Two more days of travelling was enough to leave the semi-civilised parts of Germania Magna behind them. The change was barely perceptible hour by hour, but if he compared the settlements with those half a day back, Silus could see the difference. More wood, less stone. The inhabitants’ clothing rougher, plainer. The further they travelled from the border with the Roman provinces of Germania Inferior and Superior, the less the influence of the Empire could be felt.
It was a situation that was to some extent familiar to Silus from growing up and fighting in northern Britannia, but the contrast was even more pronounced. The Germans who inhabited the area around the Rhenus had been in close contact with the Romans for more than two hundred and fifty years, since Caesar had conquered Gaul and Germania Superior. Britannia, separated by the sea from the Roman Empire and unconquered until a hundred years after Caesar’s first expeditions there, had little Roman influence beyond the south-east of the island, and the people of the north of the province kept much more of their own identity than the people of the Roman German provinces.
Seeing how much Odo’s family had wanted to appear Roman had impacted Silus deeply. His experience in Britannia and Caledonia had taught him that all barbarians hated Rome, and only ever allied with them for strategic purposes. Now he realised that some admired Rome, felt affection for it, saw its benefits, and wished to copy its methods, its customs and even its fashions.
It made his worldview more complicated than he had any desire for it to be. Romans good, barbarians bad. He was pretty sure that was how Atius viewed it, and there was a lot to be said for that degree of simplicity.
The thought of Atius made his guts clench, and he prayed to Mithras, Christos, Jupiter and any other god he could think of for his friend to be safe. Though he didn’t really believe the gods would intercede. Either Atius was alive or he wasn’t. And if he was alive, then it was down to Silus to save him, and no one else.
Silus had lifted his injunction regarding chatting as they travelled. Odo had shown generosity by offering Silus the hospitality of his family, and it was hard to be churlish in the face of that. What was more, he had slept with Odo’s sister. As much as he tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t realised, he couldn’t help the nagging guilty feeling that he had abused Odo’s trust. Thank all the gods that Odo didn’t know. That would have made the journey just too awkward.
So Silus forced himself to make small talk, mainly because long silences intensified his guilt.
‘Why did you volunteer to help Rome?’ he asked as they walked along a narrow raised track with sodden marshland either side. It was terrain like this that had meant they couldn’t use horses, and much as Silus disliked riding, he would have put up with it to speed up the journey through this foreign territory. The further they got from the border, the less familiar and the more hostile it all felt.
‘I hadn’t really thought about it. I had just returned from a year with my mother’s kinsfolk. They had taught me hunting, tracking, foraging, all the skills needed for survival. As well as how to use a sword and a bow, of course. And their priests had taught me Latin letters, numbers and logic.’
‘Which tribe did your mother’s kinsfolk belong to?’
‘Alamanni, like my father. Her kin were descended from the Marcomanni, but they separated from the main part of that tribe after its defeat by your Emperor Marcus Aurelius. They have a reputation not only for cunning in battle, but also for an appreciation of culture, art and learning. Things the northern and eastern tribes have no time for.
‘I had gone there intending to return as a fully trained warrior, ready to join the Alamanni warbands. My father on the other hand wanted me to stay at home and farm with him. But I had done a lot of thinking and learning while I was away. You see how my mother and sister love all things Roman, but they don’t really understand it. They are like children dressing up in their parents’ clothes for a game.
‘I lived in my father’s home, reading, practising with the sword and bow, going on hunting trips in the forest for days on end where I could be alone and think. And then one day a Roman came to visit. He was recruiting for the legions.’
‘I’ve met many Germans in the army,’ said Silus. ‘Some from conquered tribes that are now part of the Roman provinces. Some from Germania Magna who have joined up for money, or to flee their homeland because of crimes, or just for adventure and travel.’
Odo nodded. ‘Travel, adventure. They caught my imagination. We talked, this Roman recruiter and I, and he must have seen something in me. He told me to go to Colonia. But instead of sending me to the legionary headquarters to join up, he told me to report to Oclatinius with his compliments.’
‘I know how that works. Then he took you under his wing, trained you?’
‘He did. He said he wants me as a scout for special missions. And he told me about the Arcani, and said that if I proved my ability and loyalty, maybe I would become an Arcanus one day.’ He looked across at Silus. ‘Like you.’
So Oclatinius hadn’t held back with this young barbarian. Silus wondered briefly, with an irrational surge of jealousy, whether Odo knew the details of the mission Atius had been on. But he quickly dismissed that as absurd. Why would Oclatinius trust this German and not Silus? Get a grip, Silus. Odo isn’t Oclatinius’ new, younger lover, replacing you in his affections. And since when did you care what Oclatinius thought or did anyway?
‘And how many missions have you been on for Oclatinius so far?’
‘Including this one? One.’
How did I know that was going to be the answer? thought Silus. That irritating old man. But Odo’s disarming grin made Silus smile back at him.
‘Well, get us where we need to be, do as I say, and keep out of trouble. I told your mother I would bring you home safe.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Odo gave Silus a lightly mocking salute. Silus gave a small tut and turned his attention back to the road.
They were a long way from the Empire now. Odo led them through forest trails, goat tracks around hillsides, open fields and malodorous marshland. He was clearly at ease in this terrain, and knew it well. He explained to Silus that he had travelled far and wide in his time with his mother’s kin – it was one of the main reasons Oclatinius had selected him to accompany Silus.
