Eagle in the Snow: A Novel of General Maximus and Rome's Last Stand

He said in a whisper, “We got six miles up the road to that big bend. There we met the survivors from the garrison at Boudobrigo.” He choked. “Water, please.” A soldier ran to fetch some. He swallowed a little. “The fort fell two days ago. They were hunted across the hills.” He spat blood, choked again and was silent. Presently he opened his eyes. He said, “Burgundians on the road to Treverorum. They caught us. Two got away. We covered them. The others died. I escaped.” He stared up at me, his eyes frightened. He was only a boy. He said, “Guntiarus has his war-host out. Thousands of them.” The blood was coming very slowly now from the wound in his thigh, in spite of the efforts of the medical orderly who knelt beside me. The wounded man looked faintly puzzled. He said in a whisper, “I didn’t know it was so easy.” I looked at the orderly, who shook his head. Presently the blood stopped coming altogether and I laid him down upon the snow.

Quintus said quietly, “I could not have ridden two hundred yards with a wound like that.”

Fredegar said calmly, “Let my plan stay. It is still the only one. But keep your cavalry. You will need them all. Leave me only a few horses.”

“As you wish.”

Quintus said, “Well, I had better get on and clear the Burgundians off the road.”

“Yes.”

The trumpet blew, and I said to Fredegar, “Join us when you can.”

He stroked his beard. He said, “If I cannot join you, then I shall be with Marcomir. Either way I shall be content.”

I gripped him by the arm, and then swung myself on to my horse.

He looked up at me and smiled grimly. “I have much to avenge.”

The Franks were spreading out on the slopes above the road; trees were being felled, and the palisade round the tower was being straightened up, as I rode off at the head of my legion. Ahead of us, Quintus and his cavalry were fading from sight into a blur of falling snow. I wrapped my cloak about me and chewed a dry biscuit. I was sick with fatigue and with worry.

We marched, and, at intervals of two miles, a double century would fall out to prepare defences and lay an ambush. Three hours later we reached the scene of the fighting. The Burgundians had blocked the road with fallen trees, had roasted the garrison of the signal post to death, and were spread out along the slopes, either side of the road. Quintus had failed to break through, had taken his horses well to the rear, and was feeling the enemy position with his scouts. The main body of his troopers were off the road and out of sight. It was then the middle of the afternoon and behind us, in the distance, echoing between the hills, we could hear a distant murmur that was the sound of Fredegar and his men engaged in battle.

By nightfall we had failed to dislodge the Burgundians, and it was then, while we were sitting, exhausted, round a small fire, that a messenger rode in to say that Fredegar was in difficulties.

“Our people cannot hold them,” he said, in his vile Latin. “They are fighting all the five tribes at once, and soon they will be surrounded. We have used the last of our arrows.” He put his hand on my arm. “My chief does not ask this, but I do. He is an old man and was a great warrior once. Can you not help him? He is prepared to die, not for your emperor, but for you, and to keep faith with Marcomir.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Quintus, we’ve got to get behind these Burgundians. Try to get a cohort round to the left, if it takes all night. Send fifty horsemen across country to make for the road in their rear. Send men with loud voices who can blow trumpets. They are to pretend to be reinforcements. Brushwood tied to the saddles will kick up the snow. It’s dry enough.”

He said, “That trick won’t work twice.”

“It will. We never played it on them. Get those men moving now. And send another detachment down to help Fredegar. Give them trumpets too. Make the Vandals think the Burgundians have been beaten and that we’ve sent help.”

I turned to the Frank. “Tell your chief to ask for a truce. They will grant it. They have lost enough men already. Fredegar can say what he likes, but while he is saying it, the bulk of his men are to retire down the road upon us. In this way he will escape.”

“But it is not honourable.”

I shot out my hand and seized him by the shoulder. “I am not fighting for honour,” I said. “I am fighting for the life of this province, and I will employ any means to protect it. Go now and do as I say.”

“What will the Vandals think?” he muttered dismally.

“What do I care what they think? What are the Marcomanni and the Vandals to me? My honour lies in my hands, not in theirs.”