He fell silent staring intently down the track’s barely visible ribbon of darkness.
‘Did you hear that?’
Cotta shook his head.
‘No, but then your ears are sharper than mine. What was it?’
The decurion shook his head.
‘Probably nothing. An animal of some nature, perhaps, whatever lives in this desert of water. It was out in the marsh over there …’ He pointed to the right. ‘Where only a fool would try to walk. They’ll come up the road, that’s obvious, form a line here and then charge us through what little standing water there is between here and the island.’
He stood.
‘I’m going to go and make sure that the others are ready to fight. If you see or hear anything that looks like the Bructeri—’
‘You’ll be the first to hear about it, trust me. I plan to shout loudly enough for everyone for five miles to hear me.’
Sitting alone by the fire, with only the recumbent bodies of Scaurus and Marcus for company, Gerhild sat with her eyes closed and her lips moving silently in prayer. Dolfus stood over her for a moment, but if the seer noticed his presence in her half-trance she gave no sign of it, and the decurion’s stare passed over her to the place where Marcus lay as still as a corpse, barely even seeming to breathe.
‘As I expected – useless.’
He moved on, finding the closest of his men and squatting down on his haunches to wait for the coming attack with his sword drawn.
Gerhild’s eyes opened, and she drew in a lungful of air as if surfacing from beneath deep water, looking around herself at the deserted fire and the two sleeping men.
‘It is time then.’ Looking over her shoulder she spoke a single word, the note of command in her voice almost palpable in the cold night air. ‘Wake!’
Reaching out, she took a handful of what firewood remained and placed it above the heart of the small fire’s flames, staring down into the blaze with a rapt expression, her lips moving again. The wood caught light with a sudden crackle, each of the slim sections of tree branch igniting in swift succession and burning with a flare of light that threw shadows out across the marsh to the west. Another handful of wood flared up with equal speed, casting an orange light across the marshy landscape and revealing the scene that the seer had seen so many times in her dreams.
‘What are you doing, woman!’ Dolfus was suddenly standing over her with his sword drawn, his face contorted by anger. ‘The light will—’
‘The light will illuminate your enemies! They come from where you least expect it!’
As he stared at her, aghast, she took a handful of wool from the thick soldier’s cloak she had been given to replace her own, painstakingly pulled to pieces during the night, and threw it onto the growing blaze with a swift incantation. The oil-soaked wool took light with a spectacular flare, sending a tongue of flame high into the air between them, and Gerhild pointed to the west with sudden vehemence that rocked the Roman back on his heels despite himself.
‘Your enemy is there!’
‘Just a few dozen paces more.’
Amalric nodded at Gernot’s whispered comment, looking across the twenty paces of marsh that separated his men from the Roman camp. Their enemy’s fire was now in clear view, no longer hidden from them by the shields that had been arrayed to prevent its light being spied from the track. Having followed the huntsman’s lead away from the road to the west they had progressed in a wide arc around higher ground on which the Romans had taken shelter as predicted.
‘There!’
The king stared as a figure crossed in front of the fire, a distinctive silhouette in Roman armour.
‘There, my brothers. There are the men who stole our eag—’
He fell silent as the fire suddenly seemed to strengthen, and then grow brighter still as if new life had been breathed into its embers. A crackling noise was suddenly audible over the wind’s soft moan, and then, with a sudden incandescence that made the warriors blink with the ferocity of its assault on their eyes, the fire grew from a blaze to a tongue of flame fully as high as a man, its brilliance illuminating the Bructeri and casting their long shadows over the abruptly lit landscape.
Gerhild threw another handful of wool onto the fire, and in the renewed blaze of light Dolfus saw what it was she was pointing at, a line of men splashing towards the island through knee-deep water, their swords and spears shining in the fire’s orange light. Discovered, they roared their battle cries and came on at speed, wading through the muddy water in a fast-closing line of gleaming iron and snarling anger. The decurion raised his voice to call his men, shouting over the Bructeri’s growing tumult.
‘To me! The fight is here!’
