by Alex Gough
‘Tell him I just know.’
Radulf looked thoughtful for a moment, then spoke and Odo translated.
‘The problems of a Roman slaver are no concern of mine. And as you were enslaving a German, you will now find out what it is like to be enslaved yourself.’
Two warriors approached him and forced his hands behind his back, where they tied his wrists tightly. Silus didn’t resist. At least they hadn’t killed him outright.
Radulf spoke to Odo again, and Odo replied. Then he walked over to Silus and spat in his face. Silus stared at the young scout in shock as the spittle ran down his cheek.
Odo pointed a shaking finger at him, and spoke in a voice so loud as to be almost shouting.
‘Listen, Roman. I’m putting on a good show for these Chatti barbarians so go along with it.’
Silus’ mouth opened, then he shut it again, trying to regain his composure, to play the role Odo had given him.
‘They are going to let me go,’ he said, moving even closer, voice tremulous with feigned anger. ‘I’m sorry this happened. I’ll do what I can. Now, this is going to hurt.’
‘What…’ began Silus, his words abruptly cut off as Odo kneed him hard in the groin. Silus doubled over and fell to the floor in a tightly curled ball, his bound hands not even able to clutch the injured region. The pain from an impact in the balls was unlike any other, radiating through his body in nauseating waves, and making him retch. He could hear the harsh sounds of barbarian laughter as he groaned helplessly.
Odo, you bastard, he thought. You’ll pay for that. He looked up and saw the smiling barbarian leader clapping him on the back. Odo smiled back, waved to the other Germans, made an obscene gesture towards Silus and then walked away, back down the path they had come from.
Silus looked at Radulf, unable to communicate a word with him, and felt suddenly very alone.
* * *
Erhard showed some family resemblance to his uncle. Something about the widely spaced eyes, the shape of the nose. There could be no doubt they were related. He looked Atius steadily up and down, frowning at the bruises.
Atius stared back, thinking before coming to a decision.
‘Give me back my legions,’ he said.
Erhard stiffened, looked behind him to make sure the door was closed. Then he returned his gaze to Atius, more thoughtful this time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘For your suffering.’
Atius did not reply. He felt a sudden surge of hatred for this man that surprised him. He tried to pin down the cause, and realised it was twofold. Firstly, he would never have been in this situation if he hadn’t had to track into the depths of this barbarian wilderness in search of this man. And secondly, he disliked the fact that he was betraying his uncle, which in turn made Atius realise how much he had come to respect the chief. Neither reason was rational, he knew, but he still glowered at the young Chatti noble.
Erhard cocked his head on one side, obviously unsure of how to deal with this fearfully battered prisoner.
‘What have you told them?’ he asked eventually.
‘Nothing. What do you think of me?’
In fact, Atius knew that if the young priestess had spent serious time with him, he would have told her anything she wanted to know.
Erhard looked into his eyes, gauging the truth of his words. He seemed satisfied and nodded.
‘It took you a long time to come and see me,’ said Atius sullenly.
‘I’m sorry for that, too. But my uncle sent me away to the north, to meet the Chaucii and discuss our alliances. I have only just returned.’
Atius frowned. ‘Were you here when we arrived? Would you have been at the meeting point to see Eustachys?’
Erhard looked sheepish. ‘Truthfully, no. My uncle sent me away before that, and would not heed my protests.’
Atius’ anger rose anew. ‘All this way. All this suffering and death. And it would have been for nothing, because you weren’t even here, by the Christos?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Erhard. ‘There are guards outside the door, and who knows walking past the window.’
Atius simmered down, looking up at Erhard through narrowed, disapproving eyes.
‘I don’t suppose you can get me out of here?’ asked Atius, more in hope than expectation.
Erhard shook his head. ‘Not a chance. The guards would not obey me over my uncle.’
Atius picked up the resentment in his voice, a little indication of the motivation behind his betrayal.
‘Have you seen Eustachys?’
‘I asked. My uncle said that there was no point, he is in no condition to see visitors.’
‘I hear him,’ said Atius. ‘Sometimes for hours at a time. I can’t block the sound out.’
‘And yet he has not given me away,’ said Erhard.
Atius nodded. ‘There is clearly more to him than meets the eye.’
‘Maybe rather less since Romilda started spending time with him.’
‘The priestess?’
‘She holds that position in the tribe. As well as taking on other roles for my uncle.’
‘She scares me,’ admitted Atius.
‘She scares me too,’ said Erhard. ‘She has powers. Once, a man accidentally splashed dirt on her robe, and she cursed him. He was dead the next day. No marks on his body. Just found in his bed.’ He made a sign with his fingers which Atius presumed was to ward off evil.
Atius wasn’t sure if he believed in her supernatural powers, although he wasn’t prepared to rule out their truth. But he knew for sure he was scared of her abilities with that little knife.
‘Eustachys was the man with the message, wasn’t he?’ asked Erhard. ‘And yet you knew the code phrase that Festus gave me all that time ago when I was in Colonia.’
‘Eustachys passed it on to me. He thought we might not both survive to meet you, and had come to trust me.’
‘So, what is it?’
