I said, “It is he who will need the luck.”
He hesitated. Then he turned away. Over his shoulder he said, “Barbatio is dead. He was killed by an arrow early this morning.” He strode off to the waiting horses and I noticed that he was limping slightly.
The waggons were coming across the river now in a steady flow, and the tribesmen were massing again upon the edge of the smoking ruin that was Moguntiacum. I mounted my horse and sent my bodyguard riding through the camp in pairs, lighted torches in their hands, setting fire to each building in turn. The tribesmen, seeing the fires, came up the slopes in a rush. Abandoning the camp and the field defences to the enemy who, in seven days of ceaseless fighting had been unable to take them by direct assault, we rode off as the first of their war bands reached the ridge. The fire and the smoke concealed our retreat effectively enough, and I thought that by the time they had re-organised themselves for a pursuit we should, with luck, have a lead of between three to five hours.
It was seventeen miles to Bingium but the road was ice hard, slippery, and cut into ridges by the wheeled traffic of the refugees who had left Moguntiacum the week before. Many of our men were wounded, all of us were on short rations and none of us had eaten a hot meal for twenty-four hours. The legion ahead, I thought, would march slowly, and so kept my horse at a gentle amble, though I dropped pickets every half mile to keep watch for signs of a pursuit. It was very cold, and only the thought of the hot meal and the proper bed that I should find awaiting me in Bingium, kept me awake upon my horse. Behind me I left the dead, who were my friends, unburied in the snow.
XVII
IT WAS SNOWING again by the time we reached the milestone where I had ordered the two centuries to hold the track running up from the river. There, by a huddle of burnt out huts that had once been a village, I found Quintus, standing with his feet apart, resting upon his naked sword. I looked at the smashed palisade, at the burnt out signal tower, at the bodies in armour, and at the limp figures, hanging from trees to which they had been skewered whilst still alive. A man whom I could not recognise sat upon a fallen tree trunk, wearing a cloak and a hood. From his attitude it seemed as though he held his head in his hands. All about me I could hear movement, as though men stood in the darkness of the wood, waiting quietly, but shifting from one foot to the other to avoid the numbing cold that was upon us all.
Quintus raised his head but he did not smile. He said to the tribune with me, “Tell the men to go on. They must not talk or make any noise. They will be directed where to go.”
I slid from my horse and looked about me, and I could see little groups of legionaries, drawn swords in hand, watchful and somehow menacing, posted in a wide circle about us. I felt the hairs prickle on the nape of my neck.
“What is it, Quintus?” I said.
He did not move. He said, in a tired voice, “That is for you to judge. When I reached here with the advance- guard, the two centuries were still fighting, after a fashion. One half had been wiped out, and the other driven back across the road. The way was barred by about two thousand of the Marcomanni. There were others too, Franks and Alans.” He paused and then said very carefully, “It was difficult, you understand, to know who was fighting whom. The rest of the Marcomanni were still down by the river, looting the native town there. That went up in flames at dawn, so a wounded soldier told me. The Marcomanni have been crossing the river all day. There must be nearer ten thousand than five by now. The woods are thick with them. I drove my lot off in one charge and they broke and fled; but I think they will come back.” He stopped and then spoke again, his voice quite without expression. “Then I met Goar with a handful of his men. He told me the rest.”
“Goar!”
“Yes, he is here with us now.”
The man, sitting upon the log, stood up and put back his hood. I could recognise him now—Goar with a sword in his hand, and a cut across his face, and a look in his face that I had never seen before.
“You crossed the river after all,” I said. “What has happened, man? Tell me?”
Goar said, “We failed to hold them on the east bank. We were forced back into the hills. I made a detour and circled round, intending to cross at Bingium and come up the west bank to your aid. On the shore opposite Bingium, two days ago, we caught a man. He was an auxiliary from the fort there. He was a Frank. He had messages from the commander, for Guntiarus.” He paused, and I could see that he was sweating. He said, “We hurt him until he talked. Then I crossed by night and lay up in the woods, waiting for you to come. I have only a few men with me.” He hesitated. He said, slowly, “We did our best. I gave you—my word.”
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
