Chapter 39: Part One - Chapter Thirty-Nine - Hanib

Hanib

53rd Day of Harvest

767 Karloman’s Peace

“Hanib! Hanib! Hanib!” His brother’s bellowing echoed through the street like the rhythmic beat of a war drum as Ekkehard stepped from the shadows of the butcher’s shop into the sun dappled road that ran past Vedast’s house. The usually quiet street, often empty except for a few lingering peasants, was transformed.

Ranks of Vedast’s gangers formed to Ekkehard’s left and right, armed, armoured, and in the shield wall formations Audomar had taught them, anxiously facing the better-equipped retinues of those that had come for them.

The gangers blocked the road, eight men abreast and six rows deep. The attackers stood fifty yards further back on either side, their formations at least twice as deep. The road was cut off from both the north and south. Stragglers not involved in the confrontation hurriedly took narrow side alleys, while onlookers in the street’s houses thought better of gawking, shuttering their windows, and taking cover.

Ekkehard knew the pre-battle tension well. The heart-pounding anticipation, sweaty palms, and wide pupils were sensations he had never fully gotten used to, but he had learned to manage them. He gripped his short sword firmly, resisting the urge to squeeze it too tightly as he took his place beside his brother Audomar.

“Hanib!” Audomar continued to shout, seething and pacing back and forth between the two groups of gangers. When Ekkehard joined him, he lowered his voice and said, “No sign of the bastard. He doesn’t show himself.”

“He will,” Ekkehard replied. He wasn’t certain, but he was confident. They had killed the man’s son and escaped once before. There was no way he would risk that again. He would come personally to witness the deaths of the Reubkes. But why isn’t he here already? Ekkehard wondered, a shiver of dread creeping up his spine.

More fighters trickled in from side streets and alleyways, milling about between the two formations. These men were less armoured, having arrived too late to equip themselves, and carried workmen’s tools repurposed as weapons. Another dozen men had climbed to the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, each armed with a short bows and arrows. Ekkehard spotted Emich among them.

“Emich!” Ekkehard shouted, “What are you doing here? Where is Auriana?”

“I’m sorry,” Emich shouted back, pointing up the northward road.

Ekkehard tried to peer over the lines of fighters but couldn’t see what Emich was pointing to. He found an empty wooden crate by the butcher’s shop door and stood on it, gaining an extra foot and a half of height to look over the formations. From this vantage point, he saw his enemy more clearly: their tightly packed shield wall and the array of coloured cloaks on their backs; the red of the count, the yellow of the commandant, the white of the marquis, the teal of the prefect, all gathered amongst the two-toned grassy-green and mustard-yellow of Hanib’s own retinue. A similar force waited to the south. At least three hundred men had trapped Ekkehard and the others along the road past Vedast’s house.

At the back of the northern ranks, a small number of mounted men were slowly approaching. They were the commanders of this little army. He didn’t know any of them personally, but their attire revealed their ranks: the count, the commandant, the marquis, and the prefect, all here to witness Hanib’s justice. The slimy, bloodthirsty nature of the higher nobles made bile rise in Ekkehard’s throat. We are the day’s entertainment, he realised.

Spotting Hanib at the head of the procession, Audomar raged, screaming the man’s name one last time with such force that the horses, 150 yards away, were startled, causing their riders to struggle for control. Ekkehard might have felt his brother’s anger, but his attention was drawn to the pair forced to march before Hanib’s silver-maned horse. Arms bound behind their backs and dragged along by two of Hanib’s thugs were a man and a woman. The man was Billung, one of Vedast’s enforcers. The woman was Auriana.

“No.” The word squeaked out of Ekkehard’s now barren mouth as his throat closed and he struggled to find any breath. Audomar spotted her too and turned to Ekkehard his face aghast.

“Ekkehard…” Audomar said, “I am so sorry.” Ekkehard shook his head, his paling features begging his brother to be silent. He needed to collect his thoughts. Hanib had the woman he loved. Hanib, who was responsible for the deaths of his child, his mother, his grandfather, and many of his siblings. Hanib who had ordered murder over something as trite as a land dispute. Hanib, whose son the Reubkes had killed, now had Ekkehard’s pregnant wife in his clutches. He needed to stay calm and collected, to think of a way to save her. She wasn’t dead yet. Even if Audomar spoke as if she was, she wasn’t. He could still save her. He had to.

