Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  MAROBOODUS

  THE GOTH CHRONICLES

  BOOK 1

  BY: ALARIC LONGWARD

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAROBOODUS

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  MAP OF THE GOTH SHORES B.C. 30 (SWEDEN)

  NAMES AND PLACES

  RAVENNA (A.D. 37)

  BOOK 1: THE GATHERING STORM

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  BOOK 2: THIRD CHOICES

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  BOOK 3: THE HUNT

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  BOOK 4: DRAGON’S TAIL

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  BOOK 5: HOGHOLM

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  RAVENNA (A.D. 37)

  SOME THOUGHTS

  Copyright (C) 2016 Alaric Longward

  ISBN 978-952-7101-48-3 (mobi) ISBN 978-952-7101-49-0 (paperback)

  Cover art by Eve Ventrue (http://eventrue.deviantart.com)

  Cover design by (http://www.thecovercollection.com/)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  The the fellow authors.

  To Woden, Freya, and the old gods who are still everywhere in our lives.

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  Greetings, and thank you for getting this book. I hope you enjoy it and also read the my other series below, especially The Hraban Chronicles, that are related to the story of Maroboodus. When you have completed the story, I would appreciate if you could take the time to rate and review the story on Amazon.com and/or on Goodreads. This will be incredibly valuable for me going forward and I want you to know how much I appreciate your opinion and time.

  Please visit

  www.alariclongward.com

  and sign up for my mailing list for a monthly dose of information on upcoming stories and information on our competitions and winners.

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  THE HRABAN CHRONICLES – NOVELS OF ROME AND GERMANIA

  THE OATH BREAKER – BOOK 1

  RAVEN’S WYRD – BOOK 2

  THE WINTER SWORD – BOOK 3

  BANE OF GODS – BOOK 4 (COMING 2016)

  GOTH CHRONICLES - NOVELS OF THE NORTH

  MAROBOODUS - BOOK 1

  THE CANTINIÉRE TALES – STORIES OF FRENCH REVOLUTION AND NAPOLEONIC WARS

  JEANETTE’S SWORD – BOOK 1

  JEANETTE’S LOVE – BOOK 2

  JEANETTE’S CHOICE – BOOK 3 (COMING LATE 2016)

  TEN TEARS CHRONICLES – STORIES OF THE NINE WORLDS

  THE DARK LEVY – BOOK 1

  EYE OF HEL – BOOK 2

  THRONE OF SCARS – BOOK 3 (COMING 2016)

  THIEF OF MIDGARD – STORIES OF THE NINE WORLDS

  THE BEAST OF THE NORTH – BOOK 1

  QUEEN OF THE DRAUGR – BOOK 2 (COMING 2016)

  ‘Yea, you mortals,

  hear the gods chortle.

  Twigs and skull,

  and an old, rotten hull.

  The Bear shall choose,

  between a woman and a noose.

  A surprise for the crow lord,

  and death at the end of the sword.

  Victory for the beast,

  but there shall be no feast.’

  MAP OF THE GOTH SHORES B.C. 30 (SWEDEN)

  NAMES AND PLACES

  Agin – son of Gislin, a Svea Lord and rival to his father, brother of Saxa

  Aldbert – the poet friend of Maroboodus

  Bero – Lord of Marka, the supposed Thiuda of the Black and Bear Goths

  Boat-Lord – father of Hughnot and Friednot

  Bone-Hall – Bero’s hall

  Ceadda – the Saxon ally of Maroboodus

  Cuthbert – a Lorf of the Saxons

  Danr – champion of Bero

  Dragon’s Tail – the hills where Hughnot and Maroboodus fought

  Draupnir’s Spawn – spawn of Draupnir, Woden's ring, the influential ancient ring of Maroboodus’s family

  Dubbe – champion of Hulderic

  Eadwine – champion of Bero

  Friednot – father of Bero and Hulderic, Lord of the Black and Beart Goths

  Galdr – rhythmic spell singing

  Gasto– champion of Bero.

  Gislin – Svea Thiuda of Snowlake gau

  Gothonia – home of the Goths, an island in the Baltic Sea

  Gothoni – old Germanic tribe from the Baltic Sea

  Harmod – champion of Hulderic

  Hild – völva of Agin

  Hraban – son of Maroboodus

  Hrolf the Ax – son of Hughnot

  Hogholm – home of the Boat-Lord

  Hughnot – Lord of the Black Goths

  Ingo – champion of Hughnot

  Ingulf – champion of Hughnot

  Long-Lake – a stretch of water on the coast of modern Sweden, stretching far inland from the Baltic Sea

  Ludovicus – champion of Friednot

  Maino – son of Bero

  Marcus – daughter of Fulch the Red, lover to Hraban, then Wandal's wife to be

  Mare Suebicum – the Baltic Sea.

