I threw the ax with all my might.
The blade spun in the air, and I thanked Woden with all my heart as I saw it slam into Maroboodus’s back. The ax was dull, it would not kill him, but his mail split, a red wound briefly in sight, blood flowing as he slammed his face on his horse’s neck. A Marcomanni grabbed his reins, guiding him away. Arrows flew in the air, some pulling down Marcomanni, a few men of Noricum. A few hit Father, and he howled as he whipped his horse.
The battle was won. The price had been great.
I did not look about to see Armin’s snake standard fall as victorious legionnaires hacked it down, nor did I see Segestes’s troops run en mass, much reduced. Segestes was unharmed, Armin’s plan failed, but I would not have cared had I known. I missed Armin getting captured, Brimwulf’s arrow in his leg, for I had told the archer to save Armin’s life by capturing him for Rome. I did not witness the flight of the Germani, the many who got captured and the heaps of slain on the red hillside. I dimly heard Armin’s horn being blown by jubilant legionnaires, drunk on joy for their trophy.
I only saw Maroboodus flee.
My father’s men turned their horses and fled south, skirting the enemy auxilia, the Alpine troops trying to block their way. Arrows and slingshot punished them, Thracians, and Noricum men cutting off many of them. I grabbed the reins of Nihta’s horse and pulled myself up. The horse was slick with blood, and I spat at my former tutor’s corpse. Then I spurred the horse after the fleeing enemy, the dregs of my people being torn apart. Had they managed to kill Drusus? I did not know.
Men joined me.
The enemy dodged the pursuit by riding east through the gaps of the Alpine cohort, aiming for the distant castra, trampling some medicus who were in the way, then getting hit by volleys of arrows again. There were, but fifty men left, most of the Marcomanni with expensive Roman armor had fallen in the charge. Father’s standard still flew proudly, marking his position.
If Drusus were dead, it would make my father a hero.
He would succeed after all, and my oath would have failed, if he fled. True, Cornix and Nihta were dead, so was Sibratus, but that was not enough. I wanted Father. The Bear had to die. And then I would head for Lif and Odo. I cursed and whipped the horse harder, and blood flowed from its flanks. I saw some of the Batavi and my friends were alive though I noticed Bohscyld was hurt, hobbling with a bloody foot for a horse. Tudrus looked like spirit taken, covered in blood and mud, Hund was badly hurt, his beard torn, and he spat out a bloody mess I thought was a tooth.
Then I forgot them.
The bear standard was up ahead; carried by a bronze helmeted man, and he rode with my father, who was leaning forward in the saddle. The Marcomanni around us were scattering, fleeing, some dropping from their horses, suing for mercy.
But not my father, who was now guiding his horse back south, for the woods and hills of the Chatti. We hammered along a muddy field, Father, his standard bearer, and another Marcomanni, all eager to get away. They kept glancing back at me.
‘Father! Halt! Die with dignity! Tell your dogs to heel! Let us keep this in the fucking family!’ I screamed at him, and I knew he disagreed for I saw him gesture at one of his men who nodded. We rode further and further south, the woods and hills coming closer and then the man turned his horse. I screamed at him and rode on. The man was hurt and slow, and I dodged under his spear. I slammed the hilt of the Winter Sword at his face, tipping him from his horse. I glanced at where the battle was still raging. There was nobody there, and I saw in the distance my men were fighting a determined Marcomanni group.
I was alone.
Father and his last man spurred their horses on. We entered a lightly wooded depression before the Hercynian wilds, and they guided their mounts towards the far woods edge, desperate to get to safety. There was a stream running across the depression, glimmering with pure water from the high grounds, and a deer raised its head from its depths, staring at us, the bloody, tired monsters entering the pure, sacred place, defiling it.
Then, I howled.
For Father’s horse had stumbled, throwing him to the water. His sword fell from his fingers; the helmet slipped off his head as he hit the rocks. I shrieked in happiness, panted with joy for my soon to be retribution. The standard bearer cursed me, slammed his standard on the ground by Father, on the other bank, pulled an ax from his belt, and spurred his horse for me, water flying high.
