He himself had barely escaped the thrusting gladius of a young centurion. Dodging the armor-clad monsters riding all over the field, he had somehow escaped into a wooded hollow. There, the agonized screams and scent of smoke had encompassed his senses in a night of terror.
Now, his keen eyes flitted over the battlefield. The legionaries were everywhere. He did not dare move. The slightest movement in the grassy sea of dead would attract the attention of the Romans.
An abrupt shout jerked his body. His heart lurched, pounding wildly.
Only a few dozen paces away, a group of hiding Iceni warriors were discovered. Their turbulent shouts were a typical act of chilling battle psychology. It had always worked before to frighten the legionaries out of their senses.
Not anymore.
Philip watched the Iceni run for their lives. The Roman legionaries chased them with the vigor of huntsmen. Several raised their javelins, their arms powerful beneath the flexible armor.
Great gods! Philip’s mind screamed out. Before his eyes, three Iceni fell prey to their hunters. Would the carnage never end? His heart throbbed, sickened. Why have you deserted us? Your priests, your people were slaughtered. Our queen was shamed. Why? Our cause was just!
A touch lighted on his shoulder.
Philip’s hand fell on his dagger. He jerked around, nearly choked with fear. The embarrassing reality of his own foolishness immediately rolled over him. No legionary would touch him gently.
“Philip.”
“Father!” Philip half-rose. Shock seized hold of his body. He had not dared to hope his strong chieftain father had survived the butchery of the battle. But, evidently, his father was alive and well.
“Be still.” Beric raised a stern hand of warning. He crouched beside him in the thick grass. Beyond him, Philip could make out several of their clansmen hiding in scattered assemblage in the undergrowth. “We are being sought.”
Philip’s eyes roved over his father’s muscular body. Stripped to the waist, his broad chest was cut and streaked with dried blood. Dirt and smoke stained his face. Blue battle-tattoos still covered him, painted in ornate geometric designs. Even his deep cerulean eyes were lined with circular patterns. The paint was thought to hold medicinal powers from the gods.
The thought was an aching pang. When did we lose your favor?
Philip knew he should remain silent. But the burning question had been on the tip of his tongue too long. “Our queen?”
Beric’s mouth tightened, deepening the weary lines around his eyes. “Dead.”
Philip’s stomach lurched. All of their hopes and dreams had been centered on Boudicca. “How?” His voice cracked. “Was she taken prisoner?”
“No. The Roman dogs would have spared her to grace Suetonius’s victory parade.” Beric spat into the dust as he said the general’s name. “She and her daughters took poison yesterday. Those with her followed her example.”
The news was less than surprising to Philip. It was only honorable for Boudicca to end her life after such a loss. Any leader would have done the same. But, his stomach sickened even still. The future of the Iceni is dead.
Beric seemed to sense his thoughts. “The gods have deserted us. We live to serve Rome.”
“No!” Philip ground his teeth, his hands clenching into angry fists. “I will never serve them–the swine! They are merciless, unfair. Is it the fault of the Iceni that their gods were stronger?”
Beric glanced sidelong at him. “Then you better take poison with your queen. It is only a matter of time before they find us. And then will kill or enslave us.” His voice grew weary. “For myself, I no longer care. Either end is more merciful than living to see the demise of our people.”
“Then we must live.” Philip felt the blood tingle in his cheeks. His heart throbbed. He could feel the pain and anger rolling like fire through his veins. “We must live to revenge ourselves, our people! Our gods will restore their favor. You will see–”
A bloodcurdling yell cut him short.
“Great gods!” Beric leaped to his feet, ripping his sword from its sheath. A dozen Romans burst through the underbrush, their gladii protruding on the sides of their scarlet shields. The Iceni clansmen scrambled to their feet and brandished their weapons, but it was a halfhearted attempt.
Their fighting spirit was gone.
Philip’s heard thudded. A glance in every direction revealed the hopelessness of their situation. They were completely surrounded.
