her hands and sank to the ground on her knees. He pushed the tip of his sword into the small of her throat. ‘The revelation,’ he hissed.

  The virago resisted defeat. She shook her head and her shaggy tangled hair covered her face.

  ‘Don’t you know me? Pronounce the prophecy for me now!’

  The Germanic oracle finally spoke and the two young warriors sheathed their blades.

  They could hear the voice of the ogress but they couldn’t understand a word. They saw the tears of their lord and heard a wailing first and then a long agonized shriek that echoed from the mountainsides. The silver-baldricked prince took his sword then and plunged it deep into the throat that had spoken and the virago collapsed face down on the fire she herself had lit. She burned under the horrified eyes of the two warriors.

  When the prince turned towards them his eyes were full of darkness.

  PART ONE

  FOREST OF THE CHERUSCI, GERMANIA, 3 BC

  1

  TWO BOYS, running through the forest.

  Sparkles shot through their hair as they slipped in and out of shadow and met the sun, flashing gold. They flew, light as the wind that touched the fronds of the trees, light as the scent of resin that wafted among the giant firs. They never hesitated, never slowed as obstacles appeared, not even for any of the giant forest creatures who might suddenly emerge. Pure joy in their every movement.

  Wulf and Armin their names, noble their stock.

  The boys reached the top of the Hill of Echoes just as the sun was flooding the great clearing.

  Armin stopped. ‘Listen!’

  Wulf stopped as well. ‘What?’

  ‘The hammer. It’s the hammer of Thor.’

  Wulf listened hard. Deep bursts of th
under, accompanied by pounding water and the endless echo of the same.

  ‘Are you trying to scare me?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Where’s it coming from?’

  ‘From the right. Behind the oak wood.’

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yeah, but careful, though. It’s not really Thor’s hammer.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I told you . . . I’m going to show you the road that never ends.’

  Armin motioned for his brother to follow as he began to move forward, cautiously, among the oak saplings and ash trees. Armin wasn’t hard to follow. Taller than any boy his age, his red and silver tunic could be seen from afar, like the bronze reflections in his hair.

  Armin finally stopped. Wulf drew up alongside him and what he saw left him dumbstruck. A road paved with polished stones, almost thirty feet wide, perfect in every way, dry and straight, constant in its dimensions and complete in its structure. It was as beautiful as if the gods themselves had built it. Wulf followed it with his eyes until he saw it disappear behind the oak wood.

  ‘You said the road that never ends.’

  ‘I did. Follow me.’

  They scrambled down the slope of the Hill of Echoes and there was the road again, straight and flawless.

  ‘See?’ said Armin.

  The road stretched on and on to the edge of the Great Swamp, which reflected the disc of the sun like a mirror, but it did not end at that enormous expanse of water. It skimmed the swamp’s still, liquid surface, continuing on straight to the middle, where it stopped at a distance of at least three miles from the shore.

  ‘How can that be . . .’ whispered Wulf.

  ‘Look, down there, by that little island,’ replied Armin. ‘See those wooden towers? Each one of them is manned from the inside by at least fifty soldiers. They activate a mechanism that raises a two-hundred-pound mallet thirty feet in the air. It’s let loose on a stake that’s been planted into the soil bed underwater, driving it further and further down. Look closely. You’ll see a double row of those stakes emerging just slightly over the surface of the water, see? Beams are pounded into the stakes, and then oaken planks are placed over the beams. Sand is spread over the boards and then stones to cover. Every piece of wood, from the stake to the beam to the plank to the pegs securing them, is cooked first. They use a mixture of oil and pitch so that the wood can last centuries under water. A road that never stops, no matter what obstacle it finds on its way. A forest, a lake, a swamp, even a mountain.’

  A Roman road!

  ‘How do you know all these things?’ asked Wulf.

  ‘I just do, that’s all.’ Armin cut him short. ‘We have to go back home now. Father will have our hides for disobeying.’

  ‘We’ll never get back home before sunset,’ said Wulf.

  ‘I’m not so sure. We’re good runners and there’s plenty of reason to be home in time.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Wulf. ‘Hear that?’

  Armin stopped in his tracks, then scowled, peering hard in the direction the rhythmic sound was coming from.

  ‘It’s a Roman legion. On the march. Down, get down!’

  Wulf dropped to his stomach. ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘Shhh! Don’t make any noise and do as I do.’

  Armin covered himself with leaves, making himself invisible in the underbrush and Wulf, obedient, did the same. The cadenced beat of nailed boots drew closer until it was next to the two brothers. Under the leaves, Armin felt for Wulf’s trembling hand and squeezed it hard. The trembling stopped and the pounding began to fade until it disappeared into the distance.

  Armin lifted his head, but the sight of two Roman nailed boots at an arm’s length from his face made him jump with shock.

  ‘Well, look who I’ve found!’ exclaimed a hoarse voice in Latin. A switch flicked through the dry leaves.

  Armin jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘Go, run!’ The two boys took off in headlong flight without a second look. They alone knew every corner of the forest, every nook and cranny, every light and every shadow, and would reach a safe haven in no time.

