At the back of one shelf, he felt something metallic and slid it forward with his fingertips. It was a polished bronze mirror. On its backside was the etching of a triskele that looked like animal heads interconnected with tendrils, the same pattern he had observed on King Amren’s high-back throne and shields. The fine craftsmanship seemed inconsistent with the bellicose nature of the Britons. It was dream-like, the tendrils wrapping around what looked like a horse’s head, but from a different perspective shape-shifted into a boar’s head.
Political schemes, he darkly chuckled, twisting on each other, not what they appear at first glance.
Holding the mirror up to his face, he grimaced at his reflection. He had not thought of himself as vain, but his disheveled appearance disturbed him. Dark bristles shadowed his gaunt face. The puffy eyelids and deep wrinkles around the corners of his eyes aged him ten years. With only a daily bowl of water to rinse himself, his hair felt oily and his scalp itched. He fingered the matted strands of his dark hair for telltale signs of lice nits. Seeing none, he set the mirror down on the shelf and sighed ruefully. The stark reality, that he was a prisoner with little chance of escape using the mirror as his weapon, swirled him into a vortex of gloom.
Glancing around the bleak chamber, he felt like a caged animal. It was eight steps from the bolted door to the straw bed against the back wall and five steps across. In one corner was a globe-bellied brown spider that reared its front legs whenever he retrieved a glass jar containing fragranced oil. If he wasn’t careful, he bumped into the round-top table or stool crammed in the middle of the room. An occasional rat would crawl through a crack in the side wall to visit him as he feasted on burnt meat and moldy cheese.
Lovely stuff!
The vermin were friendlier than the villagers whose icy stares chilled him every time the guards escorted him to the latrines. With no other human company, Marcellus reflected on his life like never before. He spent most of his boyhood in Gaul with his banished father. His embittered father blamed sorceresses for the downfall of Mark Antony and Iullus Antonius, both considered traitors by Rome. With such a family history, Marcellus feared his indiscretion with Catrin would doom him like his forefathers.
The dread he would die young like his namesake loomed over him. With his precarious situation, he might journey headless to the Underworld while his skull remained in King Amren’s receiving chamber. He grimly chuckled.
If I had used my right head to begin with, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Although he could rationalize this, he still couldn’t get Catrin out of his thoughts. He picked-up a jar of lavender oil from the table to whiff. The sweet fragrance evoked the memory of their making love—a bittersweet moment, considering her bizarre behavior afterward that seemed to be directed by a demonic force. Nonetheless, he could strangely sense her presence whenever he had to wrestle with his angst about what the queen might do next. His throat clutched with the prospect he might never see Catrin again. Struggling for composure, he slapped his forehead and muttered, “Idiot. Forget her. Focus on getting out of here alive.”
With the unexpected click of the door, Marcellus was jarred from his grim thoughts. He tensely stared at the doorway.
Belinus and a warrior with a wild mane of red hair stomped into his chamber. Based on their grimaces, his bleak situation would not soon improve. He asked curtly, “Why are you here?”
Belinus snarled, “The queen wants to see you. Now!”
“Oh! I finally get to see the queen—a welcome change from the two of you.”
Belinus grabbed Marcellus by the shirt and slammed him against a wooden post. “I’ve had enough of your mouth, Roman!”
The lion-maned warrior ground his fingers into Marcellus’s shoulder blade and shoved him through the doorway.
The warriors, one on each side, yanked Marcellus through the corridor into the receiving chamber, where they skirted the elevated thrones to the queen’s chambers.
Entering the room, Marcellus first saw the queen’s shadow stretched up the wall like an avenging fury. He then shifted his eyes to Rhiannon who sat at a candlelit table. She acknowledged him with a scowl, which he returned with a glower. She motioned for Belinus and the other guard to wait outside.
