The Snake Catcher

by Bilinmeyen

  Anything, in fact. Claudius would have sacrificed his left nut, and half the riches of the state, for it.

  Now, instead, Adminus shall meet Hel in Helheim, and he’ll weep his way across the dark river, a broken ghost.

  I did well.

  I stopped Adminus. I saved the king from treason. Togodumnus is grateful yet worried. Adminus is not the only shifty warlord in the land thinking about Roman service and Roman gold.

  While Adminus was not alone in his perfidy, this one, high death would have to be enough to remind the Celts of the price of treachery. Togodumnus could afford no more trouble, no more vengeful families. The manner of the death more than made up for the absence of the other victims of the king’s wrath. It wasn’t an easy death, because Togodumnus is an unforgiving king out of necessity. First, they had a champion hamstring Adminus. The man had a sword; Adminus had his prick, since he was naked. After a brief chase, the prince of the tribe fell to the mud, and the sword severed the strings in his ankles.

  Adminus proceeded to howl his agony to the four winds, while the scornful onlookers mocked him mercilessly. Then warriors lifted him on a feast table, and some skilled butchers skinned his hands and feet, a fine feat indeed when the man struggled so. Finally, after one of the butchers broke his ribs, they finally dragged him to pigsty. There, they disemboweled him, and left him to the occupants of the filthy hovel. He cried like a baby, begged for his life, then for death, and in the end, had to die slowly and alone, in shit and mud, as the pigs ate him.

  There will be no burial. Pig shit was what remains of Adminus, once so noble and mighty.

  The king left with Caratacus, his remaining brother and a man I trust no more than I had Adminus. He began preparing for war. The troubles are coming, as Roman malice looms across the foggy sea. Roman ships have been spotted in the mornings. There are swift scout vessels and even some heavy triremes rowing nearby waters, and the merchant ships have all but disappeared from Camulodunum.

  Camulodunum and rest of the land are taking deep breaths before the storm. The green woods and rich fields of Albion await Claudius, the stuttering fool of a cripple, who wasn’t a fool after all. He is the unlikeliest of the sons of the great Drusus to grasp such a high seat. He is the last joke of the dynasty, the weak, helpless uncle of Caligula who stopped pretending weakness after I left the mad Caesar to the daggers.

  He is coming soon. I feel it.

  He is preparing a fleet across from the coast, in Portius Itius, and while he hopes to capture you, my wounded Lord Hadewig, of Thumelicus, as the Romans called you, he is also after Albion.

  You frighten him. Or, rather, your dead father’s shadow makes him shiver. You are the son of Arminius the Wolf Eater, the lord of the Cherusci, who was the best of the Germani.

  Yet, no brave Germani blood will stop him from coming for us. He will take this rich land, and gain a legacy worth his famous ancestors. It is a land suitable to bury him in fame, a worthy trophy for a conqueror. The Roman Wolf desires fresh meat to keep strong, and that meat can still be found in Germania, and here, with the last free Celts. Albion’s many tribes will have a hopeless war in their hands. The freedom of the Celts lies in the spear tips of the warriors Togodumnus will lead to battle.

  I gazed at the lot this morning. There were war parties of Caratacus and Togodumnus watching the execution, and many of the lesser Celt lords had come to witness the spectacle.

  I was not left uncertain of the outcome of the war.

  The Catuvellauni are powerful, there’s no denying that. The warriors look rich, and there are as many of them as there are flies on a pile of fresh dung. They are brave with words, snorting like a steed in heat when they speak of the Romans. They are well equipped, with tall spears, armored in leather and chain, and the better soldiers have gleaming helmets. And some, I know, can fight like irate bears. They have been conquering the Atrebates and the Trinovantes in the east and the west, north and the south, and were the envy of the lesser tribes. Their hair is long, thick gold rings adorn their fingers, and fat torcs glitter around their throats, speaking of past glories, and many champions hold their hands on well-used sword’s hilts.

  But, they are not disciplined.

  They have never met the Roman triple axis in battle. They have no idea what awaits them. They will simply not stand when the cohorts march for their shields, and the pila begin to fall and butcher them. Few nations are that disciplined.

