The Oath Keeper

by Alaric Longward

  I felt a stab of deep pain. There had been little true love between us, but there had been passion and many common causes between her and I, and still, perhaps, there had been enough love for sorrow to grasp my heart brutally hard.

  The king saw it.

  “Stay here,” he said, “for it is time for healing. Let the family you do not know fill holes. Aye, you and your father are both welcome in my lands.”

  I blinked again.

  Gervas looked down. Wulf was staring up to the roof, his hand still on his sword’s hilt, and I shook my head.

  “What?” I asked softly. “What is the secret?”

  The man next to my son and grandchildren, the dark, hooded man pulled back his hood.

  Ancient, wrinkled, and evil, it was Maroboodus.

  I could only stare at him. I stepped back. My hand went to my sword’s hilt.

  He gave me a malicious, half toothless grin.

  “Did you ever,” he wondered, “believe I had actually died in Ravenna?”

  I closed my eyes. Then I shook my head. “Never. I never did. I wanted to see the head. The head was not delivered. I knew. But here? You came here? What are you? Ninety?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t counted.”

  “You bastard.”

  He bowed slightly. “Indeed. What happened to Marcus the scribe?” he asked with some mild amusement. “What happened to the man you sent to pen down my story in Ravenna? I rather liked him. Pitiful worm, he was, but still very likable, when he was drunk. I made a drunk of him. He is—”

  “Dead. Executed,” I told him. “He was a lost cause when he came back to Tiberius. He was drunk even when he saw Tiberius, and he had lost a part of the story. Tiberius had him thrown down from the rocks in Capri. He fell to the sea, and only goats were watching him drown. Caligula saw it.” I rubbed my forehead. “And I knew you lived. Aye. But here?”

  He smiled. “And you didn’t look for me.”

  I watched him and my son and grandsons. “No. I was too busy with Tiberius and his lists of treason at the time. I was busy stripping Rome of its highest men and richest families. And you came here? Why? Did Gunda approve you meddling with our…”

  “She liked me fine, you fool,” he said with some asperity, making men smile in the hall. “She was like a daughter to me, though, I admit, not from the start. She died, and I wept for her,” Maroboodus said, his old voice cracking with some emotion. “She was a brave woman. A fine mother. And a friend. We often spoke of you. She let me stay in her hall, with her boy, and I rested and healed. Alas, she did not heal me of the past, or of my thirst for ale, but she gave me peace by giving me a home. She thought she had to, for I am the father of her husband.” He smiled tiredly. “And after all these years, peace is what I want. No more Bear Banner for me, no more schemes. I am done.”

  Peace. With me?

  “You have spoken of me, I take it?” I said.

  He rubbed his forehead with shame. “Well. Yes. I have a fondness for drink,” he said stiffly, “and I have told tales of you and I, often from my point of view, but Gervas, Wulf, and Gunda have corrected my many exaggerations.” He winked. “Will you run me through now? If you do, can I go and piss first? I’d not die in a puddle, eh?”

  I stood there, looking at my father for a long while. He had no sword, nor strength to use one. I still could, but I was also very tired.

  Tired of killing.

  And of hate.

  “Keep it, your life, Father,” I said stiffly. “I am sure life as such an old miserable bastard, trapped in a decrepit old corpse, is worse punishment than blade.”

  Men laughed at that and nodded their agreement.

  He grinned. “It is. My joints are giving up. Pissing is just horrible. And I cannot bed a woman. They walk past me, smiling like a harlot in Aventine, because I am famous, and still, my cock barely twitches, if—"

  The lord of the hall shook his head. “Alas, but we need to know no more of your cock. You have time to discuss that elsewhere.” He slapped his knee. “Now. We are at war. We have war to make. As for you two? It is time to decide what we should do with you.” He leaned back and smiled, while waving a lazy hand for the south. “We are pushing deep into Langobardi lands, my friends, and I cannot afford any trouble in my own nest.” He pointed his finger at Gervas. “Your son serves me. Wulf too. All your grandsons are my oaths men. Perhaps more of them will serve one day.” He gave my pretty companion a speculative glance and squinted at her round belly. She grinned at him. “You have an appetite for being an old father. Your sons and my daughters are working for the good of the Goths, and I think, it is time for you and your father to rest.”

