***
On the heavily forested summit of Mount Sleza, a hundred or more camp fires were burning and glowing in the darkness. It was night and from the black moonless heavens snowflakes came slowly drifting down to earth. The hundreds of Germans, men, women and children, who had been waiting for the expedition and who had at first greeted the arrival of the Romans in solemn, curious silence, had at last retreated to their fires and were busy feasting, celebrating, eating and drinking. Their earlier silence had been completely turned on its head. Now the rowdy German singing, laughter, yelling, flute-playing and dancing disturbed the night, but around their own camp fires, the Roman legionaries sat in grim-silence, looking uncomfortable and out of place on this foreign mountain. Fergus sat in the snow in the second row, beside one of the large, crackling fires, just behind Hadrian, Titus and the Legate’s advisers. And as he turned to look around at the summit of this sacred mountain, he could not help feeling a tiny bit disappointed. After all the build-up, there was nothing here. No temple, no holy cave, not even a shrine. There was just the thick forest, the tangled undergrowth and the big cloudy sky above their heads. Where then did the Germans go to honour their Gods? Where did they leave their offerings? Where did they come to pray? It was not clear, nothing was, but Fergus had begun to suspect that the Germans did not honour their Gods in the same way as the Romans did. Perhaps for the Germans, their temple was just the open sky and the simple, wild magnificence of the forest grove, and as he thought about it, Fergus felt himself begin to like the idea more and more. The Germans Gods must live free amongst nature itself, not cooped up in a stone temple. They were certainly savage but they were also free and egalitarian. They were the Gods of a fierce, independent warrior people.
Abruptly Fergus’s attention was drawn back to the men, sitting around the large fire. The Romans were gathered around one side and facing them, across the crackling, spitting flames, were the Vandal Chieftains, dominated by the huge bulk of Ballomar, first man and leader of the Vandal tribes. From his position in the second row, Fergus had a good, unobstructed view of the Vandal chief. Ballomar looked around fifty. His chin and cheeks were covered by a grey beard and there was a calm, fearlessness and sharp intelligence in his eyes, that Fergus found disconcerting. The Vandal leader was clad in a great, black bearskin-cloak and the strands of his long dark hair were finely braided. The great man was flanked by five other German chieftains, with Gaiseric sitting furthest away from Ballomar. All of them were staring at Hadrian in stoic silence, as the Legate began to speak, choosing his words carefully and slowly, whilst at his side Adalwolf translated the words into German. Beside the fire, six wooden boxes had been set down in the snow, with their contents on show for all to see. In the leaping firelight, the thousands upon thousands of gold and silver coins gleamed and glinted, impossible to ignore.
‘The Emperor Trajan,’ Hadrian said in a quiet, confident voice, looking across the fire at Ballomar, ‘has instructed me to tell you that he wishes for peace between our two great peoples. The Emperor wishes for our old alliance to continue, so he has sent me to present you with these gifts.’
Patiently Hadrian waited for Adalwolf to translate and then the Legate gestured at the six boxes filled with gold and silver coins.
‘There is proof of Rome’s desire for peace and an alliance with the Vandal peoples,’ Hadrian said as he nodded at the chiefs sitting opposite him. ‘So what answer shall I take back with me to Trajan?’
For a long moment, no one around the fire spoke. Suddenly Fergus felt his mouth grow dry. If the Vandals rejected the treaty and turned on their guests, he and the whole expedition would be slaughtered like cattle. Tensely Fergus turned to look at Hadrian, but if the Legate was aware of the danger he showed no sign of it. Across the fire from Hadrian, Ballomar finally stirred and slowly ran his fingers across his cheek with a thoughtful gaze.
‘Our neighbours to the south,’ the Vandal leader growled in broken Latin. ‘The Marcomanni and the Quadi came to us a month ago with another proposal. They suggested that we join forces and attack the Danube frontier. They told us that Trajan had reduced his army along the frontier and sent his troops to fight the Dacians. So, it seems that you are in a weak bargaining position, Legate. Tell me then why we should not do as my neighbours propose?’
