Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

  On both banks of the river the land had started to flatten out, as they had come down from the mountain pass. Now the dull, flat land and featureless pine forest closed in on all sides. There had been little sign of the locals, apart from a primitive dugout canoe and occupant on the river and brown smoke rising into the sky from a settlement in the forest. The bleak, snow bound and featureless land seemed uninviting and harsh and somewhere out there, the thirty or so Batavian riders would be following the rafts along the river-bank.

  ‘A hundred miles of this,’ Fergus said grimly turning to Adalwolf who crouched at his side, staring down river. ‘Maybe it would have been better to keep to land? At least that way we would be moving and keeping warm. On these raft’s all we can do is get cold and wet.’

  ‘No,’ we shall make much faster progress like this,’ Adalwolf replied. ‘Gaiseric is right. The river will take us nearly all the way towards our destination. She forms part of the Amber Road. You Romans call the river, the Suevus.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Fergus grumbled.

  At Fergus’s side, Adalwolf sighed and shifted his weight so that he was sitting more comfortably. Then carefully he reached for something in the folds of his cloak and withdrawing his hand he held up a small, red rock like object.

  ‘This is amber,’ Adalwolf muttered staring at the beautiful transparent object. ‘This is what all Romans crave. Have you ever seen amber before, Fergus? Do you know why it is such a valuable commodity?’

  Fergus frowned as he peered at the small red stone like object.

  ‘My father and grandfather once possessed some amber,’ he muttered at last. ‘They took it from a sea cave in the far north of Caledonia. My grandfather used it to start a stone haulage business in Londinium but that was twenty or so years ago now.’

  Adalwolf nodded. ‘Interesting,’ he replied. ‘Amber in Caledonia, I never knew that.’ Then he turned to look at the piece of amber he was holding up. ‘Roman women like to use it as jewellery,’ the merchant said slowly. ‘Amber is only found along the shores of the sea to the north of Germania. It is a rare commodity so it is precious. But it’s real value is not as jewellery or bullion.’ Adalwolf paused and a glint appeared in his eyes as he gazed at Fergus. ‘No, it’s real value lies in it’s magic. Yes, Amber has magic,’ he grunted. ‘Amber has magical properties, oh yes.’

  Fergus turned to look at Adalwolf, as a little disbelieving smile appeared on his lips.

  Unperturbed Adalwolf turned to look at the red resin stone in his hand. ‘Look,’ he muttered, ‘If I rub this piece of amber against a needle and I float that needle in a bowl of water the needle will always turn to point to the north.’

  Adalwolf fixed his eyes on Fergus, looking deadly serious. ‘So you see, the amber always points the way back home, to the place where it came from in the north,’ he hissed.

  ***

  The camp fires flickered and crackled in amongst the trees and along the river bank. It was night and along the frosty, low-lying river bank, the rafts lay pulled up onto the land. The men had raised their tents in the snow, close to the water’s edge and were now sitting huddled around their fires or settling down to sleep under their thin, army blankets. In the dark sky, high above the camp, a countless multitude of stars glinted and twinkled in the darkness. The Batavian cavalry horses, stood close together tied to trees by their riders. The beasts seemed to be clustering together for warmth and many of the animals looked malnourished and exhausted.

  Moodily, Fergus sat around one of the camp fires, huddled under his blanket, chewing on a piece of stale cheese and trying to keep himself warm. Titula had once again chosen to defy him and had joined another camp fire. Sullenly Fergus lowered his eyes to the ground. Maybe Furius was right and he should give her a beating to show who was in charge, but deep down he knew he would never be able to do that. The women in his family would be furious with him and, even if they never knew about it, he would still know what he’d done. Beating up a girl, even a slave girl, to show one’s authority, was a coward’s way of trying to exercise control. No, he would have to find another way.

  A heavy hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, and startled Fergus looked up to see three Batavian cavalrymen standing over him. Two of the men were older, in their late thirties, and their hard, tough Germanic faces looked serious. The third man was younger and Fergus suddenly recognised the trooper he’d spoken to, on the forest path so many days ago. Without a word the three Batavians sat down around the fire, forcing the other occupants to make space.

