Silence greeted my open question. Why would they go east? Surely there was nothing for them there? The Chauci were based in the north and west, what possible allies could Dagr have deeper inland?
‘I shall leave at first light and keep track of them, lord,’ Birgir said, a bit too eagerly for my liking.
‘Gerulf and ten of his men shall go with you,’ I said.
‘What? Why?’ Birgir appeared both angry and confused at this. Until now he had always been trusted to work independently. ‘I am quite capable of tracking them myself, lord. And one man stands a better chance of remaining undetected then ten.’
Both valid points, but I had a feeling in my gut. Always trust your gut.
‘Gerulf has experience in acting under his own initiative and plenty of experience leading men in combat. You do not know where they are going or what you are going to encounter along the way. He will be in command and you will heed his advice and follow his orders. The ten men will of course be of value if you have to fight, but you can also use them as messengers. I want reports as often as you can. You leave at dawn, we will follow.’ I directed the last of this to Gerulf himself; if he was angry at being sent away so soon after a full day of battle he did not show it. He nodded and marched off, already shouting orders at his men. I turned back to Birgir; ‘Thank you for your report, Birgir. Now go and get some rest.’ Birgir moved off slowly, maybe he expected more praise, or silver, he was going to receive none of either.
I called Ruric to me and the two of us moved away from the group. For the first time I noticed it was now fully dark, all around me campfires roared and the air carried the smell of roasting meat. My stomach grumbled; I wondered when I had last eaten. ‘Thoughts?’ I asked Ruric.
‘Something’s not right, I don’t like it,’ he said. He spat and even under the dark sky I could see his spittle was dark with blood. ‘Lost another tooth,’ he grunted. I grinned at him, showing him my own injury. ‘By Hel’s teeth,’ he said and laughed, ‘you were ugly enough as it is!’
‘Thanks, old friend,’ I said and let out a small laugh myself. As I breathed in through my mouth it made a low whistling noise which had us both giggling like girls.
‘Anyway,’ Ruric said, wiping a tear from his eye, ‘you’re right to send Gerulf with Birgir. If he is up to something, Gerulf will find out. I’ll go see him now, make sure he understands why he’s going.’ He made to walk away, then turned back to me: ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘What do you mean? I’ve plenty of other teeth, Ruric. I won’t miss a couple!’
‘I ain’t talking about your teeth and you know it. Gerulf said you lost it today, went charging off on your own. I haven’t seen you like that since you got that great scar on your shoulder, many years ago.’ Instinctively my hand went up to my left shoulder, where under mail there was nothing but a mass of scar tissue. ‘She’s got to you, hasn’t she, this woman. Don’t speak, Alaric, just listen,’ he said, showing me the palm of his hand before I could object. ‘I don’t know who she is or what she has done to you, or you to her for that matter. But you haven’t been right for a while now. You need to sort your head out, before you get the rest of your men killed.’
I called his name but he didn’t reply. I called again and he turned back: ‘I asked Birgir if he saw her today. He said she was riding with Warin when they met Dagr. She’s gone Alaric. But your wife hasn’t, you’d know that if you’d even bothered to ask. I gave orders for her to be found and brought to your tent. The gates of Viritium have been closed and are guarded by twenty of my best men to stop the lads from raping and looting. Should have been you seeing to that, lord, not me. She’s in your head Alaric, you need to get her out of there. Now, I’ll see to Gerulf, you go and see your family.’
Ruric walked off into the night; I stayed, isolated in the darkness, rubbing the old wound on my shoulder.
It feels a long descent as I clamber back down into that pit. My nerves are frayed, for a moment I panic my courage has deserted me. It has only been ten days since I faced Balomar in this awful place. I leave the sun behind as I descend, below me is nothing but darkness, nothing but blood and raw hatred. My opponent is already there, he waves his hands frantically at the crowd, the roar that greets his gesture is the response he is looking for. He is Sisbert, chief of the guards of king Roderic, the visiting king of the Quadi.
They have come here in great numbers, the Quadi. Their king is old and infirm, he seeks an alliance with the Marcomanni for his son and heir, Areogaesus. Both tribes are theoretically allied to the empire, but in this world alliances change with the wind. It is no secret among these peoples that both tribes seek the destruction of Rome. To stand alone would be futile, together, they may just have a chance.