Turning back to face the enemy he heard shouts and running feet behind him as the defenders realised their predicament and hurried to join him. Arminius ranged alongside him, his shield snatched from beside the fire and his spear held in a low guard, the boy Lupus beside him with a look so fierce that the Roman was almost moved to laugh, his two troopers alongside them and the giant Lugos at the line’s far end, the huge Briton hefting a heavy wooden club. Then the Bructeri were upon them, straggling out of the water one and two at a time as the differences in their size and strength, and the deepness of the water told on each man’s ability to get into the fight. Rather than charge into battle individually they paused to form a line ten paces from the waiting defenders, gathering their strength to attack as one, and Dolfus’s heart sank as he realised that they outnumbered his men two to one. Gernot stepped out of the water into their midst, pointing his sword at the men silhouetted by the fire’s light on the slope above him and bellowing a challenge.
‘There they are, my brothers, there they are! They have our eagle! They have our priestess, our sister! Kill them all!’
They advanced slowly up the slope in a wall of spear points, weighed down by their sodden clothing but resolute, each man singling out one of the defenders, and in that moment Dolfus knew that fight was as good as lost, that for every spear thrust his men could make, two or three would come back at them, making any resistance they could offer doomed to fail.
‘Die hard, you fuckers! Make them pay!’
He started at Cotta’s furious bellow, as the veteran bulled his way into the line alongside him with his spear held ready to fight.
‘You’re a brave man, Centurion. I’d have been tempted to be away up the ro—’
Something whipped past the Roman and struck a man in the Bructeri line, a spear thrown from his right, and while the dying warrior was still tottering on his feet with the spear’s blade protruding from his back, a figure bounded forward from out of the fire’s incandescent glow, throwing himself down the slope at the enemy line with a scream of pure animal rage that raised the hairs on Dolfus’s neck. Diving beneath the shocked tribesmen’s raised spears he came to his feet against their shields in a whirl of polished iron, elbowing the warrior directly behind him in the throat and then backhanding the gladius held in his right hand down into another’s thigh while hacking at the spear shafts to his left with the longer, pattern bladed sword to prevent them being turned on him.
‘Throw your spears and get into them!’
One of the tribesmen had dropped his framea and drawn his dagger, and as he drew it back to strike at the Bructeri’s assailant, Cotta hurled his own spear, spitting the man through his guts and dropping him kicking to the ground.
‘Throw!’
The sight of the enemy warrior dying on his spear’s shaft, and the whiplash of Cotta’s shouted order galvanised them, more spears lancing into the enemy line to either side of the bloody-handed fighter, who had turned away a spear thrust with his gladius and countered with his long sword, severed fingers flying as the blade met flesh and bone.
‘Into them!’
The defenders went down the slope at the run with their swords drawn, punching with their shields, stabbing with the points and using their momentum to push the Bructeri back into the wa
ter, leaving men bleeding where they had fallen. As the tribesmen struggled to fight back a man staggered from their line with an arrow in his chest, another dropping in the water at their feet a moment later with a bloody shaft protruding from his face, and as they wavered under the fresh attack a massive figure stepped into the marsh’s water, Lugos swinging his club in a wide arc to land a blow against his victim’s hastily raised shield that smashed the wooden board in two and flung him into the marsh water clutching at his wrecked ribcage.
Dolfus watched as the war band’s remnant backed away from them into the darkness that was encroaching once more as the fire’s momentary burst of flame died away, crouching behind their shields as another arrow took a tribesman’s leg away from beneath him. Dolfus then turned to address the man who had unexpectedly turned the fight, only to freeze as a long, pattern-bladed sword pricked the skin of his throat.
‘Aquila …’
‘Hold this moment in your memory, Decurion. I have your life in my sword hand, and one swift movement would be all it would take to deprive you of it. Remember this the next time you think to decry any man whose experiences have left him less than the man he was.’ He stepped back and sheathed the weapon, nodding to Cotta. ‘It will be dawn shortly. I suggest we leave this place as soon as we have some light, and make our way to the decurion’s meeting point before the locals come to investigate?’
‘It’s not very far now, a mile or so.’ Tiro nudged his horse to the left, skirting a copse that loomed out of the dawn mist. ‘I have to warn you that the meeting point I’ve agreed with my man Dolfus can be a little grisly at times.’
‘Grisly, Tiro?’
