I did not look at her again.
I gathered my gear, and Tudrus brought us horses. I mounted a gray, tired one and cast a last look around. I nodded at Tudrus, Bohscyld, Wandal, Brimwulf, and Hund, and the rest of my men, most half alive. I had kept my oath to Cassia and for that, I felt relieved. I sighed and shook my head.
I turned my face to Gernot and sighed. ‘Well, weakling. Want to be a Roman?’
He shrugged. ‘I have no hand.’
‘Your remaining hand, brother, just gave Lif life. I will always remember Hagano’s death. And the betrayals and danger you put us in won’t disappear.’ I rubbed my face and bowed to him. ‘And I apologize for being a bastard when we grew up,’ I said and held my hand out to him. ‘We shall travel a long road and try to build bridges, eh?’ I heard Wandal snort softly, for he alone knew Gernot’s true color, but he had saved Lif.
He looked at my outstretched hand for a long while and finally took it awkwardly with his left hand. He followed us as we rode to find the Drusus.
CAMULODUNUM, ALBION (A.D. 42 )
There is not much more to the story of my Winter Sword and the oath keeping of that summer, my Lord Thumelicus. Much has happened in Camulodunum while you rest, and we now have guards of King Togodumnus. I will later tell you how that came to be, but for now, we are safe. Safer than we used to be. I have been busy at nights, my Lord. You are nearly healed. You are awake much of the time, leaning your head back on the mattress, staring out of the open door listlessly.
You do not look like a man who will travel east across the waters and the length of Gaul to find Lif.
I spared you from the liar Claudius, perhaps, and abandoned my vengeance in Rome for you, but you have suffered greatly throughout your life and seem like a glum young man. You stare at me, occasionally, for you know who I am and what I have done.
In Germania, I am ever the Oath Breaker.
In Rome, they call me the traitor.
But I knew your mother, Thumelicus. I hated and loved and served your father and you will, I am sure, know my mettle in the end.
Wyrd, if you do not.
If the gods give us time, my Lord, I shall tell you what took place in Rome. For that is where we went. My father survived, so did Catualda, and we would meet them again. But most of all, I went to Rome and so did Armin, and there I learned much of the past of Maroboodus and did indeed understand him better. I never forgave him for Mother and Hulderic and his treatment of our family, but I understood some of his choices. Rome is a confusing land of lies and riches, and a man loses himself there easily enough.
I did.
As for that day, when the bloody group made its way down the mountain and the hills for the plains of Sigimer and the Cherusci, we still thought everything would be well. I thought of Ishild and the dead boy. I had dealt with Odo, killed Corinx, and Ansigar. Nihta lay dead. Father lived though his men were gone, and Catualda was out there to cause trouble for him. I was strangely happy with that as well. I had not killed kin, and I felt I had settled many of my scores.
I had given away the sword.
I had lost the ring.
Lif was safe.
I was both happy and sad and felt like I was living a new life. We rode wearily and stopped to buy food, to rest, and to bind our many wounds in a land filled with wounded men, owned by Segestes.
Segestes?
I sighed.
I would still have enemies, despite what I had promised Cassia. But perhaps, I would also have a family to chase the dark memories away. She was pregnant. So I thought when I rode from Lif that day, trying to forgive myself, unsuccessfully, the many deaths. There were so many. I had killed so many. Few men had ever slain so many people so young, but then, I had Woden’s speed and his dancing spear on my side, and I had a talent for dealing death. I thought of dead, poor Ishild and shook my head. Of Fulcher. And his family.
Regret.
Regret makes one a husk of a man. In my mind, I saluted the dead. I blamed the wyrd, the sisters, and the world itself and told them I would see them in Asgaard, in the Hall of Woden, in Valholl as I joined the Einherjar, the lords of the swords. There, none would hate each other, despite the battles and regret would fade, finally. Wyrd is a clever word. It allows the unhappy to find peace in their turmoil. Regret is to be buried behind honest toasts and happy songs and tears. Regret is for fools.
But I had one regret I could not forget.
I rode to find Drusus, knowing all my dreams might die with him.
