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Luke: Slave & Physician (Intrepid Men of God) (Volume 3)

By Katheryn Maddox Haddad

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1 ~ The Promise

“Und so, my broders, dhis must stop. Ve can no longer allow da unyust Romans un our lands.”
Cruptorix’s icy blue eyes flash as he looks over the other men who have arrived from their respective villages.
“It has been vorty years since Legate Claudius Drusus came to us vith promises his people did not keep.”
The Frisian tribal chief pivots to face the men sitting where the cows are normally kept in his longhouse. His yellow hair shifts around his bulky shoulders.
“A small tax to keep da Chaucis, Batavis, und Bructeris tribes vrom attacking us vas bearable at virst. He yust vanted da hides uv a vew uv our cattle. I was yust a lad dhen, und hardly noticed da soldiers patrolling our borders. Life vent on as usual.”
The veins push out on his rugged neck and he pulls on his blond beard.
“But, dhen, he appointed Centurion Olennius to govern us. He declared dhat da hides given him must be da same size as da vild bulls in our vorests. It has been almost impossible, so he punishes us. He could have accepted da hides of da wild bulls themselves und dhat ve could have done. But alvays, he has insisted on da hides uv our domestic bulls. He is destroying us.”
He turns back toward the men sitting in the residential area of his longhouse.
“Vor twenty-two years dhey have gotten vorse und vorse. Life vor us has gotten so bad, it is now unbearable.”
The muscles in his arms bulge as he pounds his fist into his other hand.
“I have been gone vrom you vor ten years serving as an auxiliary in da Roman army. I know how dhey tink. Ve can stop dhem. Ve vill stop dhem.”
“Dhey took halv my herd of cattle yust last year,” Dieuwer shouts from the back of the room. “Called it a tax raise.”
“Dhey took all my sheep two years ago,” Jeltje says from over in the animal section of the longhouse.
Mienke stands and says nothing for a moment. Everyone knows, and waits for him. He whispers, “Dhree months ago, dhey took my beautiful vife.” He sits, and a friend on the bench next to him puts his bulky arm over Mienke’s shoulder.
Vestel stands and he, too, says nothing at first. The other men watch as his big freckled hand brushes away a tear. “My daughters, Ane und Ade. dhey took my daughters.” He sits, lowers his head into his open hands, and his shoulders shake.
Cruptorix pauses in respect for the sorrows being expressed, then continues. “Legate Lucius Apronius has become a monster, und it is up to us to put un end to him.”
“Odelegge!” someone shouts.
“Odelegge!” another bellows.
“Odelegge!”
“Odelegge!”
“Destroy dhem!”
“Destroy dhem!”
The rumble of protests makes its way out into the melting snow of the cold spring, and down to the shores of the Nordic Sea.
“Tomorrow,” the Frisian tribal chief continues, “ve vill sacrifice to our goddess uv da battle, Baduhenna, in her oak grove. She vill give us strength to do battle vith da barbarian Romans.”
“Vrom now on,” Cruptorix continues, “any time da soldiers arrive in your village, you vill dispose of dhem by vhatever method you prefer, dhen put dhem on display as a varning to any other Romans coming to collect their vretched taxes.”
Logmarr sits on the floor at his father’s feet. He looks up at the giant with a mixture of fear and pride. Cruptorix notices, ruffles his son’s hair, smiles, and turns his attention back to the war council.
“Den vhat?” one of the men shouts out with his husky voice.
“Den ve vait. Eventually, Governor Apronius vill send us Cethegus Labeo und his legion. Spend da summer in extra veapons training. Ve vill be ready vor dem. Dhen comes da slaughter und our independence.”
The leaders of each village rise. The door to the cooking area is flung wide, and Cruptorix’s wife and daughters enter with trays of clay mugs filled with ale.
Immediately, Lukvert leaves his father’s side and joins his best friend, Logmarr.
“I can’t vait vor summer to come,” Logmarr says.
