posted 10-29-09 04:20 AM
EDT (US)
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“Now we know why Rutilius would wreck the peace he had built,” Udo smirked as he heard the report sent by his spy in Batavodurum. He knew the place had a Roman name now, but he rejected it as he did the Romans and referred to the Batavian civitas by its true and proper name. He spat the Roman's motivation out with contempt.“Gold.”
“It is true,” the messenger reported. “Erwin heard it himself, when the Roman went to visit the king. He needs money, explained the land was money, and the Batavian king replied the only land not claimed in Roman eyes was here, across the river.”
The messenger paused, then continued. “Later, Rutilius confirmed this by requesting three dozen arrows, specially made. What use does a warlord have with six and thirty arrows, of oak, and with hunting points? Surely not hunting, unless the prey is a man. Or for use in battle. And the warlord has been taking his troops into the hinterlands- training. One does not train for peace- one does it to prepare for war. So aye, lord, it appears the Witch was correct again- Rutilius will come in the spring.”
“Does anybody yet suspect Erwin?”
The messenger shook his head. “Being a fletcher is good for a spy- they can move about and talk to hunters as it is a part of selling their goods, and gathering feathers, and walk about in the forests gathering wood. He has one badly-mauled ear burned in an accident with a torch and the other was cut off in battle, and uses both to play deaf. Nobody notices a deaf man, or if they do, they don’t care as he cannot hear. No, lord, Erwin is quite safe.”
“Has he any word of the Witch?” Ulfrich asked.
“None, lord,” the messenger replied honestly. “But if she is hiding in Sequani lands, which are far from Batavian lands, then it is only natural to assume he does not. He has made his daughter a wife for a trader from Gaul, so that he can hear things from afar, but alas, nothing yet.”
The kings nodded. Erwin was a good man. If the Witch is to be found, he would find her. And thanks to him, they already found the plans of Rutilius. The messenger was dismissed with a nod, and a Bructeri warrior handed him a sack of dead rabbits to complete the cover that he was a simple hunter. When the man was gone, Udo turned to Ulfrich.
“Rutilius takes his troops into the hinterlands for training,” Udo repeated. He grinned a leer to his brother. “And he likes to hunt. So do you, brother.”
Ulfrich fingered his dagger, then raised his bow. “Which shall I use, brother?”
Udo shrugged. “It does not matter. Use either, or both. Just make sure this time. Do it yourself.”
Ulfrich grinned and nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”
“It will be your life if you fail, brother,” Udo reminded him.
The smile of Ulfrich’s face faded. He would not fail. He must not fail. If there was any way to rid himself of the Witch’s Curse, it was this- he had to kill Rutilius Maximus before Rutilius killed him. It was a simple question of survival, and Ulfrich intended to survive.
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Three markets later, Rutilius and Salvius again descended from the castrum to visit the town below. Like before, Marcus Rutilius had just returned from a training hike and was sore, while Marcus Salvius was searching the crowd for the brown-haired beauty from Gaul. One would have his objective complete by the end of the day, while the other would be returning disappointed.
“Primuspilus Palla says the recruits are coming along nicely,” Salvius commented.
“Aye, they are fine lads,” Rutilius agreed. “Another couple of hikes before the frost sets in should have them able to form ranks in their sleep.”
“Like that will help,” laughed Salvius. “And during the winter?”
“Weapons. Gladius and scutum training for the most part,” the legate replied. “Pila as well. Archery lessons for those capable of it, horse riding for others. We will be juggling men about once I get a feel for who can do what. I want at least two cohorts cross-trained in archery and cavalry if I can, archery and spears if I can’t.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Salvius said with a smile. “You are planning on making our legionaries function as auxilia, since we have none. Correct?” Rutilius nodded. “Well, oh mighty legate, you really should read those boring dispatches from Mogontiacum and Rome yourself sometimes, instead of giving that drudgery to me. If you had, you would already know that within a fortnight, four centuries of Aquitani archers, two cohorts of Dalmatian spearmen, and an ala of Aedui cavalry are to report to Noviomagus. Further, two cohorts of vigiles will be coming from Raetia as garrison support.”
