“Shit,” the Thracian said, and grabbed his gourd back, and emptied it.
“And when will Marcus come?” Tudrus asked.
“We have an hour after Sunna rides her chariot beyond,” the Gold Wolf said. “Gods above, below, and elsewhere; what have you gotten me into. I’ll be hung on a tree.”
I smiled coldly. “They will nail you on one, rather. Try to die in battle.”
“So, soon,” Tudrus said.
The last wagon rocked, as the first ones turned to travel up the hill. Then, the drapes moved.
I saw Postumus. I knew it was him. He was climbing out of the wagon’s side door, and agilely made his way to the roof, and popped down on a seat next to a driver. He didn’t look solemn, but was smiling viciously as he stared back at Rome. The bitterness and hatred he felt for the country of his birth was clear on his face.
He looked like me.
And he looked like Father.
His hair was curly, and he had a beard. He was tall, and hugely powerful in shoulders and his neck was bulging with muscle. His hands were restless and kept moving as he stared at the riders and at two men closest to him, both armored, and apparently, leaders of the caravan and the guards, who gazed up at him warily. Livia had made sure everyone thought he was violent, mad, and unsuitable company for any Roman noble. That made him a virtual prisoner. And being held a prisoner made him seem mad and unsuitable for Roman company indeed. He was likely unable to hold his peace when insulted, frustrated over the years beyond repair. Livia had done well. She often did, in matters of manipulation and evil.
Father’s favorite son.
The one he loved. The one he had never seen, but preferred to Gernot and me.
And yet, I wondered, would Postumus feel cursed rather than blessed when he met Father? Would he learn to fear the man, like I had? To hate?
The last wagon rode up the hill, slowly. I resisted looking after them.
We had an element of surprise.
Sunna was setting, and we sat there, waiting, and then saw a rider on the road south for Rome. He waved his hand at us. We got up, and briskly walked that way.
The wagon of Marcus was sitting a short way away. The Gold Wolf hailed his mercenaries, over twenty tough men with small shields, curved short swords, called sica, and half held rhomphaia, the terrible pole-weapons with long straight blades, and odd, shorter-than-the-blade grips. The men greeted us with nods. They all looked deadly and confident, all wore chain under their tunics, and grinned like demons.
The Gold Wolf smiled at the sight of his band, caught a boy of six running from the group, and kneeled next to a coughing girl, and I walked past him, and pushed into the Thracian group.
There stood the red-headed Hermanduri warrior. He held a sword, and eyed the men around him warily. And there too, was Marcus. He was pale as snow, trembling, and turned to look at me.
“Are you ready, Hraban?” he whispered.
“I am,” I said with a smile, “though as nervous as you. The deal still stands. Let us get to it.” Wandal and Agetan appeared, and pushed to surround the two. I pointed a finger at Herman. “Except for you.”
“What?” asked the man, eyes on each one of us, turning around.
“Just die well,” I snarled, and pulled my sword.
His eyes betrayed shock, he lifted his sword, and roared as he brought it down.
I caught his wrist, slammed my sword’s hilt in his face, and Wandal and Agetan pulled him down. The man was half-conscious, and I squatted next to him.
“You sure, Hraban?” Wandal asked with worry. “You have given us no reason for this.”
“Consider him a sacrifice before battle,” I said, gave the pale Marcus a quick look, and nodded towards Herman. “I can leave him alive. But should I? How much did you owe him?”
He licked his lips. “I owe his brothers as well. I don’t know why you are doing this.”
I winked. “I’ll explain later. And you should listen, unless you wish to discuss with my father your many transgressions. There is a twist to the deal, and I need you. You owe me.”
“I don’t want to owe you any more than I owe them,” he whispered.
Tudrus was frowning. “What is this about? You think it would make sense that you explain a bit more about this plan of yours?”
“This,” I said, “is my own business.” I nodded at Marcus. “Don’t want to owe me? Then he shall go free,” I told him, and began to get up.
He looked away. “Wait. Perhaps I can … owe you some.”
I laughed. I pushed the blade down, and Herman shrieked, the call echoed in the hills, and I stepped away from the man.