They kept well away from any travellers they saw if they could, but once they encountered a group of four warriors. Young men, about Odo’s age, with painted faces, all bearing spears and bows. They were on open ground, a track through a field of vegetables of some sort, with nowhere to hide or to run to. Silus didn’t fancy their chances in a fight. He could hold his own against superior numbers in hand-to-hand fighting, but skill with a sword and dirty tricks meant nothing when you were facing down archers with arrows trained on your breastbone.
The warriors approached, with all the cocky assurance of youth. Their language was harsh, throaty, and Silus had no idea what they were saying. Odo spoke to them calmly, and translated into Latin for Silus.
‘They are Chatti, and they want to know what we are doing in their lands. I told them you are a trader and I am your guide. They want to know what you have to sell.’
‘Tell them if they have coin I am more than happy to trade with them.’
Odo translated and the young men looked at each other and let out low mocking laughs. Their leader, the biggest of the four, well-built despite not yet being in his prime, sporting a long, fat nose, slapped Silus across the shoulder with the back of his hand and pointed to Silus’ pack, giving a gruff, incomprehensible order.
‘He wants you to show him your pack,’ said Odo.
Silus took the pack off his shoulders and began to open it, but Big Nose grabbed it from him and upended it, so its contents spilled onto the ground. Silus protested, but the warrior shoved him hard, so he had to wave his hands to avoid falling on his backside. The others laughed, then rooted through his belongings.
There wasn’t much to see. Some cheese, smoked meat, bread and water. A couple of copper and amber necklaces and bracelets, two small cooking pots, some spoons and some statuettes carved in bone. Whatever he had been able to find cheaply in the market in Colonia before he left. Big Nose sifted through it with his boot, leant down to pick up the bracelet, then tossed it aside. He muttered something to Odo.
‘Is this it?’ Odo translated.
Silus shrugged in what he hoped was an open and placating manner. He really didn’t want to provoke these arrogant little shits. Even if he killed them all, their comrades or family would soon come looking for them, and that was trouble he didn’t need.
Big Nose then pointed at Silus’ sword and spoke. Odo’s translation was redundant. ‘He wants to see your sword.’
Silus had purposefully kept his blade sheathed and his hand well away from the hilt. Now he slowly took a grip and drew it out carefully. The three warriors behind Big Nose watched closely, two gripping their spears more tightly, the other taking an arrow from his quiver and nocking it, holding the string loose and pointed at the ground, but able to be drawn in an instant.
Silus held his sword by the hilt, between thumb and two fingers, so it dangled with the point towards the ground, swinging gently to and fro. Big Nose growled a command.
‘He says give it to him.’
Silus frowned, and looked into Big Nose’s eyes. He could see the young warrior wanted to keep his sword, and that wasn’t something he could allow to happen. Even if after disarming him, these young barbarians left him alive, how could he complete his mission weaponless? He took in the positions of the other three warriors, their alertness and readiness.
He flicked the sword up, twisting the grip so the point swept in a swift arc upwards. He let go, snatched the sword out of the air when it hit vertical, and swept it downwards in one clean movement so its edge rested against the big vein at the side of the warrior’s neck. Purposefully, he let the blade dig into the skin, slicing shallowly so blood oozed along the edge to the guard, from where a single drop fell to the muddy ground.
The three warriors fumbled for their weapons, two raising their spears, though the shocked archer fumbled his arrow, dropped it, and had to pull another from his quiver before he could draw his bow. Big Nose, conversely, stayed as still as a statue, only his eyes moving, flicking down to his left in a vain attempt to see the sword that had cut him. Slowly, he raised his hand to warn his comrades to hold.
‘Tell him I said no,’ said Silus.
Odo translated into German, unable to keep a smile from his face or his tone.
Stupid boy, thought Silus. This is not a game.
‘What now?’ whispered Odo.
‘Tell him to command his men to drop their weapons.’
Odo did so, and after a moment’s hesitation, Big Nose did as he was told. After a brief show of reluctance, the warriors dropped their spears and bows to the ground.
‘Now tell him that I could cut his throat this instant, if I desired. But if he gives me his word that he will let us pass unharmed, I will sheath my sword and walk away.’
Silus watched Big Nose’s eyes as the German words reached his ears. He saw anger and pride war with fear. Then he saw acceptance win out, in the slightest slump of his shoulders.
‘He swears,’ said Odo.
Silus kept his blade there just a moment longer, and held Big Nose’s gaze. Then he pulled the blade away, sheathed it in one smooth motion and stepped back.
Big Nose clapped his hand to his neck, took it away and looked at the blood on his palm, then glared at Silus. The other warriors scrambled to pick up their weapons, and to step forward menacingly, spears horizontal, arrow nocked and bowstring drawn tight. Silus kept his blade unsheathed, pointed downwards, but ready to be whipped up and into action. Big Nose locked eyes with him, then shook his head and spat. He growled some angry words.
‘He says you are no trader,’ said Odo.
Silus shrugged. ‘Pick up my wares and put them back in my pack, Odo.’
Odo obeyed, getting to his hands and knees to refill the pack. When he was finished he got back to his feet and stood beside Silus, waiting for instructions.
‘Time to go,’ said Silus. He gave a little bow to Big Nose, and then began to walk through the other warriors, who parted for him reluctantly. Odo followed in his wake like a lap dog. Silus’ heart raced as they walked away, their exposed backs to the warriors. He wondered if he had judged right, that these youths were honourable men, not bandits.