Marcellus warily sat across the table from the queen. She scrunched her nose, rose, and stepped to a dark corner where she picked up a stiff rat by the tail. She flung it through the doorway. A hissing meow, which Marcellus presumed was from the one-eyed cat, rolled through the room. The queen returned to the table and shot a seething glare at Marcellus. “I wonder if there are any other vermin hiding behind these walls.”
He nervously scratched the bumps on his neck as he watched the queen pour some water into two brass cups and then hand one to him. “Do you find your quarters agreeable?” Rhiannon asked.
From the sharp tone in her voice, Marcellus surmised she would soon throw hard questions at him about Catrin. He responded, “I would find my quarters more agreeable if allowed a bit more freedom.”
Rhiannon’s eyebrow arched. “Have my guards mistreated you?”
Marcellus suspiciously eyed the queen. What games are you playing today? He said, “No, but I am locked up at all times. The room reeks of mold and rat dung.”
“Better that, than sleeping with our pigs,” Rhiannon snorted.
“That may be so,” Marcellus said, struggling to steady his shaky voice, “but the king assured me I could roam freely as your guest.”
Rhiannon tilted her head back, gulped some water, and slammed the goblet on the table. “Unfortunately, there are ugly rumors flying in the village that you raped Catrin. It is in your best interest that we provide you with armed escorts.”
Aggravated at her accusations again, Marcellus exhaled a blast of hot air. “I already told you. I never raped her. I always treated her with respect. If she was here, she would corroborate my story. Where is she?”
Rhiannon slapped a scroll on the splintered tabletop. “As far away as possible from you!”
Frowning, Marcellus looked at the scroll. It appeared to be made of the same ivory parchment that his father used. The broken wax seal of Apollo’s chariot was his family’s insignia. He rubbed the rolled-up parchment with a forefinger and wondered if his father had been informed of his delicate situation with Catrin. He looked at the queen. “What is this?”
“You know what it is. A message from your father!”
Marcellus leaned back in the chair, trying to conceal his growing discomfort. “What did he write?”
The queen’s nostrils flared. “Read it!”
Great Jupiter above! Aren’t you the Medusa! Marcellus grumbled to himself. He spread the parchment on the table. At first glance, he did not recognize the handwriting. Silently reading further, he could feel his jaw drop. The directive was not meant for the queen’s eyes. It was intended for Decimus. Bewildered, he lifted his head and regarded the queen’s eyes narrowing like a wolf ready to attack.
“Read it to me!” she snapped.
Marcellus took a sip of water to quench his parched throat. When he read the mandate aloud, his voice rasped.
Greetings, Tribune Decimus Flavius.
I hope this message finds you in good health. The time for executing the emperor’s directive has been advanced. Tiberius ordered me to imprison both King Amren and his eldest daughter. As a loyal senator and Roman citizen, I am duty-bound to obey the imperial order. Both of them are now prisoners in my encampment as I write this.
I have formed an alliance with Marrock and have promised him the emperor will recognize him as his client king. As such, I have ordered all ships to land at a bay near the white cliffs in preparation for an attack on the Cantiaci capital of Durovernum.
As you probably surmise, these actions endanger my son’s life if word ever reaches the queen. Make due haste and free Marcellus before she finds out.
Do not fail me!
Senator Lucius Antonius
Quietly reading the directive one more time, Marcellus suspected it was a forgery. The mandate was not written in his father’s usual windy and grandiloquent style. His father usually ended his letters with the words “with greatest respect, your loyal patron and friend.” Marcellus could not fathom his father issuing such drastic orders without first assuring his release. He considered the possibility that the queen had written it to pressure him into confessing that he had dishonored Catrin. He regarded the queen, but could not detect any outward expression of trickery.
He asked, “How can you be sure that this is from my father?”
The queen creased her brow with obvious irritation. “Is that not your family insignia on the seal?”
“Yes, but this is not my father’s handwriting.”
“This could have been written by one of his scribes.” She glowered. “Let me be clear. I take this threat seriously.”
Marcellus swallowed hard. “What do you plan to do with me?”
