Altar of Blood: Empire IX (49 page)

He rose up in his saddle looking around in search of something that wasn’t readily apparent.

‘Ah … Tiro? Those men of the Angrivarii tribe you’re waiting for …?’

The spy relaxed his thighs and sat back down on the horse’s back, looking over at Varus with a raised eyebrow.

‘Centurion?’

‘I have a confession to make.’

‘I see. Well I’m sure you’ll be happier with whatever it is that’s on your mind out in the open.’

‘Indeed. Well, it’s to do with the fact that you can’t see the men you were expecting to meet here.’

Tiro raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it? Should I be expecting to feel both a sense of respect for your abilities in the field of clandestine intelligence and just a little disappointment at being outwitted?’

‘I’m afraid so, Tiro.’

The older man shook his head in disgust.

‘It happens every now and then, usually just as I’ve convinced myself that nothing can go wrong. Go on then.’

‘Are you sure you’re alright with his weight, Lugos?’

The giant Briton looked down at Marcus with a sober nod.

‘Can carry he all day if need.’

Scaurus had remained unconscious throughout their hurried preparation to move from the campsite, and the big man had ended the short debate as to what was to be done with him by scooping his recumbent form up into his arms and striding away to the waterlogged track while Marcus and Dolfus had stared after him. Walking their horses, now that the risk of being overhauled by enough Bructeri to overwhelm them was no longer a threat, the party had made the three-mile march through a dawn rendered uniformly grey by the mist that hung heavily over the waterlogged land, with Munir walking at their rear alongside Arminius and Lupus, his bow strung and ready to shoot. After an hour’s walk Gunda indicated that they should leave the path and strike off up a shallow, grassy slope studded with trees and bushes. A dark line of trees dominated the northern horizon, rising away into the mist, and at the edge of the forest three men on horses waited. When they spotted the detachment they trotted their mounts down the field until Marcus recognised two of the riders, standing with his hands on his hips and a broad grin as they dismounted to stand either side of a man whose face was familiar without his immediately being able to put a name to it.

‘Your posture in the saddle looks almost natural, Dubnus. Perhaps practice really does make perfect?’

The Briton walked forward and wrapped his arms around his friend, looking him up and down.

‘And you look like a man I used to know. What happened?’

Marcus tilted his head to indicate Gerhild.

‘The priestess happened, it seems. One moment we were talking, and the next I awoke as if from a long sleep to find myself in the middle of a fight. And I am … myself, again, or perhaps just most of the man I used to be.’

The Briton stared at Gerhild for a moment, but her return stare was unabashed.

‘A healer must heal, or what purpose does she serve?’

Marcus looked at Tiro again, his eyes narrowing in recognition.

‘I remember you now … but …’

‘But I’m the governor’s secretary?’ He shrugged. ‘That is one of the roles I fulfil within the administration of Germania Inferior, but hardly the most important.’

Varus cut across the spy, his impatience evident.

‘He spies on the governor for Cleander. And if your old friend Clodius Albinus has been somewhat amateur in his attempts to deal with the tribune, this man’s efforts have been nothing other than entirely professional. We were supposed to be met here by a hundred warriors of the Angrivarii tribe who Tiro intended would take every man here other than himself and Dolfus into the forest and butcher them. Even these two.’

He waved a hand at the cavalry troopers, who shot their decurion venomous looks.

‘And what about the priestess?’

The young Roman looked at Tiro with a questioning expression.

‘Do you want to tell them, or shall I?’

The spy sighed.

‘The witch was to stay here, with the Angrivarii, as a bargaining tool for them to use in keeping the new king of the Bructeri in his place. That was the price I offered them for their co-operation in killing all of you. But I’m still trying to work out how you know all this?’

Varus turned towards him.

