Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  'I think you are like me, I told you. You love your family most of all. And your Lif is lost. Out there. When you have decided, Hraban, you will be my sword.'

  'What does a sword do?'

  'Slays my enemies. The ones who play dirty games in the shadows. I need a man who goes to those shadows with a sword, and comes back to me, still my friend.'

  'You need a liar, and a murderer,' I told him sullenly.

  'Yes, but one who is on my side.'

  I nodded, blushed. He asked what my father had asked, yet for some reason, I trusted he would not throw me into the abyss. I nodded at him. 'I will sign papers. Then, gods willing, one day soon, I will tell you these words you wish to hear. When Lif is safe.'

  'Good. For now, sign up with the army, and do your best. We will try to find your daughter after the war. For now, I am sorry, I have to be the lord who fears everything. And so there will be swords on you, and also on the woman who loves you. Whom you love, for I know you love her, Hraban. I do. This Cassia.'

  I did not move, for there were tears in his eyes. 'Swords,' I said with a soft warning in my voice.

  He nodded. 'You will be treated as a Roman soldier, Hraban, but until the war is over, you will stay where you are safe. She will be in danger until I trust you. One day, we will let our children play together, and I hope you will forgive me.'

  He would hold Cassia a prisoner.

  I shuddered in indecision, but calmed myself and bowed to him. 'I accept this, Lord Drusus. And let us be friends, even if you have swords on the woman I … love.' For he was right in that.

  'You will be Roman,' he said, relieved, and walked me off to Saturninus. 'And my friend.' Saturninus took off his military helmet as Drusus spoke with him and Chariovalda rode up, summoned as well. The legate did not address me but Chariovalda. 'Very well. You have a day to leave with the boy. Take him, train him, and keep him alive, in Xanten, at Castra Vetera. Hold him for me. He is a valuable Germani, and perhaps soon one of us.'

  'We do not,' Ansbor growled, 'need training from the Romans. We are warriors, not parade soldiers.'

  Saturninus heard him and scoffed. 'Oh, are you now? It matters not, son, what you think about Roman army and your imaginary feats and playful deeds. You had better be careful, even on our side. The kingless Vangiones hate you already, Matticati do not trust you, and the Ubii wants nothing to do with you. But, war is coming, and you might have fewer enemies soon!' Saturninus left, laughing like a demented jackdaw, as he put his helmet on his head and rode off. Chariovalda took me back to the fort.

  I turned to him. 'So, Drusus loves his brother a great deal.'

  He nodded. 'A great deal. They have gone through a lot together.'

  'He speaks of remaking Rome.' Chariovalda put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it, and shook his head.

  'He will make you an important man, Hraban. He knows you are a sort of a boy to get things done. Keep alive, and his friend. And I am sorry for Cassia. Do not think those swords are dull, or in any way not real,' he told me sadly. 'I will keep men watching you, as well.'

  Lif.

  Armin had Lif. Not one word they spoke mattered, as long as Armin held Lif. I would find a way. At Xanten. At Castra Vetera. Drusus promised me wonderful things, fine friendship, happy life, wealth, and position. But, he did not have Lif. And so, he would fall. But, Cassia would suffer.

  PART V: THE GATHERING STORM

  'I am Hraban! Son of Maroboodus! The Oath Breaker! The Bone Breaker. Come, and be corpses, curs!'

  Hraban to the Usipetes survivors.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  It was late in Maius when we reached Xanten. We had ridden down the banks of the unusually turbulent Rhenus River, with hundreds of mounted, heavily armored Batavi and the lighter cavalry of the Ubii, and the latter parted ways with us to go summon more men to Xanten from their various villages. We passed Castra Ubiorium, the city the former Germani tribe had chosen as their own after they escaped out lands. It had been a tribe that had been starving due to the Chatti and Cherusci, hunted by the Sigambri. XIX and XVII Legions were marching before us for Castra Vetera, having left the fort of Moganticum with some tall auxilia from the Alps, along with a regular cohort, or two, from the Roman army.

