War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (32 page)

More than the weather, he dreaded the endless duties attached to his rank. He ticked them off in his mind:
barracks maintenance, road patrol, latrine parties and battle formation drills, to be repeated and repeated...

He shivered.
Gods! I hate this fucking country and its mulish people. But, it won’t last forever. When Varus is victorious I intend to be there at his side, and, when he receives his reward from the Emperor himself, I’ll be there too – in Rome – where the real power is wielded.

*

Outside the tent the camp was quiet.

Lucanus lay on his cot, listening to Servannus’s drunken snores. He didn’t feel the cold like the noble and it never kept him awake.

Instead, it was Servannus’s cruel taunts, still fresh in his mind that troubled him. He believed more than ever, that if evil existed in this world it lived in his master. Servannus didn’t beat him, but goaded him in other ways, using crude jokes and subtle threats to hurt him for no reason. Servannus possessed a natural cruelty that sickened him, and he wished that he possessed the courage to kill him for what he did to his family, his people and...Leon.

He clearly remembered the day he saw the old slave for the last time. Leon had stumbled and spilled a bowl of fruit in Servannus’s presence. Servannus flew into a rage and beat him savagely. Lucanus had thought that the old man was dead, but, as the gladiator’ guards dragged him away, he heard Leon moan. It was the last time he saw the man who’d taught him to read and write, and who was his friend.

Afterwards, the other servants whispered that Servannus had sold Leon, but he knew just how Servannus punished those who displeased him.

Since that dreadful day he often thought that he might poison Servannus, because he had the knowledge and the opportunity. He’d thought to use the squeezed juice of the yew-berry disguised in the Tribune’s food; knowing that its action was quick, sure, with the result being certain.

He watched Servannus’s chest rise and fall, knowing that his father and brother would have cut the Roman’s throat with his own sword, even as he slept. But, he didn’t possess their courage. When caught the punishment for such a deed would be terrible, and he hated pain. In his heart he knew that Servannus’s death must fall to another – maybe at the hands of the tribes across the Rhinus.

Lucanus reached under his cot, locating the small fishing knife that was a gift from old Leon. He always kept the blade well-honed. As his fingers moulded around the knife’s handle, their faces came to him in turn: father, mother, Guntram, little Faiga and old Leon. He closed his eyes and they grew clearer.

His hand trembled as the blade’s razor edge touched his wrist. Closing his eyes he consoled himself that the misery would soon end.

* * *

Chapter XLIV

LODGE
OF
BLAZ

“An angry man opens his mouth and shuts his eyes.”

Cato the Younger

The horse-troop left the next day at first light, and without Guntram having another chance to meet with their commander.

A week passed and Guntram raised the matter with Blaz as they sat in the sword-hand’s lodge.

“I wanted to speak to Arminius again, before he left,” Guntram said. Both men held cups of ale and the mood was less tense between them.

Blaz took a sip of his ale. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about him?”

“I saw but was blind,” Guntram replied, pensive. “I see now that Arminius is more than he appears: a German wolf who wears a Roman fleece. You would not support him if your cause wasn’t a common one, and I see how much you rankle under Rome’s yoke.” He leaned closer. “Tell me...Where does he plan to strike?”

Sighing, Blaz answered, “There are some who would sell their soul for the feel of Roman gold in their hand, and Rome has its spies everywhere. Maybe even here?” He forced a cough, looking uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, I take no offence,” Guntram reassured him. “I’m a stranger, and Arminius is wise to keep his plans close to his breast. My father used to say that even the most carefully crafted bowl can spring a leak.” A wave of sadness washed over him, remembering.

Blaz, looking relieved, pointed out, “Winter is not a time for fighting.”

“Then I must wait until spring.”

“Waiting is never easy for a warrior,” Blaz agreed.

“A Greek physician once told me, ‘that which cannot be remedied has to be endured’” Guntram quoted. “Yet, it doesn’t stop me wondering about what Arminius is planning?”

Blaz grinned, and Guntram returned the smile, already liking the loyal sword-hand.

“So, do you think Rome can be beaten?” Blaz asked, more serious.

