The Noise of War

by Vincent B Davis II

  While I massaged the area tenderly, I tried to take in everything I could see, the kind of intelligence Marius would want if I returned: infantry size, number of cavalry, infrastructure, capabilities for movement and supply, quality of arms and armor.

  It was impossible to understand the scope of things while seated on my arse massaging my leg, but I knew immediately that the Romans had every right to be scared. Although I had faced them in battle, I was still shocked to see the size of each warrior as he passed me by. What did these people eat, that they grew as tall and broad as Nursian trees? Their children had the hair of old men, so fair it was almost white.

  A shadow approached and stretched over me. As I looked up, I saw a massive Cimbri warrior standing before me. He pushed a cup of mead into my hand forcefully. I accepted it and nodded my head. To my chagrin, he plopped down beside me, still a head or two taller than me even while seated.

  His hair was fire red and his eyes were as blue as the Alpine caps. There was something wild and savage in them, something hungry for blood. I knew he couldn’t see through my disguise, but I was intimidated regardless.

  We sat beside each other in silence for a time. Occasionally, he would say something and look at me sidelong, but I couldn’t understand him. I had picked up bits and pieces of the Cimbri tongue from the Tigurini who had already encountered them, but not enough to make conversation.

  At length, I gave my best effort.

  “Where from?” I asked with a shrug.

  “Cold north,” he said, or so I believed. That was enough for me, and we were both pleased to be communicating with a foreigner.

  Not long afterward, the Cimbri king and the Tigurini elders exited their meeting hut. Silence befell the camp and everyone stood at attention facing them.

  King Boioroix peered out at his combined army for some time, gazing into the eyes of the men, women, and children closest to him. A smile creased his face and he lifted his arms up in exultation. Everyone erupted in applause. The men beat their shields and stomped their feet, the earth trembling beneath them. The women let out a piercing screech to rival it.

  Boioroix began gesticulating wildly, his long hair in thick braids flying freely around him, shouting rapidly in his foreign tongue. When he concluded, there was another eruption of applause. I feigned excitement as well, but I had no idea what was happening.

  The red-haired Cimbri beside me was smiling like a hungry man who had been presented with a feast. The king gestured to someone I couldn’t see in the distance, and loud drums began to reverberate throughout the camp.

  As the Cimbri began to chant rhythmically, and let out howls to the gods like wolves on the hunt, I became frightened.

  “What?” I asked the man beside me, not knowing how else to phrase my confusion.

  He turned and slapped me on the back, as if he were about to bestow a great gift unto me.

  “Almost time for war,” he said before turning away to join in the chant.

  Cimbri warriors brought out massive caldrons, heavy enough that it demanded a man on either side to bear the load.

  I caught sight of Father and my clan to my right, and they appeared as confused as I was, but far more excited.

  Father saw me looking at him and approached, followed by the others, as usual.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “For what, exactly?” I replied. “But yes.”

  “I’m not certain. But I like the fire in their eyes.” Father slapped his chest and shouted over the chanting.

  One of the cauldrons was placed a few feet in front of us, and I followed everyone else to gather around it.

  As I neared, I peered in and noticed that the barrels were nearly teeming with scarlet blood. The smell of iron wreaked in my nose, but there had been scents and various herbs added in as well. I wasn’t sure as to their purpose, but judging by the even faces of the Cimbri, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.

  The red-haired Cimbri placed and arm around my shoulder and led me through the crowd directly to the barrel, gesturing to the rest of my clan to follow.

  When we took the nearest position to the caldron, the warrior held out his hand for us to stop. After a moment, the chanting stalled, and even the birds in the sky seemed to fall silent, as a woman in black stepped out beside the king at the center of camp.

  With a hunched back and a cane, she stepped forward, clicking her tongue and shaking her head wildly like an opium user in the Suburra. She raised the cane to the sky, as well as her head, revealing the whites of her eyes.

