“Is that what you think?” I said. “Why did the Aleman king say—and he did not mean to let it slip—that we could not hold out against even one of them? Because the Vandals aren’t the only tribe who wish to make the crossing.”
Quintus looked at me sharply. “Are you sure?”
“I am certain of it. Radagaisus’ men included Ostrogoths and Quadi. They were the advance guard. If their Italian raid had been successful the rest would have followed. But they failed, their retreat home was cut off and they were forced to take refuge in the Aleman country. The Aleman are too strong to be pushed out but not rich enough to feed their unwilling guests for ever.”
“If the Aleman are so strong why don’t they do the pushing?”
“Probably because the Quadi, for one, provide a fine buffer state between them and—” I hesitated. I said slowly, “You heard what Gunderic said. They have the sea to the north as a barrier, and we are the barrier to the west and the south. The barrier in the east is not the desert—it is the Huns.”
Lucillius shivered and crossed himself.
Quintus said, “Will they fight each other? That is what you want them to do.”
“Yes.”
“And if they try to cross now?”
“They won’t. They are afraid of my cavalry and they think I have reinforcements coming.”
“And just how long will they continue to think that when the west bank is riddled with their spies?”
I said hopefully, “There are other ways of winning battles than by fighting them.”
That afternoon I called a council of my cohort commanders. They had all come in from their forts to witness the meeting on the island but, upon my orders and much to their disappointment, had remained in camp. Briefly I told them what had happened. Even more briefly I told them what we must do. I shouted an order and one of the centurions in gilded armour came in and saluted. “They thought this man a general,” I said. “And there were nine others dressed alike.” There was a roar of laughter. “Now,” I said. “They must go on believing that we have the men to serve these generals. It will not be easy but it can be done.”
A week later the six ships of the Rhenus fleet made their appearance on the river and I spent a day on board Gallus’ flag-ship, Athena, testing their efficiency. The rowing was competent but not first class. I did not worry about that. It would improve, inevitably, with practice. The archery of the marines was accurate but too slow and the ballistae crew were below standard. The fire tubes were handled efficiently enough, but as weapons they were useless except against other boats at extremely close range. Gallus said he would try to do something to improve this. It was agreed that one ship each should be stationed at Confluentes, Borbetomagus and Moguntiacum, and the remainder should operate from Bingium which Gallus would make his headquarters.
Before he moved downstream I said, “I shall hold you responsible for sinking any boat that tries to cross from the east bank.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” he said cheerfully.
“It is you who will do the worrying,” I said shortly.
They were famous night fighters and they came with blackened faces and arms on a night when there was no moon because of the heavy skies. Exactly how many there were, I do not know, but I judged a thousand when all the evidence had been collected afterwards. They came in two groups from up river, one trying to land a little above Moguntiacum, the other a little below it, and there were twenty men to each boat. Fortunately for us they were seen by the night patrols I had left on the islands and by a boat of my own that was moored in a concealed position high up the river. This boat let them pass and then followed them down.
Fired on from the warship, fired on from the island and fired on from the camp they suffered terribly. Many had never met liquid fire before—the fire that cannot be put out—and their screams tortured the sky. Those who tried to land were killed in the shallows, cut down while still wet by Quintus’ cavalry. Afterwards, the troops on the islands reported that only six boats of wounded and dying men made the journey back to the east shore. The bodies were still floating past Confluentes ten days later.
Just after dawn, while the troops from the camp were clearing up, pushing the dead back into the water, finishing off the wounded with a clean stroke and piling up the weapons for my inspection, I crossed to the east bank with half a cohort. The abandoned bridge-head camp was in a better state than I had imagined. True, the huts had been pulled down and the arched gate had no doors; the wells were choked with rubbish and the roofing had come off the corner towers. But the walls still stood intact and, with a little effort, the place could be made inhabitable again. Beyond it were the remains of the old villas, their walls crumbling gently in the autumn sunlight. Nothing stirred on the plain except the long grass, rustling in the wind. The countryside was deserted and though we pushed inland for four miles we saw no-one and were not attacked. Before we turned back I rode north to the hills where Marcomir held watch for me. He was absent when I reached his stockade and an apologetic chief explained that he had gone on a visit to Guntiarus, king of the Burgundians, and was not expected to return before the next moon. I wondered if the absence was a diplomatic one, but there was little point in pursuing the matter at that moment.
