“I was told you wanted to see me,” Decimus said.
“Yes. Sit down. Help yourself to wine while I seal this message for delivery to the emperor.”
Lucius dripped melted wax on the edges of the parchment and pressed his signet ring into the soft wax, imprinting the family seal of Apollo in a horse-driven chariot. He handed the scroll to his slave, a balding Greek with only a few tufts of gray hair left in his head.
“Give this to my courier for immediate delivery to the emperor,” Lucius ordered. “Tell the guard not to allow anyone entry until I have spoken with Decimus.”
The slave meekly bowed and left.
Lucius took a glass of wine offered by Decimus. He swirled the full-bodied Pompeian wine and took a sip, savoring the taste. It was one of the few luxuries he had brought to the inhospitable isle. After taking a few more sips, he said, “Before we meet with Marrock, I’d like to know more about Cunobelin. How strong of an armed resistance would he mount if we invade Britannia?”
Decimus traced the rim of the goblet and licked the wine off his finger. “Cunobelin is formidable. He was educated in the imperial palace of Augustus and was trained in Roman military strategy. He is a shrewd politician and always bows to Rome’s demands to avoid conflict. Yet Verica, the king of the Atrebates, told me Cunobelin begrudges Julius Caesar for forcing treaties on the Catuvellauni almost seventy years ago.”
“What about Amren?” Lucius asked.
“I would not underestimate Amren and his queen,” Decimus said, furrowing his brow.“ Through their marriage, they have forged a powerful alliance between the Regni and Cantiaci tribes. They also have strong ties to Verica of the Atrebates. Together, these rulers control the southeast coast of Britannia. Another consideration is Amren served in the Roman auxiliary at the same time as the Germanian prince Arminius. He thus knows our military tactics. Cunobelin told me in confidence that Amren secretly supplied warriors to Arminius, who then destroyed three of our legions at Teutoburg Forest.”
Lucius tapped his fingers on the table. “What about Marrock? Would he be amenable to helping us invade Britannia, if we help him overthrow his father?”
Decimus rubbed his chin. “He reminds me of a monster with an insatiable appetite for power.”
“Even more reason for him to lap up the scraps from our hands. That monstrous barbarian appears willing to do anything we ask.”
“Senator, may I speak freely?”
“Of course, I consider you my most loyal patron and friend.”
“Marrock can’t be trusted,” Decimus said firmly. “Although he speaks with a honeyed tongue, his hideous face reflects who he truly is. I cannot put my fingers on it, but the words “grotesque” and “twisted” come to mind. Even Cunobelin now wavers on his support for him.”
“No doubt Marrock appears a freak,” Lucius concurred. “I also cringe every time I look at him. Have you uncovered the true reason Amren banished him?”
“Not yet,” Decimus said, shifting on his chair. “I did confirm that Amren executed Marrock’s mother. This is a grisly act that would send a son over a precipice into madness. Nobody that I have talked with has refuted Amren’s reason for banishing Marrock. He was caught holding the severed heads of two children from a nearby villa.”
With the wine’s taste suddenly souring, Lucius set the brass goblet on the table with a clang. “If that is true, why would Cunobelin marry his eldest daughter to a deranged man and present his claims to the emperor?”
Decimus leaned forward on his elbows. “I am also baffled by this. From what I’ve seen, Cunobelin speaks from both sides of his face to gain a vantage. He supports Marrock’s claims, but still negotiated a marital pact with Amren to marry his daughter to Adminius. My gut tells me that Cunobelin is using Rome’s support to pressure Amren into sharing some of his sovereignty with Adminius. Their mutual rule would offer Cunobelin immediate power over the Cantiaci rather than waiting for Amren’s death when Marrock is proclaimed king.”
Lucius mulled over what Decimus said. “With Cunobelin’s shifting alliance toward Amren, we could easily control Marrock by playing to his ambitions. What would we need for a successful invasion?”