  The summer was scalding hot. We drank warm water and soured ale from gourds. Flies were a constant nuisance, and men cursed the trip that seemed to drag its feet. It was not that far on the horses, along the Roman roads in the making, but we spent a week on it due to heavy army traffic and orders Chariovalda had to deliver to various commanders in small forts and watch towers along the way. On the way, I noticed many discreet men guarding us, keeping an eye on Cassia especially, blades casually on their sides, others holding well-used bows and javelins. Fulcher had noted them as well, and raised his eyebrows at me, and I faced away. I prayed Woden to give me a way out of the predicament, and then begged Mercury, the Roman god of thievery, for the same, should he listen.

  It seemed hopeless.

  The riverbanks were quiet on both sides of the river, save for sweet birdsong, and we entered the part of Rhenus with steep, rock-strewn sides. The river was flowing resolutely through these rocky formations, a fantastic sight of calm pools and rushing torrents combined. Noble hawks and eagles soared far above, and many Romans thought it a good omen. On the other side of the river, the lands of embattled Sigambri spread out, smoke rising from the settlements, and I imagined them getting ready for war. With them were Tudrus and the Quadi exiles. It looked no different from any other land, wooded and fertile, but this land would turn heads around the world very soon.

  Finally, we arrived at Castra Vetera, the fort guarding the way to the Luppia River. Roman shipping was busy, as it rowed up and down the river, but ominously, the Luppia itself seemed devoid of boats. Great hanging trees covered the banks where dark water flowed to Rhenus from the east, the deadly yet beautiful access to the heart of the Sigambri, Bructeri, Marsi, and the poor Usipetes and Tencteri, forever stuck on the banks of Rhenus. Luppia reached a long hundred Roman miles inside the most warlike frontier lands of Germania, and there, Drusus was mobilizing his army, an army that was to change things forever in the land.

  The fort itself was an ugly, stone, and wood-entrenched thing of high, brooding towers and busy gates on a fat, low hill, and muddy huts of the locals were hunched on the sides of the stone-laden military roads. Castra Vetera was a fort for two legions, Legion V Alaudae, the ones who had lost the eagle to the Sigambri years past, the shame forever theirs. The other one was the XVIII Legion.

  The Batavi calmly headed for the gates, and Cassia and I rode up after them, following Fulcher and Ansbor. A fresh wind was billowing on the hillside, gently ruffling the cloaks of the Batavi, giving relief to the oppressive heat, and we enjoyed it, as we navigated past some cohorts.

  'It is the wind of the north, Hraban, from the sea,' Chariovalda told me, as he rode with us.

  'We are from Gothonia, my family, and so there is something familiar about it,' I told him, and indeed it was so, for our family, the first of the men, Woden's own blood were spawned in the northern sea shore, on the rocky sands of Gothonia's many islands. The wind had a strangely effect on me, a light tug on my soul that made me smile briefly. I had never seen the ocean, but its smell was there in the wind, vaguely titillating. I felt a strange yearning.

  Chariovalda smiled happily. He had been suffering on the tedious journey, his horse letting gas mercilessly to the amusement of the Batavi. 'Will get him some proper barley,' he told us sheepishly as the beast farted loudly again, to all our discomfort. He stroked the horse's neck. 'Bastard's been fed moldy hay. In two weeks, Drusus will arrive here. And we go to war.' I grunted and stroked my horse. I said nothing, staring at the castrum and enjoyed the momentary caress of the cool air. 'Only two weeks, Hraban, then things will surely look up. If you behave,' he continued. 'And you will enjoy this muddy place, I am sure. Oh, you will. In the meantime, we have business elsewhere. Behave while we are away.'

>   I looked at the Castrum, and the tuba called out unsteadily, the camp waking up.

  'Are we to stay here?' I asked him unhappily as men rode around us.

  He nodded. 'I hope you care enough for the girl, and don’t do anything utterly stupid. And yes, despite the love we all have for her, she will die, should you do so. But, it will be quick, if it comes to it. That much I can promise.' I held his eye, not giving away the turmoil inside of me and nodded. He nodded back. 'And yes, you will stay here. Come.'

  We rode to the gates, and a nervous tessarius of the XVIII Legion met us there, asking for a password while looking at the mass of XIX Legion marching past, dust-covered and parched. Chariovalda took out a scroll and handed it to him imperiously, and the tessarius took it and ran inside. We stood there for half an hour, until after the morning inspection in the castrum was over, and the legionnaires were sent to their various duties. Then, a string of young legionnaires marched out with an optio, fully packed with thick spears, cumbersome shields in leather covers, carrying a long pole, a furca with fat pots, sturdy dolobara, their personal gear, a leather rolled-up sack and two pila one longer, the other shorter. They had full gear, not exactly uniform, as some wore bronze helmets; some made of steel or iron, and their tunics were of the same color only by a stretch of a wild imagination.

