War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (30 page)

“And what do you want for the future?”

“I want what every man wants,” he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, “to be content. To see more of my wife and to raise strong children – children who’ll listen to my stories with patient smiles when I’m old.”

“A soldier’s life is a lonely one,” Varus commented with a small sigh. “And, how is the lovely Thusnelda?”

“She is well. It was my intention to visit her tonight at my cousin’s village. So, if there is nothing further, perhaps I might take my leave?”

“Of course,” Varus agreed. “As always, I’ve enjoyed our talk enormously. Now off with you, and relay my best wishes to you wife.”

“Thank you my lord,” Arminius saluted before making his way to the entrance.

Maintaining his outward appearance of calm, he passed the tent guards, thankful to leave behind the cloying heat and Varus. He sucked in the cold air as he walked to his horse, his discussion with the governor fresh in his mind. He’d told him nothing that his spies hadn’t already, and he believed that Varus still trusted him, as much as he trusted any man. The practised words he’d spoken left him feeling angry, tainted, but it was a skill he’d learned to master.

An icy wind gusted around his legs and sent a shiver through him. Despite being raised in this land he’d welcomed the climate in the east. And always there was the memory of Rome; its warmth and the time he spent there.

At first he was dazzled by the opulent villas and the splendid temples of marble that stretched over the city’s seven hills. Later, when he strolled its bustling streets, he encountered a different Rome; one that was stifling, rotten, run by the sweat of its army of slaves. Once, he saw the Tiber swell in the rains, flooding the homes of the unlucky ones that lived in squalor close to the river.

He remembered his arrival and being greeted as a
Prince
of his people. But, privately, he was always thought of as a barbarian. And while they privately scorned him, he came to know them: their beliefs and indulgences, their customs and quiet fears, their strengths and their weaknesses. He learnt of their unflinching belief in their invincibility.

When he first sat in the Great Circus with his rich patrons, his attention was seized by the stunning shedding of blood. After the initial shock, the experience left him feeling soiled from having witnessed such horrors served up for the pleasure of the mob. Such spectacles degraded life, just as his people were being degraded under the yoke of Varus and his legions.

Yet, it was on the face of one man that he glimpsed the true power and strength of Rome: The Emperor Augustus. He vividly recalled the hour when he was summoned by the title of ‘Prince of the Cherusci’ to stand before the great man-god. Augustus had glanced down at him, and in that moment he felt the man’s iron will – a strength to command that was bolstered by his generals and half a million legionaries. Despite the words being only, “Rome welcomes you,” the gaze had sent a shiver running through him. Its impression was carved in his memory, together with the realization that here was the man, the power, that he must rise up against.

After, when he returned to Germania, he saw the very life being drained from his people. In village after village new laws were being callously administered and the same injustices repeated. Varus’s comforting words to the chiefs had been lies, and all the while his coffers grew ever fatter from the taxes squeezed from the Cherusci.

No, there were no longer any doubts in his mind about what he must do. And Rome had shown him the way.

*

Rush lights fluttered along the lodge wall and an echo of a crying child carried on the wind. Thusnelda watched him eat. She handed him a cup of wine, their fingers touched and she smiled.

He drank in his wife’s striking looks, the full lips and deep water blue eyes, heavy lidded. She’d pulled her long, blond hair back of her face, accentuating exquisite cheekbones. He realized anew how much he missed her. His desire reaching out to her, she blushed.

“How long can you stay?” she asked.

“Just tonight,” Arminius leaned forwards and took her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s not as long as I-”

“It’s alright,” she cut in, the smile waning. “I knew it would be this way.”

He knew she said these words to ease his guilt at their separation. She tried so hard to hide her feelings, but he knew how difficult it was for her. In a while, after they made love, he’d whisper that things wouldn’t always be like this, that one day they’d be together, and it would be a slower, more patient time, with laughter, closeness and a family. Once all he planned was done.

“I know you understand,” he said.

“I try.” Her face looked suddenly troubled. “I also understand that there will soon be war, and wonder if there is another who can do this thing, take the risks you take?”

