Altar of Blood: Empire IX

by Anthony Riches

‘Nothing personal mate, we just thought it’d be good for you to experience a little disappointment for a change.’

  The trainer’s face fell further as he recognised the belt.

  ‘You thieving f—’

  Cotta wagged an admonishing finger at him.

  ‘We’ll have a little less of that, thank you. Accusations like that can only draw attention to your favoured manner of transporting your winnings around the countryside. Surely you don’t want this lot to realise that your man routinely carries enough gold to fund a solid month of drinking and whoring for enough men to overpower the pair of you. Half a dozen big lads for him and an old woman to deal with you.’

  His face a map of misery, the German reached for a mug of beer, shaking his head in disgust as he took a sip of the bitter brew.

  ‘I should have told the lot of you to fuck off the moment I laid eyes on you. You’ve got the looks of thieves alright, especially you, you tub of lard.’

  Morban bridled, while his companions exchanged looks which mutually conceded that the comment, if harsh, was still a fair one. But before he could even begin to attempt a rebuttal the tavern doors were thrown open, and five heavyset men wearing swords marched in, four of them wearing identical iron helmets while the fifth was bareheaded and dressed in the furs that indicated noble birth. Their presence rapidly cleared a path to the bar, and the bareheaded man looked about him until his eyes settled on the trainer, his sneer accompanied by a guttural verbal assault in his own language.

  ‘When I heard there were men drinking for nothing in here I should have known you’d be involved in it.’ He pointed a hand back through the tavern’s doors. ‘There are drunkards roaming the streets making improper suggestions to respectable women and openly pissing in the gutter, and who do I find at the heart of it but you, Lucius the Roman.’

  The object of his ire spread his hands wide with an outraged expression.

  ‘I have nothing to do with this, Gernot, I’ve been fooled by this band of robbers!’

  Gernot’s attention switched to the Tungrians, his eyes narrowing as he looked them over.

  ‘I see. And that, presumably, would make a good enough tale for the king to hear. All of you can follow me.’

  Cotta looked at Arminius questioningly, and the German shrugged back at him.

  ‘It seems we’ve attracted a little more attention that might prove healthy.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Follow those men, or you may find them lacking in patience.’

  Gernot turned back towards him with a frown.

  ‘More Romans? It seems we’re suffering an infestation. Come, you can explain yourselves to King Amalric, and then he can decide what to do with you.’

  The Bructeri king lounged in his heavy wooden chair, playing a slow stare across the Tungrians with the look of a man who wasn’t overly enamoured of what he saw. A man barely out of his teens, he nevertheless exuded the confidence of a man born to rule, even in his reclining position, and his eyes were bright in a face that combined a noble aspect with more than a hint of brutality.

  ‘I’ll speak Latin, since none of you seems to have gone to the trouble of learning our language other than you, Lucius the Roman, and even then it is a poor broken thing in your savage mouth. So, to ensure we’re clear, I’m told that you,’ he pointed at Saratos, ‘managed to defeat the monster that Lucius the Roman has been parading around the tribal lands for the last five years. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, King.’

  Gernot scowled at him from his place behind the throne, and Arminius translated his barked orders for them.

  ‘When you address my beloved nephew the king you are to bow, and show appropriate respect!’

  The king looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘And how do you come to be associating with these Romans? What is your name?’

  The German bowed.

  ‘Great King, I am Arminius, son of Raban, of the Quadi tribe. I was captured in battle ten years ago during our war with Rome, and I am sworn to give service to this man until he chooses to free me from my slavery.’

  Amalric looked at Cotta and then back at Arminius with a smile that was more disbelief than welcome.

  ‘This one? He captured you?’

  ‘I was knocked senseless, great King. When I recovered my wits I was already in chains. The Romans wage war for gain, not for honourable reasons.’

  The king nodded grimly.

  ‘That is true, and better understood by the Bructeri than most other tribes. Perhaps I should free you, and make him and these other men who accompany him your slaves?’

