So we began our climb. As before, the trees were oppressively close and accumulated dew dripped on us. Ionus swept ahead of us, his footsteps as silent as a ghost’s. He did not ascend in a straight line. Instead, he zigzagged from one side to another, sniffing for ambushes like a hound searching out game scent. I felt that my own ascent was commendably quiet, although I had nothing like the Gaul’s level of skill. Behind me, Hermes seemed to be making an unconscionable racket. I was probably overcritical, but my nerves were taut with suspense, and every rustle he made was to me as the sounding of trumpets.
We carried no torches this time, and we lacked the unjustified confidence that comes with having a number of companions. A slow step at a time we climbed, our eyes, our ears, even our noses quivering in search of impending doom. Even at this pace, it was not long before we reached the clearing. This time, without torches or the glowing embers of the bonfire, I could see almost nothing.
Ionus squatted at the edge of the trees, peering grimly inward. I looked long enough to determine that I would see nothing of use for some time, then we backed a little way downhill. I gestured for the others to sit and we hunkered down to wait. With the hood of my cloak drawn over my head, the sounds of the night were muffled except for the patter of dewdrops striking the wool. Hermes looked miserable, his adventure turned into a boring tedium, waiting in the cold and dark.
Gradually, I grew aware that I could see tiny details of my surroundings that had been invisible. Then I heard a single bird call melodiously. Dawn had arrived. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, visibility expanded until I could see trees a hundred feet away and the sky overhead was a leaden gray. My two companions had dozed off and I nudged them awake. Hermes yawned and stretched, then he started to say something. I clamped a hand over his mouth and shook my head vehemently.
I leaned close to Ionus and whispered: “Scout the clearing for us.” He bobbed his head and set off in his crouching lope, making a sweep of the treeline surrounding the grove. A few minutes later he returned.
“All clear.”
I got up. “Come along, Hermes. We can talk now, but don’t raise your voice and don’t let your guard down. Ionus will provide security while we see what we can see.”
We went into the clearing. The bonfire was now just a heap of cold ashes. I looked up and saw that, as I had expected, the bodies had been taken down, along with the ropes from which they had dangled. It was no surprise, but still I felt a rush of relief when I saw that they were gone. It would have been too ghastly to have them there, silently watching. At the very least, it would have been an unbearable distraction.
“What are we looking for?” Hermes asked.
“Anything that looks like it didn’t grow here naturally,” I told him, having no idea myself what I expected to find. We began combing over the turf in the growing light of morning. The surface was springy, covered with moss and overlaid with rotting oak leaves. The ground was much trampled, which came as no surprise. In the last day or two it must have seen an inordinate amount of traffic for so small and remote a spot.
“Found something!” Hermes said eagerly.
“Keep your voice down,” I told him. “What have you got?” He held out a small, curved object of brownish color. It appeared to be the tip of an antler, pierced in its center for a thong, either a part of a necklace or a toggle of some sort.
Ionus looked it over. “German,” he said. “For fastening one of their fur tunics here.” He clapped a palm over his shoulder.
“Lovernius was on the right track, then,” I said, inordinately pleased. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
A minute later Ionus, prodding at the ashes of the fire, called us over. Protruding from the cinders was a charred bit of wood that still bore a recognizable carving: three faces turned in three directions.
“That’s adding sacrilege to murder,” I said, “burning the Druids’ staffs in the bonfire.” For it had to be the staff of Badraig or possibly one belonging to one of the others.
Further search turned up more than I would have expected, but nothing terribly helpful. There were some wisps of dyed wool, probably from the garments of the Gauls who came and took down the bodies. There were some bits of fur that might have come from the clothes of the Germans. Hermes even found a couple of tiny arrowheads beautifully fashioned from flint, but these might have lain there for centuries.
