Qadir smiled at his friend.
‘We are among friends, Husam. None of these men is likely to censure me for the crime of being godless.’
Husam’s reply was indignant, his shock at the centurion’s admission evident in his hushed voice.
‘I care not what these Tungrians think of such a thing, but only what the Deasura herself might do were she to believe that your faith in her was lacking. You know as well as I do that she is a jealous goddess, and demands the total loyalty of her followers!’
Qadir shrugged.
‘So we are told by the priests, who instruct us in these matters from such an early age that we never think to challenge their preaching.’
‘You cannot think …’
‘That they may tell us the things they do, as to the fate of unbelievers, in order to ensure that we follow their teachings, and make our gifts to their temples. Perhaps I do.’
An uneasy silence fell over the trio, Qadir musing on his growing feeling of disassociation from the goddess he had for long venerated with every ounce of his being, while Husam puzzled as to how he was to stop his friend from voicing such terrible doubts.
‘You still recall the vow we both made to the goddess the day we joined the army, that first day when the centurions roamed our ranks with their vine sticks beating any man who gave them the faintest hint of an excuse? That we would live and die with the same honesty and cleanliness of purpose, in her sacred name?’ The chosen man snorted dark amusement. ‘And after all, given our current position, it would hardly be surprising if our time to die was close at hand, would it? Perhaps you should avoid antagonising the goddess, at least until we are once again on the safe side of the river?’
The second archer shifted his position fractionally, easing the strain on his knees. Older than both Qadir and his second in command, he was stoic by nature and perhaps the steadiest of Qadir’s men, given to saying little unless he had something to say.
‘Better to make the other man die, I would say. And better to use the sharp ears that the Deasura gave us for the purpose of detecting movement in the dark rather more, and the tongues that we are supposed to use for the purpose of communicating with our fellow men, rather than idle chatter, somewhat less.’
Both men grinned at his dour chiding, respecting his wisdom, and silently nocked arrows to their bows, settling in for a long silent wait in the forest’s darkness.
Moving with slow, exaggerated grace, Gunda eased himself into the shadow of the first house that overlooked the path, now grown in width until it was practically a road, walking slowly down its length until he reached the end of the rough-walled building. Slowly leaning forward, he carefully observed the sleeping town, remembering his maternal grandfather’s frequent admonishment against making any sudden movement while stalking a beast in the forest, a lesson that seemed equally appropriate as he gambled his life on his skills to avoid detection by the tribe’s warriors. In the absence of a father, the older man had taken on the task of educating his grandson in the skills of a hunter with a combination of straightforward instruction hammered home by straightforward punishment of any error.
‘Your eyes should dart here and there as swiftly as a rat’s, boy, but your head needs to move as slowly as a bull’s! Your eyes are more like your grandmother’s first thing in the morning, staring at nothing for moments on end, and your head’s no slower than a weasel’s when it scents rabbits!’
He grinned at the memory of the old man gripping a wooden switch, the end flicking out to sting his ears whenever his movements were anything less than slow and smooth, then pushed the memory away to focus on the present. Somewhere close by a dog was asleep, the faint whimper of its dreams priming him for flight until he realised with a flood of relief that the animal was dreaming rather than growling a warning. The potential for any faint noise to wake the animal redoubled his awareness of the peril he was courting as he slowly settled into the building’s cover and slowed his breathing, listening for any hint of the men he was expected to meet.
The faint scrape of boot leather on the hard ground caught his attention, and he sank deeper into the cover of the building’s shadow as first one shadowy figure and then another pair of men detached itself from the darkness of the forest to his left. Standing stock-still, the newcomer stared about him with a slow sweep of his head and then, satisfied that he was unobserved, started forwards, moving stealthily into the settlement’s dark streets with his escort close behind, passing within a dozen yards of the crouching scout who slowly turned his head to the wall to prevent his being betrayed by the shine of his eyeballs. Holding his breath, he waited until the other man was safely past him before exhaling slowly, watching as the dark figures vanished into the shadows. Something in the first man’s gait had pricked his memory, and he stared into the gloom into which the half-seen intruder had vanished, his lips moving with a silent expression of amazement.
‘Surely not …?’
Slipping through the darkened streets of the city, the decurion called Dolfus stood for a moment on the corner of a building overlooking the king’s great hall before gesturing to his men to stay in the shadows, then crossed the road and entered the building through a door that had been left ajar. Inside the large wooden structure he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adapt to the almost complete absence of light.
A figure stepped out of the shadows with a bulky object in one hand and the blade of a long knife protruding from the other.
‘You’ve got balls of solid iron, Roman, to come here so brazenly.’
The man who had been waiting in the great hall’s shadows whispered the agreed challenge, then stepped forward to reveal himself to the waiting Roman. Dolfus stood stock-still at the sight of the long knife in the other man’s hand, its blade still wet with blood, and eased his arms away from his body to demonstrate that he represented no threat. Pitching his voice low, he replied to the challenge with the words that had been agreed years before.
‘Without risk, there can be no reward.’
The Bructeri nodded, handing an iron-bound wooden box to the decurion.
