Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  'You will march twenty miles today. Not five. Let's go,' Sabinus said happily, pointing downriver, towards the hills where the other recruits had disappeared earlier. He started singing, and Ansbor was the first to carry the tent.

  In the evening, we were shown an empty barracks, and we fell into deep, painful slumber, our feet featureless lumps of molten pain, full of angry blisters. We did not think about food or complaints, nor did feel shame for the raucous laughter that had greeted us at the gates when Fulcher and I carried Ansbor inside, tent and kettle tied to his belt, my friend unconscious and exhausted beyond care.

  The feet were no better the next day when we did it again, and we even tried soaking them in urine, which seemed to have no positive effect on them.

  The day after we arose to the blaring trumpet, we ate something so inconsequential it left us hungry, were hustled to the morning orders, and then Manlius, the optio, told us to fetch the tent and the kettle we had deliberately forgotten and hidden, and off we marched, our feet bleeding already.

  For a few days, we hiked in a rain, and if the heat had been bad, rain was no better; turning the cloaks into smelly and heavy burdens, the ground slippery and stealing what strength we had, and any food we carried was reduced into horrid, wet clumps of unappetizing taste and looks. For the first few days, we were marching some twenty Roman miles, and then on the fourth day, we did it in quickstep, and our minds numbed, as we cast aside all hope of survival.

  The optio was an easygoing man, not reluctant to using his cane, but he did not force us to sing. We did sound rather disturbing. The centurion was deaf, apparently, for he forced us to croak all the time. By the end of the first week, when we started to do forty miles in quickstep, we hollered again like idiots, and Ansbor did not make it back that time, and we had to carry him to a wagon. We had not hope of carrying him like we had the first day. The next day, we did it with the grinning elite first Cohort of the XVIII Legion, and none of us made it, vomiting in dust and waiting for a wagon, while disgusted Sabinus was calling us hopeless dogs. The following day, we barely hung on with the less elite eight cohort, in quickstep. I noticed how my mind was growing less rebellious each day, my feet hurt less, and I was proud like an enthusiastic puppy when one of the officers said something complimentary, even if it was something like: 'Well done, shit walker. You threw up in the gutter, not at your feet!'

  It was hard to understand two weeks had passed, but it was so, for Chariovalda sent us word he would be away for one more week, and that Cassia sent her love. I actually cried, for the torture would go on, and did not have the heart to share the news with my friends, who had been counting days. They would understand the issue soon enough, of course, but I could not break their childlike hopes.

  So we marched, cursed, and grew stronger and angrier as the days went past.

  The accursed trumpet, or tuba, played the early notes, indicating the beginning of misery in the morning, and we made ready to march, but week three was different. Painful, but different. We were taken to a large indoors barracks, told to wear our armor and shields. They put a wooden sword on our feet, and we were told to do as the others did. Fulcher and Ansbor had never trained with a sword, and so this was very new to them. As I picked up the wooden sword, I found out it was actually heavier than any normal blade, just like the one Nihta had trained me with. After a few hours of stabs, always stabs, our arms grew slow, numbingly weak, and our knees were trembling. This was when we had some bread, a bit of olive oil, water to wash it down with, and were put up against live opponents, while our wrists screamed with pain.

  Here, however, was finally our time to shine.

  By our nature, a Germani fought duels rather than battles. We fought in shield walls, we rushed the enemy in a heavy cunus, but the battle easily turned into a chaotic melee, with no semblance of order, as soon as the blades started to fall. For the Romans, strength lay in discipline, for us, in courage and rage, in superior strength and speed, and god's favor. Some young fighters in their armor and shields squared off with us, eyeing the officers curiously.

  Manlius shrugged at them. 'Here are some barbarians for you to clobber. Make them bleed, and you will not have to march tomorrow.'

  They all grinned, and nodded to each other. We stared at each other in confusion. Sabinus was lounging on a discarded jug, picking his toes with the cane. He glanced at us. 'You lot will march no matter what, but perhaps I shall get you some wine if you beat them? I make no promises, boys.' He might have promised us Valholl's many women, for we, ale-drinking, mead-loving barbarians would kill for some watered wine at that stage. We stepped forward, trembling happily with anticipation, and I think Fulcher even drooled, likely tasting the wine already. Sabinus shook his head in disgust, as he continued with his toe picking.

