To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Twenty-five: Roman Gaul

Carl felt helpless. He was leaving Rebecca and the children by themselves. He had great faith in Morius and Ort for they had proved their loyalties time and again, but contenders for the throne would spring from the shadows as soon as people realized he was gone. His only hope lay in spreading word that he would be back, and soon, though soon—he knew—would mean at least five months, and probably longer.


           The early morning sun caught Rebecca's bronze hair, reminding him of a morning eight years before, the morning they began this adventure together. He had loved her then, he loved her more today. His heart ached to leave her and the children, but she had demanded it.

He pulled her close for one last, lingering kiss. He had told her time and again how much he loved her, but he wanted her to remember this embrace just in case it was the last one they shared.

The children were too young to understand what was happening, and he did nothing to explain it. So far as they were concerned, he was going off on a long field exercise. So far as he was concerned, the worries of the day were sufficient for that day. There was no need to cause them worry about something they couldn't grasp and, even if they could, couldn't change.

He lifted Breka and carried her to the horse, both boys trudging along at his side. With a quick hug and kiss to each, he mounted and joined the waiting party. Breka toddled back to Rebecca while the boys waited where he had mounted.

Rebecca shuddered as though she had a premonition of evil times ahead, though she didn't know if they were meant for Carl or her and the children.

Am I insane? Have I so little faith in God's power to protect Jesus that I send the man I love through treacherous lands to save the Savior? But her mind immediately reverted to her root concern: Raphael didn't live during the days of Jesus, now he wanted to kill Jesus, and he must be stopped.  Only Carl knows of his plans and what he looks like. Only Carl can stop him.

She bravely waved as Carl turned in his saddle and returned her gesture. Father, watch over and protect him from all evil as he goes to protect the Christ. This must be the reason we were sent back in time.

She wiped tears from her face, called the boys to return to the shelter, and prepared to keep busy with her budding Florence Nightingales and her archery factory.

She was not unmindful of the contradictions that permeated her life—she produced weapons of war, trained archers in the arts of war, yet taught and practiced the healing arts. She had insisted that Carl pursue Raphael to prevent him from killing the Prince of Peace, by whatever means necessary. She laughed to herself as the boys scrambled through the doorway, Breka resting in her arms. I don't have to be consistent—that's Carl's job. But her heart ached already.

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As the troops rode out of sight, Carl turned his mind to the task at hand. His squad would have to cross the Germanicus Mare, Gaul, the Alps, make their way through the entire length of Italy, cross to Greece to see Messalina to determine exactly what Raphael planned to do in Judea, and then, if need be, cross to Ephesus and from there overland, much as St. Paul had done, to Maaloula and Jerusalem. It was going to be a hazardous, difficult winter journey with no assurance of success, but he suddenly looked forward to it. It was going to be an extraordinary adventure, going and, he hoped, returning.

They left at a trot.

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            He walked onto the sturdy stone dock Long Reach had erected to facilitate trade with cross channel boats from Belgae Gaul. It was a simple dock, but it was over a hundred meters long and was capable of berthing two large boats at the same time.

The harbor in The Wash was notorious for its silting and heavy tides. The draft of cross channel boats didn't create problems with sand bars if their captains followed channel buoys. Those same boats, however, were inadequate to sail the boisterous North Sea or Atlantic, except for coastwise trade. But they were large enough to carry him and his group, including animals. It might be faster to have traveled south to Dover or Kent to sail the short distance across that narrow part of the channel, but he wanted as few people as possible, especially Cunobelin and the southern chieftains, to know of his leaving for the continent, or at least to delay that knowledge as long as he could.

A voice at his shoulder intruded into his thoughts. Marcus spoke to Carl as an equal, for Carl considered him one of the most important men in Long Reach. In fact, without Marcus, there could not have been a Long Reach as Carl envisioned it.

Marcus had filled out—willingly wore the beard of a barbarian—and was almost reluctant to return to Rome. He, too, had married and had three children, including two boys. He would return. "Perhaps we are taking too much equipment if you want to travel fast," he said. It was a carefully honed query.

Carl swept the scene, yelled to his men and helpers to load quickly, pointing to the clouds forming over the Pennines to the west. The water in the Germanicum Mare was generally smooth, but it would get boisterous if a storm swept in from the north or west. It was the tides that baffled the Romans. "It looks that way, Marcus."

