As for me, despite the relief of food and care, I suffered alone, and refused to see anyone. I thought of mysterious Ishild and her terrible dilemmas at the mercy of her brother, I thought of unhappy Gernot, my brother who had no strength in him to either flee his masters, or even fight me, and I thought of Ermendrud and Leuthard, the latter ripping into her with his hands. He had eaten her. I was not sure of that, but it was possible, for she was missing an arm. I could not repel the sight from my mind, and I knew I would face the beast one day, as he would not rest until he did slay me. And he was not alone, no. The Red Fingers were out there with him.
Most of all, I thought of Lif.
I cried bitter tears, as I thought of her little fingers, her perfect nose, keen eyes, and enigmatic smiles, and I cursed the wyrd sisters for the fate they had sown together.
Lif.
Lif.
She tortured me, for no man who loves a daughter, could enjoy life after losing such as Lif.
By the end of the second day, I heard Cassia argue with the tedious Ansbor, and then she came to me and sat with me for hours. She said nothing, and I stared at her, having asked her to leave many times. She stared back at me. Then, finally, something moved inside me, and I put my hands on my face as I wept. She was patient, not asking for anything. She did not demand a cease to my weeping, or for me to take heart, or to let go of the grief. She threw a satchel of kindling at Ansbor and Fulcher, who came to insist I was to be left alone.
So, in the end, I spoke with her. I wondered what Ishild was going through. I told her of Ermendrud, as I had not told anyone what I had seen. She shook her head in disbelief, as she held my hand. Of Lif, I needed not say anything; I only wept, and she could merely hold me, as I let go of restraints and raged. She stayed with me, as I prayed to Woden to keep the baby safe, as it was a brutal world that did not love the weak and the young. She joined me in such a prayer, reaching out to her Celtic deities, and even to our Frigg, wife of Woden, renowned for her wisdom and care, and to Siff the Golden, lady to Donor the Smiter, as she was a strong, wise goddess and would make Lif strong as well. She slept next to me and kissed my forehead, holding me to her bosom, and I stayed there, curled in sorrow and gratitude.
The next morning, we woke up as the trumpets blared, and the legionnaires stomped out to hear their orders, and to eat their frugal breakfast of vegetables and water.
She looked me up and down, as I sat up, groggy with nightmares. 'Do you feel any better?' she asked.
I shrugged, ashamed for my weaknesses the night before. 'Not really, but—' I began, but then she slapped me.
She grabbed my beard painfully. 'Now, it's time to start living again.'
'How do I do that?' I asked her, after a brief and unsuccessful struggle to release myself. 'For what?'
'See your friends, and get drunk,' she said calmly. 'Then, start making plans.'
'Gods know my plans—'
'You cannot give up, you dung heap,' she told me sternly, and I was released.
'I—'
'Go!' she told me, and I got up to my feet, wobbly as hell, and she slapped my rear so hard I winced. I filed out of the tent, staring back at her disbelievingly. The guard who was in charge of me dropped his mug of ale as I rushed by him. He ran after me until I found my wits, and asked him where Ansbor and Fulcher were holed up; I found out it was in the tent next to me, and so I went in there.
She was right. I would have to start making plans again. Impishly grinning Cassia bought us very sour ale, and we drank ourselves senseless during that day, and we discussed our plight, most of which we had forgotten by the evening.
A man entered the tent the next day, stalking around me, taking stock of senseless Fulcher and Ansbor. 'Greetings, how are you doing?' I asked him brusquely, as he had not said a word, nor introduced himself. He was a very young man, with lively eyes and a smooth, horse tattooed face that hinted it might be pleasing if he smiled. He did not.
Instead, he left without a word.
I followed him outside, and realized we had slept through the bleeding trumpets, as the sun was high, the day was uncomfortably hot. My eyes stung from the bright light so badly, I forgot the many questions I had for the young man. When I could see properly, shading my eyes, I saw a line of men leading their horses. It was exhausted-looking Chariovalda. He nodded at my disheveled condition as he stopped his horse.
'Alive again?' he asked carelessly as he spat through his helmet's mouth hole, accidentally hitting my tunic. I stared at the spittle. He wiped his helmet clean and shrugged. 'A good reason to get cleaned up, eh? There will be a small feast, and you are going to be there, tonight. See you there. Don't drink more before that. Cassia demanded you were allowed to feast alone, but we don't like morose people huddling drunk in our tents. We drink together. And not too much when we are at war.'
