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Seven riders escorted a covered wagon north, which itself was trailed by two footmen. It appeared to the naked eye to be a simple merchantman and his escort, the kind seen exiting the Empire several times per year to trade for goods among the tribes. The escorts were armed, and the footmen had bows. The merchant himself, dressed well but not richly, drove the wagon. The number of guards was about right for a merchantman. There was nothing special at all about them at all to say they were other than what they appeared to be.

A second glance, closer, revealed a difference. Their appearance was good- mailed shirts of a professional guard, long swords suited to horse battles, helmets of various makes as one would expect. No, looking at them individually told one only that these were merchants on the road. What tipped off the scrutinizing viewer was their actions- merchant guards tend to cling around the wagon they guard. These roamed further afield, almost out of sight of their charge. And worse, they rode right past the turnoff to a small village only an hour’s walk away. No true merchant would ever pass up the chance at lodging indoors and making a few denarii while doing it.

So when the woman walking up the trial saw the tracks keep heading north, without even a pause, she knew they were not the merchants the farmers and villagers said were passing north. She had immediately an idea who this merchant was and where he was headed. A few other tracks confirmed her suspicions. That hooked horseshoe off to the left was on the dapple-grey horse favored by Amalric the Silent. And the white fur on the thistles over there could only come from the brown horse with the white socks favored by Glam, son of Reidar. The irregular pattern of nails in the hoof confirmed it. And of course, the brown-tailed stallion favored by her former lover for riding. Only it had that prancing step when ridden by another, which was shown there on the ground nearest the wagon.

Froydis rose up and smiled to herself. Now what was Marcus Rutilius doing here pretending to be a merchant? She knew it to be him- Glam and Amalric were two of his guards- well-known here in Batavian lands, faceless in foreign lands. She thought over it, and like normal, the answer came to her. He was going to cross the Nabalia! What a fool! Froydis could not let that happen- no matter his purpose of going there, the only outcome she could see was his death in those hostile woods. She loved him too much to allow that to be his fate.

She hurried. With any luck she could catch him before he reached a ford or a bridge, and then, maybe, if she was lucky, talk some sense into that hard Roman head of his. He had already stolen her heart- she could not allow him to let his own be spitted by his enemies over a roasting fire. So she hurried, as if the demon-dog Garm himself was on her heels.

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Marcus Rutilius knew nothing of this. To him, his team was the perfect appearance of a simple merchant trying to make an honest living trading. He had a trader’s wagon with all its authentic merchantman furnishings- courtesy of a poisoner in Colonia. He was dressed in a merchant’s armor- courtesy of Tiberius Labeo, king of the Batavians, and cloaked in a fine Cananefate cloak. His mother ensured he spoke her native tongue, and his years in the western part of the province gave him the tongue of the Cananefate as well. His blonde hair was growing long and shaggy, and his beard- two weeks old- was filling in nicely. To any who saw him, he was a simple merchant riding point for the wagon.

Off to his left was Glam, son of Reidar. Glam was a veteran of the border, and served the Batavians well during their failed revolt. After that, he sold his sword to merchants, then became a farmer. But scratching dirt held no appeal for him, so he was soon looking for a lord to whom he could sell his sword. He found that lord in Rutilius, and was one of the original eighty Batavians who volunteered to serve in his guard.

Amalric the Silent was another. He was off to the right of Rutilius, keeping an eye open for the river he knew would soon be coming closer. He also kept an eye out for roving bands of men. The winter cold forced many bushes to lose their leaves, making ambushes easier to spot. Like Glam, he was a veteran of the Batavian cohorts which did so much damage to the Empire. And like Glam, after the war he puddled about doing nothing until a Bructeri lowlife tried to assassinate Rutilius in the market square of Noviomagus. He joined the guard then, vowing never to let some foreigner deprive Rome of its best legate.

Publius Acilius drove the wagon. He was a lictor, but had once been a cartographer. He was the only one of the crew who could handle a wagon- cartographers carried much equipment with them and were often on the move. He traded that life in to serve Rome as a lictor when his father’s company, where he worked, when bankrupt under Nero. He had been with Cordinus, the governor, to many lands, and always kept a record of it, which was why Cordinus assigned him to Rutilius for this expedition. By his side was Wolf, Son of Ragnar the Hunter, who kept his francisca ready to hand and a dagger in his boot as well.

Titus Acilius, no relation to the wagon drover, was also a lictor who had served Cordinus long and well. He was a former cavalry auxilia, which was why he was currently on the spare horse of Rutilius off on the far right flank.

Hermann Otgar’s Son was another Batavian guard, on the far left. Closer in to the wagon rode Harald Forkbeard and Dagthor the Strong. Their stories was similar to the others.

The two footmen were not Batavian, however, which was why they were walking. Jorgen of the Cananefate carried a bow for missile support, but was also a hardy warrior in melee. Jorgen was the son of Niall, king of the Cananefate, though currently exiled from his lands for killing a man- though justified- from behind. His partner, Aelric, was a Ubian, and a new recruit for the Batavian Guard of Rutilius. He was giving tips to Jorgen about archery while they walked and Jorgen gave the Ubian tips about swordplay in return, though each kept an eye out to the flanks and rear of the miniature cavalcade.

They never saw Froydis, who was running along the more direct route along the river.

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“There is the first ford, lord,” Amalric reported when his horse reached Rutilius. “Shall we cross here, or check further north?”

Rutilius looked over the crossing. The dirt road parted the trees to the river, where one could see it crossed another before reaching the river. The river widened a bit here, indicating it could be more shallow, and the continuation of the track beyond was proof that men had used this point to cross the Nabalia before. He also knew that further north was a broken bridge that may now be repaired. It was there he and Cerealis had taken the surrender of Julius Civilis, ending the Batavian revolt.

“We need to check this out,” Rutilius decided. “Then we go north to find other sites.”

Amalric nodded, and trotted off to the wagon to relay the instructions. Acilius brought the wagon forward, while the outriders closed in upon it with military precision. A camp would be set up to dry the leggings and clothing of the volunteer crossing, while the others would be unlimbering bows and javelins to cover him from harm. But those preparations halted when a figure emerged from the right-hand track and turned promptly toward them.

Marcus reared his horse back in surprise, to keep it from trampling the woman who so suddenly appeared. Glam and Amalric closed tighter in alarm, until they recognized the plain brown cloak and red shawl of the woman. They slowed to a canter, then a walk, as they neared.

“What do you here, woman?” Marcus asked, his voice a little louder and harsher than he intended. He recognized Froydis at once, causing his heart to race, but not as fast as her so-sudden appearance did.

Froydis gave a small laugh. “One could ask you the same, Marcus. To my eyes, it appears you are going to cross into Bructeri territory with nothing but these few warriors at your side. So tell me, lover, why do you wish to die so hideously?”

“What does she mean, lord?” asked Publius Acilius. He could understand the Germanic tongue spoken here, but could not speak it, thus he asked in Latin, to the chagrin of his fellows.

“She means that the Germani over there,” Glam replied, pointing across the river, “would boil some of us alive, roast others in wicker cages, and make the last one watch before they skin him out to make a nice present for their gods.”

“Which they would do if they heard you sing out like that in the tongue of the Romani,” Amalric added. “You understand our tongue well enough. So for all our sakes, be a mute.”

Publius blushed at his error, realizing now just what consequences such a loose tongue would have. He gulped once, and nodded twice.

Marcus stared into the woman’s eyes. Those large, lovely, pools of blue, sometimes so deep as to be purple. Now he saw more than love in those pools- he saw a trace of fear. Of what? But he knew three things about the Cugerni widow who stood before him. One was that she loved him fiercely. A second was that she would not betray him- she was immensely trustworthy. And third, she was very, very good at noticing things. This last he put to the test. It always amazed him how much she could deduce from simple things most other people missed. She brought that talent to a form of art.

“You tell me, Froydis,” he said in challenge.

Froydis knew this game. She looked over the wagon and the men, their horses, their gear, and themselves. Then she said, “You are going across the Nabalia into Bructeri lands disguised as merchants. Your appearances are almost perfect, though the strides, discipline, and power of your horses scream warhorse to any who pay attention. The wagon you acquired from Burnix, I see- his markings are still visible here and over there.

“You have at least one Roman with you, two if that stiff-spined warrior next to Dagthor is a former cavalryman and not simply an injured Batavi like Dieter. The calluses on his hands and fingers, and on that of your drover, combined with the way each favors a shoulder, tell me they are used to carrying a load in their hands which they rest upon that shoulder. Each also has a long-handled axe- the rider on his saddle, and the drover poking out from under his seat. Those are not war-axes, but not wood-cutters either. I assume, since the one is Roman and the other possibly, that those are Roman axes. The only Romans who carry Roman axes are lictors in foreign provinces, and since you are quaestor and are authorized two lictors, these must be them.”

Her glance traveled to Glam and Wolf. “Those two, plus Amalric, I recognize from your guards. So you have some true warriors with you as well, which means this is not a courtesy call to discuss peace. The wagon gives it away- you are going as merchants. Merchants have easy access to any village- they are welcomed for whatever news and or goods they may bring. Going as merchants is good cover for one who wishes to travel hidden in the open. Hiding in plain sight is a very successful tactic for spies. So, Marcus, you are going to spy on the Bructeri.”

She looked up into his eyes. He could feel her concern. “You are doing this because of last summer, and because you will be going back this summer. You know more now than you did then, but need good information. So you go to get it. But tell me, Marcus. Where is your woman?”

“Claudia is in Colonia,” he replied, impressed with her deductive skills. “I am sure you know that already. She is due to deliver out first child before the summer.”

Froydis smiled and shook her head. “I knew she was carrying your child before you did,” she reminded him. “But I was talking about your entourage here. Every successful merchant has a woman in the group, either wife or daughter. Roric has Traudl, Burnix has Nelda, Decimus has Licinia, Aethelric has Eadgyth, Gunther has Berta- all have someone. Where is yours?”

Marcus cursed. The woman was right- merchants always have a female. He blushed. “We have none.”

Froydis nodded. “Then you will be studied closely, fail the test, and be slain,” she said bluntly. “Or you can take me along and be successful.”

“I would not risk your life so recklessly, Froydis. I still care very much for you, though I married another.”

Froydis wept to the skies. “He says he loves me still, and because of this love, he condemns himself to death and me to eternal sorrow. Do not be such a fool, Marcus! I travel this land alone, looking for the true love Veleda the Seeress promised me. I thought I had found it in you, but alas, so close. It was not to be. Yet my heart is still in that chest of yours, next to your own, and shall remain there until I find that love I was promised. In the mean time, I must keep your heart beating or risk destroying my own.

“Now,” she said, turning cold and angry at the same time, “I am coming with you, whether you like it or not. Your lictors know little of trading, I assume, being lictors. Your warriors might know a bit, but the fact that they are warriors now instead of merchants says they deplored trading. You know little yourself, paying a full denarius for a mere dozen arrows. Good arrows, I admit, but still? A denarius for a dozen? Please!”

“And you know values and prices?” Marcus asked. There was very little sarcasm in his voice, despite the words. “A Cugerni farmer’s widow who dabbles in healing, but never asked a fee?”

She laughed. “Do you remember the day we first met, lover? Before I helped you bargain with that spy Erwin, I had settled a dispute between two merchants. Peacefully, and to everybody’s satisfaction. I notice things, remember? And I remember them. I can quote you an honest price on most any object I have ever laid eyes on. And I am a woman. I will be your merchant’s woman, handling the chores of the woman, and negotiating prices at the markets while your men do their thing and you watch over me, hand on sword, like a good merchant in hostile territory.”

Rutilius blushed. He had not thought of what to do once he got into a village, other than count its menfolk. He had assumed they would come to him, he would quote a price, and the two would trade. So simple. And it would have gotten them all killed.

“You are correct once again, Froydis of the Cugerni,” he said honestly. “Climb onto the wagon. It seems we have no choice but to take you along, as you say.”

Froydis smiled and nodded, then bounded up into the wagon. Her small hips fit precisely between those of Publius Acilius and of Wolf, but the Batavian jumped down to catch up a spare horse from the two hitched behind the wagon.

“I shall escort Rutilius in the lead,” he announced. “He shall need a runner, should we see anything.”

The others nodded at the wisdom, but Froydis laughed.

“The merchant Rutilius,” she giggled. “He would be dead within minutes. Have you not a Germanic name?” When Marcus blushed again, she knew he had not considered the possibility of changing names. How typically Roman. “You are the merchant lord Marek,” she decided. “Marek, son of Rutger. Now, lord Marek, please lead us onward.”

