by Nick Morris
Coughing into his fist, the inn-keeper enquired if he could be of further service.
Servannus broke off a piece of bread from a small loaf on the plate. “Yes...there is one thing.” He didn’t look up as he spoke.
“What can I get you?”
“My room is acceptably clean, but this dreadful climate’s got into my bones,” Servannus replied, grimacing. “I’ll need my bed warming tonight, and I don’t find your girl unattractive.”
“Sorry...I...I don’t understand what you mean,” the inn-keeper stuttered, taken aback.
“Didn’t I make myself clear?” Servannus queried, now looking up. “The girl will share my bed tonight. I’ll pay of course.”
“Sir...,” the colour drained from the inn-keeper’s face, and he struggled to find the right words, “the girl is my daughter and betrothed...such a mistake is easily made-”
“Mistake!” Servannus burst out, his face red, spittle flecking his mouth as his temper flared. A jug was tipped over on another table. “Do you realize who you are speaking to?”
“Yes, but-”
“But nothing,” Servannus said. “You should feel honoured that a Tribune of the Nineteenth Legion graces your miserable inn.” Servannus retained his composure a little before adding, “Is that clear?”
Galenus rose from his seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“It . . . it is,” the inn-keeper managed to reply.
When Servannus spoke, it was with a cold deliberation. “Do you know what the penalty is for insulting a Tribune of Rome? What the outcome would be for you and your family if I chose to press charges against you with the magistrates at Vetera?”
“I meant no offence my lord. Please...please accept my apology,” he blurted out. His face was flushed and his hands trembled.
Servannus returned his attention to his plate, breaking the bread into small, precise pieces. He turned to Lucanus, who stood with eyes cast to the floor, looking uncomfortable. Gods! The boy’s so soft, he thought, and a German too!
He looked to Galenus. The bodyguard smirked knowingly.
“Good!” Servannus said. “Then I’ll grant you a second chance, although I don’t know why I should? But, I warn you...it’ll be your last.”
The inn-keeper clasped his hands tightly together, his eyes moist with tears. Nodding his head, he gestured that he understood.
*
Servannus stamped his feet as he waited for Galenus and the inn-keeper to fetch their horses from the stables. A slight mist licked at the ground and the edges of the forest, and the wind raised goose-bumps on his hands and face. He looked at Lucanus by his side and the boy seemed unbothered by the cold.
Blowing on his hands, he fixed his gaze on the sunlight moving across the tree-tops, and the girl Salonina flashed through his mind. A virgin, their love making had been joyless; the girl keeping her eyes tightly shut throughout and not saying a word. He huffed, switching his thoughts to more important matters, such as making good time on the road, and with luck arriving at Vetera before another night drew in.
An ear-breaking scream made him jump. It came from the stables. His feet moved without thinking, and reaching the stables door he barged it open.
At first everything was shadow, and then his eyes picked out shapes from the gloom: the inn-keeper on his knees, weeping, and Galenus staring up at the rafters, at the young woman swinging gently in the chill morning air.
* * *
Chapter XXXVIII
HOMELANDS
“The more laws the less justice.”
Cicero
The docking area was abuzz with activity as Guntram strode from the river barge. Glad to be ashore after his time on the river, he quickly blended into the crowd of mainly tow-haired Gauls, dotted here and there with darker Romans. He struck a course away from the waterfront and then glanced behind. His suspicions were confirmed. The three Gauls – also from the barge – were jostling their way towards him.
Increasing his pace, his thoughts flashed to the previous night.
Despite the wine, he’d suspected that the man who called himself Ferromanus was a liar. His smile came too easily and he was overly free with his purse and advice. Guntram read the false kindness in his eyes, a rain-drip voice telling him that something was wrong, warning him against returning to his room. He’d barely made it to the inn’s stable, where he later spotted four men enter the lodgings, cloaked and armed, only to leave shortly after in a bluster of curses. The lanista was one of them.
When he boarded the barge at dawn, the Gauls boarded with him, heavily armed and equipped for hunting. It was him they hunted, and for whatever price was on his head. Moving to the opposite end of the barge, they’d avoided him like the pox, jerking their eyes away whenever he looked in their direction. Fucking dogs! They planned to murder him in the wild, but he’d give them no chance.
On enquiry, Guntram was directed to a string of traders’ wagons parked on the outskirts of town. Paying a criminal sum to an unwavering horse dealer, he purchased a piebald mount, together with a sizable supply of smoked meat, black bread and three large skins of wine. There was no time for bargaining. Despite the lateness of the hour, he swung himself into the saddle, determined to leave the town and pursuit behind him. Responding to the squeeze of his knees, the piebald broke into a trot.
With the ring of wagons dropping behind, his attention turned to the approaching forest. A flock of startled birds took flight from the reef of trees, screeching loudly as they scattered. He turned in the saddle to look back. There was no sign of pursuit...yet.
As the tree-line drew nearer he fixed his gaze on the northern horizon. Distant, hazy, it was the land where the Cherusci dwelt.
