by Nick Morris
Guntram rubbed his forehead, thinking. “Rome’s army is like the crab; seeming unbreakable with its sharp claws and hard shell. Handle it directly and you will pay the price. But, turn it over with a stick and it’s helpless. Likewise, a different way to beat Rome’s army needs to be found; a way to break apart its iron ranks and attack its weaknesses.”
“Is it possible?”
“All things are possible,” Guntram replied. “But, Rome’s armies are rarely beaten.”
Blaz refilled their cups. Raising his hand, he offered a toast, “To a mild winter and to an early spring.”
“To spring!” Guntram lifted his cup to Blaz’s.
I hope Arminius’s plan is a good one, he mused. Because it will need to be.
* * *
Chapter XLV
WINTER
“No man of woman born, coward
or brave, can shun his destiny.”
Homer
Guntram immediately took his place amongst the hunters, both to provide Blaz’s lodge with food and to rebuild his own strength.
Joined by Blaz on his regular hunting trips, he was soon impressed by the sword-hand’s skill as a woodsman. They formed a successful partnership and their table was never bare despite the scarcity of game during the months of freezing cold.
There were no hollow bellies in the settlement as a whole; with the villagers’ palate adapting to rabbit, squirrel and wild fowl, and that was supplemented by the occasional elk and boar.
The previous summer’s crops had been plentiful, with ample supplies of grain, mead and barley wine being stored up in readiness for the bleak winter ahead. On special occasions, such as a young couple’s marriage ceremony, a number of domestic cattle came under the knife. The resultant feast was enjoyed by all.
Guntram regularly sparred with the sword-hand, testing sword, spear and war-hammer. Despite Blaz’s skill and experience with these weapons, Guntram was rarely bested.
With his early days in the settlement blending into weeks, so Guntram spent increasingly more time in the sword-hand’s company. The sober warrior possessed a steely toughness and a clean honesty that he related to, and a bond of trust began to form between them.
As winter’s icy fingers wrapped around the lodges, Guntram had to remind himself on more than one occasion that Wilda’s increased attentions had no bearing on his decision to stay. At these times his mind turned to Chayna, who lived on in his dreams and his heart. He sorely missed her.
And there was Jenell. During the hushed darkness of the nights he wondered if another love now dwelt in her secret place, or if she’d forgotten him? After a while he’d push these selfish thoughts aside, and comfort himself with the hope that her journey and that of Strom had been kinder than his own.
*
Wilda, finishing her evening meal, wiped her hands on her tunic and moved to sit directly in front of him. Guntram continued to eat, absently listening to the howl of the wind as it tugged at the lodge’s roof. Wilda weaved her head from side to side, avoiding his best efforts to ignore her. Recognising the mischievous glint in her eye he knew what was coming.
As the young woman’s interest in him had grown, so did the number of her questions regarding his absent years and all manner of things Roman. It was a game she increasingly played with him, but he was determined to finish his meal.
“Is it true that Romans lie down to eat their meals?” Wilda asked, her knees pulled up tight under her chin, looking younger than her years.
“They don’t lie flat on their backs, like when sleeping, but prop themselves up on one arm, their elbows resting on fine cushions.” He was aware that Wilda was edging closer, keen to hear his answer. “Although this is usually the practice at banquets.”
“And who protects the settlement’ walls when they are resting on their fine cushions?” Wilda’s eyes sparkled amusingly as she pressed him.
“Common folk don’t eat their food in this way or the troops in the field,” Guntram clarified between bites. “Only the generals and their officers when they celebrate a victory, and the nobles on special days in honour of their gods. Poorer folk take their meals at a table, sitting on chairs.”
“Do the noble ladies lie down at the feasts with their men?”
He sighed. “Yes, the women too.”
“Strange.” Wilda pinched her bottom lip, frowning. “Doesn’t the arm get tired with all that leaning?”
“By the Gods!” he blurted out, before turning to Blaz for help. “Blaz, I swear this sister of yours has more tongue than a cow’s got udder. Can you do nothing with her?”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Blaz began, grinning. “I was hoping you’d have more luck than me.”
Frustrated, Guntram returned his attentions to the now cold rib-bone he’d been gnawing. Undaunted, Wilda sidled even closer, her eyes mere inches from his face.
“Why do the Romans eat human flesh?” she asked more seriously.
“By Woden’s hairy arse!” Guntram exclaimed, spitting out a lump of rib gristle that glanced off Bertha’s shoulder. Bertha tucked her head low, almost choking in an effort to quell her laughter.
Guntram thundered, “And why do the Cherusci?”
“The Cherusci don’t eat men’s flesh!” Wilma responded testily. Flushed, she moved from Guntram’s front to sit cross-legged, opposite him once again.
“Neither do the Romans,” Guntram said, selecting another rib.
“They do,” asserted Wilda, “traders told me so.”
“Foolish talk to frighten children and impress young women. In Rome it’s said that we cook and eat our enemies. Do we?”
Shrugging, Wilda countered, “That’s stupid. What do they know about us to make up such lies?”