  ‘You claim to be Marcus’s son,’ one of the older Batavian’s growled in his accented Latin as he stared at Fergus with a deadly serious look. ‘You had better not be taking us for fools. I knew Marcus. I served with him at Luguvalium and in Dacia.’

  ‘Marcus is my father. He was the Prefect of the Second Batavian Auxiliary Cohort, I am telling you the truth,’ Fergus replied firmly meeting the man’s gaze. ‘I was born inside the fort at Luguvalium. I was three years old when my father became Prefect. I was there when the Brigantes tried to take the fort. If you were there like you say you were, you will remember me. My father made me a little wooden sword which apparently, I liked to wave around when I was about in the fort.’

  ‘He looks a bit like him,’ the other Batavian muttered, ‘same facial features, same red hair.’

  The first Batavian grunted something to himself as he studied Fergus intently. Then he looked away and his features softened.

  ‘Alright Fergus, son of Marcus,’ the man growled, ‘let’s say I remember you. I remember that three-year-old called Fergus with his little wooden sword. Your father is a great man, a living legend amongst us. If you are his son, there is not a man amongst us who would not ride into the gates of hell for you.’

  Fergus blushed as he looked down into the crackling fire. Then he nodded and smiled.

  ‘Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,’ he exclaimed. ‘But as my father always said, the Batavians are amongst the finest soldiers in the Empire.’

  Across the fire the second Batavian leaned towards Fergus, his mouth twisting into a crooked grin.

  ‘And another thing Fergus,’ the Batavian hissed. ‘Sort out that woman problem of yours. The whole expedition knows what is going on. If you won’t put us all out of our misery and fuck her then one of us will do the job for you.’

  The three Batavians rose to their feet in unison and, as a furious blush appeared on Fergus’s cheeks, they vanished into the darkness. Fergus however barely had time to consider their words, when from a neighbouring camp fire a loud, abusive argument shattered the tranquillity of the night. Startled, the men around Fergus’s camp fire turned to stare at the altercation. Fergus rubbed his forehead in dismay. Across from them, Adalwolf and Gaiseric had risen to their feet and were facing each other, shouting and spitting at each other in a furious argument.

  ***

  The Oder had widened and slowed, as the river had taken them north west into the flat plains beyond the mountains. It was after noon and it was snowing. On the river, the twelve Roman rafts crammed with men, supplies and beasts and bound together, were slowly floating down stream. Beyond the river, the flat featureless plains were covered in vast snow-bound pine forests. From his raft, bobbing up and down on the water, Fergus pulled the hood of his white winter-cloak over his forehead and peered into the bleak, dim light. Several days had passed since the expedition had embarked on their river journey and by now all the men were thoroughly sick of the dull, slow moving waters of the Oder. There had been several encounters with local tribesmen and they had come across several native settlements, built along the river. Most of the Germans had come out to trade with them, and sometimes Fergus had caught groups of small, ragged-looking children staring curiously at the rafts from the river bank. Only on one occasion had they been met with hostility from a solitary man, who had shaken his fist at them and hurled abuse at the Romans, from the safety of the river bank.

  ‘Not long now until w
e reach our disembarkation point,’ an accented voice said from close by. ‘We will reach Mount Sleza within the next few days. Warm food, good, dry accommodation and friendly faces await you, Roman.’

  Warily, Fergus turned to look at Gaiseric. The Vandal Prince was sitting cross-legged on the raft gazing into the distance. Two of the expedition’s mules, lashed to the raft by both their heads and rump, stood separating Fergus from Gaiseric and his three warrior companions. Fergus did not reply as he looked away. It was just his luck that Titus had decided to make him look after the gold and silver and had lumped him on the same raft as Gaiseric. In between the two mules, six boxes had been tied to the raft, secured with a tough-looking rope.

