The fate of our union, p.17
The Fate of Our Union, page 17
“Trajan is very affable and high-minded,” the king proceeded as if nothing was said, “and in all of his endeavors, he acts with the utmost integrity.”
“Spoken like a loyal sycophant.” Rufus snickered. “Trajan is Ulpia Victrix, not Optimus Maximus.”
A wolf’s cry and cracking thunder brought them back to the original story.
“Jupiter thundered,” Rufus repeated a Roman augury.
“Anyway”—Sunu’s tone became grave as the wine’s effect diminished—“most Bohemians see you as a tyrant pillaging the fatherland and their freedoms. Since you won’t protect them against the werewolf and can’t protect them against yourself, I’ll do it for you.”
Landscaðo paused. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll kill the werewolf, and if they will have me as their leader, as I believe they will, I’ll take your thanes while you sit thoughtful in your fortress.”
“I’ve noticed,” Landscaðo began cautiously, “many items in my home appeal to your great taste. It would be better if I compensated you with anything in here you would like to take.” He stressed, “Instant wealth is much easier to handle than an ambitious retinue.”
“Concordia,” Rufus agreed. “Though both are corrupting.”
“I could take all your wealth, just like you did.” Sunu seized the king’s gold cup, then set it back down. “But I don’t want your Fafnir hoard. I want your retinue to return liberty and property to the oppressed—and that’s final.”
Landscaðo sighed. “All right, then.”
“Then summon your men to a Folkmoot,” Sunu proceeded.
“Very well.” Landscaðo stood up calmly and escorted his unwanted guests to the door.
On his way out of Landscaðo’s mansion, Rufus noticed a large stone plaque with the Roman motif of an equestrian tramping naked, unarmed people from an undeveloped tribe. “How can any man take pride in fighting so unjustly?”
“there he is.” The king’s standard-bearer drew the retinue’s attention as Landscaðo opened his mansion door and stepped out behind Sunu and Rufus. The men’s whispers turned to silence as they watched the heroes walk beside the humbled king, his professional demeanor concealing his distress. Landscaðo had ordered his retainers to stand nearby, but they didn’t dare come too close as Long Ears was perched, wings spread, atop his mansion.
Sunu walked toward the retinue between Rufus and the king and observed them individually. In their teens and twenties, they were German royal leaders of the Swabian confederacy, whose clans rose to coercive power through raids, Roman aid, and mercenary services. Each retainer was equipped with an armored shirt, long sword, solid shield, helm of hide or iron, and all three hundred men had horses.
One retainer, looking sidelong at Landscaðo, spoke hushed to another, holding the king’s standard. “I have a feeling the king’s closed-door session didn’t end in his favor.”
“You should be more optimistic, Blîðsean.” The standard-bearer smiled at Sunu. “I have a feeling it’s going to end in ours.”
The king halted before his retinue. “We shall assemble for a special election near the eastern gate at dawn. There, you and the summoned freemen will have the opportunity to decide whether you want to retain me as your king or transfer your allegiance to them.” Then he walked crestfallen toward his mansion.
“Hail, young hero!” A thirty-winters-old Marcomann with a thick beard and a Swabian knot walked briskly toward Sunu from the opposite direction.
Landscaðo frowned back at him, though he’d approved his entry to voice his tribesmen’s grievances.
Rufus turned to Sunu. “He’s a noble-hearted nobleman.”
The Marcomann stood before Sunu and spoke enthusiastically. “I’m Aðali, one of Bohemia’s leaders.”
Sunu asked eagerly, “Are you a member of the king’s retinue?”
“No.” Aðali had a horse, a sword, and the bearing of a leader. “I find his deeds most dishonorable, but yours I find most honorable, Humbler of the King, Straightener of the Wolves, Sunu the Slayer of the Almighty Bull!”
“Heigh, heigh, Aðali! I’m honored by your words.” Sunu was curiously exultant. “How do you know my name? Who told you about my deeds?”
“I heard from Father how you vanquished the king’s wolfskins, those misguided youths, who were sicced on Rufus and other dissenters of his ‘progress.’” Aðali beheld the ‘four-footed, seven-headed, two-winged stallion’ of whom sensational stories had been spoken; then he turned admiringly to his rider. “You’re an extraordinary hero among heroes.”
