'I was betrayed by my father. I was cast out,' I said. 'That is all that matters.'
'For you, it might be so,' he said sadly, and wiped his face. 'But, none of it matters.'
'Why, Drusus?' I asked him, upset at his words.
He shrugged. 'I won't let him combine the tribes against me. I will keep him busy and alienated. I will conquer swiftly and without humor, Hraban, and he can sit and rage in his burnt hall. You have disgraced him enough for me to make sure there will be no grand Germani strategy to fight my legions, only scattering of bickering Germani tribes. This man was Antius the Negotiatore? The man who told you these things? Chariovalda mentioned him.'
'Yes,' I said sullenly. 'I hate him.'
'Hate silently, Hraban, patiently. It will be sweeter than nectar when the time comes to step on his throat,' he murmured. I nodded, and we stood there, silent for a while. He was looking at me and thinking.
'What will you do? Will you make war on Rome?' I asked boldly.
He shook his head at the question. 'I will not speak of such matters with a man called the Oath Breaker. But, should I do so, Hraban, I will do it for the Republic. It is a thing to fight for, our legacy, what set us apart from the Greeks, the east and the south alike. Now, we have the discipline of the armies, superior weapons, and favor of the gods, liars all as we agree. Back in the days we had more. We had less of an army, but boasted a purity of mind, unyielding honor to guide these lesser armies, and yes, Hraban, all that is going away. Honor is dead.' He gazed South, as if he could see Rome crumbling down. 'We have fame of arms and bloody victories, but our greed shames our ancestors,' he continued, and I smiled. Gods. Fulcher would marry him, if he heard him speak thus. He continued, with some humor. 'Unless some of us survive and turn back time, it will grow worse. Augustus is a schemer, Hraban, my mother's husband. But, there are true schemers who see the benefits of Augustus's legacy, but without the blood of Augustus. Both hate the Republic. And me.'
'Yes, lord,' I told him, as he spat phlegm in his sudden anger.
He turned to go, but glanced at me. 'You lost your daughter? There is suffering in your face.'
'Yes, my lord,' I told him miserably.
'A father who loves so is a man I trust, despite what people call him. We will get her back, my friend,' he said happily, and it was so easy for me to love him. He was a great lord, but even more, he was a great man. He walked away, mounted a horse, blew a kiss to the Batavi, and left, leaving me standing alone.
I met Chariovalda's eyes, and he nodded wistfully at me. I understood his dedication now. I walked to him, kicked him in the balls, making his men roar with joy, took my sword from his belt, and walked back, guarded by some unwilling Batavi; I went back to our housing and took care of Cassia. She was shivering with stubborn fever, and I slept next to her, warming her. She did not mind and snuggled closer, and I thought of Drusus and his eyes, and felt there was a man who could change destinies of men, and huge nations, alike.
Gods, I would leave the Romans with Armin, but Drusus, I would never forget.
Cassia kissed me, half asleep. It was a gentle kiss, and I answered it; I knew I loved her.
Ansbor would hate me.
CHAPTER XXII
A week crept past, and the Germani nobles, with their adelings and war bands, trickled to the suddenly busier Moganticum. There were the haughty lords of the northern tribes. Many of them were Roman allies, some unwilling ones, especially the Frisii, who were the neighbors of the Batavi, proud and poor men whom Drusus had humbled bloodily, and their gaunt lords, the only Germani who paid true tribute. Then, there were the Canifetes from the coast, and the Ubii, who arrived grimly, the large tribe that old Agrippa had welcomed over the Rhenus to join Rome, now willing friends, close allies to the Roman Eagle. The Chauci, the greatest tribe of the far north was there, some of the chiefs who had succumbed without a fight to Drusus the year before during his northern expedition. Ampsivari sent a small delegation, the neighbors of Chauci and Cherusci.
Some of the more stubborn lords of the north and middle lands came in. The small tribes, the Marsi, the heroic people, sent some men to hear Rome out, and they said one of their greatest leaders rode with them, though others said there were only some minor nobles there. The dwindling Bructeri were there, all scarred men, brutally tattooed in face, too thin for lack of food, unconquerable in spirit, ever ready for war, yet interested in what the Romans had to say. A chief named Wodenspear was rumored to ride before them, a terror of Rome himself, now under the flag of truce.
