Altar of Blood: Empire IX

by Anthony Riches

  Amalric nodded morosely, watching as the fire took hold of the logs that had been placed across the initial blaze, sending sparks into the dark night sky in a series of pops and cracks as the wood split in the blaze’s heart.

  ‘Sound counsel. But I burn with the need to do something. My tribe’s honour has been spat on and trampled into the ashes of a fire set on our sacred altar to Wodanaz, and here I sit powerless to do anything other than wait for the dawn.’

  Gernot looked pointedly across the clearing at their captive, sitting between a pair of men who had been set to guard him on pain of their lives.

  ‘If you need to demonstrate your vengeance, my King, why not do so with the Roman?’

  The king’s gaze rose to dwell on the prisoner, and his eyes narrowed at the thought of bloody revenge.

  ‘Bring him to me.’

  He pulled out the hunting knife that lived on his right hip while Gernot crossed the encampment and gestured for the Hamian to be brought before the king, testing its edge and point against the heel of his palm. The prisoner was pushed to his knees in front of him, staring into his eyes with a disconcerting lack of fear.

  ‘You presume to stare at the king as if you were his equal? Avert your eyes!’

  Gernot raised his foot to stamp on the kneeling Roman’s leg, but Amalric shook his head and raised a hand to forestall him.

  ‘No, my Lord. Obeisance given under duress is no obeisance at all. Allow the man his moment of defiance, he will regret it soon enough.’ He stared back into the Hamian’s eyes with a trace of amusement. ‘So tell me, Roman, what it is that gives you the right to eyeball me with such insolence? Don’t you know that I am a king, and the chief priest of my tribe, anointed by the gods?’

  The captive centurion wearily leaned back on his haunches, still staring directly at Amalric.

  ‘I respect your position as the leader of your tribe, King, although much of that respect has been beaten out of me over the last two days. But I cannot claim to respect your position as a priest, for it seems to me that the gods have long since forsaken this world, if they ever even existed in the first place.’

  Amalric looked up at his chamberlain, who shook his head and shrugged.

  ‘The man is godless. We should end his misery and kill him now. Unless, of course, he lies in the hope of avoiding death on the altar of Wodanaz.’

  Qadir laughed softly and shook his head.

  ‘I never lie. I have this past year come to question the existence of the goddess to whose service I have been sworn since boyhood. And as to the imperial deities … They were men, no more and no less.’

  Amalric leaned forward, evidently fascinated by the man before him.

  ‘Why? Why should a man like you, a centurion sworn to the service of your emperor, betray everything that he believes in, everything that makes him what he is? How can you spit on everything that your life has been built upon?’

  The Hamian looked him in the eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze.

  ‘Truly, King, it feels to me more as if everything I have built my life on has betrayed me. I have watched men die in such a variety of manners, and for such meaningless reasons, that I no longer find it possible to discern any pattern to our lives. If the gods do exist then they are too savagely cruel for me to consider them as deities worthy of my worship. And if that results in my being killed for the crime of godlessness, then I will accept that death as a means of achieving peace from this world’s incessant horrors.’

  Amalric stared at him for a moment, then stood, gesturing to the captive.

  ‘This man is not to be beaten. He will eat the same food that we eat, and will be allowed enough privacy to empty his bowels without being leered at by his guards. It seems me that any man who will abandon his gods and his people so easily would make a poor sacrifice to Wodanaz, but I will hold him prisoner until such time as my new priest is able to make an opinion on the subject of how best to sacrifice a godless man who lacks even the dignity of loyalty to his tribe. Unless of course his death will return my eagle and my seer to me. In which case I will say the prayers and cut his throat myself.’

  ‘An escort, your Majesty?’

  Sigimund nodded, taking a swig of beer before answering. Tiro and the two centurions had been invited to join the king at his high table, and the envoy had accepted the invitation on their behalf without a second thought, breezily reassuring the two centurions.

  ‘As I told you, if he wanted us dead there would be a dozen easier ways to make it happen without resorting to poison.’

  The king wiped his mouth, gesturing with the half-eaten rib bone of the wild boar that had been roasted for the feast.

  ‘I’m willing to tolerate your presence on my tribe’s soil, Roman, but I’m not likely to allow you free rein to go wherever you fancy, am I?’

  Tiro bowed his head in acceptance of the German’s decision.

  ‘Of course, your Majesty.’

  Sigimund raised a jaundiced eyebrow at him.

  ‘I think you miss my point, Tiro. I’m allowing you to ride to the border of my land with the Angrivarii, and then make the return journey back to the great river, but you will always be under the eye of my sons and their warriors. Any attempt to deviate from the route you have asked to follow will result in your being placed under arrest and returned here. Any attempt to re-enter our land at any point other than that where you left it, where my sons will await your return, will, when you are inevitably captured, result in your execution as oath breakers. This is one occasion when you will not be able to play your usual high-handed games with us, Tiro. Because to even attempt to do so will have the direct of consequences, both for you and these men who ride with you.’

  Tiro nodded and bowed.

