#brenus

[yubelvt]

brenus

[reluctantmonk]

Brenus: King of Space, preview

Introduction

Our Grand Galactic Republic spans a great many worlds and a great many diverse peoples. Our conquest of the Polains brought their love of theater and philosophy into our culture. Their great works of sculpture and bronzework are constantly on display at the Capitol. The decimation of the Phoenetics solidified our place as the economic powerhouse of the galaxy. And yet, there is a demographic in our Grand Republic that very few academics talk about. Be they historians, archaeologists, philosophers, or statisticians, there is a large population in our Republic that has largely escaped scholarly scrutiny. I am speaking, of course, of the Helvetia culture.

Little has been written about the history of these people who exist on the fringes of our vast Republic and beyond. This is probably because they write very little about it themselves. By and large, the Helvetia have developed an oral tradition. For them, as far as I can tell, writing is largely an affair they have begrudgingly adopted for dealing with the outside worlds. They are, after all, a very insular culture.

It is for this reason that very little of what I am about to write can be traced back to contemporary sources. In fact, the consensus among modern historians and archeologists is unsure if Chief Brenus, the protagonist of the forthcoming tale, ever existed at all. Many think that the legendary character of Brenus is the amalgamation of several great Helvetia heroes. Others think Brenus was a real hero, who did a decent amount of the great deeds attributed to him. Naturally, there are others still who contend that the rabid barbarians of the Helvetia could never have fielded a leader of such impact. I am writing this introduction to assure my readers that I am indulging in none of this controversy.

So let me be clear: much of what you are about to read has little basis in hard provable fact. This work delves into myth and legend as much as it does concrete history. In fact, as many critics will no doubt point out, this work gives more credence to the myth of King Brenus than actual history can support. I do not dispute these criticisms.

So let me be clear about what this volume is, and what it is not. It is most certainly not a literal account of history. This is much more a book about mythology than it is about history. Chief Brenus would have to have lived for over one hundred years for all that follows to be true. It is my firm professional opinion that Brenus, the lead character of this story, either did not exist in the way he will be talked about in this story, or he is the amalgamation of several people throughout the history of the Helvetia people combined into one super hero for the sake of convenience.  

In order to unravel this mystery, I did something few historians do: I actually talked to people. I traveled across the galaxy to the dozens of  mountainous worlds, each of which claim to be the birthplace of the Historical Brenus. However, even if one admits that Chief Brenus was a real person at some point in history, the discussion quickly becomes fantastical in terms of what this mythic chieftain actually went through in terms of the historical record. In the interest of academic honesty, I will offer my own opinion about what about Brenus is myth, and what is fact. The facts, as far as I can tell, are as follows:

1. At some point, there was a prominent Helvetia chieftain named Brenus.

2. There have been famous Helvetia chieftains who were slave gladiators for the Republic.

3. At least one of these Helvetia gladiators was freed, and lead a large rebellion against the Republic. This person may have been named Brenus.  

When one is assessing a culture who largely spurns writing, most of what one has to work with is the glaring omissions in their history. Basically, where our history is silent, and where their oral tradition speaks, there is some hint of truth. However, I fell upon a particular stroke of fortune while doing the research for this book.

The Helvetia, as I have said, have a strong oral tradition. And as I was researching these people, I came upon an old Helvetia grandfather who was willing to retell the story of Brenus the Bold to me. And after that, I found another old Helvetia grandmother who would tell me another, totally contradictory story about High Chief Brenus.

I could go on for page after page about the difficulties involved with trying to record a firm narrative of the Helvetia people from the diaspora to the Republican period. But none of this is relevant to this volume. That is not how I wrote this book.

This is not a work of history, although it is largely based on the oral history told to me by the old Helevtia grandfathers and grandmothers I encountered during my research. This is not a work of pure mythology either because much of what I have been told and have written into this book is part of this oral history and, in some cases, fits with the written records of the Republic from those times. So, in the interest of academic honesty, I will talk about who Brenus is.

