by James Mace
“Not mad,” Alaric said, smiling broadly for what felt like the first time in years. His laughter was brought on by his recognizing of the man who stood before him. Despite his longer hair that was pulled back, and a lengthy mustache that ran well past the corners of his mouth, Alaric still recognized him. “It’s been many years, Landon.”
“You know my name?” The man looked at him while trying to recall where they had known each other. His eyes then grew wide in realization, for his childhood friend was more recognizable, as he was devoid of facial hair and had kept his hair cropped shorter. “By Belenus…Alaric!”
The two men shared a boisterous laugh and embraced heartily.
“I’d given you up for dead years ago!” Landon asserted. “When the king granted his leave for you to depart, I thought your poor mother would die from sorrow.”
“My mother,” Alaric said, pausing before continuing. “Is she…”
Landon shouted some words back to his companion, seeming to avoid the question. The mounted warrior nodded and turned his mount about. “I asked him to send word to the queen, letting her know that you’ve returned. Your mother remains a guest of the royal house.”
“Queen,” Alaric noted. “Then I gather King Breogan rules no more.”
“He passed on to our ancestors seven years ago,” Landon explained as the two men started to walk towards the village, the warrior leading his horse as he told his friend as much as he could about all that had transpired since his departure. “Cartimandua is now our queen. She married an older warrior named Venutius not long after her father’s passing, though they have no children.”
“So she’s married now,” Alaric said quietly to himself. Though the woman who was now queen of the Brigantes had always regarded him as a younger brother, his feelings for her had always been more than that between siblings. It was folly, of course. She was several years older than he, and the only child of the king, while he was little more than a refugee from a defeated tribe in Germania. Now, seventeen years later, she was a queen, and he felt like he was still a refugee seeking the protection of her people.
“And what of you?” Landon asked. “I would think you’d have found yourself a bride on the other end of the world.”
“No,” Alaric replied with a chuckle. “No wife for me, at least not out there. What about you?”
“Oh, yes,” his friend said with a mocked, tired sigh. “We have three daughters and a son, ranging in age from twelve to three. I was fortunate to gain my posting as a member of the queen’s guard, otherwise I’d be stuck tilling the earth from dawn till dusk, or risk being crushed in the mines, in order to meet out a living for them. I am part of a small detachment that the queen has posted near the lands of the Corieltauvi. We act as messengers for her, while also serving as an early warning to any hostile encroachments into our lands. Given the size of our lands and the manpower we can muster, few would dare provoke us. Still, after watching the Catuvellauni overwhelm the lands of the Atrebates, it is hard to tell who we can call ‘friend’ these days.”
Near the edge of the village sat a small cottage. Its walls were whitewashed stone with a thatched roof. Outside, a woman was speaking quickly to a pair of young girls, one of whom was holding the hand of a small boy.
“Now keep an eye on your brother!” she admonished as the children scampered off. She smiled at her husband, kissing him on the cheek, and then assessing the young man who accompanied Landon. “And who is this, my dear?”
“This is Alaric,” Landon answered. He introduced his wife. “Alaric, you remember Mercia?”
“I do,” he replied, taking Mercia’s hand and kissing it gently. She was still pretty, though her body had felt the effects of bearing four children over the years. “A pleasure; it has been so many years.”
“It has,” Mercia replied, though her expression showed she was still trying to dig back into the distant past to recall the young man. Her eyes suddenly brightened. “Of course! Mila’s son, who came to us from Germania.”
“The same.”
“You can stay with us tonight,” Landon asserted. “It is late, and it looks like rain this evening. Our home isn’t much, but at least it puts a roof over your head and walls to keep the wind and rain out.”
“I’ll gladly sleep on the floor if need be,” Alaric chuckled. “I’ve slept in fields and under trees for the past week.”
“In the morning I will go with you to Isurium Brigantum,” Landon added. “We will reunite you with the queen, who will undoubtedly be overjoyed to see you.”
Landon was the first familiar face Alaric had seen since his return, and the sight of an old friend was very reassuring. He noticed, though, that he’d said nothing more about Alaric’s mother, though he assumed that was unintended. The inside of Landon’s small cottage was very humble indeed. Yet it was more than many in the land had, who simply lived in tents or shanty timber hovels. There was a stone hearth, where Mercia had a large caldron filled with boiling meat and vegetables. A large straw bed was set off in the corner, with a smaller one to the side for the children. That evening they all gathered around a small table as the rain echoed off the roof and walls. It sounded like a virtual gale, and Alaric was glad to be inside on this night. Landon’s children were particularly boisterous, which impeded any conversation between the adults, but in the end he did not mind. He was grateful for finding both hospitality and friendship on this stormy night. As the fire coals glowed softly that night, he lay curled up on the floor, his head resting on his balled up cloak.
The next morning they made the remaining trek to Isurium Brigantum. They were compelled to share Landon’s horse, as spare mounts were impossible to find, lest one had a substantial amount of coin they were willing to part with. The township was as Alaric remembered with the numerous farm fields surrounding the town, and a large market square that was abuzz with activity as foreign merchants displayed their wares to the Brigantes. Above it all on a small hill was the great hall that had once belonged to King Breogan and was now his daughter’s. As they approached the large doors of the hall, they dismounted and Landon greeted one of his fellow guards.
