by George Green
‘No!’
Calryx roared his disapproval, and a small tightly bunched group of men behind him joined in enthusiastically. A shadow crossed Drenthe’s face as she waited for them to tire of their shouting. When it was possible to be heard again, she spoke.
‘Calryx, again you reject a road that leads to any destination but war, as you have done ever since the revolt of the Chatti against the Romans began.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I am chief here, and my word is this. If we must fight then we will, and when we do then let any man who comes against us beware for we will fight hard, harder than they will believe possible.’ She paused. The tall man looked sullen but he kept silent. She continued in a lower voice. ‘But we must take counsel. The Romans are many and they fight hard too, and although we have had great victories against them, they have also beaten us. When we win, they lose soldiers, and soldiers are easily replaced. When they win, they kill our menfolk, burn our crops, take hostages, destroy our lives.’ She looked around slowly. ‘Whoever the final victory is to, if we fight then there will be bare hearths in many houses and a cold bed beside the fire before the fighting is over.’
‘You think that we would lose, and so you say we should not fight,’ said a man standing beside Calryx, in a deep voice that carried all around the room. Calryx put a hand on the man’s shoulder to quiet him and waited for silence before speaking.
‘You say that we must wait until we feel the flames touch our skin before we act. I say that you are sleeping while the bed you lie in is on fire. We have been attacked by Romans, the same Romans who are attacking our brothers only a few leagues away, but you say we should wait.’ He spat sideways onto the ground. ‘You care nothing for the honour of the Treveri.’
There were some shouts of approval and a lot more of angry disagreement. Drenthe’s four bodyguards stood with their hands tense around the pommels of their swords, like dogs waiting to be released into the chase. Drenthe paused, looking at Calryx as if he was a strange animal that had wandered into the hall by accident. When she eventually spoke her voice was measured, holding in check the emotion that made her eyes flash and the colour disappear from her cheeks save for high on the bones under her eyes.
‘Calryx feels passionately, and he speaks in ways that, once he has had time to reconsider his words, he will not wish to repeat. The honour and lives of the Treveri are my first concern, as always.’ She let a pause fall. Calryx looked every bit as angry as before, but he said nothing. She continued, addressing the whole hall.
‘I do not say that we would lose a war, and I do say that there are worse things than losing. I do not say that we should not fight, but I do say that we should consider well before we fight.’ There was a loud muttering from the group behind Calryx and she glared at them until they subsided. ‘I will take advice and counsel, and the druids will perform the sacred rituals, as always.’ She drew herself up to her full height. ‘But hear me now and hear me well.’
Her hair glowed in the torch-light like iron cooling from the blacksmith’s fire, and her eyes and her voice filled the room with her authority.
‘I promise you, if the decision is for war, then I will lead you in battle against the Romans and I will strike the first blow and many after it, and there will be no going back until we have driven the invader from our lands.’ She looked hard at Calryx. ‘But first I say, in front of you all, that I am chief of our village. I will take counsel, but if I decide that there is to be no war, or war tomorrow, or war in the future, then you will accept my decision.’ Her word was absolute, like two flat pieces of wood slapping together. ‘The people of the Treveri are threatened. This may be the greatest danger they have ever known, and at such a time I will have no dissension. We stand together, as Armin showed us, or we fail. Accept my word on this, finally and for ever, or else put your hand on your sword now and challenge me here, in front of the tribe; I will have it no other way.’
She stared her challenge in a circle around the room, finishing with Calryx and his supporters.
There was a long silence. Serpicus realized he was holding his breath, and suspected a lot of other men were doing the same.
