The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  I mounted the fintai. I told them we would wait until the wagon was in the middle of the ford before we revealed ourselves. I instructed that, as long as the Almaenwuhr offered no resistance, we would let them live. Keeping the Rhufeinig alive was our first priority. If one of the Almaenwuhr drew a sword, or I gave the word, we would attack immediately. No prisoners. Kill them all, but keep the Rhufeinig safe.

  The wagon arrived as we expected. I could see Troucillus, his hands bound, riding behind it. He was shadowed now by only one rider.

  When the wagon was fully immersed in the water of the ford, we broke cover. The escort froze, not at all sure who we were. We rode slowly toward them. The Krauts realized that we had them at a significant disadvantage. I stopped my horse at the point where the trail began to dip down toward the river and raised my empty hands toward the Grunni. I was thankful the black beast I was riding was finally getting with the program. I could just imagine a thought was flickering through his tiny equine brain that this would be the perfect time to turn traitor and dump me in the river.

  “Do any of you speak Gah’el?” I asked.

  The lead riders looked at each other. Finally, the one to my right shrugged and answered, “Me speaking Welic.”

  I had no idea what Welic meant, but I continued. “All I want is the Rhufeinig. Give him to me, and the rest of you and your wagon can go.”

  “Why we give you?” the speaker challenged.

  “You give me the Rhufeinig, and we don’t kill you,” I stated bluntly.

  There was some discussion. I understood none of it, but I saw no move to draw weapons. I did hear the words “thas welas” and “se Romeh Mann” repeatedly. I assumed “se Romeh Mann” meant “Romanus,” the Roman, in their Kraut gibberish.

  “Good death, good thing,” my interpreter finally countered.

  “Dying for a Rhufeinig,” I countered, “is that a good death?”

  Again, a grunting discussion. This time, the one I assumed was their leader laughed and said something about se Romeh mann and se gerefa.

  The interpreter nodded, then said to me, “We give you Romeh Mann, we go?”

  I nodded and added, “You give me the Romeh Mann alive.”

  The leader made the sound, “Hwat?”

  The interpreter said something about se Romeh mann; the leader laughed again and nodded, “Goot! Goot!”

  The leader called out, “Dohmealde,” and gave what I assumed were instructions. One of his band brought Troucillus forward. Suddenly, the Kraut drew his knife. My hand dropped immediately to my own sword. But, the German chief raised his open hands in my direction. Then, I saw that “Drohmealde” was cutting Troucillus’ bindings. Then, the leader gestured to Troucillus that he should join us above the ford.

  When Troucillus had joined us, the chief said to me, “Al iss goot?”

  Before I could respond, Troucillus, rubbing his wrists, said, “Al iss goot! Abead halle, Erlvulf!”

  The journey back to where I had left Athauhnu and the rest of the Sequani was more challenging than the journey to the ford. The valley was now awash with Grunni fleeing the scene of the battle. Not only were there the obvious farm families with carts, children, and livestock, but also groups of men of fighting age, warriors, some showing wounds. I quickly discovered that, if we veered away from the Germans to the west, they mostly ignored us.

  Troucillus was relieved that he was finally free of Ariovistus. He told me many of the Krauts wanted to offer him as a blood sacrifice to their dark gods, but the old woman, whom the Germans called da ealde moder, stopped them. She said that the “Rune Stafas” told her the gods would not accept human blood in exchange for victory. She claimed that the power of the goddess, Sinthgunt, was waxing with the moon. When the moon was full, they should attack; Sinthgunt and her sister Sunna would ride from Asgard on steeds of fire and ice to lead the peoples of the forests to victory. Then, once das Romenen were vanguished, Troucillus and any prisoners who fell into their hands, should be burned as a thanksgiving offering to Moon and Sun.

  But, he had heard something else in their camp that disturbed him greatly. He insisted that he had to get to Caesar, QM, quam celerrime! I didn’t understand his urgency. Battle had already been joined and, from what I could see, won. What information could there be about Ariovistus’s intentions that was of importance now?

  Troucillus said the Krauts spoke openly in front of him about their plans. “The Suebii didn’t know that I understood one of their dialects,” Troucillus explained. “I know the language of the short-sword people . . . the Chaucingas . . . or Saxones as we call them . . . They talked right in front of me.”

