Hyperborea (Veteran of Rome Book 4), page 29
“What is it?” Cunomoltus exclaimed as Marcus held the bronze coin up in the air to get a closer inspection.
For a long moment, Marcus did not reply. Then a flush appeared across his cheeks and he slowly shook his head in disbelief.
“Well, would you believe it,” he exclaimed in surprise. “The coin is Roman and is showing the face of Emperor Vespasian. These natives must have gotten it from the trading post. We must be close.”
Chapter Forty – The Language of the World
Marcus watched the large bird circling the ship, as the Hermes surged southwards through the choppy sea, her red sail billowing in the wind and her proud pennant fluttering high up in the mast. It was dawn and several days had passed since their violent encounter with the red-painted natives. The Hermes had left that coast the same day and after a short dash across the open sea they had sighted land again. Now, a mile to starboard, they were hugging another rocky coastline, one of heavily wooded, rolling hills and dozens of small barren islands. Bored, Marcus squinted up at the bird, as he stood beside Alexandros, who was holding the tiller. But the bird was too far away for him to make out any distinctive features. At the bow, Jodoc slouched against the side of the boat, keeping an eye open for icebergs, even though they had not seen one for some time now, and the likelihood that they would, was decreasing rapidly, the further south they went.
Alexandros scratched at his black, eye patch as he stared stoically and silently at the sea ahead. The crew had become silent and withdrawn and for the past couple of days no one had seemed interested in talking. They were all weary Marcus thought, as he caught sight of Cora standing beside the mast, staring at the distant land. Morale on board, raised by the supply of fresh meat, had plummeted again after the violent encounter with the red-painted natives and Marcus had realised that the crew were growing exhausted after such a long time at sea. They needed a proper rest on land and a break from the constant danger. They needed to find this trading post and they needed to find it quickly. Marcus sighed and turned his attention back to the bird, as it seemed to draw closer. As he watched it descend in a slow, graceful circular dive, the creature suddenly shot forwards and alighted on the top of the mast, and as it did, a sudden flush appeared on Marcus’s cheeks. The strange bird with its sharp eyes, brown wings, white head and tail and curved beak was peering down at the people on the deck of the Hermes.
“See that,” Marcus cried out in an excited voice, as he pointed at the bird, sitting on top of the mast. “It’s an eagle. I am sure of it, it’s an eagle.”
Alexandros glanced up at the mast.
“Well if it is, then it’s like no eagle that I have ever seen before,” he muttered in a disinterested voice.
Marcus’s eyes however, gleamed excitedly, “You don’t understand,” he called out, as he studied the bird, “This is a good sign. The eagle is the sacred creature of the legions and of Rome. If an eagle chooses to land on the Hermes, then it can only mean that the gods approve of our voyage. My father would have gone down on his knees, if he had been here to see this. This is a sign.”
“A sign?” Alexandros growled.
“A sign that our journey is nearing its end,” Marcus nodded as he peered up at the bald headed eagle, perched on the top of the mast. “It must be.”
A little smile appeared on Alexandros’ lips as he took another look at the bird.
“Not everyone is so happy to see your Roman eagle,” he said gesturing at the black ship’s cat, who was staring up at the bird in alarm, it’s ears flattened against its head and its mouth making a silent, hissing noise.
Alexandros shook his head and called out to Cora in his native Greek, which Marcus could not understand, but the captain’s comment brought a smile onto his wife’s lips and from the doorway of the deckhouse Calista burst out laughing.
***
“It’s a bay and there is a river, but there is no headland and I can’t see any camp or settlement,” Cunomoltus called out, in a disappointed voice as he stared at the coast, holding up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It was late in the afternoon and all day the crew had been watching the coast, searching to no avail for a location that fitted the one that Caradoc had given them. Marcus sighed in disappointment, clambered down onto the deck, and came and stood beside his brother.
“Keep searching,” he muttered. “We are close. I know we are. Caradoc said the headland had a good beach.”
“What else is there to do,” Cunomoltus growled moodily.
