Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

‘But we don’t want to do that.’ Cunomoltus said with a frown.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that for sure,’ Marcus growled. ‘It’s worth a try.’

  The street ahead still followed the contours of the old Roman fort and as the two of them passed a tavern that had been built into the original defensive embankment, a man suddenly screamed out Cunomoltus’s name.

  ‘Cunomoltus,’ the man roared again, and this time his shout silenced the pedestrians in the street and people stopped, and turned to stare. Slowly Marcus and Cunomoltus turned to look at the man who had challenged them and, as they did Marcus’s heart sank as he recognised the huge, towering hulk of the man standing in the street a few paces away. It was Nectovelius, the man who had come looking for Cunomoltus at the farm earlier in the year and whose wife Cunomoltus had shagged in Londinium. Nectovelius was staring at Cunomoltus with blazing, furious eyes, his red cheeks glowing and even from a few yards away, Marcus could smell the wine on the man’s breath.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ Nectovelius roared slurring his words as he glared menacingly at Cunomoltus. ‘So I have finally caught up with you. I knew that if I waited long enough you would show up like a bad smell. And now you bastard I am going to kill you,’ he said drawing a knife from his belt.

  ‘What.’ Cunomoltus cried out as he staggered backwards in alarm. ‘I thought we had gotten past all of this. The debts that I owed have been repaid. There was an agreement with the ‘Blues.’ You were there. And I never want to see you or your wife again. Can’t we just move on?’

  ‘No!’ Nectovelius roared, as Marcus and Cunomoltus hastily stumbled backwards as he lunged at them with his knife. The aim was poor and it was clear that Nectovelius was drunk as a skunk.

  In the street, the crowd gasped and someone cried out in warning as they stared at the developing fight in the middle of the street.

  ‘Why not,’ Cunomoltus shouted as he yanked his own knife from his belt. ‘My debts with your brothers have been settled. I owe you nothing.’

  ‘Because she has left me,’ Nectovelius roared. ‘She ran off and it’s all your fault. So, I am going to kill you for that. Now stand still lecherous pig and take what is coming to you.’

  But, as Nectovelius lunged again he stumbled too far to his left and into Marcus’s path and, with a quick decisive movement Marcus thrust his short army pugio knife straight into the man’s head. The blade slid straight into Nectovelius’s eye with a sickening crunch sending blood gushing down his face. Nectovelius dropped his knife and with a vicious kick Marcus sent the big, howling-man tumbling to the ground, covered in blood and clutching his forehead. In the street, Marcus, his chest heaving with exertion, stood staring down at the writhing figure, lying in the dust. But before he could make another move, Cunomoltus pounced with a shrill, vindictive yell and grasping hold of Nectovelius’s hair, he sliced open the man’s throat sending another torrent of blood flooding onto the street.

  ‘Bastard deserved it,’ Cunomoltus cried out as he staggered back from the corpse, ‘You heard him. He is better off dead.’

  Marcus said nothing, as he stared down at the body and the rapidly growing pool of blood.

  Amongst the crowd that was staring at the gory bloody scene in the middle of the street, a sudden angry muttering arose. Then as Marcus turned to look at them, some from within the crowd started to hiss.

  ‘Christian! Murderer!’ A man suddenly yelled raising a fist in the air.

  ‘That’s the man who insulted the priests and the gods,’ another cried out.

  In alarm, Marcus took a step backwards. What was this? The crowd was turning against them. Then a priest, clad in his ceremonial robes suddenly appeared amongst the onlookers and as he caught sight of Marcus, his face darkened and he raised and pointed a finger straight at him.

  ‘Christians,’ the priest roared furiously. ‘Christians have no place in this town. Get them! Let’s string them up from the nearest tree.’

  ‘Run,’ Marcus cried, turning to Cunomoltus. His brother needed no further urging. As the two of them fled down the street, with a great enthusiastic roar, the angry lynch mob set off in pursuit. As he ran, a man tried to grasp hold of Marcus, but Marcus violently shoved him out of the way. Ahead of him a woman and two small children hastily scampered to safety down an alley, as he and Cunomoltus raced down the street with the loud, baying mob close behind. From an alley, a dog came bounding into the street, barking madly as it ran alongside them. Just as they were nearing the edge of the town a stone struck Marcus on his back and another went flying just over his head. Marcus groaned as he suddenly caught sight of the two elderly town guards standing beside the gateway, that was the only way out through the town’s palisade and earthen embankment. The guards were armed with spears but, as they turned to see the large town mob bearing down on them, with Marcus and Cunomoltus out in front, the men flung down their weapons and fled through the gates.