“We were first going to check out this ford,” he reminded her. “Then head north.”

“This ford will come to your waist all the way across at its deepest,” she said, pointing to the day-old tracks on the dirt road. “No cast–off water should it have reached the chest or arms, and the wagon wheels went dry rather quickly- suggesting they were not wet to the hubs.”

“I like this woman,” Glam said suddenly. “She kept me from having to go into that icy water.”

“I like her too,” Amalric added.

Marcus smiled broadly. “The Guard has spoken. Lord Marek may now officially invite the lady Froydis of the Cugerni into our company of merchants as an equal partner.”

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Yay!

Why does Froydis make me think Sherlock Holmes as soon as she opens her mouth?

A very promising start.

A very good start to the chapter.

Indeed Frodyis is very observant. I await more chapters!

Every Monday and Thursday, as before.

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The bridge was intact and the day still had sunlight, so Marcus decided to head north to see if the third crossing of the Nabalia was likewise useable. It was a bit further north, just outside Batavian lands and into Frisian domains, but it was out of reach for the day. Rutilius called a camp in a small clearing near a stream, and the scouting merchants settled in for the night.

Glam handled the guard roster. Two men would patrol the encampment, roving far outside the firelight with their eyes peering outwards so as to retain their night vision. Every two hours they would go in, wake the next two, stoke the fire, then turn in. Everyone had a turn, except the commander and Froydis. Marcus needed to be sharp, and Froydis was useless with weapons. Thus those two shared a tent while the others hot-bunked out of the other four.

Marcus rolled out his bedding and crawled in, expecting Froydis to do the same in her bedding. Instead, she crawled into his.

“What are you doing, Froydis?” he asked lowly. “You know I am a married man.”

“From this moment until we return from the other side, lover,” she replied easily, “I am your wife. There is a tension between us that should not be between a merchant and his woman. Others may pick up on it, and under closer scrutiny, see through your disguise. That would be your end, and that of those who follow you. So, dear husband, we must erase that tension. You and I shall share the pleasures each night until that tension passes, and again any time it arises. Any who stray near our tents in the villages expect to hear the sounds of passion for a merchant and his wife, thus we must make them.”

He knew she was right. Again. Yet he was married to another, and he took vows seriously. Froydis knew, of course, what was going through his mind. She stroked his chest as she curled up closer to him, then whispered in his ear, “Did you not enjoy our coupling back in Noviomagus so much?”

“You know I did, minx,” he said roughly, pulling her close to kiss her. It was a savage kiss, deep and passionate, that burst a dam inside him. He was married to Claudia- tall, blonde, intelligent, caring noble Claudia- but his heart had belonged to the little Cugerni woman who had spent weeks by his side healing him after a Bructeri assassin had stuck a dagger in him. That one night of pleasure they shared- the night he announced his betrothal to Claudia- had slunk around in his memory and had to be forcefully held in check. But her kiss, her scent, awakened that memory. Frantic adrenaline coursed through their systems, and then they were once again reliving that wonderful night- this time not only in their minds, but with their bodies as well.

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“I have news from the north,” Gaius Mallius said as he sank into one of Aulus Caecina’s luxurious couches. “Gnaeus Cornelius Clemens was out training with his men, again. The men are in top form, and though they love their commander, they are angry.”

This caught Caecina’s attention. “How so?”

Mallius beamed broadly. “It seems that once again, all their hard work will be for naught, that’s why. Their section of the border is as placid as a wind-still lake, while in Germania Inferior the boys will be crossing the river again. All action up there, none for our Clemens.”

“Rome suffered a reverse there,” Caecina pondered. “It only makes sense to go back and rectify it.”

“Then why the training cycles in Germania Superior?” Mallius asked.

Caecina spat a chunk of wine-colored phlegm at his doltish friend. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Legions are always training- especially border legions. This is no news.”

“Well,” huffed Mallius. “At least one unit will be seeing action- and that right soon. An auxilia of Thracian cavalry was detached to be sent north. Rumor has it they will be performing a scouting mission, and led by a legate, no less.”

Caecina had not risen to consul by being foolish. He could add, and knowing the abilities and petty jealousies of the players in Rome, he could put V and V together to get X faster than most. He sat bolt-upright on his couch.

“From where did you hear this?” he demanded.

“From Messalinus, just after he celebrated his handing over of the consul’s fasces to Titus Vespanianus Junior. The Old Owl is again senior consul, and his prodigal son Titus the junior consul.”

Caecina knew well that the Flavians had again appointed themselves consuls. He had heard it from the outgoing senior consul- Domitianus, the wayward son of the Imperator, who was so peeved at not having his reign prorogued that he emptied a full amphora of wine by himself. But this little detail had escaped mention- until now.

“Did Messalinus give a reason for this scouting mission?”

“I had asked,” Mallius replied. “But he refused to say much. Only something about serving justice.”

Caecina cackled gleefully. “Eprius, you sly son of temple prostitute!”

“Care to share, Aulus?” Mallius asked, completely lost.

Caecina stifled his laughter, but it took a while. “It is not a legate leading that ala- it is a quaestor. The quaestor, in fact, who stands in the way of Germania Inferior falling apart. The man who is single-handedly and unwittingly keeping me from being asked to restore the province. The man who is preventing me from being given command of four legions, which when added to the might our friend Clemens wields with his highly-trained and angry legions in Germania Superior, can give us the power to remove that Imperial Wart from power and restore the republic Helvidius goes on about. And, of course, allow us to run for consul ourselves.”

“Rutilius Gallicus?” Mallius asked. There was no way the Imperator was going to send his governor across to the enemy with naught but an ala of Greek cavalry. It was a suicide mission.

“Not Rutilius Gallicus,” Caecina reprimanded, and sternly at that. “Getting Cordinus assigned to Germania was the first step. That buffoon would ruin the place thoroughly, making it necessary to send me to fix things. He went, he tried, but someone propped him up and gave him some damned fine advice and guidance. Now that someone- another Rutilius- is being sent across the border, effectively removing the support to Cordinus. At the machinations of Eprius himself, if I read my players right.”

“So this obstacle to the Return of the Republic is being sacrificed,” Mallius said slowly as the understanding dawned on him.

“Sacrificed is a bit strong,” Caecina conceded. “Put in harm’s way is better. But we can make it a sacrifice.” He leaned closer to Mallius. “Find out what you can about this operation, then report back tomorrow. Together we will ensure this Obstacle is eliminated.”

Mallius drained his wine and departed. He returned the next day, as commanded.

“Your suspicions were correct,” he said. “Rutilius has been accused of poisoning his superior, but with no evidence, he cannot be tried. Helvidius was singing this man’s praises for so long that the People of Rome would take any trial without evidence to be a farce and a sham, and probably riot. The Imperator was hamstrung, until Titus Clodius Eprius Marcellus provided him an outlet. This Rutilius was ordered to perform a reconnaissance of the other side, and to do it by the Ides of May. He was given only the Thracian ala as an escort- pawns easily replaced, and better- easily killed. They are to be transported by river and disembark on the other side, then scout about.”

Caecina thought on that. It put a small crimp in his plans, but not much. Greek cavalry. “Those Thracians are fast, which could give him a chance to perform his task and escape unhindered. Especially if the Germani do not know about it. When is he to depart?”

“I heard the Kalends of April,” Mallius replied. “Though he might be later, spring floods and all.”

Caecina smiled evilly. That cockroach had irked him for the last time. “Use your connections. Let the Bructeri know they will be getting a visitor in early April. Better yet, send the word through the contacts of Helvidius. Gaius Priscus is currently in exile. I do not think he would mind his name being used to further the goals of the Republic, do you?”

Mallius smiled cruelly. “He deserted our cause to simmer in self-exile. To Hades with him.”

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And so shows the political brutality of Rome.

Great chapter!

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Marcus was learning the validity of Froydis’s observations yet again.

They had camped by the former broken bridge, which was now repaired. Twice travelers came by the little campsite, then wandered off mumbling about Burnix being an ass and a liar. This prompted a quick trip to the local village and the purchase of some pigment and oils to cover the tell-tale marks distinguishing the wagon as belonging to the Gallic trader.

A third encounter- after dark- brought Marek the Merchant semi-clothed from his tent to deal with Ricgard, Son of Hein, who wished to trade a stack of his copper pots and his mule for two of the horses. Froydis, listening in the doorway with but a blanket wrapped around her torso, laughed at the offer, and countered with the pots and three mules for the two horses.

Ricgard, a merchant himself, bowed away from the offer, though he did proclaim it a fair trade. He was satisfied that the newly painted wagon was indeed staffed by a veteran merchant. Business across the water was not for the novices. He even said so, provoking a knowing smile from the small woman.

Even with all this preparation and drilling, their first encounter was almost their last. The wagon and its escort crossed the Nabalia by the bridge, leaving the Empire behind and entering the raw Bructeri lands. Publius Acilius was a fair drover for the wagon, and the riders were spread about as was their custom. They followed the tracks of the wagons which had gone before, and when Froydis noticed a new set joining in from the south, she pointed it out and the wagon turned to backtrack them. Where one merchant had been was usually a market for the next- who took back the useless trinkets of the first in trade for useless trinkets of his own.

The wagon had come from no village. The sun was going down, a dull red glow in the western sky. The smell of smoke reached Rutilius and Wolf in the lead, confirming that there were people ahead. But on the far side of a distant clearing rose no walls of a Germanic village- just thirty tiny spots of light. Campfires out in the open, and about a hundred tents could be seen illuminated by their glow.

“Tell the wagon to turn around,” Rutilius ordered. He recognized an encamped warband when he saw one. “I’ll stay here to see if we were spotted.”

Wolf walked his horse back and a few minutes later, Rutilius joined him.

“Nobody noticed,” he said.

“The axles are well-greased,” Wolf replied. “No groan or moan to give it away. We were lucky.”

They were luckier still. An hour further along the original trail they came to a true village. The gates were strong, but opened as the wagon approached. A helmeted warrior peered over the wall.

“You are late for the market, trader,” he said. “But we do not mind. Come on in.”

Rutilius nodded, wondering about the helmet, but the others showed no hesitation. Four riders went through, then the footmen leading the horses of the wagon, then the remaining horsemen. The gates closed behind them as a warrior appeared before them to escort them to the village center. Here Publius Acilius made his near-fatal error.

He commanded the horses to halt, but did so in Latin.

The guard raised his spear in alarm at the tongue, but Wolf laughed at him.

“The horses were acquired over there,” he said between laughs, using the slang of the border to indicate the Empire. “And the beasts were too stupid to learn proper commands in such a short time. Such is the life of a trader, eh?”

The guard smirked, but relaxed. He had indeed seen such occurrences before, his being the first village from the bridge and the draft horses from over there better than the local variety here that was more suited to hunting and warfare.

“We will try to teach them over the next few days, but you know horses,” he continued. “They can be more stubborn and stupid that the roaches themselves.”

Now the guard laughed. “This is true, brother,” he said. “Bed down here. The square is yours for the night. For how long will you be staying?”

Froydis answered this one. “For as long as the trading is profitable, clearly,” she said with a smile. The guard nodded.

“We have honey leftover from the last market, and some woodcarvings that are popular over there,” he added. “And plenty of handicrafts.”

“We are going further, maybe to the Cherusci,” Froydis replied. “They have enough honey and make their own wood. You do not happen to know what they do desire, would you?”

He pointed to the copper pots hanging from the wagon and clanging in the wind. “Metalwork is always welcome, as are steel blanks. Especially now that we are gearing for war.”

Rutilius shuddered. He was here on a scouting mission, ostensibly in preparation for a second push to recover the lost Eagles of the V Alaudae and XV Primigenia, but nothing official had been heard. Yet the Bructeri were already preparing for war, as if they knew already.

Veleda. It has to be their Seeress. She foresaw their coming to her tower, and booby-trapped it before fleeing. She gave them warning last year. Now she does the same, before we ourselves even know we come. She is indeed powerful.

“You can tell from the reaction of my husband that we want nothing to do with war,” Froydis said easily, and with a small laugh. “He is no coward, but wars are terrible for business, which is why we travel east- away from where wars may be fought.”

“Many have died,” the guard admitted solemnly, then added in a lighter tone, “and that is many less to buy your wares.”

“See why we abhor war?” she chided gently. “Now, to business if we may. We have some goods we know are wanted, and some of which we are not sure. How were the harvests this autumn? Are their any villages in the area planning a wedding celebration or other feast? Do you know if the noblemen here have yet acquired a taste for foreign wine as the ones further south, or are they still addicted to their beers and ales?”

