The autumn rains became sleet and chill east winds whipped around the fort, seeping through the cracks in the barracks walls. The Romans built up their fires, stuffed rags into the chinks between the boards and piled animal skins on their beds. And still they shivered. They had made war in Spain and North Africa and Greece, but these were all sunny Mediterranean climates; in Britain the weather was their enemy along with the Celts. They fought on doggedly, too disciplined to complain, but their general remembered the previous year very well. Tired of the cost of the endless skirmishing in time and Roman lives, in mid-November Scipio met with his officers to get their opinion and then sent an emissary to the Iceni camp offering new terms for a treaty.
On a blustery morning when the gray sky threatened either a freezing rain or more snow, Claudius entered the headquarters building and knocked on the door of Scipio’s office. He went inside when the general’s voice called him, and found Ardus, Cato and several of the other tribunes already waiting for him there. A fire was burning on the stone hearth, fed by a pile of stout cedar logs, and as he unwrapped the others made room for him in front of the blaze.
Scipio cleared his throat, his thin greying hair looking thinner and greyer this morning, his seamed face appearing pale with the final loss of his Roman tan.
“As you all know,” he said, “I have sent word to the Iceni proposing a new treaty. I don’t know why I use that term, since they have paid very little attention to the old one.” His tone was matter of fact, and his audience listened gravely.
“You will remember from our last meeting that I decided on this course of action since we are unlikely to endure cold weather fighting as well as the natives. Even though we have better supplies and weaponry and superior resources the weather is bound to take its toll. Last year we skirmished with the Celts all winter and were not the better for it. It has been my goal since I returned from Rome not to repeat that fruitless experience. I do not know what the Iceni response will be but I based my final decision to contact them on a piece of information I did not share with you at the time.”
The soldiers waited.
“Brettix, the only son of King Borrus, has been lost in the fighting and is presumed dead.”
The men all looked at each other.
“This is the kind of thing that will take the spirit out of a king, or a whole tribe,” Scipio said. “The crown prince of the Iceni has disappeared, he was last seen wounded in the skirmish two days ago near the wood the natives call Drunemeton. He may have fallen and been buried in the snow, and if so his body will not turn up until spring. Or possibly never. In light of this I hope Borrus will agree to my terms. If so I will write to Mark Antony and tell him we have made peace with the Celts, at least until the spring thaw when they will undoubtedly be over their grief and start up again.” His tone was dry.
The men absorbed this in silence.
“Questions?” Scipio said.
“I assume our task will be to maintain our status through the winter and then make what gains we can when the weather breaks?” Quintus Septonius said. He was another tribune, a veteran of the past season in Britain.
“Yes,” Scipio replied.
There was a knock at the door, and a centurion entered carrying a leather pouch, which he gave to Scipio. The general held up his hand as he read its contents, and they all waited.
After a silence Scipio said, “Borrus agrees, with a few minor stipulations of his own.”
There was no reaction; the men were all too self contained to show what they thought.
“You may go,” Scipio said to them crisply. “All of you except Leonatus.”
The room emptied, with Claudius remaining behind as the others left. Scipio looked over the scroll again, shaking his head, and then dropped it on his desk.
“It’s in Latin,” he said, “that would put a schoolboy to shame. Borrus must have written it, or hired a scribe or Druid more ignorant than himself. The Celts in Gaul use the Greek alphabet for writing, but here I’m dealing with people who carve a series of lines on a tree when they want to mark a grave.”
Claudius said nothing.
“One of Borrus’ conditions involves you,” Scipio said.
“Me?” Claudius said, amazed.
“He wants a Roman officer to marry his daughter, and you have been chosen for the honor.”
Claudius was stunned into silence.
Scipio rose and walked over to the fireplace, leaning on the hearth. “It’s a tribal tradition, signifying that two warring factions have mended fences and determined to live in harmony. I know the custom and anticipated his request.”
“But why me?” Claudius demanded.
“Borrus didn’t ask for you, Claudius. Your selection was entirely my decision.”
Claudius opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Scipio shrugged. “You’re the logical choice. You’re the senior ranking officer after me. I am unacceptable because my family is here and the Celts would regard it as an insult if I took this girl as a second wife. These people may be barbarians, but they are monogamous. And to put forth a lesser officer would also be seen as an affront, as such a man would not be worthy of marriage to an Iceni princess. I’m sorry but it’s you, Claudius. It has to be you.”
“I don’t want to be in the same room with any of these people, much less marry one of them. They’ve been systematically killing off my men for almost two months!”
“I’m afraid you have no choice, son. It’s an order.”
Claudius looked at him. Scipio’s kindly use of the familiar form of address alarmed him even more than what had been said.
He must really be in trouble.
“Listen to me, Claudius,” Scipio said. “Borrus will bring the Trinovantes, who change sides daily according to who can make them the best deal, under the terms of the treaty. The lesser southern tribes will follow his lead, they always do. I cannot afford to say no. The winter has just begun. Who knows what our losses might be if we have to fight through it? Last year was a disaster. I don’t want to answer to Octavian for the loss of another five thousand men. He wants the tribes quiet and his troops here intact. This treaty will give us both.”
