“You will find rich commerce among us in future,” Classicus declared. “The Empire of Gaul—” Pensively: “Why not? Bring the amber straight west, overland as well as by sea . . . I will think about that when I have time.”

  “Hold,” Burhmund interrupted. “I’ve a task.” He put heels to horse and trotted off.

  Classicus’s regard followed him warily. The Batavian rode to the line of surrendered troops. The tail of the sad procession was just passing by. He drew alongside a man, almost the only one, who walked erect and proudly. Ignoring practicality, the man had wrapped a toga, clean and pipe-clayed, around his starveling frame. Burhmund leaned over and spoke to him.

  “What’s gotten into his head?” Classicus muttered. Immediately he turned his own and glowered at Everard. He must have remembered the newcomer would overhear. Friction between allies should not be displayed to outsiders.

  I’ve got to divert him, or he may well order me begone, the Patrolman considered. Aloud: “The Empire of Gaul, did you say? Do you mean that part of the Roman Empire?”

  He foreknew the answer. “It is the independent nation of all the Gallic peoples. I have proclaimed it. I am its emperor.”

  Everard acted duly impressed. “I beg your pardon, sir! I hadn’t heard, being so lately arrived.”

  Classicus smiled sardonically. There was more to him than vainglory. “The empire itself is very lately founded. It will be a while before I reign from a throne instead of a saddle.”

  Everard drew him out. That was easy. Uncouth and uninfluential, this Goth was nevertheless somebody to talk to and, after all, an impressive figure of a man, who had seen a lot, whose interest therefore held a subtly unique flattery.

  Classicus’s dream was fascinating in detail, and by no means insane. He would detach Gaul from Rome. That would cut off Britain. Thinly garrisoned, its natives restive and resentful, the island should presently fall to him. Everard knew Classicus grossly underestimated Roman strength and determination. It was a natural mistake. He could not tell that the civil wars were over and Vespasian would henceforward rule competently, unchallenged.

  “But we require allies,” he admitted. “Civilis shows signs of wavering—” He clipped his mouth shut, again realizing he had said too much. “What are your intentions, Everard?” he demanded.

  “I am only rambling around, sir,” the Patrolman assured him. Get the tone right, neither humble nor arrogant. “You honor me by sharing your plans. The trade prospects—”

  Classicus made a dismissive gesture and looked away. Hardness settled on his face. He’s thinking, he’s reaching a decision that he may have been brooding on. I can guess what. Chill went along Everard’s backbone.

  Burhmund had completed his brief discussion with the Roman. He issued an order to a guard, who accompanied the prisoner from the train toward the crude wattle-and-daub shelters the Germans had made for themselves during the siege. Meanwhile Burhmund rode over to a score of bully boys who sat mounted ten or fifteen yards off, his household troops. He addressed the smallest and slenderest of them. The lad nodded obedience and hurried toward the abandoned encampment himself, overtaking the Roman and escort. Some Germans were there yet, to keep an eye on the civilians left in the fortress. They had extra horses, supplies, and equipment he could claim.

  Burhmund returned to his companions. “What was that about?” Classicus asked sharply.

  “A legate of theirs, as I thought he must be,” Burhmund said. “I had resolved I would send one such to Veleda. Guthlaf goes ahead, my fastest rider, to let her know.”

  “Why?”

  “I have heard grumbles among my men. I know folk at home feel the same. We have had our victories, but we have suffered our defeats as well, and the war drags on. At Ascibergium—I will be honest—we lost the flower of our army, and I suffered injuries that kept me days disabled. Fresh soldiers have been reaching the enemy. Men say it’s high time we gave the gods a blood-feast, and here is this herd of foes dropped into our hands. We should slay them, wreck their gear, offer everything to the gods. Then we shall overcome.”

  Everard heard a gasp from high above.

  “If it will satisfy your followers, you can.” Classicus sounded more eager than cool, though the Romans had weaned the Gauls away from human sacrifice.

  Burhmund cast him a steely one-eyed stare. “What? Those defenders surrendered to you, they gave you their oath.” It was clear he had disliked that idea and had gone along with it only because he must.

