I saw Euric on another tree, further off. In the distance, Marcomanni forced trembling prisoners to hug the trunk of a large tree. The smith stepped forward quickly and hammered large nails through their skulls, pinning them to the wood. Wulf nodded appreciatively, overseeing the sacrifice with an appraising eye.
The trees were now a shrine. There, bloody Woden, even-handed Tiw, siblings Freyr and Freya and so many other gods would get their due. It was a holy place, even if it smelled of man-dung and piss that day. Some villagers were looking on at the butchery, awaiting the result of the omen reading.
I spied Adalwulf standing at the shore. He looked haggard, suffering and exhausted, his hair matted and unwashed. He wore no armor, but a very plain tunic and trousers, and held a simple framea, unadorned shield, and the wolf fur he had captured. I gestured at Wandal and Ansbor to stay behind, and went to him.
Adalwulf smiled at me sadly. 'Your father is down there.'
He nodded down the river, where I could see the man sitting cross-legged on the sandy bank, his reddish hair gleaming in the lingering evening sun, hands on his knees. He wore no armor, but simple dusty breeches, and Roman caligae in his feet. In front of him, on the bank of the river were the bodies of my grandfather and mother. The lithe warrior and a gigantic man in dark chain mail were sitting on warhorses, guarding Maroboodus.
'That's Guthbert, a Batavi, your father's bodyguard, and the smaller man, his right hand man, is Nihta. The new champions in your much changed family,' Adalwulf noted laconically.
I cared not for the names of the men. I was looking at my mother and grandfather, heroes of my past life, and I felt tightness in my throat.
I realized Adalwulf was not only saddened by his losses, but also lamenting his own downfall. He was no longer the famous champion of Hulderic, but a leaderless man. A man whose lord had died in battle—and so he was shamed. To have your great lord die, while you survive, was a terrible blot on your honor.
‘I am sorry, Adalwulf,’ I said.
He took a deep breath and nodded at Maroboodus. 'He must be grieving Hraban. Sigilind was a good woman. Your grandfather was a generous and noble man. He will be missed. We will sing about him, and how well he died, sword in hand, his foes rent by blade. I only hope the gods will forgive me for failing to guard him.' He sighed and looked down at the ground. 'The gods will make him an immortal in the Valholl, for he was famous. I doubt it not.'
He was musing half to me, half to himself.
I nodded, knowing he was right.
Adalwulf glanced over at me. 'You are now the second son, Hraban. I wonder if you can handle it?' He laughed, brutally. 'I am sure you cannot. You are too much like me.'
I looked at him curiously, and with hope.
'No, no. You get no ally out of me, boy. Despite Hulderic's death, your father asked me to join his band, and I would do very well to do so. Rich and noble I will become. Yet he thinks you are not his son.' He shook his head and sighed. 'It is not any love I feel for you, but for Sigilind, your mother, who was a good woman. I cannot stand to serve a cur of a man who thinks she is anything less.'
I looked at him in askance. He all but admitted he had feelings for my mother.
He noticed my look. 'I have done nothing to be ashamed of, but your father thinks she was not clean. Therefore, I will give him the fine spear, heavy axe, and the fabulous hauberk his father gave me when I started to serve Hulderic. I will find my way elsewhere, and try to find solace.' He shrugged. 'I would never rank above the two warriors down there, and I would resent being less than I was. No. I’ll ride away. I know where. There is a man I gave oaths to. There’s a woman I will see. I’ve served my time here and will go find them, perhaps.'
He laughed softly, shaking his fair head.
'You killed a priest,' I mused, angered at his apparent drive to leave us.
He looked at me, amused. 'You think that is what brought ill luck to us? Fool.'
I turned on him in anger. 'You did not have to kill that one!'
'Your father,' he spat, 'killed three. Perhaps your mother died because of that? No, Hraban. Gods do not care about these mongrels. They care about our deeds. That one should not kill a hollering holy man is a ridiculous thing invented by these holy men.'
I wanted to argue, but felt too tired, disappointment raged through me. 'So, you go as well, then,' I said bitterly.
He nodded, gave me a brief clap on the back, and then walked away.
