The next instant, different colors of light circling each person like sparkling gemstones bedazzled Catrin. Head spinning, she wondered if she had entered a dream as she instinctively began dancing at the beat of her heart. Her feet felt as light as clouds as she floated through the midst of Romans near the hearth. The soldiers seemed wary and backed away, except for the tribune. His hawk eyes peered through clashing orbits of bronze and indigo light around his face.
Catrin’s gaze landed on Marcellus, standing behind the tribune. Heated by the flames of the hearth, she circled him, swaying her hips and drawing closer and closer. She felt his hand brush her hip and the touch shot through her. He met her gaze in a magical moment where time seemed to stand still.
Suddenly, a blue light snaking around the senator, then entwining Catrin, made her recoil. She blinked hard. Opening her eyes again, she beheld fire-breathing eagles, red shield walls, and human skulls hovering over the Romans.
Terrified, she scurried out of the chamber, the raven bouncing on her arm. She told herself, Do not trust the Romans.
In the courtyard, she found people of all ranks holding hands with each other and chanting, “Show us the light. Show us the light.” In the center of the courtyard was a stone altar on which the limp ram lay. Beside the altar, Agrona extended her arms over the sacrificial animal. A shadow webbed around the Druidess, making it difficult for Catrin to discern her face, her true purpose. One end of the human circle opened, allowing Catrin and the perched raven on her arm to enter the inner sanctum. Agrona acknowledged her with a sweeping arm gesture. “Welcome, spirit warrior.”
The people repeated with monotone voices, “Welcome, spirit warrior.”
Agrona threw her head back like a howling wolf and cried out, “Ancestors, come into our circle of life. Give spirit warrior the eyes to see truth today … and time forward.” When she lifted the ceremonial bone-handled knife, a shimmer shot from its surface into Catrin’s eyes.
Catrin stepped sideways to avoid the blinding glare.
The Druidess sliced the ram’s belly open, and the intestines oozed out like slimy serpents. She scooped up the entrails and draped them around her body. Nose upturned, she crouched near Catrin and pawed at the air. “Raven, give warrior spirit the foresight of Apollo.”
The raven took flight and landed on the ram’s head. Its beak gouged out an eyeball. As the bird gawked at Catrin, it gobbled the eye down whole. Then the raven fluttered over the heads of the humans.
Agrona poked out the ram’s other eye with a knife and cut it in half. She handed the pupil-end piece to Catrin, saying, “Warrior spirit, eat. Let Apollo light the truth, the future.”
The only future Catrin could foresee was her stomach puking the eyeball onto the circle of worshipers. With all her resolve, she bit down on the raw eye and gagged it down. The slimy thing ripped at her stomach. As directed by her father, she raised both arms and proclaimed in Celtic, then Latin, “Apollo has divined his favor on all decisions made today.”
The ram’s eyeball rumbling in her stomach told Catrin otherwise.
6
celtic rescuer
“You have dealt with these barbarians before,” Lucius said. “Do they plan to kill us?”
Marcellus rubbed his injured neck as he waited for the bizarre ritual to finish outside. He looked at his fingers, tinged reddish-brown from scratching at the dried blood. The cut was deeper than he had first realized. The image of the ram’s slashed throat made him recall his terror when the sun-tattooed warrior pressed a blade against his neck. He spat on the wooden floor.
Barbarians!
Again he spat.
Savages!
A biting cold penetrated the stone walls and made him shiver. Looking at the painted Celtic warriors around him, he feared the great adventure with his father would soon come to an untimely end. The sacrificial ceremony was macabre, even by Roman standards. In Rome, priests sacrificed hundreds of animals in holy temples, not in receiving chambers where human skulls on the walls welcomed guests as they entered the chamber. The raven’s blasting through the smoke was the most foreboding sign of the ritual. Trying to make light of his grim situation, he chuckled.
Nothing like a bloody sacrifice to lift everyone’s spirits. Thanks to Apollo for sending his Celtic rescuer.
