Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 01] The Sword of Cartimandua (2 page)

The Thracian looked down at the scrawny boy. He would have preferred to have his head but the big centurion was not a man to be crossed. “We have no need of a stable boy.”

“I didn’t ask that, I asked how much you would pay for him.”

The Thracian began to work out how to make money from this. He had taken gold and copper from the dead tribesmen and he could afford the tiny amount the boy would cost him.  He would gain the favour of the centurion which was no bad thing. The Pannonians were about to ship out and he had lied for they had no stable boy. He would buy the boy and sell him at double the price to auxiliaries that he would never see again.

The Thracian took out five bronze coins and showed them to the centurion who scowled as he countered. “Five pieces, that wouldn’t even pay for an amphora of wine. Twenty.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen,” The difference having been split they exchanged coins and shook hands, honour even. “Here take him and one more thing. I have no idea what his barbarian name is and I don’t want him named after a barbarian so his new name is Marcus Aurelius Maximunius. Right?”

As his men smiled at the conceit of their leader, the Thracian shrugged his shoulders. It mattered not to him what the brat was called for he knew he could sell the slave for a whole denarius. He had watched the boy who, despite his position, had continued to care for the mare and the foal. He was a horseman. “I’ll have to take the horse and foal as well.”

“That’s a denarius.” Hiding the smile the Thracian handed over the coin. The foot soldier did not understand the value of horses. He would sell both beasts on to the quartermaster and make two denari profit. Of course the quartermaster would make more but that was the way of world.

All that Himli knew, as he was led off, was that he was still with Moon-child and her foal and that was now his family.  His hand instinctively went to the halter of the mare and he gripped it as though his life depended upon it.  Passing the Roman leader he saw a strangely happy look on the man’s face as he ruffled his tangled hair. The Romans were like beasts from another world but as he was taken to the new world of the Roman army Himli knew that his past was gone, set on fire and slaughtered by his father’s enemies. As they were led from the village he saw his mother and grandfather’s bloodied corpses lying amidst the rest of the slaughtered village. On the way to the camp he would see his father crucified along with the rest of the warband.

Chapter 1

AD 69 Stanwyck Stronghold

The Queen looked at her face reflected in the water of the silvered bowl in front of her. She could see the hints of grey permeating her jet black tresses; she could see the crow’s feet daily growing from her eyes which, although still bright, drooped a little more each day. She looked down at her body and saw that there was a little more substance around her waist than there had been. Hearing a snuffling behind her she turned to see Vellocatus her lover and she smiled. The young shield bearer did not seem to mind the ripples of growing flesh or the ribbons of grey, he was satisfied with her. The problem was, the queen thought as she pulled her robe around her, she was not happy with herself. Her body had always been a temple and she had worked out with her warriors using her sword daily and this had kept her muscles toned. It was, indeed, how she had come to take Vellocatus to her bed and divorce her husband Venutius for she had grown attracted to the young man when using him to practice her sword play. The thought of Venutius caused her to frown and she left the comfort of her bedroom.

The Romans had brought some unpleasant things with them, such as their rule, taxes and authority but Cartimandua could not fault their engineering and building. The hall in which she sat was the only one of its type in Britannia; although built of wood, it had been built in the Roman style and was comfortable, clean and, in this damp northern climate, dry. She sat at her table and poured herself a beaker of weak beer and nibbled at the bread left by her slaves. What to do about Venutius? As she ate, she pondered her problem. Since her divorce, which was inevitable even without her affair with the convenient Vellocatus, he had grown increasingly belligerent. If she had not held his close family hostage she was under no illusions that she would now be dead. Her tribe was split and, daily, warriors left the stronghold to join Venutius with the hope of combat and glory against the Romans.

She wondered now about her decision to ally so closely with the Romans. She had seen their might and knew she could not stand against them but in the past year she had seen them fall amongst themselves with four Emperors in one year. Hotheads like Venutius had become emboldened by the disarray and lack of focus on Britannia. Now that Vespasian was Emperor Cartimandua hoped for a reversal of policy. Perhaps now he would send the men and resources needed to tame this wild land. She resolved to stand by her original strategy. She would gamble that the Romans would triumph and she and her people would survive.