When Hanib and his entourage pulled up the reins of their horses, the two men dragging the captives tugged their ropes furiously, throwing the pair to their knees, out of Ekkehard’s view. Frantically, he stood on tiptoes, stretching for a few extra inches to see over the enemy lines and to set his eyes upon his wife again. He feared that if he lost sight of her for too long, fate would snatch her away.

Hanib nodded to an officer on foot. “Make way,” the man bellowed. Two men in every row of guards moved to the side, creating a channel through their lines, revealing Auriana and Billung once more.

Ekkehard jumped down from the box and quickly began forcing his way through his gangers’ lines, trying to reach her. Before he made it to the front, one of the guards thrust the tip of his spear through the back of Billung’s throat, causing him to gag on the steel. The man did not hurry to dislodge the blade, prolonging Billung’s agonizing final moments. He struggled, twitched, and spasmed before finally slumping to the ground.

Only then did the executioner pull his weapon free and turn it toward Auriana.

Ekkehard’s heart seized, his pulse thundered, and his lungs shrivelled as terror clawed through him. He pushed through the last line of Vedast’s men and screamed, “Wait!” so loudly that he felt the exclamation tear at his throat. His voice echoed down the road like a torrent, startling the spear-wielding murderer, who turned his attention to Hanib. Hanib’s interest was piqued, and he waved the man off, who backed away from Auriana and took his post at the side of the road.

He felt a fleeting moment of relief, though it didn’t last. He had bought his wife and unborn child a few extra seconds. He needed to make use of them. He couldn’t waste this chance. He swallowed hard; the act was painful, his torn throat stinging.

“Which one are you then?” Hanib called, eyeing Ekkehard arrogantly from atop his horse.

Ekkehard had only glimpsed Hanib a few times in his life. Some of those times were before the war, when he was a child, on the rare occasions his father and Hanib met in the markets of Hirsau. The other sightings were always from a distance, whenever Ekkehard’s farm duties took him to the border of the Agilolfing land. This was probably the closest he had been to the man since he was ten years old.

In his mind, Ekkehard had created an image of Hanib. He had been an ominous, almost mythical figure, a caricature of villainy from a child’s storybook, lurking in the shadows of his dreams. Ekkehard imagined him as a giant, insurmountable and mightier than any man. He had to see Hanib this way. The man had stolen his home, killed his family, and murdered his baby boy, Cheldric. A mere man couldn’t be responsible for all that. Hanib had to be a devil, a great evil from the times before Karloman. Yet, here he was, just a man after all.

Hanib wasn’t a young man. He was in his late fifties, perhaps even his sixties. His face was cragged and dour, his eyes a mix of dark and pale with a lingering coldness. His armour, moderately lavish, was typically southern, lighter and less padded than that of the northern lords. It sat loosely around his shoulders, which may have narrowed with age, and tightly around a midriff that had grown. He sat almost indignantly in the saddle of his horse, both hands holding the reins in his lap. A sword hung from his belt, but he hadn’t drawn it. He looked impatient. Disinterested. Ekkehard was disgusted to think that the man might even be bored.

“I am Ekkehard Reubke,” Ekkehard called back.

“Ahhh,” Hanib exhaled, leaning back in his saddle. “The second son. The apostate himself,” Hanib said, turning to his fellows. “This is the one, my friends. The one who led his family into the clutches of damnation.” The three lords with Hanib nodded, murmuring among themselves. “Thank you, Ekkehard,” Hanib shouted, turning his attention back to him, “for saving us the trouble of rooting you out. Will you save us all some time and hand yourself and the rest of your heretic family over?”

Apostate, heretic. It hurt Ekkehard to hear those words said so venomously about him. He had always imagined that was how his neighbours, not just the Agilolfing but all the minor nobles and citizens of Hirsau, spoke of him. It had always been his imagination before, as no one said it openly to him, keeping the comments behind his back. Hearing it finally out loud and in the open brought back a decade of shame, flooding him in an instant.

He shook his head, gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists. He couldn’t wallow in his past failings. Auriana needed him. “That is my wife,” Ekkehard said, indicating her. “I demand you release her.”

