The cause of its aggression could have been a thousand reasons, but I could only choose one. The beast had a look in its large, wet eyes that reminded me of my own. It had lost someone it loved. It felt pain, but not the kind that resulted from the trainer’s whip.
Most horses don’t have deep bonds with humans, like dogs do. They are generally more like workmen or servants, and accept their role dutifully. But not this stallion. It had loved its owner, one who had never broken him, but rode with him, almost as equals. And when a steed loses that kind of companion, this kind of hostility can be the result.
It had lost that man, and perhaps the stallion had seen it happen. Perhaps the man had died riding atop it. Now these brutes were trying to break it without earning its trust.
My heart beat in my throat, but I dropped my arms as the stallion approached. I cast my gaze to the dirt beneath me, and waited as it placed its massive head over my shoulder, letting me know that one false move and I’d end up bloody and toothless like the man who’d tried before me.
The steed completely dwarfed me, as it remained there breathing heavily and pawing at the dirt.
“It’s alright, boy,” I said in Latin, quiet enough so that only the animal could hear me.
I could see from the corner of my eye that the king’s companions had wide eyes of mock concern, but Boiorix himself seemed unimpressed.
I looked down into the stallion’s eye, and spoke to it again as if it could understand me, just like my father once had.
We shared a moment of intimacy, the beast and I, as I realized it was the only one in that entire camp who knew my true identity, and it seemed to know it too. It ceased its stomping and its snorting slowed.
I maintained eye contact as I took the reins in one hand and stretched out my other arm.
“Hand me that stick,” I said, careful to switch my words back to the Red language. One of the king’s men stretched forward nervously to do so.
I gripped the reins tighter and whipped the beast’s haunches softly.
It bucked like spiders were crawling across his back, and kicked out its left leg wildly to meet the unseen assailant. I maintained eye contact all the while.
“Shh, it’s alright, boy,” I said. The stallion didn’t seem to notice I was holding the whip. I patted its neck and mane with the few free fingers I had on my left hand.
We continued this sacred dance for a long moment, as the stallion rotated away from the whip but didn’t remove its head from my side. I noticed briefly that the king’s expression was now intensely curious, and the humor had drained from his companions’ faces.
As soon as I whipped the beast and it didn’t kick out its left leg, I hoisted myself up and threw my own leg over its back. Even drunk, the motion was fluid and instinctual.
Immediately, the stallion charged forward, turning and twisting around the corral, kicking up a storm of dirt. I held the reins tight, and leaned down close to its head, careful to let it know that I was undisturbed.
“Open that gate,” I said to Carverix, who did so without a moment’s delay.
I loosened my hold on the reins as the stallion charged forth from the corral. I did nothing to contain the steed. It led us straight for the camp exit, and out into wild woodlands of Transalpine Gaul.
It bucked, reared, and charged, but all the while I was patting its neck and speaking to it softly.
I allowed it to run where it pleased, and eventually its anger dissipated until it became more like a calf loosed from its stall than a bull looking to fight.
When the beast’s energy was at last spent, it slowed and allowed me to pull it to a halt.
“That’s my boy,” I said, and gave him extra affection.
We remained there for a moment before I peered out into the vast, open expanse beyond us. It occurred to me for the first time that I could continue riding. I could return to Marius and never look back. Here was my chance at freedom. And how much more intelligence could I really gain?
“Good boy,” I said again as the horse snorted with glee rather than aggression, its tail swooshing audibly behind me.
But perhaps I wasn’t ready to leave. All I really wanted in that moment was another cut of venison and another cup of ale.
I continued to debate with myself for a moment, but before I really made a decision, I wheeled the horse around and started back to the Cimbri camp, this time the stallion allowing me to lead.
When I arrived back at the corral, Boiorix and all his men were watching with wide eyes and open mouths. The king himself cheered wildly and slapped his nearest companion on the back.
I hopped off and lead the stallion step by step to King Boiorix’s side. I handed him the reins as the king extended a hand for the beast to smell.
“It is a king too. A king of horses. Don’t let them whip it like that,” I said, pointing to the stallion’s scarred haunches. “It won’t accept it, just as you wouldn’t.”
The king turned his attention from the stallion to me, instantly towering over me like the Roman fort walls. Atop that horse, I imagined he would stand ten feet tall or more, a truly terrifying and awe-inspiring sight.
Looking into the king’s dark, empty eyes, I feared I had spoken with too much familiarity and would be punished for it. My fears dissolved, however, when he wrapped me in a tight hug and clapped the back of my head forcefully.
“We drink!” the king shouted as he moved off toward his quarters, leading me step by step with an arm over my shoulders. Carverix crossed his arms and looked at me with a mixture of relief, admiration, and irritation. He smiled and shrugged at what a lucky man I was.
When we arrived, I found that there were no tables or chairs but rather cushions situated in a circle around the king’s tent.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a pillow to the left of his own. A servant of Spanish origin brought us a few mugs of ale each, surprisingly of the same quality that the rest of us had access to. Another slave brought me a bowl of boiled cabbage, carrots, and artichokes, as well as Gallic bread, a strange conglomeration of stolen produce. Atop it all was a cut of choice meat that I presumed was veal.