Ionus turned out to be something of a disappointment. It seems that among the Gauls, hunting is pretty much restricted to the upper aristocracy, so common warriors like Ionus did not develop great facility with things like tracks and other signs. Their skills were those of cattle raiding and warfare. Hermes and I, sons of the City that we were, displayed even less acumen.
At midday, we halted our desultory search and dug into our provisions. I had brought along some bread and dried figs. Hermes had prudently dropped a hunk of cheese into the front of his tunic before leaving the camp and Ionus had some salted fish in his pouch, along with a few early onions bought from one of the peasants who hawked their produce in the fora of the camps.
“Have we learned much?” Hermes asked, munching away.
“Not yet,” I told him. “But we have plenty of daylight yet. There’s still the ground under the trees all around here to look at, and it might be worthwhile climbing into the trees.”
“Climbing?” Hermes said. “What for?”
“Somebody had to go up there to arrange the ropes,” I told him. Actually, I was not certain of this. I had never dealt with a hanging before.
The food was so dry that I barely choked down the last few bites. I asked Ionus where we could find some water.
He pointed to the eastern edge of the clearing. “There’s a spring a little way over there.” We got up, brushing crumbs from our tunics, and followed his lead. A few minutes of walking brought us to a little gorge carved into the side of the hill where water tumbled noisily over jagged rocks. We found a relatively calm spot and knelt by the stream, thrusting our faces into the water and drinking deep. It was delightful stuff, far better than anything you can get from a well.
I can’t really say how we were caught so easily. It may have been that concentrating on the ground sapped our alertness to our surroundings. Possibly the noise of the stream deafened us to other sounds. Most likely, it was simply that Romans ought to stay in Rome. I never would have left, given a choice.
We had our faces out of the water, taking a breath, when Ionus’ head jerked up abruptly. “We are not alone,” he said quietly.
Hermes and I scrambled to our feet as the Gaul straightened from his crouch effortlessly, pivoting to scan this way and that. Then I saw them; shadowy shapes coming closer, weaving between the trees. They were hulking figures, more like beasts than men, for they wore the hides of animals.
With a single bound, Ionus dived headfirst into a clump of brush. Wriggling like a snake, he was gone from sight in an instant and no sound betrayed his passage.
“I wish I knew how to do that,” I said.
“He’s deserted us!” Hermes cried, panic in his voice.
“Wouldn’t you?” I demanded.
One of the men barked something to the others. Some of them continued to approach us, not bothering any longer with stealth. Others combed through the brush, poking it with their spears, trying to find Ionus. There were at least a dozen closing in on us with their weapons leveled. I heard a rasping sound next to me and saw out of the corner of my eye that Hermes had drawn his sword. With the edge of my hand I chopped at his wrist and he dropped the weapon with a yelp.
“What did you do that for?” he demanded. “They’ve come to kill us! We have to fight!”
“Settle down, you idiot,” I told him. “We’re not going to fight our way out of this.”
“Well, we’re certainly not going to talk our way out! Do you know some magic that will get us away from here?”
“No.” I struck my haughtiest pose and addressed the appreaching men. “Gentlemen, you
seem to think that some sort of hostility lies between us. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of Rome, and Rome desires only the friendliest relations with the great German people.” Dressed and painted as I was, the effect must have been ludicrous, but when there is no substance, sheer style must suffice.
One of them said something in their fighting-wolves language and the others laughed heartily.
“You’ve made a good impression,” Hermes said shakily. One of them stepped up to him and clouted him alongside the head with a spear butt. Another did the same for me, staggering me sideways. Someone grabbed me from behind and I was quickly divested of my weapons.
“Yes, it seems we’re not to be killed instantly,” I said. “So far, so good.” My hands were bound behind me and Hermes was hoisted to his feet and likewise bound.
Our captors were big men, even bigger than Gauls, and twice as savage-looking. Gauls painted themselves and bleached their hair with lime and made it stand up in spikes for a frightening effect. These men exuded wildness and menace just by standing around breathing. Their hair and beards were every shade of yellow and their eyes were frighteningly blue.
