Zahar – see Tear.
CAMULODUNUM, ALBION (A.D. 42)
It appears you might survive your wounds after all, Thumelicus. At least you have hope.
It is in the hands of the wyrd, but your improved condition is partly due to my tireless efforts, Thumelicus, or Hadewig, whichever name you will prefer, should you recover. The former one is your Roman slave name, which you have obeyed since your birth, and the latter your true name, given to you by Armin the Cherusci, your mighty father, and the man who never met you. That was something that changed him into a wreck of a man, and one who rarely smiled. Oh, he was calculating, harsh, and fierce and had many plans to topple Rome and my filth of a father, Maroboodus, but if you shared ale and mead with Armin, spoke of heartbreakingly beautiful women and fine victories, he would be merry as a newborn lamb on a meadow.
Not so after losing your pregnant mother, though.
Losing a wife and a precious, unborn son to an enemy is a thing to change any man. He no longer cared for pretty girls or past victories, as he spent the rest of his life hunting for heads.
To be honest, the Romans have a flair for names, and Hadewig sounds, at least to me, something a man choking on a sharp fish bone might utter in his final moments. 'Hadewig, hadewig!' I mutter aloud, sputtering gutturally, and laugh generously at my own joke as you groan in your feverish nightmares. Forgive me, lord. I am lonely and old.
You may call yourself what you will, my lord, if you pull through the scorching fever. You paid the price when we sprung you from the Roman ludus, and the swift trek to Albion did not improve your condition. Swords and spears nicked you, and I am sorry for you.
These Herculean efforts of mine to keep you alive are my penance for a life wasted. Surely I have outlived any plan the gods had for me. I am still strong as an ox, but I am old, and few live to see my age. Saving you from the Roman captivity is the only oath to your famous father I have truly kept, and even that I kept over a decade late. I have failed, my lord, so many times to grasp the right clues from the whirling chaos of choices. Others have a knack for the right ones, but I never did. That is the way of the wyrd, our fate, the tapestry of all life, which the three spinners effortlessly and tirelessly weave. While you never met your grieving father, thanks to the malicious choices of others, my orlog, my choices led me to a confrontation with my own father, when I was but a youth. Your age, in fact. You remember this, if you read my last letters.
Maroboodus. He was my father.
He was the great Marcomanni, and the clueless Roman historians write of him as the hope of all the Germanic people. To them, he was the man who rivaled your father, Armin, as a deadly threat to Rome. Maroboodus did rival Armin in famous stories written on scrolls and pages, but in truth, my father was a shrewd politician as much as a warrior, and his heart was divided equally between Roman promises and Germani glory. He was a man who betrayed his people, and saved them when it suited him and his many selfish needs.
And yet, despite this, he falsely named me the Oath Breaker. He did this before all our people.
He came home from Rome, a stranger to us. He was exiled from the Marcomanni before we were born, and when he came back, he was exiled also from Rome, a reputed murderer of Agrippa. He came home an enemy of Rome, and he saved Gernot and myself from the Vangiones, even if my mother, Sigilind, and grandfather, Hulderic, his father, died in that horrible attack.
He was a hero, wronged and sad. Many admired him, and yet, he hated me, as I had a dark hair and he did not, and he had been away for a long time. He knew his wife had been lonely, and he was plagued by questions. While he thought I was illegitimate, he gave me a chance. He used me to oust Balderich, our grandfather from my mother's side, leader of all the Marcomanni, and also Bero, his uncle. He grasped for the power, and I helped him. He made me trust Catualda, Bero's traitor son. He gave me hope, pretended to love me, and when he had slain the brothers, Isfried and Melheim of the southern Marcomanni, who were rebelling against his rule, and had used me in deeds that were foul and unworthy, he gave me away.
Without a blink.
He gave me to the vitka, Odo, son of the völva, Tear, leader of a sect of maniacs who had for thousands of years sought the end of the world. They wanted me, as our family hailed from far Gothonia, where all-father Woden created men in Midgard. Our family descended from the first men. Odo's god, jealous, had cursed Woden's men, and then spawned his own people, Odo's equally old family. Our families would always be entwined in a deadly game where a man, the Raven, would one day lead Odo’s family to a quest that would unravel all of Woden's work. Our world would fall. Their god would mold a new world. Men would die. Gods would as well. The curse and the prophecy were penned down on a parchment, and the hazy, twisted lines promised many things. I was the Raven. Doom-ridden. This was a heavy duty, Thumelicus, for any man to carry.
