Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 09] Hero of Rome (2 page)

The princeling’s face showed no emotion as he stooped to enter the small and claustrophobic chamber. Sceanbh gestured for him to sit on the stone which passed for a seat. She offered him neither food nor drink but held his gaze. Faolan had expected such a test and he stared back intently.  The dead and their priests did not frighten him. Eventually, apparently satisfied, the old woman nodded. “You desire to be king.”

The bald statement was unexpected and Faolan, for once, was taken aback. He quickly recovered his composure and shrugged. “I am related to the king but he lives and I am a loyal warrior to my liege lord.”

“But you would be king and I can give you an opportunity to achieve your aim.”

Faolan suspected a trap but he could not see who had set it.  Sceanbh was known to be unconcerned about worldly matters so the question remained; who was setting the trap, if this was a trap? He kept silent and watched, now with more interest, the emaciated skin and bones which stared back at him, rheumy blue eyes boring deeply into him. “The king grows fat and will not go to war.  How will you become king?” There was no answer for Faolan knew that the old woman would get to the point eventually and he was a patient man. “Suppose you had a weapon of legend and suppose that you could attain glory; would that not enable you to become king?”

“A weapon? Where is there such a weapon of legend?” Faolan wracked his memory for the stories of mystical blades but he could not recall any.the many

The old woman smiled for she knew now that she had intrigued this would be king. “In Britannia, across the water there is the sword of the Brigantes, The Sword of Cartimandua.”

Faolan’s interest was piqued.  He had indeed heard of the weapon and knew that it had won many a lost battle for the one who wielded it. All swords had powers, every warrior knew this but the sword of the Brigante was even older than the oldest weapon wielded by the many kings of Hibernia.  It was said that it had travelled from the south, from the lands of the Gauls when the Celtic peoples who had lived there had conquered Albion and Hibernia. “I heard that the sword had been lost when the Queen disappeared.”

“No it still exists and is worn by a Roman.”

“Then how would I get my hands on such a weapon?”

“The lands of Roman Britannia are no longer secure.  The Votadini defeated them and they have taken the vaunted legions back to Rome. It is a plum which is ripe for the picking. You would gain much honour and fame.” She smiled as she saw that her seed had been successfully planted.

Faolan’s face filled with suspicion as he wondered at the source of this remarkable intelligence. “How do you know this? You never leave the safety of this shrine.”

She laughed a cackling laugh which made Faolan shiver in the dark bone lined tomb. “I may not leave but others come and go. Believe me Faolan, warrior of the Ebdani, if you land in Britannia with enough warriors then there will be nought to stop you. Not only will you achieve the sword but slaves and gold, for the Romans and their puppets, the Brigante, are rich beyond belief.”

Faolan began to consider the prospect.  There were many swords which would follow him in a quest to gain treasure. The slaves alone which could be captured would pay for the raid and make him rich. He also knew that the land of the Britons was a richer land than that of the Keltoi; the Romans had brought much prosperity. The thought came to him that, even if he did not gain the sword, he would gain enough riches to enlarge his army and enable him to take the throne by force. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “I cannot believe that you are doing this because you wish to do me good. What is in this for you?”

“You are wise Faolan.  You see my mind.  What I want from you is a promise. When you become king you will make Si an Bhru the centre of worship and study protected by your warriors and you will continue to raid and steal from Britannia until the Romans are driven from its shores.”

Faolan considered the offer.  What did it matter to him if the priests and priestesses gained power, it would not affect him if he were king. As to the raids on Britannia, that was already an idea growing in the greedy mind of the Ebdani prince. “I will do so if you will endorse my raid as a war for the Mother.”

“I was right to choose you, Faolan, Prince of the Ebdani.  It will be done and when you have enough warriors you can travel to Manavia where there is already an army of Keltoi warriors there, waiting to serve with you.”

Faolan looked at her in surprise. “You have already planned this?”

“The Mother, in her wisdom, has worked towards this since the Romans desecrated the holy groves of Mona.”