Their heavy furs made them seem even bulkier, but they were not massively built, like the big-shield gladiators so familiar to Romans. Although they were immensely strong, they were built like wolves or racehorses, with lean muscles stretched over long bones. They had absurdly small waists and moved gracefully despite their size.
“Oh, we’ve had it now,” Hermes said, blood trickling from a lump rapidly swelling on the side of his head. “Why didn’t we break and run for it when we had the chance?”
“We never had the chance,” I told him. “Look at these beasts. Do you think you could have made it all the way back to the camp with them at your heels?”
He looked them over, cringing at their outlandish fearsomeness. “Well, no.”
“So be calm and we may get out of this alive. As yet, there’s no war between Rome and the Germans. They just aren’t pleased with the way Caesar has handled the Helvetian migration. Maybe they’ll hold us for ransom.”
“Would anybody pay to get you back?” he demanded.
“No, but there’s a special fund for just that purpose,” I assured him, hoping it was true. I knew that the eastern legions maintained a ransom fund, because ransom was a major source of income for the Oriental kings.
A German yapped something and swatted me in the ribs with his spear butt. “I think we’ve been told to shut up,” I wheezed. Hermes just nodded. He learned fast.
A man fastened a noose around my neck and then did the same for Hermes. I thought: They hang their sacrifices.
12
IF THEY HAD LED US BACK TOward the grove I probably would have dropped dead from terror, but instead they began leading us to the northwest, up over a shoulder of the hill. As we trudged along at the end of our leashes, I made a closer examination of our captors. Besides the usual fur tunics, most of them wore fur leggings that came to just below their knees.
There was no uniformity to their armament. Most possessed belt-knives with crude handles of wood, antler, or bone. A few had bows cased across their backs. Each had a long spear and most carried a couple of short javelins as well. What surprised me most was their poverty when it came to metal. Among the Gauls, most warriors had an iron-tipped spear, an iron-bossed shield, and most men owned a long- or short sword. To this basic armament the better-off warriors added a bronze or iron helmet and the chiefs usually had a shirt of mail. Not these Germans. Except for the knives, many had no other metal save a copper bracelet and a few studs on their wide leather belts. Only the leader of this band had an iron speartip, the others contenting themselves with points of bone or of fire-hardened wood. Their long, narrow shields were made wholly of wooden planks, bossed with oak and bound around the edges with rawhide.
Primitive though they were, they looked nonetheless deadly for it. You just have to shove harder to thrust a wooden spear through an enemy. These men looked eminently strong enough to accomplish the task. A Roman soldier was a veritable ironmonger’s shop by comparison, but these men seemed fit to make up the difference with sheer ferocity.
We had not been walking long when we were joined by another dozen men. These had sour looks on their faces and the words they spoke to their leader in their growling language were clearly not expressions of joy.
“No blood on any of them,” Hermes muttered. “Maybe Ionus got away.” A warrior backhanded him across the mouth. Considering the blow that arm could have delivered, it was a mere love pat, but it bloodied his mouth and his lips began to swell.
We went over the shoulder of the hill, through a small pass, and descended into a dark valley set among densely wooded slopes. I tried to remember in which direction the river lay, but I was disoriented. I knew I could find my way back to the camp if I could make my escape, but in exactly what relationship we lay to the rest of the world, I had no idea.
Once in a while the man in the lead whistled quietly, a sort of bird-call sound. When he did this, he was answered from somewhere overhead. The second or third time he did so, I looked up and could just make out the form of a warrior crouching high in a tree, still as a hiding fawn.
It was late afternoon when we reached a large clearing in the middle of the hills. Around the periphery of the clearing crude huts had been erected, no more than saplings bent into bows and covered with peeled bark or brush. There was one hut that was three or four times the size of the others, but still a rather modest structure. From all the signs that I could see, the little village was newly established. The smell of fresh-cut wood was everywhere. I saw no women. This was a warrior band, not a tribe on the move.