“An old friend has returned home and is here to see the queen,” he said.
“Apologies, friend,” the guard said, “but the queen had to leave. She had pressing business to the south and said she may be gone a couple months. The council of elders is overseeing the day to day affairs of the kingdom.”
“What of my mother, Milla?” Alaric asked excitedly.
Landon’s face was suddenly downcast, as was the guard’s.
“I’ll take you to her,” Landon said.
They walked around the massive hall to a small copse of trees that overlooked the valley that stretched out below the backside of the hall.
“She lies here,” Landon explained.
“What do you mean?” Alaric asked, appalled. “You said she was still a guest of the royal house!”
“And from here she is,” his friend explained. “Forgive me, my friend. I know the queen would have wished to tell you personally, which is why I avoided speaking of Milla. Had I known Cartimandua would not be here to receive you, I would have told you before.”
“Leave me,” Alaric said, “I wish to be alone for a while.”
“Of course.” Landon promptly left his friend, his face filled with sorrow and regret.
Alaric walked amongst the trees, longing to see his mother’s face once more. His heart broke as he slowly came to understand that she was gone. The strong woman who had once been a Germanic war chief’s wife, and who had the strength to carry him across the raging River Rhine when he was just a child, was now gone. He said a quiet prayer and thought about the paradise that the Nazarene had spoken of during some of his teachings. Alaric dared to hope that perhaps his mother was there, reunited at last with his father.
Artorius’ consternation at having met Marcia Marcella was evident as he joined his wife at dinner that evening. They had always been ver
y open about their respective pasts, so Diana knew about Camilla, as Artorius did about her previous husband. Such transparency made it easier for Artorius when he confided what had transpired that afternoon.
“Camilla’s daughter is now a woman,” Diana said. She then made a rather astute observation. “You wish she was yours, don’t you?”
“It’s a strange feeling, I admit,” Artorius confessed. “I have only seen her twice in my life, and the last time was when she was but three years old. I never had the patience or desire to have children, and yet when I saw her after Camilla’s funeral, I wished more than anything that she was mine.”
“Had you taken a different path when you were younger, and not joined the legions, then perhaps she would have been.”
“It’s true,” Artorius noted. “Our experiences, and how we grow from them, define our destiny. In another life, perhaps, but it was not to be in this one.”
“Wasn’t Metellus going to join us?” Diana asked, changing the subject as her maidservant brought her a chalice of wine.
Two household slaves brought in trays of cooked chicken and fresh vegetables, as well as a bowl of dates.
“I extended the invitation to him,” Artorius replied. “Though I did also ask him to escort Marcia home. Perhaps he found himself a bit distracted.” He smiled and winked at his wife as he took a long drink off his wine cup.
The sun had long since set and Metellus and Marcia still walked along the beach. It was as if she needed someone she could open up to after all these years, and she spoke very fast, telling him everything she could about herself; growing up in Rome after the death of her mother, with a father that preferred inhaling mind-altering substances while spending most of his time in the company of effeminate men and young boys.
“It’s not that he was cruel to me,” she explained. “Rather, he acted as if I did not even exist. I would deliberately misbehave just to try and catch his attention and make him at least acknowledge me. Instead, he would tell one of the servants to ‘take care of the child already’. Strange as this may sound, I would have preferred his scorn rather than indifference.”
“I never knew my real father,” Metellus replied. Upon Marcia’s inquisitive look, he in turn told her about being raised in Germania with his mother; his father being killed in battle before he was born. He explained how when she was dying she told him all about his Roman lineage and that he should seek out his father’s brother, Artorius.
“I wondered,” Marcia replied. “From the looks of you both, I did not think him old enough to be your father.”
“It’s true,” Metellus remarked. “He is only eleven years older than I, but no less of a father for that. As for my mother, she never remarried, and she never ceased loving the man who sired me, that I was also named after.”
“At least she knew what love was,” Marcia said. “How did you know where Artorius was?”
“I didn’t, or at least I wouldn’t have, had not my father’s former centurion sent a letter to my mother, telling her that he and Artorius both served within the same legion. Because my father was dead, I had no proof that I was a Roman, so I did the only thing I could think of and enlisted into the Auxilia.”
Upon Marcia’s further insistence, he told her all about his first year as an auxiliary infantryman, and how at the Battle of Braduhenna, he and about thirty other troopers were separated from their unit and, by chance, ended up fighting alongside Artorius and his legionaries, on the extreme right of the entire army.
“We were both badly wounded that day,” he explained. “Honestly, I don’t know how it is either of us survived. The war against the Frisians ended soon after and, while convalescing, I was able to finally meet Artorius in person and tell him who I was.”
“And he believed you?”
“According to him, my resemblance to my father is uncanny. Several years later I met my grandfather, and he said the same. At the time, however, I knew I needed something I could show him. What I had were a series of letters he had written to my father, when Artorius was a young boy and my father was a soldier in the legions. My mother never got rid of them, perhaps she knew that someday I would have to find my uncle and claim what was rightfully mine.”
