Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

  ‘So we are all agreed then,’ Marcus said. ‘The tale of our voyage will be kept secret until Alexandros has had a chance to present his petition and evidence to the empress in Rome.’

  As he looked around the fire, each member of the crew nodded in solemn agreement. They had discussed it at length just after they first sighted the western coast of Hibernia, and had decided it best if they kept their epic journey a secret for now. Cora, Jodoc and Calista had feared ridicule and disbelief, but Marcus had been more concerned about news of their journey reaching the druids. For the druid’s would be wondering what had happened to their little trading post in Hyperborea and he did not want them coming to him and his family for answers and revenge.

  ‘My brother and I shall return to our home on the Isle of Vectis,’ Marcus said. ‘I want you all to know that you are welcome, if you decide to pay us a visit. There will always be space for you.’

  Across the fire from him, Cora suddenly raised her cup in the air and glanced around at her companions.

  ‘To us,’ she called out quietly.

  Around the crackling fire the cups were slowly raised.

  ‘To my father, who we had to leave behind; may his spirit find peace,’ Jodoc said in a grim, taught voice.

  ‘To my daughter, born in Hyperborea,’ Calista called out with a happy smile.

  ‘To the Hermes,’ Marcus said decisively, ‘for that little ship never let us down.’

  All of them fell silent as they lowered their cups to their lips and drank. Then from across the fire, Alexandros stirred, glanced up at the night sky and slowly opened his mouth and started to sing. His deep, mournful and melancholic voice drifted away into the darkness and as he sang they all joined in, singing the beautiful and tragic Hyperborean song they had all learned, during the long and harsh winter they’d spent in the New World.

  Chapter Eight – A Legion of Troubles

  The sweltering July sun beat down on the two riders as they walked their horses down the rutted, unpaved country lane. It was afternoon and Marcus’s horse was lathered in sweat and desperate for a drink, but Marcus kept the beast firmly on the path. There was not far to go now before they were home. An old and stained focale, an army neck scarf, was tied around his neck, soaking up the sweat. Sternly Marcus glanced sideways at Cunomoltus. His brother’s head was covered by a wide brimmed hat and he was squinting up at the sun. Cunomoltus looked much better now. His skin had returned to its normal colour and the spots had vanished and although he had lost several teeth, no more had fallen out since he’d gone onto his fruit and vegetable diet. The bleeding from his rectum had also ceased. The doctor had been right, Marcus thought. Recovery had been rapid and after ten days of enforced rest in one of the town’s tavern’s, the two of them had been able to set off southwards, homeward bound at last. But not rapid enough, Marcus thought with a pang of disappointment, for at the Legionary camp he had learned that Fergus had already left for Vectis, only a day ahead of them. Cunomoltus’s condition had however, prevented them from following immediately and now it was unlikely that Fergus would still be on Vectis when they arrived, for Fergus, Marcus had learnt, was bound for the Dacian frontier with a vexillation from the Twentieth. What luck, Marcus thought grimly, to have missed his son twice by just a few days.

  Noticing Marcus, Cunomoltus turned to him with an unsettled look.

  ‘Now that we are nearly home,’ Cunomoltus murmured, ‘I feel more nervous than when I was on the Hermes. What happens if all we find is disaster, death and ruin. We have been away for a long time, Marcus. Anything could have happened.’

  Marcus grunted and turned to look down the lane and then across the gently rolling fields and copses.

  ‘Yes we have been away for a long time,’ he muttered sternly. ‘But don’t be so despondent. Disaster, death and ruin do not change the fact that this is our home and that I am the head of my family.’

  ‘Well you sound confident,’ Cunomoltus said sourly.

  ‘This is not the first time that I have come home after a long absence,’ Marcus growled. ‘And after a while you realise that you have spent your life worrying about things that never happen.’

  At his side, Cunomoltus did not reply. Marcus however, was no longer paying attention to his brother. He had come to a halt in the middle of the track. In the distance he had caught sight of the smart, red roof tiles and neat, white-washed walls of a large Roman villa. The farm-house and its complex of outhouses, granaries, storerooms, agricultural buildings and barns, enclosed a courtyard. Smoke was rising from a chimney and a sturdy, wooden fence demarked his property. Out around the back of the villa the fields were covered in acres of glorious, golden wheat and a single field of barley. As Marcus stared at the villa a dog started to bark.