  ‘Ballomar will give us a feast when we arrive,’ Gaiseric said staring down the river. ‘Maybe it will go on for two or three days.’

  ‘Who is Ballomar?’ Fergus said sourly.

  ‘He is the Lord of the Vandals,’ Gaiseric said idly flicking a twig into the water. ‘He is the man with whom Hadrian will negotiate the renewal of his treaty.’

  ‘I thought the Vandals did not just have one leader,’ Fergus muttered.

  ‘It is sometimes difficult for a foreigner to understand my people,’ Gaiseric said in a calm resigned voice. ‘We are not ruled by one man. Each man is free to decide what to do with himself and where to go. We have many leaders, chiefs who rule their own tribes. We simply follow our bravest and most capable warriors. Men must prove themselves in battle and when they do again and again we follow them because they have the favour of Odin, Lord of War and the World. Ballomar is such a man. He has never been defeated in war or beaten in single combat. He is the bravest amongst all of us.’

  ‘Braver than even you?’ Fergus replied sarcastically.

  On his side of the raft, Gaiseric took a deep breath and for a long moment he stared down into the brown waters of the Oder.

  ‘We got off on the wrong foot,’ Gaiseric said at last turning to give Fergus a vain grin, ‘I am sorry that you had to see the killing of those villagers. Maybe I was being too harsh on them. If what I did offended you, then please accept my apologies.’

  Fergus looked away and did not reply.

  ‘We should be friends, you and I,’ Gaiseric said.

  Once again Fergus remained silent and in his position on the raft Gaiseric sighed.

  ‘You should know that your friend, Adalwolf is not whom he claims to be,’ Gaiseric said in a calm voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fergus snapped frowning.

  Gaiseric chuckled as he flung another twig into the water. ‘Did he tell you that he is a Vandal Prince just like me and that he murdered his brother?’

  ‘He did,’ Fergus grunted.

  ‘Did he also tell you that he murdered his brother because he was opposed to a treaty of friendship with Rome?’

  Fergus glanced at Gaiseric and nodded silently.

  ‘It was the other way around,’ Gaiseric said with a contemptuous shake of his head. ‘Adalwolf has never been a friend of Rome. It was he who wanted war with Rome and his brother who wanted an alliance. Hadrian is making a mistake in bringing that piece of shit to the negotiations. Adalwolf is going to be trouble. He is looking for ways in which to win back the favour and support of the Vandal chieftains.’

  ‘How would he be trouble?’ Fergus replied with a frown.

  Gaiseric turned to look at Fergus, fixing him with a bemused but troubled look.

  ‘Think about it Roman,’ Gaiseric said with a cunning gleam in his eye. ‘We are carrying a fortune in gold and silver with us. Enough to fund a small, private army. This is Roman wealth. It is meant to be used to buy my people’s loyalty, friendship and alliance.” Gaiseric paused and flung another twig into the river. ‘But in the wrong hands and presented to the wrong chieftains, this gold and silver could also be used to buy their loyalty and support for a war against Rome. Do you understand what I am saying? I suspect that Adalwolf may try to take the gold and silver before the negotiations are concluded.’ Gaiseric turned to look at Fergus, his face serious. ‘Adalwolf is going to be your doom, Roman. That man is going to slaughter you and all your men. You should speak to your Centurion and make sure you take precautions.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two – The Feast in the Hall of the Gods

  Mount Sleza rose from the flat, forested plains like a great extinct volcano. Its conical summit was hidden in the clouds and along its steep, snow bound and heavily forested slopes, there was nothing to show that this was the sacred mountain of the Vandals, home to the twin Gods Alcis. The solitary mountain, more than two thousand feet high, dominated the land, and as Fergus trudged along staring at it, he felt a strange sense of dread. He knew nothing about the Gods that these Germans worshipped, but he did know that these foreign deities would not be on his side. It was afternoon and a day had passed since they had burned their rafts and left the Oder river behind them. Their long journey was coming to an end. Along the path, the column was winding its way through the trees towards the sacred mountain of the Vandals. They had lost another mule to exhaustion and starvation and the legionaries had been forced to start carrying some of the supplies themselves.