I was sitting by the river, staring at the men riding in with their families. They would gather north of the town, and come in all at the same time for the Thing, but those who arrived visited Moganticum profusely before the meeting. The wind was whipping across the river, raising ripples, and sometimes making curious rings as something plopped in to the water,. I felt lost in my choices. I needed clarity, and so I waited.
The mighty Cherusci, lords of the two rivers, were expected, and I dreaded their arrival. Segestes the Fat, Inguiomerus the Gaunt, and Sigimer would surely come, and with them, hopefully, Armin. But, if he did not come? I would have to find the way with Sigimer. He had liked Maroboodus, so I was skeptical of my chances with him. Catualda, my foe and relative, served Armin, and that would be a problem, should Armin or Sigimer agree to my service.
But, I had the ring.
The Cherusci needed it to pacify the eastern Suebi. That would weigh more than Catualda's scrawny neck, I decided. Armin was ruthless, not unlike Father, though with an honorable streak in his young character. Would he let me duel Catualda? If not, I would find a way later. To kill him. To kill Father.
I spat, and felt so tired. Killing and running, and hunting for fame. Fulcher was right.
All I needed was honor.
But, that would be sullied in whatever event would take place soon.
No deal I would make was to be enjoyable or honorable. I would not become Roman. No matter if Drusus haunted the recesses of my mind, his nobility having made a great impression on me. His plans and fears moved me, his belief in the Republic thrummed in my soul. He believed in something so greatly, it could not fail to move a man. He commanded armies, but he was also a target in a cruel game. He needed help. I could stay; I could fight for him. I knew that. But, I had Lif.
So I would go.
Armin would own me. What would he ask of me? I had betrayed him for Father once. It all tasted stale to me. Lif was the only thing that mattered truly, but the web of betrayal felt heavy on my shoulders. I had felt brilliant as the summer sun when Lif was born. Many things were clearer, made more sense. I felt good about myself. Now, I was preparing to let honor go again. I was not sure how I would find it once more. In Germania, I would be despised; I would likely be asked to do deeds that shamed me, but I would have Lif. In Moganticum, I would not have Lif, but I would gather fame, and keep my newly found honor. And Cassia. If Ansbor would understand, which was not likely. Gods. 'They hate me,' I said with a small voice. 'Except the Romans.'
Men were riding forth on the other side of the river. I roused myself from my thoughts, and gazed that way, but shrugged, as I understood it was Thurwag. The Matticati were there, preparing to cross, and eventually the Chatti would show up, having some sort of an agreement with Rome, though Father had persuaded them to join him, should Rome invade that year. Most tribes of the east, the unknown lands beyond the rivers of the mystical lands, were not coming, the enemies of the Cherusci. The Hermanduri were not going to appear. Most of the Suebi nations were too savage, or unpredictable, to travel that far. The Marcomanni had not been invited anyway. Of the contested areas of the central and northern lands, only the stubborn Sigambri and their allies the Tencteri and the Usipetes were missing, having no interest in what Drusus were to offer, or say, having suffered greatly for years at the hands of Rome. They expected to do so this year as well, proudly. No doubt the Marsi and the Bructeri would join them, even if they were there.
&
nbsp; No Cherusci, I thought, and I waited impatiently in the barracks, while the Romans prepared themselves, as if for a battle. There was a nervous energy in the camps, the men running between the barracks and their chores with springy steps, proud in their tunica and sandals, hobnails clipping the via praetorium mercilessly. They were fixing gear, replacing what was irreparable, and brutes of centurions were snapping their vine staffs on many a slow ass and unhappy back, as the legions prepared.
There were two full legions in the huge camp; the XIV Gemina and XVI Gallica.
The next day, I was fixing a sheath for Nightbright, one to fit it nicely, made up of thick, oiled leather and furred edges, and Ansbor was oiling Nightbright, as Chariovalda stomped in. He threw down our gear, my helmet rolling in the dust. No weapons, just the armor. 'Dress up like whores, my friends. Wear your helmet, Hraban. Your horses are at the gate, groomed by slaves.'