Hanib laughed, a deep, harsh, throaty sound that erupted from him as he lurched back in his saddle. His accompanying lords chuckled in turn. “You demand!” he echoed. “I don’t think you’re in any place to be making demands, Reubke.”

“You have many men with you,” Ekkehard called back. “That is true, but we have men too. If it comes to it, there will be blood on both sides. Give my wife back to me, and we can talk this over. Refuse, and many die this day.”

“Many more of yours,” Hanib spat back, his voice low, its timbre reverberating with malice.

Ekkehard had no immediate response, and the two men locked gazes across the hundred yards that separated them. The air grew thick and heavy with anxiety, infecting the soldiers on both sides. Discontented muttering and uncomfortable shifting rippled through the awaiting warriors.

“We don’t have to do this,” Ekkehard muttered under his breath. Despite all he had suffered at Hanib’s hands, Ekkehard was still surprised by his vileness. Something in Hanib’s tone, his demeanour, the way he arrogantly remained in his saddle, looking down on the men who would be doing the dying for him, sickened Ekkehard and left him bereft of hope.

“You say something, boy!” Hanib called back.

“We don’t have to do this!” Ekkehard repeated, raising his voice so all could hear. He had little chance of convincing Hanib, but perhaps he could appeal to the nobles and their retinues. They had no reason to die for Hanib’s greed. “We don’t have to fight. Nobody has to die.”

“Someone has to die,” Hanib argued coolly. Ekkehard looked at his feet, then took a deep breath before raising his head to address the nobles at Hanib’s back.

“And what of you, my lords?” Ekkehard called to them. “Are you each so eager to sacrifice the lives of your men for the ambitions of one you hardly know?” Hanib’s cragged face scrunched in offense, as if struck by a bad smell. He cast his gaze over his shoulder toward the nobles. If he had tried to hide his contempt, Ekkehard had seen no sign of it.

One of the nobles, a slender man with contemplative features, dark hair, and a pencil-thin goatee, held Hanib’s accusatory look. He wore no armour, instead dressed in fine and elegant obsidian black robes trimmed and tasselled in luxurious teal. Unblinking, the man considered Hanib before turning his eyes toward Ekkehard.

“If you expect my lords and me to shirk our duties on the plea of a heretic,” the man said calmly, “then you are quite mistaken, Sir Reubke.” Hanib’s gleeful face whipped around, and he bared his teeth at Ekkehard. “I encourage you and your family to turn yourselves over to us at once. Otherwise, it will be violence and death for all these men gathered here today.” He extended an arm, gesturing at Vedast’s gangers.

“Apologies, my lord prefect!” a new voice called out, drawing everyone’s attention. “But the duty of dispensing justice in the city of Werth is mine, not yours!” To Ekkehard’s surprise, the speaker was Cnut, captain of the guard, who had emerged from a side alley into the space separating Vedast’s gangers from the nobles’ retinues, six other purple-cloaked and heavily armoured men at his back.

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“Captain Cnut,” the prefect greeted the new arrival, “I was not expecting to see you here today.”

“I did not expect to be here,” Cnut replied, looking from the gathering of nobles to Ekkehard and back again. Ekkehard shot the man a grateful smile. His honour had refused to let him stand by and let this injustice pass. When Cnut noticed the trembling Auriana, forced to her knees before Hanib’s mount, he looked back at Ekkehard and mouthed words Ekkehard couldn’t quite make out. “I’m sorry,” Ekkehard thought they might have been.

“Nor did I expect,” the captain continued, turning to face the nobles once more, “to find so many armed and armoured men parading about the streets of my city. Whatever is going on here, I will not abide it. You are all to disburse at once.”

“You come to the defence of this heretic!” Hanib raged.

“I come to the defence of nothing but peace and order,” Cnut shot back. “Which, as far as I can tell, didn’t need defending until you and your men arrived, my lord.”

“Peace and order!” Hanib echoed furiously. Before he could say more, the prefect raised his hand to silence him and interjected.

“My good captain,” the prefect said, “as you well know, I am prefect of these lands. My word is law. If I give the order to have Sir Ekkehard and his family executed, then you are obliged to facilitate that order.”

“With all due respect, my lord prefect,” Cnut replied with a bow of the head, “that is not true. The captain of the guard does not answer to the prefect, only to the governor. It is the governor’s word that is law within the walls of this city, not yours.”

