John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

With a single bound, Ionus dived headfirst into a clump of brush. Wriggling like a snake, he was gone from sight in an instant and no sound betrayed his passage.

“I wish I knew how to do that,” I said.

“He’s deserted us!” Hermes cried, panic in his voice.

“Wouldn’t you?” I demanded.

One of the men barked something to the others. Some of them continued to approach us, not bothering any longer with stealth. Others combed through the brush, poking it with their spears, trying to find Ionus. There were at least a dozen closing in on us with their weapons leveled. I heard a rasping sound next to me and saw out of the corner of my eye that Hermes had drawn his sword. With the edge of my hand I chopped at his wrist and he dropped the weapon with a yelp.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded. “They’ve come to kill us! We have to fight!”

“Settle down, you idiot,” I told him. “We’re not going to fight our way out of this.”

“Well, we’re certainly not going to talk our way out! Do you know some magic that will get us away from here?”

“No.” I struck my haughtiest pose and addressed the appreaching men. “Gentlemen, you seem to think that some sort of hostility lies between us. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus of Rome, and Rome desires only the friendliest relations with the great German people.” Dressed and painted as I was, the effect must have been ludicrous, but when there is no substance, sheer style must suffice.

One of them said something in their fighting-wolves language and the others laughed heartily.

“You’ve made a good impression,” Hermes said shakily. One of them stepped up to him and clouted him alongside the head with a spear butt. Another did the same for me, staggering me sideways. Someone grabbed me from behind and I was quickly divested of my weapons.

“Yes, it seems we’re not to be killed instantly,” I said. “So far, so good.” My hands were bound behind me and Hermes was hoisted to his feet and likewise bound.

Our captors were big men, even bigger than Gauls, and twice as savage-looking. Gauls painted themselves and bleached their hair with lime and made it stand up in spikes for a frightening effect. These men exuded wildness and menace just by standing around breathing. Their hair and beards were every shade of yellow and their eyes were frighteningly blue.

Their heavy furs made them seem even bulkier, but they were not massively built, like the big-shield gladiators so familiar to Romans. Although they were immensely strong, they were built like wolves or racehorses, with lean muscles stretched over long bones. They had absurdly small waists and moved gracefully despite their size.

“Oh, we’ve had it now,” Hermes said, blood trickling from a lump rapidly swelling on the side of his head. “Why didn’t we break and run for it when we had the chance?”

“We never had the chance,” I told him. “Look at these beasts. Do you think you could have made it all the way back to the camp with them at your heels?”

He looked them over, cringing at their outlandish fearsomeness. “Well, no.”

“So be calm and we may get out of this alive. As yet, there’s no war between Rome and the Germans. They just aren’t pleased with the way Caesar has handled the Helvetian migration. Maybe they’ll hold us for ransom.”

“Would anybody pay to get you back?” he demanded.

“No, but there’s a special fund for just that purpose,” I assured him, hoping it was true. I knew that the eastern legions maintained a ransom fund, because ransom was a major source of income for the Oriental kings.

A German yapped something and swatted me in the ribs with his spear butt. “I think we’ve been told to shut up,” I wheezed. Hermes just nodded. He learned fast.

A man fastened a noose around my neck and then did the same for Hermes. I thought: They hang their sacrifices.

If they had led us back toward the grove I probably would have dropped dead from terror, but instead they began leading us to the northwest, up over a shoulder of the hill. As we trudged along at the end of our leashes, I made a closer examination of our captors. Besides the usual fur tunics, most of them wore fur leggings that came to just below their knees.

There was no uniformity to their armament. Most possessed belt-knives with crude handles of wood, antler, or bone. A few had bows cased across their backs. Each had a long spear and most carried a couple of short javelins as well. What surprised me most was their poverty when it came to metal. Among the Gauls, most warriors had an iron-tipped spear, an iron-bossed shield, and most men owned a long- or short sword. To this basic armament the better-off warriors added a bronze or iron helmet and the chiefs usually had a shirt of mail. Not these Germans. Except for the knives, many had no other metal save a copper bracelet and a few studs on their wide leather belts. Only the leader of this band had an iron speartip, the others contenting themselves with points of bone or of fire-hardened wood. Their long, narrow shields were made wholly of wooden planks, bossed with oak and bound around the edges with rawhide.

Primitive though they were, they looked nonetheless deadly for it. You just have to shove harder to thrust a wooden spear through an enemy. These men looked eminently strong enough to accomplish the task. A Roman soldier was a veritable ironmonger’s shop by comparison, but these men seemed fit to make up the difference with sheer ferocity.

We had not been walking long when we were joined by another dozen men. These had sour looks on their faces and the words they spoke to their leader in their growling language were clearly not expressions of joy.

“No blood on any of them,” Hermes muttered. “Maybe Ionus got away.” A warrior backhanded him across the mouth. Considering the blow that arm could have delivered, it was a mere love pat, but it bloodied his mouth and his lips began to swell.

We went over the shoulder of the hill, through a small pass, and descended into a dark valley set among densely wooded slopes. I tried to remember in which direction the river lay, but I was disoriented. I knew I could find my way back to the camp if I could make my escape, but in exactly what relationship we lay to the rest of the world, I had no idea.

Once in a while the man in the lead whistled quietly, a sort of bird-call sound. When he did this, he was answered from somewhere overhead. The second or third time he did so, I looked up and could just make out the form of a warrior crouching high in a tree, still as a hiding fawn.

It was late afternoon when we reached a large clearing in the middle of the hills. Around the periphery of the clearing crude huts had been erected, no more than saplings bent into bows and covered with peeled bark or brush. There was one hut that was three or four times the size of the others, but still a rather modest structure. From all the signs that I could see, the little village was newly established. The smell of fresh-cut wood was everywhere. I saw no women. This was a warrior band, not a tribe on the move.

On several racks, deer and other game hung ready for butchering. I wondered if our captors were hunters who had stumbled upon us or men specially detailed to keep an eye on the grove. I suspected the latter.

In the very center of the clearing stood a tall post crudely carved into manlike form. The staring eyes were made from lumps of hammered tin and its grimacing mouth was studded with real teeth taken from a variety of beasts; a cloak of wolf-skin hung from its rudely defined neck. Arms were sketchily carved in low relief, one hand holding what appeared to be a noose of braided hide, the other an ax or hammer. The extreme stylization made details difficult to interpret and my mood was not one conducive to art appreciation.