Atius hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
‘What!’
‘I don’t know what you will do with the information.’
Erhard stared at him open-mouthed for a moment.
‘You will give me the message, or…’
‘Or what? Look at me. How could you possibly make my situation worse?’
Erhard took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, balling and unballing his fists.
‘So, what will it take to convince you?’
‘Tell me why you are willing to betray your uncle and your tribe.’
Erhard turned away, and for a moment Atius thought he would storm out. He could see his shoulders moving up and down as the young noble took deep breaths to control himself. Then he turned back to Atius.
‘Wigbrand killed my father.’
Atius raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected that. He had instinctively taken the side of the likeable chief against his backstabbing nephew, regardless of Rome’s interests, and it took him a moment to adjust to the new information.
‘An accident? Single combat?’
‘In his sleep.’
Wigbrand. All your talk about honour.
‘He murdered him?’
‘To take his position, yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My older sister witnessed it.’
‘And you did nothing?’
‘I was four years old.’
‘Oh.’
They were both quiet for a moment.
‘Well? Is it enough?’
Atius sighed. ‘It’s enough.’
‘So, speak.’
Atius rubbed his sore wrists gingerly.
‘Eustachys was sent here to encourage you to rebel against your uncle. You spent time in Colonia Agrippinensis, right? You are more pro-Roman than most Chatti?’
‘I think Arminius was more pro-Roman than most Chatti,’ observed Erhard. ‘But yes, I saw the merits of closer ties to Rom
e. Both culturally and militarily. My uncle is typical of how you Romans view us, as barbarians. No appreciation of verse or rhetoric or art.’
‘He certainly shows an interest in the Roman military.’
‘Of course. War is in his blood and bones. He is no fool, and is willing to learn whatever he can to increase his success in battle, whether it is against the Romans or other German tribes. But he has not seen the other benefits Rome can bring, unlike myself. Nor has he seen in person how foolish it is to defy the might of Rome. I think he fancies himself as a new Arminius. If he can unite the tribes, and bring the Alamanni into an alliance, then I believe he will launch a full invasion. And he will be defeated, to the great cost of all of Germania.’
‘Can he bring the Alamanni to his way of thinking? I hear they are close to Rome.’
‘I don’t know. He can be very persuasive.’
Atius thought about their regular meetings, the feelings of attachment and even affection he was developing for Wigbrand. Was the canny chief just manipulating him? Was Atius actually giving away more than he should? Educating the warleader in the military ways of Rome, to his advantage?
‘That’s why Festus wants a pro-Roman Chatti leader in place. You.’ Or at least a civil war to distract them, Atius thought.
Erhard looked conflicted. Atius could see the temptation there, the desire to both avenge his father and snatch the power. But he could also see the doubts.
‘There are many among the tribe who respected my father and owed him their spear. But Wigbrand is powerful, and his position is secure. And if he can bring the Alamanni to him, with all the men they can raise, he would be unassailable.’
‘You’re right,’ said Atius. ‘Which is why Festus wanted Eustachys to tell you what Caracalla has planned. And when I tell you, you will realise why I wanted to be sure I could trust you.’
Erhard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’
So Atius told Erhard what Eustachys had confided to him. And as he spoke, he saw the already pale German turn as white as snow.
Chapter Nine
The journey took about half a day, during which time Silus was not fed, nor offered water. His hands remained tied behind his back and he had been hobbled, the rope between his ankles not quite long enough to take a full stride. While at first this was irritating and a little humiliating, the awkward gait he had to adopt became quickly fatiguing as he shuffled along, trying to keep pace with his captors. Any time he stumbled or fell back, he received verbal abuse coupled with kicks and blows to encourage him forward.
Fortunately they weren’t in a hurry, and stopped for frequent breaks to eat, drink or piss, and though Silus would dearly have loved some water, at least he got to sit for a few moments and rest his aching legs before they prodded him back into motion.
It was a relief when they reached their destination, a settlement with scattered wooden houses surrounding a large central stone building, even though he didn’t know what his fate would be. His ankles were raw where the ropes had chafed and he reached down to rub them, but was pushed forward towards the central building.
This was nothing like the romanised home of Odo’s family. There seemed to Silus to be little civilised influence here, and when he was dragged inside, his first impressions were confirmed. There was no atrium; the large wooden door led straight into a vast hall. A central fire sent most of the smoke up through a hole in the roof, but enough remained inside to catch in the throat, especially after the clean air of the German countryside.
Benches ran along the walls and a throne-like chair decorated with carvings of skulls and mythical beasts sat at one end. The far wall had several wooden doors leading to small rooms. At the near end of the hall, separated by wooden bars, was a stables with three shaggy horses.
The man on the throne had an imposing height, which coupled with the slight elevation of the chair meant that even seated he looked down on Silus. Silus’ captors shoved him hard so he stumbled to his hands and knees in front of the chief. They spoke in their Germanic dialect to their leader, then stepped back.
The chief regarded Silus, stroking his blonde-grey beard, then spoke.
‘My men tell me you are a slaver.’
