War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (31 page)

“So, will you sit all day under Bertha’s skirts?” Wilda’s tone was sarcastic but had lost a little of its bite.

“Wilda, I’d like to wash, and then see something of the village,” he answered quietly, addressing the young woman by name for the first time.

“Very well,” she replied, raising a curious eye-brow in response to his mention of washing. “I’ll wait for you outside. Bertha, I’ll see you later.”

As the young tribeswoman neared the lodge entrance, he accosted her, “Wilda! My name is Guntram. In future you’d be wise to address me by it, or not at all.”

Huffing, Wilda shoved her way out through the door.

*

As she stamped away from the lodge, Wilda puzzled why she’d not challenged the stranger’s frank appraisal of her body. She could not deny that his roughly handsome looks had caused her heart to thrum madly. Picturing the scarred face with its unwavering dark eyes, she reluctantly trembled. And, there was something more. She was familiar with the aura that emanated from those skilled in the ways of war, and the tall stranger oozed bridled power.

War Raven was a mighty name, and he says he’s one of us
, she mulled. Her stomach a flurry of butterflies, she begrudgingly hoped that he was.

*

The rain had stopped, although a misty dampness lingered between the lodges. The scent of earth and foliage was strong and Guntram felt the air’s wetness touch his face. Sour-faced, Wilda marched at his side, increasing her pace every few steps to keep up with him.

The settlement was big. After travelling a short distance he’d already picked out five long-houses amongst the huddle of other buildings, and he guessed that it housed at least two hundred warriors and their families. Curious heads turned to stare but no-one spoke to him or approached.

Arriving at the settlement’s ten foot palisade near to the main gate, he mounted one of the nearby ladders.

He quickly reached a convenient vantage point, where he studied the settlement’s southern approach over the jagged rim of sharpened logs. Beyond the initial fifty metre scarf of cleared ground was the forest; a barrier that was more a thick jungle of thorn, bush and vine-strangled trees, with its highest reaches blanketed in mist. It looked impenetrable to any sizable force of attackers, but he was well aware of the Roman military engineers’ reputation for overcoming seemingly impassable barriers.

He leaned over the palisade for a better look at the perimeter and was struck by a feeling of nausea, light-headedness. Unsteady, he descended the ladder, realizing that he was more exhausted than he thought. He indicated to Wilda – who stood close by with her arms folded and wearing a bored expression – that he’d seen enough and wished to return to the lodge.

The journey was made in stony silence, and the pair were met at the lodge door by Bertha and also Blaz.

Bertha spoke first. “Good, you’ve arrived in time to eat.”

“Well, what do you make of our humble village?” The serious faced Blaz enquired of Guntram.

“I think that a village surrounded by such a strong palisade is a village prepared for war,” he replied, casually scratching his nose.

“The forest is a dangerous place,” Blaz said, “filled with dangers that walk on two legs as well as four. But, now let’s eat, before we suffer the lash of Bertha’s tongue, which is itself a fearsome thing.”

Guntram made himself comfortable on the lodge’s bench, and was mildly surprised that Wilda joined them, in light of the contempt with which she obviously regarded him. Bertha placed a sizzling, grease coated shank of lamb before him and he attacked it with gusto. Finishing the portion, he turned his attention to Blaz, who sat eating more reservedly opposite him. He enquired without preamble, “Is it true that I’ll meet your leader soon?”

“You will. He’ll arrive with his company at any time.”

Intrigued, Guntram asked, “Company? Don’t you mean war-band?”

“No, not a war-band. He commands a company of auxiliary horse; all Germans, and fine warriors to a man.” The words were proudly spoken.

Guntram nodded slowly, the taste of acid rising up into his gullet. His face darkening, he stated, “If you’re not joking, you mean servants of Rome.” His voice sounded icy in the clammy heat of the lodge, the anger coming off him in waves. The air crackled with tension and he saw the jovial Bertha swallow hard.

Blaz slowly put down his meat, easing his right leg from beneath him in readiness to rise quickly. “No, I’m not joking,” he said. “And be careful with your words. You are my guest, but I’ll stand for no insult against our leader or his men.”

In a surge of movement Guntram sprang to his feet, moving past the two startled women and out through the lodge door.