Entertainment has been arranged for the king and his retinue: me. This great blond warrior who stands before me is going to beat me to a pulp, show to one and all that the Quadi are a fearsome tribe and worthy of an alliance with the Marcomanni – or so the king believes. It will do no shame to the Marcomanni to see me beaten, for I am not one of their own. I am a wanderer, an outlaw, exile. They would not put Balomar or another son of their tribe into the pit to face this monster for fear of losing face to their rivals. Me? I am expendable.
But Balomar has a plan. He wants me to fight this beast from the east, wants me to destroy him. This is just to be phase one of a blood drenched day. Phase two is when it will get really interesting. I jump the last few feet from the wooden ladder to the mud. The weather has begun to turn in the time since I faced Balomar; no more is the floor covered in sheet ice, it is mush now, which to my mind is worse.
My boots squelch with every step; I feel them stick and have to yank hard with my hips just to take a stride forward. My opponent in this Hel on earth is once again both taller and broader than me, though he seems to glide across the churning mud. He shows me his teeth which are as savage as Fenrir’s and when my eye meets his I see nothing but my own doom. Not for the first time, I feel a twinge of regret for agreeing to this part of Balomar’s plan; everything hinges on me being victorious.
Balomar himself stands above and behind me, he shouts encouragement and slaps his hands together; the sound reverberates above me. With him is a man called Ruric; an exile like me. He does not speak much, though he gives off an air of confidence and everything about his stance reads that he is a man of the sword, though I have yet to see him wield one. I wonder why it could not have been him down here in this pit, for surely he would stand a better chance.
I turn back to face Balomar, hoping for a small gesture of confidence from the man who has become my leader; when I look up he is whispering in the air of a young man named Adalwin, who has recently been enlisted in the king’s guard. I have seen this Adalwin around Goridorgis, he seems a decent man and is kinder than the other warriors who dine at the king’s own hearth; is he with us? I have no idea, though it would not surprise me if there was more to Balomar’s scheme than he has let on to me.
A horn sounds and the cacophony around the pit ceases. A circling crow squawks as it smells blood and the rich pickings of combat. ‘My friends,’ the king bellows as he strides to the edge of the pit, ‘in honour of the arrival of our cousins from the Quadi and their noble king and his son Areogaesus, today we celebrate our newfound alliance with a show of strength!’
The crowd roars. I look around and see women and children baying at the prospect of spilt blood; hard men in mail whisper to one another, there is the odd chink as bets are made and coins change hand. I try to clear my mind and focus on my opponent. He is a handspan taller than me with thick muscle dominating his torso, and carries a huge single headed axe rather than a sword. Balomar tells me this will give me an advantage in reach and with my speed I should easily be able to avoid his blows. I have my doubts. This is supposed to be a fight to first blood, but I cannot possibly see how I will survive if I am hit by that axe.
‘Our first entertainment of the day shall be a fight to first blood
!’ and the crowd roars again. I get a rush of saliva in my mouth and have to fight back the overwhelming urge to vomit. ‘To my left we have the infamous Sisbert of the Quadi! A renown warrior of fearsome courage and whose tales of heroism on battle are known to all. To my right, we have Alaric the wanderer.’ I spit on the mud as the silence hangs like mist on a winter morning. No tales of courage, even of my recent victory in this very pit? Fine. I will show him, show them all. ‘Let the contest…begin!’
Sisbert moves with the grace of a dancer whereas I am stuck hard to the mud. With a heave I free my left boot and rasp my sword from its sheath. I go to step with my right and find I cannot free it from the earths embrace. I panic, curse and for one idiotic heartbeat take my eye off Sisbert and look down to my stricken leg. I pull frantically but cannot free it, then with a mighty heave I find myself lurching forwards and with a pop my foot shoots out of my boot, still stuck in the mire.
I stumble forwards, dropping my sword and land in a sprawling heap in the filth. I see just vaguely a flash of silver in my peripheral vision and feel the rush of air as the axe blade scythes just inches from my face. Desperately I reach out for my sword with my left hand and roll over onto my back with the blade held before me.
