Altar of Blood: Empire IX (25 page)

The young warrior standing guard on the treasury paced from one end of the short corridor that led from the palace quarters to the massively beamed and heavily nailed door that secured the repository of the tribe’s gold and silver, still glowing with the pride of having been given such responsibility by Gernot when there were men far better experienced and deserving of such an honour than he. On pointing out his unsuitability for the task in the face of his betters he had been heartened to hear his lord’s reply.

‘Consider this as a reward for your hard work on the training ground over the months. Other men may be better prepared, but none has worked as hard or improved as quickly. Another will stand guard tomorrow, but for tonight the honour is yours.’

Pacing up and down the long corridor his heart swelled with the pleasure of it, the pride that his father, himself a warrior in the king’s household, would be enjoying now, perhaps raising one last beaker of beer to his son’s rise in their lord’s estimation before falling into the drunken stupor that was the aim of every man present at the feast. As he reached the treasury door and started to turn, he heard a footstep behind him, and spun, swinging his spear down from its place at its shoulder to bear on whoever it was that was approaching him from behind without warning. Seeing a face not only familiar to him but revered, he lowered the weapon’s point to touch the ground as the newcomer stepped close, bowing his head deeply.

‘My—’

The knife struck once, swiftly and with all the power that the other man had at his disposal, its blade punching into his stomach and its point thrusting upwards to find his heart, stilling its rhythm with a cold, harsh kiss that sent his lifeblood spraying briefly across the corridor. Opening his mouth to speak, to ask why, he found the strength to do so absent, fled from his body with the blade’s implacable theft of his life, and slumped against the strong room’s door frame with his consciousness already absent and his life not far behind it. His killer bent over him for a moment, pulling the largely ceremonial but still completely functional key from around the dead man’s neck, opened the door and slipped inside.

‘This is the place.’ Gunda’s whisper was so quiet that Qadir had to lean close to him to make out the words. ‘Wait here. I will whistle before I rejoin, so that you don’t put an arrow in me.’

The Hamian nodded, and before he had the chance to reply the scout was gone, away down the path that led into the town below them, a track so heavily used that it was wide enough for two men to walk abreast, and utterly devoid of any hint of grass.

‘We do not want to be here after daybreak.’

The centurion nodded at Husam’s blunt statement.

‘I agree. You heard the tribune’s order, we are to leave before the sun is above the horizon.’

‘He is a wise man, and he cares about the men who serve under him. We are lucky to have come under his command.’

Qadir smiled in the darkness.

‘Lucky? As you have said yourself on more than one occasion, being under his command could soon enough prove to be our death sentence. Do you never wonder how it is that we are forever being sent to perform just one more “impossible task”? His birth, his disregard for the niceties of his situation … his protection of our friend Centurion Aquila, all calculated to make him easily disposable, should such a sacrifice be required. And in that event …’

‘We would die with no little honour. That we know. But have you forgotten your vow to the Deasura, our goddess Atargatis, three times blessed be her name?’

‘The goddess …’ Qadir sighed, and Husam frowned at his centurion’s weary tone of voice. ‘In a world where the gods are so frequently used as a loin cloth to disguise the naked evil that lives in the hearts of men, I do find myself questioning the validity of all such idols when I hear a man being tortured to death in the name of a god. And I wonder why a god, were he – or she – to exist at all, would wish for that man to die in such a degraded manner.’

The chosen man almost hissed his reply, whispering despite the lack of any audience beyond the third member of the party, a stolid man entirely trusted by both of them.

‘Do not say such a thing aloud! Do not even allow yourself to consider such a thought! Question the German gods all you like, but you doubt the existence of our Deasura at your peril!’

Qadir smiled at his friend.

‘We are among friends, Husam. None of these men is likely to censure me for the crime of being godless.’

Husam’s reply was indignant, his shock at the centurion’s admission evident in his hushed voice.

‘I care not what these Tungrians think of such a thing, but only what the Deasura herself might do were she to believe that your faith in her was lacking. You know as well as I do that she is a jealous goddess, and demands the total loyalty of her followers!’