**********

Morwenna’s second daughter, Caronwyn had not only her mother’s hair and eyes but also the fierce determination to be revenged on those who had killed her Grandmother. While Brynna had been in Hibernia enlisting the help of the warriors there, she had been sent to the land of the Brigantes to foster dissent and rebellion. Morwenna knew, too well, that the land around the old capital of Brigantia, Stanwyck, was filled with staunchly pro-Roman Brigantes but, further south, there were those who resented the last fifty years of Roman rule and wanted a return to the time of Cartimandua when Rome had protected their borders but they had ruled their own land. Most hated was the tax demanded by Rome. The roads they had built brought prosperity but the trades of Mamucium and Eboracum did not like the fact that there were so many ways to take tax from them.

Caronwyn had found a bed with one of the sisters in a small hamlet just north of Eboracum. She had disguised her stunning hair with a dull linen hat and she kept her gaze towards the ground.  She and the priestess of the Mother with whom she was staying spent their days at the market listening to the complaints of those who came to sell their goods. Morwenna had been quite emphatic about her daughter’s mission.  She was to find someone with money and power, someone who was willing to act as a leader against the Roman invaders. They had spent three weeks so far and Caronwyn was beginning to doubt that they would find anyone who fitted the precise requirements of her mother.

The Priestess was a widow called Morag.  Her husband had died in the earlier rebellion led by Morwenna and Decius Sallustius.  Rather than making her hate Morwenna, it had driven her to hate the Romans.  She was delighted to have been given the mission and worshipped Morwenna as the embodiment of the Mother on earth. After another fruitless foray into the Forum they trudged back up the Northern road to the hovel they shared.  They ate well for Morwenna had provided gold for food and clothes. To the other customers they looked to be a mother and daughter eking out their last coins when the reality was they were haggling as it enabled them to stay longer without drawing attention to themselves.

As they walked back to their lodgings they discussed, as they had each day, the people they had met. They needed to choose their leader soon. “There was one trader who seemed a little more belligerent and vocal than the others.”

Caronwyn nodded, “Yes Morag, the fat man with the thinning hair.  I have not seen him before.”

“Neither have I.” She hesitated, wondering if she ought to question the plan devised by the High Priestess. “I am not sure how we will be able to speak with these traders for we are little more than slaves to them.”

“Fear not Morag. We will seek employment with the one we wish to entice. We both have skills which would be valuable. We will return on the morrow and if this man is there we will seek employment with him.” She shrugged.  “Time is not important.  If this man is not suitable for our purposes then we shall leave and seek another.”

*******

Antoninus Brutus had quickly learned that, to do business with the Romans, one had to become Roman.  He had changed his family name to a Roman one and affected the Roman style of dress.  His farm in the valley to the north of Eboracum had mosaics and a bath house but Antoninus was still the son of the Brigante chief, Tadgh, below the skin. He despised the Romans; having brought civilisation they had greatly benefited the Brigante but now that they were bleeding them dry with their ever increasing taxes, many businessmen like Antoninus felt that they should go. His son, Gaius, was even more vociferous.  He wanted to fight against the Romans.  The blood of the Brigante ran deeply in his veins and he yearned for the chance to wield a sword as his grandfather had.  The Roman soldiers he had encountered had not seemed the vaunted, invincible killing machine that the rest of the province feared.  The ones he had seen were lying in the streets of the vicus, puking their insides out having drunk too much unwatered wine.

Father and son spent each evening firing each other up with fantasies about life in Britannia without the burdensome yoke of Rome rule. “Their legions have left and the ones who remain are the leftover warriors from the defeated parts of the Empire.”

Antoninus was a little more cautious than his son. “Perhaps but they have managed to put down each rebellion my son.” His son was his only reminder of the wife who had died in the last harsh winter, taken by the coughing sickness. He cherished the handsome young warrior and did not want to lose him as well.  He wondered if it was time to take another wife or at least a mistress for the farm. Antoninus was very successful; the farm was more than profitable but it was the sale of stone from his quarry which really made him rich.  The Romans could not get enough of the rocks his grandfather had hated. Now it was Brigante who wished to emulate their conquerors and build stone built villas but Antoninus had a contract with Eboracum. He could make far more gold from his countrymen than the parsimonious Romans who made money from Antoninus’ profit.