The spear Father had thrown. The hasta had flown in the air, the magnificent aim near perfect, guided by malicious spirits. Drusus’s happiness over the slaying of Sibratus, not seeing the deed. It all came together at the wrong time for the young lord. I failed. Had I not failed, had Drusus lived, the world would be a different kind of a place now. Happier, certainly, Rome worthy of admiration and less greedy. Perhaps Claudius, the most misunderstood of the sons of Drusus, would set it right one day, Lord Thumelicus, but I doubted it. The Republic was Drusus, and Drusus had fallen.
Father had been right. Drusus’s injury was fatal.
Eventually, we rode to the former lands of Sigimer, aiming for the fords. My friends were chatting and laughing, exhausted and feverish from wounds. Tudrus was teasing Brimwulf he would marry Mathildis when he fell; Brimwulf was telling Tudrus that he would have to take care of a horrible brat as well. Bohscyld looked grim as usual, as he supported Wandal, who was weak with his wounds. Gernot was coming last, his horsemanship awkward. I sometimes looked at him, and he answered the look, with a sad smile. It would be a long road for any love to develop between us.
But he was my brother.
Thus, we rode for a few days, and the months of Lietha were ending as we trekked the lands of the Cherusci. We passed the battlefield, and the crows had shared a feast with wolves and foxes for there lay the cream of Cherusci and Chatti, Marcomanni as well, and who survived, was busily burning and burying their loved ones. They were a vast nation, they would fight again, but hunger and fear would be their unwanted companions that winter and Segestes would rule, despite his treason of Drusus. We rode over the rivers, and after the Buck, some Thracians found us. They were forlorn, and they told us Drusus was grievously sick. His leg had broken, had been splintered and cared for, but still it had festered. The legions had carried him south, towards Mattium, where a great camp was established in the former lands of Oldaric.
And he had been asking for me.
We rode fast.
We rode like the wind, forgot our misery and spent the hooves of our horses to ribbons. It took us two days in our condition, but finally, amidst the Hercynian wilds and near Castra Flamma, we found Roman horsemen, exploratores looking out for the Chatti and the southern Sigambri, and they guided us towards a Roman fort, a Castra Scelerata, the accursed fort, for it was clear to them Drusus would die. We found the castra, where the two legions stood watch. Patrols rode out; cohorts raided the countryside, quelling risings and it all looked ordinary. They were doing what they always did, made war, slept, ate, and trained.
But they also grieved.
Wandal looked alarmed as some more Thracian cavalry spotted us, demanding passphrase, and Gernot tried to hide his fear as well, but I gave one, an old one, and after I had told them to go fuck themselves, they understood I was a Decurion of 2nd Batavorium. The man leading the troop grinned at us. ‘Hraban? Of the Batavi?’ I nodded darkly, sick, tired, and angry. ‘You are to go to the principia. As fast as you can,’ he told me. We rode to the gates and dismounted, leading the beasts in. I gave my horse to a slave, my friends following suit, and we walked the long road to the principia tents, men of Drusus’s official staring at us, for we were bloody, wounded, and hungry, our cheeks shrunk.
At the center of the castra was a building. Next to it was the praetorium, where the eagles and standards were held, and it was but a tent, but they had built a principia worthy of Drusus and the great hall was of wood, fine and well made, and around it
, men were standing, keeping their heads down, some sitting in the dust. A pair of horses were held by a dusty man in a silk tunic, a tall man tottering with fatigue. I passed him and announced myself to the guards. To my surprise, old Saturninus came to me, looking me up and down. What he was doing there, I did not know. He was going to say something but decided against it. ‘Go in, Hraban,’ he said simply and stood aside.
Then it hit me. He would take over if Drusus died, I thought.
I took off my helmet and entered the room. In the center lay my lord.
I have rarely seen a face so twisted in pain. His hair was plastered to his skull, and he was sweating in his tunic. His leg was uncovered as a medicus and a capsari hovered over it. There was a wound, a red and black wound where the bone had punctured out of the skin, and they were using vinegar to clean it and preparing to close the skin with a fibula, but the leg was so tender to their touch, Drusus howled. I watched away as he screamed and tears flowed from my eyes. Saturninus clapped my shoulder as the lord cried, and I saw another man sitting in a dark corner.
Then Drusus stopped screaming. I looked at him and saw he saw me, his eyes feverish. ‘Hraban?’