“Roman ships must land near the white cliffs where our legions could disembark with minimal resistance. Cunobelin and Amren would fiercely attack us, no matter what we promised them.” The tribune paused, then had a glint in his eye. “Now I understand where you are going with Marrock. He would be indebted to us if we helped him overthrow his father.”
Lucius slapped the table with exuberance. “Politicians must sometimes deal with monsters for the greater cause. Marrock’s loyalty could be sealed by promising him additional power and freedom to rule the Cantiaci as our client king. Before we invade, we will mandate that he build a fortressed lighthouse on the cliffs to aid our ships in the landing. Could this task be completed in one to two years?”
“That is possible,” Decimus said, rubbing his chin. “I could leave one or two of my engineers to help with the design and construction. But, sir … I do not trust Marrock!”
“And neither do I, but that is why, once we have conquered Britannia, our legions will stomp that grotesque savage under our heels.”
Decimus nodded. “Put that way, it might be advantageous to explore Marrock’s willingness to work with us when we meet tomorrow. We must keep utmost secrecy. I fear if Amren catches wind we are secretly dealing with Marrock, he may break his truce and harm Marcellus.”
Lucius glowered. “I am still vexed at myself for allowing Marcellus to stay as a hostage.”
Decimus lowered his head. “Regrettably we were left with no other choice but to meet the king’s demands. Our heads would have joined the other skulls in his reception hall.”
“What is done is done,” Lucius said, still agitated that Amren had gained first advantage by retaining Marcellus. “How can we move forward with Marrock without jeopardizing my son’s life?”
Decimus rubbed his lower lip with a forefinger. “We should secretly barter separate agreements with each of the potential rulers and determine who will concede to our demands. For now, we should not publicly insist that Amren recognize Marrock as the legitimate heir to the throne until we can get this sorted out.”
Lucius chose to finish his wine and then said, “It is settled. Arrange for Cunobelin to speak with Praetor Frugi while we talk with Marrock tomorrow.”
“I will do that right away,” Decimus said, scooting his chair back to stand, but Lucius, remembering the sticky situation with Tiberius, motioned the tribune to stay. “There is something else I need to tell you. The emperor has lost heart for invading Britannia since losing his only son. He is now in Campania and difficult to reach.”
Decimus’s mouth dropped. “Has something happened that I am not aware? I am, after all, duty-bound to obey the emperor.”
Lucius waved the concern away. “No, no, a small snag. Tiberius directed me to communicate directly with Prefect Sejanus on what we find here. I will convince Sejanus that it is in his best interest to invade Britannia. As you know, Praetor Frugi is already a staunch supporter of our plan. We are negotiating a marital agreement for Marcellus to wed his daughter. This marriage will forge our political alliance into steel. Praetor Frugi will then support my political climb to consul. If I spearhead the glorious conquest of Britannia, that would seal my election as consul. Let me remind you, your promotion to Legate is tied with my political rise. For this to happen, no harm can come to Marcellus. Is there any way you could send some of your soldiers to secretly watch him at the Cantiaci village and rescue him, gods forbid, if anything goes wrong?”
“Amren’s village is well-fortressed,” Decimus said grimly. “It would be difficult for my men to pass through the gate without notice. Our best course of action is to uphold the truce with Amren and maintain secrecy whenever we meet privately with any of the Briton rulers.
We need to make sure Amren’s eldest daughter is safely returned, so Marcellus is released. Then we can carry out with our invasion plans.”
“My boy holds the key for sealing an alliance with Praetor Frugi through this marriage,” Lucius said fervently. “Yet I fear, even if Marcellus is freed, I will still need to squash ugly gossip about him flexing his manhood with a married woman. This could unravel the marital agreement.”
“He is impetuous like his great-grandfather and needs to be reined in as Julius Caesar did with Mark Antony. He is a young man who needs action and given command of soldiers. He will quickly fade in the shadows of the Senate.” Decimus rose from his chair and leaned his hands on the table. “I could give Marcellus that training and discipline. His military service to Rome would be a tribute to you.”
Lucius said, “You may be right, but you will never have that chance if my son is not safely returned.”
