“Batavorum Lugdunum,” Indus said pronouncing the name carefully and respectfully. The big bodyguard was speaking in his native Batavian language, his tone sombre and an uncharacteristically melancholic look had appeared in his eyes. “This is the place Sir from where I first shipped out as a new eighteen-year old recruit with the Ninth. I have never been back since. They say that that before the invasion of Britannia the emperor Caligula drew up his troops and artillery here on the beach and then declared war on Neptune. Afterwards he had his troops gather sea shells as war booty and built that lighthouse over there, as a monument to his victory.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows as he gazed at the sand dunes and wide sandy beaches that formed the coast of the province of Germania Inferior. It was the first time that he’d heard Indus speak at such length, since he had first interviewed the old homeless soldier, in Rome more than two years ago.
“Do you still have family living in these parts?” Marcus asked.
“No Sir,” Indus quickly shook his head. “No. No family. I served the Ninth and now I serve you Sir. I serve a senator of Rome,” Indus added with a hint of pride in his voice.
“Yeah, well I am not so sure I am a senator anymore,” Marcus replied sourly. “Best to keep our identity hidden when we go ashore. If people inquire, we are just two old veterans, returning home from service abroad.”
Indus nodded in agreement.
Quickly Marcus glanced up at the overcast skies. “It’s too late to set out for Ulpia Noviomagus Batavorum today,” he said. “We will find somewhere to sleep tonight. Then tomorrow I will purchase a couple of horses and we will set off inland. By my calculation it should take us two days to reach Ulpia. I have an old friend living in the town who may be able to help us.”
“When we find Armin Sir, do you want me to kill him?” Indus said lowering his voice. For a moment Marcus did not reply. “No,” Marcus said at last. “No that won’t be necessary. I have other plans for him.”
***
Night had come and, out in the dunes, the small camp fire glowed in the darkness; the flames spitting and crackling as it devoured the dry wood. Marcus and Indus sat around the small fire, silently eating their evening meal, their cloaks drawn around their bodies, their faces turned red in the light from the fire. A hundred yards away or so across the dark, wild, undulating, heather-covered sand dunes the dull boom of the waves could be heard breaking onto the beach. Closer by, but hidden in the darkness, seagulls were crying out as they sat atop the ruins of Caligula’s lighthouse. A half a mile away in the sand dunes, a few pinpricks of light in the darkness indicated the position of the Roman fortified port of Batavorum Lugdunum. Finishing his meal, Marcus replaced his pugio in his belt, took a swig of water from a flask and glanced at his companion.
“That shaking in your left arm Sir,” Indus said gesturing at Marcus’s arm, with his knife. “Does it hurt? Can the doctors do nothing about it?”
Marcus turned to look down at his arm. The uncontrollable shaking had started again.
“It doesn’t hurt but it’s fucking annoying,” Marcus replied.
“Some would say that the shaking has started because you have been touched by the gods,” Indus said, staring soberly at Marcus from across the fire. “Maybe it is a sign Sir. A sign of things to come. Maybe the gods have given you a new purpose.”
“Yeah or else I am just getting old.”
Indus looked down at the sand as he finished his meal.
“The gods like to send us signs Sir,” Indus said with a serious expression. “They like to play games with men. They like to test us. They never tire of testing us. May I tell you a story Sir?”
A little bemused smile appeared on Marcus’s lips as he turned to gaze at Indus. “You have become quite talkative since we landed on these shores haven’t you,” Marcus exclaimed. “For two years in Rome and on Vectis you barely spoke a word. What has changed Indus?”
“I honestly did not expect to see these shores again Sir,” Indus replied in a quiet, rather glum voice. “Returning here has reminded me of many things that I had forgotten about. I have no family and yet I have stories that I now feel it is my duty to pass on. Knowledge that must be passed on. It is the duty of every Batavian to keep these stories alive for they are the story of our people. I will not live forever and before I die I need to pass on my knowledge so that it benefits the next generation. Will you listen Sir?”
