‘There it is again. Can you hear it this time? Come away from the fire, you’ll not hear it over that crackling.’
Marcus listened for the sound that Cotta was describing, the distant, almost inaudible note of what sounded like a horn being blown.
‘No. Can you describe it?’
‘It’s nothing Roman, that’s clear. A metal horn would be higher in pitch. If I had to guess I’d say it was a bull’s horn. And whoever’s blowing it is a long way from here.’
The distant sound came to them again, and this time Marcus heard it, his face lighting up as he realised the source of the long, drawn-out notes.
‘Dolfus!’
The decurion walked across the small camp at his beckoning, a questioning look on his half-lit face.
‘You’ve mentioned having a superior giving you orders more than once. Is that who we’re meeting, once we get off this track?’
Dolfus nodded.
‘Yes, not far from here where the land starts to rise, and form the Teutoberg forest.’
‘And do you think we’re close enough to hear a horn blown from that place?’
The decurion pondered for a moment.
‘Possibly. If the man doing the blowing had strong enough lungs, and the wind was in the right direction.’
Marcus nodded decisively.
‘Then your superior has my brother in arms Dubnus with him.’
The decurion thought for a moment.
‘It’s possible.’
Cotta shook his head, tapping his ear.
‘It’s more than possible, Decurion, I’d guarantee it. That horn you can hear blowing …’ He fell silent for a moment, raising a finger as the clear but faint note of the horn sounded again. ‘That’s Dubnus alright, he’s been blowing the blasted thing every night for the last three months, pretty much. And that call …’ The sound came again, several long mournful notes so faint as to be almost ethereal. ‘That’s the legion signal to retreat. Wherever he is, he’s trying to send us a message.’
Dolfus stared at the two friends in disbelief.
‘You really think that your fellow centurion’s out there blowing a horn to warn you about something? How would he know we’re out here? And how could he see any danger in this darkness?’
Cotta waved a hand at the fire.
‘This meeting place, it’s on higher ground then this, right?’
‘Ye-es …’
‘Well then it’s obvious. Dubnus, and whoever it is that he’s with, can see our fire. And if they can see our fire …’
‘That’s close enough with the torches.’
Gernot dipped his blazing brand into the water that overlaid the track, extinguishing it in an instant, and a moment later the other torch-carrying warriors followed his example, plunging the Bructeri into near total darkness. The tribesmen waited in silence, knowing that only time could restore the night vision they had lost the moment they lit their brands.
‘Good enough.’ The noble gestured for his warriors to gather round, and when he spoke his voice was a harsh whisper intended not to carry in the still night air. ‘This is our last chance to retake the eagle, and to rescue Gerhild from the Romans before they cross into Angrivarii territory and she’s lost to us for good. Which means that we have two choices, my brothers. Either we turn back now, and return to our homes bearing the mark of shame for the rest of our lives, or we do whatever is needed to retrieve our lost honour.’
Holding up a hand to silence their protests at the idea of turning tail, he continued.
‘We have left good men behind us, men with injuries, men with wounds and, may Wodanaz guide their spirits to the gates of the underworld, men who have died for the tribe’s honour. I cannot consider the idea of betraying their sacrifice, and nor, I believe, can any of you.’
Their denials were instant, a rumbling chorus of assertion that they were all ready to fight and die for the tribe, for the eagle, for Gerhild, for their king. Gernot knew he had them now, had stoked the flame of their dismay at the Romans’ theft of their dignity from a flame of anger to an incensed blaze, and knew that not one of them would step back from whatever was necessary to make this last throw of the dice work in their favour.
‘Very well, my brothers. From here we walk in silence, one man behind another, and with as little noise as possible given that we still have to use this track until we are almost on top of our enemies. At the right moment we will turn off the track and circle round our enemy’s camp, until we are in position to attack them from a direction they will never expect. Move silently, my brothers, silently and slowly, giving the Romans no clue that we are upon them until the time comes to strike.’
He waited a moment, allowing them to consider what would come next.
‘But when you hear me call out the order to attack, make all the noise you can and move as fast as you can, for those few precious moments of surprise will be all the advantage we will have over men who stand on dry ground, and who may well expect us to make one last effort to overcome them.’
They were utterly silent now, considering the long, quiet approach march and the moments of gore-soaked mayhem that were to follow.
‘Some of us are going to die today. It is inevitable that some of us will be greeted by Wodanaz when we leave this coming fight, and that he will lead us to dine with our fathers and their forebears. Some of us may find ourselves with a death wound, knowing that they cannot possibly live. If that happens to you, then you must sell whatever is left of your life at a cost that will punish these usurpers. Hurt them, my brothers, even in the moment of your death. Put the last of your strength into the point of your spear, and the point of your spear through a Roman throat. If your spear is broken, or lost, pull out your hunting knife and throw yourself at the Roman who has killed you, and make him pay a high price for your life. And if you have no iron left to fight with, trip a man and leave him open to the next man’s spear, before you go to meet the god.’