  Ansbor and Fulcher smirked at them, and pointed at how some of them were already limping, their caligae substandard. An optio sauntered after them, barking high-pitched orders. He was a tough man with darkened skin, knotted arms, and a well-used stick, followed by an arrogant centurion, whose squat build looked nearly comic, until you looked at his pig-like brutal eyes, which burned with a promise of Hel's fires.

  'Manlius, stop the men, have them stand there,' the centurion said, as he swaggered to a stop.

  Chariovalda leaned on me. 'Just remember, Hraban, that despite the next two weeks, one day, you will be a high, respected man. I do not know how much you have suffered and crawled in shit previously, but, in Rome, the high have crawled as well, often. A man must learn to serve, before he commands.’

  'What?' I asked, as the centurion pointed at a brutally sunny spot of parched grass where the miserable recruits went to stand like hapless mules. Then he spat, and greeted Chariovalda with his vine stick.

  'These are the bags of vomit?' he asked, his jaws chomping like he was about to chew through a helmet. 'The girl cannot join them.' He frowned at Cassia, who was about to argue.

  I turned in my saddle to gaze at Chariovalda. 'I thought you were to train us?'

  Chariovalda smiled and ignored me. 'Yes, the lice-ridden louts here are your boys. And Cassia will stay with me for the time being.' Cassia was a prisoner, for now. The Batavi straightened in his saddle. 'Boys, you are to remain here, and train a bit, like the Romans do. Manlius there, the optio, and do not mistake him for a legionnaire, will make sure you do well. Sabinus, the centurion there, will make sure it is painful. We will go home to fetch fresh men, change clothes, make love to our wives, and we will be back! Have fun, for you will make love to pain and her sister, humiliation.'

  'I wish to stay with Hraban,' Cassia hissed at him, but he shook his head.

  'Do not worry, Cassia. They will be fine, but I’m not sure we will be. You will cook for us! Follow my men,' Chariovalda laughed with a warning look at me.

  I shrugged helplessly at Cassia. She was fuming as she turned her horse to follow the first of the Batavi, her eyes lingering on mine, while Chariovalda lingered on for a bit. The men who had been guarding her rode after them, and I felt helpless rage, but there was nothing I could do.

  'Dismount. You will not need your weapons. You will train, Roman style. With their weapons,' Chariovalda said, and we did as he told. Reluctantly, I handed him Nightbright. He took it, and the horses. 'And the armor as well. All of you.' We basically stripped down to our tunics and caligae, and they took our gear. 'Regards from legate Saturninus, who was a bit miffed about your comments over the quality of the Roman armies!' the bastard Batavi remarked, and Sabinus's eye twitched at that, and he looked like he was ready to pummel someone, or rather, us. Ansbor went gray in the his face.

  The Batavi rode out and left us there with Sabinus and Manlius. One young Batavi, the last man, stopped with a grin on his face, and threw a sack of coins to us. 'You will need to buy your gear! Enjoy!'

  Then, they were gone.

  The optio took the recruits away, marching briskly towards the north and hilly grounds, where he would grind them to weeping sacks of meat, but the centurion, his eyes glinting evilly, pointed his vine stick towards a hamlet near the castrum.

  He started the training immediately.

  'Now, lads, usually the master-of-arms is the one to arm peasants like you, but since you are not legionnaires, we will buy this gear from the market in the town. Same gear, likely stolen from the fort by these merchant bastards, no? But, I don't care, and neither will you. Now, march and sing!' he told us, gruffly.

  'We don't know your songs,' I told him gruffly.

  'Cannot sing? At least you can grunt some Latin. You filthy man-whores, I'll make you sing with my cane. Mouths open! Croak!' he barked, but we stayed mulishly quiet. 'Fine, sing after me, my lovelies!' And so he sang, with a deep bass voice that reverberated and grated on our frazzled nerves. 'For a loss of one man, we cut thousand, thousand, thousand heads… ' he hollered.