  An optio pointed our adversaries to us. I was to face a lanky recruit, a man with very small eyes and a peculiarly wide chin. I waited patiently as men around us were cheering our upcoming fight. Manlius spat. 'Go at it,' he said, and before I could say a word, my friends charged their opponents.

  I noticed Ansbor slam his shield with a huge force to a swarthy legionnaire’s shield, making a terrible booming sound as he vented his rage on the poor man. Fulcher went in more cautiously, dancing away as his foe, a thin boy, tried to foolishly rush him with his wooden sword hacking down. Then, I was embroiled in my own battle, and I walked for him, casually holding my shield at my side and observed his nervous face, which told me he would try to finish the battle quickly. True enough, the man grinned and suddenly rushed forward, as he tried to gut me, his wooden sword deceitfully rushing from behind his shield, but I sidestepped it and with an overhand slash on his shoulder, a kick on his leg, I had him on his side, cursing in pain.

  Looking around, I could see Ansbor slamming his sword in his opponent's arm, and the fight ended abruptly. Fulcher was sitting down as I looked at him, but he shrugged and pointed at a man who was holding his foot.

  Manlius and Sabinus looked at each other and grabbed a shield apiece, gesturing at a tall legionnaire to join them. He addressed the men staring at us glumly. 'Boys, as you see, the barbarians,' he pointed a sword at us, 'excel in one-on-one battle. Let us show you why you never leave the shield wall.' They stood, took a place in a line, three feet from each other, and gestured us to break them. 'Come, barbarians. Attack as you would usually, with no sense and full of fury.'

  Everyone stopped and looked at us. Buoyed by our easy victories in one-on-one battle, we formed up as our men would, locking the shields and then nodding to each other, we walked forward, then we ran, swinging our swords, and slamming our shields forward. The Romans strode a step forward as well, blocked our wild swings and shields, and gutted all three with the sword thrusts coming deceptively from under a rim. Ansbor was throwing up, Fulcher cursing, and I just glowered at the centurion, who made an elaborate bow to the men around him, all staring at us agog.

  Sabinus, the centurion, dropped his weapon. 'That is what discipline is for. You are savage, canny fighters in man-to-man battle, but in war, where nations disappear, you have a lot to learn. Now, again!'

  And so, we started to learn what discipline was, keeping our shields together, timing our charge meticulously, guarding our friend faithfully and keeping our mouths shut, suffering if we failed. In a week's time, we knew more. We learned to throw spears in unison, at the right moment, not before, not after, but when it was required. They were wooden spears with leather knobs, and we also learned how to receive them, often painfully, as the sadistically grinning veterans used us for target practice. We learned drill, and the terse commands of the tuba, cornicula and buccina, how to turn together, how to charge, march, and retreat with semblance of order, feeling like a flock of hens. Deadly hens, but hens still.

  We were allowed to go to the town with the other men, and there, we sat and drank wine, which the jolly legionnaires offered us. I did not drink, for I was looking around the village and found an establishment that might be usef
ul one day. I remembered what Drusus had said about shadows and swords. In any case, as the training went on, we forgot time and our complaints, and then Chariovalda came back, and Drusus arrived with more troops.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  We were on the banks of Rhenus, and Manlius and Sabinus were laughing so hard their eyes were running with tears. I did, too, and for once, despite his unhappiness, so did Ansbor. 'So, Hraban. You look less arrogant.' A dry voice behind us noted, and I found Saturninus was standing there in brilliantly sculpted armor, and I had to squint as I tried to look up at him.

  'I have an inkling that I might have been wrong,' I said, as I climbed to my feet, and Ansbor hooted as Fulcher sunk under again. We were learning to swim, as all legionnaires do. I knew how, Ansbor as well. Fulcher did not, but he was busily learning.

  'He is going to drown,' Ansbor laughed. Some men watching exchanged coins, as Fulcher had not surfaced yet.

