Knight of Rome Part I
By
Malcolm Davies
Copyright Malcolm Davies 2019
All Rights reserved.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintentional excepting
historical personages who are mentioned for contextual purposes only
Chapter 1
Mid-morning on the twenty-eighth day of September in the fourteenth year of the reign of the Emperor Augustus, former centurion Justus Cordius strode alongside the second of the train of four wagons he commanded. Each wagon was loaded with goods to trade in the city of Augusta Treverorum on the Mosel River close to its junction with the Rhine. In its short existence, the city had become a bustling centre of commerce where the peoples of both sides of the brooding border rivers came together in an uneasy peace to make money. Justus was fifty years old, the same age as his Emperor. He was a wide-shouldered man of average height for a Roman with a full head of black hair showing no sign of going grey. Upright and active, he still had enough teeth left to chew his way through a slice of dry smoked meat.
There were fifteen companions with him, all veterans of the legions. Thirteen of them had completed their full service and received their reward in the form of land grants in Gallia Lugdunensis, to the south. With the land came a cash payment to help every man to begin his new civilian life. The remaining two had been less fortunate. Both had been discharged early as unfit to serve. One had lost the fingers of his left hand to an axe blow and could no longer hold his shield in the ranks. The other had been hit in the side of the head with a lance which destroyed both his right eye and his hearing on that side. They had gravitated towards Justus when they learned of his retirement and he had willingly taken them in; a man has a duty to help old comrades who have fallen on hard times.
Justus Cordius had led the fifth century of his legion. He had not been a distinguished soldier who acquired great wealth but he had been solid, reliable and unflinching in battle; the sort of officer who was generally said to be “the backbone of the army”.
He had one characteristic in common with all his companions; he loathed farming. Their home had been the army and their trade had been war for the best part of their lives. Outside of a framework of rank and discipline, alone in a ploughed field hoping that the crop they had planted in badly ploughed furrows of unequal depth would amount to anything, they were lost and miserable. Their district boasted only one tavern on the Roman road that cut through it, and there they had gravitated to drown their sorrows. The idea of setting up a trading company had developed out of their shared complaint about their lot in life; that nothing could be worse than being a farmer. It was now four years since they had clubbed together for their first ramshackle cart with its two high wheels and pair of ancient mules. They had prospered. Now their lands were rented out or run by slaves and each year they made six profitable journeys to Gallia Narbonensis, even further south than their homes, where they bought knives, scissors, axe-heads and saws together with wine and luxuries. They then hauled their stock to the borderlands to sell as far north and east as Raetia, beyond even Upper Germany.
Justus sniffed the air. It carried a faint hint of the wet decay of the coming autumn. Beneath his boots the track was still firm but bore a light scattering of early fallen leaves and pine needles. This would have to be their last trip of the year. Soon the hours of daylight would dwindle and heavy winter rains followed by snow borne on bitter east winds would make it impossible to travel using wheeled transport. Those despised farmsteads they called their homes would be welcome enough then. But today the weather was mild. Although the leaves of the broad birch and oak were more yellow than green now, the air was pleasantly warmed by the sun that shone through a faint haze of high cloud. It was often like this in late September where the Belgic lands met Upper Germany. As if summer was unwilling to leave, it gave ten or so days of its July heat as a last blessing before the seasons finally turned.
They had used this route several times before. The going was not the best but the track was fairly straight, giving a good view ahead and the forest had been cleared back twenty paces on either side. The first wagon drew level with a place where two trees had fallen in a winter gale some years ago. They were rotten now; their broken and tangled branches overgrown with alder and brambles. Somewhere a cuckoo called. The sound was grating in Justus’ mind. He had a sudden intuition that something was wrong. Without hesitation he pulled a bone whistle on a thong from the neck of his tunic, put it to his lips and gave one shrill blast. With rapid but sure movements he reached under the wagon bed beside him and withdrew a shield and a short sword from the carrying rack. Only when his shield was on his left arm and the sword held firmly in his right hand did he look about. All his men were leaping from their positions high on top of the wagons or striding closer alongside arming themselves with practised ease.
Two bearded men, one with flaming red hair, had leapt over the fallen trees and up onto the lead wagon where one of them clubbed at the driver’s shining bald head while the other thrust with a spear. The three Romans who had been with him ran back without a second glance at their assailed comrade; they could do nothing for him. Two were holding shields and swords. The third scrambled past Justus and dragged a bow and quiver of arrows from under the now vacant driving bench of the second wagon and shot at the triumphant attackers who were dragging the corpse of their victim to the ground. Two knots of warriors were running towards them from both sides. They were heading for the gap between the back of the second wagon and the mules hauling the third.
It was a well-planned ambush. The tactic had clearly been to immobilise the column and then divide it in two, allowing them to slaughter the shocked defenders who would undoubtedly be panicked at the sudden onrush. They had done their reconnaissance well enough. Although they would be taking on a large party, it was composed of middle-aged men. Some were balding, some carried too much belly; one of them lacked an eye and the other a hand. It should have been easy.
