Transsilvanian

by Hector Miller

  I realised that Tarbus was still disgruntled as a result of my actions years earlier. What I did not realise then was that he resented me. Nor did I know how strong the feelings were.

  Before long, we all gathered in the hall. Apart from Ostrogotha, each king was accompanied by a noble of importance.

  Servants appeared and laid down wooden platters heavy with beef, mutton and deer.

  Slaves handed us horns brimming with golden ale. They did not leave the hall, but stood at the ready, in case any needed a refill. Bradakos gave the slaves an enquiring glance.

  “We may speak freely today, Lord Bradakos”, Ostrogotha said, and gestured for a slave to come forward. He approached, ready to refill the king’s horn, but the big Goth waved it away.

  “Open your mouth, slave.” The man complied and I could see that his tongue had been crudely removed.

  The Greuthungi grinned. “He will not pass on what he hears today.” He gestured towards the others. “Rather safe than sorry, eh?”

  Before he could continue, a warrior, tall and broad, was ushered into the hall. Ostrogotha nodded to his bodyguards, accepting the presence of the new arrival.

  “I have come as you have requested, lord”, the man said, inclining his head.

  From the dust and mud on his clothes, it was obvious that he had travelled far. He wore thick scale armour extending to his knees. At his side hung a longsword, the pommel wrapped with leather. Black boiled leather vambraces protected his forearms and grey iron greaves his lower legs. I noticed the battle lines criss-crossing the armour and the scars on his exposed skin. Some still red and angry, others old and white.

  He removed his full-face helmet, hung with thick chain to protect his bull-like neck.

  His hair was black and fell loose about his shoulders, still wet from the exertion of the ride. Unlike his hair, his eyes were light grey, almost white.

  Surprisingly he was clean-shaven, revealing a red welted scar that ran from above his right eye all the way down to the corner of his mouth. The rest of his face was ordinary, maybe even handsome, but strangely expressionless. Not unlike that of a corpse staring with eyes devoid of life.

  “Welcome, lord Cannabaudes.” Ostrogotha gestured for the warrior to take a seat next to him.

  “Cannabaudes is Erilaz, war leader”, Ostrogotha explained. “He is the one who leads the campaign against the terrible Alani horde in the eastern lands of the Greuthungi. We call him by his warrior name, ‘The Crow’.”

  Again I was tempted to assume that the origin of his name had to do with his raven black hair, but by now I knew better.

  Cannabaudes inclined his head to each of the kings as they were introduced. When it was my turn, Ostrogotha said: “This is Eochar, Prince of the Roxolani.”

  The Crow clasped my arm with a grip intended to intimidate. He looked at me with his emotionless corpse eyes. “I have heard your name, Roxolani”, he growled.

  As he took my arm, I experienced a strange sensation that I was unable to place. Looking back, the only explanation I can find is that I somehow sensed the evil lurking within him.

  Wrong-footed, I was only able to nod. He held my gaze for a while longer then retired to sit at the right hand side of the king.

  Ostrogotha drank from his horn. “For many years we have spilled our blood for Rome, protecting the borders against its enemies. We have kept our warriors on a tight leash, with very few incursions into their lands. The boy emperor was true to his word, but this man, this usurper from the east, the one they call ‘the Arab’, is an oathbreaker.” He spat on the floor. “He is a nithing.”

  He looked me in the eye. “You have met this man, Prince Eochar?”

  “I have, he is the one who murdered my father. His word is worthless, he has no honour.”

  Ostrogotha knew how to rouse the emotions of men. He pointed his hand at me. “Even his own warlord, the commander of the iron legions, has been betrayed by him.”

  He stood and drew his magnificent longsword. “This is the only thing that the Arab will understand. He needs to feel the wrath of the warriors of the Sea of Grass.”

  “I would hear your thoughts”, he said, rammed his sword into the wooden floor next to him, and sat down. A tongueless slave immediately rushed over and filled his empty horn to the brim.

  Bradakos spoke then. “The Empire is a good ally and a bad enemy. We have lived in peace with them ever since I can remember, but we cannot allow them to break the agreement and remain unpunished. There has to be consequences.”