  Mare Germanicum – the North Sea

  Marka – the home of the Bear Goths

  Maroboodus – son of Hulderic the Goth

  Njord – the Saxon and brother of Ceadda

  Osgar – champion of Friednot

  Ragnarök – the final battle of Germanic mythology, the end of most of the living things, the gods included

  Saxa – the Svea princess, daughter of Gislin, sister of Agin

  Seidr – magical power of Freya, the war goddess, mistress of seduction

  Sigmundr – champion of Hulderic

  Spear Hall – the home of the Black Goths

  Suebi – a vast confederacy of Germanic tribes stretching from Sweden to Danube River

  The Three Forks – rivers near Wolf Hole

  The Three Spinners – norns, the Germanic deities, or spirits, sitting at the foot of the world tree, by the Well of Fate, weaving the past, the present, and the future of each living creature. Also called Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld

  Vaettir – Germanic nature spirits

  Vitka – priest

  Völva – priestess

  Whisper- vitka of Gislin

  Woden – also known as Odin, the leader of the Aesir gods, one of the creators of men and the world.

  Wolf Hole – home of Gislin the Svea

  Wyrd – fate in Germanic mythology

  Yggdrasill – the world tree, where the nine worlds hang from. Source of all life

  RAVENNA (A.D. 37)

  It’s called the city of silence.

  While no city is truly silent, Ravenna is certainly different from the many hideous pits of villainy I’ve had
the misfortune to tour in my time. The city is deserving of the title, though, and by that I mean silence, not villainy. Ravenna’s well-built streets do not echo with the jubilant screams of the street urchins, there are few street vendors hawking their wares, and the general chaos of humanity seems strangely subdued as you cock your head and try to catch a hint of the hour of the day. You do so by listening carefully to the clues, you judge it by the way the people around you attend to their business, like I know the harried, crooked-nosed teacher’s schedules, the man who dismisses his class when it gets insufferably hot on the street corner where they sit down to learn the basics of writing and reading. I know it’s midday as he is right now screaming at his unhappy class of middle-class boys, and he is getting ready to spend his few denarii on wine and kneaded bread down the street. Also, at midday there is a steady stream of people moving around the piled streets below, as midday is the time you often meet your friends and clients, but still, even at that busiest of hours, Ravenna is peaceful.

  I shake my head, taking a long, suffering breath. I’m to meet my guest at midday and so I prepare.

  I stare across the room, calming my surprisingly wrecked nerves and try to focus on the silence. The insulae—the many-storied buildings that house many families of different means—are certainly calmer than they are in Rome, the people somehow more … severe. Yes, that is right. Severe is the right word. People are afraid to show too much emotion. I don’t know why that is, exactly. It might be the effect of the long, winding canals? The water has a calming effect on the easily dazzled human mind and water is plentiful in Ravenna, the sea embraces the city, surrounds it, provides for it and guards it. Perhaps it’s the far-reaching swamps, the barren lands that surround the city that remind people they are truly isolated. Perhaps that solitude from the rest of the Roman world gives them a level of gravitas, dignitas? There is something disquieting about the sad, deadly morass that stretches around the city for miles and miles, reaching to the west like a punishment of the gods, nearly uninhabitable and ugly. That might be so, the reason for the calmness of Ravenna. I’ve seen plenty of swamps in my lifetime—and it’s been a long lifetime— and I can say they, like the vast deserts of scorching sand, the deadly northern plains of ice-white snow, and the never-ending woods filled with whispering spirits and strange animals all can change a man. The solitude and the lingering danger remind you just how small you are in the great game of life. Living by a vast wasteland brings you closer to your gods. Yeah. The swamps around Ravenna are like the deserts of snow and wastes of sand and they are god’s fine works to keep the pride of men in check. The swamp and the sea forces men to see things from a different angle to those who rarely suffer the ravages of the elements the gods gave us to get along with.

  I jump as someone opens a door below. I hear voices, a woman laughing shrilly and decide it is not my guest yet, after all. It’s the short harlot who lives on the first floor, probably laughing at something that would make me cringe, like a funny-looking turd on the doorway. She is always cheerful, and I should probably admire her for it, but cannot. Not this day. Nor any other. Fun and Ravenna don’t mix very well.

  Well, I’m not being fair.

  Yes, of course people have fun in Ravenna. I’ll not pretend they don’t, even if I cannot join such fun. They go and see the plays of best Greek drama—mainly lesser spectacles than in Rome— and they drink their Falernian wine to an excess and gorge on fine dishes, and these feasts end usually by quarta vigilia noctism, the dawn. Yes, and they gleefully celebrate the many Roman festivals, and god Woden knows they have far too many such festivals, as most any foreign celebration quickly finds a welcome home in the Roman calendar. Any excuse to enjoy life is easily embraced, even in the sterner Ravenna. The people even go to the gladiator games set at the theater and indeed, some of the best schools for this sport are here, in Ravenna. There’s a match coming up, a fight to the death, between The Old Hand, a fighter of Cruxis, the owner of the ludus called “Spirit’s Luck” and a lesser champion of a smaller, but aggressive house, and their man is called Clion. Their sandals will stomp the dust and the stone of the theater for a while, people will cheer, but they will cheer … politely.

  As I said, gravitas and dignitas govern how they enjoy life, and it is a calmer life than they might live in decadent Rome or even Alexandria.

  So now I shall try to be like them. Calm, dignified, as my executioner arrives.