Justus looked left and right. He understood their intentions instantly. He gave two repeated short blasts on the whistle clenched between his teeth. The Romans responded. They formed two ranks facing each other across the narrow gap. The impetus of the raiders’ wild charge was too strong for them to be able to stop and reassess the situation. The first of them were forced into space dividing the Roman shield walls by the pressure of the warriors running behind them. Short swords began to flicker out from between the Roman shields stabbing at whatever part of an opponent was in reach. The one-eyed man had turned his bow on their stragglers and even the man with the missing hand was using the crook of his left elbow and forearm as a support while he lunged at them with a spear clenched in his good right hand.
The raiders forgot the chance of plunder and fought desperately for their lives. One of them thrust a lance at Justus, lowering the point of aim at the very last moment to strike at his unprotected knee but the ex-centurion had expected the move. He pulled his leg back and smashed downwards with his shield snapping off the lance blade. Then, confident he would be protected by his comrades on either side; he took half a step forward and slashed at the wooden shaft. More by good luck than judgement he sliced through his opponent’s leading fist. The man howled and dropped the weapon. He held up his arm, staring in amazement at the ruin that had been his hand, now a stump with a flapping thumb gouting blood. He half turned as if to show it to his companion who was distracted at the sight and took a sword deep into the belly.
They began to back off, still facing the Romans and threatening them with spear points and axes as they retreated into the trees. One was quicker witted than the others. He sprinted to the head of the column, leaped up and whipped
the lead mules off down the track. They broke into a canter, glad to be dashing away from the howling men and the smell of blood. As quickly as it had begun, the skirmish was over.
The defenders relaxed and watched philosophically as one quarter of their stock vanished along the track. They had learned the hard way to divide their goods evenly between the available wagons to make sure each load was more or less of equal value. Justus did not have to order them not to run after it. They knew better than to try.
“Fucking Germans,” one of them spat out.
His comrade sighed.
“You always say that. How do you know they were Germans? Could be Belgae, could be Nervii, could be all sorts of savages out here.”
“Look at the size of ‘em,” the first one said, “fucking Germans.”
Apart from their own man who had been dragged to the ground and butchered, there were three corpses lying on the bloody trackside and one man coughing and spluttering gouts of blood with a gaping hole through his ribs. Justus stamped on his throat. The snapping bones crunched crisply and he was still.
“See what they’ve got on them,” he said.
They had all been big men, taller than the Romans by a full head in some cases. They were dressed in a mixture of dressed animal skins and coarse wool, unarmoured and poorly equipped. Their axe heads and spear points were small and the best weapon they possessed was a pugio; an old legionary dagger. One of them had a bronze helmet and two silver arm bracelets. Another’s face was tattooed with writhing serpents.
Neither Justus nor his men were triumphant. This had been one more fight in the many they had survived, either in full-scale battle or attempted robberies on the road. They had lost a comrade, which was to be regretted but other than that, it was something to shrug off as all part of the day’s work. They squatted in a loose ring a little away from the blood-slicked ground and took their midday break early. A wineskin was passed around. They tore at hunks of coarse bread they had baked that morning with slices of cold bacon. Some had to pour a little wine over their crusts to soften them before they mashed them up in their almost toothless mouths and cut their bacon into small pieces to be able to swallow their food. After ten minutes, Justus spoke.
“The thing is lads, I don’t fancy keeping on this track. There may be more of them up ahead and that might make ‘em start feeling brave enough to have another go …”
“Maybe they’re part of a big force that’s crossed the river to plunder the whole area,” one of his men interrupted.
By the “river” he meant the Rhine. It was the Rhine that preoccupied them all; that watery barrier beyond which the giant, screaming warriors of their secret nightmares plotted the downfall of civilization.
“In which case, we ought to warn someone,” another suggested.
As always, they looked to Justus Cordius for a decision.
“Right then, this is what we do. There’s a legion headquarters about two days west of us. We’ll make for it and report to the commanding officer. If it’s all kicking off round here again, he’ll need to know. Collect poor old Curly’s body and wrap it up. Whatever happens he comes with us. We’ll take the bracelets and the bronze helmet along to show. Someone might know which tribe they’re from. Oh, take the head of that tattooed one. The patterns might be a clue.”
“Could just take skin off his face,” a voice suggested.
“Yeah, so you could tan it and sell it for a souvenir. We all know your games…”
“Head,” said Justus firmly to end the discussion.
Curly’s blood-stained body was wrapped in a blanket and tied up tightly. They laid it on the floor of a wagon with a reverent gentleness which might not have been expected from such hardened men by anyone who did not know them.
It took over an hour to turn the wagons around. The good ground at the side of the track was not wide enough to risk using the mules to simply swing them around. If a wheel became bogged in a deep rut, they would have to unload everything to get it out, before reloading it again on a harder surface. They unhitched the mules and manually heaved and hauled the wagons to face back the way they had come. Justus allowed only eight men, himself included, to get the job done. The others were spread out hidden in the trees as lookouts in case the raiders returned.