He felt sick and faint. So this was the end. Resentment against the gods boiled up within him. Why had they allowed him to survive this long only to desert him? Take me quickly. His fingers groped to the hilt of his dagger, drawing it out. He would die fighting.
“Halt!” The Roman commander shouted a quick order. The legionaries paused in fighting stance, their muscular legs taut and ready to spring. Philip could feel the fiery gaze of a young soldier rest upon him. His nausea doubled, realizing he was the legionary’s target.
The centurion’s steely gaze seemed to encompass the Iceni. “Throw down your arms.” His speech was a confusing blend of Latin and Iceni words, but his meaning was clear. “Our orders are to end all resistance. Surrender and save your lives.”
The clansmen looked to Beric. Philip could see the muscles in his father’s back grow rigid. The weight of the choice could be felt in the very atmosphere. Should they surrender or die?
The tension snapped. Beric threw his longsword into the grass. Yanking his knife from his belt, he allowed it to fall from his hands, landing with the clang of steel on steel at his feet.
The others followed his example. Satisfied, the centurion grunted an order. “Bind them.”
Half of the legionaries threw their shields down and ran forward, leaving the rest of the soldiers to stand guard. Roughly, they herded the Iceni into a circle and began tying their hands behind their backs.
Philip alone gripped his dagger. How could he surrender peaceably to these Romans, these monsters who had killed so many of his people? His eyes fell on his father. Beric submitted quietly to his captors, but his lowered head spoke volumes. How quickly the smell of victory had turned into the shame of slavery.
Run! Adrenaline coursed through Philip’s body. His father chose slavery. He did not. Better to run, to take the chance of instant death than surrender. He turned, his legs pumping beneath him.
A strong hand landed on his shoulder. “Throw down your arms!”
Philip twisted and kicked, his arms flailing. He heard the warrior cry scream from his throat, cracking his voice. He clenched his dagger, raising it, feeling the perspiration seep between his fingers.
It was knocked easily from his hand.
Philip struggled to break the grip of the legionary. He knew it was a futile attempt. The young man had muscles every bit as large as his father and was at least a decade younger. Still, it was not until the legionary slapped him that he stood still, panting.
The legionary held him by the arms. His laugh grated on Philip’s ears. “They train them young. What a spirited little wretch!”
“Well, bind him and put him with the others.” The centurion snapped at him. “We’ve got other Iceni to flush out, you know.”
The legionary’s grip tightened around Philip’s wrists. Forcefully, he began dragging him through the thick undergrowth towards the others. “Come on, you barbaric dog.”
Fierce rebellion swept through Philip. Everything about the legionary’s mocking tone, his inexorable hold filled him with fury. Before he could think about what he was doing, he kicked his captor below the waist.
The legionary doubled over. “Great Pollux!” His muffled exclamation was rent with agony. Philip watched in satisfaction, the laughter of his tribesmen coloring his cheeks. Take that, you Roman dog.
Scarlet with pain and fury, the legionary straightened himself. Snatching his sword from its sheath, he raised it over Philip’s head.
Philip’s mind whirled, his body paralyzed by fear. It was one
thing to die fighting, with battle adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was another to perish in cold blood. The blade glistened in the sunlight, then, paused at the centurion’s shout.
“Enough, Owen! Suetonius wants strong young captives, not old men. This boy’s spirit alone is worth keeping him alive for. Give him a lesson, if you wish, then put him with the others.”
The Latin words were a blur to Philip’s ears. It wasn’t long before he understood the centurion’s meaning, however. Owen, as he was called, had a gleam in his eyes that was all too recognizable. Still holding Philip by the arm, he stooped to pick up a fallen switch.
Its quick sting across his bare shoulders revealed all too well the satisfaction it gave his antagonist to inflict the pain.
Philip cringed. He clamped his mouth shut, feeling the blood boil in his face and neck. Just another sample of so-called Roman justice. Burning, pillaging, killing, beating. They crushed anyone who even thought of rebelling against their tyranny.
A second stroke burned his back, smarting.