  Cotta opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again as Arminius tapped him lightly on the arm.

  ‘There is no need, great King. In truth he is a decent master, and I have grown accustomed to his ways.’

  Amalric shrugged.

  ‘I have heard that after a time the slave becomes dependent on the master. So be it. And you, master of this slave, what brings you here?’

  Cotta stepped forward, bowing low.

  ‘I am Cotta, a trader, King Amalric. I simply seek to make a living by trading with the peoples of the lands I travel through. I have recently returned from the distant east, and—’

  ‘Where in the east, Cotta the trader?’

  ‘Parthia, great King.’

  Amalric sat forward in his chair, his interest suddenly piqued.

  ‘And you have silk to trade? Spices?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, great King, the people of Rome were far too eager for me to have retained any stock of such luxury. On hearing of the wonders of Germany I decided to reinvest my profits into trade goods, and to make a venture across the mighty river Rhenus to see if what I had been told was true.’

  ‘And you bring …?’

  ‘Knives of high quality, linen, Samian pottery—’

  Amalric grunted and sat back.

  ‘Just the usual then. And where exactly is your stock, trader?’

  ‘Waiting for us at the forest’s edge, guarded by a barb–, by a warrior from Britannia who is also in my service, a man by the name of Lugos. He is a man of exceptional size and strength, and should be approached with caution.’

  Amalric leaned back and spoke to Gernot, who nodded and left with half a dozen of the helmeted warriors who, Arminius had muttered as they were escorted into the king’s hall, were likely to be part of the king’s personal retinue, sworn to his service until death.

  He looked at Saratos and Sanga.

  ‘And here, unless I am mistaken, we have the victorious boxer and his trainer. A rarity, in that you of all men have defeated the beast of a man who’s been terrorising the arenas of half a dozen tribal capitals for the last five years. How did you do it?’

  Sanga stepped forward, bowing deeply.

  ‘If I might be so bold, Great King, I am Sanga, and I am indeed this man’s trainer. We are discharged soldiers, and we travel with the trader in return for food and coin, to keep him safe on the road.’

  ‘I see. And how, then, did your friend defeat Lucius’s monster?’

  Sanga drew breath, but before he could speak the king raised a hand and spoke again.

  ‘You have the look and indeed the sound of a talkative man, and my patience is being drawn thin by this protracted explanation of who you all are. Try not to test my patience.’

  Sanga bowed again.

  ‘I shall be as brief as possible, Great King. When I saw my man’s opponent it was clear to me that only by taking him to the ground could any man hope to triumph over him.’ Amalric nodded at the truth of his words. ‘And so I told my fighter to go for the trip before the fight could start in earnest, and not to allow the big man to get back to his feet.’

  ‘And this tactic clearly worked. You …’ he pointed past Sanga to Saratos. ‘You are a champion indeed, and deserving of our respect for your skill in the ring.’

  The Dacian bowed deeply, and the king looked back at Cotta.

  ‘But with the champion defeated you had
your slave lead the onlookers back into the town, in order to get them drunk with Lucius’s money. What was the point of that? Was there perhaps some gain to be made from such an action?’

  After a moment’s thought the veteran decided not to lie, encouraged by the hard stare that the king’s uncle was giving him.

  ‘You have seen through my plan, great King. My aim was simply to get Lucius here away from his fighter, so that we could liberate their gold from its hiding place.’ He waved Saratos forward, indicating the heavy leather belt. ‘There are a dozen gold coins hidden inside this belt, great King. I needed to remove the chance of anyone spotting us taking the belt.’

  Amalric nodded, fixing a hard stare on the trainer.

  ‘I’ve long wondered how it was that you were able to display so little money when the time came for you to be taxed. You must have tricked me out of a great deal of your takings over the years.’

  He looked at Cotta and Lucius with equal distaste.

