Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

“You will find rich commerce among us in future,” Classicus declared. “The Empire of Gaul—” Pensively: “Why not? Bring the amber straight west, overland as well as by sea. . . . I will think about that when I have time.”

“Hold,” Burhmund interrupted. “I’ve a task.” He put heels to horse and trotted off.

Classicus’s regard followed him warily. The Batavian rode to the line of surrendered troops. The tail of the sad procession was just passing by. He drew alongside a man, almost the only one, who walked erect and proudly. Ignoring practicality, the man had wrapped a toga, clean and pipe-clayed, around his starveling frame. Burhmund leaned over and spoke to him.

“What’s gotten into his head?” Classicus muttered. Immediately he turned his own and glowered at Everard. He must have remembered the newcomer would overhear. Friction between allies should not be displayed to outsiders.

I’ve got to divert him, or he may well order me begone, the Patrolman considered. Aloud: “The Empire of Gaul, did you say? Do you mean that part of the Roman Empire?”

He foreknew the answer. “It is the independent nation of all the Gallic peoples. I have proclaimed it. I am its emperor.”

Everard acted duly impressed. “I beg your pardon, sir! I hadn’t heard, being so lately arrived.”

Classicus smiled sardonically. There was more to him than vainglory. “The empire itself is very lately founded. It will be a while before I reign from a throne instead of a saddle.”

Everard drew him out. That was easy. Uncouth and uninfluential, this Goth was nevertheless somebody to talk to and, after all, an impressive figure of a man, who had seen a lot, whose interest therefore held a subtly unique flattery.

Classicus’s dream was fascinating in detail, and by no means insane. He would detach Gaul from Rome. That would cut off Britain. Thinly garrisoned, its natives restive and resentful, the island should presently fall to him. Everard knew Classicus grossly underestimated Roman strength and determination. It was a natural mistake. He could not tell that the civil wars were over and Vespasian would henceforward rule competently, unchallenged.

“But we require allies,” he admitted. “Civilis shows signs of wavering—” He clipped his mouth shut, again realizing he had said too much. “What are your intentions, Everard?” he demanded.

“I am only rambling around, sir,” the Patrolman assured him. Get the tone right, neither humble nor arrogant. “You honor me by sharing your plans. The trade prospects—”

Classicus made a dismissive gesture and looked away. Hardness settled on his face. He’s thinking, he’s reaching a decision that he may have been brooding on. I can guess what. Chill went along Everard’s backbone.

Burhmund had completed his brief discussion with the Roman. He issued an order to a guard, who accompanied the prisoner from the train toward the crude wattle—and-daub shelters the Germans had made for themselves during the siege. Meanwhile Burhmund rode over to a score of bully boys who sat mounted ten or fifteen yards off, his household troops. He addressed the smallest and slenderest of them. The lad nodded obedience and hurried toward the abandoned encampment himself, overtaking the Roman and escort. Some Germans were there yet, to keep an eye on the civilians left in the fortress. They had extra horses, supplies, and equipment he could claim.

Burhmund returned to his companions. “What was that about?” Classicus asked sharply.

“A legate of theirs, as I thought he must be,” Burhmund said. “I had resolved I would send one such to Veleda. Guthlaf goes ahead, my fastest rider, to let her know.”

“Why?”

“I have heard grumbles among my men. I know folk at home feel the same. We have had our victories, but we have suffered our defeats as well, and the war drags on. At Ascibergium—I will be honest—we lost the flower of our army, and I suffered injuries that kept me days disabled. Fresh soldiers have been reaching the enemy. Men say it’s high time we gave the gods a blood-feast, and here is this herd of foes dropped into our hands. We should slay them, wreck their gear, offer everything to the gods. Then we shall overcome.”

Everard heard a gasp from high above.

“If it will satisfy your followers, you can.” Classicus sounded more eager than cool, though the Romans had weaned the Gauls away from human sacrifice.

Burhmund cast him a steely one-eyed stare. “What? Those defenders surrendered to you, they gave you their oath.” It was clear he had disliked that idea and had gone along with it only because he must.

Classicus shrugged. “They’ll be worthless till we’ve fed them up, and afterward unreliable. Kill them if you wish.”

Burhmund stiffened. “I do not wish. And it would provoke the Romans further. Unwise.” He hesitated. “However, best we make a gesture. I am sending Veleda that dignitary. She can choose what to do with him, and persuade the people it’s the right thing.”

“As you will. Now, for my part, I have business of my own. Farewell.” Classicus clucked to his horse and cantered southward. Rapidly he passed the wagons and prisoners, dwindled in sight, disappeared where the road entered a thick stand of forest.

Yonder, Everard knew, most of the Germans were camped. Some had recently come in Burhmund’s train, some had lain outside Castra Vetera for months and were sick of huts grown filthy. Though still thinly leaved, the woods provided windbreak; they were clean and alive, like the woods of home; the wind in their treetops spoke with the voices of the darkling gods. Everard suppressed a shudder.

Burhmund squinted after his retreating confederate. “I wonder what,” he said in his native tongue. “Hm.” It could not have been a conscious idea, just a vague hunch, that made him wheel about, ride after the man in the toga and his keeper, gesture at his bodyguards. They hurried to meet him. Everard ventured to join them.

Guthlaf the courier emerged from among the huts, riding a fresh pony and leading three remounts. He trotted to the river and boarded a waiting ferry. It shoved off.

Approaching the legate, Everard got a good look at him. From his appearance, swarthily handsome despite the haggardness, he was of Italian birth. He had stopped upon command and waited with antique impassivity for whatever might befall him.

“I want to take care of this at once, lest something go awry,” Burhmund said. To the Gaul, in Latin: “Go back to your duty.” To a pair of his warriors: “You, Saeferth, Hnaef, I want you to bring this fellow to Wael-Edh among the Bructeri. Guthlaf’s barely gone, carrying word of it, but that’s as well. You’ll have to fare much easier lest you kill the Roman, the shape he’s in.” Half kindly, he told the captive in Latin: “You are going to a holy woman. I think you will be well treated if you behave yourself.”

Awe upon them, the designated warriors hustled their charge toward the former encampment to prepare for the journey. Floris’s voice trembled in Everard’s head. “ Ach, nie, de arme —That must be Munius Lupercus. You know what will happen to him.”

The Patrolman subvocalized his answer. “I know what will happen all around.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

“Not a God damned thing. This is written. Hang tough, Janne.”

“You look grim, Everard,” said Burhmund in his Germanic tongue.

“I am . . . weary,” Everard replied. Knowledge of the language had been instilled in him before he left the twentieth century (as well as Gothic, just in case). It was akin to what he had used in Britain some four centuries futureward, when the descendants of tribesmen on these North Sea shores were invading it.