Big Nose shouted after him. Silus didn’t turn, just whispered to Odo out of the corner his mouth. ‘What did he say?’
Odo whispered back. ‘He said to watch yourself in these parts.’
‘It’s kind of him to care.’
‘I think it was more of a threat.’
‘I did understand, Odo.’
As soon as they were out of sight, they left the track and headed off into the countryside. The young Chatti tribesmen may have kept their word to let them leave unimpeded, but their compatriots would be under no such obligation, nor had he told the Chatti to keep their encounter secret – Silus knew that would have been a promise too far.
So they spent a short while laying a false trail along the track, then doubled back and headed up the stony slope of a small hill. From the top, Silus had a decent view for a number of miles in all directions, and he paused to get his breath back from the climb, pressing his hands into the aching small of his back.
‘How far do you reckon?’ he asked.
Odo pointed to a row of hills a number of miles in the distance. ‘A little way beyond there is where the Teutoburg forest begins.’
‘Not far to their destination, then,’ mused Silus. ‘And no sign of them yet.’
‘Did you expect there to be?’
‘Not really,’ said Silus. He took a swig of water from his flask, went to stopper it, then instead offered it to Odo. Odo accepted it gratefully and drank, then passed it back.
‘But it’s frustrating. It’s impossible to track someone after this amount of time has passed. Especially with the snow and rain since they came this way.’
‘Not many hunters know where their prey is going,’ commented Odo.
‘True. But we don’t even know how far they got. Or which of them is alive, if any.’
‘We know at least two were captured.’
‘That is pretty shaky intelligence, to my mind. Oclatinius wouldn’t send me on a mission this flaky if the stakes weren’t so high.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re going to have to ask the natives what they know, aren’t we?’
Odo nodded. ‘It seems so. It’s that or go to the chief of the Chatti and ask him personally.’
‘Any suggestions?’
Odo scanned around him, and pointed to a small isolated cottage with smoke drifting up through the chimney hole in the roof. ‘I guess that would be as good a place as any. If there are local rumours about a band of Roman soldiers passing this way two months ago, then everyone local should know about them by now.’
Silus nodded. ‘Probably true. Fine.’
‘I’ll go in alone,’ said Odo. ‘If that’s good with you, sir. We don’t want any more people than necessary knowing there is a Roman wandering the area, regardless of whether or not they believe you are a trader.’
Silus reluctantly agreed, and they walked together to a point a safe distance from the cottage, where Silus settled down against a lone fir tree and broke out some bread and cheese while Odo continued on his own.
Soon the grey clouds opened in a huge downpour, and Silus pulled his cloak around him and huddled under the canopy made by the wide branches. He watched the rain dripping off the edge of the leaves, and felt the occasional fat droplet make its way through the needles to splash his face or neck. He thought back to a time sitting in a Caledonian forest, with rain dripping down his back, scouting a Maeatae stronghold. It not only seemed like a different time, it seemed to have been a different man, watching the approach of the tribal chief, deciding on the spur of the moment to take an action that had destroyed his life and started a war. Where would he be right now if he had taken that other path, the one where he hadn’t been a reckless idiot? Probably sitting curled up with his still-living wife and daughter.
He started to shake, and told himself that it was just the cold, that the water trickling down his cheeks was just errant raindrops. He pulled his knees up to his chest and put his face on his knees, and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He became unaware of time passing.
The touch on his shoulder made him cry out loud. He looked up into Odo’s concerned face.
‘What’s wrong? Are you ill?’
Silus wiped the moisture from his cheeks. ‘Think I might have started to doze off there,’ he lied. ‘Lax of me. Any news?’
‘Actually yes. An old turnip farmer lived there. Widowed. He seemed lonely, wanted to talk. I told him I was a traveller passing through and he gave me some of his pigeon stew. I asked if anything exciting ever happened in these parts, and he told about how a party of Roman soldiers had chased and caught a young boy, a goatherd, then let him go again.’
Silus’ heart beat faster. It was the first time since they had started out that they had found concrete proof that Atius and his party had actually passed this way.
‘Where can we find this boy?’
‘He lives in the next valley. He should be out and about, tending his goats.’
Silus got to his feet, shaking out the pins and needles.
‘Well done, Odo. Let’s go.’
Odo held something out in his hand. ‘Turnip, sir?’
‘What?’
‘The old man was most generous. He gave me a sack of turnips to take with us. I think he took a liking to me.’
Silus sighed. ‘Dump the sack when we are out of sight of the farm. Come on.’
They walked up the next hill to the peak and looked through the drizzle. Odo spied the herd of goats first, milling about on the slope of the hill across the small valley. A small shelter made of branches piled against each other in a cone shape and tied at the top suggested where the boy might be keeping dry.
They covered the distance quickly, Silus’ excitement rising when he saw a wisp of smoke emanating from the top of the shelter. He whispered his plan to Odo, who nodded his understanding. The shelter had a small opening on one side, just big enough for a boy to crawl through. Silus approached it cautiously and crouched beside it like a ratcatcher waiting for a rodent to emerge from its hole.
Odo went to the opposite side of the shelter and after a slow count of five, he kicked in the branches making up the far wall. A high-pitched cry came from within the shelter, and the boy shot out of the entrance, straight into Silus’ arms.
