Altar of Blood

8

The remaining Bructeri gathered at the top of the slope that ran down to the river’s edge, protected from the warship’s archers and artillery by the cover of the trees’ foliage. Amalric stood in the middle of his warriors, looking about him to take stock of their mood with the keen eye of a man who knew that no king could consider his position safe after such an abject and abrupt defeat.

‘They’ll get over it.’

He turned to find Gernot at his side, the older man’s gaze equally as calculating as his own.

‘They well might. But the doubt inspired by this … disaster … will remain in their minds, and every man who journeys to Thusila will hear that doubt in their voices. It will spread across my kingdom like the disease that killed so many of the tribe in my father’s last days.’

‘You chased the intruders to the very banks of the river. Were it not for their ships we would have gutted every last one of those pigs.’

The king shook his head bitterly, his face reflecting the bad news the men sent to secure the sacred grove had given him only moments before, information not yet known to his warriors.

‘Which was all well and good, but they have taken my seer from under my nose! And they burned my chief priest on his own altar, burned him alive so that the woods echoed with his screams! And to deepen my shame they have the captured eagle that has been our prize for over a hundred years. Be clear, Gernot, this insult cannot go unanswered if I am to close my eyes for sleep without the fear of a blade in the night.’

The noble nodded slowly.

‘I see your argument, my King, but …’

Amalric rounded in him with sudden vehemence.

‘Do you not see? Only the gods can save me now! They must provide me with some means of rescuing my kingdom from the jaws of these Roman wolves. I do not know how, but without a miracle of some sort my days are numbered.’

He frowned at the sight of a horseman leading his beast into the gathering with a body slung across his mount’s back.

‘As we need the sight of any more corpses.’

Opening his mouth to shout a challenge at the man, he closed it again as the rider called urgently for assistance, telling the men around him that his brother had seemed a dead man and yet still lived. Exchanging puzzled glances, monarch and noble strode across to the spot where the injured man had been laid out on the forest floor, his eyes wide open and staring at the trees above, his body so still that even the rise and fall of his chest was barely discernible.

‘He seemed dead, when you found him?’

The rider turned and bowed to them in turn.

‘Yes, my King. I was about to throw his body onto the horse when he spoke. I almost soiled myself, I was so surprised. And then I realised that you had to hear his words.’

Amalric and Gernot nodded, looking down at the comatose warrior.

‘He fell in battle?’

‘Yes my Lord. He was the bravest of us, and charged his horse straight at the enemy. One of their archers died under his spear but his horse was felled, throwing him into a tree. I saw him fall, but my horse had an arrow in its side and was close to dropping. I barely escaped with my own skin intact.’

‘And so you went back to find him when the battle moved on?’

Mindful of the criticism in Gernot’s voice the horseman bowed his head in contrition.

‘It seemed that you had the fight won, my Lord, with the Romans backing down the slope into the river. And …’

‘And he was your brother.’

‘Yes, my Lord. I-’

Amalric cut off the attempt to apologise with a curt gesture.

‘And these words I have to hear?’

The man on the ground started speaking, his words almost inaudible as his lips barely moved, the effort evident in his eyes. The two men knelt beside him, each of them bending close to hear what it was he was trying to say.

‘The woman …’

‘Gerhild?’

The eyes swivelled to stare up at Gernot.

‘Yes.’

‘What of her?’

‘Rode north.’

Amalric shook his head, placing a hand lightly on the stricken warrior’s shoulder.

‘No, brother. She boarded a Roman warship, I saw it with my own …’

He fell silent, looking up at his uncle with a sudden flash of insight.

‘What did we see?’

‘My king …’

‘What did we see, Gernot, when the Roman warships were killing anyone who showed himself, and the men we were chasing reached the water’s edge?’

The noble stared back at him.

‘We saw Gerhild get in a boat that took her away to the biggest of the ships.’

‘And how did we know that was Gerhild?’

‘Because she was wearing her blue cloak.’

The king smiled tightly at his uncle as the realisation started to dawn on the older man.

‘We saw someone in a blue cloak get into the boat. But we have no way to be sure it was Gerhild. And now this man is telling us, with what might be his last breath, that he saw her ride north at the fork in the path that leads to her tower. And beyond her tower is …?’

Gernot nodded, his lips pursed.

‘Is open land and forest. No barrier to someone who knows the ground.’

‘Gunda.’

‘What?’

Both men’s attention snapped back to the paralysed warrior.

‘Saw Gunda … and the Roman …’

The king’s face hardened into cruel lines that Gernot knew only too well.

‘Which Roman?’

‘From feast …’

‘I should have known it.’

Amalric nodded at his uncle’s flat-toned verdict.

‘How many were they, brother, apart from Gerhild?’

‘Ten … my King.’

Putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, the young king looked down into his face.

‘You have earned the gratitude of both your king and the entire tribe. You will be cared for until your time comes, whether that be today or fifty years from now.’

Gernot stepped close to the king, speaking quietly in his ear.

‘They have an hour’s start on us, my King, no more. You must gather the remaining men of your household who are fit to ride and have them mounted on the freshest horses. And fetch your huntsman, he knows the ground to the north of here, and the paths that are known to Gunda, along which he will lead these thieving animals to safety unless we catch them first. We must be after these Romans before the sun is overhead if we are to catch them. If our men need any encouragement you can tell them that when we catch the Romans every single man in their party will be sacrificed to Wodanaz by your new priest.’ He grimaced at the human wreckage strewn across the riverbank’s slope. ‘And slowly. Very slowly.’

Both men turned at the sound of a growing commotion, a dozen or so warriors surrounding a pair of men who were half leading and half dragging a semi-conscious figure between them and holding off their brother warriors with the points of their spears. Gernot put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky as the two men waited for the brawling group to reach them.

‘Perhaps the gods heard your plea, my King?’

Amalric strode forward, scattering the men who were attempting to get their hands on the prisoner with the flat of his sword, bellowing at them to get back until only the dazed Roman and his captors stood before him, tribesmen surrounding them in a tight circle with murder in their eyes. The older of the two tribesmen released his grip on the prisoner’s arm, leaving him to sag against his comrade, bowing deeply to Amalric and Gernot.

‘A captive, my King, a Roman officer! My son wanted to kill him, but I heard you offer a gold coin for each Roman we captured, and five for a centurion, so I made him be satisfied with knocking the man about for a while.’

Gernot looked past him at the prisoner, who was swaying on his feet with the look of a boxer who had taken one punch too many, his face puffy with fresh bruising.

‘A centurion? This is no centurion. Look at him …’

The speaker’s son shook his head.

‘He is, my Lord! He was the man shouting orders at their archers when first we attacked them!’

One of the men circling with evident blood lust spoke out, his voice an angry growl.

