‘They’ll survive,’ said the foppish prafectus Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso, leader of the Syrian and Parthian auxilia unit, forever lost in the west after accompanying Augustus home years past. His men were firing sagitta at some young Bructeri warriors gazing on at the destruction of their village from the edge of the wood. One such man screamed piercingly, and Gnaeus bit unhappily into his apple. ‘They lost hundreds, but they will come back and collect and save what they can. They hid most of their skeletal cows in the deep woods anyway, and no sane man goes after them in there. Liable to get eaten if you go under those boughs.’ He gazed at the deep woods covering the retreat of the Bructeri warriors, who were dragging a wounded boy with them, their colorful shields flashing. A Syrian rode after them. ‘Idiot,’ he said happily as if watching a play in the Theater of Marcellus. ‘Going to get eaten. I didn’t like that one much anyway. Farts and laughs like a hyena.’
‘What is a hyena?‘ I asked him as the Syrian was pulling an arrow, grinning foolishly as he guided his horse forward.
‘Never mind,’ he told me. ‘He is gone. Dead. Want to bet?’
‘No, thank you. How many can you spare?’ I said with some worry. His horse archers were very useful, but growing fewer.
He chuckled. ‘He will be a useful example. And I like the Parthians better this week anyway, and he just gave me a reason to berate the Syrian bastards.’ His men were archers in chainmail, carrying powerful composite bows and were beastly killers the lot. They had saved us from the Tencteri once though I had thought I was doing them a favor. Gnaeus might look and sound like a wastrel, but he was a fabulously brilliant soldier.
A scream came out of the woods, and I could see some dozen Parthians laugh at their Syrian comrades, who had just lost one of theirs. ‘Mars give me only men of one tribe to command. Or rather get the lot killed so I can go home,’ he cursed. ‘I better get the slaves moving. We will travel at speed now that the ships are again bringing some supplies.’
It was true.
Ships had been supplying the army soon after we left Alisio. There was not much, but the situation was slowly repairing itself, and we would be able to march instead of scavenging the vegetable gardens of the enemy. But it was nowhere near enough for a campaign that should breach the wide lands of Sigimer.
There was no sign of Antius yet. And so, we rode on.
It took five more days for all opposition of the Luppia valley to crash totally. The Bructeri and the Marsi, with some of the Usipetes, rode to us as the army was heading for Castra Flamma. They sued for peace, giving hostages, including the children and wife of poor, brave Wodenspear and Drusus marched east with relative peace on the northern banks of Luppia. But no Cherusci approached us, and none of the Sigambri from the south, and I saw many emotions in the face of Drusus. He was, I think, both relieved and enraged. He desired the surrender of the Sigambri and Maelo, but only the heads of the Cherusci. A day before Castra Flamma, Drusus sent the remains of the XVIII Legion to ravage Sigambri lands, which had already suffered heavily under the Ubii. Later, we got news that dreaded Maleo, Baetrix, and Varnis had fled across to the river and fought to spare Sigambri lands from the Ubii and the XVIII, but many villages were burned anyway. Drusus was tired of the Sigambri resistance. The decade-long battle to strangle off the most quarrelsome of Roman enemies was growing tedious, and he wanted a peaceful, cowed frontier for whatever it was he would have to face next. Rome and his stepfather Augustus? Further wars east? The Sigambri had no wish for peace.
So they would burn.
Soon, we saw the Castra Flamma. Its fires glowed far in the horizon on the night of the last camp and men were chatting excitedly around the temporary forts the legions always built at the end of the day’s march.
‘Food. Then a few days of rest and repairs,’ Chariovalda confirmed happily as I helped dig a fossa for the temporary camp. ‘Flamma is a large fort with thick walls and they have sent vexillations south and north. They are well prepared. A sort of a harbor is being built as well. So, you will go out for our patron?’ he asked me, mirth playing in his eyes. ‘I hear you will take your Fulcher and some ten of my men. And they told me to give you men who keep their mouths shut.’
‘Impossible, with the Batavi,’ I grinned as I climbed out of the ditch. ‘Either they are gorging on something or complaining.’
He snorted and continued with a serious voice. ‘I have some thin wolves who will help you out. I hear there will be someone joining us? Someone we dislike? Yes? So I suppose we need to bring a rope.’
