The Wolf's gold e-5

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Well done, Centurion! It seems that our last-minute reinforcement and your customary loss of reason on the battlefield have turned the day.’ He turned to Sigilis, pointing at the battle’s aftermath. ‘As you can see, colleague, the financial incentives for taking prisoners alive and in fit condition for labour make defeat in a battle like this all too final, wouldn’t you agree? If we’d lost then they would have been butchering our wounded and leading the living away down that hill and into slavery, never to be seen again. But as it happens, praise to our Lord Mithras, our unknown rescuer arrived at the very last moment and pulled our grapes out of the press in good style. Which means that we are the victors, despite the skill with which this poor man fooled us as to his intentions.’

  He smiled down at the stricken Sarmatae king, bending to pat the man’s shoulder.

  ‘My compliments on your strategy, sir, you very nearly had us at your mercy.’

  The wounded man was perhaps forty years of age and clearly in the prime of his life, arrayed in armour and clothing that stood out from the rough horseshoe-scale armour worn by his comrades. The helmet that Arminius had pulled from his head was fashioned from silver inlaid with gold, and his armour was made with finely wrought iron scales, each of them polished to a shine. An ornately decorated scabbard hung from his belt, its engraving matching the designs that adorned the beautifully crafted sword carried by Lugos, and similar craftsmanship had been lavished on the greaves still protecting his calves. The tribune tapped at the heavy gold bracelets adorning his prisoner’s wrists with a sardonic smile.

  ‘Well done, gentlemen, I’m pleased you’ve managed to keep all of his finery intact and resisted my soldiers’ predictable desire to strip him bare. I expect we’ll need it all to convince his people that their war with Rome really is over.’

  The king spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the ground at his feet, his words grating out from between teeth gritted against the agony of his wound.

  ‘This victory is only temporary, Roman. My son still commands enough horsemen to wipe your presence from this valley as if you had never existed.’

  Scaurus smiled back at him beatifically.

  ‘Quite so, I’ve already seen them riding up and down the length of our rather fine wall with no clue as to how they are to get over or around it. And since this seems to have been the only place you deemed worthy of attacking, I shall improve the defences here and make it utterly impassable, once we’ve finished burning your dead.’ He turned to his bodyguard, drawing the German away out of earshot. ‘Arminius, please be good enough to find a bandage carrier and get the king’s wound bound, then take him down to the hospital as quickly as you can. Ask the doctor to work her magic upon him, and tell her that his survival may well be the key to our achieving a negotiated peace with these people.’

  He turned back to the waiting officers.

  ‘And now, colleagues, let us go and offer our thanks to the officer commanding these men who seem to have stepped in with such commendable timing, whoever he is. Will you come with us, Centurion Corvus, and provide us with the additional security of your swords?’

  Marcus raised his spatha once more and walked across the corpse-strewn battlefield several paces ahead of the tribunes, his eyes roaming the human carnage for any sign of movement. A wounded warrior groaned loudly to his left as he passed, holding out an imploring hand for succour while the other barely held his guts in place. The young centurion reached out and pulled the hand aside, scanning the severed ropes of the wounded warrior’s intestines for a moment before whipping out his sword and cutting the Sarmatae’s throat. Wiping the weapon’s blade he stood, shaking his head and ignoring Sigilis’s horrified gaze, to resume his slow, cautious pace across the field of battle.

  ‘A kindness. .’

  Scaurus’s words must have had the desired effect on his younger colleague, for a long moment of silence followed before Sigilis spoke.

  ‘The smell is just. . I mean it’s indescribable. .’

  Marcus could hear the bitter humour in Scaurus’s response.

  ‘Revolting? Without doubt. Beyond description? Hardly. That’s the same simple fragrance that has wafted over every battlefield I’ve ever trodden. All you have to do is liberally slop the fresh blood of a thousand men across the grass, then open their bellies to let the contents release their aroma into the air. Evocative, isn’t it? But believe me, this smell of freshly spilled blood and faeces is nothing compared to the rare delicacy that results from leaving that same mixture open to the air for a day or two, and adding some decomposition to the mixture. And a week-old battlefield where the winner had no time to clean up after himself, or perhaps just no inclination, now there’s the thing. You can smell the rotting bodies from five miles distant, if you have the misfortune to be downwind of them, and by the time you’ve passed the spot it’s a hard man indeed who hasn’t thrown up the contents of his stomach, either due to the smell or simply because so many of his comrades are vomiting around him. And that’s why we’ll set a pyre and burn every corpse here, both ours and theirs, once we’ve stripped away their armour. Here we are. .’

  The party stopped walking ten paces from the line of men who had intervened in the fight from the forest behind them, looking intently at their well-ordered line and obvious discipline as they collected up their dead and led the wounded out for treatment. To Marcus’s eye they seemed to bear the hallmarks of regular soldiers, their armour, helmets and shields all conforming to a single pattern, clearly the output of a single armoury, and yet as he examined their ranks he frowned at other aspects of their appearance. Each man seemed to have been allowed free choice of weaponry, and a profusion of swords, spears, axes, hammers and even clubs had resulted, while many of them wore their hair long and were heavily bearded. As he watched, a massively built man wearing the bronze chest plate and crested helmet of a Roman senior officer stepped out of the mass of his men and raised a hand in greeting. And then, to Marcus’s utter amazement Arminius took one look at him and went down on one knee, his head bowed in obeisance. Scaurus raised an eyebrow at the sight and muttered under his breath as he stood and waited for the man to approach.

