The roads in and out of the city to the south, west and north, the grain stores and the tribe’s treasury, all were to be manned by men whose lack of fortune in the traditional drawing of lots had resulted in their being excluded from the feast other than a quiet mug of beer taken out of sight of the celebrating tribesmen. Not for them the long evening and early morning of drinking that would inevitably result in most of the tribe’s warriors lapsing into insensibility and sleeping where they fell, but instead the honour of ensuring that the Bructeri’s most sensitive spots were guarded by men possessed of sharp iron and the wits to use it. The young warrior standing guard on the treasury paced from one end of the short corridor that led from the palace quarters to the massively beamed and heavily nailed door that secured the repository of the tribe’s gold and silver, still glowing with the pride of having been given such responsibility by Gernot when there were men far better experienced and deserving of such an honour than he.
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