On my return the duty centurion came up, a bundle of swords and spears in his arms.
“Would you look at these, sir,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We picked these up on the bank. I thought that you should see them.”
The swords were long and with hilts similar to those issued to our cavalry. I took one up, held it and then swung it once or twice. I rubbed the muddy blade and the steel shone like silver beneath. I felt the edge and then looked at it carefully. It was ice sharp and smooth as a new blade that has never been used. I swung it again while the centurion watched me intently.
“Yes,” I said. “I see what you mean.”
“They might have been captured in a scrimmage,” he said in a flat voice.
“Yes, that is true. Are they all like this?”
He nodded.
I held the sword up by the hilt and looked at the marks on the blade. The word Remi was stamped on it quite clearly.
“A Roman sword, and a new one at that. Spears too?”
The centurion said quickly, “I have told no-one except yourself, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I did not think that you would want me to.”
“Quite right. Give them to Marcus Severus and tell him to speak to me about them.”
“How did they get them, sir? I don’t understand.”
“I do,” I said. “No wonder the Alemanni opened up the old silver mine at Aquae Mattiacae.” I walked on up to my quarters and there found Quintus and Aquila awaiting me. “It was a try,” I said. “They raided us to test our words and see how strong we were. But it was a raid in strength also, in case we proved weak and they were successful enough to establish a bridge-head. There were signs,” I added grimly, “that ten thousand men at least, I should say, must have been waiting there on the other side in the dark. Bushes were broken, undergrowth trampled down and footprints by the score; all covering an area the size of a double camp.”
Aquila said doubtfully, “Yet we never heard them, sir.”
“Then they must move like cats,” said Quintus sharply. He was shaken by my news and looked it.
“Never mind,” I said. “Who were the dead?”
“Mainly Alemanni and Vandals,” said Aquila.
“Who else?”
“A few Marcomanni and some Alans.”
“Are you certain?”
“A Frank who knows these people was positive.”
I nodded. “Well, it was good practice for our men. But next time it may not be so easy. I expect the Aleman king is now busy killing all his spies. He may believe me now. We shall not be troubled again before the spring.”
Nor were we. It was a warm autumn and when the leaves fell
my men began to fish the river again and no one watched them from the other bank. In November it rained a great deal and it became very cold, though the only ice that we saw were small floes that had come down from the Upper Rhenus, high above Borbetomagus, and even these were breaking up as they passed us by. In December the christians began to look forward to their great festival and much time was spent in making preparations for it. They were much cheered to learn—those in the camp garrison who did not know—that it was here at Moguntiacum that the emperor Constantine, on his way to destroy Maxentius at the Milvian bridge, had the famous vision that converted him to their faith. They laughed a lot and there was considerable drunkenness and the cohort commanders had a busy time soothing the feelings of outraged fathers of young women, while the charge sheets were full with details of men who had overstayed their leave.
One morning a legionary who had stayed out all night staggered into the camp with a knife wound in his chest. At the subsequent enquiry I learned that he had gone to one of the villages—he was drunk at the time—in search of a woman and had been attacked by a night watchman, who caught him climbing the palisade. I punished him with stoppages of pay and put him on fatigue duties for three months. Then I rode out to the village concerned. They were collecting brushwood in a clearing when I arrived, while further down the hill a handful of boys and old men were doing the winter sowing. A hunting party had just returned, singing and laughing, a freshly killed buck swaying from a pole. While I watched, they quartered the animal, cutting the meat into strips which would then be smoked over the hut fires, so many strips per man as the chief directed. On one side of the clearing was a huge mound covered with damp leaves, from under which smoke billowed fretfully.
