Wallace Breem - Eagle in the Snow - A Novel of General Maximus and Rome's Last Stand

I had tasted the native beer already. I did not like it. “Thank you, no. Another time.” I looked round at the activity. “You are happy here?”

“Of course. That is why we came.”

“You are of the Alemanni?”

“Yes. We found the east bank too crowded.”

“But surely it is only crowded because everyone insists on living in the same area?” I pointed to the east. “Beyond that river there are vast lands, more than enough for all your people.”

He shrugged. “But so much is forest.”

“Well, if you cut the forest back then there is more ground on which to sow crops.”

He said gravely, “But the forests belong to the gods. One cannot destroy their home lest they destroy ours in turn.”

“It is hard work being a farmer, I agree.”

He nodded eagerly. “And that is another reason. We are a restless people. It has always been so. Besides, we enjoy fighting; and it is easier to gain what you want by spilling blood instead of sweat.”

“And what will happen if more people cross the river?”

His face wrinkled. “Then we should have to fight to hold what we possess. But that is why you are here. They will not come now.”

“I hope you are right. Have you heard that the Vandals are looking for a new land?”

He shook his head. “No.” He looked alarmed. “I have heard nothing. I have no friends on the other bank. The Vandals, you say.” He touched his chin. “That would be bad.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Why? Because we of the Alemanni fear death; but the Vandals fear nothing. They believe that if they die in battle then they go to a great hall where warriors like themselves are always welcome, and where there is eternal feasting and drinking; and there they live again.”

“And do you believe this?” I asked.

His faded eyes smiled a little. “I shall know that when I am dead.”

I looked at the ploughed land. “Was the harvest good?”

He shrugged again. “It has been worse; it has been better. The priest prayed for us in the church in the town, but I think—” his voice dropped—“it was better in the days when the Corn King held his court.”

“I think so too.” I rode back to the camp, comforted. I was glad that someone believed in us and, perhaps, trusted us a little.

Quintus and I, with a dozen others, built a small temple outside the camp, and I, who had passed through all the elements of my mystery, consecrated the altar; and there we celebrated, on the appointed day, our faith. It was a poor temple and compared ill with the old one at Corstopitum—but it was ours. We built it, we cherished it and we renewed ourselves before the god in whom we believed. I stood there beneath the blue vaulted ceiling, while the light slanted like a lance through the open windows onto the upturned eyes, and the knife moved, and the Bull died. In that perfect moment when everything was clear I could see the way and the pattern and the world of no shadows; and I knew what it was like to be a child in the womb as I knew what it would be like at the moment when I died. I could feel the very skin that covered me age and wrinkle and see the nails grow upon my fingers. I knew then, without doubt or hesitation, that the things that mattered would come right for those of us who had the courage to burn ourselves in the sun.

The christians, too, celebrated the birth of their mystery with food and wine, and on that day there was amity between us.

It was a happy time. Afterwards I would remember the green fir trees, the silver birch and the pines. I would remember the smell of wood smoke from the camp fires and the crisp sound of trumpets speaking their orders; remember the rough kindness of the villagers with their fat children and their heavy, smiling women, their dogs and their fleas. Then, even the fox under my tunic seemed a burden I could endure.

In January and February there was more rain and the camp paths turned to mud while the roads between the forts were flooded in many places. The flow of the river was at its minimum during this period, however, and the level dropped considerably. Now was the easiest time to make a crossing and my patrols shivered in the wet as they kept watch upon the far bank. Imperceptibly it became warmer and the hours of daylight lengthened. Fatigue parties were busy cleaning up the huts and clearing the ditches and drains of the mud, sticks and filth which choked them. Cohorts and squadrons began to leave the camp secretly and by night, only to re-appear the next day or the day after, arriving in good marching order with trumpets sounding, while those in the camp cheered heartily as though in greeting of reinforcements. As the ground dried and the sun shone more frequently cavalry sections would ride out with branches dragging in the dirt behind them. Seen from a distance these dust clouds looked as though a regiment and not a dozen men were on the move. Small defensive positions were built along the banks of the river at intervals of a mile and equipped most convincingly with dummy ballistae and firing platforms for non-existent troops. At the same time we began the real work of erecting a palisade, ten feet high, protected by an outer ditch, along the line of the road between Moguntiacum and Bingium. Work on this was slow; there were so few troops available, and I knew that if we completed it by the middle of summer we should be lucky. The Rhenus fleet kept up a continuous patrolling of the river between Confluentes and Borbetomagus, and I issued strict instructions that no-one was to be allowed to cross the river to the east bank who had not passed through a control point, bearing a certificate signed by myself. Anyone attempting to evade interception was to be killed immediately. And all the while, the road from Treverorum was filled with convoys of waggons, moving east and bringing us the supplies and equipment that we so badly needed.

“I want as many bows, arrows and spears as we can get,” I said to Quintus one afternoon, while we were out watching a dummy camp being built three miles to the north of Bingium.

Quintus gestured at the new camp. “Will this deceive them for long, do you think?”

“I hope so. When it’s finished I shall have two sections of men put into it from the Bingium garrison. They will be kept busy blowing trumpets at the right times, lighting cooking fires and patrolling the walls. It will all look quite convincing from a distance.”

“The Alemanni have long eyes,” he said quietly.

We turned and rode down the road to see how work on the palisade was progressing. Later, I visited the three islands off Moguntiacum where, on each, two centuries were sweating to clear the undergrowth, dig defensive ditches, build fortified towers and erect platforms from which ballistae could be fired.

“I want this work finished by the end of the month,” I said.

“When will they come, sir?” I was asked. That was the question they were all asking me. It was the question I often asked myself.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if I was going to make the attempt I should either do it between the end of April and the beginning of June, or in September. The Rhenus reaches flood heights in June and July. No one in his senses would attempt a crossing then, with enemy on the other bank. During those months at least we should be safe enough.”

We might be safe but there would be no rest. We had to go on giving an impression of activity and of constant determination. The palisade along the road had to be finished. I needed another dummy camp on the bank beyond the stream, just clear of the point of Harbour Island. In addition there were other plans, less warlike, but in the long run more effective that I hoped to put into operation shortly.

One day I crossed the Rhenus at Bingium with half a cohort and three hundred cavalry to visit Guntiarus. His berg was in a great clearing in the forest, fortified by a palisade and a deep ditch; and there was only one entrance through a pair of massive log gates. The place was not clean. You could smell the stink of humans and animals half a mile away. The dwelling houses were built of timber, with thatched roofs, daub-coated walls and entrance porches over barred doors. They were arranged in no particular order but each was surrounded by its own barns, stables and byres, and the cattle rubbed shoulders with men and were not kept apart as on our own farms. The King’s Hall was nearly two hundred feet long; an impressive enough place, though very dark and dirty. It was here, surrounded by the warriors of his council that he received me. He was courteous enough but I could see that he was worried. He sweated like a nervous stallion and it was obvious that he wondered what I might ask of him when the attempt to cross the river was made.