  Cunomoltus turned and grinned at him. The farm looked the epitome of prosperity and well-maintained order. Someone clearly had taken great pride in their home and refused to let the farm fall apart. Without a word, Marcus started out towards the front gate and as he did, he remembered the last time he’d come home, on a bitterly cold winter’s day, eighteen months ago, to find his wife had given birth to another man’s child. As they approached the front gate, a sleek hunting dog came bounding towards them, barking loudly. The dog was followed a few moments later by three children who came running up to the gate. The boy and two girls looked between eight and five years old, and all three came to an abrupt halt, as they caught sight of him. Then one of the girls turned and shouted something towards the villa.

  Marcus and Cunomoltus paused in the lane, clutching their horses’ reins. The children were clad in smart little summer tunics and they looked in rude health. For a moment, they eyed the two strangers warily. Then, as they caught sight of Cunomoltus, their faces lit up in sudden recognition and to Marcus’s astonishment they came running towards him with loud, shrill, excited cries.

  ‘Cunomoltus, its Cunomoltus; he’s come back,’ the children shrieked in delight. And, as Dylis’s children reached him, Cunomoltus roared in laughter and flung open his arms and grasped hold of the three children in playful delight. Slowly Marcus shook his head in bewilderment. He had forgotten how popular Cunomoltus had managed to make himself with his half-sister’s children, when he had first arrived at the villa. All three children were babbling at once and too fast, for his brother to answer the growing mountain of questions. Suddenly however, a heartfelt female shriek rent the hot, sweltering afternoon and Marcus turned to see a woman running towards him. He gasped. It was Kyna, his wife. There were tears streaming down her face, as she rushed towards him and flung her arms around him. Staggering backwards he grasped hold of her, as she buried her face into his neck, sobs of joy shaking her whole body.

  ‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ he whispered soothingly as Kyna clung to him.

  Dimly he was aware of more activity beyond the gate, as more people appeared from the farm buildings. Then Kyna was looking at him, a massive smile stretched across her tear-soaked cheeks.

  ‘I knew you would come back,’ she said, in a hoarse voice. ‘I knew you would. Nothing will ever stop you Marcus. That’s what I told everyone.’

  ‘Kyna,’ he said quietly as he ran his fingers through her long hair, ‘I have come back for good this time. I will not be leaving you again. That is a promise.’

  She said nothing as she buried her face into his neck. Then slowly Kyna released her grip, turned and slipped her arm around her man’s waist and gently and happily laid her head against his shoulder. Marcus suddenly spotted Dylis staring at him in disbelief, her arms folded across her chest. She was in her mid-twenties, a good ten years younger than Kyna, and to Marcus’s shock she had changed. Gone was the happy aura that had always seemed to surround his half-sister and instead, Dylis’s face looked creased with worry and strain. Slowly his sister shook her head, recovered from her surprise, and calmly came up to him, to give him a little, cold embrace.

  ‘Welcome back brother,’ she whispered. ‘Welcome home, Marcus.’


  Efa stood beside the gate and at her side was Petrus, a small, wooden cross dangling from his neck. Efa looked every inch the stern, old family matriarch. Her white hair had been done up in an impeccable manner and her fingers were adorned with glittering rings. She was clad in fine clothes and was staring at him with a shrewd, pleased expression. As Marcus caught sight of her, she respectfully dipped her head.

  ‘You found him, didn’t you,’ Efa said her voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘You have brought my Corbulo back to me?’

  Marcus looked down at the ground and for a moment he did not reply. Then he looked up at Efa and nodded. ‘I did,’ he said resolutely.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then slowly and with infinite grace, Efa stepped forwards, reached out to grasp Marcus’s hand and gently kissed it.