‘War is always an option,’ Hadrian replied lifting up his chin and fixing his eyes on Ballomar, ‘And one which Rome will never shy away from. Do not forget who we are. Do not underestimate the long reach of Rome. We are perfectly capable of fighting two or three major wars on different fronts. We have beaten the Marcomanni and Quadi before and we will do so again. Make no mistake. Trajan is a great warrior like you. He welcomes war.’ Hadrian sighed and looked away as he allowed Adalwolf to catch up with his translation. ‘But there is another way,’ Hadrian muttered. “Amongst the men I have brought here, I have thirty Batavian warriors, Germans in the service of Rome. They have served us faithfully for many generations and in return, live like free, independent and proud men. We do not rule them nor do we tax them, but each year they give us their finest warriors who we include in our armies.’ Hadrian paused again, his eyes on Ballomar. ‘The Emperor has also authorised me to offer you this. Give us your young noble born warriors, your second sons and we shall show them the world. We shall show them how the legions fight their wars.’
As Hadrian fell silent, a murmur arose amongst the Vandal chieftains. From his position across the fire, Ballomar was studying Hadrian with a shrewd look.
‘Just like Arminius and Flavius of the Cherusci did a hundred years ago,’ Ballomar muttered at last, as a faint smile appeared on his lips.
Hadrian nodded. ‘Yes,’ the Legate replied. ‘Just like the brothers Arminius and Flavius of the Cherusci. So, do we have an agreement?’
Ballomar turned to stare into the flames and the men around the fire fell silent as they waited for the great chief to make up his mind.
‘Alright, we shall be allies and friends of the Great Senate and People of Rome,” Ballomar said looking up at Hadrian. ‘Tell your Emperor; tell Trajan that he has nothing to fear from the Vandals.’
In his place beside the fire, Hadrian nodded his gratitude. But hardly had he done so when two of the Vandal chiefs sitting opposite him abruptly rose to their feet, spat into the fire and with an angry scowl, stomped away into the darkness. Unperturbed Ballomar turned to watch his two colleagues vanish into the night. Then with a little gesture he indicated to Gaiseric that he should go after them.
‘Is there a problem?’ Hadrian said with a frown, as Gaiseric silently rose to his feet and disappeared into the night.
Across from the Legate, Ballomar slowly shook his head. ‘They did not wish us to make a treaty of friendship with Rome,’ the big man replied sourly. ‘They wanted us to join your enemies instead, but the decision has been made.’
Ballomar turned to look around at the tense, Roman faces watching him intently from across the fire. “You have nothing to fear whilst you are here under my protection,’ Ballomar exclaimed. ‘But the time for talking is over. Let us feast and celebrate our new alliance.’
***
The Roman officers and their Vandal hosts were drunk. There was no shortage of alcohol and cups of beer and mead were flowing freely and around the crackling, spitting fire the men were in a jolly mood, laughing and joking. Only Titus seemed to still be sober. The Centurion sat on the ground, a cup of beer in his hand, staring tiredly into the flames and ignoring the conversation around him. Fergus sat a few paces away in the snow, feeling the heat from the fire on his face. He had hardly touched the beer the Germans had offered him. Some instinct seemed to be telling him that tonight, was not the night to get drunk. The two Vandal chiefs, who’d left in protest at Ballomar’s decision to renew the alliance with Rome, had not returned and neither had Gaiseric. Fergus sighed and was about to take a sip of beer, when in the flickering firelight he caught sight of a woman hunkering down amongst the trees a few yards away.
It was Titula and she was carefully watching him.
What did the woman want now? Wearily, Fergus stared at the slave girl. She no longer looked angry and there was something resigned in her expression. Abruptly he got up and strode towards her. The girl rose to her feet as he approached. Her large, pale blue eyes examining him cautiously.
‘I have a wife,’ Fergus said harshly. ‘She is expecting my child. I will remain loyal to her because I love her. Do you understand?’
Titula’s response was not what he had been expecting. Without uttering a sound, she reached out and respectfully touched the iron amulet around Fergus’s neck. For a long moment, her eyes were drawn to Galena’s amulet as she carefully turned it over in her fingers. Then she blushed and quickly looked away.
