He said, “The Alans took our land, our bergs and our young women. Yet, despite the fact that you no longer thought us of any moment, we stayed loyal. Marcomir would have wished it so. When the fighting began, we tried to help. The Alans did not want us. But when things began to go badly we crossed the river to join you and found the Marcomanni attacking your limes. We fought them, and then your men came up. This one,” he pointed with his chin at Quintus, “took us for the enemy and fought back. When I had been captured I told him what I knew, but he would not believe me because this man had spoken to him first.”
“What would you say again that my friend did not believe?”
“That the Vandals tried to bribe the commandant at Bingium, and failed; then when the fighting started the Alans held off. It was we who attacked the Vandals in the dawn of that first morning, for you had told Marcomir you wanted the waggons destroyed. Only later in the day, when it seemed that you were holding them, did the Alans at last make war on your side.” He spat. “They are a people who are loyal only to the strong. Later, when things did not go well with you, they retreated to the hills and let the Marcomanni cross the river; and they murdered the cavalry you sent to the east bank, while pretending to be their friends. I, myself, saw their messenger carry the head of Didius to the Vandal kings.” He paused, and then said, in an even louder voice, “They crossed the ice at Bingium and made for the camp, pretending one thing but doing another, and when the commandant let them in they took the camp by storm and destroyed your garrison. All that happened to-day. All this would I say, still, even though you burned me on a fire.”
Goar said quietly, “It is, of course, a lie. Bingium was betrayed by a man who had Aleman blood.” He turned to me in exasperation. “Did I not warn you of the risk you took? I do not blame you for it. It is only traitors and idiots who make fools of clever men. But that is no consolation to the clever men.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He gave me a strained smile. He said, “I, too, made mistakes. Your cavalry were a great help. But there were too many Vandals. We could not hold them, any more than you could. And you are trained soldiers. We are not.”
I turned to Fredegar. “Goar of the Alans was a brother in blood to your dead prince. That is a strong oath that he took. It is dangerous to meddle with the gods. Would he break it, do you think? Would you?”
“He is a liar,” said the Frank bitterly.
I said coldly, “I cannot busy myself with your feuds. They are not my concern.”
“What is then? Ask him why he crossed the river when he told you that he would not be able to do so.”
Goar said angrily, “I crossed to let the general know what I had done. My men are still on the other bank. But we have fought together and I owed him much. So I came to see him and to wish him well.”
“He is a liar,” said a voice out of the darkness.
We all turned. Straining my eyes, I could see a shadow against a tree and then the shadow became a man, dark against the white snow. He walked slowly towards us, like an old man, hunched and feeble, until we could see his face. It was Scudilio, the auxiliary commandant at Bingium. He was wearing his uniform, and his helmet was on his head. He held his right shoulder in his left hand and I could see blood upon the hand. His face was a ghastly colour and I could hear his breath rasp in and out, as it does when a man is in great pain. No-one moved or spoke. He came forward until he was almost face to face with Goar. The Alan did not move. “Traitor,” he spat.
Scudilio stood there, swaying on his feet. He said in a whisper, “If I am, then tell me whose arrow is in my back.”
He turned and fell sideways to the ground. The shaft of a great arrow protruded from his shoulder blade, and it quivered slightly as the wounded man fought for breath.
Quintus stepped forward, knelt down and touched the arrow. Then he looked up at me and said softly, “This is an arrow such as the Alans make. Look at the feathers, and this coloured cock feather here that they use as a guide for notching.”
Goar said, “When they betrayed Bingium they must have left the camp and met some of my men.”
Scudilio groaned. I bent down beside him. He said in a whisper, “We were surrounded by Burgundians. Then they withdrew. Later, some recrossed the ice. Then the Alans came. They shouted to us that the Marcomanni were crossing the river higher up and that they would reinforce us in return for food and weapons. I was a fool. I let them in. But Goar was with them and I knew you trusted him. Inside the camp they attacked us. There were too many of them. We fought back. We tried to escape. I fired the camp. Some of us broke out. Then we blundered into the Marcomanni. I gave my men a meeting-point and told them to run and hide, and find it later, in the dark. We split up. I was wounded and lost. I made for the road. That is all I know.”