Qadir shrugged.

‘So we are told by the priests, who instruct us in these matters from such an early age that we never think to challenge their preaching.’

‘You cannot think …’

‘That they may tell us the things they do, as to the fate of unbelievers, in order to ensure that we follow their teachings, and make our gifts to their temples. Perhaps I do.’

An uneasy silence fell over the trio, Qadir musing on his growing feeling of disassociation from the goddess he had for long venerated with every ounce of his being, while Husam puzzled as to how he was to stop his friend from voicing such terrible doubts.

‘You still recall the vow we both made to the goddess the day we joined the army, that first day when the centurions roamed our ranks with their vine sticks beating any man who gave them the faintest hint of an excuse? That we would live
and
die with the same honesty and cleanliness of purpose, in her sacred name?’ The chosen man snorted dark amusement. ‘And after all, given our current position, it would hardly be surprising if our time to die was close at hand, would it? Perhaps you should avoid antagonising the goddess, at least until we are once again on the safe side of the river?’

The second archer shifted his position fractionally, easing the strain on his knees. Older than both Qadir and his second in command, he was stoic by nature and perhaps the steadiest of Qadir’s men, given to saying little unless he had something to say.

‘Better to make the other man die, I would say. And better to use the sharp ears that the Deasura gave us for the purpose of detecting movement in the dark rather more, and the tongues that we are supposed to use for the purpose of communicating with our fellow men, rather than idle chatter, somewhat less.’

Both men grinned at his dour chiding, respecting his wisdom, and silently nocked arrows to their bows, settling in for a long silent wait in the forest’s darkness.

Moving with slow, exaggerated grace, Gunda eased himself into the shadow of the first house that overlooked the path, now grown in width until it was practically a road, walking slowly down its length until he reached the end of the rough-walled building. Slowly leaning forward, he carefully observed the sleeping town, remembering his maternal grandfather’s frequent admonishment against making any sudden movement while stalking a beast in the forest, a lesson that seemed equally appropriate as he gambled his life on his skills to avoid detection by the tribe’s warriors. In the absence of a father, the older man had taken on the task of educating his grandson in the skills of a hunter with a combination of straightforward instruction hammered home by straightforward punishment of any error.

‘Your eyes should dart here and there as swiftly as a rat’s, boy, but your head needs to move as slowly as a bull’s! Your eyes are more like your grandmother’s first thing in the morning, staring at nothing for moments on end, and your head’s no slower than a weasel’s when it scents rabbits!’

He grinned at the memory of the old man gripping a wooden switch, the end flicking out to sting his ears whenever his movements were anything less than slow and smooth, then pushed the memory away to focus on the present. Somewhere close by a dog was asleep, the faint whimper of its dreams priming him for flight until he realised with a flood of relief that the animal was dreaming rather than growling a warning. The potential for any faint noise to wake the animal redoubled his awareness of the peril he was courting as he slowly settled into the building’s cover and slowed his breathing, listening for any hint of the men he was expected to meet.

The faint scrape of boot leather on the hard ground caught his attention, and he sank deeper into the cover of the building’s shadow as first one shadowy figure and then another pair of men detached itself from the darkness of the forest to his left. Standing stock-still, the newcomer stared about him with a slow sweep of his head and then, satisfied that he was unobserved, started forwards, moving stealthily into the settlement’s dark streets with his escort close behind, passing within a dozen yards of the crouching scout who slowly turned his head to the wall to prevent his being betrayed by the shine of his eyeballs. Holding his breath, he waited until the other man was safely past him before exhaling slowly, watching as the dark figures vanished into the shadows. Something in the first man’s gait had pricked his memory, and he stared into the gloom into which the half-seen intruder had vanished, his lips moving with a silent expression of amazement.

‘Surely not …?’

Slipping through the darkened streets of the city, the decurion called Dolfus stood for a moment on the corner of a building overlooking the king’s great hall before gesturing to his men to stay in the shadows, then crossed the road and entered the building through a door that had been left ajar. Inside the large wooden structure he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adapt to the almost complete absence of light.

