They would find Drusus at their back, and it would get grim. There were no fords nearby, only at their backs, or beyond to the west and east. They could easily be trapped.
“Six thousand,” I said softly. “Not enough.”
There were six thousand Germani and Dacians out there, on this side of the river, and they would be crushed if they did not move that night as well.
I could understand their need to make war.
The north was teaming with people.
All the scouts spoke of it. Newcomers from the north traveled the rivers, and odd people in the east were pressing at the tribes rarely seen in the west.
This was good land.
Half deserted after Tiberius had ended the Pannonian rebellion.
Some hundred Roman miles of fine grazing ground, untended but rich in soil, four trade towns, and a Roman garrison had been taken by Decubalus and his Marcomanni mercenaries.
I kicked my horse forward and rode it down a hillside.
I was still sick from fever and decided I should avoid war at all cost, for the rest of my life.
Happily, it would be a short one, the rest of my life. My belly churned with fear as I thought of what I was about to try.
I turned my head to watch a vast legion camp sitting on top of a hillside, near a river, the main gates a beehive of activity. Cavalry auxilia turma was preparing to lead the legion off to cut the enemy to pieces.
They were going to march.
That very night.
And I had business with the Dacians.
***
Riding to the Dacian camp was a harrowing experience.
Any envoy would twitch every time the enemy got up to glower at you.
They were savage people with skills in metal crafting, and plenty of success in war. Their falx and sica weapons were feared in Rome, and I knew the loss of limb, even when carrying a shield, were often the outcome of one of the huge barbarians swinging the falx down on you. Or, rather, the outward-curving tip would surprise you, even if you blocked it, the tip breaking past anyway, and often over the shield to punch a hole in steel and bone. They would break into middle of the formations, eat up the centurions with the blades, chop down the best and bravest, and their light cavalry would rain missiles down on their hapless foe as it retreated. Their Marcomanni mercenaries were as savage lot—the better armed men who were clearly unhappy with the way things were progressing in their own land after Maroboodus was pulled down by us. My father’s kingdom was far reduced in power, and scheming adelings were its bane.
I rode toward a large gathering of men, seated in a ring, and their horses were not far.
Their horses were powerful, Roman and Gaul mounts, and many bore wounds. On the side, in dozens of wagons, were heaps of treasures they had lifted from the land.
Their treasure was often different from Roman ones. Even simple tools like scythes were much wanted.
The men looked strong, and brave.
Decibalus was a strong leader.
He was not a strong man. He was thin and looked florid, like a slave or a scribe amid the larger warriors. The ring of them was thick, and only chiefs amongst them were seated on logs, where they drank from mugs, many looted and made of gold and silver.
They became aware of the scouts that had met me miles outside the camp.
“Germani,” one grunted at the seated, silent men. “Says he has business, urgent business with the king.”
The king eyed me and clearly did not like what he saw. Scarred and old wolves are rarely welcome in any camp, and I was certainly one of those.
“How many men?” Decibalus asked, his voice kind, as he stroked his beard.
I knew what he meant. “I have not made marks in my saddle.”
They marked their saddles with notches, when they killed a man.
I saw Decibalus’s mount and stupidly eyed the notches on it.
There were but a few.
I looked back at him, and I felt like the temperature had fallen some degrees.
He sneered. “I lost my horse and saddle last week. What do you want?”
“I escaped Rome,” I told him. “I left behind a Rome I hate. Seemed like a good place to go to, this place.”
He shrugged. “We are not staying. We will go home soon. Not sure we have a home for you. I do wonder what you are.”
“He could be a spy?” said a strong voice, and it made me frown. There was something familiar about it.
The king lifted his hand.
He pointed a finger at me. “Undress. Just the top of the body.”
I knew better than to argue.
I sat in the saddle, the horse suddenly skittish, and began tossing down my gear. The belt and a gladius went first. The chainmail I tugged off, grunting with pain.