‘Yes, Lord,’ I said, miserably.
‘Drusus,’ he reminded me with a grimace.
‘I failed, Drusus. I failed to save you,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No. I failed and underestimated Armin once more. However, I did kill Sibratus. Was he a chief? Optima Spoila, Hraban. I managed that.’
‘It was not Armin, Lord, who ...’ I started, but he coughed hard, his breathing heavy.
He beckoned to a scribe. ‘Make it known, that Hraban, this Germani of the 2st Batavorium is to be made a Roman citizen for his heroics in combat. Make sure of it,’ he said, looking at Saturninus, who nodded uncertainly, eying the seated figure. Drusus dragged me closer. ‘I will not be able to help your daughter, and I am sorry.’
‘Think no more of it. She is safe,’ I told him, and he smiled.
‘Daughters, beware of daughters, Hraban. Roman daughters especially. All my children are going to be dangerous, my wife unhappy. If you can, help them,’ he said ruefully.
‘Lord, I am nothing without you,’ I said, but he shook his hand, dismissing my protests.
‘You are a warrior and a wily raven. A bastard and a champion. A Roman one now. No, I will not want to hear of betrayals. I do not wish to know why Hunfried sacrificed me. Perhaps it was Armin; perhaps it was someone else. Perhaps your father did his job, and perhaps he truly deserved to win. You know, I spoke to you about my dreams of the Republic, and I have enemies, even in my house, but it matters not now. My family does.’ He was shivering uncontrollably.
‘Cornix said Julia ...’
He shook his head and nodded at the man in the corner, who got up. ‘My wife?’ the man said harshly. ‘Julia?’
Drusus pulled me still closer. ‘Augustus, my stepfather did not do this. But that does not mean he won’t hurt my family. You guard my family.’
‘How Lord?` I asked, glancing at the man walking from the side for us.
‘Tiberius?’ Drusus said, weakly, and the man entered the light. Gods, I thought, Tiberius is married to Julia now. He hated her, did he not? He was a tall man, older than Drusus, his brother. His hair was stiff and short, his jaw was unshaven and strong, his face dirty, with lines of dirt where he had briefly wiped his face with a wet towel. His eyes were gray and his posture erect. A soldier.
So I met my future master.
Drusus grasped the man’s hand. ‘Make this man, and his men guardsmen. He has served me well. I want him to be close to my family,’ he said, and Tiberius came next to me, looking at my eyes.
‘What is that about Julia?’ he asked again, with steel in his voice.
I bowed to him. ‘Has your brother told you what is happening with Maroboodus and Segestes, Lord?’
He grunted. ‘That they schemed to kill my brother for some woman in Rome? And you claim it was Julia? She is willful, unpleasant, angry, and crooked as a rich merchant; a whore, really, but she has little to gain from killing Drusus.’ He emphasized the word “whore.”
He looked hard at me, a backwoods noble of little consequence in the great game of Roman power. I gathered myself and stood my ground. I saw Drusus grin weakly, for had I not passed his scrutiny once? ‘Her sons are to rule when Augustus dies.’
‘To speak of the death of princeps,’ he said very thickly, ‘is a crime, Batavi.’
‘Yet, lords die, and their sons take over. It is so even in Rome,’ I said and looked at his Drusus with grief. He followed my look, and his face clouded with pain, and he nodded reluctantly as if unwilling to let go of murderous thoughts.
‘And yes,’ he allowed, ‘perhaps she is planning for the death of lords, but I doubt she thought of it herself. Perhaps there are people using her, pushing her, hoping for her to shield them from blame. Perhaps,’ he hissed, ‘the whore is planning for dead lords and new husbands?’ He meant himself.
I took a deep breath and said nothing. I did not speak of the son of Maroboodus, and if Tiberius knew of that scandal, he said nothing. He turned to look at me, his mind made up. ‘He looks scruffy, dirty and savage. Germani Custodes Corporis has groomed men, and I have no authority to go around the usual recruitment methods, but surely I can try. But I make no promises,‘ he said, but Drusus grabbed his hand imploringly.
My lord was interrupted before he could say anything.