I turned to my family, the dead and the living, and walked towards them. The warriors had seen me from afar. They flashed grim looks around, keeping their lord safe. Father glanced at me only once but ignored me otherwise. I stood there, looking at my pale, rotting mother with the gaping throat wound, remembering the look on her face when she had died. She had been silent, but afraid, and I wondered where she had travelled.
I saw the white face of my grandfather. For some reason, death had robbed him of any familiar features. He looked like a pale stranger, or a wax-colored piece of rotting timber. I had no feelings for the strange-looking corpses, and felt shame for it. I shook, cold tears rolling down my face, which I tried to wipe away. My father sighed, and gestured at a spot next to him. I shuffled over and sat down, feeling the ground wetting my breeches.
'Not all tears are shameful, Hraban. I shed mine, too,' he rumbled silently, and I was looking at him.
He had cropped his beard, and his long red hair was sporting the bear claws our family wore, the ones my grandfather used to wear. He was a large man, with a powerfully heavy chest, and very little fat in his midsection. He sported a multitude of savage scars over his arms, many from spears and arrows, I imagined, and some of the thicker ones from blades, no doubt.
He noticed my eyes probing the fanciful decorations, and gave me a brief, baleful grin. 'They have names, the scars. “General's Folly,” is that large one on the shoulder, for our general was an idiot of herculean scale, and the men had to fish out his quivering hide from an obvious trap. One is “the drunken Spaniard” for he would have won, had he been sober.'
He looked the warrior incarnate, and I nodded, thinking I would name the healing scratch on my forehead “Gernot's Mistake,” after he had paid for his lies.
He turned away from me and nodded at the corpses. 'Shedding tears keeps you human, boy. The stoic Roman nobles, they are like us, made of the hardest of Egyptian marble. Yet, they, too, cry like babes when it is beneficial, currying favor from the masses by their show of emotions. And what happened here, Hraban, will be sung over the rivers during the coming months. Balderich will know I cried bitterly for her daughter, my lost wife, and it will all count for us and against the bastard of Bero.'
I shivered at my father's tone, and shuffled uncomfortably, unable to understand the manner of his grief. 'Are any of them genuine, Father? Your tears?'
Maroboodus smiled coldly. 'I loved her, I think, though I barely knew her. At first, before she was mine, she was a cold, distant star, but I grabbed her from the sky. Then she was warm and beautiful, but that did not last. I only held her close for a while, before I was forced to let go of her again. She was mine, true, but again far, far from my side, again a cold star in a far northern sky. A near-forgotten love, a promise of a faraway family at the end of the unknown, winding road of shadows.
‘This is what all this was to me in fabled Rome, and old memories are driven gray and stale by new ones, until I barely remembered her.' He spat on the ground, his lips twisting in a snarl. 'Thanks to Hulderic, it was so. My roads, they have been long, Hraban, full of bitter choices and memories. Hate is a snake I bore all the years of my life. Many times I longed to be here, when life was harsher than I could handle, yet I could not come home, on pain of death.' He sounded bitter, and he clenched his fists. 'No, I was driven out like a beaten pup because my father was not strong enough. He feared foolish prophecies, and loved his coward brother too much to slay him. He was indecisive and weak when it came to the bad branches in the family tree, unable to cu
ll them. I had to leave, and I took the ring, even against his well-known wishes, against his damnable superstitions. It was a great ring that could summon Suebi men to my service, men who heed the old stories. It has power. Bah! Exile. It cost me her, at least. And so, I hated him, even if Hulderic was my father, my lord by right. His death makes things easier, hers makes them much harder.'
His hostility startled me, and I felt a stirring of anger inside my belly, like a small, enraged animal trying to get out, growing savage and larger with each uttered, bitter word.
'Father…' I started, but he waved me down, swallowing angrily.
