The Centurions

by The Centurions (retail) (epub)

  “As it is?” Kari prompted him.

  “As it is, I am Semnone now, I and Arni and the rest. I have a holding as rich as the one I left, and a better chieftain, and there is a girl in my hold I may marry. I am content. But Ingald is not. And he will not be until he has the chieftainship that he thinks Nyall has taken from him.”

  “And the woman?” Kari said, remembering the night that Nyall had asked Arngunn for Fiorgyn.

  “He would take her if he could, from spite,” Ranvig said, “but that is a matter of pride only. The other is a… a hunger. I would rather see my lands stay in Rome’s hands than go to Ingald.”

  “If he is that hungry, he may have an eye to the Free Lands as well,” Kari commented.

  Ranvig blinked. “Even if he brought Nyall down, would the Council stand for a chief who was not Semnone-born?”

  “No. Not if the Council still had any power.” Kari’s dark face suddenly looked very Roman in the fading light.

  There was the sharp sound of Ranvig’s indrawn breath. “If Ingald goes that road, he’ll cut his own throat, but he’ll take us all with him. Kari, I am going to kill him.”

  “No!”

  “Try to stop me.”

  Kari sat up slowly. “Wait. Wait until after the Gathering, and see what Nyall will do.”

  “Nyall has already taken Ingald’s woman and his chieftainship, and he will do no more. Isn’t that what you were trying to tell me?”

  “It may be that Nyall’s mind can be changed and he will deal with Ingald,” Kari said. “Wait and see. If you kill Ingald yourself without cause, you’ll start a blood feud and we can’t afford one now. Ingald has made friends, and his holding is loyal to him.”

  Ranvig tossed the bridle on the table and swung around to face Kari. There was a cold light in his eyes. “And if the chieftain does not change his mind?”

  Kari’s face was equally set and cold. “Then I will help you kill Ingald. But wait until after the Gathering. And until the chieftains of the Suevi have gone.”

  Ranvig nodded and rose. “Very well. I will be remembering that.” He flicked a hand at the bridle he had been mending, and Kari saw that Ranvig’s fingers were long, and all of approximately the same length. There was some tale among the thralls that the Lord Ranvig had the elves’ blood in him. He gave Kari a smile, crooked teeth in a crooked mouth, but oddly pleasant. “My apologies to whoever owns this. I meant no harm in handling his property.”

  Kari smiled back. “It is my bridle, as it happens. My thanks for the mending.”

  Ranvig pulled back the curtains at the far end of the chamber, which opened not onto the main hall but into a corridor, and nodded in greeting as he passed a girl who came in with her arms full of tallow lights.

  She had on a yellow dress that glowed like a spring buttercup as she lit one of the tallow dips at the fire and set it onto a nail in the wall. She smiled shyly when she saw Kari, and he got up and kissed her, partly because it seemed to be the thing to do after lying with her at Harvestnight, and partly because she looked so warm in the cold twilight.

  Kari had ridden in from his own holding for the Gathering only that morning and hadn’t seen Hallgerd since Harvestnight. She snuggled against him happily. He should marry her, he thought, if Fiorgyn would let him have her. He took a deep breath of the soft smell of her hair. He remembered Ranvig’s words: “… and a girl in my hold I may marry.” Odd how many of the men seemed suddenly to be thinking of marrying. With a war band forming for the spring thaw, the desire to leave something of yourself behind was very strong, he thought, feeling the girl’s soft shape against his shirt.

  “They are almost through, I think,” Hallgerd whispered. “The chieftain and Geir One-Eye and the stranger lord. They have gone away into the chieftain’s chambers, and my lady with them, so the thralls can put the tables up. There are too many feasts,” she added in a vexed voice, “and someone always makes blood-trouble at them.”

  “Well, they won’t tonight,” Kari said, “with the chieftain’s curse hanging over their heads.”

  “No,” Hallgerd said disgustedly, “they will think up some other mischief instead.”