“What makes you think Borrus will abide by it? You just said he disregards whatever he has promised at will.”
“He has lost his son, and if we go through with this proposal his daughter, his only remaining child, will be in a position of jeopardy. What will happen to her if he flouts the terms of the agreement? Just the fact that he has suggested this marriage means, to my mind, that he is serious about peace.”
Claudius realized that Scipio was right, but the notion of the wedding was still anathema to him. “Are we Greeks now?” he said wearily to Scipio, shaking his head. “Do we take native wives in every new territory like Alexander?”
Scipio made a dismissive gesture. “The Celtic ceremony means something only to them. It’s just a formality which carries no weight under Roman law. The girl is more a hostage than a bride. Her fate will hang in the balance if Borrus doesn’t adhere to the terms of the treaty as well as deliver the other tribes as promised.”
“Then I take it the marriage will not be consummated?” Claudius asked warily.
Scipio spread his hands. “That will be up to you. If the girl is willing, why not take her? I’m certain she will be instructed to submit. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the women here are very beautiful, but they are likely to come to bed with a razor, so be careful.”
“When will this happen?” Claudius asked in a resigned tone.
“As soon as we can arrange it. Go back to your quarters and get your things together. After the marriage you will be moving to the Catalinus house your predecessor left vacant when he went back to Rome. We can’t have the princess camping out in the barracks.”
Claudius, still reeling from shock, did not see the humor in the last remark. He merely nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room.
“I won’t do it,” Bronwen sai
d to her father, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“Yes, Bronwen, you will,” Borrus answered her firmly, his expression grim.
The king of the Iceni was a handsome man, his looks reflected in the comeliness of his two children. His hair, which had once been Bronwen’s golden red, had darkened with age to a gray tinged russet, and he displayed the full, bristling beard and moustache typical of the Celtic male. He was wearing the belted tunic and bracae, or trousers, that were almost the tribal uniform, and his features were set in a determined mold. He was tired of struggling against overwhelming and exhausting odds; he wanted the Romans eradicated for good, and now that his son was gone he felt he had nothing left to lose in pursuing that goal.
“Listen to me,” he said to Bronwen. “Your brother is dead. Do you want to take revenge on the people who killed him, the same people who have overrun our country for the last ten years and turned us all into little more than slaves?”
Bronwen was silent, staring sullenly at the earthen floor of her father’s house.
“Well?”
“I won’t let one of them touch me.”
“So your brother’s life counts for nothing?”
“Get someone else!”
“There is no one else. There is only one daughter of the king, and you can speak and read Latin. You will be in the house of an important officer, you can listen and overhear, you can read documents when no one is around. And when you say the time is right, when their troop strength is down and they’re preoccupied or weakened in some other way, we will strike.”
Bronwen did not respond.
“How many times have you told me that you were as tough and courageous as Brettix, that you can and would do anything to expel the Romans?”
“You can’t blame me if I didn’t think it would come to this!” Bronwen flashed back at him.
“You said ‘anything,’” her father reminded her.
“So you’re sending me into the enemy camp as a spy.”
Her father nodded.
“And who will be my husband?”
Borrus shrugged. “One of the tribunes, probably Leonatus, the second in command. Does it matter?”
“My virginity will be sacrificed to some Roman goat,” Bronwen said tonelessly.
“It’s a small price to pay to avenge your brother,” Borrus responded quietly.
“That’s easy for you to say!” Bronwen spat. “Don’t you care about me at all?”
Her father flinched for the first time, and she saw that he did care. Then his face hardened once more, his resolve restored.
“I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there were any other way. We’ve tried wearing the Romans down, thinning their numbers over the winter, using our traditional methods to hack away at them and kill their determination. It never works permanently. When the weather breaks and the seas become passable they just bring in more troops from Rome and the cycle starts over again. They’re the conquerors of the world, Bronwen. They have infinite means, and if they want to keep Britain, they will. Unless we change tactics. With your help I hope we can get the inside information necessary to do that.”
“A father never demanded more of a daughter,” Bronwen said, her voice trembling dangerously.
Borrus looked pained, but did not respond.
“Do I have some time to think about it, or did you already agree to this?” Bronwen asked.
Borrus looked at her, and the answer was in his eyes.
“I see,” Bronwen said tonelessly. “When?”
“In two days’ time.”
Bronwen exhaled slowly. “Where?”
“In the shepherd’s hut in Drunemeton wood. We’ll garland it and build a fire and have the ceremony there.”
Bronwen considered that. The usual Celtic weddings were held outdoors during the summer festival of Lugnasad , and were dedicated to the chief god Lug who entered into a marriage with the earth goddess once a year. Several couples were married at the same time in early August, bedecked with the fruits and flowers of the season to indicate and enhance their fertility.
This wedding would be conducted singly, indoors, with the snow falling silently outside.
It could not be a good sign.
“Well?” Borrus finally said.
“You’ve already told me I have no choice. I am a faithful daughter, your will is mine.”