I spat at him and rode my horse for him. He was an old man, one of the Roman guards, a brave man who screamed defiance at me as his horse bore on mine, and we fell in a tangle of horsemeat and arms and legs. He got up first, pulling his helmet off to see better. I was breathless, my sword out of my reach as he came for me. He was favoring one leg, had a smear of mud on his face, and reached over me, grabbed me by my mail as he started to swing his blade.
I took hold of his beard, yanked him off balance, and we rolled together to the water, where I landed on top of him. He struggled, he fought, but he did not say anything, for I kept his face underwater for a minute, and then another, and he died. I killed him slowly, watching my father drag himself onto the dry land by his standard; panting, hurt. His handsome face kept looking at me, in terror, a terror that fed me. He grasped his standard weakly and tried to stand up, unsuccessfully. I stared at him while I killed his last man, and I knew to my delight Father finally feared me, for he licked his lips nervously. ‘Am I not your son, Father? See? How casually I slay. Very much like you, no?’
He left his helmet in the stream, and he was dragging his standard after him as he tried to stand. The man went still and I, panting, went to the Winter Sword, hissing at Father. ‘Your father’s blade. As you killed him, it is just you die by it.’
He snorted. ‘I’ve known that blade since I was but a boy, Hraban. It will be like meeting an old friend.’
‘You were not reluctant to let go of this friend to fool Burlein and the lot of us that you truly were dead, were you? Some old friend this sword is to you. But then, you always left your friends easily enough to drive your cause,’ I mocked him. ‘Men, women, and swords.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, sitting back, cursing at an arrow in his back. ‘I let it go. I wounded you with it, carved your face, and I should have killed you with it, but I did not. Perhaps I just wanted you to have it, after all.’
‘Why would you give such a blade to a boy you thought was illegitimate? Eh?’ I sneered. ‘Would it not have been better to give it to the son of Julia? Your lover’s highborn bastard?’
His face went slack as he stared at me. He shook his tired face and wiped his hand across it. ‘You know nothing of Julia.’
‘I know she was not Sigilind, my mother. Your wife,’ I spat.
‘No, she was not. Where I barely knew your mother, I guarded Julia with my life,’ he said softly.
‘With your body, yea,’ I agreed. ‘You fucked her, got her pregnant, and she used you to make sure her sons, yours included, will take the reins from Augustus when he dies. She has plotted to kill Drusus; her idea was to make you a lord in Germania, and that fat shit Segestes, as well. I dare you to deny it.’
He laughed softly, pulling at an arrow, which came off. He hissed in pain. ‘Not wise to pull them off like that, Hraban. Might bleed to death.’
‘Do you deny it?’ I yelled at him.
He sighed. ‘Julia. I shall not speak of Julia. I shall not speak of the plans we made and with whom I made them. Yes, all the Republican nobles have to fall before Augustus dies. That is true. And the poor broken Drusus out there? He is a bright star in the sky. Everyone loves him. And he hates Augustus. For the humiliation of his own father? You know Augustus took Livia, his mother when she was heavy with Drusus? Livia’s husband had to attend their wedding. Augustus is a fucking goat. But you do not understand Julia.’
‘Please explain Julia to me, Father? After all, my family is dead for your decision to throw your lot in with these strange, Roman ideas,’ I sneered and walked to the water. He flinc
hed and raised his hand imploringly, and I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry. I have some time now.’
He grinned and nodded, grabbing his sword from the wet mud. ‘Yea. Just some time. So, the Bear will be slain. Finally. Is Odo near?’
I nodded. ‘He is. That is my last trip this summer.’ I nodded towards the Godsmount.
He looked at it, and his eyes lit up in understanding. ‘So that is the place they were all so excited about. Why my father exiled me.’
‘Yes, I’ll ride there after you begin to rot. Up to the Godsmount. To save your grandchild Lif. Another soul you spat on for a whore of Rome. And for a bastard. And to think you had the nerve to call me one! You claimed you had no love for a bastard, but you fight for one!’
‘Julia,’ he told me, struggling to sit. ‘Julia is not what you think she is. She is weak at times, strong only when the sun shines. She hates her father—’
‘Kindred souls we are,’ I breathed.