Decimus squared his shoulders. “Sir, what would you have me do?”
“Dispatch your best soldiers to watch the Cantiaci village from a distance. Tell them to be ready to rescue Marcellus if they sniff any danger to him.” Lucius shot a piercing stare. “Remember, I will never forgive you if anything happens to my son.”
Decimus said, “I will not let that happen,” then saluted, and pivoted on his heels to leave.
Left with a foreboding tremor in his heart that he might not see Marcellus again, Lucius lifted his eyes and quietly prayed, “Apollo, almighty god of the sun who lights each day, I beseech you to keep Marcellus from harm. Give me a glorious victory in Britannia, so I can rise out of the ashes of my fallen forefathers—Mark Antony and Iullus Antonius. In return for your favor, I will offer you ten white bulls at my triumph.”
21
Masked Intentions
Suspecting his father may have told the senator all the sordid details, Marrock would need to counter the tale with his own.
The rooster’s crow awoke Marrock, reminding him of his eventful meeting that day with Senator Lucius Antonius. He rolled over to see Ariene scraping cut vegetables into the cauldron that hung over the hearth. His oldest son hung onto his mother’s dress while the youngest crawled on the floor. He again pondered his vision from the other night. The stag had been debilitated by what, at first, had not appeared a threat—the low branches of a hawthorn tree. As he thought more about how the ravens feasted on the wolves’ kill, his hatred for Catrin broiled inside him. How could a small raven garner so much power from the Otherworld and not the wolf? If she can access the magic of the Ancient Druids as Agrona proclaimed— blaming him for altering the curse when he abandoned Catrin in the woods—could not his half-sister use them against him? On the day he first met Senator Antonius near the white cliffs, he sensed Catrin in the raven flying overhead, but he failed to bring the feathered creature down with his death stare, an ability he had yet to master.
I will make sure that does not happen again!
Marrock rose from his bed, pulled his trousers on and picked up a striped Roman toga. He walked to the cauldron and leaned over to see what was in it. His stomach recoiled from the stench of boiling turnips.
“Do you have anything else to eat?” Marrock grumbled. “You know how I hate these roots!”
Ariene pointed to the table near him. “Over there, you can find some cheese and pork strips.”
Marrock picked up the moldy cheese and took a bite, the flavor tantalizing his palate. He looked at his wife. “Did you see any omens on how today’s meeting will go?”
“I dreamt you were a red wolf watching a couple of eagles feast on what looked like a horse’s corpse. I am not sure what that means.”
“Possibly the horse represents my father,” Marrock said. “He was born with a horse spirit. Who do you think the eagles represent?”
“My father has an eagle spiritual guide. But why would there be two eagles feasting on the horse and not you?”
“Good question. I will think on it.”
Marrock finished eating the cheese and picked up his shield and long sword. He pushed the heavy door open and walked to the open front stables where he bridled and mounted a small horse. He kneed the compact steed into a trot on a gravel road and weaved between plots of farmlands until he reached the Roman encampment, a half-mile from the Catuvellauni capital of Camulodunon. The fortress was fortified with a rampart and wooden palisade that lined its perimeter. He dismounted and smoothed the toga’s fabric over his breeches. He walked to the grizzly sentry by the watchtower and announced, “I am Marrock, advisor to Cunobelin, here to see Senator Lucius Antonius.”
When the burley sentry eyed Marrock, he winced. Marrock smiled faintly and handed the scrolled credentials to him. Reading the parchment, the guard said, “Everything looks in order.” He motioned to another infantryman standing at his side. “Take this man back to the praetorium.”
Following the soldier, Marrock looked all around, studying the camp’s set-up. Lined along the pathway on both sides were tents that housed soldiers who were milling around and performing various tasks. He guessed six hundred men, an unusually high number to guard so few diplomats. When he reached the massive red-striped tent at the camp’s center, he noticed banners emblazoned with a gold image of the sun god in a horse-driven chariot.
