It is a wonderful story. The gods were as mighty as mountains, their minds keener than the sharpest blade, and the worlds they created seemingly endurable beyond time and decay.
Yet, all of this wonderful creation is governed by fate, and even the gods bow to wyrd. The Nine Worlds and time are its slaves, my Lord, bound to it by unbreakable chains. Nothing escapes fate. The Three Spinners serve and govern it humbly and diligently, and spin away with their bleeding fingers. They work on all our lifelines, while squatting by the mystical well of Urðarbrunnr. One sister meticulously constructs the past; one works on the present, one pulls together the future. Yet, we are not helpless as babes at their mercy. Our choices shape the fate they spin for us all. This is the gift of men, to choose their fate. The options we pick from, every day, in things that are both humble and important; they are called orlog, and they create the wyrd.
Considering that the humble sisters will eventually govern the end of the world itself, it is no wonder railing against one's wyrd is useless and foolish. An old man should know this. However, I still curse wyrd profusely, and I know I am not alone spitting at the faces of the sisters. Men often utter this word in tears and despair. Perhaps there has been a young death in the family, a bad harvest following terrible torrential rains, or a powerful neighbor has stolen their cattle. If one's fate is generally positive, then one thanks it. One often does it silently, as if afraid the good fortune will change at a whim of some god who witnesses the joy. Yet a man's fate changes from hour to hour, depending on his choices, no matter if they celebrate or hate it.
My choices led us both here, to a war-torn hill of Camulodunum in Albion, as exiles. Our wyrd is uncertain. Yours even more than mine. Not even the gods know what the spinners are spinning on now as they craft our future. Our wyrd, my Lord, had better improve, or we will meet the gods face-to-face.
Not a short month past, I served a highborn lunatic. The man was the terrible child Caligula, as the soldiers spitefully called the unstable, bastard son of the equally cursed Germanicus the Younger. It was an excellent service, in a way. Coaxing that beast to greater madness bitterly hurt the Rome I so much hate, and as my later life has orbited around my hatred for Rome, I was happy. If one can call murderous rampage of vengeance a joyous pursuit. Yet the Spinners spin wildly, and the choices I inadvertently made changed everything. It was so the monster Caligula died at the hands of a horde of cuckolded husbands and angry, tired senators, and one might argue I had pushed Caligula a bit too far into his reckless attempt at finding godhood.
Next, and to my everlasting surprise, I found the simpering, half-witted uncle of my former lord, Claudius, was no half-wit after all, but a survivor, a chameleon of the first degree. And so I nearly died at his hands, where I had expected him to shiver, shake, and obey. I escaped, though only barely, and, in my rage, thought of new ways to cut and bleed the whore wolf of Italy.
Then I remembered the discarded oath I gave your father, Armin the Great: the Sword of the Cherusci, Hope of the People, and Slayer of the Eagles. The shining man who should have been a king to all of us quarrelsome fools of the wooded hills and deep woods. I was not his comfortable friend. I was intractably proud, uncontrollably willful, and obsessed with other goals than his, but I did give him the meaningless promise in his sorrow to try to free you and your mother from the Roman thralldom. I did not really think I would. I am sorry, Lord. You had your wyrd, and I had mine. I liked Thusnelda fine. Your mother was a good woman, but I had concerns of my own.
Now, I have kept that pledge.
I did it for entirely selfish reasons, to hurt Rome and to serve the beast inside me, the one slavering for the blood of the southern men. Imagine, Lord, the son of the Slayer running free! Gods, I loved the brilliantly wicked idea, and so I mustered the loyal men I still knew, sacrificing many of them to free you.
Wyrd, you are now severely hurt, near death from that struggle to flee, and I have to fret over your fate here in our sanctuary while you travel the lost lands.
Wyrd.
