War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One (38 page)

Arminius knew that he was expected to view the gruesome trophy, as well as confirming that it was the true head of the governor. After, he’d send it as proof of victory to Marcobodus of the Mark, King of the Marcomanni, as testimony to all that Arminius had planned coming to fruition. He plainly recalled the look of contempt on Marcobodus’s face when he asked him for the support of the large German federation. He’d almost begged, despite his nagging belief that the King was never going to commit to their struggle.

Drained, Arminius rubbed his eyes. Even now it was difficult to accept victory over the eagles.

He scrutinised the Roman square, saw the gaping holes in its sides. He gauged that no more than a hundred were left, and looking closer, he thought he caught a flash of the eagle, but wasn’t sure.

Removing his helmet, Arminius walked towards the scarf of warriors that pressed the square ever more tightly. They recognised him and called out, raising their bloody weapons in salute. He smiled through the fatigue, wrinkles creasing back the corners of his eyes. Raucous cheering broke out, growing in volume.
This is what I’ve striven for
, he told himself.

Accepting the acclaim, he punched his sword into the air, and thought of neither the harrowing past nor the beckoning future.

*

Servannus swayed amid the core of veterans at the centre of the square. Dracco fought at his side.

Less than fifty remained and when the next attack came it would be finished. Servannus knew that life held nothing more for him beyond the imminent final stand.

Since entering the forest he’d experienced a deep sense of foreboding, but to be seen not to support Varus would have been as good as committing political suicide. All of his hard work and constant scraping would have been for nothing.

Now, it didn’t matter.
Gods! It’s so unfair that I should die here, like this, he thought,
feeling the tears well up.

The battle pressed in and Servannus struck out wildly for his life – a life in the measure of the next breath, the next sword stroke.

*

At the heart of the final encounter the terrible war-hammer struck savagely, shearing away metal and flesh. Bodies lay broken in Guntram’s wake, and those before him reeled back before the onslaught.

Despite their filthy appearance, the two Romans’ armour and helmet’ plumes depicted them as centurion and officer. They were the closest to Guntram and he braced himself to attack.

Then, the centurion emitted a startled grunt and pitched sideways. A spear bloomed from his thigh, its shaft snapping with a dull crack as he fell sideways.

Guntram turned to the officer, shaking sweat from his eyes, blinking hard to clear his vision. Studying him more closely, he took in the dark, bloodshot eyes and distinctive cruel mouth. The arrogant chin above the helmet strap trembled. It was a face etched by fire in his brain. His mind screamed out –
Servannus!

“You!” Guntram cried. Wrenching off his helmet, he threw it aside. “Remember this face, Roman dog?” he spat out the words.

The Roman made a whimpering sound and looked frantically about. Then, seeming to spot a gap in the cordon of tribesmen, he threw down his sword and made a dash for the forest. The warriors quickly converged on him.

Guntram bolted the command, “Stay back! He’s mine. And no one is to touch the centurion!”

The warriors backed off.

*

Servannus gasped for breath as he plunged through the water-logged forest. Branches sprang back, lacerating his face, and the pain came in throbbing waves. Wounded in the arm, he’d panicked and pulled out the barbed arrow. Now it felt like his heart pounded in the wound and blood spattered his whole front.

His empty scabbard manoeuvred between his legs and he tripped. Dirty water filled his mouth and eyes and a violent pain wracked his arm. He tried to hold back the cry, but couldn’t.

He struggled to his feet, realizing that the water rose to above his knees. Unclasping his scabbard, he flung it away.
Thank Mithras he’s not following!
he reassured himself after looking quickly behind. Ahead of him the forest thinned out, yielding to foggy swamp. “If I can just reach the fog,” he mouthed. “I can do it! Just keep walking...” He lurched forwards.

After wading a short distance, Servannus realized that the surrounding murk was thickening and that he could no longer hear the sounds of battle.
I’ve made it!
he told himself, and smiled.

Ahead, a small island of earth and reeds poked up through the water. His breath came fast and his vision swam.
I need to rest before I pass out
, he decided,
just for a short time
.

