The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3)

by Alaric Longward

  But the enemy had lost more. Far more. Their dead littered the ridge and the trampled valley.

  The Bructeri lost Wodenspear, their great chief. The stubborn Sigambri had lost many great champions in the desperate battle to break the V Alaudae Legion and in the ensuing, chaotic rout. The small Cherusci army had been shattered. The Marsi was all but decimated, always a small tribe. The lands south and north of Luppia River were to be Roman, but we knew that was but a dream. We would hold the river and its fertile valleys, but the woods would still belong to the deadly warriors whose dark gods lived there with them. No Roman went there willingly. The enemy would take a long time to recover, and Rome would give them no time to do so.

  Armin’s skills gave every Roman a pause. There was a thought planted in their heads. They nearly lost. It was a bothersome, irritating thought for a Roman soldier, one that made the mouth sour, and the belly churn. The war was not over, and the horrid possibility of ignominious loss snaked easily into their minds as they prepared to go east.

  And Nero Claudius Drusus, my Lord? Did he know he had nearly been beaten?

  He knew it as well.

  Armin the Cherusci had fought him and done very, very well. Armin, the young Cherusci adeling had prepared the battle to a minute detail. He and his father Sigimer had schemed, bullied, and forced tribes unused to set piece battle to suffer hunger and losses and hardship to give Rome one surprising, supremely mighty and coordinated push at a time of their choosing. And that push had very nearly separated many Romans from their Aquila and heads.

  I’d had a part to play in the battle.

  I had nearly obeyed the Cherusci Armin to slay Drusus before the campaign in order to get my daughter Lif back, a baby whom Armin had found as I had been forced to give her to Hands, a bounty hunter. In the end, I refused Armin and joined Drusus, and nearly killed Armin.

  Lif.

  She was out there, in the lands of the Cherusci. She had been spared thrice already from death, and she was but a babe. I had saved her from my father when we fled the south. Then from Odo, the vitka of Lok and then again from Leuthard, beast of Maroboodus, whom Father had sent to kill me and Armin both. Maroboodus, my black-hearted father, wanted Armin dead, for Armin was stubbornly being a greater warlord than Maroboodus was, and one Nero Claudius Drusus considered his greatest enemy. And how was Maroboodus then to slay Drusus if Armin did? That was Father’s secretive Roman mission. To slay Drusus in war and smother the thought of Roman Republic for good and then he would gain a kingdom. If Armin managed it, perhaps his master in Rome would not reward poor Maroboodus, whose hands were red with the blood of my family, his family, the family he did not want. The beastly killer of Maroboodus, the wolf-faced Leuthard had died at my hands after the battle. I bore wounds from that fight and had nearly died.

  And then there was Odo. I spat as I thought of the Lok’s vitka. Our family and theirs. A mad god was trying to end the world, and so many of the lines of that foul prophecy had come to pass. I was the Raven, Father, the Bear, and we were all coming together in lands of the Cherusci. He thought I had led them to the final trail by saving Lif. He had taken our ancient ring from me, thinking that was Woden’s Ringlet and had ridden after Lif.

  If he found her?

  He would not slay her, no, for she was important. She was to marry his son and survive the end of the world to populate Midgard in Lok’s name. Mad, mad, I thought. Odo would try to make it so. If he found Lif, he would also find völva Veleda to whom Lif was being taken to by Hands, the bounty hunter. The prophecy of Ragnarök would be proven true after the dirty, and mad Odo of god Lok sacrificed Veleda on our ring. Worlds would end. At that I smiled, for only I knew our ring was not Woden’s Ringlet of the prophecy. No. It was not golden, and our ring was. Odo did not know that. But then, I did not know what Woden’s Ringlet was.

  I did not care.

  Lif. I had to find her. And I had to keep Father from killing Drusus. And I had men to kill.

  I was snapped from my thoughts as buccina blared. The horns called the ragged legions to attention, and the only things to spoil the pristine moment were the moans of the wounded in the castra erected in the middle of the former battlefield. The army was due its honor, it was drawn up on the shredded field, and many men were well rewarded. Some received the Golden Crown, others torcs and phalerae for their armor. Centurions were promoted, the bravest men of the Legion taking up the traverse plumed helmets of their predecessors who had died in great numbers.

  Then I was startled. I was, even if I expected it.

