Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

  Hadrian sighed as he peered down at the map.

  ‘That would mean heading up into the mountains,’ the Legate muttered. ‘Deeper snow drifts, more difficult terrain, less food. Our progress will slow.’

  Gaiseric nodded. ‘But better than having to fight our way into the Moravian Gates,’ he replied. ‘Look,’ the Vandal Prince added, gesturing at the ground. ‘Once we are into the pass that separates the two mountain ranges we should be able to find the head-waters of the Oder river. When we find the river,’ Gaiseric said looking up at Hadrian, ‘you should get your men to build rafts. We then load the mules and the men onto the rafts. On the water, we will make quicker progress and it will be safer too. The Oder will take us north and west; the direction in which we want to go. The river journey is around a hundred miles. But when we reach the point where we come ashore, it will be only one or two days walk to Mount Sleza.’

  Hadrian nodded as he stared at the ground.

  ‘What about our horsemen?’ Hadrian growled. ‘The mules may be able to be persuaded to board the rafts but the horses won’t.’

  ‘The cavalry will follow us along the banks of the river,’ Gaiseric said quickly. ‘There are settlements along its course. We will be able to barter for food and fodder.’

  Gaiseric was looking up at Hadrian, and slowly the others, clustered around the Legate, did the same, waiting for him to speak. Hadrian remained silent as he considered the options. Then he seemed to make up his mind.

  ‘Alright, we will go up into the mountains,’ he said nodding at Gaiseric. ‘We have not come here for a fight. Take us into the Moravian Gates.’

  ***

  It was late in the afternoon and it was snowing again, as Fergus struggled up the path, his boots disappearing completely into the snow with each step. The expedition was winding its way up the slope of a forested hill, and the slaves were cursing and using their whips to keep their mules on the path, as the heavily-laden animals stoically plodded on. The slave master had bound the beasts together with a sturdy rope, to stop them floundering and slipping down the steep slopes of the hill. Wearily, Fergus paused and turned to gaze down the path at the rest of the mules and their slave attendants. It was his job to keep an eye on the beasts and the precious cargo they were carrying. Beyond the mules, bringing up the rear of the column, he could see a line of legionaries, pushing on through the snow in a single file. The men were huddled under their white, hooded, winter cloaks and were clutching their spears. Their large rectangular shields were covered in white, protective dust-covers. Fergus grunted. The soldiers were indeed hard to spot in the white, winter weather. He hadn’t expected the winter camouflage to work, but it did.

  A hand was tugging at the sleeve of his winter cloak. Fergus turned to see Titula standing beside him, holding up a piece of stale, old bread. Gratefully he took the bread from her and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he started plodding up the path again and, at his side Titula did the same, the bottom of her long, oversized, white winter-cloak trailing through the snow. To Fergus’s relief, the slave girl had started to make herself useful around the camp, by mending and fixing the soldier’s clothing and boots - a skill which she seemed to be particularly adept at. And, as she had become a familiar face, the only woman in the expedition, word had crept out that she was a Valkyrie, with the power to choose who would live or die on the battlefield. Some of the men had greeted the news with scepticism, but most of the soldiers chose to avert their eyes and not look at her, when she was close by or fixing their clothing.

  As they struggled up the slope of the hill, Fergus gave Titula a cautious glance. He and Adalwolf had both tried to talk to the girl. They had tried every manner of persuasion but Titula had remained silent, and at last Fergus had concluded that the girl could not speak. Some deformity must be prevented her from speaking. But despite this, he’d been able to communicate using signs and hand signals.

  ‘Heh,’ Fergus muttered reaching out and running his finger slowly across his own forehead. ‘Why do you have these? Who gave you these runes?’

  Titula was watching him carefully. Then she seemed to understand, shrugged and looked away into the trees.

  Fergus muttered something to himself.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he said glancing at her again. ‘Why did you follow me? Why did you not return to your own family?’

  The girl was watching him carefully but it was clear she had not understood. With a frustrated grunt, Fergus pointed at her and then at himself, then at the landscape around them, before throwing up his hand in a questioning gesture.