Marcus raised his hand and gripped Cunomoltus’ shoulder. Then he turned towards Alexandros and Calista, who were standing by the tiller on the roof of the deckhouse.
“Listen,” Marcus cried out in a loud voice. “The first person to spot this trading post will be rewarded with five Denarii in gold. Do you hear me? Five Denarii for the first person who sees our destination, but if you claim the prize and it turns out to be false then you will be disqualified. Keep your eyes open. We are close. We are not far away now.”
“That’s what you said yesterday and the day before,” Jodoc muttered, as he strode towards the bow.
The crew remained silent and Marcus turned his attention back to the coast. The heavily-forested rolling hills, small inlets and rugged-rocks and islands looked beautiful, but he could not enjoy the scenery. Impatiently he tapped the remaining fingers of his left hand against his thigh. Then he turned towards Alexandros who was at the tiller.
“Take the ship closer inshore, we’re too far out,” he called out.
Alexandros frowned. “I don’t like those rocks,” he cried, “We don’t know these waters and if we get any closer to the shore, we may run aground or strike one of those rocks. It’s not only the rocks you can see, that you should worry about. There are also the underwater obstacles. I don’t like it, Marcus.”
“We need to get a closer view of the shore,” Marcus replied stubbornly. “We’re too far out to see what is going on. Just do it.”
Alexandros shook his head in disapproval, as reluctantly he began to turn the ship towards the shore.
It was early evening when Marcus suddenly caught sight of smoke, rising into the air in a long thin, black column. Rushing to the side of the ship, he peered at the smoke, searching the rocky coast. Cunomoltus and Cora swiftly joined him and for a long moment everyone on board remained silent, as they eagerly stared at the thick, green forest that covered the land.
“What do you think it is?” Cora muttered, as she gripped the edge of the ship with both hands.
“There is no wide bay and I can’t see any river,” Cunomoltus grumbled. “Wherever the smoke is coming from, it is not the trading post.”
As the Hermes headed along the coast towards the column of smoke, Marcus peered at the shore, straining to take in every detail. Then, as they passed a small rocky island, he caught sight of a white, sandy beach. The column of smoke was rising from a fire on the beach and close by, six birch-bark canoes lay drawn up on the sand. A group of Hyperborean’s had gathered around the fire. They were too far away to make out any distinctive features.
“Look,” he cried pointing at the men and canoes.
The others had already seen the natives and were staring at them in tense, worried fascination.
“Heave to!” Marcus cried out, turning to Alexandros. “Get those sails furled.”
“What are you doing” Cunomoltus exclaimed turning towards Marcus with an alarmed look.
On the beach, the men had spotted the Hermes and were coming towards the water’s edge. Marcus did not reply to Cunomoltus’s question, as he turned to stare at the natives. Then he ran his hand across his face and glanced quickly at Alexandros. However, the captain was already bringing the ship into the wind and the sails were flapping about, as the Hermes lost speed and direction.
“What are you doing?” Cunomoltus blurted out.
“I am going to speak with them,” Marcus growled. “I am going to find out where this druid, trading post is.”
“That’s insane,” Cunomoltus gasped in surprise, “Have you forgotten the reception we got from those red-painted devils? If these Hyperborean’s are hostile, they are going to kill you. There are fifteen of them and they look armed.”
“Nevertheless I am doing this,” Marcus snapped, as he lowered the hood of his Paenula.
“How will you communicate with them?” Cora said quickly, “You cannot understand anything that they say and you don’t speak their language.”
“Jodoc fetch the amphora of wine, the large one, and bring it here,” Marcus called out to the youth, as he ignored Cora. “Be careful not to drop it.”
“It’s heavy,” Jodoc growled in protest.
“Just do it,” Marcus shouted.
“What are you doing” Cunomoltus snapped unhappily, as he grasped hold of Marcus’s shoulder.
Marcus turned to his brother with a grim, determined expression.
“I may not be able to speak to them but there are other ways of communication. In the army, we used flags and signal fires. With those natives over there on the beach, I am going to use wine. I am going to get them pissed.”
