Eagle of the Sea
an excerpt

Since I write out of order, I decided to post several shorter scenes instead of one complete chapter. Below are four snippets from my novel, two from the first part taking place near Moguntiacum (Mainz) at the Rhine, and two from the second part taking place in northern Britain. The time is 83/84 AD.

Snippet 1

"I wonder what those Germans are up to." Marcus Horatius Aquila stared at the camp fires gleaming on the eastern bank of the Rhenus and sparkling on the wavelets rippled by a summer breeze. "They usually stay away from the shore."

"You think they'll attempt to cross the river?" Servilius Caepio asked. The sturdy junior tribune lifted his helmet and wiped the sweat off his brow. He had arrived at Moguntiacum a few days ago and was still learning the routine.

"They won't cross so close to the fortress, Titus Servilius. But yes, sometimes they break through the guard lines which are stretched too thin between Moguntiacum and Confluentes, to raid the estates in the hinterland." Aquila had seen the trails of downtrodden crops, charred beans and dead people. The river was no barrier for the dugouts of the Chattian raiders.

"So that is why we're planning a grand scale invasion? To teach them a lesson?"

"Exactly. And that's why I should scout on them and find out what they know."

"Ah yes, the legate mentioned you know some of those barbarian languages. You intend to play the German?"

There was something in Caepio's tone that made Aquila feel ill at ease. New to the army and eager to please his superiors, Caepio would believe - and spread - the rumours Aquila knew were told about him.

"I speak Batavian, which is close enough to the dialect of the Chatti," Aquila said in a reserved tone that didn't invite further discussion. "And of course, I'll need to dress in Germanic gear."

But Caepio ignored the hint. "Too bad you can't send your friend Armingarius, but the legate would never trust a Batavian rebel."

"Irminger," Aquila deliberately used the Batavian name, "made his peace with Rome twelve years ago. To call him a rebel is an insult to a guest of the legate."

"That guest of the legate is living in your quarters."

"Because Licinius Crassus asked me. His wife feels uneasy in the presence of strangers."

"Can't blame her. The man looks outlandish enough." Caepio shrugged and turned towards the way leading up the slope and to the fort. "I'm getting some iced cervisia. Not that I like beer that much, but it is the only thing one can drink these days. Who'd have thought it could be so hot at the Germanian border. You'll come, too?"

"Later. I want to make sure the watches are alert."

Caepio stopped on his way, the torch he held flickering through the trees that framed the path, shadow leaves dancing on his cuirass and helmet. "You want me to accompany you?"

"Thank you, but you're not on duty, Titus Servilius. Enjoy your evening."

Aquila watched Caepio walk up the slope. They had left the trees standing here to avoid erosion during the autumnal rains. Twigs and leaves rustled in the warm breeze, whispering secrets from a past when trees ruled these hills. Aquila let his gaze wander to the white, crenellated walls of the fort, gleaming faintly against the velvet, dark blue sky. He seemed to still smell the sharp chalk of those last days of white powdered frenzy before the new legate arrived, and his predecessor had ordered every damn wall in the fort to be given a fresh layer of paint. The sun burned from a cloudless sky fourteen hours a day so the legionaries on the scaffoldings had to wear gauze stripes over their eyes.

Now the splendour of castellum Moguntiacum announed the German tribes that west of the Rhenus, Rome began.

Another torch made its flickering way down the path and Irminger strode out of the boughs. Clad in a belted tunica of seagreen wool, a long sword at his side and broad, golden bracelets on upper and lower arms, he stood somewhat taller than Aquila, and the short- clipped beard and partly braided hair added to his foreign appearance.

"Servilius Caepio told me I would find you here," he said. "The pup made sure to speak very slowly and not use complicated words." Irminger shook his head, grinning. "Sometimes I wonder why we have so much respect for you Romans."

Aquila smiled in return. "Because we're not all pups, my friend. The soldiers are not."

"No, they are not. They're wolves led by some pups. And the occasional eagle." His smile vanished. "Marcus, I have an uneasy feeling about those camp fires. The summer has been hot, the earth dry, the rivers run low."

"They're preparing a sacrifice, you mean?"

Irminger nodded. "Listen." He put a hand on Aquila's shoulder.

Like distant thunder, the dull rhythm of drums echoed over the water, joined by deep voices, a murmur of doom.