I got cleaned up, taking a bath in terribly cold water, and so did my friends. That evening, we were escorted to a red, mud-spattered tent outside the fort, one decorated with bedraggled furs and skins.
Chariovalda saw us coming, and detangled from a discussion with a lanky man in armor, giving reports. He waved his hands happily. 'Welcome, our unwilling guests. Welcome. We have plenty of food, we eat some juicy, stolen pork, and some even less honestly acquired lamb, for our friends, the Matticati, love the Romans, but dislike all others, and we have to eat as well. Leave the fat one outside, for we cannot abide gluttony, though.' He pointed at Ansbor, who was heavyset, strangely so, despite the harsh winter and our late troubles. He likely hid stolen food somewhere when he could.
'Do not worry, just give him some gruel, and set a guard on him,' Fulcher told Chariovalda, and pushed the glowering Ansbor inside, as his eyes lit up in anticipation of the food.
'We should let him join the Sigambri! They would starve ere winter,' said one of the men in the tent.
We had a good time with the merry men of the Batavi who told us stories. They told us their tribe was originally of the mighty Chatti, like the Matticati were, but had found home near the sea, far in the north. It was a fertile land, though light in woods, but the vast pastures were rich and bountiful, raising strong horses, and the wheat gave them excellent ale. They all lamented the piss they had to drink there, but told great stories of the mighty feasts. Rome loved them. The god-like Nero Claudius Drusus had befriended them year past, and their men had served Caesar and Octavianus, the current Augustus, for decades.
Mainly, they told us about Nero Claudius Drusus.
They would follow him to Hades. They were his clients, his personal friends, and these men loved him like they would their father.
'Toast to the small bear!' Chariovalda yelled. 'Toast to the foreign man who could not be more like a Germani, like a Batavi! He will conquer for Rome, and gods see we will be his ferocious arms!'
'Aye!' they yelled, and we echoed their sentiment and smiled.
'So, he talked you out of your freedom, and now you toast him?' I asked Chariovalda scornfully.
He sputtered. 'No, we are his clients. Willing ones.'
'Do you pay taxes then?' Cassia asked shyly. 'I remember when the Mediomactri were special friends to the god Caesar, but now we are just … upset.'
Chariovalda got up, and plopped between Cassia and me. He placed a careful arm around her and shook his head at her. 'I know not what the future brings, girl, but the stepson of Augustus—'
'He is related to the bastard?' I asked.
'Yes, yes,' he said heavily, 'they are sons of this hag; well, they say she is a pretty fine-looking hag, Livia by name, and the hag is married to Augustus. Don't have children between them, some only from previous mistakes. Now Drusus does not enjoy his mother's company, so she is a hag to the lot of us. He has a brother, Tiberius? Yes, that's the one. More a mamma's boy that one, but Drusus loves Tiberius, so we love him as well, I suppose. As long as Drusus lives, lady and lad,' he said, giving Cassia a wet kiss on the cheek, one that made Ansbor get up and walk out briskly. Chariovalda
grinned as he continued, 'Then we are safe, the Batavi. For now, we serve in their armies, and fine service it is. Nevertheless, no cows, nor slaves, nor silver do we give them. Only spear service we so much enjoy. The fawning Ubii pay, now the northern tribes too, like the Canifetes, but not us. Not without a fight. And we can fight.'
'Vangiones say they do not pay either.' I raised my eyebrows, and wondered what became of the Hunfrid, as my father had found him in Grinrock. Perhaps Vannius truly was the king now.
'Well, I don't trust a Vangione's words, but we really do not pay,' Chariovalda claimed, and threw an angry look my way. He pointed a bone at my nose. 'We boast less than they, and need not lie. Romans tax the shit out of the weak. Gauls sell their daughters to the wily merchants, but Germani are different. We fight; it is that simple. We have always fought. We fight better with their training and their weapons, with their legions. With them, we are much more. In addition, they are much more with us. Our cavalry and their infantry complement each other, something the tribes this side of the river will one day find out. We help them with the things they lack. Ferocity of the northern gods, skills born in savage lands, and horsemanship we learn as children. Gods help them, if they ever try to tax us!' He laughed hollowly. ‘Our weapons are too sharp for a taxman to ignore.’
