‘I will.’ He has not laughed and I sense no mocking in his tone. He is serious about his work, eager to learn more of his craft. ‘So tell me, young Alaric,’ – I sense a change in the direction of the conversation. Maybe now he will get to the cusp of why he has invited me into his home – ‘What are your plans for the future?’
I wave a hand vaguely; I feel the effects of the ale coupled with the forges heat start to fog my mind. ‘I have no plans, not really. I am without a home, a tribe, friends or coin. I am an outlaw, a wanderer. Who knows what the gods have in store for me.’
‘Don’t rely on the gods, brother. They rarely take any notice of us here on middle earth. I know a thing or two about that,’ Balomar says with certainty. I wonder at what he means but decide it would be inappropriate to press the matter. ‘Look at our tribe, we are all the evidence you need of that.’ Balomar says.
‘How so?’ I ask in genuine puzzlement. The Marcomanni are to my mind one of the strongest tribes in all of Germania. They have great swathes of land, a large capital in Goridorgis and a mass of fighting men to call upon should the need for battle arise. They are more organised and regimented than the other tribes in the north, perhaps due to their close proximity to the Danube and the empire beyond.
‘Rome, boy. Rome. Can you not see it, smell the arseholes in the air around you? Why that coin in the pouch that hangs at your waist is filling my forge with their putrid fumes.’ He spits and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘They dominate our weak king, tell him who he may fight and who he must keep peace with. They march to our land and take what they want: women, food, weapons, you name it. We say we are free, and proud. Free from the yoke of Rome, outside of their oppression and dictation, able to make our own decisions. It is all lies, all smoke.’ A single tear falls down his cheek and I realise how strongly his hatred is for the famed empire. A surge of comradery runs through me, for now I have met a man who may hate the cursed Romans as much as me.
‘It is the same where I am from,’ I say. ‘Even in the north,’ I add when Balomar looks at me in surprise. ‘Frumentarii,’ I spit the word, just saying it makes my stomach curdle. ‘They walk among us like they are gods and we are slaves. We cannot touch them, it is advised to not even look upon them for they hold the power of life and death over every soul. It makes me sick.’ I am drunk and I know it. In my young years I have not yet mastered the art of drinking large quantities of strong ale. My vision is blurring, I feel as though I could sleep for a week.
‘Your chief, does he do anything to stop it? Has he ever fought back? Our king is weak, merely their puppet. He has no stomach for a fight.’
‘It is the same,’ I say. A vision of my mother forces it way into my mind, no matter how hard I try to compress it. She is lying there, on her back, legs spread. Man after man takes his turn on her, thrusting and grunting. She is quiet now, defeated. Even in the half light of the flames I can see she has grown pale; her lifeblood is leaving her, taking with it her strength to fight back. I feel tears prick my eyes, I squint them shut in a desperate bid to hold them back. I fail. ‘My mother was killed,’ I say. I do not know why I have said it, for it has not been naturally brought into the conversation. And I am not usually a man who shares his inner secrets with a complete stranger. ‘Rome killed her. Raped her till she bled out. I watched the whole thing.’
The tears are a flood now, an inexorable tide so powerful it could swamp a mountain. My vision is nothing but a blur; I do not see Balomar approach but feel his bear like paws grip my shoulders. ‘You suffered at the hands of Rome, as have many before you. But surely your chief came to your aid? Surely he fought back?’
I just sob. ‘He did nothing,’ I manage to squeak eventually. ‘I killed the bastard, right in his own hall.’
I should not have said this and I know it. There will be men out for my head; Chauci warriors scouring the land in search of my death. I would be wise not to lead them to it.
‘You killed the chief of the Chauci? In his own hall? By the gods, Alaric. I like you even more!’ He lowers himself so his head is level with mine. ‘If I tell you something can you keep it to yourself?’
I nod. This is the longest I have conversed with someone since I arrived at Goridorgis. Who does he think I am going to tell?