With a look of utter horror I see the blond giant above me, he screams a victory cry and slams the axe down onto my left shoulder. I do not yell in pain, for the sheer agony of the blow has driven all the wind from me. I cannot blink, let alone move as the burning sensation shoots from my shoulder and seems to reach all the way to my toes. Tears well in my eyes as my mother’s image comes to mind; she lays there in the darkness, a blackened silhouette in the firelight, she takes her punishment from those legionaries without a sound. It is only now I realise that it is my presence that stops her from crying out. I think for the first time I realise what courage she showed, even as her lifeblood poured from between her legs and her soul was stolen by the legionaries who defiled her body; my mother’s dying thought was of me.
I feel a surge of anger, energy driven by nothing but pure hatred. It is not this Sisbert that has stirred such strong emotion, but my hatred for Rome, for my cowardly father, and for the puny chief that I had slain as he feasted in his hall. Middle earth is a cruel place, filled with nothing but pain and suffering. I have suffered enough, it is someone else’s turn now.
I send a swift prayer to the spinners as I vault to my feet and see that my mail has held. Those three hags surely have a long, lingering death spun for me, but it will not be today. My left arm hangs limp at my side, so I have to reach round with my right and take the sword from my left hand as I cannot move the fingers. My breathing is heavy, steam fogs the air and for the first time I see a twinge of fear in Sisbert’s honey brown eyes.
I howl a cry of pent-up rage and charge Sisbert, sending blow after blow against a boiled leather cuirass I assume he has either been gifted from a Roman or taken from a corpse. My sword moves quicker than a darting snake’s tongue, licking in and out to land blow after blow on a dumbfounded Sisbert. I can feel the blood pouring down my left arm and back and know the fight to be over, but I do not care. The blood lust is upon me now and to stop me Sisbert will have to kill me, though I do not think he has the courage. I batter him to submission until he is whimpering on his knees and I stand tall above him, my sword resting on his neck.
Slowly I come back to my senses and as if waking from a dream see we are not alone in the pit. A ring of spears surrounds me, men from both the Marcomanni and the Quadi. My breathing is shallow and laboured, I feel the urge to vomit and my head spins like Donar has struck me with his great hammer. ‘Drop your sword,’ a faceless warrior says from behind his shield. I obey, slump to my knees and spray vomit over Sisbert’s boots.
There is a commotion above me on the sides of the pit, I squint and look up to see the king of the Marcomanni slump to the floor, Balomar’s sword still stuck fast in his chest. It is done, I think and smile, even as I pass into oblivion.
THIRTY-FOUR
Gods, I ached the morning after that battle. I had a lad wake me just before dawn and it took all the strength I possessed just to roll off my cot. I landed in a heap on the floor, quite unable to pull myself to my feet. I was still a young man then, though that morning I discovered the difference between still being young and youth. A youth would have vaulted from his cot, breathed deep the sweet air and revelled in the fact he had survived to see the sun rise. He would have eaten a hearty breakfast, drunk deep from a skin of ale and gone about his morning duties with relish. I, on the other hand, cursed profoundly as I struggled into my mail, every muscle in my body screaming in agony. My palms were blistered from wielding sword and shield; my feet were in ruins and my back felt as though I had spent the last year living as a slave in one of Dacia’s gold mines. It was clear that I was no longer in my youth.
The cut I had taken under my nose was still open and raw. I stupidly poked it and the rush of surging pain made me wince; as I sucked air in through my mouth the swollen lump in my gum that had been my two front teeth flared and I cursed aloud in agony.
‘Lord, are you okay?’ A young warrior appeared at the tent flap, the same one who had woken me. ‘Wine,’ I managed to croak. ‘Bring wine, lots of it.’
I was drunk by mid-morning, and by the time the sun crested the horizon in its slow descent I was a lumbering, slurring mess in mail. I shouted orders, laughed at my own jokes, vomited and drank some more. No one could understand what I was saying, no one would ride at my side and when I fell from Hilde’s back as afternoon was turning to evening no one approached to help me remount. Ruric had the men form camp around my stricken form. I lay there in the grass, watching the blurry ball of fire in the sky and quietly soiled myself. I remember feeling a prick of shame at that and when the next urge to vomit had me gagging I found I was unable to roll from my back, the weight of my armour being too much. I gagged on regurgitated wine, choked on it, and gave myself to the blackness.
