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

Aquila said, “We nearly did it, sir. With only a few more men we could have beaten them.”

I said gently, “And now we have less than before.”

Quintus did not look at me. He said, and his voice was sombre, “We, none of us, have any illusions now.”

The following morning we broke camp and I stood on a hilltop with Goar and watched the legion limp down the track that led to Bingium.

He said cheerfully, “It was a great battle. Your men fought like wolves.”

“And yours also.”

“Oh, we—we always fight well. We enjoy it. But we are not soldiers. I see now why you conquered the world. It is the discipline that does it. I—I should like to have been a Roman soldier. Do not laugh at me. It was my father’s wish. And mine also.”

“I do not laugh,” I said. “You will be a general yet when I am dead.”

The daughter of Rando had watched the battle from the hill above Moguntiacum and her face, when we rode in, was scornful. “I prayed that you would lose,” she said. “And my prayers were answered.”

“I did not expect to win, only to weaken them a little with losses. In that I succeeded.”

Her teeth snapped. “You are clever at twisting words. I hate you.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Why not? You are the enemy too.”

We made up our losses by drafting men from the auxiliaries, and I wrote hurriedly to Flavius and told him to send me his conscripted recruits and all the horses he could lay hands on. I gave small awards in silver to those who had distinguished themselves in the fighting, executed two men convicted of cowardice, and promoted three centurions to replace those of my tribunes who had been killed. The badly wounded I sent back to Treverorum, and there was much hard work, repairing ballistae and armour, sharpening swords that had got blunted and damaged, and replenishing our stocks of missiles.

November came, and the winds blew from the north, and we had much rain; and sometimes on the river, in the morning and at night there was a grey mist so that we could not see from one bank to the other; and the gulls came inland from the sea in vast numbers and perched on the camp walls, or screamed about our heads till they sounded like men dying. And in the dawn the land would be covered with a white frost and, as I rode across the fields, I would see that the pug marks of the cattle were covered with a film of brittle ice.

One afternoon a boat put out from the further bank, bearing a green branch, and I went down to the river to see what it was they wanted this time. The young man who stepped ashore was Rando’s eldest son, Sunno. He looked thin and tired and there were purple marks, all puffy, on his neck and upper arms that showed he had been in the recent battle.

“So, you are the king now?” I asked him.

“Yes, I am the king in my father’s place.”

“What can I do for you that I would not do for your father?”

“I have come to ask for the return of my sister.”

“She is not for sale.”

He flinched at the implication that she was now a slave.

“What bargain then would you accept for her return?”

“The dispersal of all the men in your camp.”

“They will only disperse this side of the river.”

I said, “The day that you land on this shore you will look upon your sister, dying.”

“So I was told. You mean it then?”

“What is Rando’s daughter to me? I am Maximus.”

He bared his teeth. “For that some men would call you—butcher.” He smiled with an effort. “But I come in peace. May I see my sister?”

“No. But you have my assurance that she is alive and well.”

He said, passionately, “You are a man who cares nothing for the feelings of others.”

I said, “So men have told me. I care. But my people are not your people.”

He hesitated. “Will you tell my sister I came? Will you give her this?” He held out a small silver brooch, such as girls like to wear. Judging from the workmanship it had come originally from the east. “I will do that,” I said.

He nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to go back to the boat. I took a step forward, unthinking. He swung round towards me: his hand flashed into his belt with the speed of a striking cat. With the knife upheld to throw he stopped and stood motionless as I pricked him beneath the chin with the point of my sword.

I said, “I wondered why you came. A man who loves his sister would have come weeks ago. I wondered, too, why you gave the brooch into my sword hand. Did you think to catch me with such an old trick? I learned that one from the Picts on the Northern Wall when you were—nothing.” I pricked him and his back arched and his chin went up as he tried to avoid the point. Blood showed on the blade.

He licked his dry lips. He did not speak.