Hyperborea (Veteran of Rome Book 4), page 32
Jodoc seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“I don’t hear you,” Cunomoltus hissed.
“I will be happy to come with you Marcus.”
“That’s better,” Cunomoltus exclaimed cheerfully, as he withdrew his knife and gave Jodoc a push that sent him staggering across the deck.
“Pack your things and say goodbye to Calista,” Marcus said, fixing Jodoc with a grim look. “We are leaving within the hour.”
Jodoc said nothing, as he gave Cunomoltus a hateful look and stomped away towards the cargo hatch. Marcus caught his brother’s eye and slowly shook his head.
“Corbulo would be proud of you,” he muttered. “He would say you knew how to handle difficult situations.”
“No,” Cunomoltus replied with a serious face, “He would be proud of me because I protect your back.”
“Maybe,” Marcus said.
“You know that boy is going to be trouble, it’s just a matter of time,” Cunomoltus growled as he turned to look at the open hatch.
“I know,” Marcus replied.
***
The clear, blue sky stretched away to the horizon and beneath it, the silent, vast forested land baked in the summer heat. Alexandros was standing on the roof of the deckhouse, looking at the coastline as Marcus clambered up the ladder towards him. The captain turned to give him a little nervous smile.
“So you are going upriver then,” Alexandros said quietly, “You are determined to do what you came here to do.”
Marcus nodded, as he turned to gaze at the Hyperborean settlement.
“If all goes well, we will return within fourteen or fifteen days,” he replied quietly, “I want you to use that time to repair the ship and get her ready for going back to sea. But, be careful of the druids. They are suspicious. When I return we will be leaving right away.”
“Whether the druids give us permission or not,” Alexandros murmured.
“That’s right,” Marcus said, laying a hand on the captain’s shoulder, “Here this is for you. The second part of your payment. You have earned it,” he added, as he thrust a leather pouch into Alexandros’s hand. “Whatever happens from now on, I know I chose well when I hired you.”
Alexandros looked down at the bag of gold coins in his hand and, for a long moment he remained silent. Then quickly he slipped the bag under his cloak and rubbed his black eye patch.
“I did not accept this job for the money,” he murmured, avoiding Marcus’s gaze, “I came here to prove that a western route to the land of the Chin could be found and although I don’t think this is the land of the Chin, I am now sure that the route is possible and when we get back, they are going to have to listen to me. No one is going to be able to ignore old drunken Alexandros any longer.”
Marcus nodded, “Just don’t tell the druids that. They are keen to keep the existence of their little colony a secret.”
Alexandros turned to look at Marcus and, as he did, his rugged, weather beaten face seemed to soften.
“I will have the Hermes ready and waiting for when you return,” he said quietly, “You can count on me.”
***
The two canoes sliced through the calm, crystal-clear sea, one following the other and, as they rounded a rocky, forested promontory, Marcus turned to get a final glimpse of the Hermes, as she lay at anchor beside the Hyperborean village. Then she was gone. With a grunt, Marcus turned to look ahead. There was no going back now. The druids had Caradoc’s book. He had given it to them that morning and now he was committed. At his feet, in the bottom of the narrow birch-bark canoe, lay Alexandros’ bow and a quiver of arrows and a single leather bag containing some supplies and Corbulo’s skull, carefully wrapped up and hidden in some spare clothes. Directly in front of him, Jodoc dug his paddle into the water in sullen, silent, resentment and behind him, Marcus could hear the Hyperborean guide doing the same. Up ahead, the second canoe containing Cunomoltus, Ail and a second Hyperborean guide, was powering through the water as it headed into a narrow, sea straight. In the summer heat Cunomoltus had stripped down to just one thin tunic and the empty iron box was slung over his back, in full view of Jodoc, as if done on purpose. Stoically Marcus bit his lip, as he dug his paddle into the water. The deception had to last. If Ail discovered the real reason why he wanted to find Emogene or Jodoc talked, then the whole journey would end in failure, for even if he managed to win a fight, he would have no idea where in this beautiful, vast and unknown land, he would be able to find Emogene. No, the fragile deception he’d woven had to last. There was no alternative.
