by Ian Ross
‘They have the same problems as us,’ Bonitus said. ‘They lose their lands to the sea, and look around for better places. But these are a raiding group, only, come down for the summer to make prey of your ships and our villages alike. Their leader is called Hroda, and he has about a thousand spears.’
‘So why haven’t you attacked them yourself yet?’ Senecio growled.
Bonitus made a shrugging gesture. ‘We wait for you!’ he said. ‘It’s your land, after all – no?’
‘They have five of our cargo ships and about thirty captives,’ Castus told him. ‘What have they taken from you?’
‘Prisoners and cattle,’ the chief said. ‘About one hundred of our people.’
‘They take them as slaves?’
‘Mostly.’ Bonitus smiled coldly. ‘The Saxons have an odd custom, from the ancient days. Before they are putting to sea, they cut the throat of a captive across the prow of each ship. A sacrifice to Hludana, goddess of storms, to spare them from her wrath. They prefer to keep slaves who speak the Germanic tongue, so your people are in more danger, I’d say!’
Castus fought down a shudder. The thought of human sacrifice revolted all civilised men. He knew that some of the wilder Germanic tribes still practised it, but the idea that it might be carried out by these raiders within the borders of the empire filled him with dark fury.
‘It’s my intention that they’ll have no opportunity of putting to sea,’ he said. ‘As soon as I can get my ships down into the islands and find their lair, I intend to slaughter every last one of them.’
‘Difficult,’ Bonitus said quietly. ‘The islands are a treacherous place. Few know the waterways there – they say that land and sea change places with the moon. Others say that the whole place is cursed, haunted by ghosts. The land of the dead.’
He was still smiling as he spoke, but Castus caught the tension in his words. He guessed that the unwillingness of the Franks to attack these intruders was not just diplomatic.
‘Will you join with us?’ he said.
‘Under your command?’
‘Under my command.’
Bonitus paused, considering. Castus heard Bappo swiftly translating his question to the other chiefs. Gaiso sat up straight on his stool, inhaling, then grunted.
‘We will,’ Bonitus said. ‘But we order our own warriors, not you.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Then we make a pact of iron.’ Bonitus stood up and drew his broad spatha, held it in his right hand and placed his left hand flat upon the blade. Gaiso and Flaochadus did the same. Stepping closer, Castus laid his palm on the sword.
‘By Woden and Teiva, we are one in this thing,’ Bonitus said, and Castus met his eye and nodded. The other chiefs mumbled their agreement. Then they all stepped back as Bonitus swung the sword up to the sky.
‘Now,’ the chief said. ‘We go to Noviomagus, yes? We must feast and drink, and plan our attack...’
*
Night had fallen by the time the enlarged flotilla reached Noviomagus, and the ships and boats moored in mid-river. It had been an awkward voyage for the last few miles as the Roman vessels tried to hold formation while the Frankish boats moved around them, rowing alongside, dropping back and then darting ahead, the crews on both sides regarding each other across the darkening water with mutual suspicion. At least, Castus thought, the divisions in his own command had been fully sealed. Surrounded by barbarians, the men of the two legions, and even the Nervian contingent, were brothers once more.
Castus sent a boat to the south bank to inform the tribune of the fort of what was happening. He could already see the fires burning in the Frankish encampment opposite, the same ground they had occupied before the meeting with Caesar Crispus back in the spring.
‘Keep all the men aboard ship tonight,’ he told Senecio. ‘Double sentries fore and aft. Don’t let any of those boats get too close.’
‘Of course, dominus,’ the older man said curtly.
Castus peered at his face in the gloom, then smiled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to teach you your business. You know all this better than me!’
‘No need for an apology,’ Senecio said. ‘It’s tough holding the command. You think you need to do everything, check everything... You can trust me and the ships. Just watch out for yourself.’
Castus nodded, thumped his fist against the other man’s shoulder, then clambered over the rail and into the waiting boat. He was taking Modestus, with twenty legionaries of the Second as a bodyguard, together with Bappo the interpreter and his orderly, Eumolpius. It seemed a small and vulnerable party as the boats passed across the dark river towards the fires on the northern bank. Once on dry land, the troops formed up around Castus and they marched through the clamorous throng of the Frankish encampment to meet the chiefs beside the largest of the fires.