He turned his attention to the Roman and refrained from commenting on the goods his trusted engineer was taking to his family in Rome. "I have to travel another fifteen hundred miles after we reach Rome. Some of these trade goods will be used to barter with river ferryboat operators and Gallic chieftains as we pass through their territory. We won't be able to find housing for all of us, so tents will be necessary during long, thinly settled stretches. Besides," he turned away, "we are traveling as merchants, remember?"

They had a long, dangerous journey ahead with uncertain weather. Late fall in the Alps was bound to be difficult, and there was almost a certainty of confrontations with fractious and greedy local chieftains, especially in the mountain passes. He recalled how Hannibal's invasion force was badly mauled by mountain snows, perfidious guides, and mountain tribes looking for treasures in the goods his caravan carried. His small force would have no chance if he could not persuade or bribe guides to find a safe passage and to provide one.

Carl had recently turned 36, and though he was in good physical condition he no longer was in the prime of life. From now on, it was downhill physically. He was well aware of his physical limitations. Roman males have to serve in the legions until they're 44 or 45. I can't be too old for this!

The breeze became a wind, filling the sails and speeding the craft on its way. The rowers shipped their oars, not needed until they approached the coast of the continent. The captain had made this crossing many times, most of them legal, so he could be relied upon to deliver them safely in Lugdunum on the Rhenus. 

A few hours underway and the shallow-hold of the boat, already crowded with animals, was filled with Carl's elite troops retching and heaving over the gunwales. He smiled to himself. I didn't do any better the first time I went to sea, and my ship was much larger.

Despite a fast and uneventful passage, they had to wait, rolling in the waves, near the middle entrance to the river until first light enabled them to pull into Lugdunum Belgae. The town was a coastal way station before going upriver to the Roman camps.  The captain's cross channel experience had made the night crossing possible, but he wasn't about to enter the river without daylight.

After feeding the animals, and having a hot breakfast at a seedy waterfront inn, they boarded again. Lugdunum had a large number of Roman auxiliaries stationed in the city. Carl invited trouble if they stayed too long.

The captain continued on up the river, with twenty oarsmen pulling against the less sluggish current, supplemented by sail. It was a long day. They had traveled about sixty miles through low lying land, much of it inundated by the river where it had broken through inadequate dikes, chased all the way by scuttering clouds from England that were quickly building into a thick cover that promised rain and, given the temperature, perhaps snow at higher altitudes. They reached Noviomagus, a legionnaire headquarters.

The waterfront was filled with craft of all kinds, including several biremes and triremes of the Roman navy at rest in a large lagoon.

Carl knew from history that the Romans had a road that paralleled the Rhenus most of its length, and that road probably started in the south at Noviomagus. His ship was going no farther, but he might be able to catch a freighter heading upriver. That would be slow going. He had to balance the slow riverboat against the grueling but faster journey along a Roman road if he were going to catch Raphael.

The next day they got an early start on the Rhenus road. He was willing to risk the fatigue of the road on men and horses in hopes of cutting days to the Alpine pass. Both men and horses were anxious to leave the boat.

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             Raphael's luck was holding up. He had good weather all the way, now he was entering Ostia and soon would angle across Italy by carriage to the Adriatic and then sail to the bay of Corinth where he would leave Messalina and the boys in safe keeping.

He studied Messalina through hooded eyes. He loved her with a deep passion, and she had given him two lovely boys. Again, he asked himself: Why am I doing this? What is my responsibility? Allah, praise his name, didn't call me.  My prayers go into a great void.

But the fact of his presence in ancient time always shaped his response: Allah, praise his name, must have sent me into time because so many people of The Book still are—were— infidels, fourteen hundred years after Muhammad. He wryly added another reason: The world's largest Islamic society isn't even Arab.

He acknowledged that Muhammad claimed Jesus was an important messenger from Allah, but he's going to die anyway, at the hands of the Romans. I'm just stopping the formation of an erroneous cult. With this rationalization, he would leave Messalina and the boys in the safe keeping of Priantro, her former father-in-law. Carl may pursue and even catch me, but not before I kill Jesus, whom he calls the Christ.