On several racks, deer and other game hung ready for butchering. I wondered if our captors were hunters who had stumbled upon us or men specially detailed to keep an eye on the grove. I suspected the latter.
In the very center of the clearing stood a tall post crudely carved into manlike form. The staring eyes were made from lumps of hammered tin and its grimacing mouth was studded with real teeth taken from a variety of beasts; a cloak of wolf-skin hung from its rudely defined neck. Arms were sketchily carved in low relief, one hand holding what appeared to be a noose of braided hide, the other an ax or hammer. The extreme stylization made details difficult to interpret and my mood was not one conducive to art appreciation.
The leader of our party called out something and men came running with a pair of heavy stakes and a wooden maul. They pounded the stakes into the ground a few paces in front of the wooden god or whatever it was. When they were finished, I watched with great interest to see what their next move would be. If they had proceeded to sharpen the stakes, I planned to find the largest, meanest-looking German in the camp and spit in his eye. If I did that, he might strike me dead immediately. I did not like the idea of impalement, the one death that may be even more horrible than crucifixion.
To my relief, they merely whittled deep grooves around the stakes a few inches below the hammered tops. Hermes and I were then thrust down into a sitting posture and our tethers tied securely to the grooves in the stakes. After testing our bonds to make sure they were secure, the Germans wandered off in search of dinner or perhaps a quick pot of mead or ale or whatever awful stuff they drank.
“Wonderful,” Hermes muttered. Then, seeing that nobody was going to hit him for speaking, he went on in a firmer voice, “Now we’re going to be sacrificed. Maybe eaten. We should have run. At least it would have been quicker.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “They might simply have crushed the bones of our feet to prevent us escaping and then marched us back here. Altogether, we made the more comfortable choice.”
“If Ionus makes it back and reports us captured,” he said hopefully, “someone will come out to rescue us, won’t they?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said, knowing that nobody would bother. One expendable, supernumerary officer and a slave were hardly worth exposing a large number of m
en to unknown dangers.
For the remainder of the evening I tried to assess the number of the Germans, but I was able to gather little intelligence. Men were always coming and going, singly or in parties. The great simplicity of their dress and belongings made it equally difficult to judge things like purpose or permanence. They probably lived much like this at home, and I could not guess whether this was a raiding party or a part of an army gathered for a genuine campaign. Although most were warriors in their prime, some were boys too young to shave even if Germans shaved, while a number were gray-bearded men of astonishingly advanced years for such a life. These elders seemed just as active as the rest, though.
Sometimes I saw men bearing swords and perhaps a few ornaments of hammered silver, but whether these were just leading warriors or princes I could not guess. Nobody saluted or showed particular signs of deference to anyone and I began to wonder whether this society resembled one of those Golden Age legends when everyone was supposed to be equal. Well, I suppose equality makes sense when every man is an unwashed, bloodthirsty savage.
As the dark drew on, hunting parties and patrols converged upon the camp. I saw a number of men, most of them beardless youths, leaving at this time. I guessed that they would take up their posts in the trees, relieving the sentries I had seen that afternoon.
Fires were built up and the now-butchered game animals began to roast on spits. The smell that drifted over the clearing made my stomach rumble and my mouth water.
“You’d think they’d bring us something to eat,” Hermes complained as the warriors tore into the rations with their wolfish teeth.
“It does seem somewhat lacking in courtesy,” I said. “However, this beats being on the menu ourselves.” The Germans ate like characters out of Homer, whose heroes never seem to eat anything but meat. These men from beyond the Rhine were capable of wolfing down several pounds at a sitting, with never a morsel of bread or bite of fruit by way of variety. They tossed the bones into the fires and wiped their greasy hands on the ground, dusting off the dirt fastidiously. A few of them began a sort of communal growling which may have been a form of song.
SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion Page 19
