by Ray Gleason
I looked and saw a German rise from some brush. He was almost comical; he was trying to pull his trousers up from around his knees but refused to let go of a nasty-looking short sword he had in his right hand. He was shouting some gibberish at me; repeatedly, he yelled something that sounded like “fouc.”
I called out to him in Gah’el to surrender. Again, he screamed back. Again I recognized “fouc” and then “Gallieh.” I realized he was young. It’s difficult to tell exactly how old Germans are; their blond hair and light complexions make them look younger than they are. This one looked to be my age, maybe younger.
I tried in Latin, “Te dede! Ti’ parcere volo! Give up! I won’t kill you!”
The boy spit at me. Again, “fouc!” He then got a strange, malicious look in his eyes. With his right hand still holding his sword and his trousers, he reached behind himself and dragged something up from the brush. To my horror, I realized it was a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen. Her dress was torn down the middle, exposing small, pubescent breasts. The left side of her face was red and bruised. She was weeping, trying to tear herself away from her attacker.
The German screamed at me again, “fouc!” Then, he turned and drew his sword across the girl’s throat as his trousers fell back down around his ankles. Immediately, a red line appeared along her throat where the sword had cut. The girl fell to her knees; blood spurted out of her wound. As the raider tried to pull up his trousers, the girl fell forward into the grass.
I was off my horse. I slammed the flat edge of my sword into the side of the boy’s head before he had a chance to react. He fell back, but lifted his short sword up in defiance. To my surprise, his exposed penis was still erect from what he had done to the poor girl. I cut down, severing his sword hand from his wrist. He didn’t need a right hand to be useful to me.
Then, to my left, I heard the girl’s death gasp as her anima escaped from her poor, ravaged body. I looked over at her. She lay on her stomach; her light-brown hair was tangled in the grass, sodden with her blood. Her eyes stared sightlessly at me.
I turned toward my prisoner. He was cradling the ruin of his right arm. Blood covered his chin and his leather lorica. He still screamed his defiance at me. I heard that word “fouc” one last time, then I slammed the point of my spatha up under his chin into his skull. His blue eyes grew wide with shock, then went blank.
I pulled back my sword. The boy twitched once and was still.
The girl still stared sightlessly at me from the blood-drenched grass.
Suddenly, a hand fell on my shoulder. I jumped away and turned in a fighting stance. It was Athauhnu. He quickly backed a few steps away and raised his empty hands toward me. It took me a few heartbeats before I fully recognized him. Then, I relaxed.
He briefly surveyed the carnage and shook his head. “There will be a place for her this day in the Land of Youth. Many from this dun will be there to greet her.”
Then, he walked over to the dead German boy. Then, he drew his sword and took the raider’s head. He wiped his sword on the German’s clothes, reached down, and lifted the head, holding it up by the blond hair. “We will leave these counai a message of what happens to those who attack the Soucanai.”
We walked back to the lawnt in front of the burning roundhouse. Some of our men were pounding stakes into the ground, on which they were impaling the heads of the dead raiders. Others were gathering the bodies of the Soucanai who were killed in the raid for burial. I noticed, a few passus down toward the river, our men were trying to comfort the few survivors.
Athauhnu jambed the boy’s head down onto one of the stakes.
Then, Ci reported to him, “We suffered no casualties, a Pen. These scum were no more than wuhliad . . . brigands . . . not a true warrior among them . . . We’re collecting their weapons, but it’s a sorry collection . . . not worth the effort . . . We should just toss their garbage into the river as an offering to the goddess.”
“If it’s rubbish, the goddess will not look with favor on the offering,” Athauhnu told him. “Throw their weapons into the fires. Leave their bodies to feed the Morgana. The Great Queen relishes such a meal.”
“Shuh!” Ci agreed and went off to supervise his men.
Then, I heard Athauhnu speaking to me, “Are you alright, Arth Uthr? Were you wounded?”
I realized then I was shaking. I couldn’t get the vision of the girl’s dead eyes out of my mind.
“No,” I told him. “I’m not hurt.”
Erratum.
My body was untouched, but my anima would never recover. After thousands of fights in hundreds of nameless places, I still see those dead eyes staring at me in my dreams.