  “What of it?” I contested. “Caesar has committed the legions . . . The battle will be decided by the time we return.”

  “It has nothing to do with the battle,” Troucillus insisted. “Ariovistus has a weighted die in his cup . . . Win or lose the battle, his goal is to kill Caesar . . . He has been paid well by Roman interests either to defeat Caesar on the battle field or to kill him . . . They don’t seem to care much which he does.”

  “Kill Caesar?” I challenged. “How is any Kraut going to get close enough to Caesar to stick a sica into his ribs?”

  “Ariovistus’ weapon is not a ‘Kraut,’ as you call it; it’s a Roman!” Troucillus revealed.

  “A Roman!” I said. “Metius . . . It must be Metius!”

  “I did not hear a name,” Troucillus responded. “But Metius’s involvement in this wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

  “Metius is back in camp!” I urged. “We have to get back there . . . We’ve got to stop him!”

  “Metius may not be our problem,” Troucillus cautioned.

  “What do you mean?” I questioned.

  “I know Metius is a rat, but he may not be this rat,” Troucillus explained. “Ariovistus kept referring to someone he called se Grekisc . . . the ‘Greek.’ Whoever is giving this sicarius his orders is called the Greek!”

  We continued to ride south, avoiding the Kraut refugees by circling them to the west, until we discovered that we had positioned ourselves almost due north of the eastern wagon laager.

  From our position near the bank of the Ilia, we could see that the battle on the west bank was over. Roman cavalry had reached the western laager, and many of the wagons were burning.

  The Romans hadn’t yet crossed the river, but the eastern laager looked mostly abandoned, with large gaps in its perimeter where wagons had been taken away by their fleeing owners. We decided to ride straight through, but I warned my men no looting. They were to defend themselves only if attacked, but no looting. Our mission was to get Troucillus back to Caesar as quickly as possible.

  When we entered the perimeter, we were assailed by the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste. The German cooking fires were still smoldering, and feral-looking dogs were routing about. There were still some Grunni skulking among the wagons, looting their own people. But, like the dogs, they scattered out of our way as we passed, some with departing snarls.

  When we cleared the laager to the south, I could see a group of riders approaching us. They rode under a red dragon pennant and wore Sequani colors. It was Athauhnu.

  “A great victory, a Pen!” he announced as he approached. “The Almaenwuhr are destroyed!”

  I nodded. “We have been watching them flee toward the Rhenus! I must return this man to Caesar quickly! Detail five men to escort me. You hold your station here. The Roman pursuit should begin soon. You may join it if you wish. There will be good hunting!”

  “Good hunting, indeed!” Athauhnu grinned. Then he turned and called down his column, “Emlun!”

  Athauhnu’s nephew rode up the column, “Yes, a eoua . . . I mean, a Pen.”

  “Take four men, and go with Arth Uthr to the camp of the Caisar,” Athauhnu instructed.

  Emlun’s face clearly revealed his disappointment. But, he was maturing as a warrior. “I go, a Pen,” he said simply.

  We rode to the Roman camps
guarding the western approaches of Caesar’s bridge. The sentries challenged us with the sign, “Virtus.” I gave the countersign, “Valor,” and we were waved through.

  When we got to the eastern approach to the bridge, we were stopped. A legionary turma was galloping toward us across the bridge. They were venatores, “hunters.” The pursuit of the fleeing Germans had begun.

  As soon as they cleared the bridge, I could see another group of riders approaching from the west. The sentry on my side was keeping us in place when Troucillus decided to pull rank.

  “Make way for the vexillatio praetiorianus of the Imperator!” he commanded.

  The mulus took one look at his narrow purple strip and my purple sash and stepped aside.

  As we pounded across the bridge, I yelled, “Make way in the name of the Imperator! Make way in the name of Caesar!”

  The approaching turma pulled up just short of the bridge. As I crossed, I saw it was led by Mani Knuckle Bones.

  Manius grinned when he saw me. “The way you were yelling, I thought you were delivering Ariovistus’ coleones in a golden coffer to Caesar!”

  I pulled up. “Good hunting over there, Mani! You have a lot to get even for.”

  Manius shook his head. “You can never get even, Gai! Numquam! Never!”

  I nodded. We shook hands, and Manius led his men east to kill Germans.

