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Nobody Loves a Centurion(72)

By:John Maddox Roberts


“No blood on any of them,” Hermes muttered. “Maybe Ionus got away.” A warrior backhanded him across the mouth. Considering the blow that arm could have delivered, it was a mere love pat, but it bloodied his mouth and his lips began to swell.

We went over the shoulder of the hill, through a small pass, and descended into a dark valley set among densely wooded slopes. I tried to remember in which direction the river lay, but I was disoriented. I knew I could find my way back to the camp if I could make my escape, but in exactly what relationship we lay to the rest of the world, I had no idea.

Once in a while the man in the lead whistled quietly, a sort of bird-call sound. When he did this, he was answered from somewhere overhead. The second or third time he did so, I looked up and could just make out the form of a warrior crouching high in a tree, still as a hiding fawn.

It was late afternoon when we reached a large clearing in the middle of the hills. Around the periphery of the clearing crude huts had been erected, no more than saplings bent into bows and covered with peeled bark or brush. There was one hut that was three or four times the size of the others, but still a rather modest structure. From all the signs that I could see, the little village was newly established. The smell of fresh-cut wood was everywhere. I saw no women. This was a warrior band, not a tribe on the move.

On several racks, deer and other game hung ready for butchering. I wondered if our captors were hunters who had stumbled upon us or men specially detailed to keep an eye on the grove. I suspected the latter.

In the very center of the clearing stood a tall post crudely carved into manlike form. The staring eyes were made from lumps of hammered tin and its grimacing mouth was studded with real teeth taken from a variety of beasts; a cloak of wolf-skin hung from its rudely defined neck. Arms were sketchily carved in low relief, one hand holding what appeared to be a noose of braided hide, the other an ax or hammer. The extreme stylization made details difficult to interpret and my mood was not one conducive to art appreciation.

The leader of our party called out something and men came running with a pair of heavy stakes and a wooden maul. They pounded the stakes into the ground a few paces in front of the wooden god or whatever it was. When they were finished, I watched with great interest to see what their next move would be. If they had proceeded to sharpen the stakes, I planned to find the largest, meanest-looking German in the camp and spit in his eye. If I did that, he might strike me dead immediately. I did not like the idea of impalement, the one death that may be even more horrible than crucifixion.

To my relief, they merely whittled deep grooves around the stakes a few inches below the hammered tops. Hermes and I were then thrust down into a sitting posture and our tethers tied securely to the grooves in the stakes. After testing our bonds to make sure they were secure, the Germans wandered off in search of dinner or perhaps a quick pot of mead or ale or whatever awful stuff they drank.

“Wonderful,” Hermes muttered. Then, seeing that nobody was going to hit him for speaking, he went on in a firmer voice, “Now we’re going to be sacrificed. Maybe eaten. We should have run. At least it would have been quicker.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “They might simply have crushed the bones of our feet to prevent us escaping and then marched us back here. Altogether, we made the more comfortable choice.”

“If Ionus makes it back and reports us captured,” he said hopefully, “someone will come out to rescue us, won’t they?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, knowing that nobody would bother. One expendable, supernumerary officer and a slave were hardly worth exposing a large number of men to unknown dangers.

For the remainder of the evening I tried to assess the number of the Germans, but I was able to gather little intelligence. Men were always coming and going, singly or in parties. The great simplicity of their dress and belongings made it equally difficult to judge things like purpose or permanence. They probably lived much like this at home, and I could not guess whether this was a raiding party or a part of an army gathered for a genuine campaign. Although most were warriors in their prime, some were boys too young to shave even if Germans shaved, while a number were gray-bearded men of astonishingly advanced years for such a life. These elders seemed just as active as the rest, though.

Sometimes I saw men bearing swords and perhaps a few ornaments of hammered silver, but whether these were just leading warriors or princes I could not guess. Nobody saluted or showed particular signs of deference to anyone and I began to wonder whether this society resembled one of those Golden Age legends when everyone was supposed to be equal. Well, I suppose equality makes sense when every man is an unwashed, bloodthirsty savage.