“I’m glad that I”—Sunu looked at Long Ears—“we could do it.”
“I’m glad you still believe in sharing,” Rufus quipped.
“I must agree.” A twenty-winters-old Marcomann with a top knot stepped forth from the retinue. “According to Father, you ‘bring the Thunderer’s Judgment.’”
“Boom!” Sunu chuckled.
“Ha!” The cheerful man smiled wider. “I’m Blîðsean.”
The king’s standard-bearer came forth, holding a gold dragon windsock, breathing red-gold flames. “Giwaldan.” He nodded welcomingly.
Sunu gazed at the draco as it began filling with sudden wind. Giwaldan handed it to Sunu while the retinue watched in awe.
Sunu upheld the draco as it slithered in the air.
“If you desire our service,” inquired an elder retainer with a bald pate and a stern face, “with whom, may I ask, do you want to wage war?”
Sunu answered casually, “The Governor of Colonia Agrippinensium.”
He was taken aback. “That’s fool-hardy!”
“It’s daring! Storming a village is average; storming a city is epic.” Sunu’s raised chin challenged his worthiness. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Certainly not.” The stocky vet stuck out his chest. “But do you have more men than us?”
Sunu answered confidently, “I have an entire tribe by the Rhine, and they have horses and confederates.”
“I’m on his side.” Blîðsean leapt to Sunu’s flank and placed an arm around his shoulder. “Not only does he have a better horse than the king, he also has more friends. And he’s funny.”
Sunu laughed. “And it’s a just venture: The governor’s a man of the lowest character. I’ve heard this from his own people.” He spoke of the crewmen who’d surrendered aboard the merchant ship. “‘That bribe-eater impoverishes his citizens using laws of false compassion, working for the rich while pretending to fight the rich.’”
“Whenever rulers talk of compassion, know they’ll act with a tyrant’s fist.” Aðali shook his head gravely. “Depravity doesn’t go much lower.”
Sunu continued disdainfully, “After failing to impose vice business on the Tencters and secure the hands of one of their leader’s virgin daughters, the governor and his friends abducted the three daughters and exposed his newborn twin sons.”
Blîðsean frowned. “Now that’s low.”
“Rufus and I returned Ahton’s sons, but Ahton’s daughters are being held against their will, waiting to be the brides in a forced marriage.” Sunu ended on a grim note. “Unless they are rescued before Three Milkings”—the month of May—“the cows will no longer be unmilked.”
“All right, men.” Blîðsean swung his arm. “There’s booty-to-be and brides to rescue!”
Everyone laughed and cheered Sunu’s bold ambition. “Epic venture!”
Giwaldan nodded at Sunu. “I knew, before anyone, that you were the chosen one, the one who would bring a new order to this world, the one who would free the Sons of Man from their ignorance.”
“we should propose full outlawry for the king, compensation for those he’s injured, and part ways with the retainers,” the Black Sheep advised the Red Stallion after their search for a hundred assessors led to hundreds of Bohemian villagers following the horse and heroes to the sight of legal assemblies, the Thingstead.
“You can present your case, and I’ll present mine.” Sunu rode headstrong as they approached the King’s Thing, marked by a rope around evergreen poles. Therein lay rows of raised earth for the Thingmen to sit facing a mound upon which the judge, jury, and prosecutor sat. The court was established near the fortress so the king and the Graeco-Roman faction could monitor all the peasant’s initiatives.
The king, his retinue, and invested elites gazed anxiously at what appeared to be a peasant army marching around the outstretched wings of the seven-headed stallion. Some peered over shoulders to see Long Ears and his riders, while others plowed through the disgruntled herd to meet them. By their passionate cheers, it was clear the freemen wanted the independent heroes in place of the empire-dependent king.
From this band of men, they rode Long Ears to the top of the mound, followed by a hundred assessors, followed by Landscaðo and his counsel. Sunu and Rufus trotted to the right side, where they dismounted to serve as judge and prosecutor. The hundred assessors sat in the center, Landscaðo and his counsel sat on the left, as Long Ears perched out of sight while keeping the gods’ eyes on the court.
