THE ROMAN ARMY – the physical manifestation of Imperial might – marched onto the battlefield in imposing style.
They filed into position with iron discipline. Each company marched in step until they arrived at their allotted point, when they turned to the right and stopped, standing rigid in formation. Each man carried a large oval shield on his left arm, with his unit’s insignia painted on the front: a black lion, a horned moon or a bull. Each soldier carried a heavy-bladed spear – a spicula – in his right hand. Sheathed at their sides were their spathae, their long swords. Their torsos were protected by leather jerkins and gleaming shirts of iron mail. They wore conical iron helmets, the officers’ having long plumes of horsehair sprouting from the crown.
Their standards waved above their ranks in the warm breeze of the summer morning. Most were scarlet, with the same lion, bull or crescent moon designs on them, but at regular intervals in the Roman line standard bearers held aloft multi-coloured or striped banners in the shape of sharp-toothed creatures. The creatures’ heads were on the top of standard poles, the wide mouths open to let in the warm, early summer breeze and inflate long cloth ‘bodies’ which twisted and flapped behind them. They looked like snakes, slithering through the air above the marching soldiers. The wind made a hissing sound as it rolled over their iron maws. These were the famous dracones, the dragon standards of the Roman Army.
The standard of the General, a golden cross on a blue background, fluttered at the centre of the line. On either side of it the legionaries lined up, dividing into their cohorts and milites units and displaying their shields to the enemy.
Once in position they stood, silent as stones. It was a display of power, designed to intimidate the opposition and show the discipline, organisation and might of Rome. Sometimes this was all was needed to send rebellious barbarians fleeing back to whatever benighted forests they had crawled from.
It did not work on the Burgundars.
If anything, the sight of the Roman banners only provoked the horde of warriors facing them to higher levels of anger and scorn. This was not the first Roman army the Burgundar War Horde had confronted.
‘Look at them waving their pathetic dragons,’ Godegisil shouted to those around him. ‘Don’t they know our folk are called the Dragon Slayers?’
He was now in his place of honour in the front rank of the Burgundar champions. Those warriors who stood beside him in the shield wall laughed or sneered.
The Burgundar War Horde was drawn up in their own fashion, a long shield wall that crossed the meadow before the city of Vorbetomagus and the deep, shadow-haunted forest that surrounded it. Vorbetomagus was the capital of their folk land. It was their home, and their formation made one thing clear: they would defend what was theirs.
The battle lines of the two armies faced each other, perpendicular to the wide, mighty river that looped through the forest and past the walls of the city.
In the front line of the Burgundars were the heroes of the folk; the mightiest of their warriors and the great lords of the kingdom. They looked magnificent. Their visored helmets gleamed in the sun. Some had the wings of great birds of prey – falcons, hawks or kites – nailed to each side. A long crest of horsehair, dyed red, tumbled from the crown of Godegisil’s. They wore coats of mail, each tiny ring polished in sand until it glittered like silver in the morning sun. Each champion’s round shield was painted with the emblem of his clan – the wolf, the bear, the lightning symbol, the Sun Wheel or the eagle. Godegisil – as the leader of the Dagelung bear clan – wore his black bear pelt around his shoulders.
Behind them stood the other big, strong men in the prime of their lives. The next ranks were made up of the sons of the nobles who were new to war, as well as the older men who could still fight but whose strength and prowess were fading. Behind them were the poor folk, the levy of the free men: simple farmers, craftsmen and others who had come because of duty. Their king had called them and they had come to defend their homeland against Rome’s greed and aggression. They wore what little armour they had, perhaps a leather cap or jerkin. Their weapons were rusty and old, or just the implements they used to till the soil.
Hagan was in the third rank. He grasped his spear in his right fist and his round shield in his left. Both hands were slick with sweat and he worried that would make his grip slip when he needed it most. He shuffled his feet back and forth. Like the other young Burgundars, his armour was less impressive than those fighters’ in the front ranks or that worn by the older warriors beside him. He had yet to prove his worth in battle. When – if – he did and made a name for himself, perhaps then a nobleman or maybe even the king himself would take him into his service as an oathsworn warrior and give him weapons and armour. Or perhaps he would kill a man in the battle and take his weapons. It would be his first step on the path to glory.