Their chief wiped the sweat from his face and smiled broadly. “Charcoal,” he said, speaking in camp Latin. “We sell it to your soldiers. You have brought us much trade. That is good.”
“And trouble,” I said.
“Oh, that. He was drunk. Is the man dead?” For the first time he looked at me with an expression of alarm.
“No, a pity he isn’t. It would have been a good example to the rest.” I leaned forward over my horse’s neck. “I am sorry. I do not like my men to molest your women. He is well punished. It will not happen again, I promise you.”
He grinned and stroked his beard. “You cannot stop them trying; but I can stop them succeeding. Will you come to my hut and drink?”
I had tasted the native beer already. I did not like it. “Thank you, no. Another time.” I looked round at the activity. “You are happy here?”
“Of course. That is why we came.”
“You are of the Alemanni?”
“Yes. We found the east bank too crowded.”
“But surely it is only crowded because everyone insists on living in the same area?” I pointed to the east. “Beyond that river there are vast lands, more than enough for all your people.”
He shrugged. “But so much is forest.”
“Well, if you cut the forest back then there is more ground on which to sow crops.”
He said gravely, “But the forests belong to the gods. One cannot destroy their home lest they destroy ours in turn.”
“It is hard work being a farmer, I agree.”
He nodded eagerly. “And that is another reason. We are a restless people. It has always been so. Besides, we enjoy fighting; and it is easier to gain what you want by spilling blood instead of sweat.”
“And what will happen if more people cross the river?”
His face wrinkled. “Then we should have to fight to hold what we possess. But that is why you are here. They will not come now.”
“I hope you are right. Have you heard that the Vandals are looking for a new land?”
He shook his head. “No.” He looked alarmed. “I have heard nothing. I have no friends on the other bank. The Vandals, you say.” He touched his chin. “That would be bad.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Why? Because we of the Alemanni fear death; but the Vandals fear nothing. They believe that if they die in battle then they go to a great hall where warriors like themselves are always welcome, and where there is eternal feasting and drinking; and there they live again.”
“And do you believe this?” I asked.
His faded eyes smiled a little. “I shall know that when I am dead.”
I looked at the ploughed land. “Was the harvest good?”
He shrugged again. “It has been worse; it has been better. The priest prayed for us in the church in the town, but I think—” his voice dropped—“it was better in the days when the Corn King held his court.”
“I think so too.” I rode back to the camp, comforted. I was glad that someone believed in us and, perhaps, trusted us a little.
Quintus and I, with a dozen others, built a small temple outside the camp, and I, who had passed through all the elements of my mystery, consecrated the altar; and there we celebrated, on the appointed day, our faith. It was a poor temple and compared ill with the old one at Corstopitum—but it was ours. We built it, we cherished it and we renewed ourselves before the god in whom we believed. I stood there beneath the blue vaulted ceiling, while the light slanted like a lance through the open windows onto the upturned eyes, and the knife moved, and the Bull died. In that perfect moment when everything was clear I could see the way and the pattern and the world of no shadows; and I knew what it was like to be a child in the womb as I knew what it would be like at the moment when I died. I could feel the very skin that covered me age and wrinkle and see the nails grow upon my fingers. I knew then, without doubt or hesitation, that the things that mattered would come right for those of us who had the courage to burn ourselves in the sun.
The christians, too, celebrated the birth of their mystery with food and wine, and on that day there was amity between us.
It was a happy time. Afterwards I would remember the green fir trees, the silver birch and the pines. I would remember the smell of wood smoke from the camp fires and the crisp sound of trumpets speaking their orders; remember the rough kindness of the villagers with their fat children and their heavy, smiling women, their dogs and their fleas. Then, even the fox under my tunic seemed a burden I could endure.