‘I saw this fucker put an arrow in my cousin Hald’s throat while the rest of those dogs were retreating from us, and he was the man telling them when to shoot and when to run! I say we gut him open and leave him here to-’

‘No!’ Amalric’s eyes blazed. ‘If there’s any butchering to be done then it will be performed in the right way, by a priest and on an altar sworn to Wodanaz! I am your fucking king, and you will obey me in this! If any man wishes to disobey my command, he can draw his sword and challenge me, but if none of you have the nerve to fight me then back away!’

He stared about them for a moment, the wild fury in his eyes making more than one man take a step back. With his men cowed he continued in a more rational tone.

‘This man may be the key to understanding what game these Romans are playing. They have taken Gerhild to the north, doubtless running to the safety of the Angrivarii. I will pursue them, and I will take him with me. Should … when we catch these animals, he will provide a sacrifice whose bloody horror will make their blood run cold. So you can be sure of one thing, my brothers — this man is going to pay for the number of our people he killed today with a slow and agonising death. Bring him!’

Dubnus stood staring out over the bow as the warship Mars led the small squadron up the Rhenus past the walls of Claudius’s Colony, looking round as Varus joined him.

‘They’ll be safe enough. There’s no way that the Bructeri could know that Rutilius Scaurus has taken the witch to the north, and even if they did know they’re not going to catch a man like Gunda, who knows every blade of grass between the river and the northern edge of their kingdom. Our friends are long clear of any danger.’

The Briton nodded, still staring out over the river’s green water.

‘I suppose you’re right. But I wasn’t thinking about them, I was trying to work out the last time I saw Qadir alive.’

Varus thought for a moment, cursing his insensitivity.

‘I’m sorry, I should have realised that the loss of your comrades would be hurting. And when did I see him last …? I think it must have been just after your first counter-attack, when his archers were shooting to cover your retreat. I heard him order them to pull back, and I didn’t hear his voice again after that. What do you think happened to him?’

Dubnus shook his head, turning to face the Roman.

‘Who knows? He’s face down in the forest with a gang of Bructeri pissing on his corpse, if he’s lucky. Or a prisoner if he’s not. And we’ve both heard what they do to prisoners.’

‘Centurions?’ Both men turned to find the most senior of Albinus’s lictors standing before them with a scroll in his hand. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, I hardly like to intrude on your loss.’

Varus raised a patrician eyebrow.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, forgive me for being the bearer of unwelcome news … the Governor has instructed me to summon the centurion here to an investigatory meeting once we’re safely ashore.’

‘And not myself?’

‘No, Centurion. You are deemed to be …’

‘Too well connected to act as a lightning rod for the governor’s ill will?’

The lictor shuffled his feet.

‘I’m sure I couldn’t comment, Centurion.’

Varus shook his head in disgust.

‘I’m sure you couldn’t. Not that it’s any fault of yours.’ He shot the man a conspiratorial glance. ‘So tell me, and bearing in mind I know enough about Clodius Albinus to have a fairly good idea in any case, perhaps you could give us some clue as to the likely outcome of this investigatory meeting.’

The lictor stared at him for a moment before speaking, lowering his voice almost theatrically.

‘You know that I’ll deny having told you this, don’t you?’

Varus nodded impassively.

‘Of course. But that’s immaterial, because you have my word as a gentleman not to repeat anything you tell us.’

‘In that case I can tell you that it’s already been decided. The governor will ask your colleague here a few questions of little import, and then no matter what answer he gets he will then decide to have your detachment ordered to a fort so remote that he’ll expect your tribune to utterly fail to find his men, if he ever returns, especially once all records of the matter have been destroyed.’

The Roman clenched his fist in anger.

‘And he expects me to allow such an injustice to pass?’

The lictor shook his head, passing him the message container.

‘He doesn’t expect you to have any view on the subject, Vibius Varus, because you won’t have any awareness of it. You’re ordered to ride to Rome with this despatch …’ He handed over the watertight message container. ‘And given that your senior officer has absented himself from his command, it is not an order you can legally disobey. You’re to ride immediately, the moment we reach the city, and not to deviate from roads that lead directly to Rome. You are to deliver the despatch directly to the imperial chamberlain.’

The young aristocrat looked down at the sealed container in his hand in disgust.

‘Amazing. And there was I thinking the man was merely a small-minded careerist. This proves that he’s something far worse than that.’

‘We’ll get a fire set, and organise a watch. You look after the tribune.’

Marcus nodded to Dolfus, who turned away to issue commands to his own men and the two Hamians who had been detailed to accompany the party by Qadir, then looked up at his superior who was still sitting in his saddle, his eyes closed and his face grey with exhaustion. For the last hour of their ride he had swayed in the saddle like a man who had ridden for two straight days, and while there had still been an hour of usable daylight, Dolfus had made the decision to find a sheltered spot in the hills through which they had been travelling, rather than push on to the river that flowed across their path only a few miles further on. He had gestured to Gunda, inviting the German to agree with his decision.

‘Another mile or so and it’s all downhill to the River Reed. And as I’m sure your guide will agree, the last thing we want is to spend a night in the open on the edge of that quagmire.’

Marcus touched the swaying tribune’s foot lightly to get his attention.

‘Tribune? You’ll feel better once the fire’s lit and you have some food inside you.’

Scaurus dismounted slowly, every movement evidently painful as he roused himself to a semblance of consciousness.

‘Mithras, but that hurts! I feel as if I’ve fought that German giant and lost. Twice.’

Marcus helped the tribune to ease his body into a sitting position against the bole of a tree, seeing the pain of the day’s ride etched in the lines of his friend’s face. Their path had covered mile after mile of forest tracks, difficult going once they were away from the heavily used hunting ground around Thusila, and the bumpy ride had taken its toll on the wounded man. He looked across at Gerhild, who had climbed down from her horse’s saddle and was speaking quietly with Gunda.

‘Lady, your assistance in redressing the tribune’s wound would be greatly appreciated.’

Touching her brother’s cheek she made her way to where Scaurus stood.

‘Help him to remove his armour.’

Marcus lifted the mail’s dead weight from the exhausted tribune’s shoulders, smiling wanly as Scaurus sank back against a tree trunk with his eyes closed. Gerhild put a hand to the blood-soaked tunic, pursing her lips at what she felt.

‘The wound is hot, I can feel it through the bandage and his tunic. Fetch my pot.’

Emptying her water skin into the iron bowl, she erected the tripod that suspended it over the makings of a small fire, which she built with the skill of a born woodsman while Marcus watched, intrigued.

‘You’ve never seen a fire being constructed, Centurion?’

‘Never with quite such skill.’

She flicked a glance at him, her eyes hard.

‘And by a woman, as you tactfully did not say.’

Her words opened the wound of his memories as deftly as her Bructeri guard’s blade had torn Scaurus’s body.