Fredegar said, “He speaks the truth, that one. The Alans had spears on which were the heads of those men you sent across the ice.” He looked at me and smiled. “You do not know your friends.”
“What Roman ever does,” I said bitterly. “How many men have you?”
The Frank said, “I brought two thousand over the river. Some are dead. Some are prisoners in your laagar down the road. The others are scattered. But they will come back.”
“How many, Scudilio?”
He gasped with pain. He whispered, “I do not know. Perhaps three hundred.”
I said sharply, “Get that wound attended to, one of you.”
I turned back to Goar who was standing alone, very straight and still, his face grey in the moonlight, the sword naked in his hand. It was very cold, but I could see the beads of sweat slipping down his face as he stood and waited.
I said, harshly, “This was planned. Who planned it?”
Quintus said, impatiently, “Does it matter now?”
I stared at Goar. “Oh, yes,” I said. “It matters. Guntiarus is not that clever. Respendial would never come to terms with those who had betrayed him, even though they were his brothers; and Gunderic has too sharp a tongue. Talien was a clever man, but he is dead.” I paused. I said, “It needed someone else, someone who knew me and who knew how I might think and plan my campaign, someone who had done this kind of thing before....”
Scudilio muttered, “I was approached and offered bribes, but I refused.”
“You should have told me.”
“I did not like to. You trusted me so little. I knew that, when you gave the orders to the tribune to burn the bridge, and not me. I was afraid.”
I said to Goar, “He got at you, didn’t he? After Marcomir was dead, he worked upon you. You were loyal to me so long as you thought I might end by being the victor, but after the battle on the east bank you were not so sure. You thought I might lose, and you were afraid for yourself. So you began to change sides, and promised to betray me when the time was right. Oh, you chose it well. It was brilliantly done; you took the boy and returned him to his father to secure your rear, and you fought a little to make everything right. You might even have stayed on my side if I had stopped them crossing the river. But how could I, when you let the Marcomanni through, and murdered my wretched men? They were only fools because they trusted you upon my orders.”
I turned my back on him and mounted my horse. Quintus looked at me questioningly. I said, “Get mounted. We must get on. We have wasted too much time already on a matter of little importance.”
Goar said hoarsely, “What will you do with me?”
“If you were a man I would let Scudilio have the privilege of killing you. But you are not a man—you are nothing. Put down that sword before you cut yourself with it.”
He saw Quintus mounted, watching him intently. He dropped the sword into the snow. I looked about me and then caught Quintus’ eye. We had everything that we needed. Our thoughts were the same.
I said, “You are a christian, I believe.”
He tried hard to swallow. He licked his lips and I saw his red beard quiver; but not with cold. “Yes, I am,” he muttered. “W
hat is it to you?”
I said, “Then I will give you an end fitting for a proper christian.” I turned my head. “Centurion, crucify this man.”
The moon was rising now and we moved on in silence, our horses plodding one behind the other, their riders sitting slumped in the saddle. I closed my eyes in a stupid attempt to shut out the full horror of what I now knew. For the man I had left behind me in the darkness I felt nothing. I thought only of the final treachery, of the destruction of Bingium, and of Scudilio whom I had not trusted enough.
I said, “But we parted friends. Why, Julian? Why?”
We rode on to where the legion rested in the snow. They were used to the cold now. They did not shiver: they slept. The cohort commanders got to their feet and gathered round my horse. I told them what had happened.
“We cannot storm Bingium—or what is left of it—with the Marcomanni in our rear. If we wait till tomorrow they will have closed the road and their men will be lining the Nava. Our only chance is to outmarch then—now. We shall skirt the Bingium hills and move up-river. There is a ford some way up and a track that will bring us back on to the road to Treverorum. One of Scudilio’s men will guide us.”
