Oathbreaker Read online

  The Roman sank to his knees, cursing me in Latin. I wasted no time and drove the point of my blade into his neck. Black blood spat all over me, the Roman gurgled and writhed, hands reaching to his neck in vain as he tried to stop the inexorable tide of his life blood from spilling to the dirt. Eventually he breathed his last. I looked up, panting like a dog to see Ketill doing the same, standing over the body of Trajianus. ‘I think that went well’, I said through bloodstained teeth.

  SIX

  Dawn the following day found me back on my own. Atop my mare I scanned the open valley around me, half convinced I would see a column of Roman cavalry galloping straight for me. But all was quiet, just the chirping of the birds and the odd gust of wind. I remember thinking how beautiful the land was; flowers everywhere in full bloom, a patchwork of colour against the never-ending tide of green. The grass each side of the track was long, covered in morning dew that glistened in the sun’s first rays. When I inhaled deeply all I could smell was the scent of summer. Life’s simple pleasures, you just can’t beat them.

  My tranquillity did not last long however, as soon I heard the thunder of hooves on the road ahead. I panicked for a moment. I was riding up a short but steep rise, a small ridge directly to my front. The hoofbeats grew louder, and my heartbeat matched them. I scanned to the left and right, but there was just grass, swaying in the breeze. I pulled hard on the reins and turned the mare to the right, then the left, frantic in my indecision. If were Roman – or any of the many chieftains in this part of the land that wanted me dead – I would have been finished.

  Pleasingly, a blood red banner with a black raven appeared over the small ridge. Baldo, one of my file leaders, and his column of one hundred cantered over the rise. Baldo the brave, he was known as. Or Baldo the reckless, as Ruric called him. He was short and generously built, with large, ox-like like shoulders atop a rounded frame. The men of his file would laugh as he cursed and wriggled his way into his mail in the mornings, but the laughter soon stopped when he brandished his axe.

  ‘Mornin’ chief,’ Baldo said, through a mouth sparse of teeth. ‘Still alive then?’

  What a stupid question, I thought. Clearly I’m still fucking alive. I bit back the retort though, knowing my irritation was aimed more at myself, and the fear I had felt until seeing my banner. ‘How was your fishing trip?’ I asked with an arched eyebrow, still trying to slow my raging heart.

  ‘Oh, we got ourselves a big’un alright. If you come up here, you might just see its head on the horizon.’ It pays dividends to be concerned when Baldo sho wed you as many of his missing teeth as he did me then. It normally means he has done something incoherently stupid.

  I walked Hilde to the top of the rise, shielding my eyes from the rising sun as I cast my gaze east. Sure enough, Baldo had snared himself a mighty fish on the end of his hook. A fish the size of five hundred Batavians, in fact. They were immediately recognisable. They wore long-sleeved shirts of chain mail, and dyed red trousers. Each man had a circular shield decorated with a black circular centre with a red ring around the rim slung from the saddle on the right side of his horse. Their long swords hung on their left, and kept one hand on the reins whilst the other held a long ash spear.

  They were led by an officer with a white plumed helmet, and I could just make out pale milky skin under the polished steel, and assumed the man wasn’t from the tribes.

  ‘Donar’s beard Baldo! You really did catch one!’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had intended for my men to be spotted by Roman forces patrolling their western border. I hadn’t banked on the fact my captains would let them get quite so close.

  ‘What d’ya reckon chief? Run like the wind or stand and fight ‘em?’

  There haven’t been many times in my life I have been speechless. Once, when I was eleven or twelve, Frida, a peasant girl who helped her elderly father on the farm my father owned, had dropped her tunic and shown me her breasts. To this day, I don’t think I have lain eyes on a finer pair. How do breasts that large and soft stay so perk?

  Anyway, I digress.

  I gaped at Baldo, giving him a dumbfounded look as I switched my gaze from his gap-toothed grin back to the five hundred hardened warriors cantering merrily down the road to bury their spearheads in our guts. ‘Would you like to stand and fight them Baldo?’ I asked, in the most sarcastic tone I could muster.