  Caesar would either still be on the field or in the camp of the Tenth Legion. Since we had to pass by the legionary castra, I decided to look there first. The sentry at the gate didn’t challenge us. He took in our equipment and Troucillus’ equestrian stripe, assumed we were Romans, and waved us through with a fist pump and the cry, “Io! Victoria!”

  I heard one of my boys echo him in Gah’el, “But’ugoliai!”

  I could just imagine the expression on that muli’s face when he realized he had just admitted a bunch of armed Gauls into a Roman castrum unchallenged.

  I quickly found Caesar’s praetorium. There was a sentry from his praetorian bodyguard at the entrance to the tent. He recognized me and nodded to Troucillus. He allowed us to pass right through. I told Emlun and my escort to dismount and water the horses lightly, no feed. We might have to ride again soon.

  Ebrius was not at his desk; he was probably still on the battlefield with his cohort. When we entered Caesar’s cubiculum, he was there, seated in a field chair while Spina attended to him. Caesar’s face was white and drawn. It was easy to understand why. Spina was stitching a slash that extended almost the entire length of Caesar’s right forearm.

  “Just a couple mowa n we’uh done heeah, Boss,” the medicus was saying.

  Caesar was taking some anesthetic from Spina’s pitcher of disinfectant wine. He looked up as we entered. When he saw Troucillus, his eyes widened, a notably expressive response coming from Caesar.

  “Troucillus! Laus omnibus diis! Praise all the gods! I was afraid those cunni had done for you!” he said, almost pulling his arm away from Spina.

  “Hold still theyuh, will ya, Boss?” Spina grouched. “Now dat’s goona leave a scaw!”

  “Women and voters love scars, doctor,” Caesar dimissed Spina’s complaint. “Troucillus, it’s good to see you back. Gai! I suppose I have you to thank for this?”

  As I nodded, Troucillus said, “Caesar! I have urgent information for you.”

  “What could be so urgent at this point?” Caesar began. Suddenly there was a crash in the outer tent. The flap to Caesar’s cubiculum burst aside, and a man dressed in a red military tunic and a subarmalis jacket entered. His upper right arm was wrapped in a legionary sudarium; in his left hand was a gladius, red with with fresh blood.

  It was Bulla.

  Spina tried to dismiss him, “This isn’t da medical tent, soljah.”

  My right hand darted for my sword, but Bulla smashed the pummel of his into my face, and I went down.

  “I’ll do for you when I’m done with the nob,” he snarled. “Now that I got this to thank you for, it aint gonna be quick, podex!”

  When I shook the tears out of my eyes, I noticed that Bulla had an angry, red, semi-healed slash along his left cheekbone.

  “The Greek’s striga, that Irish witch gave me this,” he said touching the wound. “The cunna said I was to leave you be . . . Her gods said you wasn’t for me . . . I told her to bas’mi culum, kiss me arse, so she gave me this . . . She can go to Hades . . . Dead, you’re worth a sack full of silver to me . . . But first, I’m gonna take care of what I was sent up here to do.”

  Caesar had risen to his feet. The thread with Spina’s needle still attached dangled down his right arm. I saw that Caesar’s sword was propped up against his lorica over by his campaign maps. His belt with his pugio was nowhere to be seen.

  “How did you get in here?” Caesar demanded.

  “Your security’s shit, yer honor!” Bulla told him, stripping the bandage from his right arm. “I walked right through the main gate . . . The sentry thought I was just another wounded soldier comin’ back from the fight . . . even wished me good luck . . . The rest o’ your boys are either out looking for loot or getting’ drunk . . . As far as that stultus, the idiot you left outside . . . I walked right up on him, asking directons to the aid station . . . He was being greeted by Dis before he realized his mistake.”

  “I followed ya in from the battle,” Bulla boasted. “I thought sure them Krauts did ya when they overran your lines . . . Would’a cost me a bundle if they did . . . but I got lucky . . . I saw your boys bring you back here with that wounded wing o’ yours . . . Gave me the idea of wrappin’ me own arm . . . Walked right in, like I said.”