  I was called up in my turn, and I walked forward. My Lord Nero Claudius Drusus was short and fey looking in his grimy armor, once shiny sculpted metal and now rusty in places. His strong jaw, piercing dark eyes and curly hair was that of a Roman, but his spirit did remind me of Hulderic, my grandfather, for he had a commanding presence that made one instinctively straighten one’s back. I reached him, and Drusus embraced me. He turned to the lean, savage faces of the soldiers, and I turned to stare at them, as well. Having gotten used to being spat upon by my fellow Germani for my father’s manipulations, lies, and I admit, even my weaknesses, I was surprised. I saw respect there in those wolf-like faces. Respect. That was something I had decided I no longer cared for, but I did. They were soldiers; I was one, and we shared the hardships and glory. Drusus lifted my arm to the air. ‘Hail, my boys, the brother and a friend who led the beaten to the glorious, golden victory! The slayer of the Cherusci!’

  And they did.

  They cheered me wildly, calling me “a confused boy soldier,” “a witless Germani oaf,” and other insulting, but in truth endearing words, and I smiled. I heard one call me “the slayer of kings” though I had killed no kings that day, only opened up Armin’s brother Rochas in a mad melee to spare the legions from being cut in half. In truth, I was a refugee, a Marcomanni exile and now a dirty Batavi Decurion though I had no men. ‘The Oath Breaker!’ someone yelled.

  My mind darkened at that, for that was the name The Germani knew me by. Thanks to Father. Thanks to my orlog, the decisions that make up one's wyrd, fate, I thought. Drusus whispered at me, smiling on. ‘Even that is a praise. Harsh life is what they know, and many have joined the army to escape their broken oaths and failures. They love you, so you just smile and thank them.’ I smiled and tried to quell my uneasiness at the sight of such a glorious, blood-spattered army regarding me so high. They saw a man in bloodied lorica hamata, Leuthard’s beautiful chain mail. I was taller than most men, wide at the shoulders as a boulder, my hair and beard were raven dark, and I wore the helmet my friend Tudrus the Old had given me once, an Athenian bronze helmet that covered my face. Some of them called me “god Mars,” and I felt my pride swell, only to remind myself I was Woden’s champion, and that god was wickedly unpredictable. He might give me suffering if I let the praises go to my head, I thought.

  ‘As long as he breaks skulls as well as oaths, I’m happy!’ an optio yelled from the side, one of the V Alaudae, the legion I had spared many losses. And so I forgot my shame, let the praises go to my head, and I grinned, damning Woden. I saw Fulcher, the dark, long-haired man with the Batavi auxilia, still weak from his fall. He had his revenge with Bricius dead, the slayer of his son. Far, somewhere out there, helping the Romans in the Rhenus River and Castra Vetera was Cassia, the Celt noble, a healer and my lover. I wished she was there. But she was not. It had been unexpected love, for all I had cared for was my fame and place, my vengeance, but she had stayed with me, and she should have been there to see my honor. My eyes sought Ansbor, and then I remembered he had died. He had, for he had loved Cassia, and I had taken her. He betrayed me. He paid.

  Wyrd.

  I had a cause. I eyed Drusus, and I smiled at him, and he embraced me. I loved him like a brother. His cause was mine.

  Lif. The voice said her name in my head, and my face darkened again. I forced a smile on my parched lips, for while I served Drusus, Lif was ever in my thoughts.

  More ins
ults were hurled at me, mostly to do with my wild looks and heritage, but Roman jokes were different from the Germani ones, much cruder but also ironic and so, soon, I learnt to appreciate them. They were all brothers, and I was one of them. I was to lead some of the Batavi, perhaps. Of course, I was, for Chariovalda had made me a Decurion though that was a position one earned by leading men in long, dangerous campaigns and by faithfully serving Rome and not by saving a day in a single wild melee.

  That thought of leading men made me feel uncertain.

  I had ever wanted to be a ring giver, a warlord, and the spear of the thiuda, of the War King, and that meant leading a large band of men. I found to my surprise, I was happy I had no men, save for Fulcher. I had led many in battle, but to lead them out of it? I was not sure I could. I had failed poor Burlein, had I not? Father had killed the southern lord and routed the lot of us, and I had not been able to save the rebellion. In any case, Chariovalda, the father-like Batavi had given me no men, for he had none to give.