He struggled, kicked, even bit, and Silus had a hard time keeping a grip as the boy did his best impression of a feral cat. But this was Silus’ best chance so far to find out where Atius may have gone, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers. Odo joined him, and together they pinned the boy down until his efforts ebbed and he lay on his back, breathing heavily and glaring at them defiantly.
‘Calm down, boy, we aren’t going to hurt you.’
The boy spat and made a comment in German. Silus looked at Odo for a translation.
‘He said, “why don’t you fucking Romans leave me alone?”’
Silus laughed. ‘So he has come across Romans before. Find out what he knows, ask him what he saw.’
Odo spoke some calming words to the boy, then questioned him. The boy looked suspicious, but Odo continued in a reassuring tone. Slowly the boy’s demeanour softened, and he looked at Silus, then let out a long stream of words, sentences blurring and merging without apparently drawing a breath.
When the monologue faded away, Odo gave Silus a summary.
‘He was caught by a group of Romans who were with a German-speaking guide. He thought they were going to kill him, but instead they made him swear an oath not to reveal he had seen them, in exchange for which they let him go.’
Good old Atius, thought Silus. He would have really struggled with this moral quandary. He wondered if he had made the right choice.
‘And did he keep his word?’
Odo asked him and the boy looked shifty, and another fast stream of agitated words poured out.
‘He said, of course, but he is lying.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘He said that after they let him go, he watched them for a little while. They went that way.’ Odo indicated with his arm the direction the boy had mentioned.
‘Well, that’s something,’ said Silus. ‘Let’s head in that direction and see what happens. Do we need to extract an oath from him like Atius did?’
‘He has already promised not to tell anyone he has seen us. But there is more.’
‘Go on.’
‘He said that not long after the Romans passed through, a band of German warriors came past. Quite a few. He isn’t sure how many. Maybe a score. They were Chatti like him, but from a different branch of the tribe, so he didn’t know them. And he didn’t like them being in his land, so he followed them. They were tracking the Romans, he said.’
‘Shit,’ breathed Silus.
‘And it seems their task was being made easier.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The lad saw them stop by a tree, look at something, talk for a while, then move on. He went to see what they had been looking at. He found a piece of cloth tied around a tree.’
‘Like a signal?’
Odo shrugged.
‘Ask him to show us this piece of cloth.’
Odo spoke to the goatherd, who looked reluctant. Silus delved into his pack and brought out a copper bracelet. The boy looked at it, then at Silus, questioningly.
‘Tell him it’s his if he takes us to this sign.’
Odo translated and the boy reached out to grab the bracelet. Silus snatched it way.
‘Uh-uh. After.’
The boy led them up the hill, around the crest, and down the far slope to a small wooded area. He took them to an oak tree, showing the first signs of budding. On one of the lower branches was small rag, tattered, damp, patchy with mould. It had clearly not been torn accidentally from a passing traveller’s tunic, but tied there on purpose. On the trunk of the tree was a carved arrow. Silus tossed the bracelet to the boy, who grabbed it and then abruptly sprinted back the way he had come. Silus didn’t even watch him go, lost in thought.
‘Someone was giving their location away. They had a traitor in their ranks!’
Odo nodded. ‘It seems like it.’
Silus untied the rag and ran it through his fingers. ‘Well, if those Chatti used it to follow their trail, so can we.’
Atius listened closely as Eustachys outlined his mission.
‘We are travelling to a place called Kalkriese,’ continued Eustachys, ‘which sits on a hill near a forested valley.’
‘I knew roughly where we were going – I mean which direction and how many days’ march – but not the name. It sounds vaguely familiar. What will we do when we get there?’
‘We are meeting a German nobleman, by the name of Erhard. He is something like a prince in the Chatti tribe, but was overlooked for rule when his father died, and his uncle became chief in his place.’
‘And what do we want with him?’
Eustachys took a deep breath, then told him. The explanation took some time, and Atius interrupted and asked questions at several points to make sure he understood. When Eustachys was finished, Atius let out a long breath.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ replied Eustachys. ‘So, can you do it? It won’t be easy for you, I know. You have no training in diplomacy, nor grand strategy. But you are a military man, and I have seen enough of you to know that despite appearances, you have some sort of intelligence inside that thick skull of yours.’
If ever Atius had received a backhanded compliment, he had now, but he was too awed by what he had heard to rise to it.
‘Erhard is expecting me, but if you give him the code phrase, he will know you are speaking on behalf of Rome.’
‘And what is the code phrase?’
‘“Give me back my legions.”’
Atius stopped and stared at him. He looked around. They were in a wooded valley, the trees dense on the steep slopes on either side of the road. There was a sudden yelp from behind him and he turned quickly and rushed back to his comrades.
Drustan was holding his foot, and there was a small ooze of blood trickling between his fingers which clutched at a slash that went right through his boot.
‘Brigantia’s tits, what have I just trodden on?’
As Atius strode over to him to assess the extent of the injury, Memnon bent down to examine the seemingly innocuous ground. He scraped in the dirt with both hands, gripped something, then pulled.
‘Bugger me with a pilum,’ said Scaurus. ‘That’s a gladius.’
‘Rusty as anything, but a gladius alright,’ said Memnon.
‘It’s certainly still sharp,’ said Drustan.
‘Look, it’s shorter than ours, and the edges aren’t straight,’ said Memnon. ‘They sort of curve, like a waist.’
‘Isn’t that how they used to make them?’ asked Scaurus.
