Varnis stood there, silent as a dead man and grim from the mockery until the noise abated. Some chiefs were thrumming their shields with their spears, but most were watching Varnis warily. The Sigambri sneered. 'Friendship? The Romans are no friends with any of us. No, they are building rivers so they can have a shortcut up to the turbulent sea they call Mare Germanicum, and then to east to your Mare Suebicum. Their words, for they name our very own waters after their own fashion. These seas are the keys to the rivers Albis and Visurgis, as well as this Rhenus of ours. Note, again, Roman words and Roman names. With the control of these rivers, they can put their legions anywhere with impunity. You see, they are not content on building forts Ara Ubiorum, Moganticum, Batavorium, and the dozen other smaller camps on the banks of Rhenus. For them, the forts are not for useless defense, they are useful staging grounds for an assault. That is why Drusus took his troops north with ships to subjugate the timid Chauci, Frisii, Canifetes, and whoever they want to. Then, next year? Us. And the Cherusci, our eastern neighbors? Year after, you? The Chatti and the Marcomanni? They will call it Germania! Perhaps Augustus Germania, and throw in Magna and Minor here and there as they go on! No, our problems are common ones.'
Men roared in explosive anger and unexpected support, for Varnis was a convincing speaker, and it is very easy to move a heart of a Germani.
It went on and on, their faces red with dreadful anger, some with sullen concern. Varnis waited until the Thing was nearly silent again. It took a long while. 'And here you are. Waiting. Not only do the Matticati to your north host a Roman fort, Castrum Luppia, they call it, being built in their lands, but now the Marcomanni trade with Rome. Fat Roman merchants, filthy Roman wares, strange Roman dress.' He gestured at my grandfather's Roman footwear. 'And I should be surprised if there were no precise Roman plans brewing in this town. I rowed my unsuspecting ship to the clenching jaws of the southern wolf.' Insults and agreement tore the night air. Other men started to fight amongst themselves. I saw Adalfuns in the crowd. He knew I had been to the sacred grove. He knew I had made my hard decision. He did not yet know if I would be a good friend, or a necessary enemy. I did not either.
Balderich screamed, 'Silence! Silence! Stop it!' He got up and stalked around Varnis, who kept his calm. Men went silent, neighbors stopped arguing.
'So,' Balderich started, his face ashen. 'You come here, complaining about our traded wares, the very food you eat, and the apparently unpleasant company you have. We trade with Rome? Yes. We plan with them? No. What possible use would these lands offer them, when there is little to be gained here? Mosquito-filled dark woods? Our measly, small-boned cows they sometimes think large dogs? I have led the Marcomanni to peace with Rome, for we have plenty of enemies nearer at home. They may kill you up there in the north, for they are tired of your ceaseless forays, but us? Why would Suebi fear Rome or make common plans with them?'
It was not an unusual Thing. Such discussions had been on the rise since Rome had started to build the mighty Rhenus River fortresses, and many a farseeing chief had tried to forge unlikely alliances, gotten stumped to the crack of the ground for it and opted to try warfare to bring men under common banners. They called themselves kings, and no Germani followed one willingly, and thus, they had failed. Peace and subjugation to Rome was easier to accept, I thought, and wondered if Gernot was wiser than he looked and sounded when he wanted to crush our independent ways. I felt nauseous as I stared at the sight of men arguing, drinking and waiting for my father.
Then I understood Bero was not there.
I turned around, surprised. His banner was not standing next to Balderich, and I wondered at that, since many of his champions were there, standing calmly, leaning on their shields. I looked at Leuthard, his closest man and that man got up, grunted some orders at his men, who nodded. Leuthard strode off into the dark, some fifty unusually well armored men striding after him, the bodyguards of Bero and Balderich. I shook my head in confusion, and stared at the serried ranks of the enemies and thought of Nihta's words of Father having deep plans, of Catualda and the men that had been riding in the night. There had been a battle of sorts in the dark, but with whom? My head spun as I sat there wondering, and then I understood.
I had been right.
It would have been idiotic foolery for Father to ride to the Thing, no matter if the vitka and some champions were dead as stones. Obviously Father was not going to ride in, docile and foolish. The hundreds of men on the hill would not break their solemn oaths to Bero. Fact was that Father would die, no matter what had passed, and Bero knew this. He had another plan.
