“Let us hope,” he said, “that it does not shift to the east.”
On the advice of Gallus I dispersed the fleet. Four galleys were kept upstream of Moguntiacum, and one each at Bingium and Confluentes. I did not believe that, however desperate they might be, the tribes would try to cross the river by boat or on rafts, but I would leave nothing to chance except the weather. That alone I could not control.
In the middle of the month I received a visit from Goar. He came in, splashing raindrops from his cloak, his red beard dripping onto my polished table. I gave him hot wine and asked for his news. He drank the wine before answering, wiped his hand across the edge of his cloak and said grimly, “King Guntiarus has betrayed you. He is sending them food. He has been told—or believes—that his son is dead. Perhaps he does not believe—I do not know—but he is doing it all the same.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I do not know—ten days or a fortnight. Perhaps longer.” He paused. He looked at me. He said, “Is the boy dead?”
“No. You can see him if you wish.”
Quintus said, “He is well looked after. He speaks Latin better than his father now. Maximus, he has called your bluff.”
“I do not make threats I do not carry out.”
Goar said, “There is little point in killing the boy now. Give him to me instead.”
“Why?”
“Guntiarus does not hate the Romans as he hates the Alans. If he knows I have the boy, he may stop sending food. He will certainly stop attacking my men.”
“So?” I raised my head at that.
“Oh, yes. We have been fighting skirmishes the past week.”
Quintus said, “Let me take a cavalry force across the river and destroy his salt springs. He won’t like that.”
“Do that,” I said. “And if you meet Guntiarus on the way, bring me back his head.”
“There is one more thing.” Goar looked at me intently. “Can you trust your commander at Bingium?”
“Why, yes.” I was surprised. “Why not? He is an auxiliary, of course, not a regular. But he is efficient and faithful. He has given excellent service this past year.” I glanced from him to Quintus. “Yes, I would trust him. Why not?”
Goar said, “What do you know of him?”
I thought: Scudilio—a dark haired, narrow faced, slightly built man in his middle thirties. He was good looking, attractive to women, and he laughed a lot. A bit nervous in manner, sometimes, but keen and energetic and a fine horseman. His family, so he had told me, had been settled on the east bank for forty years. He was of mixed blood, part Gaul, part Frank, but that was a long time ago. He had joined us some six months after our arrival and had received swift promotion. He was a leader of men; and I trusted him.
I told Goar all this. He nodded and then said quietly, “Would it surprise you to know that he is of the Alemanni?”
“Is that true?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Who in this part of the world is not of mixed blood? Look at the people in the town down there.”
“He was in Rando’s camp two years ago,” said Goar relentlessly. “Why did he lie to you if he is honest?”
I said, “I don’t know. Perhaps he thought we would not let him join us, and he would, very probably, have been right.”
Quintus said, “If he was disloyal he would have had his chance when we took the legion across the river. He commanded at Bingium then. He could have cut the bridge behind us. Is not that so?”
Goar said grudgingly, “That is so.”
I said, “What is worrying you?”
He said, “If you have to make a retreat, then you must retreat through Bingium. It is the one place which must be held by a reliable man.”
In exasperation I said, “Any man can desert me or turn traitor if he so chooses. This is not the old Rome when every soldier was a known citizen. They join us for many reasons—for money, for security, or simply because they like fighting and they enjoy the life.”
He said, “I thought you should know.”
“I am grateful to you, of course. It was right that I should know. Quintus, you will be going over the bridge at Bingium. Have a talk with Scudilio. If you have any doubts at all, then replace him.”
Goar nodded. “That is just,” he said. He looked disconcerted and I wondered if, perhaps, he was annoyed that I did not take his warning more seriously.
In the morning the ala cantered out soon after sunrise, and Goar re-crossed the river, taking with him a small boy who wept bitterly. Before he left I asked him a question. “On a matter of trust,” I said. “On this thing that we discussed yesterday. If the river freezes, if they try to cross, can I be sure that I may then count on your help?”