  And they are greedy.

  Adminus and his treachery prove the very point. He tried to become the first Roman of his tribe by sacrificing us to the Romans. The Celts fight for power; they hunt each other ferociously, and even steal the cattle of their kinsmen. They lie easily to gain favor, and soon, they will face the Roman might, and Rome shall do what Rome always does.

  It will find the weak ones in the ranks of the enemy nobles. It will then divide, set them against each other, eat them one-by-one, and settle in over the carcasses of the fools and the brave. There will be rebellions, where the survivors will find their children taken, wives raped, treasures stolen, and even their ancient gods pressed into Roman service, but such rebellions always fail. I know, because I helped Roman causes in my time, and have put down many a rebellion. Romans serve swords and malice mercilessly to those trying to resist them.

  Though, I must admit, I fought for the Germani as well, and saw a rebellion that succeeded. I helped your father, Armin. His was such terrible rebellion it lasted. Armin did well that day, and the years after, though the price was great for him later. It was great for him, for Rome, for the tribes.

  But, today, the Germani are free.

  I shook my head in despair as I made my way for the hall of Togodumnus, where we now reside.

  No, the Celts will not win.

  They are not powerful or experienced enough to survive Roman legions. So, Hadewig, the sanctuary I found for us is about to fall, and we must find a place where none can find you, or I.

  I’m old now, but I’ll save us, if god Woden keeps his nose out of our business. Man makes his own wyrd, and let the gods keep feasting while men work to solve their problems. I have a plan, a weak, stupid plan, but it might save our rears, Hadewig, my lord.

  In the meantime, Togodumnus expects my help. Perhaps yours. He knows who you are. We shall see. He hopes you’ll bring him fortune in war. The fame of your father might inspire his men to fight better. They would rub their swords on your cloak, and think the gods shall love them when the blood must finally be spilled.

  But, that is not my agenda. We are not here to win wars.

  I am on my last quest, and I shall not fail, no. That quest was to save you, boy. I was to save you from Roman slavery, and I did, though years and years after I should have attempted it to start with. Now, after your near brush with death, your wounds infected during our escape over the Alps, into Gaul, and finally, Albion, you have recuperated. You are healing under the care of the king and his druids.

  I hear you speaking to that pretty slave girl in the room next to mine. I hear you laugh, even. She giggles.

  But, you won’t speak with me.

  Still you do not trust old Hraban, whom you know as the Oath Breaker. I’ve not given you any of the past stories to read. Not yet. I wrote down a terrible number of them, much more I thought I could ever be able. I did it to explain what happened to me over forty years ago, what happened to your father, Armin, to our beloved Drusus. But, I lie to myself. Perhaps if you had read the stories, even that would not be enough for you see me in favorable light. My feud with your father is known to you.

  I try to speak with you. I’ve tried it since your fever fled, and you were mostly awake. I’ll chirp like a magpie, and you sulk while healing. I’ll come to your room this evening, and you’ll look away. You’ll act like a hostage king, forced to dine with a shit-caked peasant.

  You hate me.

  And yet, finally, you will tolerate me.

  You will, or I’ll kick your rear to Hades, boy. I’ve
hated men all my life, but not those who have aided me. I have learnt to trust men, even after long hostility. You need to learn forgiveness. You’ll need to learn that skill faster than I did. I fought with your father. I was his enemy. Later, I fought for him. You shall forgive me my crimes, like your father did.

  Yes, you’ll get over your anger. And you’ll do me a favor.

  When I have told my story, written it down on this rare Codex I treasure, you shall take it, Hadewig. You’ll take it, and ride off to the lands of the people who were once the Sigambri. Then, you’ll go to your home, where you might not be welcome, and you shall find my daughter near the springs of Luppia River. You’ll find Lif, and you will tell her the story of Hraban, The Oath Breaker, the traitor. And she, Lif, the girl I last saw when I saved her from Odo’s grasp, when she was but four, will know his father still remembers. You will tell her the stories of Hraban are half lies, and let her decide which half she will believe in. Let her know Hraban, a man with few choices. Let her know her exiled father, not a traitor and a monster.