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Three days after Carl left Britannia a message arrived in Camulodunum at the palace of Cunobelin. He immediately called advisers and commanders together. "Our spy in Long Reach," Cunobelin saw no need to tell anyone that it was Iona since Carl probably had spies in Camulodunum, "tells us Carl left Britannia to travel beyond Rome to a far off land called Judea, and that Raphael, his minister, has already gone there. Carl will be away several moons."

Their reactions were to be expected. First surprise, then calculation. How can we take advantage of his absence?

"Think of how we can overcome the great castle at Long Reach," Cunobelin said. "Though not finished, it's a formidable castle to breach, and his army's stronger than ever."

Cunobelin had mellowed over the years, but he hated Long Reach.

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            Two weeks later a message arrived in Belgae Gaul. It was from a spy among Cunobelin's counselors reiterating the same news, only this message was delivered to Atheldarius, son of Dumnocoveros, the king deposed by Carl. He received the message with joy. If he could gather together an army of Belgae Gauls and a fleet of boats, he could invade Britannia and retake his father's kingdom of Nottingham and the new kingdom of Long Reach. But he knew no chief would join his crusade so long as Roman Legions were poised to move into the area if an opening occurred.

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           It took Carl five days of constant movement during daylight to reach the foothills of the Alps. The cold, wet days had been miserable. Most merchants sought shelter and warmth rather than travel in such weather. Days were short. According to Carl's reckoning, it was 9 November, AD27, and every day of delay increased the chances of heavy snows in the passes.

The sixth day was bright and cold, and they caught their first glimpse of the formidable Alps. The skies had cleared during the night and as the sun rose, the mountains looked like black construction paper cutouts pasted against a dark blue background with a light yellow tinge framing their tops. Their looming hulk was brooding and threatening. As the sun rose high enough to chase the shadows, the small troop could see that snow had crept down the slopes, the passes might already be impassible.

Roman camps were farther apart the higher they climbed, but helpful soldiers provided information about the conditions ahead. They were told that a greasing of palms would get help from others who lived in the mountains.

They had been climbing rather strongly for over a day before they paused outside of Vindonissa, another legionnaire headquarters. It was a sprawling camp, well fortified and sited about twenty miles short of the lake.

In a tavern near the camp, Marcus and Sertorius gathered information about the condition of the roads ahead in exchange for tales of Britannia. The Roman soldiers were so interested they even paid for their drinks, something they seldom did.

Carl checked with Gallic citizens about the passes. Their universal message was to consult the guides around the lake, but they also said he should have a larger force when he crossed the pass, which was still open so far as they knew.

Carl's home in Montana was at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, so he was familiar with high places. His time in Afghanistan with Special Forces had forced him into some of the more forbidding and difficult mountains in the world, but nothing had prepared him for his close-up view of the Alps. The steep rise on the north side was even worse on the south or eastern side, he was told, but it was beautiful to behold. The greens of the lower slopes were speckled with snow, and he knew it was going to be a tortuous several days getting through whichever pass he chose.

They passed small villages along the lake shore. The road to the head of the lake, where the Rhenus forced its way in, was a full day's journey. It was a big lake, and Carl had to make a decision. He either turned left toward the Oenus River and the Brenner Pass, or continued along the Rhenus and its feeders.

Marcus was ecstatic. "We came this way twelve years ago, stopping at the head of the lake to build a bridge across that part of the Rhenus and to reinforce the castra. In fact, most of the Legion went ahead of us by five weeks. Our trip down the Rhenus made us a little anxious until we met the navy at Stabula."

They camped while Carl made inquiries. Three trading caravans already were gathered together, undecided on which pass to take into Italy. A gregarious Alexander Giacumakis, leader of one of the caravans, saw immediately that Carl's troupe was more than they purported to be, guards for a caravan. His practiced eye saw that Carl either carried small, precious goods, or he was a brigand on his way to steal goods from the caravans that took the pass. But Carl's bearing, his clothes, speech, and the Romans who accompanied him, discounted the brigand thesis. What, then, were they carrying?

Even as he tried to puzzle it out, Raetani guides, hired to lead them through the pass, consulted among themselves and predicted a foehn would start that night, and it probably would last for several days.

"What's a foehn?" Carl asked.

The lead guide explained. "The wind is hot and hard, it roars down slopes of the mountain and makes the passes almost impossible to go through." He pointed to the lake, "No boats go on the lake during foehn."