Slowly, without breaking their locked gaze, Calryx walked forward towards Drenthe and drew out his sword with a shrill metallic ring. Everyone but Drenthe tensed as they watched and leant forward, waiting. He held the blade against his forehead in salute, then reversed it and held it out to her, handle first. Without speaking, every man in the hall did the same. A hundred swords left their sheaths with the harsh sound of a whetstone on a scythe. Drenthe reached forward, took Calryx’s sword and reversed it again, giving it back to him with a graceful gesture. Serpicus tensed. If Calryx was going to strike at her, this was the moment, as she held the blade of his sword pointed at her breast and offered him the handle. After a moment Calryx took the sword and stepped back. Drenthe gathered her cloak, turned and left through an opening at the back of the hall. Her four women strode after her. Calryx sheathed his sword and left the room, followed by his men.
Serpicus smiled at Decius, who appeared entranced, his eyes fixed on the place where Drenthe had disappeared. Severus was deep in conversation with Scipio and several of the others. Cato was nowhere to be seen.
Serpicus got up and went to stand by Severus. The centurion looked up and gave him a guarded look.
‘An interesting evening,’ he said.
‘How much of that did you understand?’
Severus indicated one of the Gallic auxiliaries. ‘Felix here has enough of the language to make sense of most of it.’
Serpicus nodded. ‘We should discuss what’s happening here.’
Severus stroked his chin. ‘Is anything about to happen?’ Serpicus shook his head. ‘Then we should wait until the evening is over. We will talk then.’
Serpicus hesitated, then agreed. Better to find out as much information as possible first. He returned to his seat.
Brutus and Max had found another jug of beer and had sat down again together, deep in conversation. Serpicus pulled up a stool beside them. Max smiled at him amiably with unfocused eyes. He had emptied his cup more than once that evening.
‘When I left here seven years ago, Vonones was Chief of the Treveri,’ Serpicus said. ‘Now Drenthe rules in his stead. Is she not too young to have been his wife?’
Max looked puzzled. ‘Wife? Her, married to Vonones? Hardly.’
‘Then how is it she sits in the Chief’s chair and speaks for him?’
Max opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. It was plainly the sort of story that needed adequate and proper preparation. He poured more beer into all their cups, made himself comfortable and started his explanation.
‘You left seven years ago, you say?’ Max did some arithmetic on his fingers while looking up with narrowed eyes at the smoke-blackened roof of the Hall as if the answer might be written there in the soot. ‘Yes, Vonones was still chief then. He died about five years ago.’
‘A fine man. He fought well.’ Brutus made an upward motion with his cup and drank. They all followed his example. ‘Did he die in battle?’
Max shook his head. ‘The fever. It took many of us that year. He fought the sickness for a long time, longer than anyone, until we thought he must have beaten it, but it left him too weak, and he died.’
There was a silence.
‘So, who took his place?’ asked Serpicus.
Max screwed his forehead up in thought. ‘Galan.’ Serpicus didn’t know the name. Brutus looked surprised. ‘Galan from my village? The Chief’s son?’
‘If you are from Glaudern, yes.’
Serpicus was puzzled. ‘How did the people of Gelbheim agree to have an outsider become chief?’
Max drank and shook his head, not quite separating the two actions. ‘He was no outsider. He was betrothed to Drenthe.’
Brutus nodded, wiping his face absently. ‘So Galan becomes chief of the tribe.’
Serpicus drank deeply to give himself time to think. ‘So Dre
nthe speaks for Galan?’
Max shook his head again. ‘Galan was killed on a cattle raid three years ago.’ He looked genuinely upset. ‘He was a good chief, and it was a pointless waste. No glory in it, not even any decent cattle.’
‘Then who was chief after Galan?’
‘Cruptorix, Drenthe’s father. He died a year ago.’
‘So Drenthe is a widow?’ Serpicus told himself that he was asking the question without any motive, but he had to admit that a part of him was interested. He remembered once walking past a house he had lived in and seeing that the new occupants had let the shrubs that he had planted die. The feeling was similar. He knew it was none of his business, but a part of him still cared.
Max drank. ‘Yes. She has yet to remarry.’
Brutus nodded his understanding. ‘An unusually high casualty rate amongst chiefs of the Treveri, it seems,’ he said. ‘So, the man we met when we came here.’ He clicked his fingers at Serpicus. ‘What was his name?’
