The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  “As plain as the nose on a Roman’s face,” Athauhnu agreed, laughing.

  By this point, my face was burning. I’m sure it glowed as red as the setting sun.

  “I will tell my cousin that you remember her,” Morcant said. “Perhaps I will add ‘fondly.’” Morcant laughed, turned his horse, and rode off to join his fintai.

  I tried to channel my embarrassment into my now-well-bruised authority. “If you’re done laughing, a Pen,” I said to Athauhnu, turning my horse toward the river, “it’s time we rejoined our men.”

  “Give me some time, Arth Uthr,” Athauhnu said, still laughing. “It would not be good for my men to see me fall off my horse in the middle of a river.”

  XI.

  De Itinere ad Vesantionem

  OUR MARCH TO VESANTIO

  If Ventum Cavillonum of the Aineduai was a “sad” place, the Soucanai settlement at the confluence of the Arar and the Dubis was downright miserable—essentially a pig pen, a cattle pen, some storage bins, and a large roundhouse with the pretentious name, Uh Dun Du, “The Black Fortress.” There was no fortress, and I guessed it was called “black” after one of the rivers that flowed by it, the Dubis.

  Cerialis, however, was delighted with the place: it was on the highest ground in the immediate area; it had access to an endless supply of potable water; it had flowing water on two sides of a triangular ridge for defense; it offered locations for baths and latrines; it controlled movement along two rivers; it controlled access to the valley of the Dubis from the west and access to the valley of the Arar from the east; it could easily control the fords across the Arar; and, if the top of the ridge were leveled, it could accommodate at least a full legion.

  We reached the place during the eleventh hour, and before the sun was down, Cerialis had his boys staking out a legionary castrum around the Soucanai settlement, which, in Cerialis’ mind, had already ceased to exist. Cerialis himself dragged a crate of his engineering instruments down the bluff to search for a place to bridge the Arar.

  We established our camp further up the ridge from the settlement, blissfully upwind from the pigs. The hour candle had not burned down an uncia into the first watch when Athauhnu came to fetch me.

  “Arth Uthr,” he gestured to me. “The Buch’rix of Uh Dun Du offers us the hospitality of his hearth for the evening.”

  For a heartbeat, I thought I caught a whiff of pigsty in my nostrils, but to refuse such an offer of hospitality would be a great insult. “Let me check on the guard mount first, then we can be on our way,” I said, trying to put this thing off as long as I could.

  “Ci has already attended to that,” Athauhnu stated with a slight grin.

  I sighed and threw the baldric of my gladius over my left shoulder; I still wore my sword like a mulus, on my right hip. Then, I strapped on my cingulum and pugio.

  “Gadeouch i ni fuhnd,” I said finally. “Let’s go.”

  “Eamus,” Athauhnu echoed me in Latin, “are you sure you want to take that great Roman sword with you?” Athauhnu chuckled, patting the long spatha hanging from his left hip. “You might scare those poor, back-country farmers to death.”

  “Cac’t!” I dismissed Athauhnu’s dig.

  “Cachou!” he echoed me in Gah’el, then corrected me. “Cachou moch . . . pig shit!” he laughed.

  We walked a few dozen paces down the ridge toward the farm. I was so focused on the pigs that I almost didn’t notice a figure waiting for us in the darkness. My right hand was on the hilt of my gladius when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Took you long enough! A man could starve to death waiting for you ladies to get ready for dinner!” It was Troucillus.

  “I just hope we’re not served pork,” I quipped. “That would finish it for me.”

  Troucillus laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “You’ve been away from the farm too long, Gai Mari. Here, fresh pig shit is the smell of prosperity!” he laughed.

  We were indeed served pork—a thick stew with carrots, turnips, and some other greens I couldn’t readily identify. We sat around a fire pit in a round room of wooden posts joined by wattle-and-daub panels. It reminded me of my original home before mama “Romanified” the house with stone and right angles. Our host was burning herbs, which helped to disguise the barnyard smells that surrounded us. The fire vented up through a hole in the conical thatched roof, where I could hear the sound of nesting birds in the eves. I could almost see the shape of gran’pa in the smoky shadows, his feet extended toward the fire and a cup of couru in his fist.