  Drusus let go of my hand and handed me a precious golden torc and a silver spear, a miniature prize for putting down Armin’s tall brother before they could break to the rear of the legions. He had fought well. So had I. I bowed to Drusus. ‘Don’t boy! It goes to his head!’ someone shouted from the ranks, and amidst waves of laughter, Drusus’s voice amongst them, I went to stand with the hulking, grinning Batavi contingent. I felt tired, yet proud like a stag of the deep woods. Men still cheered, and I raised my arms in the air for the honor until the next man was called forth.

  I had a home, I thought.

  But most of all, I wanted to march for Lif. And she was in the lands of the Cherusci.

  That night Drusus spent in the mud-spattered praetorium tent with his generals, planning under the Aquila of the legions. Later that night, the troops were awakened, and everything was packed. Scouts rode out to recall troops chasing after Bructeri, Sigambri, Cherusci, and Marsi refugees. The next day, I got my wish as the army marched. We were aiming for the land of the Cherusci.

  Drusus, despite the army’s condition, wanted to flash his sword at them.

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Fulcher said as we sat on our horses. The Tencteri had surrounded the supply castra of Alisio and a savage thrust by Drusus had left a hundred of them dead. In a day’s time, Alisio was freed from the Tencteri, who fled without a further fight.

  Some ten such former warriors were chained at the side of the fort, guarded by the Batavi.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Fulcher said again as I had not responded. ‘They had as little food as we did out there. Are you there, Hraban? Did you swallow a bone?’

  ‘I’d chew the bone if I had one. But now we will gorge ourselves. The fort’s full of it. Wheat, oil. We’ll knead bread until our knuckles bleed. The bastards of the XVII are fat.’ I chuckled. ‘Did you see the cheeks of that supply immunes and the tunic of the Questor? Smeared in oil. I swear they were.’

  ‘They will have to give it up now,’ Fulcher said maliciously and saw how the army was emptying the castra amidst bitter complaints of the camp praefectus who was bodily fighting to keep at least a part of the reserve in reserve.

  ‘I wonder what is happening down the river,’ I said, gazing down Luppia River for the far west where the Uspietes had burnt the warehouses of Castra Vetera. ‘And I wonder how—’

  ‘She is fine,’ Fulcher said, knowing I worried about Cassia. ‘I never thanked you for giving me the head of Bricius.’

  ‘I didn’t take it. The beast did,’ I said and shuddered at the memory of the not so distant night. It had ended with Odo taking my ring and following Hands and Lif for the east, Armin and Thusnelda escaping, and Briscius, who had been serving Father dying at the hands of their own commander, the bald beast of Leuthard. Had he been a wolf? A Lok’s beast? Hati’s spawn? Or just a very savage, thick-skulled warrior who Father sent to nip Armin, Hraban, and Lif from this life? He had slain Ermendrud, my lost friend and Wandal’s betrothed, the woman I failed to protect. She had been so afraid; then she had been brave and then dead. He had gnawed on her. I had seen it. No man would do that. Or would they?

  ‘He is dead,’ Fulcher said. ‘Forget him.’

  ‘I’ll never forget Leuthard,’ I told him. I patted my swords, the Head Taker, my grandfather Hulderic’s long, ancient spatha. My fingers brushed Nightbright, the leaner blade I had won in battle, and finally the spear’s head of Wolf’s Bane, now aptly named. It was the broken spear of Aristovistus, given to me by Balderich, the former lord of all the Marcomanni and my grandfather. I wondered how he was. We had saved him, and he had left the land as Burlein and I faced Maroboodus.

  Perhaps he could have made the difference in the battle for the Marcomanni. He would have. He would have commanded the troops, would have summoned some of the northern lords to join us and things could all have ended differently.

  Wyrd.

  Burlein wanted to be the War King and had distrusted Balderich. It was his fault as well that we failed. ‘Come, Hraban. Let’s find something to eat. I can feel my spine in my belly,’ Fulcher spat.

  ‘You sound like Wandal,’ I told him as I guided my horse after him. ‘You whine like a rotten, spoiled girl when the winter is long. He always got depressed when hungry.’

  ‘I hope to meet him one day,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Wandal sounds like a likable fellow.’ I as well, for Wandal was lost. I had lost him in battle, and none knew what happened to him.