  ‘Mithras above. .’

  The big man saluted, greeting the tribunes in Latin only barely edged with a German accent.

  ‘Greetings Tribune, I have the honour to be Prefect Gerwulf, commanding officer of the Allied Cohort of the Quadi tribe.’

  Scaurus stared at the other man in open curiosity for a moment before returning the salute.

  ‘Apologies Prefect, I was trying to work out just where it was I knew you from, although my man Arminius’s somewhat uncharacteristic behaviour was more than enough of a clue. You’re the Quadi prince who was captured early in the German Wars, unless I’m mistaken?’

  Marcus slid a stealthy hand to the hilt of his spatha, fearing that the big man might take offence, but to his relief the prefect’s only response was a nod of recognition, his lips pursed and his head nodding in acknowledgement of the accuracy of Scaurus’s memory.

  ‘I’m impressed, Tribune. Not many men recall that sort of small detail. I was taken hostage in the aftermath of a battle at the very start of the war between Rome and my father’s people. .’ He gestured to the kneeling man at Scaurus’s side. ‘If I might?’

  The Tribune nodded, and Gerwulf reached out to take Arminius’s hand.

  ‘Stand brother. The days when any Quadi warrior was expected to bend the knee to me are long gone. These days I’m more accustomed to the salutes of my men.’

  Arminius stood, his face bright red.

  ‘Forgive me Lord. . Prefect. . I had not thought to see your face again. We were much the same age when the war started, and. .’

  ‘And war seemed a wondrous thing, eh? We soon learned otherwise, of course, but we both ended up on the right side I see.’ He nodded to the big German, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘And we can swap tales of how that came to pass sometime soon, but not now. Now I must make my report
to the tribune here.’

  Scaurus snorted, a smile cracking his face as he stepped forward to clasp Gerwulf by the arm.

  ‘Your bloody report can wait for a better time, man! For now it’s more than enough that you appeared in our enemy’s rear when you did, for if you’d been very much later you would have been able to do no more than watch these barbarous gentlemen as they rampaged through the valley below us. As it is, your timing couldn’t have been any better, for which reason you have the gratitude of an entire cohort of men who would otherwise either be dead or contemplating slavery. And now, once my Tungrians are done with taking slaves, we have a valley to defend, so I suggest that we get to work on improving these defences and gathering the dead for burning, before the carrion birds start their grisly work.’

  ‘You’re sure you still want to do this? You could back out now and not a man among us could have any complaint. Not even that idiot Belletor could complain if you had second thoughts.’

  His friend’s voice was perilously loud, and Marcus shook his head, shooting a warning glance at the group of senior officers gathered barely out of earshot.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Julius, or “that idiot Belletor” will be taking far too close an interest in you. And now that I’ve put my hand up for the job I think I’ll see it through. It’ll be a novel experience to see inside a Sarmatae tribe’s encampment. Here, take these for me.’ He put down the Sarmatae king’s helmet and unbuckled his sword belt, handing the weapons to his friend. ‘And if for any reason. .’

  The first spear grinned at him in the early morning gloom.

  ‘I know. You want Dubnus and me to have your swords.’

  Marcus smiled darkly at his friend, feeling the tension ease from his taut neck muscles as he picked up the ornately decorated helm.

  ‘Not unless the pair of you want to suffer the wrath of a woman rather too skilled with the surgical blade for comfort.’

  Julius nodded slowly back at him, his grin softening to something gentler.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Just remember-’

  ‘To show no weakness? How could I forget? You’ve been knocking that particular nail home ever since Gerwulf opened his mouth on the subject of our captive this morning.’

  Tribune Belletor had initially been adamant on the subject of their prisoner’s fate, when he’d been informed of the Sarmatae leader’s capture at the previous evening’s command conference. He was still brimming with excitement at the close-fought victory at the Saddle, and doubtless already mentally composing his triumphant report to the governor.

  ‘We must execute him! I’ll have him beheaded up on the wall while his tribesmen watch and shiver with terror! That’ll send them away quickly enough!’

  The reactions around the command conference table had varied from the incredulous to the politely amused, although Belletor had been too far lost in his righteous anger to notice the stares of the gathered officers and civilians. Scaurus had wisely chosen to hold his own counsel and see who would be the first to risk their commander’s ire by daring to disagree. To Marcus’s surprise, watching from where he stood behind his tribune in the role of his aide, it was Procurator Maximus who had been the first to speak, his voice shaded with doubt.

  ‘It seems to me that we have a delicate situation here, Tribune. Outside the walls are enough men to slaughter us all, were they to break in, but for the time being they content themselves with waiting for some news of their attack on the northern side of the valley, and the fate of their king. Surely if we keep him alive we can. .’