“I had planned to keep the truce and not harm you regardless of what you did to Catrin,” the queen said. “Of course, that has all now changed. Your father broke his oath to keep my husband safe. Tell me, was that always his intent?”
“What if I told you that it was not, would you believe me?”
“This message tells me otherwise,” the queen retorted. “Did you know he would do this when you volunteered to remain a hostage?”
Marcellus didn’t answer, reconsidering his initial suspicion that the queen had written the message, but she was highly agitated, unlike her usual stone-cold demeanor of being in control. If she didn’t write the message, who did? Was it Cunobelin? Marrock?
Rhiannon leaned over the table. “Answer me!”
“My father did not write this,” Marcellus said adamantly. “It is a fake. Until such time we find out who did write this, let me remind you of your pledge not to harm me.”
The queen rapped her fingers on the table. “I have kept that promise. I forbade my guards from gelding you in retaliation for raping my daughter.”
Marcellus felt his stomach sink as the image of his dangling testicles crept into his mind. He said, “Let me repeat, I never raped Catrin! You underestimate your daughter. She could have speared me for any such attempt.”
Rhiannon’s stare hardened. “That may be so. Still, I have no doubt you took advantage of her. It was only after you gave her the Apollo’s amulet that she went mad.” She rose and pressed her hands flat on the table. “My daughter is not the main issue here. I want my husband and Vala freed.”
A twinge of panic made Marcellus’s heart pound harder. He took a couple of deep breaths to ease his jitteriness. “I already told you that my father did not write this. Someone else did. If you don’t believe me, send a trusted messenger to my father’s encampment to verify.”
Rhiannon reached for another scroll on a shelf behind her and set it next to the ink bottle and quill on the table. Sitting down again, she ordered Marcellus, “Write the following message to your father.”
Somewhat relieved that the queen was following his advice, Marcellus picked the quill up and dipped it into the black ink. “Do you want me to confirm your husband has been taken prisoner?”
“No. Start out ...” The queen stroked her chin, as if considering her next words. “I have treated your son well, but your sinister plan to attack our kingdom puts him in grave danger.”
Taken aback, Marcellus set the quill aside and stared at the queen. “Don’t you want first to verify that my father actually wrote the directive?”
Rhiannon’s forehead creased into a firm line. “The five Roman soldiers we captured yesterday trying to gain entrance inside our walls are proof enough. They are being tortured, as we speak.”
The queen’s revelation made Marcellus’s heart shudder. Of course, his father would have sent soldiers to rescue him if there were any signs he was in danger. Did someone warn his father that he had been imprisoned? Thinking further, he felt something was amiss. He needed more pieces of information to get a clearer picture. He was sure his father’s directive was a fake, but he again asked himself, Who wrote it and why? How can I convince the queen to work with me to uncover the truth?
Masking his trepidation, he leveled his eyes at the queen. “You must realize that torturing my father’s soldiers will not help your cause. Threatening me could start a war and jeopardize your husband’s life.”
Rhiannon slapped the table. “Do you think me a half-wit?”
“No, but I am asking you to pause and reconsider. We both have a lot to lose here. Let us work together to make sure we reach a peaceful settlement.”
The queen furiously tapped a forefinger on the blank parchment. “All right. Let’s start again. Write exactly what I say in large letters: ‘If you do not return King Amren alive, I will rip your son’s ribs apart and tear out his beating heart as a sacrifice to the war goddesses. The captured Roman soldiers will be thrown on the pyre alongside your son and burned alive!’” The queen gave an evil smile. “Do you think my message is clear enough?”
Horrified, Marcellus felt a nasty pain rip through his chest. His hands paralyzed as if a knife had impaled them to the table. “Are you mad? This will only infuriate my father!”
Rhiannon roared, “Write it!”