Her slave entered to clear away her table. “Ask Gerantium to come.”

The tough old centurion must have been hovering close to the door as he entered immediately. His dress was marked by the fact that he alone was permitted to her rooms armed with a sword. It was a sign not only of his status but the relationship he had with the queen. He had been protecting her for over twenty years and now regarded her more as a daughter than a monarch. He had come to see her capricious actions and sometimes ruthless gestures with the forgiving eye of a doting father. He had also seen the affection which was heaped upon her by the majority of the Brigante. Her people, warriors apart, had seen the tribe prosper under Roman protection. There were now roads, where there had been tracks and there was safety where there had been danger. Gerantium was rightly proud of what his people had done for the queen and the Brigante but equally he was proud of what the foresighted young queen had achieved and built.

“Yes my queen?”

“Send a trusted rider to the governor at Eboracum,” she smiled wryly, “as with the Emperors I know not who it will be. I will give a spoken message for I do not want it to fall into the hands of Venutius. I fear that my husband intends to take this home by force and as you know, old friend, we do not have enough warriors to defend it. I need the governor to come to our aid.”

There was a silence as both centurion and queen took in the import of what had been said. It would change the relationship between Brigantia and Rome for never before had the queen asked for aid.

“Are you sure my queen?”

“No I am not and I would not if I thought we could defend the walls. What are my alternatives? Flee to Eboracum? If I did so I would be abandoning my capital and my people would see that as weakness. No I will only do that if disaster strikes and there is no other option.”

“I will see to it.”

As he turned to leave Cartimandua restrained him and spoke in a quieter voice. “I would also have you do something else for me. Send my sisters and their families to safety, either Derventio or Eboracum. I think your lady should also accompany them.”

The old centurion smiled, “Thank you majesty but I know she would not go. She promised to stay with me as long as I lived and I still live.” The queen nodded understanding the obvious love and bond between this soldier and his gentle lady. “What of your treasure, should that be sent as well?”

“No it would only place my sisters in more danger. Bury that in a secret place here and draw a map. I will only need the treasure if all else fails.

Bowing, the centurion withdrew, leaving the queen to ponder her next action. The outer walls of the stronghold were too big to defend and had been strengthened by Venutius. He would know its weak points. In the next few days she would begin to strengthen the inner ditch and ramparts which were defensible by her smaller forces. She also needed to practice her swordplay for she knew it would be needed sooner rather than later. Drawing her sword from its scabbard she began to swing the beautiful blade back and forth. As soon as she gripped the hilt she smiled as the power entered her body and already she felt nor only safer but more at peace. As long as she held the sword there was hope.

Woodland north of Eboracum

Northern Britannia was a wild place at the best of time but in the last year it had become even more dangerous. The Roman war machine had faltered in the west. Back in Rome there was intrigue and infighting as the year saw three emperors come and go. Would the fourth last any longer? The Romans in Lindum and those in the newly established base at Eboracum did not know. The vast land belonging to the Brigante was filled with forests, high hills and bogs. It was not a good place to campaign. The Brigante had been a client and ally of Rome but in the past year they had shown the restless signs of rebellion and every Roman soldier felt uneasy. Patrols were now made up of larger groups of men as the handfuls they had used had been found hacked and chopped to pieces. It had become increasingly worse over the past five years but this last year, the year of the four Emperors was a crucial one. Every Roman was on edge realising that they were clinging on to the edge of the Empire by their fingertips.

Decurion Ulpius Felix rubbed his unshaven face as he peered through the spindly branches of the elder copse. He idly pulled a bunch of elderberries to strip them from the stalk, letting the rich black juice rundown his chin.  It reminded him of the hill country around his vici in Ad Mures; it was a place he barely remembered having been taken there as a captive when he was but four.  Still he remembered it, remembered the first taste of elderberries strong and heavy in his young mouth.  He remembered the woodland, he remembered the woods and he remembered berries but he could not remember his name before the Roman times.  It seemed to him that he had been Ulpius Felix for all of his thirty five summers. He mentally cursed Aulus Plautius the governor of Pannonia who had decided to bring the Pannonians with him to the edge of the world, Britannia. As the alternative posting was the warmth of Judea he would have preferred that to the capricious climate of this little northern outpost. He would have preferred the evenly monotonous days with warm nights and hot days to the uncertainty of snow in early summer and bright sunshine in midwinter. He would have preferred the rich wines of the middle sea to the weak beer and honey laced drinks of this northern sea.

