An uneasy silence had ruled the gathering for a moment, as each of the attendees had imagined the likely response of the thousands of warriors camped in the lower valley to their leader’s execution, until Prefect Gerwulf had coughed softly. All eyes had turned to him, most of them registering surprise at the mannered way in which he waited for permission to speak. Belletor had raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless nodded to the German.
‘You have something to say, Prefect?’
Gerwulf’s blue eyes had been free of any trace of guile, but to Marcus’s ear his voice had been edged with a faint trace of irony.
‘Tribune Belletor, I have fought these people camped in front of our wall for most of my adult life. When I was taken hostage in my people’s war with Rome I determined to learn your language and adopt your customs. As both a warrior and a willing convert to the civilised way of life, I was appointed as a junior officer in the army that went to war against the Marcomanni and my own tribe. Through good fortune I was appointed to command the forces that my tribe had volunteered for the service of Rome, under the treaty that ended that war. .’
Belletor had stirred uncomfortably, clearly already bored.
‘There is a point to your life story, I presume, Prefect?’
Gerwulf had nodded equably, ignoring the impatient note in Belletor’s voice.
‘Indeed there is, Tribune. Since the treaty to end the German Wars was agreed, most of the army’s efforts have been directed at the control of the Sarmatae tribes that live on the great plain that lies north of the Danubius. And if taking part in those operations has taught me one thing, it is that killing this man will only prolong a fight that might otherwise be brought to a successful close within a day or two.’
‘Within days? How so?’
Gerwulf had bowed slightly.
‘Tribune, it is my experience that when a Sarmatae tribal king wishes to make war, he first sacrifices a bull, cooks the animal’s meat and lays the skin out on the ground. He then sits on the skin with his hands held behind his back as if bound at the wrist and elbow, and each of the men who consider themselves his followers approach to offer him their fealty. They eat their share of the meat and then place a foot on the bull’s hide, which is the symbol of their thunder god Targitai, pledging whatever strength they feel able to bring to his cause. My point, Tribune, is that this man will undoubtedly have blood brothers out there beyond our wall, and more than likely sons too. If we kill him now we will simply perpetuate their shared cause against Rome, and make it highly likely that they will attack again.’
Marcus had seen the German’s face harden slightly, as he had flicked a calculating glance at Belletor.
‘Tribune, whilst you have worked marvels given the time you had, our defences cannot be considered to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination. In the event of continued hostilities with this people, the best that we can hope for is that they will ride away to join up with the forces further to the north, and remain a problem for the empire. Whereas if we return him to them with both his skin and his honour intact, demanding that they swear to depart in peace in return for his release and perhaps even demanding hostages in return, then perhaps we can send him away with his army bound to his word not to make war against Rome. With one stroke you would have saved this valley from capture and taken a sizeable piece of the enemy’s strength out of the field.’
Belletor had fixed the German with a hard stare.
‘And you’re sure that these people will respond to such an approach?’
Gerwulf had shrugged, rubbing at his closely cropped blond hair with a big hand.
‘No Tribune, I am not. The Sarmatae have always tended to be scrupulous about their honour, but there is an exception which is the proving of every rule. And whoever goes over the wall to negotiate with the tribesmen must clearly be at some risk.’
Belletor had started with surprise.
‘Over the wall? You suggest that we send a man to speak with them?’
Gerwulf’s expression had remained neutral, although to Marcus’s ear the tone of his response was perhaps a little more strained than before.
‘Of course, Tribune. We must open discussions with whoever rules the tribe in his absence in order to show them that we hold their king, and are doing everything we can to restore him to good health. Such a matter is one for men to discuss face-to-face, not for shouting from our defences, and besides, whoever leads that warband in the king’s absence will never consider venturing within bowshot. A man will have to go down into their camp if we are to achieve a treaty. I’d do it myself if I wasn’t sure that my cohort would dissolve into chaos without me.’
He looked around the assembled officers with a sombre expression.
‘Be under no illusions, whoever goes to open discussions with them is putting himself at considerable risk.’
Belletor had looked around at his officers.
‘Your thoughts, gentlemen? Should we attempt to make peace with these savages, and if so, who should we send to discuss terms with them?’
After some further debate, with both Scaurus and the Thracian cohort’s tribune agreeing with Gerwulf that the possibility of concluding hostilities with the Sarmatae was too strong to be ignored, Belletor had reluctantly agreed with the idea. While his change of heart had come as something of a relief to the men who knew him well, the stipulation that accompanied it had narrowed Scaurus’s eyes with fresh anger.
‘Very well, if you’re all certain this is the right approach to these animals, then I am happy to go with the weight of opinion. But I won’t risk any of my senior officers being taken and butchered in front of our wall. Tribune Scaurus, you can send one of your centurions to talk to the tribesmen instead. That way if they decide to indulge their desire for revenge on the man we send to negotiate with them, we’ll have limited our losses. There, that’s a decision made. Wine, gentlemen?’
With the conference completed Marcus had promptly volunteered for the task of going over the wall, and had resisted Scaurus’s efforts to persuade him that another man might be better suited.
‘With all respect, Tribune, who else can you send with a clear conscience? Both Otho and Clodius could start a fight in a temple of the Vestals, neither Milo nor Caelius has the words needed, and if you send Titus he’ll just spend the whole time looking down his nose at the Sarmatae and making it very clear to them what scum they are without ever saying a word. It has to be me.’
Scaurus had played a calculating look on him for a moment before responding.
‘And Dubnus? I note you didn’t mention him? Dubnus doesn’t have a wife and small child to be left alone in the world, whereas you, Centurion, have responsibilities to worry about.’
Marcus had shaken his head, putting a hand to his face.
‘But Dubnus isn’t Roman, Tribune. His skin and his eyes are the wrong colour. For this to work, these people need to believe they’re negotiating with a man with the power to make decisions. And that means it has to be me.’
Scaurus was standing alongside Belletor in a small group of officers a dozen paces distant from where Julius was preparing Marcus for his descent from the wall’s top, his face set in stony lines as he listened to Belletor holding forth on some subject or other, shooting the occasional glance at his centurions. Tribune Sigilis made an excuse and walked the short distance to join the Tungrian officers, holding his hand out to Marcus.
‘You’re a brave man, Centurion, and you have my respect. I’ll pray to Mars that you come back to us without suffering any harm.’
Marcus smiled back at him, a wry grimace twisting his lips.
‘It seemed to work yesterday, Tribune.’
Sigilis laughed, shaking his head gently.