'They are all here, then?' I asked him.
'All are here. All of them. All who will come. Drusus will parade them so they have to pass two legions in arms. No better opening statement than staring at steel of twenty thousand bastards.'
'They will be suitably impressed, I am sure,' I sneered at him. 'After all, most are tribes that succumbed with no fight.'
He hesitated at the door, and then pointed a finger my way. 'Drusus likes you. Do not over-tax his mind with sarcasm, should he speak with you again. You know he is facing many challenges.'
'I will try to behave,' I told him, and he farted as he left. I snorted, and we dressed. We wore our old gear, patched and cleaned, leathers greased and the armor shined brilliantly, the shoes were the traditional Germani ones, with overturned leather on the outside. We walked to the gate, and stared at the main road. It was thronging with brilliant legionnaires, and they were spread all over the place.
'My gods,' Fulcher murmured as we made our way out of the castrum.
We exited, staring at rows and rows of brilliant men behind the gates. Outside, we mounted up, and I put the helmet on my head. A harried optio pointed a finger, through a bustle of officers and men carrying vases and food, towards a group of men sitting in a loose formation outside the castrum. When we reached the men, who were Batavi and Ubii officers, trumpets rang out harshly, and the ground trembled. We turned to look at each other; the horses grew fierce, and we calmed them.
The legions appeared, and marched out of the castrum with a half step.
We stared at the wonder of the power that had humbled the least humble nations in the world.
You have likely never seen such a sight, my lord Thumelicus, not even in Roman areas as we did that day, when the troops marched through the two gates. Few battles looked as splendid, the ones I would witness later, for there the men would be grimy and grim, but these men were not soiled. Brilliantly gleaming chain mail, sturdy metal helmets, adorned with arrogant red and white crests and plumes they only use in parades, tunics mostly red, though here and there white, for the newer men who had not yet washed them in the common tubs, where they would harmoniously assume a shared color. Their shields were freshly painted. For XVI, a snarling lion adorned the oval shields. For the XIV, the Capricorn, a creature of the faraway lands.
Chariovalda found us and pulled us with him, and as we rode with him, entirely bewildered, he described the beast to us, but we called him a liar. No goat could live under water. He took us to the hundred or so Batavi, and we tried to stand our horses next to theirs, in smooth lines.
Endless lines of stern, armored men, streamed from the gates, and we could only wonder at them and their way of going to a parade. We had seen thousands of them the past weeks, but all together? In a massive fist of death? Never. The ground shook as they came, in military step, like a single living creature snaking around the gates, walking resolutely, turning by barked orders. They filed out of the fort, in lines of steel, bronze, and iron, not like men, but silent statues, disciplined, jaws shaved and set, their swords and pilum spears clanking in unison, as their steps matched those of the man next to them. Like things from Hel, undead, emotionless, some wondrous constructs of the alfs or dwarves, they marched on.
We admired them, and then hated them, for soon, the dust covered us as they stomped past, and no grooming would make us stand out.
They marched to the huge clearing north of the castrum, led by their first, the finest cohorts, which were twice the size of a normal one, and they were followed by the nine others. The legion's standards proceeded them, carried by tough and smart men, who sometimes were part of the leadership council of the whole legion. The standards glittered in the morning sun, the golden eagle awash in the pale sunlight, the battle honors and symbols of the grass crown held high. Less distinctive than the golden eagle, all the cohorts carried their standards, centuries as well, making it a splendid, martial sight of gilded, bronzed, and silvery honor. I spotted a tall man carrying a pole, with a shell made of silver, and there was a face inside it; while I nearly fell off the horse gawking at the face, Chariovalda said it was Augustus. We tried to peer at the face, but could not see it properly. The face would be familiar to us, later.
'Look at those men!' Fulcher said. 'They mimic our champions!' Indeed, men with trumpets, buccina and cornicula, marched with them, their heads framed by bear pelts, leather armor covering their chests.
'It is a new habit,' Chariovalda said sheepishly. 'They wish to look a bit more barbaric and distinctive. The standard bearers wear them, too, sometimes beast skins from the south, spotted or striped. Ah, the nobles. Look at the young cocks!'