‘We do not like this man,’ I confirmed. ‘And we will need the rope. Thin and still very strong. Painful, but something that gets it done.’
He frowned. ‘Do you think I make ropes for a living? I’ll tell them to take anything they have. Antius might be too heavy for any rope, though?’ Chariovalda said with a thin grin. He knew whom we talked about.
‘This bastard might be, indeed,’ I said with burning hatred. ‘In all honesty, I don’t care how he dies. But his corpse should be hidden.’
Chariovalda blanched. ‘I doubt it is needed. Too much trouble. The land will be riddled with corpses anyway when the army heaves through it.’ His eyes were glinting with Hel’s fire under his eyebrows. He knew about the plan, as well. He would. He was a client to Drusus and his friend. Had been for long years. He nodded at the Castra Flamma where torches flared in the distance. ‘Drusus will take two legions east soon, so we had better move as soon as Antius gets his lazy ass here. He will be surprised, no doubt.’
‘Have you seen Cornix?’ Fulcher asked, chewing on the gristle of a bone.
‘No, the half-faced piece of cancerous shit is gone since he led that Leuthard creature to Castra Vetera.’
‘He was not with Leuthard when I killed him,’ I said unhappily. ‘We had better be ready for him.’
‘I’ll send good men with you. They know how to think and use spear. You need more than lumps of muscle,’ he assured me. ‘Be careful, Hraban.’
‘I’m always careful,’ I said and endured his mocking laughter. I groped at my chest, where the wound given by Leuthard was slowly healing and my broken finger was slowly healing as well. I didn’t look like a careful man. Chariovalda nodded and looked away. I loved him, the Batavi noble, and friend of Drusus. He was my only real ally in addition to Fulcher and Cassia.
Next morning the buccina and the trumpets sounded, men gleefully ate what they had, for they would have more very soon. The legions marched the final stretch of the muddy river. We could see the hazy hills and deep green forests separating the lands of Luppia River from the lands of the Cherusci and even the Chatti to the southeast. The men witnessed ships traveling back to Castra Vetera with the sick and wounded of the I Germanica Legion, men, who had been fighting the Sigambri in small skirmishes ever since the castra was built. The marching XIX and V Alaudae cheered the wounded, who cheered back as they were being rowed back in the navis lusoria craft of the Roman navy based in Moganticum and Castra Vetera. The army arrived, built more temporary castra and set up to rest.
That evening, Fulcher nodded to the east, and I nodded. ‘How far that road takes a man, I wonder?’ Fulcher breathed. Seeing the vast, misty hills and deep green woods stretching to the east made one uncertain. It was the unknown horizon of new things, strange people and myths. Crossing the huge rivers of Visurgis and perhaps Albis? No Roman legion had been that far before. Few Germani of the Rhenus River had seen them and I despaired, for Lif was somewhere out there, and I had to find her.
And these were the lands where Odo’s family was spawned. In Gulldrum. This was their land. Their home, I thought glumly.
Fulcher grunted and apparently read my mind, scratching at lice. ‘Didn’t your family come from far Gothonia? These are just like any hills, the trees do not walk, and rivers are composed of water, rocks, and scaly things. We will find her.’ I wondered at his astuteness and nodded careful thanks.
By evening, the loudest and most rebellious of the silvery s
oldiers began seeing signs of doom everywhere, and complaints were whispered in the darkness. The Cherusci was a vast nation, famed, old as time, and it could be seen even in the faces of men like Saturninus, the new legate of the XIX Legion, that they had reservations about going to fight a man like Armin with depleted legions and the dregs of the auxilia. Leading his people, in the lands where Romans were like lost lambs? What could Armin and Sigimer do? Much, I thought.
Unless we turned Segestes.
Perhaps he did not need much turning, for he was a shifty rogue, and Drusus was right.
That day Drusus mingled with the restless men and laughed with them, belittling the dangers, acting as if he had few cares in the world. He trusted his troops, and they loved him like a fat child loves a cone of honey. They would die rather than let go of him, and even the most depressed lifted their chin at his approach. He shared their meals, made fun of their misfortunes and told them harrowing tales of his wife, all of which I thought were lies, for he truly loved her. He promised them more supplies.
It meant Antius was to arrive soon.