“Could we not begin to prepare for the day when the Romans leave?  The barbarians from the north are raiding along the Tinea and Dunum.  Perhaps we should do as some of the farmers further north and arm our own men.” The farm and quarry had many slaves but also skilled freemen.  They were mainly the remnants of the old clan which had been ruled by Antoninus’ grandfather.  Gaius knew that many of the younger ones also wished to use the weapons of the tribe. “We are making enough profit and it would ensure that, if there were more raids then we could defend what we have.”

The business man was proud of his son.  His father and grandfather would also have been proud.  He was intelligent and what he had said made sense. Rather than putting the profit into the banks of Eboracum which charged exorbitant amounts he would invest in arms and training. “We will return to Eboracum tomorrow my son. I will try to negotiate a better contract with the Romans and you can find out where we can acquire weapons.”

Gaius’ face beamed like a room suddenly lit by a fresh lamp.  “I already know. In the vicus there are some men who served in the Roman army and they sell old weapons captured from our people.”

******

Caronwyn and Morag waited by the Forum for the angry man they had seen the previous day. He had spoken angrily to those who were his peers but Brynna had noticed that he had changed his tone whenever an official chanced by.  He was a duplicitous man and in that character trait lay her hope.  Morag had asked around and discovered that he was very rich but, more importantly, descended from a chief and, as such, could command respect in any rebellion.  Morwenna had made it clear to her daughter that they merely needed to fan the flames of rebellion rather than take part and lead.  She had learned, to her cost, the dangers of such action and the rebellion was only one part of her plan for Morwenna and her daughters were still intent upon bringing death and destruction to Macro the son and half brother they all loathed.

When Antoninus entered the busy market place, Caronwyn noticed the handsome young man with him. She took an instant decision.  “Morag.  You follow the older fat man and I will watch the young man with him.” Morag glanced at the handsome young man and a half smile played around the edge of her mouth.  Morwenna’s daughter had an eye for a buck.

“Yes my lady.  I will return here.”

Antoninus headed towards the fortress and the invisible Morag shuffled along behind. Caronwyn was intrigued for her prey moved purposefully away from the market towards the seedier and less reputable parts of the vicus.  She was not intimidated by the potential danger; she carried a knife and her mother’s bodyguards had taught her how to use the weapon. It would be a foolish man who tried to take advantage of the stunningly beautiful red head. She kept to the shadows as he moved around the vicus.  He was behaving furtively and she wondered where he was heading. He was taller and younger than most of the others in the area and she was able to keep far enough back to avoid detection. It was obvious that he had reached his destination when he looked all around him to see if anyone was watching.  He disappeared inside. It seemed to Caronwyn that he would never come out but eventually he did, a huge grin on his face and he almost ran past Caronwyn to head back to the market. The witch’s daughter had a dilemma; she was desperate to know what had pleased the young man so much in a visit to a grubby hut tucked away far from prying official Roman eyes. In her mind she had assumed it was a whorehouse which would explain his joy but not the short time he had spent within the building.  She could find out later.  She hurried back to the market where she saw Morag.  Morag gestured with her eyes and she saw that the young man was reunited with the angry man. The two of them looked pleased and, arms around each other’s shoulders, they headed for a tavern.

“I have found out who they are my lady.  The younger man is Gaius Brutus, the son of the angry man, Antoninus Brutus.”

“You have done well Morag.  We will have to visit a house in the vicus later but I think that we will seek employment with the two of them.”

“There is no lady of the house.  She died last year.”

“Did she? That bodes well. You can cook?” Although phrased as a question Caronwyn implied that Morag would cook for the two of them. Morag nodded. “Good, then we present ourselves as a mother and daughter who have come from the north, fleeing the barbarians who killed our family.  I will play the tearful and distraught girl.”