Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

  ‘Alright,’ he murmured at last, ‘We shall call her Briana, for she will be a strong girl and she shall have her mother’s beautiful, blond hair and she shall fear nothing.’

  Galena smiled and looked away, but he could see that she was pleased. Then before he could stop her, she had grabbed his groin and pulled him close, her eyes staring up at him with sudden determination.

  ‘I know you Fergus, soldier of Rome; I know your desires; I know what you like to do with this thing of yours, but when you are away fighting your war, you had better get used to using your right hand. Stay away from those town whores and pretty temptresses for none of them will ever be me. None of them will ever give you what I will give you.’

  ***

  The thousand or so legionaries stood crammed into the parade ground, packed in close together, as they listened to the young Tribune. It was morning and the grey, dull sky was heavily overcast. The senior officer was standing on top of a box, as he addressed the troops, clad in his fine, muscle-cuirassed armour and red cloak. At his side Fergus could see the Legion’s Legate and a cluster of senior officers, together with the standard bearers, proudly holding up the gleaming standards of the Twentieth Legion. Fergus stood at the back of the crowd, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the young Tribune, who had been appointed to lead the Vexillatio. The officer was speaking in a loud voice, but Fergus was too far away to properly hear what he was saying. Around him, he sensed the soldiers’ excitement. Competition to be included in the Vexillatio that was being sent to the Danube frontier had been fierce, for the war offered not only a taste of action, but also the prospect of promotion and serious looting. A soldier could return a rich man from a successful war and there was, not a single legionary in the Legion who didn’t expect Rome to win. And now the Legate had decided to send the Second and Sixth Cohorts, a total of a thousand legionaries. The rumour that had spread through the ranks, was that the Legate was keen to send younger soldiers and leave the older men behind at Deva. Fergus sighed. Galena had been right; they were sending him half way across the Empire; a two-thousand-mile journey, to fight in the coming Dacian campaign. A resigned look appeared on Fergus’s face. He had never even left the province of Britannia and now he was leaving his pregnant wife behind. Galena had managed the farewell in a stoic fashion, but he knew she was desperately worried. No one knew how long the Dacian war would last and he could easily be gone for years. It was going to be hard on her. But he had made a will just like he had promised, and he had deposited it with the signifer in the office, where all the company records were kept. The will hadn’t been much, just a simple statement that he left all his earthly belongings to his wife, not that they amounted to much. And now that everything had been taken care of, he was worried, for he would not be there at Galena’s side when his baby was born. Childbirth was a daunting challenge for any woman and there was a significant chance that Galena would die during the ordeal. Nervously he fingered the iron maze amulet that she had given him. He needed to be strong and not think about such things. Turning to look away from the Tribune standing on his box, Fergus noticed that the Legionary workshops were a hive of activity, as the army engineers swarmed over dozens of wagons and carts, preparing them for the long, journey ahead. The word in the company was that they would be leaving Deva within a week. Fergus sighed again and looked down at his feet. It was time to tell Titus about his plan and he was fairly certain that the Centurion was not going to like it.

  ‘He will see you now,’ Titus’s slave said quietly as he opened the door leading into the Centurion’s quarters. Stiffly, Fergus rose from the small bench outside the door where he had been waiting. Titus was wealthy enough to own two slaves who lived with him in the barracks. That Titus could afford such luxuries, did not surprise Fergus, for the Centurion had been a soldier for over twenty-two years, and the rumour in the company was that his pay was over eight times that, which a normal legionary received.

  The slave silently closed the door behind him. Lydia, Titus’s young wife was reclining on a couch against the far wall, idly dropping grapes into her mouth. She was a pretty, fit looking young woman of around twenty; twice as young as her husband. She gave Fergus a friendly wink as he stepped into the room. Titus, clad in white army tunic was sitting behind a desk, resting his head on his elbow as he stared at the huge pile of documents that lay on the table. Wearily he looked up.

  ‘What is it?’ he said sharply.

  Fergus turned, took a step towards Titus and saluted smartly.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you Sir,’ he said quickly. ‘I was wondering whether I could have a word with you Sir. It’s important.’

  ‘Speak,’ Titus said, turning to look down at the pile of documents on his desk. ‘Get to the point Fergus, I don’t have all day.’

