Eagle in the Snow (27 page)

Reports came in that more waggons had been seen moving out and that, imperceptible though it might seem, the camp was thinning slowly, as families and clans moved back to the east in search of better sites in which to pass the winter. Like a swarm of locusts, they had stripped the land bare on which they had lived all summer, and starvation threatened them at last.

Acting on my instructions, a cohort at Bingium moved across the river and, with troops working hard on both sides, the fort commander began to construct a wooden bridge. The river at this point was four hundred yards across; the weight of the moving water and the speed of the current was tremendous, and there was great difficulty in sinking the piles accurately. The water was bringing down a great mass of stone and shingle from higher up, so that the shoals and sandbanks were constantly changing shape and altering their position. Nevertheless the bridge was finished and ready for use eight days after the first tree was felled.

I had it in mind to risk all on a single throw, move the legion across the river at the end of October and engage all that remained of the enemy in battle, relying on the fact that by that time their courage would be at a low ebb. Quintus urged this course every time we met. We argued the matter with cold hostility. He was confident that the risk would be worthwhile and that the shock of one more defeat would finally extinguish their hopes of forcing a crossing. I was not quite so certain. It was I who bore the final responsibility; not he.

During this time I saw little of our prisoner. She had recovered from her beating and gave no more trouble. Occasionally I saw her at a distance, walking through the camp with a guard behind her, but if she saw me she turned her head and looked the other way. Sometimes, one of the tribunes was with her. It might be young Marius who came from Arelate, or Severus who had joined us after Pollentia. Occasionally it was Didius, one of Quintus’ more promising squadron commanders, who had been transferred to us nine months ago from a cavalry unit in Hispania. Usually, however, it was Fabianus; but I did not ask questions. He worked hard, as they all did, and if he found it amusing to spend his spare time in her company that was his affair, not mine.

In the second week of September I received a series of agitated messages from the fort commander at Bingium; Guntiarus was on the far bank, asking permission to cross. He wished to see me on a matter of great urgency. I sent a message back saying that he was to remain on the east bank and that I would come to visit him in his berg as soon as my duties permitted.

When he heard of this Quintus said, bleakly, “He wants more tribute. I can smell his demands a mile away. He is a greedy man. He offered no help to Marcomir. He thinks only of himself.”

I said, “He is not alone in that.” I pointed to my desk. “I have just received the answers to my other letters.”

“What do they say?”

“The Praefectus Praetorio is cautious and diplomatic. I may call on the field army if I need it, but the field army is not to enter Belgica unless and until the barbarians cross the Rhenus. He is afraid, you see, that I might have ambitions to set myself up in his place. The news from Britannia will not have helped.”

“The man is mad.”

“Oh yes, but there is some logic in that dull little mind. Germania has always been a breeding ground for usurpers.”

“Go on.”

“The Dux Belgicae, poor man, has troubles of his own on the coast and cannot spare a man. Him, I believe.”

“And our friend, Chariobaudes?”

“He will move his troops as far east as Cabillonum and will help us, subject to the Praefectus’ orders.”

“How many men has he got?”

I laughed. “That is what is so funny. Oh, he’s quite honest about it. He has ten regiments of five hundred men each. All are veterans between the ages of forty five and fifty. Out of that he can make an effective fighting force of about three thousand.”

Quintus said, “They won’t be much use. We shall have to rely on ourselves.”

“Yes,” I said. “But, the day may still come when we shall be thankful for even three thousand men.”

“How far is it from Treverorum to Cabillonum.” He put his finger on the map and traced the route. “Well over a hundred miles.”

“Yes.”

“It will be of great comfort, when we are in trouble, to know we are so closely supported by the glorious army of Gaul.”

I looked up at him. I said, “I have always known that in this affair we should be quite alone. In that there is nothing new.”

He said, steadily, “It is only when I think about it that I get frightened. I wake up in the night and sit on the edge of my bed and sweat with fear.”