The guard answered as best he could, knowing he might be rewarded with a small flagon of the trader’s beer for his honesty. It was the same with every trader, it seemed. The local gossip they heard turned into business opportunities later. He knew what was being done with the tidbits of gossip, he just could not put it together himself as could a merchant. Which is why I am a warrior and not a merchant, he sighed.

Froydis thanked him by tapping a horn of Burnix’s Gallic beer and sent him on his way once it was drained. The Acilii had the tents up by the time the guard departed, and the Batavians came together to discuss the guard roster and their findings.

“Fifty homes, half of which are dark and appear abandoned, on the east side,” Glam reported. “Each large enough to hold four families or so.”

“About the same on the west,” Amalric added.

“And only about three hundred men in the forest two hours walk away,” Wolf reminded them.

“We’ll get a better count in the morning,” Rutilius decided. “Until then, standard guard roster and enjoy a night within walls for once.”


Froydis awoke in the night. Her senses told her it was close on to midnight, the gentle snoring of Rutilius told her he was fast asleep, yet the gentle footpads of the guards circling the tents had stopped. She reached under the covers and began fondling Marcus, who came awake with a start.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “Quiet. Make love to me now. Quickly.” When he began a gentle protest, she gripped his member harder. “No backtalk. Just coupling, Now. As if your life depended on it, for it does.”

Marcus reached for his dagger, but she grabbed his hand and placed it upon a bare breast. His instincts told him to trust her, yet they also told him she might be taking advantage of the situation for her own satisfaction. But the urgency in her voice... He caressed the breast then started his mating ritual in earnest.

They were well on their way to a climax when footsteps could barely be heard coming closer to the tent. People making love have incredibly poor hearing concerning outside events when their partners are breathing heavily with excitement and the blood is pounding in their ears. Froydis was giving small groans as the pleasure mounted.

Outside, Wolf stopped at the doors to the tent and looked to the five men who had asked to meet with the merchant at such an hour. They were hard men, armed with swords at their waists, and hands that rested threateningly upon the hilts of those scabbarded swords. Their expressions were not ones of welcome, more of hostility.

“My lord is busy,” Wolf said as the sounds of passion grew louder. “As you can hear. You will have to wait.”

The leader of the village, a bear of a man, grunted, but held his ground. And waited. And as the rhythm emerging from the tent grew quicker, his hands and those of his men began easing on the hilts of the swords. By the time Froydis gave a gasp at her climax and Rutilius gave a grunt signifying his own, the men outside were standing still, almost relaxed, small smiles on their faces, and hands well away from the hilts.

“Now, trader?”

Wolf shook his head. “Let them enjoy the afterglow for a few minutes, lord. Then I will fetch him for you.”

The lordling nodded. And waited.

After a few minutes, Wolf knocked discretely upon the tentpole. “Lord Marek, Heilthor, Lord of this burg, wishes to speak with you.”

“A merchant’s day is never over,” was the whispered reply inside the tent, then louder, “Ik kom.”

Rutilius threw on his Cananefate cloak and belted the Batavian seax onto his belt before coming out. His cloak, and the thick blonde fur now gracing his face, coupled with the seax to set his visitor a bit more at ease. The scent of recent sex was still upon him, making the lord a bit uncomfortable.

“Marek, Son of Rutger, from the village of Near the Water in the lands of the Cananefate,” he said in his best Cananefatian, then tried again in Chatti- mixing but a few Cananefate words in.

The local lord nodded and held out his open hand. “Heilthor, son of Audun, lord of this burg.”

Marek shook the hand in the Germanic fashion. “What can ik do for you?” he asked.

Heilthor looked a bit embarrassed. “I shall not bother you again, Marek, Son of Rutger. The watch reported letting a foreign merchant in, two days after the market was held. We thought you might be Roman, or Frisian- tribes with whom we have had problems recently. The fool did not say you were Cananefate with a mixed escort, with whom we have no quarrel, only that you were foreign.”

“Ik should have sought thee out when we first arrived,” Marek admitted. “But the hour was late, and Ik had no wish to disturb thee at thine dinner, or other pleasurable activities.”

Heilthor blushed. “I shall send over a barrel of our finest ale, as recompense for disturbing you so late, Lord Marek. Enjoy your stay in our town.” With that, Heilthor circled a fist above his head and waved towards his own home. The rustling of warriors retreating in the dark could be heard, and the lowering of Batavian bows in reply. Then he himself withdrew.

Marcus returned to the tent. He found Froydis laying on her back picking his flesh from her nails and smiling. She had heard the exchange, and noticed the change in tone of the local lord’s words.

“I told you,” she whispered. “A merchant who enjoys the pleasures with his wife is far more trustworthy than one who is not.”

“Ja ja ja,” he muttered and he rejoined her under the covers. “And I have learned something new as well- merchants always report to the local lord upon entry. I had not known this.”

“Nor I,” Froydis added. “Unless the merchant sends a partner to the local lord- such people flow constantly around a marketplace and are thus impossible to identify as agents or partners of a merchant until afterwards. Well, we live, and love, and learn. Welcome to Life, lover.” With that, she rolled over to go to sleep, exposing her slender back for him to caress before dropping off into the bliss of sated sleep.

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The next day was spent as a typical trader. The sides of the wagon were opened to display the wares, an escort was put at either end, and Froydis handled the negotiations while Marek looked on. Some few men stopped by to trade for knives, or sandstone for sharpening weapons, or leather for scabbards, but most of the people coming to trade were women- almost nine out of ten. They traded sewn trousers, leathern boots, and braided knots, among other things like ceramic pots of jellies, jams, and honeyed fruit.

Most of them were pregnant, Rutilius noticed. He said nothing, but could not help but notice. It intrigued him, though- the village was nigh onto empty of men, yet so many were carrying children.


The other guards were roaming the village, helping a smith here, or a farmer with a bale of hay there. The smiths were the busiest- repairing swords, making axes, and shoeing horses. And those women scurrying to and fro on their daily business could not help but to smile at the fresh men come to visit. Some few would stop and stare, while others came brazenly up to them and chatted.

The two Acilii remained in their tent for most of the afternoon- they would be pulling the guard shift all night and needed their rest. This turned out to be a good idea. During the day, those wandering around- as well as the two by the wagon- were asked to dinner by Bructeri widows. Most would be returning to the tents after the dinner, then sneaking off to their hostesses when the sun was deep in its nightly sleep.

In tender discussions after the satisfying of the widows, it was learned that almost two thirds of the local men had been killed during the wars of the last five years. Many left behind wives, but few left behind children. The women were thus alone, and lonely. The Batavians of the Guard did not mind at all.

In their own tent, Marek and Froydis cuddled up to one another under the furry blankets and chatted in low tones.

“Something intrigues me,” he whispered. “From the market we learned that most of the men have been killed in battle. The three hundred we saw in the woods came together recently- obviously for battle preparation- yet those three hundred or so was the combined strength of several villages, so maybe fifty or sixty came from here- a village big enough to hold five hundred men. Yet many of the women are with child.”

“Homecoming,” Froydis whispered in reply.

“Eh?”

“Homecoming,” she repeated. “After a large battle, especially one in which the men of a tribe have been slaughtered, the grieving widows throw themselves at the survivors. Each mates with as many as she can, in the hope of conceiving a child to avenge her fallen man. It is an old and time-honored tradition that helps a tribe regenerate quickly. It seems the widows here celebrated a Homecoming after the battles this summer past, judging by their bellies. The numbers of four-year olds running around suggest another Homecoming in the war which killed my husband.”

“Ah,” Marcus whispered. “Barbarous, but effective.”

“You are too civilized, my darling,” the woman replied, pulling him atop herself. “Tribes need warriors to survive. Warriors take six years to grow up from children. Children need ten years to grow from babies. Thus to make a tribe strong, one must have babies. No babies, no tribe.”

“As I said, effective.”

She pulled his head closer and kissed him. “I see Rome has so many men that she does not need a Homecoming to remain strong. Rome has millions. This tribe, my love- it dies. Not even a Homecoming every year can make them strong before they are absorbed- either by Rome, or another tribe. Now, enough talk of dying tribes. Let us work on starting our own...”


The one-wagon caravan rolled out the following morning, emptied of some goods, reloaded with others, and packed with all kinds of worthwhile information concerning the village, its manpower, its situation- and those of the surrounding villages, which could now be by-passed to go further into uncharted territory. Each evening, Publius Acilius would open his scroll and make marks upon it relating the day’s travels and what information was gleaned.

This cycle was repeated at four more villages over the course of the next week, creating a rather detailed idea of the status of the Bructeri tribe. Their findings were, to say the least, surprisingly similar to those in the report sent to the governor and Rome. Rutilius thought back over the past week and the orders bringing him here. As much as he disliked it, the Old Owl was most certainly wasting his time in ordering a confirmation.

The report was correct.

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I havent started reading this, but one question. Do i have to read the other stories top get this one?
also, sorry for spamming, but can someone comment on my war story?
sorry.

[This message has been edited by RomulusofEpirus (edited 08-16-2010 @ 06:53 AM).]

Unfortunately, yes. This is the fifth part of a multi-part tale.

The others are listed in the OP, in order.

This series is actually a sequel to my previous 12-part series that began here.

Happy readings!

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 08-16-2010 @ 04:50 AM).]

looks like ive got a lot of reading to do

Ah so the drumbeat of war rages in the lands east of the Rhine.

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Ulfrich burst into the kings’ hall he shared with his twin, giddy with excitement and dragging a Tencteri merchant with him by the arm.

“Brother!” he cried to Udo, who was lounging uneasily on the carved stool he used as a throne. “Brother, listen to what this man has to tell!” Ulfrich turned to the Tencteri and commanded, “Tell him, Bock, what you just told me.”

“Lord, I was trading among the Chatti for minerals and jewels, of which their lands have plenty, in order to bring them to the Chauci, who have little of either,” the merchant explained, simultaneously rubbing his arm strongly trying to restore some circulation cut off by Ulfrich’s grip. “I ran into an old friend, Istrachios, there. He is a Greekling, but a fine man for that. He has a silver tongue, lord, and contacts ranging both far and wide through many lands, making him a respected and especially adept merchant.”

Udo looked down at the Tencteri. “Money-grubber,” he cursed lowly, “I am less than interested in Greeklings or the ways of hoodwinking a man to part with what he holds dear. If there is something of import in this long tale of yours, I would suggest you get to it.”

The Tencteri gulped. “Yes, lord. Istachios had word he wished to send north, and as I was heading that way, I agreed to bear his message. He said to tell you that the Eagle King in Romeburg, in his wisdom, has decided to send forth a high-ranking magistrate to your lands to investigate a report he had received which states that your tribe is extinct. For this mission he chose a quaestor, who will be accompanied by two lictors- men in red robes bearing rods and axes, and will have as an escort a warband of Greekling horsemen.”

“So he sends a scout,” Udo scoffed. “Like I care.”

“Brother!” Ulfrich roared. “Did you not hear? The Eagle King sends Rutilius! And with but a small escort of flimsy riders. He hands us the Dam that Stops the Germanic Flood!”

Ulfrich sat up at that. “Marcus, or Caius? Which Rutilius does he send into our clutches?”

“I have heard no names, only that a quaestor was selected.”

“Quaestor... that would be a chieftain, not the kinglet. Brother! He sends us Marcus!” He turned viciously to the Tencteri. “Did your Greekling friend give any details about his coming?”

The Tencteri quivered. Udo’s wrath was well-known- and feared. Rumors say he slew a Chauci king in honorable combat, then decapitated the man and held the severed head up to his own anus, nose first, in the ultimate insult.

“Rutilius will come in the spring,” the Tencteri repeated. “From Colonia, where he lives, and he will come by boat. He is to have a warband of horsemen with him, but no Eagles. This was all that was known.”

“Ulfrich, we must prepare a warhost with which to greet our guest,” he said slyly. “Place eyes upon Father Rhein, so that you have warning before he arrives.”

“That will not be necessary now. He was to come around the time the birches bud,” the Tencteri added, “But that may be delayed if Father Rhein is engorged by the spring floods. Rutilius has been here many years- he knows the river almost as well as we do.”

“He will come earlier,” Ulfrich snorted. “No man knows how long Father Rhein will be swollen. He will come before the spring floods.”

“If he knows the Rhein, I concur,” the Tencteri added.

“Give the merchant a handful of gold and see him out,” Udo comanded to a house-wench. He turned to Ulfrich. “This is indeed great news, brother. Let us celebrate tonight. Tomorrow you will gather a warhost of spearmen, hunters, and riders to give our guest a proper Bructeri welcome.”