“If there was another to lead, I would follow. But, there isn’t, and what I do is for us all.”

“My father speaks of the Romans as friends,” she said, meeting his look, “and says they’ve brought peace to the land.”

“Your father is an old man.” Arminius’s face wore a grim aspect. “One who chooses to end his days in peace, regardless of the price this peace costs his people. The fact that it’s a bad peace, full of shame and misery makes no difference to him. He is chief in name only, and few follow him.” The words were spoken with conviction and Thusnelda lowered her gaze to the floor.

“I miss you so very much,” she said, tears welling up.

Arminius rose and went to her. He kissed her forehead, her eyes and her hair. Eventually, he said, “I’ve got something for you.”

Thusnelda watched him as he delved into his saddle bag. Turning around he held out a span of cloth. Blue and silky, it seemed to possess a transparent life of its own. “I purchased it from an eastern trader. I’ve not seen its like before, and I thought the colour would match your eyes.” He smiled, imagining how the fabric would cling against her skin.

Taken aback, Thusnelda held out her hands, and he let the soft mass drape across her forearms. She raised it to her face, letting its feel caress her cheek.

“It’s so beautiful. I’ll make a dress and wear it when you next visit.” She placed the cloth gently to one side. Turning back to him she said, “Come.” She led him to the nearby bed of furs.

He watched her step away from him. She unfastened her dress and then let it slide to the floor. The breath caught in his throat...the long, smooth legs, full breasts that were soft but firm. The firelight reflected in her eyes and in the corn-gold of her hair, now loose.

She held out her hand to him, her voice thick with emotion, “Let’s not waste a moment my love.”

He put his arms around her, feeling her tremble, the warmth of her flesh, and the heat of her breath on his face.

“Do not forget me when you are away,” she whispered.

He kissed her tenderly, and her hands moved to caress the back of his head.

At the outset of this course Arminius followed, he’d known that in order to win he’d need to be every bit as ruthless and single minded as the enemy he faced.

Drawing his tunic over his head, he realized that the sacrifices would only get harder.

* * *

Chapter XLII

STRANGE
MEETINGS

“It is hard to find a man

that can distinguish flatterers from friends.”

Horace

Blood sprayed, painting his face with its warmth. Guntram turned his head, searching for the Gauls. Their faces, frozen in shock, stared back at him from upturned, white eyes. A ring of German warriors circled the bodies, watching him closely.

Grunting, he managed to heave himself to his feet.

The warriors were muttering to each other, words he could not hear. One of them stepped forward. Ashen haired, he was tall and lean, his bearing straight. He raised his sword and then placed its tip against Guntram’s chest in one fluid movement. Fresh blood dripped sluggishly from its edge. When he spoke his tone was confident.

“These curs are far from home.”

“They’ve tracked me a long way,” Guntram croaked in a language he’d hardly spoken in over two years. “The price on my head must be greater than I thought. A pity they’ll never collect it,” he added with a dour smile.

The warrior raised his eyebrows on hearing him speak German, before stating, “I am Blaz, a champion of the Cherusci.” He let his sword drop a little. “Who are you? And why is there a price on your head?”

“My name is Guntram, son of Roth, war-chief of the Cherusci who was slain some two years past by the soldiers of Rome.” He swayed as he spoke and his throat felt raw. “I seek a brother and a woman, as well as revenge against Rome; blood for blood. My crime...was to kill Romans.”

“Hah!” the warrior laughed, then said mockingly, “so we have a Roman killer amongst us.” His men responded with a chorus of sniggers.

His hands crooked like talons, Guntram growled through lips stretched back off his teeth, “Give me a day’s rest and put a blade in my hand and then we’ll see how quickly you laugh!”

The warriors murmured angrily and the leader stepped forwards. “Strong words from a man who can barely stand, let alone fight.”

Guntram matched the other’s stare.

“If it’s true that you are the son of Roth, then you will be welcome,” the leader continued, wearing a humourless smile, “but if you aren’t, I promise that your head will bid a quick farewell to your neck.”