‘My wife was a better doctor and surgeon than any man I’ve met before or since. I’m the last man to seek to denigrate a woman’s skills.’

Gerhild looked up at him as she tore up the herbs that would make a herbal tea with which to treat Scaurus’s wound.

‘Was?’

‘She was torn from this life by the depravity of a deranged emperor and the incompetence of an inept doctor.’

The woman’s face softened.

‘I am sorry for your loss. You have children?’

‘A son.’

An uneasy silence settled on them as Gerhild built the fire’s base with twigs and dry grass.

‘There is more to your story.’

The words were a flat statement of fact, but in the seer’s mouth they were both soothing and an encouragement to talk.

‘There is. But this is not the time for me to tell it.’

She nodded.

‘I understand. This loss has dealt a blow to your soul from which there is no easy recovery. But I know in my heart that when the time comes, you will speak of it, and unburden yourself of the weight that bears down on you.’

He stared at her for a moment before nodding curtly and standing.

‘If you will excuse me?’

The woman smiled again.

‘Of course. Your tribune will sleep for a while, and I will not need your help to administer the herbal tea until the pot has boiled and then cooled.’

He walked away, shaking his head at the moment of compulsion he had felt to tell her his story, of his father’s murder and his own escape from the throne’s hunters, of the vengeance he had wreaked on the men responsible and the love that had been destroyed by the actions of powerful and perverted men.

‘My sister has that effect on most men.’ He looked up to find Gunda waiting for him by the horses, watching as Dolfus and his men started to build a camp fire. ‘She gets inside their heads just by speaking with them, without effort or artifice. That was what upset the man I was forced to kill in the act of protecting her. That and the fact she foretold he would die very soon, which was the reason for his attack on her.’

His smile was ironic, and Marcus found himself warming to the man.

‘You led us well today. How much further do we have to ride?’

‘Tomorrow we cross the Reed River, if I can find a place to ford it after all these years. Then we will ride north, past the remains of your fort at Aliso until we reach the borders of the Bructeri and the Angrivarii. We can only hope that they will be as friendly as Dolfus seems to believe will be the case.’

‘Centurion?’

Marcus turned, to find Munir, the Hamian watch officer, at his side.

‘Yes?’

‘We have seen something of which we believe you will wish to be aware.’

He followed the Hamian to the edge of the slope, looking out across the land to the south. Husam beckoned to him, gesturing for the Roman to keep low, and Marcus crawled the last twenty paces to the spot Husam had chosen from which to watch the ground across which they had travelled.

‘There.’

Following the older man’s pointing arm he saw what it was that had excited their attention, a long column of horsemen winding their way down a hillside in the distance.

‘You are to be congratulated on your eyesight, Husam. Munir …’ He looked at the younger man. ‘… run and tell Decurion Dolfus not to light his fire, and say the same to Mistress Gerhild. Quickly.’

The Hamian was away at the run, leaving Marcus and Husam staring across the valley at the German horsemen.

‘How many, would you say?’

‘Thirty men, Centurion. And, if my eyes do not deceive me, one prisoner.’

‘So tell me, Centurion, exactly what it is that your tribune thinks he’s playing at with this latest escapade?’

Dubnus considered the governor’s question with a neutral expression on his face, standing to attention with his helmet under one arm. The expected summons to an audience had been delivered to him by one of Albinus’s lictors soon after the Briton had settled his and Qadir’s men into their temporary quarters within the fortress, barely giving him time to get medical attention for his wounded man and find a new tunic in anticipation of the meeting. While the Briton was managing to keep his disgust at the senator’s obsession with Scaurus and his doings from betraying itself in his voice, the emotional hangover of the day’s events and the urge to do violence as a result was proving harder to control.

‘I can’t say, Governor. I wasn’t part of the discussion around the change of plan.’

Albinus leaned back in his chair with a sour grimace.

‘No. I’m sure you weren’t. So tell me this, Centurion, who was part of the discussion? A certain decurion was certainly involved, that much I do know.’

The big Briton stared impassively at the wall behind the governor’s head, ignoring the predatory stares being directed at him by the bodyguards arrayed behind their master.

‘I’m sorry, Governor, I was too busy killing tribesmen at the time to pay it much attention.’

‘You saw nothing?’

‘No, sir. Killing tribesmen does tend to be distracting.’

Albinus stared hard at him for a moment, and the Briton cast his mind back to the moment when Scaurus had made the decision to drastically change his plan.

‘It seems that our party trick with Centurion Varus’s cousin isn’t going to work as well the second time around. Decurion Dolfus here was obliged to report it to the governor, and when his messenger passed on the news Clodius Albinus was highly vocal on the subject, to say the least. Apparently he won’t be allowed to make quite so free with the fleet which, the governor was at pains to point out, reports to him operationally.’

The tribune had shifted his position fractionally, wincing at the pain as the blood drying around his wound was pulled by the movement.

‘You expect him to seek to prevent Prefect Varus from collecting us?’

Dolfus had shaken his head at Qadir’s question.

‘Your orders come from Rome, and I doubt he’d go so far as to block the will of the man behind the throne. But I do think …’ he smiled wryly, ‘or rather I should say that the man I work for thinks, that he’ll seek to compensate for not having predicted such a move in the first place by ensuring that he’s on board the flagship this time round. He’ll bring his lictors along to demonstrate the power of his office, and his bodyguard to provide enough men to take the woman off your hands, especially with the tribune wounded and therefore dismissible as unfit to command. Then he’ll send Gerhild south to Rome, and keep Tribune Scaurus hospitalised here for long enough that she’ll have been paraded in front of the emperor before he’s even allowed to get out of his hospital bed. With Clodius Albinus as the architect of the whole thing, I’d imagine. Putting it bluntly, if you board those ships your cause is as good as lost.’

Albinus stared at the Briton standing before him in obvious disbelief.

‘Really? You expect me to believe that your superior officer took it into his head to abandon a means of escaping from Bructeri territory, and instead rode off into the wilderness with this Bructeri witch, and barely enough men to form a legion tent party, on a whim? And that he didn’t bother briefing you as to why he would make such a decision? Do you think I’m stupid, Centurion?’

Given the opening, Dubnus was unable to resist the opportunity.

‘No sir, I don’t think you’re stupid …’

He left the other half of the statement unspoken, but the scowl on the governor’s face deepened as he realised the implication of the Briton’s words.

‘You insolent dog! Get out of my sight! You and your barbarian soldiers are confined to barracks pending transfer to a more suitable duty than you’ve performed to date. I’ll bury you so deep that in the unlikely event of Rutilius Scaurus surviving his latest mad escapade, he won’t find you in a lifetime of searching!’

‘Feed him? Why would we feed him, Gernot? He’s going to be screaming his lungs out within a day or so, once we’ve caught up with his fellow murderers. Food would be wasted on him.’