  ***

  The dining room was filled with loud, happy and excited chatter and good natured banter. It was evening and Marcus sat at the head of the table, his forearms resting on the solid oak, as he watched his family eating and drinking. He had ordered the kitchen slaves to use the finest of everything and they had duly cooked up a feast that covered the table leaving, on Efa’s instructions, just one single, empty plate, set aside for Corbulo’s spirit. As he took a sip of wine, Marcus silently glanced around the long rectangular table. They were all here, Efa, Corbulo’s aging widow; Dylis, his younger half-sister; Jowan her husband; their three, cheeky confident children who had greeted him at the front gate; Kyna; Petrus, the Christian boy whom Corbulo had rescued from certain death in Londinium, nearly twenty years earlier; Cunomoltus and, sitting quietly between them the two newcomers, Elsa and Armin, Lucius’s orphaned children. They were all here except for Quintus, Ahern and Fergus. Quintus had died during the winter and had been buried on the battlefield, where he and Corbulo had fought against the Barbarian Queen, forty-four years earlier. And Fergus, Marcus sighed, for as he had expected, he had missed his son by only a few days. Fergus had already left to report to his unit at Rutupiae, prior to embarkation for Gaul. Kyna had told him that the boy had come to Vectis, with the intention of trying to help her before his brief leave was over. He’d not achieved much in the short time he’d stayed, but Fergus’s action had nevertheless pleased Marcus, for his son had clearly remembered what he’d told him the last time they had seen each other. And now Fergus was destined for the Dacian frontier, just like he, Marcus had once been, many years ago. Marcus lowered his eyes with sudden sadness. It could be years before Fergus returned, if indeed he ever did. At his side, noticing his changed mood, Kyna reached out and laid her hand over his, and smiled at her husband.

  ‘You haven’t asked about Ahern,’ Kyna whispered, as she leant against Marcus. Without allowing him the chance to answer she continued; ‘last year Dylis and I managed to arrange for him to attend Maximus’s Ludus in Londinium. That is where he is now, in Londinium. The school is an elite institution. It has the best teachers and Ahern was smart enough to gain entrance.’ Kyna’s face grew flushed. ‘The teachers say he is a very gifted and talented boy. He is going to grow up amongst the young sons of the richest, and most powerful families in the province. Isn’t that something?’

  Slowly Marcus nodded, as he digested the news. He had refused to accept Kyna’s son by another man as his own and instead had forced Jowan and Dylis to adopt Ahern. But the news that the boy had been accepted into such a prestigious school was pleasing even though Ahern would never legally inherit anything that belonged to him. The boy should count himself lucky that he had been spared.

  ‘That must have cost us a lot of money,’ Marcus replied quietly, as he placed his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘It did,’ Kyna replied. ‘But the farm is doing well, we are prospering. Dylis has been managing our affairs and she is doing an amazing job. She has a head for money and business. You should honour her for that, Marcus?’

  Marcus grunted as he turned to glance at his half-sister. Dylis was listening to her children talking in loud, excited voices, but she clearly looked tired and stress had left its mark on her face.

  ‘Children, quiet now,’ Marcus said sharply. Obediently the youngsters fell silent as, around the table all eyes turned to look at him. Marcus cleared his throat. ‘Now that we have eaten and drunk our fill,’ he declared in a quieter, tired voice, ‘it is time that I told you about our journey across the sea. But before I do, you will join me in a toast, a toast to us, a strong family, Corbulo’s family, for this is who we are and without him we would be nothing. He dines with us tonight.’

  Marcus rose to his feet and raised his cup and around the dinner table the others did the same, some of them glancing at the empty plate. Having completed the toast, Marcus gestured at Cunomoltus, who retrieved a small leather bag that hung from his belt.

  ‘We have been across the ocean to Hyperborea,’ Marcus said quietly looking down at the table. ‘It was a long, hazardous voyage into the unknown, but now we have returned and we have come home with Corbulo’s mortal remains. He will be buried as per his final wish and his spirit will finally find peace.’

  ‘You have made us all proud Marcus,’ Efa replied.

  Ignoring Efa, Marcus gestured once more at Cunomoltus, who began to empty the contents of the pouch out onto the table. And as he did, a murmur arose around the table as everyone stared at the colourful stone and bead necklaces, Hyperborean pendants, armbands, plain rings and bone earrings.