High Chief Brenus is equal parts myth, legend, and history. As I have said, there is little doubt that early on in Helvetia history there was at least one influential leader named Brenus who did some of the things described in this work. Other parts could simply be total fabrication. This book is largely an attempt to put all three of these things together into a coherent narrative. Most accounts hold that Brenus rose from a humble slave in the mines of Thracia, became a famous gladiator, won his freedom from the cruel and foppish senator Crassus, and through a series of adventures went on to unite the free Helvetia against the encroaching forces of the republic. The details get pretty fuzzy beyond this bare bones narrative.

My scholarly findings on this subject have been published in several professional journals. My essays have explored many interpretations of the Brenus myth and how much of it can be attributed to actual history. This volume, however, I consider a work of historical fiction. This is an unabashed tale of the Myths of High Chief Brenus unconstrained by the harsh reality of history. While I have done my best to adopt the voice of all those old Helvetia grandmothers and grandfathers who told these tales to me, on occasion my own voice peeks through out of narrative necessity. Transcribing an oral tradition onto the page naturally involves some artistic license. Still, I have done everything in my power to bring the tale of Chief Brenus to life as faithfully as I can. Just remember, dear reader, that this is largely a work of historical fiction, but one that attempts to capture the spirit of the greatest figure in the Helvetia tradition.

Gnaius Pliny

Anthropologist

Long before my lord Brenus became king of the five tribes, before the fall of the Great Empire, my lord was simply a man among the worlds. Born into slavery at the cruel hands of a wealthy Patrician, my lord fought both man and monster and carved a path of glory and death that lead to the ashen throne of my people.

In those days, the Republic ruled over the worlds of the five tribes with an iron fist. For centuries the Republic demanded tribute from the people in the form of money, minerals, crops, the crafts of our famed artisans, and ultimately the very labor of our people. In exchange, so they told us, they provided us with the protection and support of an empire that spanned half the Galaxy. They gave us protection we did not need. They gave us culture we did not ask for. They gave us laws that oppressed us, and ignored the laws we had made for ourselves. And in exchange they demanded our abject subjugation.

After three hundred cycles of this oppression, my Lord Brenus was born. His mother was a slave to Senator Verus, who oversaw the great grain farms of Cisalpine Four. At the age of five, my Lord was sold to Senator Crassus of Thracia. There he was made to work in the darkness of the mines, extracting titanium, gold, and iron from the cold depths of that cruel world. It was not until he was a man that my Lord saw the sun again.

The mine forged Brenus into a strong man. His mighty arms rippled with muscles from swinging his pick against the solid rock. His chest grew broad and hard from pushing and hauling the great machines of the forge and smelter from place to place. His eyes grew piercing and cold in the darkness of the tunnels. His back grew scarred from his captor’s lash.

As though it were not enough to be a slave in a mine, one day, when my Lord had grown tall and strong, a fellow slaves grew angry and threw a fit. “This is hopeless,” said Posco. Posco was born a slave in one of the great cities of the Republic. There he had lived in relative comfort as the servant of a wealthy philosopher. Having fallen on hard times, his master sold Posco to the mines after he was caught stealing from his master’s wine cellar. “I was told that if I worked hard I would earn my freedom,” he said, to no one in particular.

His piercing voice was the only thing that could be heard over the constant thrum of picks against rock and the whir of mechanized drills. Brenus did his best to ignore it. “There will be no freedom for us,” whined Posco. “We will work here until we die, and there is nothing we can do about it.”

“This is surprising to you?” asked Brenus as he swung his mighty pick.

“I was promised freedom someday!” screeched his fellow slave. “Crassus is a breaker of oaths!”

“It was foolish of you to think a Senator would keep his word,” said Brenus.

Posco threw down his pick in disgust. “Are you calling me a fool you barbarian?” he demanded.