“Of-course I will listen,” Marcus replied. “Although I am hardly the next generation.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Indus said in a humble and grateful voice.
For a long moment the only sound around the fire was the crackle of the flames and the dull booming of the waves crashing onto the beach.
“I remember Sir,” Indus began in a solemn voice, “when I was still a young lad growing up beside the river, that my father and mother had a tradition of storytelling. Each winter, during the long, cold nights, when the lakes and streams froze, and you could see the steam coming off the farm animals, they would gather the family together by the fire and tell us about our heroes and the origins of our tribe. They would sing the stories to us - stories that they in turn had learned from their ancestors all the way back to the first men and women. For our tribe does not write down its history like you Romans do. We only remember it in song, Sir.”
For a moment Indus paused, seemingly lost in thought. “I still remember their voices Sir. My parents had rich, powerful voices. They are as clear to me as daylight. They told me that when I became a father it would be my duty to pass on this knowledge to my children. Except I never had any children Sir, at least none that I know about.”
“Go on,” Marcus said, as Indus seemed to falter.
“They told me about the origins of our tribe; of us Batavians,” Indus said, as he threw another stick onto the fire, sending a cloud of sparks shooting upwards into the darkness. “They told me that many generations ago our ancestors lived far to the east in the vast, wild forests beyond the Rhine. We were part of the great Chatti confederation in those days, before the arrival of Rome. But as Rome pushed northwards and finally reached the Rhine, my ancestors quarrelled with the other tribes. The quarrel was about how to deal with Rome. Most of the Chatti chiefs and elders favoured hostility to Rome, for the legions were encroaching on their homelands. But my ancestors, the chiefs of the Batavians, they had a different view. They argued in favour of an alliance with Rome, for they could see the benefits of such an arrangement. The quarrel became insolvable; the differences too stark.” Indus paused; his eyes staring into the flames; his face serious. Then abruptly he looked up at Marcus. “So, my ancestors decided to leave. Our whole people, all ten thousand of us, left our homes with our horses, our sick and elderly, our belongings, our cattle and began moving westwards. We followed the great river downstream and, as we went in search of a new homeland, my ancestors were led by a man, a great warrior whose left arm was shaking just like yours Sir.”
***
The horses’ hooves thudded on the gravel, scattering the seashells, as the two horsemen came riding down the road in single file, heading eastwards towards the rising sun. It was morning and warm, but ahead of them in the dull overcast skies, dark storm clouds threatened. Out on the Rhine a convoy of Roman supply barges, filled with wood and great quantities of amphorae, their sails bulging in the fresh breeze, were heading downstream towards the cavalry fort of Praetorium Agrippina. Idly, Marcus turned to gaze at the barges. He and Indus seemed to be the only people out on the road this morning. The Via Militaris, the newly constructed Roman military road, five yards wide, slightly elevated and flanked on either side by drainage ditches, had been built on the higher ground directly above the southern bank of the Rhine and seemed to be following the course of the river. To the south and north beyond the narrow corridor of sandy higher ground, the uninhabited, treeless, peat bogs, fens, marshes and wetlands of the delta, stretched as far as the eye could see. Numerous water channels criss-crossed the gr
een, low-lying, impassable land and herons and egrets stalked the wetlands unchallenged. Marcus grunted. On their journey inland from the sea, he had seen few people and even fewer native settlements. It made sense for the vast wetlands and peat bogs would not be able to support a large population. Turning his attention back to the Rhine, Marcus peered out across the wide, peaceful waters to where the great river split in two, forming a narrow, low lying grass covered island, before the water channels re-joined. The island was not much more than a large, soggy sandbank but facing it on the southern bank, close to the water, was a solitary Roman watchtower.