“Vigiles?” Rutlius scoffed. “Firemen and town watch?”
Salvius laughed again. “Not quite, but close. According to the dispatches, most border castra in hostile areas will be assigned a cohort or two of vigiles. We are on the border, in hostile territory as far as Rome thinks, thus qualify for two. These men are to guard the castrum- and its precious supplies- whenever the legion is out as sometimes the auxilia do. When the legion is in, they serve as immunes and other noncombatants. Think of them as noncombatant auxilia that can pull guard duty.”
“I could hire Batavians and Cugerni to do that, if I so wanted,” the legate replied.
“Ah, there is the problem,” Salvius replied. “Vespasian’s edict about auxilia- they are not to serve in the same province in which they are raised. If you raised a Cugerni cohort, it would not be allowed to serve here.”
“Makes sense,” Rutilius reluctantly agreed. “It keeps rebellions like the Batavians down. No ready trained army willing to join makes it damn tough for rebels to survive. That also explains why we are getting Aquitani and Aedui auxilia.”
“We are also getting some officers in,” Salvius continued. “Tribunes. One from Rome, due here next month, and another from Britannia, courtesy of Pop and old Cerealis.”
“A veteran. Good.”
“A veteran, true, but not from our side. He’s a local, granted the citizenship by Cerealis when he was consul.”
“Huh?” asked Rutilius.
“The guy was a tribune commanding Iceni auxilia,” Salvius explained. ”And before that he fought against Cerealis when he was but a legate. Since then he’s been auxilia tribune in service to Rome. But with Vespasian’s decree, he can’t command his own people any more, so Quintus Petillius made him a tribune in the II Adiutrix. Pop likes him. Cerealis might be handing over the province after the Saturnalia, and he wanted to make sure this Quintus Petillius Cadorus chap gets a fair shake at a decent career. Both he and Pop know where that means he has to go- yep, the good old X Gemina.”
“And the Roman officer?”
Salvius shrugged. “Some senatorial turd. He had one of those names that are common as coal- like Lucius Cornelius this or Gaius Antonius that. All I know about him is what was in the dispatch. Probably some rich kid wanting to experience the glory of battle and let his divine light bless us all.”
“He’ll find little glory and a lot of work,” Rutilius promised. “I work tribunes hard when I have them. Ask Sextus Minucius and Manius Severus- both of them are about worn to the nub. Or even Publius Arrius, or Titus Flavius Sabinus.”
“But you reward well,” Salvius observed. “Both of those are now legates themselves.”
Rutilius shrugged and pointed out that hard work earns its own rewards, to which Salvius laughed. He remembered the hard work he put in as legionary and signifer under Acala- and the reward he got was being busted down to legionary for something not even his doing. Rutilius knew how his friend felt about aristocrats. Nobody in the Subura liked them much.
“Ah,” Salvius said espying a good-looking woman at last. She wasn’t the trader’s daughter, but she was pleasing to his eye. “I’ll see you back at the castrum, sir. My free day officially begins now.”
Rutilius saw where Salvius was looking and agreed. She was pretty for a widow, and Salvius had earned his free day several times over since being appointed his aide. He wished him well, reminded him about the edict of respect, then made his way through the market to the fletcher’s stall.
Erwin the Deaf was there, and had a bucket of oaken shafts ready. Rutilius greeted him, then examined the shafts. He unslung the bow from his shoulder and strung it, then held the arrow up to it as if to launch it, though he did not draw the bow back. The length was correct, and the lacquer applied gave the arrows a deep brown glow. The points were sharp, but the fletchings were slightly off- askew, not straight. He pointed that out to the fletcher and asked loudly why.
Erwin showed him the other arrows he had made by way of explanation. All had the same slightly-off fletchings as did these arrows. Then he shouted, “Makes arrow spin in flight- flies truer than straight fletching.”
He pointed to the west gate. “Go. Outside. Try. I make three dozen plus two. I know you wish to try. Southerners always doubt. Please.”