  ‘Yeah. Well, can do. Up to you ain’t it.’ Baldo shrugged as he spoke, as if we were discussing nothing more significant than dinner plans.

  ‘Right, okay. Let’s stand and fight, shall we? I’m sure we’ll be fine.’ Bizarrely, even as I snorted in ironic laughter at what I thought was my own cheap joke, the men around me readied for battle. Helmets were fastened, palms spat on as men loosened swords from sheaths. Spears were produced and handed from man to man. I thought to myself that these men really would do anything for me, and they really are stupid.

  ‘Stop! Stop, you idiots!’ I commanded in my best battlefield voice. The tumult died away, the smell of leather remained. ‘Would you really stand and fight those whoresons?’ I asked, pointing to the approaching Batavians, who had begun to get too close for comfort.

  ‘We’d fight for you, chief,’ Baldo said with a casual shrug. ‘Not much we wouldn’t do for lord Alaric, ain’t that right lads?’ A chorus of ‘aye’s’ greeted this. I admit I felt a swell of pride, the hint of a tear in my eye. These warriors, outlaws and cutthroats to a man, were completely loyal to me and each other. Whoever said there were no honour amongst thieves?

  ‘Well, that is touching.’ I said. ‘You know you men mean a lot to me too. And that is why I don’t want you to throw away your lives, fighting those bastards!’ I jabbed a finger in the direction of the Batavians. I could hear them now, feel the low rumble of the ground shaking under the impact of their hooves.

  ‘So, leg it then?’ Baldo asked.

  ‘After you, Captain Baldo,’ I bowed low in my saddle, motioning to the open road with my outstretched hand. That got a laugh from the men, and quick as the wind we turned and fled back west. Baldo, I had to admit, had done his job remarkably well. As we galloped off away from the rising sun, the Batavians were unable to follow, their horses apparently too tired to form another charge. I reconsidered my opinion of ‘Baldo the reckless’ that day. The man Ruric considered to be headstrong and rash had in fact planned his retreat from the Roman auxiliaries perfectly. Knowing he had the better mounts he had led them on inexorably, just staying out of reach, all the time knowing his men had an extra reserve, an edge over his foe. I remembered also the loyalty his hundred had shown to me, and I never forgot it.

  It was late afternoon when we caught up with Ruric and his Hundred. The Raven banners met in the centre of a wide open plain. I scanned the ground and nodded in approval at the patches of grass that were a lighter shade of green than the others. At the base of a small rise there was a whole line, maybe even half a Roman mile long and at least a spears length wide. ‘How goes it?’ I asked, eyes still scouring the land.

  ‘All you asked is done chief,’ he said in a tired voice. I suppose I must have been in my mid thirties back then, though I still considered myself a young man. I looked at Ruric and for the first time I noticed the age lines around his pale green eyes, the grey tinge his once yellow hair now held. He was old, I realised – he must have been fifty if he was a day. Ruric had been with me since I had first set out on my own, banished from my tribe for committing a grievous crime, though that is a story for another day. What would I do without him? Perhaps one day soon he would decide he was too old for the life of an outlaw, and want to buy some land and settle down to see out his years in peace. My father had done the same thing when he had passed his peak, and the old bugger was still going strong. Who would replace the man that had been my sounding board for more years than I cared to remember? True, I had Baldo and three other solid captains, but they weren’t Ruric. They lacked his calmness and his ability to offset my fiery temper. It was something
I would have to consider.

  ‘You look tired, old friend,’ I said, clasping a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m fine, chief. Don’t you worry about me. Though it’s true I ain’t as young as I used to be!’ he said, arching his back and wincing. ‘Carrying a bit more timber than I used to an’ all. Killed me doing all this,’ he motioned to the different shade grass. ‘You sure this is going to work?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, but it’s the best plan I have.’ I shrugged, trying to appear calmer than I felt. ‘There’s five hundred Batavians hot on our heels and two wings of cavalry around here somewhere. Over seven hundred men coming our way Ruric. It’s going to be one hell of a fight.’ Ruric nodded, rubbing his short beard. ‘You heard from any of the others?’ I asked.

