The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5)

by Alaric Longward

  Armin had seen plenty of war during the years I had served Julia, and the admiration in the eyes of the tall, well mounted auxilia was easy to see. They didn’t show it in front of the prefect, but Armin had not lied. He had men. “King Pinnes,” he said. “And his prince brother of fat arse. This night. And then, we shall act in the chaos that follows. Postumus must be taken away. Germanicus must be dealt with as well. I have a plan for that as well.” He winked. “He shall make a splendid hostage. Perhaps they should just cook the shit and send him back to Tiberius.”

  I snorted. “It will be a deadly night for Rome.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “You will go and—”

  “I am to kill a prince, then?” I said with a smile. “What next? Augustus?”

  “Only if we must,” he laughed. “Pinnes’s brother is a young, fat wastrel, who apparently visits a whore house called the Moon Maid. Carnutum is usually a well-mannered and ordered city but with the soldiers it is full of chaos and none can check every man that is there, getting drunk or finding company. Men escape their duty all the time, and visit the city. Time is ripe for bit of murdering, and the city is full of slavers and whores, and this young man has taken a liking to one in particular, in the Maid. So Flavus tells me.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “No,” Armin said. “Not at all. You will go in as Roman soldiers. Not as auxilia, but as Roman. I have arranged a set of uniforms for you. Bought them from different suppliers. Speak Latin, and be fast, brutal and efficient. Kill that man, most of his friends, and leave one alive. Make a waste of the entire place, and have any Roman visiting slain as well. It will work well, if the Romans are as suspicious of the Breuci as they are of them. Trust me. I have been here for a while now, and know the people are ripe for insurrection. There is one here every decade, after all, but perhaps now it will succeed, with all the chiefs in one place for a while, and it will be somewhat coordinated.”

  I looked at the men Armin claimed as his own. “One of the Matticati will not do? I must do this?”

  “The Matticati? Some will help you. The bad sort. Most are warriors,” he said. “Honor is in their blood.”

  I spat at his words. “Traitors to their oaths, like you and me. The lot of them.”

  “As is Tiberius,” Armin said gleefully. “Don’t be offended, Hraban. I need a man who is half a snake, half a man. That’s why Drusus wanted you. He loved you for the darkness in you Hraban. And Tiberius hired you to be a killer. Now I shall need you, and not a man who might regret or shy away from murder. You kill what most men fail to slay, and you are lucky, at least when it counts. It is love, riches, and justice that the gods have ever denied you, but you are lucky when it is killing that needs to be done. Take two Matticati with you, both scum, and Adalwulf, that Ulrich, and Wandal, if the dolts will go. Flavus as well. Have Postumus looked after by some of mine. And don’t mess this up. After, when the morning comes, we will take Postumus, and grab Germanicus from the Praetorians and ride to Maroboodus.”

  “How do we grab Germanicus—”

  He grasped my arm and squeezed happily. “He is going to be in the city early morning, said the scribe, in the Temple of Mars, praying, and will be giving a speech in the midday. Your father is waiting this side of the river, two hours away on a black hill I know well. Then? War!”

  I turned to see the prefect dismiss the turma, and two tall, thin men with gray eyes ride after Armin. They smiled at me with cat-like grins, and I had to wonder how many men Armin knew that were like the fool Hraban.

  ***

  That evening we walked the streets of Carnutum. I was dressed in a centurion’s gear, and the transverse crest hung on my shoulders, though when the wind blew from the river, the horse hair kept blowing to my face, and then my mouth. Ulrich, Wandal, and Adalwulf, all unhappy with the duty, were dressed like I was, but we looked like a group of Romans out to find fun. We kept a tight grip on our swords, and eyed the dark streets bustling with life, until one of the Matticati, a man called Grip, nodded to an alleyway to our right. There, the street ran uphill a bit, and we saw a man who was leaning on the door of a white-painted building that had pale-blue flowers painted on the walls. The establishment didn’t look seedy, but not rich either, but if the brother of a king enjoyed a certain whore, who was I to judge him?

  Flavus nodded at us from the shadows, and joined us. He wore simple legionnaire gear.

  “He in?” Ulrich grunted.