Ulfrich grinned.

“But not too soon,” Udo warned. “Let him enjoy our landscape and forests for a day or two, so that his boats are no longer at hand for a quick escape. Lure him into our jaws, brother, then snap them shut and end his threat once and for all!”

“Shall I try to capture him alive?”

Udo shrugged. “If you can, do so. We can kill him here, at our leisure, while he can gaze upon the silver eagle you took from Lupercus- knowing he will never have it. But brother, if he should fall in battle, that too is an acceptable fate. Do not risk your life to spare him an extra day or two.”

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Caius Avitus knew little of anything anymore. He was the aide to the quaestor in title only it seemed, and the deputy governor himself in practice. He handled all the daily administration of the upper half of the province by himself, and sent those scrolls requiring signatures or decisions to the private residence of the quaestor outside of town. A few days later, the scrolls would come back, sealed, and be sent on to their recipients. Marcus Rutilius, the quaestor, would usually pop by every week or so to handle those personally. Now he required all cases to be brought to his home, and refused to visit the office.

Caius had been a good legionary, which was why he had gotten the posting. He could read and write, which was why he had been selected as optio. He fought well, and was disciplined. He had a skill at letters and tactics, but his planning and logistical talents were still early in their development. Some things he simply could not project or contemplate.

His current task was one of them. He was to greet an inbound fleet at the quays, and hand the prefect of the cavalry ala it carried a scroll, then order a Batavian Guardsman to guide the ala to a campground north of the city where Rutilius would meet them and brief them on their mission. Strange. Why could the quaestor not be here himself, or even show up to the regional office to supervise a bit?

Strange things were afoot. And Caius Avitus could not imagine why. Axel, the Ubian recruit to the Batavian Guard, knew the reason, but wild horses would not drag it out of him. Too many lives of people he liked and admired were on the line. So he stood in the cold wind, awaiting the fleet with Avitus, and kept his mouth shut while the aide pondered the apparent desertion of his lord.

The fleet came into sight, and began maneuvering to the quay. There were six ships in all, slender riverine galleys, and each was packed to the gunwales with horses and their handlers, both of whom were more than happy to step off the ships and back onto dry land where they could stretch their legs and feel solid earth under them once again.

The tribune came forward. “Ave,” he said with a salute. “Tribunus Xandros, I Ala Thracum, reporting.”

“Ave,” Avitus replied. “Caius Avitus, quaestor’s aide, welcome to Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippensi. This man here will lead you to the Quaestor Rutilius, who awaits you in a field north of the city.”

Caius looked over the fleet with questioning eyes. The ships really were packed in tightly transporting the ala. “I was told there would be twelve ships in all,” he said, “with at least four of them pulling livestock barges for the horses.”

“I wish,” Xandros agreed. “Damned cramped aboard with the ala crammed inside these six. It was a really tight fit. Did your lord tell you how much time we have before we have to get back aboard?”

“At least a few days,” Avitus replied. “He wanted to evaluate your unit and brief you on what to expect.”

“Good,” Xandros sighed in relief. He gestured to his men to disembark- and pronto, before someone changes their mind. “Damned horses aren’t worth a damn for a few hours after that boat ride.”

This was a problem Caius could do something about, and do it well. “We have livestock barges in our harbor, currently not in use. I’ll arrange for them to be put in the water and secured to your galleys before you return.”

Xandros breathed another sigh of relief. “Good man. I’d hate to watch your quaestor get us all killed because the bloody horses cramped up from the tight confinement.”

Avitus shivered. He knew little of horses, but he knew the effects tight confinements had upon his human body. But humans can push through pain and think of ways to alleviate it- horses can not. Did Rutilius think of that effect? He had to know.

“Axel, let the cavalry work their limbs loose here for an hour, then meet me at the north gate. There are some things I need to arrange, and questions for the quaestor I need answered.”

Axel groaned internally, then nodded. Scheisse. What now? His orders were explicit. Bring the horseborne north, and only the horseborne. Under no circumstances was the fussy little Roman with the thick wrists to know anything other than that Marcus is at home.

He had an hour and a problem. The home of Marcus, the Sacra estate, was twenty minutes away. A wolfish grin, a quick ride and help with the problem would be at hand. He returned in time to see the ala forming up for a march. He walked his horse to the head of the column and dismounted there.

“We shall exit the west gate,” he informed the tribunus. “I have heard that the road north is clogged by a farmer bringing some pigs in for slaughter and sale. This way, please.”

At the west gate he called a halt, ‘to await the quaestor’s aide.’ Half an hour later, he had the city watch send word to the north gate that the ala was at the west gate, awaiting his arrival. Fifteen minutes after that, and a cold glare from Avitus, the small column exited the warmth of the city for the cold, openness of the land beyond, and once upon the road, swung north toward Two-Tree farm.

It was a brisk trip, but the horses were glad to finally exercise their cold and cramped muscles. By the time the turn-off to Two-Tree came into view, the Greek horses were lively and fresh again. Axel led them up the way, until the farm and its barren fields could be seen. A man on a white horse, clad in a silver cuirass and sporting a flowing red cloak, could be seen overseeing the maneuvers of forty horsemen as they charged with lances leveled at the target dummies set up on the field. A single trooper was coming toward them, halting the ala.

“Caius Avitus?” he called as he neared. The aide rode forward. “For you, sir, from Lord Marcus.”

Avitus muttered curses under his breath at the familiarity the Guard took to their master. ‘Lord Marcus’ indeed. It was Lord Rutilius, or the Quaestor, you insolent savage. Despite that, he reached forward and took the scroll. He noticed the seal- it was indeed the signet of the Quaestor, and it was still warm from the sealing. He opened it and read slowly. His eyes widened as he read.

Caius,

I have been given a secret mission- to scout the lands of the Tencteri for a push against them this summer. Tell nobody. To all but you, I am here on the farm, sick with a fever, but will recover. I need you to remain in CCAA to run the province while the ala and myself are away. So return. Again, tell nobody. I am counting on you.

M. Rutilius

Caius rolled the scroll up quickly and cast about. Nobody was near enough to have glanced at the contents, much less had the time to decipher it. But the trooper was still before him, holding out his hand.

“I am to return the scroll to our master,” he said. “No evidence, you understand.”

Caius nodded. There was fear evident in his eyes, but not a fear of his own life- but rather, concern for someone for whom he cared. He had been a legionary here on the border for five years- he knew what dangers lay ahead. He gulped once, then handed back the scroll. “Guard! I am returning to Colonia immediately. If you need anything, I shall arrange it. Tribune, your fleet will be ready to carry you when you return.”

The tribune nodded as the aide rode away. Axel let him get a bit down the road before leading the ala to where the silver-cuirassed man supervised the others. Another man, this one obviously a local, rode forward. He introduced himself as Claudius Victor, steward of Lord Marcus, and asked the tribune if he or any of his men knew anything about their mission, or the man they would be escorting. When the tribune shook his head, Claudius gave him a brief biography to include familial descent, then led them over to where Dieter Straightback stood, clad in the armor and cape of a Roman general.

“You men have probably not heard of me before,” Dieter lied easily and loudly. “But I grew up in the poorest section of Rome herself, a half-blood surrounded by Germanic slaves toiling daily for the people of my father. I rose above that hybrid fate when I joined the legions. I have been a centurion, a tribune, a legate, and am now a magistrate. My childhood and eight years here on the border give me an atrocious accent, but I care not. The Corona Civica I won north of here makes me a Senator, far above my origins. And it makes me a frikkin’ war hero, assholes, so I will tolerate no horseshit from any of you!”

That last bit was aimed at a few Thracians who were smirking in the back ranks. They quickly sat upright upon their horses at the sharp use of harsh language and paid bloody good attention thereafter.

“We are going across the river to scout and plunder,” Dieter shouted. “You are to be my escort. But first I need to know what sort of lowlife cockroaches the Imperial Owl sends to me.” He pointed to the target dummies on the field. “Those represent Germanic bowmen and axemen. They are attacking us. Tribune, take them out!”

The Thracians were caught by surprise at the order, but obeyed the imperative without question. They kicked their horses to a gallop and plowed into the targets with lances lowered, and swords drawn in the rear ranks. The ala reformed beyond the targets, facing Dieter.

“They are still standing!” he bellowed.

Again the Thracians charged forward. This time their formation was better, and their impact upon the targets harder. Still, they left much to be desired.

“Not too shabby, that second time,” he said in praise. “Now, let me show you how it is done. Guards! Targets!”

Forty Batavian Guardsmen emerged from behind the long barn where they had been stationed. In perfect order, they rounded the building, dressed their line, lowered their spears, and charged. It was as if each horse was a copy of the other- such perfection in motion- and then the targets were hit by the spears as the horses passed. Once through the line of targets, the Batavians whipped around smartly and hit the targets again. This time the targets fell. Dieter was watching with pride beaming from his eyes, and the Thracian tribune Xandros let slip a single tear- watching the Batavians move was like watching liquid beauty flow effortlessly upon the foe and drown it. If only his men could perform so beautifully!

Dieter was not watching his countrymen perform their circus tricks. Instead, he was watching the Greeklings. He saw the awe and admiration bloom in them, and smiled inside at what that meant. Parade-ground soldiers. Vespasian sends parade-ground pretty-boys to do the work of real men. Claudia was right- Rome did want her husband dead. He had seen enough, though maybe there was some hidden diamonds in that muddle of men. He gestured to three men who stood by watching. They acknowledged the unspoken order and disappeared into the barn.

“Gather around, you lot,” Dieter ordered the cavalry ala. “Dismount.”

As the ala dismounted, the three Batavians came back carrying barrels of wooden swords. Each man took one upon command, and formed a ragged ring around the man in the silver cuirass.

“I need to evaluate your fighting skills,” he shouted to the ala. “I have seen your riding and charge, now I shall see how you handle a blade. Each of you has a wooden sword. Pair up, and start fencing. My staff and I will observe, and in some cases, step in to get a better feel.”

The Thracians obeyed, tentatively at first, but as Batavians came in among them and dropped a few who were just playing, in earnest. Dieter roamed the field, fencing a bit, but mostly watching. Eventually four men were deemed the best of the ala. He separated these out to stand opposite Claudius Victor and himself.

“You four are the champions of the ala,” he said. “Come. Four of you against the two of us. Attack.”

The Thracians came on, circling the two men. Both Dieter and Claudius stood apart, their backs a good pace and a half from their partner’s, their mouths whispering to each other their evaluations. Claudius had the best- he said the tribune would initiate, with his opposite member going next, then the other two joining in, and it was so.

What happened next went too fast for the Thracians to follow. Shieldless, the two Batavians did not await the rush of the Thracians. When the Thracians began their move, the Batavians rushed their opposites and got up under their long cavalry slashes to punch their opponents to the ground. Whipping about, they smacked down the other two in a whirlwind of flashing wood before returning to the originals who were just rising.

“Avoid battle and you may live,” Claudius said to Dieter in their language. The Thracians, not understanding Batavian, merely gawked at the ease their four best men were demolished.

“I think you are right,” Dieter replied. “But I must go, or our lord may not return hale.”

“Das ist wahr,” Claudius sighed in reply. That is true.

“Get up, you four,” Dieter commanded. “Take your mounts into the barn, and set up your tents outside. Tonight your decurions and commander will dine with me in my tent, where I shall lay out the mission. Tomorrow, men of Rome, and the next day we train, so that what I have witnessed today will not occur when steel instead of straw is arrayed against us.”

Two hours later, the decurions were briefed, and sent back to the ala to ready the men. The seriousness on their faces told the auxilia that they were indeed to pay attention, to learn fast, and above all that danger looms. The tribune stayed behind, on Dieter’s request.

“We are alone,” Claudius Victor wheezed as he entered the tent after returning the decurions. “You make speak freely.”

The tribune, puzzled, looked to the quaestor for some kind of idea. He saw but a big grin, that quickly died.

“I am not Marcus Rutilius,” he admitted. “I am the Commander of his Guard, a former tribune of cavalry as are you. The quaestor himself is already across the river, performing his mission. You and I, Xandros, are to keep up the appearances that I am the quaestor, in order to deflect unwanted attention.”

“You think the enemy has spies about,” the tribune deduced quickly, “but that I am not one of them. Are you sure?”

“We are sure,” Claudius whispered. “The spymaster is in Rome, but none of you have had contact with Rome since arriving in Germania Superior.” To the suddenly-questioning glance of the tribune, he added, “we too have our spies.”