  You will do this, or I’ll haunt you in Valholl until you weep. Not even your father can save you there, if you fail. I’ll stomp on your weak shield, and kill you, then do it again every day in the glorious battles of Valholl, and you’ll be sorry for the eternal humiliation you must endure. You’ll be resurrected each evening, and you will quake as you know I shall hunt you down in battle the next day.

  Stop hating me, my friend.

  You will go and do this for me, sooner than you think.

  Now, I sit in my room, waiting, and write some more.

  As you remember—should you survive to tell my story to Lif, my lord—we ended with the death of Nero Claudius Drusus. He was the best Roman I had ever met. You would have liked him. I know there are few Romans you can stomach, but you would have adored the young god. I had been cast out by Maroboodus, my father, who had plotted with a high Roman lady for the death of Drusus. Father succeeded, even as I fought to save Drusus, the man who accepted me when no one else did. I fought for Drusus, like a desperate wolf, but still he died in battle. The historians will tell you Drusus died when a horse fell on him, and while that is partly true, it was because my father threw a spear at the beast.

  I had loved Drusus. I still miss his foolhardy confidence, his uncorrupt honor, his absolute honesty, even when he plotted to murder someone. All these fine traits got him killed in the end. I miss him still.

  But, his wyrd was woven, as he made his choices.

  Drusus had had plans for the future of Rome. He was the son of the Republic. His father, Tiberius Claudius Nero, a useless but patriotic man, tried to fight Octavianus. He chose the side of Marc Antony. The Republican, a patriot, an old Roman lifted his nose at the adopted son of tyrant Caesar. And yet, in reality, Marc Antony was no better than Octavianus, when it came to the survival of the Republic. The man dragged his wife, Livia, with him in their flight across Sicily, Greece, and gods know where else, as he feebly resisted the adopted son of God Caesar.

  He, like the others like him, failed.

  Marc Antony lost his head, and left behind a brood of unhappy children and a dead ideal of Republic, an ideal he had not truly supported anyway. The father of Drusus sought appeasement with the coming man, Octavianus, the man who would be called Augustus. This bastard accepted the fool, and took his wife, Livia, and unborn Drusus, the son Tiberius, and made them his. Tiberius Claudius Nero was forced to give his wife over, and to attend the wedding in return for his life and a fraction of his former riches.

  Imagine that, Hadewig. Imagine.

  Drusus grew up under the shadow of the man who did that to his father, to his mother. It is no wonder he grew up loving the Republic his real father had so embraced. He was a Claudii. He loved the old stories of the unbendable honor, of the sacrifices, and of the equality. While I was no expert on Romans and their past, and didn’t know if the dying Republic was truly made of gold and real heroes, I loved Drusus enough to adopt his dreams. Drusus was about to challenge his father’s nemesis, his mother’s husband, Augustus. He wanted the Germani wars to end successfully. With his fame and the legions, he could have taken Rome back. He would have done it in the Senate, or in the battlefield. He had allies, he had friends, and he was brave, with ancestry that was near unmatched in the land.

  He would have done well.

  He was loved by so many. In Rome, so long ravaged by tyrants, he was the light to those who didn’t love Augustus. He grew up into a great general, and died a Consul, and he was my patron when we crushed your father’s army, Hadewig. That was long before your father became the terror of Rome.

  Drusus had one campaign to finish. The Cherusci were all but beaten.

  Then, Father, Maroboodus, and your father, Armin, buried their hatchet for a moment. Just for that one battle. Maroboodus got what he wanted. Drusus was dead. Your father failed, and was taken by the Romans. Someone in Rome, a powerful woman rejoiced. I knew of it, because allies of father, Antius the Negotiatore and Cornix had told me of her, but not her name. She had gotten her dearest wish. Drusus wouldn’t be a threat to the world of Augustus. To his legacy. There would be no Republic as it had once been. This woman had willed it our of selfish motives.

  I had failed.