Men rested for a few days, repairing and re-equipping, and the army numbered around nine thousand with the auxilia included, the legions each around three to four thousand, having suffered greatly at Armin’s brilliant battle. It was early Quintilis, and the weather was still beautiful. The campaign would go on.
The next morning, Antius arrived. There were many ships rowing out of the foggy river.
‘It’s him,’ Fulcher told me with spite as we sat on our horses in the morning light.
‘Yea,’ I agreed with barely suppressed hatred as we saw the bastard Roman negotiatore amble down a gangplank of a light navis lusoria. Some mariners were helping him down, and he smiled at them happily, his heavy jowls hanging. I had seen him the day grandfather and mother had died. After that event, he had helped father take over the Marcomanni. So had I. But his crime ran deeper. He was a foe to me, to Drusus. I hated him with an unbridled passion. He was not wearing his customary, sweaty toga, but a huge tunic and sturdy caligae and that made him seem somehow more dangerous. He was more than a fop and a corpulent schemer. He could get his hands dirty. ‘Let’s go down there and eyeball the bastard,’ I said icily and Fulcher nodded and let me lead on. I pulled on the famous, fabulous Athenian bronze helmet Tudrus the Older had given me. The Quadi chief was my father’s victim, his thousand refugees holed with the Sigambri. I hoped he had survived the battle, for he had been there with his three sons, my former friends. Perhaps not former, I hoped. I had not killed any of the Quadi in the battle, so there should be no feuds.
We saw Drusus walk to Antius with some officers and many civilians of his officia, all of whom were gesturing excitedly for the fat trade ships approaching the harbor, save for one, which stayed out. Antius greeted Drusus with humility and fawning and Drusus made his military tribune and Questor take stock of the new ships with Antius while he said nothing to the man, who was surprised by the coldness. Antius fidgeted; Drusus let him sweat and then, finally they spoke at length, and to my satisfaction, I saw the eyes of Antius go as large as plates as his face turned to stare at me. He was shaking his head empathetically as he gestured for me and then, finally I saw the fight go out of him. Instead, he brooded, his mind going over the many implications of the commands of Drusus. He bowed stiffly to our commander, and Drusus gave terse orders to a scribe, who set about writing down lines for Antius to deliver to Segestes. Drusus removed his entourage from the harbor and left. He quickly nodded at me, gave me a small, vicious smile, and I nodded back. ‘We leave this evening,’ I told Fulcher darkly. ‘Go and tell Chariovalda to get the men ready.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said with no surprise. ‘Are you in the command?’
‘I’m going to command, yes,’ I told him with a nod.
‘Gods help our poor bones,’ he joked, and as I did not find him funny, he coughed.
I continued. ‘We move this evening under the cover of the night. And now I’m going down there.’
‘You are not going to do anything …’ Fulcher began and cocked an eyebrow at me, but I shook my head. ‘Good. You know your part in the act. Don’t let him goad you.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ I laughed at him. ‘I would love to take him to the woods and eviscerate him slowly there. I wanted to do that after he told me everything about Father and his plans and the part he had been playing in the game. But I can do that later, can’t I? I will, in fact. Now, as you go to Chariovalda, go also to another man,’ I whispered to him at length, and he nodded vigorously. ‘Can you do that?’ I asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Fulcher said unhappily. ‘If he says no?’
‘He won’t,’ I assured him. ‘If he tries, tell him he will be sent to the furthest, shittiest hole of an outpost, far in the lands of Parthia if he fails.’ Fulcher nodded and went away, frowning.
I rode down, and Antius saw me come. His eyes were in thin slits as he regarded my descent, but he did not seem afraid. Finally, I stood there, with my helmet on my head, my eyes shaded and tilted my head at him. He nodded at me as a young Questor was pulling at him, and Antius turned to deal with him. There was a quarrel broiling over the supplies. The questor had an imperious air about him as he nodded at the ships. ‘Wine. I hear there was wine, plenty of it in Castra Vetera. There were many amphorae of that Gaulish shit in Alisio, but you bring none with you?‘
Antius dismissed his words with a wave, but he also had a nervous stutter, while his eyes were glancing at me. ‘There is no wine to be had. The wine your legates hoped to enjoy here in this damned hole in the woods was indeed something we once possessed. I’m not sure who told you there was some left in Castra Vetera? That is curious, very curious indeed, since I come from Castra fucking Vetera and you do not. What was there is gone. Now the Usipetes tribesmen are gleefully enjoying it, and I think they deserve it since your soldiers failed to protect it. It was looted from the warehouses that were supposed to be kept safe for us humble merchants. I wonder. I do wonder at your near accusations, as I think I have not failed at all, but you have totally.’
