Guntiarus said, “It was kind of you to come. My people are poor, as you know, and the harvest has not been a good one.”
“A further payment of tribute is not due for another six months,” I said, brutally.
“That is understood. Of course, I can always sell food to the Vandals. Their ambassadors are here now. Their people are, I think, starving, and would pay a good price—in silver. But you are my friend and I do not care to help your enemies unless I am forced to.”
I said, “You have had all the tribute I can spare. If your harvest was bad then it was because you are a lazy people and bad farmers. I cannot help you.”
“My people are warriors,” he said, mildly.
“If you prefer to treat with the men who took your daughter and slew your son-in-law, that is a matter for you,” I said, contemptuously. “Make friends of their murderers, but do not come again asking me to give you silver.”
“The Vandals are very strong,” he said, anxiously. “I am only a man of peace. My people do not wish for war.”
“No,” said Quintus. “Only for the chance to share the west bank in return for helping these Vandals.”
“You would force me to see my people sell them food,” he squeaked.
“Those are your words, not mine. But are you certain your men are strong enough to guard your waggons against my cavalry?”
He said, anxiously, “We are friends. We have made a pact. I am in the service of the Emperor. You, yourself, appointed me the Praeses of Germania Inferior.” He stumbled over the Latin words awkwardly, but there was an absurd pride in his voice at his remembrance of the meaningless title. It was almost as hollow as my own. “You will not kill an ally.”
“No,” I said. “I kill only those who oppose me.”
We walked out to where our horses stood. His small son, a flaxen-haired child of eleven, was standing by my horse, fingering the harness. I mounted, and then bent down and lifted the boy onto the saddle cloth in front of me. His struggles ceased the moment my knife pricked the soft skin of his throat. There was a growl from the tribesmen around us. My escort of five closed up on me. The king stepped forward and then hesitated. His face had gone white. He was afraid of me, and I was glad. What was a yellow haired Burgundian to me—I who was Maximus?
“Your son needs a change of air,” I said. “I will show him my camp and my soldiers and he will like that. He will be my honoured guest and I will look after his health as carefully as my own. You will remember that, Guntiarus, when you think to sell food to the enemies of Rome.”
“My son,” he cried. “Give me my son.”
“When you have avenged your daughter, I will know that you care for your son.” I lifted my hand and we trotted through the camp, followed by a great host of men who would have killed me if they had dared. Outside the stockade we dug our heels into our horses and galloped hard for the river. When we reached the shore opposite Bingium I knew we were safe. At Moguntiacum I sent for the girl who was Rando’s daughter.
She came and Fabianus was with her.
I said, “Look after the boy. If he goes sick or escapes you will embrace that tree by the river sooner than you think.”
She cried out at me then, called me a Roman butcher and a murderer until she ran out of breath. I laughed and she went away in silence, but I knew that the boy would be safe.
On the last night of the month I was awoken a little after dawn by the centurion of the watch, beating upon my door.
“What is it?” I asked, irritably.
“The girl has escaped. We found the sentry outside her hut half an hour ago. He had been stunned.”
“Half an hour.”
He said, steadily, “I had the camp searched at once. She is nowhere inside. I found a ladder against the south wall by the stables. And this, sir.” He held up a woman’s sandal.
“Yes, that is hers.”
“We had to make sure before we told you, sir.”
“She must be found. Take a patrol into the town. She may be hiding there. Search every house, if need be.” I flung on my cloak and picked up my sword. “She was locked in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then she had help.” I stared at him and frowned. “One of our men? Is that what you are thinking?”
“It looks like it, sir.”
We hurried out. The camp flared with torches and the men were parading outside their huts under the direction of their section commanders. Aquila came up, unshaved, and rubbing his eyes. “Take a roll call,” I said. “Find out who is missing.”
He saluted and a few minutes later I heard the trumpets sound. Then came a shout from the south-east gate tower. I ran towards it, followed by Fabianus and another tribune. “Up here,” shouted a voice. I climbed the steps to the firing platform. The sentry pointed and I saw a boat drifting downstream; a small boat such as fishermen used. It appeared to be empty. Caught in one current and then another, it nosed first one way and then the next. It passed close to the broken bridge, at which the sentry there cried out and flung three javelins in quick succession. Two went into the boat. A third hit the water behind. Then the boat moved outwards suddenly, caught in a cross eddy, and passed slowly along the west shore of the south island. The sentry ran back and came panting up to the wall. “There are men on board,” he cried. “They are lying on the bottom.”
“Use the catapults,” I said. “I will give a week’s extra pay to all who have a hand in sinking her.”
“Shall I sound the alarm?”
“No, you fool. I don’t want too much importance attached to it. They know our trumpet calls. The parade call is one thing; the alarm another.”
“Number Four and Five ready, sir.”
“Fire.”
They fired. The boat, guided crudely by a man lying upon the boards, holding an oar over the stern, was moving more rapidly now. It was clear of the island and heading towards the further bank. Fireball after fireball went hissing up into the dawn sky. They landed, with tremendous splashes and great hisses of steam, all round the boat; it was end on now and a difficult target. The seventh shot struck the boat; there came back across the water a hoarse scream and then silence.
“Well, that’s that,” said the duty optio in a satisfied voice.
Fabianus said, white-faced, “Do you think she was in the boat?”
“I don’t know,” I said, angrily. “If she was, then she was lucky.” He stared at me.
“How many in the boat?” I asked the sentry.
“Three, sir.”
“Are you certain?’
“I am positive, sir.”
“Let us hope you are right.” I smiled at the centurion. “Good work. The sentry and yourself are to be included. Send me the names and I will pass them to the accounts office.”
The centurion said, anxiously, “I hope they all drowned, sir.”
“Yes, I hope so to. I expect they did.”
Two hours later a report came in from the duty centurion on the south island. A man, who appeared to be badly injured, had been seen climbing out of the water onto the east bank. He had then vanished into the scrub. It was impossible to say whether he was likely to die or not. The centurion did not think so; and I was inclined to believe him. He was a man of some experience. He had seen many wounded men in his time. He knew how a man moved when he was dying.
It was day now, too late to go back to sleep. I went to the headquarters building and broke my fast on a biscuit dipped in wine. Aquila came in. He looked tired. He said, “Everyone is accounted for, sir, except the prisoner and—” He hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“The tribune, Severus, sir.”