‘Balant,’ Serpicus said. Max looked confused for a moment. ‘Tall, sun-browned, twenty-five summers, perhaps a few more?’ Max’s brow cleared.
‘Ah, yes, that Balant. It’s a common name. A good man. He’s Galan’s youngest brother,’ he said. ‘He divides his time between here and Glaudern. There were three brothers. All good men. The eldest brother, Salix, is Chief of Glaudern.’
‘So Balant is a guest here?’
Max became thoughtful. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what to call him. He’s a friend to this village, for certain. He has helped guide us well.’
Serpicus hesitated. ‘So he and Drenthe are…?’
Max grinned and brushed the thought aside with a gesture. ‘No, no. Balant has a wife in Glaudern. He comes here to visit his brother’s grave and to advise his brother’s widow. When she needs it.’
Brutus let out a raucous laugh. ‘So how did the men take the idea of a woman leading them?’
Max smiled, almost sheepishly. ‘Even now it seems a strange thing to think of.’
‘The men accept her?’
‘Most of them. Some of the men are… still unsure.’
‘Yes, I think we saw some of that earlier,’ Brutus said, looking across to where Calryx had sat with his supporters. Max glanced across to the same place and nodded.
‘Yes, Calryx was no friend of Galan’s but he accepted the will of the village to have him as chief once he had married Cruptorix’s daughter. However, without Galan, Calryx has no intention of accepting Drenthe. When Cruptorix died he…’
Max’s voice was drowned by a loud cheering. Everyone looked up to see what was happening. Out of the corner of his eye Serpicus saw Cato returning from the direction of the latrines.
Drenthe had come back into the Hall. She had removed her armour and replaced it with a simple white linen robe. A silver circlet held her hair back from her face and a thin silver torc lay at her throat. Both shone in the torch-light.
‘So what is the situation now?’ Serpicus asked.
Max leant forward. ‘Once Cruptorix had been buried, there was a Council, as you would expect. Every man, woman and child was there, it was a good party. Then Bocalas stood up – you can always rely on the druids to take charge if no one else seems to want to – and asked who was to be the new chief. Galan had no sons, his widow Drenthe was Cruptorix’s only child. No one had the right of succession. One of Calryx’s friends proposed him. There was a vote. The village split. Calryx had maybe a third of the village behind him. We argued all night. Even though he didn’t have a majority, Calryx demanded that he be accepted as chief as there was no other candidate.’
‘You can see his point,’ said Brutus. ‘Better any chief than no chief.’
Max nodded. ‘True, but the larger part of the village wouldn’t have Calryx at any price. When you get to know him a bit better you’ll know why.’ He took a drink and looked reflectively at his empty cup. Brutus filled it up for him again. ‘Anyhow, Bocalas sits all night listening, and then, just as dawn breaks, he stands up as though he’s had enough of the wrangling, bangs his staff on the ground, and says he is going to go to the forest to consult the gods on the matter.’
‘I bet Calryx loved that thought,’ chuckled Brutus.
‘He hated it,’ said Max, ‘but he didn’t have a better idea and we had to admit that the discussion was going nowhere, so we all went off to bed and waited for Bocalas to come back.’
‘And he did?’
‘Three days later. We all gathered round and he stood in front of us and said that he had fasted for three days, and on the third night the gods had sent him a vision.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Brutus.
‘Exactly,’ said Max. ‘I’ll spare you the details – I’ve forgotten most of them anyhow – but the thrust of it was that Drenthe was to be chief for two summers, with the help of a small group of advisers.’ He pointed a knobbled finger at Brutus. ‘Want to try and guess who they were?’
Brutus smiled. ‘I think I’d be able to.’
‘Two of the village elders, plus Bocalas himself, Balant and Calryx.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ said Serpicus thoughtfully. ‘A couple of neutrals, the druid, an outsider and the man who she needs to keep closest to her. Bocalas would make a good politician.’
