Altar of Blood: Empire IX (40 page)

Tiro bowed deeply again.

‘Completely, King Sigimund. My humble apology for having made such a gross assumption that your goodwill could be bought, and my thanks for allowing myself and my companions to cross your land. I would be grateful for the chance to feed and water our horses, and perhaps take a bite to eat and sleep for a few hours, if that were possible?’

Sigimund nodded regally, waving a hand at one of his men to make the arrangements, and Tiro turned back to the watching centurions with an inscrutable expression, speaking quietly as he took the reins of his horse from Dubnus.

‘And that, gentlemen, is how business is done with the Germans. They’ll stab a brother in the back for enough coin, but they always want to be able to tend his wounds afterwards, and offer their heartfelt condolences. So not a twitch of the lips from either of you, eh? Just remember that we’ve just been soundly embarrassed, and we’re not happy. Bear that in mind while we’re inside those walls, unless you want some bad-tempered Marsi warrior asking what the fuck you’re smiling at?’

‘He’s still sleeping?’

Gerhild looked up at Marcus from her vigil over the tribune’s comatose body, swathed in several layers of blankets despite which his body was trembling as if chilled by a cold wind.

‘He is fighting the infection from the wound. Until he either wins this battle or loses it we cannot move him.’

Dolfus walked up, his gait and expression bespeaking a man whose patience was close to exhaustion.

‘We have to leave
now
! The Bructeri can’t be far behind us, and I’m under strict orders not to allow her to fall back into their hands.’ He paused for a moment, one hand clenching at his side. ‘I don’t want to take a sword to you, lady, but if I have to …’

Gerhild smiled up at him.

‘Do not worry, Decurion, it will not be your hand that takes my life, on the field of bones and gold.’

The Roman stared at her for a moment in exasperation.

‘Leave him here, if he can’t ride. I’ll take you north to the Angrivarii, and the centurion here can protect Scaurus.’

She shook her head again with a gentle smile.

‘I cannot leave him. The point will come, sometime in the night, when he needs protection that none of you men can give him.’

Marcus and Dolfus exchanged looks before the former spoke.

‘We could make you leave him. I won’t harm a woman, but you could not resist us if we chose to take you north by force.’

She stood, her eyes hard with determination.

‘You won’t.’

She looked down at Scaurus, cocking her head as if she were listening to something faint and far away. After a moment she looked up again, her expression deadly serious.

‘I have been blessed with three gifts from the goddess, as foretold by my tribe’s holy woman at the time of my birth. The least of these, sometimes unreliable, is on occasion to manipulate the minds of men, as you saw at the river of reeds when the king’s huntsman failed to see the path across the river.’

Dolfus shook his head in disbelief.

‘You expect us to believe that you prevented him from seeing the—’

She cut him off with a curt gesture, a subtle flicker of fingers that seemed to leave him abruptly speechless.

‘I am also gifted, or possibly cursed, with an ability to see what is to come, days or years from the present, in my dreams. It is by this means that I know only too well that neither of you will raise a hand to me. The other, the gift I treasure over everything else, is my ability to heal both body and mind, sometimes with nature’s remedies, sometimes with the touch of my hands, and sometimes with the help of the goddess herself, acting through me. With your tribune’s wound I am going to have to use all three, so we must all both stay here until the moment comes for me to act.’

She stared up at him with flint-hard eyes.

‘Understand me clearly when I tell you that the man shivering and twitching beneath these blankets will play a role in events that are yet to occur that will shape the destiny of your empire. He
cannot
be allowed to die here.’

Dolfus frowned.

‘Events that are yet to come? What does that mean?’

Marcus shook his head at the decurion.

‘Were you not listening? The lady believes that she sees the future in her dreams. And you’ve seen the tribune in those dreams, have you, madam?’

The seer nodded solemnly.

‘Yes, Centurion, I have. When five men claim the ultimate prize, he will be the man who holds the balance between the final two contenders.’ She waved her hand again, and Marcus felt giddy for a moment, Dolfus taking an involuntary step back at the same moment. ‘But I’ve said more than enough on the subject. You will both forget my words, but you will remember, and believe, that his time to die has not yet come.’

