The Wolf's Gold (21 page)

‘No further, Roman. If you’ve come to gloat then you’ve picked the wrong man to make sport of. We saw the glow of your pyres on the northern peak reflected in the clouds last night, and I see you carry my father’s helm.’

Marcus bent slowly, placing the helmet on the ground before him with what he deemed to be appropriate respect for its wearer’s status. The rider placed both hands on the horn of his saddle, bending forward to look at the Roman more closely.

‘I am Galatas Boraz, son of King Asander Boraz and in my father and my uncle’s absence, the leader of this host. State your purpose in putting your life in my hands, and do so quickly. My patience is not at its best today.’

Marcus stepped forward a pace, and the arrowheads tracked his movement, the archers’ knuckles whitening on their bows. The men arrayed around the prince were hard faced, their expressions giving him nothing beyond simple enmity, while the warrior mounted on Galatas’s right stared down at him with evident disgust from beneath the brim of a dented legionary’s helmet clearly looted from the scene of a recent Roman defeat.

‘I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, Centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort and deputed by my tribune to enter discussions with you as to your intentions. I—’

Galatas leaned back in his saddle, his laughter both harsh and terse.

‘My
intentions
? I
intend
getting my horsemen around that wall and riding down every man that hides behind it before I carry off the gold that waits for me.’ He sat forward in the saddle and regarded Marcus levelly for a moment before speaking again. ‘I will trade information with you, Roman, since you face my kontos without any sign of fear. Only a few of my father’s men have returned to our camp with the tale of defeat, and none of them know what happened to the king. Tell me truly, what was the fate of my father and my uncle?’

Marcus grimaced.

‘For a time it seemed as if your attack would force us off the hill, but we were reinforced at a vital time in the fight, and took the field with much slaughter. We burned a thousand bodies and took twice as many prisoners, including your father. He is being treated with the appropriate respect due to a king, but he is badly wounded. Our doctor is providing him with the best medical care possible, but it is not yet clear whether he will live or die. As to your uncle, I have no news.’

The rider nodded grimly, shooting a meaningful glance at an older man on his left.

‘Very well.Your turn. What would you know from me?’

Marcus looked up at him for a moment before speaking again.

‘You speak excellent Latin. I would very much like to know how this is.’

Galatas pulled a face at the unexpected mundanity of the question, but answered quickly enough.

‘My father had all of his sons taught the Roman speech and letters. He said that we could never really understand our enemy unless we could read their writings, and so it has proven. Which makes it my turn again. What is so important that you have been sent out here to discuss? The news of my father’s capture could just as easily have been shouted down from your wall without putting a man such as yourself at risk of being killed by an overeager archer, or dragged apart by my household guard. I must warn you, the men around me are eager to have you for a plaything to avenge the harm done to our king.’

The Roman looked up at the hard-faced man on Galatas’s right, meeting the murderous intent in his eyes with a flat stare.

‘You will have noted that I came to you unarmed, as a mark of our seriousness in seeking to negotiate some form of agreement to end this dispute.’ His voice hardened from its carefully controlled tone of reason, an edge of iron creeping in as his anger swelled at the looks being cast down at him. ‘But I will back down before no man. Grant me the loan of your sword and then release your dogs, and we’ll see who’s left standing by the time twenty heartbeats have passed.’

The Sarmatae leader laughed again, a little less tersely this time, and the smile that spread across his face appeared genuine.

‘If only you sat where I did, Roman! You must have fruits the size of an ox’s danglers to threaten this man.’ He gestured to the warrior wearing the captured helmet. ‘Amnoz here is the champion of my father’s bodyguard and a murderous bastard besides. There is not a man in this camp who could best him in combat.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘No-one lives forever. Arm me, Prince Galatas, and I will demonstrate the truth of that statement to him. Either that, or tell your champion to treat an envoy who has come only to talk, and is not equipped to fight, with a little more respect.’

Galatas’s smile was replaced by a frown.