  ‘So you will stay with me now? And not go home yet?’ I asked, as I was curious. I needed him, his help, and wisdom, and steady spear, but he had a family. Briscius had taken his boy, but Briscius was dead now. Fulcher had pissed on the skull, and his boy was at peace, but he had a wife and a daughter far south.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he mumbled. I stared at him, and he withered. ‘I want to. I don’t wish to go back to my land, tilling the damned soil, breaking my back on the fields and burning woods for a new one. I hate the fucking cows; I hate the misery of bad crops, and I enjoy … travelling these lands. What wonderful poems I will tell when I am old.’

  ‘You won’t live to see such old age, Fulcher while you travel with me. You must have missed how many have fallen in my wake. Not all were enemies.’

  He huffed and waved his hand, dismissing my fears. ‘I’ve seen myself die in bed, old and bald.’

  ‘Not your sights again!’ I cursed as we dodged some archers running for their auxiliary unit. ‘I wish you had sight of where Lif is!’

  ‘Gods do not cut adventures short like that, Hraban. It would bore them,’ he said seriously. ’I love to travel with you. Yes. But I will fetch them. My family. Maroboodus rules there now. He will have some ugly warlord guarding Grinrock, and so it might get perilous. They know I am your man.’

  I snorted. ‘Not even my father can keep track of wives and children of all the men who hate him,’ I told him with some amusement. ‘We have to fetch Euric, as well. Though I am not sure he wishes to travel with us. He is old. But if we find Wandal, he will want Euric with us. He loves his Father as much as I hate mine.’ Maroboodus. Father. The Roman bastard, I thought and chuckled. We served the same land now, though different lords. I was a man of Drusus. He served someone who wanted Drusus, the frightening Republican, the simmering, growing opponent to his stepfather Augustus dead. I would stop Maroboodus, indeed. Not for my fame, no. That was beyond recovery. For Drusus, I would fight Father.

  But like ever, I still had to save Lif.

  Ishild, Odo’s unhappy sister and my one-time lover had left Lif. She had left Lif to my care and finally told me why she was drawn back to Odo, her brother. Odo had whelped a son on her, named Lifspsavir. Just like the prophecy dictated, the sibling had shared a filthy act though I called it rape. I shook my head at the people arrayed against me and rode on and saw the legions were already moving, furcas on their shoulders, helmets swinging on their chests, laden with gear. They marched to the east. They would go and march to the Castra Flamma at the
springs of Luppia River and from there, we would take the sword to the Cherusci.

  I noticed the blond Chariovalda, Drusus’s Batavi client sitting by a fire, reading orders. He noticed me and smiled, his infectious grin filling me with happiness. I had plotted on killing Drusus for Armin, and he knew it. He had forgiven me. ‘Fox,’ he said.

  ‘Hraban means raven,’ I told him, confused.

  ‘No, you idiot,’ he told me drolly and tossed pieces of hard meat up to us. ‘They call Armin the Fox now. They are trying to suppress the number of losses we endured but, of course, that is impossible. Drusus will have to recruit in Italy for these legions, and the poor recruiting officers will probably stare at the orders for a long time in silence, their mouths hanging open before they comprehend what is needed. Augustus does not want him here anymore, never did, but under his eye and this will fuel that wish.’

  ‘So we go after the Fox while we can, eh?’ I asked and winced as I tried to take a bite out of the meat. ‘Shit. Is this saddle?’

  Chariovalda grinned at me again. ‘They gave us the old, mummified stuff. It could also be saddle, I know not.’ He nodded at the XVII still staffing Alisio. ‘Bastards. Fat buggers. I ate well enough yesterday, a bit of a horse from a Cherusci that surrendered, but it will be harsh going.’

  ‘We will eat when there is food and go faster for the hope of it,’ Fulcher sang.

  ‘Yes,’ Chariovalda agreed miserably as he tossed a pebble at Fulcher and then pointed a finger at my friend. ‘I hate him. Too cheerful, and I want mead. None to be had. Not a drop. And Fulcher is happy. But he is right. We go on and eat men if we must. That is the way of war.’

  ‘Not with the Germani,’ I noted. ‘They will split up quickly if the food runs out. They’ll go home and have a feast.’