‘It certainly looks old,’ said Drustan, putting his foot down tentatively. ‘Is that ancient thing going to poison me?’
Atius bent down to the ground that Memnon had excavated, and dug around with the hilt of his own sword. In moments he hit something firm, but not metallic. He scooped the cold earth away from around it, and eased the object out of the ground.
The others stared at the skeletal arm, held together by roots that had twined themselves around the bones. It had clearly been severed cleanly through the bones of the forearm.
‘Look,’ said Memnon, ‘there’s something else over there.’
Poking up from the earth, covered in moss, only a curved rim visible, was a legionary’s shield.
‘And there,’ said Drustan. What looked like a moss-covered molehill turned out, when the accumulated dirt and vegetation was cleared away, to be a skull. Atius stared at the split down the centre of the forehead, then started backwards as a spider scuttled out of an eye socket.
‘What the fuck happened here?’ breathed Scaurus.
Atius turned to Eustachys. ‘Are we where I think we are?’
Eustachys shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my idea. It was his. I guess he thought it was symbolic, that it would help his negotiating power to meet us in this place.’
‘What are you talking about, Atius?’ asked Scaurus in a low voice. ‘Where are we? What’s going on?’
‘This is the Teutoburg forest, isn’t it?’ said Drustan.
‘Teutoburg?’ Scaurus rounded on Drustan. ‘How do you know about that? You’re from Britannia.’
‘Everyone knows about it,’ said Drustan. ‘Especially everyone who has spent any time in the German provinces. The story of Arminius’ massacre of Varus’ three legions is like a fairy story the centurions tell to scare their new recruits into obedience.’
‘Is it true?’ asked Memnon.
Eustachys nodded acknowledgement.
‘This place is cursed,’ said Drustan.
‘Too right,’ said Memnon, looking into the trees as if German warriors were about to descend on them, or worse, the lemures of their own long dead brothers-in-arms.
‘You brought us here,’ said Scaurus, pointing his finger at Eustachys and advancing angrily towards him. Eustachys took a step back, hands up to ward him away. Atius interposed himself between them.
‘Listen. Listen! I’m as unhappy about this as any of you.’
‘Why didn’t you know where we were? You’re supposed to be a scout.’
‘What am I, a historian or something? I didn’t know the details of where this battle took place, and I only knew the rough direction and distance of our travel. I was as in the dark about this as the rest of you.’
‘So why did he bring us here?’ asked Scaurus, pointing at Eustachys over Atius’ shoulder.
‘That’s still not for you to know, legionary,’ said Atius, putting his hand on Scaurus’ chest and pressing firmly, forcing the wiry soldier to take a step back.
‘Bollocks,’ said Scaurus. ‘We are up to our eyeballs in all kinds of shit, and he is the reason we are here, and you tell me we can’t even know why?’
‘It’s better that way,’ said Atius. ‘Besides, I’ve made a decision.’
‘A decision? What are you talking about?’
Atius looked over at Eustachys, who nodded once.
‘I’m going on alone.’
‘You’re fucking what?’ yelled Scaurus.
‘You’re abandoning us?’ asked Drustan.
‘Atius?’ Memnon’s tone was plaintive, almost hurt.
‘It’s not like that,’ said Atius, suddenly made to feel like a coward. ‘It’s for your own good.’ He realised he was finding it hard even to convince himself. Was he doing this for the mission, or was it because he thought his chances of surviving were better without the others slowing him down? The soldiers looked at him with varying degrees of suspicion and disappointment.
‘Look, Eustachys told me what the mission is. It’s… big. It’s important. I have to do this.’
‘So what, we just turn around and march back the way we came?’
‘You’re not raw recruits. You’re not helpless. You can escort Eustachys back to Colonia, and complete your mission with honour. Strike out cross country from here, and with Aldric out of the picture, the Germans pursuing us won’t know which way you have gone. You will be back in the baths and taverns before you know it.’
Memnon shook his head and looked away. Scaurus held his gaze, hawked up some phlegm, and spat contemptuously on the ground.
‘Let’s get it sorted,’ said Atius, ignoring the disapprobation. ‘We need to make sure the supplies are even so I have enough to get there and out. Let’s do an inventory and make it quick. This place gives me the creeps as much as anyone. Come on, move. What are you waiting for?’
But no one was paying him attention any more. He looked over his shoulder to see what had transfixed them.
A hundred yards away, at the end of the path, before it turned a corner off into the trees, stood a dozen German warriors, armed with spears and round shields. Atius turned back to his men, and saw, behind them, a hundred yards in the direction they had come from, another dozen warriors had emerged from the trees to block any retreat.
It was too late to go it alone. It was too late for anything now, but to fight and to die.
They found several of the markers as they travelled, giving Silus confidence they were on the right track, although to be fair, Odo seemed to know where he was going too. The trail led them to an abandoned barn, tumbledown, roof caved in and bearing evidence of fire damage – scorch marks and soot. As they got closer they saw that the intertwined branches that made the walls were peppered with arrows.
‘Shit.’
Silus gestured at Odo to stay put, and he approached cautiously, sword in hand. The front door was caved in, rotten planks hanging loose, but he ignored that and crept around to squat beneath one of the windows. He inched himself up and peered in, and once he was persuaded that the only occupants were a couple of pigeons, he returned to the front door and entered.
