Resisting the urge to scream in horror the Roman pulled his arm free and whipped his hand up, reflex overcoming his sudden overwhelming feeling of being no more than an onlooker, detached from the scene before him, pinching the dying man’s throat closed and standing stock-still as the sacrificial victim shuddered, straining against the ropes that still restrained his body. With a final racking spasm the dying man contorted, his spine arching, then sank back onto the bloody altar, his death rattle almost inaudible with his throat still pinched shut. Marcus allowed a long, slow breath to escape his body, putting a hand out to steady himself as the shock of what had just happened washed over him. While he stood braced against the altar a quiet muttering from somewhere close to hand reached his ears, and he reflexively sank into the shelter of the massive stone block, looking about him with his sword half drawn.
The sound came again, and with a start Marcus realised that the source was so close that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch the speaker. Sliding the gladius from its scabbard, he stepped quickly and quietly round the altar to stand behind the dead man’s head, looking about him in mystification, then advancing around the stone again as the slurred, unintelligible words were repeated. Looking down as he rounded the block’s corner, the Roman raised his blade to strike, then realised that the man at his feet posed no threat, as a gentle snore escaped from his twitching mouth. The priest, his long black hair shot through with streaks of grey that had fallen to partially cover a face deeply scored with the creases and lines of age, was asleep, blissfully unaware that a cold-eyed nemesis was standing over him, his blade stayed only by the struggle between a need to take revenge for the dead man and his orders to leave no trace of his presence. The Roman stared down at him for a long moment, calculating the hue and cry that must surely follow what he was contemplating, at the same time almost willing the man to wake, and give him an excuse to put the blade through his throat. The sleeper shifted uncomfortably against the altar’s side, muttering more unintelligible words, then let out another snore, and Marcus backed slowly away with his eyes searching the trees around him as he retreated back towards the path.
Turning away from the grove, he hurried back up the slope to where he’d left Varus and the Hamians, raising a hand to forestall their questions.
‘Not now. You can hear the story when I tell it to the Tribune.’
5
‘What a waste of time and effort.’
Cotta looked about him with an air of exasperation.
‘This lot wouldn’t give us so much as the steam off their piss.’
The neutral expression Arminius had been careful to maintain since they had walked into the settlement was unchanged, but the German’s voice was rich in irony.
‘I can see what my master was thinking when he sent us here, but he has reckoned without the long-standing enmity these people have for your empire. That centurion was right, we need something to get past the barrier of their hatred, or we might as well go and shelter in the forest and try to find our comrades tomorrow.’
Morban’s rejoinder was morose, and edged with fear.
‘We should go and find Lugos, dump the cart and get the fuck out of here before they decide we’re the next offering to their gods.’
Cotta opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Sanga and Saratos rounded a corner and sauntered over to join them.
‘You’re looking smug Sanga, what have you been up to? Even you can’t have managed to persuade one of this lot to open her legs for you already, not unless you were paying in gold. And you haven’t got any gold.’
The soldier’s grin silenced him, a gap-toothed smile that narrowed the older man’s eyes.
‘Go on. Spit it out.’
‘We need an angle, that chosen man said, a way to break the ice with this set of sulky bastards, right?’
‘Yes. And?’
Sanga smirked again, pointing back the way he and Saratos had come.
‘And I reckon we’ve found it. Might get a bit messy though. And I think this might just be what you brought Morban along for.’
‘You’re sure you weren’t seen?’
Marcus nodded grimly.
‘The priest was sound asleep after his hard night’s work.’
Scaurus snorted without mirth.
‘And the man on the altar was Roman? You’re sure?’
‘He was trying to ask me to kill him, I could see his lips forming the words. And he was wearing a fine woollen tunic, the sort of thing an off-duty soldier might wear for a night in the vicus …’
He fell silent, lost in the memory of the moment when the mutilated corpse had come to life at his touch. Scaurus put a hand out and touched his arm.
‘And …? I’m sorry Marcus, but I have to know everything.’
‘I stopped his windpipe. After all the punishment he’d taken in the night he was so close to death that it only needed a gentle nudge to put him over the edge. Most of his blood was spread across the altar, although there was enough of it scattered about the grove that the priest was probably using it to anoint his followers.’
Scaurus looked pointedly at Marcus’s left hand.
‘You seem to have brought some of it with you.’ Marcus lifted his hand and looked at the palm, realising that when he’d steadied himself against the altar he’d put his fingers into a patch of drying blood. ‘Do you think you left a mark?’
The Roman nodded slowly.
‘It’s likely. But I doubt they’ll think anything of it.’
Scaurus mused for a moment.
‘So they’re abducting our soldiers for the purpose of sacrifice.’ He paused for a moment, studying the look on his friend’s face. ‘But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Something you’ve not told us yet?’
Marcus looked up at the trees’ canopy.