“The river spirits are always restless and unpredictable Sir,” Indus suddenly called out, as he nudged his horse alongside Marcus and the two of them slowed their pace. For a moment the big bodyguard peered fondly at the river. “I grew up along the Rhine. We prayed to the spirits of the great river every night. The water spirits are constantly on the move, constantly trying to find a new path to the sea and they are unstoppable. They never rest Sir. They are the true masters of this land. The water spirits demand much. To prevent flooding and ruining crops, they must constantly be appeased with gifts. Tonight,” Indus nodded solemnly, “when we stop to make camp, I shall make an offering to the spirits that live in the river so that, tonight at least, we shall not get our boots wet.”
Marcus remained silent as the two of them trotted towards the Roman watch tower.
“When I was a young boy Sir,” Indus continued, with a frown as he gazed about him, “I remember that this land was covered in forests. Beech, hazel, elm, lime and oak trees. They were beautiful forests, but I see they have all gone now. The Romans must have cut down the trees to build their ships and forts.” Indus sighed as a pained expression appeared on his face. “The water spirits will not be happy,” he muttered to himself with a little bewildered shake of his head.
Marcus was only half listening to what Indus was saying. He was peering at the Roman watchtower that stood on the high ground at the water’s edge. Constructed solely on the southern levees of the Rhine, they had come across a manned watchtower every mile and a half since they had left Batavorum Lugdunum. The standard wooden army construction reminded him of the time in Caledonia when he and Corbulo had been on the run from Emogene and her band of vengeful Caledonians. On the narrow balustraded platform that ran along the top floor of the watchtower an auxiliary, clad in chain mail armour and clutching a spear was standing guard. The soldier was watching the traffic on the river but, as Marcus and Indus rode on past the silent watchman turned to stare at them.
It was afternoon when up ahead on the road Marcus caught sight of a party of workmen and horse-drawn carts blocking the way. The wagons were filled with building materials, sand, stones, gravel and great heaps of seashells, used to cover the road surface. Slowing his horse to a walk, Marcus and Indus cautiously approached and, as they drew closer Marcus saw the reason for the blockage. Along a low-lying section of land, the Rhine had broken through its banks, washing away the substructure and gravel surface of the Roman road. The workmen were trying to repair the highway. Some of the men were knee deep in the water as they tried to plug the breach in the embankment. Carefully Marcus urged his horse into the muddy water and slowly rode on, splashing through the inundated land until he reached the road again on the other side. Up ahead, a half mile away, a Roman fort stood right on the very edge of the river, its dirty, muddy-brown wooden walls and watchtowers re-enforced by revetments and sandbags. Wooden jetties and a simple harbour protruded out into the river, alongside which lay a moored cargo barge.
Out in the river a solitary Roman warship on patrol was slowly making its way downstream. As they rode towards the fort, Marcus glanced curiously across the river at the northern bank and, as he noticed the small tributary river that flowed into the Rhine, he grunted. It was as he had begun to suspect. Access to the river and an unobstructed and commanding view seemed to have been more important to the military engineers than the fear of flooding. The main Roman forts along the river, he had noticed with an experienced military eye, were situated much closer together than the forts he remembered seeing on the Danube frontier. They were smaller too. Seemingly catering for a single cohort of auxiliaries, around five hundred men. But what seemed remarkable, was that the forts along this scarcely inhabited section of the frontier had all been placed opposite or alongside tributary rivers or navigable peat brooks. No doubt to prevent ship-borne raiders and smugglers from crossing into Roman territory. It confirmed what he had suspected. The Roman forts, watchtowers and naval vessels were watching and guarding every possible avenue that offered a chance to attack and infiltrate the lands to the south.
It was getting late, when Marcus at last reined in his horse and slowed the beast to a walk. In the fading light, along the road to the east the threatened thunder storm had not materialised and there had been no rain. Cautiously Marcus turned to stare at the Roman watchtower that had been constructed on a slight rise along the banks of the Rhine. On the viewing platform an auxiliary was gazing back at him. Quickly Marcus turned to examine the flat, grassy countryside.
“We will make camp here for tonight in the shadow of that tower,” he said, as he urged his horse on towards the river bank. At his side Indus was gazing up at the solitary watchtower.