  As Marcus and Cunomoltus shot out through the gates and into the fields beyond, most of the baying mob came to a ragged, panting halt and a final stone hit Marcus on his elbow. Risking a quick glance behind him, Marcus saw that the last of their pursuers had given up and were furiously shaking their fists in the air instead.

  ‘Damn you and damn you Petrus,’ Marcus panted as he gave Cunomoltus an angry scowl. ‘Damn you both for getting us into such unnecessary trouble.’

  Chapter Fifteen – Resolution

  Marcus was inspecting the V shaped trench, dug by the slaves around the main complex of farm buildings, when the warning bell rang out. Startled, he looked up in the direction of the lookout post on top of the roof of the main villa. The slave had risen to his feet and was standing, staring at something along the track to the north and shaking his small, iron bell for all it was worth.

  ‘Get to your positions,’ Marcus roared, as he started to run towards the house. In the trench the slaves, clutching their entrenching tools, were already scrambling out of the ditch. As Marcus reached the front door, one of the Batavian’s joined him, holding a bow with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Has the prick come?’ the Batavian growled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marcus snapped. Inside he nearly collided with Kyna, who was hurriedly ushering the children into one of the rooms. She looked pale, but Marcus was glad to see that, although they looked scared, none of the children was crying. As he emerged into the courtyard at the front of the house he turned sharply and looked up at the lookout, standing on the roof.

  ‘What can you see?’ Marcus shouted as one of the hunting dogs started to bark.

  ‘Single horseman coming down the track Sir,’ the slave cried out. ‘He is moving at a fast pace. Will be here very soon.’

  Marcus grunted and turned to stare across the courtyard towards the newly constructed, palisade and the gap left at the front gate. A single horseman was not what he had been expecting. For a moment, he bit his lip as he considered telling the lookout off for raising the alarm unnecessarily, but then decided against it. A moment later both Cunomoltus, clutching a bow and a spear, and Petrus armed with his hunting bow and quiver, came rushing up to him, looking flushed and excited. Without saying a word Marcus started out towards the front gate with them trailing behind. As he reached the gate, he heard the thud of hooves coming towards him. Quickly he glanced up at the morning sky. It was still dry and warm but to the west, a line of dark, grey-clouds was moving towards them, bringing rain. Turning to glare at the solitary rider thundering towards him, Marcus frowned as he recognised the owner of the neighbouring farm.

  As he reached the front gate, the rider reined in his horse and the beast snorted and came to a halt. The horseman’s face was streaked with dust and he gave Marcus a quick anxious, respectful nod which Marcus returned.

  ‘Trouble coming Marcus,’ the farmer called out in a tense voice as he sat on his horse and wiped his brow. ‘My son says he saw Priscinus and maybe thirty to forty armed-men landing on the island this morning. They a
re accompanied by a few priests and townsfolk from Reginorum. It looks like they have come for a fight. My son came straight over to warn me. He says that the last he saw of them, Priscinus and his men were heading inland in your direction. I thought I should warn you.’

  Grimly Marcus turned to stare down the deserted track leading northwards. Then he turned to look at his neighbour and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘We appreciate it.’

  The farmer sighed and cast a quick glance down the track.

  ‘You know I would help you if I could, Marcus,’ the man exclaimed. ‘But Priscinus is coming in force and I have my own farm and family to consider. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus replied. ‘I understand. You are a good neighbour. But we will still be here tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope so,’ the farmer said with an anxious nod as he wheeled his horse around and started back down the track.

  Marcus remained silent as he, Cunomoltus and Petrus watched the man ride away. Then sharply Marcus turned to his brother.

  ‘Take up your positions,’ he growled. ‘We will wait for them to appear. Tell the others we have an hour or so.’