*
The weather remained chill but dry, and he made good progress, all the while hugging the Rhinus River. His journey had been uneventful, with him skirting the military township of Moguntiacum earlier in the day. It was now intuition rather than any clear warning that caused Guntram to reign to a sudden halt on the tree canopied trail.
His hand moved to his sword hilt.
He remained still, straining his ears for the faintest, odd sound. No creature scampered, no bird sang. His short neck hairs prickled and he was unsure whether to go on or to move off the trail into cover. Before he could decide, the web of trees parted and three men emerged, leading their mounts. The Gauls from the barge! he cursed. The dogs must have ridden through the night to get ahead of me!
The Gauls stopped and stared at him, also surprised by the abrupt encounter.
Yanking his mount around, he fled back along the trail. He bent forwards in the saddle, making himself a harder target.
An arrow thrummed past this head and he crouched lower. A sudden rush of air past his right hip was followed by a strangled scream of pain.
He felt the piebald shudder between his thighs. A spear shaft grew from its neck, bright blood squirting across his front. Despite the awful wound, the brave beast laboured on for a further half-mile before staggering to a halt, its forelocks crumpling.
Guntram jumped clear as the mount keeled sideways, a snorting death rattle escaping its throat.
He snatched up his water skin and food sack, and plunged off the trail into the forest. Desperate to place distance between himself and the Gauls, he did not pick his course, but simply ran with all the speed that his long legs could muster.
Frantic minutes passed and a small clearing opened up in front of him. He stopped to catch his breath. Ignoring the sharp pain in his side he swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea. He looked around and saw that the glade was bordered on all sides by a dense thicket of trees and bushes. He sucked in air, knowing that even as he paused the Gauls were closing the initial gap he’d opened up. Snapping his head around, he looked back in response to a long drawn out whoop that burst from the forest. Close by, it was answered by a chorus of exultant yells some way distant, and then the forest was quiet again.
He realized the Gauls
were using a familiar chasing-down tactic that comprised of a lone runner being sent ahead at breakneck speed. This lead runner was instructed to make his pursuit heard, with the aim of forcing the quarry to even greater speed and early collapse. Despite the fore-runner being quickly worn out, the pack’s goal was achieved.
Guntram drew his knife, a rage building inside him; that of a hunted beast ready to turn at bay. He entered the wall of trees, before looping back on the careless trail he’d cut through the clearing. Concealed amongst the thicket’s dense greenery, he had a clear view of the glade. Hardly a branch quivered around him.
As he waited, all signs of life seemed to have fled, and it felt as if the very clearing was holding its breath. For an agonizing space there was nothing, and then the peace was shattered.
Red faced, gasping, the front runner halted on breaking from the trees. He placed his hands on his knees, dragging air into bursting lungs as his eyes warily scanned the glade. He lifted his head and rendered a loud cry – a signal to the pack that he was gaining on his prey and for them to quicken their pace. Pushing himself upright, he jogged unsteadily across the clearing.
Guntram bounded from cover, his knife punching between the Gaul’s shoulders. The blade ripped through his heart before a shocked grunt of pain escaped his lips. Guntram wrenched his blade free, the Gaul pitching forwards onto the carpet of bracken and dead leaves.
Guntram glanced skywards and saw that night was approaching. Thank Tiwaz! I’ve been running for longer than I thought. Crossing the glade he entered the forest once more, this time cutting a heading north-east to the Cherusci homeland.
Behind him for a time there was silence, and then a furious shouting broke out and he knew that the Gauls had found their man.
* * *
Chapter XXXIX
PAX ROMANA
“They damn what they do not understand.”
Quintilian
Ulner watched the village burn.
The torch was doing its work and every building pushed black smoke up into the sky. Crops were ablaze, food stores had been spoiled and the wells were fouled by the carcasses of dead live-stock. The tribes would not quickly re-use the site.
His troop was leaving, and he knew that the job had been done thoroughly, for it was something that they knew how to do in the best manner in the least time. The attack on the settlement was planned and directed by his commander, and it had come in sweeping rush, allowing none of the occupants time to escape. After, they found the equipment stripped from the bodies of the Roman patrol recently wiped out, and a few old men and women and children. But no warriors...
As his commander rode up, Ulner leaned forward to stroke the neck of his back-stepping horse.
“It’s done then,” the commander stated.
“The villagers have been loaded on the wagons for transport as you instructed,” Ulner replied.
“Good,” the commander said, removing his helmet. Ulner studied him as he wiped sweat and the stain of smoke from his face with a rag. The face was a familiar one, its leathery skin tanned by service under distant suns, emphasizing the clear blue eyes set under a wide, intelligent forehead.
“We found the patrol’s equipment, but no weapons.” Ulner pointed to an area of dug up ground.
“So I was informed,” the commander confirmed, his tone even.
“The tribesmen are doubtless sharpening them as we speak.” Ulner couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. He’d asked to pursue the settlement’s fighting men that had left the German settlement some hours before the attack. His argument was that if they weren’t dealt with, the raising of the settlement would accomplish little, since they could easily quarter themselves in another. He maintained that given a few more days he could locate and force them into a battle, and erase the threat that such a force presented in the region. His request was refused.
“I see you’re still unhappy about the warriors.”
