Angelus

By Susan Stumpf

His father wants him to be a great warrior, but that just isn’t who Angelus is. He is skilled with a blade, his father made sure of that, but Angelus doesn’t possess the passion for war his father does. Angelus must however, tap into his unwanted fighting skills to save what’s left of his family from the vicious Romans. While searching for help, Angelus uncovers some well hidden secrets about his family, secrets his father tried hard to keep hidden. As it turns out, it was not Angelus who was running from his destiny, but his father. Angelus must stitch together the pieces of his past and save his family, but these secrets come at a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Stumpf
• Release date: Aug 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463364871

Susan Stumpf

Susan Stumpf is multi-genre, independent author who brings a realistic gravity to her stories. Her characters are relatable and wonderfully flawed, like herself. She is an Air Force veteran and West Virginia native. Her writing is fueled by copious amounts of coffee and an over active imagination that has prevented her from ever watching scary movies alone. In between novels, you'll find her working with her husband and two children on their farm in southern West Virginia. When she's not chasing kids or shoveling manure, she enjoys movies, reading, hiking, camping, and kayaking.Look for her author page on Facebook

Book preview

Copyright © Susan Stumpf 2018

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo hand-sketched by Justin ‘Gus’ Mauk

of Claysburg, PA. Eternal Image Art

https://www.facebook.com/EternalImageArt/

For Melissa, my Samwise. People like you are rare in this world.

It was a beautiful morning, the kind where I wished I could sit here on the river bank all day. The sky was beginning to lighten, and the land was coming to life. I closed my eyes and let the cool morning air kiss my face as I took a deep breath. I sat there on the rocks and silently watched as the fog lifted and the sun crested the land beyond the river. To my amusement, some deer came walking down out of the hills to drink. I watched as they drank their fill then returned to the hills to graze. I love the peaceful early morning. I often snuck out early just for mornings like these. I had just a few precious moments to myself, so I picked up my lyre and began to play.

Angelus? I heard my sister call from beyond the boulder where I was sitting. I didn’t bother to stop playing. She would find me even if she didn’t have the music to lead her to me. It was Mila, she knew me well, better than my other sisters. We were the closest in age and she understood me more than anyone in my family.

I thought I would find you here, she said as she rounded the boulder. Only the fish can bear to listen to you play. I picked up a pebble and threw it at her.

Who sends you, father or mother? I asked, then held my breath and waited for her reply.

Both. Father wants to ensure you don’t miss training and mother is finding any reason she can to save you from it.

I wish she wouldn’t, she’s only going to anger him.

She knows you hate it, we all know, even father knows.

But he insists on me training even still.

It’s your destiny Angelus. You’re the son of a great warrior and he wants to make a great warrior of you as well.

Then my destiny is to die in aimless battle, I said standing up and brushing the river dust from me.

Angelus! Mila scolded.

What? It’s true and you know it. Resisting Rome is futile. They’ve won Mila. Rhoemetalces is dead. Rome has claimed all the land as their own. I don’t understand why father continues to resist.

He fights for the land he loves. She argued.

Why? The Romans aren’t forcing us out, they aren’t enslaving us. So why resist such a powerful army? He brings nothing but death to all who follow him into battle.

Angelus, father is just doing what he believes is right.

…and father is an old fool.

Do not let him hear you say that. She warned.

Be gone. I said to her.

I loved Mila dearly, but she knew talk of opposing Rome was a sore subject with me. My opinions varied greatly from my father’s. Rome was a dominant force and it would take far more than a band of villagers and peltasts to take them down. If father was wise he would join with the Germanians who actually stood a chance against the Romans. They were the only group I knew of to have fought against them and won. I wasn’t completely against war, just unprosperous ones. Rising against Rome meant inevitable death. Father never was a clever man. He was a great warrior but lacking in intelligence. I, on the other hand, took after my mother. I was of quick wit and had no interest in warfare. I would much rather be a herder or work in the vineyards, but my father wouldn’t have it. He was determined to make a warrior of me. Reluctantly, I picked up the now full water buckets I’d brought with me and headed back toward home.

I set the buckets of water outside the door of our shack. We used to live in a stone house, in a city on a hillside. It was where my sisters and I all grew up. War had pushed us eastward. We’ve lived here in the plains for nearly five years now. Four of my sisters were now married with their own families. Only Mila, Yana, and I still remained at home. Yana was past the age of marriage. My other sisters were married at a younger age than her, but Yana wasn’t as fair as they were. She looked like my father with her rusty hair and square jaw. Radka also took after father, but the rest of us looked like mother. My mother was beautiful. Most of our people came from the north but mother was from the east, so her hair was lighter, and skin fairer than the other women of the village. She had the lightest hair of anyone around until my sister Emiliya and I were born. She was the oldest, and I the youngest. She moved away some time ago, before we left the city, to Gallia with her husband. I hoped it was far enough east that war would not touch her there.