“We tell you the truth now, that you may act correctly should someone break my cover,” Dieter continued. “We are indeed going across the river, this entire ala, and maybe into the arms of a Bructeri ambush. We shall try to prevent that, of course. But I doubt most of us will make it. Whoever the spymaster in Rome is, he sits very high up and has many connections. He will have informed the Germani.”

“So my ala is being sacrificed,” Xandros cursed. “That rat Clemens, I will bet. He has never liked us- always giving us the worst jobs while coddling those overgrown Gauls of his with the cushy ones. He must have known of this mission, and its probable outcome, which is why he sends us.”

“I will remain here,” Claudius said. “If you or my master are indeed betrayed, I shall root out the villain and cut his throat myself. On this you have the word of a Batavian prince.”

Dieter nodded, and Xandros held out a hand. “I would rather you came with us, Claudius. We could use a man as good with a blade as you proved yourself this afternoon. But I am glad you stay- to avenge us, if need be. We Thracians, though I myself am Macedonian, are very big on vengeance.”

“Your men ride well, Xandros,” Claudius replied. “If things work out like we plan, you will not have to lift a sword or lower a lance at all. Just ride like the wind- which we all know you can do.”

Xandros laughed, and nodded. “For honor, glory, and battlefield intelligence...”


Avitus was true to his word. Six livestock barges were tied to the ships that would carry the Thracian ala, creating the necessary room to give the ala a flying start when they offload. The ala embarked, along with Dieter and twenty Batavians, and was soon plying the river heading north toward Bructeri lands.

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Good chapter. Although Rutillus might be a bit worried when he sees Bructeri warriors cut off his escape route.

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The fields around Traiectum were littered with broken warbands and lifeless cohorts. A battle had taken place, the sixth one in so many days, and the current battle was still going on. Around the commander of the X Gemina some men still stood fighting, surrounded by a horde of Cananefate warriors. Those hardened Germani parted upon the sounding of a ram’s horn, in time to let a charging wedge of heavy cavalry come barreling toward the small ring of Roman legionaries.

A trumpet sounded, three long blasts, and the cavalry came to a halt. Around the core of legionaries, the Germani lowered their wooden swords and blunt spears, and further afield the dead rose to converge on the Eagle.

Cadorus left the safety of his men to approach the Cananefate king, who watched the battle from his horse over by the hill. The king saw the Roman commander moving toward him, and moved to meet him while the men sorted themselves out under the sharp eyes and hard sticks of the centurions.

“You handed me my ass, King Niall,” Cadorus readily admitted. “I thought I had you there, but those men from the trees over there... I had not expected them.”

“Your men reacted well to their presence,” Niall said in small praise. “They locked shields quickly. But alas, had I not suckered you into moving near them, they would have been wasted there. Then it would have been my ram’s horn toning the surrender, not your trumpet. As it was, once you drifted near them, it was all over no matter how fast your men reacted.”

Cadorus bit his lip and thought it over. He had been winning, or thought he had, while all the time the canny Cananefate had been luring him to a ground of his choosing where he could annihilate the Romans. Better here in practice than on a real battlefield.

“There are still several more hours of sunlight left, King Niall. Shall we have another go?”

Niall grinned broadly. He liked this legate- Rutilius had trained him well. “Aye, Cador. Sort your men out over there, I shall do the same here. And then we shall try again.”

The second time went much better in Rome’s favor. The Cananefate, no tricks this time, came at the smaller Roman force with a rush. A quick trumpet blast and a few notes, and the cohorts formed wedges to withstand the assault. Much like the time Suetonius had this used against him, the wedges absorbed and channeled the attackers into pockets where his men, behind their huge shields, could easily stab them down. Niall knew the game was up when he saw that, and tried to retreat, but Cadorus beat him to it by ordering the march. Three blasts of the ram’s horn followed, and the two sides separated again.

“I thought you knew better than to charge Romans in the open,” Cadorus said bitterly. “I expected better.”

Niall laughed. “I was not the commander,” he said, pointing to a red-faced man among the cavalry. "My cousin Oddmund commanded. He thinks little of maneuver. To him, all that is needed is a good solid push. You taught him better.“

“I would rather maneuver against you,” Cadorus admitted with a bit of edge in his voice. “From you I can learn how not to get my men killed. Against your pale shadow over there, I learn only that my men can absorb a Germanic charge. That, I already knew.”

Niall laughed. “On the morrow, attack that hill. I shall command its defense personally. You have taught Oddmund well- he shall not dismiss Roman foot soldiers so easily again. He is a cavalryman, you see, and one of the best. But like most mounted warriors, he thinks his horse can win battles by itself. You proved him very wrong. In doing so, you save my tribesmen in future battles- true battles, where blood and not alone sweat are spilled, as I so save your legionaries.”

Cadorus nodded at the wisdom. He was here to teach as well as learn- something he had forgotten. “Come to my tent after the feast tonight, King Niall, and we shall discuss the lessons learned- and those still left to teach.”

The tall king nodded. “It shall be an honor, Cador.”

That night, the men feasted, while the officers and chieftains discussed the day’s events. Both came to the same conclusions- these mock battles were worth the price, and both sides learned much in the way of warfare while living to tell of it. There was still another week dedicated to the mock battles before the X Gemina would return to its quarters and the Cananefate to their marshy bogs, and in that week, much would happen. Towards the end, Cador was winning as often as he lost, and Niall learned that this particular Roman had a genius for fluid battle, once the skill was awoken. His sore shoulders- earned the hard way- told him this legate was a damned good one.

Cador, for his part, enjoyed the strategy sessions he shared with the Germanic king. He was learning much, and sharing what he learned, yet he was still uncomfortable. Rutilius was paying for these exercises out of his own pocket- and had not shown up to review them. Strange that, especially since the exercises did not take place on Cananefate land, meaning it was one of the few times his friend Jorgen could legally meet with his father.

Niall noticed the absence as well, but like Cadorus, refused to speak of it. His son was outlaw, and shall remain so until the Midsummer Fires. Thus he could not bring the subject up, nor comment upon it. It created an unease between the men, but a solid round of drinking and a few rounds of maneuvers helped dispel it.

But it never quite went away.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The one-wagon caravan traveled onward through the forest. It was cold, and wet. It had rained for two days now, and the winds varied from a gentle breeze to a gust worthy of a god. Up ahead was a village, similar to the dozens they had already passed. Yet it was also different- the primarily green colors of the cloaks and trousers had been replaced by primarily brown, while the hair of the men and women making their way through the late winter weather was more red than dark blonde. All of this combined with a slight change in landscape to create enough doubt that Marek halted his wagon out of sight of the village.

He left Wolf to maintain a vigil while he went back to the wagon to explain his findings.

“Those are not Bructeri colors,” Glam agreed. “Maybe Chauci?”

“They are Cherusci,” Froydis determined. “The Chauci wear their hair in a side knot, similar to the Suevi further south. Plus the Cherusci are more red of hair than other tribes in the area. Add that to their predominance for brown clothing- easy to make, and captured Roman garments often fade to brown- and the river we crossed means we are in the tribal lands of another. That puts us squarely in Cherusci lands.”

Publius and Titus shivered. Cherusci. They slaughtered the three legions of Varus.

Amalric was more elated. “We can learn much here, lord. These Cherusci- they do not border Rome, and from the looks of the village, are not preparing for war. Their tongues may wag more free.”

Hermann and Harald nodded. “No guards, other than the single one by the gate,” Harald pointed out. “And no weapons while herding cattle through the fields. These people are not ready for a war.”

“Amalric does have a point,” Dagthor agreed. “We can learn much more, faster, from a people not on the guard.”

“And the storm harrying us these past two days is letting up. Maybe we can dry out our clothes by the community fires?” noted Wolf.

As his guards all seemed in agreement, and the others nodding, the decision was easy.

“One night,” Marcus conceded. “Learn what we can, dry out then we go west again.”

Marek, being a trader out of season, found the market for his goods not glutted in the least. Sales were high- the Cherusci had plenty of goods to trade, but lacked or wanted what he brought. Froydis ensured they got good prices, and Wolf and Dagthor ensured the buyers behaved. The others, as was their normal habit, wandered the small village ostensibly in search of other traders. There were none, of course, but that did not break the habit. There were, however, far more men than they had been used to seeing- almost one-to-one in relation to the women.

Marcus and Glam reported to the local lordling, who also invited the merchant lord to dinner that evening. War was on the horizon, he said, and he wanted the freshest news he could find to prepare for it. That night, as the storm abated, Froydis and Marcus attended the small feast thrown by the lord that evening. Jorgen and Aelric accompanied them, as it was proper for a merchant lord to travel with guards. It was not much of a lavish event, being so quickly and unexpectedly thrown together, but any excuse to have a feast was good enough. They were not the guests of honors though- that honor was awarded an envoy from afar, a bear of a man with the hair knot atop his head, not upon its side as was the custom of a Suevi merchant or the Chauci.

“Where is he from?” Marek asked of Froydis, using low tones to disguise his feeble grasp of transrhenae tribal hairstyles. “A Suevi warrior, correct?”

Froydis nodded. “A nobleman,” she added. “Look to the amount of gold he wears, the richness and strength of his weapons. And of course, his armor- silvered mail, from Gaul. Only a high noble or a king’s relative would waste good silver so.”

The local lord, another large warrior called Erich the Strong, was currently involved in an arm-wrestling match against the Suevi. Both the warriors of the Suevi envoy and the local boys were cheering their lords on, while the Batavians of the merchant coolly observed. Erich looked to be winning, having the Suevi’s arm bent back from half-upright, but with a mighty surge, the Suevi struggled back to regain his starting position. Then he sucked in a deep breath and grunted, sending Erich’s arm hurtling down toward the table for the win.

“Alas, Segestes, you have proven stronger than I had imagined,” Erich admitted. “None have before beaten me.”

“You do not have many Suevi visitors, I imagine,” the Suevi said with a laugh. He scooped up a horn of ale from a passing wench and drained it. “Line up your womenfolk, Erich, it is time for me to claim my prize for besting you.”

Erich groaned slightly, but gestured for the maids and servants to line up. Segestes looked them up and down, then swept his eyes across the table. They stopped briefly when they reached Froydis, who held the arm of the merchant next to her. He sighed, realizing she was a married woman, and continued on. He finally returned to the maidens and selected one of them.

“Traudl,” Erich announced. “A fine choice. A widowed mother of two young warriors, she is proven fertile, and has a gentle heart. Traudl, you may take a seat at the main table, to the left of Lord Segestes.”

That last surprised Marcus, who had thought the woman would be carted off to the sleeping chamber of the victor immediately. Had this scene taken place in the Golden House of Nero, it most certainly would. But here in this small village in the forests, the prize was not virtue or bedsport, but companionship- anything more would be up to the man and woman. He realized with a start that Germanic women had far more rights and privileges than did their sisters in Rome, who were mere chattels with which to satisfy lusts and bear children, for the most part. Now he understood his mother’s fierce independence and her peculiar ways, and was proud of the stubborn woman.

Dinner was served by the expedient method of bringing out a bed of coals and placing a roasted, spitted pig upon the stakes framing it, then having the guests carve what they wish from the carcass while the remaining maidens brought forth dishes with greens, small loaves of brown bread, and horns of beer. Marcus and Froydis joined the line before the pig, knives in hand, awaiting their turn to cut. Jorgen and Aelric were still in their positions, awaiting the turn of the servants and guards.

“Do you have any blanks of steel in your wagon, trader?”

The question caught Marcus unaware. “Nein,” he stammered, finally placing the voice. It was the Suevi lord, Segestes. The lucky Traudl stood silently beside her champion, her arms holding his in a lover’s solace. “What few we had managed to acquire we have already traded among the Bructeri.”

“Ah,” Segestes said with a nod. “Those poor sods have more of a need for them than do these people, what with the war and all.” He stopped to look over the smaller man. “I do not recognize your tribal colors. Tell me, are you a Frisian?”

Marcus laughed. “Ik am of de Cananefate,” he said, remembering Labeo’s warning about speaking pure Chatti. “Marek, son of Rutger, from Chatvik, just north of Near the Water.”

“I am Segestes, son of Aethric, lord among the Suevi,” the Suevi replied. Marcus recognized almost perfect Chatti in the Suevi language. The two must be very close. “My home is my saddle.”

“And thy saddle brings you to a small Cherusci village north in the forests?”

Segestes laughed. “No.. Well yes actually. But it is my father’s commands which sends my saddle here. There will be a war soon, I have heard.”