‘You’re going to say that I’m imagining it.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve just told me that the Bructeri are kidnapping our legionaries, bringing them out to a clearing in the forest and then torturing them to death piece by bloody piece. I can’t see what else you might have in mind that’s any more disturbing than that particular set of revelations.’
The younger man shook his head.
‘I might be wrong … but there were burn marks on his body that looked exactly like …’
He frowned, pulling the memory of the distinctive markings to the front of his mind.
‘Like what?’
‘An eagle, a legion standard.’
Scaurus’s eyes narrowed.
‘You think he’d been tortured with an eagle?’
Marcus nodded in silence, aware that every man within earshot was staring at him.
‘But …’ The tribune shook his head in rejection of the possibility. ‘It can’t have been. The eagles lost in the Varus disaster were all recovered, and we’ve not lost a standard in Germania since then. I really don’t—’
‘Yes, you have.’
All eyes turned to Gunda, who was looking at the tribune with a confident expression. Scaurus shook his head.
‘No, we haven’t. Lost eagles are one of those things that every young officer learns about, usually from the senior centurions to whom that sort of thing is really important, not for career reasons but because for those men the eagle is an object of worship, the heart of the legion. They teach you that the eagle always, always comes first, no matter what the personal risk. Eagle bearers are invariably the best men in the legion, trusted to carry the legion’s soul into the heart of the battle, and they usually have a century of the nastiest men available as their personal bodyguard, men whose motivation goes beyond fanaticism. Trust me in this, the only eagles that Rome has lost since Varus are two in Judean revolts, one in Dacia before Trajan conquered the province, and one in Parthia, the Ninth Legion from memory.’
Gunda shrugged.
‘I am forced to disagree with you. There is a story that has been passed down from father to son for
generations in our tribe that tells a different story.’
He held Scaurus’s stare until the Roman nodded slowly.
‘Tell us your story then, German, and allow us to consider what you say.’
The guide looked around at his audience, sensing their fascination.
‘It’s a short enough tale. There was a time, so long ago that my father’s father’s father was not yet born, that the Batavi, a warlike tribe who had given long and faithful service to your empire, thought better of their place in the world than to serve a master who continually abused them. Your people called them Batavians, and for a time respected them as the bravest and the best of their allies, but over time this respect turned to contempt between their soldiers and yours. The relationship began to rot, and there was open fighting between Romans and Batavi in the taverns and streets of your fortresses. And just when the relationship was at its worst, a priestess of the Bructeri foretold a Batavi victory over Rome in battle …’ Scaurus exchanged glances with Marcus. ‘And so, encouraged by these visions, they went to war with your people, and with them – and this is the important part …’ he paused, smiling at Scaurus, ‘… went the Bructeri, my people. And, with one thing and another, the war went badly for Rome, and well for the Batavi. At least for a time.’
Scaurus nodded.
‘It was a time of civil war, a year when four men sat on the throne in one year, which meant that the empire’s attention was distracted from events in Germania. Two legions managed to get themselves bottled up in the fortress that was all that was left of Roman rule on the Rhenus, a fortress called Vetera. They held out for a time, their walls of stone being too strong for the Batavians and their allies to defeat, and they were even relieved once, but due to a combination of miscalculation and plain stupidity they were forced to surrender for lack of food, when they had been reduced to eating their horses and mules.’
Gunda bowed to him.
‘It seems your people have this story too, perhaps written in those books you love so much. The two legions agreed to surrender, leaving all of their weapons and gold behind, in return for safe passage away from the fortress. And so they marched out, trusting to their captors’ good nature, which, as every man of my tribe knows, is a foolish choice to make when dealing with the tribes to our north.’
He shook his head at the folly of the decision.
‘Better for them to have taken their own lives. They were attacked a short distance from the fortress, and slaughtered, their officers enslaved and given to the priestess who had predicted their defeat to be her servants.’
Scaurus stood, stretching his back.
‘All of which is known, and true, but the legions’ eagles were safely removed from the fortress when it was relieved for a short time. They—’
He fell silent under the guide’s stare.
‘Was this a time of great disasters, Roman? A time when the loss of not one but two of your eagles would have been a grievous insult to the dignity of a new emperor?’
‘Yes. I cannot deny it.’
‘And did the Batavi leader perish, when his tribe was finally defeated, silencing him forever?’
Scaurus nodded.
‘That does seem to have been the case.’
Gunda spread his arms.
‘Even I can see how that worked, and I’m just a simple tribesman. The eagles were captured, one of them falling to the Bructeri, and your rulers decided to quietly ignore the fact as it was simply …’
He looked up, fishing for the right word.
‘Inconvenient?’
The German turned to Marcus.
