The Bear Banner: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 2)
THE BEAR BANNER
THE GOTH CHRONICLES BOOK 2
By:
Alaric Longward
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE BEAR BANNER
A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
MAP OF THE SAXON SHORES B.C. 30
NAMES AND PLACES
RAVENNA (A.D. 37)
BOOK 1: THE SPURNED SUITOR
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
BOOK 2: THE WINTER ISLAND
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
BOOK 3: THE GHOST BOAT
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
BOOK 4: FINNR’S HILL
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
BOOK 5: THE WEDDING NIGHT
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
RAVENNA (A.D. 37)
SOME THOUGHTS
Copyright (C) 2016 Alaric Longward
Cover art by Markus Lovadina
(http://malosart.blogspot.fi)
Cover design by The Cover Collections
(http://www.thecovercollection.com/)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
-Dedicated to people who think deep -
A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR
Greetings, and thank you for getting this book. I hope you enjoy it and also read the my other series below, especially The Hraban Chronicles, that are related to the story of Maroboodus. When you have completed the story, I would appreciate if you could take the time to rate and review the story on Amazon.com and/or on Goodreads. This will be incredibly valuable for me going forward and I want you to know how much I appreciate your opinion and time.
Please visit
www.alariclongward.com
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OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR:
THE HRABAN CHRONICLES – NOVELS OF ROME AND GERMANIA
THE OATH BREAKER – BOOK 1
RAVEN’S WYRD – BOOK 2
THE WINTER SWORD – BOOK 3
THE SNAKE CATCHER – BOOK 4 (COMING 2016)
GOTH CHRONICLES - NOVELS OF THE NORTH
MAROBOODUS - BOOK 1
THE BEAR BANNER – BOOK 2
THE CALL OF THE WOLF – BOOK 3 (COMING EARLY 2017)
GERMANI TALES
ADALWULF
THE CANTINIÉRE TALES – STORIES OF FRENCH REVOLUTION AND NAPOLEONIC WARS
JEANETTE’S SWORD – BOOK 1
JEANETTE’S LOVE – BOOK 2
JEANETTE’S CHOICE – BOOK 3 (COMING LATE 2016)
TEN TEARS CHRONICLES – STORIES OF THE NINE WORLDS
THE DARK LEVY – BOOK 1
EYE OF HEL – BOOK 2
THRONE OF SCARS – BOOK 3
THIEF OF MIDGARD – STORIES OF THE NINE WORLDS
THE BEAST OF THE NORTH – BOOK 1
QUEEN OF THE DRAUGR – BOOK 2
MAP OF THE SAXON SHORES B.C. 30
(DENMARK AND NORTHERN GERMANY)
NAMES AND PLACES
Agin – son of Gislin, a Svea Lord and rival to his father, brother of Saxa
Aldbert – the poet friend of Maroboodus
Amalric – relative of the Boat-Lord
Arvid – Gulla’s son
Bero – Lord of Marka, the supposed Thiuda of the Black and Bear Goths
Boat-Lord – father of Hughnot and Friednot
Bone-Hall – Bero’s hall
Ceadda – the Saxon ally of Maroboodus
Cerdic – a Saxon lord and suitor of Gulla
Cuthbert – a Lord of the Saxons
Danr – champion of Bero
Dragon’s Tail – the hills where Hughnot and Maroboodus fought
Draupnir’s Spawn – spawn of Draupnir, Woden's ring, the influential ancient ring of Maroboodus’s family
Dubbe – champion of Hulderic
Eadwine – champion of Bero
Ekkehard – the Saxon king and Gulla’s suitor
Finnr the Merry – Langobardi relative of Hulderic and Bero
Friednot – father of Bero and Hulderic, Lord of the Black and Bear Goths
Galdr – rhythmic spell singing
Gasto– champion of Bero.
Gislin – Svea Thiuda of Snowlake gau
Gothonia – home of the Goths, an island in the Baltic Sea
Gothoni – old Germanic tribe from the Baltic Sea
Grimwolf – relative of the Boat-Lord
Gulla – widow of Cuthbert the Black
Gunni – Skallagrim’s man
Halli – Skallagrim’s man
Hamingja – Skallagrim’s völva sister
Harmod – champion of Hulderic
Hild – völva of Agin
Hraban – son of Maroboodus
Hrafn – a Saxon lord and Gulla’s suitor
Hrolf the Ax – son of Hughnot
Hogholm – home of the Boat-Lord
Horsa – lord of the Semnones
Hughnot – Lord of the Black Goths
Ice Wolf – champion of Magni
Ingo – champion of Hughnot
Inguiomerus – a Cherusci adeling
Ingulf – champion of Hughnot
Iron Eye – slave of Magni
Long-Lake – a stretch of water on the coast of modern Sweden, stretching far inland from the Baltic Sea
Ludovicus – champion of Friednot
Magni – a Saxon lord and Gulla’s suitor
Maino – son of Bero
Marcus – daughter of Fulch the Red, lover to Hraban, then Wandal's wife to be
Mare Suebicum – the Baltic Sea.