  He drank and continued: “Rome is withdrawing legions from Dacia. The border fortifications are weak. The oathbreaker can no longer rely on the protection of the Roxolani. I say we breach the limes on the Dacian border. From there we can either raid the land beyond the forest, or we could cross the Danube and strike deep into Moesia. It will be good if the Carpiani would join us. We will travel on horseback, to strike swiftly, then retreat. It would be foolish to get involved in a pitched battle with the legions on ground that favour them.”

  Tarbus nodded. “I have heard that the limes that run from north to south on the eastern border of Dacia, close to the Alutus River, is weakly garrisoned. Small groups of my young warriors breach it regularly. Once we have crossed into Dacia, we will be unopposed. Maybe we could even raid the Roman gold mines. I have heard that they store mountains of gold close to the mines.”

  Ostrogotha grinned. “While the Roxolani and the Carpiani ravage Dacia or Moesia, the Thervingi and the Greuthungi will join, cross the Danube, and raid deep into Thracia.”

  Kniva nodded. “It is a simple plan. I like it.”

  Ostrogotha looked at Cannabaudes. “What say you, Crow?”

  “I say that the plan is good, but we should engage the Romans legions. They have grown weak. We should give battle and destroy them. Running from the legions is the act of a coward.”

  He glanced at Bradakos, but did not dare to call the Roxolani king a coward.

  I could see the anger rise within my friend, Bradakos, as he clenched and unclenched his jaw muscles.

  Ostrogotha intervened just in time.

  “Prince Eochar?”

  “The plan is good. We must be sure to co-ordinate our attacks, but we must not engage them. Only a fool will engage the Roman legions on ground that suits infantry.” I stared directly at Cannabaudes, daring him to gainsay me. I found that as I grew older, my capacity for suffering fools diminished greatly.

  The Crow stood, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Watch your tongue, Roman.”

  I glanced across at Kniva, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to respond to the challenge. I remained seated.

  Cannabaudes smirked, saying softly as if to himself, yet loud enough for some to hear: “I thought not.”

  He had crossed the line and I could feel the rage of Arash building within as my hand went to my sword. Then Ostrogotha stood.

  “Let us toast our good fortune. It is not often that the Goths and the Horse People join a common cause. We will teach Rome a lesson and become rich with loot.”

  All stood and drank deeply from their horns. I could feel the rage, still present, but abating.

  Kniva walked towards me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He whispered then: “Thank you, brother. I do not know whether I could have done what you just did.”

  “Let us feast now, to celebrate our plans. We will talk about the details when we become sober”, Ostrogotha said, smiling warmly. His guards summoned the rest of our delegation inside and soon we were joined by the nobles of the Greuthungi.

  My eyes searched for The Crow, but I could not find him among the milling warriors in the hall. Ostrogotha walked up to me. Gone was the friendly diplomatic façade. He now wore a mask of iron. “Cannabaudes is getting ideas above his station”, he growled. “I have sent him away to do penance. He will return to the frontier in the east.”

  Chapter 11 – Oath

  With Cannabaudes’s ma
cabre presence removed, the feast turned into an enjoyable affair.

  There was something that intrigued me so I decided to exact an explanation from my brother-in-law.

  “Kniva, I am sure that you have told me that your formal name is also Cannabaudes. Is the Crow another member of your extended family? Like your cousin Werinbert?”

  A couple of years earlier I had assisted Kniva in dealing with a family tiff. His cousin Werinbert had tried to usurp the throne and ended up a corpse.

  Kniva scowled. “Cannabaudes is a special name among my people. It is only given to the eldest son of those descended from the old gods, the Aesir. Those who carry the sacred name are the ones eligible to wear the crown.”

  He drank and continued: “The Crow yields significant power among the Greuthungi. He is cunning and brutal. The warriors follow him because he wins wars and he gives much gold. Be careful, Eochar, he will not forget.”

  I did not say it, but neither would I.

  The Greuthungi king was an excellent host. The ale flowed freely into the night while the platters of freshly grilled meat were replaced even before they were empty.