"What is this eerie sound?"

"A death chant to Nerthus," Irminger whispered. His hand trembled. "Marcus, I fear for my son."
__________

Snippet 2

"The altar will be on top of that hill," Irminger whispered. Like snakes of fireflies, the light of hundreds of torches moved towards and up the hill. The drums still boomed their monotonous song.

"We should have brought torches," Aquila said. "Everyone seems to have one."

Irminger shook his head. "There are some who would recognise my face even after twelve years." He leaned on his staff and hobbled on with his head bent. Aquila put his hand under Irminger's elbow as if to suppport him. "I hope your plan works," he murmured.

They walked on, trying to stay away from the clusters of people. Aquila knew little about the Germanic gods, but from what he has heard, Nerthus was Proserpina and Ceres in one, the goddess of both death and fertility. A number of women could be seen among the throng striding up the hill, dressed in their long linen shifts fasted at the shoulders with brooches, often gleaming silver or golden. The Chatti had done well in spoils.

Would the women prove a hinder or help to their plan? Aquila touched the hilt of his gladius under the cloak. No man was allowed to carry weapons in the presence of the goddess, Irminger had told him, except the guards of the Shrine and Waggon. It was one small advantage.

Aquila wiped his brow under the hood. The night was warm and still, the only sounds the drums and a soft murmur from the crowds. The path grew steeper. To their right, a break of fallen trees allowed a view to the Rhenus glittering silver in the light of a rising moon. Far away, like goldens stars, the watchfires of Moguntiacum fortress flickered. Good, Gaius Equitius had obeyed his order to lit the giant tripod firepans on the battlements, and the leagate hadn't opposed it. Maybe he would not, with so many Chatti gathering.

Irminger stumbled and fell to his knees. Aquila hauled him up, when a man with a torch stepped beside them. "Father, are you well?" he asked.

"I'm fine." Irminger assumed a croak. "I only tripped over a root."

"Do you need my arm?"

"Thank you, but my nephew here will support me." Irminger leaned heavily on Aquila's arm.

"Then allow me to lighten the way for you." The man's voice sounded young. He held the torch high so that the shine illuminated them. Irminger bowed his head deeper. "You are kind, my son," he murmured and continued to totter on, stooped and seemingly out of breath.

"There is no need to hurry, father," the young man said. "The sacred waggon has not yet passed us."

"It will come this way?"

"Yes. You're not from Boso's tribe then, that you don't know?

"No, I'm from the Taunan woods. Visiting my sister. She's too old to climb the hill, but I wanted to see the ceremony." Wodan, let him leave it at that, Irminger prayed. Every word I say could be a wrong one.

Some maiden overtook them with light steps and silver laughter; a man demanded silence in a stern tone, the rhythm of the drums beat faster. Irminger swallowed.

The creak of wooden wheels became audible, and the snorting of an animal. The crowds stepped aside, torches framing the path like amber beads.

"There comes the waggon," the young man said with awe in his voice. "It'll be led by the head priest Winizo and Boso, our leader." He put a hand on Irminger's arm. "You should step forward and ask Boso to join the cortege. He'll grant it to a visitor from our sister tribes."

"It would be too great a honour," Irminger murmured. "I'm not from a high family." Name of the fate-weaving Nornar, he should have chosen a different disguise. If this eager young man drew Boso's attention to him, he'd join the victim on the sacred waggon. Boso would never forget his face, not in this life or another.

The beat of the drums sang in Irminger's ears. The people took the rhythm up, chanting 'Ner-thus, Ner-thus' in low, deep voices. Irminger grasped Aquila's sleeve. "I'm tired, nephew, I need to sit down. Help me to that log."

"Sure, uncle," Aquila replied, carefully pronouncing the words in the accent of the Chatti. He could feel Irminger's arm tremble in his grasp. He wanted to ask if that Boso was the enemy Irminger had mentioned, but with the young torchbearer standing so close, even a whisper could be overheard.

Irminger sank onto the fallen tree trunk. Some small rodent skittered through the dry leaves in search for a better place to eat the woodspider it had caught under the log.

"Is your uncle ill?" the young man asked.

Aquila shook his head. "Just tired. Some rest ... will do him good."