  I was not born here, but I too, was born in the wasteland. I should know how to be dignified. Calm. I will smile politely, slouch on the couch, and keep my head steady. I’m old as shit, but still formidable, and few old Germani nobles will let their enemy frighten them into shudders and tears, when they come for him with ready swords and spears. I am Maroboodus, the Maroboodus, and I’ll not shed a tear as they make an end of me.

  I can hear footfalls on the stairway. Perhaps the man entered with the whore, and she was laughing at some joke the man made? Perhaps. There is subdued speech, and I sense they forgot something. A man is running down, the rest waiting.

  Should I run?

  No.

  I’m living on the top of the insula on the corner of Ninth Street and Hound Street. It’s a fine, huge place, and while many lesser creatures live in the apartments the further down you go, the guards on the next floor are always alert and young, and no fools. They will never chance the Bear escaping his gilded cage and if I did, they would pay a hefty price. They know it. Tiberius would cut off their cocks. I hear their respectful voices now, speaking with reverence to the man who arrived from Rome last night. They told me I’d have a visitor from the capital. I rub my shoulders briefly, begging for the ache to disappear, at least for a moment. It’s the stress, the forgotten fear, the long wait that pains my body, presses on my chest with a heavy foot of a jotun. I should not be surprised they finally came. I should have known better than to hope and I did know better, once. I have merely forgotten the death sentence that has simply not been put into effect.

  I was there, wasn’t I? I was there when Tiberius gave it to me.

  I was brought here to die, eventually, but first to be forgotten, not to be made a martyr of, to live silently under the huge shadow of my gigantic failures, by the orders of Princeps Tiberius. For long years and then even more years I have been waiting for him to finally reach out and get rid of me. Did I not kill the one he trusted and loved? His brother, Drusus. It was a good day, I thought. He has taken his time, cruelly torturing me those first years, sending people to check on me and I remember I feared those footfalls on the stairs back then.

  Then, for many, many years, there was nothing. The stairs were silent as … a grave. I chuckle at that and wince as my heart beats painfully, like a struggling butterfly.

  For years I’ve been waiting for this day, but also hoping for him to die and hopefully unexpectedly, a victim of murder or illness, and that Maroboodus would be forgotten. But he did not die, and I’ve waited, even if I have allowed myself to relax, occasionally. I’ve done so patiently, as patiently as a former Germani king, a famous warlord, and a lord of so many nations might, but they have been long years. As the years passed, I began to believe I’d live. I lied to myself, but it was a pleasant lie. The rumors said he has been going mad, growing more and more sadistic and he was always dangerous, paranoid even, though perhaps a princeps should be paranoid and he certainly has his enemies. Plenty of them, in fact. Fear and distrust are the ingredients of a life lived in the hilt of power and I know, as I was once a lord of a land. I had so many enemies I could hardly count them all, and I count very well.

  I believed he had forgotten me or in his madness, decided to spare me. I let myself even think Hraban, my son had relented in his hatred for me, and made Tiberius believe I was dead.

  I am a fool.

  The footfalls continue. They echo and some are soldiers, as I hear the hobnails scratching the stone.

  The man is nearly up the stairs. I hear no clank of the fetters, nor the tell-
tale thump of a spear hitting the walls and the butt dragging on the stairs, but they could be there, nonetheless, careful, ready to kill me swiftly or patiently, depending on their orders. I gaze over the white and red rooftops and enjoy the relative silence for a few more moments. Birds skim the treetops, and as it is spring, they are happy, joyful, free. Perhaps I’ll join them in a bit? I have grown old here. It’s not a bad place to die, to be honest. The waiting cell for my death could have been much, much worse, like some shit-hole of a dirt-covered hamlet in the deepest Gaul, or a forgotten frontier town of the Egyptian desert, where I would have lost my sight, my senses, tottering around with flies nesting under my eyeballs. Tiberius had a great imagination when he wanted someone to die miserably, but in this one case, he let his enemy live well. I could have died like Julia did, of hunger in a sad, barren island. Poor Julia, poor girl.

  Ravenna is beautiful. For that, I must thank Tiberius, even as I hate him.

  I eye the windows, and curse softly. I will join the prisoners who have died here previously. Armin’s wife was imprisoned here. Thusnelda. She did not leave, bless her bones. His son is here, and he won’t go anywhere either. He’ll die a gladiator one day. Thumelicus, they call him.

  The door opens with a creak and I struggle to remain calm, my hand groping for a sword that is not there, has not been for long years.

  I turn my old eyes to the man. At first, he stays out. Instead, the guards come in and I tense, despite the decision I made to stay still like a brooding king, and I try to look indifferent and spiteful, but the guards do not carry swords, but perhaps wine in amphorae and a sturdy, comfortable chair, that they set near my desk. I ogle them with confusion, and they give me a brief smile that I take as somewhat good news.

  The man enters. He has well-groomed hair, brown and black with thick, perfect ringlets around his ears, though perhaps they are natural. His skin is olive, so he is probably a Greek? Yes, a Greek. His clothing is simple, only a white tunic, serviceable sandals, a practical belt, and he carries a stylus and ink as if they were the most precious treasures in Midgard. They are, probably, to him.