In January and February there was more rain and the camp paths turned to mud while the roads between the forts were flooded in many places. The flow of the river was at its minimum during this period, however, and the level dropped considerably. Now was the easiest time to make a crossing and my patrols shivered in the wet as they kept watch upon the far bank. Imperceptibly it became warmer and the hours of daylight lengthened. Fatigue parties were busy cleaning up the huts and clearing the ditches and drains of the mud, sticks and filth which choked them. Cohorts and squadrons began to leave the camp secretly and by night, only to re-appear the next day or the day after, arriving in good marching order with trumpets sounding, while those in the camp cheered heartily as though in greeting of reinforcements. As the ground dried and the sun shone more frequently cavalry sections would ride out with branches dragging in the dirt behind them. Seen from a distance these dust clouds looked as though a regiment and not a dozen men were on the move. Small defensive positions were built along the banks of the river at intervals of a mile and equipped most convincingly with dummy ballistae and firing platforms for non-existent troops. At the same time we began the real work of erecting a palisade, ten feet high, protected by an outer ditch, along the line of the road between Moguntiacum and Bingium. Work on this was slow; there were so few troops available, and I knew that if we completed it by the middle of summer we should be lucky. The Rhenus fleet kept up a continuous patrolling of the river between Confluentes and Borbetomagus, and I issued strict instructions that no-one was to be allowed to cross the river to the east bank who had not passed through a control point, bearing a certificate signed by myself. Anyone attempting to evade interception was to be killed immediately. And all the while, the road from Treverorum was fille
d with convoys of waggons, moving east and bringing us the supplies and equipment that we so badly needed.
“I want as many bows, arrows and spears as we can get,” I said to Quintus one afternoon, while we were out watching a dummy camp being built three miles to the north of Bingium.
Quintus gestured at the new camp. “Will this deceive them for long, do you think?”
“I hope so. When it’s finished I shall have two sections of men put into it from the Bingium garrison. They will be kept busy blowing trumpets at the right times, lighting cooking fires and patrolling the walls. It will all look quite convincing from a distance.”
“The Alemanni have long eyes,” he said quietly.
We turned and rode down the road to see how work on the palisade was progressing. Later, I visited the three islands off Moguntiacum where, on each, two centuries were sweating to clear the undergrowth, dig defensive ditches, build fortified towers and erect platforms from which ballistae could be fired.
“I want this work finished by the end of the month,” I said.
“When will they come, sir?” I was asked. That was the question they were all asking me. It was the question I often asked myself.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But if I was going to make the attempt I should either do it between the end of April and the beginning of June, or in September. The Rhenus reaches flood heights in June and July. No one in his senses would attempt a crossing then, with enemy on the other bank. During those months at least we should be safe enough.”
We might be safe but there would be no rest. We had to go on giving an impression of activity and of constant determination. The palisade along the road had to be finished. I needed another dummy camp on the bank beyond the stream, just clear of the point of Harbour Island. In addition there were other plans, less warlike, but in the long run more effective that I hoped to put into operation shortly.
One day I crossed the Rhenus at Bingium with half a cohort and three hundred cavalry to visit Guntiarus. His berg was in a great clearing in the forest, fortified by a palisade and a deep ditch; and there was only one entrance through a pair of massive log gates. The place was not clean. You could smell the stink of humans and animals half a mile away. The dwelling houses were built of timber, with thatched roofs, daub-coated walls and entrance porches over barred doors. They were arranged in no particular order but each was surrounded by its own barns, stables and byres, and the cattle rubbed shoulders with men and were not kept apart as on our own farms. The King’s Hall was nearly two hundred feet long; an impressive enough place, though very dark and dirty. It was here, surrounded by the warriors of his council that he received me. He was courteous enough but I could see that he was worried. He sweated like a nervous stallion and it was obvious that he wondered what I might ask of him when the attempt to cross the river was made.
Eagle in the Snow Page 13