‘There is a plan afoot. A plot to overthrow the king and put a new man in his place. A stronger man, one with the balls to fight back against the empire.’
‘Fight back? Against Rome?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would support that man. But he would have to be strong and have a small army willing to fight for him in order to gain himself the throne. Who can garner that much support from the people?’
‘Me.’ Balomar says, an evil glint in his eye.
I stood in awe at the woman who walked before me. Her dark hair shone purple in the glorious summer sun; it tumbled down her back, reaching the tip of her perfectly proportioned behind. She wore a fitted dress of deep green and that familiar uncontrollable force pulled me towards her, I was spellbound once more. Ketill was behind me, trying in vain to get my attention. I registered this but seemed powerless to acknowledge his presence.
All around her were armed men. Well-muscled, armed with spears and swords, they encircled their charge. I had to get rid of them, make a distraction of some sort to prise them from their royal responsibility.
I slowed my pace, putting some distance between me and the green vision strutting her way down the road. ‘Freya’s tits, Alaric!’ Ketill hissed from behind me. ‘Are you trying to get us both killed?’
‘I have to talk to her,’ I said, without taking my eyes from her. ‘Make a distraction.’
‘Why? What is the point? She wants you dead, remember?’
‘I have to know why. I have to, Ketill.’
He sighed, massaged his forehead with his palm. ‘Okay. If I do this, do you promise we can get out of here straight after? We have learnt all we can here.’ I nodded. It was true our walk around Viritium had been very productive. We had managed to gauge the enemy disposition and morale, their strength in numbers and readiness for battle. We had been about to leave when I had spotted her through the crowd. Now I was going to take a risk, a huge, unnecessary risk.
Ketill skulked off, pulling his hood back over his face. Still I followed her, I could have sworn I sniffed a feint waft of jasmine on the air; it was delightful. I counted my throbbing heartbeats, once more feeling sweat trickle down my face. I raised my own hood when I reached thirty beats, expecting Ketill’s distraction to start at any moment. I would not have long, I had to make it count.
Screams filled the air behind me and at once I knew their origin. ‘Murder, murder!’ someone shouted and I slowed my pace and looked in the direction of the panicked cry, wanting to seem as alarmed as everyone around me. As I looked back towards the kings hall where the shouts were coming from, I edged backwards, the scent of lavender getting stronger with every fumbling step. A female voice snapped out a quick order and at once the retinue of armed guards stormed past me. It was now or never.
I did not turn and face her straight away. I edged back three more steps then risked a glance around the edge of my hood. ‘Hello, Alaric,’ she said in a flat voice.
My heartbeat raced to a rounding crescendo; my palms were slick with sweat and my throat was as dry as a Parthian desert. ‘I trust all the commotion that seems to be going on back there is down to you?’ Ishild asked with an arched eyebrow. Gods, what a beautiful eyebrow.
I turned, racking my mind for some quick-witted reply; anything to bring those kissable lips curling into a smile. ‘Hi,’ was all I managed in the end. ‘Are you well?’ Are you well? Yes, that is actually what I said. Ishild, the woman who had been conspiring against me for longer than I would ever know, who held some grudge against me so bitter she would rather go to bed with the cursed empire than stay loyal to her own people. The woman who right then held my pregnant wife and young son captive in the very hall at my b
ack. This same woman, the one I was so hopelessly in love with that some days I could barely function as a picture of her face filled my mind. Hi. Are you well? Men really are stupid creatures.
‘Quite well, thank you. You? I trust your business in the south was as productive as you hoped?’
‘It was, thank you.’ Just kill her. Pull out your knife and ram it through her cold heart. I should have. Would have saved me a whole lot of trouble in the months to come, and preserved the lives of hundreds of good men. I should have. I didn’t.
‘Why are you here, Alaric?’