Cunobelin had told Marrock that Apollo was the senator’s patron god. Marrock again pondered the meaning of his vision when the stag was entrapped by the tree branches. Perhaps, the emblem of Apollo on the staff’s gold globe was symbolic of the senator’s authority. He had to find a way to trick the senator into using his Roman forces against his father.
A Roman guard drew back the tent flaps to allow Marrock entry into the senator’s palatial headquarters. Seated at a long wooden table was the graying senator and across from him was Marrock’s richly garbed father-in-law, Cunobelin. The Catuvellauni king was garishly clothed to display his status as king: fox pelt cape over his shoulders, gold torc coiled around his thick neck, and gemstones ringed his fingers. Cunobelin’s tusked mustache curved over his jaw whereas the senator was clean shaven. Standing behind the senator was a commander armed with a red-crested helmet and bronze chest armor that had the same imprint as the banners outside. Marrock then noted the gold embroidered eagle on the scarlet tapestry that partitioned the main chamber from another area.
Cunobelin motioned Marrock forward for introductions. “Senator Antonius, let me present my Master Druid, Marrock. He is married to my eldest daughter who has borne me two healthy grandsons.”
The senator’s mouth scrunched in repulsion. The fissured-face tribune stared back without a flinch. Cunobelin gestured toward the senator. “Marrock, it is again my honor to introduce Senator Lucius Antonius—the grandson of Mark Antony and descendent of Apollo. The senator represents the “might and will” of Emperor Gaius Tiberius. He is here to adjudicate your claims to the Cantiaci throne. As you know, the senator’s son will be held hostage until Amren and I reach a settlement. Senator Antonius has asked to speak with you privately about this matter.”
Marrock bowed deeply at the waist. “Greetings. How shall I address you?”
“You can call me Lucius,” the senator said amicably. “To my side is Tribune Decimus Flavius. He will stay and write down our conversations as a record for the emperor.”
Though the senator’s tone seemed friendly, Marrock thought it odd the diplomat would ask to be called by his first name. Speaking fluent Latin, Marrock embellished his words with arm gestures. “Lucius, I am indebted to the emperor for considering my claims. I have been told you were educated in Massilia as a young man. I, too, lived there with a Roman nobleman who was charged with my education until I was thirteen. I pride myself in speaking your language and embracing your culture. When I returned to my homeland, I adopted many of your customs as my own.”
Lucius arched his eyebrow at Decimus. “Escort Cunobelin to Senator Frugi’s tent, so he
is not late for their meeting.”
Decimus saluted and escorted Cunobelin outside.
Marrock sat across from the senator who kept looking down at the table. He knew the best strategy for dealing with Lucius’s repulsion to his disfigured face would be to openly talk about it.
“Before we begin, I sense your discomfort with my appearance. It is a face that reminds me every day of my good fortune to be alive, as I was savagely attacked by wolves that left me unconscious. When I awoke, I wandered the woods, my mind gone from the loss of blood. A forester found me and took me to his cottage to treat my wounds. Alas, my face healed into this monstrous mask, but I can assure you that underneath I am a Roman at heart.”
Lucius regarded Marrock for a moment. “I appreciate your candor. I would like to wait for the tribune’s return before we start.”
As they waited, Marrock watched the senator shuffle through some scrolls strewn on the table. He then noticed the wax seal imprint of Apollo in a horse-driven chariot on one of the scrolls—the same emblem on the globe in his vision. Darting his eyes around, he scanned the shelves packed with scrolls, bottled inks, and quills, but could not locate the stamp that had sealed the parchment.
When the tribune returned, he sat at the far end of the table and smoothed out a parchment. Dipping a quill pen into a bottle of black ink, he asked the senator, “Are we ready to begin?”
“Yes.” Lucius turned to Marrock. “Let me be clear. What we say here today does not leave this tent. You will soon understand our need for secrecy.”
Marrock noted the senator’s eyes which appeared black in the dim lamplight. To study Lucius’s reaction when they spoke, Marrock requested another candle. He then said, “You must realize Cunobelin will ask me about what we say today.”
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