Wallace Breem - Eagle in the Snow

Quintus said, “It would seem that Scudilio has betrayed Bingium to the barbarians. To test them, and—and prove Goar right, I sent a patrol of three men to the town with orders to return. That was three hours ago and they have not come back.”

“They might have been ambushed and killed, or even delayed.”

“No, Maximus.”

I was silent. He was right. I knew that none of these things had happened to these men on their journey to Bingium. They had been ambushed and killed inside the camp, not out of it.

“Where is the legion now?”

He said, in a low voice, “In a valley, about a mile down the road, just off a track to the left. I told Aquila to halt there and await your orders.”

I looked at them in turn. I said, “They have all the stores that we need: food, arms, water, everything.”

“I know,” said Quintus. “Everything.”

“When did they betray us?”

“I do not know.” He spoke in a curious voice, and I knew, from the way he looked at me, that something was still wrong.

“Is that all?”

“It would seem to be enough; but it is not, in fact, quite all.”

“Go on.”

“We have a prisoner here, a Frank, who tells a curious story. Centurion!”

An elderly man was dragged before me, his hands tied behind his back. He had grey hair and a grey beard, and I recognised him. It was Fredegar, the sword-brother of Marcomir, whom I had not seen since the night I made that hurried, hopeless journey in the rain to avert a catastrophe, and failed.

I said, “What do you do here?”

He said, hoarsely, “You did not bother about us when our Prince died and we were defeated. You never asked what happened to us and to our people.”

“What did happen, old man? You forget that Marcomir broke faith with me.”

“You let that man take our lands.” He nodded to Goar, who stared at him, contemptuously. “He was your ally then. We did not matter.”

“Come to the point, old man, or I will lead you to it myself, and it will be sharper than you think.”

He said, “The Alans took our land, our bergs and our young women. Yet, despite the fact that you no longer thought us of any moment, we stayed loyal. Marcomir would have wished it so. When the fighting began, we tried to help. The Alans did not want us. But when things began to go badly we crossed the river to join you and found the Marcomanni attacking your limes. We fought them, and then your men came up. This one,” he pointed with his chin at Quintus, “took us for the enemy and fought back. When I had been captured I told him what I knew, but he would not believe me because this man had spoken to him first.”

“What would you say again that my friend did not believe?”

“That the Vandals tried to bribe the commandant at Bingium, and failed; then when the fighting started the Alans held off. It was we who attacked the Vandals in the dawn of that first morning, for you had told Marcomir you wanted the waggons destroyed. Only later in the day, when it seemed that you were holding them, did the Alans at last make war on your side.” He spat. “They are a people who are loyal only to the strong. Later, when things did not go well with you, they retreated to the hills and let the Marcomanni cross the river; and they murdered the cavalry you sent to the east bank, while pretending to be their friends. I, myself, saw their messenger carry the head of Didius to the Vandal kings.” He paused, and then said, in an even louder voice, “They crossed the ice at Bingium and made for the camp, pretending one thing but doing another, and when the commandant let them in they took the camp by storm and destroyed your garrison. All that happened to-day. All this would I say, still, even though you burned me on a fire.”

Goar said quietly, “It is, of course, a lie. Bingium was betrayed by a man who had Aleman blood.” He turned to me in exasperation. “Did I not warn you of the risk you took? I do not blame you for it. It is only traitors and idiots who make fools of clever men. But that is no consolation to the clever men.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He gave me a strained smile. He said, “I, too, made mistakes. Your cavalry were a great help. But there were too many Vandals. We could not hold them, any more than you could. And you are trained soldiers. We are not.”

I turned to Fredegar. “Goar of the Alans was a brother in blood to your dead prince. That is a strong oath that he took. It is dangerous to meddle with the gods. Would he break it, do you think? Would you?”

“He is a liar,” said the Frank bitterly.

I said coldly, “I cannot busy myself with your feuds. They are not my concern.”

“What is then? Ask him why he crossed the river when he told you that he would not be able to do so.”

Goar said angrily, “I crossed to let the general know what I had done. My men are still on the other bank. But we have fought together and I owed him much. So I came to see him and to wish him well.”

“He is a liar,” said a voice out of the darkness.

We all turned. Straining my eyes, I could see a shadow against a tree and then the shadow became a man, dark against the white snow. He walked slowly towards us, like an old man, hunched and feeble, until we could see his face. It was Scudilio, the auxiliary commandant at Bingium. He was wearing his uniform, and his helmet was on his head. He held his right shoulder in his left hand and I could see blood upon the hand. His face was a ghastly colour and I could hear his breath rasp in and out, as it does when a man is in great pain. No-one moved or spoke. He came forward until he was almost face to face with Goar. The Alan did not move. “Traitor,” he spat.

Scudilio stood there, swaying on his feet. He said in a whisper, “If I am, then tell me whose arrow is in my back.”

He turned and fell sideways to the ground. The shaft of a great arrow protruded from his shoulder blade, and it quivered slightly as the wounded man fought for breath.

Quintus stepped forward, knelt down and touched the arrow. Then he looked up at me and said softly, “This is an arrow such as the Alans make. Look at the feathers, and this coloured cock feather here that they use as a guide for notching.”

Goar said, “When they betrayed Bingium they must have left the camp and met some of my men.”

Scudilio groaned. I bent down beside him. He said in a whisper, “We were surrounded by Burgundians. Then they withdrew. Later, some recrossed the ice. Then the Alans came. They shouted to us that the Marcomanni were crossing the river higher up and that they would reinforce us in return for food and weapons. I was a fool. I let them in. But Goar was with them and I knew you trusted him. Inside the camp they attacked us. There were too many of them. We fought back. We tried to escape. I fired the camp. Some of us broke out. Then we blundered into the Marcomanni. I gave my men a meeting-point and told them to run and hide, and find it later, in the dark. We split up. I was wounded and lost. I made for the road. That is all I know.”

Fredegar said, “He speaks the truth, that one. The Alans had spears on which were the heads of those men you sent across the ice.” He looked at me and smiled. “You do not know your friends.”

“What Roman ever does,” I said bitterly. “How many men have you?”

The Frank said, “I brought two thousand over the river. Some are dead. Some are prisoners in your laagar down the road. The others are scattered. But they will come back.”

“How many, Scudilio?”

He gasped with pain. He whispered, “I do not know. Perhaps three hundred.”

I said sharply, “Get that wound attended to, one of you.”

I turned back to Goar who was standing alone, very straight and still, his face grey in the moonlight, the sword naked in his hand. It was very cold, but I could see the beads of sweat slipping down his face as he stood and waited.