Above him, the blue, warm, summer sky stretched away and the thick green, mysterious looking forests covered the land and hills. The Hyperborean canoe with its high curved bow, was surprisingly agile and light and, as they cut through the water, it suddenly reminded Marcus of the old, log boat in which he and Corbulo had escaped from Caledonia all those years ago. A little smile appeared on the corner of Marcus’s lips. The gods were playing games with him. For now, instead of fleeing from Emogene, he was looking for her. Fate had come a full circle but soon the gods were going to have to declare their hand one way or the other. Soon they were going to have to choose sides.
***
The camp-fire flickered and crackled, sending a shower of glowing sparks shooting up into the dark sky. It was late in the evening and the six of them sat silently around the fire, stuffing their faces on freshly caught and cooked fish. Close by, the two canoes lay drawn up on the stony beach and along the wide, river-mouth the immense, trackless, pine forests and small, wooded islands were quiet and dark. In the Penobscot river the tide was out and the moon cast its pale light across the placid water. Ail was the first to break the silence as he threw a fish bone into the fire and turned to mutter something to the two Hyperborean guides, in a language Marcus could not understand. The natives however did, and as one of them replied Ail nodded and turned to stare sombrely at the camp-fire. Marcus glanced at Cunomoltus who was sitting beside Jodoc, the iron box tucked out of view under his cloak. His brother was doing a good job at keeping an eye on the young man, a fact that Jodoc seemed uncomfortably aware of.
“When you spoke at the Council about Emogene,” Marcus said looking at Ail, “what did you mean when you said that you could keep her calm?”
Ail did not immediately reply, as he stared into the fire.
“How well do you know her” he snapped, looking up at Marcus.
Marcus shrugged. “I never met her,” he muttered.
Abruptly Ail turned to stare into the darkness. “She is mad and she has become violent,” he exclaimed. “She has a sickness of the heart. There is no cure and she likes to be on her own these days. She has become a hermit. The natives are terrified of her. They say that she is possessed by demons and maybe they are right.”
“But you can reason with her, Marcus said quietly.
Ail nodded.
“Violent you say,” Cunomoltus said, glancing at Ail, “What do you mean?”
“She killed a man,” Ail muttered, “a native, soon after she first arrived. She has no fear of anyone or anything and she knows how to use a knife. She is dangerous. The natives claim that the bears in the forests do not dare go near her and that their dogs don’t stop barking when she visits their camps.”
“Sounds like a charming lady,” Cunomoltus growled, as he licked his fingers.
“I hear she didn’t like Roman’s either,” Marcus muttered, looking down at his boots.
“Who the fuck does” Ail snapped as he carefully examined a fish that was baking over the fire on a long, blackened stick.
“What will you do with my father’s book?” Jodoc suddenly exclaimed, turning to Ail.
Marcus’s head slowly turned and his eyes fixed upon the young man but it was too late to shut Jodoc up. At the young man’s side Cunomoltus’s hand innocently dropped down to his belt from which hung his sheathed sword. Ail frowned as he looked up at Jodoc from across the camp fire.
“Your father?” the druid exclaimed in a surprised sounding voice, “You are Caradoc’s son?”
“I am,” Jodoc muttered as a fleeting, painful expression flitted across Cunomoltus’ face. “My name is Jodoc, I am his eldest son.”
“Why did you not mention this before” Ail cried out. “Caradoc was my friend; he was one of us and that makes you one of us.”
A hopeful, happy smile had appeared on Jodoc’s face as he beamed at Ail. The young man’s grin however faded quickly as he noticed Cunomoltus smiling at him.
Across the camp-fire the red-bearded druid was silent as he examined Jodoc. Then he shook his head in disbelief.
“Don’t worry Jodoc. Your father’s book will be kept safe. We will hide it in a place where no one will ever find it, without our knowledge. Is that not why he wanted to bring his work here?”