“I‘ve lived and trained with men who’ve fought with Rome and against her. And, I’ve seen what her legionaries can do when my village was...” Guntram paused, the memory hard.

After a few moments Blaz encouraged him, “Go on.”

“I saw the damage they can do when they attack in formation, with discipline,” Guntram told him. “If we faced them like this, in open battle, their short swords would cut us to pieces. And, if we attacked them in their camps, like at Vetera, their weapons that kill from afar would destroy us.”

Guntram rubbed his forehead, thinking. “Rome’s army is like the crab; seeming unbreakable with its sharp claws and hard shell. Handle it directly and you will pay the price. But, turn it over with a stick and it’s helpless. Likewise, a different way to beat Rome’s army needs to be found; a way to break apart its iron ranks and attack its weaknesses.”

“Is it possible?”

“All things are possible,” Guntram replied. “But, Rome’s armies are rarely beaten.”

Blaz refilled their cups. Raising his hand, he offered a toast, “To a mild winter and to an early spring.”

“To spring!” Guntram lifted his cup to Blaz’s.

I hope Arminius’s plan is a good one
, he mused.
Because it will need to be.

* * *

Chapter XLV

WINTER

“No man of woman born, coward

or brave, can shun his destiny.”

Homer

Guntram immediately took his place amongst the hunters, both to provide Blaz’s lodge with food and to rebuild his own strength.

Joined by Blaz on his regular hunting trips, he was soon impressed by the sword-hand’s skill as a woodsman. They formed a successful partnership and their table was never bare despite the scarcity of game during the months of freezing cold.

There were no hollow bellies in the settlement as a whole; with the villagers’ palate adapting to rabbit, squirrel and wild fowl, and that was supplemented by the occasional elk and boar.

The previous summer’s crops had been plentiful, with ample supplies of grain, mead and barley wine being stored up in readiness for the bleak winter ahead. On special occasions, such as a young couple’s marriage ceremony, a number of domestic cattle came under the knife. The resultant feast was enjoyed by all.

Guntram regularly sparred with the sword-hand, testing sword, spear and war-hammer. Despite Blaz’s skill and experience with these weapons, Guntram was rarely bested.

With his early days in the settlement blending into weeks, so Guntram spent increasingly more time in the sword-hand’s company. The sober warrior possessed a steely toughness and a clean honesty that he related to, and a bond of trust began to form between them.

As winter’s icy fingers wrapped around the lodges, Guntram had to remind himself on more than one occasion that Wilda’s increased attentions had no bearing on his decision to stay. At these times his mind turned to Chayna, who lived on in his dreams and his heart. He sorely missed her.

And there was Jenell. During the hushed darkness of the nights he wondered if another love now dwelt in her secret place, or if she’d forgotten him? After a while he’d push these selfish thoughts aside, and comfort himself with the hope that her journey and that of Strom had been kinder than his own.

*

Wilda, finishing her evening meal, wiped her hands on her tunic and moved to sit directly in front of him. Guntram continued to eat, absently listening to the howl of the wind as it tugged at the lodge’s roof. Wilda weaved her head from side to side, avoiding his best efforts to ignore her. Recognising the mischievous glint in her eye he knew what was coming.

As the young woman’s interest in him had grown, so did the number of her questions regarding his absent years and all manner of things Roman. It was a game she increasingly played with him, but he was determined to finish his meal.

“Is it true that Romans lie down to eat their meals?” Wilda asked, her knees pulled up tight under her chin, looking younger than her years.

“They don’t lie flat on their backs, like when sleeping, but prop themselves up on one arm, their elbows resting on fine cushions.” He was aware that Wilda was edging closer, keen to hear his answer. “Although this is usually the practice at banquets.”

“And who protects the settlement’ walls when they are resting on their fine cushions?” Wilda’s eyes sparkled amusingly as she pressed him.

“Common folk don’t eat their food in this way or the troops in the field,” Guntram clarified between bites. “Only the generals and their officers when they celebrate a victory, and the nobles on special days in honour of their gods. Poorer folk take their meals at a table, sitting on chairs.”