  ‘I want to ask your permission for some leave, Sir. I have had news from my family on Vectis; bad news Sir. I would like your permission to go and see them before we ship out.’

  ‘You want a holiday,’ Titus exclaimed in a surprised voice, as he leant back in his chair and stared up at Fergus.

  ‘Not a holiday Sir,’ Fergus muttered. He was committed now. There was no going back. ‘There has been a death and I need to see my family. There are some matters that need taking care of. Please Sir, we are going to be gone for a long time. This is my last chance to say goodbye. And I promise that I will report back to the company before we set sail for Gaul. You have my word.’

  Titus’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fergus and for a long moment, the room was silent.

  ‘You ask for permission to take leave and visit your family just before the company is about to embark on a journey, half way across the Empire,’ Titus said slowly. ‘Were you not present when I spoke to all NCO’s about the importance of inspiring their men? Were you not there when I said that I only wanted the best man to be my Tesserarius? I need you here Fergus, there are a lot of preparations to take care of and if I let you go the others will soon be demanding the same privilege.’

  ‘Please Sir,’ Fergus muttered staring straight ahead into space, ‘There are matters that I must take care of that cannot wait. Legal matters Sir. My father is absent.’

  ‘Oh let the poor boy go, Titus,’ Lydia called from her couch, ‘The boys are not going to see their families for a long time. He has already promised he will report back before we sail.’

  Titus’s face itched with sudden annoyance but he did nothing to scold his wife for interrupting. Instead he tapped his fingers on the wooden table and thoughtfully looked down at the documents that lay strewn across it.

  ‘This is unexpected Fergus,’ he said at last in a disappointed voice. ‘And I cannot say that I am pleased. You are asking for a lot and your timing is shit.’

  Titus looked up sharply and Fergus could see that he was indeed not pleased. ‘We embark for Gaul from the port at Rutupiae. I shall expect you to report back to me there on the last day of June. If you are late or do not show up I will report you as having deserted.’ The expression on Titus’s face hardened. ‘You know the penalty for desertion, you know what the consequences are.’

  ‘Yes Sir, but I am no deserter,’ Fergus replied. ‘I will be there on the appointed day. I will not let you down Sir and thank you.’

  ‘Alright,’ Titus said raising his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘You had better get going.’

  Fergus saluted, turned smartly and headed for the exit and, as he did, from her couch, Lydia gave him another wink. Just as he reached the doorway and the slave waiting outside, Titus called out.

  ‘I am only doing this out of respect for your grandfather, Corbulo.’

  ***

  The horse trotted down the straight Roman road, its hooves clattering on the stone, paving stones and gravel. It was early evening and the road was deserted. Already the Legionary Fortress of Deva Victrix had nearly vanished from view. Fergus, clad in a long, dark cloak with a hood drawn over his head, paused and slowly turned the horse around and gazed back at the
army base. He was leaving Galena behind. He was leaving his unborn baby behind, and for a split second it felt as if he was running away. Tensely he gazed at the distant buildings. But Kyna and Efa needed him. His family on Vectis were in trouble. They needed a man to sort out the danger that was circling the family home. That was why Kyna had written to him. His mother would never admit it of course, but it was there, the unspoken words in her letter. She needed his help. He wouldn’t have much time, but he would do what he could. Anxiously he raised his hand and scratched the stubble on his cheek. He had not forgotten what Marcus had told him over a year ago.

  ‘Do your duty, honour your family and the gods and you will be a man, son,’ Fergus muttered to himself, repeating the exact words that his father had spoken. ‘If you can do that, you have nothing to fear in this life or the next. Look after yourself and remember that one day, you will inherit the farm and our land on Vectis and that you will be responsible for all our people there.’

  Kyna, Efa, Dylis and the others were in trouble. They were his people and in his father’s absence he was the head of his family. So, he was going home to help them. He would do what he could.