  ***

  Marcus patted the Batavian on his shoulder as he slowly made the rounds along the rough, but sturdy-looking palisade that surrounded the farm house and out buildings. At intervals along the wooden wall Jowan, and the slaves had constructed raised platforms from which the defenders had an unobstructed view of the golden and glorious looking wheat-fields. The Batavians, armed with bows, proper swords, shields, helmets and thick, leather-armour had divided into pairs, each pair manning one of the platforms, which were spread out around the oval-shaped perimeter. The slaves were strung out in between them, forming a ragged-looking band of men and women, equipped with spades, sickles, knifes, stones and axes but nothing else. As he strode along the wall, Marcus called out to them with reassuring words but the slaves, tight lipped and tense said nothing in reply. As he came around to the front gate, he saw Cunomoltus, Jowan and Petrus anxiously staring up the track to the north. The gate had been barred and a barricade of old planks, sharpened stakes, barrels and prickly thorn-bushes had been piled up against it. The men glanced around, as they saw him coming, their faces betraying their emotions. Marcus glanced up the track. Still nothing. More than two hours had passed since their neighbour had ridden up to warn them. Idly he glanced at the farm house. Efa and Kyna were inside, looking after the children. They knew what to do if matters went badly. Marcus sighed. Ideally that was where he would have placed his reserve too but this was not the army he had to remind himself. Apart from the Batavians, the people who were going to fight were not trained to do this. They were his family and his farm’s slaves. Marcus took a deep breath as he came and stood beside his brother at the front gate. Around him the farm was strangely quiet, except for the barking of a dog and the mooing of the cattle in their pen.

  ‘There,’ Petrus said quietly pointing at something in the distance.

  Marcus peered down the track in the direction that Petrus was pointing. Then he too saw it. A solitary wagon was coming down the path towards the farm kicking up a cloud of dust. The cart was being pulled along by two horses and on both sides of the vehicle, columns of armed-men in single file and on foot were plodding towards the farm. For a moment Marcus did not move. Then his face darkened and he opened his mouth and quietly growled like a wolf.

  ‘When I give the order I want you to skewer the first bastard who comes within range,’ he said harshly turning to Petrus. ‘They need to know that we are serious. But don’t go for Priscinus. He’s not to be targeted. I need him alive. The prick can’t walk anyway.’

  ‘I can’t promise you that,’ Petrus said tensely. ‘Arrows have a habit of going astray and my aim is sometimes poor.’

  Marcus said nothing, as he stood staring at the approaching column. Then slowly his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword and both Petrus and Cunomoltus notched an arrow to their bows and carefully raised their weapons into a shooting position. On the nearest raised platform to him, beside the palisade, Marcus saw the two Batavians do the same, stretching their bows and taking aim.

  Down the track the wagon came trundling towards them and as it drew closer Marcus caught sight of Priscinus, sitting in a large, comfortable-looking chair that had been raised and lashed to the cart. Two slaves stood behind him, one of whom was holding up the personal banner of Priscinus’s house. Priscinus was clad in a fine, white toga with a broad, purple-stripe running down one side. Marcus’s mouth curled in contempt. Priscinus was clad as if he was still a Roman senator, even though he had lost that privilege. The driver of the wagon, astride one of the horses, seemed to have an uncanny instinct for self-preservation for he brought the wagon to a halt just out of arrow range. And, as the columns of armed men halted, and started to cluster around the wagon, Cunomoltus groaned in dismay.

  ‘There are more than thirty or forty of them, Marcus,’ Cunomoltus sighed. ‘Looks more like sixty and some of them have bows.’

  Marcus said nothing, as he stared at the mob that was gathering around the wagon. His brother was right, the numbers were larger than he had expected and amongst their ranks he caught sight of a few priests, clad in their ceremonial robes. Priscinus’s men seemed relaxed, confident in their superior numbers, and some of them started to raise their voices, taunting the defenders and shaking their fists in the air. But as Marcus’s keen experienced eye studied the enemy ranks, he grunted in relief. The men facing him might be numerous but they were not trained or experienced soldiers. Nor did Priscinus seem to know what he was doing. The mob was sticking together in a single clump of men and silently Marcus prayed, that they would remain like this. For, if Priscinus ordered his men to spread out around the whole perimeter, he would be able to overwhelm the thin defences in a mass attack from all sides.