  ‘Unacceptable!’ Belletor had become used to shouting when he felt he was being disregarded, and the volume to which his voice had risen was a clue to the depth of his anger. ‘This man led an attack on the empire with the simple aim of plunder, and he can pay the price for seeking to profit from Rome’s industry. I’ll have him executed before he has the chance to die of his wounds. I’ll have his head put on a spear and see that his body is thrown to the dogs as soon as there’s enough light for those animals beyond the wall to see it carried out.’

  An uneasy silence had ruled the gathering for a moment, as each of the attendees had imagined the likely response of the thousands of warriors camped in the lower valley to their leader’s execution, until Prefect Gerwulf had coughed softly. All eyes had turned to him, most of them registering surprise at the mannered way in which he waited for permission to speak. Belletor had raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless nodded to the German.

  ‘You have something to say, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf’s blue eyes had been free of any trace of guile, but to Marcus’s ear his voice had been edged with a faint trace of irony.

  ‘Tribune Belletor, I have fought these people camped in front of our wall for most of my adult life. When I was taken hostage in my people’s war with Rome I determined to learn your language and adopt your customs. As both a warrior and a willing convert to the civilised way of life, I was appointed as a junior officer in the army that went to war against the Marcomanni and my own tribe. Through good fortune I was appointed to command the forces that my tribe had volunteered for the service of Rome, under the treaty that ended that war. .’

  Belletor had stirred uncomfortably, clearly already bored.

  ‘There is a point to your life story, I presume, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf had nodded equably, ignoring the impatient note in Belletor’s voice.

  ‘Indeed there is, Tribune. Since the treaty to end the German Wars was agreed, most of the army’s efforts have been directed at the control of the Sarmatae tribes that live on the great plain that lies north of the Danubius. And if taking part in those operations has taught me one thing, it is that killing this man will only prolong a fight that might otherwise be brought to a successful close within a day or two.’

  ‘Within days? How so?’

  Gerwulf had bowed slightly.

  ‘Tribune, it is my experience that when a Sarmatae tribal king wishes to make war, he first sacrifices a bull, cooks the animal’s meat and lays the skin out on the ground. He then sits on the skin with his hands held behind his back as if bound at the wrist and elbow, and each of the men who consider themselves his followers approach to offer him their fealty. They eat their share of the meat and then place a foot on the bull’s hide, which is the symbol of their thunder god Targitai, pledging whatever strength they feel able to bring to his cause. My point, Tribune, is that this man will undoubtedly have blood brothers out there beyond our wall, and more than likely sons too. If we kill him now we will simply perpetuate their shared cause against Rome, and make it highly likely that they will attack again.’

  Marcus had seen the German’s face harden slightly, as he had flicked a calculating glance at Belletor.

  ‘Tribune, whilst you have worked marvels given the time you had, our defences cannot be considered to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination. In the event of continued hostilities with this people, the best that we can hope for is that they will ride away to join up with the forces further to the north, and remain a problem for the empire. Whereas if we return him to them with both his skin and his honour intact, demanding that they swear to depart in peace in return for his release and perhaps even demanding hostages in return, then perhaps we can send him away with his army bound to his word not to make war against Rome. With one stroke you would have saved this valley from capture and taken a sizeable piece of the enemy’s strength out of the field.’

  Belletor had fixed the German with a hard stare.

  ‘And you’re sure that these people will respond to such an approach?’

  Gerwulf had shrugged, rubbing at his closely cropped blond hair with a big hand.

  ‘No Tribune, I am not. The Sarmatae have always tended to be scrupulous about their honour, but there is an exception which is the proving of every rule. And whoever goes over the wall to negotiate with the tribesmen must clearly be at some risk.’

  Belletor had started with surprise.

  ‘Over the w
all? You suggest that we send a man to speak with them?’

  Gerwulf’s expression had remained neutral, although to Marcus’s ear the tone of his response was perhaps a little more strained than before.

  ‘Of course, Tribune. We must open discussions with whoever rules the tribe in his absence in order to show them that we hold their king, and are doing everything we can to restore him to good health. Such a matter is one for men to discuss face-to-face, not for shouting from our defences, and besides, whoever leads that warband in the king’s absence will never consider venturing within bowshot. A man will have to go down into their camp if we are to achieve a treaty. I’d do it myself if I wasn’t sure that my cohort would dissolve into chaos without me.’

  He looked around the assembled officers with a sombre expression.

  ‘Be under no illusions, whoever goes to open discussions with them is putting himself at considerable risk.’

  Belletor had looked around at his officers.

  ‘Your thoughts, gentlemen? Should we attempt to make peace with these savages, and if so, who should we send to discuss terms with them?’

  After some further debate, with both Scaurus and the Thracian cohort’s tribune agreeing with Gerwulf that the possibility of concluding hostilities with the Sarmatae was too strong to be ignored, Belletor had reluctantly agreed with the idea. While his change of heart had come as something of a relief to the men who knew him well, the stipulation that accompanied it had narrowed Scaurus’s eyes with fresh anger.