'My swords?' I asked him. He ignored me. 'My spear?' I continued.
He shook his head. 'Sword. The short blade is still yours. Safe. All safe. Mine for keeping now. Perhaps one day, yours again? We will see.'
'What exactly do you plan to do with us?' I insisted, and he sighed.
'Hercules, let a man eat in peace!' he complained loudly, but then looked at me. 'Wait.' A man entered the ring, the same man who had come to our tent, saying nothing. He was seated in the middle, a position of honor. Chariovalda grunted. 'Hengsti's son, Thurwag. A young whelp, trying to rebuild his father's tribes. He sits here, and eats food we have stolen from his people. And he thanks us. He needs us, you see, to silence lords who are no longer loyal. We serve Thurwag for now.'
'Him, or someone else, if he is not smart enough for the job. Basically, you are here to make sure someone with less than amicable feelings for the Romans should not come to power?' I asked.
He raised his thick eyebrows in surprise and laughed. 'Yes. Thurwag is still being evaluated, and there are others we might like as well. You are not as stupid as you look! You might have uses, Hraban. I will take you to Drusus. Then, we will speak of your sword and spear.' Drusus. The name made me uncomfortable. He sounded like a man to turn hearts, and gods knew I did not trust myself with the poor judgment I had shown. I wanted to leave. To go and search for Lif. He nodded, as he saw my soured face. 'Your daughter is fine, no doubt an elfin thing of beauty, and I see your dilemma. No daughter is ugly to a father, eh?'
'She is pretty, and you dare to suggest she is not?' I growled indignantly.
He sighed. 'Mine are like mules, I admit it freely. Teeth sharp and small, and sour looking lot. Will be hell to marry them, will cost me lots, by Hercules. In any case, my lord Hraban, I think you must come to him. You can offer him things. He can offer you things as well.'
'What kinds of things?' I asked.
‘He can make dreams come true,' he whispered. ‘He will love you.’
'Why would he love me so much as to lick my toes?'
'You will lick his ass first, and he returns his favors,' he laughed, and clapped me so hard I hit my jaw on the table. He leaned on me. 'If you speak the truth, then Nero Claudius Drusus is one of the men your father is supposed to send to the pyre. I am sure of it.'
I was about to ask him to speak more, when Thurwag pointed a finger at me. 'You were the one on the wall of this fort in the battle? The berserk whom all saw? The helmeted one, who danced swords with dozen Romans?'
I nodded. 'Our host has my helmet hidden somewhere, just like he is hiding away your food.' Thurwag snorted, and came to sit next to me, and we shared stories that night. In the end, Fulcher carried me to bed, drunk again, and I dreamt of Veleda. Yet, I slept, and I was grateful for that.
The following days, Chariovalda took me out on a horse, and gave me permission to walk the area around my tent, though not too far, and his guards made sure I knew the limits. Before the sun had risen, he trained with me. He gave me a wooden sword, like Nihta had used, and he put me through a hard routine. He was good with his weapon, older by fifteen years, and even if I was as fast as a fox and cunning enough, not entirely new to war after the past year’s many fights, he had me on my back many times. He would goad me to simple rage, showing me how our kin fought, and what Romans had taught him. Woden would not dance with me, for this was no real fight, but I cursed myself for my ineptness. I knew how to fight, after all; I was just too angry.
He would grunt happily after he humiliated me. 'I can see you have been explained this. Fight with the point, son. You have a weapon made for it. It's not meant for felling trees! But, you still try, when you get angry,' he laughed, as I tried to hit his foot with a deceptive, low slash. It was a trap; he pushed me over, and I spat mud as I got up.
He spat. 'Come, son of the Marcomanni. I am a Roman citizen. A man higher than you, like an eagle is to a sparrow. There, you see. Only a peasant would swing like that! Ha! Is that something your grandmother showed you? With a broom, perhaps? Let me see, yes, that is it. That was good. For a boy. It was good but this is … better!' he said with a grin and ended my furious attack routine abruptly.
I was on my back again.