He looked at me steadily and did not smile. “Can you win?” he asked.
I stared at him hard. “Yes,” I said. “Let there be no doubt about that. With, or without, your help I shall beat them. But you have not answered my question.”
He smiled slightly. “The king, Respendial, is my cousin, and his people are my people. But I do not believe in kidnapping the young wives of fellow kings. Marcomir and I took the oath to be brothers in blood, before he died.” He held up his wrist and I saw the faint scars across it. “Is that the answer you want?”
I gripped his arm with my hand. “Yes. It is all the answer that I want.”
XV
IT GREW STEADILY colder, and each day I walked down to the river edge and looked at the swirling currents, the drifting logs, the pattern of colour that shifted with the light on the great mass of water that moved endlessly past. Somewhere in the high, snow-capped mountains to my right, so far away that I could not see them, this river crossed a great lake on the start of its long journey to the Saxon Sea. Here, it was just over seven hundred and fifty yards across, from bank to bank, but it was nine hundred yards wide at the mouth; so that, at times and places it seemed like an inland sea.
I did not like water really. I was no seaman as Gallus was, whose father had been a river pilot on the Danubius, but the Rhenus was my friend and I loved it in all its moods, as I had once loved the worn grey stones of that Northern Wall where I had passed my youth. It was a defence, this river, against the unknown, and it marked the limit of my Roman world. Beyond it lay only chaos.
The water was very cold and the level had dropped considerably. A great tree trunk that had been ripped out of a collapsing bank, perhaps as high as Borbetomagus, came floating by as I stood there, and on it, whimpering and wet but still alive, huddled a small animal that looked like a cat. Cats had been sacred to the peoples of Aegyptus, I remembered, and I had a sudden absurd desire that it should be saved. Perhaps if I propitiated enough gods they would help me in my turn when I needed assistance. I sent a horseman cantering down-river and later heard that a boat, sent out from Bingium, had rescued the cat and that it was living in the commandant’s office. It was recovering on warm milk, and Scudilio had been heard to remark, with a smile, that he thought the general was becoming senile. The soldiers in the fort, however, called the cat Maximus, and I was pleased.
Then the Bishop arrived, a black figure on a black horse, with an escort of my cavalry and a retinue of churchmen who looked blue with cold. If saintliness was next to coldness then they would have been close to heaven at that moment. To my surprise the Curator was with him and, when he got off his horse, he walked stiffly like a man unaccustomed to taking exercise.
I offered them what hospitality I could and asked the Bishop bluntly why he had come. He smiled for a moment. “I have brought a gift of oysters for you and your friend. I remember your saying that army food was monotonous.”
“You have not come all the way just for that.”
He smiled. “It will be a bad winter, as I told you. Many of your men are christians and I feel it right that I should come here to bless them and to pray. You do not object, I trust?”
“Barbatio, order a detail to prepare huts. No, I do not object.”<
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He looked at me steadily. He said, “It is very lonely to be the man in charge, to whom all else must turn for help, advice and instruction. You can confide in no-one. It is a great strain.” He paused, waiting for me to speak.
I said, “I am waiting for the wind to change. If it does, if it shifts to the east, it will snow, and if it snows then that river will freeze and they will cross the water on a bridge of ice. When that happens I and my men will all die.”
He looked shocked. “You spoke more confidently to the city elders when you last visited Treverorum.”
“Yes. I did not wish to alarm them.”
“Why tell me now?”
“You knew before. Besides, I do not tell lies; not to priests of any faith. I know—here.” I touched my chest.
He put his hands to the cross at his breast. “It is not too late, my son. . . .”
I said, “No. I will not betray my emperor, nor my general, nor my men. I will not betray the people of Augusta Treverorum. When then should I abandon my god?”
He was silent. He was too clever, too wise, perhaps, to say, ‘it is not the same thing.’ To him, no: to me, yes.
