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

Nor were we. It was a warm autumn and when the leaves fell my men began to fish the river again and no one watched them from the other bank. In November it rained a great deal and it became very cold, though the only ice that we saw were small floes that had come down from the Upper Rhenus, high above Borbetomagus, and even these were breaking up as they passed us by. In December the christians began to look forward to their great festival and much time was spent in making preparations for it. They were much cheered to learn—those in the camp garrison who did not know—that it was here at Moguntiacum that the emperor Constantine, on his way to destroy Maxentius at the Milvian bridge, had the famous vision that converted him to their faith. They laughed a lot and there was considerable drunkenness and the cohort commanders had a busy time soothing the feelings of outraged fathers of young women, while the charge sheets were full with details of men who had overstayed their leave.

One morning a legionary who had stayed out all night staggered into the camp with a knife wound in his chest. At the subsequent enquiry I learned that he had gone to one of the villages—he was drunk at the time—in search of a woman and had been attacked by a night watchman, who caught him climbing the palisade. I punished him with stoppages of pay and put him on fatigue duties for three months. Then I rode out to the village concerned. They were collecting brushwood in a clearing when I arrived, while further down the hill a handful of boys and old men were doing the winter sowing. A hunting party had just returned, singing and laughing, a freshly killed buck swaying from a pole. While I watched, they quartered the animal, cutting the meat into strips which would then be smoked over the hut fires, so many strips per man as the chief directed. On one side of the clearing was a huge mound covered with damp leaves, from under which smoke billowed fretfully.

Their chief wiped the sweat from his face and smiled broadly. “Charcoal,” he said, speaking in camp Latin. “We sell it to your soldiers. You have brought us much trade. That is good.”

“And trouble,” I said.

“Oh, that. He was drunk. Is the man dead?” For the first time he looked at me with an expression of alarm.

“No, a pity he isn’t. It would have been a good example to the rest.” I leaned forward over my horse’s neck. “I am sorry. I do not like my men to molest your women. He is well punished. It will not happen again, I promise you.”

He grinned and stroked his beard. “You cannot stop them trying; but I can stop them succeeding. Will you come to my hut and drink?”

I had tasted the native beer already. I did not like it. “Thank you, no. Another time.” I looked round at the activity. “You are happy here?”

“Of course. That is why we came.”

“You are of the Alemanni?”

“Yes. We found the east bank too crowded.”

“But surely it is only crowded because everyone insists on living in the same area?” I pointed to the east. “Beyond that river there are vast lands, more than enough for all your people.”

He shrugged. “But so much is forest.”

“Well, if you cut the forest back then there is more ground on which to sow crops.”

He said gravely, “But the forests belong to the gods. One cannot destroy their home lest they destroy ours in turn.”

“It is hard work being a farmer, I agree.”

He nodded eagerly. “And that is another reason. We are a restless people. It has always been so. Besides, we enjoy fighting; and it is easier to gain what you want by spilling blood instead of sweat.”

“And what will happen if more people cross the river?”

His face wrinkled. “Then we should have to fight to hold what we possess. But that is why you are here. They will not come now.”

“I hope you are right. Have you heard that the Vandals are looking for a new land?”

He shook his head. “No.” He looked alarmed. “I have heard nothing. I have no friends on the other bank. The Vandals, you say.” He touched his chin. “That would be bad.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “Why? Because we of the Alemanni fear death; but the Vandals fear nothing. They believe that if they die in battle then they go to a great hall where warriors like themselves are always welcome, and where there is eternal feasting and drinking; and there they live again.”

“And do you believe this?” I asked.

His faded eyes smiled a little. “I shall know that when I am dead.”

I looked at the ploughed land. “Was the harvest good?”

He shrugged again. “It has been worse; it has been better. The priest prayed for us in the church in the town, but I think—” his voice dropped—“it was better in the days when the Corn King held his court.”

“I think so too.” I rode back to the camp, comforted. I was glad that someone believed in us and, perhaps, trusted us a little.