“True. But the governor answers to the count, who answers to the marquis, who answers to the commandant, who answers to me. So, as you see, your point is moot. In the end, it is my order that will be followed.”

Cnut shook his head firmly. “You and I both know that the Family’s word is clear on this matter. The duty of the captain of a city’s guard is to the people of that city, to maintain peace and order, regardless of who threatens it. It is my authority to enforce peace as I see fit, unless the governor orders otherwise. The governor is not here, and I see it fit to bring this farce to an end, and so again, I order you all to disburse at once!”

A silence prevailed as Cnut’s words lingered. There were murmurs, even some sniggers from the ranks of Hanib’s supporters, but no one acted. Cnut’s presence had stolen some wind from Hanib’s sails, and Ekkehard saw it left the man seething.

He took the moment to check on his wife, his eyes meeting hers. They were tear-filled and desperate, but a small hint of hope lingered in them, a hope he now shared. She had brought about that hope. She had managed to inspire such loyalty in the captain that he was now risking his position, maybe even his life, to see her brought safely from harm’s way. His wife was a marvel, and he had been so lucky to meet her and to be granted her hand in marriage. He loved her, longing to sprint across the battlefield that separated them, to embrace her and never let her go again. His feet even twitched at the notion, and he had to fight to hold himself in place.

“You bring half a dozen men with you, and you think to command us, you jumped-up peasant!” Hanib snarled. “There will be a new captain of the guard by day’s end, I promise you that.”

“Sir Hanib!” another of the nobles snapped. The man was the most heavily armoured of the lot, having come prepared for battle. A yellow cloak hung from his shoulders, and a matching plume sported from his tall helmet, marking him as the commandant. “While that may very well be true, for now, this man is the captain of the guard, and you will show respect for his office while you are in my presence.”

That’s it, Ekkehard thought to himself. The commandant, whose guards had always been the most reasonable in the city, was speaking against Hanib. If Ekkehard could win the commandant over to his side, it would be enough. Hanib could not deny the commandant’s authority, and even though he was second to the prefect, no prefect would dare be seen openly dismissing their second-in-command. This might buy him time, and time was all he needed.

“These men are heretics and murderers!” Hanib exclaimed.

“Lies!” Ekkehard bellowed back, arresting the attention of all.

“You killed my son!”

“Yes!” Ekkehard admitted, “because you sent him to murder my entire family!”

“What is he talking about, Sir Hanib?” the penultimate noble asked, the white-cloaked marquis.

“I’ll tell you what I am talking about, my lord!” Ekkehard shouted before Hanib could spin any more webs. “I know not what deceit this vile wretch has plied you with, but I will tell you the truth of it. My brothers and I did kill Ruadbert Agilolfing, Hanib’s son, and I am an apostate, though I am no heretic.”

“Rubbish,” Hanib bellowed, but the prefect raised his hand to silence the man.

“The abbot of Hirsau himself affirmed this man as a heretic,” Hanib protested.

“Silence!” the prefect snapped. “I will hear what this man has to say.” Hanib’s resentful face dropped, and Ekkehard could see him squeezing the reins of his horse so tightly that the leather groaned in response. “Go on, Sir Ekkehard,” the prefect instructed.

Ekkehard felt his shoulders loosen while his heart raced. At last, he had a chance to tell his side of the story. At last, someone might listen. He could not waste this opportunity. His throat went dry as he tried to find the words to tell his tale. His eyes scanned the ground frantically as his mind whirled, trying to prepare his inner orator for the greatest debate it would ever face. He raised his head and faced his audience.

“My lords, thank you for hearing what I have to say,” Ekkehard began, while Hanib spat out of the corner of his mouth. “You do not know me, nor my family, and so I will forgive you all for your ignorance of our plight. I am the second son of my family, and like many second sons, I was raised to join the priesthood. Then the war came, and I fought for our emperor against the Merchant Rebels.