“So you travel here to join it. Foolish,” snorted Marcus, in his best trader’s impression, and paraphrased a Suevi trader he had met in Jorgen’s home. “War is bad for business.”

Segestes snorted in his ale, then bellowed in laughter. “Typical merchant- always thinking with your purse.” Then he sobered, remembering that phrase. “Have you met Aethelred, a man of our tribe though a merchant like yourself?”

Froydis tightened her grip on his arm. It was a signal. Danger! Aethelred was indeed a merchant, a Suevi merchant, but he traded mostly on the Roman side of the Rhein. What was Segestes doing? Testing for knowledge of a trader, trying to determine true origin, or merely asking about a countryman?

Rutilius decided honesty was best. “Yes. He came to Near the Water this winter. A fine man, who told me never to ask a man with his hair in a knot atop his skull if he was a slave. We Cananefate wear no knot, as you can see, nor do our neighbors. The custom was quite new to us. In fact, Lord Segestes, it was he who suggested we Cananefate come off our little island and explore the world to the East. Dus, hier ben ik.” Here I am.

Segestes nodded. “I have heard he was going to the Great Sea. From your tale, he made it. So, merchant, you met him in Roman lands. Tell me, why does a Germanic merchant from Roman lands travel so far east, when he can travel the placid lands of the Empire?”

Marcus smiled. “I come from Chatvik,” he reminded the Suevi lord, his tone revealing a bit of insolence and irritation, as if annoyed by the constant belief that all of his tribe’s lands were under Roman rule. “A little village north of the border. I had crossed the border to go to Near the Water, where I met your friend.” To the German’s confusion, he added, “The border of the Empire runs through our lands. Not all of the tribe lives over there. As to why I came east instead of going south...”

“That was because of me,” Jorgen said, coming to Marcus’s aid. He had moved closer when he saw the big Suevi take an interest in Marcus. “I am outlawed for a season. I can seek no shelter among my tribe, and the lands to our south are plied heavily by Romani traders. Over here is less so- we would have better luck.”

Segestes noted the youth, his clothes, and his swords- two of them, one long, one Roman. “And you are?”

“Ik ben Jorgen der Dapper,” he replied proudly. “I have earned my name on five battlefields, using this little sword before my father gave me the longer warsword.”

“And an outlaw,” Segestes added. “What for?”

“Murder. I struck down a man from behind. It was justified, thus the single season’s outlawry.”

“Jorgen the Brave,” Segestes snickered, translating the Cananefate name. “Outlawed for striking down a man from behind. Not very brave, lad.”

“I had little choice,” Jorgen said, though with less pride. “He was about to murder a friend of the king.”

“He threw that little sword twenty paces to drop the man about to axe the king’s friend,” Marcus added. “The victim-to-be was pinned under a corpse, his would-be killer standing above him raising an axe for the chop. Jorgen killed him before he could finish the action.”

“You got outlawed for that?” Segestes roared in disbelief. “You should have been rewarded, not punished!”

“Our tribal laws are very strict,” Jorgen replied. “Striking a man from behind is murder. There must be a penalty. I knew that when I threw the sword. But since it was justified, the were-geld was waived and the sentence reduced to a single season.”

“You knew the penalty, accepted it, and threw the sword anyway,” Segestes summarized. “You have indeed earned your name, Jorgen der Dapper.”

By now the line had been reduced to where Rutilius and Froydis could carve their dinner from the carcass. Rutilius let Traudl and Froydis go first, then shared his carving time with Segestes, who followed them back to their seats and sat beside him, with a gesture to poor Traudl to return to her own seat. This raised an eyebrow by Marcus.

“Had your woman been alone this night, she would be sitting where Traudl now sits,” the Suevi said bluntly. “But I would hear more of Aethelred.”

“I met him that once,” Marcus replied. “In Near the Water, this winter. Several traders had come to Near the Water, and since my heart was decided on travel and trade, I went to speak with them. I learned much, and left a few days later. I have not seen him since. Sorry.”

“What brings you here, Suevi lord?” Froydis asked. “You have told us your saddle, but this is rather far north for a nobleman to ride on a whim.”

“There was an envoy who had come to the Chatti,” Segestes answered. “He claimed the Romans would be coming against the Bructeri again this year, and pleaded their aid. The Chatti had decided to help when a Bructeri vala came and warned them that helping the Bructeri would set the tribes back centuries. So the Chatti asked us our opinion, and my father dispatched envoys to many tribes to seek theirs. I am one of them.”

“I know of only one Bructeri vala,” Jorgen said. “Veleda.”

“There are more valas, but only one Bructeri,” Froydis agreed. “It is said she is never wrong.”

“It is also said she hates the Romans with a heart colder than winter,” Rutilius added.

“I do not know,” Segestes admitted. “I too have heard of her. Veleda, the black-haired Witch, Queen of the Bructeri. I have also heard she had a falling-out with the Bructeri Kings- they are twins- so her motives are unclear. Thus the long rides of my brothers and myself.”

“Traudl looks bored,” Jorgen noticed. “If you wish more than pleasant dinner company from her, I would suggest you regale her with some of your exploits, before another does. She is a fine-looking woman, and single...”

Segestes noticed the glimmer in the Cananefate’s eyes and quickly made his excuses to return to his chosen lady. Jorgen sat down in his place and began digging into the food he had been holding while the Suevi had been chatting.

“What?” he asked of the others. “My food was getting cold. I want to sit and enjoy it warm. And if he wouldn’t keep her company,” he said, gesturing to Traudl, “I would have. She’s eye-candy,” he admitted.

Marcus and Froydis looked at poor Traudl and smiled. She was indeed pretty, but the two traveling merchants had no eyes for other partners. Especially not now, when their lives depended on their being tight.

That night, pondering the events, Rutilius decided he had been wrong. The tribes gather for war. As much as I hate saying it, The Old Owl was not wasting my time in sending me here after all. Our legions must know the enemy strength- and it will be stronger than imagined.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 08-23-2010 @ 03:34 AM).]

So war is on the horizon much sooner than previously thought!

Did Roman legions really practice large scale mock battles with wooden swords and shields, Terikel?

Quoted from Josephus:

Their drills are bloodless battles, their battles bloody drills.

You tell me.

The boat rocked with the wind. Everything was drenched from the constant rain. And the cold night air penetrated every living being and cooled it to the core. A rainy winter night- not the best time to be on a narrow river galley heading downriver, especially if one had a spasm-locked spine.

Dieter emerged from under the make-shift tent the men had built and wandered over to where Fleet Captain Titus Piscius was steering the ship. He stretched as best he could, but the stiff metal cuirass he wore prohibited most movement. He was locked into the metal clamshell as effectively as he was trapped on this horrible boat.

“Fleet captain,” he said as he approached. A gust of rain nearly blinded him, but he had already half-expected the storm to do something like that. “Are you sure it is wise to continue in this weather? Most captains would put in to a port, or even park the boat to await better weather.”

“You are correct, lord,” the fleet captain said with a happy voice. “Most captain would. But I am not most captains, neither is my crew. We are to bring you safely to your destination. That happens best if the enemy does not see you, aye?”

Dieter had to agree with that. Given the nature of his mission, it would indeed be best to arrive unnoticed- and unhindered. But the dark of the night, the blinding rain... Getting lost or shipwrecked would also be a major setback- and one which would cost more than his own life or those of his men. It would also cost the life of his lord, already on the other side.

“How can you see in this muck?” he asked. “Why not simply park until daylight, when you can see again?”

“You beach or anchor a galley, landsman,” Piscius laughed. “You do not park it like a wagon. As to continuing on, even you agreed that was crucial. As to knowing where we are in this soup, I have been on this river every day for almost seventeen years now, sir. Rain, sun, moonlit night- no matter. Only Father Rhenus knows himself better than I know him.“

“Maintaining our timetable is crucial,” Dieter agreed. “Crashing onto the shore would delay that.”

The captain laughed. “We are in the middle of the river, about ten miles from Vetera,” he explained. “The river here has some bends, but is mostly straight. The rains have wind- trees make a lot of noise in the wind. See that fellow on the prow? That’s Vulipius- best ears in the fleet. He is giving me signs every once in a while that we are nearing a bank. The man next to him has a weight on a string- he is measuring the depth of the water. If either notices us nearing a bank, they give a signal.”

Dieter saw the men- barely. One was kneeling, evidently monitoring the weighted cord. The other was holding onto the prow with one hand, and had the other cupped around his ear. But he did not need that, Dieter thought. Even without cupping an ear, he could tell the rustling of the trees in the wind was about equally strong on either side, and the pelting of the rain also evenly distributed. He began to see how Piscius was able to navigate without sight- one simply had to rely on the other senses, and a deep knowledge of the river.

“And the other ships?”

“There is a pinhole lantern hanging on our stern,” the captain reminded him. “A tiny light. The others have the same- and each galley simply follows the light of the one before.”

“And distance? How do you judge speed on a river that flows?” the Batavian asked. He did not trust this running-in-the-rain-at-night sailing, but he was less worried about it now than before.

The captain asked him to wait. Twenty minutes later, he said, “Here, stand with your legs apart, as if the boat was your horse.”

Dieter did as commanded. He loosened up as if riding, and let his hips roll with the rhythm of the waves. Abruptly the ship took on a new rhythm, one more tilted toward the left side.

“We hit a confluence,” Piscius explained. “Where another river dumps into the Rhenus. This is your river, lord. We turn here.” He raised his voice to his oarsmen. “Steerboard- oars down and drag water. Portside- full speed ahead!” As he gave his commands, he pulled hard against the rudder. The ship swung about slowly, heading across the rain, and not into it.

“This is the danger area,” the fleet captain reminded his passengers. “Here the Germani are most alert. Once past here, the river is weaker and the Germans less alert. Smooth sailing.”

As he spoke, the rains ceased. This was Germania Inferior- if you do not like the weather, wait ten minutes. It will change. It did. The shower passed by, and the trailing clouds thinned enough for the light of the nearly-full moon to pass through. Dieter could see again- Father Rhein in its broad glory continuing north, while the galley and her fleet began a slow turn into another river, less wide but more placid as the trees lining her banks took the brunt of the wind.

“There will be another shower along shortly,” the fleet captain added. “The sky is clearing now, but I see more clouds coming in. Here is where it will get hairy.”

And so it was, as the small fleet rowed its way up the Lupia. Showers came at almost regular intervals, only to drop their load and pass on, letting starlight hit the raindrops. Nothing was seen or heard, only the rustling of the trees guiding the captain and the rain spatter covering everything. Until Vulpius sent word of something ahead.

“Take your seat, quaestor,” Piscius ordered. Then to his men, he commanded double speed. “There are not any Roman vessels on this river at all, and any German out in this soup is up to no good.”

The galley picked up speed. Within a minute a thunderous crash erupted from the prow, then transformed into a squeal before passing on. A brief, human yelp was heard, then nothing. The galleys pressed on, then slowed to normal rhythm once again.

Vulpius reported. A small vessel, two men in it, had been crossing their path. It was now sunk. No damage to the prow, all clear ahead.

“Sucks being out on a night like this,” the fleet captain muttered. “At least we got to have some fun. And another tally for our prow.”

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Not too far from where Segestes and Marek had been discussing merchants and war, a king sat and pondered his latest move. Was it wise to send Ulfrich to ambush Rutilius? Or should he have given that task to another? Rutilius was wily. Worse, he was lucky. If any Roman could pass through the gauntlet he was building, it would be that cursed man. He thought over the Witch again, and what she had said. Rutilius would be the doom of both of them, despite their efforts. Did I just send my brother to his doom?

His thoughts were interrupted by a hunter. Hagar, son of Ruel held up two bound sticks up to his king. They were heavily wrapped in some sort of treated skin. “This is for you.”

Udo looked over, boredom expressed clearly on his otherwise refined features. “What is it?”

“I do not know, lord, but a man almost died giving it to me.”

That got Udo’s attention rather quickly. “Explain.”

“I and three others were hunting deer on the border with the Marsi when we heard a noise in the rain. We heard a man scream, then nothing. Later we heard moaning from the shore, so we went to investigate. That is when we found a man laying there, the wind-driven waves lapping at his legs. We dragged him from the river, but he was feverish and out of his mind. Babbling about trays and kings and witches. The only coherent thing he said was when he handed me that thing. He said ‘for the king.’ So I came.”

“Did he say who he was,” Udo asked, “or why he was there?”

Hagar shook his head. “He was shivering, lord, and crazy with fever. And very cold from the river. He mumbled like a madman, mumbling gibberish about kings and witches as I have said, but insisted on giving me that. The only clear words were, ‘for your king’.”