  Our host was Nuhnian mab Seisuhl, who styled himself the Buch’rix of Dun Du and the Gouarcheidouad Uh Cresfannai, the “Keeper of the Crossings,” which gave him the privilege of extorting fees for hospitality and protection from travelers crossing the Arar into the lands of the Soucanai. Since we were traveling with Athauhnu’s fintai and were Rhufeiniaid, friends and allies of the Soucanai in their wars against the Pobluhrafon, the “River People” as the Soucanai call the Helvetii, and against the hated Almaenwuhr, he declared us exempt from the toll.

  The fact that we had almost a hundred heavily armed troops camped around his dun had nothing at all to do with Nuhnian’s sense of generosity. I wondered briefly if Cerialis had shared with Nuhnian his imminent and compulsory change of locale.

  “I hope whatever is affecting the health of your chief, the Roman prince, it departs quickly,” Nuhnian was saying to Troucillus.

  Troucillus was tearing a piece of bread from a steaming, freshly baked loaf. “I will pass your concern to our ‘prince,’ chief. He is sorry that he could not accept your generous invitation.”

  Nuhnian grunted, accepting Troucillus’ explanation, publicly at least. Nuhnian’s senior wife sat next to him, directing the movement of food among her guests and directing the delivery of food and drink from the kitchen and larders behind her. One of Nuhnian’s other wives was busy keeping our cups full, while a younger woman, perhaps a daughter of the house, was busy ferrying loaves of bread and bowls of radishes and sliced apples in from the kitchens, which seemed to be located to the rear of the roundhouse.

  The traditional laws of the Gah’ela permit multiple marriages, both for men and for women, although the practice is reputedly more common among men. Most “civilized” Gah’ela, those who have been influenced by Greek and Roman culture, are monogamous. Certainly, among my people, the Insubres, who have lived under Roman domination for over a century, monogamy is the practice.

  I remember my gran’pa snorting in derision at the possibility of having multiple wives. “A man would have to be mad,” he dismissed the idea. “All those clackin’ tongues surroundin’ him day and night! It would drive a derwuhd glan, a holy druid, mad!”

  Then, he caught a look from Nana and modified his position, “Unless there were more of you walkin’ the earth, me darlin’! Then, I’d be a fool not to marry all of you.”

  That earned him a derisive snort from Nana, who was buying none of what he had to sell, especially after a few cups of potent, brown, winter couru that had been perfecting itself in the bottom of an oak barrel since Tachwed, the month Romans call Novembris.

  “Been peaceful in these lands since we smashed the Aineduai years back,” Nuhnian was saying. “Them Almaenwuhr bastards keep ‘emselves east of Vesantio fer the most part . . . Me oldest son, Bearach, took five of me best men and an ‘orse to serve the cadeuhrn . . . Worth it, if it keeps them German pigs away . . . Just needs ‘em back by the harvest . . . especially th‘orse.”

  “Has anyone besides merchants been crossing the Arar going east?” Troucillus interrupted.

  “Merchants?” Nuhnian belched out after a long swig of beer. He held his cup out for one of the daughters to refill. “Damn few o’ those this year . . . what with them River-People pillocks rampagin’ through ‘ere and the Krauts stirrin’ things up in the east . . . Damn few . . . Bad fer business.”

  He took a beer break from talking, then continued, “The favor of the gods . . . with our warriors
comin’ back from the Roman war.” He gestured with his cup toward me. “And bringin’ you Roman boys along with ‘im, them sheep-shaggin’ Germans‘ll crawl back into their shit-ridden swamps . . . Wait . . . We did ‘ave a fintai of them Aineduai knob-yankers pass through a few weeks back . . . Fancy bunch, they was . . . Somebody important.”

  This caught Troucillus’ attention. “A fintai of Aineduai, you say? Going east up the Dubis? When? How many? Who led them? How were they equipped?”

  “Like I said,” Nuhnian said through another belch, “a few weeks ago . . . Right around the time the last of the cows calfed . . . When was that, Ceana?” He asked one of his “daughters.”

  “Choue wuht’nos,” she shot back. “Six weeks.”

  “That sounds about right,” Nuhnian continued, “six weeks . . . There was about thirty of ‘em . . . good ‘orses . . . about ten remounts . . . Led by a real nob . . . a nasty piece of work . . . a prince he called hisself . . . up from Bibracte . . . Had good armor and weapons, they did . . . Said they was fer the cadeuhrn in Vesantio . . . Passed right through, they did . . . Fine with me . . . I didn’t want to ‘ave to feed that lot.”