Its fire was a quick spark to self-defense. Philip twisted, again screaming out the war cry. Don’t submit. Fight! No matter what the pain, he would never dishonor his people by obeying these Roman brutes. Suffer fighting!
Somewhere, in the blood-red haze fogging his senses, he heard the laughter of the other legionaries. Obviously, watching his angry struggle was amusing. Stung to fury, he recoiled, clawing and biting. Owen’s grip tightened, hitting him again and again.
Nausea settled in the pit of Philip’s stomach. He felt the strength being sapped from his body with each stroke. Desperately, he struggled to keep fighting, but the smarting pain was too intense. His body went limp.
The blows stopped. Philip knew it was not the legionary’s mercy which spared him, but the desire to keep him healthy. The inconvenience of a captive who was unable to walk was too burdensome.
Philip collapsed in the grass. Sick from pain and shame, he retched violently. Owen didn’t pause to let him rest. Philip felt his arms pulled behind him. A rough cord bit into his wrists, tying them together.
“Get up!”
Philip stumbled to his feet. Owen shoved him towards the others. Fighting to keep his balance, Philip blinked back the blur impeding his vision.
A swift glance revealed Beric watching him. His face was grave, his eyes quietly sorrowful. Again, the shame of their situation smote Philip. Not only were they captives, but the son of an Iceni chieftain had been publicly beaten. Would their disgrace never end?
Owen slapped him into line. Philip could sense his anger was still livid as he tied him with the others. Willing his glare to utter his own bitter resentment, he raised his eyes for one fiery instant, his lips forming an unspoken insult.
Roman cur!
Owen’s smoldering gaze met his, and Philip saw his hand clench. He knew he fairly itched to slap him again. Thankfully, he obviously decided his young captive had had enough punishment for one day. He turned away.
Philip spat in his direction as soon as he turned. Behind his back, he doubled his hands into fists. He would not die, he decided. He would live to tell his story to generations of Iceni warriors. His strength would inspire children; his brutal power would be told around their fires.
He inched closer to his father. However low, he knew his words reached Beric’s ears. “The gods be my witness, I will return. I will end this tyranny! And the story of Rome’s destruction will be a tale for centuries.”
Chapter Two
61 Anno Domini–Several Months Later
City of Rome
A cool, refreshing breeze rustled the clear waters of the sparkling fountain playing in the large peristylium of a vast domus, situated in the section of Rome set apart for the noble classes. The leaves and blooms of countless fragrant blossoms rustled upon the currents of air, carrying their delicate scent to every corner of the garden.
Eighteen year-old Marcus Virginius sat on an elaborately carved bench, an open scroll in his hand. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate. The works of Plato were strangely meaningless.
Forget him. Marcus’s throat tightened without warning. He looked down, clenching the scroll between his strong fingers. You are now the heir.
His mind flitted back to two weeks ago, when a military official had arrived at the Virginius domus. His father Rowland had greeted the man with stern resolve. Somehow, they had all sensed the purpose behind the official’s visit.
And they had been correct.
Legionary Owen Virginius, the eldest son and heir, had been killed in Brittania. Few details were known, but it was reported he had been murdered in an uprising among the captives. The strangeness of it was that he alone had been singled out. The officer made some mention of Owen having beaten a captive. Apparently, the prisoner had been the son of a chieftain.
And the Iceni had had their revenge.
British curs. Marcus’s heart swelled. He was a man, too old for tears. But nothing could stop the aching loss he felt.
Owen had been everything to him. He had been strong, masterful, a proud Roman and good soldier. Among their noble patrician friends, he had been called a son of sons. But it had only taken a single flash of British rebellion for Mars to claim his life.
Marcus laid his scroll on the bench beside him. It was better not to think of what had happened to Owen. Better to focus on the life that must go on, on the position that was now his as the oldest son of a wealthy patrician.
A slave approached. Silently, he laid fruit and wine out. Marcus waved his hand at him. The slave quickly bowed and retreated, his eyes lowered in humble subservience.