“Was he one of ours?”

“No lord, I know almost every hunter and warrior left in the tribe. He was not one of us. He had hair like ours, only bound up in a knot upon the side of his head. His trousers looked black, and his cloak had stripes of red through it. I do not know from what tribe he was.”

“Marcomanni,” Udo replied, recognizing the colors and style. “He has come a long way to give me that thing. Bring it here.” Udo held out his hand. Hagar brought the item over, and laid it in the king’s open palm.

Udo sat up. He recognized the object immediately now. A scroll! He quickly removed the thong holding it closed and opened it. Latin runes spilled across the page in steady lines, while squiggles and other arcane symbols dotted the parchment further along. Both were horribly damaged by the wetness, but still legible to one who knew letters and runes. Unfortunately, he knew neither. He turned the scroll upside down, thinking maybe he was holding it wrong, but the runes made no more sense that way than they did the first way.

Udo could not read. Nor could Ulfrich. In fact, the only one they knew who could turn the symbols into sound was the Witch, last seen in Sequani lands. This must be from her. Her way of mocking we she thinks stole her rightful throne. Witch! Then the words of Hagar hit him. Kings and a witch!

A spell! She works a spell on me! Udo quickly hurled the scroll away.

“Get that thing out of here,” he commanded the hunter. “And if ill befalls me through opening that cursed thing, Hagar, I shall ensure you pay in blood.”

Hagar moved forward and took up the opened scroll. Curious, he glanced at what had so upset his lord. The runes made no sense to him whatsoever, but the squiggles and wavy lines did. He had seen something similar, in the camp of a Roman general he had helped pillage before the Gallic horsemen had regrouped and driven he and his fellows off at Gelduba, in the days before Seval lost that incredible battle at Vetera. The old king had called it a map.

He studied the drawing, seeing Father Rhein and the border between the Marsi and Bructeri fairly clear. There was a little drawing of a tower, with a cross by it. An arrow began there and continued west, toward Vetera where the old king had fallen.

Udo screamed, thinking the hunter enchanted by the Witch’s spell.

“My lord, it is but a depiction of our lands,” Hagar explained. “This line represents Father Rhein, and this is the Witch’s Tower. There is a cross there, and an arrow, but what that means, I do not know.”

Udo took the map and stared at it. Hagar’s words rang true- he could see the lines and the markings himself. It was no spell, but a graphic depiction of his lands.

“What exactly did the man ramble about?” he demanded to know.

“It was crazy talk, lord. Kings, witch, then drunken words like alla and trays,” the hunter repeated. “Then he said ‘for your king’ and collapsed.”

Some of that rang a bell. What was it the Tencteri Bock had said? A Thracian ala? A warband of horsemen. Ugh! He needed to discover the meaning of the runes. Scheisse. “Do we have anybody who can turn these runes into words?”

“Maybe a merchant, lord. They seem to be able to write sounds. None other that I know. Maybe the gods can do so, but no Bructeri alive can.”

“Where is the man now? Have you buried him, or does he yet breathe?”

“We took him to the high priest of Wotan, lord. If any could restore that man to life and health, it would be him.”

“Take me to the high priest of Wotan,” the king commanded. Maybe the gods, maybe then their servants as well. “If he does not know either, then that man died for nothing.”

Hagar bowed with a smile. He would be guiding his king through darkness on a night where the rain limited your vision to the end of your nose. If he should succeed, he would be the envy of all hunters! Hagar the Master Hunter!


The high priest of Wotan was an old man, with a flowing beard as befitting his stature and age. In his youth he had been a warrior, until a Roman plumbata had glanced from the shield of the man ahead of him and plucked out his left eye. Germanicus had gone on to win that battle, but the one-eyed youth had the brains to let the legions pass by before escaping. His wound, and his intelligence, made him the logical choice as apprentice to the High Priest. Now, sixty years later, he was the high priest.

He resided beside the Sacred Grove of All-Powerful Wotan, the One-Eyed King of Walhalla, a half day’s travel from the King’s Hall. But this fact was unknown to both Hagar and Udo, and the accompanying warriors. They thought the priest lived within the grove, thus they hastened inside, where they indeed found the priest before the altar, itself placed before the largest of the circle of great oaks.

Hagar entered the Grove with head bared, as was the custom, and stared at his feet in the presence of his god, even as he inched forward toward the priest. Udo felt no such restraint and barged right in, heading directly for the priest. There was no shivering, gibbering man on the altar as he had been led to believe, though beyond the altar hung a silver eagle- the twin of that hanging in the king’s own hall.

“What brings you here, to the Grove?” the priest demanded, angry at the blatant intrusion. “You have an offering to make, or have you come to visit that poor sod your fellows brought to me?”

That stopped Udo in his tracks. “That poor sod brought this to me,” he said, holding up
the scroll. “Unfortunately it is in Latin. None in my hall can understand it, but the fact that the man risked his life to bring it to me suggests it is important.”

The priest nodded. “I would agree,” he said, in a tone more gentle than previously used. Perhaps he recognized the speaker, or perhaps he was becoming curious about the scroll. “Come, King Udo. My home is nearby. Your man is there, tended by two maidens and my apprentice, while I pray to the One-Eye for the power to heal him.”

“My man?” Udo blurted in confusion. He cast a scathing glare at the hunter. “I was told he was a Marcomanni, from the south.”

The priest led the king and his companions out of the grove to the house where he lived. Inside, on the bed, lay a man with a Suevi knot on the side of his head. He was under several thick fur blankets, and the two maidens constantly mopped sweat from his brow while the apprentice to the high priest tended the soup kettle. The man’s clothes were hanging over a chair by the hearth- now that they were dry and in candlelight, even Hagar could see they were not Marcomanni black but rather Bructeri brown.

“Aedwin,” Udo exclaimed upon seeing the man. He backhanded a slap across the face of Hagar. “That is my royal cousin Aedwin, you dolt. And you knew every hunter and warrior. Ha. You do not even recognize a member of the ruling family.”

Hagar mumbled something about dark, rain, and no torches, before making his way out of the home. Inside, Udo knelt by his cousin, silently praying to the All-Father for the life of his cousin. He stroked his hand through his cousin’s hair- which did indeed appear to be in a Suevi knot, but upon closer inspection, he saw the dried blood and loose skin from a horrible injury tangled alongside his head. He tried to untangle the mess, to give his cousin some semblance of himself, but the injury was still fresh- and painful. Pain shot through the sick man’s body and kicked off a storm of adrenaline and other natural chemicals- all of which combined to bring him back to consciousness.

“Udo,” he whispered, recognizing the hand that caressed his mangled scalp.

“You are safe now, Aedwin,” the king replied. “You are in the Sacred Grove of Wotan, being treated by the High Priest himself.”

“I came as quickly as I could,” Aedwin persisted. “Veleda... The witch.. she was in Chatti lands, talking to Chatti kings. She told them not to come.”

Udo waxed furious. “Was she heard?” The words dripped fire and brimstone, though were uttered through the whistling of breath slipped slowly out.

Aedwin tried to shake his head, but the pain was too much. It did keep him awake though. “No, but Rutilius comes. With a Thracian ala. I was told. You must know.”

“I have heard,” Udo assured his cousin. “Ulfrich is now by Father Rhein, awaiting him. We have a special welcome planned.”

Aedwin struggled violently at those words. “Not on Rhein!” he screamed in a whisper. “News from Mogontiacum... in the scroll. The tower...”

The stress was too much. Aedwin collapsed from the pain and the horrors he had endured on his journey. The priest hurried over, but there was little he could do.

“Your cousin is dying,” he said unnecessarily. “He has had a fever for days, and this nasty head wound did not help any. Nor did his being pitched into the river. I am sorry, Udo. I doubt he will last the night.”

“He dies giving me this,” the king said, holding up the scroll. “He dies for nothing. We lack the ability to read it.”

“Let me see it,” the priest declared. Udo held it out to him.

The priest took the scroll. He examined its outer layers, noting the thong and the broken wax of the seal. Then he opened the scroll. It was a long while, standing there, until he finally coughed.

“My knowledge of Roman writing is limited,” the priest admitted. “I know some letters, but few words, and these letters are soggy and smudged from the water. I can make out a few, though- an r, a couple of u’s, a pair of i’s, and this might be a t.”

Ruh. U. Ee. Another ee. And a tuh. The sounds made no sense. “Are they in order? The sounds?” he asked.

The priest tried again. Ruh. U. Tuh. Ee. Luh or tuh. Ee. U.

“Rutilius!” shouted Udo. He snatched the scroll back from the priest and stared at it. It all made sense now. He stabbed a finger at the figure of the tower, then traced the arrow back toward Roman lands. “Rutilius will land here, by the Witch’s Tower, then head back toward his own land.”

He spared a glance toward his dying cousin, then knelt and kissed his burning forehead. He rose, and said to the priest, “Burn him as a hero when he is no more. His sacrifice has given his people hope.” He handed the scroll over as well. He no longer needed it, now that he knew what knowledge it contained. “Burn him with this.”

Udo turned from the priest to glare at the hunter. “Hagar, son of Ruel. My cousin lies dying here, and my brother rests in the rain by the Rhein. Rutilius will not come there where my brother awaits him. He will come south of here, by the Tower. Race to my brother, Hagar, and inform him. Rutilius may land, but he must not escape.”

Hagar was already broken by his misidentification of the royal Aedwin. He would not fail again.

“I shall relay your will to your brother king,” he swore. Or I shall die trying.

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Good chapter. But how did Aedwin get the map detailing where Rutillus was going to land?

That is a rather good observation.

I am not going to tell you. Yet.

I guess you will just have until that part of the tale comes around...

Finally caught up on the last four chapters. It remains, in my limited Gaulish, a dagon scetlon - a good tale. I say good because I do not yet know the superlative.

This was Germania Inferior- if you do not like the weather, wait ten minutes.

As one who lives among the Tungri, I can vouch for the gospel truth of that statement.

Legion Of Hell, I wonder the same thing...

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The fleet captain approached Dieter, pointing out a stone tower along the river bank, shimmering in the morning light. “There you are, lord. The Stone Tower. Do you want to disembark on that flat stretch to the left, or direct upon the dock some nice German built for us?”

“Neither,” Dieter replied coldly. “Sail on. Tomorrow morning you can let us off wherever we may be.”

“My orders were to bring you here,” the fleet captain retorted. “I am not authorized to go further.”

“I am a quaestor, fleet captain,” Dieter lied easily. “I authorize it. I want a day between myself and whatever forces lay in wait here.”

The reply of ‘further upriver is unknown, and shallow’ died on the fleet captain’s lips.

“You suspect treachery, from us?”

Dieter pointed to the gouges and repaired holes in the armor he wore. “Many times people have tried to kill me. Most knew ahead of time where I was going. Yes, fleet captain, I suspect treachery. I always suspect treachery. And I am cautious, thus still alive to plague my enemies. Continue rowing.”

The fleet captain nodded and complied. But he could not help adding, “Our orders came from the governor of Germania Superior himself, by command of Rome. There can be no treachery.”

“Did he hand-deliver them to you personally?” Dieter asked.

“The orders came as they always do,” the fleet captain replied. “From Rome, to the governor, to the admiral, to me.” Then he paused. “By messengers between them, of course. Not personally.”

Dieter nodded. “Thus there is ample opportunity for a treacherous underling to relay this information to spies. This mission is highly secret- worth a lot of money to whoever tells the Germani. Are you well-paid, fleet captain?”

The fleet captain snorted, then laughed. “Not enough to risk my ass for this shit,” he agreed. “I see your point. One more day then we put your ashore.”

Dieter leaned back with a satisfied smile. “Thank you. When we get back to the Rhenus, I shall look you up, and hand you a sack of five hundred denarii, for the extra effort.”

“Then I will definitely make sure I am there to pick you up again,” the fleet captain said with a smile. “And lord,” he added, “make sure you get there. I would hate to lose a bonus to those hairy heathens over here.”

Dieter laughed. “Agreed.”

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Rutilius and his crew traveled south, stopping at another Cherusci village for the night. This village was smaller, and the people happier to see a merchant than the first. Acilius noted the population data, while the Batavians noted to their dismay that the man-woman ratio was almost even here. They would be sleeping in their tents that night.

Thereafter the party moved west. The first village they came to was populated by men in brown shirts, dark plaid trousers, and wore topknots in their hair.

“Many of these fellows died in that great battle this summer past,” Wolf observed.