‘For a man who’s so very well connected I have to say you seemed to have missed something rather obvious, Tiro. Even the governor knew that my uncle Julius had played a significant part in cementing relations with a number of tribes on this side of the Rhenus, including, should you still harbour any confusion on the matter, the Angrivarii. Apparently by the time he’d hunted and hawked with them, and fought their champion with naked blades to prove his manhood, the tribe’s king was so taken with him that he named my uncle Julius as his brother.’ He sniffed. ‘I believe they went so far as to clasp bloody palms, or some equally barbaric ritual of unending friendship. Anyway, given that neither Dubnus nor I is foolish enough to take a man like you at face value, I was careful to speak privately with the Marsi king, when I got the chance. Apparently dear old Julius left his mark there too, and Sigimund was only too happy to discuss the state of the world with his friend’s nephew once everyone else was abed. He showed me the message you’d written to the king of the Angrivarii, and upon the application of a suitable amount of gold he was more than happy to allow me to substitute a message of my own. A message from a close relative of the Angrivarii king’s favourite blood brother, which effectively makes me some sort of adopted nephew, and therefore with my honesty and probity beyond question. A few months from now he’ll be a hundred thousand denarii better off, small change to a family of our status, and everyone will be happy with their lot. The Angrivarii have been watching us, of course, Dubnus picked them out from the start, but they’ll allow us free passage back to the Marsi, and the Marsi will of course honour their promise to you, delighted that Rome has seen better of the idea of transporting Gerhild across their territory while, of course, holding us to your side of the bargain. As I said, everyone will be happy except for
you
.’

Tiro shook his head in amazement.

‘And you think you’ll get away with flouting the authority of the imperial chamberlain? Cleander will have you hunted down, shipped back to Rome and torn apart by dogs in the arena. You, Varus, have condemned your entire family to liquidation, the men killed out of hand and the women made to suffer. Perhaps your sisters will be tied to posts in the Flavian Arena and left to the sexual depravities of intoxicated baboons, as I hear is the fate of many Christian women, now that a more relaxed regime has been restored to the people’s entertainments by our rather enthusiastic young emperor.’

Marcus walked forward, nodding to Varus before turning to the spy, his eyes slitted with anger.

‘You’ve chosen the wrong man to threaten with familicide. We only face that risk if there are any witnesses to—’

He turned to Dubnus, who had tapped his arm, then followed his pointing hand to see a small group of men walking up the slope from the marsh, a mud-stained scrap of white cloth held by the leader. The party stood and watched as they crossed the field, Marcus nodding slowly as he realised that the man holding the flag of truce was Qadir, and that he was followed closely by a man wielding a Hamian bow, an arrow nocked and drawn with its head pointed squarely at the prisoner’s back. Turning, he shot Munir a swift glance, and the watch officer hurried back to a point with a clear view of the field, putting a shaft to his bow and then waiting, ready to draw and shoot.

‘That’s close enough!’

Qadir stopped, and the motley group of half a dozen men behind him followed suit. The warrior with the bow stepped alongside the Hamian, holding the bow across his fur-clad body and raising the arrowhead to his prisoner’s neck.

‘Which one of you commands this usurpation of my tribe’s sovereignty?’

Marcus looked at Dolfus, who shrugged and gestured to the Bructeri.

‘Be my guest.’

The Roman walked forward, stopping ten paces from his brother officer.

‘Well met, Qadir. I’ll confess I didn’t expect to see you again alive.’

The Hamian smiled fleetingly.

‘Or in one piece?’

‘That too. But here you are …’

The bowman pushed on the arrow, drawing a trickle of blood from his captive’s flesh.

‘Here he is. Alive, for these few moments at least.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘One of his archers is watching you from just over there, with an arrow strung and ready to loose. You could run a hundred paces and still be within his reach. Kill this man and you cut your own throat.’

The Bructeri smiled without humour.

‘I am already a dead man. I am Amalric, king of the Bructeri, and when I return to Thusila without our tribe’s captured eagle, without my seer, with most of the warriors of my household spent in their futile pursuit and with my uncle dead, there will be no future for me. My short reign will be over, and I will be killed by the tribal nobles, as will my wife and son. There is no mercy possible when failure is as complete as mine. Which is an irony, Roman, since my intention ever since my coronation has been to establish a less contentious relationship with our neighbour across the Rhenus, and given that, the most likely successor will be a man who will appeal to the hatred of your people that still runs deep in my people’s blood.’