“It is,” Jodoc muttered, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
“You and I should talk tomorrow,” Ail nodded, “You father was a good man and I am sorry for your loss.”
“There are only fifteen of you,” Marcus interrupted with a frown as he turned to Ail, “How do you manage to maintain such power and influence over these Hyperboreans?”
“That’s our business,” Ail replied sharply, as his eyes lingered on Jodoc.
Marcus glanced idly at the two Hyperborean guides who were gorging themselves on fish. The two men gave no indication that they could understand a word of what was being said.
“So these natives never tried to attack you? We were attacked,” Marcus added. “Red painted devils came out of the forest and tried to kill young Jodoc here and they would have succeeded if I hadn’t saved his life.”
“That’s right,” Cunomoltus interjected, giving Jodoc a broad smile, “You were a lucky bastard that day weren’t you?”
Jodoc lowered his eyes to the ground.
With a sigh, Ail wrenched his eyes away from Jodoc and glared at Marcus from across the reddish, flickering fire.
“There has been trouble, I admit and it seems to be growing worse,” Ail growled. “The natives are divided into two factions. Most of their chief’s and clan elders favour us and are friendly but there is a section amongst the population who accuse us of being the bringers of death. They want us gone from their land. They are growing increasingly hostile.”
“The bringers of death?” Marcus exclaimed with a frown.
Ail fixed his cold, hard eyes on Marcus.
“Disease,” he hissed, “Some of the natives claim that we are killing them. They say that we have brought foreign diseases and illness amongst them, against which their medicine men are powerless to act. They say that wherever we go, we leave a trail of sick and dying in our wake.”
Marcus was staring at Ail from across the fire, his rugged, bearded face a stoic mask.
“Well, is it true?” Marcus exclaimed, “have you brought disease with you?”
“Of course not,” Ail snapped, turning to look away. “You have seen all of us. Do we look sick or diseased to you? We don’t know why these natives make these claims or why they are dying.”
From the corner of his eye, Marcus caught Cunomoltus watching him carefully.
“When I stayed the night in your house,” Marcus said, gazing at Ail with a sudden thoughtful look, “I happened to see that you had some sort of machine. It had dials, lettering, scales and a bronze crank. I am not an educated man but I suspect this machine has something to do with how you maintain your position with the natives.” A little smile appeared on Marcus’s lips. “Well am I right?”
Ail looked unhappy as he glared into the fire. Then he turned and growled something to the two native guides and, without saying a word the men got up and vanished into the gathering darkness.
“The mechanism you saw is a Greek invention,” Ail snarled, “It allows us to calculate the future position of the constellations, the moon and eclipses. Knowing these future astronomical positions means we can tell the natives exactly when the most opportune time is for them to plant their crops, conduct their religious rituals, move their camps and go out hunting.”
“A Greek machine,” Marcus muttered with perplexed look.
“It’s the same mechanism that the Greeks use to calculate when to hold their Olympic games,” Ail growled.
Chapter Forty-Four – A Vast, Rich but Empty Land
The afternoon was hot and Marcus could feel the sweat drenching the back of his tunic as he steadily dug his paddle into the water. Up ahead, Cunomoltus’ canoe was pushing up river, the three occupants digging their paddles into the water in near-perfect rhythm and timing. Ail, his neck lathered in sweat, was sitting at the bow of the narrow canoe, his back turned to Marcus. On the river bank, the endless, dense, pine-tree forests stretched away as far as the eye could see. The towering, white pines were like nothing Marcus had seen before and in the distance he could see a line of mountains that never seemed to grow any closer. The river had narrowed substantially since they had left the wide, placid estuary behind. As it had grown increasingly wild, shallow and rocky, their progress had slowed and at times they had been forced to haul the canoes on foot over rapids and spectacular, torrential, gushing falls.