  Classicus shrugged. “They’ll be worthless till we’ve fed them up, and afterward unreliable. Kill them if you wish.”

  Burhmund stiffened. “I do not wish. And it would provoke the Romans further. Unwise.” He hesitated. “However, best we make a gesture. I am sending Veleda that dignitary. She can choose what to do with him, and persuade the people it’s the right thing.”

  “As you will. Now, for my part, I have business of my own. Farewell.” Classicus clucked to his horse and cantered southward. Rapidly he passed the wagons and prisoners, dwindled in sight, disappeared where the road entered a thick stand of forest.

  Yonder, Everard knew, most of the Germans were camped. Some had recently come in Burhmund’s train, some had lain outside Castra Vetera for months and were sick of huts grown filthy. Though still thinly leaved, the woods provided windbreak; they were clean and alive, like the woods of home; the wind in their treetops spoke with the voices of the darkling gods. Everard suppressed a shudder.

  Burhmund squinted after his retreating confederate. “I wonder what,” he said in his native tongue. “Hm.” It could not have been a conscious idea, just a vague hunch, that made him wheel about, ride after the man in the toga and his keeper, gesture at his bodyguards. They hurried to meet him. Everard ventured to join them.

  Guthlaf the courier emerged from among the huts, riding a fresh pony and leading three remounts. He trotted to the river and boarded a waiting ferry. It shoved off.

  Approaching the legate, Everard got a good look at him. From his appearance, swarthily handsome despite the haggardness, he was of Italian birth. He had stopped upon command and waited with antique impassivity for whatever might befall him.

  “I want to take care of this at once, lest something go awry,” Burhmund said. To the Gaul, in Latin: “Go back to your duty.” To a pair of his warriors: “You, Saeferth, Hnaef, I want you to bring this fellow to Wael-Edh among the Bructeri. Guthlaf’s barely gone, carrying word of it, but that’s as well. You’ll have to fare much easier lest you kill the Roman, the shape he’s in.” Half kindly, he told the captive in Latin: “You are going to a holy woman. I think you will be well treated if you behave yourself.”

  Awe upon them, the designated warriors hustled their charge toward the former encampment to prepare for the journey. Floris’s voice trembled in Everard’s head. “Ach, nie, de arme—That must be Munius Lupercus. You know what will happen to him.”

  The Patrolman subvocalized his answer. “I know what will happen all around.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Not a God damned thing. This is written. Hang tough, Janne.”

  “You look grim, Everard,” said Burhmund in his Germanic tongue.

  “I am . . . weary,” Everard replied. Knowledge of the language had been instilled in him before he left the twentieth century (as well as Gothic, just in case). It was akin to what he had used in Britain some four centuries futureward, when the descendants of tribesmen on these North Sea shores were invading it.

  “I too,” Burhmund murmured. For an instant he seemed oddly, endearingly vulnerable. “We’ve both been long on the trail, eh? Let us rest while we may.”

  “Your path has been harder than mine, I think,” Everard said.

  “Well, a man fares easiest alone. And earth clings to the boots when blood has made it muddy.”

  A thrill drove his forebodings from Everard. This was what he’d hoped for, had been working toward since he arrived here two days ago. In many ways the Germans were childlike, unreserved, devoid of any concept of privacy. More than Julius Classicus, who simply displayed his ambitions, Claudius Civilis—Burhmund—yearned to speak into a sympathetic ear, unburden himself to somebody who laid no claims on him.

  “Listen close, Janne,” Everard transmitted to Floris. “Tell me whatever questions occur to you.” In their short but intense time of ready making, he had found she was quick to understand people. Between them they might gain insight, a feel for what was going on and what it could lead to.

  “I will,” she agreed jaggedly, “but I had better also keep watch on Classicus.”

  “You fought for Rome since you were a youth, did you not?” Everard prompted in Germanic.

  Burhmund barked a laugh. “Aye, and marched, drilled, built roads, barracked, squabbled, diced, whored, got drunk, got sick, yawned through endless dullness—the soldier’s life.”

  “Yet I’ve heard you have a wife, children, landholdings.”