  For a moment Titula did not respond. Then she looked down at her feet and a sudden flush appeared in her cheeks, as she seemed to understand. Silently she reached out and placed her hand against Fergus’s chest and then, swiftly she sank to her knees, facing him in the snow and with infinite grace she slowly bowed her head. Fergus frowned as he looked down at her, and along the path some of the slaves turned to stare. With sudden insight Fergus understood. Ofcourse. He had saved her life on the battlefield and then probably again, by not letting the slave merchants sell her in the markets of Carnuntum. And as the realisation dawned, Fergus gasped. The girl could easily have run away and gone back to her own people, but she must feel duty bound to stay at his side. It had to be either that or she had nowhere else to go.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered as his cheeks turned red. The girl’s simple devotion was touching, but he could hardly return home to Galena with a young slave girl in tow, who believed it her solemn duty to be at his side and look after him. That could get rather awkward.

  A startled cry from one of the slaves suddenly shattered the tranquillity of the late afternoon. Fergus turned to stare in the direction from which the sound had come. Then, before he could react, a spear came hurtling out of the trees, slamming into one of the heavily-laden mules and sending the beast crashing sideways into the snow. The spear was followed by loud screams and shouts and to Fergus’s horror, armed men came pouring out of the forest, running towards the slow-moving column. At his side, Titula flung herself onto the ground beside one of the mules.

  Instinctively Fergus dropped his equipment and drew his sword. They were under attack. The column was being ambushed.

  ‘Defend the mules, they are going for the mules,’ a voice shouted and to his surprise, Fergus realised it was his own.

  There was no more time. A screaming warrior, naked from the waist upwards, came racing towards Fergus, his face contorted in rage, his arm raised to plunge his spear into Fergus’s body. At the last moment Fergus raised his shield and the man’s weapon slid off harmlessly, but the force of his impact sent them both tumbling backwards into the snow in a wild, confused flurry of arms and legs. Fergus lost his shield in the melee, but as the German tried to rise to his feet, Fergus lunged upwards with his sword and caught the man in his exposed chest. With a groan the warrior collapsed onto Fergus, splattering him with blood. Savagely Fergus pushed the dying man off him, rolled away and swiftly rose to his feet. Around him all was chaos. The mules were braying in terror and trying to flee up the path, but they had got hopelessly entangled and were being prevented from escaping by the two dead animals, lying in the snow. Half the slaves had fled, but to Fergus’s surprise the others were putting up a fight using their sticks and whips to defend themselves and their charges from the German warriors. But it was an unequal fight, and already two of the slaves were lying motionless on the ground, with blood seeping out into the virgin snow. And as Fergus stared at the fight unable to move, he saw a German decapitate the fat, slave-merchant with an axe. Then as if released from a spell, Fergus could move again. A warrior came at him, clumsily slashing at him with a spear, which Fergus easily evaded. Wildly Fergus lunged at the man, but the German backed away. Then with a roar the warrior raised his spear, took a step forwards and flung it straight at Fergus. Fergus’s eyes widened in horror, as instinctively he dodged sideways and the projectile went hurtling through the air, inches from his face. But
as the moment of terror passed, bloodlust welded up within Fergus, and with a furious cry, he leapt at the now weapon-less warrior. The man realising the stupidity of his mistake, just had enough time to scream in panic, as Fergus buried his sword into his chest. With a savage kick, Fergus freed his bloodied sword and sent the man tumbling back into the snow. Behind him he heard the terrified braying of the mules. But as he turned to face the next attacker, all he saw were the white cloaks of the legionaries as they came rushing up the path, scattering the few remaining Germans before them. Wildly Fergus turned to look around him, but there was no one left to fight. The attackers had been fewer in number, than he had realised and those who weren’t already dead or dying were fleeing back into the forest. Gasping for breath Fergus stared at the bloody carnage along the path. The cries and screams of the men merged with the braying mules and the pristine snow was stained with corpses and fresh blood. Dimly Fergus became aware of Furius and Titus hastening towards him down the path. Then suddenly he felt a cold hand slip into his own, and as he turned to look around, he saw that it was Titula. Her face was ashen and her lower lip was trembling, as she stared at the carnage around them. For a split crazy moment Fergus had a vision of her riding through the skies in the company of the German war god and pointing her finger at the men who were destined to die on the battlefield.

