My two other captains were Adalhard and Gerulf, and they had been devastated to have missed out on the bloodbath with the Batavi, and were eager to prove themselves. Both were relatively new in their roles, and in truth I knew little about either man. I was taking a risk, leaving the reliable Ruric behind, and even Baldo had proved his worth in battle, but I had to learn more about my two new captains, and needed to know they could be trusted.
Adalhard was the youngest of the five file leaders. Just turned twenty, his first beard still sparse and more fluff than bristle. He had short chestnut brown hair, as he said long hair hindered a man’s eyesight in battle, not that he’d had much experience of war. His eyes were small slits, the pupils dark and always moving. A tall man, taller even than me, his torso was packed with muscle, although for a man of such size and strength he was nimble on his feet. On more than one occasion I had seen him train with the sword, and watched spellbound as he danced round his opponent, dodging and swerving cuts that scythed nothing but air. When deep in his cups he would tell anyone that listened that no living man could beat him blade to blade, and only Donar himself could stop him. His name in our tongue meant both noble and brave, and with all the brash confidence of youth he would swagger through his men, gripping shoulders and locking arms, as if his touch alone would bring his men back from the well of fear into which they sunk in the moments before battle. He would learn the truth of that soon.
Gerulf was different. An older head and wiser for it. He had fought for me for many years, and his promotion was well deserved in the eyes of his fellow captains. His bald head reflected the sunlight like polished iron, above a flat face devoid of emotion; a deep scar ran across his nose from a long-forgotten battle, where a hammer had struck him as if his face were an anvil. He was neither tall nor short, not skinny but not brawny either. When he walked through his men they stood straighter, he had no need for hollow gestures or acts of bravado. In our tongue his name stood for ‘spear-wolf’, an appropriate name for such a warrior.
I rode with the two captains either side of me, as we headed north along the banks of the Rhine, the tang of salt strong on the air as we edged closer to the sea the Romans called the Mare Germanicum, simply the Germani Sea. I knew the two captains were curious, that their own officers were whispering in their ears. Why were we going north, when Colonia Ulpia Traiana was to the south? I had kept my own counsel thus far, my mind alive to the risk there being a Roman spy in my ranks, as unthinkable as that was. We were in the far north and west of our country. To my right as we rode were the marshes and forests that were the old lands of the Batavi, now occupied by Ketill and his tribe.
‘Lord,’ Adalhard’s impatience seemingly getting the better of him at last. ‘Where in the name of the gods are we going?’
I showed him my teeth, a savage grin that meant to curb him, it seemed to have the right effect. ‘Out there,’ I said, pointing out across the estuary to the open sea.
‘Lord?’ he said, eyebrows fastened together in his confusion. Gerulf coughed a laugh, and I threw him a wink. I was starting to like Gerulf the more I got to know him. He had guessed my intentions, without me having to draw a map in the dirt. ‘Where are we going lad?’ I asked Adalhard, knowing the term ‘lad’ would annoy him.
‘Colonia Ulpia Traiana,’ he said, ‘or so I thought.’ He hawked and spat, showing me his frustration. Not always a sensible thing to do.
‘Correct, my young apprentice. Now, how would you rate our chances of storming that stone-built fortress from across the Rhine? We have, what two hundred men?’
Adalhard nodded slowly, his cheeks glowing red. Gerulf did not try to hide his laugh. I sensed these two were not friends, something I would have to fix before we returned to the rest of the Ravensworn. But not just yet. ‘And how many men do you think are in Colonia Ulpia Traiana? As well as the Thirtieth Ulpia Victrix, there are numerous auxiliary units within those walls. Now, what did you think we were going to do? Bundle into some barges and sally across the river, scale the walls and massacre the huge army that outnumber us more than twenty to one?’
There was a moment of silence, you could almost hear the weed tumble roll through the dust in Adalhard’s mind. ‘Well…err’ He trailed off, his embarrassment getting the better of him.