  “Does the name Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno sound familiar?” I asked.

  Nuhnian shrugged. “Could be . . . The pikey bastard didn’t introduce hisself . . . not to the likes o’ me, anyway . . . In an ‘ell of a big hurry ‘e was . . . I was glad to see the backs of ‘em with me ‘ide still in one piece.” The thought made Nuhnian thirsty; he drained his cup and yelled for more.

  We stayed long enough to be polite. When Nuhnian started hinting that one of his “daughters” might be willing to take any one of us for her “husband for the night,” we begged off, saying we had duties in the camp and would be moving out at sunrise. Nuhnian leered and drunkenly fondled the ass of one of the serving women—either wife or daughter—and said it would be our loss. His senior wife, still seated immediately to his left, seemed not to notice. I imagine, as long as he left her alone, she was fine with whatever he did.

  As we were leaving Nuhnian’s compound, a woman’s voice hissed to us from the shadows behind a cowshed. We stopped, then carefully approached a shadowy figure who kept the shed between herself and the roundhouse. When we got closer, I recognized her as one of the women who had served us; it was the one who kept pouring Nuhnian’s beer.

  “That dodgy git’s lyin’ to yas,” she said with no preamble. “That Aineduan nob who come through ‘ere a few weeks back give ‘im silver to watch who crossed the river, then send ‘im word.”

  “Why’d he do that?” Troucillus asked her.

  “Dunno,” she said. “The only thing his lordship shares with me is . . . well . . . never mind that . . . Ain’t important . . . What’s important is that the Aineduan nob seemed nervous . . . Why’s a rich man with a fintai ‘round ‘isself nervous, I asks meself . . . Could someone be after ‘im . . . someone with more men ‘an he’s got . . . That’s what I thinks . . . That pikey bastard in there’ll be sendin’ a rider out to warn his new friends as soon as ‘e’s sober enough to remember, ‘e will.”

  We were silent for a few heartbeats, then Troucillus asked, “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Why?” she snorted. “Why? I ‘ates the poxy bastard, I do . . . Me parents sold me to ‘im, and now I have to wait on ‘im ‘and and foot when ‘e’s not gruntin’ on top o’ me . . . I ‘ates ‘im!”

  Troucillus nodded. He reached into his marsupium and handed the girl a few coins.

  When we had walked a few paces into the night, Troucillus asked me, “Do you think it’s this Deluuhnu mab Clethguuhno you asked Nuhnian about?”

  “Must be,” I answered. “Who else could it be? Now he and his men are somewhere between us and Vesantio.”

  Troucillus was silent for a while, then said, “No . . . if he’s not with the cadeuhrn in Vesantio, he’s through the Gate and with Ariovistus . . . He couldn’t sustain himself in Soucana territory . . . not with thirty men and forty horses . . . Ariovistus would welcome him . . . A prince of the Aineduai would be useful to him when he moves west . . . and as far as Deluuhnu is concerned, Ariovistus is Caesar’s enemy.”

  “Hostis hostis mei socius meus,” I said. “An enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Certe!” Troucillus nodded. “Indeed!”

  The next day by the first hour, we were on the move east toward Vesantio. As soon as there was enough light to see, we had assembled near where Publicola and the Romans had camped for the night. Publicola seemed to have recovered from whatever “ailment” had prevented him from accepting Nuhnian’s hospitality the night before. I assumed that Troucillus had briefed him fully on what we had learned.

  Publicola, of course, said nothing to me. I coordinated our order of march with Manius Rabirius, or Manius Talus as he’s known around the camps—Manius “Knuckle Bones”—because of his “luck” with the dice. Manius was the decurio in command of Publicola’s cavalry escort. We decided that the Roman ala would march with the main body. I would split the Sequani turma front and back; Guithiru’s ala would take the point, while Ci’s ala would provide rear security. Manius himself would ride in the main body; Athauhnu and I would be in the front with Guithiru’s boys.

  While we were talking, I noticed that Metius had rejoined us from his errand in Ventum Cavillonum. Whatever intelligence he had gathered there from his contacts was not shared with me, so I assumed that he had found out nothing of importance to our mission.

  It’s dangerous to assume.