However, where was Bero on his moment of triumph? What would make the old man miss this night, the very night he had so long waited for.
I stiffened in horror, the many implications of what had happened in past weeks sinking in.
Father had expected I would betray him.
All he would achieve that night was due to me. I had told Bero about his dead son. I had told him of the bane of his family, the Head Taker was gone. I had betrayed my family, and told Bero what he must have been aching to know since the death of Maino. He would be there, on that place his son was supposedly buried, willing to put all other matters aside for that.
I swooned as I thought about it, feeling used and foolish. I thought about Catualda and how conveniently he had appeared, and realized he must have been working for Maroboodus. Why had Catualda told me of the betrayal of Bero and Balderich at all? I had done my part, after all, a sickly, sadly traitorous part by telling Bero where Maino was buried, but it was done. Surely they could have killed the vitka and the völva on their own after Catualda had removed the guards.
However, Maroboodus had no vitka or völva to support him and needed Tear and Odo, and the two sibilant bastards were bent on the outcome of the prophecy, and it was the idiotic, easy to fool Raven who had to fetch the girl. In that, I had also failed, and I giggled to myself as I kept my head in my hands, shaking it gently.
Father had bet all on one stroke of luck, that I would betray him, that he could pick Bero off when he was weakest. Otherwise, he would have failed and would never have shown up in the Thing. He would have been disgraced, his face lost, and it would take years and years to gather men from outlying tribes to take Bero on in a war, a war that would leave the whole tribe shattered, bereft of power.
I glanced at the retreating Leuthard and his men marching off to the darkness and hesitated only for a moment before I got up. I was about to slip after them when a young man rode to the camp, vaulted off his wild, lathered horse and sprinted for Bark. He went to his knees, and I saw him drop the statue of Hercules on Bark's lap and showing the bloody gladius at the old, tar-bearded man. His face betrayed utter hopelessness, abject fear, and so I ran after Leuthard. Behind me rose a storm of indignant yells when the Marcomanni learnt of the murder of their holy men and women, and I heard Varnis screaming in rage, happy to point out the Romans were not to be trusted.
I ran and ran, kept under cover and saw Leuthard march out of the town with the best men of Hard Hill, where a hooded horseman joined them from a copse of wood. I saw his dark hair gleam in the light of torches, seated a bit tilted on a side of his saddle, and a man joined him, holding his banner of skull and feathers. It was Bero. My great uncle rode off towards the night and northern shores, leading the men after him. He desired to speak with his long-lost son. It was close to midnight.
I flitted after him, eager to see what would befall. I ran in the night like an old wraith, clever and unseen as the torch bearing men were leaving the village, running now through the evening, their shields clanking.
Soon, they trailed a small muddy road by the mighty Rhenus River, Bero hastening, and I felt a momentary pain at his terrible burden, one he had carried for a long, long time. He expected to see his foolish, unhappy boy, but he had loved his son, and I envied Maino for that. Yet, Bero had plans that had taken my happiness away just as Father's arrival had, and I hardened my soul at what would
surely happen.
Some nightly beech trees were swaying ahead and then, a silent, moss-laden clearing of harmony and peace opened up. An old, crooked rock with carved symbols was standing in sight, and Bero took slow, involuntary steps forward in the wet grass as the spearmen spread out. I crouched in some thistles and observed the uncanny sight, wondering if Father had indeed spoken the truth and a ghostly man would appear. Time passed as Bero walked around the stone, weeping softly with his hands out, speaking and begging to the dead and the merciful gods, but nothing appeared, and he slumped to lean on the rock, clenching his fists in agitation and anger.
Father appeared with his men.
A horse whinnied in the deep dark woods. Then torches flared and flew in lazy arches to the clearing, some going out, others burning fitfully, and Leuthard roused himself and commanded his men forward. They ran, the best men of Hard Hill, Leuthard's own picked men, Balderich's iron and leather-clad guards. They formed a line of men around the stone, a double line of spears and interlocked shields, determination playing on their savage, bearded faces as more torches flew in. Bero got up, scared and unsure, but then determined as he pulled his hood down.
