War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (3 page)

Roth placed his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as he ushered him over the thresh-hold. He glanced up at his father’s face, the pride and relief plain to see. He was immediately embraced by Ilse, his mother. Her pale blue eyes on a level with his own, she placed her hands on either side of his face and whispered, “Welcome home my son.” The words sent a lump into his throat.

Looking down, he saw that his little sister, Faiga, had wrapped her arms clam-like around his legs. Gently untangling himself from the infant’s grasp he lifted her giggling above his head. She was a rare beauty, and he smiled, knowing that she would break many a warrior’s heart when she grew to maturity. He swore that he’d let nothing happen to her, as it had to slain Volkar. He lowered her to ground and she was quickly shepherded away by his mother.

His brother, Strom, was the next to embrace him. The slim youth was as different to him as water was to fire, having inherited their mother’s colouring and even temper. Strom was kind, thoughtful and wise beyond his years. He hated the ways of war. Guntram was very proud of him, knowing that his people needed those who were wise in the ways of peace as well as war. Guntram ruffled his hair, commenting in his usual fashion on just how much he’d grown in the short time he’d been away.

As his eyes searched the room, he felt a little anxious, and then he saw her. Jenell was helping the women prepare food. Her hair hung to her waist in two, thick braids the colour of burnished copper. She gave him a small wave and a smile, and his heart thrummed faster. They’d been lovers for almost a year. Jenell was a tender and a caring friend and Guntram believed that he’d always loved her. Returning the smile, he quickly crossed the room to her.

She greeted him with a soft kiss on his lips. He held her hands in his own.

“Jenell.” He spoke her name quietly.

“Yes, my love.”

“While away, I . . .”

“Don’t say it,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“You don’t need to tell me how you feel.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “There’ll be time, after.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. His face flushed hot as he looked forward to later that night when she would lie in his arms. There’d be time to talk, and to share his fears.

Jenell turned to join the other women and he reluctantly tugged his attention away.

A long, rectangular room stretched out before him. Stout wooden beams criss-crossed in the shadows high above his head, and a well stoked fire bathed the lodge in dull light. He smiled at the familiar animal sounds and the smell of manure. It was good to be home.

“Food and beer for the traveller returned! A good tale is a better one when told on a full stomach,” Roth’s voice boomed out above the noisy banter and rough back-slapping that still focused on his son.

Guntram, suddenly feeling very tired, seated himself on his favourite otter-skin chair and removed his damp cloak. The initial excitement was subsiding and many of well-wishers were being ushered out. Soon, only family and a selection of tribesmen remained.

His mother placed a bowl of foaming beer before him, together with a platter of cold mutton and a generous wedge of goat’s cheese. He attacked the food with gusto, a welcome contrast to his recent diet of berries and plant roots. He looked to his father who was smiling as he watched him eat. The scouting trip had been a difficult one, fraught with dangers, and Guntram was relieved to have returned in one piece. The tribe’s council had unanimously elected him to carry out the scouting trip, praising his skills and courage. He was expected to one day take Roth’s place and it was important that he had not failed in his task.

Guntram quickly consumed his meal, then began his report without prompting. “On crossing the Rhinus I saw numbers of the iron-shirts trading in the Gauls’ villages.” He paused, sucking in a deep breath before continuing. “I also witnessed similar meetings on our side of the river.”

“Guntram,” Barend interrupted. “The Gauls’ weakness is a tale we’re all familiar with, and it’s old news that Rome is again stretching its greedy fingers into our lands. So, how many iron–shirts were there in these settlements? And did you see anything that we don’t already know?”

“I counted only small numbers of the iron-shirts; no more than ten in each village. But, may my eyes rot in my head for what I saw in one village.” Guntram’s voice wavered.

“Spit it out boy, before we all surrender to old age,” Barend urged. It was met by a scolding look from Roth, who added calmly, “Go on boy.”

“There were other armed men in this village, and they mixed freely with the iron-shirts who were clearly their sword brothers. They carried similar weapons to the iron-shirts, but wore less armour. They were horse warriors...perhaps fifty in number.” The heat in the long-house was oppressive, the atmosphere charged, and he stopped to take a breath. “These warriors were German! They were Suebi!” He spat out the news to the hushed audience.

