The Oath Breaker: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  Vago shook his head. 'I do not believe you. You'll not leave this place in one piece.'

  'Your daughter said the same thing, but I will take my chances. And it is true that part of me died with Shayla, and stays down there in the cave.' I took the heavy axe head off Hunfrid. 'You can still get your due. Save your last loyal boy and fight me. Be a god.' I laughed at him. 'Catualda has no guts for it, after all!'

  'The ring, Lord,' Catualda said strongly, grasping for it, and Vago grunted, slapped him hard and pushed him out of the window. Catualda fell with a shriek. Vago thumbed the brilliant ring in his finger and faced me.

  I growled at him. 'That was my privilege.' I hoped Felix would not slit Catualda's throat, for he was mine.

  He laughed at me with relief, abandoning fear. 'You only have one life, and it has been spared so far to make me a god. I do not want him interfering and stealing what is mine. Moreover, if he indeed did kill Koun, it was my privilege as well. The ring is mine, and I need no other men, no Armin. I will be a god soon. When the time comes, Vangiones will lead. Led by a god, wearing a god's gifts.'

  'Gods do not care for your aspirations,' I scoffed.

  His eyes rounded. 'Of course they care! Who wishes to die? I will slay you and fix things for all of us. Perhaps even your father will send me gifts in thanks.' He pulled Nightbright, and did not look at the window anymore.

  'That's my madman, come,' I said, terrified at first, and then somehow strangely calm. Come what may, my mother would get peace, or I would die. Woden's dance filled me as I faced the terrible Lord of the Vangiones.

  He roared wildly and charged like a jotun.

  His swing was wild, thanks to the low ceiling and a stool he had to jump over, and it went over my head. I pushed him back, following it with an axe swing. Woden was whispering to me, and even tired, I felt fast. I saw Vago was drunk, but he was not drunk enough to be a bad fighter. He blocked the swing with swift Nightbright, and the axe handle cracked off. I let go of the remains of the weapon and desperately groped for him, grabbing his tunic and pulling him towards me. He swung the sword at my back where it was stopped by the mail. I held onto him desperately, he tried to push me back with one gnarled hand, and he tried to maneuver his gladius so that he could stab me from high. I kept pushing and pulling, and he had to try to keep his balance.

  'Guards! Hunfrid!' he screamed. 'Guards! To your lord!'

  I taunted him. 'What became of your privilege of killing me?'

  'Guards!' he screamed and pushed me, nearly able to impale me.

  I grunted, and struggled. I grabbed Shayla's knife at my belt, but he saw this, and head-butted me. The weapon dropped from my hands. I grabbed him again as he nearly got away from me, far enough to stab me dead. He cursed as I pulled him near again by his short beard. 'Desperate dog, you will die,' he spat at me as he hit me with his left hand, and I shook off the pain stoically, grunting in pain, sweating, and fighting for my life.

  There were sounds all over the compound now, harried questions and men answering in panic. Vago pressed a finger painfully on my eye, and I cursed him. I wrenched my head off, and he laughed savagely, thinking he had found a way to win, but I heard the wily Woden filling me with rage, and I bit on his finger so hard it came off. He shrieked in terrible pain, and I pushed him. We fell over a stool, and I was on top of him.

  Vago was lying there, momentarily too hurt to resist. I grunted, spat his finger out and sunk my teeth into his throat. I bit down hard, heard him scream inhumanly, a horrible sound which seemed to continue forever. It was so loud my ears rang. He struggled wildly, hacking around with Nightbright, but it did more harm to the bed than me, and I bit deeper, blood filling my mouth, his rough, hairy skin choking, nearly suffocating me. I lay on top of him until I heard the sword fall. Men were downstairs, and I heard them curse. I had little time. I grabbed Shayla's knife as I got up on unsteady feet and looked down on the sorry man of a mad family. Vago's throat was open, blood oozing, and I had to spit and vomit as I realized where the pieces of skin that had covered the mess were. His eyes looked feverish as I stood over him.