  ‘As you wish it, King Sigimund. And now, if you will forgive me, I will sleep. We have an early start in the morning.’ He turned to Varus and Dubnus. ‘I would recommend the same for you both, gentlemen. Tomorrow will be a long day, and just as hard in the saddle as today was.’

  He winked at Dubnus, who raised an eyebrow in return.

  ‘I will take to my bed shortly, thank you, Tiro. A little more of the king’s excellent wine might numb the pain in my backside to the point where I will actually be able to sleep.’

  ‘Sit here with me for a while, Centurion, and help me watch over your friend.’

  Marcus sat down on the other side of Scaurus’s body from the seer, stretching out his legs wearily and accepting the bowl of meat stew that Husam placed in his hands, the archer having used the opportunity of scouting to the south to hunt and kill a boar, whose meat he was busy cooking in batches in the woman’s iron pot.

  ‘You saw nothing on the road, I presume?’

  ‘No madam. It seems as if your king has encountered a good deal more difficulty in crossing the river than we did.’

  Taking his turn at watching the road that led out of the south to the ruined fortress the Roman had seen nothing to excite any suspicion, passing the hours introspectively huddled into his cloak and pondering the previous few weeks’ events.

  ‘He will be across the water by now, and close at hand.’

  He stared at her in the light of the fire, the sun having sunk below the western horizon an hour before.

  ‘You seem very confident that our delay here will not result in our capture.’

  Gerhild smiled back at him.

  ‘I have told you, Centurion, that this is not my place or time to die. Or yours, for that matter.’

  ‘I know. This is not your field of bones and gold.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Just so. See how your initial scepticism has become a grudging acceptance of my prediction?’

  ‘I didn’t say I believed your words, simply that I remember them.’

  ‘And nevertheless, you want to believe. You are a seeker of truth, Marcus Valerius Aquila—’

  He shook his head in bafflement.

  ‘Why would you call me that when my name is Corv—
’

  ‘Because it is the name your parents gave you.’ Her tone was patient as she interrupted him, warm with amusement. ‘You may wear the name of the crow, but you do so unwillingly, as the price of survival. And as I was saying, you are a seeker after truth, and justice, although I sense that you have found that the justice you have administered of late has borne only bitter fruit.’

  He looked at her for a moment, chewing on a mouthful of stew.

  ‘I sought revenge for my father’s murder, and took the lives of men who were instrumental in the fall of our family from grace, but the cost was too high.’ Gerhild stared at him, her question unspoken but as clear as if she had shouted it at him. ‘I … we … came to the attention of powerful men, and were sent to the east. And while we were there …’

  He paused for a moment, on the edge of unburdening himself, then shook his head.

  ‘I cannot speak of it. I lost the most precious thing in my world.’

  ‘And the wound will not heal.’

  Marcus looked up at her, his face bleak with loss.

  ‘The wound will never heal.’

  ‘But it must. Everyone experiences the death of a loved one at some time.’ She leaned forward across the sleeping tribune and took his hand. ‘May I call you Marcus?’

  He nodded, lost in his misery.

  ‘Marcus, the time for grieving varies with each of us, but the one undeniable truth is that it must come to an end. For a man to spend the rest of his days mourning the loss of a loved one is not right. Life must be lived, not simply tolerated in the absence of the one who brought life and colour to the days that went before. You will find a way to put her loss behind you, a better way than taking your fury out on men whose death will serve no purpose, other than to sate a lust for blood that will end with your losing yourself in wanton murder.’

  He looked up at her empty-eyed.

  ‘I cannot even mourn her properly. I’ve never once shed tears over her loss.’

  ‘And you feel like an empty shell of the man you were. It will pass.’

  She looked across the fire at the sleeping Lupus.

  ‘Tell me, the child, has he too suffered loss?’

  He nodded, relieved at the change of topic.

  ‘First his father, lost in a battle in Britannia, then a soldier to whom he had grown close. Arminius is the closest thing he has to a father now, and my wife was the closest thing to a mother, until …’

  ‘I see. But I sense there is more?’

  Marcus nodded as the memory of Lupus’s unexpected kill jumped into his mind.

  ‘He was blooded in the battle to escape from your people. A man ran onto his spear and died so close to him that the boy saw the life leave his eyes.’

  ‘And none of you has spoken to him of it?’

  Marcus shook his head unhappily.

  ‘None of us has the words.’

  Gerhild stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘You all have to go through it. You all kill for the first time, and learn to deal with the horror of taking a man’s life, and yet none of you seem to have the wit to use that experience to help those who come down the same road behind you. If you’ll excuse me, you can watch the tribune for a while. I have work to do.’

  She got up and walked across to where the boy lay, shooing Arminius to one side and taking a seat next to him. Then, with a tenderness that was at odds with her evident irritation, she eased the sleeping Lupus’s head onto her lap and placed a hand on his temple, covering both of them with her cloak. Closing her eyes she became almost motionless, only her lips moving as she looked out across the fire’s flickering light with eyes that seemed blank and unfocused.

  ‘They were here.’ Amalric looked down at the embers of a large campfire in disgust. ‘Still warm. Someone was sitting here tending that fire only an hour ago. And now they run for the arms of our enemies.’