I coughed. “Quintus, I want a detachment of five reliable men to ride on to Treverorum and see that all the available weapons and stores are brought out to the thirtieth milestone without delay. In addition, I want two squadrons to go with them to patrol the road in the direction of Bingium. If contact is made with the enemy they must send word back at once. I want to know what signal towers are still held for us. Those in opposition must be taken or burnt—whichever is the easier. Arrange for more cavalry to forage for food. The men are to go on half rations as from tonight.” Aquila nodded. “Someone find Fredbal, the farrier. I want a word with him. Now get moving.”
He came, in a few moments, and stood before me, his head down, his hands clutching at his sword. The marching had tired him and he looked ill and old. Perhaps I looked the same to him.
I said, “This is not your fight. You paid your debts long ago. I want you out of this. I need a man to go with the messengers to Treverorum and carry a letter I have written.” I was writing, as I spoke, clumsily upon a tablet. “Give this to the Bishop. It is instructions about the safety of the legion’s treasure chest. He will know what to do. And this”—I handed him a second tablet—“is for the Curator. He must tell the Army of Gaul to hurry, or they will be too late.”
He said, “Why trust me and not your men?” He spoke as to an equal.
I said gently, “There are thirty reasons and they are all years. You are a good hater.”
He nodded. “I would rather stay and kill a Vandal.” He spoke with a fierce regret.
“That I know. You will still have the chance, believe me.”
He stuffed the tablets inside his tunic. “I’ll go,” he muttered. “You can trust me.”
I shook my head. “It is your hatred I trust. Now go and join the others.”
He gave me the parody of a salute and shambled off into the darkness.
We marched in silence, so that there was no noise but the jingling of a horse’s bit, and the steady crunch of nailed sandals upon the hard snow. The moon was well up now, so that it was not difficult to see the way. I prayed that both the Alans inside Bingium and the Marcomanni outside it would believe that we had camped for the night, somewhere between the two of them, and would not have patrols out, keeping watch. Presently, we came under the shadow of the wedge-shaped hills, on the other side of which lay the ruined camp on which I had staked all our hopes. Here, the road ran straight towards the Nava and the fort, and here, too, the track that we must follow, curved left towards the ford of which Scudilio had spoken, before we put him with the other wounded on the waggon. At this junction the column came to a slow, unsteady halt, and a horseman cantered back to say that the advance guard had run into a night patrol of Marcomanni, that a sharp fight was going on, but that the general had the matter in hand.
The men stood off the side of the road and I sat, relaxed upon my horse, waiting. I called out softly to a decurion of cavalry, “Find out how the commander, Scudilio, does, and send me that Frankish man we took prisoner.” He saluted and rode off down the line.
After half an hour the column moved on again and I rode over bloodstained snow, saw bodies lying in a ditch, and two of our men with arrows in their chest. A few minutes later a beacon glimmered on the hills to our right, and I knew then that we had been seen by watchers on the cliffs, and that the alarm would soon be given. We quickened our pace and dropped down a steep slope between tall pine trees, bowed with snow, and could hear the patter of water somewhere to our front. The waggons were in difficulties and men had to be detailed to help them over the bad ground. They held our tents, our cooking gear, our palisade stakes, our entrenching tools, fodder for the horses, our medical supplies, our wounded and our spare arms. They were essential to our continuing life as a legion, and without them we should be doomed. Each man carried his weapons and rations for five days; that was all the food we had, and some of it would have to be shared with the men who had come out of Bingium and who had been able to bring nothing with them, save their weapons. There were others to feed as well: Franks, who were loyal to Fredegar; the remainder of the garrison at Moguntiacum; and the sections from the signal posts, who joined us as we passed them by. How many all these made, I did not know. I left matters like that to my quartermaster. He would tell me soon enough.
Our pace was slower now because of the bad going. The men sweated, even in the cold, and they walked hunched up against the drifting snowflakes. Sometime before midnight there was another halt, and in the silence I could hear the screams of horses, the clash of swords and the sound of men shouting. This time our halt was much longer, and a messenger rode back down the line to tell me that the cavalry had had to dismount because of the steepness of the bank on the far side of the Nava, and that a cohort was in action against a group of tribesmen.