  'Any message for your sons,' I asked unsteadily.

  'Tell them to stop you, and avenge me,' he gurgled weakly.

  'I will,' I said, and stabbed the sharp knife in his chest so hard he shuddered.

  Vago’s eyes went white, and he died swiftly and surprisingly silently. I grunted happily, picked up Nightbright and swung it into the bloody mess on his throat so hard it nearly severed his head. I swung again, severed bone and cartridge and the head rolled off, its lips smacking foully. I picked up a thick pillowcase, gingerly prodded at the head, took it up by the hair, and threw it unceremoniously inside the case. I pulled off some gold ornaments from his thick arms and fingers and took my ring with a gleeful smirk. I enjoyed the fine details of flowers and symbols, and thumbed it as I put it on my middle finger.

  I grabbed a sputtering torch off the wall and threw it on the bed. It caught fire so fast I had to retreat. As a hindsight, I grabbed the helmets off the desk, cursing the terrible heat, placed the bronze one on my head, the silver one in the pillowcase, and grunted as men came to the end of the hallway. They stopped in terror as I laughed at them.

  'It's the one from the fort!' one of them said softly, his beard shaking in fear.

  'He was supposed to die,' simpered another.

  I yelled to them with a rasping, undead voice. 'I am dead! I am dead, and here to collect me some company. I am lonely and need men to serve me! Come!' I walked towards them briskly, but they ran away. I stopped and looked at the dead guard. I yanked the spear off his body, grabbed his shield and so made myself a man. I had kept one of my oaths, the one for revenge against Vago. No act of mine was finer so far, and I hoped it was one of the first I would be proud of. Thus did men earn their weapons before old customs were adopted, and thus did I become one.

  I turned to the window. I looked down, but did not see Catualda. It was a long drop. Below, I saw chaos in the compound. Felix was a good companion. There he was, standing in the shadows with a white, scared face, gesturing, and relieved at seeing me. I nodded brusquely and threw the sack to him. I turned to Hunfrid and sighed. 'I supposed I need to have at least one enemy on my tail after Vago is dead,' I told myself with a giggle and dragged the man to the window. 'You will hate me, but I don't really care right now,' I said, pushed him out of the window and jumped after him, using him as a mat. He made a meowing sound as I fell on him, and I could not help but laugh hysterically. I later heard Hunfrid found the remains of his father, the headless bones in the fire pit of the downstairs, amidst the smoldering remains of the hall. The knife was in the ribcage, a cursed thing Vangiones feared forever.

  We found our way out of the chaotic compound as men were rushing to fight the fire, many looters and runaway slaves were carrying valuable items out of the house. I cast looks at Shayla's cave when we walked out, wishing things were different. They were not. We went down to the town, avoiding the many Romans wondering at the fire. We bought some food with my loot from Vago, some simple vegetables, and some meat and heavy cloaks. We acquired two fine horses and rode towards the gate. Morning revealed a blazing inferno at the heart of Burbetomagus as Vago's compound was destroyed, and men were whispering and talking about it wherever we went.

  We arrived at the gate and dismounted.

  Some dogs were fighting over a bone. Whether it had belonged to a man or a beast, I could not make out. One growled at me, grabbing my trouser with its teeth. I kicked it so hard it yelped and then looked at the guards. The raising pillar of flame and smoke distracted them. 'We go, ride hard if they think to stop us,' I told Felix as I glared at the silent guards taking involuntary steps forward, mesmerized by the catastrophe.

  'Which way?' Felix asked nervously.

  'Home,' I told him simply and moved the horse. He did not move. I turned to him and saw his face. He looked west, and then away from me. I guided my horse next to him, and he shied away. 'I
will not hurt you, Felix. You wish to leave?' I asked him gently.

  He breathed deep and made up his mind. 'Yes. I do not wish to return to the dark lands. I always planned on going home.'

  'Where is your home, Felix?' I asked, feeling lonely.