And Father gave me to them, naming me the Oath Breaker, blaming me for crimes he had committed. He betrayed me. Even Gernot abandoned him. He smeared my fame with shit, sullied my honor in piss, and men hated me. I was helpless, as I had trusted his promises. I was a fool.
But, he was happy. Gods, he was strong, and he had plans.
I suffered.
We admire men who suffer. Even our heroes who are usually already in Woden's golden Valholl, or with Freya in her fine hall of Sessrúmnir, and I was to join them. I was to serve Odo's needs and then die, eventually at Odo's hands. But, I did not. I escaped Odo, lord. I fought like a wolf, crawled out of the thick, strangling web of lies and blades, and I made myself a man by deeds of blood. I killed Vago, King of the Vangiones and a man Maroboodus had used to slay my loved ones. I was far from home, across the Rhenus River, covered in Vago's lifeblood, and surrounded by hostile tribes, but I, as you know, vowed to go back home to the Marcomanni. Oh, despite the ominous prophecies for the end of Midgard, the many waiting foes, I would go and right the many wrongs. I was determined to pluck the eagle of Maroboodus, hoping to skin the bastard Bear. I knew what he was. In my imprisonment, I found the truth about my father.
The truth was, Thumelicus, that he was Roman. So was his nephew Catualda, Bero's son. Together, they had schemed against the simple, true Germani tribes, and all of our glory was to go to Hel.
He was a Roman masquerading as a Germani, a man who served Roman interests. He sought many things when he came back home, as a fugitive from Rome, but reuniting with his family was not one of them. He had a mission. He was to become a leader of the Marcomanni, and as a leader of my tribe, he would combine the mighty Cherusci and the powerful Chatti tribes under common cause, and oppose Rome that was then attacking our lands. His skills would make sure there were to be victories, and that some high Roman men would die. Those Roman men were a risk for the new Rome Augustus had built. They were men who yearned for the Republic, and would see it reborn after the old man died. Father's masters could not murder these men in Rome, no. They could not risk discontent by poisoning these men. Had not Rome been wrecked by civil wars for decades? No, they needed a foreign threat.
Father was to be that threat. He was to be the mighty Germani who would slay the honorable Romans, foes of Augustus.
Then, when the time was right and the Republic had no defenders, Father would lose the war, and the Germani would fall with him. Our lands would be pillaged, but he would be rewarded. And it was not Augustus, Thumelicus, who planned on slaying these Republicans. It was a third party who hoped to reap the fruits of new Rome, and thrust both the Republicans and the old man into oblivion. There were many agendas in Rome, Thumelicus. Augustus had his, Republicans had theirs, and those who wanted neither Augustus nor the Republic, many more.
My father, the infiltrator scum, was important for these bastards. And Maroboodus thought he would lead the Germani. There were none to challenge him.
Except for your father, Armin the Cherusci, his foe, it might have been so. Maroboodus never anticipated he would find true competition within the rude chiefs as a strategist, as a supr
eme warrior.
As for me? I only wanted my reputation restored. I didn’t care for Republic. Fame. That mattered.
Instead, I discovered my honor.
Learn the difference between the two, Thumelicus. Being famous without honor was a thing of no worth. I was a child still, despite my war-like, Woden-given battle-rage and the abilities as a warrior as I went home. I learnt one’s happiness was a greater miracle than the fragile fame men would salute in the feast hall.
I had plenty of scars from this time, especially one on my face, and another on my chest. I chuckled as I ran my finger over them. A blade made one. A scarred, evil hand-made one.
Now, let me renew my pledge to you, my lord.
As I explained earlier, an old man was always in a hurry.