Silus looked back uncertainly. He wondered whether to spin a new lie, but he didn’t know what had happened to Odo. Maybe the young Alamanni was still in the company of some of these Chatti, or would return in the future. If he contradicted him, Odo might be put in danger.
So he nodded assent.
‘It is a dishonourable occupation.’
Silus shrugged. One of the men behind him smacked him around the side of the head, hard enough to temporarily deafen him, and spat some Germanic words at him.
‘My man suggests you show some respect.’
‘I beg your forgiveness,’ said Silus, trying to sound sincere. ‘I am just a humble trader, trying to make my living.’
‘Everyone needs slaves. But to make a profession of buying and selling them?’ The chief shook his head. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘I am Silus,’ said Silus.
‘I am Wigbrand, chief of this branch of the people you call the Chatti.’
‘What do you call yourselves?’ asked Silus.
‘Chatti will suffice for you, Roman. Now why did you come to these lands? Has Rome run out of slaves to buy and sell?’
‘As well as trading slaves I hunt them,’ said Silus. ‘I have been tracking an escaped slave by the name of Atius. I believe he joined the legions, and was sent to these parts.’
‘You have gone to a lot of trouble for one escaped slave. Is he worth it?’
Silus thought fast. ‘He was the favourite of his mistress. She liked his… attentions, if you understand me. She was most distraught when he ran away, and will pay anything to get him back. If you know where he is, and let me return him to the Empire, I can arrange for you to be rewarded most generously.’
Wigbrand let out an unexpected laugh that was so deep and loud it made Silus flinch.
‘What do you take me for? You would have me pass an honourable man to you, a slaver, for mere gold?’
An honourable man? Has he met him? Is he alive? Silus felt a sudden surge of hope.
‘You know of him?’ said Silus. ‘You know where he is?’
A flash of annoyance passed across Wigbrand’s face as he realised he had given away more than he intended.
‘It doesn’t matter. You will not get your payment from your employer, if your story is even true. You are now a slave of the Chatti, and that is how you will be until you die.’
‘My mistress will pay handsomely for my release as well,’ said Silus, mostly to keep up the pretence. He knew there was no way he was talking his way out of this.
‘You’re boring me now, slaver. When I feel like it, I will decide what to do with you. For now, you can stay in the same room as another Roman who fell into my hands. He has taken some, what would you call it, punishment, but I’m sure you will have plenty to talk about.’
The hope rose inside him once more. Against all the odds, he was finally going to see Atius.
* * *
The beating that morning had been particularly savage, for no reason Atius could ascertain. It went like that sometimes, unpredictable as the weather. One day he might be subjected to little more than a light slapping around, the next it could be a furious assault of kicks and punches that left him in agony in every part of his body.
Sometimes it helped to picture the revenge he would take on Friduric if he ever got free. The tortures he would heap on him, while he kept him barely alive. The various ways he could kill him. The Romans had a gruesome inventiveness for inflicting horrific punishments on those they considered wrongdoers. One day Atius would picture Friduric undergoing the traditional punishment for patricide, the ritual of the sack. First he would be whipped, then a wolf hide bag placed on his head and wooden clogs placed on his feet. Then he would be sewn into a leather sack with a snake, a rooster and a dog and thrown into a
river, to drown along with the frantic panicking animals. Another day he would imagine him crucified, hung out to slowly suffocate as his breathing muscles fatigued, and carrion birds came to peck away at his living body. Or he might fantasise about being let loose on him in a gladiatorial duel, where he could really let out his anger, defeat and humiliate his torturer.
But today, he couldn’t summon up the energy for any of that. He just wallowed in his misery, swollen eyes closed, slumped on the cold floor of his cell. He didn’t look up when the door opened, when someone entered and sat on the floor in front of him. His visitor waited patiently, but Atius refused to acknowledge his presence.
There was a heavy sigh.
‘You’re not yourself today, Atius.’
Atius split his eyelids a fraction to look at Wigbrand, then closed them again.
‘You aren’t hungry? I brought you meat. This ox has been on the spit all night. We have a feast tonight, in honour of the god Baldr. You have heard of Baldr?’
Atius didn’t reply.
‘He is the son of Wodan and Frigg. He and Frigg both dreamt of his death, so Frigg made every object on earth take a vow to never hurt him. This they all did, except the harmless mistletoe. The gods all had fun throwing objects at Baldr that did him no harm. But Loki, his evil brother, made a mistletoe spear and gave it to their blind brother, who then used it on Baldr, killing him by mistake. Baldr went to the underworld, where he awaits Ragnarok, the end of days, when he will return to rule over the new world.’
A spike of pain shot through Atius’ jaw, a sudden protest from a broken molar. He swallowed down the pain, trying not to show any outward reaction.
‘It is rather like the story you told me of your Christos, the son of your chief god, yes?’
‘Your barbarian gods are nothing like the one true god,’ said Atius, his words slurred by his thick, bruised lips.
‘Maybe, maybe not. Maybe they are all the same god.’
Atius resumed his sullen silence. He had discussed religion and philosophy with Origen of Alexandria. Even if he was in the best of moods, he would have no desire to talk about it with Wigbrand of the Chatti.