‘Yes. It was the site of a huge running battle between the men of three legions and five tribes. The legionaries came over a forested mountain over there …’ He pointed to their right. ‘With the tribesmen on them like wild dogs, snapping at them from all directions without any let up. They’d already lost one major battle on the other side of the range and were in full retreat, running for Aliso without very much of a semblance of discipline, although it was to get much worse as they got further south and the Germans just kept on coming at them all the way through the marsh. It was raining, pouring down if the accounts from the men that got away are to believed, the ground was soft even this high above the marsh, the army had already been cut into two halves and men were starting to panic. They marched and fought or they died, it was that simple, and most of those who fought and marched still died. At one time there were bones and pieces of broken armour all over this area, where legionaries who chose to run, or fell out of their units with exhaustion, or just got lost in the bad weather were brought to bay and slaughtered, but most of what was scattered this far from the main route of retreat was collected and buried further down the hill.’
He grimaced wryly.
‘Although once the avenging legions under Tiberius and Germanicus had finished slapping the tribes around for their temerity, and the new emperor had decided to make the Rhenus the permanent frontier, their remains were promptly dug up and scattered again, or used to decorate every sacred grove from here to the Albis. But that’s not all that was scattered across these hills. There’s a reason why the locals call this place the field of bones and gold.’
The mist had cleared a little, and the hillside before them was clear for several hundred paces. Tiro shifted in his saddle, looking about him with the air of a man disappointed at the absence of something or other.
‘Bones and gold?’
He nodded at Varus, returning his attention to the story.
‘Indeed. You see there’s an instinctive reaction on the part of most soldiers to impending battle, especially when the fight looks like something of a lost cause, as it obviously was by the time the remnants of three legions were fighting their way down these hills in the teeth of constant tribal attacks. And that instinct is to hide one’s most precious possessions, either to prevent the enemy from getting their hands on them or for later recovery, in the event that the individual in question manages to escape death. Sometimes men bury their gold, especially when they have too much of it to easily conceal, sometimes a more direct means of concealment is called for.’
‘They swallow the coins.’
Tiro smiled at Dubnus.
‘There speaks a veteran. Yes, a soldier in imminent danger does strange things, and sometimes one man’s example can spread through a tent party, or a century, or even a cohort, like fire in dry grass. And on this hillside in the pouring rain and howling wind, with numb fingers slipping on sword hilts and shields so wet they weighed twice as much as usual, the soldiers simply swallowed their gold.’ He dipped a hand into his purse and held up a gold coin. ‘See, it’s small enough to slip down easily enough. And in the course of what followed they were killed, for the most part, and left to rot where they lay, once they’d been stripped of their equipment and weapons. Of course their bodies were dragged about a good deal by the carrion birds and wolves, which meant that any gold in their guts was spread over a wider area than if they’d simply rotted away to bones where they lay. And so to this day there are still coins to be found, and the occasional bone for that matter, if a man has the nerve to brave the hillside, given it’s supposed to be haunted by the spirits of the men who were killed here. Every now and then someone goes treasure hunting and doesn’t come back, which is, of course, much more likely to be the result of earthly jealousy or simple robbery, but the more exciting explanation is usually the one that sticks in the minds of the impressionable. Speaking of whom …’
He rose up in his saddle looking around in search of something that wasn’t readily apparent.
‘Ah … Tiro? Those men of the Angrivarii tribe you’re waiting for …?’
The spy relaxed his thighs and sat back down on the horse’s back, looking over at Varus with a raised eyebrow.
‘Centurion?’
‘I have a confession to make.’
‘I see. Well I’m sure you’ll be happier with whatever it is that’s on your mind out in the open.’
‘Indeed. Well, it’s to do with the fact that you can’t see the men you were expecting to meet here.’
Tiro raised an eyebrow.
‘Is it? Should I be expecting to feel both a sense of respect for your abilities in the field of clandestine intelligence and just a little disappointment at being outwitted?’
‘I’m afraid so, Tiro.’
The older man shook his head in disgust.
‘It happens every now and then, usually just as I’ve convinced myself that nothing can go wrong. Go on then.’
‘Are you sure you’re alright with his weight, Lugos?’
The giant Briton looked down at Marcus with a sober nod.
‘Can carry he all day if need.’