“Chauci,” Froydis said. “Enemies of Rome, friends of the Bructeri. Yes, they would come in droves to battle a Roman invasion.”

“We go in,” Rutilius decided. “They’ve seen us already, and it would be strange if we passed them by. But we be careful- all of us. Make sure the Acilii know not to speak.”

The orders were passed, and the wagon headed toward the gates, which opened upon their arrival. Inside, Rutilius took Jorgen and Glam to report to the local lord while Froydis directed the setting up of shop in the square, and the routine began. After so much practice, it was natural.

The local lord was an old man, crusty with age and sporting a beard that would make a hill dwarf cry with envy. He readily granted market rights, and bade the merchant and his guards stay for lunch- he was as hungry for news outside his village as he was the mutton stew his daughters prepared. The other men in the hall were his sons and his warhost- all of thirty men strong. Rutilius stayed, and exchanged news of the world outside the village for tips and sales information inside it.

Then night fell, and the wagon closed. Publius Acilius took up a roving guard while Titus and Rutilius brought in the guards one by one to assemble what information they had collected. It was not a pretty picture. There were many men seen making axes, or sharpening weapons. Wood was shaved and cut into poles then hardened- future spears, while smaller, thinner pieces were fletched and fired- arrow shafts. There were not as many men as women, making the Batavi happier than they had been, though there were many more than in Bructeri lands. And noblemen with odd colors and styles had been seen recently passing through- including a Bructeri.

“Envoys,” Rutilius noted. “The Germani are indeed preparing for war.”

“Next time we come,” Wolf said with a grin, “let us bring blanks of steel. We will make a fortune!”

“Those blanks would turn into weapons, which could end your life, or a friends. Is that what you wish?” Rutilius replied.

“Bah!” scoffed the Batavi. “They do not know how to wield them well anyway. Let them make swords of the blanks. Then we come in, take them away, and sell the finished product for much more money elsewhere. I tell you, lord- we would make a killing!”

Rutilius was unaware of how much of this was greed, and how much was jest. This showed on his face.

Wolf smiled broadly. “I tease you, merchant lord. One does not give weapons to children- they would hurt themselves.”


The next morning they packed up and headed toward the west gate for the trip home. They did not make it to the gate before a housecarl stopped them.

“My lord wishes a word with you, merchant,” he huffed, still out of breath from the dash from the lord’s hall. “He has a favor to ask.”

Rutilius nodded, then dismounted. Beckoning Jorgen, he walked back with the housecarl as an escort to where the lord awaited. Beside him were two men carrying bundles. The fletchings of arrows could be seen poking out of them.

“I apologize for the delay, merchant,” the lord said. He seemed sincere. “But I noticed this morning that you are heading west. I would ask a favor.”

Rutilius knew the routine. “If it is in my power, lord, I will grant it, as exchange for the hospitality you showed my company yesterday.”

The old lord nodded. “Many of our hunters have gone into Bructeri lands, to familiarize themselves with the ground. Many left without a full supply of war arrows, taking only hunting arrows- and not many of those. I have since learned that the Bructeri fletchers cannot make enough arrows- there are simply too few fletchers left, and what are left have been summoned to the hyrd.”

“And you wish me to take these bundles to your warriors?” Rutilius surmised.

“By the gods, no,” laughed the old man. “I have no idea where they are, thus you cannot know where they are. That would be like asking Silent Vidar to sing praises.” He paused, then continued. “I would like you to deliver these to the Bructeri king. He knows where my men are, and can send them on. Would you perform this small task for me, merchant lord?”

Rutilius looked down at his boots. “I cannot, lord.” He looked up and in the lord’s eyes, trying to keep his face looking properly sorrowful. ”For the simple reason that we do not know where he is, either. We have traveled Northern Gaul over there and through the Frisii and Cherusci over here, but very little in Bructeri lands. My men and I are from all over- Cananefate, Batavians, a Cugerni, a Gaul or two. But no Bructeri. I am truly sorry.”

“Do not be,” the lord said, relieved at the honesty. “Travel west, as you intended. Cross the river, then travel toward the setting spring sun, angling toward where the Marsic-Bructeri river border meets Father Rhein. Within two days after crossing the river you should come upon a small village- the former Bructeri Kings preferred to roam, but the two oafs now on their throne have settled in a hall in that village I mentioned. You will notice many envoys, as it is a busy time for the tribes. You cannot mistake it. There you will find the kings and can deliver these bundles.”

Rutilius smiled broadly. “In that case, my lord, I will gladly try.”

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The I Ala Thracum was making good time. They were a day from the river already, travelling on paths cut by travelers through the forest where their tracks were sure to be seen and maybe reported. It is all part of the plan, thought Dieter as he rode. He kept a weather-eye on the Thracians, ensuring they followed his command to the letter. Some of his countrymen had been detailed to accompany the turmae as they dispersed, doubly ensuring his knowledge of the ala was current. Marcus should be halfway home by now. Pulling the Bructeri warhosts here gives him the opportunity to escape unseen and unknown.

The thought that he himself might not escape never crossed his mind.

A pair of horsemen came back down the path. He recognized them as Hrolvath of his Guard and a Thracian auxiliary.

“A party of warriors ahead, lord,” the Thracian reported. “A hundred or so strong, with bows and axes. A few swords, but no shields and few spears. They appear to be practicing for war.”

Dieter smiled cruelly. “Well, then we give them some true experience. Decurion, call in the ala. We close in, form up, then charge. On my order.”

The decurion smiled back. Finally, some action!

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“Otto!” called a hunter. He pointed to the horsemen coming into sight. “It looks like those Bructeri horse are coming back.”

Otto called his men together and had them form up as he had tried to explain. He handed the formation over to his brother Sigismund before turning to the hunter who reported. “Come, Jos, let us see if those horseborne wish to train with us.”

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“They are forming for battle,” Hrolvath reported. “Shall we strike now, while they are yet unformed and their bows unstrung?”

Dieter shook his head. “Two of them are coming forward. Tell the ala to keep their mouths shut, but be ready to act. I will handle this.”

Otto and Jos approached, and immediately noticed the armor worn by the Bructeri horsemen- it was of metal, and flowed like skin. Envy hit them at once- the Bructeri must be a rich people to afford so many war-shirts. And that silvered one, he must definitely be a noble. Maybe a cousin of the Bructeri King? Or the king himself?

Honored by the thought, they approached with respect and weapons down.

“I am Otto Arjan’s Son, of the Chauci,” he said by way of introduction. “We are training for the coming war, where we shall fight by your side, noble lord.”

I highly doubt that, Dieter thought but did not say. Instead, he said, “Nice of you. Now what do you want from me?”

Otto was a bit put off by the gruffness, but he had heard that Ulfrich of the Bructeri was a gruff man as well as a great warrior. The location, the attitude, the appearance- all fit. This was definitely Ulfrich. “King Ulfrich, we Chauci would be honored if you would join us in a war game. I have just taught my band how to form a defense line. It would be an incredible honor to have you charge us, to let the men see how it feels to have horsemen bearing down upon them. I would test their discipline.”

Dieter looked over the ragged line. It was four men deep, not nearly dressed as well as it should, and had axemen in the front line with the few spearmen in the second with their spears poking between the axemen. The men themselves were eager and a bit awed. The title the fool used... He thinks I am the Bructeri king!

He could not keep in his smile at this stroke of fortune. He looked down at the hopeful hunter and nodded. “Aye, noble hunter. We shall be glad to charge thy line.”

The Chauci hunter thanked him and dashed back toward his men, his face glowing with pride.

Dieter let him get far enough away that his Latin commands would not be heard. Then he called the decurions over. “They wish us to charge their line- a discipline issue. Their spears are in the second rank, the bowmen of the rear ranks still have their weapons unstrung. Form up over there, facing them, then we charge on my signal. Keep your weapons up! At least until the last few yards- then snap them down. Through the line, then whip about. Any man losing his lancea in the first run can go to swords. Understood?” when all decurions nodded, he added, “Now move out. We will not be so lucky again.”

The ala formed a solid block as wide as the defenders. The Chauci noted the speed and precision with which the ala formed and nodded in respect- these were indeed warriors! The Romani will have no chance this summer, with men like these fighting them.

“Otto!” Dieter called out. “Do you wish us to approach as a block, a mob, or in the Romani Wedge?”

Otto’s respect just doubled. The Bructeri King’s posse could form in three different formations! “I shall leave that to you, dear King!” the hunter called back. “Approach as would the Romani.” Around him, his men were nearly catatonic in awe as the King’s Posse formed a wedge within seconds, where once a block stood.

“Make ready, Chauci friends!” Dieter called between laughs. This was almost too easy. “Here we come.”

He lifted his sword high, then lowered it swiftly. The wedge lurched forward as if cast from a catapult, closing in upon the awe-struck Chauci. Of those, some held their spears tightly, while others, panicking at the mass of horseflesh closing in on them, broke ranks.

The formation dissolved into a mass of panicked men. And the Thracians were not even close!

“Halt!” Dieter shouted, bringing his wedge to a screeching halt twenty paces from the Chauci. “Hrolvath! Take the men back to the station and form up again. You, Otto! What kind of cowards do you bring to battle? Your men broke even before we were in range of the francisca!”

“Please, lord!” cried the Chauci. “Give us another chance!” To his junior leaders, he frantically barked orders to reform the line. “This was our first time against horsemen. You see how desperately we need the experience. Please, bitte!, another chance.”

Dieter looked down at them again. These were no hardened warriors, just simple hunters and farmers off to war because they think it will be fun to join in a massacre of Romans. He had pitied their first, futile attempt to stand fast, and thus called off the planned slaughter. There was no honor in this. But while he pitied them, these non-warriors playing at being men, he knew he could not avert what he now had to do. Their own eagerness to partake in bloodshed doomed them.

“Form your line, Otto,” he ordered curtly. “I shall waste more of my precious time upon you. We shall approach closer this time, though, and I truly pity the fool who steps out of formation this time.”

The men roared in approval and excitement. There would be none out of formation this time, by Wotan. Their blood was up. They would stand fast.

Dieter turned away from them, lest any see the tear forming in his eye. This was not war. This was necessary slaughter. Still, it had to be done. Other, more important lives were on the line. He took his place with the ala and raised his lancea.

“This time for real,” he said in Latin.

He slashed downward, spurring his horse forward. The wedge followed instantly. A triangle of charging horseflesh, lances lowered as they came closer, closer to the Chauci spearwall, which stood fast, secure in the knowledge the horses would stop. But yet, there it was. A third of the front rank, once proudly brandishing their axes, turned to flee the incoming cavalry. They tangled themselves in the spears of the second line, and in an instant, the Chauci ranks were a chaotic cluster of writhing men.

And then the ala hit them. In some places, two or even three men were impaled on a single lancea. Where horses hit men, bodies were tossed into the air to slam against either ground or tree. Then the ala was through all four lines. But that was not the end of the carnage- not by a long shot. The ala wheeled around and drew swords, then came again. And again, and again, until at last no man stood standing.

The ala had suffered no casualties in the lop-sided battle. Dieter had the tribune form them up to continue onward, and sent the cavalrymen forward as if nothing had happened. He alone paused, looking down at the terrified face of the young but now quite dead Jos, who would now grow no older, and at the utter surprise on the face of Otto’s severed head. Fools. You should have stayed on your farms in Chauci land.

A single tear fell, then his eyes dried. There was still a mission to perform, and leaving these bodies here to be found was one way of helping that mission along.

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... sporting a beard that would make a hill dwarf cry with envy.

Loved that.

Any man losing his lancea in the first run can go to swords.

A lancea is not a lance; the lancea was a kind of javelin much like the plumbatum. A cavalry spear was called a hasta.

Dieter is a great character by the way. Loyalty even in the face of his own humanity and dishonour.

[This message has been edited by Edorix (edited 08-30-2010 @ 04:35 AM).]

The light cavalry spear is what I was looking for. Lancea fits, like what this guy is carrying, maybe a bit longer. Fit for stabbing, fit for chucking.



Light cavalry, remember?

(By the way, the hasta was an infantry weapon. The clibanarii and other heavy spear-armed cavalry used the contus, but I really don't like that term, if you know Dutch expressions)

The hasta as an infantry weapon was earlier; my source has the hasta as a cavalry weapon during the Principate, although I cannot trace that to a primary source. I do think the Greek kontos might be better for Thracian cavalry than the lancea (or, I suppose, the hasta), which was after all primarily a throwing weapon.

Anyway...

I felt sorry for Otto.

Although Rutillus must have been happy when he got the location of the Bructeri king's lair!