He lifted his hand to silence me. ‘She is weak, Hraban. Very, very weak. And beautiful as the sun. I was her protector, the one who listened to her when she was married to Marcellus when she was but fourteen. Then, to old bastard Agrippa, who was an ancient man, with hair growing in his ears. That old, rancid pedophile Maecenas advised Augustus to marry her to the mightiest general in the land to avoid another civil war. She obeyed.’
‘And you saw this?’
‘I was your age when I served them. I guarded her and in the darkness, she had nobody to speak with. She had had plenty of sycophants, but not an honest Germani, who will only tell her the truth. She loved the truth, and I gave it to her. She was a noble sacrifice.’
‘And you loved her. And forgot your wife,’ I said spitefully.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Please, Hraban. How many men forget their wives when they travel far, with little hope of returning. My father, your fucker of a grandfather, fled from Gothonia fearing the prophecy and then feared it even more when war followed in the form of Bero. He sent me away. Is that my fault?’
‘I …’ I began and went sullen, unable to deny there was some truth to his words.
He nodded sagely. ‘It is hard to judge a man, Hraban when you have not walked with him. As for you?’ He shook his shoulders. ‘You have not seen Rome. Not its glory, its splendor. I forgot about home. When I was offered a crown of the South Germania for the death of one Drusus, I hesitated. I had Julia. I had Rome. I had its sweet flowers and rancid smells and a purpose in my life. But ...’
‘You also had a son,’ I sneered. ‘A son that everyone thinks belongs to Agrippa.’
‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘I have not seen him. She was pregnant when I agreed to this plan. For I have also seen the evil of Rome and knew the fifth child of Julia would be different from the others. He would look like me. And to keep him safe, I had to have a kingdom. And allies. Allies who are high and powerful.’
‘And just like that, you devised a plan to make yourself the Marcomanni thiuda, killed your father in the process, your wife as well and disowned me and Gernot.’
He pointed a finger at me. ‘You saw me crying for Sigilind. Those sobs and screams, Hraban, were not false. I lost my soul then, boy, for I had loved her once. As for Father? I had a grudge against him. For that, I will not be sorry. No matter if he was like a father to you.’
‘And are you sorry for us?’ I snickered. ‘Your true sons?’
‘I am …’ he began and stammered. ‘In some ways, yes. But you go and live in Rome, Hraban, and come home to find shepherds and villains and force yourself to love near adult bastards you have never seen. And I had lost your mother, Hraban. No. I was not sorry for my sons. I did risk you all. That I cannot deny. I did it for Julia, for my son and the glory. I could not have Hulderic compete with me for power, and I needed to be seen as the victim by the Marcomanni. People had to die. But I did not wish to see your mother go to Hades. As for you, Gernot? I suppose you are my son, despite your hair, but I am also a very suspicious man. I will never know for sure, and that doubt will never go away.’
I looked down, hurt by his words, despite the fact I knew his thoughts already. I felt tears in my eyes, astonished by the fact he could still hurt me. ‘Bastard.’
He grinned. ‘I admit, when I saw you presenting Vago’s head to me, defying me in my hall, then burning it around me? I admired you. You even survived Nihta later. And I hear, the Beast.’
‘I killed your Lok spawned Hel Hound,’ I agreed. ‘Leuthard killed friends of mine.’
He pointed a finger at me. ‘Yes, that is so. So what? And Julia agreed to this plan. She convinced me. But did she devise it? Or someone else close to her? No, not Augustus. Augustus would love to see Drusus dead, but he would also grieve him, for he loves the boy of Livia though not Tiberius. Julia is guilty if you seek someone to blame, but she is not brave or powerful enough to plan this. So, if you ever see her, do not touch her. She but obeyed.’
‘No?’ I asked, and he growled at me and then grimaced at his pain. ‘Perhaps I will find your son?`
He stared at me, not willing to show how my words upset him. Finally, he wiped his red, sweaty hair off his face. ‘Here we are,’ he breathed. ‘Threaten me, not him.’
‘Finally, we are here,’ I agreed and walked closer. ‘I made a promise to my wife all my issues would be settled this summer, so I won’t walk away now.’
We said nothing for a time but looked carefully at each other. He spat blood and smiled, his handsome face and red hair dirty with mud. He grunted as he sat up, trying to stand, failing.