I put out my hand, unthinkingly, but he backed away. He said, “In the day I can pretend. It is easy then. But at night I know the truth; and, sometimes, I cannot face the truth.”

Guntiarus said, “It was kind of you to come. My people are poor, as you know, and the harvest has not been a good one.”

“A further payment of tribute is not due for another six months,” I said, brutally.

“That is understood. Of course, I can always sell food to the Vandals. Their ambassadors are here now. Their people are, I think, starving, and would pay a good price—in silver. But you are my friend and I do not care to help your enemies unless I am forced to.”

I said, “You have had all the tribute I can spare. If your harvest was bad then it was because you are a lazy people and bad farmers. I cannot help you.”

“My people are warriors,” he said, mildly.

“If you prefer to treat with the men who took your daughter and slew your son-in-law, that is a matter for you,” I said, contemptuously. “Make friends of their murderers, but do not come again asking me to give you silver.”

“The Vandals are very strong,” he said, anxiously. “I am only a man of peace. My people do not wish for war.”

“No,” said Quintus. “Only for the chance to share the west bank in return for helping these Vandals.”

“You would force me to see my people sell them food,” he squeaked.

“Those are your words, not mine. But are you certain your men are strong enough to guard your waggons against my cavalry?”

He said, anxiously, “We are friends. We have made a pact. I am in the service of the Emperor. You, yourself, appointed me the Praeses of Germania Inferior.” He stumbled over the Latin words awkwardly, but there was an absurd pride in his voice at his remembrance of the meaningless title. It was almost as hollow as my own. “You will not kill an ally.”

“No,” I said. “I kill only those who oppose me.”

We walked out to where our horses stood. His small son, a flaxen-haired child of eleven, was standing by my horse, fingering the harness. I mounted, and then bent down and lifted the boy onto the saddle cloth in front of me. His struggles ceased the moment my knife pricked the soft skin of his throat. There was a growl from the tribesmen around us. My escort of five closed up on me. The king stepped forward and then hesitated. His face had gone white. He was afraid of me, and I was glad. What was a yellow haired Burgundian to me—I who was Maximus?

“Your son needs a change of air,” I said. “I will show him my camp and my soldiers and he will like that. He will be my honoured guest and I will look after his health as carefully as my own. You will remember that, Guntiarus, when you think to sell food to the enemies of Rome.”

“My son,” he cried. “Give me my son.”

“When you have avenged your daughter, I will know that you care for your son.” I lifted my hand and we trotted through the camp, followed by a great host of men who would have killed me if they had dared. Outside the stockade we dug our heels into our horses and galloped hard for the river. When we reached the shore opposite Bingium I knew we were safe. At Moguntiacum I sent for the girl who was Rando’s daughter.

She came and Fabianus was with her.

I said, “Look after the boy. If he goes sick or escapes you will embrace that tree by the river sooner than you think.”

She cried out at me then, called me a Roman butcher and a murderer until she ran out of breath. I laughed and she went away in silence, but I knew that the boy would be safe.

On the last night of the month I was awoken a little after dawn by the centurion of the watch, beating upon my door.

“What is it?” I asked, irritably.

“The girl has escaped. We found the sentry outside her hut half an hour ago. He had been stunned.”

“Half an hour.”

He said, steadily, “I had the camp searched at once. She is nowhere inside. I found a ladder against the south wall by the stables. And this, sir.” He held up a woman’s sandal.

“Yes, that is hers.”

“We had to make sure before we told you, sir.”

“She must be found. Take a patrol into the town. She may be hiding there. Search every house, if need be.” I flung on my cloak and picked up my sword. “She was locked in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then she had help.” I stared at him and frowned. “One of our men? Is that what you are thinking?”

“It looks like it, sir.”

We hurried out. The camp flared with torches and the men were parading outside their huts under the direction of their section commanders. Aquila came up, unshaved, and rubbing his eyes. “Take a roll call,” I said. “Find out who is missing.”