“True,” Guntram said. “Yet, what do you really know about these Romans? Like tears in rain, these whispers should be regarded warily. Until it’s proven otherwise and tested by your own eyes.”
Wilda was briefly silent, seeming to consider his advice. A series of nervous sniffs pre-empted her next question. “Do the traders also lie when they say that Roman women take lovers before they are married?”
“Hush Wilda!” Bertha interupted. “Such questions are not fitting at meal times.”
Guntram held up an appeasing hand. “I will answer. She’s young and has an inquisitive mind, and it’s important to know about an enemy’s ways.”
His eyes locking with Wilda’s, he explained, “It’s not uncommon for rich, older women to lie with young men outside of their marriages. That aside, Roman women are usually married very young; sometimes as young as twelve, thirteen.”
“To be joined that young?” Wilda queried, aghast.
“Yes.”
“Have you taken many lovers?” The words spilled out, too late to be taken back.
“That is none of your affair.” His words were angry, clipped.
Wilda bit her lip and looked away.
Dragging a wolf-skin across his shoulders, Guntram barged out into the night.
*
It was hard to hide his amusement as he watched them spar. His sister’s best efforts to breach Guntram’s guard were smoothly turned aside, and, as her frustration grew, so did the wildness of her attacks, much to her opponent’s delight.
Wilda’s feelings for his sword-brother were plain to see, and her angry outbursts fooled neither him nor his wife. Considering the many suitors his sister had rebuffed, it was ironic that she’d now met her match. Blaz knew better than anyone that Wilda’s love was as fierce as her temper and he wondered what Guntram felt in return?
Blaz knew about the woman Jenell, but more darkly, he’d stood on the brink of that pit where violence and resolve sat side by side in Guntram. He’d seen it when they sparred, and when they hunted; at those raw moments when Guntram cornered his prey and dealt the killing blow. He had no wish to see his sister hurt.
As the bitter months crawled by, Blaz had noticed other things too. The villagers no longer stared wh
en Guntram passed, and if they wondered about his years away from Germania, they never pressed him. If he asked a question, he was answered with respect, because he was seen as possessing a shrewd mind as well as a strong arm. His people regarded him as someone special, and his merits were the subject of regular discussion in the lodges. The young warriors believed him special because of his great strength and uncanny speed, and the women because of his commanding voice and striking looks. In fact, there were as many reasons as there were villagers.
When important concerns were debated, Guntram didn’t take sides, but listened to the views of others, and only at the end when a discussion was in danger of falling apart through pointless argument, did he comment on matters that couldn’t be delayed. He was not contradicted, because his suggestions were sensible, far-sighted.
Sharing his people’s hopes and fears, his sword-brother was a man they’d come to trust, and not just in his strength, but in his counsel and his unflinching concern for their future.
* * *
Chapter XLVI
FROM THE WEST
“All men by nature desire to know.”
Aristotle
With the first melt of snow Guntram noticed marked changes in the settlement. The dormant winter forges burst into life and within days there sprung up a further half dozen make-shift forging stations inside the settlement walls.
The first crisp days of spring breathed vigour into the Cherusci, and the crude bellows wheezed from dawn until well into the night, with the beat of smiths’ hammers ringing out across the forest. The forges’ white-hot bellies spewed out new axe and spear heads, long, cruel knife’ blades and other weapons for war. Damaged helmets and treasured shirts of chain mail were reshaped, repaired, and scraped hides were cut to size, before being soaked in brine and then stretched and secured over shield frames. The toughened hide was also cut and moulded into shirts of armour that would protect its bearer against all but the heaviest blows.
As the surge of activity increased, so did Guntram’s feelings of excitement and speculation regarding the specific nature of Arminius’s plans. Since Blaz had informed him that Rome’s tentacles now spread as far as the River Elbe, he pondered whether a strike was planned against one of the scattered Roman garrisons. He knew that any action against Rome would result in a swift and brutal reprisal against the tribes – Rome’s lesson in steel. In an effort to appease him, Blaz had vouched that all would be revealed when Arminius returned on the next full moon, and that he’d need to be patient until then.
Eventually, the first traders arrived. Four bearded Germans with their heavily laden pack horses arrived from the west, bringing with them a selection of practical goods that they traded for the Cherusci’ winter produce of cloth, tools of iron and sturdy rope.
Guntram noticed that there was a large amount of weapons amongst the traders’ merchandise. These included finely crafted steel spear heads, finely honed axe blades and even a handful of swords, both German and Gaulish in design. He noted with a grin how quickly the weapons were snapped up by an eager rush of warriors.
The traders also brought news of the west and of Governor Varus.
The news was grim, carrying a warning that Varus was set on an early spring campaign to push the boundary of the Empire further eastwards, with the ultimate goal of bringing all of Germania under the legions’ iron heel. More territory, taxes and revenue for Caesar’s coffers, and greater fame and advancement for Varus.
Guntram knew a little about Varus; information gleaned from the mutterings of strangers encountered on his journey north, as well as the bitter grumblings of his Cherusci’ brothers. Varus’s reputation was one of aloofness and intolerance, with his vanity only being out-done by his resolve to tax his people to the bone.