They sweated and swore, used branches as levers and eventually brought up the mule teams and harnessed them once more, ready to move off back the way they had come. Justus blew a shrill blast on his whistle and counted in the rest who emerged from the dark skirts of the forest. They were all there. No-one had got lost or had his throat cut by a silent, revenge-fuelled enemy. He gave the command to move off.
The sun was barely past its zenith when the trees to the west of them thinned into a narrow glade which appeared to lead to a distant track on the rising ground ahead. It wound around the base of a splintered rock that towered above the forest canopy.
“Looks like this is our road, lads,” Justus said and they turned off and plodded onwards, three wagons, fifteen live men and one dead one.
They made a cold camp that night, no fire and six pickets spread around for protection. The moon was bright and the sky a blaze of stars. It would be cold before dawn and everything, including the men and animals would be covered in a silver coat of dew.
As he was falling asleep, Justus Cordius realized what had unsettled him before the raiders struck. It was the call of the cuckoo. One of them must have used it as a signal but it was too late in the year; cuckoos were silent in autumn and winter. No-one knew why.
“Blessings on you Lady Fortuna,” he thought. “If they had imitated a jay, we could all be dead.”
Chapter 2
Far to the north and west over the Rhine in the unconquered lands, on the same day that Justus Cordius and his convoy were attacked, Badurad of the Suevi was leading his clan into their winter quarters. He rode bareback on a tall bay horse at an easy walk. He was at his physical peak at thirty-six years of age, dressed in trousers and a jerkin of ochre dyed wool over which he wore his armour; a leather shirt sewn with dozens of over-lapping, fish-scale metal plates. Half of his head was shaven but he wore the pale blond hair on the other side in a long braid which could be twisted up into the Suevian Knot by which all men could know his ancestry. He carried an oval shield and, to the amazement of strangers in that metal-hungry country, he wore a long sword at his side. The sword was the ultimate symbol of his power and status. Only a warrior of enormous fame and prestige might own so fine a blade. Badurad was such a man; a renowned chieftain amongst his people, an adviser to a tribal king.
His name meant “war counsel” and that was his special ability. Not only was he skilled and fearless in the fight, he possessed a shrewd sense of tactics. His overlord had recognised this and always listened carefully to Badurad’s advice. Battles against the odds had been won as a result. Honours were heaped on the “war counsel”, including the almost priceless gift of the sword but it was reputation he valued above all. No costly weapon or fine horse could match the pride of being a man who was known for deeds that were turned into songs by the bards and recited when men drank together.
Badurad’s clan numbered one hundred and sixty people. Among them were eleven warriors who owned a helmet, some body armour or both. A further twelve men carried shield and spear, all good men in a fight. The remainder were wives, children and slaves. They moved through the forest with their small horse herd, their cattle and three teams of oxen pulling high-sided carts loaded up with food-stores, tools and equipment.
They were travelling towards four small, open valleys linked together like beads on a necklace by a brook which ran down to the great river a full two days march away. A family of slaves had been left there over the summer to scythe down the long grass and turn it into hay. They would also have cut poles to support hut roofs, chopped firewood and woven fish traps to be set in the deep pools. Soon there would be berries, nuts and mushrooms for the women and children to gather and the men would hunt boa
r and deer. The people had been free of disease throughout the year. Many calves and foals had been born. The grain harvest had been plentiful. No-one should go hungry over the coming months when the snow imprisoned them in their valleys, the brook froze over and wolves howled in the night. Badurad stood on the pinnacle of his wealth and fame where he could expect to remain for several years unless fate decreed otherwise.
He should have been contented but he was not. He rode with his head held high, his shoulders squared and a serene expression on his face but inwardly he was in turmoil. He had suffered a severe setback that he could not understand and it had unnerved him. It had begun the night of the last new moon when he had been feasting with the king.
Huge fires blazed and roared in the circular clearing cut in a grove of trees on top of a low hill. From time to time, an ember would fall inwards and spill a column of golden sparks that exploded into the night sky. Thirty important men, clan chieftains or champion fighters, sat facing inwards on crude log benches, their faces and clothes lit in flickering yellow and orange by the flames. On a higher seat, the king was resplendent in a Roman breastplate that scattered reflected light each time he moved. He had plundered it from a legion officer he had cut down with his own hands. That exploit had given him his kingship.
Slaves scurried out of the gloom behind them fetching hunks of smoking meat, slabs of bread and pitchers of ale so that no man’s hands were ever empty of food or drink which would have been dishonourable to their kingly host. From time to time, a warrior would leap to his feet, ale-horn sloshing over in his hand, and recount a funny story to gales of laughter; another would praise one among the company which made the assembly drain their drink in response and shout for more.
At last the king stood up and raised his arms for silence. He looked around to make sure he had everyone’s full attention before he spoke.
Knight of Rome Part I Page 1