‘My wife gave it to me,’ Fergus said quietly as he looked down at the slave girl. ‘She said it would bring me good luck, that it would protect me.’
Titula turned to look down at her feet. Then she took a step towards him and wrapped her arms around his chest, burying her head against him and closing her eyes.
‘So you understand,’ Fergus said with a relieved sigh, as he wrapped an arm around her. Then slowly he reached out and forced her to look up at him. ‘So we are friends again,’ he muttered.
Titula was gazing up at him, examining him carefully. Fergus was suddenly aware of an infinite sadness about her. Then the moment passed and loosening her grip, Titula reached up to caress Fergus’s unshaven cheeks, and nodded. A little smile appeared on Fergus’s rugged features. Without warning, Titula broke away from him and with a sudden, excited smile she began to dance, kicking her legs up into the air as she whirled in and out of the trees, her white winter-cloak and arms swirling through the air. And as he stared at the slave girl, a party of Germans around one of the campfires, seeing Titula dancing, cried out, began to clap and stamp their feet on the ground.
It was late into the night and still the feast went on. Dozily Fergus sat beside the Roman officers around the fire, trying to keep his eyes open. Most of the men had already fallen asleep, overcome by too much beer. Now they lay snoring loudly around the blazing fire. Bleary-eyed Fergus stared into the flames. Just before he had gone to get some rest, Titus had ordered him to stay awake until the Legate called it a night. Under no circumstances, Titus had growled, must Hadrian be left on his own with these Germans, not in his drunken state. At Fergus’s side, Titula lay curled up against him, fast asleep, covered in her warm cloak. Around the fire the remaining men, Hadrian, Ballomar and the German chiefs were still awake, occasionally lifting their cups to their lips, as they continued to drink on in stubborn, drunken silence. And around them the snowflakes slowly continued to tumble down out of the heavens.
A sudden movement in the darkness, made Fergus raise his head. From the snowy gloom Gaiseric suddenly appeared and smoothly sat down beside the Vandal chiefs. The young prince looked stone-cold sober. He gave the Romans a quick contemptuous glance that Fergus noticed. Then he reached for a cup of beer and flung the contents down his throat in one go.
‘You,’ Hadrian said suddenly raising his finger to point at Gaiseric. ‘You look like a man who likes the taste of cock in his mouth. Well do you?’ Hadrian exclaimed, slurring his words as he swayed drunkenly.
‘What?’ Gaiseric frowned, looking taken aback.
‘You heard me,’ Hadrian growled, slurring his words again. ‘I said you look like a man who would enjoy the company of other men. You look like a homosexual. Did you know that such men are forbidden from serving in the legion’s? I could have you sacked for that.’
Across the fire Gaiseric was staring at the Legate with growing anger.
‘I like the company of men,’ Hadrian grunted drunkenly. ‘And I also like women but you. You remind me of someone who just likes cock.’
Slowly Gaiseric rose to his feet, his face seething with rage as he stared at Hadrian. But as he slowly reached for the knife hanging from his belt, Ballomar and the other chiefs suddenly burst out laughing. From his position beside the fire, Hadrian too broke out into a giggling fit as he stared up at Gaiseric.
‘Sit down Gaiseric,’ Ballomar boomed. ‘Don’t be so easily offended. Our guest is just jesting with you, man.’
‘No I am not,’ Hadrian cried out, as he burst out into another giggling fit. ‘I meant that as an insult. You were useful but I never liked you. You remind me of a snake, twisting this and that way.’
Quickly Fergus cleared his throat as he saw Gaiseric’s silent fury turn to pure hatred.
‘Sir, I think it is time for you to retire to your tent,’ Fergus said hastily. ‘If you follow me I shall show you the way. Please Sir.’
Beside the fire Hadrian’s giggling fit slowly passed and he nodded.
‘Yes you are right; it’s time to sleep,’ Hadrian muttered, rising unsteadily to his feet.
Fergus caught the Legate by his arm and steadied him and as he led Hadrian towards his tent, he turned to see Gaiseric watching them in bitter, furious silence.