  “He is always in,” he chuckled at his two-minded joke. “That man is insatiable. They have five men inside. Not many outsiders in there, since the five Breuci claim most of the whores. Nothing special about the building. It’s a straight corridor, with another door in back.”

  Grip grinned. “Horse-Arse,” he said and nodded at the other Matticati, “and your Flavus will go to the back of the house, the one door that leads out, and the rest of us will simply go in from the front. Swords out, nothing else to it. Leave the whores alive. The owner doesn’t matter.”

  “I never liked Matticati,” I said with a cold smile, “But I guess you know what you are about. Try not to die, boys.”

  He stopped me with an outstretched arm, and grinned. “I saw you at Castra Luppia. When Armin told us you serve him now, we thought it was a good sign. Your father was a hero most glorious that day, as were you. Taking the wall like you did? I saw you. And don’t worry about us. There are fifty men in the turma who feel the Roman service has worn us out. And Roman loot? Well, Germani all want to loot a legion or two. You don’t have to like us. Horse-Arse especially is a shitty specimen.” His friend smiled at him. He went on. “But you can trust us.”

  I snorted, and walked forward. “Spare one Breuci. Just one. Hamstring him, and leave him alive.”

  Wandal had a dark look in his face, and Adalwulf was gathering anger, and our cobbled sandals made a determined sound on the stones as we went up that street.

  The Breuci by the door, a bearded brute in a filthy tunic with a dagger on a wide, silver studded belt, got up from a bench. He eyed us with worry, took note of the man they called Horse-Arse and Flavus stepping to an alley that led behind the building and turned to face us.

  We stopped before him. “The Moon Maid?”

  He looked unsure, as he eyed a group of savagely tall centurions. “They are busy in there,” the man said with clumsy Latin. “I’d find something by the harbor. If you please, I really think—”

  I didn’t so much as blink an eye. I pulled Nightbright, and plunged it into the man’s chest. His hands went up, eyes bulging with shock, and then the blade cut crudely to his spine. I saw Wandal and Adalwulf moving, blades out, and we silenced the man. Grip stepped past us to the door.

  He kicked it open.

  He was chuckling like a mad drunk, intoxicated by the coming fight, and went in, sword out. “Whores to the floor! The rest to the blade!” he yelled.

  A pair of Breuci got up from their stools in the corridor, looking confused. They saw Grip’s Roman gear, and hesitated like the man at the doorway had, and died. Grip moved fast, the man grabbed one of the Breuci by the beard, and stabbed at the throat, then pushed the blade through the other man’s eye. We rushed forward, kicked open doors, and pulled down curtains. A rich looking Breuci, gold around his throat, got up from a whore’s bed and the whore, screaming, dodged under the bed. His eyes widened at the sight of the blood on my blade, and he groped for an ax on the ground. I walked forward, and he yelled in panic. Before he grasped his ax, I pushed the blade into his side and sawed it through his skin, kicking his leg until he fell to his face, shuddering and praying to his gods. I pulled the blade out and grinned at the dark-haired, pretty whore who was staring from under the bed, her face white. I turned back to the door, heard men screaming, women as well, and then, a fat, huge Breuci surged past the doorway, with Wandal struggling around his neck, pulling at the man’s beard. I heard Grip yelling a challenge, and then a terrible crash. I stepped out.

  And nearly fell.


  A naked man crashed towards me. He wore Roman military caligae, but nothing else.

  I pushed at a flailing man, whom I realized was a legionnaire. I slipped on blood, he fell over me, and I slapped him as he tried to get up. I pushed him aside, and crudely sawed the blade into his neck. The man’s legs thrummed on the stone, he wheezed, and I rolled over him, pummeled him with the hilt, and stabbed down one more time into his chest.

  I got up, and saw the huge Breuci trying to get out of the door like a mad bull, with Grip around his leg, and Wandal still hanging around his neck. They looked like a human tree in a storm. The man was bleeding from a dozen scratches and wounds, and still fought doggedly to escape. I turned to see Adalwulf barreling towards me, and I fell against the wall. A whore pushed me as she tried to flee, and I cursed as I ran after Adalwulf. The huge Breuci was flailing madly, still clawing at the door, but Grip was laying across the door, panting while trying to stab the man in the balls. Wandal’s nose was near flattened, and Adalwulf was stabbing at the man. I rushed forward, kneeled, and pushed Nightbright past Wandal’s legs, and the man’s eyes widened, his knees weak. Adalwulf slipped his spatha to the man’s side, and together we butchered the man crudely.