‘Exactly, you fool! Now, would you like to know what we are actually going to do?’ Both men nodded and edged their mounts closer to mine and I felt their junior officers doing the same. I didn’t know those men’s names, though I would come to rely on them in the days that followed. Gods, I was bone idle. Expecting men to lead other men into the iron storm; to fight and die for me if necessary, and I didn’t even know their names. ‘What we are going to do,’ I continued, ‘is steal ourselves some Roman ships, sail them out into the sea, then turn them round and bring them down the Rhine.’
My master plan. The one I had been working on since I’d first heard the name Fulvius splutter from the captured Batavi lad’s lips. With a thousand men at my back I still could not take that fortress by strength. But I didn’t need to. I needed one man dead, and for that I did not need might, I needed cunning.
‘The Romans,’ Gerulf began slowly, ‘will see their ships coming down the river, and welcome them with open arms.’
‘Open gates I’m hoping,’ I said with a wolfish grin.
So we went and pillaged ourselves some ships.
TEN
When people speak of the great night raid on Ulpia Noviomagus these days, they credit the Chauci for stealing two Roman warships and sailing them from the small port, right under the noses of the dumbfounded Roman soldiers that manned the fortress walls. It fills me with great pride that the raid is still spoken of, and great annoyance that no one mentions the Ravensworn’s name – my name alone would suffice.
We approached Ulpia Noviomagus in the depths of a starless night. Gerulf had set his men to building small rafts that we could punt across the river in teams. Five were built in total, one was lost in the dark and haze, but all in all only five men were unaccounted for when we stood shivering in our wet clothes on the western bank. It was a short run north and west from the river bank that brought us to the city’s southern gate.
It was not lost on me that Ulpia Noviomagus was once called Batavorum, and had been the stronghold of the Batavi lands. At some point in the distant past, in a turbulent year where four men had fought to call themselves emperor, the Batavi had revolted, and been swiftly beaten. As a result of their defeat, they had been ordered from their homeland, moved further west, away from potential allies on the native side of the Rhine. Having just butchered a whole unit of Batavians, it gave me great satisfaction to know I was now going to reap havoc in their old capital.
The walls were manned not by Batavi warriors or Roman legionaries, but men of the Cananefate – another insult to the Batavi, this one from Rome. The Batavi and the Cananefate had long been neighbours, but not friends. Like the Chauci, the men of the tribe had developed a knack for seamanship over the years, and the auxiliary unit of tribesman based here were the proud owners of two Liburnica Biremis’ – Liburnian’s for short. The Liburnian was a perfect river boat. Short and slim, fast and agile, it held fifty oarsmen in two banks of twenty-five a side. The ships offered scant protection for the rowers, who had just a lattice ventilation on their flank to stop them either plunging into the water or being hit with a spear or arrow. Above them was a simple canopy woven of fabric, held up by tall masts to the front and rear.
I wondered then, and still do now, how the Romans managed to persuade free men to sit at their benches whilst a storm of iron raged above them. German ships were rowed by captured slaves, who were chained to their benches and rarely allowed to leave their post. The oar master of a Roman ship did not use a whip, which again seemed strange, for how else could they possibly encourage the dogs to row faster?
The prow of a Liburnian is gilded in metal, an armoured point designed to smash through the hull of an enemy ship when at ramming s
peed. Whilst the wooden sides of the ship are painted a light blue or green to help it blend in with the water, and therefore harder to spot by enemy watchmen, the prow is often elaborately decorated with either gold or silver. At the stern was a giant mast with a red sail, a gold eagle embroidered in the centre. Again, elaborate works of gold and silver encased the small area, and a small tent stood erect, ready to shelter the Navarch or Trierarch that was commanding the ship.
Along with the two Liburnians was a small Celox – both lighter and faster – the smaller ship was the ‘messenger boy’ of the Roman Navy. Messenger or not, I would take it gladly.
We crept up to the southern gate. To my annoyance it was closed, but that was to be expected. I had left our horses on the far side of the river, with ten unlucky men whose job it was to round them up and persuade them to walk and regroup with the rest of the Ravensworn. We were silent, shadows in the endless darkness. I took five men and crept right up to the wall, my back against the timber as I craned my neck to try and spot a patrolling soldier above. ‘You, come here,’ I hissed at the nearest of my volunteers. It was Birgir, who was supposed to be on the other side of the Rhine with the rest of his Hundred.