I started my few morning duties before training would begin and then I would come home to my evening duties. The only time I could do as I pleased was early in the morning and after the evening meal until dark. I didn’t mind work like I did training. It gave me time to think. I was often left to myself, which pleased me, or I worked with Mila. The evenings I usually spent in the vineyards on the hill watching the sunset. The orange, gold, and red sinking down over the plains chased by the fading purple was a beautiful site from the hillside.

I had my choice of young ladies to watch it with me. Callidora and Panthia were the only ones that were any fun to be around. I had more than a few choices when I decided to marry, but I had nothing to offer for any of them as dowry. I was old enough to leave home, old enough to marry, but mother needed me here. She hadn’t the strength that she used to. She’d always been a small delicate woman anyway, but she only seemed to become more frail as the months passed. She was made for city life, an easy life. She’d grown up in the city and the move had been hard on her. So many years of trading in the market had her unfamiliar with spinning her own wool and growing her own crops. Sure, my sisters helped with the household duties, but both of them would eventually marry and leave to live with their husbands. My mother would be left to do it all herself. The other women of the village were unwilling to help her, they all envied her beauty.

I watched from the fence as mother walked across the yard with a bundle of fire wood. I hurried over to help her.

I’ve got it mother. I’ll bring it in. I said taking the bundle from her arms and tucking it up under mine.

Thank you son, she smiled sweetly. I was her favorite, although she would never admit it openly. She walked to the house and I followed behind her with the wood. At the entrance something struck the back of my legs and I fell backward with a thud, firewood scattering around my body.

If you took your training more seriously you would have seen that coming boy, my father said looming over top of me. What if I were an enemy? I could have just killed you.

Then I suppose you would have to carry in the firewood yourself, I said and started gathering the pieces from the ground.

Don’t sass me boy. You need to be more aware of your surroundings.

I am aware father. I knew you were behind the house. My only folly was not expecting my father to attack me. My father was a hard man to miss. He was a large man with a rusty red beard and a cape that matched it. He was as subtle as a raging red bull. He propped the staff he’d used to trip me under my chin and made me look at him.

Trust no one boy, not even your own family.

Yes father.

I’d gathered all the wood back in my arms and I saw the look on my father’s face. He swung his staff once again at the back of my legs, but I lifted one leg and stomped his staff, breaking it in two.

Very good, there may be hope for you yet, my milksop son. I’d never been man enough for my father. I was just recently considered a man. As of my sixteenth year I was no longer considered a boy. I was seventeen now, but I could be forty and never be man enough for him. I wasn’t rough enough, never tough enough. I think with each passing birth of a daughter that my father endured, the longer he waited for a son, the more of a warrior I needed to be. That’s just not who I am. I would always fall short in my father’s eyes. We came from a long line of great warriors and I would never measure up to my father’s expectations of what a son of his should be.

I went to train as I was expected to do. It was always the same: javelin precision and sword play. I was actually pretty good at both, but as the son of a great warrior, I was expected to be the best. My lack of interest was evident. I never had the excitement and fervor the others had about training. When I was young the other boys liked to beat me, so I learned very early how to defend myself. They called me names most of my childhood. When I was a bit older, twelve I think, one boy Aramis, decided to pick a fight with me. He had underestimated me. Just because I had no interest in fighting does not mean I wasn’t skilled at it. I beat him severely and the name calling and taunting lessened. I wasn’t as big as the other boys, or as muscular, but I was far quicker than they were, and I could anticipate their every move. We were no longer children, but these men were no more my friends today than they were back then. They believed that there was something wrong with me because I liked music and poetry. I’d rather be a winemaker than a warrior. If any of those imbeciles bothered to learn how to read, they may have a different opinion.

My sisters and I were more educated than the other children in the village. That was our mothers doing. She taught us all how to read and write, something not even my father knew how to do. That made us different from others in our village. That made my sisters more prize-worthy for a husband, but somehow that same quality made me softer and less of a man. I thought knowing how to read was a virtue for any age or gender, but my way of thinking never seemed to match my peers.

At the end of training that day, father had us all gather around to speak to us.

Men, just as I, most of you have fled from the cities in which you lived, fled from your homes with your families. We have all tried to escape the brutality of Rome, but it follows us everywhere we go. As some of you know, Menius was killed and his wife beaten and ravaged on the road to Moesia. They were traveling peacefully to trade at the market there. Those Roman scum think they can come into our lands and take whatever they want. They think everything they touch belongs to them and their Caesar that sits on high. Claudius is not my king! My king is dead, and I want to see all of Rome dead as well. We will gather our strength and we will take back Moesia and make it safe to travel there for trade once again. The men around me cheered absent-mindedly at the speech. None of them using their own mind to understand that this meant certain death.

"Father there are hundreds of Romans in Moesia,