  I tried to reach my knife while Bulla was talking, but all I got for my efforts was the toe of his caliga smashed into my ribs. “Wait your turn, verpa!” he hissed. “That Hibernian bitch ain’t tellin’ me what to do . . . Think I’ll pay her a little visit when I get back down to Massalia . . . her and that Graeculus, that Greekling, who let her cut me. Ya know, I was sitting right there in the caupona when you showed up . . . The Greek didn’t expect ya so soon . . . Had the striga take you into the back room to distract ya while he got me out . . . Hope she did ya up good . . . It’s the last you’re gonna get.”

  Bulla looked at Troucillus and Spina, “I got no contract for you two . . . but yer witnesses, and live witnesses are bad for business.”

  “Are you at least going to tell me who your working for?” Caesar asked.

  Bulla laughed, “I work for the silver, yer honor . . . The silver for your little Gaul here comes from La Matrona down in Massalia . . . The silver for you—”

  Emlun burst through the tent flap, his spatha out in front of him. He must have seen the dead sentry. Bulla turned. Emlun saw the gladius in Bulla’s hand and thrust forward. The blow took Bulla just under his breastbone. He grunted once and was dead before he hit the ground.

  Emlun stepped back, his sword still out. He saw Caesar and realized what he had just done. “Cacu!” he exclaimed in Gah’el. “Shit! A Rhufeinig! I killed a Roman warrior right in front of the Caisar!”

  “Cac’t indeed, young man!” Caesar answered as Bulla’s blood spread around his body. “And this Caisar is forever in your debt!”

  XVIII.

  De Fine Belli Primi Mei

  THE END OF MY FIRST CAMPAIGN

  Ita proelium restitutum est atque omnes hostes terga verterunt nec prius fugere destiterunt quam ad flumen Rhenum milia passuum ex eo loco circiter L pervenerunt ibi perpauci aut viribus confisi tranare contenderunt aut lintribus inventis sibi salutem reppererunt

  “And so the battle was won, and the entire enemy force turned their backs, and they didn’t stop running until they reached the Rhenus, some fifty miles away from the battlefield. There, the very few who escaped either relied on their strength to swim across or found small boats to escape.”

  (from Gaius Marius Insubrecus’ notebook of Caesar’s journal)

  Despite Caesar’s reassurances, it took me some time to calm Emlun down. Tro
ucillus embraced him, and Spina offered him his wine pitcher. Still, Emlun couldn’t get beyond the fact that he had just killed a man he believed to be a Roman soldier right in the middle of a legionary camp and in front of the commander himself. Finally, Caesar gave Emlun a Roman handshake, thanked him, and presented him with a leather purse bulging with denarii; I showed him out of the tent.

  Spina examined Bulla’s body and found a collegium mark tattooed in blue ink on his right shoulder.

  “Dat’s da mawk uh da Vicus Silani Salientis boys from up on dee Aventine,” he said pointing to a crudely drawn sica washed in a spray of water. “Dere’s a caupona right across from da fountain nee-uh where da crossroad shrine is . . . some lar vialis, a roadway god nobody remembers no more. . . Dat’s whey’uh you’d find ‘em usually . . . Day just stick mostly to strong-arm jobs, cutting purses, selling protection to da locals . . . a beatin’ awe two . . . a hit ev’ry now n den . . . Nuthin’ much to speak a.”

  Caesar was sitting back down in his camp chair, cradling the pitcher of wine. Spina’s thread and needle were still hanging from his right arm. “I don’t need their history back to Romulus, Spina. What’s a member of this . . . this “spuming fountain” gang doing here, dead in my tent?”

  Spina shrugged, “Da dead pawt’s easy, Boss . . . Da kid stabbed ‘im . . . Dee utter pawt . . . can’t tell ya dat, Boss . . . An dis one ain’t doin’ much tawkin’ . . . Word is, dair hooked up wit’ Milo’s bunch.”

  “Milo!” Caesar repeated. “If that’s so, this . . . this . . . What did you call it, Spina?”

  “A percussus,” Spina suggested, “A hit.”

  “Yes,” Caesar nodded, “this ‘hit’ might be traced back to elements in the senate . . . or even to Pompeius.”

  “Good luck tracin dat, Boss,” Spina shook his head. “Unlike certain people in dis tent, the Vicus Silani Salientis don’t write da memoirs of dare exploits . . . An dair not known for bein’ very tawkative.”

  Ignoring the barb, Caesar just nodded his head as I interrupted, “There’s still the matter of the Greek . . . and this Matrona, Patrone.”