Marcellus whispered to himself, “Was his rescuer’s name Cātacā or Catrin?” He struggled with Celtic names and could not understand the awful sounding guttural language. The bold actions of the foreign princess, garbed in warrior leather armor, confounded him. Why would she intervene to stop a deadly clash from breaking out—a move that saved his life?
He grinned.
Most likely, she has more than a passing interest in me.
The coy smiles the princess directed at him suggested so. After considering the options of saying her name, he decided on Catrin. Cātacā was too harsh for an exotic princess on the threshold of feminine adult beauty. With her multi-braided flaxen hair, she would be the envy of any Roman noblewoman. Her pale blue-green eyes reminded him of the sea shallows near Massilia. Through her torn breeches, he could see a shapely leg. She shared her father’s fair skin and comely looks. Perhaps their common features might explain the king’s obvious favor toward her.
Although the princess had been a bright moment, he groaned from the more poignant memories of his miserable expedition to Britannia with its myriad mishaps. Not one friendly word had passed between his father and him. In Gaul, they suffered in hostelries populated with dog-sized rats and lice-infested beds. While there, they had been robbed of their horses from the stables, forcing them to buy inferior mounts.
Most of all, Marcellus missed the public Roman baths where he could fritter the afternoon away with friends before their drinking bouts at night. Why did his father even bother to take him to Britannia? Surely his older half-brother would have been more amiable company.
He suspected his “old man” had designs on correcting his wastrel behavior on an island across a monster-filled sea. So far, the only monsters he had seen were the tattoos besmearing the Cantiaci warriors ready to fight in a free-for-all brawl—all because of his father’s bungled negotiations with King Amren. Not only did his father lack the skills to barter rates for acceptable accommodations in Gaul, he was a buffoon in his debates with the king. His father, the pompous Senator Lucius Antonius, demonstrated a dearth of finesse in garnering political advantage. Current proof was his apparent eagerness to incite King Amren, almost costing them their lives.
Suddenly, bellowing carnyx war horns and drumbeats poured disharmoniously into the chamber. Growing uneasy, Marcellus looked at the entrance, wondering how much longer the ritual would last outside. He hoped the wolf sorceress and the princess would soon return inside and proclaim Apollo’s favor. The negotiations could then begin. After that, he prayed that Minerva would give his father enough wisdom to leave this isle inhabited by painted warriors and animal worshipers.
The tribune’s graveled voice jolted Marcellus out of his grim thoughts. “Come here. We need to talk.”
Marcellus joined his father and Decimus Flavius, a tribune cursed with a disfiguring scar, a reward for his service in the Roman Legion. The tribune’s service to his father left no doubt in Marcellus’s mind that he was a loyal, ferocious guard dog. Also to their advantage, Decimus knew the Celtic mindset.
Lucius looked to Decimus. “Where are the soldiers you ordered away?”
“Just outside the fortress gate. I dispatched a courier to gather more soldiers from the encampment. There may not be enough time.”
“You have dealt with these barbarians before,” Lucius said. “Do they plan to kill us?”
Decimus shook his head. “They usually honor their truces. Yet, after what I have seen today, I’m no longer sure. The king understands the consequences. His people may not.”
The tribune’s words did n
ot reassure Marcellus. He scowled at his father. “Why didn’t you at least offer the king and his people a gift of wine, before ranting off with your demands? They might have been in a better mood to listen.”
Marcellus could almost feel his father’s face invade his.
“Stupid boy!” Lucius spewed with disdain. “You know nothing about treaty-making! You are here to learn and keep your mouth shut.”
Marcellus retorted, “I hope I have a chance to learn before those warriors paint their bodies with our blood.”
The tight grip of his father’s hand around his arm made Marcellus flinch. “Enough!”
Decimus now interceded. “The enemy is just over there, not here. We need a plan.”
The pressure eased on Marcellus’s arm when his father turned to Decimus and said, “What do you propose?”
Decimus suggested, “Give Amren what he wants.”
“And that is what?”