Everyone was staring at me, and I hardened my heart.
For Cassia, and Gervas.
“Marcus. Climb on the wagon, and we shall get to work.” He nodded and I stopped him, and spoke to his ear. “I shall explain a bit later what I expect from you.”
“You are risking Tiberius’s deal,” he told me.
“No, but I am adding to it. Now, get to the top. Tell the lot up there in the villa you have gifts here, and none must open the door.”
Marcus was cursing as he climbed and sat next to a wagon rider, another Thracian. While my friends looked like they had been sullied by shit, the practical Thracians pulled the corpse out of the road, looted it, and one by one, we and three of the Thracians climbed to the wagon. Shields, spears, and tight places don’t mix, but we pushed in. Wandal and I, Tudrus and Agetan, and others settled in as best we could. In the end, there were eight of us crammed in there. Pila, javelins, weapons tight against our bodies, The Gold Wolf was the last one that pushed in. He nodded and outside, men pushed the door shut and called out. The rest of his men had another mission.
“Will be desperate,” he muttered.
“Will be a damned nightmare,” I answered as the wagon lurched on.
“How long do we keep the gate?” Wandal asked, sweating in the small compartment.
Ten men, with the driver.
Not many were needed to take the gate, but to hold it, there were too few.
Tudrus spoke miserably, pressed against Agetan. “Some long minutes. We must pass the guards on the hillside without alerting them. And then we kill the lot at the gate.”
The trip up the road, and then the hillside seemed to take ages. Marcus was speaking, and I knew he was praying, and the horses were whinnying. Someone greeted them on the way up, a few of Livia’s guards tapped the wagon with spear shafts, and The Gold Wolf stiffened each time, and then relaxed, as the guards were left behind.
Soon, we heard a wooden creak as the gates were being opened, we heard calls that echoed on a yard, and Marcus was speaking softly. The wagon rumbled forward and to the side and I heard Marcus jumping down.
“This way,” said a gruff voice. “Are you alone? Where is your man?”
“Sick. I have some presents from Maroboodus inside, but I shall have them brought in later,” he said. “My man shall guard them. Please, take me to them first.”
“Gifts,” the guard said dubiously, “are surely appreciated before you speak with them?”
“No,” Marcus said. “First I must see they are worthy of such gifts, eh?”
The man laughed. “Indeed, for they might be rotten, spoiled shits the lot. Yes, come this way. They are in as good spirts as can be expected. Travel, you see—” the voice said, and receded, and then we waited. I counted to a hundred.
The men were waiting patiently. Finally, the driver knocked on the roof. The way was supposed to be clear.
I hesitated.
“Shall we?” Tudrus whispered. “Might as well, Hraban. Pray Woden they are all busy picking their arses.”
“It is a fitting prayer,” I agreed, and nodded.
The Gold Wolf opened the door, looked around carefully, frowned, and stepped out. The rest of us followed, holding the shields and weapons carefully so as not to make too much noise. It was inevitable we would make some, but we managed to enter the yard w
ith some grace. The great main building was to our left, the gates a short run to the right. The driver jumped down holding a sica, the curved blade like a claw in his hand. I nodded, men hefted their javelins, swords, spears, and shields, and in the shadow of the wagon, we prepared and sneaked for the gate, but slowly. When everyone looked ready, I pointed a pilum towards the gates.
“Go,” I hissed.
We spread out, and trotted for the gates, and I saw two men standing by the closed doors. I flipped my pila into a throwing position, Wandal did as well, and we got so close we could hear the men talking lazily of their lives and their damned mothers.
One’s eyes flickered our way.
He saw ten shadowy men rushing forward. He opened his mouth to squeak a question.
“What—” he began.
I tossed the pila. Other pilum and Thracian javelins slashed past me. All hit the men. Mine cut crudely into a man’s leg. Two struck a turning man in the chest and belly, and one or two burst thought my target’s shoulder and chest.
Both men fell on their backs, surprisingly silently. “Gates, fast,” I panted, as I pulled Nightbright and stabbed at the squirming, panting, and dying man below me.