  She let out a shriek and shook wildly, the black rags flowing from her arms flapping against the wind.

  The chanting began again. I couldn’t understand their language but felt myself becoming carried away by it. The Tigurini and I smacked our chests, playing our role as best we could despite our confusion.

  The ancient priestess continued to lead the chant as the king took second place and walked up and down the line, beating his chest and those of his men to incite their combined rage.

  Finally, the shrieking priestesses continued at one pitch, and the crowd erupted.

  Before I could assess the situation, the Cimbri warrior had pulled me in close to him with one hand while the other dipped into the thick barrel of blood.

  For a moment, I feared he might ask me to drink it, but then he splashed the blood onto my face, smearing it forcefully over ever feature. He slapped a handful over both ears and on both my good eye and my patch, as well as on my lips, and let a scoop drizzle onto my hair.

  When he was finished, he grabbed me by my shoulders and head butted me, hard enough that the light disappeared for a moment. When I pulled back to analyze him, in case this was borne of aggression, there was a smile stretched across his face, and the blood from my forehead had transferred to his and dripped over his cheeks.

  He nodded and then pushed me aside, grabbing Father and doing the same to him.

  For better or worse, I was ingratiated as a Cimbri now. This was my new home. I was a warrior among the enemies of Rome. And if I made one false move, I knew it would be my blood in that cauldron next.

  16

  Scroll XVI

  Ides of August 651 ab urbe condita

  I leaned against a tree and analyzed my surroundings. I couldn’t see many of the other hunters, but I knew there were six to my left and seven to my right. The Cimbri had taught me much about becoming one with my surroundings, and that was never more important than when we hunted.

  The Cimbri language hadn’t been easy to pick up, but thankfully the Reds were a people of few words. When we hunted, very little, if anything, was said. To communicate, they used a series of grunts and squawks that mimicked birds or various woodland creatures.

  I heard a few of these noises to my left.

  I craned my head to see the nearest Cimbri hunter in the distance. He was looking at me, and when we made eye contact, he nodded his head for me to come.

  As I neared, he pointed into the distance, where I saw Father with his back to a tree.

  I hurried, but took each step on the ball of my foot, careful not to snap any twigs. This, too, the Cimbri had taught me. I felt I could move as silently as a shade of Hades after we had been going out every day for a few months.

  When I reached Father, he nodded in the direction of a deer in the distance, only the antlers visible over a berm of leaves and twigs. It was likely that Father had only heard him. We had become much more attuned to nature.

  Father nodded and stepped away. We rotated days on the hunts; every day, someone else would be responsible for making the kill. The Cimbri, not so dissimilar from the Romans, believed each man should carry his own weight.

  I knew that if I made a mistake and missed the buck, we would return to camp empty-handed and would go to bed hungry. I might also be beaten by my Cimbri and Tigurini comrades, if a few previous failures proved to be any indication. I had been forced to take part in the beatings as well, but they weren’t as violent as on
e might think. The failed hunter didn’t fight back, and he was only beaten enough to leave him bruised and puffy for a few days, a warning not to make the same mistake again.

  Regardless of the severity, I wanted to avoid it.

  I moved out from behind the tree, nearing the berm, behind which the buck was nibbling on a few roots.

  I instinctually pulled an arrow from my quiver and notched it, focusing more on my footsteps.

  I was close enough to smell the buck’s coat. It was a peculiar smell I would never have been able to identify beforehand. I had two options: I could attempt to flank the berm and get a clean shot on the deer, but if I did so, he might hear me and flee. Otherwise, I could wait for him to raise his head.

  Both options concerned me.

  Instead, I clicked my tongue. The buck raised his head to scan the surroundings. Before I had even noticed, I had sent my arrow whistling through the wind. The Cimbri had practiced with us for a long time to improve our marksmanship. They said we had to allow the arrow to release itself. When we released the arrow intentionally, it strayed right or left, and inches could make the difference between eating and not eating—or living and dying.