  Ruric shook his head and I frowned. I had been expecting my whole force to be waiting for me when I arrived at the open fields I had chosen before I had journeyed to meet Ketill. To find just Ruric and his Hundred here was concerning. I looked at the sun, judging the time to be a little past midday; there was a lot of daylight left for the Batavians to catch us and force battle. I made a quick decision.

  ‘Get me Birgir. Then get your own Hundred with Baldo’s in a battle line on the top of the ridge.’ Ruric nodded and strolled off leaving me to ponder in silence.

  SEVEN

  The Batavians found us just before sundown. They cantered into the open field, their commander halting and riding slowly across the front of our line. I had the men form up, fifty men wide and four deep. The men in the front rank were the biggest of us. They were coated in mail and had solid, round shields. Each man had a single headed axe that he would use to hook atop his opponents shield and tear it down. The men in the second rank were lightly armoured, most with just a leather cuirass and each held a long ash spear, which they would thrust two-handed into chests and groins when their comrade to the front had forged an opening with his axe. The rear two ranks were a repeat of the first, so I could rotate the ranks as they tired.

  We trained at this regularly. I knew I had at my disposal the best fighting force in all of Germania. There were tribes like the Marcomanni, or the Quadi who could put vast amounts of warriors into the field, but none who could match my men’s skill and discipline in battle. This was something else I had stolen from the Romans. Their armies were not so successful because of the numbers they put in the field – for when they fought they were nearly always outnumbered – but because of their training and discipline.

  Taking on a Roman legion in open battle was of course well beyond us, but I thought we could handle a force of seven hundred auxiliari, as long as we got the timing right. I stood in the centre of my line, willing the sun to hurry its descent. We were just two hundred, I had no idea where the rest of my force were, and had arranged with Ketill for the Harii to arrive early the next day. If the Batavian commander decided to attack, we were on our own.

  I stepped from the line and shielded the sun from my eyes to scan the horizon for Birgir. I had sent him out earlier in the day to track my three missing columns. There was no sign of him, or my men. A trumpet sounded from the Batavian formation; to my dismay I recognised the three short blasts as the order to form up. They were going to attack.

  Sure enough the Batavians were soon dropping their packs to the mud and forming into a giant boar’s snout, still atop their horses. I gulped. They were perhaps half a mile off, and had already begun a slow advance towards us. I scanned the horizon one last time; the sun had not yet begun to submerge beneath the endless green sea, I knew we would have to fight.

  ‘Ruric, Baldo, to me!’ I bellowed, tightening the chin straps of my helmet. Some chieftains had fancy helmets, with gold inlay or wolf’s heads on top. I like mine to be plain, undistinguishable. It made no sense to me why some men would want to put a target like that on their heads. Men would be drawn to it, like a moth to a flames glow. It was a status thing, I thought. Insecure leaders needing their men to see them in their battle glory. I had no need for such trivial things. My armour was plain, my sword undecorated and my fingers free of jewelled rings. I had a different kind of status, forged in the blood of lesser men. I needed no decoration to remind men of who I was, or why they should fear me.

  Ruric and Baldo forced their way to my side, each man hefting a shield in one hand and spear in the other. ‘Right, my friends,’ I said, licking my dry lips. ‘Looks like we’re on our own. Keep it tight, no one leaves the shield wall. We let them attack us, and hope Ruric’s little surprises slow them down. We just need to hold out till sundown. Questions?’ Both men shook their heads, determined expressions on their faces.

  I sent them away to tend to their men and stood in resolute silence. The familiar sounds of men preparing for battle all around me; last minute pisses and the stench of rotten bowels where some men’s nerves had gotten the better of them.

  I counted the passage of time through my own heartbeats. The Roman commander – a tribune, judging from his armour and white crested helmet – rode along the front of his men, whirling his sword through the air. The auxiliaries all had lances ready – a dangerous weapon; longer and heavier than a spear, weighted at the business end, and the tipped iron point would easily tear through armour and flesh.