Smoke hung in the air, filled with the sweet smell of roasting pork. There were four large pigs already spitted and turning over the flames, and all around the fire men sat on benches made of fallen logs. As Castus joined them Gaiso passed him a cup made from a curling animal horn. Castus raised it to his mouth and sipped. Good wine – he was relieved.
‘Eat!’ Gaiso declared, gesturing at the roasting meat. ‘Make strong!’
Castus could only agree; living on campaign rations for the last two days had been an unexpected privation. He had grown soft in his tastes during his time at Colonia, accustomed to the pleasures of a privileged table. Now women were moving around the circle of men sitting by the fire, offering wooden platters with roasted pork and chunks of gritty bread soaked in fat. Another woman refilled Castus’s drinking horn – he had not realised it was empty. The wine was strong, and he felt it already going to his head. Chewing a chunk of pork – half blackened and half raw – he reminded himself to hold back on the drinking and feasting, whatever the barbarians might be doing.
But the fast-flowing wine and the heavy food were swiftly melting the suspicions between the two groups. Some of Castus’s men were still standing back, leaning on their spears, but most had joined the Frankish warriors in their meal. He noticed the soldiers’ eyes following the serving women, saw their smiles in the wavering firelight. Several of the Franks were already drunk, rolling and roaring with laugher. The heat of the flames, the smoke and the smells of the meat filled the air, embracing but oppressive.
‘Roman!’ Gaiso called, raising his drinking horn. ‘I you brothers yes!’
Castus raised his own cup in reply, managing a half-smile.
‘If he asks you to wrestle,’ Bonitus said quietly, joining him on the log, ‘you must refuse.’
‘You think he’d beat me?’
Bonitus gave him an appraising glance. ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But if you win his pride is hurt, and he always tries to fight again. If he wins, he thinks you weaker than him. Understand?’
Castus nodded. He noticed that Bonitus himself seemed completely sober. On the far side of the fire the skinny chief, Flaochadus, was entwined with a buxom blonde woman.
‘His wife,’ Bonitus said, hiding a scowl. ‘Always she wants to take him home before wars. Sometimes he allows it.’
‘They must be in love,’ Castus said, with a snort of laughter.
Bonitus’s expression darkened and he shook his head in disgust. He dropped his voice to a rasping whisper. ‘She is very perverted,’ he said.
Together they stared across the fire at the large woman sitting in her husband’s lap, tugging at his hair and stroking his face quite openly. Even Flaochadus’s own warriors seemed to find it hilarious. Castus wondered at the ease with which these barbarians mocked their own leaders. Glancing around the fire, he watched his own men eating and drinking, calling loudly to their barbarian hosts, waving their hands as they tried to tell stories or explain things. Even Modestus was glowing with drink and good humour. Gods help me if I have to order them to fight these men...
‘Tell me,’ Bonitus said, leaning back on the log bench, ‘how my brother died.’
Castus felt a lurch in his gut, a chill across his brow. ‘You already know,’ he said. ‘Brinno was killed fighting, in Alamanni country.’
‘But you were there,’ the Frank said with sudden intensity, leaning closer. ‘Tell me everything. For many years I have wanted to know.’
And so Castus told him, hesitantly at first but then in full, remembering as he spoke that there was no shame in it, nothing to hide. He told Bonitus of the despatch party sent through the wilderness of the Agri Decumates in the dead of winter, the Burgundii warband that had ambushed them in camp and then tracked them through the forests. He told him of the battle at the stream, the ruined town in the frozen white mist, then the final dash to the river the following morning. Castus and Brinno had been the last survivors of the party, and Brinno had given his life to allow Castus to escape. Even then, Castus had almost died when he fell through the ice of the frozen Danube.
When he had told the tale, Bonitus sat for a while in thought, frowning and nodding.