Rutilius took two arrows at random from the bucket, unstrung his bow, and went to the town gates. Once beyond the gate, he looked about. There was a tree in the distance, about three hundred paces. There was nobody in the field around it, so there was no danger to the locals. He shrugged, strung the bow, and aimed.
To his immense surprise, the arrow did indeed fly true. It spun about in flight, but the trajectory was indeed true. He had aimed at the crotch of the tree where the lowest branches began- and the arrow pierced that crotch exactly. And broke from the impact.
Better there than in my hand here, he thought. He sighted the second skinny arrow and let it fly. It too hit the crotch and then shattered. Damn, he thought, these are some killer arrows. Too bad they are like glass when they hit something hard.
He had seen enough. He left the arrows in the tree, not even bothering to see how deep they sank. It was enough that the weird fletchings did indeed fly true. He unstrung the bow and returned to the market.
Erwin looked up in surprise at the legate’s approach. “You not shoot? Where arrow?”
“I shot a tree, three hundred paces away, and they flew perfectly,” he yelled to the deaf man. “They shatter on impact. Tree very hard. But they fly true.” And with that he handed him three denarii and collected his arrows. The deaf fletcher nodded and smiled wanly, and quickly pocketed the three small silver coins and packed up his wares.
It would be nice to see how these fare against archery targets, he mused as he wandered over to the Great Hall. Hopefully they won’t shatter against them as they did against the tree. A denarius per dozen for one-shot arrows was bloody expensive!
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Outside the west gate, brush began moving though there was no wind. The bushes quivered, then fell or moved aside. The concealment now out of the way, ten Bructeri were exposed as they stepped from the treeline further away. Eight of them padded off to the north and the river, where a boat awaited them. The ninth and tenth jogged over to the tree and examined the handiwork of Erwin and the shooting of Rutilius.
Ulfrich whistled at the placement- the arrowheads were less than a hand’s breadth apart and sank into the oak at least a finger’s length.
“It is a shame that he did not come see his own results”, Ulrich said as Alfrith joined him. “He would have made a lovely porcupine.”
“If we can’t fill him with wooden shafts, there is always cold steel,” Alfrith reminded him. He drew his dagger for emphasis, but did not need to worry. Ulfrich had his own dagger out.
“There is more than one way to kill a Roman dog,” he muttered.
Alfrith nodded in silent agreement. Both men started heading for the town.
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Rutilius was as oblivious to his close escape from Death as he was the men hunting him. He could not explain it, but he felt more secure and at ease in this German town than he did within the stone battlements of his castrum above. He figured it had something to do with the fact that here he could be himself among these people, unremarked as none but the king and a few noblemen knew him well enough to recognize him out of armor, while in the fortress he felt the incredible weight of responsibility. But now he felt the weight of his personal responsibility- his estates, which was why he was knocking on the king’s hall once again.
“You can get your alms around back,” said the guard gruffly as he saw the cloaked figure, then added as he saw the slung bow, “or you can join the militia at the muster field two days hence. Now go away.”
Rutilius smiled as he cast back the hood of his cloak. “I am here to speak with Claudius Victor, warrior. I was told he is awaiting me.”
The glimmer of an iron ring upon the man’s hand caught the warrior’s attention when the hood was cast back. Steel rings upon fingers were uncommon- and not German. Romans wore rings upon their fingers. Most senators wore a gold ring, but some still followed the old tradition of iron ones. The guard’s eyes widened as he realized with whom he was talking. He opened the door amid a flurry of apologies, which were just as easily brushed aside.
Once inside, Rutilius was escorted to a chamber off the main hall. Claudius Victor was already seated. He rose as the legate entered, then offered his hand. Rutilius took the hand and the two men sat.
“My cousin tells me you are looking for a man to run your farms,” Victor wheezed. His voice was grit rubbing against gravel and blown upon by a harsh wind. Above the torc he wore was a nasty scar. Rutilius could barely hold his eyes from it.
Claudius Victor noticed the effort, and spoke without being asked. “War wound, Gelduba, four winters past. From my own men, while I was trying to stop their panicked flight. It went deep, but did not kill. Obviously.”
