The Golden Slave (2 page)

“Well,” said Ingwar. “Well, yes. Yes.” He nodded his bushy head. “It’s plain to see whose son you are. His youngest, perhaps, not counting the baseborn, but still son to Boierik. And that’s something. Me, I am only a crofter, or will be when I get my bit of land, but you’ll be a king or whatever they call it. So remember me, old Ingwar that bounced you on his knee back home, and let me bring my mares for your fine stallions to breed, eh?”

“Eh, indeed.” Eodan slapped the broad back and went on into the camp.

The wagons were drawn up in many rings, the whole forming a circle bound together by low breastworks of earth and logs. It seethed with folk, there among the wheels. Even from his own height, Eodan could not see far across that brawl of big fair men and free-striding girls.

Here a band of boys whooped and wrestled at a campfire, while an old wife stirred a kettle of stew, naked towheaded children rolled in the dust, dogs barked and horses stamped. There a gang of men knelt about the dice, shouting as the wagers went, betting all they owned down to their very weapons―for tomorrow they would settle with Marius and own Rome herself. An aged bard, chilly even in summer, huddled into a worn bearskin and listened dumbly to the war-song of a beardless lad whose hands had already been bloodied. A youth and a maiden stole between wagons, seeking darkness; her mother shook her head after them in some bitterness, for it was not like the time when she was young―all this rootless drifting had ended the staid old ways, and no good would come of it. A thrall from the homeland, hairy and ragged, grabbed lumberingly for a timid lass stolen out of Gaul, and got a kick and a curse from the warrior who owned them both. A man whetted an ax against tomorrow’s use; beside him snored three friends, empty wine cups in their hands. Here, there, here, there, it became one great whirl for Eodan, and the voices and feet and ringing iron were like the surf he had not heard in fifteen years.

He pushed his way through them all, grinning at those he knew, taking a horn of beer offered by one man and a bite of blood sausage from another, but not staying. Out there, alone in the night, he had remembered Hwicca, and it came to him that the night was not so long after all.

His own wagons stood near his father’s, which were close to the god-cars. In two of these lived the hags who tended the holy fire, took omens and cast spells for luck―ugh, they looked like empty leather sacks, and it was said they rode broomsticks through the air. But another held the mightiest Cimbrian treasures, ancient lur horns and a wooden earth-god and the huge golden oath-ring. Eodan and Hwicca had laid their hands on that ring last year to be wedded. The Bull rode in the same wagon, but tonight Boierik had ordered it set in an open cart, that all might see it and be heartened. It was a heavy image, cast in bronze, with horns that seemed to threaten the stars.

They had wandered far, the Cimbri, and they had lost much of old habit and belief and belongingness. They were not even the Cimbri any longer. That was only the chief tribe of many which had joined their trek. There were other Jutes, driven from Jutland by the same succession of wild wet years when no harvest ripened and hail fell like knucklebones on Midsummer Eve. There were Germans gathered in along the way; Helvetians from the Alps and Basques from the Pyrenees, neighbors to the sky; even adventurous Celts, throwing in with these newcomers who so merrily ransacked all nations. They had no gods in common, nor did they care much for any gods; they had no high ancestors whose barrows must be sacrificed to; they had not even a single language.

Red Boierik and the Bull held them together. Eodan, with scant reverence for anything else, shaded his eyes in awe as he passed the green, horned bulk of it.

Then he saw his own wagon and his best horses tethered beside it. A low fire was burning, and Flavius was squatting above it, poking with a stick.

“Well,” said Eodan, “are you cold? Or afraid?”

The Roman stood up, slowly and easily as a cat. He wore only a rag of a tunic, thrown him one day by his master, but he wore it like a toga in the Senate. Men had advised Eodan not to trust such a thrall―stick a spear in him, or at least beat the haughtiness out, or one day he’ll put a knife in your back. Eodan had disregarded them. Now and then he would knock Flavius over with a single open-handed cuff, when the fellow spoke too sharply, but nothing worse had been needed; and he was more use than a dozen shambling Northern

“Neither,” he said. “I wanted a little more light, to see the camp better. This may be my last night in it.”

