Knight of Rome Part I

by Malcolm Davies

  “Fuck off,” said Titus.

  “Right, I will but shall we have a flask of wine first?”

  They walked across the parade ground together towards Aldermar’s quarters.

  Chapter 5

  Badurad’s people had been busy since their arrival in their winter quarters. They had unloaded their grain from the wagons and distributed it between three concealed storage pits. Rough fencing had been built to keep the cattle and horses from straying. They collected round stones from the riverbed and arranged them in circles for hearths and threw up their rudimentary wooden huts roofed with pine branches and bracken. The women collected moss and dried it around the fires to pad the sleeping skins they laid on the earth floors. Autumn ale was fermenting in the chestnut wood tubs. Gutted and split fish were drying on racks over smouldering oak bark fires. It was no part of Badurad’s function as their chieftain to give detailed orders but the people came to him for advice and to settle disputes. If two families wanted the same spot on which to build their hut, they could either accept Badurad’s judgement or fight. Provided Badurad phrased his decision carefully so that there was no loss of face involved, violence could be avoided. But if neither of the heads of families would give way, blood was shed and sometimes deaths resulted. So far, there had been none this year. Women worked. Warriors visited with their friends. Children and dogs ran about and got in the way. Within four days the community had put down its shallow roots and looked as if it had always lived there.

  Odila was teaching Saxa how to make a needle from a sliver of deer bone. Mother and daughter’s heads were almost touching as they squatted over the delicate work, using a precious steel auger to bore into the bone. From time to time Odila cast a concerned glance through the pale sunlight streaming in at the open entrance of their hut. Badurad was sitting outside on a log stool deep in thought as he sharpened one of his spears. For the first few days after their arrival he had been busy but now that the people were settled, he was once again silent and preoccupied.

  The auger point passed through the bone without splitting the end. Saxa was delighted. She had made her first needle. She held it up and admired with a broad smile.

  “Show your father,” Odila told her.

  Saxa jumped up and ducked through the entrance to stand beside him. She proudly held it out.

  “Look father. I made a needle.”

  He lifted his head and looked at it, half smiled and said, “Very good,” before returning to his spear blade and whetstone. Saxa was deflated. She had expected more from the father she loved. She turned back inside and sat by Odila who put an arm around her daughter but made no comment.

  That night when they lay in their bed, Odila stared up at the roof supports almost obscured as the fire burned down to a few glowing embers. The children were asleep in the darkness on the other side of the hearth. Badurad had his back to her. He had not taken her in his arms since his return from the grove of the white horses. She reached out and laid a hand on his naked shoulder. A tremor ran through him at her touch but he neither turned to her nor spoke.

  “Badurad, you are gone from me in spirit. Something weighs so heavily on your mind that you are being crushed by it. Or perhaps a spell has been cast on you. You must seek the help of the wise one.”

  He half-turned and smiled sadly. “I hear you, Odila. I shall think about what you have said.”

  The next morning, the sun was obscured by a thick blanket of grey cloud. The wind was settling in the northeast and the air smelled of winter. But Badurad woke in a more cheerful mood than he had for a long time. He rose early and jumped naked into the chilly river to wash. He splashed water over his body and head before ducking down below the surface to leap up spluttering in a glittering spray, his skin glowing pink from the cold. No-one passing by took any notice. Both men and women bathed naked in the running water most days unless it was iced over. Even in the depth of winter, some of the hardiest souls smashed the ice to lower themselves into the frigid water below. Badurad waded out and into his hut to dry and warm himself by the fire. Over breakfast, he teased Saxa and spoke warmly to Odila.

  “Otto,” he said to their son, “Fetch me four smoked fish and enough grain for four loaves. We are going to visit the seer today and we must not arrive empty handed. Oh, and bring both our axes.”

  He smiled at Odila who nodded her approval.