‘Your message gave me little time. To bring this here I took a risk that will see me cut to pieces on my tribe’s altar if it is ever discovered. No man could be allowed to live after such treachery, not even a man of my exalted rank. I can only hope that the end result will justify the risk into which your master has forced me.’
Dolfus bowed his head in respect for the evident danger to which the German had exposed himself.
‘This is the eagle?’
‘It is. It was taken when a legion was defeated in our war against the Romans alongside the Batavi, and claimed by my people as a prize of battle.’
Dolfus looked down at the wooden box, opening its lid to reveal the symbol of Roman power it contained, a once proud legion eagle fashioned of solid gold, although its surface had long since lost the brilliant shine that had once graced its outstretched wings.
‘A thing of beauty, is it not? And yet the best use we can put it to is to use it to torture the legionaries our warriors capture and bring across the river, heating it in a fire and branding them with its image while they are tied to our altar. A dangerous game, which must one day result in a punitive raid by your army that will leave this city a smoking ruin. And I will share their fate were my part in this theft ever discovered. Rome would lose a friend within my tribe, and a rare friend at that. Few other men have the sort of influence that I can wield.’
‘The eagle will be returned to your treasury soon enough, never fear.’ Dolfus closed the box, extending a hand to point at the Bructeri’s garment. ‘There is blood on your tunic.’
The other man looked down at the spots of blood that had been sprayed across him during his murder of the man who had been guarding the royal treasury.
‘It is of no matter, a clean tunic will be no great surprise the morning after a feast of that magnificence. We proceed as you proposed, in the message your men deliver
ed to me earlier?’
Dolfus nodded.
‘Yes. The eagle’s loss will be discovered, and suspicion will naturally fall upon them, suspicion they will very shortly be doing their best to encourage by riding for our bridge over the Rhenus. You must ensure that the king’s household pursues them to the gates of the fort that guards the crossing to demand the eagle’s return, at which point the plan will unroll just as I have proposed. You will be rid of the two men who have the most to gain from continued conflict with Rome, and Rome will have the prospect of an ally where there was previously only enmity. If we both follow our roles then mutual benefit will be the outcome.’
The Bructeri nodded tersely, his face set hard.
‘Let us hope so. My people need a change of fortune, and that can only be achieved by removing those who preach violence against your people. There will never be a better opportunity.’ The noble nodded to Dolfus and turned away, then stopped and looked back at the cavalry officer. ‘The Romans you betrayed are imprisoned close by, and I made sure that your men were allowed to witness their incarceration. Whether you choose to free them or leave them to suffer the tribe’s revenge for what is soon to happen is entirely your decision.’
He vanished into the shadows, leaving the cavalryman looking after him for a long moment before he too padded silently away from their meeting place and back out into the night.
‘What that?’
Sanga raised his head, looking at Saratos quizzically.
‘What’s what? You still hoping to overpower the—’
His friend put out a hand and placed it over his mouth, putting a finger to his own lips while his expression became one of warning that the Briton had learned from experience not to ignore. From outside the hut came the faintest of noises, a coughing grunt that was cut off almost as soon as it had been uttered, and then silence fell, only the minute scraping of boots in the dust betraying the presence of men outside the building. With a sudden heavy thud the bar that secured the hut’s entrance tumbled to the ground, and the door itself slowly opened, to reveal a single figure standing in the frame with a drawn sword, the blade dark with blood.
‘Wait!’
His whispered imperative stopped them in their tracks, as every man in the hut tensed himself to make a dash for it, and as they paused two more swords emerged from the darkness on either side of their apparent rescuer, the men wielding them instantly recognisable. He walked forward into the shaft of moonlight, revealing a face whose eyes were hard and intent on the men before him, his stance that of a man ready to use the blade in earnest.
‘Nobody leaves until we’ve got a few things straight. Which one of you is Cotta?’
The standard bearer stepped forward.
‘That’s me. Centurion, apparently condemned to a slow and horrible death as a result of being betrayed to the king of this particular shithole by men dressed just like you. Have you come to finish the job?’
The other man’s expression didn’t change.
‘If you’re Cotta then you’re the man I’m extracting from this mess, you and whoever you vouch for.’
The veteran bridled.
‘This mess?’ We were doing fine until some prick calling himself Dolfus marched into the feast and sold us out!’
The swordsman shook his head.
‘I doubt it, and I’ve got a good deal more experience of the way these people think than you do. I think it entirely more likely that the king’s nobles were planning to have you quietly killed later in the evening, or perhaps they’d have just thrown you in here until their priest was ready for you. But that is of little consequence. I’m here with orders to get you out, and take you to your comrades in the forest, wherever it is you’re planning to meet up with them.’
Cotta shook his head, feigning ignorance.
‘Friends in the forest? What—’
‘There’s no time for denials, Cotta, the man I’m working for knows everything about your mission to abduct the priestess, and he wants it to succeed just as much as the men who ordered it. So while Governor Albinus thinks he sent me out to betray you all to the Bructeri, to further some little spat he’s having with your tribune, I’m acting under orders from someone whose authority is somewhat stronger than his. So you can either come with us or I can just lock you back in to wait for the man I believe they call the Hand of Wodanaz to get round to putting you on his altar. You choose.’