“Do the noble ladies lie down at the feasts with their men?”

He sighed. “Yes, the women too.”

“Strange.” Wilda pinched her bottom lip, frowning. “Doesn’t the arm get tired with all that leaning?”

“By the Gods!” he blurted out, before turning to Blaz for help. “Blaz, I swear this sister of yours has more tongue than a cow’s got udder. Can you do nothing with her?”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Blaz began, grinning. “I was hoping you’d have more luck than me.”

Frustrated, Guntram returned his attentions to the now cold rib-bone he’d been gnawing. Undaunted, Wilda sidled even closer, her eyes mere inches from his face.

“Why do the Romans eat human flesh?” she asked more seriously.

“By
Woden’s
hairy arse!” Guntram exclaimed, spitting out a lump of rib gristle that glanced off Bertha’s shoulder. Bertha tucked her head low, almost choking in an effort to quell her laughter.

Guntram thundered, “And why do the Cherusci?”

“The Cherusci don’t eat men’s flesh!” Wilma responded testily. Flushed, she moved from Guntram’s front to sit cross-legged, opposite him once again.

“Neither do the Romans,” Guntram said, selecting another rib.

“They do,” asserted Wilda, “traders told me so.”

“Foolish talk to frighten children and impress young women. In Rome it’s said that we cook and eat our enemies. Do we?”

Shrugging, Wilda countered, “That’s stupid. What do they know about us to make up such lies?”

“True,” Guntram said. “Yet, what do you really know about these Romans? Like tears in rain, these whispers should be regarded warily. Until it’s proven otherwise and tested by your own eyes.”

Wilda was briefly silent, seeming to consider his advice. A series of nervous sniffs pre-empted her next question. “Do the traders also lie when they say that Roman women take lovers before they are married?”

“Hush Wilda!” Bertha interupted. “Such questions are not fitting at meal times.”

Guntram held up an appeasing hand. “I will answer. She’s young and has an inquisitive mind, and it’s important to know about an enemy’s ways.”

His eyes locking with Wilda’s, he explained, “It’s not uncommon for rich, older women to lie with young men outside of their marriages. That aside, Roman women are usually married very young; sometimes as young as twelve, thirteen.”

“To be joined that young?” Wilda queried, aghast.

“Yes.”

“Have you taken many lovers?” The words spilled out, too late to be taken back.

“That is none of your affair.” His words were angry, clipped.

Wilda bit her lip and looked away.

Dragging a wolf-skin across his shoulders, Guntram barged out into the night.

*

It was hard to hide his amusement as he watched them spar. His sister’s best efforts to breach Guntram’s guard were smoothly turned aside, and, as her frustration grew, so did the wildness of her attacks, much to her opponent’s delight.

Wilda’s feelings for his sword-brother were plain to see, and her angry outbursts fooled neither him nor his wife. Considering the many suitors his sister had rebuffed, it was ironic that she’d now met her match. Blaz knew better than anyone that Wilda’s love was as fierce as her temper and he wondered what Guntram felt in return?

Blaz knew about the woman Jenell, but more darkly, he’d stood on the brink of that pit where violence and resolve sat side by side in Guntram. He’d seen it when they sparred, and when they hunted; at those raw moments when Guntram cornered his prey and dealt the killing blow. He had no wish to see his sister hurt.

As the bitter months crawled by, Blaz had noticed other things too. The villagers no longer stared when Guntram passed, and if they wondered about his years away from Germania, they never pressed him. If he asked a question, he was answered with respect, because he was seen as possessing a shrewd mind as well as a strong arm. His people regarded him as someone special, and his merits were the subject of regular discussion in the lodges. The young warriors believed him special because of his great strength and uncanny speed, and the women because of his commanding voice and striking looks. In fact, there were as many reasons as there were villagers.

When important concerns were debated, Guntram didn’t take sides, but listened to the views of others, and only at the end when a discussion was in danger of falling apart through pointless argument, did he comment on matters that couldn’t be delayed. He was not contradicted, because his suggestions were sensible, far-sighted.