  Father and son went on foot, Otto with their simple offerings and each with an axe on their shoulders. The axe heads were small but razor sharp and they used the long handles like walking staffs. They followed the river upstream through the series of valleys and climbed the northern escarpment of the last one. The going was steep. They were forced to bend double, use their axe handles and grasp at saplings to keep their balance but came at last to a gentler slope and then a plateau densely wooded with ancient, tall pines. It was gloomy and cold as they threaded their way between the closely crowded tree trunks. There was no sound; not a bird sang, not an animal stirred. After an hour’s travel through the dim silence, they left the forest.

  It gave way to a soaring, splintered rock face. At its base was a rough pathway of fallen rocks and gravel which they followed, glad of their rawhide shoes on the sharp stones beneath their feet. They reached a wide cleft cut by time and nature into the rock where a cascade of white water fell from high into a dark pool. The lichen-covered wall behind it was emerald green. No stream flowed out of the pool; the water plunged down into blackness and depths unseen. Wherever there was a ledge or a wide enough crack in the rock, heathers, larch and silver birch found a precarious foothold and somehow clung on and grew. Further into the fault in the low cliff face they could see a canopy of heavy logs had been built at its base, almost concealing the entrance to a cave. To one side lay a woodpile.

  “Come on son, let’s split some kindling for the wise woman,” Badurad said.

  “Is she in there?” Otto asked.

  “Oh yes, look.” Badurad pointed to where a thin wisp of wood smoke drifted from a crack in the rock and vanished into the air. “She’ll hear our axes and when she thinks we’ve cut enough wood for her fire she might invite us in or she might chase us away.”

  Otto looked at his father to see if he was joking but Badurad had already selected a thick branch and was bringing his axe down on it. They shortened the long pieces, working together with alternative strokes until they had bitten through and then split the timber lengthwise into usable logs. They worked economically, expertly judging the best point to strike and prise open the grain. The length of the handles compensated for the lightness of the axe-heads. This work was second nature to them and neither of them was short of breath or sweating after an hour’s labour. They stopped when a mellow voice called them from the cave mouth.

  “So, you have listened to Odila, Badurad. I heard her advising you and was waiting. Enter.”

  Otto turned sharply but saw no-one.

  “You also, boy,” the voice added.

  Father and son picked up their gifts and walked into the cave, ducking their heads. The fine gravel floor crunched under their feet. Ahead of them in the gloom, the flame of an oil lamp cast a faint yellow glow revealing the entrance to a second chamber. It was so low they were forced to crawl along a narrow corridor in the living rock, reaching their free hands out in front of them to feel the way. Just when his fear of the oppressive stony darkness was about to overwhelm Otto, the corridor turned sharply to the right and opened into a wide vault where he and his father could stand upright. It smelled sweetly of herbs and pine resin. It was lit by three oil lamps and a fire in a natural basin on the floor which was otherwise covered in deep sand.

  The wise woman stood behind the fire. She was naked other than for a skirt made of wildcat skin. Her high-breasted body was painted in whorls and sigils. Bones, teeth and seashells were plaited into her long, pale-gold hair. The flickering light seemed to make the patterns on her skin move. She could not have been more than thirty-five. Otto was surprised; he had
been sure that she would be very old. She gestured for them to sit and gracefully sank down, cross-legged. Her short kirtle rose up over her thighs and she was totally exposed. Otto stared. He was enthralled by her but his heart was still beating fast from the dread of that crawl through the dark into the unknown. She laughed and spoke directly to him.

  “My body fascinates you, boy but you are afraid; of what, you do not know.”

  Otto looked away and his eyes widened as he saw what was displayed around the chamber. Costly skins and fine weapons, wine-jars and wooden casks, silver ornaments and strange flasks of some material he had never seen before gleaming green and red and blue. There was another person present. An adolescent girl dressed in a long white shift stood forward out of a dim recess and came to him holding out her hands. He was confused for a moment then passed her the fish and grain he and his father had brought. He glanced again at the treasures on view and was ashamed at how commonplace and paltry their offering seemed in comparison. Again, she spoke to him.