“Me too,” Lukvert replies. “I’m pretty good vith da javelin.”
“My vather is having a special sword made vor me vhen I get old enough to use it,” Logmarr replies.
“I’m eight,” Lukvert announces.
“Vell, I’m older dhan you. I’m ten und going to get a real sword in two years, my vather says.”
Sigmundrr brings a long woolen cape and leather hat to his son and stoops to hook the top of the cape together. He straightens, steps over at his tribal chief, clasps hands and forearms with him, then opens the outside door to face the strong wind.
The big man grabs his son’s hand, they duck to ward off the icy wind from the Nordic Sea, make their way down a path lined with stones, and arrive at their own longhouse.
“Lukvert, go to da back und bring some more virewood,” Sigmundrr says, stoking the embers of an earlier fire on the floor pit.
“Iv your mother vere still alive, she vould have a hot drink vaiting for us. Vell, fill dhese two mugs vid milk vrom our cow. It vill be warm enough.”
Moments later, Lukvert returns with the mugs.
“Come. Sit wid me, Son. I need to tell you more uv our tribe’s history. You must remember all dhese stories.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though he misses his mother, Elke, with her gentle touch and lyrical voice, Lukvert also likes that his father is now spending more time with him.
“You know how da Romans make marks on da inside of skins vith blackener, dhen go back und say vords dhat dose marks mean?”
“Yes, sir. It’s called vriting, und dheir black marks are vords.”
“This is vhat I vant you to do some day. I vant you to vigure out a vay to put our language in black marks dhat mean vords. dhen I vant you to put our history down wid dose black marks so no one vill ever forget vhere the great people of Frisia came vrom und how brave ve are.”
“Yes, sir. Some day vhen I am grown.”
“Now, Son, dhis is da story about…”
“No, Vather,” Lukvert objects, setting down his mug of warm milk and putting both tiny hands on his father’s cheeks.
“Vhat do you mean, no?”
“Your song, Vather. Sing your song again so I can alvays know it.”
Sigmundrr smiles in approval. “Okay, my song it is.”

Tho I vander long avay
Over all da mounts und seas
To da end uv da verld,
I vill alvays dhink uv home
Und keep you in my heart
Til I hold you once again.

Lukvert sings with his father. Over and over they sing it while Lukvert swings in circles in the middle of the floor. “One more time, Vather. One more time.”
Sigmundrr grabs his son’s hand. “Come sit on my lap a moment, Son.”
Lukvert does so, and looks up in his father’s deep blue eyes.
“Son, alvays remember dhis song. If da Romans ever take you avay vrom me und sell you as a slave, alvays sing dhis song. Dhen I vill find you.”
The big man embraces his son, then sets him on the wooden bench next to him.
“Vould you like to hear about, King Volevald?” Without waiting for approval by his son, Sigmundrr begins.
“A very long time ago vhen our tribe vas very young, King Volevald brought our people to dhis land und settled. But da virst spring vhen da snows began to melt, all da longhouses patiently built by da vathers und sons vere flooded by da melted snow und vashed avay by da Nordic Sea.”
Lukvert closes his eyes and imagines bowing down to the king.
“Other dhan the flooding, King Volewald saw dhat it vas good land. So, one morning, he made a large bag vrom the hide of an elk, took it to da seashore, filled it vith sand, put it on his back, took it to da spot vhere dheir new village used to be, und emptied his bag.
“Dhen he valked back to da seashore und did it again. All day long he valked back and vorth, dumping his load uv sand on da same spot.”
Lukvert leans his head onto his father’s strong arm.
“By da time it vas dark, he vas very tired and vell vast asleep under a nearby sacred oak tree. In da morning, he rose, stretched, und looked around vor his bag. He found it, dhen another, und another, und another. Dhey vere everywhere! Dhen he looked up, und guess vhat he saw?”
Lukvert groans out an “uh huh” and his father goes on.