  Centurion Marcus Caelius Taurus did not go to the bother of shouting or cursing. He simply made a gesture with his hand and five horsemen – three Romans and two Germanics – set off at a gallop, managing to swiftly block the boys’ flight and cut off any route of escape. All five slipped to the ground at once and surrounded the two brothers who stood tall, back to back, and pulled out the daggers they wore at their belts, pommels pressed to their chests.

  ‘Those two,’ hissed Wulf, nodding towards the Germanic soldiers. ‘They’re like us. Why are they trying to get us?’

  The two brothers wheeled slowly, facing towards their enemies. ‘Traitors,’ Armin replied. ‘They’ve sold themselves to the Romans and fight by their side.’

  Their attackers pounced from every direction but the two boys defended themselves ferociously: they struck out with their blades, kicked, punched, bit. Five robust men struggled to best the two barely adolescent boys. In the end they pinned them to the ground, tied their arms behind their backs and dragged them off on two ropes tied to the horses.

  The patrol chief approached the centurion. ‘They’re like wild animals, those two. It took all five of us to overpower them.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’ asked the centurion.

  One of the Germanic soldiers nodded. ‘They’re the sons of Sigmer, the chief of the Cherusci.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Fine catch. You’ll be rewarded. Don’t let them escape or it’s me you’ll have to answer to. At least until tomorrow.’

  Armin and Wulf were put inside a tent surrounded by armed guards. Two mattresses had been rolled out onto the ground. A slave brought them roasted meat with bread, a jug of beer and two glasses, as well as an oil lamp to light after dark.

  ‘They’re treating us well,’ said Wulf.

  ‘That’s a bad sign,’ replied Armin. ‘It means they know who we are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They can’t treat all their prisoners this way. If they’re being nice to us, it means they’re going to try to get something from our father.’

  ‘What could they want from him?’

  ‘Rome wants one thing: submission. They call it alliance but both sides know that’s not what it is. Allies know they can never trust one another, and so the stronger one – Rome, that is – demands some kind of guarantee.’

  ‘What guarantee?’

  ‘We’re it. You and me. Hostages.’

  ‘Our tribal chieftains do the same.’

  ‘They do. But it’s completely different. An exchange of hostages doesn’t imply submission; it ensures peace between the two tribes. Now naturally, the Romans won’t use the word “hostages”; they’ll talk about education, training for military command, studying, learning Latin and maybe even Greek. In truth, though, hostages are what we will be. May be.’

  Wulf dropped his head and for a while there was total silence in their little tent. The wind outside carried the voices of the sentries as the new shift came on duty.

  ‘Help us, powerful gods,’ he whispered.

  SIGMER, SUPREME CHIEF of the Cherusci, had spent a sleepless night. When his boys hadn’t come home by sunset he sent squads of scouts riding out on horseback, carrying torches to comb every path of plain, hill and swamp, without finding any sign of them. The search continued the next day, fresh squads replacing those who returned exhausted. Finally, one of the men arrived at Sigmer’s house at a gallop. He sprang to the ground and was brought immediately into the chieftain’s presence.

  ‘It was the Romans,’ he said in a single breath.

  Sigmer did not rage or curse. ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘One of their auxiliaries, he told me himself. He was born in my village. It was the boys’ curiosity that got the better of them. They made their way to the road that crosses
the swamp and were surprised by a Roman cavalry patrol that was reconnoitring the service roads where supplies are brought in for the roadworks. They were unlucky. It was the old fox Centurion Marcus Caelius Taurus of the Eighteenth Legion Augusta who found them.

  ‘I know for certain they’re being treated well, but they’re guarded day and night; it’s impossible to get close. A raid would be a mistake for now, too dangerous for the boys. It seems, however, that Centurion Taurus will ask you to receive him so he can relay a message from Terentius Niger, the legion’s legate.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Sigmer. ‘I’m prepared to do anything but I want proof first that my sons are alive.’

  ‘You will get it,’ assured the scout. ‘And very soon. But now you should get some rest.’

  Rest . . . how could he do that? His boys, the light of his eyes, were in Roman hands and no one could say what destiny might await them. Would they be taken away? One of them? Both? Would Rome accept a ransom? But what could he offer? Flocks and herds? Horses? Sigmer felt impotent, shattered. The Cherusci were the most powerful of all the Germanic tribes and the most numerous but they could never challenge the Empire of Rome. It was said that it extended from one end of the world to the other, from the southern sea to the ocean . . .

  He’d challenged the Empire, once. He’d tried to kill one of their commanders, young Drusus, who at the age of twenty-four had been conducting a fleet of one hundred battleships down the Rhine. Sigmer remembered the canal that Rome had dug to make that possible, eighty leagues long, stretching from the bend in the Rhine to the northern lagoon. Rome reigned over seventy million people and there was nothing it could not do: Romans brought land where there was water and water where there was land. Now Rome had his sons.

  CENTURION TAURUS ARRIVED two days later, escorted by a squad of cavalrymen and a Germanic interpreter. He asked to be admitted to the presence of the sovereign of the Cherusci. Sigmer received him seated on a wooden throne adorned with gold, surrounded by his most imposing warriors wearing their finest armour. All of them wore their hair loose to the shoulder, blond as gold. Sigmer’s younger brother Ingmar was also present.