He knew a couple of months had passed since Atius had been here, assuming he had indeed passed this way, but still he crouched down and ran his fingers around the indentations where men had slept in the muddy ground. He looked around, seeing the splintered walls, split by axes, the tips of arrows protruding through the branches and a handful of shafts littering the floor, and he tried to picture what had happened.
Atius had obviously fought a defensive battle against a superior force here. If it had been an inferior force, he wouldn’t have allowed himself to be trapped inside. He closed his eyes, imagining the Germans at the door, at the walls, arrows flying, the screams and cries, the clashes of iron on iron or iron on wood.
There was no blood, as expected after this length of time. Neither had they seen any bodies, or any signs of recent burial. Had all of Atius’ men survived this encounter? Had they all been captured at this point, or all killed, and had their bodies taken away for mutilation and display? Or had they all in fact survived and continued their mission, at least for the time being?
The ruined door squeaked on its hinge and Silus started, whirling to face the potential danger. Then he relaxed as Odo came through.
‘I scouted around. There is another piece of cloth, a quarter of a mile, roughly east.’
‘So they continued on from here, and the traitor in their ranks continued to mark their path.’
Atius, where are you? Are you still alive? Gods, please let him still be alive.
‘How far to this Kalkriese place?’
‘Less than one day’s travel. More than half a day.’
‘It’s getting late. We’ll stay here for the night. At least we will be rested for whatever tomorrow brings.’
Silus settled himself in a corner where the roof was still intact, and closed his eyes. Visions of battle, of rents in flesh and gouts of blood, sounds of anger and pain and death, filled his mind, until Morpheus finally claimed him.
Atius lined them up back to back, his team, his men, getting ready for their last stand. To his right stood Eustachys, where he felt he could best protect the least experienced fighter. To his left was Scaurus, the least predictable, where he could keep an eye on him. Behind him was the ever-dependable Memnon, and the tough Briton Drustan. They were good boys, he thought. He would have backed them to hold off opposition three times their number.
But that wasn’t what they faced here. Two dozen German warriors, stripped for battle, armed with spears, axes and swords. They had closed within ten yards, ahead and behind now, and Atius could see them clearly. Most had a small round shield strapped to their left arm, but their leader, a real giant of a man, carried no shield, just a mighty double-headed axe which he held in both hands His long, tangled blonde hair draped around his shoulders like a lion’s mane.
The giant stepped forward, holding his axe at an angle across his chest.
‘I am Wigbrand. Chief of these men.’ His deep voice, speaking heavily accented Latin, boomed through the wooded valley. ‘Who are you to break the peace of this land?’
‘I know this name,’ whispered Eustachys. ‘It’s Erhard’s uncle.’
‘Shit,’ replied Atius. ‘Do you think one of the others is Erhard?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never met the man.’
‘Speak, Roman. I have little patience.’
Atius raised his voice, trying to match Wigbrand for vocal power and depth.
‘I am Atius, centurion of Rome. I demand the right to be allowed to pass unhindered.’
Wigbrand laughed, and a small flock of birds were startled into flight by the noise.
‘You have no rights here, Roman, beyond what I grant you. And I say you trespass in my lands.’
‘We are here on a diplomatic mission,’ said Atius. ‘A mission of peace.’
Eustachys gave him a warning glance, obviously worried that Atius would reveal too much, but Atius ignored him. They had little chance of fighting their way out of this. Could he talk their way out instead? Again, he wished Silus was here. Silus would find a way.
‘You come here armed for war, not peace. You bring swords, not trading goods. You Romans covet our lands, enslave our people. You don’t want peace.’
‘We have been attacked. Unprovoked, my men have been murdered, we have been assaulted and besieged. If we had been unable to defend ourselves, we would all be dead by now. And yet, still we ask for peace.’
‘You shall have no peace,’ yelled one of the other warriors lined up behind Wigbrand, shaking his axe at them.
Wigbrand held up a hand to restrain him.
‘Hunfrid here is angry. And he has every right. You killed his brother.’
‘I’ve killed a lot of men,’ said Atius. ‘You will have to be more specific.’
‘His brother’s name was Aldric.’
Atius took in a deep breath.
‘Well that’s us fucked then,’ said Scaurus. ‘You aren’t talking your way out of this.’
‘Hunfrid, like his brother, is of our friends the Brukterer. They warned us of your spying mission, and Hunfrid has followed you all the way from the place you call Colonia, with Aldric’s help.’
‘We aren’t spies,’ said Atius, but he couldn’t keep the note of desperation out of his voice.
‘Liar!’ yelled Hunfrid. ‘Murderer! Come out and face me in single combat. We will see who the gods favour.’
Atius went cold. Hunfrid wasn’t as big as Wigbrand, but he was still huge by Roman standards. Atius, even with his Celtiberian blood, wasn’t his equal in pure bulk and brawn. Atius was no slouch in combat, but Hunfrid looked like he knew a thing or two about fighting as well, from the scars across his face and chest. He looked at Eustachys questioningly.
‘What will it gain us?’ asked Eustachys.
‘Maybe I can bargain for our freedom if I win.’
Eustachys shook his head. ‘The best they will grant is a quick death if you win. And a slow one if you lose.’
‘What say you, Roman?’ Wigbrand asked. ‘Will you trust your life and your honour to your gods, and fight the brother of the man you killed?’
‘Do it,’ whispered Scaurus.
‘What?’
‘We’re screwed if it comes to a straight fight. And you’re getting nowhere with talking.’