  'Drusus is arriving, boy,' said the legate, and we turned to look at a stream of river galleys coming along, with flags flapping brilliantly in the wind. There were a dozen ships, majestically gliding over the river, birds racing around the hulls, chasing insects. Such ships had once ferried Vago to slay my family, and I felt apprehensive as they came forward, usually the sign of raids and slaughter. But, these ships were truly fabulous, and the man I had come to respect was perched on the prow of the leading one, a gilded ship of lighter hull, his purple cloak billowing behind as he gazed on to the Sigambri side of the river.

  'Rivers are the key, son. And we know how to use them. Soon, they are ours,' Saturninus exclaimed gleefully, as the ships approached. 'Some auxilia are coming with him from the south.'

  They docked, one-by-one, many waiting for their turns. Men jumped off from the ships, sailors and slaves receiving them, yelling instructions to gather their gear and troops. Many men, dozens, were forming up in the piers and marching off, the auxilia from the south. Drusus got off from a gilded boat that was rowed ashore near us. He was cursing a questor. 'Next time, I will board a normal ship. I looked like a whoremaster in that thing. What was it called?'

  The questor kept a stony face. 'The Harlot, sir.'

  Drusus laughed. 'Find out who built it, and throw him to the river. No, I was just … never mind.' He was laughing again at the distraught questor, and then he noticed me. He hooted, happy and nervous, full of barely contained energy. His worries seemed a thing of the past, and I guessed the coming war gave him the purpose and distraction he truly enjoyed. 'Well. Did they make a legionary out of you yet?' he asked, as he clapped my back. He was not truly expecting an answer, as he was staring around at the pier at the confused auxilia unit amassing on the shore, slowly moving to inland.

  'They try to, lord. However, it is not a task for a few weeks,' I told him, while two legionnaires pulled Fulcher out from the water. He was gagging and praying.

  Drusus smirked at Fulcher's prone body. 'No, it is not. It is a lifetime of learning. When the cute boys have turned into grizzled veterans and leave after twenty-five years, many enlist again. It is all they know. Killing and building. Man's world, that.'

  Sabinus, the centurion, spat, thrumming his leg with the wine stick, as if about to whack his commander with it. 'When will they let the men marry, sir?'

  Drusus winked at the officer. 'I hear you are married. To an Ubii girl? A fair-headed, plump girl she is, I am told. Gossips terribly. I hear she echoes your opinions of the legates quite willingly in the market.' Sabinus flinched but said nothing. Drusus chuckled as he strode next to me. 'At ease, centurion. I know nothing about such matters, and if I did, I'd let you complain. Gods know we all make mistakes.' Drusus, of course, knew much of what was going on with the troops. A rare mark of a true leader, he remembered everything he heard.

  The optio, Manlius, nodded. 'She is not fair-headed.' The centurion cursed him, and the optio just stood there, eyes glinting mischievously.

  Drusus placed a hand on my shoulder in shock, as he saw a man in armor fall to the river with a shriek. The man did not come up. 'Cannot afford to lose any. Optio! Go and tell them to take their time! We have no hurry before we cross the river!' Drusus turned to me, and I saw he had not slept much, for his eyes were ringed with dark rings, despite his apparent energy. 'Well, Hraban. Have you forgiven me?'

  'The threat that still hangs over Cassia?' I asked him angrily. 'Or the speech you gave the gathered nobles of my world? Confirming my … crimes? Or that you wish me to become a murderer for you when you go home?'

  He shook his head, gazing at me cautiously. He took me aside, adjusting the chain mail around me. 'Yes, Hraban the Marcomanni. All that.'

  I took a shuddering breath as the great man walked next to me. Had my father not manipulated me? So many others as well? Yet, I could not remain angry with him. I gazed across the river, thinking of my homelands, my tribes, all strangely distant. 'Was it truly Saturninus who asked the bastards to train us? Or did you? For my home feels rude, the people strange now, that we have suffered and learnt to love the army.'

  He chuckled. 'I did, and he begged me to. I wanted you to love this army, if not Rome. The army is home to so many of us, its honor crossing nations and tribes, binding one to a single cause. That of its general.'

  I hardened my soul, for Lif, but I loved the army indeed, and I loved Drusus, and could not explain it. He was one of those men you would risk your life for. 'I forgive you,' I told him generously, thinking how I would slay him and rue it forever. Armin's promise felt hollow, but Lif was not something I could forget.