“In that war, I lost my father, but I also lost my faith,” he paused, letting the words hang for a moment, giving the nobles time to process them, a false admission to prepare them for the tragedy to come. If he was to convince them, he couldn’t simply tell them the truth. He needed to tell them a story, one they were invested in, one with a villain to despise and victims their honour would demand they champion. “Not in our gods or our doctrine, but in myself,” he continued

“I did things in that war, things I had to do to survive, things I am ashamed of, things that made me feel unworthy of the robes and the temples.” His tone had been stern and strong up to this point, but he needed his audience to feel for him. He softened his tone and croaked his voice as he said, “How could I shepherd the souls of men when mine was so blackened? Do you understand me, my lords? I could not do it. I would have been living a lie if I preached to others that they must abide by the laws and commands of our gods when I had failed utterly to do so myself.

“So, upon my return from the war, I forsook my oath to join the priesthood and was rightly branded apostate. I was ostracized and pariahcised. That much I deserved,” he hoped this small admission would give the nobles a reason to trust him. He was too nervous now to check their expressions and turned to pace before the enemy lines.

“That did not bother me,” he continued. “Solitude was fine with me, and I lived peacefully enough on my family’s farm. I even met the beautiful woman you have kneeling before you,” Ekkehard said, gesturing toward Auriana. He looked at her and gave her a bittersweet smile. “Together we had a child,” he told the lords, letting his voice falter a little as he channelled his grief. “My firstborn, Cheldric. Do you remember Cheldric?” he directed the question to his wife. “A beautiful boy, wasn’t he?” He went quiet again as his eyes turned glassy, and he wiped away a tear.

Ekkehard took in a deep breath and composed himself, letting his cadence return sterner and tinged with venom. “When my boy was little more than a cycle and a half old, that is when Hanib’s envy came for my family. Two dozen men raided our home on his order, led by his son. They raped and murdered!” Ekkehard bellowed the accusation, directing it directly at Hanib who fidgeted in response.

“My mother and grandfather, both dead, several of my brothers and sisters too,” Ekkehard said, turning back to the nobles. “Worst of all, my own son and my brother Audomar’s daughter, only six years old, were burned alive within the kitchen furnace.” He did not emote for these facts, instead saying them in a monotone voice and staring unblinking at those gathered.

“Why were my family and I deserving of this fate?” Ekkehard asked. “Because this man!” Ekkehard screamed, marching toward the lines of his enemies and pointing his blade at Hanib, “this man spread lies about my family. We had refused to sell our lands to him, and so he conspired to steal them with slander. He had us named heretics and sentenced to death without a trial.”

“And who is this man, hmm?” Ekkehard demanded of the waiting soldiers and their commanders. “Do any of you really know him? I do. He is a covetous wretch who was not satisfied with his lot in life despite his privilege. He always wanted more, and when another would not give it, he sought to take it from them. He perverts our laws, our faith, to his own ungodly ends. He named me heretic, but he is the only heretic I see.”

“We fled our home, those few of us who still lived, and came to build a new life here, hundreds of miles from our lands. He has no doubt already settled them, and yet, despite having gotten everything he wanted, he has hunted us even here.” Ekkehard pointed his blade menacingly at Hanib. “My lords, I beseech you, do not become agents of this man’s greed.”

“I ask that you grant me one simple boon, one which my family and I were denied before.” This was it, his final plea. He had to be reasonable. He could not demand too much from the nobles lest he slight them. He knew what he needed, and he shouted the words with such conviction his chest shook with the effort. “I demand a trial! A trial so that the truth can be revealed and Hanib’s crime exposed!”

All eyes turned to Hanib. He shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. “You can’t seriously be listening to this trite,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Is it true?” Commandant Hesso asked.

“Of course, it’s not!” Hanib spat back. Idiot fool, he thought but wisely chose not to speak the words. What is wrong with these people, he asked himself. Why are they entertaining this blasphemous wretch? The Ruebkes should be dead already, and this dithering and delay were an insult to him. “These men are murderers and heretics,” Hanib repeated, “they should be put to death here and now as the emperor’s justice demands.”

“So, you say,” the commandant retorted, “but what proof do we have of this?”

“They have already been affirmed as heretics by Abbot Ren of Hirsau, and the governor himself signed their warrant of execution!” Hanib barked in frustration. “What more do you want?”

“But was that warrant issued without trial?” the commandant asked. Hanib scoffed. Hesso was a prig, clearly looking down on Hanib for being a foreigner. The northerners hated the southerners; it was well known. The bastard was letting his bias blind him to his duty.