There were whispers in the crowd, when I pulled up my tunic. I was shivering, it was windy and cold, and furs would be useful, but the king had asked for my condition, and I showed him, sitting on the horse in my loincloth.
He grunted. “Wounds. From recent battles. Wounds from old ones. No legion marks, no auxilia marks. But you have a brand. A spear? I see not.”
He saw exceedingly well for a man who was sitting quite far away. I brushed my thigh.
“I was. Slave. Gladiator. They called me Brennus.”
“That’s not your name,” said a voice again.
I stared at the crowd.
The king smiled. “What is your name?”
“I am Hraban, the Oath Breaker, and now I would like to keep some oaths.”
“Revenge, as always! That drives him,” said a familiar voice, and I looked down.
Men were pushing to the forefront from the Dacian ranks.
Wandal. Tudrus. His brother, Bohscyld.
“Gods fuck me,” I whispered.
“You have a history together, Wandal?” Decibalus asked him.
Wandal spat. “Yes. He is a liar. He is a Roman citizen; did he mention it?”
I rubbed my forehead, cursing softly.
Thank you, Woden. Lok, you bastard.
Decubalus looked at him for a moment and then lifted an eyebrow at me. “You seek to hurt us? That is unfortunate.”
Men were pulling their weapons, and the scouts were riding to my back, holding spears. I shook my head. “I came to tell you two things, Decubalus. And I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
Wandal, his thick, formerly blond mane around him, now somewhat gray, laughed. “Lies. You came to find a sword in the gut,” he said. “I have not forgiven. Nor have I forgotten.”
I leaned forward. “And yet, you didn’t kill me when I told you what I have done.”
“What did he do?” Decibalus asked, starting to get upset.
“He schemed with Rome to save his family, against our people,” Wandal said simply. “No?”
I nodded. “I did.”
Decubalus looked puzzled. “And now you expect us to believe you?”
I had no opinion on that. I simply stated my business. “I met a man, not long ago. He was a slave as well. We fought together in the Circus Maximus, during the Roman games of Saturnalia. We beat an enemy of mine. He was called Ulrich, the wife-slayer, the woman killer.”
“Lies,” Wandal snarled. Tudrus was staring at me silently and raised a hand to calm Wandal. Bohscyld looked tired and shook his head.
“No. They are not lies,” I said darkly. “Aye. I served Rome. I served it to find a place to keep my kin safe.”
“Not your friends, though,” Wandal snarled.
“No, not my friends,” I said. “I felt my friends would not fit in Rome, not like I did. But Rome is sick, and it has no hope. I trust no man there, other than my brother. I have a wish to maim it. I want to hurt it badly. I wish to hurt is so badly, it will never recover.”
Decubalus looked at me like he would watch a speaking rabbit, and laughed softly, shaking his head. “You. One man.”
“One man,” I said, “who knows Rome very well, and how to hurt it. And
I will hurt it. You, Wandal, may bark at me. Demand my death, if you cannot deliver it. You were a brother I mistreated, so you may strike as well, if you have gathered your will to do so finally. Come. Do it now. I am not armed.”
Wandal pointed a quivering finger my way. “Death comes with him.”
“The man I fought with was called Blaesus,” I said, and ignored him. “He said he knew you. A cousin.”
There was silence in the yard. Decibalus held his face. Then he spoke. “He was an envoy I sent…is he…”
I nodded. And I lied. “He died helping me discover an ancient murderess in Rome. He was an honorable fighter, and a brother in the ludus we were sold to. He killed a great foe.”
“And you survived?” he asked harshly.
I showed him my wound on the side. “I was put to the arena, and I died,” I said softly. “The champion of Rome killed me. The gods of underworld spared my life. I would have died, if not for an enemy. An honorable enemy.” I watched Wandal, who was gnashing his teeth together. He was just as massive as he had ever been, and the anger made him seem like he had grown. He hated me with passion.
His father had likely died.
He was here to make war.