Chapter Thirty-Three – Homeward Bound
The sky was heavily overcast. It was noon and the small Roman expedition strode onwards through the vast forest, strung out along the snow-covered path. Amongst the trees and deep snow-drifts, all was quiet, peaceful and nothing moved. Fergus, clutching his shield and with his equipment slung over his shoulder on his wooden marching pole, trudged along at the front of the column and just behind Titus, Adalwolf and Hadrian. The men were moving along in a single file, huddled under their thick, hooded white winter-cloaks and no one seemed interested in talking. Two days had passed since the treaty of alliance between Rome and the Vandals had been concluded, and that morning Hadrian, still looking hungover, had finally ordered the company homewards. The long walk back home had begun. Fergus had been present that morning at the ‘O group meeting,’ when Hadrian, Gaiseric, Adalwolf and Titus had discussed the route home. The officers had agreed that the expedition would head straight for the Moravian Gates, a hundred and fifty-mile trek through the flat, heavily forested plains that lay to the north of the Sudeten mountains. The ten surviving mules were just about able to carry enough food for the expedition to make it home but it would be tight and food would have to be strictly rationed. Once in the mountain pass the expedition would pick up the amber road and head south through the territory of the Marcomanni and Quadi, until they reached the Danube frontier. With a bit of luck the journey would take about a month.
Guardedly, Fergus raised his head to gaze at Hadrian. The Legate had his back to him as he strode on along the path. The man had acted foolishly, when in his drunken state, he had insulted Gaiseric and during the ‘O group meeting’ that morning both Hadrian and Gaiseric had refused to look at each other. Stupid, stupid, stupid, so unnecessary Fergus thought, as he gazed at Hadrian. It remained to be seen whether those two would be able to bury their quarrel. Wrenching his eyes away from the Legate, Fergus gave Titula a little playful shove. The slave girl responded by darting away into the trees, and a moment later a volley of snow-balls came hurtling towards him. Fergus grinned as he dodged them.
‘Enough of that,’ Titus’s annoyed voice boomed as the Centurion turned around and glared at Fergus. ‘You are third in command of this company, act like it.’
‘Yes Sir,’ Fergus replied hastily as he rearranged the expression on his face. From behind a tree he caught Titula watching him with a mischievous look. Quickly he shot her a warning look and shook his head. The girl’s sharp mood swings were hard to understand, but amongst the company her presence seemed to have had a strange calming effect on the men.
From up the path there was a sudden shout and instantly Titus raised his fist above his head and the column of men behind him came to an abrupt halt. A moment later several Batavian horsemen appeared and came trotting down the track. The men looked anxious, and as he caught sight of their faces, Fergus felt a sudden cold, invisible finger of warning touch his temple. Titus was peering at the riders as they came towards hi
m.
‘Sir,’ one of the Batavian’s called out. ‘The Vandal guides. They have disappeared. Gaiseric and his men are gone.’
‘What?’ Titus and Hadrian exclaimed at the same time.
‘They have gone Sir,’ the Batavian rider repeated. ‘Vanished into the forest. All of them.’
‘Shit,’ Titus muttered in an annoyed voice, turning to face Hadrian. ‘Now we have lost our guides. How the hell will we find our way home?’
Hadrian did not reply. Moodily he turned to gaze at the ground as he seemed to be thinking about what to do.
‘Alright Centurion,’ the Legate muttered at last raising his head. ‘Tell the men that we will rest here for a while and gather your officers together. If Gaiseric has deserted us we must come up with a new plan.’
The legionaries were sitting hunkered down in the snow along the forest path when Furius who had been with the rear-guard, came striding towards the small group of officers clustered around Hadrian. The Optio was still suffering from his cold and his head was covered and bound by two scarves and a grey fur Vandal hat. His face looked pale and he was shivering as he hastened to Titus’s side.
‘What’s going on?’ Furius muttered.
‘Gaiseric has gone and taken his guides with him,’ Fergus replied quietly.
‘Fuck,’ Furius groaned as he sniffed and held his hand up to his nose.
Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5) Page 31