The response was immediate, vehement, and Guntram raised his voice above the cries of indignation. “I saw the hair knots of the Suebi as they walked bare-headed amongst the iron-shirts.”

When the initial furore subsided Roth asked simply, “Are you sure of this?”

Guntram dropped his head.

Roth held both hands aloft for silence, before continuing in an even tone, “So, Germans now take arms against Germans, and in the pay of the dogs of Rome. May Tiwaz rot their guts in this life and devour their souls in the next.” There was a chorus of grumbled curses. “Let us not forget that Rome has used our people before; their war-chiefs sending our young men to fight in their wars far away. Yet, there is a stench to this alliance.”

Jorn, a one-eyed veteran of many battles shouted, “We must raise the Cherusci, cross the great river and crush these Romans and their Suebi curs!” His plan was greeted with cheers and more scalding threats.

“Wait! Brothers wait!” Roth’s deep voice rang out. “We know that our hearts are fierce and our arms strong, but like the great bear we must be cunning. We must pick our time to strike and then strike in strength. The day of reckoning will come, I promise you. But, for now, we must gather our strength and prepare for the day when our blades will make the Romans pay for their arrogance.”

Shouts of support echoed Roth’s strong words.

His face flushed red, Roth continued, “We must send out runners to the villages of our people, and to our brothers the Usipetes and the Chatti, who also bear the iron-shirts no love. The war-chiefs will be summoned to meet on the first night of the next full moon.”

A great baritus erupted around Guntram that seemed to shake the very foundations of the long-house.

When the clamour subsided, his father moved proudly to his side. “Listen brothers,” his voice resonated over the heads of the assembled. “My son has returned safely with valuable news, and all this talk of battle has made me thirsty. Tonight we rejoice that Guntram is back safe, and then tomorrow we’ll turn to the task of dealing with our enemies.”

*

A thousand hammers pounded in his skull as he raised his head from the straw
. Gods! How much beer did I drink,
he pondered, as his eyes adjusted painfully to the light of dawn squeezing through the shuttered windows. Old Cort, his father’s hound, was barking at the rear of the long-house.
Probably disturbed by a starving fox or badger scavenging for food scraps,
Guntram thought.

Recumbent bodies slumbered all around him. He needed water. Coughing, he got unsteadily to his feet. After a brief search he found and drained a half-filled clay bottle. His mind turned to Jenell and the welcome she’d given him the previous night. He smiled, recalling her tenderness. Afterwards, she’d listened to him talk far into the night – talk of his uneasiness following the killing of the Roman, his concerns about the fighting ahead.
What a special women she is
, he thought.
I thank the Gods that it’s me that she favours.

Outside, old Cort continued to bark, and was joined by other dogs across the village. Bodies now stirred around him, disturbed by the noise. His father rose and moved towards the long-house’s rear entrance. Ilse was up and starting to clear the wreckage of food utensils that cluttered the floor. Nearby, young Faiga stretched her arms before nestling deeper into her furs.

He watched his father push the lodge’s door ajar, his tall frame clearly silhouetted in the breaking light, a lattice-work of old scars clearly visible on his bare torso. Guntram saw that he’d drawn his long–sword. Then he was gone.

Snatching up his framea, Guntram hurried after him. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut. He was almost at the door when the first raw scream shredded the air. Fully awake, he rushed outside. His father was nowhere in sight, and he headed in the direction of the scream, joined by others staggering from neighbouring buildings. All about him shrieks of fear filled the air, accompanied by angry shouts and the crying of children.

He smelt the acrid smoke before realizing that some of the long–houses were on fire. Blinking to clear his eyes, he saw the running figures of men carrying short swords and flaming torches. They were igniting anything that burned as they raced a weaving pattern between the buildings.