  'Lexovii tribe, by the western sea. My father told me about them. Not many alive after Caesar, but I wish to go there. Never thought I would go poor,' he said miserably, sitting on his horse. 'I will miss you, Hraban.'

  'I will miss you. Perhaps we will see again,' I told him.

  'Take care,' he said, 'though it seems you do not intend to try.' I grunted and dug out the pillowcase. I rummaged around and found the silver helmet of Vago, though it was smeared in blood and skull-juices.

  'Open your sack,' I said, and he did, suspicious. I dropped the priceless helmet into his sack, looking around and making sure no one saw it.

  'Lord …' he started.

  'Call me Hraban, and do not sell it here, but far away, you filthy thief,' I told him and turned my horse. 'You will be rich.'

  I heard him go, felt sad for it, but I was finally a man with a purpose of my own. Men would die but for my causes. I guided the horse for the gate, and started my perilous journey back home, where my father celebrated, a hero to the Germani, and some in Rome as well.

  CAMULODUNUM, ALBION (A.D. 42)

  So it was, my Lord, I would ride home as a man, having kept one oath, bearing my simple shield and plain spear under the threatening winter. It was not to be a pleasant trip, and the next few years I would travel down roads both light and dark.

  That day, in Burbetomagus, at the yawing gate, I spat on dooming prophesies, spat on my cold father, and spat on selfish men who would stand to stop me from my redemption. My father owed a great debt to me, and I was resolved to go and slay him and thwart his fine plans, whatever they were. I would gut the powerful Odo and save my child. I did not know what feelings Ishild and I held, likely none, but the baby was to be safe and she was her mother, and once my friend, so I would protect her, too.

  I would find Balderich, possibly bury the poor Bero. I would finally care for my friends and find Wandal if he was lost. I would go and take my Head Taker like I had taken the great ring, and I would try to become a lord that was honored, and no longer be the Oath Breaker. I was beyond oaths given to false men, and while even such oaths were important for one's honor, I could tell the gods I had tried, at least. My honor would grow like a child. While I was called the Oath Breaker amongst our people, I had come to realize the oaths you keep mean more than oaths you do not. Senseless promises cannot be kept, and gods know we make mistakes. They do.

  So I raised my spear to the sky, and I gave oaths to myself and Woden to do these things, and I felt dizzy, for there was a lot to be done.

  So, my Lord. Son of Armin, whom the Romans called Thumelicus, and whom your parents named Hadewig. That was how I became a man, a man for myself. It took me time, and many bad choices, so take heed of my words. You, son of Armin, will survive, too, and find your way. Despair not.

  Now, while I guard your wounded person in Albion, I will write more. Tomorrow, I will go to the town and plan deeply, find a willing or unwilling healer for you and scheme shamelessly, and I will keep you alive. Now I have worthy purposes beyond mere revenge. I will leave these words for you to read, in case I am dead, and hope you survive to grow with them. Tell them of me, Lord. Tell Lif and any Germani willing to listen of me, so they will know Hraban, and not only the Oath Breaker. Tell them of the betrayals of my kin, and how I, a boy, made many bad choices before I was free of the burdens of trying to please others. Find also comfort in your father's coming adventures, even if he was no friend of mine. Soon he would be a great, feared lord, and he would save me, and I him, when I had to navigate some very murky waters between him, my father and the famed Drusus Germanicus, bane of the tribes, the Roman I loved like a brother.

  Wyrd, Lord. Fate will decide and determine if I get the words penned down, and manage to keep us alive.

  Wyrd, if I do not.

  The story continues in Raven’s Wyrd

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  AFTERWORD

  Many love stories of ancient Rome.

  But what do we really know about the Germani? They were cloaked in mystery, debunked by their literate foes, yet they were the stubborn nations that would roll over the disciplined Roman and Hunnish armies, and ultimately survive anything Augustus, Tiberius, and Germanicus threw at them even when they were not yet restless, but fairly content in their lot after Caesar had drawn the lines with a sword.