  Kari remembered the chieftain’s curse and winced. If he helped Ranvig kill Ingald, Nyall would never invoke that curse on him, he knew. He probably wouldn’t call it down on Ranvig, either. But showing that restraint would lessen the threat to the others and do Nyall’s hold on the tribe no good. If Ranvig and he did kill Ingald, he thought swiftly, they weren’t going to be able to admit it. Then Nyall could curse the “hand unknown,” but it would be awkward if no one fell down dead. And more unpleasant still if someone did. Kari twitched in spite of himself. His Roman half did not much believe in curses, and he privately thought that Ranvig was more than a match for any curse demon that Hell chose to send after him. But still, you never knew. And he had never lied to Nyall…

  “They are itchy as an old pig,” Hallgerd was saying, “and behaving like boys in a fight. My brother and Starkad decided to have a snow race without clearing the track. Starkad’s horse broke both its front legs, and now they are furious with each other. They were rolling in the snow and pummeling each other because the threat of the chieftain’s curse wouldn’t let them fight with knives. I am sick to death of men!” she added, and glared at him.

  Kari dragged his mind back to what Hallgerd was saying. Her brother was Gilli the Lame, who had had the temperament of a fighting cock ever since a childhood illness had left him with a short leg. He had compensated – in much the same fashion that Kari had for his harp-playing and his Romanness – by thrashing anyone who looked sideways at him; but Gilli was a year or two younger than Kari, and it hadn’t worn off yet. Kari chuckled. “The chieftain is right. They need badly to learn discipline. Nyall will give them other things to think of soon enough.”

  “Another war!” Hallgerd’s eyes flashed. “Another time of killing, and them maybe never coming back again at all!”

  Her mouth began to tremble and Kari put both his arms around her. “Are you frightened, sweet?” he asked softly.

  “Of course I’m frightened,” Hallgerd snapped. “And you would be too if you had any sense.” She turned her back to him in the circle of his arms, fighting back tears.

  Kari sighed and rubbed his face against her loose hair. “I am,” he whispered. “I have more sense than you think.” She nodded her head and leaned back against his chest. He held her close for a long time, trying to put her soft form between himself and Ranvig’s demanding face and Ingald’s bland, infuriating one.

  * * *

  Fiorgyn stood, sleeves rolled up and hands on hips, surveying the great hall and thinking, as Hallgerd had, that there were too many feasts. Too much mead, too much bragging, too many chances to get on each other’s nerves in a winter of enforced idleness. Four thralls came in, stamping and shaking the snow from their boots, dragging the heavy yule log to the hearth. A group of girls followed them, their arms laden with fir branches, giggling among themselves as they stood precariously on benches atop tables to hang the branches from the support pillars of the hall. There was an extra chair at the High Table for Hoskuld, the visiting Suevi chieftain, and a wooden, bronze-bound chest beside Nyall’s chair with a gilded, enameled horse bridle in it – the guest-gift intended for Hoskuld. It was a particularly rich one and would necessitate the giving of gifts of almost equal magnificence to their own lords as well. Gift-giving was a complicated ritual with many facets of subtlety involved. In the past, loss of face over a gift given or received had started feuds and even wars. Fiorgyn and Nyall picked their solstice gifts with a care that would have done credit to a pair of skilled ambassadors. Something was needed to take the sting from Hoskuld’s forced oath.

  Fiorgyn pushed back the stray hairs from her forehead as she remembered Hoskuld’s weathered face glowering at Nyall beside the hearth fire in their chambers. Hoskuld hadn’t liked going oath-sworn to a Semnone chieftain barely out of his teens, but he had done it, as the res
t of the Suevi chiefs had. Nyall and Fiorgyn together had painted a picture of the Roman-kind that was quite clear, and quite unpleasant, and stated flatly that this time they would not fight another chieftain’s battle for him. The rest of the Confederacy of the Suevi could join with the Semnones and keep their lands clear of Rome, or they could take their chances on their own.

  “While your lords raid my cattle in the meantime,” Hoskuld had snarled.

  “They are forbidden to raid each other,” Nyall said, as if that much should be obvious. “We are first in Rome’s path, and I want no feuds to distract them from fighting the Roman-kind.”

  “Well, they will have feuds with my lords if yours do not keep to their own hunting runs,” Hoskuld said.

  “They grow restless,” Fiorgyn said gently. “Not even my husband can chain them entirely.” With a deft hand, she poured a cup of winter mead and passed it to Hoskuld.