The Assembly of Warriors, with some of their women, sat on earthen seats as unified Bohemians, not divided and ruled factions preferred by the king. They looked up at the mound, bearing spear, sword, or worker’s tool, as Sunu, invoking customary law, had allowed the freemen to be armed. Before the assembly, Sunu raised his copper horse mace to the sound of thunder. “For the sanctity of the Thing, the integrity of the Moot, let there be silence. Only speak when spoken to.”
Not one voice could be heard.
“Hearken, men of the moot, to the trial of King Landscaðo.” Grave and holy, Rufus invoked everyone’s attention. “Raise your right hand and repeat this oath, under the punishment of Tiw: I solemnly swear not to lie under oath or bear false witness and thus defile Virgin Justice, by the God who gave his Right Hand.”
Everyone swore.
“Now,” Rufus proclaimed, “I am bringing the following charges against King Landscaðo: defamation, murder, abuse of power, and misuse of the treasury.”
“Prosecution.” Sunu turned austerely toward Rufus. “What judgment are you seeking?”
The king stared nervously at the prosecutor he’d arbitrarily charged with non-compliance.
Rufus replied dispassionately, “Full Outlawry, Judge.”
Sunu turned toward the king’s bitter countenance. “Defendant, how do you plea to each of these charges?”
Landscaðo pled sharply, “Not guilty, to all.”
Rufus faced the assembly as if the fate of his “Republic” lay on the strength of his case. “As an expatriate of the Roman Empire, I am disheartened to see Germans and Celts who once fought Julius Caesar with heroic fatalism fighting each other to the benefit of a Caesar-loving king. I stand here sharing the sentiment of Vercingetorix, son of Celtillus, when he said, ‘I did not undertake this war for my own interests but for the cause of national liberty.’” Rufus’s tone shifted from circles of concern to censor of magistrates. “Under Landscaðo’s reign, the citizens of Bohemia have continued to lose the ancestral freedoms they initially lost under Maroboduus.”
Dissidents amid the assembly were making grim faces.
“Like my adopted brethren here, I lost my freedom, along with my reputation, for, to me, Landscaðo admitted, “‘I told people you gave free bread because it was sickeningly bad.’”
A sympathetic drone of grumbles accompanied the grimaces.
“Concerning my father’s spatha, he admitted about the death of Wâr, ‘I killed him with it, then made it look like he tried to kill me, first.’”
Rufus removed his black tunic, showing red hoof marks on his chest along with the king’s gold horseshoes that perfectly matched each mark. “An intelligent use of your taxes.” His tone was Cynical sarcasm. “These gold horseshoes really align with the Good.” Rufus detailed his horse assault by King Landscaðo and the looting by his twelve wolfskins on Thunor’s day.
“By Tiw, all he’s said is true,” Sunu supported. “Rufus bore no arms and gave no blows for his bloody wounds.”
“I had the chance to execute Landscaðo. Sometimes I think I should’ve invoked the Ultimate Decree.” Rufus cited Cicero’s dilemma of execution without trial. “But to straighten the crooked and whither the proud, diminish the mighty and magnify the humble, Jupiter has brought him here, before you, to be judged as natural justice requires.”
The king’s counsel rebutted confidently, “You have not presented any evidence for murder and defamation, and you cannot prove that my client used our taxes to pay for his horse’s shoes.”
Gifregnan raised his spear.
Sunu granted, “Stand and speak, your name and case.”
“I am Gifregnan, Wâr’s uncle,” he said, standing. “I was outside my nephew’s longhouse when he was beaten and stabbed to death. I heard Wâr cry defiantly, ‘It’s not for sale, and neither am I. Pain, death, and poverty will not make me comply!’ just before I heard a fight.” Gifregnan turned a glare toward the king. “I know your self-defense story is a dastardly lie! I also know our exorbitant taxes are appropriated to a demonic snake, not our community, not the common weal, as you claim.”
The king’s counsel defended, “You didn’t see this fight, and you certainly didn’t see a demonic snake.” He snorted. “You’ve diminished your credibility with this wild conspiracy theory.”
Rufus pressed Landscaðo, knowing his penchant for luxury. “Please give a detailed account of all taxes spent and received.”