He glanced sideways at the other guides, then continued. "You should camp here until the foehn ends, then take the lower pass."

In Carl's travels he had heard of such winds. The Santa Anas in Southern California and a particularly vicious kind in Afghanistan, though he couldn't remember its name. Such winds would be difficult to head into, but they also would allow his party to take the closer, higher pass without fear of a paralyzing and deadly snow storm.

"Good," he said, "we won't have to worry about a storm catching us. We'll take the Splugen instead of traveling northeast to Brenner. That will save us time. We'll leave tomorrow. We need one or two guides at the most."

The Raetani spokesman protested. "There is great danger of avalanche or landslide." He tried to be diplomatic, though that came with difficulty to the mountaineer. "The Splugen is shorter than the Brenner, but in this weather you risk being buried with snow or mud."

"You know these mountains better than I, but that is a risk we must take for we need to hurry through to Rome. Will you provide guides? I will pay well."

Alexander was among the leaders listening in on the conversation. Now he was sure they were not brigands. He himself was more worried that the Raetani guides would lead them into a trap where they might lose everything, including their lives.

"May we join you?" He spoke for his own caravan, but the other leaders quickly chimed in. They had had experiences in these passes, not always good experiences, and they knew that a large number of armed men might deter brigands from a local tribe.

The higher pass was worth the risk, if indeed the foehn began that night.

Carl was unpleasantly surprised by the request. He accepted the logic behind the plea, but he was moving fast, and he was willing to risk fighting through a band of robbers. Still, he could ill afford to lose men or animals.

"Yes, you may join us, if these men will guide us. We leave at first light, but I must warn you," and he accentuated his height while he peered into the faces of the traders, "we're in a hurry, and won't be slowed by any caravan that can't keep up. If you're willing to accompany us on that basis, I'll be pleased for you to travel with us." His smile belied the hardness of his speech.

The Raetani guides agreed. The money from guiding the caravans was worth the risk. The decision to use the Splugen had foiled their efforts to lead the traders into a trap. They would have to await another day and another caravan, preferably one with fewer guards.

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Morius, Brogitarus, and Ort entered the planning room. The call to meet together was unusual. Since Carl had left they had been going through the motions in the kingdom. All three wondered why Rebecca had called only them to the meeting. And then they saw Vashi.

"Thank you for coming," Rebecca said. "Until Carl returns, you two are the military face of the kingdom, and I rely heavily upon you for advice in military matters."

She addressed Vashi, but talked to all of them. It was an awkward time for Rebecca. "Vashi is my diplomatic adviser, and most of the information gathered by Raphael's spies go through him before getting to Carl .  . . me. Vashi, explain what you've heard."

"King Cunobelin knows of King Carl's trip, and he is making plans for an attack on Nottingham and Long Reach, though he has not revealed when it will occur. He has a spy in Long Reach providing him with information, which is why he knows of the trip to Judea."

Morius and Ort looked at each other. Few people knew of the destination, though all of the commandos had been told because theirs was a volunteer assignment. The news that Cunobelin knew of his destination was worrisome.

Vashi was pleased with the reaction. He was convinced the spy was in the army, though he didn't know for sure. "For the past few years I have been making diplomatic overtures to the Brigantes to our north to make sure they do not feel threatened by Long Reach's development, especially as our tribal border butts up against theirs.

"I mention this because Queen Rebecca believes we should make overtures to them to help us if the Catuvelauni attack. We want your advice."

Rebecca added a piece of information. "Cunobelin has started building a large number of ladders. They can have only one use, to mount our walls!"

A free wheeling discussion took place over hot toddies, biscuits, and jam, something Carl never provided.

The consensus was that the Brigantes were not yet to be trusted and should not be relied upon for help in defense of Long Reach. The people would practice defending the existing fortress, and the leaders would prepare the people for their roles. But, it wouldn't hurt for Brogitarus to feel out the Brigantes to see what kind of support they would offer if the Catuvallauni attacked.

As soon as the meeting was over, the commanders called together the military leadership and began preparing for a siege of the fortress. Unfortunately, although Carl briefly had gone over some of the tactics involved in such a siege, including the need to keep Ort's cavalry outside of the fortress to roam the landscape and harass enemy foragers, they had not fully planned for a siege, and none of them had ever participated in one. Morius remembered that three trebuchets had been ordered. He immediately pushed for their completion.