Qadir was careful to keep his head down, knowing that the slightest reaction to the Bructeri king’s dismissive answer might well give away his ability to understand their discussion. The older man shrugged, his response framed in a tone the Hamian suspected was deliberately light.

‘As you wish, my King. My only concern was to ensure that he doesn’t delay us by being so weak from lack of food as to be unable to ride. But, as you say, he’ll-’

‘You’re right, as always.’ Amalric nodded his agreement with the older man’s words. ‘You, give the easterner a piece of that bread, and some dried meat, too. And make sure he eats it. If he falls from his horse tomorrow as the result of hunger and delays us, then it will go ill with you.’

The Hamian looked up in feigned surprise as a hunk of bread was shoved into his bound hands, nodding his thanks into a hostile expression but remaining silent. The pursuit of his comrades had taken most of the morning to organise, with the fetching of food and organisation of the men left behind to collect and bury the bodies of the fallen warriors, and the afternoon had passed in a blur of forest paths, hills and open land, farmed for the most part unless too marshy to support a crop, across which the king’s men had ridden at a deliberate pace with the king’s huntsman at their head, two magnificent dogs ranging alongside him. From time to time he had stopped to examine the ground in front of them, clearly finding encouragement in whatever it was that he was seeing that they still followed the trail of the Romans who had abducted Gerhild. For Qadir himself the ride had been a waking nightmare, a continual struggle to avoid the loss of consciousness that beckoned him so seductively, the men around him using the butts of their spears to enliven him whenever he started to slump in the saddle. With the coming of night the thirty-man column of horsemen had halted and made camp, gathering firewood and making no attempt to disguise their presence despite knowing that the light of their encampment would serve to warn the fleeing Romans of their pursuit. The king had laughed at his uncle’s concern that their quarry might exploit the warning by escaping in some way.

‘Let them know that their doom is hard on their heels! How far ahead do you believe they are?’

Gernot shook his head.

‘Not far, my King. Perhaps two hours. And tomorrow they have to cross the river of reeds. Even Gunda may struggle to find the right place to get across the stream, given how long it is since he was exiled, whereas your huntsman has roamed these parts most of his life. I think it most likely that we’ll find them on the southern bank of the river, still hunting for a ford.’

Amalric grinned wolfishly.

‘Not one man of them is to die when we take them, not if he can be captured. Wodanaz is waiting eagerly for sacrifices to restore our tribe’s lost honour, soiled by their destruction of our sacred grove and the murder of my priest. And if we fail to take them tomorrow then perhaps I’ll give him this one, once the sun has set, wielding the knife myself in my role as the tribe’s first priest. I’ll open his chest with my sword and pull out his heart. That’ll be a nice surprise for him.’

He stared at Qadir hungrily, and the Hamian cast his eyes down in the manner of a man who knew better than to present his captor with any challenge, locking his face into what he hoped was an immobile mask.

‘See, he has no idea? I wonder when he’ll start screaming?’

Gernot laughed softly.

‘They say the Romans’ eastern soldiers have different gods to ours. Perhaps the moment that he’ll start screaming is when he realises that he’s about to meet whoever it is that he worships.’

‘Centurion.’

Dubnus turned to seek the source of the quiet greeting, finding only an empty street in either direction, dimly lit by the guttering flames of a solitary torch. Half expecting that he would be set up for a beating on his disconsolate walk back from the governor’s residence to the transient barracks, he had already slipped a set of viciously studded metal knuckles out of his belt purse and settled them over his right hand, his fingers reflexively tightening on the thick bronze loops as he scanned the street for threats.

‘Centurion. Here.’

A door was ajar in the building closest to him, the fortress’s headquarters, and a man dressed in the simple tunic of a slave was beckoning to him.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

The beckoning figure put a finger to his lips and gestured again. Shaking his head in bemused irritation the Briton strode up the building’s steps, raising his beweaponed fist into clear view.

‘If this is some sort of game to lure me in there for a kicking, then you’re going to be the first man whose jaw I break.’

The answer was couched in the same quiet tones, accompanied by another summoning gesture.

‘No harm will come to you, Centurion. Follow me.’

Readying himself for violence, the Briton stepped in through the open door, raising an eyebrow at the sight of a pair of impassive legionaries standing guard over the entrance.

‘What the fuck is this?’

The slave walked away into the building, gesturing wordlessly once more for the Briton to follow. Curiosity overcoming his reluctance, Dubnus followed him past another pair of men standing sentry duty over the chapel of the standards, the strong room where the legion’s eagle slept when it was not in the hands of its standard bearer. Turning a corner, his guide pointed to a heavy, nail-studded door.

‘Enter, Centurion. My master is waiting for you.’

Opening the door the Briton stepped through, braced for violence, but instead found himself in a lamplit office, whose opulence was at once apparent from the massive polished oak desk behind which stood a single figure. His face was almost invisible, the lamps arranged behind him to cast shadow on his features, but his gesture for Dubnus to take a seat was clear enough, his voice both cultured and direct.

‘Sit, please, Centurion. And you might as well divest yourself of the bronze knuckles, you’ll struggle to hold a cup with that monstrous thing on your hand.’

Taking a seat the Briton slipped the weapon back into his purse, staring in mystification at the other man as he poured two cups of wine, sipping from his own as he pushed the other across the table to the Briton.

‘It’s a fine vintage. I’m of the opinion that life’s too short to drink poor wine, and I make a point of offering my guests nothing less than would satisfy my tastes.’

Looking down at the cup before him Dubnus shrugged, taking a mouthful of the wine and savouring the taste for a moment, raising the cup in salute.

‘It is good. In fact it’s the first good thing in an otherwise shit day. Thank you … Legatus?’

The other man laughed softly.

‘No, Centurion, I’m no legion commander. A man has to be born to enormous wealth if he’s to command one of the emperor’s eagles, and my birth was as far from that exalted station in life as can be imagined. In truth, Dubnus, prince of the Brigantes, you had an infinitely better start to your life than I. I was born to a slave, although I had the good fortune to be delivered to my mother in Rome, and to be the illegitimate son of a powerful member of the court of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, the current emperor’s father. By combination of fortunate circumstance and my own intelligence I managed to prove my value to the throne, and was eventually freed from my servitude and put to work here, on the frontier. My name, should you be curious, is Tiro.’

‘So how do you come to be sitting behind the legatus’s desk, Tiro?’

The other man shrugged.

‘He lends me its use, every now and then, when I wish to impress upon a man the real nature of imperial power in this province.’

Dubnus’s eyes narrowed.

‘He lends you the use of his office? The legatus?’

Tiro smiled, the expression barely visible.