‘Why am I here?’ I said in the most sarcastic voice I could muster. ‘Let me think. Oh yes, that’s it. My wife has been captured by some snivelling little shit weasel called Warin – heard of him? Well he claims he is now the king of the Suebi, no really! See, his father is Dagr, chief of the Chauci, and he in turn is son of Fridumar, who was chief of the Chauci before him. Now, here’s the thing, I may have slaughtered Fridumar one night whilst he feasted in his own hall, so I guess Dagr and his son have some fair reason to want me dead, despite us making oaths of peace between us what, a year ago now? So, that’s reason number one.’ Ishild pouted and thrust out her left hip, placing her hand against it. Trying to ignore how cute she looked in that pose whilst I ranted was extremely difficult, but I think I just about pulled it off.
‘Reason number two: there’s this woman that I just can’t shake from my mind. More beautiful than Freya, she dominates any chamber she enters. I thought her perfect, and even made an agreement with her father to make her my wife one day. Gods, I was so happy. But, and it’s a big but, I’m afraid…it turns out she is also more cunning than Loki, and has actually been conspiring against me for a long, long time. Even going as far as collaborating with frumentarii agents in a bid to see me dead. Any of this sounding familiar to you?’ I had not realised I had started to yell. I had lost all control of my temper. I was a bundle of pent-up rage and anger, my pride hurt and ego wounded. I was confused and embarrassed, unable to cope with the conflicting emotions I felt for the woman in front of me.
Ishild sighed. ‘Are you done? You are gathering quite the audience,’ she said before turning and walking away.
I looked around me and saw that Ishild was correct. People who had just moments before had their attention drawn towards the commotion at Warin’s hall had now turned to me. A hundred pairs of eyes scrutinised me; I waited for the alarm to sound as soon as someone realised who it was they were staring out. Praise to Wotan no one did. I scurried along the path, catching Ishild and grasping her arm. ‘You have to tell me why,’ I said.
‘Why what?’ she replied. ‘Why I paid Rome to have you killed? Why I have longed for your death for more winters than I care to remember? Look at me Alaric, look at me very closely, what do you see?’
I looked. I stared into those glimmering blue eyes that reminded me so much of winter; a land of ice and snow, as silent as the heart of a mountain. Her pupils were the gleam a frozen lake reflects when the pale winter sun makes a rare appearance from behind the dark cloud. I stared, and for a reason I was unable to comprehend a shiver ran down my spine. ‘What do you see?’ she said. ‘Is it Ishild looking back at you, or someone else? Someone you once loved and lost? There is a reason you were attracted to me at first sight, Alaric. And there is a reason I avoided your charms and bed. Think on it, will you?’
And with that, she was gone.
TWENTY-NINE
‘Who is that, father?’ I ask as we sit in the shade of a huge oak tree.
‘He is Agnarr, king of the Suebi,’ my father says, putting his arm around me and hugging me tight.
I am only five years old, but I can already tell all is not well with my father. His yellow hair is wild and dishevelled as he has been frantically running his hands through it since this king and his retinue have arrived. Armed men stand twenty paces from us, hands on sword hilts and spears gripped tightly, they eye my father with suspicion.
‘Why is he here?’ I ask. I squeeze my fathers’ hand, wanting to let him know that everything is going to be alright.
‘To see your mother, and your sister.’ My father says.
‘But why? Why does a king want to see mother?’
My father sighs; he plays with my hair as he thinks on the question. ‘Because he and your mother are old friends. They grew up together. He likes to come and see her every now and again, to check she is okay.’
‘Does mother like seeing him?’ I ask, suddenly concerned for my mother’s wellbeing.
‘Yes,’ father says, and tears begin to well in his eyes. ‘Yes, Alaric, I fear she does.’
A man walks out from our home. He struts down the wooden steps; his handsome face is set in a satisfied expression. ‘Hengist, come here,’ he says.
My father rises from his place beside me and with noticeable regret makes his way towards the king. In my mind my father is a giant; bigger even than the great ice giants he regales tales of before he sends me to sleep at night. His legs are impossibly long and stronger than iron; his torso is so packed with muscle even Donar would be unable to wrap his hands around it and gain a grip. But when my father stands before this man, this king, I am amazed to see that he is dwarfed. This king truly is a bear among sheep. The top of my father’s head reaches only to the king’s shoulders. ‘I am taking the girl,’ he says through a thick, dark beard.