  I nodded and opened my belt. I handed him the swords, and he leaned to take them.

  I placed a finger on the one sword. “This one, lord. Rome seeks it. They think it is blade made by a god.”

  He let his fingers run over the sword of Julius Caesar. “You shall tell me more about it later. Now, a hall and rest.”

  I bowed. “Let it be so. Peace and rest and a warm hall would be appreciated. Peace for both of us.”

  He gazed at the weapons and smiled. “There is a Saxon who is telling me your father is the lord of an exceptionally large island, near the southern coasts, days away. That Saxon has recently made it available, and it has no lord. They are allies of ours, see? Take your time here, and then you go and retire there. Retire in peace, be happy, and let your son with Gunda carry your name. Get to know them all. And be assured; you will see them often.”

  Hraban, I thought, as I watched my young son.

  The chief was right. And that is what I wanted.

  I bowed my head to him, and then watched Father. Bernhard got up and left.

  Men surrounded me, and for an hour, I endured their questions.

  When I found time, I lifted my finger at Gervas, and the family, and looked for Maroboodus. Gervas nodded at the doorway. I walked out to find him.

  I found him there, later, sitting on a stool, drinking ale. I sat next to him. He gave me a long glance. “You have a pugio?”

  I lifted my cloak. A dagger of very long make was there, tucked in my belt. He smiled.

  “Will we speak about it?” he wondered. “Ever?”

  I scratched the scar on my face, and he had plenty of same. “No. We pretend we don’t hate each other. For all their sakes.” I nodded inside. “And I guess I shall rule my island.”

  “My—”

  “My island,” I snarled. “You will sit and drink and rot in drunken stupor, and you shall endure Seisyll, who won’t let you be.” I slapped my knee. “We shall leave soon. I have some bits to pen down on a story I began in Albion.”

  He nodded. “So, you write? Oh, I bet I shall rue that I have been telling tales of you, eh? Nothing good about me in there?”

  “Not much,” I agreed.

  He rolled his eyes and smiled. “Albion. What happened in Albion?”

  “I set Thumelicus free in the swamps of Ravenna and saved him a few times,” I said. “I kept the oath and stopped killing Romans. I finally bothered to find out where he was.”

  “What does Woden think of that, eh?” he said softly. “I hear you helped destroy thousands. Deceit is not unknown to Woden, boy, but what you did?” He shook his head. “It will change Midgard.”

  I got up, stretched, and looked at the sea. “I gave up on Woden and kissed Lok. I think Woden forgave me later. He still lends me his aid when I must fight.”

  He cursed. “Lok. You took his cause. And his cause is misery.”

  “Aye, Lok,” I said. “Lok had a memorable run in Rome.”

  “You said Woden told you…” he began and shook his head. “Go and see your family. I shall come in later. Then I will show you where Gunda is buried. Perhaps I will be friends with Luigsech too.”

  I cursed him and went inside.

  Later, after a long, head spinning day, I found a hall of Gunda, and while Hraban, my son, was speaking with Luigsech and Seisyl
l, and Maroboodus was teasing all of them, I found a table and my scrolls, and sat there.

  I had put off writing this part of the tale.

  I feared it. I feared it would break my heart.

  But, in the end, emboldened by ale, I began writing.

  Listen.

  BOOK 1: ULRICH

  CHAPTER 1 (ROME, A.D. 20, December 1st)

  “Pollio,” said Gernot, “is rarely seen. The owner of Ulrich. He owns plenty of things, of course. Many say he is one of the richest men in Rome and married to an equestrian lady; the lowborn bastard is doing well. He has a lot of foreign servants. Some look like killers. It is not unusual. And it is odd. Germanicus betrayed Ulrich, no? Why would Ulrich not spill his story to everyone?” He leaned closer. “People say he is rather happy in the ludus. The Dead Mars ludus. It is odd.”