With the legions rode young men, glittering tribunes, all clad with sculpted armors, young men making their political careers by serving the state, and the people. I had seen one of them once, in the battle of Castrum Luppia. A scarred man, a military tribune, rode beside the legions, overseeing the march. Chariovalda had told us they were second-in-command of the legions, and today, they directed the marching troops, for the legates were coming out at the gates with Saturninus and Drusus, proud officers under his purple banner, which was adorned with gilded letters spelling out his many glorious names and titles.
The legions deployed in a triple axis, three lines. The first cohort was the first one the Germani approaching from the north would see, its centuries of eighty men taking their places, with the legion's most prestigious centurion, primus pilus, the first spear, standing before the first cohort, unmoving, eyes harsh as death. Best men were there in the first cohort, and following it came the next four, their centuries marching to take their place in a panoply of steel, bronze, bright plumes, and red shields. Soon, all the centuries of the four cohorts were lined abreast, their centurions and optios subtly beating the lines straight, helped by a tessarius in the back of each century.
Then came the next two lines, having three cohorts each. Like an army of insects, emotionless and efficient, they spread out, some centuries and cohorts having far fewer men than the other, since the legion was never fully stacked. Men died, left on missions, or on furloughs, for which they paid their centurions dearly. Many men ended their commissions, free to go, or enlist again. It was a powerful statement nonetheless. The two legions coming together in huge lines, standards in the air, the terrifying power of these trained men, not as tall as our people, or the Celts, yet sturdy, implacable enemies, proud and unyielding, men who would hold Rome on its feet forever, if it were up to them.
And, of course, it was.
So deployed the army of Drusus, a small part of it, for he had six such legions under his command in Germania to hold sway over the Gauls, to keep us in check, and perhaps, to conquer us. I saw them, and wondered how different they were from a Germani army. An army of the Hermanduri, facing you in the field, would be a rowdy group of individual lords, with hedonistic, self-serving champions prancing around, proclaiming their many honors to the foe. They would yell insults, curse crudely, and in battle, they would be ferocious, in a shield wall, or a cunus. You would fear some of the lords under their banners of bones
and simple symbols. You knew whom to look out for when Germani marched for you. Here, the Roman army. They all looked equally deadly.
There were a few hundred glinting Roman cavalrymen riding their horses behind the right wing, to guard the flags and contingents of the Vangiones and of the Ubii, mostly cavalry, as well as strange looking archers and slingers from Syria and Crete, deployed near the fort.
How was one to conquer such men? To attack such power, discipline?
Madness. My head swam.
Fulcher and Ansbor sat next to me, their mouths open. 'They all have armor? Iron and bronze, steel? And swords?' Ansbor asked, and Fulcher nodded prudently. 'All of them?'
Fulcher inclined his head toward the men, as he calmed his horse, having sensed his uneasiness. 'They conquered most of the known world with those swords. Even the nations who had similar units. It's not all about steel and iron. Some of these standards have seen a century, or two, of war.'
Ansbor shook his head. 'Not about steel, huh? It helps, though.'
I said nothing. My father would oppose these men? I could see how, and why, he had started to break the Marcomanni traditions and teaching our men to war this same way. He had a trover of armor, of course, for he had taken a fort the year before, and even our burning of his hall would only delay his plans. But, should these men march on the Hard Hill? Not too far from there?
Madness to fight them. Father's mission was a suicide mission. His Roman boy must be made of gold for him to try toppling this army. And more like it. I shook my head, as I stood next to Chariovalda, near the castrum gate, looking at the lines and lines of men in armor, with swords and helms, which our men rarely had.
However, there was something wrong.
I felt a flutter in my heart. My terror was fading, the despair changing into something else, and I scowled, only to be interrupted. 'You don't approve of them?' asked Drusus, who boasted a youthful smile on his handsome face. He walked up to the Batavi, as his horse was being saddled still. His light brown eyes were alight with fire. He looked at his men with keen pride, and so I shut up, stopping myself from answering. 'Well?' he asked, gazing up at me. My mouth twitched under my helmet, and he saw this. He motioned for me to speak.
Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2) Page 33