Decibalus lifted a hand at Wandal and waved him down. Then he turned to me. “And you came here, why?” he asked. “Two things. One was to tell me of my dead cousin, and what a great man he was. He was not, by the way. I know him. And what is the other reason?”
“I came here for a reason, indeed,” I said. “The Romans are marching. They are going to try to cut off your retreat to the fords, and then they will fall on your backs. Their cavalry is riding already. One legion is going to march there this very night. Another is arriving in the morning. They’ll pin you between themselves and the river and skin you lot.”
Men were speaking in hushed tones.
Some were running away, jumping on horses to confirm my message, even without Decibalus’s orders.
He looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. “So, I suppose we must hurry away. And how do you know all this?”
“I saw them leaving. And as Wandal said, I know Rome,” I said. “There is a man in their camp. He is waiting for the other legion, so he can lead it personally. This spy of mine is someone who is not happy with Rome. That man should be guarding the great Drusus the Younger but is there just to look good and to play scout. Drusus—"
He smiled tiredly. “I know who is leading them. Of course, I do. If the legions are marching, then why would we think Drusus is there in that camp? He might ride to meet this arriving legion.”
“He is there,” I said. “My man knows what Drusus’s plans are, even if he no longer stands next to the highest men of Rome. You take the castra this night, and then swing east to Augustum. Sack it, and only then leave. There is a bridge there. They expect you to either die here, surprised, or to run away. First bite them, and then leave with dignity. That is my advice. Though, uncalled for, of course.”
He caressed his knee, looking over me, thinking.
Then he looked at Wandal. “I see a man who is evil. He is a proven liar, and a known bastard, and well has he deserved his terrible fame. The Oath Breaker. He is truly that. But I also see a man who is not lying right now. He is concealing things, but he tells us he wants to hurt Rome, and I see he wants to kill the heir to the throne of the shit-filled city. That is what I see. Do you see it?”
Wandal closed his eyes. “I don’t want to look at him.”
“Is he good at war?” he asked.
Wandal said nothing.
Tudrus, his throat raw, nodded. “He is. He is a bird of prey and brings death to friends, but he also knows his business when it comes to killing.”
“So,” Decibalus said, and winked at me. “Kill Drusus, slip away, rob, and kill.”
“Yes,” I said. “Let them not trap you, but instead, attack. At night. It will be hard. Your men must march all night after a battle. The Roman way. Can they?”
Decibalus chuckled. “Of course we can march and ride all night. A boy could. Our women can. You know it. You are just trying to shame us into activity. We have six thousand men, and all are young and brave. And still, it is a Roman castra.”
I smiled. “They can take this castra. No trouble at all. They only have a cohort inside.”
He looked supremely frustrated. “It is a Roman castra. Few are ever taken. We might be there, trying to crawl over the ditches, over the wall, then a wooden wall, into spears, and still over the camp until they come back, or the new legion arrives. Then we are fucked.”
I winked. “I said I have a man inside. The gates will be open.”
He blinked and for a moment, everyone was whispering.
He lifted his hand and sighed. “We can,” he added, “do it. We were going to leave tomorrow, but the loot,” he said, and nodded to the wagons, “is a sad excuse to take to our wives. And still, what shall we do with you?” he waved his hand around. “I recall tales of you. The Marcomanni will not want you. They hate you. What do you want? This Drusus?”
I shivered, looking around and nodding. “Him. I want him dead. I ask for a chance to join the battle. I will be fearless, and bloody ready. I can get the gate open. I shall be the first in, and if I am lucky, I shall find what I am looking for. I simply want a chance.”
The man looked at Wandal, who looked horrified. He knew what was coming. “Wandal. You and your men shall be with him. After that, we take the castra and burn it to the ground, we march.” He turned to me. “And Hraban.”
“Lord,” I said.
“If they had not doubted you, and voiced it, and forced you to tell us what you are, and what you have done, I would have discounted you. I would not have accepted your help. I like men who confess their weaknesses and hate liars. And if there are Romans waiting for us as we march, or in Augustum, then you will pay a price. Final one. Is this clear, Wandal and Tudrus?”