  Burhmund nodded. “It wasn’t all pack and hike. For me and my close kinsmen, less than for the ruck of the men. We were of the kingly house, you see. Rome wanted us as much for keeping our folk quiet as for soldiering. So we made officer fast, and often got long furloughs when our units were stationed in Lower Germany. Which they were, mostly, till the troubles began. We’d go home on leave, take part in the folkmoots, speak well of Rome, besides seeing our families.” He spat. “What thanks our services gained us!”

  Recollection flowed from him. The exactions of Nero’s ministers had kindled increasing anger among the tributaries, riots broke out, tax collectors and other plague dogs got killed. Civilis and a brother of his were arrested on charges of conspiracy. To Everard Burhmund said that they had merely protested, albeit in strong words. The brother was beheaded. Civilis went in chains to Rome for further interrogation, no doubt under torture, probably to be followed by crucifixion. The overthrow of Nero stalled proceedings. Galba pardoned Civilis, among various goodwill gestures, and sent him back to his duties.

  Very soon Otho in turn cast Galba down, while the armies in Germany hailed Vitellius emperor and the armies in Egypt elevated Vespasian. Civilis’s debt to Galba almost got him condemned again, but that was forgotten when the Fourteenth Legion was withdrawn from Lingonian territory, taking along the auxiliaries he commanded.

  Seeking to secure Gaul, Vitellius entered Treverian lands. His soldiers looted and murdered in Divodurum, Metz to be. (That helped account for the instant popular support Classicus obtained when he rebelled.) A brawl between the Batavi and the regulars could have become catastrophic but was quelled in time. Civilis took the lead in bringing matters under control. With Fabius Valens for their general, the troops marched south to aid Vitellius against Otho. Along the way Valens took large bribes from communities to keep his army from sacking them.

  When he ordered the Batavi to Narbonensis, southern Gaul, to relieve beleaguered forces there, his legionaries mutinied. They cried that this would deprive them of their bravest men. The disagreement was composed and the Batavi went on as before. After he crossed the Alps and word came of another defeat for their side, at Placentia, the soldiers mutinied again, this time at his inaction. They wanted to go help.

  Burhmund chuckled, deep in his throat. “He obliged us.”

  The two warriors rode from the huts. The Roman was between them, clad for travel. Remounts loaded with food and gear came behind. They went down to the Rhine. The ferry was back. They boarded.

  “The Othonianists tried to stop us at the Po,” Burhmund said. “That was when Valens found the legionaries had been right to keep us Germans. We swam across and cut a foothold, which we kept till the rest could follow. Once we’d forced the river, the enemy broke and fled. Great was the slaughter at Bedriacum. Shortly afterward, Otho killed himself.” He grimaced. “But Vitellius had no stronger rein on his troops. They ran wild through Italy. I saw some of that. It was ugly. This wasn’t an enemy land they’d taken, it was the land they were supposed to defend. Wasn’t it?”

  That might have been part of the reason why the Fourteenth grew restless and snarly. A riot between the regulars and the auxiliaries nearly became a pitched battle. Civilis was among the officers who got things quieted. The new Emperor Vitellius ordered the legionaries to Britain and attached the Batavi to his palace troops. “But that wasn’t good either. He had no grasp of how to handle men. Mine got slack, drank on duty, fought in barracks. At last he returned us to Germany. He could do naught else, unless he wanted blood spilled, which could have included his precious own. We were sick of him.”

  The ferry, a broad-beamed scow with oars, had crossed the stream. The travelers debarked and vanished into the forest.

  “Vespasian held Africa and Asia,” Burhmund went on. “His general Primus now landed in Italy and wrote to me. Aye, by then I had that much of a name.”

  Burhmund sent word around to his widespread connections. A feckless Roman legate agreed. Men went to hold the passes of the Alps; no Vitellianist Gauls or Germans would cross northward, while the Italians and Iberians had plenty to engage their attention where they were. Burhmund called an assembly of his tribe. Vitellius’s conscription had been the last outrage they would take. They clashed blade on shield and shouted.