Marcus stared at him for a moment before speaking.

‘How can you claim to seek peace? I have seen the results of your priest’s sacrifices of Roman legionaries, taken from the western bank of the river and spirited back to your sacred grove to be maimed and physically ruined, kept alive for their sport.’

Amalric shrugged.

‘What is your saying? Rome was not built in a day? These things, and more, were a regular feature of my father’s reign, and his father’s before him, but they will
not
survive to be a part of my son’s. You have helped me in this by putting my chief priest to death in the most appalling manner possible, a way that showed he lacked the protection of the gods, and when I return I will find a replacement who is a little less thirsty for the blood of your people. But I will need your help if I am to succeed in this. Will you bargain for this man’s life with me?’

Dubnus walked forward with his axe hanging at his side, his voice grating as he stared at the king.

‘And what do you want in return for our brother?’

Amalric shrugged.

‘The eagle, for a start. We won that sacred prize in battle, and it is a symbol of the pride we still feel when we sing of that great victory. I cannot return without it. And my seer, of course, she must also be returned to her people. Nothing less will satisfy the Bructeri’s need to see their king return victorious over our oldest enemy.’

Marcus shook his head slowly.

‘All that? For the return of just one captive, however valuable he might be to us?’

The king eased the tension off the arrow still strung to his captured bow and pushed its iron head into the turf, then put the weapon over his shoulder.

‘I can also give you this.’

Putting out a hand he took a cloak-wrapped bundle from one of the young warriors behind him, holding it out to allow an object to fall out. Cotta started at the contorted features on the severed head that came to rest staring sightlessly up into the grey morning sky.

‘Gernot.’

Amalric nodded.

‘Ah, the trader. Yes, this is Gernot. My uncle, and with my father dead the strongest believer in our state of perpetual war with Rome, a belief they shared from boyhood. I always planned to kill him at some point, but the opportunity was too strong to ignore after our defeat in the swamp. I instructed the closest members of my household to hang back, and allow Gernot’s men to do the fighting and dying, which left him vulnerable to my sword when we retreated in defeat. This negotiation would have been impossible were he to have witnessed it, and I suspect he would have been the man to supplant me on the throne were I to have returned to Thusila empty-handed. He had to die.’

Marcus frowned.

‘What of the men behind you?’

‘Mine from their helmets to their boots. They are boyhood friends who grew to manhood with me, wenched with me, fought with me, laughed with me and drank with me. They will tell tales of my audacity in taking back that which was stolen from the tribe, and my people will love me all the more.’

Marcus shrugged and turned back to Dolfus.

‘What would you do?’

The decurion opened his mouth to speak, but Tiro beat him to it.

‘Spit on his bargain! The empire doesn’t want peace with these people, it wants a state of perpetual war between them, alliances shifting at Rome’s behest as it befriends first one tribe and then another. Keep the eagle, and the witch, go home and be heroes while this would-be
peacemaker
goes back to face his doom. I’m sure we can find some way to smooth over the awkwardness between us if—’

Dolfus cut him off with a wave of his hand.

‘You asked for my opinion, Centurion?’ Marcus nodded, and the decurion turned to Amalric. ‘Then your bargain is accepted. On one condition.’

Amalric stared at him for a moment.

‘Which is?’

The Roman pointed at Tiro, a look of disgust on his face.

‘You will take this …
man
… with you as a captive. I don’t care what you do with him as long as you ensure that he never escapes from his captivity. Use him as an advisor if you like, he’s clever enough, although I’d counsel you to treat his words with caution. Or make a footstool of his bones and dried skin if you like, it matters little to me.’

Tiro took a step forward, his voice raised in outrage.

‘You cannot do this! I am a valued agent of the imperium, a man—’

He crumpled to the grass like a puppet with its strings cut as Dubnus tapped him briskly behind the ear with the butt of his axe. Dolfus looked down at his sprawled body for a moment, then turned back to the king.

‘But if he ever does escape I’ll make sure of one thing …’