“Hoy!” said Eodan. “Speak no unlucky words, or I’ll kick your teeth in.”

He made no move against the Roman. War or the chase was one thing; beating those who could not fight back was another, a distasteful work. Eodan laid the whip on his thralls less often than most. Lately he had given Flavius the job, and the Roman had shown Roman skill at it.

“After all, master, I could have meant that tomorrow we will sleep in Vercellae, and a few nights thereafter in Rome.” Flavius smiled, the odd closed-lipped smile with drooping eyelids that made Cimbrian men somehow raw along the nerves but seemed to draw Cimbrian women. In his mouth the rough, burring Northern language became something else, almost a song.

He was about ten years older than Eodan, not as tall or as broad of shoulder, but more supple. His skin was nearly as fair, though his hair curled black; his face was narrow, smooth, with wide red lips, but his jaw jutted, and his nose was curving chiseled beauty; his rust-colored eyes had lashes a woman might envy. Four years as a Cimbrian slave had put certain skills in his hands, but did not seem to have dulled his gaze or numbed his tongue.

Eodan gave him a hard stare. “If I were you, not tied to the wheel tonight and my fellows close by, I’d slip from here. You’d have a better chance of escaping now than you ever had before.”

“Not a good enough chance,” said Flavius. “Tomorrow you will win and I would be scourged or killed if caught. Or the Romans will win and I shall be released. I can wait. My folk are older than yours―you are a nation of children, but we are schooled in waiting.”

“Which makes you less trouble to me!” laughed the Cimbrian. “You can be my overseer, when I build my garth. I’ll even get you a Roman wife.”

“I told you I have one. Such as she is.” Flavius grimaced delicately. Eodan bristled. It meant nothing for Flavius to bed with thrall women―any man would do that if no better were to be had. The ugly, hardly understandable gossip about boys could be overlooked. But a man’s wife was his
wife,
sworn to him in the sight of proud folk. Even if he did not get on with her, he was less than a man for speaking her name badly before others.

Well—

“What is the Roman consul’s name?” went on Flavius. “Not Catulus, whom you beat at the Adige, but the new one they say has been given supreme command.”

“Marius.”

“Ah, so. Gaius Marius, I am sure. I have met him. A plebeian, a demagogue, a self-righteous and always angry creature who actually boasts of knowing no Greek ... indeed. His one lonely virtue is that he is a fiend of a soldier.”

Flavius had murmured his remark in Latin. The Cimbric, the speech of barbarians, could not have been used to say it. Eodan followed him without much trouble; he had had Flavius teach him enough Latin for everyday use, looking forward to the day when he dealt with many Italian underlings.

Eodan said, “In my baggage cart you will find my chest of armor. Polish the helmet and breastplate. I would look my best tomorrow.” He paused at the wagon. “And do not sit close to here.”

Flavius chuckled. “Ah―I see what you have in mind. You are to be envied. I know all Aristotle’s criteria of beauty, but you sleep with them!”

Eodan kicked at him, not very angrily. The Roman laughed, dodged and slipped off into darkness. Eodan stared after him for a little, then heard him strike up a merry melodious whistling.

It was the same air Gnaeus Valerius Flavius had been singing at Arausio in Gaul, to hearten his fellow captives. That was after the Cimbri had utterly smashed two consular armies, while Boierik was sacrificing all the prisoners and booty to the river god. Ha, but the hag-wagon had stunk of blood! Eodan had been a little sickened, as one helpless man after another went to be hanged, speared, cut open and brains dashed out―the river had been choked with the dead. He had heard Flavius singing. He did not know Latin then, but he had guessed from the kind of laughter (the Romans had laughed, waiting to be murdered!) that the words were bawdy. On an impulse he had bought Flavius from the river for a cow and calf. Later he had learned that he now owned a Roman of the equestrian class, educated in Athens, possessor of rich estates and tall ambitions, serving in the army as every wellborn Roman must.

Eodan went up two steps and drew aside the curtain in his doorway. This was a chief’s wandering home, drawn by four span of oxen, walled and roofed against the rain.

“What is that?” The low woman-voice was taut. He heard her move in the dark wagon body, among his racked weapons.