  They were roughly a hundred paces from our position on the crest of the ridge, and forty or so paces from the first of the traps Ruric and his men had sown in the ground. Almost too close to the first trap, I thought, for they would still be walking the horses and the rear ranks would have plenty of time to stop when the front faltered. I held my breath as the Batavians advanced, willing their tribune to spur them into a premature canter or for an over eager centurion to lose his discipline and lead a charge.

  Neither happened.

  They walked their horses into the first of the pits my men had dug. The front rank of the Batavian force – including their tribune – were lurched unceremoniously from their mounts, as their horses plunged onto the stakes buried in the pits. The snap of bone was drowned out by the screams of the stricken beasts. I nodded, silently congratulating Ruric on his fine work. The pits weren’t just deep, they were long. I thought when I’d looked earlier in the day that it was just the lighter patches of grass that concealed the ‘lilies’, as the Romans called them. The lighter grass would mark where it had died when it was cut from the earth and been left in the summer sun all afternoon. But whether through sheer luck or design I did not know, Ruric had further concealed the length of his work.

  The ditches were perhaps the length of two spears, too far for the rear horses to jump with no run up, and since their stricken comrades were blocking their path they would not get that. The rest of the force merely stood and watched as their comrades clambered from either horse or ground, remounts were called up from the rear and soon the tribune was dressing his lines for another advance whilst a party of men killed the wounded horses and dragged their corpses clear of the ditch.

  ‘They gonna jump it, chief?’ Baldo asked at my shoulder. I had been so transfixed by the carnage to my front I hadn’t seen him approach. The ditches were wide, but the tribune would be able to ride around the flanks with ease. They would however, then need to approach at a different angle. Ruric had dug the ditches along the shallower incline to the ridge we stood on, which was clever. Now the tribune knew the land was booby trapped, he would have to reconsider his plan of attack, and maybe attack up the steeper side of the slope.

  ‘I think they might try,’ I said, hoping I was wrong. Without even striking a blow we had cost the Batavians a few men, many horses, and a lot of time. The sun was kissing the horizon now, the golden yellow light turning blood orange. They had, by my reckoning, an hour to launch another assault. They only way they would get it done before sundown would be to jump the ditch and charge.

  I walked along the ranks of my men, sharing jokes with the ones I knew well, nods and handshakes with the ones I didn’t. They were mercenaries to a man, loyal to their purses before me. They wouldn’t
stand and fight if they didn’t want to, or didn’t believe they could win. It boosted my confidence to see no trace of doubt in my men as I met their eye; nothing but grim determination.

  ‘Wotan’s beard! They’re comin’!’ A man said, pointing out the obvious as the Batavians advanced at the canter towards the ditch. We all held our breath in suspense as in one fluid motion, nearly five hundred horsemen leapt over the obstacle. Time seemed to almost stand still – just the fading memory of the sun and my thudding heart remained – and in slow motion they reached the peak of their climb into the air and inevitably came crashing back down.

  With a noise like thunder, hooves slammed onto the grass the other side of the ditch. Horses stumbled and men toppled from saddles; I watched one thrown rider take another man with him on his sharp drop to the hard and unforgiving earth. The grace and beauty of their flight was shattered with the snap of bone, the howl of trampled men and the screams of injured beasts. My men cheered, loud and strong. I joined with them, seeing the sun continue its descent towards the horizon.

  Our joy was short lived, as it appeared the tribune was thirsty for our blood before he turned in for the night. He rallied his remaining men, forming them into line and cantering on to our position.

  ‘Get ready lads!’ I hollered, mainly to cover my own growing nerves. That’s the thing about being the leader, the feared warrior who men look up to and follow. You can’t ever show them you are scared. I was, of course. I have been before every battle or skirmish I have ever fought in. Everyone is and that is the reality of it, but you cannot let it show. I hauled my sword from its scabbard, the only man in my front rank not to be armed with an axe. To be honest, I have never mastered the weapon – too top heavy for me. I thrust the sword in the air and bellowed ‘RAVENSWORN’ at the top of my voice. My men joined me, the clamour was deafening.