Decimus scratched his head. “Marcellus may need to stay here as a hostage to calm the hostilities. King Amren needs assurances we will honor our truce while you help arbitrate a settlement between the two rival kings. Amren perceived Cunobelin’s support of Marrock as betrayal. We may not get out of here alive if he also suspects treachery from us.”
“No! I will never concede to that barbarian,” Lucius said adamantly. “We hold the stronger ground.”
Decimus frowned. “Look around. We are outnumbered and at their mercy. Hostage exchange is standard protocol to assure peace while disagreements such as ours are settled. It was not our commission to start a war, but to assess the political situation here and demand more tribute.”
Marcellus glanced at the king’s warriors, who were positioned under human skulls on the walls. Imagining his bloody head spiked alongside the other skulls, he rasped, “What guarantee is there that I won’t be butchered?”
“Cantiaci honor. They must keep their word. In return, we need to demand a hostage as surety that they will not harm you regardless of the outcome between the Celtic rulers, someone close to Amren’s heart … perhaps his youngest daughter.”
Decimus’s stratagem did not reassure Marcellus. Why should he be the sacrificial ram to assure the truce? Before Marcellus could say anything about his reservations, shouts of “bleidi aurinia” resonated throughout the chamber. He turned to the direction of shuffling feet at the entryway where the wolfish sorceress and Catrin had just appeared.
Decimus nudged Marcellus. “Are we in agreement that you might need to stay?”
Marcellus hesitated. “I will do it. But only if there is no other way.” He looked for concurrence from his father, but the chanting warriors gathering around the sorceress distracted him. The wolf sorceress rinsed blood from her face and arms.
Catrin walked from the entryway and halted beside the Romans at the central hearth. She raised her arms and declared in Latin, “Apollo has granted his favor on the meeting today.”
Though a nonbeliever of priests’ divining omens by inspecting the entrails of an animal, Marcellus was nonetheless relieved by the announcement. Decimus, a highly superstitious man, also seemed more at ease. Marcellus could not read his father’s expression.
As Catrin passed Marcellus, she appeared dazed and in pain. He wondered if anything more bizarre had happened in the ceremony as she joined her mother and sisters in front of the elevated thrones.
Then King Amren heavily descended from the dais, a sign that he was ready to talk with the Romans on an equal footing. The wolf sorceress joined Amren, and they walked over to Lucius. The king grasped the senator’s arm in an obvious display to show his power.
“Time we settle. Omens are good,” King Amren said, his voice resonating throughout the chamber. “We will dine in another chamber where we can finish our talks. There is only enough room for three Romans. Your guards will have to wait here.”
Lucius frowned but acceded and waved for Marcellus and Decimus to come with him.
7
Roman Hostage
Challenged to do likewise, Marcellus impulsively stood up and blurted, “I also agree to stay here as a hostage.”
Marcellus braced himself for terse negotiations as he followed his father into an open chamber at the right of the elevated thrones. Inside the room was a pentagram-engraved table that had been set with a flagon of wine, goblets, and plates piled high with cheese, bread, and dried meats. The windowless chamber had no circulation and smelled musty from moss growing in the cracks of the gray wall.
Now appearing calmer, King Amren sat down first in a massive chair nearest the opening. Marcellus had been told that Amren was an ignorant savage, but the king spoke Latin as eloquently as any Roman.
Marcellus seated himself on one side of his father, Lucius, while Decimus was on the other. Unlike the calm demeanor of the king, his father’s jaw clenched with obvious irritation. He could never read Decimus who wore a permanent grimace on his fissured face.
Queen Rhiannon and her eldest daughter sat on each side of the king. Undoubtedly, these tall women were the equals to their male counterparts. Marcellus found the queen fascinating, unlike his father who openly displayed his disdain for her. She exuded confidence by the way she held her head high. Though she had remained quiet during the tense discourse, the king frequently looked to her as though he was seeking direction.
