Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

I
t’s called the city of silence.

While no city is truly silent, Ravenna is certainly different from the many hideous pits of villainy I’ve had the misfortune to tour in my time. The city is deserving of the title, though, and by that I mean
silence
, not villainy. Ravenna’s well-built streets do not echo with the jubilant screams of the street urchins, there are few street vendors hawking their wares, and the general chaos of humanity seems strangely subdued as you cock your head and try to catch a hint of the hour of the day. You do so by listening carefully to the clues, you judge it by the way the people around you attend to their business, like I know the harried, crooked-nosed teacher’s schedules, the man who dismisses his class when it gets insufferably hot on the street corner where they sit down to learn the basics of writing and reading. I know it’s midday as he is right now screaming at his unhappy class of middle-class boys, and he is getting ready to spend his few denarii on wine and kneaded bread down the street. Also, at midday there is a steady stream of people moving around the piled streets below, as midday is the time you often meet your friends and clients, but still, even at that busiest of hours, Ravenna is peaceful.

I shake my head, taking a long, suffering breath. I’m to meet my guest at midday and so I prepare.

I stare across the room, calming my surprisingly wrecked nerves and try to focus on the
silence. The insulae—the many-storied buildings that house many families of different means—are certainly calmer than they are in Rome, the people somehow more … severe. Yes, that is right. Severe is the right word. People are afraid to show too much emotion. I don’t know why that is, exactly. It might be the effect of the long, winding canals? The water has a calming effect on the easily dazzled human mind and water is plentiful in Ravenna, the sea embraces the city, surrounds it, provides for it and guards it. Perhaps it’s the far-reaching swamps, the barren lands that surround the city that remind people they are truly isolated. Perhaps that solitude from the rest of the Roman world gives them a level of
gravitas, dignitas
? There
is
something disquieting about the sad, deadly morass that stretches around the city for miles and miles, reaching to the west like a punishment of the gods, nearly uninhabitable and ugly. That might be so, the reason for the calmness of Ravenna. I’ve seen plenty of swamps in my lifetime—and it’s been a long lifetime— and I can say they, like the vast deserts of scorching sand, the deadly northern plains of ice-white snow, and the never-ending woods filled with whispering spirits and strange animals all can change a man. The solitude and the lingering danger remind you just how small you are in the great game of life. Living by a vast wasteland brings you closer to your gods. Yeah. The swamps around Ravenna are like the deserts of snow and wastes of sand and they are god’s fine works to keep the pride of men in check. The swamp and the sea forces men to see things from a different angle to those who rarely suffer the ravages of the elements the gods gave us to get along with.

I jump as someone opens a door below. I hear voices, a woman laughing shrilly and decide it is not my guest yet, after all. It’s the short harlot who lives on the first floor, probably laughing at something that would make me cringe, like a funny-looking turd on the doorway. She is always cheerful, and I should probably admire her for it, but cannot. Not this day. Nor any other. Fun and Ravenna don’t mix very well.

Well, I’m not being fair.

Yes,
of course
people have fun in Ravenna. I’ll not pretend they don’t, even if I cannot join such fun. They go and see the plays of best Greek drama—mainly lesser spectacles than in Rome— and they drink their Falernian wine to an excess and gorge on fine dishes, and these feasts end usually by
quarta vigilia noctism,
the dawn. Yes, and they gleefully celebrate the many Roman festivals, and god Woden knows they have far too many such festivals, as most any foreign celebration quickly finds a welcome home in the Roman calendar. Any excuse to enjoy life is easily embraced, even in the sterner Ravenna. The people even go to the gladiator games set at the theater and indeed, some of the best schools for this sport are here, in Ravenna. There’s a match coming up, a fight to the death, between The Old Hand, a fighter of Cruxis, the owner of the ludus called “Spirit’s Luck” and a lesser champion of a smaller, but aggressive house, and their man is called Clion. Their sandals will stomp the dust and the stone of the theater for a while, people will cheer, but they will cheer … politely.

As I said, gravitas and dignitas govern how they enjoy life, and it is a calmer life than they might live in decadent Rome or even Alexandria.

So now I shall try to be like them. Calm, dignified, as my executioner arrives.

I was not born here, but I too, was born in the wasteland. I should know how to be dignified. Calm. I will smile politely, slouch on the couch, and keep my head steady. I’m old as shit, but still formidable, and few old Germani nobles will let their enemy frighten them into shudders and tears, when they come for him with ready swords and spears. I am Maroboodus,
the
Maroboodus, and I’ll not shed a tear as they make an end of me.

I can hear footfalls on the stairway. Perhaps the man entered with the whore, and she was laughing at some joke the man made? Perhaps. There is subdued speech, and I sense they forgot something. A man is running down, the rest waiting.