  Their teaching proved to be effective as the arrow found its mark at the base of the beast’s neck. The buck collapsed to the earth immediately, but began bawling and blatting, a truly horrific cry.

  I hurried around the berm and slid my dagger into the beast’s throat, a few inches from the arrow, to silence it.

  It let out a sigh and fell still, it’s wide, wet eyes studying me with surprise.

  I got the deer. I won our prize for the evening. I exhaled with relief and then strained to pick up the massive buck. Before I could, I felt the whip of a tree branch against my neck.

  I yelped and turned to see the fire-haired Cimbri, who I now knew as Carverix.

  “Kill him first next time. We get two.” He pointed at a few fleeing does in the distance. I nursed my pride for a moment, and managed a nod. After a moment, the scowl on his face dissipated and he patted me on the shoulder.

  The rest of our hunting party, made up of my Tigurini clan and a handful of Cimbri warriors, approached and all congratulated me with a slap on the arm or a head butt. No one said anything.

  I slung the buck over my shoulders, and we moved on back to camp. As we passed through the gates, I found myself as prideful of the bloody deer atop me as a father of a newborn. I had earned my keep.

  Those near us eyed us with jealousy, some of the women slapping their husbands for not bringing in such a bounty.

  “I’ll cook it,” Father said. Even he had begun to speak sparingly since we had arrived in the Cimbri camp. It was a habit I didn’t mind much, especially since I remained fearful that I might say the wrong thing.

  I dropped the deer in the center of our group of tents, where my Tigurini clan and Carverix’s people had set up. I never fully understood the nature of our relationship to the fire-haired Cimbri, but I believe he functioned as some sort of sponsor for us, responsible for showing us the ways of the Cimbri and ensuring we followed them to the letter.

  Carverix and another Cimbri gathered a bowl of grog. We usually returned from our hunt with something, a few rabbits perhaps, but a buck this size was something to celebrate. One of the Tigurini clansmen brought me a cup as Father began to flay the beast, another striking up a fire.

  I drained the cup and asked for more as Father slapped the bloody skin of the buck over my shoulders.

  “It’s yours. We’ll tan it tomorrow,” he said with pride in his eyes as if I were one of his sons. And in a way, I had become one.

  As we waited for the roast venison to be prepared, our behavior quickly devolved into degeneracy. This was quite normal, and I had actually begun to enjoy it. One might assume that espionage requires a sober mind, and perhaps that’s true, but I fit in better with a mug of ale in hand, and intoxication was the only thing that kept me from fidgeting nervously and peering over my shoulders in the fear that someone was eyeing me with suspicion.

  Before long, my head was heavy and my vision was swirled. I smiled perpetually and swayed with the effects of the grog, as a few of our more rambunctious clansmen attempted to see who could hold their heads under the ale the longest, ignoring the fact that they left hair and grime in our community bowl of grog. They asked me to do it, but I laughed and declined, playing to their ego that they were much better at it than I would be so that they left me alone.

  About that time, I noticed King Boiorix and his companions in the stable corral, analyzing a bucking stallion.

  Ignoring my heckling companions, I approached and leaned up against the corral fence with drunken fixation.

  The stable keeper was chasing after the horse, obviously embarrassed at his failure.

  “Useless man!” the king called.

  Spurred on by the insults, the stable keeper whipped the back of the fleeing stallion with renewed vigor. That is, until the beast stopped in its tracks and kicked him in the face with the lightning-fast hoof of its hind leg.

  He hit the dirt, blood spilling over his shattered cheeks and gums instantly, a few teeth falling out and catching in his beard.

  The king shook his head in disappointment and kicked dirt and hay at the weeping stable keeper.

  “Useless man.” Boiorix scowled.

  A few of the king’s men stepped forward to try, but the majority stepped away and said the horse was broken.