“There was no need for a trial,” Hanib informed the fool. “Abbot Ren was already familiar with the family, having visited their lands many times. He knew there was heresy in their blood, and the governor needed no more than his word.” The commandant leaned back on his horse and tutted, his dissatisfaction echoed by the murmurings of others. “I demand that you order the execution of these men at once!” he shouted.

“I don’t know how they do it where you are from,” a voice from across the way called. Hanib turned to see it was that loathsome captain again. Hanib squeezed his hands so tight his knuckles turned white, and he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from berating the jumped-up swine. “But here, in the north, we respect the law, and its processes.” The captain turned his attention away from Hanib and to the other nobles. “If the Ruebkes have not had a trial in the south, then, my lords, you will agree, they should have one here, in the north.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, good captain,” Prefect Patherga responded.

“You jest, surely?” Hanib exclaimed, horrified that a man of the prefect’s stature would allow himself to be outplayed and manipulated so easily by a common peasant.

“I do not,” the prefect replied with arrogant calmness. “And if what you say is true, then you have no reason to be concerned. If Sir Ekkehard is a heretic as you say, the trial will determine that.” He could not believe it. These northern lords are so lost. Are lands so distant from the capital devoid of direction, Hanib wondered. He needed to do something, to save the fools from themselves. But what? He had no authority, no power to act.

“Do not do this,” Hanib hissed through gritted teeth. The prefect narrowed his eyes in response.

“Do you presume to tell me what to do, Sir Hanib?” the prefect asked, his voice soft yet threatening. Bile caught in Hanib’s throat as he held back the torrent of venom building there.

“My friends,” Count Skane of Fyn interrupted, “I have only known Sir Hanib for a short time, but I have found him to be an honest man. If he were not, I would not be allowing my son to marry his daughter. If he claims these men have been declared heretic, I believe him.” At last, a voice of reason among these feckless gods, Hanib thought.

“Thank you for your thoughts,” Patherga responded, dismissing the count, “but my mind is settled on the matter. A trial will be held.” The grimace on Hanib’s face pulled his skin tightly, hurting him a little. “Sir Ekkehard!” the prefect called to the heretic, “if I permit you the trial you ask, will you turn yourself over to the care of the city guard to await its outcome?”

“If you agree to release my wife and the freedom of my siblings,” the little bastard replied, demanding far more than he was due. The prefect thought on the request. Hanib wasn’t surprised when the soft-hearted and weak moron agreed.

“Very well,” the prefect declared. “Sir Hanib, return the man’s wife to him, if you would be so kind.” The prefect gestured toward the woman still kneeling before his horse. Hanib glared at Patherga, and it took him several moments to compose himself, the urge to draw his sword and strike the man nearly overpowering.

“As you command,” Hanib eventually replied with great effort, his jaw clenched so tightly the words were partly muffled. He climbed down from his mount and walked toward the guard who held the woman’s leash. He snatched it off the man and tugged the rope, pulling the woman forward onto her belly. She yelped like a dog. He tugged the rope once more. “Get up,” he hissed at her. She stared daggers at him, the arrogant bitch. She should be grateful, he thought, I ought to pluck those eyes out.

She scrambled to her feet and followed him as he led her forward. He stopped just at the back of the first line of assembled men. Some of them, those wearing the cloaks of other lords, looked upon him with disdain. He caught sight of his officers among them. He raised his chin and then nodded his head. Hanib understood the message: we are with you, it said.

He looked down the channel in the little army to the waiting heretic, and a thought crossed his mind. The thought formed on his lips and became words, said quietly, just for him and the heretic. “You killed my son.”

Hanib spun on the spot, drawing his sword as he went. The steel flashed across the woman's neck, the wet sound of metal striking flesh following in its wake.

Ekkehard heard a rush of air as the last breath Auriana would ever take escaped her. Her eyes went wide, desperate pleading within them. A hand darted to her throat as she tried to stem the tide of blood. It was no use; the cut was so deep that as she retched and choked, her head lurched backward and the wound in her neck opened wide, tendrils of flesh being pulled apart like breaking threads. She dropped to her knees and then fell to her side.

Ekkehard didn’t even realize he had killed the first man. By the third, he was lost to the world, consumed by naught but blood, screams, and broken dreams.