Once outside, he sucked in great draughts of air. He fought to control his composure, his mind struggling to take in the reality that one of his people’s most respected leaders was a vassal of the enemy he despised.

With Blaz’s words resounding in his head, a wave of cheers broke out from across the settlement. The cheering grew louder, and seconds later a cavalry troop rode into view.

People rushed from lodges, meals and chores forgotten in their haste to greet the warrior at the column’s head.

The tang of betrayal strong in his mouth, he knew the leader had come.

*

During the initial clamour Guntram obtained only a fleeting glimpse of the commander of horse, who, riding high in the saddle had waved vigorously to the gathering throng. On dismounting, he was quickly swallowed up by a swarm of back-slapping villagers.

After, Guntram avoided Blaz’s lodge, not wanting to risk losing his temper before meeting the new arrival. In the event, it was Blaz who eventually sought him out, informing him that he was summoned.

He was escorted to a section of open ground situated roughly at the centre of the settlement, where he immediately picked out the auxiliaries from amongst the crowd of elders, warriors, and a scattering of women. The majority wore stout vests of leather, with some sporting a covering of metal scales. Tight fitting caps of iron and bronze topped their heads, and one displayed a white horse-hair plume, signifying officer rank. He cursed as he stared in their direction, which gained him a dark look from Blaz who stood close at his side.

He came to a halt a dozen or so paces before an individual who spoke with a number of tribal elders. Guntram assumed that this was the commander Blaz spoke of. When the commander turned to observe him, Guntram saw that he held large horn of mead in one hand. Square faced and of medium height and build, Guntram judged that he was in his late-twenties. Piercing blue eyes studied him from under a high forehead, and his fair hair, cropped short in the Roman style, was already flecked with grey.

The commander approached him. Guntram immediately felt the man’s presence; an energy that radiated from his every gesture and drew all eyes to him.

“Is it true that you claim to be the son of Roth?” The commander’s voice was deep with an unusual soothing quality. It was a voice easily listened to.

“Yes,” Guntram said. “Two years ago my people were put to the sword by the soldiers of Rome. All my family were killed, apart from my brother, Strom, who was just a boy, and a young woman called Jenell. They were taken alive and I’ve sworn to find them...as I’ve sworn to make Rome pay in blood for what it’s done. “

The commander inclined his head slightly, responding calmly, “We know about the terrible slaying of Roth’s people, although I was fighting in foreign lands at that time. But, we have no knowledge of any survivors.”

“I saw them with my own eyes,” Guntram snapped back.

“It would still be a difficult task to find them after all this time.”

“I know.”

“It’s clear to see that you hate Rome,” the commander stated, before asking him, “But, what of your life these last two years?”

“As a slave, I was taught to fight in Rome’s arenas, to kill men for the pleasure of its spawn. Through victory I won my freedom.” He gave a great sigh. “Now, I have returned...”

“A tragic tale,” the commander said, his tone unchanged. He took a drink from his horn. “I’ve been informed about your arrival, and the Gauls. Not the actions of a spy, but we must be careful who we accept into our trust. You also claim that you were hunted for killing some Romans.”

“I sent three of the dogs to their graves and would do so again. Another would have joined them, if he’d not fled.” His mind travelled back and his eyes blazed. “His day will come.”

“Who were these men?” the commander asked. “And what was their crime?”

“Their crime is my affair alone, but, they wore uniforms not unlike yours...” Guntram felt his colour rise, incensed at being questioned in such a fashion. Threats and insults bloomed all around him. Hands moved to dagger hilts and angry bodies jostled towards him.

The commander held up his hand for silence. “Wait!” His gaze unflinching, held Guntram’s own. When he spoke, there was no anger in his voice. “Things aren’t always what they seem, but for now I’ll say no more. Roth of the Cherusci was a good man and a fine warrior and I’ll do what I can to help. We owe his memory and our people that much.” Murmurs of approval echoed through the crowd. “I have friends across the Rhinus, and maybe they can find out something about the people you seek.”

Guntram felt some of the tightness ease away. Unbalanced by the offer, he said nothing.

“We will speak again, but now I’m in need of another drink and a good meal.” The commander raised his hand in mock farewell, before passing into the throng of villagers who clamoured around him. Cheers rang out.