  I mulled the wine and sat back, and Gochan yawned. “I don’t care how odd it is. I need to get to Ulrich. Then; Livia. I will see her dead, and Woden and I are satisfied.”

  Gernot rubbed his face. He looked far older than I did. He kept his secrets and his life shrouded, and shared little, except his wealth and help, and he disapproved of my vengeance.

  I placed a hand over his wooden one.

  He flinched and looked at my hand. I removed it. I understood him. I had taken that hand in the first place. “I understand you are worried.”

  “For you and me both,” he said. “It is not a simple matter, is it? You have played dice with monsters. You are one yourself. At some point your luck will run out.” He shook his head. “We might all pay the price. Now that Tiberius wants a word, I worry even more. You told him about Ulrich year ago, and you told him about Pollio, and now he has questions.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It has been one year. We have been…what is this tavern?”

  “You and I have been meeting in this tavern for one year, brother,” he said. “And it is called the Red Sail.” He smiled. “I have set you up well, do not complain. You both, Gochan and you,” he said, and smiled at our half-brother, “have been very well taken care of. It is your fault. You told Sejanus what you wanted, and what you would do to Ulrich, and Tiberius asked for you to wait, before you do anything.”

  “I have waited,” I snarled. “One year. I need to get to that ludus.”

  He rapped the table. “You don’t. You just do not get in there. You are too old. They would not buy you. Neither one of you. We offered through slavers. They said—”

  “But you said you have a plan,” I told him. “Ulrich is in there. This man Varro, who is the lanista—”

  “It is really Pollio’s ludus,” he sighed. “And he doesn’t take just anyone. Dead Mars is one of the top ten. He bought it not ten years past. They always get plenty of fighters into the events during the games, and their champions are well known. Lucius the Secutor, Flame Chaser. Agamemnon the Greek, the thraex. Neptune, the retiarius. Ox, a murmillo, but also a hoplomachus. He has a hundred of the best ordinarii, and plenty of veteranii, and Ulrich is just one of them. I suppose Pollio bought him for his archery skills, or for some other reason, but he is a murmillo now. Not even in the top ten poles, he is not. First poles and second and third ones are hard to take in the ludus, but he is now an ordinarii. He has fought in two games. I still say there is something odd about him being there in the first place.”

  I held my face.

  I had not gone to see him the past Martius the nineteenth. Quinquatrus, the days of Minerva, had been celebrated in the Aventine, and then with games. He had fought and won.

  I had not seen it. I heard of it. The match had been rumored unfair.

  Maybe Gernot had a point.

  Now, Saturnalia was due in one week.

  He would again fight.

  I pulled a scroll to me. An advertisement, it listed the activities of the first day. It would be held in Circus Maximus, the games, and Ulrich would be involved in some kind of a massive re-enactment at midday, just after they killed the noxii, the criminals, or fed them to the lions.

  He lifted his hand. “And you said I have a plan? Nay. I spoke with Sejanus. They have a way to get you to him. I do not like it. But I think, brother, that it comes with a price.”

  Gochan chuckled. “Everything has a price, little brother.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Gernot whispered to himself, for he knew it would not help to tell Gochan to stop anything. Gochan liked to call him that. Gernot didn’t truly mind. With Gochan, he was relaxed and happy, and I often felt a stab of sorrow it could never be like that between us. I was surprised they liked each other, but also pleased.

  Gochan ran some things for him, when he was bored. He seemed to like the work. It was probably not legal.

  “Where is he?” I wondered. “Late?”

  “They are here,” he answered. “They are searching the alleys and the streets, and they are here indeed. See?”

  The doorway opened.

  Sejanus stepped through. He wore nondescript clothing—plain tunic, and cloak, and used sandals—but there was a sword under his cloak. He looked like a fox, his hair slightly too long, and dark, and eyes black as coals. His lean face was twitching as he saw us.

  He leaned back and spoke softly.

  Tiberius entered. He stopped next to Sejanus and pushed back his hood.

  I hid my surprise. The man had aged.

  Not so much in years, but in soul.

  He looked famished and exhausted. He had once appeared robust, like a young ox, powerful and dangerous, even, but not now.

  Old. Like I was.