  ***

  As he started off again down the road, heading south, Fergus was oblivious to the eagle that soared high above his head. The hunting bird drifted on the air currents, its talons extended and its sharp eyes and curved beak taking in the solitary rider. Then with a high-pitched shriek, the hunter effortlessly wheeled away towards the distant sea. As it glided over the coastline, the bird was lifted by a stream of warm-air, which sent it shooting upwards into the darkening gloom. Drifting on the choppy, upward drafts, the eagle turned gracefully, its sharp, beady eyes watching the water. And as it did it caught sight of a small battered Roman merchant vessel stubbornly ploughing through the waves. It opened its mouth and cried out again; its piercing cry lost amongst the whine of the wind. Far below the hunter, the ship’s red square sail was bulging outwards and from the top of the mast the proud pennant depicting Hermes fluttered in the wind as the vessel headed straight for the wide river mouth that led upstream to the Roman Fortress of Deva Victrix.

  Chapter Six – The Old Man

  The Hermes plunged and rose through the waves sending gusts of salty spray flying and spattering over the deck. Marcus stood on top of the deck house, steadying himself against the ship’s railing as he gazed at the grey coastline, his head and body covered by a rough, seal-skin hood and cloak. He looked tired and his pale, weather-beaten face and emaciated body had shrunk, turning him into an old man, something his long grey beard and seal skin clothes could not hide. His eyes however betrayed no emotion, except for a certain grim satisfaction. In his right hand he was clutching a Hyperborean pipe, which he now and then raised to his lips, exhaling and sending little puffs of smoke drifting away on the fresh, sea breeze. At his side clutching the tiller, Alexandros too was staring at the distant coastline, a black, eye-patch covering one eye. The two men were silent as the Hermes headed towards the wide, river estuary. Amidships, the new and rough Hyperborean mast towered up into the sky and the patched, red-square sail bulged in the wind and the ropes that held it in place, creaked and groaned.

  Idly Marcus raised his head and squinted up at the sky, as he swore that he heard a bird’s high-pitched cry, but amongst the heavy clouds he could see nothing. Not long now he thought. Not long now before their long and epic sea voyage would come to an end. At the thought, sadness appeared on his tough, emaciated face. It would be a sad moment when the crew finally said goodbye to each other. What things they had seen on their fifteen-month long journey; what things they had experienced together; what an adventure they had shared. As if reading his thoughts, Alexandros turned his head towards Marcus. The Greek captain nodded and a little weary smile appeared on his lips. There was no need to explain, Marcus thought, Alexandros understood. The whole crew had formed a tight-knit bond, welded together by the shared need and desire to survive, and which allowed them to read each other without saying a word.

  ‘The river will lead us to the Legionary Fortress,’ Marcus called out, gesturing at the estuary. ‘Fergus is based there. It’s not far. Tonight, we shall sleep on land.’

  Alexandros nodded but said nothing. Instead, with his one good eye, he was watching his daughter Calista who stood at the bow of the ship together with Jodoc. In her arms Calista was holding a baby, heavily wrapped in bundles of cloth against the cold, sea spray and fierce breeze. She smiled as Jodoc placed his arm around her and pointed at something on the coast. A flicker of contentment appeared on Marcus’s face, as he stared at the young couple and their new-born daughter. Then he took another drag from his pipe and blew the smoke from his mouth, and as he did so, he remembered the sullen and angry young man he’d dragged back onto the Hermes, all those months ago, when they had managed to escape from the Hyperborean’s on the beach beside the ruined druid trading post. Having Calista, and becoming a father, had changed Jodoc for the better. He had found happiness with his new family and it had helped him come to terms with his father’s death. He had also consoled himself with the thought that his father’s book, the History of the Tribes of Britannia, was safely hidden somewhere in Hyperborea.

  The contented look on Marcus’s face vanished abruptly, as beneath his feet he heard a loud groan. A moment later Cora, Alexandros’s wife, appeared from the deck house and turned to look up at the two men standing on the roof. Her hard, weather beaten face creased with concern.

  ‘He’s asking for you,’ Cora said sharply, as she looked up at Marcus. ‘You had better come down and talk to him.’

  Without saying a word, Marcus emptied the remnants of his tobacco pipe over the ship’s side and started to climb down the ladder. As he landed on the deck, Cora caught hold of Marcus’s sleeve. She looked anxious.

  ‘I have tried everything I know,’ she said quietly in a resigned voice. ‘But he is not getting any better. If I knew what was wrong with him, then maybe I could do something about it. But I have never seen an illness like this one before. If the legionary doctors don’t know what to do, then he is going to die and die soon. There is not much time. He is getting weaker.’