  On the insistence of Ostrogotha, Kniva relayed the tale of my fight with Hygelac the White, war leader of the Heruli. Afterwards, my brother-in-law produced the famous sword of Teiwaz, “Oathbringer”. All the Greuthungi insisted on touching the ancient weapon, inscribed with the magic runes of the old gods. To a man, they swore that the power of the Aesir was palpable in the blade.

  I realised then the cunning of Ostrogotha. When I fought as Kniva’s champion and defeated the giant Heruli, Kniva’s position among the Greuthungi was elevated. In turn, this increased Ostrogotha’s status in the eyes of his nobles through his association with Kniva by marriage.

  Yet, I noticed something no one else did. There was a glint in Kniva’s eye as he held the hilt of “Oathbringer”, while the nobles touched the blade. I could not help but smile inwardly. The brother of my wife harboured greater ambitions.

  Later on during the evening, slaves stacked heaps of soft furs against the log walls of the hall, allowing the guests to take what they required and settle in for the night. Slowly the sounds of conversation and raucous laughter were replaced by loud snoring, interspersed with an occasional grunt.

  I slept fitfully as I was never one who enjoyed the Gothic way of communality.

  As is always the case with consuming excess quantities of ale, the warriors started stirring a full watch before sunrise to answer nature’s call.

  As I woke, I sensed an approaching shape in the dark. Before I had gathered my wits, I felt a stabbing pain in my left foot.

  “Bloody fat Goth”, Hostilius mouthed in Latin, stumbling in the dark towards the doorway.

  Ever since the Primus Pilus fought shoulder to shoulder with Bradakos against the Vandali, they shared the bond of the warrior.

  Hostilius must have passed out close to the Roxolani, as he and Bradakos earlier picked up where they left off, reliving the fight while plying one another with ale.

  In the field adjacent to the hall, servants were grilling smoked joints of pork over open fires.

  The bulk of the guests moved outside, leaving only the council of kings and their war leaders. I was pleased to notice that Guntharic, rather than Cannabaudes, sat on the right of Ostrogotha.

  “The Thervingi and Greuthungi will cross the river at the next full moon, twenty eight days from today. One moon later, the Carpiani and Roxolani will breach the limes and enter Dacia. We will win loot, which is our rightful payment in terms of the agreement with the Arab. Once our purses bulge with gold, we will retreat.”

  His gaze met mine. “The messenger of Arash is wise. We will not engage with the iron legions where they are strong. We will mock them and return home rich.”

  He swallowed down a piece of pork with ale. “But, the day will come when Rome will taste our iron. That day is not far away.”

  The barbarian kings cheered his words. All were in agreement.

  He held up his hand. “And… we will not make war on each other while we are dealing with the Empire.”

  And then the kings, all great men of honour, sealed their agreement with the sacred oath of the Sea of Grass.

  Once they had concluded the ritual of the blood oath, we all went about our business and prepared to take the road home.

  On that morning, something unbeknown to us took place in the hall of Ostrogotha the Patient. A shift occurred. Not earth-shattering, not even worth retelling at the time. But happen, it did. And it is undeniable.

  In the lands north of the Danube, all still went about their business. The warriors trained at their craft, the boys tended the herds and the children played amongst the shelters.

  A thousand miles to the west, in the greatest city on earth, Phillip the Arab was cementing his position as emperor. He had taken the decision earlier to break his foedus agreement with the wild tribes. Probably he had thought it a move of no consequence.

  But yet, that unremarkable decision led us to the hall of Ostrogotha.

  In time, the consequences would change the face of the world.

  Chapter 12 – Invasion (May 245 AD)

  (A crude map of Roman Dacia is available on my website www.hectormillerbooks.com)

  Kniva and his father-in-law led the Gothic coalition that crossed the Danube far to the east, ravaging Moesia Inferior and raiding even as far south as Thracia.

  The Scythian army was camped fifteen miles to the east of the Dacian limes, which lay some miles east of the Alutus, and north of the Danube.

  It would be more accurate to say that there were two armies. The Roxolani, led by Bradakos, and the Carpiani, commanded by Tarbus.