“Suebi!
”
Recognition struck him, and he quickened his pace to intercept one of them. As he closed, the Suebi hurled a torch at his head, followed quickly by a sideways slash at his neck with his cavalry sword. Guntram batted the torch aside with his framea and ducked low under the sword cut. In a single, smooth movement, he whipped the spear forwards into the Suebi’s exposed gut. The Suebi uttered a single, shuddering gasp of pain, before collapsing to the ground. Guntram wrenched the glistening blade head free. Heart racing, he quickly scanned his surroundings.

Every lodge within sight was ablaze, and all around him people fought to escape from their fiery prisons. Mounted horse-soldiers were entering the fray from all directions. The village was being choked by a noose of fire and iron, with those confronting the attackers being quickly cut down.

Through the haze of smoke, he glimpsed a line of iron-shirts moving towards him. They advanced in tight formation, the domes of their helmets gleaming above the large rectangular shields that protected their fronts. Their short swords stabbed out wickedly at anyone in their path, and Guntram looked around desperately for any sight of Jenell.

He turned in the direction of a shattering war cry, and saw through the swirling blackness a hand-full of Cherusci warriors charging the wall of iron-shirts. His stomach lurched – his father and Barend led from the front of the desperate group. The jarring sound of clashing sword, spear and war-hammer erupted as the Cherusci berserkers broke upon the wall of shields. Mighty Barend stuck a huge overhand blow with his war-hammer. The heavy weapon struck downwards with brutal force, crushing the helmet beneath and dropping the legionary like a stone.

Screaming, “Father!” Guntram raced towards the fighting. As he drew nearer, he saw that his father’s attempts to parry the iron-shirts’ sword thrusts was failing badly; a new red mouth opening on his body with every stride he took. Guntram drew back his throwing arm and let fly his framea. The streaking blade flew true, embedding itself in the neck of one of the attackers. The iron-shirt dropped his sword, his cries garbled as he choked on his own blood.

Drawing his hunting knife, Guntram increased his pace, only to see his father crumple. The attackers thrust their swords into the war chief’s face, arms and trunk as he lay defenceless on the ground. Guntram screamed his father’s name.

Barend was the last to fall, his body tattooed with bloody wounds and the snapped shaft of a Roman javelin sprouting from his back. War-hammer slipping from his fingers, he lifted his head high and vented a terrible yowl,
“
Tiwaaaz!” Then the great bear collapsed to the ground sodden with his blood.

All hope of survival cast aside, Guntram leapt on the back of an iron-shirt bestriding his father’s body. Before he could drive his knife home, something exploded against the side of his head.

His last thought was that he’d see his father in Valhalla soon.

*

He felt himself shaken roughly back to consciousness, before being seized under each arm and lifted unsteadily to his feet. Groggy, Guntram turned his head from side to side, the hard faces of two iron-shirts coming into focus.

His left eye was swollen shut, hot blood dripping freely onto his chest like dark syrup. So far as he could tell, the left side of his face was split open and the pain made him feel like vomiting. Held in an iron grip, blood-hazed images raced through his mind. He cared little for his own fate, but what of his family. His heart wrenched at the thought of them burning in their homes, or at best being struck down helplessly with the others. He knew it could be worse for the women, for his mother, sister and Jenell.

Fury welled up in him and he struggled against the restraining arms. A fist swung against his chin, twice, and he slumped to his knees.

He was pulled back to his feet. The sounds of battle had subsided, but the screaming of the women and children went on. Again, Guntram fought to break free. And then he felt the cold of a Roman blade against his throat.

“Go on, fucking kill me,” he swore, wanting death if his loved ones were gone. Instead, he was held tighter.

He blinked his good eye. Fires still burned all around him, lighting up the true horror of the slaughter. The iron-shirts hunted for their own wounded.

Those nearby gave a cheer as two mounted warriors rode into their midst. The first horseman, with his elaborate armour, seemed to be the Romans’ commander, while the second was dressed more plainly and had a German’s colour and build.

A third Roman moved into Guntram’s field of view on foot, greeting the two horsemen as they dismounted. Stocky, he wore a red tunic under his armour and a helmet with a plume of the same colour. His clean shaven face looked as if it had been cut from stone, and he appeared a warrior in every aspect of his bearing.