  ‘So, one of you has defrauded me over a long period, the other sought to rob a man of his possessions while under the rule of my people’s laws, and the justice which I and I alone administer on their behalf. Laws that are firm on the subject of theft, and the punishments to be applied in the event of a thief being captured. And, worse than that …’

  He fell silent for a moment, leaving the two men hanging on his next words.

  ‘In this case the gold in question was in point of fact never subjected to taxation by the Bructeri throne, taxation that should have been carried out every time Lucius entered this city. Which means that you …’ He looked directly at Cotta. ‘Have admitted to stealing from me, a crime for which there is a penalty of death by beheading.’

  The veteran nodded grimly and bowed his head in acceptance of the judgement, while the king addressed Lucius.

  ‘Whereas you, Lucius the Roman, are guilty of failure to pay taxes, which is also theft from the throne, pure and simple. By rights I should have you both killed, and your headless corpses thrown to the dogs.’

  He looked at them both for a long moment before speaking again.

  ‘Fortunately for you we are celebrating the birth of a son to my wife, and I am therefore minded to be lenient. I see two men with the same mixture of cunning and venality, and the fact that I have the means of inflicting a punishment on you that will sting you both deeply provides me with the means of doing so. You, trader, bring me that belt.’

  ‘How close are we to Thusila?’

  Gunda shook his head at the question.

  ‘A mile, as you ordered. Too close.’

  Scaurus looked up and down the gully the detachment’s Hamian scouts had found, the grassy trench down which rainwater would flow in winter almost filled by the weary Tungrians, most of whom were already asleep.

  ‘It’ll have to do. We’ll overnight here while you go into the city and make contact with Morban and his men.’

  The scout started, turning to look at the tribune with wide eyes.

  ‘Me?’

  The Roman raised an amused eyebrow.

  ‘And who else do you think we should send? An Arab? A six-foot-wide axeman spoiling for a fight? Or a man of the tribe, capable of passing unnoticed in such a large town?’

  Gunda stared at him for a long moment, tapping the tattoo on his forehead.

  ‘You may recall, Tribune, that I am not on the best of terms with my tribe. I was forced to leave after doing something I am not proud of, but which I was both unable and unwilling to deny. If I am captured by the king’s men I will be killed for having returned, there is no doubt of that. And this mark on my face does tend to be something of a giveaway.’

  The tribune waved a hand at the detachment’s resting soldiers.

  ‘I sent Cotta into Thusila, assuming that he’s managed to reach the city, with orders to find out where the priestess is to be found. He’ll need to be located and brought here so that he can pass on the intelligence he’s managed to gather, because without knowing where to find her we might as well skulk away into the forest and wait for Varus’s cousin to come back and pick us up. So I need you to go and get him, if my mission is to succeed.’

  He looked at the obstinate German for a moment.

  ‘Very well, another two gold aureii.’

  Gunda raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Four.’

  Scaurus laughed softly.

  ‘And so the fate of my mission, my career and quite possibly my life, depends on a negotiation with a German who expects to live forever.’

  Gunda shrugged.

  ‘Nobody lives forever, Tribune. But not all that many men leave this world with the Hand of Wodanaz hacking into their chest to get at their beating heart.’

  ‘The Hand of Wodanaz?’

  ‘The King’s most senior priest. They call him that because he has sent more men’s spirits for the god to escort to the underworld than any other man in the tribe. He was only just forty years of age when I was exiled, and as far as I am aware he still holds the position despite the frequent and violent curses his juniors are reputed to make against him in the hope that he will drop dead and provide one of them with the opportunity to practise his butchering skills on a real live Roman legionary.’

  The tribune nodded slowly.

  ‘I see your point. But my best offer is three aureii. You can either like that sum or you can do without the gold altogether.’

  ‘Bet you never expected this, eh Cotta?’

  Sanga took another swig of his beer, grimacing momentarily at the taste, then slapped the beaker down and ripped another chunk of bread from the loaf on the table between them. The veteran centurion sipped his own drink, shaking his head at the turn in their fortunes.