‘Indeed, Centurion. Allow me to explain.’ He sipped at the wine again. ‘The legatus, as you’re very well aware, is a member of the senatorial class, a man who either has inherited or will inherit an enormous sum of money, and who has been smart enough, or lucky enough, or perhaps simply not quite rich enough, to avoid being branded as a traitor in order for that wealth to be confiscated by the imperial treasury. Being emperor is such an expensive business, what with thirty legions to pay, and the cost of all those games and circuses, not to mention the bread that keeps Rome fed and content. But then you know this, given your friend Marcus Valerius Aquila’s recent experiences of imperial justice.’

Dubnus frowned across the table.

‘How-’

‘How do I know these things? Because it is my job to know them, Centurion, because a man in my position needs to know every little fact that could make the difference between success and failure. Perhaps it would help if you understood my role here a little better? Let me explain it this way …’ He sipped the wine again, refilling his own and Dubnus’s cups before continuing. ‘There is, as a general rule, a lifespan for everything in this world. For everything and everyone and, for the purposes of this discussion, every family too. A great man arises, from nowhere, with a combination of ancestry that unlocks a genius, perhaps for warfare, perhaps for business, or perhaps simply for ruling other men. Sometimes, in the genuinely terrifying examples, for all three. His light burns brightly until he dies, revered by all, to be succeeded by his son who, everyone agrees, may not have quite his father’s brilliance, but who nevertheless performs his role well enough to bring honour to the great man’s legacy. But after him comes the third generation, with the founder of the dynasty’s genius so diluted by the introduction of other men’s blood to the mix that, unless by some quirk of fate or calculation new genius is introduced by marriage, he will be but a pale shadow of his grandfather. And so the dynasty crumbles into insignificance, or in the worst cases to ignominy and shame. Consider the fall of the first family, from the Emperor Augustus’s glorious forty-year reign to the disaster of his great-grandson Caligula’s short span of three years on the throne. Only a few decades later the Emperor Vespasian’s younger son managed to destroy his father’s inheritance in only a single generation. And so it goes. It is simply the way things are, Centurion.’

Dubnus nodded.

‘I have seen this for myself. But why are you telling me this?’

The other man leaned back in his chair, his face invisible in the office’s shadows.

‘The answer to that question is more straightforward than you might think, and concerns both the first and third generations of our hypothetical family. As I said a moment ago, the legions are commanded by Rome’s masters, the senatorial class who bow only to the emperor himself, and as a rule the provincial governors are for the most part chosen from among the ranks of successful legati, or those whose family have the most influence with the emperor. Which of course presents the emperor, or rather those men who make the decisions for him, with a limited choice of men from whom to choose, some of them brilliant, some rather less so. And, of course, even the smallest of frontier provinces will have legions, powerful tools in the wrong hands and even more so when, as has happened, two or three governors in adjoining provinces make the decision to join forces. So, what’s to be done if a province falls into the hands of another Julius Caesar, a man with the skills of a great general and the unmitigated bravery required to mount an assault on the throne? Or another Varus, with the abject lack of imagination and leadership required for another Teutoburg Forest? Whether in the hands of brilliant minds or fools, the use and the maintenance of such power needs to be assured by the presence of men with undoubted loyalty to the throne, if attempts to take the throne or military disasters are to be avoided. And so each major province has a man who can be trusted posted to a position of apparent mediocrity, men who can quietly steer around such potential disasters by means of a deft touch here, a swift bloodletting there. Men whose successes in avoiding either outcome can be ascribed to others, so that they can remain hidden in the shadows.’

‘Men like you?’

‘You have it, Centurion, I knew you were more than a scowl on a particularly muscular stick. Men like me. I watch over Clodius Albinus from the shadows, ensuring that everything he does is free from risk or, when I am unable to prevent him from acting in a manner more likely to further his own aims than those of the empire, I do whatever is needed to put right what would otherwise be wrong. Like sending a message to an enterprising young tribune to suggest that he might not want to risk boarding a naval vessel whose mission had been suborned by a man who considers him a mortal enemy.’

Dubnus’s eyes narrowed.

‘Dolfus is your man.’

The other man nodded.

‘Of course he is. All it ever takes is a short and meaningful discussion about potential future careers, and the display of my imperial warrant, for men like Dolfus to give me their unconditional loyalty. The decurion is a man of good family, and he knows full well that his first duty is to the empire and not to any individual, no matter how exalted.’

‘And it was your idea for my tribune to take the German woman to the north, rather than boarding the warships?’

Tiro nodded.

‘It was. I expect him to successfully evade any Bructeri pursuit, unlikely though such a pursuit may be given the quiet exit I hear the tribune and his party made before the Germans caught up with you. I plan to journey north tomorrow myself, and to meet Scaurus and his men on the northern border of the Bructeri lands, and ensure that the Angrivarii grant them safe passages. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me?’

The Briton drained his cup.

‘Of course I would. But my men and I are ordered to remain in barracks, pending a posting to some shithole or other.’

The freedman smiled beneficently.

‘Then it’s a good thing that I have the ability to make you and your men vanish into thin air, isn’t it? As far as Clodius Albinus will know, he’s had you posted to dig latrines in a fort so distant that he’ll never think to check on the veracity of the records. Have your men ready to ride at dawn. And draw yourself a vine stick and a helmet crest from the fortress stores, the time for your status to be concealed is long past. Where we’re going, the more imposing you both look, the better.’

Dubnus nodded, putting the cup down on the desk before him, then frowned as a thought struck him.

‘There is another problem.’

The other man smiled at him knowingly.

‘Young Gaius Vibius Varus and the governor’s message? There’s no problem there …’ He raised his voice. ‘Is there, Vibius Varus?’

The door behind him opened, and Varus stepped through it in a clean tunic and freshly polished boots.

‘No, Tiro, I don’t believe there is.’

‘But …’

Both men smiled at the bemused Briton.

‘The message?’ Tiro shook his head. ‘Opened, read, filed for future reference and forgotten. The governor will entertain fond imaginings as to what’s going to happen when his rather idiosyncratic version of events reaches Rome, and only in the fullness of time will it dawn on him that the lack of response indicates that it might not have arrived after all. I’ve taken the precaution of substituting a rather more factually based summary of events to date and ordered its delivery to Rome with all speed, just in case he has second thoughts as to the reliability of young Varus here and decides to send another.’

He stood, indicating the room’s door.

‘And now, gentlemen, there’s just one thing I need from you. Gold.’ The two men stared at him in bemusement, and he laughed, shaking his head. ‘Come now, you can hardly expect me not to have heard the governor’s frequent complaints about the amount of freshly minted coins that managed to get stuck to your tribune’s fingers in the process of it being used to enable the imperial chamberlain to make his bid for power? I know for a fact that Scaurus’s travel chest contains enough wealth to fund what I’ve got in mind with the Angrivarii, and their neighbours the Marsi to the east, whose lands we’ll have to travel through to reach the border with the Bructeri. So off you go and dig the chest out, and I’ll be along shortly with a smith to crack open the lock. I’m sure your superior won’t complain, given that without his money he might well end up exchanging death on a Bructeri altar for the same fate at the hands of another tribe!’