Someone in the yard called a warning. A dog barked. Another joined in.
Then, there were yells from the house, echoing from the stables to the side, and alarmed questions, and I saw shadows moving across the front of the great house. There was a glint of blade and spear.
Two Thracians had lifted the bar and pushed at the gate. Wandal helped them and they heaved hard, and the gate sprang open. The men began pushing stones and broken pila to keep the gates open, and Wandal threw the bar to the darkness beyond.
I turned back towards the yard.
A mass of men stood there, uncertain. The silence was odd, almost like the time had stopped. Woden’s anger played in my veins, and impatience made me shake.
A man called out. “What is this? Who are out?”
Tudrus was cursing. “Go and tell them.”
I stepped forward and pointed a sword at a group of men. “We are here for a fight. Come, whoresons, and dance a Germanic dance! Take a piss before you come, so you won’t have to embarrass yourself during the scrap!” Tudrus stepped to my side, and Agetan on the other, and Wandal came to my back.
The Gold Wolf grinned, pulled out a horn, and blew a sharp note that echoed harshly on the hill.
The Thracians bunched around us into a line that covered the gate. Their odd, slightly curved weapons and the terrible polearms were ready, their small shields in a brave line alongside ours, we stared balefully at the men we hoped to send to Hel.
There were a dozen men bunched before the house. Not all had shields, all were confused, and some rushed back in to fetch more weapons and men.
Then, amongst them, I saw the two riders who had been with Postumus. Both were wide, confident fighters, and they were the apparent leaders amongst the men. They stepped forward.
“A fight, eh?” one, a thick-lipped bastard called out. “What was the horn about?”
I pointed my sword at him. “Don’t worry about it. Are you going to lead them, or not?”
He snorted as some twenty men heaved to a column around him. “You made a damned big mistake, you shit-eating brute. Come, men! There are dogs manning the gate. Let’s close the gate! Gold to the man who brings me the peasant alive!”
The lot stared at me.
Sword and spear flashed as they moved closer to each other, all preparing to charge. There was no order in the enemy formation, so they were not former legionnaires, only mercenaries. All were well-armed, and likely knew how to use the weapons. Chain, leather, sword, dagger, and half held shields and spears, and we would fight for our lives in a moment. The Thick-Lip eyed his friend, a man with a hooked nose, and they spoke, until they heard screams downhill.
The Gold Wolf laughed. “Hope you like company!”
There were screams of pain below on the hillside, and guards yelling frightened challenges.
The Thick-Lip realized we had more men coming, and his guards on the hill were in trouble.
“The gate! Fast now!” the man yelled and gestured for us with his gladius. His men took a step forward, looking at each other uncertainly. They eyed the big, deadly weapons some of the Thracians carried, and hesitated.
The Hook-Nose kicked a man in the arse.
The lot ran for us like a panting pack of dogs.
“Hold the line!” The Gold Wolf screamed. “Put them down! Leave me a rich one, eh?” The Thracians who had them lobbed their pila and javelins at the approaching enemy. Two men fell violently, howling and twitching, crying piteously, but twice our number was still coming, and both of their leaders were with them. More and more shadows rushed forward from the bowels of the house.
A man holding a spear came for me, a thick necked brute with gleaming eyes. He came for my shield, hissing, but Agetan’s spear thrust forward, pushed into his belly, and he fell on my feet where he yelled piteously, in terror. I stabbed down quickly and he went quiet. The next man came to Tudrus, who rammed his blade at the man’s face, then throat, and he fell on a Thracian spear. We took steps back, and then a wave of enemy crashed into us. My shield shuddered, I saw a hand grasping it then another clawing at my face and Nightbright stabbed and I pushed the blade into flesh. Wandal pushed his spear over my shoulder, and a man yelled, eye gone. Agetan was chanting in tune with his mighty thrusts, and Tudrus was laughing; a thin, cold voice fit for a wight. The Thracians were guarding each other staunchly, and three, then four of the guards fell, wounded, dying, victims of their wicked blades, and some were missing entire limbs.
And still, the chaotic mass was impossible to stop.