He continued. 'He would not play the game, Hulderic. He paid the bastard Bero, even when I was acquitted in the Thing, for the death of Maino, Bero's weakling, stupid son. He sent me away. I suppose I should be glad he did not have me slain, but it left me a servant to the cruel Romans. So I served, and served well. I served the confused state, the tottering senate, and the uncaring foreign gods of the Romans, and especially the mighty man, Octavianus Caesar. I saved his life in Hispania and in Tarraconensis.' Maroboodus had an intense look in his glittering eyes. He continued, speaking as if to himself, 'I was rewarded well after their fashion. I was made a man of their world, given promises. So I forgot home. I loved Rome for a while. It was easy. But even that failed. I ached for one thing, the one great woman I could never have.'
I nodded. His words were comforting. The longing in his voice melted my anger, and I could feel love for this magnificent man, who had been run away from his home, his family. He was a man who had missed us.
Hulderic had erred, perhaps.
Then he trampled on my stirring love like he would crush a delicate flower.
He gestured at my mother. 'Aye. I longed to be here with Sigilind as well, and I longed to kill Bero who would never forgive his many losses. Hulderic, the fool. I wished to take our family to glorious fame, but I could not for I did not have men back then, being just a foolish young man.'
He whispered, and I could swear I saw a tear in his eye.
Whom was he talking about? Be here with Sigilind, as well? Was my mother the second woman, someone else the first, perhaps in Rome? Had Mother's fears been on the mark?
He shook his head, looked at the corpses, and sighed. 'Well, I am here now, and the dice are rolling. I have lost most all I hold dear, but I can still have my long-awaited revenge, and make our ancient family into something more than it was with your simpering grandfather.'
He swiped the fabulous sword next to him on the grass. It was the sword promised to me by Hulderic, and there was Hulderic's mail on his other side, with the golden hem-loops glittering and his shattered, formerly powerful shield.
He nodded at the corpses. 'I will give these two a proper burial, fit for heroes, and, aye, my father did die like one, and so did my wife, unflinching when the blade came. When I saw Hulderic there with the few men he had, I felt he had redeemed much of what he had not done, and some of what he had.' He glanced at me again. 'Yes, I saw you fighting, as well.'
I straightened and held my chin up, and he laughed, fully aware of the power such simple words held over me.
He continued, 'It is not that I think you are weak. I just do not know my wife as well as I should have. I blame my erring father for that. I guess you will blame me for it in your turn.'
The animal broke free and burst through my mouth, ripping my jaws apart and dragged angry words with it.
'Father,' I said spitefully and coldly, drawing concerned and surprised looks from the great men on horses. 'Mother had me write you. She was worried you had not stayed true to her. I had that scroll when the fat Roman took it from me. Who was the one woman you could not have, the one you talked about?'
He said nothing for a while, looking at her corpse. Then he shrugged, uncaring. 'I am a man, and in Rome, men do as the Romans do. The old man of Rome might be worried about women's morals, but Augustus is a goat. These words, Sigilind's words, the words you penned down, are a woman's words. They are words, just words, running through a man like the ale he drinks, tasting fine, but meaning little, turning into useless, time-consuming piss. No doubt she assured me she has been chaste, that the hair color of yours came from my loins? How could I know? Really? I was not here. Perhaps Hulderic failed in guarding her as well? I loved a woman once, in the north. Saxa she was called. I loved your mother. I loved others. I trust none. Swallow it.'
I spat in front of him. 'She did not ask me to write about me. She welcomed you home, and wanted to know you again, afraid you were different from the youth she knew. As for my damned hair? It is hair that runs in the family, I am told.'
'It is Bero's color. Not mine. Look at Gernot,' he said, his face rictus of a grin, growing angry.
I stared at him, silent. Then I took a deep breath and spoke. 'What is a father? Hulderic was the father whom I knew. He taught me honor, how to ride well, how to live properly, and how to fight with wits and skill." I kicked at the ground. 'And the fool taught me to miss you. He taught me everything. I knew him like I knew my dear mother.' I looked at him square in the face. 'My mother, who had nothing but ill-placed longing in her heart for you. She feared you, Father, for perhaps she knew you were an unreasonable, harsh bastard, not willing to trust anyone. I see that now, though she did not say it aloud, for she was also loyal to you. She prayed to Sibb for help, and hoped the goddess heard.' I hit my chest with my fists. 'So I look different. So what? You dishonor her by your foreign words! I don't even know who you are, except that you served Rome, masters of the Vangiones, the men who command Vago, foul slayer of my family.'