  “That’s him,” Grip panted, straightening his helmet. “Gods above and below, he had his tail up.”

  We were standing on top of the prince, a reddened mass of naked meat, and finally I spoke. “Did you spare one?”

  Adalwulf thumbed towards the end of the corridor.

  I turned and saw whom I took to be the owner of the house, a dead man with a smashed skull, and at his feet there was a Breuci, weeping with a slashed arm and knee.

  I pulled Grip up. “Go and tell that man, that next time the Breuci must pay their taxes, prince or not. Tell him this was a lesson in tax-avoidance. Give him regards from Tiberius.”

  “Oh, they will be unhappy,” the Matticati chortled, and moved off.

  CHAPTER 27

  The terribly upset Tiberius sat in the middle of his praetorium before Sunna had risen. The room was emptied of furniture, and a map was spread before him. There squatted tribunes, speculatores in their local garb, at least three legati, many of the highest ranked centurions of all the legions, and plenty of officia. Many wore togae, and some men in simple legionnaire garb were standing before Tiberius as Armin and I entered silently.

  Armin looked grim, but there was a spark in his eyes that one could not miss.

  His plan had worked miraculously well.

  The Breuci and the Daestitiates had led their men from the camps and had marched out after a tumultuous meeting of their chiefs. The rest of the tribes had followed them. King Pinnes and both Batos had agreed on something sinister, and Armin didn’t need the words of the speculatores and legati to confirm something truly terrible was taking place.

  He knew very well what happened when you murdered the princes of hard, rebellious tribes.

  Tiberius was holding his face now. “They are doing what, exactly?”

  A speculatore, likely a centurion, was pointing a finger at a map. “The Breuci and the Daestitiates are leading six other local tribes from the camp. Did it last night, in fact. The men who rode after them reported violence, and I suspect some of our men have been killed, especially if they wore Roman armor.”

  “And the villages and the towns?” Tiberius asked, his voice cold with fury. “What did you see?”

  The man shook his head. “They are killing Romans as they go. Roman merchants and settled former legionnaires have been slain and their families butchered. There are Roman women raped, children enslaved, and I would not mention what they have done to their captives. It is enough to churn one’s belly.”

  “Tell me,” Tiberius snarled. “Let my belly be my concern.”

  “They have nailed their victims to the trees as they march. Naked and bleeding, horribly mutilated, they do this even to matrons. They are rebelling.”

  “Over a dead man?” Tiberius roared. “On the eve of a great war—”

  “A prince,” offered a legatus. “He was a fat bastard who enjoyed common whores, but a prince still. Someone killed the brother of the King of the Breuci. The killers were apparently Romans, who claimed it was over unpaid fucking taxes. We don’t know who these Romans were, but perhaps they were sent by Maroboodus?”

  “Or,” the speculatore added, “a local rival. The people here might hate each other, but they have ever hated Romans more. Someone might have seen an opportunity.”

  “Find out,” Tiberius hissed. “The dogs who caused this must be hung from their bowels. What next?”

  The legatus spoke uncertainly. “They are marching for Sirmium, along the River Sava. But they are sending men around, and the rebellion is spreading.”

  “Rebellion?” Tiberius muttered. “Not a mutiny? Rebellion?”

  “They are rebelling, lord,” the centurion said stiffly. “They are defying orders and it is not just the auxilia. They are raising men as they go. They seemed to have made some sort of pact last night. The columns of what is now an enemy are not going home. They are headed south, and southeast with the purpose of attacking weak Roman garrisons. Everyone is joining in.”

  “The bastards have a plan, and they will find support,” Tiberius agreed tiredly, and he should know, since he had seen fighting in Illyricum before, as had so many others.

  “Our supplies will run low soon,” said another legatus. “It’s going to be a war for thin-bellied soldiers.”