Elders were not sure what they should accomplish with the time that is left, but I knew I wished to write this story. I also knew the story needs a willing agent to spread it after I was gone. So I beg: should you recover, go to the deeps of Germania, find my old daughter, and tell her of me. Tell her of Hraban of the Marcomanni, of the vile Oath Breaker and dreaded Lord of Bones. Do so, and I shall serve you in the afterlife, as I promised. Few listen willingly to heroic poems of Hraban in their halls over there; even now, few would believe I am anything but a piece of shit soaked rat skin. I accept this now as an old man, but lord, be fair to this lost, old man and help me. At least my daughter should know why and how her fool of a father lost his fame but regained his honor, and why I could not meet her again, ever, after I parted with her.
I promised to fight, and to win you a seat near your father in Valholl, should you do this for me. I will serve you like a lowly servant, and sit and sleep at your feet in the mud and dust. I promise this still, even if on the hindsight serving you in the halls of the dead, shivering at your feet might be very uncomfortable. Yet, I care not, as long as she knows of me.
Now, as for your survival. You might … you should live if I keep an eye on the wyrd and help it along and that it will be due to my efforts if you keep your life. Today, I found you a healer, a fine druid, and killed a man of the chameleon Claudius; a mercenary recently arrived here by a ship, trying to find our whereabouts. One day, should we survive, I will tell you what I have done in Camulodunum for us, and I will be surprised if you do not appreciate the deeds this old man has performed.
Now, I shall tell you what happened after I escaped Vago's lands, and crossed the river to enter our Black Forest, bent on revenge, hoping to regain my fame, and I shall tell you how I became a Roman with an intact honor, but no fame with our people.
PART I: RAVEN’S FLIGHT
'Happy crows hopping on rotten corpses. That is the only certainty in this world of ours, Fulcher.'
Hraban to Fulcher
CHAPTER I
Sitting all those years ago at the gates of Burbetomagus, the seat of the Vangiones and the Mediomactri Gauls, I watched my former slave Felix ride for the west, his home, and felt terribly, utterly alone. I had sawed off Vago's head in his own bedchamber, my enemies had been humbled, and I had made a man of myself, happy with my success, sad over the loss of Shayla, the druidess I had learnt to love, and then I was alone, afraid again.
Felix was my friend, a runt but a friend.
Yet, over the river, he was a slave.
He deserved better, despite helping Catualda and Maroboodus scheme with the Romans, which resulted in the deaths of my mother and grandfather. Yet, I had forgiven him, and even rewarded him with Vago's helmet and my farewells. Woden knew I feared the trip home without him. I would miss his company, and I would especially miss his wit.
I looked east, for a dark road waited for me, one that required a keen, cool mind, and I had to rely on mine. I would go home, reviled by all, my fame utterly smeared by my father's outright lies. 'My fame, my vengeance,' I repeated to myself, bent on recovering the first by regaining the latter. I had done many unworthy deeds, I knew that, but I had done them for my oath to Father, for the love he had pretended he felt for me.
Father had to fall.
How? That was a mystery to me, for I only possessed a sword called Nightbright, my ancient Greek bronze helmet, and a chainmail, while he led a vast nation, a dozen savage champions, and fifteen thousand willing spears. He would not expect me, but others might. Odo was looking for me; enemy to me, enemy to Father, the vitka who wanted to capture me, the madman who wished to control me and to find his youngest sister, Veleda. The girl was to die; a girl whose blood had to mix with the ring of our family on some silly ensorcelled stone somewhere far away, and then the world would end.
I snickered at the curse that had plagued our family since the beginning, and damned Odo. I thumbed Draupnir's Spawn, the gift of Woden to the first men, the precious golden treasure that was part of the prophecy. I fingered the flower-engraved thing I had just recovered from Catualda, relative and former ally of Father, a fat-lipped piece of shit who wanted it for the power it gave in the north, where Woden's blood ran strong in the veins of the Suebi nations. Many men would follow its holder. Father coveted it. Odo wished it for the prophecy. Catualda wanted it for the Cherusci, for Armin, your father, Thumelicus, the man who hated my father for the betrothal of your mother to my father and the alliance. The ring had power, mysterious and also real.
Now, it was mine.
I would take it and go home, and there everything would be risked.
But, gods, I missed Felix. I was afraid and felt witless.