There was no mistaking the resolve in the warrior’s voice, but Guntram felt no fear. He was too weary.

“When our leader arrives, he will decide what to do with you,” the warrior concluded. “Until then, you will share my hearth fire and a hot meal. You look in need of both. But first I’ll have your sword and that Roman dagger at your belt.”

Even as he listened, the pounding behind Guntram’s eyes grew stronger and he felt near to passing out. Steadying himself, he handed over his weapons. A nudge in his back moved him forwards, the warriors all around him.

He soon found himself at the forest edge with a clearing opening out before him. His spirit lifted on seeing a large settlement some fifty paces distant. It was surrounded by an impressive stockade.

A gate yawned open and more men emerged, all carrying weapons.

Gritting his teeth, determined not to collapse, Guntram followed the tall warrior’s hazy figure towards the beckoning gate.

*

He woke in the dim orange glow of the lodge. His whole body ached and he strained to sit up beneath the weight of furs.

The lodge was lit by a smoky hearth fire, and a young, flaxen haired woman was preparing a meal on a wooden table. Various animal pelts covered the earth floor and a battered wooden bench provided seating along the length of one wall.

His throat felt like it was filled with sharp stones when Guntram addressed the woman, who, noticing movement had turned and was smiling at him. “How do I look?”

“Like death,” she replied, her smile broadening, “and you’ve slept for two days. Here, eat this, it will help.” She handed him a horn of cool water and a bowl of thick barley gruel. He devoured both with relish, only then raising his head to catch his breath and to ask for his bowl to be refilled.

“The food is good,” he commented weakly, before enquiring, “Where am I?”

“You’re in the lodge of Blaz, and I am Bertha his wife...his only wife.” Still smiling, she added proudly, “My husband is the sword-arm of our leader, and you are his guest. Our lodge is also shared by my husband’s sister, Wilda, who is busy training with the sword, as usual. She’s happy in the company of men, doing men things.”

His eyes adjusting to the lodge’s murky light, Guntram scrutinised the woman more closely. Like many of the Cherusci women she wasn’t fat, but was rather strong limbed and big breasted. He smiled, thinking,
definitely too hefty for the usual Roman taste.
Then the lodge door burst inwards, scattering his thoughts.

A young woman entered like a storm. Brazenly appraising him, she jibed, “I see our honoured guest has seen fit to rise.” Guntram noted that her voice bore a distinctive husky quality.

“Hush Wilda,” Bertha countered. “He is our guest, and Blaz has instructed that he’s to be treated as such.”

“Blaz is too trusting by far,” the young woman snapped indignantly. Staring directly at him she sneered, “When our leader arrives he will decide how we treat this...this outsider.”

“Wilda, enough!” This time there was an edge to Bertha’s rebuke.

Guntram slowly stood, his joints cracking as he straightened to his full height. He stretched his arms roof-wards, towering over the tribes-woman.

“You’ve a brash tongue,” he stated hoarsely. “And, it seems your brother has neglected to teach you some respect for your betters.” The words were geared to sting and they had the desired effect.

Her face flushing scarlet, Wilda challenged, “I suppose you are the man to teach me?”

“I’d not waste my breath. Your ill manners are your brother’s affair, not mine,” he answered calmly. “Now tell me, when does your brother return? Because I’ll need to speak with your leader when he comes.”

“My brother said that you’ll be summoned when our leader is
ready
to speak with you.” She began, and then spat out the rest, “Until then, you’re to remain in my company.”

Nodding his acceptance, Guntram matched the woman’s resentful look, aware that she was barely able to control her temper.
There’s no doubting this wild-cat’s spirit
, he conceded.

His eyes swept over her. She was tall, even by German reckoning, and her body was strong and lithe with nothing bovine about her. The lines of her face were clear, the chin firm and the lips full. A cluster of freckles spotted her sharply chiselled nose and cheeks, and light grey eyes were set beneath finely arched brows. A corn-blond braid hung to her waist. Her practical buckskin clothes did little to disguise the curve of her hips the firm swell of her breasts, and he felt a stirring in his loins for the first time since...since Chayna.