“He saw a hill large enough to put da entire village on, safe vrom vloods. The elves. Dousands of elves. Dhey had come togeder during da night und built up da hill vor our people.”
“Veah?” Lukvert mutters.
“So da very virst village among our people vas built, and it is dhere to dhis day. Guess vhat da name of dhat village is.”
Sigmundrr looks down at his son. Lukvert’s head falls over in his father’s lap.
“It’s been a long day, Son,” he says, lifting little Lukvert up in his arms and taking him to his cot on a leather hinge coming out from the wall.
“Just remember our history so you can vrite it in vords some day. Und so everyone vill know vor hundreds uv years vrom now.”
He lays his son on the straw mattress and covers him with a deer hide.
“Und my song, Lukvert. Remember my song.”
He kisses his son good night.
“Vather,” Lukvert whispers, his eyes still closed. “Vould you hug me?”
Sigmundrr kneels, slips an arm under his son’s shoulders, and gently embraces him.
“Vather, is dhere going to be a var?”
“Yes, Son. Dhere is going to be a var.”
“Vill you be a warrior in it?”
“Yes, son,” he whispers. “I vill do my part to protect you und all our people.”
“Vill you be killed?” Lukvert asks, opening his blue eyes.
“I vill try not to be.”
“Iv you are, I vill be un orphan. Please don’t die, Vather,” the boy says, tears now in his eyes. “Promise me, Vather.”
“I vill try very hard, my son,” he says pulling back and watching his son, both now with tears in their eyes. “Yust remember our song. Alvays remember our song.”
The next day, the big men of the village tie their long hair up into a bun on the side of their head, grab their swords, knives, and javelins, and begin preparing to defend their land. They prepare for war.









2 ~ Disappearance

“Sir, the legionnaire veterans along with the auxiliary infantry and cavalry have arrived from Upper Germanica, as ordered.” Tribune Theophilus says, his square jaw jutting forward.
“This time we will do it right and get control of those rebels.” Legate Lucius Apronius looks up at his sizeable tribune, the legate having been appointed because of his family’s prominence in Rome rather than his physical prowess.
“Where is Centurion Olennius?” he asks his aide. “Summon him.”
“That bumbling idiot,” Legate Apronius growls. “Coward. Whenever the Frisians attack our tax collectors, he runs and hides in Fortress Flevum on the Nordic coast.” He paces while Tribune Theophilus waits to one side.
Centurion Olennius enters the headquarters tent and salutes. He is immaculately dressed, the fingernails on his hands clean, and every black hair on his head neatly in place.
“Olennius, I am going to give you a chance to redeem your reputation,” the legate says, looking up at the tall, thin centurion.
“Yes, sir,” Olennius replies in a squeaky voice.
“You are to take the fresh troops from Upper Germanica and attack Fortress Flevum which you let fall into the hands of the Frisians. How that happened, only the gods know. Dismissed.”
The senior centurion leaves, and the rounded circular horn is heard at intervals calling for assembly and finally for marching.
The rest of the week, Legate Apronius spends with his tribunes as their spies report back the activities of the Frisians in various villages.
“They not only outsize us, but they also outweigh us,” one tribune reports.
“But we have numbers on our side,” the legate says.
“They are experts with the javelin and knife, preferring close combat,” another tribune explains. “Their archers are few, but good.”
“That’s fine,” the legate says. “We have many more archers than they do, and will dispose of their bowmen from the beginning.”
“They do not use cavalry much, but do have one. Our horses are no match for their black horses which are huge in bulk and weight, just like their masters.”
“We will flank them, attack in waves, and destroy them before they know what happened to them,” the legate assures them.
“The cowards will run away, and we will catch them and turn them into our slaves,” Legate Apronius says. “From hence forth, there will be no free Frisians.”
At the end of the week, Centurion Olennius returns with his troops and shouts of victory.
“The fortress is ours again,” the centurion announces two hours after returning and cleaning up.
“How many infantrymen are left?” the legate asks.