He fell forwards onto the island. The pain in his arm was bad and he clenched his teeth against the urge to vomit. For the present he was content to lie there, not moving. Darkness pushed in, and he no longer wanted to fight it...

It was afternoon in Herculaneum. Fresh winds blew in from the harbour shore, the villa’s shadows bending away from a warm sun that crawled across a brilliant blue sky. The tiled floor of the courtyard glimmered brightly around him, highlighting animals and gods in mosaic. It was dazzling. A salty breeze from the sea caressed his neck and face, carrying with it the smell of freshly baked bread from the kitchens, while a servant ushered towards him with a pitcher of cooled wine, his sandals softly clopping on the marbled floor of the colonnade. Everything was fine, and he was safe.

Then the pain in his arm returned, flushing the vision away. He opened his eyes and knew someone was there, standing over him. Twisting his head, he saw the large man-shadow outlined against the fog. Sobbing, he squeezed his eyes shut and searched for the blackness that would blot out the reality.

He felt the ex-gladiator grip him by the nape, and his fingers felt like iron. Close to his ear a voice hissed, “This is for my people and my loved ones slain on your command. The blade’s too clean for you. Let foulness cleanse foulness!”

His face was driven down into the churned muck. He desperately reached back, clawing at the hand that forced him deeper, but his efforts were useless against the German’s crushing power.

Servannus tried to scream, but foul sludge filled his nose and mouth. His legs jerked out as mud was sucked into his lungs. There was a grunting noise above him that sounded far away, and his face sank deeper. His stomach heaved and the strength left his arms, and then there was stillness . . .

*

A slimy blood trail marked Dracco’s path to the oak.

He sat with his back set squarely against it. His life-blood pulsed between fingers clamped over the wound in his thigh. No warrior approached him, but he held his knife against his throat; ready for the single deep cut that would end it.

The big German pushed through the encircling warriors, to stand glaring down at him, the terrible war-hammer balanced over one shoulder. He waved the warriors away and none protested.

Dracco peered up though the pain and exhaustion into the German’s face. It was older and harder, and the scar was much fainter, but there was no mistaking it.

“You’re still breathing stone-face.” The warrior’s Latin was heavily accented. “I didn’t think one so old could live so long...barely.

Dracco managed a strained smile before coughing out his reply. “Stone-face, a new name for me....one of many. As many as the battles and the scars.” His blade remaining at his throat, he ventured, “I see you’ve collected a few scars of your own since we last met.”

The German seemed to read his face. “Give me the knife,” he ordered.

“So that your friends can play fucking ball with my head!” Dracco snorted, grinning oddly. “I don’t think so.”

Snake-quick, the German’s foot lashed forward, kicking the knife away from Dracco’s grasp. Its course scored a shallow furrow across his throat, before it landed upright in the mud and well out of reach.

Dracco knew what sort of death awaited him and he let his head ease back against the damp wood. A blurry veil draped before him and he could do nothing to edge it back.

*

His face darkly intense, he walked amongst the fallen, the shrieks and clangs of battle replaced by the moans and prayers of the dying.

Men, women and children lay in the mud, some alone, others in heaps. The smell was awful. A severed hand lay palm up in Guntram’s path, as if in friendship, and he stepped over it. It was a great victory, but it didn’t ease the great hollowness that he felt inside; for Jenell and for his missing brother. And, he needed find Wilda, or at least confirm that she was safe and Blaz too.

He touched his hand to his scalp and it came away smeared with tacky blood. The energy that drove his muscles was ebbing away, and he felt the ache of his wounds.

Then, as he watched the warriors moving amongst the grim wreckage of battle, something caught his attention: someone was calling his name. Through the clutter of bodies he saw two figures heading towards him. The taller held up his hand to wave and called his name again; this time louder, clearer. It was Blaz, with a boy at his side.

Guntram let the war-hammer slip from his hand, and he broke into a half-run, pushing men aside as he cut a straight path towards them. Suddenly, there were no more bodies in the way, and a bolt of recognition ripped through him.

