Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  He is a scribe.

  ‘Are you ready to hear my proposal then, my lord?’ asks the scribe with a smooth, respectful voice.

  ‘Nobody told me you would have one, my friend,’ I answer, biting my tongue, as I’m surprised. A proposal?

  His eyes light up with brief confusion, but then he nods as he gives the departing guards a speculative look. ‘They seem to have forgotten to inform you why I arrived here yesterday. They are good men, but still just soldiers.’ I had a sudden hunch someone would pay for the oversight.

  Oversight. Bah.

  I’d have whipped the soldiers for having failed in their duty, I thought and kept an eye on him. They did it on purpose. The dog fondling bastards probably let me think it would be a blood-handed Pretorian rather than a scribe. Then I bite my lip. Scribes can be as dangerous as executioners. I quickly take stock of his face, and decide he is the sort of man whose true feelings are hidden under a heavy blanket of decorum. He will take care to give nothing away, but they are there, the feelings, nonetheless. Men like that annoy me. I’d rather see a spitting, roaring drunk charging me with a sharp spear, aimed for my gut, than a scribe of Tiberius, whose face does not seem to be made of skin, but marble. He is dangerous, scribe or not. But then again, I thought, he’s not here to kill me, at least immediately. I frown. I cannot remember his damned name, even. I should, since the same guard who forgot to inform me of the man’s business in Ravenna, did mention it at least three times. The curse of the old age is to know you should be able to remember many things—like the names of such dangerous scribes—but you cannot and instead you will pretend it is not the ravages of years, but the wine you drank the night before. I snort and he smiles. I’m turning into an idiot. I’ll be one of those odd things you see in the corner of the street, playing with sticks and stones amongst vermin and trash, covered in shit and piss, speaking animatedly with a dog that is dying of hunger. It would be best if one so afflicted would sleep soundly until the Valkyries finally fetch them, dreaming pleasantly, but no. I can hardly sleep at all. The pains of my old wounds and my shamefully weak bladder force me to walk about every night and that cannot be changed. I’ll sleep in the halls of Woden, in Asgaard, Valholl, when I go that way, perhaps soon. Or perhaps I shall be whisked away to the home of Freya, the Red Goddess, in her golden Sessrúmnir? I shake my head and decide I am not dead yet and it’s not wise to dwell on my future accommodations.

  I make a brave attempt. ‘Julius—’

  ‘Marcus Pomponius Dionysions, master,’ he said patiently and there was no mockery in his voice. I was used to mockery. It was the standard treatment I receive from the house slaves, the dogs, the whores who saw to my needs, but who in truth robbed me and spat in my food. Not so this man. And that is why I don’t trust him. He is eyeing me with a gracious, wide smile, waiting patiently as a wolf for a prey to make a wrong move. He is a creature of the Palatine Hill, and there are no men there I would ever trust my life with. I’ve been serving there previously, haven’t I?

  I’m no damned prey. I’m Maroboodus.

  ‘Julius. If you would be so kind as to fetch me some of that splendid …’I gesture for the wine.

  ‘Vinum Pramnia,’ he states helpfully.

  ‘Vinum Pramnia, and I’d be very happy to discuss your business. By your refined, practical looks, you brought some good, practical wine, so let me sample it,’ I told him with a voice that made it clear I was not making a request, but giving an order. And I felt better, as I would be enjoying something that was not from Ravenna. Something different. Something to make the ache less. I subtly massaged my chest and resisted the urge to press my belly, where there was a throbbing pain. The scribe saw that and I stared back at him mulishly.