He looked around the circle of men gathered around him and nodded slowly.
‘I know that we will be brave beyond any comparison, my fellow warriors. I know that we will make our ancestors proud, and create a story that our sons will be proud to hear told. And I know that we will succeed. My King?’
Amalric stepped into the circle, turning a slow circle to look at every man present.
‘I can add little to my uncle’s words, other than to tell you that I have never been as proud as I am now, proud to share this moment with you all, and proud to have the opportunity to go into battle with men such as yourselves. Before he charged at the Roman archer, and fell after being hit by no less than four arrows, our brother Waldhar said something to me that still echoes in my mind. He told me that he was willing to give his life for the good of the tribe. And so am I. For the good of the tribe, my brothers. I will return with the eagle or not at all, and the ravens will have my flesh if I fail in this. I will have revenge, and right the wrongs done to our proud people, or I will have death!’
Gernot nodded his head, making a fist of his right hand and pushing it forward into the circle of men who, after an instant’s pause, pushed their own clenched fists to join it.
‘Revenge or death, brothers. Revenge or death.’
‘And you, Centurion? How is your health? With all this concern for your tribune’s survival, you seem to have been quite forgotten.’
Marcus rose from his place beside Scaurus, who was lying on his own blanket with those belonging to both centurions’ covering him, bowing to the seer.
‘I am well, thank you, Madam. My concern is entirely for my friend.’
Gerhild looked down at Scaurus with a critical eye.
‘He will live, despite the fact that he will be as weak as a new born for the next day or two. No, you are the man for whom I have the most concern. Sit.’
The Roman sank back down onto his haunches, spreading his hands as Gerhild took her seat next to him, close enough for him to smell the sweat on her body.
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‘As you can see, I have neither wound nor injury. My health could not be any more robust.’
She smiled sadly at him, her eyes holding his with an almost hypnotic power.
‘And yet there are wounds that you carry more savage than anyone could ever guess from an external examination of the flesh that houses your spirit, are there not? Injuries dealt to you by a hand of fate that seems destined to strike you down every time you attempt to climb back onto your feet? Good days and bad days, except that the bad days seem to come all too often, and the good days ration themselves with increasing strictness?’
He sat in silence, a tear glistening in one eye for a moment before running swiftly down his cheek as a tiny part of the defences he had built against the horrors he had seen and done cracked under the priestess’s gentle but insistent questioning.
‘You have suffered enough grief for one life, Centurion, and taken so many lives as a consequence of that suffering that the men involved have blurred into one in your memory. For a time it was enough for you to excel at the job of butchering your enemies, both those who had already destroyed your family and those who would have done the same to the members of your new familia had you allowed them to do so, but now even the exercise of your martial prowess is no longer enough to banish the melancholia that haunts you. Your spirit is close to death, choked by an uncontrollable growth of hatred which leaves you feeling little better than powerless on your ever rarer good days and crushed flat the rest of the time.’
‘I—’
‘There is no need to explain this to me. I feel your pain, it bleeds like an open wound and it prevents you from thinking or acting in the ways that were usual for you until the latest and worst blow you have suffered. And yet there is a moment fast approaching when you must be able to defend yourself, and those you care for the most, a moment that will find you wanting unless I can heal you.’ Her gaze seemed to intensify as she raised her arm towards him. ‘Take my hand.’
She sat stock-still, holding out her fingers to him, and Marcus suddenly knew compulsion of a sort he had never experienced before, a certain knowledge that if he reached out and touched the woman’s fingers all might yet be put right. He felt his own hand rising from his side without conscious effort, watching as the trembling, scarred and calloused fingers rose towards hers.
‘Madam …’
‘Give me your hand, Marcus, and I will take your pain for you. I will empty your mind of the hurt, and the betrayal, and the loss.’
His fingers were barely six inches from hers, and still slowly rising to meet them despite his bafflement.
‘What …?’
She smiled at him, her eyes boring into his.
‘Trust me, Marcus Aquila. I have only one gift to give you before I am taken by Wodanaz, but you have to allow me to present it to you.’
Her hand closed on his, her touch warm and dry, and without warning a sensation like a sudden jolt stung his eyes wide, unable to pull away from her as the priestess closed her eyes and muttered an incantation in her own language. After a moment she released him, swaying as if tired for a moment before opening her eyes with a wan smile.
‘So much pain. I could not take it all, for fear of losing myself to it, but I have done enough to allow you to find yourself again. You will need more than this to make you whole again, but time and the absence of conflict will allow you to deal with the remainder of what troubles you without my assistance. Now sleep, and when I call on you, wake with your palms itching for the feel of the hilts of those swords.’
She waved the hand at him, weaving a pattern in the air with her fingers and then standing up, touching him lightly on the head and pushing gently against his last physical resistance. His eyes closing, the Roman slumped to the ground next to Scaurus, already asleep.
‘The fire. I see its glow.’