“I’ve found someone who’s keen to see you.” Blaz’s words seemed to float about him and he blinked hard as if to clear his vision. He stared at the boy intently as though marking his face from a memory, then shook his head in wonder.

His brother ran forward and wrapped his arms about his waist. He pushed the boy’s face tight against his chest and held him there.

“Oh Guntram! I was told you were dead!” the boy cried freely as the words spilled out.

Guntram held him at arm’s length, searching his body for wounds. Satisfied there were none, he said, “In one piece I see, and by the gods how you’ve grown!” He laughed and his brother’s smile split wider.

“I found him with the wounded and had quite a job to prize him away,” Blaz joked.

“Still playing the physician,” Guntram said, half-teasing. “Then, I would have expected nothing less.”

When his brother spoke, his face was sombre. “During the battle the Roman soldiers were being killed all around me, and I hid in the forest. Then our warriors began searching for those who’d tried to escape. So, I hid under the bodies....” He took a deep breath. “Later, when the fighting became quiet, I came out and tried to help some of the wounded. Then, the warriors came back and started killing them.” He paused, the horror clearly marked on his face. “I called out to the warriors in German, and when they realized I was Cherusci they sent word...and then Blaz came.”

Guntram placed his hand on Blaz’s shoulder, “My thanks brother.” There was tightness in his throat when he asked,

“What of Wilda?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen her and she was in one piece,” Blaz answered, still smiling.

Greatly relieved, Guntram turned to his brother. The boy looked very pale. Guntram squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Strom, the face of war is a terrible thing, but Rome has given us no choice.”

His brother frowned and averted his eyes.

Seeing Strom’s dismay, Guntram lifted his chin with a forefinger and their eyes met. “Father used to say that victory was not about how many enemies lay dead, but was about how many were left in fear. Do you remember?”

“I...I think so.”

“Our victory today will send a message to Rome itself and the Emperor,” Guntram told him. “Now they will fear us, and through fear will leave us in peace . . . for a while.”

Strom appeared comforted by his words and replied, “War separated us, and strangely it has brought us together again.” In remembering, his face took on a painful expression. “There were times when I could stand my life with Servannus no longer, and wished for death. But a voice in my head told me not to give up, that there was hope. Perhaps it was father’s voice? I don’t really know.” His eyes bright, smiling, he went on, “But, I know that nothing will separate us again.”

“Never again,” Guntram confirmed, pulling him close once more.

*

He may have passed out, Dracco wasn’t sure. He felt himself lifted by strong arms and carried. He was placed on the back of an auxiliary war-horse, a water bag sloshing noisily from the saddle’s pommel.

He looked down at his thigh, feeling sick. The spear-head remained embedded in his leg, but the surplus shaft had been cut away. He realized that if it was removed without the aid of a hot iron he’d bleed to death. A frayed leather belt was fastened tightly his thigh, just above the wound to restrict blood loss.

Alongside him sat a flaxen haired warrior mounted on a black stallion. Hard blue eyes watched his every move. He spoke a few words in German, and then handed the reins of Dracco’s horse across to him. Swinging his mount away, he indicated for Dracco to follow.

Unable to understand this latest turn of events, Dracco looked around, searching for the big German. He located him a short way off. He was stood watching him, hands folded on the butt of his war-hammer. A boy was at his side, his hair cut short in the Roman fashion, and a thick blanket was wrapped around him.

“What is this?” Dracco asked in Latin.

Not moving, the German responded, “Your guide will lead you beyond the forest and clear of our skirmishers, and the rest will be up to you. You’re a tough old boar, and with luck, you might live to reach Haltern.”

“Why?” Dracco asked simply.

“Perhaps because I’ve killed enough today. Or maybe your old head is not worth the trouble. But, if you live, remember that we are now
even
. Cross my path again and I will put you in the ground. Now go, and tell your masters what has befallen their mighty army. After, you’d be wise to leave this land that will never be yours.”

Then Dracco’s guide was moving off, signalling him to follow. Casting a final look back at the warrior, Dracco nudged his mount forward.