Nihta had been a dispassionate teacher, Chariovalda was all happiness and laughs, and where Nihta had made me disciplined and strong, Chariovalda made me skillful and clever. He helped me channel my rage away from the losses of Ermendrud, Ishild, and Lif. It worked for the day, but by evening, I would be sober again. But, I did not wish to be sober.
It was evening, two weeks after we had arrived to the Matticati lands. We were sitting outside our tent, by a raging fire. Chariovalda had gone to suppress a mutiny of some local Matticati with sturdy, dogged Thurwag, and we had been lounging outside of the tent all of the scorching hot morning and afternoon, looking on as the legionnaires were making a permanent fort, one built with thick timbers, high towers, and stone reinforced gates.
Cassia was infuriatingly happy, for she liked the carefree, equally happy Batavi women. She joked with them, often shamelessly about us men, and the handsome creatures made us feel like cleaning ourselves up. So, we had a bath arranged in strange, tiled tub and sat down in mild water, scrubbing out dirt and grime.
Fulcher looked supremely happy to do so. 'My daughter usually insisted we have a bath a few times a week. We had a fine, clear spring not far from us. My son and I … ' he said, and choked into silence.
'One day, we will find that man,' I told him reassuringly, for my Lif had made his loss seem insignificant.
Ansbor grunted away the unhappy moment, and replaced it with another. 'Here we sit, in a mildly warm water, but surely soon in a hot one again. Shall we wait here still when your father comes for a visit? Surely he knows we are here.' Ansbor spat. 'Or Odo.'
'Odo has no army,' I told him tediously. 'Only abominations.'
'So are you,' Ansbor muttered, and got up to dress. 'What else is this business with Odo but struggle and fear, as the rest of us wonder what will come to pass? Fight of the abominations.'
‘Is this about Cassia again?' I asked him, tired and bitter. 'Not one of us have died yet, save for Hagano.' I remembered our young friend, the first victim of the events leading to the return of my father.
'Save for Hagano. And possibly Wandal,' Ansbor sneered. 'But, Hagano does not matter, does he? And now, they are taking us to the Romans? What happens to us, should this Drusus dislike you? And it is likely he does! Most everyone does! We will be sold into slavery. All you have left is that damnable, cursed ring.' I stared at the ring, and wondered how little it meant to me. But, it meant a lot to others.
Fulcher shook his head at me, as Ansbor went, huffing
. 'He is choosing his own fate, Hraban. It is not your fault if he leaves. As for me, I am still waiting for the blood that is mine.'
'I hope we find it, friend,' I told him. 'Have some ale. Pour me some.' He did, and we lounged in the tubs, and the water was now getting cold.
Fulcher grunted, and a slave hurried to heat some more. 'What do you think your father is doing now?'
I waved my ale horn around, still peering at my ring. 'He is subduing the South for good. He will bleed any chief he does not like, and he will not like many. Then, he will crush any opposition threatening him from the outside, likely the Hermanduri Burlein invited. Perhaps he will be busy this summer. And he has Hunfrid. Gods fear what he will do with that cur.'
'If he is picking a fight with Rome, he will behead the fool, like a chicken,' Fulcher suggested, and we giggled at the thought.
'In any case,' I said, 'I have to find Lif. No matter what the windbag is doing. I do not know the North.'
'You have a plan?' he asked.
I fingered Woden's Gift. Draupnir's Spawn. He stared at the ring as well, and I sighed. 'I just don't love it as I used to. Thanks to you.' I smiled to take the edge off the comment. 'I feel I am lost to the Germani. But, I must stay for Lif, don't I? I do not love the ring.' I took a deep breath. 'But, Armin does. I will have to find Armin. He will give me resources to find Lif. It is a mighty gift I take him.'
'Ah, the mighty relic,' he mused. 'But, now, we go to the Romans?'
'We will escape, my friend,' I said heavily, 'but only when we are not surrounded by the Matticati, who war on each other. They would make leather shoes off our hide.'
'Thurwag is friendly with you, though?' Fulcher noted laconically.
'Thurwag is a pup,' I told him, 'but a friendly pup.'
'He is older than you!'
'He,' I sneered, 'has not been ground through Helheim, like I have.'
'Your Helheim,' he told me sadly, 'is yours. He has his own. He lost his father, and likely half his family here last year. I hope you have grown enough to see the turmoil of others, not only yours and mine.'
Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2) Page 29