He idly rubbed the angry scar that ran across his white blind eye, the result of an early battle when he was less careful than he was now. It had happened when he had seen but fourteen summers.  The stone which had ripped into it could have deflected by his shield but in those days he believed himself to be immortal, a warrior hero. He had learned his lesson in the long service to Rome. He could see just as well as any of his men, in fact some said that he could see behind him but occasionally it burned and tingled, this was one such time. The pain in the eye was always there; sometimes dull and sometimes so sharp it felt as though his face was splitting in two. At those times his good eye would stream with tears as though he was weeping; those were the dark times, those were the depths of agony far worse than the original wounding. Without reason the pain could be gone as soon as it came or it could last a whole day. His men had learned to look for the signs for the redder and angrier the eye the worse was the tough cavalryman’s temper. When that pain left it was replaced by the pain of training and working as a Roman auxiliary. The life of an auxiliary toiling for the mighty Roman Empire was no worse than being a tribesman.  The difference was he was fed on a regular basis. The food might be dull but it was plentiful. He also received pay. The caligae in the legions resented the fact that auxiliary cavalrymen were paid at a higher rate and got to ride to battle but Ulpius and his men cared not. He was also worked hard which resulted in a lean, muscular body.  His natural ability with horses had soon marked him out as a cavalryman and he was conscripted into the auxiliary cavalry. Fighting mainly Celts, he had spent over twenty years in the service of Rome; another ten and he would qualify for citizenship and a plot of land.  Would he live to see it? It was a thought which occasionally flitted across his mind but he had had too many friends who had dreamed of such release only to find the release of death in some corner of the Empire instead. He was the last of that band of warriors who had left their home twenty years earlier. There were others who had survived such as the prefect who had managed to reach the highest rank of any not born in Rome but the majority died early. Roman generals were more careless with their cavalry than with the precious, solid legionaries.

He was brought out of his reminisces when he felt the horse behind him push against the hindquarters of Raven, his own horse. He did not deign to look around; he merely held his hand up in silent rebuke knowing that whichever trooper it was would control his mount.  As Decurion of the Second Turma, First Sabinian Wing of Pannonians, his ire would result in a severe and painful punishment. It would probably be young Gaius who had no patience at all. Keen as a young greyhound he was always the first to reach the enemy lines; fortunately for him, he was also handy with the gladius which was why he had survived so many skirmishes with the Parisi and Brigantes. He was the youngest trooper and as such indulged a little by the other men in the turma. Today he would need all his patience. 

Osgar, their Brigante tracker, had discovered the tracks of the war band early that morning. They were a small band mounted on a few of the mountain ponies so favoured by the tribesmen of these hills. Not knowing where they were raiding Ulpius had decided to catch them on their return. Whilst it meant that people would die at least he could recapture slaves, acquire whatever loot they had taken and catch the raiders when they were tired. His men and his horses were too valuable to waste on a few raiders stealing from farmers barely richer than they were. He hoped that some of the Brigante warriors would have gold about them; some of the chiefs lauded their golden torcs as a sign of their bravery as well as the amulets, each one a symbol of a success in battle. Ulpius smiled grimly to himself; chain mail would be more effective but he would gladly relieve the corpses of their treasure. He glanced around to look at the auxiliaries following him.  Their mounts were far larger than the local horses and fed on grain.  They could run all day and carry an armoured warrior.  The chain mail of his men, he was pleased to see was oiled and flexible; although it was heavy it was more than effective at deflecting the local arrows. The shields were all slung over their left legs and ready to be used at a moment’s notice. The javelins in their sheath behind the leg were less accessible but not so the mighty spatha, the Roman cavalry sword which was far longer than the gladius and gave Ulpius and his men the edge over any foe. He returned his gaze to the horizon, happier that his men were alert and prepared. They would not be caught unawares.