  ‘Yes, master,’ he said with a small bow of his head, and got up to fetch me some of the wine. Maliciously, I thought I might ask him to bring me the whole heavy amphorae, but it would do no good to be drunk so early in the morning and so I decided I’d be happy with what he brought me and I’d give his business some thought. I eyed him, as he poured the drink expertly, not spilling a drop. He was a freedman, a former slave, and now a much higher creature of Juppiter’s than most of the common Romans, of the nobilitas even. He served Tiberius, the Stone Jaws, the Princeps of all of Rome, the man who was my very old enemy, and also the demon who was the patron of my damned son Hraban. I tore my thoughts off Tiberius and Hraban and gave him a good look-over. He was no fighter. A poisoner, perhaps, but certainly not the sort to stand in a shieldwall, or to run forward while clutching a bundle of javelins with the bloodthirsty intent of impaling men’s faces and bellies. He didn’t have the … ferocity? No, he didn’t have that at all. Nor the constitution, I decided. The man was tall and thin as a willow, his face was coldly handsome, and there was clear, curious intelligence in his dark eyes. He had money. I was sure of it. Most freedmen who work for men of power are richer than a king of the east. But he wore nothing to make that apparent. That also annoyed me. He was rich, but did not flaunt it. I shuddered. What a waste that is. A Germani loves practicality, is married to prudence, but a man should also boast and a rich one would boast shamelessly, showing his merits to all who hail him, his fame read from the silver and gold he carries and few high lords would hide his wealth. I had loved mine.

  Gods, yes, I had. I had loved it dearly.

  But this one hid it. He is a snake, I decided, a man who enjoys the shadows and would butcher villages of innocents to silence a single voice, and never feel terrible after. At least I had, when I had had people killed, those who deserved it, and those who didn’t.

  The man seemed to know I was thinking about him and his many shortcomings, and flashed me a brief smile as he poured me another drink from a tall glass decanter. ‘Water to wash it down. It can be an acquired taste.’

  ‘I piss water, I don’t drink it,’ I informed him and he, ungraciously, did not laugh at the joke. Didn’t know how, I thought, the Palatine Hill having purged him of the ability to give an honest smile.

  ‘Are you doing fine?’ he asked dryly.

  ‘I’m not. And I’m not going to do anything you ask.’ I waited for his rage.

  Instead, he approached me and set the goblet with the water on a desk, not exactly near, but close enough so that I would be able to reach it, should I so desire. He handed me the one with the wine. ‘I do think I have an exceedingly good taste in wine. I think you might as well. A king would and should know wine from piss. And you have lived in Rome for years, they tell me, when you served with the Germani Corporis Custodies.’ He emphasized the name of my former unit and I nodded at him, carefully, wondering what he would want from me. Yet, as he mentioned my former military unit, I straightened my back instinctively. I didn’t feel like a solider, but I did react immediately. My hair was red, streaked with white, and my shoulders had plenty of muscle, still, even if I had—or age had— allowed my belly fat to accumulate. I was strong and proud still, and as he looked into my eyes, he smiled wistfully, as he probably saw a warrior sitting before him.

  I cursed him, as he had, just by uttering the name of my old unit, managed to pull me from my morose, stubborn mood and I had indeed done what he wanted me to do. It had been a very subtle retort to my obvious reluctance to help him out. I slouched no longer and he also knew I could be manipulated. Gracefully, he looked away and let me slump back and I decided I should not underestimate him. Nor should I drink too much of his wine. He knew of the time I had served with old Augustus, his daughter Julia, and the rest of the once powerful dynasty. He would know more. And so it was truly Tiberius, who had sent the man there.

  The man bowed gently as he sat, speaking softly as if to an animal to be calmed down. ‘I guessed you might enjoy this.’

  The thought that had sprung to my mind sobered me, and I hated to be sobered. Perhaps he was trying to calm me down, and perhaps the wine had been spiced with something to make it a lasting calm? ‘So, this wine—’

  ‘Is not poisoned,’ he said
with a polite laugh, dry as the sands of Judea. ‘This is pressed not far from where I used to live as a boy. My grandmother worked for the estate, and pressed the grapes for twenty years. She had a taste for a good wine, so I also knew very much about the business. I used to think I’d live there, our home, and I’d raise a winery and a family of my own. But Zeus in his indifference determined our lives would change and here I am, a former Roman slave. But I do still enjoy a good, strong aroma on a wine. This one? It’s rough, tough, arid, and a bit sad.’

  ‘A wine can be sad, you say?’ I mused with a small laugh, fully aware he was hard at work to put me at ease. ‘I shall have to trust you don’t mean to poison this old Germani, though few would weep if you did. It would be a happy day for so many men and women out there.’ I looked at him carefully, trying to catch a hint of his feelings, but I didn’t have to. He spoke plainly.