“Yes I am, and my men too,” Ulner replied. “Inaction makes them testy.”
“The men will follow orders,” the commander said flatly.
“Of course. Yet, it’s still strange.”
The commander raised his eye-brows, prompting Ulner to explain.
Frowning, Ulner said, “Today they fled from us, whereas any other day they would have stood and fought. It’s not like them, and you know this as well as I. There’s a planned feeling about it, and it makes me uneasy.”
“You’re a good soldier Ulner, and like all good soldiers you’re suspicious of your enemy’s every move,” the commander said, now wearing an easy smile. “Believe me when I tell you, it’s our reputation that’s caused the young warriors to flee. They are beginning to understand that they cannot defeat the strength of Rome. Also, the governor’s orders were clear, and that was to burn the settlement and take no further action. Varus doesn’t want to risk any set-backs before winter comes...not with the campaign ahead.”
Ulner knew that the tribes hated Rome and its figure-head Varus, who taxed them severely. But, Ulner also believed there was good there too, and he’d seen it. Many of Rome’s leaders were quick to think and act and their scholars knew the science of line and construction. There was much to see and learn: how to transport water and make it pure, and how to heat a dwelling with just hot air. Rome had given him his life...given him Jenell.
“Cheer up Ulner, there’ll soon be plenty of action for both you and your men.” The commander’s hand clasped his shoulder. “When we get back to camp I’ll share a jug of mead with you.”
Donning his helmet, the commander reined his horse about.
Ulner watched him disappear into the troop’s dust trail. He rubbed his neck, trying to coax away the edgy doubt. Fool! You’re just getting old, he chided. And, when has Commander Arminius ever been wrong? Noting the thick vapour of his breath, he shivered.
Kicking his horse forward, he was the last to leave.
* * *
Chapter XL
HORSE SOLDIER
“Only the dead know the end of war.”
Plato
The shapes of the wood-clothed hills to the east of his position appeared familiar and Guntram paused to catch his breath. He’d not eaten in three days and his attempt at trapping fresh meat that morning had proven fruitless. He was exhausted.
The forest seemed strangely empty of wild-life, and left him wondering what had frightened them off? Despite this, his mood had lifted on entering Cherusci territory, together with the knowledge that he was finally free of pursuit. After cautiously back-tracking, he’d uncovered no sign of the Gauls. They know what their fate will be if discovered here, he reassured himself with a grin.
Attracted by the sound of running water, he came to an icy stream. Lifting his head after drinking his fill, he flinched at the image in the water staring back at him: hollow cheeks beneath a frost-tinged beard, and eyes wild, blood-shot. The pace he’d set in eluding his pursuers had taken its toll, more than he realized.
Rising to his feet, he attempted to club some life into his leaden body. Then suddenly, he tipped his head to the side, like a wolf sniffing something faint. Tiwaz! Smoke! he confirmed.
He followed its trace, cutting a cautious arc through the intervening forest. It wasn’t long before he discovered its source. Squinting through a break in the trees and saw a village in flames.
Buildings crackled angrily in the fires and the space between them was littered with butchered cattle. Aghast, he felt as if he’d been struck a blow to his guts. Memories of his village’s destruction shunted into his mind and with them the urge to rip and kill.
A nearby trail cut a slash into the forest, and a column of Roman cavalry took shape, escorting a number of wagons packed with women, crying children, and old men.
Guntram watched, livid, as the vanguard rode from sight. A mounted officer brought up the rear, his distinctive head-plume in plain view. The burning settlement appeared deserted and left Guntram puzzling on the whereabouts of the younger men
. He drew his sword, and then smiled, doubting that he had the strength to use it.
He waited long moments after the officer disappeared along the curve of the trail before stepping from cover. He headed in the direction of the settlement, desperate to find some food.
He was brought to a startled halt when a Roman horse-soldier reined up in front of him, his mount rising up on hind legs in response to the wrench on its bridle.
Guntram watched the Roman quickly calm the beast. He stood ready, his sword shaking in his hand. For still moments the two stared at each other, silent, before Guntram plunged into the cold forest.
*
The taste of muddy water in his mouth caused him to shake his head, spit. Guntram tilted his face to the drizzle, realizing that he’d collapsed and passed out. Groaning, he managed to push himself onto his back, and then using his elbows he propped himself up into a half-sitting position.
He was unsure of how much time had passed since the burning village...and the horse-soldier. Frowning, he tried to picture him. There was a flicker of something recalled, but it was too vague to get back.
He peered between swollen eye-lids. A pale sun climbed above the tree-line into a slate sky. Ahead, he saw that the forest began to thin out, with scattered tree stumps bearing the mark of an axe. His breathing quickened. A village could be close! I must get to my feet! He struggled onto his knees.
Then he heard them.
They stepped from the curtain of trees towards him, their faces set with twisted smiles, their long swords drawn. He tried to draw his own sword, but his arms felt like stone.
The nearest of the Gauls touched his cheek with the notched edge of his blade; a cruel taunt. Grinning, he lifted it high for the killing blow.
Guntram met the Gaul’s look and then closed his eyes. Picturing Chayna’s face he waited for the pain to come...