Horses rode out of the darkness. There were some eighteen great beasts, and Father was at their head. Bero's eyes went large as eggs at his sudden presence, and Leuthard was cursing, shield on his arm as he ran to his master's side. Maroboodus was grim to look at. He was covered in fine dust, brown dirt, and both old and new blood. His sword, which was the Head Taker, was glittering on his hip. I stared at the sword. How? Had he cheated Woden in the sacrifice, or had the gods given it back to him? I saw Bero stare at the baneful sword, as well, his face ashen, gray from fear. Another lie and scheme by Father.
Maroboodus got down from his horse. He shook his dented helmet off and handed it back, where a man rode up to take it. The man who took it was Nihta, and next to him rode Guthbert and the weak Gernot, who was carrying a new, impressive standard. A black cloth hung on a cross pole, in it a red painted, rampant bear. All of Father's men were in similar, war-torn condition. Dirty, silent, deadly. They had already fought that night, and I understood what had happened as Catualda rode after them, his face grim and featureless. He had indeed made a deal with Father, and I hated the consolations he had given me when I learnt of Bero and Balderich's plans and deeds. He was a schemer, and I would never trust him, I decided, no matter if he had spoken the truth.
'You dare to challenge me with so few men?' Bero said thinly, gathering his strength.
'No, Bero. I would never challenge you thus. You are too powerful for me to ride to the jaws of your power. I am no fool, Uncle. So, I am like a wolverine, full of rage yet canny enough to bite at your ass. The men you had guarding the hallowed Meadows are dead. Your son led them to us. None escaped.'
'My son?' Bero asked, taking an involuntary step forward as he noticed Catualda sitting there silent, brooding. He looked haughty, utterly cold at his father's agonized look.
'He will have no part in your plans with Rome, Bero,' Maroboodus spat.
'What plans?' Bero hissed but shook his head and swallowed. 'Where is Maino? Or did you have Hraban betray me, as well?'
'Hraban?' Maroboodus asked. 'That boy is unreliable, unreliable enough to serve me your head, my Lord. He betrayed me, but it is as it should be. He hates me, you see, and likely loved you for a while until Catualda spoke with him. But when he spoke to you of Maino, Hraban thought he was doing you a favor, so it may comfort you to know not everyone tried to stab you in the back. Maino did not die here.'
'He did not?' Bero asked softly, utterly furious now. 'Very well. We are here then, Maroboodus, with no vitka or …'
'They are dead, Bero. Your vitka and völva,' Maroboodus spat, grinning at the men in the battle line, facing him. 'All gone.' They stared back at him, terrified at Maroboodus's calm demeanor and news of the dead priests.
'You dare touch them?' Bero hissed.
'Your Roman friends killed them, not I, but the timing was impeccable.’
‘What Roman friends?’ Bero hissed.
Father laughed. ‘And do not lecture me of daring to touch vitka, filth who buys gods with Roman coin.'
I spat. Even if Bero was guilty of selling the Marcomanni to the Romans, Father approved of the murder of the vitka, a vile deed. I wondered which one was the fouler man.
'Roman coin?' Bero hissed. 'What other use does it have, Maroboodus? But here we are, vitka or not. You have killed my men in droves, like a murderer in the night, a foul coward, but a brave thousand remains, and you will not best the fifty fine men here. All hardened veterans, my own and those of Balderich.' The men in the line stiffened with pride and thrummed their spears on shields as Maroboodus nodded at them, grinning like a denizen of Hel.
A hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me out where all could see me. I noticed Gernot's eyes grow large in surprise, as did those of Maroboodus. Bero glanced my way, and there was a hint of pity in his face, and I hated him for it. I turned to look at the man who had tossed me out of the woods, and it was the thick-necked Melheim, brother to Isfried. Behind him stood a hundred wild, bloodied men of the south, and so I knew where Father had got his help from. The men marched forward from the woods, and Bero's face lit in a happy grin as he saw his ally, but Isfried strode out before his men, marching ponderously, his suspicious pig eyes scanning his former ally. Bero was, indeed, a former one. I filtered to the side, looking at the shield line of the south as Leuthard commanded his men to face the new threat.