Catrin was last to enter the chamber. Marcellus was intrigued by how divergent her features were compared to her oldest sister. Vala had a soldier’s demeanor that quietly announced her ferocity. She was uglier than a Molossian guard dog with her square chin and pronounced overbite. With frizzled dark hair, Vala was as different from Catrin as a moonless night and a golden morning. Catrin was precocious, risking her father’s wrath by blurting out the words that saved his life. Vala kept her mouth shut like a muzzled hound.
Marcellus then noted the commander, Trystan, and the wolf sorceress taking their places behind the king’s ornate chair. She acted strangely, sniffing the air like a dog on a hunt. Depending on the wavering torch flame, the color of her eyes changed from brown-speckled green to shiny amber. Catching a waft of foul odor from the direction of the sorceress, Marcellus scrunched his nose. Brownish tissue still clung to her dress, probably as a result of disemboweling the ram.
Trystan worried Marcellus the most. The snarl on this warrior’s face left no doubt he wanted to spill Roman blood; his hand looked too busy on the dagger’s thumb rise.
The meeting chamber darkened when Catrin drew a curtain, partitioning off the room from the receiving chamber.
Adjusting his eyes to the dimmer light, Marcellus could see Catrin gazing at him. Her turquoise eyes shone like beacons beckoning him to explore her mysterious shores. Though everyone else in the room had pincer scowls, she gave him a demur smile. His heart quickened.
Sweet Venus above, she is beautiful!
Marcellus smiled at Catrin, but becoming aware of the king’s glare on him, he swiveled his eyes to his father crunching on an apple and his face grimacing in disgust as he spat out what looked like a half-eaten worm. Marcellus rubbed his lips with a of couple fingers to hide his amused smirk. His father then wiped his mouth and leveled his dark eyes at the king.
“Why is your youngest daughter in here?” asked Lucius.
The king’s face hardened. “Apollo delivered his message through her. Do you want to risk your god’s wrath by not having her stay?”
Marcellus could tell by the disdain on his father’s face that he wanted to throw the wench out. Decimus wisely shook his head, warning him not to confront the king.
“So be it,” Lucius grunted. He pushed the flagon across the table toward the queen, as if she was a lowly servant. “Pour me some wine.”
The queen barked, “Pour your own.”
An abrupt move behind the king’s chair caught Marcellus’s eye. He flinched when he saw Trystan draw his
dagger. The warrior’s face flushed as red as a flame when he stared at the queen. She blazed back, shaking her head.
Alarmed by the sudden show of hostility, Marcellus gripped the table and prepared himself to lunge at the warrior if he made any untoward move.
Decimus also seemed to wake up to the danger; he placed a hand on his gladius.
King Amren regarded Decimus, then turned to Trystan and barked some Celtic orders. The wolf sorceress gripped Trystan by the arm and swatted the curtain back for the two of them to leave.
Marcellus leaned back in his chair to mark the king’s next actions. Amren picked up the flagon and smiled at his wife. “Let me do the honors.” He filled the goblets, handed one to each person, and offered a toast: “To Apollo.”
After the toast, everyone then seemed to relax around the table. The king initiated the conversation by amiably asking Lucius, “How was your journey?”
Lucius stared at his goblet of wine for a moment and said brusquely, “The brackish air on the sea voyage made my stomach roil. I had to ruminate on spoiled meat before swallowing it down again.”
Amren’s stare froze on the senator as he took a bite of cheese.
After a couple of sips, Lucius set his goblet down with a bang. “Enough of the pleasantries! Let me get to the point. I do not want to belabor the terms for arranging a private meeting between you and Cunobelin. Know this! I will not accept the condition that my son stays as hostage to assure your safety during the talks,” he said, leaning back into his chair and staring at Amren, “unless you also offer someone of equal value for me to hold as hostage.”
“Who do you propose?” asked Amren with a grated voice.
Lucius took another sip of wine and smiled. “I want your youngest daughter.”
The king gulped the wine in his mouth and slammed his goblet on the table. “No … never.”
Apollo's Raven Page 4