War Raven: Barbarian of Rome Chronicles Volume One Read Free Page A

turned to join the other women and he reluctantly tugged his attention away.
    A long, rectangular room stretched out before him. Stout wooden beams criss-crossed in the shadows high above his head, and a well stoked fire bathed the lodge in dull light. He smiled at the familiar animal sounds and the smell of manure. It was good to be home.
    “Food and beer for the traveller returned! A good tale is a better one when told on a full stomach,” Roth’s voice boomed out above the noisy banter and rough back-slapping that still focused on his son.
    Guntram, suddenly feeling very tired, seated himself on his favourite otter-skin chair and removed his damp cloak. The initial excitement was subsiding and many of well-wishers were being ushered out. Soon, only family and a selection of tribesmen remained.
    His mother placed a bowl of foaming beer before him, together with a platter of cold mutton and a generous wedge of goat’s cheese. He attacked the food with gusto, a welcome contrast to his recent diet of berries and plant roots. He looked to his father who was smiling as he watched him eat. The scouting trip had been a difficult one, fraught with dangers, and Guntram was relieved to have returned in one piece. The tribe’s council had unanimously elected him to carry out the scouting trip, praising his skills and courage. He was expected to one day take Roth’s place and it was important that he had not failed in his task.
    Guntram quickly consumed his meal, then began his report without prompting. “On crossing the Rhinus I saw numbers of the iron-shirts trading in the Gauls’ villages.” He paused, sucking in a deep breath before continuing. “I also witnessed similar meetings on our side of the river.”
    “Guntram,” Barend interrupted. “The Gauls’ weakness is a tale we’re all familiar with, and it’s old news that Rome is again stretching its greedy fingers into our lands. So, how many iron–shirts were there in these settlements? And did you see anything that we don’t already know?”
    “I counted only small numbers of the iron-shirts; no more than ten in each village. But, may my eyes rot in my head for what I saw in one village.” Guntram’s voice wavered.
    “Spit it out boy, before we all surrender to old age,” Barend urged. It was met by a scolding look from Roth, who added calmly, “Go on boy.”
    “There were other armed men in this village, and they mixed freely with the iron-shirts who were clearly their sword brothers. They carried similar weapons to the iron-shirts, but wore less armour. They were horse warriors...perhaps fifty in number.” The heat in the long-house was oppressive, the atmosphere charged, and he stopped to take a breath. “These warriors were German! They were Suebi!” He spat out the news to the hushed audience.
    The response was immediate, vehement, and Guntram raised his voice above the cries of indignation. “I saw the hair knots of the Suebi as they walked bare-headed amongst the iron-shirts.”
    When the initial furore subsided Roth asked simply, “Are you sure of this?”
    Guntram dropped his head.
    Roth held both hands aloft for silence, before continuing in an even tone, “So, Germans now take arms against Germans, and in the pay of the dogs of Rome. May Tiwaz rot their guts in this life and devour their souls in the next.” There was a chorus of grumbled curses. “Let us not forget that Rome has used our people before; their war-chiefs sending our young men to fight in their wars far away. Yet, there is a stench to this alliance.”
    Jorn, a one-eyed veteran of many battles shouted, “We must raise the Cherusci, cross the great river and crush these Romans and their Suebi curs!” His plan was greeted with cheers and more scalding threats.
    “Wait! Brothers wait!” Roth’s deep voice rang out. “We know that our hearts are fierce and our arms strong, but like the great bear we must be cunning. We must pick our time to strike and then strike in