'Isfried!' Bero yelled as the southern lord threw a familiar scroll over Bero's men, where it fluttered into mud.
'A traitor and a liar. You would have married Gunhild to Catualda, and given our lands to Rome in return of kingship. I would have been dead, waiting for a wife promised to me, bereft of the blessings of Aristovistus's blood. You promised this to me, Bero, after Gunhild's husband died. And here, a scroll from Roman hands where you sell us all. A murderer and a traitor.'
'What!' Bero asked softly, reaching for the scroll, but Isfried shook his head and pulled out an axe, and they charged bravely. Spears flew in the dark, and men cried as battle was joined. Father pulled on his helmet and mounted his horse, but his men stood still, and he motioned for me to approach him. I did, reluctantly.
The butchery was bitter. Bero's men were veterans, terrible men with heavy hands and much honor, objects of poems and songs, but the southerners were many, and the shield walls hit each other over flashing axes, stubby seaxes, and quick spears. Men started to slump to the ground, hollering in pain, and many were silent, slain. Bero pulled his sword and screamed at his men to fight, and fight they did, with Leuthard anchoring the line with his dark shield.
Many men fell, but finally Bero's men collapsed in two places, tired and spent, not begging for mercy. Burlein, young brother of Isfried burst desperately through some converging enemy shields, killing a man on the right and then one on the left, and the butchery began. Soon, the few remaining men ran over the bloody grass after fleeing Bero for the river, Leuthard keeping back the exhausted, pursuing men of Isfried, all eyeing the dreaded champion carefully.
Maroboodus smiled, I saw that much, as he pulled Head Taker. 'Come, Hraban. There is a boat on the river, and Bero will try to mount it.'
'But will not get away, I take it?' I asked him, and he smiled cruelly. He was a very, very cruel man, but I doubt Bero would have been any more merciful to him.
'Come with me, Hraban. We will discuss your useful duplicity later,' he rumbled as we passed a number of wounded, bleeding men who would never fight again. I smelled blood and guts as we went forward. We stopped at the riverbank, where some forty men of the south were surrounding ten loyal men of Bero. Bero was untying a small boat, being mocked by Isfried, battle madness glinting in his eyes.
'Come, my Lord. Run now, and you will regret it. You are lost, a liar and filth of a betrayer of good Marcomanni men,' Melheim yelled, the thick-necked man throwing a
spear that went past Bero.
'Hold!' Maroboodus yelled, and pointed a sword at Bero. 'I offer you a deal. Let us fight, Uncle. If you win, all you wished this night might come to pass. My men will even tell you where Maino’s bones are rotting. This I swear.'
Bero hesitated and stared at the sword. Maroboodus glanced at the blade. 'This did kill Maino. It will slay men of your family, save for Catualda, who is a sane, honorable man. But what do you have to lose?'
Bero threw his hand wide. 'I am old. You suggest I fight you?'
'Fine!' Maroboodus grinned. 'Let our champions fight, Bero. If mine loses, I will come with you to the Thing and let the men judge us. The chiefs can decide between us. The loser goes to exile. And good Isfried gets Gunhild, no matter who wins!'
'I never planned to deny him Gunhild,' Bero hissed. 'You have duped him.'
'Isfried,' Maroboodus said softly, 'is of old, ancient family that stood next to great Aristovistus in the field of blood. He is not a man who is easily duped.'
'He is a dull ox,' Bero spat bitterly, and Maroboodus had to ride his horse before Bero and Isfried, who had started to charge the hapless lord.
'Our champions, Bero. Is this acceptable?' Maroboodus asked.
Bero looked resigned, but a glimmer of hope was playing on his face. He nodded and turned his face toward Leuthard. 'Face his champion, Leuthard. Beat him and guard me, as you have promised.' Leuthard's brutal face turned to Maroboodus, who bowed at the man.
'Guthbert!' Maroboodus said calmly. 'Will you champion me? I have not eaten today, and feel weak.' Men laughed at that, for Maroboodus was the greatest warrior they had seen.
The large Batavi walked up, smiling widely, and drew a huge axe from his terribly wide back, walking up to Leuthard. The two men eyed each other.
The Oath Breaker: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 1) Page 26