‘For “an envoy that has come only to talk” you’re a little more aggressive than I would have expected. I have enough strength out here to wipe your army away without trace, given the favour of the gods, and yet here you are offering to take on my greatest warrior just for breathing heavily at you?’

Marcus smiled and bowed slightly.

‘My apologies, Prince Galatas, it’s a bad habit of mine. By all means please tell your man Amnoz that his appearance is as terrifying as it is martial, and that I am quaking with fear just to be in his presence.’ The tone of his voice, and the smouldering look he cast at Amnoz left the bodyguard in no doubt as to his real feelings, but Marcus switched his gaze back to the prince and softened his tone. ‘So, to business, your highness?’

The Sarmatae prince nodded wearily.

‘Say what you have to say.’

‘Simply this, Prince Galatas. We will do everything in our power to aid your father’s recovery from his wound, and your defeated kinsmen will not be harmed in any way as long as they remain peaceable. We have more than enough food for a long siege, and your warriors will be fed just as well as our own soldiers. You are more than welcome to camp here in the valley and stare at our wall for as long as you like, or at least for as long as you have the food to sustain you, but any further attempt to break into our defences will be met with the same rough treatment as your attempt to take the northern hill. We have an inexhaustible supply of wood for pyres, and we will burn as many men as you see fit to send at us. Or . . .’

He paused, and the prince leaned forward in his saddle again.

‘Or what? Is this the point where you offer me some honeyed words to make the bad taste in my mouth go away?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Far from it, Prince Galatas. I am simply instructed to point out that Rome and the Sarmatae people have a rich history of collaboration over the last century. We fought together against the Dacians back in the time of the Emperor Trajan, and more recently your king Zanticus sent eight thousand horsemen to serve with our army in Britannia. Might this not be another opportunity for us to unite our forces, or at least to coexist in peace?’

The man sitting to Galatas’s left laughed long and hard, then lifted a leg to jump down from his horse. Hawk-faced, and with a beard that was grizzled with grey, he stood before Marcus with his hands on his hips and a hard, challenging smile. His Latin was equally as polished as the prince’s.

‘Zanticus? That fat, bald, pop-eyed old fart? Zanticus found himself over a barrel with three legions up his arse,
that’s
why he gave up the horsemen, and returned one hundred thousand of your people he was holding captive. When my brother Asander heard the tidings of that defeat, he and I went out to the sacred sword that is proudly sheathed in the soil of our homeland. We poured a libation of the best wine to its spirit, and gave the blade a taste of our blood. The king swore never to give fealty to Rome, and that he would find a way to make your emperor regret his presumption that the defeat of one hapless fool is the defeat of us all.’

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the point, glancing up at Galatas with an eyebrow raised in question. The prince sighed quietly.

‘This is Inarmaz, my uncle on my mother’s side, and my father’s strongest ally. Over one third of the men in our host owe their fealty to him.’

Marcus nodded his understanding.

‘And he was the first to make common cause with the king when he went to the ox hide?’

This time Galatas’s smile was without mirth.

‘You know our ways then, do you Roman? Yes, my father skinned a bull with his own hands and sat on the hide still bloody from the task, challenging his kinsmen to join him in this sacred deed.’

‘And if the king dies? I swear to you that I will bring his body to you should he lose this last fight, just as I have brought you his helmet as a sign of good faith. What if I stand before you again with your father’s body in my arms?’

Inarmaz replied before Galatas had the chance to respond, his answer both instant and stern.

‘We drove a plentiful supply of cattle along behind our spears, and the blade of
my
kontos is still sharp. Asander Boraz’s death would sadden us all, but it would change nothing, Roman. And that, I think, is enough of your efforts to turn us from the path of war. The next time we meet you would be well advised to come armed and ready to back your words with your blade, but whether armed or not you can be assured that I will put your head on my long spear. This I will swear on the bloody hide that brought me here to make war on your accursed empire.’

He spat on the ground at Marcus’s feet and turned away, and the king’s son shrugged expressionlessly down at the Roman.

‘I suggest you return to your own side of the wall, before the temptation to sheathe iron in your flesh becomes too much for my men to resist any longer.’