  “Feuds with your lords will be no threat to our unity if you have not joined us in this,” Nyall pointed out.

  “And if we do join?”

  “The Semnones do not raid an oath-sworn ally.”

  Hoskuld gave him a black look. The Semnones were the greatest of the Suevi Confederation, equal in numbers to all the rest put together. “And how if we join together against the Semnones instead?” he suggested.

  “Then we will all be quite busy fighting each other,” Fiorgyn said. “And when we have done, we will look up to find our walls pulled down, and a Roman fort built out of them. If you are still alive you may spend a peaceful old age asking the commander of the Eagles at what time it is proper to eat and spit and piss. And never again will you call your tribe your own.”

  “Strong words from a woman,” Hoskuld said resentfully.

  “I am a chieftain’s daughter and a chieftain’s wife, and a woman of the Free People. Do I speak an untruth, Hoskuld?”

  He watched them sitting side by side before him, golden head by red one, both young enough to be his grandchildren. Yet there was something in their eyes that was old and implacable. Hoskuld did not know Rome save by reputation, but these two knew Rome… knew Rome well enough to take a dangerous way of forcing an alliance with him as a last resort. Hoskuld leaned back in his chair, his face impassive, and let his thoughts run. The Semnones’ chieftain played a dangerous game, indeed. If Nyall was willing to do that, it was likely that he had reason. Rome… Rome was a new world, come out of nowhere, a wrong thing, a bad wind that changed old ways and old loyalties. If Nyall could see a way to push it back across the Rhenus again, then Nyall was the man to follow.

  Hoskuld breathed in slowly, choosing his words to guard his dignity. “Very well. I will ally. I will even swear to you, Nyall. There must be only one war leader in this, or you will never hold the alliance together. But there are conditions.”

  “Of course.” Nyall’s voice was smooth and polite, conciliatory. He leaned forward as they began to work the conditions out, and Fiorgyn rose and slipped from the room.

  * * *

  “One year wed at the solstice, are you not?” a pleasant voice said behind her. “Dreaming, then?”

  Fiorgyn jerked her mind out of her thoughts of Hoskuld and spun around to see Ingald leaning, smiling, against a pillar.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Ingald waved a lazy hand at the scurrying thralls. “Admiring the yule log. And wondering what new affairs of state rode in with that old grandfather this afternoon.”

  “‘That old grandfather’ is the chieftain of his tribe, and a greater man than you are, Ingald,” Fiorgyn said in an exasperated voice. “And if you cannot be civil, then go home again to your own hold. I don’t have time for you!”

  “You might make time,” Ingald suggested. He couldn’t resist prodding her. “Eventually you might have to.”

  “Eventually my horse might sing,” Fiorgyn snapped. “I warn you, Ingald, make trouble tonight, and even Nyall’s patience will wear out.”

  Ingald’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist “Patience! Look you, lady, I speak nothing that is not truth. Why should I sit by and see our chieftain lead us into a war that’s never going to be won? Have you ever thought, just once, of what Rome has to offer?”

  Fiorgyn’s free hand slapped down on her dagger hilt and the blade was in her hand in a second. She brought it down on Ingald’s hand and he jerked back, dropping her wrist and letting out an angry howl. He clutched his bleeding hand, and she brought the knife up again.

  “Touch me, Ingald, and I’ll kill you. Someone should have done it by now.” She took a step toward him.

  There were running feet in the corridor and suddenly the room was very full of people. The thralls shrank back against the platform where the High Table stood, and made themselves small.

  Ingald felt his heart pounding. The she-demon had been about to kill him whether he touched her or not.

  “Fiorgyn!” Nyall grabbed her by the shoulders, looked her over quickly, and spun around to face Ingald. “What have you done to my wife?”

  Ingald swallowed hard and put on his blank, pleasant look. He held out his bleeding hand ruefully. “I… ran into the lady’s knife when I happened to speak of Rome.” He looked around him carefully. He had a good audience now… better maybe than at a Council. “There was… no offense intended. Perhaps the chieftain should keep his she-wolf better leashed.”

  Fiorgyn still held the knife and her blue eyes were blazing. Nyall took it gently from her hand and slipped it into the sheath at her belt. “Can’t I even trust you?” he hissed, low enough so that no one else could hear him.