A figure stepped out of the shadows with a bulky object in one hand and the blade of a long knife protruding from the other.

‘You’ve got balls of solid iron, Roman, to come here so brazenly.’

The man who had been waiting in the great hall’s shadows whispered the agreed challenge, then stepped forward to reveal himself to the waiting Roman. Dolfus stood stock-still at the sight of the long knife in the other man’s hand, its blade still wet with blood, and eased his arms away from his body to demonstrate that he represented no threat. Pitching his voice low, he replied to the challenge with the words that had been agreed years before.

‘Without risk, there can be no reward.’

The Bructeri nodded, handing an iron-bound wooden box to the decurion.

‘Your message gave me little time. To bring this here I took a risk that will see me cut to pieces on my tribe’s altar if it is ever discovered. No man could be allowed to live after such treachery, not even a man of my exalted rank. I can only hope that the end result will justify the risk into which your master has forced me.’

Dolfus bowed his head in respect for the evident danger to which the German had exposed himself.

‘This is the eagle?’

‘It is. It was taken when a legion was defeated in our war against the Romans alongside the Batavi, and claimed by my people as a prize of battle.’

Dolfus looked down at the wooden box, opening its lid to reveal the symbol of Roman power it contained, a once proud legion eagle fashioned of solid gold, although its surface had long since lost the brilliant shine that had once graced its outstretched wings.

‘A thing of beauty, is it not? And yet the best use we can put it to is to use it to torture the legionaries our warriors capture and bring across the river, heating it in a fire and branding them with its image while they are tied to our altar. A dangerous game, which must one day result in a punitive raid by your army that will leave this city a smoking ruin. And I will share their fate were my part in this theft ever discovered. Rome would lose a friend within my tribe, and a rare friend at that. Few other men have the sort of influence that I can wield.’

‘The eagle will be returned to your treasury soon enough, never fear.’ Dolfus closed the box, extending a hand to point at the Bructeri’s garment. ‘There is blood on your tunic.’

The other man looked down at the spots of blood that had been sprayed across him during his murder of the man who had been guarding the royal treasury.

‘It is of no matter, a clean tunic will be no great surprise the morning after a feast of that magnificence. We proceed as you proposed, in the message your men delivered to me earlier?’

Dolfus nodded.

‘Yes. The eagle’s loss will be discovered, and suspicion will naturally fall upon them, suspicion they will very shortly be doing their best to encourage by riding for our bridge over the Rhenus. You must ensure that the king’s household pursues them to the gates of the fort that guards the crossing to demand the eagle’s return, at which point the plan will unroll just as I have proposed. You will be rid of the two men who have the most to gain from continued conflict with Rome, and Rome will have the prospect of an ally where there was previously only enmity. If we both follow our roles then mutual benefit will be the outcome.’

The Bructeri nodded tersely, his face set hard.

‘Let us hope so. My people need a change of fortune, and that can only be achieved by removing those who preach violence against your people. There will never be a better opportunity.’ The noble nodded to Dolfus and turned away, then stopped and looked back at the cavalry officer. ‘The Romans you betrayed are imprisoned close by, and I made sure that your men were allowed to witness their incarceration. Whether you choose to free them or leave them to suffer the tribe’s revenge for what is soon to happen is entirely your decision.’

He vanished into the shadows, leaving the cavalryman looking after him for a long moment before he too padded silently away from their meeting place and back out into the night.

‘What that?’

Sanga raised his head, looking at Saratos quizzically.

‘What’s what? You still hoping to overpower the—’

His friend put out a hand and placed it over his mouth, putting a finger to his own lips while his expression became one of warning that the Briton had learned from experience not to ignore. From outside the hut came the faintest of noises, a coughing grunt that was cut off almost as soon as it had been uttered, and then silence fell, only the minute scraping of boots in the dust betraying the presence of men outside the building. With a sudden heavy thud the bar that secured the hut’s entrance tumbled to the ground, and the door itself slowly opened, to reveal a single figure standing in the frame with a drawn sword, the blade dark with blood.