Noticing movement on the river-bank Marcus turned and saw a moose with huge antlers, standing dumbly amongst the trees at the water’s edge staring at the canoes. Marcus grunted as he stared at the strange animal. The wild, rugged wilderness into which they were heading seemed to be a vast, rich but empty land teeming with fish and animals but very few people. They had only encountered one other native canoe heading downstream. To Marcus the people here seemed to live a highly isolated existence.
Tapping Ail on his shoulder Marcus raised his voice above the rushing torrent.
“These Hyperborean’s,” he cried out, “they seem never to have learned how to make bronze or iron tools. Why is that?”
Ail did not look round as he dug his paddle into the water.
“They live in harmony with nature and the spirits of the land,” Ail replied in a loud voice. “Their stone weapons are sufficient to allow them to hunt and survive. They live like they have always lived since the earliest times. They had no need to develop iron tools. None of the tribes which we know about have developed iron or bronze weapons.”
“A good trading opportunity,” Marcus replied.
Ail shrugged.
“Yes, they do like our weapons and tools,” the druid replied sourly. “We call the tribe who live around here the Penawapskewi, the people of the rocky river and this is their river. They move their camps when the season changes; during the summer they are camped along the sea; in winter they move inland. But this river is always very important to them. They say it is part of who they are as a people. They say that they are forever part of the river.”
“What about this mountain, Katahdin,” Marcus called out. “Why is it holy?”
“Because of the native god Paloma,” Ail said. “The Thunder God lives on its summit. The natives believe it is he who causes thunder and bad weather and last winter the hunting was bad and food was scarce. Emogene has gone to the mountain to try and appease Paloma. The natives do not dare climb up to its summit so we do it for them.”
Marcus sat back as he silently stared at the wild river and the thick, green forests that came up to the water’s edge. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow and dug his oar resolutely into the river.
***
It was morning and the blue, summer sky stretched away across the forests. Slowly and carefully Marcus and his companions picked their way along the boulder-strewn river bank, holding their birch bark canoe over their heads. The boat was surprisingly light and over his shoulder, Marcus had slung his pack. Up ahead, Cunomoltus, Jodoc and one of the Hyperborean guides were disappearing through the trees, carrying their boat. Cunomoltus had Alexandros’ bow and quiver strapped across his back. Through the trees to his left, Marcus could hear the Penobscot river. The water had become a foaming and thundering, white torrent as it coursed around and splashed over the rocks of yet another, debris strewn rapid. As the small party bypassed the obstacle and re-joined the river a little way upstream, one of the Hyperborean guides cried out and pointed at the rapids. There flying and leaping through the air, Marcus suddenly caught sight of dozens of salmon, as they forced themselves upstream on their long and difficult journey to their spawning grounds.
Lowering the canoe to the ground, Ail called out to the guides and quickly started off towards the boulder-strewn rapids, beckoning for the others to follow him.
“Fish, looks like we are eating fish again,” Cunomoltus said sarcastically as he passed Marcus and headed on after Ail and the others.
When Marcus reached the riverbank above the rapids, the two Hyperborean’s were already expertly and eagerly picking their way from rock to rock as they closed in on the section of the river where the salmon were hurtling through the air. Marcus shook his head in wonder, as one of the natives crouched on a large boulder and caught hold of a salmon as it leapt through the air. The roar of the raging river as it went over the rapids was deafening. Suddenly, as he stood watching the Hyperborean’s trying to catch the salmon, Marcus noticed Jodoc talking to Ail in a hurried and animated manner. The noise from the river made it impossible to hear what he was saying but, as he watched, Ail suddenly looked troubled. Marcus’s mood darkened and quickly he looked around and saw that Cunomoltus had also noticed the exchange. As he stood staring at the two men, caught by a horrible indecision, Ail turned to look in his direction as Jodoc’s mouth continued to move. What was Jodoc telling him? Marcus was about to stride towards them, when a high-pitched scream of alarm from the river stopped him in his tracks. A dozen paces away a huge, brown bear had appeared from amongst the trees and was calmly ambling towards the salmon fishing ground.