We were pushed back, and back again, with little time to do more than try to hold the shieldwall in place, as spears and swords clattered on our shields and drew blood.
The Thick-Lip appeared before me, elbowing his way through two of his timid men. He held an oblong shield and he had collected a small party of his best men around him, most armed with swords, and he was intent on gutting me.
“Try me, dog-humper,” I laughed and danced before him. “I’ll send you to announce me in Hel!”
“My name is Lucius,” he laughed, “and you wait me there, in Hades!”
“Wants your balls for supper,” Wandal snarled over my shoulders. “And mine, after. Brace!”
Shields slammed to mine, and we braced ourselves indeed, gritting our teeth and holding our position. We nearly fell on our backs as the thick enemy column clawed at me, Tudrus, and Agetan, their swords stabbing, swords crashing down, relentlessly pushing at our shields. A Thracian appeared next to us to hack down with his polearm. The weapon slashed open a neck, and then he was pulled in their midst, stabbed by The Thick-Lip, and he fell on his face. I pushed ineffectually at the enemy shields, Wandal’s spear stabbed into the enemy ranks, but for a moment, they seemed to push us back with each breath. Men screamed challenges in the terrible press, hot breath and panting mouths were close, as they pushed, and we ground our feet desperately into the mud, and stabbed under our shields when we could, but inexorably, the disaster was coming. On the sides, the Thracians were pushed back by men trying to flank them, and soon we would be slain from behind. The Hook-Nose was rushing to the right, and I cursed the men who were supposed to save us. Guarding each other as best we could, barely having time to breathe, we sent some over-eager men to the ground, bleeding. Men tried to get between us, one brute got past Tudrus, clubbed my friend with his shield, but The Gold Wolf sawed his throat open. Then, a Thracian was stabbed three times, and he fell on his knees. A man jumped over him, but Wandal impaled him so brutally, he seemed to fold over the blade.
“Hold for a moment longer!” I called out desperately.
I snarled, and stabbed a man, then another, howling at their terrified faces, keeping an eye on The Thick-Lip, just out of reach. I let the rage consume me, bade goodbye to my life, and crashed my shield int
o a man’s face. I gutted him, thanked Woden for my fury, and then I slipped, betrayed by him.
Spears came for me.
Wandal pulled me back, we stumbled away, pursued by the enemy, our line broken. We went back and back, and I saw The Thick-Lip coming, very close now. He was fast, skilled, and yet, had a hard time staying upright as his men pushed forward after me. He stumbled over a dying man, he jumped over another. He pushed past a guard with a terrible wound on his face, and came shield first just as I regained my balance. He banged his shield into mine, and I nearly fell out of the gate. I felt the gladius hovering near my face, then over my shield, but I stabbed, growled, pushed back, not at all sure where his weapon was. He was there, dancing around me, dodging my blade and I felt the pommel of his sword strike my head.
The blade glittered, and I was out of balance and breath.
Agetan roared nearby, and it seemed a man was flying. A broken guard with a bloody, toothless mouth crashed on The Thick-Lip. He fell against the gate, and I stomped on the human javelin who was now at my feet, crying. I snarled, stepped on his neck, and The Thick Lip and I locked shields, stabbing furiously. An enemy was at the other gate door, pulling away our make-shift gate-jams. Another pulled at the gate, and it moved.
The Thick-Lip laughed, banged his shield on mine, and then The Hook-Nose appeared. The man’s gladius was coming for my shoulder. I cursed, jumped back, kneeled and dodged the attack, and sawed the blade on The Hook-Nose’s knee. The man shrieked, fell over me, and I got up, and took a stab to my side from the Thick-Lip. I pushed up and threw The Hook-Nose over my shoulder, only to see the accursed sword of The Thick-Lip coming again.
For my throat. He was grinning.
Then he choked to death.
Wandal’s spear flashed red, the man’s throat opened, and he fell on all fours, trying to find breath that would not come. I nodded thanks at Wandal, and we turned to face a timid line of enemies. Agetan and Tudrus joined us, so did The Gold Wolf, but none else did, and there were still some fifteen of the enemy left.
The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5) Page 21