‘My lord?’ my father asks in shock.
‘Ishild, she’s coming with me. I will have use for a daughter in the years to come. I will take her with me.’ He speaks with finality, leaving no room for discussion.
‘Yes, lord king,’ my father says as tears stream down his face. He buries his chin on his chest, a picture of self-pity.
I rise and run to my father, looping my arms around one of his mighty legs. ‘You can’t take her!’ I scream at this king. ‘Leave my sister alone!’ I reach out a tiny fist and hit Agnarr with all my might. In my mind it is a mighty blow, one worthy of the legends of Wotan and his invincible son, Donar. In reality, I hurt my knuckles on Agnarr’s mail and cause the king and his warriors to burst into laughter.
‘Why, how tall you are getting, young Alaric,’ the king says as he kneels down beside me. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Five,’ I spit, with as much attitude as I can muster whilst fighting back tears and cradling my split knuckles.
‘Five! Surely you are seven or eight? You are so tall, you seem almost a man!’ Agnarr says as he ruffles my dark hair. The sensation takes makes me forget the pain in my knuckles. As I raise my face to meet his I note how his hair reminds me of my own; of how his dark eyes bring to mind my own when I gaze upon my reflection in the crystal waters of the lake nearby. I stand a little straighter, keen to show this king how tall I really am. ‘One day,’ I say, ‘I shall be the greatest warrior in all of Germania.’
Again, there is laughter. Though this time I feel the king does not laugh in jest. ‘I have no doubt, Alaric. Actually, I believe you will become I great king one day. Men will quake when they speak your name; every warrior in the land will know the name Alaric, of this I am sure.’
‘Alaric! Alaric! Wake up brother, it is time.’ Ketill said as he shook me from my daze. All morning I had been in a state of disbelief; a lumbering drunk, unable to get myself into my armour, let alone lead men into battle.
Shaking my head, I looked around at my war band; every man mounted and in armour. I doubted very much many of them managed to fit in any sleep the night before. I had made the decision to assault Viritium late on in the evening, and each man would have needed to sharpen his weapons, oil their mail and see to their horses.
I knew very well my men would find it hard going assaulting a walled fortress; a form of war we were poorly equipped for, but Ishild’s words the day before had left me reeling. I had to see her again, had to discover the truth of the forgotten memory that had dominated my every thought since our encounter.
‘Alaric, are you going to be okay?’
Ketill asked me in a quiet voice. He was mounted to my right, to my left was Ruric and my other captains beyond him. I had told Ketill everything; he was my oldest friend and if you could not tell your oldest friend that the woman you were madly in love with – who was trying to have you killed – was your long-lost sister then who could you tell?
I could feel Ruric looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The old war horse knew something was up, I could tell. His body language was off, he had been wary around me since I had returned from Viritium with Ketill. But, as always, I knew I could rely on him to do his duty by me. ‘I’m fine, Ketill. Any suggestions for the attack?’ I asked this question not just to Ketill but to me captains as well, hoping one of them would come up with some inspiration that would see us win the day.
‘We can’t take the walls with cavalry,’ Otto said. I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
‘Can we not, Otto?’ I replied in mock surprise. ‘Do we not have a siege train behind us to help us with that? A few ballistae? An onager or two? No?’ No one dared answer my sarcasm. ‘I know all too fucking well we cannot take the walls with cavalry, which is why I was asking if any of you curs had any bright ideas? I see I have wasted my breath.’
I nudged Hilde’s flanks with my heels and she responded instantly, trotting away from the chastened Harii chief and my captains. I rode away from my men altogether, into the open space between my army and Viritium. I studied the walls as I rode, determined to think of some cunning way to get us through the gate. What would Loki do? I thought as I rode, but no fresh inspiration hit me.
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