Should I run?

No.

I’m living on the top of the insula on the corner of Ninth Street and Hound Street. It’s a fine, huge place, and while many lesser creatures live in the apartments the further down you go, the guards on the next floor are always alert and young, and no fools. They will never chance the Bear escaping his gilded cage and if I did, they would pay a hefty price. They know it. Tiberius would cut off their cocks. I hear their respectful voices now, speaking with reverence to the man who arrived from Rome last night. They told me I’d have a visitor from the capital. I rub my shoulders briefly, begging for the ache to disappear, at least for a moment. It’s the stress, the forgotten fear, the long wait that pains my body, presses on my chest with a heavy foot of a jotun. I should not be surprised they finally came. I should have known better than to hope and I did know better, once. I have merely forgotten the death sentence that has simply not been put into effect.

I was there, wasn’t I? I was there when Tiberius gave it to me.

I was brought here to die, eventually, but first to be forgotten, not to be made a martyr of, to live silently under the huge shadow of my gigantic failures, by the orders of Princeps Tiberius. For long years and then even more years I have been waiting for him to finally reach out and get rid of me. Did I not kill the one he trusted and loved? His
brother, Drusus. It was a good day,
I thought. He has taken his time, cruelly torturing me those first years, sending people to check on me and I remember I feared those footfalls on the stairs back then.

Then, for many, many years, there was nothing. The stairs were silent as … a grave. I chuckle at that and wince as my heart beats painfully, like a struggling butterfly.

For years I’ve been waiting for this day, but also hoping for him to die and hopefully unexpectedly, a victim of murder or illness, and that Maroboodus would be forgotten. But he did not die, and I’ve waited, even if I have allowed myself to relax, occasionally. I’ve done so patiently, as patiently as a former Germani king, a famous warlord, and a lord of so many nations might, but they have been long years. As the years passed, I began to believe I’d live. I lied to myself, but it was a pleasant lie. The rumors said he has been going mad, growing more and more sadistic and he was always dangerous, paranoid even, though perhaps a princeps should be paranoid and he certainly has his enemies. Plenty of them, in fact. Fear and distrust are the ingredients of a life lived in the hilt of power and I know, as I was once a lord of a land. I had so many enemies I could hardly count them all, and I count very well.

I believed he had forgotten me or in his madness, decided to spare me. I let myself even think Hraban, my son had relented in his hatred for me, and made Tiberius believe I was dead.

I am a fool.

The footfalls continue. They echo and some are soldiers, as I hear the hobnails scratching the stone.

The man is nearly up the stairs. I hear no clank of the fetters, nor the tell-tale thump of a spear hitting the walls and the butt dragging on the stairs, but they could be there, nonetheless, careful, ready to kill me swiftly or patiently, depending on their orders. I gaze over the white and red rooftops and enjoy the relative silence for a few more moments. Birds skim the treetops, and as it is spring, they are happy, joyful, free.
Perhaps I’ll join them in a bit?
I have grown old here. It’s not a bad place to die, to be honest. The waiting cell for my death could have been much, much worse, like some shit-hole of a dirt-covered hamlet in the deepest Gaul, or a forgotten frontier town of the Egyptian desert, where I would have lost my sight, my senses, tottering around with flies nesting under my eyeballs. Tiberius had a great imagination when he wanted someone to die miserably, but in this one case, he let his enemy live well. I could have died like Julia did, of hunger in a sad, barren island. Poor Julia, poor girl.

Ravenna is beautiful. For that, I must thank Tiberius, even as I hate him.

I eye the windows, and curse softly. I will join the prisoners who have died here previously.  Armin’s wife was imprisoned here. Thusnelda. She did not leave, bless her bones. His son is here, and he won’t go anywhere either. He’ll die a gladiator one day. Thumelicus, they call him.

The door opens with a creak and I struggle to remain calm, my hand groping for a sword that is not there, has not been for long years.

I turn my old eyes to the man. At first, he stays out. Instead, the guards come in and I tense, despite the decision I made to stay still like a brooding king, and I try to look indifferent and spiteful, but the guards do not carry swords, but perhaps wine in amphorae and a sturdy, comfortable chair, that they set near my desk. I ogle them with confusion, and they give me a brief smile that I take as somewhat good news.

The man enters. He has well-groomed hair, brown and black with thick, perfect ringlets around his ears, though perhaps they are natural. His skin is olive, so he is probably a Greek?
Yes, a Greek
. His clothing is simple, only a white tunic, serviceable sandals, a practical belt, and he carries a stylus and ink as if they were the most precious treasures in Midgard. They are, probably, to him.

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?