  He nodded happily. 'I like you Hraban. I truly do. You will be stationed here when the war begins.' I nodded. He would be dead, if I managed it. 'No complaints about missing a war? Fine. We will have one, and it will change things. I dream of killing a great chief in one-on-one combat. Haruspices read the signs to me last week. I will manage it. It will be a red-haired man. He told me to take the chance if it comes. We will see if it was your father he was talking about,' he mused. 'I respected him once, but now he is an enemy to me, and my men.'

  'He won't duel you fairly. And the chiefs come with bodyguards, lord. Champions,' I told him, wisely.

  He smiled at me. 'That is why I have men like you to keep them busy next year. Though not in this war, not before we can trust you.'

  'I would rather kill my father myself, lord,' I told him morosely.

  'I know. But, I am a higher lord than you, and get to try it first! You had your chance, I recall.' He grinned at Fulcher, who had been dragged out of the river, and found the strength to stand up straight, while being berated by a legionnaire, who was trying to teach him the strokes. We both laughed hugely as the sodden man flapped his arms in an amusing mockery of the legionnaire, who groaned in desperation. Drusus clapped me on the shoulder, and left to oversee the various workings of the camp, and I stared after him, hardening my soul.

  Chariovalda arrived at the afternoon with the Batavian auxilia, along with Frisian troops and some Canifetes. He had two Batavi auxilia alae with him, around one thousand men, 1st Batavorium, and the 2nd, merry strongmen in chain mail, with dazzling bronze cavalry helmets, long spatha swords, and sturdy hastae, and all were riding large horses from Gaul. Trained and deadly, disciplined, the two alae were a terrible enemy. They were like an army of men, like my father had when he came home last year. The brooding woods across the river waited, unimpressed by their splendor.

  The Frisians were just a regular cohort, some clad in the Roman army way, but wearing trousers, sorry looking men, barely trained, and the Canifetes were light cavalry, men like our Germani, with decurions trying to keep them in line, an utterly hopeless task. Chariovalda set up camp, and received me in the evening. He was sitting in a Roman chair, dressed in woolen finery, and there was a woman on his lap when I entered, and he looked at me sternly, as I had a startled look on my face.

  'It is mine, not yours,' he said drolly, guessing the reason for my confusion. 'Cassia is alive, and chaste.'

  I g
rinned. 'You know, my father used to have slaves sit on his lap. He was deeply despised for it, seeing how he was married.'

  Chariovalda slapped the girl on the rump and grinned. 'Cassia would not sit on my lap. I tried, she screamed at me. She is one loyal girl! As for your father, I like his style, but let us leave my wife out of this, hmm?' I grunted and looked around. The tent was sprawled with armor and weapons. 'I like your legionnaire look, Hraban, makes you look martial, instead of a rogue,' he laughed, and I spied my helmet, sword, and spear amidst the gear. Also Leuthard's sword was lying in the corner.

  'Yes, they are safe, do not worry,' he grinned, and poured some wine for me. I took it, sniffling at it experimentally, as the girl left to fetch more. He shrugged. 'So. We will go to war this week. Sigambri will be ready. Tencteri and Usipetes, and perhaps Bructeri and Marsi, and gods know how many others will dance with us. I—'

  I interrupted him. 'Marcomanni and the Chatti?' I asked. 'Have you heard anything from Oldaric, and my father?'

  'Your father will be busy with the Hermanduri. We paid them good coin to harass the Marcomanni this year,' he smirked.

  'Bastards,' I told him with a smile.

  'Yes, your father will beat them, but he will be busy. Drink,' he said, and I drank. 'Ebbe’s imprisonment will keep the Chatti pacified.'

  'So our lord hopes,' I said, grimacing. 'Perhaps this year, but—'

  'All he needs is this year,' Chariovalda grinned. 'Drusus is not an idiot, even if he trusts you enough to give you some small freedom. You will get your weapons back.' He poured me another cup. 'I am to give you a commission. Gods know what use you are, but there it is. Loot, and revenge!' he told me, and drank.

  'To loot, and revenge!' I saluted him, happy Drusus thought so highly of me. 'But, he will keep an eye on Cassia still?' I drank as he bade me to.