‘Indeed, Centurion. Inconvenient. And so, Romans, whether you believe me or not, it is my belief that it is quite possible for my tribe to be in possession of one of your beloved eagles. I cannot claim to have seen it, for I left the tribe as a young man, too young to have participated in the ceremonies where it would be shown to the warriors as a valued prize, and perhaps used to torment our captives. But I have heard tales of its existence, and that it is kept hidden in the king’s treasury for the most part and only brought out for such special occasions.’
Scaurus gestured to Marcus.
‘Thank you for your frankness, Gunda. Walk with me, Centurion.’
He led the younger man away from the detachment until they were out of earshot.
‘You’re sure about this?’
Marcus thought for a moment, his face etched with the stress bearing down on him.
‘Completely sure? How can I be? I saw nothing more than burn marks on a man’s legs, and I was somewhat preoccupied at the time. But do I think they were put there by an eagle that had been heated over a fire? Yes Tribune, I do.’
The older man looked up at the trees for a moment before speaking again, his voice tense with frustration.
‘We could be back in that grove in minutes, put the priest to the sword, perhaps even find this eagle, and vanish into the forest to the east as if we were never here. But …’
‘That’s not the task we were given.’
‘No. And worse than that, if that German’s story is right we won’t even be thanked for returning it to Rome. After all, the empire had its revenge on the Batavians once they’d been beaten on the battlefield, and you heard what the governor’s secretary told us about the way Rome encouraged neighbouring tribes to push the Bructeri off their land, and almost destroy the tribe. I don’t think we’re going to be thanked for throwing away the job we’ve been given to do to recapture an eagle that’s never actually been acknowledged as having been lost.’
The younger man nodded.
‘And yet …’
‘Exactly. Every time that eagle’s used as part of some filthy sacrifice it demeans every man in the army, whether they know it or not. And worse than that, they’re abducting soldiers to torture and murder, and presumably using the eagle as part of the ceremony. If we took it back, perhaps it would stop them.’
Scaurus looked down the path again, then back in the direction of the sacred grove.
‘No. There’s nothing I’d like more, but we can’t do it. Or at least not yet.’
He turned away, signalling to Dubnus to get the detachment moving again.
‘Consider it unfinished business, if you like. I will.’
‘Gods below, but he’s a big bastard!’
Cotta craned his neck to see over the crowd that had gathered on the slopes of the city’s fighting pit, a shallow arena dug into a small hill overlooking the Bructeri capital. He stared down at the man Sanga had pointed out to him, an unnaturally tall and massively muscled tribesman with the hard eyes of a professional fighter beneath a thick head of red hair which was tied in a plait that reached the small of his back. Big enough to rival their friend Lugos in size, and clad in a simple belted tunic, he dominated the space about him with his size and sheer presence. The white-haired man who was evidently either his trainer or owner moved around him with the innate caution of a wild beast trainer, taking ostentatious care to approach him from the front, fussing with his champion’s belt and offering him a drink of water.
Sanga spoke quietly in the veteran centurion’s ear as they watched the giant’s unhurried preparations.
‘I might not speak their language, but it’s not that hard to figure out having watched a couple of bouts. The man who puts him on his back and keeps him there long enough gets paid a decent purse, but he has to pay a bronze for the chance to win it, which is how they make their money. That and the gambling, obviously.’
The soldiers watched in silence as a fresh challenger was brought forward, stepping into the ring already stripped to his loin cloth, his limbs glistening with freshly applied oil. A well-muscled specimen, with the lithe grace of a boxer, he danced easily from foot to foot as the giant got to his feet with an air of bored disinterest, shaking his hands and then clenching them into fists.
‘This one looks handy enough. Perhaps he’ll be able to tire the big man out with all that fancy footwork?’
/>
Saratos snorted mirthlessly.
‘Same as last one we see. He dance for twenty heartbeats, then he carry out asleep.’
Sanga nodded, not taking his eyes off the circling fighters, the challenger moving nimbly around his opponent as the giant stepped stolidly forward. Clenching his fists he looked up at the sky and let out a roar of challenge that the crowd answered by baying at the two men, clearly recognising it for the sign that the fight was on. With a sudden rush the smaller man stepped in close, hammering a powerful fist into the redhead’s stomach and then moving back quickly to avoid his retaliation, although the punch’s impact seemed negligible as his opponent stepped ponderously towards him in a display of blank-faced menace that sent shivers up Cotta’s spine. His opponent repeated the move, darting in to land another punch, only to be met by a devastating counter-punch to his face that momentarily staggered him, leaving him wide open to the looping hook that followed. Spun a full circle by the blow’s force, he tottered for an instant and then slumped headlong to the dirt floor, his eyes rolling upwards as he lost consciousness. A pair of men stepped into the ring and dragged the defeated challenger away while the crowd shouted and hooted abuse at him, those among them who had been foolish enough to put money on him shaking their heads in disgust as the big man’s owner dropped their money into his leather purse. He shouted above the crowd’s hubbub, and Arminius translated his words for them.
Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 16