  One could argue the various Germanic tribes built much of our culture in the west, or at least, it survived these talented, hardy and practical men often described as barbarians. The Angles and the Saxons took Britain. Vandals, Suebi, Franks and Alemanni took France, Spain and even Morocco. Langobardi enjoyed the comforts of northern Italy, and the Goths were meddling in many rich countries. Later, the Norse, Swedes and the Danes, Germani again, would grow restless and do it all over again when they robbed and colonized great swathes of land in their Viking frenzy. So much of our culture, languages, and habits were born in the deep woods east of Rhenus that we barely understand it.

  Their habits and ways were ancient, their gods and religion shrouded in mist. We know something of their gods, of Woden or Odin, as we call him. Lovers of comics know of Donor, thanks to Marvel's Thor. While the movies try to make it clear these beings were not really gods, to most of old Europe they were, and to some they still are. They are with us to this day. Wednesday was Wodensday, or Odin's day, Thursday, Donorsday. Goddess Eostere is now forgotten at the time of Easter, except in the very name of the feast. The list is endless.

  The church, in its desperate scramble to stomp down the old, legitimate religions, kidnapped many of the old dates and feasts and thrust some poor saint's day on top of them, not to mention putting a church on top of an old shrine. Many times it worked, but something always survives. Let's just say Christmas is not, perhaps, a celebration of Christ in many countries. In Finland, for example, it is Joulu, Jöle, and likely Woden's feast of old, and many of the habits of any religious feast we hold dear would puzzle Christ, I think, but not so many of the old people, who invented them for their gods.

  These days, few read what the middle age poets penned down of the last vestiges of this old religion, but if you should do so, you will be utterly mystified by the richness of the old beliefs. Also, it was not all bad, what the Romans wrote of the people east of Rheine. They were recognized as brave, loyal to their lords, great believers in family. The bond between man and woman was strong, honor and fame important to the humblest of men.

  We know something of how they lived, the shape of their houses, what animals they ate, what they possibly did in their free time. We know they cultivated the land, raised small cattle, and they had a firm sense of law, even if a death sentence was a rare thing in the Things, and only passed for the most heinous of crimes or in sacrifice. One should not judge them too harshly for that either. Even Augustus sacrificed his enemies when desperate. One can also see it is not an unknown custom in the religion most now bow down to, if one is to mull over the Old Testament. Gods are cruel. On the old Germani, we know some, enough to create stories of tantalizing deliciousness, and let our imagination fill the gaps.

  It is both the curse and the blessing of a historical fiction writer to be able to tweak the facts to suit the story, and not force the story to be the slave to the facts, which are rarely certain anyway. There will always be
people reading a book, then rage bitterly, for they will “know” when a writer goes against recognized “facts,” especially when breaking accepted dates of major events or ages of main characters that actually existed. Then there will be readers who will enjoy the story as it is served.

  I have to say I suffered from self-imposed purism while I was writing this, but in the end decided I could let myself get away with some deviations from the “true” story, and what the Roman historians have written about these events. After all, it is not my job to tell how and when Maroboodus came home from Rome, and when he got into argument with Armin. I not only wanted to make an easy to read and easy to accept story, I wanted to make the characters rich and complex, and to thrust the naïf, poor Hraban into the jaws of power-hungry, manipulative bastards, who were fighting to balance their greed with the needs of their tribes in a time when they could all have fallen to Rome. It is not a history book.

  One thing that especially bothered me were the origins of the Marcomanni, or even what they were. A tribe or just an outwatch of some other tribes? I made them a Suebi tribe. It is hard to say where the Marcomanni and the Quadi lived before they moved to the Danube river area, supplanting the Celtic Boii and becoming a major cause of worry for Augustus and Tiberius, but I decided the soon-to-fall-to-Rome area of Maine River, and the general area of Agri Decumantes was a good place to come from. It was suspiciously devoid of life for a while, and so Hraban found a home. There is no Hard Hill, but who knows? We might one day find a great oppidum where Marcomanni lived in, after Aristovistus lost to Caesar.