“I,” he said. “Only I.”

“Oh―” Hwicca groped to the door. The dim light picked out her face―broad, snub-nosed, a little freckled, the mouth wide and soft, the eyes like summer heavens. Her yellow hair fell so thickly past the strong shoulders that he could hardly see her crouched body.

“Oh, Eodan, I was afraid.”

Her hands felt cold, touching his. “Of a few Romans?” he asked.

“Of what could happen to you tomorrow,” she whispered. “And even to Othrik.... I thought you would not come at all tonight.”

His arm slipped down under the wheaten mane, across her bare back, and he kissed her with a gentleness he had never had for other women. It was not only that she was his wife and had borne his son. Surely it was not that she also came of a high Cimbrian house. But when he saw her it was like springtime within him, a Jutland spring in lost years when the Maiden drove forth garlanded under blossoming hawthorns; and he knew that being a man was more than mere war-readiness.

“I went out to look at things,” he told her, “and spoke with some men and with Flavius.”

“So.... I fell asleep, waiting. I did not hear. Flavius sang me a song to make me sleep when I could not ... he had first made me laugh, too.” Hwicca smiled. “He promised to bring me some of these flowers they have―roses, he calls them―”

“That is enough of Flavius!” snapped Eodan. May the wind run off with that Roman, he thought, the way he bewitches all women. I come back and the first thing I hear from my wife is how wonderful Flavius is.

Hwicca cocked her head. “Do you know,” she murmured, “I think you are jealous? As if you had any reason!”

She withdrew. He followed, awkwardly taking off his clothes in the black, cramped space. He heard Hwicca go to Othrik, the small, milky wonder who would one day sit in
his
high seat, and draw a skin over the curled-up form. He waited on their own straw. Presently her arms found him.

 
II

The Cimbri met the joint forces of Marius and Catulus on the Raudian plain near the city Vercellae. It was on the third day before the new moon in the month Sextilis, which is now called August. The Romans numbered 52,300; no one had counted the Cimbri, but it is said each side of their army took up thirty furlongs and that they had 15,000 horses.

Eodan led a wing of these. He was not on one of the shaggy, short-legged, long-headed Northern ponies that had trotted across Europe―the tall black stallion he had found in Spain snorted and danced beneath him. He dreamed about herds of such horses, his own stock on his own land. He would raise horses like none the world had ever seen. Meanwhile he rode with silver-jingling harness to cast down Consul Marius.

His big body strained against a plate of hammered iron; his helmet carried the mask of a wolf, and plumes nodded above it; a cloak like flame blew from his shoulders; he wore gilt spurs on boots inlaid with gold. He shouted and bandied jokes―the lusty mirth of a stock-breeding people―with comrades even younger than he, shook his lance to catch the sun on its metal, put the aurochs horn to his lips and blew, till his temples hammered, for the joy of hearing it.
“Hoy-ah,
there, Romans, have you any word I can take to your wives? I’ll see them before you do!” And the young riders galloped in and out, back and forth, till dust grayed their banners.

Boierik―huge and silent, scarred hawk face and grizzled red hair beneath a horned helmet, armed with a two-pronged spear―rode more steadily in the van of the army. And not all the Cimbri who marched after the horses owned so much as an iron head covering: there were many leather caps and arrows merely fire-hardened. Yet even some bare-legged twelve-year-old boy, wielding no more than a sling, might be wearing a plundered golden necklace.

The Romans waited, quiet under the eagles, their cuirasses and greaves, oblong shields and round helmets blinding bright in the sun. Among them waved officers’ plumes and an occasional blue cloak, but they seemed as much less colorful than the barbarians as they seemed smaller―a dark short race with cropped hair and shaven chins, holding their ranks stiff as death. Even their horsemen stood rigid.

Eodan strained his eyes through the dust that was around him like a fog, kicked up by hoofs and feet. He could scarcely see his own folk; now and then he caught the iron gleam of chains by which the Cimbri had linked their frontline men together, to stand fast or die. He thought, with a moment’s unease, that it aided the Romans, not to be able to see how great were the numbers they must face.... Then a war-horn screamed, and he blew his own in answer and smote spurs into his horse.