Until then, like the rest of the younger fighters, Hagan had to make do with whatever family heirlooms they could find. A padded jerkin made of deer leather with studs of iron sewn into it protected Hagan’s body, along with a spare shield of his father’s. His father had also given him an old helmet he had taken from a dead Roman soldier years ago. Its cheek pieces were strapped tight under Hagan’s chin. The leather padding was worn and thin, making the metal of the rim dig into his forehead a little. It stank of the years of sweat it had absorbed, most of that not his own. Hagan had decorated the helmet with the mottled feathers of a bird both in a rather vain attempt to make it look more impressive and for fear that in the press of battle someone on his own side would mistake him for a Roman. He had done his best to paint a bear on his shield as well, but it had ended up looking more like a mouse so he had filled it all in.
‘We are the Dragon Slayers alright,’ one of the older warriors in the third rank said from the side of his mouth. ‘But where is the Dragon Slayer King?’
Several of those around him said ‘Aye’ or nodded their agreement.
Hearing the words of the older warrior, Hagan felt a thrill of consternation that men in their own army would voice such thoughts at a time like this. His father would not like it.
Hagan frowned. The man he called his father, he should say. His head still spun from the words Godegisil had spoken to him the night before.
‘Have you something to say, Childeric?’ Godegisil said over his shoulder, one bushy eyebrow raised. ‘Perhaps you left your courage behind in bed this morning?’
‘My courage is right where it should be, Godegisil,’ the older warrior said. ‘In my heart. You need have no fear of that.’
‘Good,’ Godegisil said. ‘Though you’re so far back there you probably won’t need it today.’
The other big men in the front ranks guffawed.
Hagan’s own heart was a maelstrom of conflicting feelings. His eyes felt raw. He had slept little the night before, both from the thought of impending war and because of what Godegisil had told him. Who was he really? And what would life be like from now on, if they both survived the day? His father – could he even call him that now? – had promised he would treat Hagan no differently but now they both knew this secret, could that really be true?
Nor had Hagan been able to look his mother in the eye that morning as she, fretting and with tears in her eyes, had waved him off to war. He felt a stab of guilt in his heart as he thought how his reticence must have made it even worse for her.
This was Hagan’s first real battle. He had been on raids of other tribes but nothing like this: thousands of men facing off against each other across a meadow to decide… what? He was not sure. Rome had invaded their territory, he knew that. And the Romans were tyrants. The Burgundars had to fight if they did not want to come under the heel of the Empire.
He felt excitement but his breathing was short and fast and he was sweating. Even though he had emptied his bowels several times already that morning he still felt as if their contents had turned to water and might flood his legs with cowardly and embarrassing shit at any moment.
Being the son of one of the king’s greatest champions brought an expectation with it. All the folk would be watching him, trying to tell if he was going to follow in Godegisil’s footsteps or would he be a disappointment? Could he even come close to what his father would achieve this day?
He felt his heart lurch as he thought of what he had learned the night before. The expectation was doubly unfair. Godegisil was not his real father so why should Hagan be expected to emulate him?
He tried to force his thoughts onto what the coming battle might bring. Some of the more experienced warriors had said how most battles just involve shoving the man in front of you. It was the men in the shield wall at the front who would do most of the fighting. All the same the press of those around him increased his nervousness. Hagan was more at home in the forests hunting than in this crush of warriors.
Hagan clenched his teeth, wondering if, when the moment came, he would really be able to push his spear into another man’s guts. To watch, as the life bled from him and he fell to the earth at Hagan’s feet. What would that feel like? Worse: what would it feel like to have a Roman’s cold steel slice into his own flesh? Would he be able to cope with the pain or would he die screaming and crying, an embarrassment to all around him?
As if to provoke his misgivings further, a shrieking rose from another crowd that had gathered a little way from the opposing armies. They stood just before the stone wall that surrounded the Burgundar city. They were the women and children of the Burgundar tribe. They had gathered outside the city gates to watch their menfolk do battle. In war all of the folk had a role to play. The women and children might not fight, but they would scream encouragement from the side, reminding the men who it was they fought for.
Their presence also meant every deed each man performed – both heroic and cowardly – would be seen by the watching eyes of the whole people. Each of those deeds would be remembered in glory or damned in infamy in the songs and sagas of the Burgundars – their collective memory – for the rest of time.
Hagan swallowed hard. His mother was in that crowd. As was eight-year-old Raknar. Their eyes would be on him today. If he lost his nerve he would bring shame on the reputation of the whole family. He had to be brave no matter what his pounding heart and churning guts wanted to tell him otherwise. Even though he now knew Raknar was really his half-brother, it made no difference. The lad still looked up to him. It was his duty not to let Raknar down.
Hagan took another deep breath. A part of him hoped that the boast the man he had always called his father would come true and the Romans would never get further than the first rank of the shield wall. The press of the men of his folk around him and even the watching gaze of the women and children, despite the expectation it brought, was reassuring. All the folk were here. They would face this foe together.