He saluted and a few minutes later I heard the trumpets sound. Then came a shout from the south-east gate tower. I ran towards it, followed by Fabianus and another tribune. “Up here,” shouted a voice. I climbed the steps to the firing platform. The sentry pointed and I saw a boat drifting downstream; a small boat such as fishermen used. It appeared to be empty. Caught in one current and then another, it nosed first one way and then the next. It passed close to the broken bridge, at which the sentry there cried out and flung three javelins in quick succession. Two went into the boat. A third hit the water behind. Then the boat moved outwards suddenly, caught in a cross eddy, and passed slowly along the west shore of the south island. The sentry ran back and came panting up to the wall. “There are men on board,” he cried. “They are lying on the bottom.”

“Use the catapults,” I said. “I will give a week’s extra pay to all who have a hand in sinking her.”

“Shall I sound the alarm?”

“No, you fool. I don’t want too much importance attached to it. They know our trumpet calls. The parade call is one thing; the alarm another.”

“Number Four and Five ready, sir.”

“Fire.”

They fired. The boat, guided crudely by a man lying upon the boards, holding an oar over the stern, was moving more rapidly now. It was clear of the island and heading towards the further bank. Fireball after fireball went hissing up into the dawn sky. They landed, with tremendous splashes and great hisses of steam, all round the boat; it was end on now and a difficult target. The seventh shot struck the boat; there came back across the water a hoarse scream and then silence.

“Well, that’s that,” said the duty optio in a satisfied voice.

Fabianus said, white-faced, “Do you think she was in the boat?”

“I don’t know,” I said, angrily. “If she was, then she was lucky.” He stared at me.

“How many in the boat?” I asked the sentry.

“Three, sir.”

“Are you certain?’

“I am positive, sir.”

“Let us hope you are right.” I smiled at the centurion. “Good work. The sentry and yourself are to be included. Send me the names and I will pass them to the accounts office.”

The centurion said, anxiously, “I hope they all drowned, sir.”

“Yes, I hope so to. I expect they did.”

Two hours later a report came in from the duty centurion on the south island. A man, who appeared to be badly injured, had been seen climbing out of the water onto the east bank. He had then vanished into the scrub. It was impossible to say whether he was likely to die or not. The centurion did not think so; and I was inclined to believe him. He was a man of some experience. He had seen many wounded men in his time. He knew how a man moved when he was dying.

It was day now, too late to go back to sleep. I went to the headquarters building and broke my fast on a biscuit dipped in wine. Aquila came in. He looked tired. He said, “Everyone is accounted for, sir, except the prisoner and—” He hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“The tribune, Severus, sir.”

“Was he on duty yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.” He added, awkwardly, “He had no leave of absence from the camp. I have checked that with the camp praefectus.”

“I understand.” I looked out of the window. I said, “Send the tribune Fabianus to me.”

He came. He looked ill, and, as he stood to attention before me, his hands trembled by his side.

I said, “Who else, besides you, was in the habit of talking to the prisoner?”

He said, miserably, “A number of us used to.”

“Anyone in particular? The tribune Severus, for instance?”

There was a long silence and then he said, in a low voice, “Yes, sir.”

I rose from my stool and stood over him. “Did you know about this?” He did not say anything. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Answer me,” I said.

“No, sir. I didn’t. But—”

“Go on.”

He licked his lips. “A month ago she asked me if I—if I would help her to escape. I refused, of course. I never thought she might try to persuade anyone else.’

“Why didn’t you report this?”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you wouldn’t. I will deal with you later. You realise this is an offence, punishable by death?”

He swayed on his feet. “Not you, you young fool; the man who helped her.”

“But they’re dead,” he muttered.

“We found the marks where the boat had been drawn up on the mud; there were three sets of foot marks round it; but no tracks leading from the fort to the river. There should have been. It rained yesterday evening and the ground was soft. I think they lost their way; the people who supplied the boat lost their nerve because of the trumpets in the camp and didn’t wait. They pushed off and we caught them.”

He stared at me in horror.

“Yes,” I said. “I think the girl and the tribune are hiding in the town.”