‘We must camp for the night, my King. Without the light of the moon I can no longer follow the trail.’

Amalric shook his head in frustration at the supplicating hunter who was cringing in the expectation of a blow for his temerity.

‘Your dogs still have the scent?’

‘Yes, my King, but …’

‘Then we can still follow their trail! By the light of torches if need be!’

Gernot leaned out of his saddle to whisper in the king’s ear.

‘Perhaps we would be better halting for the night, my King? The light of torches would be visible for miles, and might enable the Romans to set up an ambush. Their archers could take a heavy toll of our numbers were we to be so illuminated, and perhaps even threaten your own life.’

The younger man looked at him for a moment, then came to a decision.

‘Very well, make camp.’

He climbed down from his horse and strode away into the half-darkness to relieve himself, the men of his household busying themselves hobbling the horses and gathering firewood while there was still a vestige of light in which to do so. Walking back into their midst he stood and watched their hurried preparation for the night, aware that most of them were avoiding his eye for fear of his evident ire.

‘We’ll catch them, never fear. They have wounded, we know that much, and the last time your man had their trail we were still finding blood spots every hundred paces or so.’

Amalric nodded at the truth in his uncle’s words. His huntsman’s dogs had been wild with excitement at their detection of the first of the blood drops, and the marks had provided them with a reliable guide as to the fugitives’ direction of travel which, as Gernot had predicted, was clearly heading for Aliso.

‘How far are we from the Roman fortress?’

Gernot called the huntsman across and repeated the question.

‘An hour’s steady ride, my King, less if you were to put your heels to the horses.’

‘So close …’

Dismissing the tracker with a smile of thanks the nobleman leaned back, watching as his men worked to build up the fire that they had coaxed out of twigs and leaves. When he spoke again his voice was almost smug with certainty.

‘So close that their escape is almost impossible, my King. Consider this: they have at least one wounded man, and have chosen not to abandon him. Any man losing blood during a day in the saddle will have needed treatment, and while we both know that Gerhild will insist on healing him, even her abilities cannot repair that sort of damage in one night. With such a burden they will be easy enough to find in the morning.’

Amalric nodded morosely, watching as the fire took hold of the logs that had been placed across the initial blaze, sending sparks into the dark night sky in a series of pops and cracks as the wood split in the blaze’s heart.

‘Sound counsel. But I burn with the need to do something. My tribe’s honour has been spat on and trampled into the ashes of a fire set on our sacred altar to Wodanaz, and here I sit powerless to do anything other than wait for the dawn.’

Gernot looked pointedly across the clearing at their captive, sitting between a pair of men who had been set to guard him on pain of their lives.

‘If you need to demonstrate your vengeance, my King, why not do so with the Roman?’

The king’s gaze rose to dwell on the prisoner, and his eyes narrowed at the thought of bloody revenge.

‘Bring him to me.’

He pulled out the hunting knife that lived on his right hip while Gernot crossed the encampment and gestured for the Hamian to be brought before the king, testing its edge and point against the heel of his palm. The prisoner was pushed to his knees in front of him, staring into his eyes with a disconcerting lack of fear.

‘You presume to stare at the king as if you were his equal? Avert your eyes!’

Gernot raised his foot to stamp on the kneeling Roman’s leg, but Amalric shook his head and raised a hand to forestall him.

‘No, my Lord. Obeisance given under duress is no obeisance at all. Allow the man his moment of defiance, he will regret it soon enough.’ He stared back into the Hamian’s eyes with a trace of amusement. ‘So tell me, Roman, what it is that gives you the right to eyeball me with such insolence? Don’t you know that I am a king, and the chief priest of my tribe, anointed by the gods?’

The captive centurion wearily leaned back on his haunches, still staring directly at Amalric.