They continued to walk in silence for a few minutes as Marcia tried to take in all that he had said. It was a clear night, and the crescent moon glowed off the water as the waves lapped gently over the sand. Metellus was momentarily startled when he felt her reach over and take his hand.
“And now you’re a centurion in the legions!” Marcia noted respectfully. “A pity we could not have met much sooner.”
“There is time,” Metellus said. “I have another three weeks left on my leave before I have to start my journey back to the Rhine.”
“Then we’d best make the most of it,” Marcia replied with a smile. This walk with the young centurion seemed to be exactly what her wounded soul needed. Since she was a young girl she had longed to find the man she thought was her father. Finding that he was not had shattered her hopes, and yet now she dared to think that perhaps events were transpiring as they were meant to.
Guide me, mother, she thought wordlessly to herself.
________
Chapter Endnotes:
1 – Bordeaux, France
2 – Silchester, England
3 – The Brigante Kingdom covered much of what is now Northern England, as well as portions of the Midlands. Their capitol was in what is now Yorkshire. A tribe of the same name also controlled several counties in Ireland, though if these were the same people is unknown.
4 – English East Midlands
Chapter VI: A King in Exile
The Imperial Palace, Rome
July, 41 A.D.
***
It had been twenty-six years since Verica had succeeded his elder brother as king of the Atrebates. They were but one tribal kingdom among the many that inhabited the Isle of Britannia. Originally of Gallic and Belgic origin, they were a conglomeration of various peoples who came to be ruled by the kings of Atrebas. One of the smaller kingdoms on the isle, their far more powerful neighbors constantly pressed their borders. Verica’s twenty-five year reign had been one of near constant turmoil, until finally Caratacus decided to do away with his kingdom altogether and annex the lands as his own in a short but brutal war of conquest.
Though the king and a small escort had been saved from capture by a Roman warship, they had not been allowed to see the emperor after their arrival. At the time, Caligula was making a spectacle about his pending invasion of Britannia, and so he felt he had no need to deal with those who could not even hold onto their lands in the face of barbarian invaders. As such, Verica and Cogidubnus had remained just outside the city, in the area known as Campus Martius, or Field of Mars. It was populated mostly by foreign dignitaries and hosts of those waiting to get into the city proper. Their stay was comfortable enough, and they were put up in a block of rooms near the Baths of Agrippa. Both the king and the few warriors who accompanied him were in awe at the sight of the imperial city. The tents, small cottages, and even the great meeting halls of the Britannic kings were but humble shanties of squalor when compared to the massive and ornate structures that dotted the Roman landscape.
Now, after a year in exile and seven months following the assassination of Gaius Caligula and the rise of Claudius, Verica was at last summoned to the imperial palace. The elderly Briton was helped by his young great-nephew as they were escorted up the steps by several squads of praetorian guardsmen. The massive city was worlds apart from where Verica had come. He stood for a moment in awe of the massive stone pillars and gigantic statues portraying men and deities; seeing them up close for the first time.
“These men will restore us to our rightful place,” he asserted, as he looked over at his nephew, Cogidubnus.
“A bitter irony that we must first subjugate ourselves to a foreign emperor,” the young man said, for what must have been the hundredth time since they began their journ
ey several months before. “I petitioned them for assistance when no others would come.”
“And what would you call Caratacus and the Catuvellauni?” Verica retorted. “Are they not a foreign people who now occupy our kingdom? We have not the size or strength to resist them like the Brigantes, who sat idle while our people were slaughtered and enslaved. Caratacus sacked our capitol and sits in my great hall, provided he has not burned it to the ground. We may share similar ancestry and religion, but he is just as much a foreigner to us as Emperor Claudius of the Romans.”
As the two men conversed, a tall, bald Roman in a resplendent toga, accented with a narrow purple stripe, descended the steps to greet them. He was well built with a prominent nose, and he carried a small ornate baton in his right hand.
“King Verica,” he said, “I am Aulus Nautius Cursor, Tribune of the Plebs. On behalf of the people of Rome, I welcome you.” He then placed his hand over his heart and gave a short bow of respect. “I am to escort you to the emperor, who is most anxious to meet you.”
“And I him,” Verica replied. “I am glad he is a more receptive host than his predecessor was.”
With the decades of trade between their nations, plus status as a Roman ally, the king had learned to speak Latin at a very young age. As he had elected to dress in Roman garb, while cropping his hair shorter than usual and shaving so as not to stand out as conspicuously, the trace of foreign accent was the only thing that betrayed Verica’s origins. Cursor’s mouth twitched knowingly at the king’s last remark, though he held his tongue. He waved his hand towards the entrance of the palace and guided the men up the long steps.
With Metellus’ leave at an end, he would be making his way back to the Rhine soon. However, he would not be traveling alone. Though his union with Marcia may have felt a bit rushed, Artorius was by no means disappointed. It proved to be a rather small gathering, as Marcia only had a handful of friends, and all of Metellus’ companions were with the legions in Germania.