‘You’re sure?’

Husam shook his head.

‘No, Tribune, I am far from sure that these Germans have a prisoner, but I think it very likely. And I believe I know who it is.’

Scaurus stared at him in tired disbelief.

‘But they were what, half a mile from your position when they stopped to camp for the night? How could you know?’

The party had relocated another mile towards the river when it became clear that their pursuers had decided to camp on a small tributary of the Reed River, putting enough distance between them that the glow of their fires would be completely hidden by the trees. The Hamian inclined his head respectfully, but he wasn’t so deferential as to back down in the face of Scaurus’s scepticism.

‘Every other man in their party was wearing a helmet, Tribune. Only sufficient iron to cover the top of their heads, but every man wore this protection.’

Dolfus nodded.

‘It’s the distinguishing mark of Amalric’s household guard. They all wear it.’

‘But one man was not wearing such a helmet. Nor was he carrying a weapon, unlike the men around him. And when he dismounted, two of them stayed close to him. I could not see if they were using their spears to keep him subdued though.’

‘So, perhaps the Bructeri have one of our men. Perhaps. The more important thing is that …’ Husam raised his hand with a deferential expression, and Scaurus, clearly still in pain, restrained himself from the volcanic loss of his temper that he was aware was building within him as a reaction to stress and exhaustion.

‘Yes?’

‘Forgive me, Tribune, I do have one more observation to share with you.’ Scaurus waved his hand, looking at the man with an expression verging on the predatory. ‘When the man I have assumed to be a prisoner dismounted, his head was at the same height as the horses. This appeared to be a tall man.’

‘And? Our detachment contained several such men, more than half of us, in fact.’

The Hamian spread his hands in polite agreement, but continued despite the tribune’s obvious ire.

‘Just so, Tribune. But this man was not powerfully built, his stance was not that of an axeman. He was of a more normal build, although he did have broad shoulders. Perhaps from use of the bow.’

He fell silent and lowered his head in deference to the senior officer.

‘You’re telling me that the Bructeri have a prisoner, and that you think it’s Centurion Qadir?’

‘I cannot make such a bold assertion, Tribune. But the man I have seen was certainly a prisoner, in my view, and his build and stance were at once familiar to me. I have said enough, and wasted enough of your time. Forgive me for …’

Scaurus raised a hand.

‘No, you must forgive me for being short-tempered with you. I am tired and in pain, which is only a partial excuse. Now we must discuss your suggestion, and decide what we must do. Thank you.’

The Hamian chosen man bowed and turned away, Scaurus waiting until he was out of earshot before speaking again.

‘The centurion is a dead man, if Husam is correct in his identification. They have brought him along with them in order to torture him to death at the right time, hoping to unnerve us.’

‘Or to bargain for his life with hers?’

Dolfus looked over at the woman, busily tending the iron pot over her small fire.

‘We cannot make such a bargain. And they will know that, or at least suspect it. No, our main focus now must be on these pursuers. How is that they come to be so close behind us, and how did they even know that we didn’t board the warships?’

The decurion grimaced.

‘Perhaps they overcame your men before they could reach the river, or perhaps the ships didn’t arrive at the right time. Either way they would be able to count corpses, and look for the bodies they would have expected to find, those of the woman and myself. They will quickly have worked out that we must have run, fearing such a conclusion to the fight, and once that was their belief it wouldn’t need a genius to work out where we would be heading.’

‘Or perhaps a man who fell in battle with you lived while he seemed dead, and saw us ride north.’

They looked around at Gerhild, who was still tending her pot, dropping crushed herbs into the bubbling water.

‘But all the men who fell at the crossroads were dead. Not one of them moved with a knife stuck into his arm or leg.’

‘Indeed that is true, Tribune, for I watched your men perform their grisly test of life. And yet …’

‘And yet what?’

She smiled a quiet, private smile.

‘And yet who is to know what strangeness might have overcome a man who was thrown headlong into a tree?’

Dolfus looked at her for a moment and then shook his head.

‘Whatever the cause of their pursuit, putting some distance between us is my main concern. In the morning we must cross the Reed, and quickly, if we’re not to find ourselves staring down twice our strength in spears. What do you say, Gunda?’

The scout grimaced back at him.

‘I say that the Reed changes its course almost every year, as the marshes that fringe both banks grow and shrink, and become more solid or more liquid as if on a whim of the gods. We might find a workable ford before the sun has risen far enough to warm the day, or it might take all day. The morning will reveal our fate.’

‘In which case, gentlemen, I suggest that we eat and get some sleep. Post two men to watch, and make sure that they are changed regularly. I want everyone clear-headed tomorrow.’

Scaurus turned away only to find the woman standing behind him.

‘If every man is to be clear-headed then I will need you to drink this.’ She passed him a wooden cup, smiling as he looked down into it with a dubious expression. ‘It is a herbal tea, Tribune, lavender, sage and thyme, and the purple flower that we call The Healer, all boiled in water. It will soothe your mind, and help your body to make good the damage that the knife wrought on you. You will sleep well, and, with the blessing of Hertha, heal faster.’

He looked down into the cup again and then took a tentative sip, pulling a face at the slightly bitter taste.

‘It tastes …’

‘Natural. If I had a little honey I would sweeten it for you, but the bees will all be asleep by now and impossible to find, so the unsweetened version will have to do. Drink it. When the remainder has cooled I will use it to clean your wound, before I dress it with clean cloth.’

Scaurus stared at her for a moment longer and then drained the cup.

‘Thank you. Your solicitude is appreciated.’

‘I would do the same for any man with such a wound. Even if you bore me malice which, despite calling me a witch, I sense you do not. Sleep, Tribune Scaurus, and let us see what the morning brings us.’

The Roman nodded and turned away, leaving her standing alone. Returning to the pot she refilled her cup, calling to her brother who was setting out his blanket a few feet away.

‘Come here and take a drink, Gunda. You of all people will need to be alive to the possibilities that the morning will bring.’

‘Where the fuck are you lot going at this time of the night?’

Dubnus stepped forward from the ranks of his men. Realising that he was addressing a centurion, as the Tungrian’s crested helmet became apparent in the dim torchlight, the sentry snapped to attention and saluted, looking down at the wax tablet in the officer’s hands. Tiro had given Dubnus the orders the previous evening, raising a sardonic eyebrow as he had passed the tablet across the table.