  The two tribes rarely clashed, but it soon became apparent that Bradakos and Tarbus’s views on things martial were not just different. They were irreconcilable in most cases.

  Were it not for the presence of Thiaper, my friend and second in command of the Carpiani, the situation would have been unbearable.

  The weather resembled that of summer, rather than late spring. We sat on comfortable furs outside Bradakos’s spacious tent. Five paces away two sheep were spitting over a roaring fire, tended by a young oathsworn. The fat and juices hissed as it dripped onto the smoking embers.

  No other tents were pitched closer than forty paces, allowing us the privacy to converse freely. The king’s guards assured that none strayed close, by accident or on purpose.

  Hostilius was using his ancient Gothic dagger to slowly carve up a piece of dried, salted deer meat.

  My Persian scout cum Saka warrior, Pezhman, joined us for the evening. He regarded it as a great honour to be dining in the company of a king and sat wide-eyed, listening to the conversation.

  I could see he was itching to ask a question, but unsure whether he was allowed to.

  “Pezhman, what troubles you?” I asked. “Tonight we are not kings, princes or tribunes. We are all friends enjoying each other’s company.”

  “Lord, I do not understand why Rome is here, on this side of the Great River?”

  “Pezhman, I will try to explain.”

  “Imagine the Danube as a straight line, running from Sirmium in the west, to the Dark Sea in the east. A natural boundary gifted to Rome by the gods. That is, until Emperor Traianus conquered the Dacian tribes a hundred and fifty years ago. Since then, Dacia sits like an out-of-place wart on the northern side of the Danube.

  To the west of Dacia live the Yazyges, to the east the Roxolani, Carpiani and Thervingi. North of Dacia, the Costoboci and Vandali are fighting for supremacy.”

  “Yes lord, but why did the Great Emperor Lord take Dacia?” he asked.

  I took a deep swallow to wet my throat. “Rome conquered Dacia for its minerals. Gold, copper and salt are mined in huge quantities to supply the insatiable appetite of the Empire. Most of the mines are situated on a plateau in the centre of Dacia, surrounded by the Carpathian Mountains. This hilly area is called Transsilvania, only acc
essible via a limited number of mountain passes. It is a place of much wealth.”

  Pezhman was gaining momentum.

  “Why is it called Transsilvania, lord?”

  “It means ‘the land beyond the forest’.”

  Bradakos appreciated Pezhman’s curiosity. “We are camped on the edge of the plain. To the north, beyond these fortifications, are dense forests. To the south and west lies the Great River and eventually the Iron Gates.”

  “What are the ‘Iron Gates’ great Horse King?”

  “Pezhman, the Iron Gates is the narrow pass that connects the lands of the Roxolani with the lands of the Yazyges. It runs through the lands of the Romans, but we were given the right to traverse these lands by Emperor Marcus Aurelius, a great king of the Romans from long ago.”

  I could see the anger rise in Bradakos as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Now, this usurper, Philip the Arab, has closed the route to our people. The Yazyges can no longer trade with the east, nor with the Roxolani. But not for long, young Pezhman. We will open this corridor or die trying.”

  Pezhman was intimidated by Bradakos’s anger and nodded. He kept any further curiosity in check.

  Bradakos brought his wooden cup to his lips and slowly sipped the rich red wine. “Tarbus is planning to storm the border fortifications on the morrow. He will simply try to overwhelm the Roman garrison with numbers. He has asked that the Roxolani join him.”

  He drank another swallow. “Well, maybe ‘ask’ is the wrong word to use. He assumes that the Roxolani will aid him.”

  Hostilius continued to carve up the meat, taking a back seat to the discussions. His face displaying the hint of a snarl. It was not difficult to picture him with a gladius, carving up the enemy, which was most probably what he was thinking.

  Cai was the one who broke the ensuing silence.

  “Bad general overwhelms enemy with numbers. Good general breaks will of enemy with blade sheathed.”

  I must admit, it did sound appealing. None of us were overly keen to fight our former comrades. Neither did we relish the thought of storming the frontier fortifications.