  But, gods intervened, and I was given a chance to serve him again. Just one.

  Tiberius, his brother, inherited me and my friends. And he, the husband to the daughter of Augustus, Julia Caesar, was sure it was Julia who was to be blamed. She was of the blood of Augustus, she was the mother of two boys, Gaius and Lucius, inheritors of the influence and power of Augustus, though nether child was Tiberius’s. She had a terrible lot to lose. Of course it was Julia. And it made sense. Even Livia, the mother of Tiberius and dead Drusus, had heard of a pact Julia had made with someone powerful, someone who would take the helm from Augustus until her children were old enough to rule. Julia, they said, had many allies in the shadows. My father, the man who had executed Drusus, and who had been her lover in Rome, was but one.

  So, I would help Tiberius in his quest to find the truth.

  To find proof of his wife’s deeds, I’d go to Rome. Doing that, I was to keep Tiberius alive, because was he not the next threat to Julia? Since Drusus was gone, were even the children he had left behind safe? The children of Drusus, related to Augustus through Antonia were rivals to Julia’s sons. The boys were young, very young.

  Julia was sure to have a list, and only one name had been scored off.

  Gods know I wanted Julia caught, Lord. I wanted to see her suffering for all the deaths she had caused in my family, for the chaos Father’s return had caused for the tribes. There was more. I wanted to see why my father had loved her, and what her last child looked like, since it was likely he was my half-brother.

  To do all this, we were to join the Germani Custodes Corporis, the guard of Augustus. The members were all Germani of the north, and Tiberius would put us to work. For my valor, I was already made a citizen of Rome, which was an oddity in the Guards. There was another oddity, for I had a wife, Cassia. As a guardsman, that was not allowed. Yet, Tiberius made it possible. I had my troop of friends, and we were about to enter a world we didn’t know nor understand. Tiberius, while cold and grim, entirely unlike Drusus, wanted to punish whoever killed his brother, even if it was his wife, whom he loathed.

  And that’s what we wanted as well.

  It would cost us all greatly.

  Before Rome, we had a long road ahead of us.

  We had to carry Drusus back to Rome.

  Drusus was embalmed in the cursed castra where he died. He had died in the lands of the Chatti, but even the tribes respected the man enough to grant us a brief peace. He was washed. Then, a thick golden coin was placed under his tongue to pay the ferryman for the trek to Hades. Charon had to be paid; he took no credit. Toga praetexta was draped around the young Consul; garlands and flowers placed over his body. His lictors, those that survived, broke their fasces, and carri
ed them on their shoulders though the woods and hills, as the warriors carried Drusus to Moganticum.

  Tiberius rejected the requests of the legions to bury Drusus there, and we took a long road for Rome. We said farewell to friends, to Chariovalda, who remained behind, and to Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso, the Prefect of the Parthian and Syrian auxilia, who would go back to east, forever cursed to serve far from his father of same name. He invited us to Caesarea Maritima, and I told him I would see him one day. We walked through Tres Galliae, a skirted Lugudunum, where the Concilium Galliarum, a creation of Augustus and Drusus, greeted the fallen hero. In Lugdunum, Drusus’s wife and children joined the procession. There, Antonia the Fair, so loved by Drusus, acted like any Roman matron would, with dignity and grace, while his children wept, save for the very young ones. In the night, we all heard Antonia cry in the tent where she held the bloated hand of her fine husband.

  Everywhere we went the primores led the ordinary townsfolk to line the roadsides to bow their head to the honored dead. Every civita and colonia turned out in great numbers to weep for him, and I, Hraban of the Marcomanni, felt honored to have been so close to a man beloved by so many. The grandees and heroes of the towns and villages took their turns carrying the man, while Tiberius walked before all. We travelled south, learning the Roman ways, and of the Roman lands. We gawked as we entered the Ligurian Alps, and passing over them, we made good time in the fresh air. Days in, we were met by King Cottius, the lord and prefect over the twelve tribes Drusus and Tiberius had subdued earlier in their career. Cottius greeted Antonia and the great, dead general on his knee in the outskirts of Segusio.