When the main body of the Roman delegation reached the site of our fight, I could tell that Publicola was disappointed that we had taken no prisoners, but even he understood the rage of the Soucanai at those who were murdering their people. After I reported to him, he simply said, “Bene gestum, Decurio, well done. Please, convey my compliments to your Gauls.”
After he walked away, Troucillus placed his hands on my shoulders and said, “What you did here is a thing that must be done if we have any hope of preserving our people.”
Metius and his thug, Bulla, were nowhere to be seen.
That night, Publicola rewarded us with a feast. We ate; we drank; then, we fell into a stupor while his Roman troopers guarded our campsite.
During the fourth hour of the next day—my head pounding and my stomach doing flips—we reached Vesantio. My first act on reaching the walls of the dun was to lose my breakfast into the defensive ditch.
XII.
Vesantio
VESANTIO
Vesantio was a fortress under siege.
Like most Gallic towns, it wasn’t a town at all, at least not by Roman standards. It began its existence as a dun, the stronghold of a local chief. Its original purpose was to provide security for the chief’s family, his fintai, and other hangers-on. It was also the center of the farmlands that supported this population. So, besides the main hall—a roundhouse where the chief, his family, and his servants lived—there were pens for farm animals, a corral for the horses of his comitatus, a smithy, workshops for the leather goods and for the farm equipment, and storage bins for the crops. All this was surrounded by a defensive ditch backed up by brambles and, later, by timber and earthen ramparts.
Initially, the chief’s fintai had slept in the feasting hall of the roundhouse. However, as the troop grew, this arrangement became somewhat inconvenient. The soldiers took wives and soon their children were pelting around the chief’s house, upsetting things and getting in the way. Even worse, the younger warriors began to take interest in the women of the chief’s household, even the daughters of the house. Soon, the married men and their families were given huts of their own within the compound. The randier troopers were exiled to huts outside the compound, where their comings and goings could be watched.
A community, somewhat similar to the vicus of a legionary castrum, eventually grew up around this central compound. Soon, the budding market attracted merchants, who established shops, warehouses, and residences in the outer compound. Since Vesantio was situated on a river and near the Gate that joined the Rhenus Valley with that of the Dubis, inns were established for travelers, docks for the river traffic, sheds to store and repair river barges, stables for the land traffic, smithies and repair shops for the horses and carts passing along the roads, and, of course, cauponae, taverns, where visitors could find a meal and all the inhabitants could indulge in beer, mead, and, eventually, wines imported from the Roman lands to the south.
When the ruler of the town recognized the value of the community that had grown up around his dun, he had it surrounded with walls for its protection, and he stationed his soldiers at the gates to collect duties for admittance and for the privilege of conducting business within the new town. Soon, tolls were being collected from barges moving up and down the river, docking fees were levied for stopping, a
nd duties were tacked on to whatever was unloaded at the docks.
When we arrived at Vesantio late in the month of Sextilis, during the consulship of Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus and Aulus Gabinius, it was a town of close to four hundred inhabitants protected by the fintai of Bran mab Cahal, the Cadeuhrn of Vesantio. It was also a town that realized it lived under the looming threat of Ariovistus. When Ariovistus moved west with his hordes of bloodthirsty Grunni, Vesantio was directly in his path.
When we came within sight of the walls of Vesantio, I held the Sequani back to allow Publicola and the Romans to catch up. Athauhnu sent Rhodri and Drust ahead into the town to announce our presence and coordinate our entry. Protocol demanded that, although we were now the allies of the cadeuhrn, we needed to await his invitation to enter his town. Once the invitation was issued, we were then gouestai, his guests, and under his protection according to the laws and traditions of the Gah’el.
By the time Publicola was up to our position, Rhoderi and Drust were returning from Vesantio with a detachment from the garrison. I recognized their officer from our brief encounter in Caesar’s camp, Dai mab Gluhn, a leader of ten.
Dai approached Publicola, who was decked out in his full regalia, highly polished armor and a broad purple-striped tunic, and announced the formula of invitation, which Troucillus translated. Through Troucillus, Publicola accepted the invitation of the cadeuhrn to enter Vesantio as his gouesta.