‘That is the son of Maroboodus,’ said a hateful voice as Antius walked to the room. ‘The son of Maroboodus, a Marcomanni, Tiberius, and your father will want him. He must die, at Mamertine prison, or before, no matter his service. And he did fail to save your brother,’ Antius said, silently, grinning at my face. ‘His father threw the spear that put our Consul down.’
Tiberius removed his hand from Drusus’s.
He turned to me, his eyes savage again, madness lurking inside the cold orbs. ‘Is that so, boy? If it is, you will die here, today. Your men as well. We will crucify you upside down.’ His calm demeanor cracked as the beast that was inside Tiberius reared his head. He was in pain, having ridden from Ticinum in Italy, over the Alps with the Rhaetian slave, breaking records to be with the brother he loved. He pulled out a sword, ignoring Drusus, who was trying to stop him.
I despaired and prepared to draw Nightbright. ‘I also fought my father,’ I told him evenly. ‘Have been fighting him for years.’
‘Antius is our enemy,’ Drusus whispered.
Antius bowed. ‘He is delusional, I am sorry, Lord.’ Tiberius hesitated.
I snapped the scroll from my pouch to his hand. ‘Here, Lord,’ I said and bowed deeply to Tiberius. He scowled as if the thing was a leprous bit of meat and finally nodded, taking the scroll. Antius cocked his head carefully at the lord who was reading it, sweat on his forehead. Tiberius’s eyes flashed to Antius, then to Drusus, and he kneeled next to his brother. They conferred for a time, and I kept my eyes turned away from Antius, a small, vicious smile on my face. The bastard had never seen the scroll.
Then, finally, Tiberius got up, slapping the scroll on his thigh.
‘Hunfried will be found, and killed. Segestes will have explaining to do. Maroboodus will be found, in due time. I will take over the command of the Tres Gauls and lead the stricken men to slaughter all who resist Rome,’ he told us softly, and I felt nearly sorry for Hunfried, who likely would suffer greatly for his treason. And as for Father? He had enemies. Tiberius nodded, making calculations. ‘We will savage the Sigambri, the Chatti, and all the Cherusci, who will not submit. This will take place next year. As for this year? When I ride south with my brother, this man will follow me.’ He nodded at me. ‘He is a Roman citizen. His men are to be taken into the Germani Corpores Custodes, and thus, they are no longer of the 2st Batavorium. And I will be patron to the Batavi in any case.’
It was true. Tiberius would inherit the clients of Drusus, I thought.
‘Lord ...’ Antius b
egan timidly, but Tiberius stepped forward and slapped the man in the face so hard Antius flew to his ass, his face a mask of pain and hurt.
Tiberius crouched before him. ‘Paullus,’ he hissed. ‘Tribune Paullus. He wrote to you. Your name is in this thing!’
‘I told him not to write my name ...’ Antius began and went white from the face. ‘I mean ...’
‘I will see you crucified, Antius,’ Tiberius laughed like a fiend. ‘I wanted to do that to this man, and now I cannot get rid of the idea. Upside down, sideways, and the right way as long as the wood is slick with your blood. But first, I will have you questioned.’
Antius shook his head in denial as guards burst in to grasp him. He struggled in the doorway, his eyes on me. I lifted an eyebrow at him. ‘Cornix is dead. He won’t help you this time.’
‘You sheep fucker!’ Antius shrieked as they took him away.
Tiberius stepped close to me and lowered his voice.
He glanced at the doorway before he spoke to me again. ‘I will speak with Antius, as said. We will bury Drusus in Rome, and I will war with the Germani next year. You will serve me, and when the war is over, the war my brother nearly won, you will follow me back to Rome for good. I have a great use for men like you. We will see who is to pay for this crime, and no sorrow ever inflicted on a man ... or a woman ... is going to compare to what I shall do to all involved.’
I saluted him. I would salute him thus for years to come.
Tiberius kneeled next to his brother. ‘Now, leave us. All of you, for I would be with him alone. We grew up together, suffered and laughed as one, and I love him more than I have ever loved anyone, save for my first wife. I will see him on his way.’
So it was, Lord, that I became Roman.
I found Cassia at the medical tent. She was sewing a wound, and her eyes went wide as she saw me. The relief was such she punctured the wounded man’s shoulder with the needle and led me out, leaving the man howling inside. She looked into my face, then to my hip and found no Winter Sword there.
The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3) Page 49