Mare Germanicum – the North Sea
Marka – the home of the Bear Goths
Maroboodus – son of Hulderic the Goth
Njord – the Saxon and brother of Ceadda
Osgar – champion of Friednot
Ragnarök – the final battle of Germanic mythology, the end of most of the living things, the gods included
Saxa – the Svea princess, daughter of Gislin, sister of Agin
Seidr – magical power of Freya, the war goddess, mistress of seduction
Sigmundr – champion of Hulderic
Skallagrim – the mad Saxon lord
Spear Hall – the home of the Black Goths
Suebi – a vast confederacy of Germanic tribes stretching from Sweden to Danube River
The Three Forks – rivers near Wolf Hole
The Three Spinners – norns, the Germanic deities, or spirits, sitting at the foot of the world tree, by the Well of Fate, weaving the past, the present, and the future of each living creature. Also called Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld
The Weasel – Skallagrim’s mad follower
Tor – a ship-builder
Vaettir – Germanic nature spirits
Vitka – priest
Völva – priestess
Whisper- vitka of Gislin
Woden – also known as Odin, the leader of the Aesir gods, one of the creators of men and the world.
Wolf Hole – home of Gislin the Svea
Wyrd – fate in Germanic mythology
Yggdrasill – the world tree, where the nine worlds hang from. Source of all life
RAVENNA (A.D. 37)
Marcus Dionysios Pomponius is tired to the bone.
I can see it in the deep lines on his once handsome face, and his color is pale, where it is not blotchy and red. The man’s shoulders are rigid, as he leans over the writing tablet, and there are many finished tablets on the side table, ready to be transferred into something more lasting and precious. He is probably expected to finish the entire work alone. After all, my story cannot spread around, or Tiberius will get upset.
You do not want to upset a dying emperor.
Or any emperor, for that matter. But, especially not Tiberius. There are deaths, and then, there are deaths envisioned by Tiberius, and though the execution of such deaths might never reach the level of horror Tiberius has seen in his depraved mind, it is, nonetheless, a fate one should avoid. A simple death is far preferable.
Marcus groans, massages his neck, and pulls and pushes at the cat-legged chair he has been sitting on for the majority of the day, far into the night. While the room is my jail, the chair is his.
He is exhausted.
And drunk.
He is drunk every day and night, as he works. My heart sing for joy, as I lounge on my pillow-infested chair, and see him struggle with his writing. Not every tablet makes it to the finished pile. The discarded, ruined clay tablets and the occasional wine-soiled scrolls heap up in corner of my room; they look like a mountain of seashells thrown out into a ditch at the dye factories I once saw in the east. For every ten completed clay tablets, there is at least one destroyed one, and, I have to admit, I have had a hand in making sure Marcus receives his wine to fortify his resolve, whenever one is wasted. An old man can easily pretend to remember something which should have happened before in the story we are penning down, and in those moments, Marcus empties his cup, curses life profusely, and doggedly begins anew.
Despite the long hours, my clever ploys, and the wine, he is beating the odds. The guards have been betting if Marcus will survive me, and most have betted against him. I am losing, slowly but steadily, since the story of Maroboodus, the great Bear of the North, is actually coming together. It is truly unfortunate for me, since Tiberius will have me executed, after Marcus concludes this horrible ordeal.
I’m sure of that.
Marcus has not denied it.
My head will roll, like a head of cabbage from a wagon on a rocky road, or I’ll simply be strangled at the hands of my captors. They’ll come for me one night, and after a brief, bitter, panting struggle in the dark corner beyond my bed, Maroboodus will stop breathing, and the body will make its way to some unmarked grave, or even to the bottom of some canal in Ravenna, weighted by stones. Oh, you see, I have thought about this a lot. I have a vivid imagination. But, the bottom line is, the struggle between myself and Rome will be over, after so many long years of waiting for them to make my legend into a myth. I’ll slowly disappear from history. I mostly have already, being hidden away, and even if I hear the Marcomanni still threaten the Romans in the River Danubius, the men I ruled over, the heroes who did so in the past, no longer do. The danger I had offered to Rome, and my enemies, is far in the past. Even the fool Catualda, who took my throne, is gone.
But, Tiberius is Tiberius, and a man with deep grudges, bottomless guilt, paranoia, and deep hatred and fascination for me, his captive, the father of his closest and darkest ally, Hraban. Tiberius knows the story, especially the part where I made a pact in Rome. He barely believes the events which followed that pact, but he knows they are true. It is a harrowing, terrible story, and one he feels responsible for, and one he would change, if he only could.
Why he sent Marcus to me to pen down my early years, I know not. Neither does Marcus, not really. Tiberius’s advanced disease, and the coming death are surely the catalysts, but I am not sure what he will do with the story. He has heard much of my past from Hraban, from men who interrogated me, from many others who survived the way Tiberius came to power, and there should be little mystery left. Perhaps, simply, he wants to find some morsel of information he might use to forgive himself, and his family, for the crimes committed. Perhaps he lies there in Capri, and is hoping there is something he missed, something which might redeem the one he loved, the one who betrayed his wishes, and took his brother, and loved ones.