Troucillus was attired as a Roman eques, displaying on his white tunic the narrow purple stripe of the Order of Knights. But, he was also prominently displaying his golden torcs and armbands, identifying him as a pendefig of the Elvai. Athauhnu and I were stationed behind Publicola, slightly to his rear. Despite our Roman armor, we both wore the five-strand golden torcs of chiefs.
Publicola had decided to enter the town accompanied by Troucillus and the Sequani riders. The Roman troopers were instructed to locate a camp site outside the walls of Vesantio and wait there for further instructions. Cerialis would enter the town with Publicola, and, once the cadeuhrn agreed, he would conduct a survey of the town’s defenses.
Metius, as was his wont, was nowhere to be seen.
We entered the town through its western gate. Unlike a Roman town, Vesantio was a city of wood. I imagined that this was how Mediolanum had appeared when it was still the Medhán of the ancient Insubres, my ancestors. My moment of nostalgia ended abruptly as I realized how easy it would be for a besieging army to set the whole pile on fire.
Some of the inhabitants stopped what they were doing to stare at us as we rode toward the dun of the cadeuhrn, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the river. I imagined their initial reaction was relief that the Romans had finally arrived, then disappointment, even despair, when they realized how few Romans there were.
We followed the road from the gate up through the town to a fork. The way straight before us went downhill, while the fork to the right led upwards. As we took the upper road, I heard Dai explain to Troucillus that the lower road led to the river and the docks. After the climb to the top, we arrived at the gate of the dun, the arx and citadel of the town. As we passed around the entryway, I saw the hall of the cadeuhrn. I was sure the building began its existence as the roundhouse of a minor Sequani lord, but it had been expanded extensively over the years so that it seemed to sprawl all about the dun, reaching into every corner of the fortress.
The cadeuhrn, with his comitatus, was standing on the lawnt before the entrance to his hall. To his left stood a dark-haired, somewhat portly woman. She was richly dressed and smiling, but her eyes seemed to retain a sharp edge. I assumed that she was his wife.
To his right, stood a tall, well-equipped warrior, who looked like a younger replica of the cadeuhrn. I took this to be his pendefig, heir and son. Next to the pendefig stood another tall man wearing long, brown robes and holding the staff of a barnuchel, high judge of the law. Standing slightly behind the barnuchel was a short, swarthy man in black robes holding an oaken staff, a derwuhd, a speaker of the gods.
Finally, to the left of the cadeuhrn’s wife stood a man I recognized, Aneirin mab Berwuhn, a leader of a hundred, and, I assumed, senior officer of the cadeuhrn’s fintai.
Publicola rode to within two passus of the cadeuhrn. I saw Troucillus lean over and whisper something to him. Publicola nodded and dismounted, handing his reins to Troucillus. He removed his helmet, tucked it under his left arm, and approached to within two gradus of the cadeuhrn.
“Ave, Dux!” he saluted stiffly. “Tertius Gellius Publicola, Tribunus Militium, te salutat in nomine Gaii Iuli Caesaris, Proconsulis Galliarum et Imperatoris!”
The cadeuhrn seemed to have a slightly inscrutable smile on his face as Troucillus translated Publicola’s greeting into Gah’el: “Greetings, Duke! Tertius Gellius Publicola, Military Tribune, greets you on behalf of Gaius Iulius Caesar, Proconul of the Gauls and Victorous General.”
When Troucillus finished, the cadeuhrn bowed his head slightly and said, “Tribune! Ave et salve! Beneventus ad Vesantionem. Vobis meae arae et foci! Greetings and wellbeing! Welcome to Vesantio. My hearth and home are yours!”
The cadeuhrn extended his arm toward Publicola, who had to first overcome the shock of being greeted in Latin by someone he had taken for an ignorant barbarian living on the edge of the known world. He took the cadeuhrn’s proffered hand. The cadeuhrn laughed and slammed his left hand down on Publicola’s right shoulder, obviously enjoying the look of surprise on the Roman’s face.
I could certainly understand Publicola’s astonishment. If someone were to ask a Roman who had never traveled north of the Campus Martis to paint a portrait of a Gallic barbarian, that portrait would be Bran mab Cahal, the Cadeuhrn of Vesantio.
