dropped his hand onto the shoulders of a small boy who stood at his side. There was a look of great pride in his eyes. “You have sons, too, who will be men now with sons of their own, no doubt.”
Quintus glanced at me. “No,” he said. “We have no sons.”
The king looked troubled. “It is a fine thing to have sons who will bear one’s name. But sometimes it is the will of God that it shall not be so.” There was silence. Neither of us spoke. Then he said regretfully, “I am indeed sorry to hear you say that.”
I said, “Our camp was attacked last autumn. You heard of the matter, no doubt. There were Alans, Quadi and Siling Vandals among the dead. None of these belong to the Suevi.” By Suevi I meant those tribes whose lands marched with the frontiers of Rome along the Rhenus and the Danubius.
He shrugged his shoulders. “We have peoples of other tribes within our own. It signifies little.”
I said, “King Guntiarus, you know and I know that an attempt will be made to cross the river. If those who make the attempt try to march through your lands first, I shall expect you to fight and defend it. If you do, we will aid you. But if the crossing is made outside your frontier, I want you to keep your sword hand empty, unless I ask for your help. You do not want war with the Alemanni and I want them to have no excuse for attacking you. Help me in this matter and I promise that next year’s subsidies will be twice the normal size.”
“What if they try to take our salt again?” said the king’s eldest son in a clear, high voice. “Are we to give it to them as though we were slaves?”
“Neither behave like slaves nor like foolish women who throw cooking pots in a temper. Behave like men. A cool hand is better than a hot one.”
The king said hastily, “I understand. I am a friend of Rome. But why are my people on your bank not allowed to cross the river? It is causing much talk and much difficulty.”
“Because I do not want offence to be given. If I treat your people differently from the Franks and the Alemanni it will make for difficulties—for both of us.” It was a lie, and he knew it was a lie, but there was truth in what I said—a little anyway—and he had to accept it. Thirty years before, the Alemanni had put seventy thousand men into the field against the emperor Gratian. They were too strong to quarrel with without a reason.
He said, “I am a man of peace. Soon I celebrate the marriage of my eldest daughter to Marcomir of the Franks. It is a good match and will help to bind us all together. There will be a great feast. You and your generals must come and honour my house with your presence. I am, after all, a friend of Rome.”
“We shall be happy to come if our duties permit.”
He slapped his thigh then. “I promised you one of my daughters,” he said with a chuckle. “I had almost forgotten. I remember, I was very drunk at the time.”
There was a roar of laughter from the chiefs about the table.
I began to protest. “No, no,” he said. “A promise is a promise. The marriage can take place with the other. It will be a fine double wedding and we shall have a great feast. It will bind the alliance strongly between us.”
I said quickly, “When my wife died I took an oath not to marry again. I cannot foreswear my gods.”
He began to look disgruntled. He said, “You should be a christian like me.”
“But I am not and I cannot change now. It would be wrong for your daughter to marry a pagan and one who is old enough to be her father.”
He chuckled. “But that is what we need at our age.” He turned to Quintus and grinned.
I said hastily, “My friend is also a pagan.” I looked desperately at my cavalry commander for inspiration.
Quintus said, “Our senior tribune, Lucillius, is a fine young man, and of good family. It would be a good match and the girl would like him. He is—very active. He is also a christian.”
“Which girl?” I muttered under my breath.
“Excellent. It is agreed.” Guntiarus roared his delight and the pact was sealed in wine.
As we undressed that night in the guest-house, I said, “And who is going to tell the unsuspecting Lucillius?”
Quintus yawned. “You are,” he said. “It is your command.”
On our way out of his berg we passed a line of poles upon which the heads of enemies and criminals shrivelled in the sun.
“Peace,” said Quintus, looking at them curiously. “Only the dead have that.”
We rode along the east bank, following a twisting track that rose and fell between the wooded hills and the dark valleys in between. At Marcomir’s berg the young chief came out to meet us, riding bare-back and carrying a hunting bow in his hand. I congratulated him on his coming marriage to the king’s daughter.
“She is a fine girl,” he said. “My father would have been pleased.”
“When will it take place?”
“After the harvest.” He grinned suddenly. “That is a good time for feasting.”
I said, “Let us hope that it will be so.” I leaned over my horse’s neck. “Marcomir, I am sending patrols to hold your side of the river between the Moenus and the foothills. If they are driven in they have orders to light beacons as a warning before they retreat.”
“And what do you want me to do?” he asked gravely.
“Nothing, until I tell you. Do not throw one spear, nor fire a single arrow in anger without my word. I will tell you when is the time to strike.”
He said, “I understand.” He smiled. There was a pause and then he said quietly, “Can you hold them if they attack you with all their war-bands?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can. They have never met cavalry before.”
“But we ride,” he protested. He was half angry, half laughing. “We use horses in war. A little anyway.”
Quintus said, “Come over the river when you have time. Then watch my cavalry.”
In the distance, like a thin smudge of charcoal against the evening sky, I could see the Taunus, the great mountain range that had once marked the extent of our eastern frontier. “That is where I want to go,” I said suddenly. “Will you take us?”
We stayed a day in his house and then, with his men guiding us and he riding on my left side, set out along the road that led to the abandoned Limes. I was intensely curious to see them, and so was Quintus. We might never have the chance again. After a time the road, whose surface grew worse with each mile, vanished suddenly and there was nothing ahead but green turf and tangled undergrowth. “They tore it up,” said the Frank. He turned to me, his face serious. “You do not know how they hate Rome.”
“Why?” I asked.
“There are many reasons: the loss of freedom, the heavy taxes, the injustice of your laws, the cruelty of your military conscription. Even your towns, with their houses and their straight roads, seem like prisons to men who hunt in the forest and whose women cook by an open fire.” I glanced at Quintus and shook my head slightly. This was not a time for argument.
The sky clouded over, it grew dark and the rain began to fall in great splashing drops that soaked the breeches I was wearing and made wet patches on my knees and shoulders. The horses plodded on, squelching through the mud and we had to duck our heads to avoid being scratched by the branches that barred our way. We saw few people; a hut or two in a clearing, occupied by a sullen farmer and his wife, who watched us suspiciously as we passed, but that was all. The forests were full of game. Twice I saw bears, playing in the watery sunlight with their cubs; once a great boar lumbered across our path, stopped to grunt at us with red eyes, and then trotted off into the scrub. And at night we could hear the wolves, howling in the darkness around the camp. It was then that I remembered Varus and his three legions and was sorry that I had come. All the time we were climbing upwards towards a forest ridge that showed itself upon the horizon whenever we came to a clear space between the trees.
On the fourth day we came out of the woods into a great clearing that seemed to extend for miles to the right and left of us. It was as though the blade of a giant sword, red hot from the furnace, had been placed on the forest and burned a great cut along its length. The clearing was nearly a thousand yards wide in places. In front of us ran a road, half covered now with weeds and dirt. Beyond it, a quarter of a mile distant, stood a square stone watch-tower with a smashed roof and a broken balcony. We rode up to it and dismounted, while our squadron spread out and posted sentries in a half circle. Slowly we walked up to the tower through a litter of fallen tiles. In front of it, facing north, half filled in now by the action of wind and rain were the remnants of the great ditch. But the great mound of earth that had been flung up behind it still remained. Not even time could destroy that. On the