I was fascinated by the king, hardly able to take my gaze off of him, but this time it wasn’t because I feared his massive fists. His bare arms had thick maroon scars up and down them, and if I recall correctly, he was missing a few knuckles on his left index fingers. His eyes were dark but not altogether menacing, unless he desired them to be, and the face beneath his long, braided beard was not nearly as old and devious as I had previously assumed. He probably wasn’t but ten years older than myself, but even the elders in the room seemed to watch him with intense admiration and affection. As far as I could tell, Boiorix had won over the hearts and minds of every Cimbri warrior in the camp.
The king gestured for me to eat as he scooped up some of the stew in his massive hands and funneled it into his mouth. Juice dripped over his beard and onto the deer pelt he wore over his shoulders. I assumed he had won that pelt the same way I had won mine a few hours earlier. I felt close to him for a moment, as I knew how he must have felt on that day, and how his companions must have been proud of him and drank to celebrate his victory. The feeling of similarity and—I dread to say it—admiration frightened me.
I ate gratefully, but my stomach dropped when I believed I thought I tasted olive oil, the kind a soldier becomes quite accustomed to because it is included in his rations. I already knew how the Reds had acquired it, and this tampered my joy at being included in this merry feast and returned my drunken musings to reality.
I was included in this kingly meal but rarely addressed. Much like when the Cimbri hunt, these men spoke little but seemed to understand each other on a deeper level.
As I ate in silence, I watched them closely. It was clear to see that the king’s men loved him as much as they feared him, for they leaned over on his breast and he hugged them tightly. He cut slivers of his meat with a knife and parceled it out around the room to allow the other
s to taste the best portions. When the king was finished with his cup, some of the men would hurry to their feet and scuttle to refill it, not waiting on the servants. The king did the same for others a few times.
It appeared to me that the Cimbri royalty were just as dirty and smelly as the rest of their men, just as rough and ready to fight or kill. These men, and the king in particular, possessed the kind of violence that had been bred into them since long before Rome was even founded. Yet they had a simple love for one another, like a dog has for her pups—unconditional.
Watching them, it reminded me of the relationship I once had with my contubernium. We once sat around each other like this, eating and joking, and teasing each other about our idiosyncrasies or mocking the leadership. Their faces sobered me, for it was the Cimbri who had killed them all.
“I should be going. I feel peculiar,” I said, handing what little remained of my food to the man at my left.
I received glares from around the room, but I stood regardless. My stomach was starting to churn, and I feared I might lose the delicious meal all over the king’s tent.
Boiorix himself was the only one who did not eye me with suspicion. He stood, towering over me once again.
“You drink my drink anytime,” he said, looking into my eye. I nodded my thanks and quickly looked away, fearful that if he gazed into it long enough he might discover my duplicity.
17
Scroll XVII
Two days before the ides of January 652 ab urbe condita
So summer turned into autumn, and autumn quickly spiraled into winter. The longer I stayed in the Cimbri camp, the faster time moved. I was well aware that my time there was swiftly expiring, but I could never find the gumption to leave. There always seemed to be something left unsaid, some piece of intelligence left undiscovered.
My time there was both dreadful and exciting, exhausting and liberating. Outside of our daily hunting ventures, there was little to do, few chores to tend to, and life was mostly sitting and waiting, or eating and drinking. Unlike the Roman forces, the Cimbri and Tigurini soldiers never asked questions, and were rarely given information. They would simply depart for battle when they were told to do so, and that was adequate for them. For that reason, I feared that each day I’d awake to a battle horn and war would be upon us, and it might be too late for me to leave and get intelligence to Marius.
I feared constantly for my life, that I might be exposed and killed for it. I had made companions and associates in the Cimbri camp who would vouch for me in any other circumstance, but if I were discovered as a Roman infiltrator, the best poets and playwrights would have a harder time creating something more sinister than what they would do to me. Even having won the king’s appreciation, I was certain my body would be dismembered in the most grotesque way imaginable, so that I would never be found, never identified dead.
It was hard to imagine this when I sat and joked with my clanmates and my Cimbri associates. I had come to look on Father and Carverix as friends, and it took a great deal of effort to constantly recollect what the outcome would be if they discovered who I truly was.
But as the months passed, I continued to spend time with these warriors, collecting as much intelligence about the Cimbri as possible. I could write nothing down, for fear of being discovered, so I made mental notes of everything I saw. If this were a Roman camp, I would have simply stolen their ledgers, but the Cimbri kept no records and didn’t document their numbers.
Fortunately, we did nearly everything with our Cimbri associates. The one thing we separated for was battle assembly drills, as the Romans would have called them. It was made clear that the Tigurini would fight on their own flank, and the Cimbri theirs, so we trained for battle apart from each other. The majority of the Tirguini training consisted of sparring and hand-to-hand duels, although we occasionally marched together, but with much less form and regulation than I was accustomed to as a Roman. But we trained in this manner far less often than our Cimbri allies, to say the least. So occasionally I would linger nearby and watch them as they trained.