Riding up to the square wooden construction, Marcus dismounted and raised the palm of his right hand, calling out to the watchman standing on the narrow walkway.
“Friend, we are going to camp out here for the night. We are two army veterans passing through on our way to Ulpia Noviomagus Batavorum. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure,” the auxiliary called out in reply.
Gesturing for Indus to dismount, Marcus led his horse down the grassy slope to a narrow stream and for a moment he allowed the beast to drink and nibble at the grass. Then tying the horse to the stump of a dead tree, he strode back up to the high ground where Indus had already found a spot to make camp. Close by, in the watchtower, Marcus was conscious of the sentry watching him. As Indus set out to gather some firewood Marcus turned to gaze out over the Rhine. In the dying light the river looked magnificent. A wide, gleaming, spectacular ribbon of water dividing the land on its way to the sea.
***
Marcus and Indus sat around the camp fire, each content to be alone in their silence. In the summer night sky there was no sign of the stars or the moon, but it remained dry and warm. As a shower of glowing sparks shot up into the dark sky, Indus reached out and tossed another piece of wood onto the fire. Marcus sat cross-legged staring thoughtfully into the flames. Now and then he would reach out to take a sip of wine from his simple wooden cup. Tomorrow they would reach Ulpia and the search for Armin could begin in earnest. But Petrus had been right. He was taking a risk in leaving Vectis. If Nigrinus acted quicker and more decisive than he had expected, the family would be in trouble. He had to find Armin and the gold quickly, but that was easier said than done. He was going to need help. Across from him, Indus suddenly rose to his feet and turned to face the Rhine, the banks of which were only a few yards away. Muttering something to himself Indus quickly flung an object into the water which disappeared with a distant plop.
“The spirits of the great river will not trouble us tonight,” Indus announced in a solemn but confident voice, as he sat back down beside the fire.
Marcus nodded without saying anything. He was just about to raise his cup to his lips when a voice, close by, cut through the darkness. The voice had come from the direction of the watchtower.
“You there by the fire. Have you got any beer? We have run out of beer. We have got some birds eggs - if you would like to trade?”
Swiftly Marcus and Indus rose to their feet, as an auxiliary soldier appeared out of the gloom. The man’s chainmail armour and helmet gleamed in the firelight. The soldier nodded a cautious greeting at Marcus and then extended and opened his hand revealing three fine bird’s eggs.
“No beer,” Marcus replied quickly.
“But we can share some of our wine with you and your men.”
“Boys,” the auxiliary shouted as he turned in the direction of the watchtower. “He says he has no beer, but he has some wine?”
“Wine will do,” a voice shouted back from the darkness.
The auxiliary turned back to face Marcus and nodded. In reply Marcus gestured at Indus who stooped and produced a flask of wine from his satchel.
“You said you were veterans,” the auxiliary said in a curious voice as the trade was swiftly completed.
“That’s right,” Marcus replied as he looked down at the bird’s eggs. “Second and Ninth Batavian Auxiliary Cohorts. We’re on our way to Ulpia to see an old friend. Where are you boys from?”
The auxiliary nodded as he silently took in what Marcus had just said. “We’re from the south,” the soldier replied at last. “When you have been based on the lower Rhine frontier as long as I have, you can easily tell newcomers from locals. Their boots are still dry.” The soldier laughed. “We’ve been out here manning these watchtowers for five years now. Sometimes I think the real enemy are not the barbarians across the river but the river itself. We spend more time battling the water than any barbarians. Lucky for you its summer. Every fucking winter and spring we get flooded out. It’s impossible to keep the water out. It gets everywhere. We must endure wet feet, damp supplies and now and then the floods cut the road in two leaving us marooned out here. That’s when you want to have a good supply of beer. And when it freezes you are constantly falling on your arse. All very annoying. Between you and me we can’t wait to be transferred. Egypt sounds nice.”
Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 19