“Objection!” the king’s counsel raised. “You didn’t give my client sufficient time to prepare for this financial inquiry.”
Sunu accorded, “Objection sustained.”
Rufus spoke askance. “I’ve met officials who can memorize epics of laws and poems, and you’re telling me your client cannot remember his epic taxes?”
The Cynic woman barked, “He’s no Odysseus, long enduring!”
“You’re no Homer!” Sunu reproved. “Raise your paw first, gray hound.”
Chuckles and giggles sprinkled the assembly.
“I’ll forget it, as well.” Rufus donned his old black tunic, stone gray eyes fixed on the king. “But other charges will be proven.”
Giwâron raised his spear.
Sunu granted, “Stand and speak, your name and case.”
“I am Giwâron, Wâr’s foster father,” he said, standing. “Landscaðo claims that Wâr hewed his shoulder with the spatha inside our longhouse. Conveniently for him, this happened while our family was outside and couldn’t bear witness. Still, I will never forget seeing his purple cloak from a distance leading in the pack of twelve wolfskins who were with him for intimidation—”
“Landscaðo,” Rufus interjected, “is this your story?”
Landscaðo answered, “Wâr tried to split my skull with the spatha out of hatred for me and my offer, but I moved in time for the sword to miss my head and strike my shoulder.”
Rufus had what he wanted. “Giwâron proceed.”
“As you know, the king has a reputation for blaming others for his misdeeds, so it’s no surprise that when I ran into my longhouse after I heard fighting therein, I saw my son lying on the ground with the exact wound Landscaðo described on my son’s shoulder, near his neck, as if he were the one who evaded a skull blow.”
Rufus turned toward Landscaðo, like an enemy across the field, and fired, “Landscaðo, show us the sword wound and your cloak.”
The king’s counsel fired back, “Objection.”
Sunu shot him down. “Overruled.”
Landscaðo removed his gold tunic and purple cloak. “My wife is a magical healer whose special balm erased the scar.” His shoulder appeared unscathed.
“She tampered with evidence,” Rufus mocked the magic with a wave of his hand, “if anyone believes that.”
The Thingmen laughed and chuckled.
“Order.” Sunu clapped the mace. “Bring Rufus Landscaðo’s cloak.”
One of the assessors brought Rufus Landscaðo’s purple cloak.
Rufus examined the shoulders, displaying their perfect condition, then eyed the king sidewise. “Perhaps a better excuse would have been that your magical cloak, which bears no incision, made your scar disappear.”
Sunu asked the king, “What color was Wâr’s cloak during this encounter?”
Landscaðo answered, “I don’t remember.”
Giwâron raised his spear vehemently.
Sunu granted, “Stand and speak.”
“How could you forget?” Giwâron thrust his arms contemptuously as he addressed Landscaðo. “It was white and yellow. It’s the only one he wore since it’s the only one he had.”
Many Thingmen confirmed the color of the cloak and the frequency with which it was worn.
Sunu unsheathed the spatha and reexamined a white and yellow textile strip caught in the hilt. He’d thought it was decoration. “Like this.” Sunu held out the spatha, from which the strip hung like a ray of sunlight, as the Thingmen came forth to observe and confirm.
Giwâron mocked, “The one with the worst memory in the kingdom is the king. Royal liar!”
Rufus recreated the scene. “When Landscaðo struck Wâr’s shoulder, the hilt pinched his tunic, tearing off this textile, evidence.” Then he addressed the Thingmen. “Speaking of memory, do any of you remember becoming sick after eating the bread I share with the community?”
None of the Thingmen claimed sickness, though they confirmed the king made this claim.
“The people may not challenge lies, but that does not mean they believe them.” Rufus’s eyes bore into Landscaðo. “What is the truth?”
The king tensed. “I do what’s necessary to maintain a kingdom.”
“Shouldn’t that include honesty? Or leadership integrity?” Rufus emphasized rights and virtues in a forceful inquiry. “What about life, liberty, and control of one’s property—the means to provide for one’s family? Are those necessary or not?”
“Small sacrifices are made for the security I provide,” Landscaðo defended.
“No sacrifices were made to your purple life of fine wine and spiced peacock,” Rufus rejected.