  ‘You are right, lord Maroboodus. There are still many men and some women who would rename this wine the “Nectar of Unmatched Joy” should it become your bane. And yes, I work for such men and women. But not as a poisoner, no.’

  ‘Let’s keep the vintage sad then,’ I agreed and sighed. ‘What do you want?’ I asked him, going to the point, though I knew by the ache in my body I was also afraid of the answer. He nodded heavily, as if loath to speak of it, and picked up his pen. I counted to ten as I was sampling, relishing the bitter taste. Yes, perhaps a bit sad, I thought.

  ‘I wish to speak of you.’

  ‘Of me?’ I asked, surprised. ‘What about me? You wish to know how I am doing? Didn’t you just ask that? You wish an account of my wellbeing? I’m ill. Old. I fart and it smells of ancient cabbage and I piss far too much. I should probably see the sun more, and sleep longer. I’ve not had a woman in years. Not sure it works, even, if you care. I’ve not even had the slaves, and did it only once with that terrible servant who smells of onions. Can’t remember her name either. She has buck teeth. That’s years past. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in months. Perhaps she is dead? Surely you know all of this already?’

  He shook his head. ‘I know all of this. And I know you lie, because you had it twice with the woman.’

  ‘It was the same night! That doesn’t count.’

  He chortled. ‘Like the wine, you have a story to tell. The wine over there whispers of the land it grew on, my lord Maroboodus,’ he said with a wistful smile. ‘It whispers of the secrets of the soil. It’s made up of tears and blood, they say. One can taste it, I think, the blood. And the tears, as well. The older the land, the more stories the wine has to tell. And you, like the wine, reek of old stories. And Rome, as you know, documents everything. We hoard information, my lord, and even pen down those tales we might hate and fear. I’d hear your sad tale.’

  ‘Why now?’

  His smile disappeared. ‘Because time is growing short—’

  ‘For me? For Tiberius?’ I insisted.

  ‘For both,’ he said without emotion. ‘Both, my lord, will die soon. First one, then the other, but your death, like the death of many others like you, is linked to his. One follows the other like lighting follows thunder. You know this.’

  I tapped my hand on the couch, then checked it. I let my eyes travel the fine wall tapestry of faded animals, trees, and people who looked like they had hit their heads, falling from a horse. Their eyes were emotionless, dead, and I let my eyes go to the ceiling. His words were a death sentence. He would sit there, penning it all down, and then one day he would not come up, but a soldier or two and the apartment would no longer be occupied. Had Augustus killed my best son like this? Yes. And perhaps, like it was with me, this man, or someone like him had sat down with him to pen his words down. It was their way. They loved death. We deal death, the Germani, and enjoy a proper bloodletting, the sound of weeping widows, but then, later, we would salute the enemies, grant them honor, for their valor made our valor and we shall all meet again.

  Not so the Romans.

  They will mock you in your death. They will strike down your statues, erase your name and fame, hunt your family to poverty and slavery, and read such final words while smiling triumphantly, feeling perversely superior to the poor being whose testament they own and hold in their greedy hands. They wish to dominate, to rob, to suppress, and then enjoy the deaths of their enemies in silence, alone, and such men we don’t understand. Warriors should die with honor, hailed by all.

  I squinted my eyes at him and he cocked his head gently.

  But my story was a long one. And the longer it was, the more time I had to learn of Marcus, and to plan. No king dies willingly, like a pig led to be sacrificed. No.

  And so I agreed.

  ‘You bring me sad wine from a sad land you knew,’ I smiled. ‘And you’d hear me speak of my people, men and women of a similar land? Why not? It’s far, Marcus, the land I hail from. Do you have time to hear such stories?’

  ‘I have some time spared for this. They have a room for me below,’ he informed me modestly. ‘But of course, only the gods know how much time I really have.’

  ‘Gods,’ I said. ‘I hate the lot and let the denizens of Hel hump the unfair fucks in their sodden rear ends.’