The young man just shrugged. ‘Garum? There is no fish sauce either. You bring us flour and weapons, but no luxuries. Men need luxuries in war!’ he said, a noble clearly used to such finer things.
Antius snorted and put his thumbs under his ample belt, his belly heaving. ‘It is true. Men need luxuries. The Usipetes are men and enjoy your luxuries! As I just told you. Though I am not sure they kept the garum, as they hate it. No doubt they thought it horse piss.’
‘But—’ the Questor fought on stubbornly.
Antius tore his tunic in anguish. ‘Look around, man! I’m not hiding any under my tunic! I’m not carrying these luxuries with me! This is it! I spent the whole miserable spring collecting, no, purchasing such supplies. Sometimes at my own expense. There was plenty of wine, weapons, horses, and mules, from Gaul, from Germania! There were to be benna to transport it, castra to hold it all in. There were supposed to be loot and cows from the Bructeri. But they were waiting for you. More, they took most all we had. And the Gauls? They are not selling what they need to survive this winter. Would you? We had what we had. It’s gone. It is most all gone. And now you want luxuries! Why didn’t you guard them! Usipetes are not likely to pay for them! You ruin me!’ he cried, eyeing the Questor as a starving child would a glutton.
Men chuckled around him, and the Questor cursed, still giving a token of a fight. ‘The pila. Why are there so few pila here on the list? And arrows?’ He asked, still looking around the mooring ships to find even a single amphora of wine.
‘Pila! Pila! The pila adore the flesh of the Usipetes! Remember? They attacked, the soldiers used the pila, and they are bent or broken! You have the armor smiths with the legions, the weapon experts! Immunes of skill! Why will you not straighten the pila you used? Did you wish for me to go yank them off the Usipetes flesh?’ Antius asked with icy derision.
A nearby younger Tribune lost his
patience and charged to the aid of the beaten questor. ‘If the pila were used to repel the fucking Usipetes, then why don’t you have wine? Or garum? Surely, an average Usipetes with a pilum in his gut does not run very fast and far and certainly, such a rancid creature does not carry away the wine with a pilum in his ass? Don't you have any of the Gaulish one at least? Biturica? What is that last ship doing?’ he asked, eyeing a fat trade ship keeping out of shore.
‘Ah, they have a sick man aboard. Cannot risk putting him to the shore, might infect the whole army and then you would fry with fever. No doctor can cure fever. The ship carries flour, just that, I think,’ Antius said with a worried look. ‘They will unload it tomorrow, maybe.’
The Tribune was also wavering, and so I decided to take part in the discussion. ‘It’s very low on the water, Antius,’ I said, dismounting and stepping up from the ring of onlookers. His eyes looked like animal’s eyes as he stared at me with hatred.
‘Hraban, well, well. Guarding the horses? Or shepherding prisoners? Why don’t you go back to that duty?’ he said smoothly, but there was a string of sweat on his brow.
‘It looks like it has a lot of weight, I stated again, spying a man moving an amphora.
‘Ah, the young wolf who does not understand ships. Let the Tribune and the young man do their work. They will pay me, and then we shall discuss our mutual trip,’ he said laughing, trying to dismiss me.
‘We know ships, and those are not carrying flour,’ I said with a growl.
He stammered. ‘Yes, of course. You know ships as well as you speak Latin, eh?’ He turned to the young officer. ‘I do have some specialties for you that might interest you, but only after we are done here—’
The Questor, apparently emboldened by my support threw down the scroll with lists of packaged goods for the army. ‘You work as one of the negotiators and traders for the army. Your job is to supply it. You feed us, but you do not make the men happy. You sailing this shit up here will make them satisfied, but they deserve something more than flour as they march east. Why didn’t the Usipetes take that? Flour. They took fucking fish oil, you claim, but not the flour,’ the Questor snarled.
The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3) Page 5