  ‘What happened here? Report.’ Titus’s harsh voice boomed out as the Centurion strode towards Fergus.

  Fergus blinked and focussed on Titus.

  ‘They came out of nowhere Sir,’ he snapped. ‘Fuckers just ambushed us. I think they were after the mules. They got two of them. I did what I could Sir as did some of the slaves.’

  ‘It’s alright Fergus,’ Titus said in a softer voice as he turned to stare at the dead and broken bodies littering the path. ‘You did what you could. That was your job. Are you alright?’

  Fergus blinked again. Titus had never ever asked him if he was alright. Silently he nodded and shakily exhaled as he tried to steady his nerves.

  ‘Shit,’ Titus muttered suddenly.

  Fergus turned to look in the direction in which the Centurion was staring, and then he too grunted in dismay. On the path one of the dead mules lay on its side, with a spear sticking out of its body. The supplies, sacks and wooden boxes that the animal had been carrying lay strewn and scattered across the path, and amongst one of the smashed boxes, glinting and gleaming in the sunlight for all to see, were hundreds upon hundreds of fine Roman gold and silver coins.

  Chapter Thirty-One – A Man’s Choices

  In the forest, Fergus could hear the axe-men at work felling trees. For a moment, he paused on his way to inspect the sentries, and turned to gaze at the small Roman camp beside the river. The white tents, barely distinguishable from the rocky, snow-covered ground, stood in two neat rows, and beside the rushing, gurgling stream a party of legionaries were busy lashing newly-felled long logs into a crude raft. Their spears and shields lay stacked within easy reach. Smoke was rising from a couple of camp fires and a little way off, under the watchful eye of some Batavian riders, some of the horses and mules had lowered their heads to the water to drink. It was the second morning since they had reached the headwaters of the Oder and had entered the Moravian Gates - the pass that would lead them through the mountains. Lifting his gaze away from the camp, Fergus turned to stare at the distant Carpathian Mountains to the east. It was a crisp, cold morning and in the clear light he could make out the rolling foothills, covered in an endless carpet of pine trees, stretching away to the horizon. Slowly, he turned to look towards the west and there too, in the distance he could see a mountain range, lower and less imposing than the Carpathians, but mountains nevertheless.

  With a grunt, Fergus set off to check up on the sentries. There had been no more encounters with tribesmen, but the attack had brought home how vulnerable they were out here in this foreign, trackless land. Since the ambush, Titus had ordered that the sentries be doubled and although it meant less men to help build the rafts, the Centurion had considered that was a price worth paying. The expedition had lost two of the mules during the ambush and a third had been too badly wounded to continue and Furius had been forced to cut the beast’s throat and leave it behind. And only nine of the slaves remained, badly shaken by their encounter with the German tribesmen. And now the whole company was aware of the precious cargo that they were carrying. None of the men had mentioned it, but it must be on their minds and the fact that the soldiers were now aware of the fortune they were guarding had made the officers nervous. If the soldiers decided to take the money, they would all instantly become very wealthy men.

  As he pushed on into the forest where the woodcutters were at work Fergus sighed as he realised he, Titus, Furius and the signifer would be vastly outnumbered if the men mutinied. But they wouldn’t do that he thought. He knew more than half of the men by name. They were loyal. They wouldn’t mutiny over a bit of gold and silver. They were the finest company of men in the whole of the Twentieth Legion. Was that not why Adalwolf had recommended them to Hadrian? Startled Fergus came to an abrupt halt. Had that been the reason why the German merchant had chosen them? Had he been thinking about just such a situation?

  As he was weighing up the matter a hand suddenly touched his arm. Startled he turned around to see Titula playfully dancing away from him through the trees. She seemed to be in a good mood. Fergus grinned as he watched her raise her arms in the air, as she silently twisted and danced around the trees, her long, winter cloak whirling through the air. A quick glance around him confirmed that they were alone. The slave girl smiled sweetly as she danced back towards him. Then without warning she reached up with her hand and pulled Fergus’s face towards her, trying to kiss him. Startled Fergus backed off, staring at her in confusion. What was this? Unperturbed Titula reached up and tried to pull the iron amulet, that Galena had given him, from around his neck.