He looked shocked at my outburst, and there was a shiver of doubt behind his calculating eyes.
Then I ruined it. 'And that sword, the mail? Grandfather said he would give them to me when I was a man.' I drew in a deep breath and continued, 'The ring goes to the man who marries first, and I am your eldest.'
'Hulderic is dead,' he said simply. 'All his promises are smoke.'
I stiffened.
'I make such decisions now. I will make many that might not please you. It is time you grew up, sword or not. The ring shall not be yours unless you marry first, and I deem you worthy. It has too much power. Many a Suebi will serve me for possessing it, and no man will carry it unless I trust them. And you.' His eyes burrowed into me. 'You will do as I say. Do you understand?'
I seethed. 'You trust anyone but your son. Like the man who brought the ring to us. Where did he go?'
Maroboodus grinned. 'He rode north, boy, to meet a man I will ally with. And, yes, I trust such fine men, men I have bled with.' He grabbed the heavy sword and looked me in the eye. 'I am the lord of men, a great Marcomanni noble, a Roman citizen, and I will rule as a man of both worlds, with magnificent, greedy ideals of Rome and guts and blood of Germani. Whatever has passed is past, it gets burned and buried with him.'
He jerked his cruel thumb towards Hulderic's corpse.
'I understand,' I said, quivering in anger. 'And Vago? Will you kill him? Will you let me be part of that, as you make the decisions now? Make me a man?'
'Make you a man? Of course, when I deem you well-worthy of such honor, but not, perhaps, yet,' he said, to my continuing agony. 'Vago is my enemy, even if we used to have the same master. Not so after I killed the bastard Agrippa. Do you doubt this?'
I shook my head. 'In that case, I will serve you. I will become a man when you think me worthy, and help kill him.'
A Vangione screamed as Euric nailed him to the tree. I saw Wulf look our way, unhappy as an irate badger, intestines hanging from his fingers.
Maroboodus glanced that way. 'We will have a nasty confrontation here today. After that, you have a purpose to fill. The red-handed Hermanduri have attacked the Quadi in the east and the Matticati help them from the low hills to the north. Tudrus will go summon the rest of his sizable gau, and I will join him with my men. I will come to Hard Hill in one month's time, just in time for the year's great Thing. But you will already be
there.'
'What?' I asked weakly. 'I need to go to war. I have to earn my weapons. Did you not just say so? You take him with you, Gernot? He doesn't even know how to fight!'
He laughed. 'He knows how to fight savagely, Hraban. His weapons are his quarrelsome tongue and devious mind. However, he has to know sharp spear, as well. You will go to the supposedly senile Balderich, and you will serve him humbly. You will meet Bero, my mighty foe. You will not go alone. Nihta comes with you. Odo as well.'
I hissed at him, in uncontrollable anger, trying to remember what Tudrus had advised, as did the man who brought us the ring. However, it was hard to serve when one was asked to play a meek servant. Apparently, keeping my honor and serving my father were not things that would co-exist easily.
'Odo? Her mother is working with Rome! She is to help someone for a fat Roman bastard, perhaps Bero, for he is our enemy. He will have me killed and boiled in hot oil, or is that the plan? I will serve you as a sad corpse, rallying pity amidst honorable chiefs, a son slain?'
He grinned at my vehement tone. 'You, Hraban, will serve me as I ask you to serve. As a sad corpse, if need be. In addition, I know about Tear, fool, and that she is teeter-tottering between her loyalties. She helps me, you see, for she is seeking the prophecy, and I doubt she truly believes she will get anything from the ugly Roman. I can help her with mighty, powerful magic. I will give her Bero as a plaything. And I need her, for I have no vitka or völva.'
I sat there, silent, brooding. His authority was without question. I calmed and tried to think straight. It was not his fault he did not know me. He had lost a great deal, I reminded myself, many times, trying to grasp at the feeling of compassion in order to bear his hard-to-accept decisions. But I was still unhappy with him, and his many insulting, unfamiliar words and thoughts. He was not as honorable a man as Hulderic had been, even if he was the better warrior.
The Oath Breaker: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 1) Page 13