‘They could be bluffing, of course, to make us believe that it’s in our interests to keep the king alive rather than quietly put him to the knife in the hopes of ending the war he started?’

Marcus shook his head in answer to his tribune’s question.

‘I’d say not, Tribune. The prince struck me as being sincere enough in following his father’s lead, and the king’s brother by marriage has the look of a rabid dog. If the king dies I believe we’ll face exactly the same threat as if he lives.’

‘Whereas if he lives, perhaps he’ll feel sufficiently grateful to end the war?’

The officers turned to face Belletor, but it was left to Gerwulf to voice what they were all thinking.

‘Not likely, Tribune. Once a king has taken oaths on the bloody hide he is bound to pursue his destiny to either victory or defeat. And the men waiting beyond our walls can hardly be said to have suffered defeat yet, even if we did stop their attack on the north ridge.’

Belletor sighed with frustration.

‘Then we should strike back at them and clear them away. Surely a surprise attack, perhaps at night . . .’

‘Would in all likelihood only end in disaster.’ Every eye turned back to Scaurus in his place at the far end of the table. ‘Five cohorts, all but two of which have never worked together before and most of whom are inexperienced at night fighting? It would be the toss of a coin, but my money would be on these Sarmatae being better at fighting in the dark than most of our men.’ He gestured to Gerwulf. ‘Our Quadi allies excepted, of course. It would be a brave commander who would abandon the security of a well-defended position to risk such a gamble, given the empire’s rather robust approach to punishment in the event of such a spectacular potential failure.’

Belletor sat in silence for a moment, clearly musing on the rumours they had all heard from Rome on the subject of the young emperor’s rule, tales of military officers ordered to commit suicide for the smallest of perceived failings, then spoke again.

‘So all that we can do is wait behind these walls for the enemy to get bored, or more likely to run out of supplies? In that case, I’m going to my bed. Wake me if anything happens.’

He stood, stretched and left the room. After a long silence Scaurus looked around at his remaining colleagues with a raised eyebrow.

‘For my part I’ve had far too interesting a night to get to sleep that easily, and with that many of the enemy at our walls; I think it would be wise if someone were to stay awake. An early lunch, perhaps?’

The group repaired to his tent and ate a hearty meal while Scaurus and Gerwulf exchanged stories of their respective military careers and Marcus, Sigilis and the Thracian prefect listened with interest. As Scaurus related the story of their war with the British tribes the previous year, Gerwulf listened intently, nodding as the Roman described their various actions in detail. When the story was done he looked at Scaurus with a new respect.

‘That’s quite a year you had. It seems Britannia is every bit as troubled as the German and Dacian frontiers. I’d wondered why there wasn’t more reinforcement for Dacia from the fortresses along the Rhenus.’

Scaurus reached for his cup.

‘With the Sixth Legion losing half its strength in one ugly afternoon, there wasn’t really any choice for the empire but to reinforce Britannia from Germania. It was either that or pull back to the south of the country to regroup. We would have lost the northern half of the island for years, perhaps for good, and even if it is a desolate land, good for nothing but breeding slaves and hunting dogs, it would still have been a defeat.’ He smiled at the men around him. ‘And everyone knows what happens to governors who deliver defeats to the throne.’ He took another sip as the officers nodded knowingly. ‘Mind you, even with all that extra manpower it was still hard to tell just who was more likely to end up holding the loser’s severed head for a while . . .’

He gestured for Arminius to refill their cups.

‘But what of you, Prefect? How does the son of a tribal king end up in the service of Rome?’

Gerwulf leant back, smiling gently, while Arminius refilled his cup with an expression of poorly concealed interest.

‘As you may know, Tribune, the story of my people is a strange one. The Quadi tribe is a friend of Rome, and yet we have taken part in some of the bloodiest wars against the empire that the northern frontier has ever seen. And on more than one occasion, men who have been sent to serve as soldiers of Rome have found themselves facing their own people across the battlefield, although not, thank Thunaraz, myself. Not yet, at least.’