Both nodded, and I, cursing them all, jumped down to dress.
***
The army of Dacia was on the move.
A heaving mass of evil looking warriors, they were going on paths hidden. Woods and riverbeds were used to the maximum effect, and if there was someone who saw them, they fled or died in the woods. I was riding in the front and shifted my chainmail. I said nothing and endured the awkward presence of Wandal.
Lok, or Woden, was testing me.
It was clear as a nose on the face.
Tudrus rode nearby and was bothered by the silence. “Your family is in Rome now?”
I shook my head. “No. My son is gone. Elsewhere.”
Wandal snorted. “To imagine you went through all the trouble, you and that bloody Adalwulf, to get a haven and revenge in Rome, and then when you have driven every friend far away, and some have even gone to Hel, you decide it is a bad idea after all. Bah!”
I said nothing.
“Do you hear me, bastard?” he snarled
I navigated my horse into a stream. “I do hear you. All I can say is that I realized I had been wrong. That is all there is to it. I should have told you.” I looked at Bohscyld, whose brother was dead. I shook my head and felt the tears in my eyes. “My father is in Ravenna now. A prisoner. I sent Gochan to keep an eye on him, and to do something else.”
“Gochan?” Tudrus said.
I nodded, realizing they had no idea who he was. “My half-brother. Father…had…when he came south.”
“And you know Armin died?” Wandal asked.
I closed my eyes. “If he had not, Germania would have no peace from Rome. Ever.”
“You did it a great favor, eh?” Wandal said tiredly. “And now, weakened, the Cherusci are reeling against the Semnones, the Langobardi, even the Chauci. Armin’s death let the Chatti take much of the land around the river. I am not sure you did Germania any favors.”
Tudrus grunted. “They are settling old scores. And now there are men who think kings might be an excellent idea for Germania, even when there is no war to
be fought. Armin saw to that. There will be no peace now.”
“And Thusnelda,” said Wandal. “His son.”
“In Ravenna,” I said, and closed my eyes. I had asked Gochan to see how they were doing and, more importantly, to find them. “She was trying to betray me to buy Maroboodus’s army for her husband. I beat her to it. Aye, it is all my fault.”
Wandal was riding there, silent.
“Your father is dead?”
He nodded. “He died of old age, happy in the mountains. He had a new family. Did not care about me much, the new wife. He was a goat.”
Tudrus shrugged. “We left the mountains and found service with the Dacians. We needed a change of scenery. And here you are. Again. What are you after, really? Drusus the Younger?”
“I need to kill the man,” I said. “Drusus the Younger will be in that camp. I know he will be there.”
“Who is your spy?” Wandal asked. “Who is it, eh?”
“I have someone inside you will know,” I said. “Maximus. The Praetorians are there and some Germani Guards. But few. Maximus is there. He made sure he would be there, and he chose his best men to come along. The Guard is disgraced. He has not forgotten what was done to his guards. He is there. And he is ready to betray Rome, finally.”
They rode in silence. “Decibalus is in danger?” Wandal asked.
“He is a war-king of Dacians,” I said. “Of course he is. The other legion is soon here. He must hurry.”
“He must hurry, eh?” Wandal snarled. “We should go for the city of Augustan directly. Just bypass the fort. But I suppose that doesn’t sit well with you.”
“We need to kill Drusus,” I said simply. “Drusus the Younger. Even Decubalus must see the benefit. And then Tiberius will finally start his spiral to death. And Rome shall follow him.”
They watched me and did not see the boy from Marcomanni lands.
They saw a hand of the gods, an avenging beast.
“And what will you do after Rome falls?” Wandal asked with a sneer. “Will you go to your son?”
“I will go to him, when Tiberius is dead,” I said. “And when Sejanus is dead. And Livia. And Rome is in the worst possible hands possible, with nobody to save it.”
The Oath Keeper Page 22