Almost together. Hagan wished his three best friends, Brynhild, and Gunhild and her brother Gunderic, were there too. They had played together as children, grown up together and gone through so much, the four of them. Now here was the first battle their folk would fight of their lifetime but they were in different places. But it would always be so, he knew. Gunderic and Gunhild were the children of the king. They had other parts to play.
‘So where is the king?’ Childeric, the older warrior who had spoken before, said in a low voice.
A murmur went through the assembled warriors. Gundahar, the much feared and utterly fearless king of the Burgundars, should be here to lead them. He had defeated Roman legions before. He had forced Rome to terms and carved out a kingdom from its Empire for his wandering folk to finally be able to settle down in. Gundahar had defeated everyone he had ever fought. Yet this battle was about to start and there was no sign of him.
At that moment a gasp rose from the assembled warriors of the army.
‘The Swan Maidens!’ Giselher, one of the lads near Hagan said, his voice hoarse with wonder.
Men began pointing towards the river. A morning mist still hung over the Rhine. From it slid a long, narrow boat. It had no sails. Instead a row of oars undulated up and down its sides, like the wings of a dragon. On the boat were twelve young women. Each was swathed in a long cloak made of swan feathers. They raised their arms in unison and it looked like a flock of swans spreading their wings. Their long white dresses appeared to sparkle by some sort of magic in the early morning sun. As the ship slid past, their voices rose in unison as they sang an eerie, ethereal song.
‘Do you think they can see me?’ Giselher said.
The Lore of the Burgundars said that when the Swan Maidens came to watch a battle they would weave a special song about those warriors who performed great deeds of courage. Even if he died that day, whoever caught their eye would live forever in the memories of the Burgundar folk, his actions preserved in the songs of glory handed down from mother to child.
Everyone knew that these mystical maidens were really high-born girls of the tribe, chosen for their beauty, their virginity and devotion to the faith. Certain older women of the tribe picked them and they were taken in secret to learn the lore and the songs of the folk. It was a tradition going back to the very roots of the world, the ancient times when the Burgundar folk had lived far to the north, and the maidens bore a strange, mystical air about them. When the Burgundars went to war, the maidens slipped away, donned their robes and sailed their ship down the mighty Rhine before the army. Their appearance was like adding the strength of ten thousand warriors.
‘They say the Swan Maidens reward the greatest warriors with more than just praise songs,’ another of the young men near Hagan said, a lewd smirk on his face.
‘Hush lad,’ Childeric said, his voice filled with rebuke. ‘Those are holy women. Pure and devoted to the Gods.’
He bit his lower lip.
‘To God,’ he then added.
Godegisil turned and used his considerable shoulders to push his way back through the massed ranks.
‘I want to give my boy some last advice,’ he said in a loud voice as he shoved his way to where Hagan stood, lest some thought he was trying to shirk his place at the front.
He wrapped one huge fist around Hagan’s upper arm and steered him out of the pressed mass of warriors. When they were far enough away that others would not hear, Godegisil fixed Hagan with an iron-like glare. Hagan returned the look to the man he had always called his father with a mixture of devotion, respect and terror.
‘I don’t want the others to hear this but I am worried too. Where is the king?’ Godegisil said in a low, gravelling voice.
‘Where do you think he is?’ Hagan said.
‘I don’t know,’ Godegisil said. ‘I saw him heading towards the river earlier. He had slaves with him. He should be back here by now. I hope this is not to do with that damned gold.’
Godegisil was now looking towards the water as the boat with the Swan Maidens disappeared back into the mist. He seemed distracted and was talking almost as if to himself. Realising this, he shook his head and locked eyes with his son again.
‘If he doesn’t turn up it will be like taking the heart from every one of these warriors,’ he said. ‘Swan Maidens or no Swan Maidens. The men will not fight. And I wouldn’t blame them. The king provoked this fight after all.’
‘You think he’s run away?’ Hagan said, his voice high with consternation. The very thought was preposterous. Gundahar feared no one. He would never forsake the people he had led for so many years.
‘Of course not,’ Godegisil said, his eyes flicking away from his son’s once again. ‘But something may have happened to him. I want you to go and find him.’
‘But if I leave,’ Hagan said, glancing towards the ranks he had come from.
‘Just go, lad,’ his father said, cutting off his protest. ‘And hurry. Run to the riverbank and the forest beyond. See if you can find the king or this battle will be lost before it even starts.’