I look upon your drawn, pallid face and think back on my past life and my wyrd. There has been great happiness, enough to fill my memories with love and joy, fornication and fidelity, victory and companionship, and there has been plenty of tragedy, where I have lost the joys of all those things I just listed. It is as life goes. Nothing lasts forever, though few have lost so many great things and fine people as I have. I was never a man to grow sturdy roots in any one place, but I know my home, the one my thoughts turn to, is still in the lands called Germania. I spent countless years, my Lord, trying to regain honor and position. I was to be a Marcomanni, a Germani noble, a mighty man who would be much honored across the vast lands where our ancient folk sit in their old halls. This was denied me, and I am known as the vile Oath Breaker on that side of Rhenus, greatly hated, and mostly despised, not altogether without reason.
In Rome, my Lord, I am also now a fugitive, a hunted murderer and traitor to the state. They want me captured and slain, preferably silently, and they desperately want you too, my Lord. They will come for us one day, to this faraway shore, the former land of the sad Trinovantes that are now lorded over by the brutal Catuvellauni tribe. This place, across from the straits of the seas between Albion and Gaul. It is full of angry Celts, and few here heed Rome’s words. The three brothers, Togodumnus, Caratacus, and Adminus are our hosts. Togodumnus is the war king, conqueror of the hapless town of Camulodunum. I paid him good coin for our sanctuary, though I do not trust him or his brothers, even if I trust them more than the downtrodden and starving local tribes.
Now, I have time to sit and think, and I find there are still things other than vengeance I desire before I die. I have rarely had so much time. My journey has been dragging me from one place to another at a ceaseless pace.
Should you live, there is a humble request I would make. Hel knows I have no right to ask you for anything, having betrayed my oath to your father, coming for you many years after I could have, and even then, not for your wellbeing. However, should you grant me this wish, Lord Thumelicus, I will reserve a sturdy seat for you near your mighty dead father in the bright light of the halls of the fallen heroes. I will fight savagely and win such a seat for you, toppling any great hero to achieve it, and after this, I will sit in the dust at your feet and serve you as a trusted slave. I swear this, my Lord.
What do I want?
I ask you shall tell a story to an old woman.
A man who has been a fiend bent on vengeance for decades is generally a cold creature, one that cares little for bitter tears, and the pain of others. Yet, I am also an old man, though still strong as an ox and fast as a fox, but my age bends my thoughts towards the past. I sit here, think, and mourn some of the terrible choices I made in the past. It is likely no poems will be sung of Hraban by the warm hearth fires of our stubborn kindred. I know this, my Lord. No matter what you tell them, they will revile me. Even so, I want this woman to know me. The true me.
There is a woman whom I lost when she was but a few years old. She was Lif, my beautiful daughter, and should she be alive still, she likely does not remember me. She hangs her head in shame as people recall the filthy traitors to our people, and names me as one of them.
Gods, I wish it were different. Now, as we sit and wait for sharp Roman swords to arrive, perhaps it is time to let her know who her real father was. A man, though not a perfect one, but still a man whose thoughts seek her face every day. She was beautiful as a rose on a summer pasture, wise far beyond her years, thanks to the immortal blood in her veins. She was perilous, mixed up in the old prophecies of the first gods, but she was also a sweet child, and losing a child to war, even for her safety, is an ulcer on the soul, often bleeding and heaviest on both a father and a daughter.
Therefore, my Lord, I will write, and you will sit down before her and tell her my story. Survive your wounds and find her, Thumelicus, and also know of your own family. Hear the story of great Armin and your brave mother, Thus
nelda, from a man who knew them.
Now, I shall start, and tell you of Hraban the Oath Breaker.
PART I: THE BEAR AND THE RAVEN
“That one should not kill a hollering holy man is a ridiculous thing invented by these holy men.”
(Adalwulf to Hraban)
CHAPTER I
Moenus River, Southern Germania (B.C. 12)
I still remember the beautiful day. The air was very crisp and bright amidst snow-laden trees. Our frozen, groaning long houses were half-buried under a brilliant white blanket, and the docile river was nearly iced over. I was sixteen, and living in the unfathomably deep, uncharted lands east of Rhenus River, south of Moenus River, like the Romans called these waters. Some called the area the Hercynian Wilds, others claimed it was called the Black Forest. All outsiders feared these woods, for spirits and the savage Germani inhabited them. For us, the natives, it was home, the Land of the Rivers. We had many names for the various, god-blessed streams and the greater rivers, but the meticulous Romans were good at labeling things. So I shall call them by their simple Roman names.