It was then that the taskmasters began to take notice. “Pick up your pickaxe,” said Brenus, “Or you’ll earn us both a lashing.”

Posco shoved Brenus in the chest and spat on the cold floor of the tunnel. “Fuck the pickaxe,” he said. “I take orders from them, not you brute.”

My lord’s patience was growing thin. “Don’t touch me you ponce!” he said as he shoved back. Posco returned the shove with a blow to the face. Brenus pulled back his mighty fist and crushed his opponent’s nose.

It was then that Brenus felt the Taskmaster’s electrified lash. “Get in line slave!” Brenus spasmed from the shock as he fell to the ground. The coward Posco seized the opportunity and kicked Brenus in the chest while he lay prone.

“And you!” Barcked the Taskmaster as he whipped Posco. Both slaves writhed in pain as the Taskmaster whipped them again and again. Soon they were both clapped in irons and hauled to their feet. “We can’t have slaves causing trouble. You two are coming with me!”

The Taskmaster chained the two slaves together and shoved them ahead. Up the tunnel they went, prodded and pushed by the cruel man every step of the way. Their fellow slaves looked on in pity. Still none dared to lower their picks, nor did they pause in their labor lest they join my Lord in chains.

Brenus squinted at the bright light up ahead. It was a faint memory he could not place. He paused briefly as he looked at the blinding glow up ahead. His reverie was violently interrupted by the electrified lash of the Taskmaster behind him. He fell to his knees as he was shoved through the opening and blinking raised his head to the sky. It was the first time my Lord had seen a sun since his childhood.

The Taskmaster shoved Brenus and Posco into a muddy ditch. “Wait here,” their tormentor barked and he tied their chains to a post. “The boss will know what to do with you.”

Lying shackled and bloody in the mud my Lord lay confused and elated. The air was open and fragrant, but was also cold and smelled of filth. The sun was warm, but burned his eyes. The earth in which he lay was so much softer than the hard floor of the mine’s tunnels, but was clammy and wet. Still, so many years had passed since Brenus the Great had been under the open sky that the stark gray smog of this gods forsaken world filled him with a feeling he had long since forgotten; hope.

A sharp pain shot through my Lord as Posco struck him in the gut with his elbow. “This is your fault,” said the coward as he struck again. “Bastard barbarian scum!” Brenus doubled over in pain as the wind was beaten from his lungs. Posco wrapped his chains around his fist. “We’re dead no matter what happens,” he said, “But by the gods I swear I’m going to outlive you.”

Thinking quickly, my lord kicked the cowards feet out from under him. Before Posco could recover, Brenus wrapped his shackles around his attacker’s throat. Posco gagged and thrashed as my Lord squeezed the life from his fellow slave. Brenus grit his teeth and tightened his grip as his attacker clawed at the chains. At long last, the lifeless body of Posco went limp and Brenus flopped the corpse into the mud.

“On your feet slave,” called a voice from above. Brenus looked up to see the frowning face of his master. Senator Crassus lay upon shimmering platinum sedan carried by four well muscled Amazons, each chained and collared. “You’ve been disrupting my business and now you’ve damaged my property.” The Senator looked down at the limp body of Posco. “And, judging from the look of things, you’re not going to stop making trouble any time soon. Still . . . I may have some use for you.” Crassus motioned toward a nearby guard. The guard jerked Brenus to his feet and dragged him out of the ditch.

As my Lord was dragged and prodded onward he took stock of this new world around him. Both earth and sky were a dull gray. The air smelled of acrid chemicals and human suffering. Everywhere Brenus turned he saw huge gray machinery boring into mountainsides and swarms of people toiling away into the earth. As he turned his head from west to east, it was almost impossible to distinguish human from machine. Everywhere he looked every eye was turned downward. The slaves looked to the earth as they hacked away at the barren rock and cold soil and mud. The machines turned their efforts to the construction of new tunnels in which the slaves would spend their lives extracting the wealth of Crassus’s world.