  “The meanest horse I’ve ever seen.” Carverix approached behind me. “We took it from a tribe in the Pyrenees. The king claimed it for his own. Months have passed and he still can’t ride it.”

  The stallion, as black as coal and with limbs as thick as tree trunks, maintained eye contact with those closest to him, daring them to step forward.

  I hopped the fence and reached my hands out for the reins. My vision still swirling, I caught a glimpse of one of the king’s men approaching, trying to dissuade me.

  Before I could address the man’s concern, Boiorix himself pushed him aside and buried a finger in my chest.

  “What you doing?” he asked, his voice as deep as the stallion’s roar.

  Carverix had joined me in the corral now, as well, and was trying to pull me away. I assumed he would be held responsible if I insulted the king in some way. Regardless, I couldn’t take my gaze off the king of the Cimbri, believing that if I did so, he might strike me. He towered over me, the heat of his breath burning on my forehead. Only a menacing man such as this could have lead such a people.

  “You really think you can tame this horse?” the king asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said as softly as I could muster, “but I’m drunk enough to try.”

  Boiorix roared with laughter and turned to his companions with mock admiration. He patted my face twice with big, meaty palms, hard enough most Romans might consider it a slap. Content with my answer, he threw up his arms and stepped away so that I could try.

  Everyone else in the corral stepped back, including Carverix, who wore a look of grim resignation.

  I moved toward the horse, considering each step carefully. Its black ears were pinned back, and it stamped its feet into the earth with a crack of thunder each time, leaving hoofprints the size of a Roman trench.

  We locked eyes. Smoke billowed from its nostrils into the cool evening air with each grunt and exhale. The stallion appeared to be possessed by a demon. But I had seen horses like this. And unfortunately, I knew what came next.

  The horse neighed, the sound blood curdling and piercing, and charged toward me. Few horses ever show this kind of aggression, but the ones that do are deadly.

  I stood no chance of outrunning the beast, unless I hopped the fence and ran away. But doing so would result in the horse losing all respect for me, and obliterate my chances of earning it, as well as the king’s patience in allowing me to try. Instead, I pivoted laterally, staying just a step or two ahead of it each time.

  Eventually, it stopped, loweri
ng its massive head, pointed directly at me. It seemed to say the next move was mine.

  The stallion wouldn’t rest long, though. I had a split second to decide why it was being so violent. My actions would be predicated on that answer. Horses aren’t aggressive by nature—aggression attracts predators, risks injury, and burns precious energy the steed might later need. So for it to behave this way, there must have been a good reason.

  Was it weaned too soon? Did it lack adequate socialization in its youth? Did it feel threatened? Was it in pain?

  The horse patted its foot against the earth and waited impatiently for my answer.

  It couldn’t have been weaned too soon. It was too robust, too filled out. It probably did feel threatened with so many wandering eyes and bodies approaching it, but it was too controlled for this to be the cause. I spotted fresh welts and old scars along its haunches, so it could have been in pain, but if that were the case, I would expect to see its nostrils flaring a bit more, and it to be more aggressive with its grunts and whinnying.

  Could it be the presence of a mare in season? Doubtful. It seemed they kept the stallion isolated, and Carverix explained that it had been this way for months.

  It was tired of waiting. The beast bucked its head wildly, chomping at the bit, bared its gums and snorted, two streams of white steam pouring out as if from a furnace.

  Was it trying to control resources? Afraid it wouldn’t eat? No, I doubted it. For all its lack of training, the stallion appeared to be well nourished.

  Boiorix was laughing and gesturing for his friends to do the same. I stole a glance at Carverix, who stood by with downcast eyes. If I failed, I would be dishonored for the remainder of my time in the Cimbri camp. In fact, my entire hunting party might be dishonored alongside me, and that might have been the reason they had all sauntered off. For this reason, I briefly considered how foolish I was to risk such a venture after having drained my fair share of ale.

  But it was too late.

  The stallion took a few steps forward, thrashing its head wildly side to side.