“Well, uh, sir, about half of them. But we did get the fortress back.”
“And our cavalry?”
“Their black horses are so much larger than ours…”
“Never mind. Go to your victory celebration, get drunk, then crawl into a hole somewhere.”
Three weeks later Tribune Theophilus returns to the legate’s large leather tent.
“Sir, the roads into Frisia have been completed and are ready for our troops to invade and destroy the rebels.”
“Good. Now have you contacted Tribune Cethegus Labeo of the Fifth Legion?”
“Yes, sir. They should be here any day.”
Two days later, the horn of the Fifth Legion is sounded. Legate Apronius mounts his horse and goes out to meet them where they are already setting up camp.
“One day is all they get to rest,” the legate announces.
“Yes, sir. We will be ready,” Tribune Labeo replies.
Within the week, all of the Fifth Legion with its six thousand trained Roman soldiers, along with the auxiliary infantry and cavalry of upper Germanica are on the edge of Baduhenna Wood.
“No time to waste,” Legate Apronius announces from his horse. “We will attack in the morning just before daylight.”
He dismisses his ten tribunes, dismounts and sits under a tree to wait for the raising of his tent by infantrymen.
Out of nowhere, sounds of screaming and whizzing. An arrow is shot into the tree. By the time he jumps up, an otherworldly sound is coming out of the shadowy woods.
Apronius remounts his horse and motions for the horn blower to sound the alarm.
Yellow-haired giants shouting in a shrill and haunting flutter appear from Baduhenna Wood, scatter among the nearest troops, strike down with their daggers every Roman soldier still unarmed, then just as quickly disappear back into the woods.
“What just happened?” Legate Apronius bellows.
Tribune Theophilus is nearest him and heads his horse over to his superior.
“Sir, my company is completely intact. It was the companies nearest the woods that sustained the casualties.”
Tribune Nerius reports in. “My cavalry is untouched. So is my infantry.”
“All right, Tribune Nerius. You will take your cavalry and infantry and march tonight over along the coast until you can get on the back side of the woods. You will attack at dawn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Within the hour, Tribune Nerius’ cavalry and all the infantry are gone from the main camp. He allows his men to stop and rest once they are close to their destination.
At dawn they charge at the Frisians from behind them. But the Frisians are ready for them. Those mounted on their giant black horses charge.
The Roman cavalry tries to fight back with their long javelins, but the giant blacks circle around behind them and ram the Roman horses. The cavalry switches to sabres, but they are no match for the Frisians. The cavalry survives only by taking the defensive and staying out of the Frisians’ way.
Men in the infantry raise their shields over their lowered head to defend themselves. Whenever they come out of hiding, they are mowed down. Seeing the cavalry retreat and leaving them with no support, what is left of the Roman infantry retreats also.
Still they are followed by the ferocious yellow-haired Frisian warriors, and many are stricken down.
Tribune Nerius sends his aide to report to the commander in charge of the army of Lower Germanica. Legate Apronius orders three companies of twelve hundred men to support Tribune Nerius’ distressed men and force them back into the battle.
He paces and waits.
“Tribune Theophilus, send one of your centurions to find out what is going on.”
The legate paces and waits longer. Finally the centurion returns. “They are being defeated, sir,” he reports.
“Send in the remaining infantry,” Apronius roars. “We outnumber them. How can we be losing? Send them all in.”
His pacing resumes as his remaining tribunes wait with him. He hears nothing.
“Tribune Labeo, I want the remainder of your Fifth Legion to attack from this side of the woods,” Legate Apronius roars. “Go around them or through them. But do whatever is necessary to contain the barbarian Frisians.”
Tribune Cethegus Labeo is of medium build, but muscular. He salutes the legate, dons his brass helmet, turns, mounts his horse, and bellows commands to half of his centurions.
Within an hour they are marching into Baduhenna Wood. Shouts from the crazed Frisian warriors echo out of the oak trees, across the plain to the Roman camp, and to the legate’s remaining troops.