  Then, for the first time, I noticed a member of Metius’ comitatus, a stocky, somewhat short, swarthy man holding Metius’ horse. The man was dressed in a plain, undyed tunic like a slave, but unlike a slave, he didn’t avert his eyes away from the glances of the soldiers and freemen around him. In fact, he met their glances with a challenging glare, which would have earned a slave a beating. He held Metius’ horse with his right hand, keeping his left hand free. I glanced down and saw he was wearing Roman caligae.

  “Hey, Mani! You know that guy over there?” I asked.

  “Which one?” he responded.

  “The guy holding Metius’ horse,” I indicated.

  Mani looked over. “Oh. . . that one. . . I’d steer clear a that mentul’ if I was you. . . My boys call him Umbra, the ‘Shadow,’ because if you see Metius, you see that little verpa.”

  “He’s Metius’ slave?” I asked.

  Mani shrugged. “Don’t think so. . . Doesn’t call anyone ‘domine’ as far as I can tell. . . Calls Metius ‘Capu,’ Boss, and Metius calls him ‘Bulla’. . . sounds like a gutter-Roman to me. I’d stay clear a the little podex if I was you.”

  “Something happen?” I pressed.

  “Yeah,” Manius admitted. “A couple a nights ago, a couple a my boys went over to the mess tent for their chow . . . That little verpa walks by ‘em stinkin’ a wine an’ says, ‘What’s to eat?’ . . . Then, he sticks his fingers in my guy’s mess bowl and licks ‘em . . . Then, he spits right in my guy’s chow and says it tastes like shit . . . My guys jump the mentul’, and he kicks the shit outta both of ‘em . . . just like that . . . It’s like he did it just to start somethin’ . . . for no reason . . . None a my guys had anythin’ to do with him before that . . . Next thing I know, I get called in on the carpet by that broad-striped nob we’re nurse-maidin’ and told to get control a my men or I’d find myself scrubbin’ latrines for the rest a my hitch. Quam merdam! Just stay clear a that podex . . . Somethin’ ain’t right with that one.”

  “He always carry a weapon?” I asked. “A knife or a sword?”

  Mani shrugged, “Never seen one . . . The way he handled my guys, he don’t need one.”

  We were on the road by the time the sun was on the horizon. The terrain was suprisingly rough. We were following a narrow road, which followed the Dubris as it wound through a narrow, wooded valley. It was just wide enough to accommodate the wagons of the merchants traveling east to Vesantio.

  In places,
the forests and hills pressed in on the road, preventing us from maintaining good flank security. Athauhnu had sent Rhodri ahead, as our scout. He was riding with one of our new men, Drust, who had been a hunter among his people. The Sequani didn’t seem at all concerned; after all, they were back in their own lands and the enemy was being held east of the Gate.

  That’s what they assumed.

  It’s dangerous to assume.

  When the valley opened up, we could see small farms, but no people and no livestock. I asked Athauhnu about it.

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “The people could hide quickly if they thought we were a threat. But, the animals are gone too. Farmers will hide their animals when there are raiders in the area, but that has to be planned ahead of time. I don’t understand why they’re avoiding us. We are Soucanai, like them.”

  We got our answer around the fifth hour. We caught the smell first, an odor of wet charcoal, evidence of an old burning, a large one. Drust came pounding down the trail toward us.

  “A Pen!” he reported. “Rhodri needs you up ahead!”

  I wasn’t sure which “chief” he was talking to, me or Athauhnu. I spoke first, “Guithiru! Dismount the troop and hold here!”

  Then, to Drust, “Lead us to Rhodri!”

  Athauhnu and I followed Drust forward. We met Rhodri about a hundred passus up the trail. The charcoal smell was much stronger. “Raiders,” was all Rhodri said.

  That was all that was necessary. In a narrow, clear valley north of the trail were the burned out ruins of what was once a roundhouse, a cattle pen, and a storage shed. Nothing seemed to be moving among the ashes.

  “Are we secure?” I asked Rhodri.

  “Even the crows have eaten their fill and departed, a Pen,” Rhodri answered.

  “Any survivors?”

  “I’ve found none,” Rhodri replied.

  We turned north, spreading out in a line, and walked our horses through the stinking ruins. I was keeping my eyes on the ruins and on the woodline behind them, trying to detect any movement that might indicate an ambush. Clamriu rearing backward was all that prevented me from riding over the first body. From the clothing, it had once been a woman. Her skirts were pulled up over her waist, her tunic ripped apart down the middle. White teeth were bared in a silent scream.