Perhaps he will think there is a curse of some ancient god that caused all the mayhem in his life, that I was the god’s agent, and then he need not hate his kin so much. He needs someone to blame, and cannot be in peace, if that someone is his own kin.
He may find those redemptions in my story. I’m not convinced it is not so. There are many an evil god involved in my story, and Lok not the least of them.
I snort. Or perhaps he is just mad.
Gods know what takes place in the head of Tiberius, and how Hraban has survived him for so long.
The story, he will have. I cannot stop it.
Tiberius may read my tale, and then, it will likely be locked away, after he has seen it. Or burned, even. I can stall, I can search for a way out, I can keep an eye on the guards, and pray for the gods themselves for a solution to my dilemma, but I can only do so much.
Marcus places another finished clay tablet to the pile, and takes another imaginary step for the freedom from this wine-powered toil. I flinch at the sound, as the wooden frames snap on top of each other. I far prefer the clatter of the failed pile, when one of the things makes its way there violently. None has cleaned that corner of the room, as he ordered the women to stay out of the place. One of them might know how to read, and Tiberius doesn’t want the story to spread.
One more tablet ready.
I swallow a desperate sigh, and replace it with a thin smile. He nods at me, as if he knows the significance of the smile and the defeated sigh. Much like the brass dolphins which fall with each passing lap in the Circus, I feel there will soon be no more markers left to delay the inevitable end. Soon, there will be no more laps for the horses to run. Then, it will be over for me.
I smile at Marcus, as he rubs his face. My end may be near. I will try to face it bravely, but I may not be parted from Marcus for long. I’m a bastard, as I think the excellent Marcus might not survive the Tiberius either.
Either Tiberius kills him after, or the wine does.
The man who seemed to disdain wine before he began, now loves it more than a baby desires milk.
It’s all my fault, of course. I have ruined the heap of tablets, and it has really strained him. So have the long hours, and I suspect the woman he is sleeping with, one of the servants who used to clean the room, is not the best rose in the garden. I can hear them yelling some mornings, when the bustle on the streets allows it. There is more to it, of course. If he was a simple guest in my hall in the north, and not used to a Germani hospitality, he’d eventually be a drunk. If you attempt to sit for long days and weeks with an old Germani king, penning down his many tales, you are probably going to know mead, ale, and wine intimately after. We don’t tell tales sober, nor do we tell tales to men who are untouched by the spirit of the drink. So I ask him for wine, and wine he brings. I will admit, the drink also makes my memory run like a river. I have been a good teller of tales, and Marcus, once a strict, well-groomed man, is fast becoming a stuttering drunk.
I look at him, as he is now mulling the wine in his cup, while I down mine with the expertise of an old lord of the north. Not a drop is spilled on my red and white beard. Wine is a fine thing, the many subtle tastes of it something a man might spend a lifetime learning,
but I miss mead, and ale. There were long days of drinking in the north, especially during the Yule, when men would sit for ten days, feasting, making peace, settling feuds, making new feuds in our smoky halls. It was a celebration to Woden, the One Eye, the All Father I never loved, but a mighty feast for merrymaking, nonetheless. After I took the lands of the Boii, after I put down the heroic Drusus, and Hraban failed to save him, I was a king, and had many fabulous feasts.
I loved being a king.
There are many a thiuda, a war-king in the Germania, chosen for a brief period, but with the Marcomanni in the south, after I had achieved all I set out to achieve, I had been a true king, unlike any before in the history of the land. Even Aristovistus had not had such power. And Armin? He had refused the kingship, and had been betrayed for those who suspected he still wanted it.
Kings scheme ceaselessly, erode their conscience by the daily chore of staying a king, and feast to forget it all.
I snort softly, as I think about it. No longer am I a king, not even a Germani warrior, but an ancient captive, and still, I have changed little. I’m scheming to stay alive, drinking to forget, and Marcus, in his misery, is too busy to finish the story, to be rid of the life and duty he must have hated by then.
He grasps another tablet, and begins to write. He asks questions, I speak, he scribbles, and then, I smile, and correct him.
“Juppiter’s filthy damned balls and arse,” he whispers, as he stops writing, his eyes seeking a solution to the name I changed. I smile behind my hand. He nearly weeps.
“Marcus, some more Falernian, please. And come now. The tablet will not fix itself, no. You have to fetch another.”
He obliges grudgingly, throws away the tablet with a clatter, picks up a pitcher, and rubs his face, the perfectionist in him at war with the drunkard. That night, he is especially unhappy. He waves his hand at me, and the table, as he pours unsteadily into my cup. I capture most of it, the floor the rest, and he whirls away to do the same to his cup. Then, he puts the wine away, and hatefully rips another of the tablets from a sack, and sits down heavily.