‘What in Wotan’s name are you doing here boy?’ I harangued him in a whisper.
‘Ruric sent me,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Thought you might have need of me.’
‘Did he now,’ I replied with a rueful smile. It was not unlike Ruric to think of things I had not, but very unlike him to not rub it in my face. ‘What else did he say to you?’
‘Try not to get killed,’ Birgir said.
‘Good advice,’ I said, ‘however what we are about to do is going to be bloody.’ I explained my plan in a whisper, Birgir nodded when I was done. ‘Pass it on to the man behind you, get him to do the same with the men behind him.’ I waited in tense silence, sure we would be discovered at any moment, but all was quiet. Finally the whispering and hissing stopped and two men squeezed between the two of us and raised their shields above their heads, squatting as they did. I stepped back from the veil of safety of the palisade wall and scanned the battlement. I saw two helmeted heads, facing away from me as they strolled in opposite directions along the walkway. Nodding to Birgir, I set my plan in motion.
Birgir leapt atop the platform I’d instructed my men to make with their shields. His booted feet planted squarely on the painted black raven, and climbed silently atop the battlement. Before he’d even touched the floor I was up on the shields myself, the men holding them grunting and sinking lower than they had with Birgir. I deduced it was because of the added weight of my superior armour, and nothing else. I squatted next to Birgir who was hunched behind his shield, pointing to the soldier to my left and then at him. Birgir nodded and crept toward the unsuspecting auxiliary.
Taking the one to my right for myself, I made my way along the wall walk, my eyes darting through the dark streets, seeking out movement. I was ten paces from my target when I heard a squeal of pain behind me. Birgir had drawn a long knife from its sheath and had attempted to slit his man’s throat but appeared to have made a horrible mess of it. Blood spurted from a deep slash in the Cananefate’s neck, but the wound was too far to the left to be a killing blow, Birgir had merely nicked the main artery, instead of slicing straight through. Again the man squealed, this time it sounded just like a pig giving birth – a rather unpleasant sound a man can grow worryingly accustomed to when living on a farm.
I froze, unsure whether I should finish my man or run and help Birgir, who just stood gaping at the mess he had made. Too late I made the decision to kill my man, for when I spun back around, he was standing with a small bronze horn pressed to his lips, with puffed cheeks as he prepared to sound the alarm call. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered as I stumbled towards him, suddenly clumsy in my armour and boots. I rasped my longsword from its scabbard, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. The black leather wrapped hilt was a comfort, but it did not stop the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I lurched with the blade even as the blare of the trumpet filled my ears. The point of the sword ripped through mail and fabric before burying itself high in the Cananefate’s left shoulder. Still the trumpet sounded. With my left hand I ripped the instrument from his grasp and tossed it over the battlement. With my right I reversed my sword before delivering a killer blow to the man’s neck, he dropped without a sound. Suddenly my lungs were on fire, my breath came in shallow rasps and my hands were shaking. Some men call it blood lust – the rush of adrenalin you get in the moments before and after you first engage the enemy. My experience in war has taught me not to waste this, as it is followed quickly by fatigue. Right then, standing alone atop that battlement, I was very much wasting it.
Birgir had finally completed his bodged job of butchering the other watchman; he was covered in so much blood that I thought he must have bled the poor bastard dry. I moved towards him, aware now of raised voices and torchlight coming from within the town. Two more of my men appeared on the rampart, both snarling and with bared blades. I ordered them to follow me, and grabbing a dumbstruck Birgir by the arm led them down a small flight of wooden stairs. ‘You two, cover us,’ I said to the two new arrivals, ‘Birgir, let’s get this gate open.’
The locking bar was huge and looked as thick as my waist, whilst the gate itself was solid timber beams reinforced with strips of iron. I took the left of the bar and told Birgir to take the right. ‘One, two, three…heave!’ With all my might I heaved until I was red in the face and in danger of soiling myself. Birgir was also straining with all his might, but, being slim he was severely lacking in muscle.
I looked to my two men who were crouched behind their shields. Torchlight edged towards us, as inexorable as the dawn. As the light from the torches grew brighter, I could see aspects of the narrow central street previously hidden by darkness. The shutters of the wine stores, bakeries, blacksmiths and potteries were shut tight, the odd wooden bench and a couple of discarded barrels. Beyond them was an army.