Rutilius smiled at the small joke, then opened his cloak to reveal the silvered cuirass beneath. The hole the armorers had repaired was still visible. “Arrow, four months ago. Also deep, but did not kill. It still hurts.”
Victor grinned at the tale, and marveled at the armor- and the man in it. He knew much of Rutilius, who had been a legate to Cerealis, whom Cerealis had made governor after that terrible revolt, and who had built a lasting peace. The Roman, in turn, knew much of Claudius Victor. A cousin to the former king who was of the Julian branch, he was a blood relative of the Claudian branch. In him were both branches united- a perfect candidate for the kingship but for that terrible wound and the resultant lack of strong voice. And of course the fact that Labeo fought for Rome, while Victor fought against her to the last- and even stole the flagship of Cerealis from its dock in Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippensi.
The war was over. Peace had come, and with the Pax Romana came decrees concerning the auxilia and where they may be, and who may command them. Claudius Victor was excluded from the command that used to be his family’s birthright, and had no desire to be a mere trooper. Thus he was a farmer now, and a poor one at that. He knew what to do, he simply hated doing it. Thus this post- command of farmers- was a good combination of his love of command and his knowledge of the earth.
The two spoke for about two hours then shook hands. There was not really much else to say. Claudius Victor knew the lands now owned by Rutilius, knew the people manning them (verily, many had been in his squadrons during the war), and knew how to run the farmsteads effectively. And he loved to ride. He could read and write Latin, so could write requests and reports, and read correspondence. He was the ideal candidate, and both men knew it.
Rutilius handed over three scrolls. “I had these prepared in case I found you acceptable. I do. These grant you powers to act as my officer, access to my banker and funds to a limited degree, and assume the position as steward of my estate. I will be passing you orders as things come to my attention. I have no doubt that you will carry them out with the same vigor and thoroughness as you did at the crossing of the Maas.”
Victor shot a startled look at the legate.
“I heard of it from Tiberius Labeo, the opposing general. The Batavian cavalry have always been a well-respected warhost on any battlefield.”
Victor nodded at the praise. He escorted Rutilius to the main hall, where a guard would escort the Roman out. The guard took him to the doors, opened them to face the market, and ensured the legate made it safely off the king’s property. Then he closed the door and resumed his duties.
Rutilius stepped out into the market, which was not as crowded now as earlier. The sun was setting earlier with the onset of the winter, which meant shorter market days. He glanced up at his castrum, granite against the darkening sky, and marveled at it before having his attention ripped away as a man bumped heavily into him and fell. The falling man clutched at him to break the fall, while another closed in quickly from behind and jabbed a dagger towards his ribs.
Rutilius writhed forcefully and felt the dagger skitter along his cuirass as he turned. His right hand was clutched by the fallen man, but his left was free. It drew now his trusty pugio from its sheath on his left hip and plunged it backwards. He felt it bite into flesh. He drew the dagger out and stabbed again, then again. The fallen man gripping his right arm ceased his struggles when steel was drawn and scampered speedily away. The man behind lay still upon the ground.
Rutilius checked himself. He felt no pain, but his bowstring was severed and the bow itself damaged. His armor was scraped, but that was what armor was for. His cloak was tattered, but that was replaceable. In all, he was fit for battle.
The man at his feet was not. He was shivering as his lifeblood spewed forth in spurts from three mighty fountains in his abdomen. He said nothing, nor even whimpered, before passing first out, then beyond as the crowd gathered around. Rutilius evaded the crowd and moved back to the king’s hall, from where guards were already spewing forth at the ruckus. He sighed heavily. It was going to be a long night of statements, and tomorrow he had another five-day hike.
Or so he thought. Three steps toward the hall of Labeo he collapsed heavily. A stream of blood could be seen leaking from under his cuirass, in the front. He struggled to stand, tearing his wound further, when a strong hand pushed him flat and a female voice whispered in his ear, “Play dead if you want to live.”
Rutilius recognized the voice of the woman who had helped him earlier, and though he did not know why she said that, he felt the wound worsen when he struggled. He lay back, and closed his eyes as he felt her hands press up under his armor and seal the wound. Then he felt nothing more.
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