Cunomoltus let go of his brother’s shoulder and stared at Marcus in surprise.
“Then I am coming with you,” Cunomoltus said at last, giving Marcus a short grim affirmative nod.
“I thought you said that would be insane,” Marcus replied sharply.
“Shut up,” Cunomoltus retorted.
***
Marcus was the first to slip over the side of the narrow raft and into the water, clutching a leather sack over his shoulder. A small, simple wooden-cup hung from a cord around his neck. Swiftly he was followed by Jodoc, holding the heavy, thirty litres, wide-handled, half-a-yard-long, ceramic amphora with both hands. Finally came Cunomoltus, who held onto the long raft, which had brought them to the beach from the ship. The gentle waves came up to his waist and it was freezing cold even for June. Marcus found his footing on the rocky, uneven seabed and paused to study the natives, standing on the beach a dozen paces away. The Hyperborean’s were clad in brown, animal-hides and boots and were staring at him in alarm and wonder. They were carrying an assortment of stone axes, knives, bows and bone-handle harpoons and around their necks, they were adorned with a fantastic array of strange, carved bone and stone amulets. Their flat, oriental faces and jet-black hair, reminded Marcus of the first people they had encountered and amongst them, he suddenly noticed a man wearing a beautiful, feathered headdress.
“They must be a different tribe to the ones we saw before,” Marcus said in a tight tense voice. “These men don’t seem to have painted their faces red.”
“They don’t look very happy to see us,” Cunomoltus said tersely.
Marcus grunted and started to wade towards the shore and the waiting men and as he did so, two of the natives quickly raised their bows in a threatening manner and pointed their weapons at him. On the beach, another of the Hyperborean’s raised his harpoon in the air and yelled something at Marcus as he took a threatening step forwards before retreating. Undeterred Marcus made it onto the dry sand and when he was a few yards from the natives, he halted.
“Penawapskewi,” he called out, looking at the Hyperborean’s. “Penawapskewi?”
There was no response from the Hyperborean’s as they nervously eyed Marcus and his companions. Silently Marcus gestured for Jodoc to place the amphora of wine in the sand in front of the natives. Then slowly, showing the men what he was doing, he pulled another Roman army Pugio knife from his belt and laid it in the sand beside the amphora. Working slowly, he opened the leather sack he was carrying and took out one of Cora’s spare, iron, cooking-pots and the Roman army-helmet he had brought along specifically for this sort of occasion. The natives looked on in silence, as Marcus laid out the items in the sand, staring at him and the objects in growing astonishment. When he was finished, Marcus took a step back and gestured at the natives to come closer and examine the objects, lying in the white sand.
At first none of them moved. Then as Marcus beckoned to them again, the man with the fine feathered headdress pushed his way to the front and cautiously stooped and picked up the army knife, holding it up in the air with respect. The man had an old, wrinkled and wise-looking face and he seemed older than the other hunters. Then another hunter stepped forwards and gingerly picked up the cooking pot, lifting it up and sniffing at it, before biting it with his teeth. There was a small commotion as one of his fellow hunters snatched the pot from the man’s hand, but a sharp cry from the man with the feathered-headdress, ended it, and the new possessor was allowed to keep the pot. But, when one of the Hyperborean’s reached out to touch the amphora, Marcus took a quick step forwards, shook his head and raised his voice and the man backed away nervously.
Calmly, Marcus sat down in the sand and gestured for Cunomoltus and Jodoc to do the same and, as they did, the hunters seemed to relax slightly. Along the beach, the native’s fire was still burning but the men seemed to have completely forgotten about it. Idly, Marcus turned to glance at the Hermes, which was riding at anchor a hundred yards from the shore. Alexandros and his family were watching them from the roof of the deckhouse.
When another hunter however, tried to touch the amphora, Marcus rose to his feet and boldly pushed the man away, before beckoning to the man with the feathered- headdress to come forward. The action caused a stir amongst the Hyperborean’s and a few men cried out angrily in their unintelligible language, but again their leader silenced them. Marcus ignored the tumult and his eyes remained fixed on the native chief. Undoing the top of the amphora, he dipped the little wooden, cup inside and scooped up some dark red wine, showed it to the Hyperborean before raising the cup to his lips and downing it in one go.