The creaking wheels were close now, and the strong stride of warriors. Aquila watched from the second row. Some twenty men came marching, tall spears held aloft. Albeit wreathed with oaken garlands, the points glinted sharp like any hasta an officer could ask for. The men were clad in mail and wore helmets, a luxury among the tribal warriors. Behind them rode a man with a wolf pelt thrown over his mail despite the heat; a sword hung from his baldric and a shield from the saddle bow. He too, had a helmet. Beside him walked a man in a white robe, girded with an intricately woven rope of silver wire, a fair beard floating onto his chest. Those must be Boso and the priest Winizo.

Next marched the drummers, men clad in horse skins with the skulls on their heads, grotesquely enlarged by the flaring torches; shadows from the underworld. Aquila shivered. The chant and drumming increased until it felt as if the very earth shook beneath him. Irminger had buried his head in his hands.

The sacred waggon appeared in Aquila's vision. It was a simple Germanic style cart, though lavishly decorated with leaved garlands and woven bands in red and white, and drawn by a matching pair of perfect white oxen that shone in the moonlight.

Aquila put his hand on Irminger's shoulder. "Look," he whispered.

Irminger glanced from beneath his hood. On the waggon lay a man clad in a white tunica, ankles, legs, wrists and arms tightly bound with red leather thongs. Irminger rose. The movements of the cart jolted the prisoner on the hard planks. His face turned in Irminger's direction, bruised and covered with dried blood. But the blue-grey eyes were open.

Irminger's fingers dug into Aquila's arm. "It is he," he whispered in a choked voice. "Madalric. My son."
__________

Snippet 3

The men crouched deeply in the heather, crawling forward on lower arms and toes. The wind of the highlands rustled the dry twigs and covered the men's noise, a cloudy dusk turned the land into amorphous shades of grey.

The first man peeked over the hilltop. In the distance, half hidden by mountains, a lake gleamed pale silver, but below the valley lay tinted in dark shadows, the grass bereft of colour. "There they are," he said in a low voice. "They've set up a fort again." He shook his head. "Those Roman warriors are strange. They build their forts in the valley, instead on the hills like we do."

"Yes, they're a strange people," another man said. "If they think they're so strong that we won't attack them, why do they build forts, and if they're afraid, why put those forts in a place where we can assail them with arrows and javelins from above?"

"They have strong shields to protects them from missiles, Lorcailan." A third man had crouched up beside the others. He wore a dirty, off-white robe instead of a longsleeved tunica, sheepskin vest and trousers like the other men. "And they have formations."

"What is a formation, venerable druid?" the first man asked.

"The warriors of Rome move in groups that stay together even when they run, and they align in squares and cover their sides and heads with those large shields; it's what they call a formation. They do it very fast, too. They start as giant millipede and in a few blinks of an eye you look at a line of crabs. The Roman warlord showed me when I visited the great fort they call Vindolanda last Lambing Time." The druid cast his hood back, revealing brown hair with grey streaks and a stag's antler tattoo on his forehead. "They all wear armour; mail and metal plates. We should not make the mistake and think it will be easy to fight them."

"But we will fight them?"

"We will fight them in due time, Derelaic. But that time has not come yet."

"Then why did you bring Lorcailan and me here tonight? Closer than we have been to their night camp before?"

The druid remained silent for a moment. The somber grey had given way to the blackness of night, the torches and watchfires of the Romans the only golden lights under a sky heavy with the fragrant promise of rain. The wind carried snatches of distant voices to them and tones of a song, and a faint whiff of burning wood.

"I have a feeling this night will be different," the druid finally said, still keeping his voice low, and turning his pale face towards the other men. "Tonight a man will be outside the Roman fortifications, a man for our gods."

The others stared at him, firelight flickering a reflection in their wide eyes.

"Cailt Sealgair, our leader, is dead seven sunrises now. The ravens told me that the tribe will find a new leader tonight." The druid made a pause and held the men's gaze. Then he said with grave authority, "Derelaic, you will be that man."

"But...." Derelaic swallowed. "I'm Cathair's armour bearer, not Cathair himself."

"Cathair has left the tribe. I know he had reasons after his father's second wife tried to kill him, but he is not here in our need for a strong leader. I have watched you, you have learned more from Cathair than you may be aware of, you are willing to listen to advice, and you are not a member of the Hunter clan yourself and thus not part of the rivalries. Bring the gods a sacrifice more noble than boar and stag, and the council will agree on your leadership."