He was right. There was little to gain, but nothing to lose.
‘Will you grant our freedom if I win?’ asked Atius, more in hope than expectation.
‘Of course not,’ said Wigbrand. ‘But at least you will not die a coward’s death.’
Atius hesitated. What was the point? But honour was not a trivial issue. If this was his day to die, he wanted to go out like a warrior. And if he did defeat Aldric’s brother, then at least that was one warrior less in their ranks, before the battle was joined in earnest.
Atius stepped forward. ‘I accept the challenge.’
The German warriors closed in behind Atius as he advanced towards them. Those that were the far side of the small Roman contingent pressed forward to get as good a view as they could. Memnon and Drustan half-turned so they could watch the fight while keeping an eye on the barbarians confronting them.
Atius stopped six feet from Hunfrid and looked into his eyes. He saw no fear, just hatred and anger. Hunfrid carried an axe in one hand, short-handled, single bladed, but Atius knew that it could cleave through bone and skull as easily as a knife cut a sausage, if wielded with sufficient power. And Hunfrid looked to have an abundance of power.
The German carried a round shield on his left arm, covered in hide and edged with sharpened steel. Atius knew that this wasn’t just a piece of defensive equipment but was a weapon in its own right. He would have to keep a constant eye on what it was doing during their combat.
Atius himself had no shield – it was an encumbrance too many when they were supposed to be travelling light, fast and undetected through enemy territory. Fighting their way out of trouble was always meant to be a last resort on this mission. He had his trusty gladius, which he held in his right arm, and since his left arm was free, he held his wickedly sharp pugio, a dagger designed for stabbing. He wore a chainmail vest, but was otherwise unarmoured. Again, lightness and speed had been the priorities in his choice of armour. He wondered whether he would regret those choices soon.
At least Hunfrid was similarly unarmoured. In fact, despite the cold, like many of the other barbarian warriors lined up, he wore only shin-length trousers, and from this close, Atius could see the fine patchwork of scars that told of many battles fought and presumably won. Hunfrid was smacking the flat of his axe head across his chest, growling incoherently, working himself up.
‘When I give the signal, you will fight,’ said Wigbrand without preamble. ‘You will continue until one of you is dead. There will be no quarter, no mercy.’
Atius nodded his acknowledgement. His heart was pounding, making his head throb rhythmically. But the fear and excitement washed away all feelings of pain from his injuries, of fatigue in his muscles. A sudden confidence suffused him. What came after wasn’t important. All that mattered, like in all battles, was defeating the man before you. He could do this. He was rea—
‘Fight!’
Hunfrid rushed him with a roar, and Atius realised he wasn’t ready at all. The Brukterer tribesman held his axe high, ready to bring it down in a single blow that would split him in half. But though he was in a fighting fury, he was not careless. A weapon raised overhead should leave the body vulnerable for a swift stab, but Hunfrid’s shield was held before him, and in the fraction of a heartbeat Atius had to calculate, he could see no way through. So instead, he hurled himself to one side as the axe came down, rolling over his injured shoulder, ignoring the sudden sting as the superficial wound tore open.
He regained his feet, noticing the warm, wet feeling of blood trickling down the inside of his tunic. They hadn’t even made contact yet, and he was already bleeding, he thought. But further reflection was curtailed as Hunfrid swept his axe in a horizontal arc aimed at Atius’ midriff. He jumped backwards, and found himself prodded in the small of his back by a spear. The Germans behind him jeered, and one gave him a shove that sent him sprawling off balance towards Hunfrid.
The Brukterer warrior wasn’t slow to take advantage, and as Atius fell forward, he brought his axe upwards in a swing designed to bury itself in the depths of Atius’ chest cavity. Atius twisted desperately to one side, feeling the breath of the axe, almost close enough to shave his beard. He was falling again, but he had time to slash out with his pugio. The tip merely nicked the top of Hunfrid’s forearm, but it was enough to enrage him even further.
Atius rolled sideways, coming upright with his knees bent, ready to spring. He kept the distance to the wall of German spears behind him firmly in his mind’s eye as he worked out ranges and trajectories, trying to gauge Hunfrid’s speed and reach. Hunfrid seemed to be making no such calculations as he closed again, swinging his axe diagonally downwards.
This time Atius was able to dodge without bringing himself in reach of the hostile boundary, and kept his balance enough to be able to sweep his sword round in a counter-stroke. The gladius was often thought of as a stabbing weapon, but that was just its main function in battle, where you had tall shields, legionaries either side of you, and a wall of enemies to the fore. In looser combat, the gladius was as effective at cutting as stabbing, and Atius always kept all the edges sharp enough to use his sword as a razor. So he slashed sideways, and although his gladius wasn’t as heavy as Hunfrid’s axe, if the stroke had made contact it would have been a disabling blow.
But Hunfrid, for all his bulk, had some dexterity, and he fended the stroke away with his shield. Then he followed up by bringing the shield with its sharpened edges round in a sweep that had Atius dancing away again, with no way of parrying. But this gave him an opening, and he stabbed forward, slicing deep into Hunfrid’s upper arm.
Blood flowed freely down the limb, dripping from Hunfrid’s fingers and the rim of the shield. It wasn’t a finishing blow, but it would hamper him. Atius pressed forward, sweeping a low cut towards Hunfrid’s legs, forcing him to lean across to his right to block with his shield, which momentarily exposed his left side and put his axe out of action. Atius slashed with his pugio and it bit deep into the muscle of Hunfrid’s upper thigh.