  As the pile of gifts began to get shared out around the table, Marcus began to speak slowly, recounting their journey on the Hermes across the ocean and their adventures in Hyperborea and as he did, the table gradually fell silent in stunned disbelief and fascination.

  ‘So Captain Alexandros arrived just in time to save us from the Hyperborean war band,’ Marcus said, pausing to take a sip of wine. ‘But the Hermes was in no state to make the journey back across the ocean. We needed time to make proper repairs to the ship and Jodoc’s wounds needed to heal, so we headed north along the coast until we reached a small island at the mouth of a river. The island was deserted, rocky and heavily wooded, and it made an ideal spot on which to carry out our repairs. During our stay we made contact with the natives, a tribe called the MicMac and with them we established friendly relations, bartering and trading for food, clothes and other essential goods. By the time the repairs to the mast and hull had been made and Jodoc’s wounds had healed, the summer was over and the winter storms were upon us. Under such conditions it would have been madness to try and cross the ocean, for we were by now fully aware of her power and wrath, so I decided that we would stay and overwinter in Hyperborea and start out for home in the spring. But soon the natives with whom we traded, started to die from disease and the survivors became hostile, forcing us to leave our little island and head due south.

  Marcus paused to take another sip of wine, as the faces around the table stared at him in complete, stunned silence.

  ‘After that,’ Marcus continued in a quiet voice, ‘we followed the coast around what appeared to be a large island for a month until we reached a navigable river on the eastern shore. Sailing inland up this stream, we soon found a suitable spot along a heavily-wooded stretch of land and here we remained for the long winter. And what a winter we had. Snow so deep you could drown in it; cold like we had never experienced before and endless days of blizzards, raging storms and little sunlight. If it had not been for the friendly welcome from a native settlement, who supplied us with food, I think we would have frozen or starved to death, long before spring came. Calista was pregnant with Jodoc’s child, and her father, Alexandros, had lost an eye. Cunomoltus and I would often go out hunting in the vast forests, together with the natives, and during this time I learned a few words in their language and I learned to love the herbs which they like to smoke. During this time, my brother fought with a bear and killed it and even had enough energy left, to fall in love with a native girl and get her pregnant. But when spring finally arrived, we were forced to leave her behind,
for her family would not consent to see her go with us. Instead they gave us a man called Matunaagd, who had managed to learn a little of our language and who would come with us across the ocean, but he soon died from disease and we were forced to bury him at sea.’

  Marcus paused and glanced across the table at Cunomoltus. His brother however was gazing down at the table, lost in sombre thought.

  ‘So,’ Marcus sighed, ‘with the arrival of spring, all of us, having survived the winter, set out for home. Initially we sailed north, until we reached a wooded coast, which we followed eastwards as far as it would go. At its most easterly point we made contact with a small native settlement, whose inhabitants explained that there was no more land to the north or east of us. When we told them that we were nevertheless heading east, they advised us to follow the course of the huge, black sea-demons, which guard the ocean and which we had already encountered on our outbound journey. These sea beasts would show us the way to the rich, fishing-grounds and the river in the ocean, as the natives described it. If we caught it, the current, would propel us eastwards at great speed. So, not without a certain amount of anxiety, we set out eastwards into the endless and vast ocean. The winds and current favoured us and we made good progress, but the power of the ocean is beyond anything you can imagine and the sea gods were not about to let us go so easily. For thirty-two days, we were out there, alone on the wild ocean, and during that whole time, we did not sight land once. The sea gods threw storms, icebergs and huge waves at us. They tried to trick us by hiding the sun behind clouds; withdrawing the winds and striking us with lightning bolts. But we persevered and eventually with our drinking water running low, we finally sighted land, which turned out to be the western coast of Hibernia. Here we made land fall and replenished our supplies, but we told the Hibernians nothing about where we had been, for I do not wish the druids to know about our journey. From Hibernia it was an easy journey back to the port at Deva Victrix, although all of us were much worried by my brother’s deteriorating condition.’