I glanced at the yawning gate with the two alert, if young, guards, knowing I should make haste out of it. I was wondering if the guards would react to the dark-haired Germani who did not look fresh out of bed but instead battle. I sniffed in disgust at the smell of blood wafting from my clothes and the stench of arid smoke. The terrible fire, spewing thick smoke and cinder to the ochre sky, was my doing. I was tall, wide, and easy to remember, a berserker born with the gift of battle, but I had no choice. I hoped they had not seen me when I was brought in months ago, wounded and senseless. I hesitated just one moment longer and kicked the flanks of my stolen horse, which reared, drawing unwanted attention. I needed not worry. All animals in sight had grown skittish as the inferno of Vago's hall apparently spread outside the compound, threatening to ignite the surrounding hay roofs of the manors.
I spat as I glanced up the hill.
Let it go, let it burn to cinders for all I cared. I had lost Shayla, Vago's druid daughter, a woman whom I had grown to love during the time we were waiting for Vago to sacrifice me. I had slain Vago, and while I had spared his eldest son, Hunfrid, I felt no love for the town. I nodded to myself, took a deep breath, and guided the horse towards the guards at the gate, the dog I had previously kicked growling at me from the shadows, perhaps smelling there was a fresh meal of meat in a pillowcase I had strapped on the horse. I intended to take Vago's head home and show it to Maroboodus, my father. I would flaunt the great deed at his face, for had he not used Vago’s threat to gain power with the Marcomanni? Had he not let Vago slay my grandfather, Hulderic, his own father, and my mother, waiting until it was too late to save them? It was symbolic, at least.
Yes, I had business in the Hard Hill.
Not only vengeance and my fame, other issues worried me. I wanted to rescue Ansbor, my wounded, rotund friend. I wished to see if my best friend, Wandal, ever made it home from the battle I lost him in, at the Roman Castrum Luppia where I had gone to chase after Catualda, my hated relative, the man I then thought solely responsible for the deaths of my mother and grandfather, until I found out later that Catualda was in league with my father. Catualda had his own agendas as well, oh yes.
I also wanted to rescue Ishild, my childhood friend, Tear's daughter, and mad Odo's unhappy sister, whom I did not love. She was strange and had secrets, but she carried my child. It was a child Odo desired for the prophecy as well. Odo had many needs. None I approved of.
They were fine goals, but vengeance was the one that burned me the most, my fame second.
I was shamed, my soul on fire for the ignominy of father’s public accusations. I wanted to show my people I was Vago's slayer. A warrior, not a worm.
Negotiatore Antius told me everything, thinking I would die. Maroboodus was Roman, a traitor, and I would carve the truth out of Father and regain my fame, my place, and finally gain a hall for myself. I would be what I was meant to be. A lord and a ring giver. A Germani. Not a fugitive with the clothes on his back and nothing more. I was also of Balderich's blood, and my vanity made me dream of an even loftier position. The one Father had stolen. The noblest noble of our tribe.
I spat in disgust as I reached the gate. The guards aimed their heavy spears my way, their concentration broken by the huge fire as they tried to do their duty. I hailed them. 'I would be leaving, back to Moganticum. Which way is the best?' I asked, as if there was nothing unusual happening in the town. Screams could be heard as Vago's hall collapsed, and I smiled, flashing a look up the hill. I had a cropped, dark beard, jet-black hair, unusual in Germania, but usual with men of Woden's own blood, Tear had once told me. My green eyes twinkled with mirth, I was sure, as the flames roared up there on the hill, consuming Vago's headless corpse.
And then I cursed, for Catualda had escaped that night.
One guard shook his head, his long beard swinging. 'Don't know the road? You came with a ship? Yes? Just take that road north, and it leads back there. Do you know what is happening up there?' He thumbed to the direction of the mayhem. 'Is that the mansion of our lord?'
I guided the horse past them and nodded my head. 'Oh, aye. I know. The Oath Breaker cheated Lord Vago, pissed on his corpse, and burnt down his home. Hraban the Marcomanni, that is,' I said as I rode on to the road, heading north through shops and shanty houses. The guard looked after me in confusion, alerted by my knowing words. He noticed the blood in my clothes as wind ruffled my cloak.
Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2) Page 2