  At least I had aged well.

  I sat on a bench and watched Tiberius as he stared around the tavern deep in Viminal Hill, hidden in the bowels of a former domus. The Red Sail, it was called indeed, a portentous name for my brother’s fine establishment. He always met me there, and there were never anyone there, save for the servants.

  I was curious. They had kept me waiting for one year.

  Every breath Ulrich took was an affront to me.

  Tiberius was looking around the room, nodding. The tavern seemed to please the older man, for he squeezed Sejanus’s shoulder, and the latter nearly beamed with joy.

  Then his eyes went to the wall, where amphorae stood in lines like legionnaires. He licked his lips.

  I snorted. Tiberius had taken to drink, no doubt.

  His eyes searched the room and found me. He frowned, then smoothed his hair, and found it thinning.

  He saw a powerful man going for fifty, with thick hair, and his joy clearly evaporated as he realized he was no longer a soldier, but a ruler. He likely envied me for my well-aged body and hair, and that he no longer could simply do what he pleased but was ever surrounded by men and duties.

  Or, perhaps, he just disliked me.

  I saluted him.

  Gernot left to stand before the servants, to the side.

  His eyes took in my brother, who was now speaking to a woman behind a counter, and at my half-brother, Gochan, seated nearby.

  Nobody else was there, save for the few servants.

  Sejanus listened to him and then approached me. His hawkish, lean face was sweaty. “No trouble here?”

  I shook my head. “No, Prefect Sejanus. No trouble, unless it is brought here.”

  He mulled at my words for a moment and then smiled amicably. “You sound like my wife. Sejanus,” he said. “You may call me Sejanus. My father and I are both prefects, though he shall soon be the governor of Egypt. Imagine how high one can climb from the mud and filth, eh?”

  “The mud and filth stay,” I said. “I feel it every day. And the trick is to know when the ladder is taking you too high.”

  He grunted, looking around and ignoring my words. His soldiers were coming on, along with one bearded centurion of the Pretorian guards, who was shaking his head. Another, a very beautiful man, was there too, and I knew he was called Cassius. He looked like a woman, but I heard he was a killer.

  The bearded man. I tried to remember his name.
>
  Then it came to me.

  It was Macro, one of the most trusted men of Sejanus. He was low-born but seemed just like Sejanus. Full of ambition.

  “Macro says it is safe,” I murmured. “It is safe.”

  “Good,” he said. “The other man. He is with you?”

  “That man?” I said, and looked at Gochan, the giant precariously seated on a sturdy bench. “No. He is with my brother,” I said. “But today, with me.”

  “Huge damned bastard,” he said softly, with some fear in his voice. Large men made him nervous.

  “He won’t try to kiss you, if that’s what you are afraid of,” I said, and watched Tiberius, standing near the doorway. “Will the master come and sit with me? Will you tell me why I have aged one year, and Ulrich is still alive?”

  “He waits for a moment,” Sejanus said. “There have been difficulties. We’ll check the place.”

  “Oh? Difficulties?”

  He leaned closer. “Someone tried to poison him one year ago. I noticed a spider in his cup and gave the wine to a dog. The dog died. It was poisoned. None know who did it. He and his son tend to leave their cup unguarded, and they always finish it anyway. Both are the same. So, it was fine when it was poured, for it was tasted, but…I know not. But we have a suspect. It involves Pollio. Hence the wait.”

  I blinked. “You told me nothing.”

  “And what are you, Hraban?” he asked imperiously. “You serve Tiberius, not the other way around.”

  He was right to fear in Rome, I supposed, still upset.

  Germanicus’s death had left Tiberius exposed to insults and sneers.

  He was not the man Rome wanted to rule, but Augustus had had little choice, and he ruled. He did, for his son Drusus the Younger.

  Rome wanted him to adopt the sons of dead Germanicus, to prove to Rome it would be ruled by blood of Augustus once again, by the beloved general’s sons. He had no intention of doing that.

  That Agrippina the Elder, wife of Germanicus, was also demanding he do just that, adopt her boys, did not help at all. Everyone knew she was feuding with Tiberius.