‘Your brother died a hero’s death,’ Castus told him. ‘He saved my life, and allowed our mission to succeed...’ He paused, aware that he was treading upon ground that had long lain undisturbed. ‘I could not go back for him,’ he said, almost stammering the words. ‘I could not go back and find his body. I’m sorry.’
‘You had no choice,’ Bonitus said. ‘These things are done in war. It is good for me to know that you saw him in his last moments. He died fighting for you, his friend. He did not die alone.’ He gripped Castus by the shoulder. ‘The gods will not punish you for neglecting his body.’
Castus nodded, obscurely relieved. He had been unaware that the memory of that day had so haunted him. He was used to suppressing thoughts of shame and dishonour; what was done was done. He had never expected that Bonitus’s acceptance would mean so much to him.
A bellow cut through the fog of voices around the fire. Gaiso was on his feet again, flourishing his drinking horn. He emptied it of wine, and beckoned to a serving woman with a heavy clay jug. The warriors around the fire raised a cheer.
‘Ha!’ Bonitus said. ‘Now we have enough of Roman piss, he says. Time for some real warrior drinking!’
The jug went around the fire, dark liquid slopped into every cup and horn. Castus caught the smell of it. A moment later, a smiling woman had filled his horn to the brim with odorous Frankish beer. Gaiso was still standing, still shouting, and now all the others were getting to their feet as well.
‘A toast,’ Bonitus said, and stood up with Castus.
The yells were easy enough to translate. Romans and Salii! Victory! Death to the Saxons!
Sudden silence, as each man raised his arm and sucked down the strong dark drink. Then a roar of voices raised in a fierce cheer. Castus belched heavily, then sank down onto the bench again. It was going to be a long night.
*
Dawn was grey and clammy damp, the dew heavy on the grass and the smoking remains of the feasting fires reeked of burnt bones and wet ash. Castus dragged a blanket around his shoulders and struggled to his feet, feeling the kick of blood in his swollen head. All around him there were bodies sprawled under blankets and furs, Romans and Franks almost indistinguishable. He bent down and nudged one sleeping figure, shifting the blanket aside. Eumolpius was lying with his mouth wide open, snoring. A few paces away a soldier’s boots protruded from under another heap of coverings. A woman’s blonde hair spilled from the other side of the blanket.
‘Excellency!’ a clipped voice said. Castus blinked, his head reeling, and focused his eyes on the group of soldiers approaching from the river. The optio leading them stamped to a halt and saluted. ‘The praepositus Senecio asks when you might be ready to embark, excellency,’ he said. Castus peered at him, trying to read his expression, but the man’s face was a careful blank.
‘Right now,’ Castus said as he began to walk, stepping between the bodies. What madness had possessed him to drink so much? To fall asleep in the middle of a barbarian encampment? He grabbed at his cloak, checking that he still had his gold brooch, then at his belt. Nothing was missing. Even so – it had been foolhardy. But the sudden relaxation, after so many days of tense responsibility, had overcome him. He cursed his own weakness.
‘Excellency? Are you quite well?’
‘What? Course I am... Mind your own...’
Castus belched heavily, tasting beer, then fought down a swell of nausea. The optio and his party of soldiers were looking elsewhere.
‘Rouse up the rest of our lot,’ he ordered one of the soldiers. ‘Get them on their feet and back to the ships, quick as you can. Make a bit of noise about it, see if we can stir our allies too.’
Down by the river, there were already plenty of men on their feet, both Romans and barbarians. Out across the pale waters, Castus saw the welcome shape of the Bellona, still at anchor in midstream, the four smaller galleys stationed around her. Had he dreamt that Senecio had sailed away without him? He could barely remember. He had a sudden recollection of a scene from the night before: Modestus and one of Gaiso’s warriors locked in an arm wrestle. He grinned, then caught himself and straightened his face.
Several of the men by the river had stripped off and were splashing in the water, plunging themselves beneath the surface. Castus glanced again at the ship, judging the distance, then unpinned his cloak and threw it to the optio.
‘Take my gear back to the Bellona in the boat,’ he said. ‘And if you see me drowning, pull me out.’