  Already the neighboring Canninefates and Frisii knew what was afoot. Their folkmoots yelled for men to rally to the cause. A Tungrian cohort left its base and joined. German auxiliaries, bound south for Vitellius, heard the news and defected.

  Two legions moved against Burhmund. He smashed them and drove the remnants into Castra Vetera. Crossing the Rhine, he won a clash near Bonna. His couriers urged the defenders of Old Camp to come forth on behalf of Vespasian. They refused. That was when he proclaimed secession, open war for the sake of freedom.

  The Bructeri, Tencteri, and Chamavi entered his league. He dispatched couriers far and wide through Germany, Adventurers flocked from the wilds to his banners. Wael-Edh foretold the doom of Rome.

  “And then the Gauls,” Burhmund said, “those of them Classicus and his friends could raise. Just three tribes thus far—What’s the matter?”

  Everard had started at a scream that he alone heard. “Nothing,” he said. “I thought I spied a movement, but it was nothing. Weariness does that, you know.”

  “They are killing them in the forest,” Floris’s voice choked. “It is ghastly. Oh, why did we have to come to this day?”

  “You remember why,” he told her. “Don’t watch it.”

  They could not take years to feel out the whole truth. The Patrol could ill spare that much lifespan of theirs. Moreover, this segment of space-time was unstable; the less they from the future moved about in it, the better. Everard had decided to start with a visit to Civilis several months downtime from the split in events. Preliminary scouting suggested the Batavian would be most easily accessible when he accepted the surrender of Castra Vetera; and the occasion would add a chance to meet Classicus. Everard and Floris had hoped to get sufficient information and depart before that happened which Tacitus related.

  “Did Classicus instigate it?” he asked.

  “I can’t be sure,” Floris said around a sob. He didn’t blame her. He would have hated witnessing the massacre himself, and he was case-hardened. “He is among the Germans, yes, but the trees interfere with seeing and the wind with sound pickup. Does he speak their language?”

  “Little if any, as far as I know, but some among them know Latin—”

  “Your soul is elsewhere, Everard,” Burhmund said.

  “I do feel a . . . foreboding,” the Patrolman replied. Might as well give him a hint I’ve got a bit of foresight, a touch of elflore. It could come in handy later.

  Burhmund’s visage was stark. “I too, though for reasons more earthly. Best I gather my trusty men. Hold aside, Everard. Your sword is keen, yes, but you’ve not marched with the legions, and I think I’ll have need of tight discipline.” The last word was Latin.

  The truth reached them, borne by a horseman a-gallop out of the woods. In a suddenly rising, roaring mob, the Germans had fallen on the prisoners. The few Gallic guards scrambled out of the way. The Germans were butchering every unarmed man and smashing the treasures. They would give the gods their hecatomb.

  Everard suspected Classicus had egged them on to it. That would have been simple. Classicus wanted them committed beyond the possibility of making a separate peace. No doubt Burhmund shared the suspicion, as furious as the Batavian was. But what could he do about it?

  He could not even stop his barbarians when they swarmed kill-crazy from the woods into Old Camp. Fire leaped up behind the walls. Shrieks mingled with the stench of burning human flesh.

  Burhmund wasn’t actually horrified. This kind of thing was common in his world. What maddened him was the disobedience and the underhandedness that had brought it on.

  “I will hale them to a weaponmoot,” he growled. “I will flay them with shame. That they may know I mean it, in their sight I will cut this hair of mine, Roman-short again, and wash the dye from it. As for plighting faith to Classicus and his empire—if he mislikes what I’ll have to say about that, let him dare take arms against me.”

  “I think best I go,” Everard said. “I would only be underfoot here. Maybe we will meet anew.”

  When, in the unhappy days ahead of you?

  5

  Wind rushed bitter, driving low clouds like smoke before it. Spatters of rain flew slantwise past unrestful boughs. Hoofs splashed puddles in the trail where horses plodded, heads drooping. Saeferth rode first; Hnaef came after, leading the laden relief animals. Between them, hunched in a sodden cloak, was the Roman. With hand-signs and the like when they stopped to eat or rest, the Batavi had learned his name was Lupercus.