Guntram sensed Blaz at his side.

“You’re to be my guest for a while longer it seems,” Blaz commented glibly.

All about Guntram the cheers gave way to chants of, “Arminius! Arminius! Arminius! . . .”

*

Arminius edged his way through the flailing sea of arms and stripped garments, re-playing the newcomer’s story in his mind. If it was true, he would be a valuable addition to their ranks. The young warriors needed fighters to respect and follow, but more importantly he needed such men who were familiar with the ways of their enemy.

He had a good feeling about this Guntram, and his instincts were seldom wrong. But, he’d take no chances, and his people would make enquiries about the existence of a surviving brother and the woman.

And, if the newcomer stayed, he’d still be watched.

* * *

Chapter XLIII

VETERA

“Malice is cunning.”

Cicero

From his couch Servannus prodded the boy with the toe of his sandal. Lucanus looked up from the tent floor where he sat burnishing the noble’s armour.

A platter of dried fruit and small cakes rested on the couch by Servannus’s side. He selected and finished another sweet cake that he didn’t need.

“More wine,” Servannus ordered, and then grumbled, “This stinking dampness will be the death of me.”

Lucanus jumped to his feet and hurried to the tent’s brazier. Retrieving a hot-iron from the brazier he applied it to a close-by jug of wine. He waited until Servannus settled back on his cushions before refilling his cup.

Lucanus was about to return to his task, when Servannus brought him to a halt by asking, “If I choose to sell you Lucanus, how much do you think you’d bring? Say...say as a rich man’s catamite?”

“I...I don’t know my lord,” Lucanus stuttered.

“Do you know what a catamite is boy?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How much then?” Servannus smiled, enjoying the boy’s discomfort, being fully aware of the Germans’ abhorrence of such practices.

Looking embarrassed, Lucanus ventured, “Five hundred sesterces my lord?”

“What!” Servannus exclaimed. “Such a paltry sum for a slave with your talents. And still a virgin. You are still a virgin aren’t you?”

“Yes...yes I am.” Lucanus’s face flushed red. He dropped his eyes to his feet.

“Good, it will add to your value.” Servannus sipped his wine, already tiring of the game.

Of course, he had no intention of selling the boy. Apart from his diligence, Lucanus possessed a quick mind and was able to read and write Latin; skills he’d learnt from one of the estate’s older slaves, and which he’d practiced during his precious little spare time in Herculaneum. These clerical skills were useful to Servannus. Skills so very different to those of his brother, the late Caetes.

“Speaking of your talents, I have a task for you Lucanus.” His face serious, Servannus leaned forwards. “I want you to give me immortality.”

Lucanus looked puzzled.

Servannus indicated the desk on the opposite side of the tent. It was covered with papyrus sheets and waxed writing materials. “I want you to record for posterity the story of my career with the legion.” He belched, then urged, “Speak up! What do you think?”

“I will try my best to help, my lord.”

“You certainly will.” Sernvannus leaned back, smiling again. “This is an important matter, and the gods only know how badly I need distraction. Great things lie ahead of me Lucanus, and the world will want to learn about my passage to greatness. You will play a small part in this.”

“It will be an honour, my lord.”

“Excellent!” Servannus exclaimed, before sniggering, “You’re a boy who always has the right answers, the clever answers. Don’t you Lucanus?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Yawning, Servannus declared, “I’m weary, so we’ll make a start tomorrow. Back to your duties, and I expect to see my face in that breast-plate.”

With a bow of his head, Lucanus returned to the armour.

Servannus’s thoughts turned painfully to the time ahead, to a winter in Germania spent within the stark walls of Vetera’s legionary fort. He flinched as he pictured the coming months of aching cold and rain. Other provincial forts were equipped with small arenas for gladiator’ matches or wild beast fights, but to Servannus’s annoyance, Vetera had made no such provision. Instead, the off-duty soldiers spent their leisure time visiting the baths, drinking and gambling with their tent-mates. Whoring when they could afford it. This in turn led to the inevitable brawl and sometimes worst. When the offence was suitably serious, the administration of punishment was overseen by the Tribunes; yet another onerous duty he was called upon to perform.