How long my Lord was dragged through the quarry, no one can say. Some legends say he was drug for three days and three nights. Others say he reached the Senator’s palace in a matter of hours. One thing the legends agree upon is this, when he reached the palace Brenus was struck dumb with awe. My Lord did not know such luxury could exist in the realm of humankind.

On the outside, the palace looked like anything else on Thracia; a dull metal door in the side of a gray rugged mountain. Once inside though, my Lord nearly fainted with wonder. The floor glittered with gold flecked marble. The walls were covered with tapestries and murals and mosaics of gods and heroes gripped in their eternal struggles. The roof was upheld by countless columns of emerald green marble polished so bright that Brenus could see his bleeding face in them. The ceiling itself was a massive mosaic depicting the Great God Zannu overthrowing his father, the titan Seasuri.

Everywhere Brenus turned he saw a servant waiting to serve. Men and women alike stood with trays of food and drink. There were fresh grapes, fine wines, flagons of mead, exotic cheeses, and other fine fare from across the Republic. Brenus stumbled along, his chains rattling every step of the way, as the four Amazons carried their master toward his throne. Eventually the Senator slid off of his sedan and onto a throne situated at the end of the great hall. Crassus lay between the arms of the three meter high chair and chewed on cheeses absentmindedly as he took a cup of mead from the nearest slave. “So,” he said as he swallowed his snack, “Got a knack for violence do we?”

Brenus did not know what to say. He knew what the words meant, but he had never heard them arranged in this combination. “I am sorry master,” he said. When all else failed, this phrase seemed to have the best chance of avoiding the lash.

Crassus laughed at this. “Sorry for what?” he bellowed as he took another sip of mead, “For beating some simpering pissant to death in my mine? Clearly he wasn’t going to pull his weight in the tunnels. Far as I can tell you may have done me a favor.” The senator drank deep of his goblet as he stared into Brenus’ eyes.

“Are you sorry because you killed my slave? Feh!” said Crassus. “Frankly I’m surprised that milk leech lasted as long as he did. Hell, I’m tempted to ask for a refund from the bastard who sold him to me. Got no use for a slave who won’t work after all.”

Brenus continued to stare at his feet. No matter what his master said, nothing good would come of this. Many slaves in the mines had been crucified for offenses far more benign than what Brenus had done. Crassus was only readying him for the slaughter.

The Senator slithered off his throne and walked down the steps to look Brenus in the face. Crassus grabbed his slave by the chin and raised his jaw until the two were eye to eye. “You’re afraid,” said Crassus, “But not afraid of death. That’s good.”

My Lord remained silent.

“What is it you’re afraid of slave?” asked the Senator. “Is it my wrath after you’ve destroyed my property? Is it my judgment because you killed a man?” Crassus raised his hand and, ever so gently, the scrawny senator pushed the burly barbarian against the nearest pillar. “Or are you simply afraid of me? And how you’ve interrupted my day?”

Brenus stood silent. He was surrounded by luxury he could never have imagined. Posco’s blood was fresh on his hands and this small man, standing a full head shorter than him, had him pinned against a pillar.

“You can’t answer, can you?” said Crassus as he raised his face up to my Lord’s.  “Don’t worry, I know why you did this.” The Senator flicked Brenus in the nose before sauntering back to his throne. “You’re just an animal,” said Crassus, “A vicious brute who can’t live among decent folk, but don’t worry…” Crassus drank deep of his mead and passed the empty goblet off to another slave and he sat back on his high throne. “Everyone has their place in this universe.” The Senator picked up another goblet and a plate full of oysters. He handed the plate of shellfish to one of the buxom women standing by his throne. “I know exactly where you belong,” said Crassus as he slurped an oyster from its shell. Thracia had no oceans, so if Brenus had ever lived elsewhere he might have wondered where the Senator had procured such luxuries. “I’ve always wanted to break into the gladiator games, and you might just be my chance.” The Senator grinned as he popped an olive into his mouth.