‘I respect your position as the leader of your tribe, King, although much of that respect has been beaten out of me over the last two days. But I cannot claim to respect your position as a priest, for it seems to me that the gods have long since forsaken this world, if they ever even existed in the first place.’

Amalric looked up at his chamberlain, who shook his head and shrugged.

‘The man is godless. We should end his misery and kill him now. Unless, of course, he lies in the hope of avoiding death on the altar of Wodanaz.’

Qadir laughed softly and shook his head.

‘I never lie. I have this past year come to question the existence of the goddess to whose service I have been sworn since boyhood. And as to the imperial deities … They were men, no more and no less.’

Amalric leaned forward, evidently fascinated by the man before him.

‘Why? Why should a man like you, a centurion sworn to the service of your emperor, betray everything that he believes in, everything that makes him what he is? How can you spit on everything that your life has been built upon?’

The Hamian looked him in the eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze.

‘Truly, King, it feels to me more as if everything I have built my life on has betrayed
me
. I have watched men die in such a variety of manners, and for such meaningless reasons, that I no longer find it possible to discern any pattern to our lives. If the gods do exist then they are too savagely cruel for me to consider them as deities worthy of my worship. And if that results in my being killed for the crime of godlessness, then I will accept that death as a means of achieving peace from this world’s incessant horrors.’

Amalric stared at him for a moment, then stood, gesturing to the captive.

‘This man is not to be beaten. He will eat the same food that we eat, and will be allowed enough privacy to empty his bowels without being leered at by his guards. It seems me that any man who will abandon his gods and his people so easily would make a poor sacrifice to Wodanaz, but I will hold him prisoner until such time as my new priest is able to make an opinion on the subject of how best to sacrifice a godless man who lacks even the dignity of loyalty to his tribe. Unless of course his death will return my eagle and my seer to me. In which case I will say the prayers and cut his throat myself.’

‘An escort, your Majesty?’

Sigimund nodded, taking a swig of beer before answering. Tiro and the two centurions had been invited to join the king at his high table, and the envoy had accepted the invitation on their behalf without a second thought, breezily reassuring the two centurions.

‘As I told you, if he wanted us dead there would be a dozen easier ways to make it happen without resorting to poison.’

The king wiped his mouth, gesturing with the half-eaten rib bone of the wild boar that had been roasted for the feast.

‘I’m willing to tolerate your presence on my tribe’s soil, Roman, but I’m not likely to allow you free rein to go wherever you fancy, am I?’

Tiro bowed his head in acceptance of the German’s decision.

‘Of course, your Majesty.’

Sigimund raised a jaundiced eyebrow at him.

‘I think you miss my point, Tiro. I’m allowing you to ride to the border of my land with the Angrivarii, and then make the return journey back to the great river, but you will always be under the eye of my sons and their warriors. Any attempt to deviate from the route you have asked to follow will result in your being placed under arrest and returned here. Any attempt to re-enter our land at any point other than that where you left it, where my sons will await your return, will, when you are inevitably captured, result in your execution as oath breakers. This is one occasion when you will not be able to play your usual high-handed games with us, Tiro. Because to even attempt to do so will have the direct of consequences, both for you and these men who ride with you.’

Tiro nodded and bowed.

‘As you wish it, King Sigimund. And now, if you will forgive me, I will sleep. We have an early start in the morning.’ He turned to Varus and Dubnus. ‘I would recommend the same for you both, gentlemen. Tomorrow will be a long day, and just as hard in the saddle as today was.’

He winked at Dubnus, who raised an eyebrow in return.

‘I will take to my bed shortly, thank you, Tiro. A little more of the king’s excellent wine might numb the pain in my backside to the point where I will actually be able to sleep.’

‘Sit here with me for a while, Centurion, and help me watch over your friend.’

Marcus sat down on the other side of Scaurus’s body from the seer, stretching out his legs wearily and accepting the bowl of meat stew that Husam placed in his hands, the archer having used the opportunity of scouting to the south to hunt and kill a boar, whose meat he was busy cooking in batches in the woman’s iron pot.

‘You saw nothing on the road, I presume?’