He was tall, at least two palmi taller than Publicola, who was tall for a Roman. Although Bran was a man I considered “old” in those days, well into his late thirties, his luxuriant mustachios and tightly braided hair were a deep reddish-brown, with no betrayal of gray. Broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, he carried his chainmail lorica as well as a man, well, as well as a man of my age then. He wore a long, woolen sagum and bracae in the blue over green colors of the Sequani, patterned with a bright red design, which I took as the sign of his clan. His bracae were bloused into boots, strapped well above his calves, and of a highly polished reddish-brown leather. He carried heavy, golden armbands on his biceps and a five-strand golden torc around his neck, with a locking catch in the shape of a wolf’s head with two red gems as eyes.
His glory, though, was the spatha that hung at his left hip. It was over a gradus in length, encased in a red leather vagina, which was wrapped with twisted golden wire woven in diamond shapes. The hilt was all business, dogfish skin secured tightly with leather straps; the balancing pommel was gold, formed in the shape of an eagle’s head, again with red gems for its eyes.
Behind him, his vexillarius displayed his pennant hanging from a cross-piece guidarm; on a blood-red field was a black raven’s head, the symbol of Bran mab Chlir, the wounded god, who led the nations into the isles at the setting sun.
I could almost sympathize with Publicola; he was as far from a candle-lit reception on the Palatine as a Roman patrician could get.
The cadeuhrn gestured that we should enter his hall. As we began to enter, Athauhnu and I were intercepted by Dai, who said he would show us where our fintai was to be quartered in the dun. Before we could move off, however, Troucillus returned and said that Publicola wanted us to attend the cadeuhrn’s briefing on the situation along the Rhenus. We delegated the quartering of the troop to Guitheru and entered the hall.
We were led into a large room to the left of the main dining hall, obviously one of the later additions to the original roundhouse. The wattle and daub walls were reinforced with heavy timbers and covered with tapestries showing primitive arcadian scenes of nymphs, satyrs, and shepherds. The fire pit, cold now that it was summer, was surrounded by platform tables and chairs, where we were invit
ed to sit. The tables were curved, creating a circle around the hearth, so we didn’t understand the protocol of seating.
Bran recognized our confusion and said, “Just sit anywhere, m’amici! This isn’t an audience.”
While Bran’s son acted as his shield bearer and helped him out of his lorica, we found seats. I was a bit surprised that Bran’s wife remained in the room. The women of the Gah’ela were considered, in many ways, warriors and social equals to men, but I had lived long among Romans, who certainly didn’t share this belief.
When we were all seated, servants brought us pitchers of wine, freshly baked bread, and bowls of radishes, sliced apples, and red carrots. There were even a few bowls of garum. Bran poured himself a cup of the wine, as did his wife. Then, they hesitated before drinking. Hospitality demanded that the guest drink first. Troucillus bowed his head toward Publicola, who nodded and lifted his cup.
“Gratia deorum totis circum focum! The blessings of the gods on all in this place,” he said in Latin, roughly translating the proper Gallic sentiment.
Bran lifted his cup and said, “Beneventos totos! Welcome all!”
We drank and got down to business.
Publicola started, “Please tell me . . . uh . . . Rex . . . What is the situation with Ariovistus and the east?”
Bran wiped some wine away from his mouth and answered, “Please, call me Bran . . . We are allies now, no? May I address you as Publicola?”
Publicola nodded and again asked, “What is going on with the Germans?”
“Not good,” Bran shook his head. “Ariovistus has recruited thousands from across the Rhenus . . . He has settled his Suebii in the valley of the Rhenus, but all the western tribes . . . the Harudes, Marcomanni, Triboci, Vangiones, Nemetes, Sedusii, and even some Saxoni from near Oceanus have crossed over to him, hungry for land, plunder, slaves, and blood . . . Here, I have no more than a hundred in my fintai . . . If I levy the people, I can put no more than five hundred in the field against him. But, if I were to raise the red flags, I doubt a hundred would respond . . . They are hiding in the hills, trying to protect themselves from the German raids . . . Our position here might be able to withstand a direct assault, but if the raiders disrupt the harvest, we could not hold out longer than a few weeks, at the most.”