Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

“I too,” Burhmund murmured. For an instant he seemed oddly, endearingly vulnerable. “We’ve both been long on the trail, eh? Let us rest while we may.”

“Your path has been harder than mine, I think,” Everard said.

“Well, a man fares easiest alone. And earth clings to the boots when blood has made it muddy.”

A thrill drove his forebodings from Everard. This was what he’d hoped for, had been working toward since he arrived here two days ago. In many ways the Germans were childlike, unreserved, devoid of any concept of privacy. More than Julius Classicus, who simply displayed his ambitions, Claudius Civilis—Burhmund—yearned to speak into a sympathetic ear, unburden himself to somebody who laid no claims on him.

“Listen close, Janne,” Everard transmitted to Floris. “Tell me whatever questions occur to you.” In their short but intense time of ready making, he had found she was quick to understand people. Between them they might gain insight, a feel for what was going on and what it could lead to.

“I will,” she agreed jaggedly, “but I had better also keep watch on Classicus.”

“You fought for Rome since you were a youth, did you not?” Everard prompted in Germanic.

Burhmund barked a laugh. “Aye, and marched, drilled, built roads, barracked, squabbled, diced, whored, got drunk, got sick, yawned through endless dullness—the soldier’s life.”

“Yet I’ve heard you have a wife, children, landholdings.”

Burhmund nodded. “It wasn’t all pack and hike. For me and my close kinsmen, less than for the ruck of the men. We were of the kingly house, you see. Rome wanted us as much for keeping our folk quiet as for soldiering. So we made officer fast, and often got long furloughs when our units were stationed in Lower Germany. Which they were, mostly, till the troubles began. We’d go home on leave, take part in the folkmoots, speak well of Rome, besides seeing our families.” He spat. “What thanks our services gained us!”

Recollection flowed from him. The exactions of Nero’s ministers had kindled increasing anger among the tributaries, riots broke out, tax collectors and other plague dogs got killed. Civilis and a brother of his were arrested on charges of conspiracy. To Everard Burhmund said that they had merely protested, albeit in strong words. The brother was beheaded. Civilis went in chains to Rome for further interrogation, no doubt under torture, probably to be followed by crucifixion. The overthrow of Nero stalled proceedings. Galba pardoned Civilis, among various goodwill gestures, and sent him back to his duties.

Very soon Otho in turn cast Galba down, while the armies in Germany hailed Vitellius emperor and the armies in Egypt elevated Vespasian. Civilis’s debt to Galba almost got him condemned again, but that was forgotten when the Fourteenth Legion was withdrawn from Lingonian territory, taking along the auxiliaries he commanded.

Seeking to secure Gaul, Vitellius entered Treverian lands. His soldiers looted and murdered in Divodurum, Metz to be. (That helped account for the instant popular support Classicus obtained when he rebelled.) A brawl between the Batavi and the regulars could have become catastrophic but was quelled in time. Civilis took the lead in bringing matters under control. With Fabius Valens for their general, the troops marched south to aid Vitellius against Otho. Along the way Valens took large bribes from communities to keep his army from sacking them.

When he ordered the Batavi to Narbonensis, southern Gaul, to relieve beleaguered forces there, his legionaries mutinied. They cried that this would deprive them of their bravest men. The disagreement was composed and the Batavi went on as before. After he crossed the Alps and word came of another defeat for their side, at Placentia, the soldiers mutinied again, this time at his inaction. They wanted to go help.

Burhmund chuckled, deep in his throat. “He obliged us.”

The two warriors rode from the huts. The Roman was between them, clad for travel. Remounts loaded with food and gear came behind. They went down to the Rhine. The ferry was back. They boarded.

“The Othonianists tried to stop us at the Po,” Burhmund said. “That was when Valens found the legionaries had been right to keep us Germans. We swam across and cut a foothold, which we kept till the rest could follow. Once we’d forced the river, the enemy broke and fled. Great was the slaughter at Bedriacum. Shortly afterward, Otho killed himself.” He grimaced. “But Vitellius had no stronger rein on his troops. They ran wild through Italy. I saw some of that. It was ugly. This wasn’t an enemy land they’d taken, it was the land they were supposed to defend. Wasn’t it?”

That might have been part of the reason why the Fourteenth grew restless and snarly. A riot between the regulars and the auxiliaries nearly became a pitched battle. Civilis was among the officers who got things quieted. The new Emperor Vitellius ordered the legionaries to Britain and attached the Batavi to his palace troops. “But that wasn’t good either. He had no grasp of how to handle men. Mine got slack, drank on duty, fought in barracks. At last he returned us to Germany. He could do naught else, unless he wanted blood spilled, which could have included his precious own. We were sick of him.”

The ferry, a broad-beamed scow with oars, had crossed the stream. The travelers debarked and vanished into the forest.

“Vespasian held Africa and Asia,” Burhmund went on. “His general Primus now landed in Italy and wrote to me. Aye, by then I had that much of a name.”

Burhmund sent word around to his widespread connections. A feckless Roman legate agreed. Men went to hold the passes of the Alps; no Vitellianist Gauls or Germans would cross northward, while the Italians and Iberians had plenty to engage their attention where they were. Burhmund called an assembly of his tribe. Vitellius’s conscription had been the last outrage they would take. They clashed blade on shield and shouted.

Already the neighboring Canninefates and Frisii knew what was afoot. Their folkmoots yelled for men to rally to the cause. A Tungrian cohort left its base and joined. German auxiliaries, bound south for Vitellius, heard the news and defected.

Two legions moved against Burhmund. He smashed them and drove the remnants into Castra Vetera. Crossing the Rhine, he won a clash near Bonna. His couriers urged the defenders of Old Camp to come forth on behalf of Vespasian. They refused. That was when he proclaimed secession, open war for the sake of freedom.

The Bructeri, Tencteri, and Chamavi entered his league. He dispatched couriers far and wide through Germany, Adventurers flocked from the wilds to his banners. Wael-Edh foretold the doom of Rome.

“And then the Gauls,” Burhmund said, “those of them Classicus and his friends could raise. Just three tribes thus far—What’s the matter?”

Everard had started at a scream that he alone heard. “Nothing,” he said. “I thought I spied a movement, but it was nothing. Weariness does that, you know.”

“They are killing them in the forest,” Floris’s voice choked. “It is ghastly. Oh, why did we have to come to this day?”

“You remember why,” he told her. “Don’t watch it.”

They could not take years to feel out the whole truth. The Patrol could ill spare that much lifespan of theirs. Moreover, this segment of space-time was unstable; the less they from the future moved about in it, the better. Everard had decided to start with a visit to Civilis several months downtime from the split in events. Preliminary scouting suggested the Batavian would be most easily accessible when he accepted the surrender of Castra Vetera; and the occasion would add a chance to meet Classicus. Everard and Floris had hoped to get sufficient information and depart before that happened which Tacitus related.