  “War,” Tiberius said, trying to understand how it had come to this.

  Tiberius got up and walked around the map. His breath was ragged with disappointment, and he was holding his head with one hand, as if he had a massive headache. “First, send warnings across Illyricum. To Moesia, and Thracia as well. Warn Macedon, and Moganticum in Germania. And most of all, warn Italy and Rome. Second,” he said miserably, “send word to Maroboodus, that I would speak with him. Looks like the parley I asked for yesterday has a different tone now.”

  He walked out, and I knew he had cancelled his plans for Maroboodus.

  Armin leaned on me as we all moved out. “Now, we have to get Postumus to the Danubius. There, we seal the deal for the destruction of Tiberius and his armies.”

  I smiled thinly. “And you are convinced Father will agree?”

  “He knows an opportunity. It is risky, but he is expecting us. We shall fetch the men and go get Germanicus.”

  “We should hurry,” I said. “They will see him to safety as soon as they remember him.”

  Armin nodded and we walked out. We trekked down the via Principalis of the camp, and out of the gates for the Matticati and Germani camp on a hillside nearby.

  Armin rode before all, and thought aloud. “We will maul the Roman legions here with Maroboodus and the local scum, and for months, it shall be a shit-hole where we will bleed each other. But in the end, we shall win. You will be with your family.”

  “If they live,” I said sullenly as we dodged some riders.

  “Keep your tongue in check when we meet Maroboodus. You two hate each other, but for now, we must all work together. He has promised not to harm you if we deliver unto him Postumus. Then later?” He smiled wistfully. “You decide.”

  “You will go home?”

  “I will finally go home,” he said with longing. “It is not as I had been promised, but home it is. My oaths are done, or broken by others. I will go home to Thusnelda.”

  “If she is—”

  “Married?” he snarled. “I shall divorce her from her husband,” he said wildly, a fire burning in his eyes. “And Segestes will fall. I’ll kill him slowly. I’ll take him to a swamp, and I’ll mix his guts with salt before I drown him.” He spat. “The Romans will fall back. Imagine, had they just kept their word, I would have made Germania an ally to them. They say Saturninus almost made the tribes into obedient Romans, but I could have finished it for Rome. Now? I shall remind the wolves of their teeth. I shall. Your father will be a rival the
n, but it won’t matter.” He gave me a long, uncertain look. “You can choose what to do after. We have not been allies, but finally, we have no cause but one, and …” He faltered and lifted his hand.

  Wandal and Ulrich were riding out of the town. Adalwulf was close behind.

  “Where is Flavus?” he muttered.

  We stopped, as Ulrich vaulted from his horse and spoke. “We are neck deep in shit. They will be looking for us soon.”

  “What do you mean?” Armin asked, his hand on his sword’s hilt.

  “Germanicus,” Wandal said, panting. “I saw Flavus speaking to him, while Germanicus was trekking in the town, making speeches. Flavus was speaking to him urgently, and there was chaos. Flavus has changed his mind. He is going to stay in Rome. He found a way to do so. He is Germanicus’s man now.”

  Armin stared at him with disbelief and fury. “He is the one who suggested this plan.”

  “He wanted to be rid of you,” I said tiredly. “He hopes to profit from our betrayal. We must hurry. Forget Germanicus. We need Postumus.”

  He turned to me. “Get him. Ride out, and I shall fetch the Matticati, all I can find. We must hurry.”

  ***

  Postumus was rubbing his curly beard as he rode. He was a good rider, fiery by nature, and at home with the fighting men of the Matticati. He wore chain armor, and a sword, and looked groomed and alert. He had not received much tutoring in writing and the arts, or speech and history like others in his family had, often by Augustus himself, but what he had been provided, the lesser teachers, he had paid attention to.

  Also, he had cunning, intelligence, and he knew absolutely that something was out of place. He gave Armin quick glances, and then me, and I tried to make him relax by smiling.

  When one considered the fact that Adalwulf, Wandal, and Ulrich had pulled him off his morning meal, and had not allowed him to pack, he was calm as a tree. We had been lucky, in the castra, none had stopped us. There had been curious stares, but whatever Flavus was doing, they had failed to alert Tiberius in time.