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

I licked my lips. I said, “That is my—that is mine.”

“It is. Catch.”

I caught it and turned it over and over in my fingers.

“Look at it carefully. You will see initials scratched on the gold. It was given as a keepsake.”

I stared. “How did you get it?”

“Much plunder was taken on the Wall. I was a war chief then, remember.”

“Why did you keep it all these years?”

He looked at me and then dropped his eyes. “It had once been your mother’s. It was a link between us. And in the times when I did not hate you I would look at it and—and remember.” He raised his eyes. “I would remember the happy times.”

“And now it is a weapon.”

“That is for you to decide.”

“I do not believe it.”

“If you do not believe me, it is easy for you to find out.” He paused delicately. “You are a Roman. You have your honour to think of. It is your honour, after all, for which you have lived all these years.”

I said, “I have no honour now.”

“Generals who have no honour can afford to treat with their enemies.”

I put my hands to my face and I knew then something of the despair that he had known.

He said cruelly, “I have other news. You wrote to Stilicho and asked for troops—you who already have so many. The letter is in our hands. You will have to write again before he can answer. It is a long way from the middle Rhenus to Illyricum where Alaric and the Vandal sit at meat, and play at dice with the empire for their prize. I have news out of your island too. Two men, Marcus and Gratianus, put up for emperor in turn but were killed by the soldiers. It happened this spring. A third, Constantinus, succeeded. He sits in Londinium, playing at kings. Perhaps he dreams of making a new empire in the west. Is that what you want, who could have been emperor yourself? You, who have so many men at your command.”

“How do you know all this—about—about Constantinus?”

“The Saxons are good tale-bearers and it is easier for them now to walk dry on the Saxon Shore. They could not do that in—in our time.”

I said, “Please, no.”

“Well?”

“We did each other great wrongs. I admit my part. Must we go on tormenting each other until the day we die?”

He said, “I have been dead for thirty years, I who did not kill your father.”

“You rose against Rome.”

“Twice,” he said. “This is the third time. These people need land. They need it as a fish needs water. Who are you with your false Roman pride and contempt to stand in their way?”

“I have my duty.”

“To what? To an emperor who cares only for his chickens? To a Vandal who takes bribes and thinks only of himself? To the people of Gaul who will not lift a finger to help you? To Constantinus who stole half your gold for his own aggrandizement? To your men who follow you only so long as they receive their pay each month? Or is it to the memory of your wife?”

“Be quiet.”

“No. Fullofaudes had more mercy than you. But I am not he.” I flinched and put my hand to my mouth. “You made a death mask of my dreams,” he said harshly. “Why should I spare you yours?” He paused. He said, “You have no honour.”

I looked at where he stood. I could hardly see him. I turned and walked to where my horse waited. I mounted it somehow and sat slumped in the saddle. Then I rode to the river with the Aleman king beside me. We did not speak, and he did not look at me once. I felt as though my head would burst. I knew then the black darkness of absolute despair. There was nothing now to look back on with pride, with happiness or with contentment. There was nothing to look forward to except old age, the unbearable loneliness of my thoughts, the emptiness of death. I had no honour.

I crossed the river, still in silence, and walked alone through the camp to my quarters. And everyone stepped aside as they saw my face. In the headquarters building Quintus stood waiting for me. I told him what had passed at my meeting with the five kings and with Rando. “There is a river, seven hundred and seventy five yards wide, that alone separates us from total disaster. The Vandals must number over eighty thousand people, including old men, children and slaves. That gives them roughly twenty five thousand fighting men.”

He whistled and began to fiddle with the bracelet on his wrist. “And the rest?”

“The Marcomanni are as large, if not larger. Once, long ago, they put seventy thousand into the field without difficulty.”

“In the days of Varus?”

“Yes. And then there are the Alans and the Quadi. I should say, at a rough guess, that they can put nearly a hundred thousand tribesmen in the field between them. And that still leaves the Alemanni, who have yet to make up their minds; and the Burgundians whom I do not trust.”

Quintus went to the table and poured wine into two silver goblets. “We might as well drink our own health. For no-one else will.” He gave me a mock salute. “We are all gladiators now.” He put down his cup. He said, “But will the Alemanni move?”

“Rando is a shrewd man, I do not think he wants his people to cross. He may well think his strength lies in holding what he has. Tribes on the march weaken themselves. They quarrel, they fall out; each man disputing with his neighbour the ownership of newly stolen land. Their loyalty to their kings is not absolute. If a chief loses prestige through defeat in battle, they desert him. In that lies our one hope. I have been in touch, through agents, with Goar of the Alans. If I can persuade him further, he may come over to us and bring half the tribe too. Gunderic lost many men in our attack on their boats. He and Godigisel do not like each other. They are rivals. If I can drive a wedge between them by means of letters. . . .”

“How?”

“It is an old trick to send treasonable letters to one man in the enemy camp and so arrange it that they fall into the hands of another.”

He said mildly, “It is not a very honourable way of fighting, but—” He broke off and then said quickly, “What is wrong? Are you ill?”

“No,” I said. “I am not ill; only tired.”

He said, “Get some rest. You work too hard.” He turned to leave the room.

“Quintus,” I said.

“Yes.”

I held out my hand. “Is this yours?”

He came forward and took what I held out to him.

He looked at it for a long time, turning it over and over in his hand just as I had done. It was as though he could not believe what he held against his flesh. He raised his head at last and looked at me. Then he shut his eyes and opened them again. I had never seen such a look of misery on his face before.

He said steadily, “It is mine. It was given to me.”

I stepped back as though I had been struck across the mouth. Then I moved and the blade of Agricola was at his throat, the point just touching the skin.

“Give me one reason why I should not kill you?”

He did not answer. His face was beaded with sweat; his eyes shut tight.

“You took my honour,” I said. “You, whom I trusted with my life.”

“Kill me,” he said. “It is your right.”

“You are worth more to me alive than dead.” I sheathed my sword with a trembling hand. I said bitterly, “I need my cavalry general too much to be able to afford the luxury of sending him away. Go back to your quarters and laugh, as you have laughed all these years behind my back.”

“Maximus.”

“Get out,” I said. “Leave me alone, at least. I have work to do. It fills the time between one meal and the next.”

He left the room. I watched him from the window. He walked with head bowed, his thinning hair blown by the wind. He walked heavily and I realised then how old he was. I had never thought of Quintus as being old.