The most important thing I discovered was the way in which the Cimbri positioned itself for battle. It was ingenious. I was amazed that I hadn’t noticed it in the heat of battle, but as I spied on them here, I discovered the method they used that made them so impenetrable.
Each man’s breastplate had two rings hanging from either side. During battle, the Cimbri would link these rings beforehand, to ensure that no man could turn and flee, or falter behind. As long as there was a brave man among them (and of the Cimbri, there were many), their lines would continue to advance. This made it impossible for them to be routed. The Cimbri knew because of this that they must fight, fight to win or fight to die. The Colors have tried to emulate this, but in theory only. We have solid lines of close men, ranks that should act as a barrier to fleeing. But the moment one man routes, unless another quickly takes his place, there is a hole in the line and the whole century collapses in upon itself.
These Cimbri were brave indeed, because they had no other choice.
As difficult as boredom had become, constantly performing like an actor in a Greek tragedy was much more draining. It left me lethargic and weak, which of course I then had to hide—a vicious cycle. The free-flowing ale was the only thing that helped.
When I wasn’t with my clan or sauntering on my own, I spent time with Carverix and his Cimbri companions.
The fire-headed man was drilling some of the younger Cimbri on weapons use when I found him that day. He was sweating profusely despite the cool temperatures of the Alpine foothills. He took a break and chugged a cup of mead thankfully.
“How do they look?” I asked, pointing to the young men.
“Ready to kill.” He nodded. He passed me a cup, and I took a gulp, savoring the ale I once had despised.
“As am I,” I said, acting the part of a bloodthirsty barbarian.
“Not much longer now,” he said.
My senses heightened. “Oh?”
“We’ll battle soon enough,” he said, and my hopes of finding more concrete intelligence were dashed.
“When?” I asked.
“We leave in two days,” he said matter-of-factly. Perhaps this was common news by this point, but I had remained unaware.
“Not soon enough,” I said.
“Cimbri go south, Teutones go north,” he said. I had hardly thought about the Teutones, the powerful ally of the Cimbri who had helped crush us at Arausio. I had heard rumor of their camp just a few miles away from us, but the numbers of the Cimbri were so vast it was difficult to fathom another force equal to it in size.
“We’re splitting up?” I asked, stumbling on my words for a moment.
“We crush the Romans,” Carverix said, making a gesture with both of his fists, slowly closing in until they crashed against one another. “But first we feast.” He smiled.
“Feast?”
“Before we leave”—he drained more of his ale—“big feast.”
“To celebrate war?”
“Yes.”
My mind began to swim with ideas. If the Cimbri were departing for battle two days hence, my window of getting away was swiftly shrinking. The feast, with the Cimbri drunk and distracted, would be my last chance to escape unnoticed.
My only concern was a nagging one: Had I uncovered enough information to really make a difference?
“Cimbri take no slaves. Too many mouths to feed. We kill Romans before we leave.” He gestured to the young Cimbri. “Then they have to kill more Romans to appease the gods, since we will be out of sacrifices.”
“We have Romans?” I asked, trying and failing to appear disinterested.
“Yes, plenty. Enough to satisfy the gods.”
“’Till the fight,” I said. He raised his cup as I turned to leave, feeling my feet go numb.
I wandered aimlessly around the camp, heart pounding in my chest, hands trembling. I returned to my tent and sat with Father and my Tigurini clan, dra
ining a cup of ale and pretending I wasn’t about to burst.
Not long afterward, Boiorix exited his tent along with a few of the other Cimbri elders. Silence befell the camp, and everyone stood to attention facing them.
Boiorix waited as the men, women, and children gathered around. In a sudden burst of rage, he began howling like a wolf, followed by his army. The friendly, familiar face of the king who had shared his dinner with me previously was all but transformed into the caricature the Romans had always believed him to be: a savage, bloodthirsty killer, worthy only of death.
Like the day of my arrival, the Cimbri began to chant wildly, the ancient priestess leading with her own piercing cry.
“I told you,” Carverix said. “Time to kill Romans.” Drums echoed throughout the camp, but they couldn’t drown out the grunting of nearly a hundred Cimbri warriors who struggled to roll a massive wicker cage to the center of us all. Within were dozens of naked, bone-thin Romans clutching to the bars of their cage and screaming for their lives. Most of them were young men, barely old enough to grow a beard. Their eyes wept for mercy, but the savage Cimbri chants promised that there would be none.
The Cimbri cheered as the Romans rolled into view, some rushing forward to spit on the prisoners, others hurling rocks or horse shit. The pitiful Romans reminded me of the slaves I saw in the Massilia markets, but their fate, I feared, was about to be even worse.
As wood was piled hastily alongside the cage, my heart dropped into my stomach, and I feared I might audibly moan and give myself away. Romans were about to be slaughtered before my very eyes. My mind coursed with foolish ideas of what I might do to save them, but there was nothing I could think of. I’m haunted each night by the visions of that moment, and still dream of some alternative to standing silently and watching their deaths.
When the wood was piled to their satisfaction, the fire was lit.
Black pitch rose into the cool air, and the screams of my brethren curdled my blood. I looked down and squeezed the tears from my eye as the cheers of the Cimbri rose to challenge the screams.
The Noise of War Page 17