‘I’ll see you down the road from the eastern gate at dawn. You and your men, Centurion …’ He had looked at Dubnus with a cautionary expression. ‘… would be well advised to leave barracks quietly and with care not to attract any attention. No shouting of orders, and no hobnails crunching on the flagstones either, make sure your boots are muffled and leave those men who might be interested in such an unexpected movement on your part to enjoy their sleep. And you, Vibius Varus, you’d be best marching as a common soldier in what’s left of your detachment, so roll your new crest up in your blanket to keep it out of sight. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, so that the gate guards don’t pass word back to the governor’s residence that you were seen disobeying his orders. I’ve no desire for him to chase us down the road to the fleet headquarters in a fit of bad temper, as that would force my hand to an act that, while I’ve often fantasised about it, would only serve to make things more complex. After all, having men of Clodius Albinus’s stature killed does entail a very great deal of paperwork.’

He had shrugged, pointing to the tablet.

‘So, give the gate guards that and you should be allowed out of the fortress without much ceremony. I’ve made the “orders” it contains nice and wordy to put the gate guards off actually reading it, but the seal’s genuine enough.’

The Briton held out the tablet, grunting out the tired and bored response of a man who had risen too early to perform a task for which he had little enthusiasm.

‘Governor’s orders. We’re to march south to a fort in the hills and become the permanent garrison.’

The soldier holding the tablet turned to face his watch officer as the senior man walked up, jumping to attention as his superior took the tablet and turned it to the torchlight with the expression of a man absorbing its contents.

‘So what’s this then?’

‘Watch Officer, sir! This centurion has orders to ride to a fort in the hills to the south to join the garrison, Watch Officer, sir!’

His superior saluted in turn, taking the tablet from his soldier and holding it up to the light of a torch to better see the words scratched into the wax surface, and the seal pressed into a corner next to its wooden casing. Standing in the rear rank among Dubnus’s remaining archers Varus suppressed the urge to smile with difficulty, realising that neither man could actually read. The watch officer stared at the tablet in his hands for a moment longer, then nodded decisively, clearly unwilling to appear either indecisive or less capable than his soldier.

‘Looks to be in order to me. That is the governor’s seal.’ He looked at the soldier, who nodded vigorously, knowing his superior’s hatred of being gainsaid once he’d made a decision. ‘Very well, on your way.’

Dubnus took the tablet and stepped back into the detachment’s front rank, waiting impassively while the fortress’s eastern gate was opened for them.

‘March!’

Having discarded the rags that had been tied around their boots before they approached the sentry, the Tungrians stepped out with the characteristic crunching sound of hobnails on the road’s hard surface, marching out of the fortress and into the pre-dawn gloom at a brisk pace. A mile down the road they found Tiro waiting for them, getting to his feet as the detachment approached and looking up at the rapidly lightening sky above.

‘It’s going to be a fine day, which is good for us but, I suspect, not so good for your tribune and his men. They’ll be praying for mist and rain, I’d imagine, if there’s any chance that they were followed.’

He led them down the road at a good pace, marching alongside Dubnus with an easy gait that belied his apparent age.

‘Don’t look so surprised, Prince of the Brigantes, you’re not the only man here who knows what it means to march thirty miles and then offer battle to an enemy who’s sat waiting for you in the shade of their shields all day.’

Varus had ranged up alongside them having tied the new crest onto his helmet, and his intrigued question echoed that on the tip of Dubnus’s tongue.

‘Really, Tiro? Where did you have the honour of serving?’

The response was a bark of laughter.

‘The honour of serving? You’ve not been doing this long enough, have you, Vibius Varus? I had the misfortune, young man, to be attached to the Second Italian legion when the emperor Marcus Aurelius led us against the Marcomanni, in what those writers who don’t know any better call the German War. My gift for languages and my apparently barbarian features caught the eye of the emperor’s spy master.’ He shook his head in wry amusement. ‘As a consequence of which I was eventually selected for what was euphemistically called “detached duty”, which in reality meant roaming the lands to the west of the theatre of war, and encouraging those tribes who were predisposed to support us to keep doing so, for reasons of greed for our gold or fear of our iron, and discouraging the rest from taking their spears against us for fear of what we’d do to them if they did. I led more than one clandestine mission to quietly make a hostile king disappear, and put a more amenable man on the throne in his place, and did things that the gods will doubtless judge harshly when my time comes to enter the underworld. And as if that wasn’t enough I did the empire’s dirty work on this frontier for so long that I became indispensable, too precious an asset to be allowed to return to Rome when there’s always a situation to be dealt with somewhere among these barbaric animals. The Bructeri are just the latest in a long line of tribes who have needed to be shown their place in the natural order of things. Who knows, perhaps you’d make a fitting apprentice for me, eh young man? I could see a man of good family who’s stupid enough to serve as a centurion, rather than stay safe and well provided for in Rome, taking to this role’s danger and uncertainties like a fish to water.’

‘You horrible bitch.’

Gunda looked out across the river’s grey expanse, water as yet untouched by the sun’s warmth and only dimly illuminated by the half-light that was gradually permeating the sky above.

‘You dislike the river?’

The guide chuckled grimly at Marcus’s question.

‘Every time I cross her waters I come to hate her a little more. On one occasion it took me two days, and a dozen attempts, and yet another time I was successful in less than half a morning, and on only my second try at crossing. The current is so slow at this time of the year, and the reeds so thick, that in a very few places where the water is shallow a man can walk from one side to the other with nothing worse than wet calves to trouble him, if he is strong enough to jump the channels that thread through the vegetation. But for men on horses the problem is a different one, whether the animal will be able to make any progress through the marsh without its feet becoming stuck in the bog beneath the reeds. And we dare not leave the horses behind us.’

‘And you think that this is a good place to cross? You led us here without a moment of hesitation.’

Gunda shook his head with a bemused look, as if he were asking himself the same question as that posed by Scaurus.

‘In truth, Tribune, I cannot tell you. When I awoke I knew where to bring our party this morning, as if a god had whispered in my ear while I slept, and, more than that …’ He pointed across the river at a stunted tree, its roots wrapped around a large boulder on the far bank. ‘I knew I was in the right place as soon as I saw that tree, and yet I have no idea how.’

‘You’ve not used this crossing point before?’

‘I haven’t even tried to cross here before, never mind succeeded or failed. And yet …’

Gerhild smiled at him beatifically from her saddle.

‘And yet it seems to you that you have been drawn here, does it not?’ Both men turned to look at her. ‘In which case, brother, perhaps you should test that unexplained urge.’

She turned and walked away to her horse, leaving the two men looking at each other in silence. Gunda shrugged and mounted his own beast, urging it forward into the shallows with gentle nudges of his heels. The horse bent its neck to drink for a moment and then stepped into the river’s flow, apparently untroubled by the reeds, which looked no thinner at that point than anywhere else in what they could see of the river’s vegetation-choked course. Scaurus looked up at the rapidly brightening sky, then pointed at the scout.