  ‘I don’t see Dylis amongst them,’ Jowan exclaimed grimly as he ground the butt of his spear into the earth. ‘They don’t seem to have her. Unless they are keeping her as a hostage somewhere else.’

  ‘Well, we are going to find out soon enough,’ Marcus growled gesturing at the solitary priest who was coming towards the barricade with both his arms held up in the air. ‘Looks like they are sending someone to talk to us. Let him pass. I want to hear what he has to say.’

  When the priest was five or six yards from the barricade, he halted and slowly lowered his arms. For a long moment, the holy man was silent, as his small, eagle-eyes took in the barricade, the ditch and the wooden palisade and the men training their arrows on him. Then he turned and looked straight at Marcus.

  ‘Priscinus offers you terms,’ the priest called out in a loud, arrogant voice, ‘This farm and this land no longer belong to you. They are Priscinus’s property now. You and your family should leave right away. If you do this Priscinus will let you all go with whatever you can carry and he will spare your lives. But you must go now and never come back and the Christian will remain behind. Those are the terms. What is your answer?’

  ‘You are a brave man,’ Marcus replied. ‘To come out here, all alone, to give us this message.’ Marcus took a step forwards, his face suddenly harsh and cold. ‘Now go back to your master and tell him this. Tell him that we do not need to do this. No blood needs to be shed today. I am prepared to negotiate with him. But if thinks he is going to have my farm, then he is going to have to come here and take it from me.’

  ‘Is that really the answer you want me to give to him,’ the priest sneered.

  ‘Fuck off prick,’ Petrus yelled as he provocatively brandished the large cross that dangled from around his neck. ‘You heard our answer. Now be a good dog and run back to your master. Go on, he is over there.’

  The priest gave Petrus a disgusted glance and then, without another word he turned and started back towards the mob that clustered around the wagon.

  ‘What’s the plan, Marcus?’ Cunomoltus muttered in a tight voice as the four of them watched the priest
walk away. ‘With their numbers they can overwhelm us, trained men or not.’

  ‘We wait,’ Marcus snapped. ‘We wait to see how far they want to take this.’

  ‘They don’t have her,’ Jowan hissed. ‘They don’t have Dylis.’

  Beyond the barricade the priest had re-joined the mob and seemed to be talking with Priscinus in an animated fashion. As Marcus peered at them Priscinus suddenly turned and gestured at someone standing behind the wagon and out of view. A moment later, six men detached themselves from the main group and keeping a respectful distance between them and the wooden palisade they started out into the golden, ripe wheat fields and as they did Marcus spat out a curse. The men were carrying burning torches.

  ‘Bastards,’ Jowan hissed as he realised their intention.

  One by one the men started to set fire to the crops in the field and as the flames began to spread, smoke started to rise into the noon sky. Marcus turned and took a step towards the barricade as he stared in alarm at the growing destruction. Across the space that separated the two sides, the priest was once again coming towards him, his hands raised above his head as the smoke and flames tore across the glorious, golden fields devouring everything in their path.

  ‘Petrus,’ Marcus hissed. ‘Shoot the bastard.’

  ‘But he’s coming under a sign of truce,” Cunomoltus cried out in protest as he turned to stare at Marcus. ‘If you kill a priest of Neptune and Minerva, we will never be welcome in Reginorum again, Marcus.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Marcus snapped. ‘Petrus, shoot him.’

  Petrus said nothing as he carefully took aim and then with a soft whirring noise he released. The arrow hurtled through the air and with deadly pinpoint accuracy, the projectile slammed straight into the priest’s face, knocking the man backwards onto his back. For a stunned moment, no one made a sound. On the ground the priest, with Petrus’s arrow sticking out of his head, lay motionless.

  As the smoke came wafting across the ground towards them, the mob stared in disbelief at the lifeless corpse of their negotiator. Then as one, outraged, the men raised their weapons in the air, screamed and charged straight towards the barricaded gate. Marcus felt the hair’s rise on his neck as he felt the familiar terror that an enemy charge elicited.