  Marcus did not reply as he stepped into the dark and dank cabin. Cunomoltus lay stretched out on the floor on a bed made from seal and moose skins. A large, brown bear-skin covered his body and his head lay propped up against a pillow of beaver hide. His eyes were closed and he was groaning. On the rolling and pitching deck around him, lay an assortment of cooking pots and iron utensils. Carefully Marcus knelt beside his brother and touched Cunomoltus’s forehead with the two remaining fingers of his left hand. He was burning up with fever. With a sigh, Marcus sat back. The illness had struck on the fourteenth day after they had last sighted land. Cunomoltus had complained of fatigue and then, one day his body was covered in spots and his skin had started to turn yellow. It had been followed by teeth loss and blood in his shit, and the longer it had gone on, the weaker he’d become.

  ‘I am here,’ Marcus said quietly. ‘I am here, brother.’

  In his bed, Cunomoltus groaned and slowly opened his eyes. His face seemed to have shrunk and now resembled little more than skin over bone.

  ‘Marcus,’ Cunomoltus wheezed as he tried to smile. ‘Marcus, I think I know why this is happening to me.’

  ‘You need to rest,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘You are going to survive. We have sighted the coast. We should make Deva Victrix before nightfall. We are nearly home, brother. Just a few more hours. You have to remain strong.’

  Weakly Cunomoltus shook his head. ‘No, listen to me brother,’ he murmured. ‘I know why this illness has taken me. The Gods are punishing me. This is my punishment for leaving Alawa behind. We should have brought her with us, Marcus. I should not have left her behind. Now I must pay for my sins.’

  Marcus sighed and looked away. Alawa had been a Hyperborean girl; a girl with whom Cunomoltus had fallen in love with during the harsh cold winter. His brother should have
known better, for there had been no chance of her coming with them across the ocean. Her tribe would never have allowed it and so, when spring had finally come and the Hermes had set out on its long, sea voyage back home, Cunomoltus had been forced to leave his pregnant sweetheart behind. It had very nearly broken his heart and for days, he had not spoken a word to anyone. And now this. Annoyed, Marcus shook his head.

  ‘You will stay alive brother,’ Marcus said. ‘We have not just crossed the ocean and faced all its perils for you to die within sight of home. Don’t you dare. You are going to survive.’

  Stiffly Marcus got to his feet as in his bed, Cunomoltus groaned and looked up at him.

  ‘I mean it,’ Marcus snapped harshly. ‘If you die now, I am going to be so fucking pissed off, I will give you a burial at sea, just like we did with Matunaagd, without the proper rites. There are still things that need to be done. Or have you forgotten that we are still obliged to fulfil our father’s final instruction. Corbulo is waiting to have his mortal remains buried on the battlefield, where he fought against Boudicca and that is what we are going to do, together.’

  ***

  Marcus strode across the pitching deck towards the forward cargo hatch. He had long ago stopped feeling the sway and roll of the sea. Up ahead, the coast was drawing closer. Without a glance at the young couple standing by the prow, he heaved open the cargo hatch and disappeared into the dark hold. In the gloom, it took a few moments before his eyes adjusted to the light. Bales of moose, beaver, bear, seal and wolf skins, lay packed along the bulkheads, and further along, he could make out sacks of Hyperborean fruits, roots, plants and a single, bone-headed harpoon. The harpoon had belonged to Matunaagd, a native whom they had befriended during the long winter and who had volunteered to come with them back across the ocean. But during the crossing the Hyperborean had grown sick and had died and they had been forced to bury him at sea. Marcus grunted as he stooped and began to search for something amongst the bales and sacks. It had taken Alexandros and Cora the whole long, dark and freezing winter to collect everything which they had done through hunting and bartering with the natives. Ignoring the supplies, they’d picked up when they had first sighted the Hibernian coast, Marcus rummaged around in the semi-dark, until at last he found what he was looking for. He’d developed a strong liking for the Hyperborean smoking herbs, which had a strange calming effect on him, and on the long voyage home he’d become addicted to his pipe. Stuffing some of the herbs into his pocket, he turned and climbed back up onto the deck and into the day light.