  As we marched, he ordered us to repeat the words, and I did, managing Latin fairly well, but Ansbor and Fulcher sounded like imbecilic lambs, and men we passed howled with mirth. He struck our calves, stopped us all the time, showing how to start with the right foot, end with the left, and our protests were answered by the accursed cane. He called us turds, ass sores, cow humpers, girly boys, and other such things, and finally, Ansbor had enough of his antics and turned on him, his fists balled and teeth gritted, as he was trying to grab the vine stick. The squat centurion promptly punched him in the face, and kicked him with his hobnailed caligae while singing a bawdy song about a whore and a senator. He kicked Ansbor a few more times, and I shook my head at Fulcher with a warning.

  The centurion pulled Ansbor up by his lice-ridden tunic. 'You ass, a big fat Germani ass, I kick a thousand, thousand, thousand times, like that, and that, and end it with a smack!' He cracked his vine stick on Fulcher's head as he was trying to stop him, despite my warnings. Fulcher fell back, holding his bleeding nose. 'You are now in a legion. The legion! I care not if you are just pretending, but if Saturninus asks us to train you, and show you how proper soldiers train, I will humor the good legate!' he said, as he kicked Fulcher in his turn. I was grinning at my unhappy comrades, for it was a rare case I stood by to see them bleed, and not the other way around. The centurion was scowling at them. 'No, why would a lord so high bother with scum like you? Seems like a terrible waste of my precious hours, but I am a generous man, and so it shall be. Show the assholes how the Roman Army trains, he asked. And so you, Hraban, will learn.' He kicked Ansbor.

  'I am Hraban!' I said indignantly, and then froze, for clearly the centurion had made a mistake, and he was not a man to leave mistakes stand.

  'I am sorry. I thought you were the fat one. Here.' And the stick started to dance on my back, as I struggled not to defend myself, knowing it would only make things more difficult. When he was done, he pulled a new stick out of the back of his belt, a pristine one still in one piece, unlike the one discarded in dust, and kicked us into a bleeding, bruised line. 'So. Singing and marching. Let us go, you pig-faced charlatans!' We reached the market with a semblance of marching steps, singing raucously, and the sight must have been hilarious, since everyone we came across were left with a happy grin. The giggling women in the market, the squabbling merchants, and the customers all stopped what they were doing, and made a rude joke, or two, at our expense.

  'Give it to them, Sabinus!' yelled a merchant, with huge red moustaches, an ex-legionnaire who straightened up as he realized we were coming to see him.

  'I wil
l. Happily. I have a toothache, and I need to whip something anyway. Here, outfit these into semi-proper gear. Here is the payment.' He stripped the pouch from Fulcher and threw it to him.

  'Can I keep the rest?' he asked hopefully, weighing the pouch.

  'No, you cannot,' I said in passable Latin, and he was taken back.

  'A barbarian speaking civil. How interesting. How about I keep it all and help you to the best gear, not the crap I usually pass to newcomers who have lost their gear?' the merchant suggested slyly.

  'If you leave us coins for mead, we are happy,' I told him unhappily, for I had no idea how much it would cost, since Chariovalda was no longer there to provide us with our meals and fine drinks.

  The centurion stared at me in shock. 'No, you give the rest to me! They cannot seriously think I will let them drink while in training! Give them the shit,' laughed Sabinus, and so we were outfitted with very substandard gear.

  We squabbled a lot, fought over the fringes of the caligae, for we were to abandon the fine footwear we had bought. We argued about the quality of the shields, some of which had seen battle. We fought over the badly cast tips of a pilum, the age of a sword blade, and of the length of the cingulum belt's straps. The merchant looked as haggard as we did after the ordeal, but we stepped out of the shop looking fairly identical to the soldiers we had seen marching that morning, complete with entrenchment tools, cups, and bedrolls hanging from a furca. We were armored, looking like soldiers, save for our long hair that streamed out under the helmets, but our self-esteem puffed strangely.

  Ansbor laughed at his gear, hefting it. 'I could carry this for five miles, and not get a serious sweat!'

  Sabinus asked me politely to translate, looking like a man-eating bear sneaking up to an infant, and I did, cautiously.

  He grunted and popped his head back inside the merchant's house. 'Marcus! We will need a full tent as well! A cooking kettle? Yes.' So we got a tent, a heavy thing that was impossible to carry with any form of grace, and a large kettle that we had to drag with us, and it bruised our sides and legs, and Fulcher and I cursed Ansbor, who was sullenly quiet.