Derelaic took a deep breath. "I accept," he said in a firm voice.

"Good. Lorcailan will go with you. You'll need to capture the man alive."

"I know."

"You go now. I will watch here. When the first twilight rises over yonder mountains and brings alive the surface of the lake, I'll sing the song of the plover, and you shall return." The druid watched the men as far as he could distinguish their shadows in the dark. Derelaic would be easier to guide than proud Cathair, and he never showed any interest in those accursed Romans. I hope I read the signs right, the druid thought, and the gods truly mean him to become our leader.

Derelaic crawled downhill, feeling his way through the dry heather. Behind him he could hear the breath of Lorcailan. What a strange night and what a change of fate. The earthen walls and wooden palisades of the Roman camp loomed close now, casting giant shadows in the light of torches burning on the battlements. It was so large, larger than the great hill fort of the Hunter clan. How many Romans were inside? Could he indeed lead his people against them?

"Awesome, isn't it?" Lorcailan whispered behind him. "And they erect something like this every night while they march."

"I don't know how they can do it so fast. Nectan is right, it won't be easy to fight them. Arrows and javelins from above won't be enough, and it'll be difficult to climb those trenches and walls. Maybe we could attack when they're on the march."

The men lay stretched out in the heather, heads on their crossed forearms and eyelids lowered to avoid the glint of their eyes to betray them. The wind swept down the hills and played with the torches, flaring them into banners of gold and red. The smell of woodsmoke was stronger here, adding a layer to the perfumes of wet grass and fresh rain.

"You think like a leader already," Lorcailan said. "I admit Nectan took me by surprise, but he may be right. The Sealgair have been nothing but trouble lately."

"Cathair would have been different."

"But would he have fought the Romans?"

"I think he would." But Derelaic wasn't sure. He too well remembered his friend's fascination with everything that came from Rome.

Some of the heads and spear points moving to and fro above the palisades stopped and stared into the darkness outside. The hiding men kept their breath albeit the wind would not have betrayed it. Their dark clothes faded into the darkness and merged with the heath and furze. Voices said something, a man laughed, then a song rose again and the heads moved on, fire glinting off the spears.

"Those torches will be a problem. The Romans can see us coming if we venture any closer," Lorcailan whispered.

"The light will be in their eyes, too. We'll have to stay in the shadows, that's all. Come, Lorcailan, we need to get closer to that gate."

They crouched on, more slowly now and often halting to peer up at the heads above the palisades. But none stopped walking to look down. The sound of voices from the camp died down, only the singer kept throwing tones into the air in an increasingly drunken fashion until another voice shouted a harsh Latin word.

The men stopped at the brink of the puddle of light the gate torches played on the grassy ground. Suppressing a curse as the thorns stuck him, Derelaic wiggled deeper into the gorse that rimmed the heather slope.

They waited. Derelaic wondered if Nectan's ravens had spoken true and a man would indeed leave the shelter of the fort. And if he had guessed the right gate. Though it had not been much of a guess, more the impossibility to cross the grass to the other side of the camp.

Lorcailan touched his shoulder. "I think I saw the door move."

They stared out from beneath their eyelashes. The wings swung open and several men stepped outside. One man wore the red cloak, horsetail crested helmet and plate armour of an officer, the others mail and plain helmets of the help soldiers. A guard held a toch aloft and its shine illuminated the face of the soldier beside him, speaking to the officer.

Derelaic's eyes grew wide. "By Lugh's sun chariot," he whispered, "it's Cathair."
__________

Snippet 4

Aquila found himself in a half-sitting position, his back against the trunk of a tree. His wrists and ankles hurt with the tight thongs that bound him, and his shoulder burned like fire where a spear had pierced it, angling its way beneath the collar opening and the segmentata plates. Blood still trickled down his chest. His lips felt dry and his vision blurred from exhaustion and the loss of blood.

Aquila turned his gaze to the fires where the men had gathered, their plaid cloaks and tattoos on pale skin alive in the flames. He had heard rumours that the tribes practiced human sacrifice and shuddered involuntarily. Would a Roman tribune please their gods? Aquila tried to focus his memory on the fight, but everything appeared a blur of iron and death, of blood and the gladius in his hand, moving by itself.

After a while, he felt a touch on his shoulder and opened his eyes. A man from the tribes knelt in front of him, holding a bowl before his face. Aquila nodded. The man lifted the bowl to Aquila's lips; he gulped the clear water and sank back against the tree.