‘My King! Wake up!’
Amalric rolled over in his bed and stared uncomprehendingly up the man standing over him, shaking his head as he fought to focus.
‘What?’
‘The treasury, my King! The treasury has been opened!’
Surging from his bed, suddenly, horribly, very much awake, the king pulled on a tunic and followed the man’s lead to the massive wooden door that was the only access to the stone staircase that ran down to the underground chamber where the tribe’s wealth was stored. Slumped against the door’s wooden frame was the body of the young warrior who had been tasked to guard the treasury the previous evening, his chest covered by a thick, dark red bloodstain. Offering a swift prayer for the dead man’s spirit before taking a torch from the wall sconce, the king strode down the stairs and into the repository of his tribe’s wealth, looking about him with a growing sense of relief.
‘Whoever they were, and however they managed to open the door, they don’t seem to have taken any—’ He stopped in mid-sentence as his eyes alighted on the spot where the tribe’s most valued spoil of war should have stood proudly in pride of place along the gold and silver plate, neatly stacked bags of coin and other valuable items. The words hissed out of him, amazement robbing him of any more than a whisper. ‘The eagle …’
‘My King?’
He swung to face the man, spittle flying from his lips as rage rose within him.
‘The eagle has been taken! Call for the men of my household!’
Gernot appeared at the slave’s side, his appearance as crisp as ever despite the hour, and his face grim.
‘I’ve already called for your warriors, my King. The men standing watch on the road to the south were ridden down a short time ago, and the Romans are not in the quarters we provided for them. It seems fair to assume that their presence here was always aimed at this theft, and that their condemnation of the trader and his men was simply a cover for their plan.’
Amalric snarled his fury at his closest advisor.
‘Very well! Have my household mounted and ready to ride at first light! I’ll show those thieving, murdering usurpers the limits of a king’s patience!’
Gernot nodded and turned away, careful to conceal his slight smile of satisfaction until his back was turned to the king.
‘As you command, my King.’
Cotta’s party and their rescuers were most of the way to the city’s eastern edge when a hissed challenge from the shadows froze them in their tracks. The armed men turned to face the potential threat.
‘Cotta!’
A figure detached from the shadows of the closest building with empty hands spread wide, his voice no more than a faint whisper.
‘Your tribune sent me to guide you to the meeting place.’ He looked more closely at the men around him, tilting his head in question. ‘Dolfus? It was you …’
Cotta turned to face the subject of his question.
‘Dolfus? But—’
‘Keep your fucking voice down. Yes, I’m Dolfus.’
‘But if you’re Dolfus …’
‘Save it.’ The command implicit in the whisper was unmistakable. ‘Yes Gunda, it’s me. You’d better get on with what you came here for, hadn’t you?’
The scout nodded, turning away wordlessly and leading them past the last of the houses and up the wide track that led into the forest.
‘But if he’s Dolfus …’
Sanga shrugged in reply to the veteran’s baffled question.
‘Fucked if I know. It’ll all be clear soon enough, so until then I’m just go
ing to work on not getting recaptured by those barbarian bastards.’
Saratos leaned over their shoulder.
‘Is easy enough. More than one man call self Dolfus.’
Dolfus himself chuckled quietly.
‘At least one of you has a brain then? Now shut up and follow the scout, the sooner we’re in the trees and out of sight the better. It’ll be dawn soon enough.’
Amalric looked out over the ranks of his household companion warriors, gathered before the King’s Hall dressed and equipped for war, their iron helmets and spear heads gleaming dully in the dawn’s cold light.
‘These Romans have gone too far! They have stolen our eagle! The prize that our ancestors fought and died to protect as we were driven from our tribal lands by the Chamavi and the Angrivarii! The trophy that is the symbol of the Bructeri people’s survival in the face of overwhelming numbers! And we will not tolerate this! I will not tolerate this!’
An angry rumble greeted his outraged statement of intent, the warriors raising their spears and calling for him to lead them in pursuit of the Romans.
‘Follow me, my brother warriors, follow me and we will recover what has been stolen or take the flame of our anger to these thieves!’
He looked at Gernot, who nodded approvingly at his words before turning to face the assembled warriors.
‘I stand with my king! I will fight with my king! And if necessary I will die for my king!’ He turned back to Amalric with a deep bow. ‘My King, your orders?’
The younger man took the reins of his horse from the man waiting with the beast, disdaining the offered hand up into the saddle and springing up onto the horse’s back, reaching down to take the spear that was held up for him.
‘We ride for the river!’
Gernot’s mouth split in a ferocious grin.
‘We ride on Rome! We ride!’
‘Men coming in!’
The hissed warning brought the detachment to a state of readiness to fight that showed no sign of either fatigue or hunger, Dubnus’s axemen crouching in the cover of the gulley’s lip, their evil-bladed weapons at the ready for a sprint at whatever enemy might have discovered them, while the Hamians nocked arrows and peered out into the gloom. An owl hooted mournfully twice, and Dubnus tipped his head on one side, waiting as the silence strung out.
Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 20