A horse is seen galloping out of the woods and back toward Legate Apronius.
The messenger has blood smeared over his uniform, his arms and his legs. “Sir,” he says upon arrival, “Tribune Labeo begs you to send the rest of his troops in.”
“Tribune Theophilus, you will lead this charge. May the gods help you. May Mars be superior to their Oden or Baduhenna or whoever they depend on for their strength. Go, Theophilus. Prove the Mars of Rome to be the only real god of war. May his blessings fall upon you.”
By the time Theophilus arrives in the woods, the Roman soldiers and Frisian warriors are entangled, crashing into each other, stabbing, strangling, and devouring.
Theophilus recognizes many cavalrymen who have abandoned their horses in order to manipulate through the trees. Each side brandishes their weapons to defend their own cause.
Romans with their metal coats of arms and helmets. Frisians with their leather tunics, ornate capes flowing behind them, and their long yellow hair tied up in knots out of their way.
Though at first Theophilus sees Romans ducking behind their raised shields, now they take courage and lower them to fight the giant warriors once again.
The fury of the giant Frisians grows. The remaining soldiers of the Fifth Legion spring forward. There are too many. The Frisians are on the run. Gradually the roar dies down.
Baduhenna Wood is still. The only sounds now are groans of the wounded and dying.
The sun goes down. Sentry during the night at the Roman camp is quadrupled.
The Roman army is awakened at dawn, ready for another surprise attack out of the woods. It does not come.
“We are not finished here,” Legate Apronius announces to his tribunes. “There is a deserter in their village. He served with our army for ten years, then deserted.”
“I think I know who you mean,” one of the tribunes says. “He served with me. Giant of a man. Bigger than any of the other Frisian warriors I have ever seen. His name is Cruptorix.”
“I have sent spies out this morning and have located his house,” Legate Apronius continues. “Tribune Nerius, I want you to take four companies with you and attack Cruptorix’s house.”
“Will he have family inside, sir?”
“It is the Frisian command post. It will be full of their bravest warriors. Go now.”
Once more the wait. Mid day comes and still no word. Apronius sends two spies to find out what is going on. An hour later they are back.
“Complete slaughter,” they report. “All of theirs and all of ours. All dead.”
“Do not go back and pick up our dead,” Tribune Labeo, leader of the Fifth Legion, orders
“Out! All of you out!” the legate bellows. From outside his tent they hear, “How am I going to face Caesar? Twelve hundred soldiers of the finest army in the world destroyed.”
Knowing the commander of the Frisian army is now dead, and hoping his warriors have given up the fight until they select a new commander, the tribunes go to what is left of their respective companies and disappear in their tents to get drunk.
All but Tribune Theophilus. He orders his men to check among the bodies to find those still alive and help them back to the Roman camp. He stays with them.
The process is slow. He leads his horse through the woods, looking as he goes at the bodies strewn everywhere. Some in bronze armor with protective helmets still intact, some bare skinned with the knots of yellow hair coming loose from their heads and blowing in the wind.
“Vather! Vather!” he hears. “Vather, vhere are you?”
Though Theophilus does not understand the Frisian tongue, he recognizes it is the voice of a child. He turns his horse one way and the other in an effort to find the voice. When he does, he dismounts and walks slowly toward the boy.
The blond child does not notice.
As he draws closer, Theophilus realizes the boy is covered with blood. Alarmed, he rushes toward the child and takes hold of his arm. “Are you all right?”
The boy screams and backs away from the big enemy soldier.
Immediately Theophilus raises his hands to show he is not armed. “Are you all right?” he repeats. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
The boy sits on the ground, brings his little fists up to his eyes, and resumes his crying.
“Are you looking for your father?” he asks the boy. “Is that where all the blood is from?”
The boy looks up, looks all around them at the bodies, and cries once again.