Scaurus had remained unconscious throughout their hurried preparation to move from the campsite, and the big man had ended the short debate as to what was to be done with him by scooping his recumbent form up into his arms and striding away to the waterlogged track while Marcus and Dolfus had stared after him. Walking their horses, now that the risk of being overhauled by enough Bructeri to overwhelm them was no longer a threat, the party had made the three-mile march through a dawn rendered uniformly grey by the mist that hung heavily over the waterlogged land, with Munir walking at their rear alongside Arminius and Lupus, his bow strung and ready to shoot. After an hour’s walk Gunda indicated that they should leave the path and strike off up a shallow, grassy slope studded with trees and bushes. A dark line of trees dominated the northern horizon, rising away into the mist, and at the edge of the forest three men on horses waited. When they spotted the detachment they trotted their mounts down the field until Marcus recognised two of the riders, standing with his hands on his hips and a broad grin as they dismounted to stand either side of a man whose face was familiar without his immediately being able to put a name to it.
‘Your posture in the saddle looks almost natural, Dubnus. Perhaps practice
really does make perfect?’
The Briton walked forward and wrapped his arms around his friend, looking him up and down.
‘And you look like a man I used to know. What happened?’
Marcus tilted his head to indicate Gerhild.
‘The priestess happened, it seems. One moment we were talking, and the next I awoke as if from a long sleep to find myself in the middle of a fight. And I am … myself, again, or perhaps just most of the man I used to be.’
The Briton stared at Gerhild for a moment, but her return stare was unabashed.
‘A healer must heal, or what purpose does she serve?’
Marcus looked at Tiro again, his eyes narrowing in recognition.
‘I remember you now … but …’
‘But I’m the governor’s secretary?’ He shrugged. ‘That is one of the roles I fulfil within the administration of Germania Inferior, but hardly the most important.’
Varus cut across the spy, his impatience evident.
‘He spies on the governor for Cleander. And if your old friend Clodius Albinus has been somewhat amateur in his attempts to deal with the tribune, this man’s efforts have been nothing other than entirely professional. We were supposed to be met here by a hundred warriors of the Angrivarii tribe who Tiro intended would take every man here other than himself and Dolfus into the forest and butcher them. Even these two.’
He waved a hand at the cavalry troopers, who shot their decurion venomous looks.
‘And what about the priestess?’
The young Roman looked at Tiro with a questioning expression.
‘Do you want to tell them, or shall I?’
The spy sighed.
‘The witch was to stay here, with the Angrivarii, as a bargaining tool for them to use in keeping the new king of the Bructeri in his place. That was the price I offered them for their co-operation in killing all of you. But I’m still trying to work out how you know all this?’
Varus turned towards him.
‘For a man who’s so very well connected I have to say you seemed to have missed something rather obvious, Tiro. Even the governor knew that my uncle Julius had played a significant part in cementing relations with a number of tribes on this side of the Rhenus, including, should you still harbour any confusion on the matter, the Angrivarii. Apparently by the time he’d hunted and hawked with them, and fought their champion with naked blades to prove his manhood, the tribe’s king was so taken with him that he named my uncle Julius as his brother.’ He sniffed. ‘I believe they went so far as to clasp bloody palms, or some equally barbaric ritual of unending friendship. Anyway, given that neither Dubnus nor I is foolish enough to take a man like you at face value, I was careful to speak privately with the Marsi king, when I got the chance. Apparently dear old Julius left his mark there too, and Sigimund was only too happy to discuss the state of the world with his friend’s nephew once everyone else was abed. He showed me the message you’d written to the king of the Angrivarii, and upon the application of a suitable amount of gold he was more than happy to allow me to substitute a message of my own. A message from a close relative of the Angrivarii king’s favourite blood brother, which effectively makes me some sort of adopted nephew, and therefore with my honesty and probity beyond question. A few months from now he’ll be a hundred thousand denarii better off, small change to a family of our status, and everyone will be happy with their lot. The Angrivarii have been watching us, of course, Dubnus picked them out from the start, but they’ll allow us free passage back to the Marsi, and the Marsi will of course honour their promise to you, delighted that Rome has seen better of the idea of transporting Gerhild across their territory while, of course, holding us to your side of the bargain. As I said, everyone will be happy except for you.’
Altar of Blood: Empire IX Page 38