“Are they many?”
“The general thinks about eight hundred. They are armed with bows and axes, and are well placed.”
“Do you need me?”
The trooper grinned. “No, sir. I was told that the Legate was not to be troubled. The ala commander has the matter in hand.”
“Which ala?”
“The Fourth.”
“Ah! Marius. Very good.”
It was two hours, however, before the enemy position was taken and a cohort had to be called in to assist.
The Nava was wide but shallow, which was fortunate, for the ice did not hold, and we had to wade clumsily through the bitter water that rose to our waists and numbed us with the cold. Then we had a two and a half mile climb up a steep and twisting track that barely showed through the thickening fall of snow. It was hard work, walking in wet boots on a surface that made one slip back every time a step was taken. The horses had to be led also, and the waggons pushed and pulled by hand, ten men to a waggon. And all the time we were conscious of empty stomachs and tired eyes, and the wind cut through our cloaks, so that we were wet outside with the snow and wet through with our sweat. But no-one dropped out or complained.
Once at the top of the climb the going became easier and we walked through a pine forest that protected us a little from the eternal beat of the wind. We had had no sleep now for twenty-two hours and we stumbled on mechanically. The agony of marching was to be preferred to that which the enemy would offer if we fell alive into his hands. Two miles further on we dropped down a shallow slope and walked along the shoulder of a high ridge that banked a narrow, twisting stream. There was no track that one could see and the men marched in pairs, so that each might help the other; while the waggons were pushed and pulled between one tree and the next. Then we left the stream and struck a track that was deeply rutted beneath the loose surface snow. It was dawn now, and we could see each other’s faces, dark of eye, unshaven and deathly tired. Two hours later, walking as though in our sleep, with b
listered feet, cramped muscles, and shoulders rubbed raw by the friction of our armour, we reached the road that led to Treverorum. To my front was a smooth, round pillar, nearly as tall as myself, and with a cap of snow upon it. It was one of the milestones set up by the Emperor Hadrianus, and the lettering upon it, I remember, was so worn that it was hardly legible. After I had seen it for the first time, I had complained to the officials at Treverorum but they had simply shrugged their shoulders, and nothing had been done. To the right of the stone, a cavalry picket slept beneath the tethered heads of their horses, and a tired sentry rocked on his feet, leaning upon his spear before the embers of a wood fire.
I kicked the squadron commander awake, and he yawned in my face, apologetically. “The signal posts between here and Bingium, sir, are in their hands. I burned the first four and we killed their men as they jumped to safety. At the fifth the enemy were guarding the road in strength, so we retired. The first three posts back up the road, however, are still loyal.”
Quintus said, “Can we hold the road here?” He looked at the high bank with the thick woods that stretched upwards to the sky-line. “It’s a strong position to defend.”
“Perhaps. I’m too tired to think. The men are dead on their feet, too. They had better camp here, off the road. Put the waggons across the pass in front of the tower. A pity we had to burn it.”
The squadron commander choked back a laugh. “We couldn’t force our own ditches, sir.”
“Yes, they were well sited. Put a guard inside the place anyway and tell off a party to repair the palisade.”
We slept for four hours and when we awoke it was to a black sky and falling snow. The nearest enemy had been three miles away when we slept, and the main force six miles further on at Bingium, where only the Alans, if they were not too drunk on the garrison’s wine, would have been in a fit state to march at dawn. Had they done so, we should have been attacked by now. Yet it was more probable, I thought, that they would remain there and leave matters in the hands of the Marcomanni. The Alans were leaderless now, and they had their own lands to look to. The Marcomanni under Hermeric were our nearest foe. So far they had proved to be clumsy and slow and stupid. Gunderic, I was sure, would never have let me get so far. The Vandal host was another matter. They needed food desperately and there was little enough in the surrounding countryside, with its pitiful handful of villages and its wasted land. They would march for Bingium where they knew there was food; but not enough. There would be quarrels between the chiefs, and fights between their men. It would all give us a little time.
Eagle in the Snow Page 31