We were squatting in snow that cold day, miserable as a glutton missing a feast, waiting for my old grandfather, Hulderic, to arrive and appraise our battle worth by a trial of the spear. I was ready, I thought. I glanced at my muscular arms, strong and large palms, and nodded in self-satisfied approval. I was stubborn as a goat, and considered myself handsome and tall, a hand taller than most boys my age. The plentiful hair on top of my block-like head was unusual in our lands. It dark, near black and silky with slight curls, and I loved to brag.
I had gloated I would beat my grandfather that day, boasted loudly, and told everyone I met I would put the tottering old man on his wrinkled rear, and walk over his shamed shield as I left.
I was not modest, you see. Such modesty was discouraged amongst the boys who were to take up the sharp spear and sturdy shield to cover the man next to him in the battle line. A true man was expected to boast ruthlessly before going to battle, and he should brag shamelessly and fight with mad bravery and unyielding honor. A silent man was an unworthy coward, or so the Germani thought. Yet, the stoic Romans stayed quiet and grim during battle, unless they were losing, and they were no cowards—far from it.
I was also anxious and impatient, hating to squat there in the snow. I sulked, thinking such a wait an insult to my honor. I disapproved Hulderic for forcing such shame on us. I was the mighty son and grandson of equally mighty warlords. Men who lead spears to horror, and gave the rings of the vanquished to their victorious men. I wanted to be famous, so famous the gods would take note of me, and marry me to a Valkyrie when I died. Gods, I remember these thoughts still, and now, I can but chuckle at the memory. It was not all that strange I thought as I did. Of such fiber were the simple Germani tribes made, and our ancient tribe, the Marcomanni, was no different. We thought of honor and fame.
It was important for us to impress Hulderic. Come spring, we hoped and resolutely believed we would be elevated to manhood, to be given our strong shield and quick spear in the Thing, where the free, bearded men would furiously bang their shields with their spears in approval. They would sing a song to Woden and Donor, to our hopefully glorious and long service to our worthy lords. We had trained harshly, and now, we waited for our reward.
Hulderic was late. We were getting unbearably cold, and I saw I was not the only one upset by the ignominious fate. My friends suffered equally, shifting their feet, and I cursed them as well. Hulderic would test them before he tried to stomp me down.
I tried to forget our misery, and watched how active the women were while preparing food. They flitted in and out of our high hall, busy as honey-mad bees in the summer. Our hall was moldy, gray, and large, with a pair of carved wooden colonnades framing the gaping door, though that day snow was heaped high to cover much of them. The small cows and precious horses on the river end of the hall were enjoying a momentary influx of fresh air. The twin doors were open as some of the unluckier cattle were dragged from the dank stable end of our house to be butchered.
The much awaited Yuletide was close, the mid-winter celebration of Woden. We would feast mightily, bury and invoke feuds, give solemn oaths and fanciful presents, and enjoy plenty while the land was dead and cold. Tens of thousands of Marcomanni would celebrate, and gods know how many Germani there were in all the other lands. Romans could count, and some reckoned the number to be millions, though I do not know, having never travelled to the steppes of the east where Sarmatians raided our stranger, faraway Suebi tribes.
After we celebrated Yule, before the spring spared us from the cold suffering, there would be hunger and sickness. Even so, we all awaited the many feasts of the Yule celebration with great anticipation.
'Where, in Freyr’s name, is the old fart?' the thin, lean-faced Ansigar yelled, finally at an end of his patience, and interrupting my thoughts of warm foods. He was loud enough to be heard all the way across the river. He was of a poor family, and his tunic was a thin rag, his shoes used and torn. He was fingering his stave, the long and sturdy shaft we used as spears in training. I never quite liked him. There was something profoundly depressing about his company. I endured him only when my other friends were present.
My friends were all anxious now. Wandal, the son of the finest smith of the near woods, fidgeted with his stave. Euric, a large, boulder-like boy, grunted at Ansigar's sudden rage. He did not mind discomfort, his blond, new beard frosted as he chewed on a piece of dark bread.