Amalric squatted down, hissing the command to halt and staring hard into the darkness in the direction that his uncle was pointing.
‘I see it. Just a faint glow.’
‘They have masked its light with their shields, my King.’
The Bructeri king stared at the place where their quarry had taken shelter for the night, calculating in his mind, then turned to the huntsman behind him.
‘The fire is what … two hundred paces distant?’
‘A little more, my King.’
‘And you know a path by which we can approach this island in the marsh from the west?’
The hunter nodded.
‘If the waters have not shifted, and covered the ground I have trodden before, then yes I do, my King. And with their fire so well masked there will be no light spilled upon us as we follow that path across the front of any watchers they have set to guard the approach from the south. If your men can walk in silence …’
Gernot grinned mirthlessly.
‘The king has promised them all a great deal of gold from the king’s treasury, if we win this fight, to make them bold, but I have told them that if we are to win then there is a time for boldness and a time for us to move slowly and quietly, with the patient skill of a cat hunting that mouse. Until the time comes to strike, that is.’
‘At least we know they’re coming. Without Dubnus’s warning most of us would have been sleeping round the fire when the Bructeri struck.’
Dolfus grunted noncommitally, looking out into the darkness from their position next to the wooden road. Cotta had suggested that they should place men to watch the track and provide some early warning of an impending attack, and having volunteered himself for the first watch had been surprised to find the decurion accompanying him. He shifted position, grimacing at the water that once more filled his boots after the island’s temporary respite, scratching at an itch on one of his buttocks as he pondered how best to ask the question that was at the front of his mind.
‘So tell me, Decurion, how do you rate our chances?’
Dolfus gave him a long sideways look.
‘What do you think, Centurion? There are precisely six of us who look like they know what they’re doing in a knife fight like the one this will turn into. You and I, my two men, the tribune’s German slave, and perhaps that massive Briton …’ He shook his head unhappily. ‘The Hamian would be all very well in the daylight, positively murderous, but in the dark? Your friend Corvus, or whatever his name is, is a broken reed. Useless. The boy? He might have killed a man by mistake yesterday, but look what it did to him. He’s no warrior. And Scaurus is nine-tenths dead. If he’s not gone by the morning I can’t see him making it to nightfall tomorrow. So, there are only six of us to fight off how many? Fifteen? Twenty? The numbers we’re facing depend how many of them the Hamian was able to bring down before they put a spear through him, but I very much doubt it was enough to level the odds. I’d say we’re dead men, if whoever was blowing that horn was right in thinking that they’re coming after us in the dark.’
The veteran surreptitiously put a hand on the hilt of his dagger, ready for the reaction to his next question.
‘That wasn’t actually what I was asking.’
Dolfus’s head swivelled back to face him, his body seeming to tense.
‘And what was it that you were asking, Cotta?’
‘You tell me. You seem very sure of yourself in most other respects, let’s see if you can work out what’s on my mind. Go, take a wild stab.’
The younger man stared at him for a moment before speaking.
‘I see. Well there’s probably no point in my denying it, is there, since your mind’s clearly made up.’
He turned back to stare out into the darkness, and Cotta looked at him for a moment before speaking again.
‘You’re not going to deny it because you can’t. Whoever this mysterious man is that you report to, he answers to Cleander. And Cleander wants us dead. We know too much about his rise to power, for one thing, and then there’s the risk that one of these days that young man is going to come out of the stupor that he’s been knocked into by the d
eath of his wife, and go after the emperor. He’ll become an assassin without fear of capture, or death, motivated by the rape of his wife and supremely gifted with weapons. And trust me, he’s sudden death with any weapon, I made sure of that years ago. So you’ve been ordered to bring us out here, and make sure that we vanish without trace, eh? Come on Dolfus, we’re all going to die anyway, the way you tell it, so why not unburden yourself and take a load off your spirit?’
The decurion shook his head slowly.
‘Whether you believe it or not, Centurion, I’m not the killer here. You’re not exactly without experience in that area of expertise though, are you, so perhaps you’re judging me by your own standards.’ Cotta nodded slowly, his mouth tightening as he remembered the moment that he killed and beheaded a man who had usurped the imperial throne ten years before. ‘You smile, and when you do that you look just like my master. The same hardness around your eyes, the same stare, looking at nothing. You’re probably fondling your knife even now, wondering whether to stick me with it?’
Cotta’s gaze shifted, finding the younger man staring intently at him with both hands raised.
‘Go on then. If you’re so sure, air your iron and put it deep in my neck.’
The veteran shook his head.
‘It doesn’t work that way, youngster. I never killed a man that didn’t deserve to die, and that includes Avidius Cassius.’ He fell silent for a moment, staring at the cavalry officer thoughtfully. ‘So if it isn’t you that’s going to kill us, it must be the man you serve.’
Dolfus laughed softly.
‘Or perhaps you’re just paranoid, Centurion. Perhaps Tiro is no more of a killer than I am, and you’re just building a case based on your own expectations. I—’
Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 37