  ‘Did I expect an idiot to come up with an idea that would put me on my knees before a king from whom I’d just stolen enough gold to have him seriously considering my execution? And was I expecting to have our cart, its contents and all the money that the tribune gave us confiscated as a consequence of another idiot’s decision to make sure we attracted the attentions of the king’s attack dogs by getting half the city pissed up?’

  His comrade blithely ignored the acerbic note in the response, taking another mouthful of beer.

  ‘This stuff might taste like dog piss, but the more I drink the more it grows on me. Eh, Lucius? You must have had enough time to get a right old taste for the stuff!’

  The trainer fixed his stare on the table before him, disconsolately sipping his beer with an expression that made his distaste for the brew evident. His fighter, however, having recovered from his temporary state of unconsciousness, had revealed himself to be a comparatively cheerful individual by the name of Magan. Apparently blessed with a personality quite at odds with his persona in the ring, he was happily engaged in a discussion with Saratos on the subject of his many and varied fights. Sanga looked at the giant for a moment and then asked the question that had been nagging at him from the moment he’d set eyes on the two men.

  ‘How did you end up with that monster, eh Lucius? What good fortune was it that brought the two of you together?’

  The trainer stared at him for a moment, then put his beaker down with exaggerated care, sighing with exasperation.

  ‘If I tell you the answer to that question will you get off my fucking back for the rest of the night?’

  Sanga shrugged, nodding his agreement.

  ‘Right. He’s my son. That enough for you?’

  The Briton’s eyes widened in amazement.

  ‘What? That … giant of a man?’ He raised his beaker to the giant. ‘That’s supposed to be your son?’

  Lucius rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

  ‘Every time! Every fucking time I tell someone my story they just look at me like I’m mad.’ He shook his head angrily, clearly seriously provoked by the Tungrian’s amusement. ‘Look, it might surprise you, but I was a soldier too—’

  ‘Under which emperor? Hadrian!’

  The older man ignored the
jibe.

  ‘You asked, so I’m telling you. Shut the fuck up or I’ll have my son put you to sleep for a while.’

  Sanga nodded graciously in acceptance of the other man’s eloquently made point, and Lucius resumed his story.

  ‘I served in the Thirtieth Legion, the good old Ulpius Victorious, did my twenty and got out just before the war with the Marcomanni and the Quadi got going, which was a stroke of luck. In those days relations with the other tribes were a good deal more friendly than they are now, so I bought a plot of land on the east bank of the river, married a local girl I’d been seeing for a while and settled down to be a farmer. The locals tolerated me well enough, although that was the Usipetes, not these miserable Bructeri bastards. She got pregnant and everything looked rosy until the birth. She had to be opened up to get Magan out, as you can imagine, and well …’

  He stopped speaking for a moment, and the Tungrians waited for him to resume the story, respecting the moment of reverie.

  ‘She died. Leaving me with an infant to bring up and a farm to run. Damn nearly killed me, I can tell you.’

  He looked around at the listening soldiers.

  ‘I know, how does a man this tall father a man that tall? Or that wide? And the truth is that I’ll never know. He’s a throwback, I guess, some freak combination of our ancestry that came up with all of the tall and wide we both had in us. By the time he was fifteen he was routinely smacking seven shades of shit out of the local kids when they tried to have a go at him for having a Roman for a father, even when they ganged up on him, but it wasn’t until one of their fathers had a go at me and the boy laid him out with a single punch that I realised what I had in him. It would only have got worse, that much was obvious, and ended up with one or both of us getting killed one dark night, so I packed up and sold up, and we went on the road. Been doing the same thing for the last five years, more or less, travelling from town to town and making money on the back of the boy’s sheer power. Until you cunts came along and took away the fruit of all that work.’

  Cotta nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Sorry about that. If there was a way to make it up to you …’

  Lucius snorted.

  ‘Which there ain’t. I’ll just be grateful never to see your fucking faces again. Promise me that and we can agree to put the …’