Ansbor was the last sad soul waiting for Hulderic, his enormous belly stretching his leather tunic, his red-blond hair a frozen mess under his leather hood. He looked at Wandal with barely disguised disgust. 'And he eats. Drinks, eats again, and farts. That is his lot, I suppose. How can you be so happy? And why didn’t you bring us anything?'
Wandal gave him an uncaring grin, and Ansbor damned the large, calm boy. I gazed across the river, reluctantly holding my peace, though I wanted to voice my growing frustration as well.
Across the river, I saw Quadi warriors riding home from some odd foray.
Wandal's eyes followed mine carefully until he saw what I was staring at. 'You think there is trouble out there?'
'The Quadi can handle it. If they need help, they will ask the Marcomanni,' I said, unconcerned, even if one was always on a lookout for our aggressive fellow Germani tribes who were always raiding the Suebi tribes. 'The Suebi help each other. Usually.'
Wandal swallowed the last of the sturdy piece of bread with great difficulty, coughing as he almost choked, but nodded his head carefully, unsure. 'Not the Hermanduri Suebi. And Matticati and Chatti raid, even in the winter when it’s hard for us to go help the Quadi.'
'They are stupid hunters, dolt," Ansbor spat. "Matticati and the Chatti will come again in the spring, they always do, just like the sun rises in the morning and goes down in the evening. Our men will help the Quadi, but those riders have a deer strapped on a horse. They are preparing for the Yuletide, same as us. Except we are only wasting our time.'
‘We are,’ Ansigar agreed.
'Preparations like ours, that's all. Can you shut your rotten mouths now? You whine like girls,' I said a bit too forcefully, and Ansbor did shut his sour mouth, in shame. Our tempers were being stretched, save for Wandal’s.
'I bet there has been some trouble, though,' Wandal said softly, not taking my words at heart. 'Hulderic has been gone for a long time, eh?' he stated stubbornly, and Ansbor groaned and forgot my request.
'The old fart, as Ansigar called him,' Ansbor said, glancing around to make sure Hulderic was not stealthily sneaking up on us. 'Is testing us. Our resolve. This might be the true test, you know, not the fight.'
Ansigar looked nervous, and nearly lost his balance. 'He might be punishing us for the theft. Last summer, remember?'
I chuckled, despite my sour mood. Ansigar was ever the careful one, always worried over the punishments the elders would inflict to the ones who were caught in mischief.
>
Dangerous but profitable cattle rustling, the art of war, and occasional bit of hunting were the pastimes of the Germani, but so were dealing with the feuds. We had feuds against our numerous, savage enemies, the mighty Chatti in the northeast, the Matticati in their hill to the north, with the Roman Germani Vangiones across the great river Rhenus, and the Hermanduri Suebi to the east—even families and allied tribes had feuds. Our most persistent feud was with the fellow Suebi of the Quadi, Tudrus the Younger, and Bohscyld and Agetan, sons of Tudrus the Older just across the river, the sons of the man who ruled their west most gau. Our competition was not a graceful one, full of bruises and broken bones. We called ourselves the Bear Heads and they were the Wolves.
The summer before, we stole a barrel of mead from Tudrus the Older, and the sons got blamed for it, just like we hoped they would. Few would believe we dared to sneak to their very doorstep. We did, and we were proud as young gods for it. We witnessed the abundant beating as we enjoyed the fresh contents of the stolen barrel from our side of the river, and toasted the fools when they were cleaning their bleeding hides in the swift river. There would be reckoning, come spring.
'There's trouble,' I said, seeing movement on our side of the river. 'Wandal is right,' I allowed. I saw Hulderic striding forward firmly, snow flying, and he was talking agitatedly to Adalwulf, the blond, lithe warrior and champion of Hulderic's personal band.
Adalwulf was trying to calm the older man with little success. Grandfather stopped urgently to discuss some matter, and gestured wildly to the west. It was likely about our foe, Bero, a feud much more dangerous than our games with the Quadi.
The Oath Breaker: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 1) Page 2