Hunfrid howled and swept his shield sideways. Although the sharp edge didn’t make contact, the front face caught Atius under the chin, snapping his jaw shut with an impact that staggered him. He wobbled, feeling the ground spin under his feet, forcing himself not to pass out by sheer willpower.
Hunfrid took a step forward, axe raised, but his injured leg buckled and he had to throw his hands out to the sides to steady himself. Atius took a deep breath and widened his stance, planting his feet as the dizziness receded. Hunfrid advanced again, but he was limping badly, and Atius was able to step out of reach to give himself time to recover. The German crowd howled derisively as he kept out of reach of his opponent, but he could also hear shouts of encouragement from Memnon, Drustan and Scaurus.
‘Kill that fucker! Gut him, Atius!’
Atius circled, backing away as Hunfrid staggered towards him, cursing and challenging in furious German. Atius knew now he would just need to bide his time. As his own strength recovered, from the blow to his head and the exertion, Hunfrid’s would ebb away in red rivulets down his thigh and arm. Even as he watched, Hunfrid slowed, head drooping.
A German warrior stepped from the line and pushed Atius forward.
‘Finish him, Roman.’ Wigbrand’s voice was deep and commanding. ‘Let him die like a man.’
Atius hesitated, then took a step forward, ready to deliver a killing thrust.
But Hunfrid, for all his anger, had shown cunning too, and was not as weak as he had seemed. As Atius came close, Hunfrid threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around Atius’ torso and bowling him over. Atius fell on his back and the heavy German landed with his full weight on Atius’ chest, making his ribs howl, at least two cracking, and all the air was squashed from his lungs.
Atius’ sword flew from his hand, skittering out of reach. The straps on Hunfrid’s shield broke and it rolled away before coming to rest in an ever-decreasing circle, like a spun coin. Still, he kept his grip on the axe, but lying against Atius as he was, it was impossible to bring it to bear. The German put his injured shield arm beneath him, trying to push himself upright. Atius, seeing the danger, wrapped his sword arm around Hunfrid’s neck, hugging him close. The German’s meaty breath wafted around him. He tried desperately to suck air back into his lungs, fighting against both the winding and Hunfrid’s bulk. Hunfrid struggled against him, and Atius knew that if he got into a kneeling position over him, he was finished.
Panic washed over him as he felt his air supply dwindling, a crushing, suffocating feeling. But through the panic, he became aware of his left hand. It still gripped the pugio.
Hugging Hunfrid tighter, Atius plunged the dagger into his kidneys. Hunfrid’s head snapped back, his mouth opening as he let out a howl. But Atius wasn’t going to give him any chances. He took the dagger out and thrust it back, again and again, frenzied stabs between ribs and into soft organs, until Aldric’s brother slumped forward and was still.
Atius closed his eyes and concentrated on heaving air back inside him. The weight was suddenly lifted from him, and he looked up into Wigbrand’s eyes.
‘You fought well, and with honour, Roman.’
For a moment, a sprout of hope germinated inside Atius. Wigbrand stamped on it.
‘Would you like a clean death, here and now, at my hands? Or would you like to return to your men and die in battle?’
Atius didn’t answer at first, just breathed. Then he extended his hand. Wigbrand looked at it thoughtfully, then nodded and hauled him to his feet.
‘You understand what you are doing?’ asked Wigbrand. ‘If you go back to your men now, and I take you alive, your death will be slow and dirty and lacking in honour?’
Atius bent down to retrieve his sword and turned to face Wigbrand. For a moment, he wondered whether to plunge his dagger into the giant chief’s throat. He saw in Wigbrand’s eyes that the chief knew what he was thinking. A smile played at the corner of the giant’s mouth.
Atius brought his sword up and placed it before his face in a respectful salute he hoped Wigbrand would appreciate and understand. Wigbrand nodded, and mirrored the gesture with his axe. Atius turned and limped painfully back to his men.
Scaurus clapped him on the back.
‘Well done, sir.’
Memnon and Drustan gave muted congratulations over their shoulders too, while they continued to watch the Germans opposing them.
‘That was pointless,’ said Eustachys.
‘We’re still alive, aren’t we?’ said Scaurus. ‘It might all be over by now if Atius hadn’t accepted the challenge.’
‘It’s just delayed the inevitable.’
Scaurus reached across Atius and smacked Eustachys around the side of the head, bringing forth a little yelp.
‘We don’t give up,’ he said sternly. ‘Not until the last breath has left our bodies. Right, sir?’
Atius nodded, trying not to show the helplessness he felt.
Before and behind them the Germans began to bang their weapons on their shields, slow at first, rhythmic, then increasing in volume and tempo. They let out a low, loud ‘huh’ with each blow, and as the sound amplified and reverberated around them, Atius felt the panic rising once more. He gripped his sword and dagger, and he thought of all those he cared for. The list wasn’t long, he realised with dismay. His mother. His lover, Menenia, though she had left him. Silus.
Had he wasted his life? Had he been a good person? Would Christos accept him into his father’s kingdom when it was over?
The banging on shields became an overwhelming rattle, the vocal noises a roar. Then it all stopped, and the forest path was silent. Not even a bird sang.
‘It’s been an honour serving with you all,’ said Atius. ‘Now brace yourselves. Here they come.’