“Drink some of the wine and pretend you enjoy it,” Marcus muttered as he handed the small wooden cup to Cunomoltus.
“I do enjoy it,” Cunomoltus replied, as he dipped the cup into the amphora.
Once his brother was finished, Marcus turned slowly to the native with the feathered headdress.
“Here, try some,” Marcus said, as he offered the man the cup and gestured at the wine container.
Cautiously the old, wrinkle-faced chief took the cup and peered down into the amphora before dipping it into the liquid and raising it to his nose. Then quickly mimicking Marcus, he downed the contents in one single go.
“Good?” Marcus smiled broadly, as he looked at the man.
For a long moment the Hyperborean did not reply, as he looked down at the amphora. Then his mouth cracked into a toothless grin and he turned and called out something to his hunters.
“Look at this,” Marcus said gesturing for the chief to come closer, as he held up the small, copper coin he had taken from the red-painted native.
“Penawapskewi,” Marcus exclaimed, tapping the coin and straightening up to point around him in a wide circle. “Where can we find them?”
The chief however did not react in the way Marcus had been hoping. Carefully he took the coin from Marcus’s hand, examined it closely, then pocketed it, and gestured at the wine.
“Don’t get drunk,” Marcus snapped in warning, as he quickly turned to Cunomoltus and Jodoc.
The natives had started to help themselves to the wine now and, as the wooden cup was passed around amongst them, the men began to relax.
***
It was growing dark and the deep-red sun was about to vanish beneath the distant mountains. On the beach the fire crackled and sent showers of sparks shooting up into the air. Marcus sat, staring silently into the sand, flanked by Cunomoltus and Jodoc, as around the fire, the natives talked amongst themselves in soft, quiet voices. Six of the Hyperborean’s, one wearing a Roman army helmet, lay unconscious, spread eagled on the beach, completely intoxicated by too much wine. The native chief however, perhaps noticing that Marcus and his companions had not touched the wine, had refrained from drinking too much, and some of the older hunters had followed his example. The Hyperborean’s had shared some of their kill with Marcus, a strange tasting meat that none of the Romans had ever seen before, but it had tasted good.
“What are we doing?” Cunomoltus hissed as he leaned towards Marcus. “Let’s get back to the ship before they decide to kill and eat us.”
Marcus shook his head as he stared absentmindedly into the sand. Across the fire from him, the chief, clad in his magnificent, feathered-headdress, was watching him in silence, his wrinkled, wise-looking face taking in every detail. Then suddenly he spoke in a sharp voice and the hunters around him fell silent. Marcus looked up and saw that the chief was holding up the copper Roman coin he’d taken from him. The coin gleamed in the fire light.
“Penawapskewi”, the chief said, suddenly giving Marcus a little nod.
“What did he just say?” Marcus snapped as his eyes widened. But neither Jodoc or Cunomoltus were able to answer.
The chief slowly rose to his feet, as the fire sent another shower of sparks shooting upwards to die in the evening sky. Then he pointed at Marcus and said something that none of the Romans could understand. With a dismissive shake of his head the chief muttered something and beckoned for Marcus to come closer. As Marcus came around the fire, he saw that the man was crouching on the beach and rearranging the soft sand with the Roman army knife. Puzzled, he looked down at what the Hyperborean was doing. The chief seemed to be drawing something in the sand with the knife. Then he reached out, picked up a stone and placed it on the sand, tapping it with the point of the iron knife.
“Penawapskewi,” he said glancing up at Marcus.
For a moment no one spoke. Then Marcus felt a hot flush start to fill his cheeks.
“It’s a map,” he exclaimed, “He’s drawing us a map. The stone is our destination. He’s telling us where we can find the trading post.”
“Penawapskewi,” the man said again placing the copper Roman coin on top of the stone as he got to his feet.