Marcus aimlessly plucked a grape, rolling it between his fingers. He knew his presence was intimidating to the slaves. His friends told him a single glance of his dark eyes could crush rebellion like a stroke of the rod. They said his presence itself was masterful, authoritative by nature.
Owen would have been proud. It had been he who had first taught him how to deal with slaves. As boys, Marcus had been soft, unable to watch scourging without cringing. Owen had taunted him into hardening himself. Now, the passing years had given him a charisma of authority the Caesars themselves would be glad to wield over their subjects.
Marcus stood up. The day was warm, stifling. He straightened his white toga, thinking back to the happy boyhood days when he had not been burdened with the garments of Roman manhood. Blessed youth.
The sound of a step behind him brought him to the present moment.
“Wasting your time in the gardens? Great Jupiter, I will never understand your indolence, Marcus.”
Marcus stiffened. The haughty coldness of his father’s voice jarred his senses. Controlling his rising irritation, he met Rowland’s gaze with quiet deference. “Surely, it is not indolence to mourn the dead, father.”
Rowland moved nearer. “Mourn the dead?”
His face softened momentarily, then again hardened. Marcus knew he controlled his true feelings under typical Roman callousness. The power of the gods must not be questioned, no matter what their decision concerning his eldest son. His scornful voice grew cutting.
“So you sit mourning the dead like a woman. Is that what defines you, Marcus? Your brother was strong, a warrior of Rome. He would have accepted the will of the gods, not whimper like a babe in arms.”
Marcus lifted his chin. He could feel the simmering indignation flash in his eyes. “I have neither whimpered nor cried, father. And you know I do not question the judgment of Mars. It is only…” His voice caught unexpectedly. Fiercely, he fought his rising emotion. Get a grip on yourself. “I only regret his loss. I know I can never be the son he was to you.”
Silence hung over the air.
Marcus inhaled deeply. Rowland’s brusque mannerism irked him to no end, but he forced himself to lower his tones. There was sorrow enough without additional conflict. “Let us not speak of Owen, father. His name alone is painful. And, as you say, we will leave the mourning to the women.”
Again, Rowland’s hard face softened slightly. “Agreed, Marcus. I am too busy for talk as it is. Go to the Baths or out with your friends–anything more profitable than being shut up in the garden.”
Marcus half-bowed. His father’s pointed disregard for his own inclinations was grating, but he resolved to submit. “As you say. I will return soon.”
Swiftly, he strode from the garden, crossing the veranda into the spacious atrium. The steward was speaking with a house slave, but he turned as Marcus approached, offering him a low bow.
“My lord Marcus.”
Marcus paused before him. “You are precisely the man I wished to meet, Demetrius. I am going out and want you to meet me in the forum in an hour.”
“Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”
“Perhaps by the auction block.” Marcus shifted. His irritation was already melting under the steward’s quiet respectfulness. Little wonder he rose so quickly in the ranks of slavery. “They say a fresh lot of British slaves have been brought in. I’ve a mind to see them. At any rate, I may need you.”
“As you say, my honored lord.”
Marcus waved aside the steward’s respectful bow. He strode across the atrium to the entry. Pausing only to allow the slave who kept the heavy gilt door to swing it wide, he stepped out into the warm, humid sunshine.
Outside, just beyond the domus, the Vicus Tuscus bustled with activity. Marcus stepped into the busy street, brushing shoulders with one or more hastily-striding plebians. The air was full of mingled shouts and lively chatter, a din of Greek and Latin tongues.
Marcus felt the lively atmosphere steadily easing his strained nerves. It was a relief he gladly welcomed. His father was never an easy one to get along with, and Owen’s death had doubled his stern austerity. Not, he told himself, that he could blame him. For himself, he wished he too could harden himself against the cutting pain of their loss.
But, he could not. As he passed a colossal statue, his heart gripped with a familiar pang. He turned away, but it was too late. Mars. The god of war that he and Owen had worshipped together since their early childhood. Owen had become a soldier first, pledging himself to the service of Rome and the worship of Mars.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 2