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Authors: Paul Bannister
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or whatever he called himself this week was to be relayed promptly.
Now, the emperor mused, the British bastard was building a cavalry. That would be a real factor should he ever untangle himself from this soggy, foggy place of forests and barbarians. Well, it would take the bastard a few years before he had a real horse force, but it was a matter to be borne in mind. Maximian knew he could not mount any invasion of Britain in the coming year, he was simply too involved with the Alemanni, but in two years or so… he could put the bastard’s head on the same spike his daughter’s husband and his general, Chlorus, had adorned. Or, he could drag this Britannicus back to Milan or Rome and play with him there. Either would be sheer pleasure, and he’d crucify thousands of those British rebels, too. People might talk about how the Appian Way, after the Spartacus revolt, had been lined with 6,000 rebels nailed up in one day, but he’d give them a better spectacle with those insurgent Britons. He crumpled the dispatch and threw it on the floor. Two fucking forest horses, what was that? Hardly a cavalry force, not yet. He’d deal with it, and that bastard Briton, in due course. He might have Britannia, but even a blind pig can occasionally find an acorn…
While Maximian was staring absently at the flow of the upper Rhine, the sea raider Grimr was standing by its estuary, facing the Jute chieftain Web Brokenose. Grimr took in the man’s appearance. Like a weasel, he thought. Web was narrow-shouldered and not tall. His face was pinched, his eyes suspicious under a shaggy fringe of straw-like hair. Even his voice, with its querulous high-pitched timbre was somehow offensive. How, Grimr thought, did this man become a chieftain? Web seemed to sense the question. “My father and grandfather before him led this clan,” he said, “and we have held our lands against the likes of you for longer than you can imagine. We want no intruders, nor thieves here. What do you think you were doing on our islands?” Before Grimr could speak, Web jabbed at the big man’s chest with his dagger. “I could have you killed,” he said softly. “I could have you burned to death, crushed, or drowned under the keel of your own pirate ship.”
The big Suehan shrugged and held out his hands placatingly. “You could do any of those things of course, king,” he said. “We are in your power, but that is why we came here, to serve under you.” Inwardly Grimr was gritting his teeth and trying not to say: “I should wring your scrawny neck, you chicken-faced blot,” but overmatched as he was, and with just a dozen of his men present in the Jute’s bustling settlement, he settled for the pragmatic approach. “We came because we heard you were planning an expedition to Britain, and we wanted to offer our swords to your service in return for what you consider fair reward.” And that, he thought sourly, would probably be a fraction of what we’re really worth, but the problem right now is to persuade this half-man not to enslave us, or worse.
“My crews,” and Grimr put faint emphasis on the plural to underscore to the Jute the possible threat of reinforcements or rescue, “are fine warriors. Why would you not want them in your shield wall, or slaughtering your enemies? Of what use are we to you, lord king, if we are dead?”
“You were on my islands,” Web repeated sullenly.
“An accident of weather,” said Grimr firmly. “We were seeking your fortress.” He looked around at the small port that sat near the confluence of the Rhine and Meuse rivers. Stone walls and thick timber palisades, stone quays, some jetties, a couple of warehouses and a small town. It was a sizeable, obviously important place and it was busy. About 20 vessels were tied up to the harbour walls or had been dragged up the beach. The quays and both shipyards were swarming with men readying longships and themselves for a long voyage. Web still looked suspicious, so
Now, the emperor mused, the British bastard was building a cavalry. That would be a real factor should he ever untangle himself from this soggy, foggy place of forests and barbarians. Well, it would take the bastard a few years before he had a real horse force, but it was a matter to be borne in mind. Maximian knew he could not mount any invasion of Britain in the coming year, he was simply too involved with the Alemanni, but in two years or so… he could put the bastard’s head on the same spike his daughter’s husband and his general, Chlorus, had adorned. Or, he could drag this Britannicus back to Milan or Rome and play with him there. Either would be sheer pleasure, and he’d crucify thousands of those British rebels, too. People might talk about how the Appian Way, after the Spartacus revolt, had been lined with 6,000 rebels nailed up in one day, but he’d give them a better spectacle with those insurgent Britons. He crumpled the dispatch and threw it on the floor. Two fucking forest horses, what was that? Hardly a cavalry force, not yet. He’d deal with it, and that bastard Briton, in due course. He might have Britannia, but even a blind pig can occasionally find an acorn…
While Maximian was staring absently at the flow of the upper Rhine, the sea raider Grimr was standing by its estuary, facing the Jute chieftain Web Brokenose. Grimr took in the man’s appearance. Like a weasel, he thought. Web was narrow-shouldered and not tall. His face was pinched, his eyes suspicious under a shaggy fringe of straw-like hair. Even his voice, with its querulous high-pitched timbre was somehow offensive. How, Grimr thought, did this man become a chieftain? Web seemed to sense the question. “My father and grandfather before him led this clan,” he said, “and we have held our lands against the likes of you for longer than you can imagine. We want no intruders, nor thieves here. What do you think you were doing on our islands?” Before Grimr could speak, Web jabbed at the big man’s chest with his dagger. “I could have you killed,” he said softly. “I could have you burned to death, crushed, or drowned under the keel of your own pirate ship.”
The big Suehan shrugged and held out his hands placatingly. “You could do any of those things of course, king,” he said. “We are in your power, but that is why we came here, to serve under you.” Inwardly Grimr was gritting his teeth and trying not to say: “I should wring your scrawny neck, you chicken-faced blot,” but overmatched as he was, and with just a dozen of his men present in the Jute’s bustling settlement, he settled for the pragmatic approach. “We came because we heard you were planning an expedition to Britain, and we wanted to offer our swords to your service in return for what you consider fair reward.” And that, he thought sourly, would probably be a fraction of what we’re really worth, but the problem right now is to persuade this half-man not to enslave us, or worse.
“My crews,” and Grimr put faint emphasis on the plural to underscore to the Jute the possible threat of reinforcements or rescue, “are fine warriors. Why would you not want them in your shield wall, or slaughtering your enemies? Of what use are we to you, lord king, if we are dead?”
“You were on my islands,” Web repeated sullenly.
“An accident of weather,” said Grimr firmly. “We were seeking your fortress.” He looked around at the small port that sat near the confluence of the Rhine and Meuse rivers. Stone walls and thick timber palisades, stone quays, some jetties, a couple of warehouses and a small town. It was a sizeable, obviously important place and it was busy. About 20 vessels were tied up to the harbour walls or had been dragged up the beach. The quays and both shipyards were swarming with men readying longships and themselves for a long voyage. Web still looked suspicious, so
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