  ‘No,’ Fergus protested as he caught hold of her hand. ‘I have a wife. She is going to bear my child. I made a vow to her. I will not break it.’

  At his side Titula did not seem to be listening. Wantonly she pressed herself up against him, running her hands over his body. Then slowly she looked up at him with her coy, sweet smile. Fergus groaned. This was too much. In his wildest dreams, he had never expected to be chased and pursued like this by a woman, a slave! Was it not supposed to be the other way around? His grandfather Corbulo would not have given it a second thought but he couldn’t. He wasn’t like Corbulo, not in that way. Something held him back. He could not break his vow to Galena. She was waiting for him back at Deva, and when he returned he would meet his son or daughter. They would be waiting for him. Carefully but firmly, he pushed Titula away from him.

  ‘No, this cannot happen,’ he said shaking his head.

  Titula took a step backwards and suddenly her mood changed. Anger blazed from her eyes and she opened her mouth, bearing her teeth. Then abruptly with a glare that bordered on contempt, she turned on her heels and stomped off into the forest. Slowly Fergus shook his head in bewilderment as he watched her go. He had made a vow, did the slave girl not understand or did she not care? Then a little colour shot into his cheeks. Had it been wise to refuse the advances of a Valkyrie? Nervously Fergus gulped and picked at his fingernails. Adalwolf had been adamant that she was marked out to be Valkyrie. And now he, Fergus had just pissed off the woman who had the power to decide who lived and died on the battlefield. With a weary resigned sigh, Fergus closed his eyes as he inclined his head upwards towards the sky. It was as if he could already hear Corbulo’s laughter coming down from the heavens.

  ***

  The Oder river was narrow and fast-flowing and, strung out in a line, the twelve rafts bobbed up and down on the current. The precarious looking rafts were crammed and packed with soldiers, supplies and mules. It was morning and the river was silent except for the occasional splash of a steering oar and the nervous braying of the mules. Fergus crouched on the sodden, slippery and f
reezing tree-trunks and steadied himself against the side of the square raft, as the current swept them onwards downstream. The raft was nothing more than two or three layers of tree trunks, lashed together with rope and iron nails and there was precious little to stop the ice-cold water from swamping them. Around him, his eight companions were silent as they stoically crouched on the raft, trying not to move and holding onto whatever they could get a grip on. In between them, lay piles of supplies, sacks and wooden boxes. Titus had thought it best to unload the mules in case one of the beast’s panicked and was lost in the river. At the back of the raft, one of the handpicked legionaries was the only man standing upright, holding onto a crude wooden steering-oar, with which he was trying to keep them in the middle of the stream.

  It was cold and overnight the temperatures seemed to have plunged. As he exhaled, Fergus could see his breath steaming in the air. Wearily he brought his fingers to his mouth and tried to warm them by breathing on them. At his side one of the legionary’s teeth was chattering uncontrollably, despite the thick winter-cloak the man was wearing.

  ‘Tonight boys, we will make a fire,’ Fergus said in a loud voice, trying to sound encouraging as he turned to look at the men. ‘You will be warm and we will have a chance to dry our clothing.’

  No one replied. The glum, freezing men around him huddled under their sodden, white winter-cloaks and gazed morosely at the river. Theirs was the last raft in the fleet. Wearily Fergus rubbed his fingers across the red beard that was developing across his chin and cheeks. Titus had given him the responsibility of guarding the rear of the expedition and making sure that no one was left behind. Ahead of him he could see the other rafts bobbing up and down in the water, joined together with lengths of rope so that the whole fleet was connected to each other. The crowded rafts were packed with every inch of space being used, and the only men standing up were the helmsmen, pretending to be in control of where they were going. It had not been smooth sailing. Already they had lost another mule which had fallen into the river and several men had started to come down with bad head colds and fevers, including Furius. Fergus groaned. And since their encounter in the forest, Titula was shunning him. His slave girl was avoiding him. It had started with her refusing to sleep around the same fire as himself. And now she had chosen to go with one of the other rafts. Fergus raised his fingers to his mouth and blew on them once more. It was an absurd situation. She was his slave after all. She should do what he told her to do. But she just did her own thing and try as he might, he just didn’t know what to do about it. Furius had advised him to beat some sense into the girl.