  “You are mistaken if you believe what you bring is inferior. Your father understands what is truly valuable. I cannot eat wealth; now thanks to you, I shall have bread and fish for a few days.” She made a gesture with her arms to include Badurad in the conversation. “I am grateful. I also thank you for cutting wood for my fire. How can I return your kindness?”

  “I have come to you because I am troubled in my mind,” Badurad said.

  She drew some crystals out of a stone bowl beside her and threw them into the fire. They crackled and sparked and then the air was full of the scent of Frankincense.

  “When did this come upon you?”

  “After I assisted the priests in the grove of the white horses,” he confessed.

  “Then you can tell me nothing. The curse would fall on me as well as you if you did.”

  “I know and I will not break my oath but there is something I cannot understand that makes me wonder if the gods have turned away from me.”

  She stared at him in silence for a while. Just when it became unbearable, she spoke once more.

  “You believe the gods no longer favour you?”

  Badurad let his head fall.

  “I do,” he confessed.

  “And yet here you sit,” she replied. “Healthy, a fighter of renown, battle counsel to a king and respected chieftain of your clan; how can you be abandoned by the gods?”

  “I know what you say is the truth but my uneasiness gnaws at me.” He fell silent in turn and then blurted out, “How will I die?”

  “What are you, what makes you Badurad?” she asked.

  “I am a warrior,” he answered without hesitation.

  “Then expect to die like a warrior.”

  “But when, what time do I have left?”

  The expression on her face changed to one of infinite sadness.

  “You have asked me so you shall have your answer.”

  She pointed to a wooden trencher full of hazelnuts. The girl fetched them over and put them down beside Badurad. She handed him a large pebble.

  “Take one and crack it open on the hearthstones,” she ordered.

  He broke open the shell. There was no kernel inside it.

  “Take another.”

  He did and amongst the sharp brown fragments he found no nut, nothing to eat.

  “The earth mother stores no food for you in her autumn bounty, man! She does not need to feed you through the coming winter days.”

  Badurad heaved a deep sigh and looked into her sorrowful eyes.

  “I bless you for the truth you have told me but what of my son?”

  The wise woman turned her attention to Otto. She indicted a stone near the centre of the fire.

  “Spit on it,” she told him.

  He leaned forward, supporting his weight on his arms, feeling the heat of the fire on his face and dribbled a little spittle on the stone.

  She clucked her tongue impatiently.

  “No, sniff, hawk give me a big gobbet of your essence.”

  Otto did as he was told. She stared down at the lump of phlegm that steamed and bubbled until it dried up with a final hissing pop and all that remained was a silver skein.

  “Your son will never carry his shield and spear in the ranks of the Suevi,” she told Badurad with absolute certainty.

  “He will not be a warrior?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “What is your name, boy?” she asked.

  “Otto,” he managed mumble from his suddenly dry mouth.

  The wise woman began to shake and sway from side to side. Her body patterns writhed in the flickering lamplight as the shadows came and went as she shuddered. Her eyes rolled up in her head and two white orbs like pigeon’s eggs glowed from her face framed by the snaking plaits of her hair. She croaked and growled as if from a place far away.

  “Otto, killer of kings, the unchangeable fate of all men is already written and your destiny is borne by someone as yet unknown to you. A man is entering your life. He wears black plumes; black as the deepest night; black as death within the grave. Your spirit already knows him. Wherever he finds you, whenever he finds you, whatever you must sacrifice, go with him and he will set you on the path of your life’s journey. This is the way the gods have chosen for you. Refuse to follow it and die, unremembered and unsung.”

  She slumped backwards. The girl caught her before her head cracked into the wall and lowered her mistress gently to the ground.

  “Go,” she told them calmly. “I have seen this before. The gods have spoken through her and she must have peace to restore her strength and for her own spirit to return to her body.”