Theophilus goes to one of the Frisian bodies, rolls it over so the boy can see the face, and the boy shakes his head no. He goes to others, and the boy continues to shake his head no.
Theophilus holds out his hand and the boy takes it. They continue through the woods. Whenever they come to the body of a yellow-haired warrior, Theophilus turns it over so the boy can see the face, the boy shakes his head, and they resume their search. They make their way out of the woods and follow the stream of bodies down to the seashore where the original attack had occurred that morning.
One by one. “Is this your father? How about this one?”
They go into the village where the slaughter of the last of the Frisian warriors had taken place. He lets the boy look among the bodies for his father while he quickly goes to the bodies of women and children, and turns them over so their faces do not show, or drags them behind a nearby bush.
The sun is now low in the sky. Realizing his horse has been following them all afternoon, Theophilus whistles and the horse comes trotting up to them. Theophilus picks up the boy in his arms, the boy immediately lays his head on Theophilus’ shoulder and falls asleep.
Slowly they go back to the camp and what is left of the Roman Army of Lower Germanica.
“Theophilus,” Legate Apronius says when he sees them, “are you saving the monsters now?”
“He is my slave, sir. He is my slave.”
“Get him out of my sight. I never want to see another Frisian again.”
Theophilus looks for the standard of the Fifth Legion and guides his horse over to Tribune Cethegus Labeo, his superior.
“At last the Frisians are under control, or at least temporarily so” he says.
“Yes, but at the humiliation of Rome.”
“How many did we lose, sir?” Theophilus says, still sitting on his horse.
“Nine hundred yesterday, four hundred today. We have trained cowards. That is going to change. So, I see you’ve picked up a slave. Rather young, isn’t he?”
“He’ll be more trainable. Now, I need to go to my tent if you will excuse me, Tribune.”
Theophilus turns his mount in the direction of his leather tent.
An aide takes the reins. The tribune dismounts, still holding the boy.
“Sir,” Centurion Blasius says, waddling over, looking up at his tall superior in the moonlight, and saluting. “Will there be anything you require before I retire?”
“Tell the cook to bring me food for two. And be sure to include milk.”
Theophilus enters his tent and lays the boy on his own cot.
I wonder if I killed the boy’s father. Still, we never found his body. Maybe he was taken as a slave by someone.
Morning comes. Lukvert opens his eyes and screams.
“Shhh, boy. You are safe,” Theophilus says, confident the boy does not understand his Latin, but hopeful he will his tone of voice.
“Here is some warm milk for you,” he says, handing the boy milk from the evening before. The big officer drops to his knees to be eye level with the boy. “And here is some fresh bread.”
Lukvert looks at the milk and bread, curls up his fists and puts them on his teary eyes.
Theophilus takes the boy’s fists down, and the boy punches the tribune in his eye. The Roman officer falls back, puts his hands up defensively and calls out, “Oh, please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.”
Lukvert stares a moment at the tribune and giggles.
The tribune stands, walks to the far side of his tent, and picks up a small white linen tunic. “I ordered this for you last night. Try it on. See if it will fit.”
Lukvert faces the tribune and shakes his head no.
“Ah ha!,” the tribune says. “You do know Latin after all. You can’t fool me. Probably learned it from those greedy soldiers of the greedier Centurion Olennius. Well, you certainly cannot go outside like that.”
Lukvert looks down toward his toes and sees that he is naked. He sits again and resumes crying.
Legate Theophilus kneels again. “I don’t blame you, boy. But I want you to know that I am going to take care of you until we can find your father. We did not find his body anywhere, so that means he is either alive or crawled away and… Well, anyway, you and I are going to spend the day walking among the soldier tents and asking if your father is here.
Lukvert stops crying and stands. He puts on the white tunic provided for him and takes Theophilus’ big hand as they go outside. As they walk, the boy begins to sing.

Tho I vander long avay
Over all da mounts und seas
To the end uv da verld,
I vill alvays dhink uv home
Und keep you in my heart
Til I hold you once again.

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