Max nodded. ‘She has done well for the village. She doesn’t rush into things, she isn’t too proud to take advice, and when she makes her mind up to do something she goes at it like an arrow at a target. And she fights as well as any man and better than most.’
‘A fine woman,’ Brutus said, in respectful tones.
Max looked serious and banged his cup down on the table. ‘A man, for all she’s a woman!’ he said emphatically.
Serpicus tried to think of an intelligent way of replying to this and failed, so nodded vigorously instead. ‘I can see what you mean,’ he said.
Max shook his head. ‘No, you can’t. Not until you’ve seen her fight.’ He banged his cup again on the table and leant towards Brutus, half closing an eye as if aiming the words at him. ‘She can stand up to strong men and meet them blow for blow, and then suddenly she twists away and steps to one side and there is a flash of steel and they look down and their guts are on the ground and they have no idea how it happened.’ He shook his head in baffled admiration. ‘She is like a cat. She has never been beaten.’
‘What happens once the two summers are up?’ asked Serpicus.
‘She stands for election again,’ said Max, ‘and the gods will decide. Anyone may stand against her. Calryx will definitely stand, and there are probably one or two others though they haven’t much chance. Calryx is the main contender. If Drenthe is confirmed, she’ll be chief for good and there’s an end to it. If she loses, then she stands down and there’s an end to it too.’ Max looked around. ‘Now I’ve talked enough. Can I please go and try to find someone prettier than you lot who’ll have me for the night?’
Brutus put a hand on his arm. ‘One more question, and then you can go and talk to that dark woman over there who has been looking at you so hungrily for the last hour.’
Max spun around to look. ‘Really? Who? Where?’
Brutus squeezed his arm. ‘In a moment. First, tell us, when does Drenthe’s time as chief end?’
‘A month, I think, perhaps a little longer,’ said Max. ‘Now, point me in the right direction, will you?’
When Max had climbed unsteadily over a table to get at the woman Brutus said was eyeing him – which Serpicus was sure came as news to her - Serpicus, Galba and Brutus looked at one another speculatively. Decius leant in so that he could hear what was said, though his eyes were still on Drenthe, as they had been since she came back into the room.
‘You are going to tell me sometime what all that was about, aren’t you?’ said Galba. Not speaking German was causing him pain, he was missing out on all the details.
‘D’you suppose that little fracas we saw earlier was the start of the election campaign?’ asked Serpicus.
<
br /> Brutus nodded. ‘Probably. Just what the tribe needs, an election during a war.’
‘They aren’t at war yet.’
‘Tell it to those Romans,’ said Brutus, jerking a thumb at the blood-smeared helmets piled in the corner. ‘And I suspect we’ll have a deputation or two coming to us shortly, wanting to know whose side we’re on.’
Brutus squinted down the table at the expedition, and Serpicus did the same. Most of them were surprisingly sober, and several of them were looking unhappily at the pile of Roman helmets. Severus leant forward and signalled.
‘A word, before the night is over?’ he said. Serpicus opened his mouth to reply and Severus shook his head. ‘Not here,’ he said.
‘They’re Germans. They don’t speak Latin.’
‘You’re Germans, and you do,’ Severus said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They went back to the barn.
One side of the building was piled high with hay for the winter. Sides of salted and cured meat hung from the rafters on metal hooks. The village cats sat waiting below while hundreds of rats ran along the beams. Every so often a venturesome rat would slide down a hook and feast on the meat. The cats ignored it until the bloated rat turned to climb back up again. More often than not it couldn’t get any purchase on the smooth metal, and either fell off or would still be there, gripping the carcass, when a villager next came in to check. Either way, the cats always won.
Serpicus and Brutus sat at the single table which, with two low benches, made up all the furniture in the building. Decius and Galba stood nearby. Severus and Scipio sat on the bench on the other side of the table, as spokesmen for the rest of the men who arranged themselves in a ragged but attentive clump behind them. Serpicus saw Cato with the men and wondered which way he would jump when the time came. He had nothing to gain by staying to fight; he’d surely leave.