  Badurad and Otto crawled out into the daylight and fresh air. They sat on the log pile, unspeaking. Otto was badly shaken by all that he had heard. He wanted to re-interpret what the wise woman had told his father but there could be no other meaning than the obvious one. Badurad’s days on this earth were coming to their end. He looked at his father and felt his heart clench and grow heavy in his chest. He could not imagine what his life would be without his father in it and wanted to say so but could not find the words. Badurad stood up and smiled at his son.

  “Let’s go back,” he said.

  He strode ahead with a lithe, springing step as if a heavy burden had been lifted off him. Occasionally he would slash at a weed or dead branch with his axe and even sang snatches of well-remembered songs. Otto could not understand. His father had been warned of his imminent death and yet went happily through the forest as if he had no cares. Otto lagged behind desperate to ask what was going on in Badurad’s mind but frightened to speak. They left the dim light that fell between the pine trees and came to the edge of the steep slope that led down to the most northerly of their winter home valleys. Badurad sat on a fallen tree trunk and let Otto catch up with him while he contentedly surveyed the small river flowing below. He lifted one finger.

  “Listen,” he said.

  And sure enough, Otto caught the faintest sound of a human voice at the very edge of his hearing. It sounded like a mother calling a child. As they sat still and concentrating, the scent of wood smoke came to them. Badurad sighed with simple contentment, closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky where the noon sun was trying to break through the clouds.

  “Now you can ask me the questions that have been boiling up in you as we walked,” he said.

  “The wise woman told you that you are going to die and yet you seem happier than I have seen you for days, weeks even,” Otto burst out in a rush of tumbled words, close to shameful tears.

  “Dying in itself is of no consequence. A warrior knows death; it walks beside him everyday not as a friend or an enemy but like a man’s shadow. It is simply there and nothing can be done about it. In any case, it is better to die in battle or the hunt while you are still proud and strong than to cough the rags of your life away in an old man’s piss-soaked bed. But you’re right; I am more cheerful because now I understand. Something happened to me in the
grove of the white horses which made me fear that the gods had turned their faces away from me. It gnawed at my mind like a fox chewing away at its leg to try to escape a snare. But I was mistaken. The wise woman made it all clear. It was nothing to do with the gods but simply this world bidding me farewell. She has led me to know that what happened to me in that sacred place was the first sign. So, my son, my mind is clear and unclouded.”

  He smiled and patted Otto companionably on his shoulder but the boy would not be as easily reconciled as his father.

  “How will I go on without you?”

  A stern expression came over Badurad’s face.

  “You have been told. You have a destiny locked to a black plumed stranger. Look to his coming and follow your fate.” He stared hard into Otto’s eyes until his son nodded acceptance. They both knew this had the force of a blood-oath between them. Badurad softened and looked lovingly at Otto. “As for you and me, well, we have had many good days together. Appreciate them for what they were and store them in your memory.”

  He stood up.

  “Time to go home and show a cheerful face to your mother and sister because doing otherwise will change nothing.”

  Chapter 6

  Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius walked his horse across the bridge at the head of his column of men, his chest swollen with pride. This was it. This was what he had been born to do. He was leading soldiers into hostile territory in the name of Rome and the Emperor. His horse’s hooves ceased clattering on the planks as he reached the far side and rode down onto the riverbank where he brought his mount to a halt and reviewed his men as they passed in front of him. A passable track had been worn by the desultory commerce that crossed between Greater Germany and the Empire at this point and led off northwards into the all-encompassing forest.

  He was doing his best to look like a dignified and impassive officer representing Roman Gravitas, but a smile kept breaking out. The thump, thump of the legionaries’ boots on the timber bridge made a pleasing martial rhythm; it wasn’t a legion, not even a cohort but he was their commander and how fine they looked to him. The centurions brought them to a halt and doubled back to where the tribune waited at the bridgehead. They slammed to rigid attention.