  The Bructeri had been mounted and ready to ride before dawn, the young king casting anxious glances at the sky until enough light had crept into the eastern horizon to enable them to start their pursuit afresh. An hour’s ride had covered the distance between their campsite and the ruined Roman fortress, but their eager haste had been in vain.

  ‘They would have been mounted and away from here at much the same time we were.’ Gernot had dismounted, and was examining the ground around the fire. ‘Which means that they are only an hour ahead of us. Nothing has changed, my King, as long as we retain our hunger for revenge.’

  Amalric looked back at the Hamian captive.

  ‘Surely if we are to follow the Romans down this road of wood then we will make ourselves vulnerable to an ambush?’

  The noble nodded.

  ‘Possibly so, although any man who stays behind to launch an arrow at us is likely to pay a high price for his opportunity. But, to ensure that any such attack fails, I suggest that you ride at the rear of our party.’

  Amalric shook his head with a hard smile.

  ‘Your concern for my safety is gratifying, Uncle, but I cannot throw my men into the way of danger without accepting a share of it myself. I will ride in the front rank of horsemen. Now, we go!’

  ‘I thought you said this was a road of wood? It’s not much better than bog.’

  Gunda twisted in his saddle to look round at Cotta, who was staring down at the surface of the path that stretched out before them in something akin to horror. Once a broad walkway of rough planks, suspended above the bog on split logs laid lengthways beneath them, and anchored with wooden stakes, built by invading Roman legions to allow them to penetrate the swamps that limited their ability to manoeuvre in the German interior, it had decayed badly in the years since the empire’s retreat from the eastern side of the Rhenus.

  ‘This road was built so long ago that the means by which it was kept above the water has long since failed, but the wood itself has not become rotten despite sinking into the marsh. Perhaps the water in the ground here protects them, but whatever the reason it is still there, just beneath the surface, and intact for the most part. Our horses can walk on the wood, if we take it slowly.’

  ‘So we can only proceed at a walking pace?’

  The guide shrugged.

  ‘Yes, but then the same will be true for the men pursuing us. I’ve ridden this road before, and walked the marshes on either side. We could leave the road, but we’d have to abandon the horses, and if you think this is unpleasant then trust me when I tell you that you really wouldn’t want to attempt the alternative.’

  ‘So this is the pontes longi.’

  They all turned to look at Scaurus, who was holding himself in the saddle by what appeared to be an act of will. Marcus, riding alongside him, asked the question that was on every man’s lips.

  ‘Tribune?’

  The wan-looking senior officer raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘The long bridge. It is the wooden road that Ahenobarbus built. Forgetting your history lessons again, are you, Centurion?’ He winced as his horse stumbled slightly on the uncertain footing, then regained his composure. ‘Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus was one of a long line of distinguished men who were nearly all consuls during the republic, and continued to be part of the ruling class under the emperors. He was the Emperor Nero’s grandfather, which might explain a few things. He built this wooden road to allow the legions to deploy forward at speed from Aliso as far as the river Albis, during the conquest of Germany that made Augustus believe that a province of Magna Germania was possible, with all of the lands as far north and east as the Albis under Roman rule. It must have worked, because he got a good deal deeper into the country than anyone before him. He was a bit of a bastard, as it happens, made eminent men and women perform on stage like common actors and actresses when he was consul, and staged such bloody gladiatorial contests that Augustus had to publicly reprimand him. Which, given his successes as a general, must have been a bit tricky for both of them.’

  He looked down the track’s watery ribbon, then back at Gunda.


  ‘Anyway, shall we get on with this? It isn’t going to get any easier by our talking about it.’

  He had awoken shortly before dawn, coming back to consciousness like a man surfacing from deep water an inch at a time, lying on his back with his eyes open but neither moving nor speaking for a while, eventually managing a question.

  ‘What happened?’

  Gerhild had been asleep at his side, waking as if on cue as his eyes had opened, and she had bent over him with a cup of water.

  ‘You slept, Roman, like a dead man. Which, after all, is what you so nearly were.’

  ‘The wound?’

  ‘Was infected. I drew the poison from it with a pultes, then fed you a strong potion of herbs to let you sleep.’

  He had digested the seer’s statement for a moment before speaking again.

  ‘My dreams.’

  Gerhild had smiled, shooting a knowing look at Arminius who had spent most of the night watching his master.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I saw a woman. Beautiful. Terrible.’

  ‘That was the goddess I serve, Hertha. She came to you in the night, to beckon you back from the underworld.’

  He had stared at her in partial disbelief for a moment before rolling onto his side with a grunt of discomfort.

  ‘In which case she seems to have done the job well enough, for as you see I live to suffer through another day of your mystical nonsense.’

  Climbing to his feet with Arminius’s help he had called for his mail, resisting her attempts to stop him from donning its burdensome weight, and had only allowed himself the indignity of being helped onto his mount when the two centurions had insisted upon it.

  ‘How far is it to the border with these Angrivarii, Gunda?’

  ‘Forty miles or so, Tribune.’

  ‘And we can do no more than a walking pace on this surface, whether it be safer than the marshes to either side or not. Two days more march then?’