He said at length, “You will let us know what happens if you can. We shall be anxious for news.”
“I will do my best.”
“You have a young girl here, a hostage of some kind. May I see her?”
“Yes, if you wish. One of my men will show you where her hut is.”
He stayed two days, and then a third, and during that time Artorius walked around the camp, looking at everything with curious eyes and chatting genially with my younger officers.
One evening I found him standing on the river bank looking across the dark water, while a swan paddled hopefully a few feet away, waiting for food. I went up to him and said, “I hope you approve of the way the tax money has been spent?”
He said stiffly, “I have my duty to do, just as you have. But at least I try not to be so unpleasant in its execution.”
I was stung by his remark. “Soldiering is not a soft trade,” I said. “You must forgive us if its practitioners are a trifle brutal now and again. It is because we are brutal that you can afford to be gentle.”
He said calmly, “Do you imagine that one gets taxes out of people by being gentle?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this.” He swung round and put his finger to my chest. “You think you are so important because you carry a sword and you have soldiers to back up your every order. It is easy for you. For us it is not so easy. We have to persuade.”
“You have taken your time persuading then.”
“Everything you asked for has been given.”
“Grudgingly,” I said.
“You have impoverished the entire city.”
“Oh, come, it is not as bad as that.”
He said, in a bitter voice, “Treverorum was prosperous till you came with your insatiable demands. I was proud to be its Curator. Now, everything is ruined. It is taxes, always taxes. And now they do not want me any more. Look at Moguntiacum; a handful of flea-ridden huts. It was a fine city once. No one will work for a living; everyone begs for assistance. They are scum.”
“Is not some of the trouble due to the fact that nowadays people cannot change their occupations without being penalised?”
“That is not my concern. Half the taxes I collect are sent to the central government. But they should be used here, not to pay for idle mouths in Rome.”
“Then why do it?”
“Like your officers I obey orders.”
“And make a good living out of your own estates, no doubt.”
“Why not? I bought them. At least I keep my slaves. They are well fed and well cared for. I don’t beat them into running away.”
“You are fortunate to have the choice,” I said coldly. “I never owned more than two body servants in my entire life.”
He ignored my remark. He said suddenly, “Your defences look very strong. Will you be able to hold them if they attack you?”
I said, “I am not a prophet, only a soldier. But if I have doubts then I will send for your help. That, I am sure, will make all the difference.”
On the fourth day the Bishop left, and I walked out of the camp gates to see him go. It was bitterly cold and the sky was a purple-black from horizon to horizon. Wrapped in our cloaks and hooded to the eyes we were still cold, yet I shivered from fear as much as from anything else.
“The wind has turned,” he said. “Have you noticed?”
“Yes, it is blowing from the east.”
“It brings a cold message for all of us, my son.”
The Curator said politely, “Whatever help you need, then send for it.”
I said, “You are too kind. You should have made that offer months ago.”
At that moment a snowflake fell onto the sleeve of my cloak, and I stared at it and took a quick breath. “It is death,” I said slowly. It had come at last and there was no escape.
The Bishop smiled and raised his hand. “Farewell,” he said. “May you live in God.”
“Farewell,” I said. “May Mithras protect us all.”
I watched the cavalcade ride up the road till the palisade hid it from sight. Then I turned and mounted my horse, held by a waiting orderly, and rode back to my quarters. It was snowing hard now. It went on snowing all day; and it snowed all night.
For three days it snowed, and my men were kept busy clearing the dry snow from the paths and the sentry walks, and sweeping the falls that came from the roofs of the huts and blocked the doorways each morning.
On the fourth morning the wind dropped, the sky cleared and a pale sun gleamed weakly between the feathery clouds. I put on my cloak and walked down to the river with Quintus. The bank was lined with soldiers watching the water. It was icy cold to the touch, but the water looked clear and there was no suggestion yet that it might freeze over. There were tribesmen on the far bank who had come out of camp and who stood in groups watching the water, like us. They waved in friendly fashion and our men waved back. Quintus said, “We shall get warning if it begins to harden. The commandant at Borbetomagus will send a message. They will notice it first.”