He dropped to sit on the muddy turf, pulling off his boots and leg wrappings, then shedding breeches, tunic and loincloth. Standing up, he drew in a chestful of air then strode naked down into the river. The water was colder than he expected, and he gasped. The current pushed at his shins, then his thighs, then he threw himself forward into a splashing dive.
Submerged, he felt the water cleansing his head at once. He swam three strong strokes beneath the surface, then came up for air. Shaking the water from his eyes, he checked the position of the ship again and then struck out towards it, flinging his arms forward in a powerful front crawl. The current tugged at his body, but he fought against it, keeping himself on course.
One of the smaller galleys passed close by him, the oarsmen cheering from their benches as they saw him in the water. Castus ducked his head beneath the surface again. Another memory came to him, and he almost missed his stroke: something Bonitus had told him... for a few lunging strokes Castus felt his mind totally emptied, the memory gone. Then it returned, a flicker: Bonitus had said something about the death of the previous dux, Valerius Leontius. What was it? For a few more rapid heartbeats Castus followed the thread of the memory, but the words were lost to him.
When he raised his head again he saw the hull of the Bellona much closer than he had expected, the oars shipped and Senecio waiting at the rail gazing down at him. Four more strokes, and his reaching hand grabbed at the rope ladder dangling from the stern. Shivering as he emerged from the water, Castus hauled his heavy body up the rungs and clambered onto the deck, to be met by two grinning oarsmen with rough woollen towels and dry clothes.
‘Excellency,’ said Senecio, with a smart and sober salute. ‘I trust your negotiations went well last night? What’s our plan of attack?’
‘Oh, it’s a splendid plan,’ Castus said as he scrubbed the towel over his scalp. ‘We sail down the river, find the Saxons and kill every last fucker of them.’
Senecio inclined his head, trying not to smile. ‘A plan worthy of our emperor himself!’ he said.
Castus slumped down onto a stool as the naval commander strutted off along the gangway. Now that he was aboard again his headache had returned, and the rocking motions of the ship in the river’s current were making him queasy. Senecio had not seemed too outraged to see his senior officer in such a state; Castus guessed that the balance of power between them had shifted. He trusted the older man’s judgement implicitly, but he knew that Senecio had felt his own shipboard authority slightly challe
nged by his presence. He sighed heavily, and pulled on his tunic.
The night’s debauchery had not been limited to the Frankish camp, unfortunately. Many of the men aboard the moored ships had got hold of drink, either from the Franks or from the settlement of Noviomagus, and there were plenty of sore heads and bleary expressions in the pale light of morning. Castus was attempting to eat a breakfast of stale bread and cheese when a boat came alongside and Vetranio, the senior centurion commanding the legion detachment, came aboard.
‘Excellency!’ the centurion cried. Castus returned his salute with a tired wave. Vetranio was about his own age, but Castus did not know him well; the man had been promoted to the Second after Castus had quit the command. He was a good soldier, solid and determined, but a stickler for correct discipline.
‘May I report that the Franks appear to be embarking, excellency,’ Vetranio said.
‘You may,’ Castus told him with a pained glance across the river. Despite the excesses of the night before, his barbarian allies were piling into their boats, setting to their oars with loud shouts and cries of laughter.
‘We’re ready to up anchors and move when you give the order. But I’m afraid to report that several of our men are still in a state of drunkenness. One of them, I’m sorry to say, is Centurion Modestus. Do you want him punished?’
Castus swallowed sourly. Vetranio’s gaze was locked somewhere above his head, the centurion being very careful not to notice his commander’s wretched condition. ‘No, not for now,’ Castus said. ‘We’ll attend to that when we return.’
‘As you wish, dominus,’ Vetranio said. He glanced across the water at the riotous Franks. ‘Although I must say... we may be allies with these barbarians, but we surely shouldn’t emulate their behaviour!’
‘Quite so,’ Castus replied, feeling the blood rush to his face. He dismissed the man, then slumped back on the stool. Vetranio’s words were insulting, but true nonetheless. My first independent command, and already I’ve let things slip... Always in his younger years Castus had been disciplined, attentive to his duties. He had never been a heavy drinker, never let his guard slacken. He would have to be more careful from now on.