‘Where is Gunhild?’ I asked him, trying to find the resolve and hatred to kill him. ‘You fooled her like you did me, made her betray her father Balderich and then you married her, cheated her, used her high blood to force the south to rebellion and finally, when you lost her to Burlein, you took her back in burning of Grinrock, and you beat her.’
‘She was my wife and betrayed me, Hraban. Gods frown on women who do not know their place,’ he said with spite. ‘But she is alive. I have her baby. She is the royal blood of Aristovistus, after all.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, she. Burlein had a daughter. A final failure of the bastard,’ he hawked. ‘But they are well treated.’
‘You shit,’ I told him wearily. ‘Utter, cold hearted piece of shit.’
‘Yes, Son, the one who serves Rome as I do.’
‘Where is Marcus Romanus?’ I asked him. ‘He still setting up your new kingdom?’ I asked, interested to know about my former tutor and Maroboodus’s friend as I tried to decide what to do with him.
‘Amber, Hraban,’ he grinned painfully. ‘That is the lifeblood of a great empire. It will flow from the Mare Gothoni through the lands of Segestes to the Rhenus River. I might get myself a piece of fine land in the south, but that land needs an income. That is what Marcus is to do. He will set it up. It can make Segestes rich. Or it will flow through the lands of Albis River and our kindred Suebi to the south into my lap, and I shall trade it for the rest. That is why I wanted to keep the ring. To give me easy access to such a trade route with the Semnones. But Marcus is dealing with it. He is with the Semnones right now. We only have to drive the Boii of Danubius River away, build our land and trade amber.’ He looked at my cold eyes and hesitated. ‘But I guess we won’t now. Poor Marcus. He has been working tirelessly with the Semnones and the Langobardi.’
I smiled and stepped next to him. He gazed up at me and tried to get up. ‘You are going to die, Father. I am loath to kill you, though. I would not want you to soil Mother’s presence in the next world,’ I told him. ‘And what for? A kingdom, a whore of Rome, a bastard son you have never seen, and riches in amber. You are a fool. You could have been a great man and respected. And loved by your family, Father.’
He laughed sadly and leaned back, in pain. ‘You will understand one day, Hraban, how one has to make harsh choices if one is to achieve anything. Now. I will fight you, boy. Even riddled with arrows and wounds, I am no easy prey. I am hur
t, but will slay you son. You killed many a good man of mine.’ I toed him and laughed at his foolish boasts. He grunted and swung the sword as he sat in the grass, but I blocked the blade, hacked it down and placed the Winter Sword on his throat. He spat. ‘I say you do me ill when you have not seen what I endured in Rome. You will regret it when you do.’
I looked at him with discomfort. ‘Your men are dead, slain. They are waiting for you, a fool who led them to their deaths. They curse you; they followed this device to their demise.’ I nodded at his standard.
A bird landed on the standard and croaked angrily on it.
It was a raven. A huge, large raven, silky black, its eye a pool of darkness as it regarded me mysteriously from atop the red bear standard.
I stared at the thing, feeling trepidation in my heart, my hands shaking slightly.
Father looked at it in stupefaction. ‘How did the prophecy go?’
‘A bear is slain; a raven will find the way.’
‘Not the ...?’ he grinned. ‘Think that is a raven?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Yes. But the bear is ...’
‘A bear. I might not be the Bear that has to die,’ he said with some amusement. ‘The prophecy is a mess. Nothing is in order. It is impossible to understand. But there are so many signs now that perhaps there is some truth in the matter after all?’
‘It is just a raven,’ I hissed.
‘Well, he seems to think it has relevance,’ Father said with glinting eyes and nodded up to the bank.
We were not alone.
There, up on the bank of the shallow depression was a gray horse and on the horse sat the dirty red haired creature called Odo. Behind him were men, Ansigar, Gernot and many men, regarding us.
But in that, I was wrong.
They regarded the bird.
It croaked thrice and took to its wings, circling above me, croaking a few more times. Then it caught the wind and flew away, heading for the east, toward the Godsmount. Odo looked down at me, and to my father, deeming us inconsequential for he smiled and rode after the bird. He called out. ‘Ride after us, Hraban. If you can!’ he yelled. ‘Here, a gift! He was separated from some men you do not wish to find!’ he laughed, and I saw they left a man behind. It was Catualda, bound, entirely bruised.
The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3) Page 42