Borrus rose from his chair and embraced her. Bronwen stood stiffly in his arms.
“You are doing a great service for your people,” Borrus said.
Bronwen didn’t answer.
It didn’t feel that way.
It felt like she was throwing away her life.
CHAPTER Three
The day of the wedding was cold and overcast, with the threat of snow by nightfall. The Celts arrived at the site at dusk and built a huge fire in the hut used by shepherds to shelter their new lambs on chilly spring nights. The Iceni followed their custom of decking the room, as they usually decked the arch above the marrying couple, but since there were no fruits or flowers available they settled for pine garlands and wreaths made of fallen yew leaves and discarded nuts. This gave the hut a somber, wintry air, which was matched by the grim faced Iceni leaders as they stood in a semi-circle, waiting for the Romans to arrive.
Bronwen was dressed in her finest garments as befit the ban-chomarba , female heir of the tribe, on her wedding day. She wore a full length linen tunic, belted at the waist with a golden chain, and around her neck a golden choker, or torc, which met at the base of her throat in the form of two hands clasping. Her striped woolen cloak of vibrant colors was draped over one shoulder and fastened with a golden brooch. Her rich red hair was braided into a circlet around her crown and then looped through the wreath of mistletoe on her head to fall down her back. Her father and the vergobrets, or lawgivers, of the tribe, stood before the fire with the Druid who would perform the ceremony. Also present were a man and a woman in costume. The man was dressed in green and holding a golden staff to depict the chief god Lug (whom the Germanic Celts, or Gauls, called Wotan or Odin), a warrior magician, and the woman was wearing a horse’s head carved from an oak tree and painted to symbolize Epona, the goddess of fertility.
The rest of the Iceni were massed outside, waiting in the paths between the drifted snow.
When the Romans arrived the Celts parted ranks silently to let the newcomers pass. Claudius, accompanied by Scipio, Ardus and Cato, was dressed in his full uniform, his weapons belted at his waist. His gold embroidered garnet tunic and gold faced leather breastplate and skirtguard bespoke his rank. Hobnailed boots were laced up his calves and the scarlet cloak fastened at the back of his shoulders swept down almost to his heels. His golden helmet with chinguard and crest of red feathers obscured his dark hair, and as he entered the hut behind Scipio he glanced toward the hearth and saw the girl.
He missed a step and Ardus almost crashed into him.
“What is it?” Ardus hissed in his ear. “Are you all right?”
Scipio turned and looked at Claudius.
“Fine,” Claudius muttered, taking a deep breath and advancing again. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm, not trusting himself to risk another look at her until he was standing motionless at her side.
She was staring straight ahead, affording him a view of her delicate profile. She seemed serene except for the pulse he could see beating hectically at her temple, which gave her away.
Was she just nervous, or had she had recognized him too?
The white robed Druid stepped forward and began to intone the formula for one of the eight forms of Celtic marriage, that arranged by contract for mutual advantage. As the priest spoke the rhythmic syllables, meaningless to him, Claudius tried to absorb this new turn of events.
He had been dreading this moment, when his duty would force him to wed some unknown barbarian woman in defiance of his own custom or desire. He had never imagined that the girl he had encountered that late summer night near
Scipio’s house, the girl he had been seeking by day and dreaming of by night, would be his bride.
The Druid stopped talking and the woman wearing the cow’s head brought forth a loaf of brown bread and a bag of salt. The Druid accepted these offerings, and the long sword which the man-god proferred ceremoniously.
The Romans eyed it warily, but remained in place.
The Druid said in his own language, “We teach that the gods must be honored, no injustice done and seemly behavior always maintained.”
All the Celts present bowed their heads.
“Truth in the heart, strength in the arm, honesty in speech are the principles of our people,” he continued, opening the bag and sprinkling the salt on the bread. All watched him, breathless.
He looked up at the young couple, then held the sword aloft and sliced through the loaf with one stroke. “These two are married in the sight of the Tuates, the first of our tribe, and they share this bread as they will share their lives,” he said.
He gave a piece of the loaf to Bronwen, and then a piece to Claudius. Bronwen took a bite of hers. Claudius followed her example, chewing the manchet slowly. Then Borrus stepped forward, took his daughter’s hand, and gave it to Claudius.
At this point in a wedding the Celts usually erupted into loud cheers and began the wedding feast right on the spot, bringing in whole roasted boar and pigs and wild deer, getting drunk on corma and, if the trade routes were open and the families could afford it, imported Italian wine. Instead this time they glanced at one another uneasily and then began to file out of the hut slowly, as the onlookers outside searched their faces to see if the marriage had really taken place.
It had.
Bronwen emerged and was immediately surrounded by Iceni women and escorted to the home of her new husband. Claudius, to whom this custom had already been explained, hung back with the other officers, watching the Celts depart.
“You’re a lucky man,” Scipio said to Claudius, clapping him on the back, delighted that the two factions had made it through the ceremony without killing each other. “Your bride is gorgeous.”
The Lion and the Lark Page 5