‘You two,’ I yelled at the men still hunched behind their limewood boards, ‘come help us, quick!’ I had two hundred battle-hardened sworn men on the other side of that bloody gate, but I needed them inside the walls. The two men ran over, discarding weapons and shields as they did. We took a deep breath and lifted as a team. Painfully slowly, the locking bar grated up the iron brackets that held it. I looked over my shoulder, dismayed to see the auxiliaries so close. I could make out their faces in the torchlight, saw their centurion with his red crested helmet yell a war cry and rasp his sword on his oval shield. ‘Donar’s balls!’ I screamed through gritted teeth, eyes bulging, ‘lift you whoresons, lift!’ With a gigantic effort the locking bar edged clear of the brackets and we let it to the ground. Birgir pushed open the gates and released two hundred Ravensworn into Ulpia Noviomagus.
The wolves were loose within the sheep pen, and the night ran red.
ELEVEN
There is something inexplicably beautiful about the open sea, with the white topped waves that launch themselves against the ship’s prow. You can feel the gods out here. When the wind whistles through your beard it is almost as if Rán herself is whispering calming words. When the salt spray dries your lips and leaves your skin raw and painful to touch, you feel as if Aegir is testing you, judging your worth as you sail through his domain. Rán and Aegir had nine daughters, nine different waves that could either carry you in serenity to your destination or chop and slash at your hull and send you to dinner in Aegir’s underwater hall. I forget their names now, those of the waves, but the tales my father used to tell of Rán and Aegir live long in my memory.
We sailed out of Ulpia Noviomagus toward a glorious rising sun. We had left no fighting man alive in that place, having spent the night stalking the Cananefate auxiliaries through the dark streets with nothing but torch light to lead the way. I stank of blood and the pitch from the torches. Bone weary, I laid in the tent of one of the Liburnians after telling my men to take the ship
s out to the open sea.
Gerulf had taken the other galley, Adalhard the small Celox. He had thought it an insult, and in a way it was. He was young, impulsive and reckless; I did not trust him to make the right decisions if we had to fight. The Chauci had ships hugging the coast on the narrow sea, it was not impossible that we would stumble across a patrol.
I woke to the ship’s gentle swaying motion on the calm sea; Gerulf prowling the deck, calling the strokes to the men unlucky enough to be given an oar and bench in the stifling heat. I struggled out of my mail and undergarments and leapt from the ship’s side into the endless blue. The cold hit me like a spear point. It ripped through my skin and embedded in my bones, the salt searing in the open cuts from the battle and it hurt even more than taking the wounds in the first place. I almost froze, down there in the murk, the current taking my aching body as I embraced the icy chill. Looking up I saw the keen edge of the keel as it tore through the water.
I came back to life slowly. The numbing coldness replaced by a burning sensation in my muscles. Every kick was like a mile on the march, every stroke like lifting Donar’s hammer. Eventually I made it to the light, spluttering my thanks to Rán for sparing me. One of my men threw down a rope and I gingerly clambered back aboard the Liburnian, my muscles screaming with every heave. I was on all fours on the deck panting like a dog, when Gerulf threw my cloak around me and raised me to my feet. ‘Lord,’ he said, a certain reverence in his voice. ‘Lord, you swam!’
I had forgotten most men do not know the first thing about swimming, even men who spend most of their lives breathing in the salt air. To be thrown from your ship means certain death, to be sunk in battle means certain death. My father had thrown me into a tarn when I was five years old. My mother had wailed in terror when nothing but bubbles had surfaced and I was lost in the endless shadows. But surfaced I had, with all the grace of a donkey with wonky legs. I had coughed water until my lings burned like a furnace. My father had stood me up and assured my mother I would live, before throwing me straight back in. Harsh man, my father. But his methods worked. By mid-afternoon that very day I could paddle alongside our hound Fenrir – named for the ferocious wolf, son of the great Loki. By the time the sun set the next day I could swim the length of the tarn and back, already feeling my chest harden and arms grow with the exercise.
Oathbreaker Page 6