‘Follow him across. Archers first, in case there’s a threat on the far bank. Husam, set yourself and Munir up to shoot back across the river in case our pursuers arrive before we’re away. You two centurions can escort the witch across. Dolfus, I have an idea.’

The decurion listened for a moment and then issued a swift order to his men, both of whom handed the reins of their horses to the officer and waded into the stream while he led the beasts past them in Scaurus’s wake. Scooping handfuls of river mud from the stream’s bed the two cavalrymen carefully poured it across the hoof trail left in the bank’s soft mud, carefully flicking it off the few blades of grass that grew at the river’s margin, then washed water across their handiwork to blend it in seamlessly. Within minutes all trace of their passage had been erased, the wet mud almost invisible in the dawn’s gloom, and the two men washed away the dirt from their hands and arms before remounting and following Dolfus across to the far bank.

‘Hear that?’

A horse whinnied in the dawn murk somewhere close, and Scaurus waved his arm at the waiting riders.

‘Get into the cover of those trees. Centurions, take my horse and make sure that the witch doesn’t announce our presence.’ He turned to the archers and gestured to the bank’s thick crop of reeds. ‘Into concealment, gentlemen, and shoot anyone who puts a hoof in the water where we crossed.’

Sinking into the reeds beside them, he ignored the tugging sensation in his side as the first of the Bructeri appeared out of the trees that ran down almost to the river’s bank, watching as the man looked up and down the reed-choked river in both directions. Husam and Munir slowly eased their bows up, arrows already nocked to the strings, waiting patiently for the enemy warrior to give them a reason to loose their missiles.

In the trees behind them Dolfus and his men had swiftly arranged feed bags for the horses, counting on the beasts’ preoccupation with their oats to prevent them from betraying the party’s whereabouts by whinnying at the wrong moment.

‘Do you still doubt the power of the goddess, Centurion?’

Marcus looked over at Gerhild, who was soothing her mount with long, slow strokes of its head and neck.

‘Have I been given reason to ease my doubts, Madam?’

She smiled at him, secure in her belief.

‘You’ll have to be the person to make that decision. But can you not see how we have been aided this morning? My brother drank the herb tea I made, imbued with the earth goddess’s blessing, and today he rode straight to what might well be the only crossing point for miles, guided by nothing more substantial than a dream.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘You could view it as such. And now I need a moment of silence, if you will. There is a man whose perceptions I wish to influence.’ She closed her eyes, bending over the horse’s neck and moving her lips silently in some arcane prayer while the two officers watched her in bemusement.

‘Can we cross here?’

Amalric’s huntsman stepped forward, eyeing the river unhappily.

‘The Reed is a changeable river, my King. A place where a horse may cross one year will be impassable the next, and a tangle of grasses today may be a clear passage in a week.’

The king nodded impatiently.

‘I am aware of the river’s challenges. My question was simply whether we can cross the river here? For all we know, the men who hold my priestess hostage are already across, and riding north with nothing to stop them reaching the borders of our lands with the Angrivarii, and their escape from the punishments that I plan to heap upon them.’

His servant looked up at him with an earnest expression.

‘The land to the north of here is far from easy riding, my King, especially if a man has not travelled it recently, a maze of marsh and forest. A few hours lead into the jaws of that monster will be of little aid to your enemies when they are wallowing in a plain of mud so deep that even a horse will not cross it.’

The king reined his temper in by force of will.

‘Nevertheless I wish to cross this river before them, if I can. So …’

The hunter bowed, wary of his king’s swift temper.

‘I understand, my King. Allow me to consider the river for a short time and you will have your answer.’

He dismounted and walked down to the Reed’s bank, staring across the expanse of grasses that choked the river’s course, then knelt to examine the water close to the bank.

‘Wait.’

The Hamians’ bows were fully bent, needing only the smallest of movements to send a pair of arrows at the men now gathered around the kneeling scout, and Scaurus’s harsh whisper was seemingly all that stood between the Bructeri and his death. When Husam spoke his voice was as taut as the string in which the strength of his body waited, controlled only by the fingers of his right hand.

‘He will see the traces of our crossing.’

Scaurus raised a hand in caution.

‘And if he does, he will be the first to die. Now wait.’

The huntsman paused a moment longer, his head seeming to momentarily dip toward the water, then rose from his crouch, apparently satisfied with whatever it was he had been searching for. He pointed at the river’s bank as he walked back to the group of warriors waiting for his words, and Scaurus leaned closer to Husam, his voice iron hard in the Hamian’s ear.

‘Wait.’

‘The reeds are too thick, my King. A horse’s hoofs will be fouled by them.’

Amalric looked up at the grey sky in frustration, then scowled down at the hapless scout.

‘Did you find any sign of the men we are pursuing?’

The older man shook his head.

‘Nothing, my King. I knew Gunda as a friend, before his expulsion from the tribe, and this is not a part of the river he knew well. It is more likely that he would look to cross further to the east, where the Reed is a little narrower, and flows faster.’

The king exchanged glances with Gernot before speaking again.

‘Very well. Lead us to a crossing place where you are confident that we will succeed in passing this obstacle. I wish to set my wolves loose on these thieves and traitors, and see their blood run across my tribe’s altar.’

‘I have their king within the reach of my iron, if you wish him dead, Tribune?’

Scaurus was silent for a moment.

‘My orders do not extend to killing a tribal king.’

Husam grunted dismissively.

‘One death might end all thoughts of pursuit.’

The tribune turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

‘One death might result in a tribal war that could set the entire country to the east of the Rhenus alight. And I seem to recall that it is customary for a common soldier to speak to his officers with somewhat more respect. Clearly I shall have to have a serious discussion on the subject of military discipline with your centurion.’

He fell silent as he realised that the archer was staring across the river.

‘My centurion is there, Tribune.’

Following the Hamian’s stare he started, as he realised that the subject of his last words was mounted on a horse in the middle of the Bructeri tribesmen.

‘Could you hit him through that pack of men?’

The archer nodded slowly, easing the point of his arrow to the left as the Bructeri rode slowly to the east along the Reed’s bank.

‘If you order it, Tribune.’

Scaurus stared bleakly at his officer for a moment, then came to a decision.

‘I will not order his death. Not when he may yet have the chance to escape.’

Husam allowed his bow to unbend in a long, slow easing of the strength he had forced into its wooden frame, as the Bructeri rode away to the west, the breath sighing out of him as he put his head down and stared at the ground beneath his feet.

‘I could have hit him. It would not have been a very difficult shot. But the act of actually releasing the arrow would have been the hardest thing I have ever done.’

The three men remained silent until the Bructeri riders were lost to view, each of them alone with his thoughts.