  “You ought to!” she hissed back.

  Hoskuld had followed Nyall and was looking at Ingald thoughtfully, while Ranvig, Kari, Hallgerd, Morgian, and anyone else who happened to be within earshot came crowding around them.

  “And what is it that you had to say about Rome,” Hoskuld asked, “that got you such an answer?”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the warriors in the hall. “Let him speak!” someone shouted, and Kari and Ranvig exchanged a grim look, while Morgian came up and put an arm around Fiorgyn, who shook it off, saying, “I am well enough.” She was still furious. If no one had come in, she might have been able to kill Ingald, and claim her honor as the reason.

  “Speak, Ingald,” Nyall said. “There is no man in this tribe who may not speak his mind… once.” The implication was clear, and Ingald searched quickly for the right words.

  “We are of the same tribe, Fiorgyn Arngunn’s-daughter and I,” he said. “We know well enough what Rome does, when Rome conquers in a war. And Rome has more legions than those we have seen. It is in my mind, lord, that if Rome spoke truth about not going beyond the Black Forest lands, perhaps there need be no war. Are we so sure we can win one?”

  “When has Rome ever spoken truth?” Fiorgyn said. “Or you either, Ingald?”

  “Lady—” Ingald was placating. “Those lands are lost to us now, you and me. Why chance on losing our adopted lands as well?”

  “Do not be speaking to me as if you and I were one blood, Ingald!” Fiorgyn snapped. “I am no kin to you!”

  “We were… once.”

  “I am Semnone now. You also took an oath,” she added disgustedly. “Or are you forgetting that so soon?”

  “He forgets much,” Kari said quietly. “This was not his tale as I heard it.”

  Nyall’s gray eyes were acquiring a dangerous glint, and he swung around to face Kari. “And what have you heard, brother harper?”

  Kari nodded to Ranvig, who stepped forward. “What he heard, he heard from me, lord. It is not a tale my tribesman” – he spat out the word with plain dislike – “would tell to the chieftain’s harper. There is talk in the wind that Rome makes a just master and makes her client chieftains rich. That we fight a lost cause, when Rome could bring us peace and many cattle and southern wines and such like.” Ranvig swung his off-center gaze around to rest on Ingald. “Talk that perhaps the Semnones need a new
chieftain who can see this.”

  There was a stirring among the warriors, and some, who had plainly been listening to such talk, jerked their heads up cautiously.

  “Talk in the wind?” Nyall said. His words dropped like ice chips. “And which of you has listened to this talk, and grown dreamy with thoughts of Roman wine and marble houses to strut about in like tame cats?” They shifted their feet uncomfortably. In a winter-bound hold where the snow blew in under doors and rations of dried meat and stale barley turned to sawdust in the stomach, Ingald’s picture of life as a Roman subject had looked warm and promising. In sight of Nyall’s cold eyes, colder than snow, things looked somehow different.

  “Better you think of life with a Roman thrall ring, and a warm corner in a Gaulish tin mine!” Nyall shouted, his voice raised furiously now. “Who would be chief in my place and learn what it is that Rome offers him? You, Hauk? Gilli? You, Steinvar?”

  There was silence, heavy and pregnant like the eye of a bad storm, and Fiorgyn bit her lip. They would lose Hoskuld, and the rest of the Suevi, if Nyall couldn’t hold his own tribe to him.

  “No one?” Nyall said, quietly now. “Not one?” His hand rested very lightly on his dagger hilt and his feet were braced wide apart, while his hair made a flaming crown above his face. It would take more courage than any of them had – and they were fighters – to face down the chieftain in that mood.

  “Then why do you run like puppies to the first man who whistles and offers you a box of elves’ gold, that turns into serpents by sunlight?” Kari said. “You are fools.”

  “No!” Ingald said suddenly, trying to draw them back to him. “We are fools if we do not think twice about fighting Rome! Fight Rome and we will all end our days in a thrall ring!”

  “Not you, Ingald,” Ranvig said. “Yours are going to end somewhat sooner.”

  “Ranvig!”

  Ranvig turned to Nyall, his face set. “Even now? You cannot let this pass!”

  “This is my decision, Ranvig,” Nyall said. “Bide still.”