The tribal warrior returned with another man, surely one of their leaders. The newcomer was tall, with long, dark hair, dressed in trousers and a cloak woven in a saffron-dark blue pattern, clasped at his chest with the most beautiful serpent-shaped brooch Aquila had ever seen. Amber-inlaid bracelets of the same style covered the man's wrists.

"You are wounded?" the man asked in soldier's Latin and knelt down at Aquila's side.

"A spear pierced my shoulder."

The leader unlaced the plates of Aquila's armour and folded the torn, bloodstained tunic back from his shoulder. "This bleeds bad. The healer will see to it."

Let's hope that healer knows better remedies than goat dung, Aquila thought. But where had a man of the tribes, even a leader, learned the Latin spoken in the soldiers' tents? The Caledonians didn't serve as auxiliary.

Blinking to ease his burning eyes, Aquila watched another man approach them, wearing more arm rings than any Roman courtesan and a headgear Aquila could not indentify; it looked like an animal head but not from a beast he knew. A horse skull with antlers? Damn, he was tired, his vision played tricks on him. Oh, to be able to lie back and close his eyes, to sleep and no longer feel the pain. But he was a Roman, he would not pass out from a wound.

"Here is the healer." The tribal leader bowed down to cut the thongs on Aquila's wrists and remained on one knee while the healer looked at the wound. The man said something, the leader nodded, and more people began to move around Aquila. Someone brought a cauldron with steaming water and another man handed the healer a leather pouch with a reverent gesture. A torch flared.

The leader held a earthen flask to Aquila's lips. "Drink, it will help with the pain."

Aquila took a sip and gasped. The liquid burned his throat, but he swallowed some more. It was stronger than wine and might indeed get him drunk enough to deaden the pain. In his exhausted state, the babbling around him blurred into words his mind tricked him into understanding. Damn, not again. 'Blood' he heard, and 'wound deep, hurt." He shook his head. Of course, the healer would talk about blood, he didn't need to understand the words to guess them.

The healer began to hum a strange melody. It was oddly soothing and made the men gathered round the camp fires flicker in Aquila's eyes. The sharp smell of earth, sweat and blood enveloped him, mingling with the song. Something touched his wounded shoulder, and Aquila stared in the opposite direction. A fine image of Patroclus I cast, he thought. The leader had dropped his knife and supported Aquila with a hand on his hale shoulder and his leg braced against Aquila's back. It felt comfortable.

Too comfortable. He would not fall asleep. Aquila blinked violently and forced his eyes to stay open. He stared at the blade gleaming silvery red in the light of the torch. It would be so easy. He was a Roman soldier, not a weak boy who hurt. They had prevented him from falling upon his sword, but he could have an honourable death yet. His hand moved to the knife, fingers closing around the hilt.

A strong hand wrapped around his wrist. "There is no dishonour in captivity. You fought brave."

"I'm a Roman officer," Aquila murmured.

"Who held the defile for a long time. And your men obeyed your order. Most escaped."

"Good." Aquila supressed a sigh of relief. He had hoped Madalric would guide them to safety; he moved through the foreign terrain with more ease. But the two contuberna that formed his personal guard had fallen at his side before he could sent the rest off. Sixteen good men dead. Where were their bodies?

"Your pilus prior is a good man."

"Yes, he is." Where had that tribal chief learned to distinguish Roman ranks? A sharp pain shot through his body and Aquila broke into a sweat. The knife dropped out of his fingers. He groaned. The healer said something. 'Clean the wound'?

"We make wine from berries," the leader explained, losing his grip on Aquila's wrist. "It is strong. It will clean the wound, but it hurts."

"It doesn't matter," Aquila said through his gritted teeth. At least the healer knew more remedies than goat dung. The world faded, changed into a different place, close to the sea. There were camp fires, too, and the smell of roast venison and blood. The pain wandered to his arm, and the healer kneeling before him wore a feathered headgear. "It is a clear break and will heal fine. The coltsfood poultice brings down the swelling," he said. A female voice answered, "my husband can take him to a Roman surgeon." - "There is no need," the healer answered and his voice sounded angry.

Aquila jerked back into the present. This was uncanny. Who was that woman and why did he understand the words? He knew it was not Latin. Was he going mad?