When I woke, it was to Ruric and Ketill both standing over me. They were muttering to each other, maybe arguing. ‘Wine,’ I croaked and tried to rise; the pain in my head was fierce and overpowering, I slumped back onto my cot.
‘I think you may have had enough wine, brother,’ Ketill said as he lowered himself to his knees. ‘How’s the head?’
‘Oh gods,’ I moaned and retched as my stomach convulsed. Ketill didn’t move, he just smiled at me. ‘I would be greatly surprised if you had anything left to bring up, old friend. I’m certain I saw enough sick leave this tent last night to fill a barrel. Water?’
‘Wine.’
‘No more fucking wine,’ Ruric said, he leant down and slapped me hard across the face. I tasted the familiar metallic taste of blood and knew he had reopened the cut beneath my nose. ‘I told you the day before yesterday you need to sort yourself out! And what do you do? Spend the day drinking yourself into oblivion! You’re no leader, no lord! You’re a fraud and a coward, and I’m just about done with you!’
Ruric stormed from the tent while I lay still in my cot, stunned to silence. ‘Well, who pissed in his boots?!’ I scoffed and gently eased myself to an upright position.
‘That would be you, old friend. There is some truth in what he says, you should heed his words.’
I made to reply but Ketill cut me off, ‘no Alaric, we need you now more than ever. You may think the battle two days ago was going to be the worst of it. I tell you now it isn’t.’
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, reading the grave expression on Ketill’s face.
‘You need to see it for yourself,’ was all he said.
Painfully, I washed and dressed and with my stomach still churning mounted Hilde who even joined in with the general disparagement of my behaviour the day before by trying to throw me off. I had no idea of where Ketill was taking me or what we were going to find when we got there, though I assumed it was nothing good. I saw Saxa as we rode from our camp, apart from a brief and joyless reunion the night before
last I had not seen her or my young son – well I might well have done, but not sober anyway. I gave her a feeble wave, she just looked at me with eyes full of hate and regret. She had not believed me when I had told her that we were only assaulting Viritium to save her and the boy; the lie had been too easy to see through. She was, I knew, torn between her loyalty to me and that of her father and brother. Secretly I suspected she had been left behind just to spy on me and somehow feedback to her family of my movements, though how she would accomplish that I had no idea. I thought again then of Birgir, his strange behaviour and sudden desire to work independently. Was I jumping at shadows? It was certainly not impossible that there were men in my ranks that would betray me for nothing more than a bag of silver. I was all too aware of the calibre of men my banner attracted, proud of it in fact. But Birgir? No, he was as loyal as Ruric or Gerulf, I was certain.
We rode for half a morning, Ketill setting a rigorous pace and me swaying in the saddle behind him. I asked where we were going twice but got no reply, I was too annoyed and ashamed of my behaviour to ask again, so we rode in silence. We were just coming out from a small crop of trees when Ketill suddenly reined in his horse and waited for me on the road. ‘You will not like this, brother. In fact, I hope you do not. I hope it makes your blood boil.’ He moved aside and for the first time I saw bright light filtering into a clearing in the trees. For the first time, I saw the bodies hanging from the branches.
Four of my men were swinging in the wind. Four brave sons of the Ravensworn left for the crows. It was an outrage; a savage, disgusting act of cowardice that I knew was aimed at me. Those poor souls had done nothing to deserve such a horrifying and gruesome end. Their only crime was to be warriors under my banner.
As I got closer my revulsion doubled. The poor men had not just been hanged, they had been disembowelled, their manhood removed and stuffed in their mouths, probably while they were still breathing. There were two of Ketill’s men waiting in the shadows, at an unspoken order from their chief they cut the bodies down, lowering them gently to the ground. I looked on in horror. I did not want to, I wanted to turn away and spray vomit over the thick undergrowth that lined the trees. But I could not stop looking. Their faces were an ash grey with a green tinge. Their eyes told me all I needed to of the anguish they had suffered before death finally released them from their Hel on earth. ‘Who found them?’ I said, anger slowly replacing the revulsion in my bones.
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