He fumbled to clasp the quill. When he dipped the tip into the ink, he almost knocked the bottle over. He considered thrusting the quill into the queen’s throat and overpowering her, but how could he get past the guards? The blood-thirsty savages would most likely send him ignobly to the Underworld. First, they would take great delight in torturing him: cut off his balls, spill his guts, and flay him alive. Breathing becoming ragged, he clasped the quill tighter.
You idiot! Keep your wits. Find out how she got the message.
Regaining composure, he scribbled on the parchment, then stopped and glanced at the queen. “How did you get hold of my father’s message? Did you intercept the courier charged with delivering these orders?”
Rhiannon hesitated, the lines around her eyes wrinkling into crow’s feet. “It was found on a dead Catuvellauni warrior. His throat was slit.”
Marcellus inhaled deeply, suspecting the warrior’s murder had been staged. “Why would my father entrust a Catuvellauni to deliver his message? Don’t you find it odd the courier’s throat had already been slashed?”
Rhiannon grimaced. “Are you playing games with me?”
Marcellus set the pen aside and proclaimed, “Only a Roman courier would deliver a message this important. As I told you, the letter is a fake. You are being played for a fool. Forcing me to write this threat will not help your cause. Trust me, I know my father. He will slaughter everyone in your family for this affront. If you release me, I promise to speak to him on your behalf.”
The queen’s eyes probed him as if searching for the truth. She finally said with disdain, “Why should I trust you? A Roman … a rogue. There is no doubt in my mind you took advantage of Catrin and cursed her with Apollo’s affliction. Do you think me a fool to believe you would actually help me now?” She stood up and turned toward the doorway. “Guards! Get in here now! Take the prisoner away!”
Two warriors crashed the door open and trampled into the chamber. Belinus yanked Marcellus to his feet as the other elbowed him in the mouth, the pain shooting from his jaw to the back of his head.
Infuriated, Marcellus spat out blood and shouted, “You piss-sucking pigs.” He butted his head into Belinus, knocking him to the ground, followed swiftly by a hammer punch into the other guard’s jaw.
The blow hardly fazed the lion-maned warrior. He roared and hurled Marcellus against the jagged stone wall, smacking air out of his lungs. Dazed, Marcellus crumbled, banging his chin hard on the floor. The pain spiked to his teeth. He gasped for air thro
ugh blood-clogged nostrils, his ears ringing from the queen’s shrieks.
“Get him out of my sight! Lock him up with the other pigs!”
Finally catching his wind, Marcellus yelled, “The Romans did not do this! Look for a traitor in your ranks. Look for someone who wants to bring the king down.”
The queen snarled, “The only traitor I see is you!” She turned to the guards. “Teach this animal how the Cantiaci deal with Roman scum!”
The next instant, the lion-maned warrior punched Marcellus in the upper jaw. The walls spun around him, colored dots jiggling before his eyes. Struggling to stay on his feet, he teetered until a blunt blow to his temple finally brought him black peace.
38
Co-Conspirators
“Marvelously done, my king—to trick that imposter queen into believing the senator had written the message, never suspecting it was you.
At the sacrificial site deep in the forest, Agrona looked for any movement between the gnarled oak boughs. Seeing none, she mumbled, “Where is Marrock?”
She grabbed two adders out of a linen bag that she had carried from the lair and whipped them around a nearby tree branch. With a quick flick of her knife, she sliced off their heads. The headless vipers coiled wildly around the branch, their blood spattering on the verdant ground. She pulled the headless bodies from the tree limb and peeled off their skins with the blade. Glancing around again, she ruminated about what could have caused her son’s delay.
A mishap? Perhaps, the Romans detained him?
Darker thoughts then crept into Agrona’s mind. What if Marrock spurned her request to discuss the next steps in their scheme? He was, after all, a shape-shifter with worrisome powers. It was not until she had travelled to the Wall of Lives in Catrin’s mind that she learned of his ability to transform children into wolves for his pack. His failure to transform Catrin was surely the reason the curse had been altered. She altered the future by summoning her raven warriors from the Otherworld to attack him.
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