  He ignored my coarseness. ‘Gothonia? This is the land you were born in? You are son of Huldric the Goth, the lord of the village of Timberscar? In the gau of—’

  ‘Hraban?’ I asked him, naming my cursed son. I gauged his reaction and decided he had spoken with Hraban. I scowled at him, while contemplating on bashing the goblet over his head just to draw some reaction out of the statue-like scribe, but relented. What does it matter, what indeed? Fuck Hraban as well, I thought. ‘Matters not.’ I nodded and he seemed relieved, just for a tiniest moment. ‘And my father’s name was Hulderic.’

  ‘What do you remember of your land? What is the one thing that comes to your mind?’ he asked and I wondered if he tried to make sure I was not senile.

  I nodded towards the north. ‘That way, far, far away, if a jotun jumped over the Alps, a frog swam over and hopped beyond the Danubius River and a bear hiked across the thick woods of my former kingdom, there is the mysterious land of Germania. There, over the mountains and the endless hills and beyond the secrets of the dreaded Black Forest, far beyond that, over the flats of the Chauci and over the sea, the Mare Gothonium, there is a land of snow. And the one thing I remember about that land is how it broke my heart.’ His eyes looked out to the windowsill, where a bird was sitting, and I stiffened at the sight. It was a beautiful creature of yellow feathers and bobbling head, as it feasted on the crumbs of bread from my last night’s dinner. I had never seen a bird like that, I was sure, and yet, it reminded me of Saxa. It reminded me of a happy day, a similar bird that had marked our love, and a wedding feast and how I had loved her back then, when my heart had been young. Wind rustled the drapes, the bird disappeared in a eye blink and so I was left with Marcus.

  ‘Was it a woman, my lord, who broke your heart?’ he asked and I noticed he was already writing. I nodded slowly.

  I thought back and remembered the days when Hulderic and my uncle Bero had served Friednot, my grandfather. We were rulers of hamlets, lords of the woods, and had so little. Later, in deeper lands of Germania, the wealth of the many nations like the Sigambri astonished us, but in the north our wealth was jealously guarded, the clans war-like, our men harsh and unforgiving and still, we were only men. We succumbed to illness, hunger, and … love. I waved my hand that way again. ‘It was about a woman. But there was more to it than love. It was a subtle mix of many ingredients. It was greed, fear, love, fear of losing.’

  ‘You are very eloquent,’ Marcus said with a wistful smile ‘Like your son.’

  I frowned at that and nodded heavily, and continued, though with an angrier note. Mention of Hraban’s name did that to me. ‘It was also about our family and its honor. Or lack of it, rather. I wanted it all. I sought love and found it, but I honestly thought I could create a strong nation out there, up there, far away, and I w
as so young. I was like a duckling learning to paddle along and like such a duckling, I didn’t know what I was doing. I paddled into grave danger, many ducks and fucks died, and all of that broke my heart.’

  He looked out again, musing. There was a strange look in his eyes and a small, wistful smile and probably he thought of some girl he had lost, but given up for his high position in the court. It was often so with such men as Marcus. Power and love do not mix. Power poisons a man, curses love, and the gentle thoughts many of us harbor when we are still young, of a peaceful life with a gentle woman’s touch on our cheek every morning are but high, fleet clouds if we attain a position of power. Curse power, I thought.

  ‘But you loved, yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, why do you doubt it?’

  ‘Your son claims you are unable to feel love,’ he stated bluntly.

  I sat up. ‘I didn’t love him!’ I breathed hard and cursed my son. I had not known him. I had not known my wife. Thanks to Hulderic, my father, I was a Roman more than a Germani and Hraban knew this. Had we not spoken of it the day I killed Drusus, when he had me under the sword? I came home and found a family I didn’t know or trust … or love. I saw my wife die, and while my father Hulderic had fallen as I had planned, I had wanted Sigilind to survive my plan. But she didn’t, thanks to Vangione king Vago’s evil, and that was her fate. And Hraban still sulks for what I did? And he still wonders if I ever loved him? ‘Love,’ I stated hollowly and noticed I was covered in sweat. ‘It’s a deadly emotion, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, lord,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Yeah. I loved this woman. It was doomed. Of course it was. There are old stories of ancient Goth heroes who ride their brave horses deep inside the pine forests, braving vaettir and small gods of the night just to visit a grass mound where their former dreams have been buried. Gothonia is a veritable cesspit of woeful stories and tales of fools seeking out their wyrd—’