  As he strode beside the remaining mules and slaves, Fergus caught a glimpse of Gaiseric up ahead. The Vandal Prince was easily distinguishable due to his height and clothing. Fergus’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had not forgotten what the young Vandal Prince had told him on the raft. It was though, hard to believe. Could Adalwolf have lied to him? Was he even now planning to betray Hadrian and take the gold and silver for himself? Fergus sighed and shook his head in confusion. He didn’t trust Gaiseric an inch, but then again what did he know about Adalwolf? The German merchant could have told him anything. On the journey from the river he’d thought about informing Titus about the conversation with Gaiseric, but had decided against it. Instead he had resolved, at the first opportunity he would confront Adalwolf and force him to reveal the truth.

  The expedition was approaching the lower slopes of the mountain, when the mournful noise of a horn echoed away across the snow-covered pine forests. The noise was quickly taken up by another horn. Up ahead Fergus could see that the column had come to a halt amongst the trees. As he peered up the path, trying to see what was going on, one of Gaiseric’s warrior’s hastened past, heading towards the front of the expedition. Warily Fergus turned to look up at the summit of Mount Sleza but the top of the mountain was still hidden in the clouds. What would they find up there? A temple made of pure gold, naked female priestesses with snakes writhing in their hair? The rumour mill amongst the men had only grown, the closer to their destination they had come.

  Then without explanation the column began to move once more. As the expedition began to wind its way up the mountain slopes, the slaves were forced to stay close to the mules, pulling, cursing and threatening the animals, as they struggled to prevent them slipping or getting stuck in the thick, snow-drifts. Stoically Fergus pushed on, pausing now and then to help the slaves force the heavily laden mules up the steep forested slope. It was hard going and Fergus was panting and covered in sweat, when he paused to regain his breath. Along the narrow path that wound its way upwards, the trees closed in on all sides, but a few yards away, standing in what looked like a man made-clearing, was a strange statue carved out of granite. The crude carving looked like that of a man.

  For a long moment Fergus nervously stared at the granite figure. There was no doubt that the strange statue was meant as a votive offering but to what and to whom? What strange Gods did these Germans worship? What mysteries were hidden in this mountain? Abruptly Fergus’s attention was snatched away by the mournful sound of a German horn. The noise had come from closer by this time. Up the slope and out of sight, a Roman voice suddenly cried out. As he turned to peer up the path, Fergus suddenly caught sight of Furius heading back down the track. The Optio had two scarfs wrapped around his head but his cheeks and nose still seemed to burn with a fierce colour of red.

  ‘What’s
going on?’ Fergus called out, as the Optio came towards the mules.

  ‘We are here,’ Furius sniffled in a voice heavily affected by his head-cold. ‘We have reached our destination. The Vandal chieftains are here.’

  Then he vanished down the path in the direction of the rear guard. Fergus turned to the slaves, who were standing along the path looking utterly exhausted.

  ‘Come on then,’ Fergus cried out. ‘You heard the man; we have made it. Now let’s get these beasts up the mountain and be done with it. Come on, move.’

  The slaves did not reply as wearily they turned back to their charges, and once more began leading and cajoling the mules up the steep, slippery, snow-covered mountain path. And the higher they went, the steeper the slope became. Soon Fergus could barely see the legionaries ahead of him, as the forest and path became enveloped in a thick mist that reduced visibility to just a few yards. Just when he was about to despair of the visibility, the foremost slave emerged onto a small flat clearing in the forest and Fergus caught sight of a stone wall that stretched away into the vaporous clouds. And standing on top of the wall were a line of fierce, bearded German warriors, big, tall, ferocious-looking men, with their arms folded across their chests and each of them armed to the teeth. Startled Fergus came to a halt, as he gazed up at the warriors standing on the wall staring down at him, and for a fleeting moment, he was not sure whether they were real or made of stone.