I said, “I know that. What I am worried about is if it continues to snow and the roads become blocked.”
That night the wind set up again. It had backed to the north-east now and in the night I awoke to hear it howling through the camp like the spirits of the unquiet dead. Just before dawn it began to snow and this time it fell heavily, blanketing the camp and blotting out our view of the river. I ordered double sentries to be posted, sent out cavalry patrols to break up the loose snow on the roads, and had every man hard at work with iron tipped spades, clearing the tracks and ditches. Messages came in from all the forts to say that the snow was thick on the roads, that some tracks were impassable but that the river was unaffected.
“What about the fleet?” asked Quintus.
“Well, what about it? It won’t be any use to us if this weather continues.”
“Do you want the ships to go back to Treverorum or to lie up at Confluentes?”
“Does it matter where they lie up?”
He said patiently, “We might need them in the spring.”
I looked at him and after a minute his eyes dropped to the map on the table before him.
“It’s really a question of where we can best use the men. We could do with their catapults.”
I said, “How much use would they be at breaking up the ice if it comes?”
He grinned. “Those experiments we were carrying out in the early autumn; you remember them.”
“Yes.”
“If it does not freeze too badly they would be of enormous help in breaking up the ice; but that sort of ice wouldn’t be thick enough to carry much weight anyway. If it freezes very hard, however, we shall probably lose the ships. They’ll get ice-bound.”
“It would be worth it.”
“Shall I arrange i
t then, along those lines?”
“Yes, you know my mind in these matters as well as your own.”
I rode out on a tour of inspection, first to Bingium where I had a long talk with the legionary commandant, and another with Scudilio, who would succeed him when I withdrew the cohort.
“Why did you lie?” I said.
“Your general has already asked me that question.”
“It is I who am asking it now.”
He said, “I did not think you would let me join you if you knew I came from the Alemanni. That is all.”
I looked at him.
He said nervously, “I have tried to be a good soldier. But if you would prefer it I will take the money that is owing to me and go. It would be better to leave than to stay and not be trusted.”
I said, “Keep your command. When the day comes that I do not trust you I will tell you so myself.”
From Bingium I went on to Boudobrigo, Salisio and Confluentes. The snow was dry still, powdered on the surface but loose underneath, so that marching was difficult and we travelled at half speed, but using twice the effort. I was nagged with worry because the defensive ditches around the camps were half full of snow that had drifted in with the wind. If we had sleet and the snow became wet it would solidify and provide a firm base on which to make a crossing. The ditches would then be rendered useless.
From Confluentes I rode back down the road to Treverorum, and passed a night at the signal tower by the junction where the roads forked. Here the auxiliaries were digging out the ditches that straddled the road, throwing the snow up into banks to provide extra protection. It was here that, if need be, I would make my last stand, and I spent half a day surveying the ground with care. It all looked different now. The branches of the trees were loaded with snow; hillocks, rough ground and tracks had all been blotted out, erased by a dazzle of smooth white in every direction as far as one could see. Only on the road and round the signal tower was the ground stamped hard, slippery and dangerous to walk upon. Beneath the surface of the snow the earth felt like rock. I was impressed by the care that the unit took of its responsibilities. Agilio, the post commander, was only a boy, blond haired, slow thinking but reliable. His post was kept absolutely clean and tidy, the men’s weapons were in excellent condition and they knew how to use them with efficiency. They obeyed his instructions promptly and each man had a ready grasp of his duties. In the afternoon the signal fires flared and smoke rose into the clear sky. I watched the dark balls rise at irregular intervals and then Agilio came up. “You are wanted back at Moguntiacum immediately, sir.”
Eagle in the Snow: The Classic Bestseller Page 25