With Varus would come three veteran legions, plus the usual auxiliaries. Over twenty thousand men, it was a formidable force. When hearing this, Guntram wondered if Arminius’s plans would change as a result?
Tiwaz! I wish I knew the man’s mind, he steamed, thankful the full moon was just two days away.
*
Guntram sparred firstly with Blaz, and after with two young warriors keen to test his skills. They chose the German war-hammer, a weapon with which Guntram was developing an affinity. It felt good in his hands and he admired its ability to deliver bone crushing injuries to an armoured opponent. Long handled, its heavy iron head tapered on one side into a long wicked spike that was capable of punching through armour and bone. It was no wonder that Thunor, his people’s God of Thunder made the weapon his own.
He quickly exhausted all three opponents, with each collecting a handful of painful lumps and bruises that would have them wincing for days.
Bathed in sweat following his exertions, Guntram made his way towards a stream that skirted the eastern flank of the settlement. He found a secluded spot, stripped and then waded in up to his waist. The day was bright and he languished in the tingling sensation of the icy water on his skin as he rubbed away the tacky grime.
Only brief minutes had passed when the quiet tread of feet caused him to splash to the bank. Clothes ignored, he snatched up his war-hammer, ready to confront the intruder.
“I see that your ears haven’t lost their keenness.” Wilda’s tall, shapely figure stepped from the fence of trees. She stood grinning, hands on hips.
“Girl, one day you’ll lose your head creeping around like that,” he rebuked, despite his obvious relief. “Can’t a man get any privacy? And what are you staring at? You’ve seen a man’s flesh before.”
Undeterred, Wilda closed the space between them, stopping a mere hand’s breadth away.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. Her lips parted, the desire undisguised. She slowly ran her fingers through the damp, curling hair on his chest and a shiver tracked the length of his spine.
Her voice was thick with feeling when she spoke. “I’m no girl, and there’s not a man to equal you in all this land. You must know how I feel, and I believe you feel something for me too. I’ve seen your eyes on me, when no one is watching.” Her breathing heavy, she pledged, “There’s no other man for me...I swear it.”
Her hand slipped to his buttocks, pulling him close until their bodies touched. He felt his manhood grow hard against her. She moved her other hand up to the back of his head, and drawing herself tightly to him, coaxed his face down to hers.
“Take me here! Where no eyes can see!” Her words poured out in breathless gasps. “It’s what we both want. I’ve felt it in my heart since you first came to us.”
He felt his hands grip her hips, his throat tighten. Suddenly, he flinched back, Chayna’s face flashing before him. He removed Wilda’s hands, holding her at arm’s length.
“Wilda, you are a rare beauty, but you are mistaken if you believe I want this.” He spoke firmly, but couldn’t meet her gaze for more than a moment. He saw her recoil, as if struck with a fist, the hurt clear in her eyes.
She followed him as he went to pick up his clothes.
“Is there no room for love in you?” Her words sounded cold, hollow. “Or just death and vengeance?”
“No,” Guntram said, “there is no room...for us.” He stooped to fasten the ties of his boots.
Wilda spat out her response, “Is it because you love the woman Jenell?”
“She’s not the reason.” He didn’t look up as he spoke. “I cared for her once, greatly. And I have loved since, before the scum of Rome ripped love’s comfort from me. Now, my heart will always be a lonely hunter.”
“Very well! Live in your lodge of ice!” Wilda’s voice began to break. “But, I warn you! No other woman shall feel your embrace while I live. And if you turn to another, I’ll have her eyes out as surely as the sun rises each dawn. You’d do well to heed my words, and remember them.”
When he lifted his head, all that remained was the gentle swaying of a branch to mark her passing.
* * *
Chapter XLVII
THE G
ATHERING STORM
“Beware lest in your anxiety
to avoid war you obtain a master.”
Demosthenes
The light was poor and the air strong with the stink of rotting scraps of food strewn on the straw-covered floor. Arminius wrinkled his nose in distaste.
A mound of furs lay in one corner of the long-house where the chief of all the Cherusci squatted. Once a fine specimen of German manhood, Segestes, his uncle, was now in middle age. His body was characterised by a massive belly that slumped over his belt like an over-filled wine sack, and a bloated, beer-flushed countenance.
Segestes looked up at him, his face partly cloaked by shadows. The hatred was not clearly visible, but he felt it pulsing out from the old chief towards him.
“Say what you must, but make it brief because I’m leaving soon,” Arminius stated calmly.
“We are of the same blood,” Segestes began, his voice low. “But when I look at you I see nothing of your father, or myself.”
“I am not my father, and not you.” The last word was spoken harshly.
“How confident you are nephew,” Segestes sneered. “You stand there in your young body and speak down to me in your arrogant voice. Is it because I’m old that you resist everything I believe in? My body may be old but remember that my mind is still clear. Understand that I see all that you plan.”
“You think that you see Segestes, but you know only what your spies tell you.”
Segestes bustled awkwardly to his feet. Standing squarely in front of Arminius, he blurted angrily, “I know that you will bring only death and suffering to my people!” Spittle flecked his lips, drops of it spotting Arminius’s face.