Legs crumbling, Marcellus fell on the ground beside the centurion. He cried out as the pain radiated over his chest like thorns jabbing him. Rolling to his side, he struggled to pull the death arrow out, but something was in the way. He groped at a feathery creature pressed against his chest.
What in Hades?
Perplexed at what he felt, he lifted his hands to his face.
Blood! So much blood! Oh, gods, I am mortally wounded!
Fighting to retain his wits, he again reached for the embedded arrow to pull it out. His head throbbed from the sounds of clacking metal, gruff men’s voices, and whizzing arrows all around him. Becoming frantic about what had happened to Catrin, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, the arrow still lodged in his chest. To his horror, a soldier mounted her limp body. He roared, “Get off her,” but the pain clawed at his ribs again.
Nausea from the excruciating pain clamped his stomach and he collapsed on his back. Above him was Decimus looking down. A spasm of agony ripped through Marcellus’s chest as the tribune yanked the arrow free. His thoughts still on Catrin, Marcellus forced words through gritted teeth. “Call your men off Catrin!”
“Have you lost your mind?” Decimus growled, pushing cloth deep into his wound to staunch the bleeding. “That sorceress led us into an ambush.”
Breathing becoming ragged from the searing pain in his lungs, Marcellus looked up when the blood scene suddenly darkened with fast moving shadows.
Like demented demons, ravens dived and attacked the Romans. Several of the creatures swarmed the soldier on top of Catrin, punishing him with their beaks and claws. The soldier tried to roll into a ball as the birds shredded his face with their razor talons. His blood-curdling screams chilled the air as the ravens pureed his tongue and gouged out his eyeballs.
When several birds darted at Decimus, he jumped up and scurried away from the avenging ravens, screeching, “Gods above, have mercy … have mercy!”
Spared from the aerial assault, Marcellus again pushed himself up and gagged at the sight of the soldier’s corpse now covered with several ravens ripping flesh away from bone. Close to the mutilated body were several birds huddling protectively around Catrin while others continued attacking the remaining Romans.
Just then, Cynwrig rushed out of the dense woods and trampled through the feasting hoard to kneel beside Catrin. He swung her over his shoulders, and the ravens took flight massing into an arrow formation aimed at the sun.
Marcellus knew then, Catrin had unleashed her fury through her army of black-feathered warriors, a force of nature that alarmed him. Thoughts that she had misled him roiled through his mind again.
Am I mistaken? Is Catrin a Sorceress, a Siren who lured me to my death with her sweet promise of life?
What else can explain what just happened?
Did she truly love me? If so, why did she break her promise to save me from the death arrow?
Or had she?
Impulsively, he looked down at the creamy-colored creature that had been impaled into his chest with the death arrow, but was removed by Decimus. He then realized the white raven had sustained the brunt of the arrow’s force and thus shielded him from death’s grip. Catrin must have called upon the pristine raven to sacrifice itself for him. She had, after all, kept her promise and saved his life.
Marcellus watched Cynwrig carry Catrin over his shoulders and dash toward the woods. At the forest’s edge, the warrior stopped and set Catrin down on her feet. A mist swirled around her and rose in the form of a raven into the sun’s crimson glow. In his mind, he heard Catrin say, Good-bye, my love, before she disappeared into the gloom of the forest like a star at dawn.
Heart-broken, he slumped on the ground. Floating into oblivion, he again heard Catrin’s voice. No one dies. Our souls live in a circle of death and rebirth. Dreams are glimpses into our souls as we fly over life’s currents.
The revelation that Catrin had given him the gift to complete his life’s journey and to steer his own destiny over life’s deep oceans overwhelmed Marcellus. Tears shed from his eyes, but hope filled his heart. If he escaped his fate once, could not the future shift and they meet again?
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to many people who inspired and helped me on my odyssey of writing this book. My beloved mother introduced me to mythology and encouraged me to follow my passion. My devoted husband, Tom, an English teacher and coach, supported my dream to write this epic series. He always gave me his honest opinion and was my go-to person for demonstrating moves in fight scenes. I experienced the vicarious thrill of disarming him. His favorite quote was “Warriors don’t cry.”
My special thank you is extended to my friend Bob Underwood with a gift for language and self-deprecating humor that I tried to pass on to Marcellus. During memorable coffee shop moments, Bob would read my drafts aloud with a Shakespearean voice in the midst of coffee drinkers. He gave me the building blocks for becoming a better writer.
My writing coach, Doug Kurtz, helped me realize my dream of completing the first book by helping me to fine-tune the story and develop the characters. Judith Briles, The Book Shepherd, and others from AuthorU provided invaluable advice and services on my journey to independent publishing. I am also grateful to Kate Anderson and Tom Goodfellow for their insightful suggestions and for encouraging me to write this story from multiple points of view. Rebekah West provided a vision of Catrin through her photography that inspired me. And finally, special thanks are extended to Theresa Snyder and to everyone in the TaxiWriters group for their input and support.
Author’s Note
The Apollo’s Raven series is historical fiction/fantasy based on a blend of history and mythology of southeast Celtic tribes in Britain before the invasion of the Roman Emperor Claudius in 43 AD. The biggest challenge in researching this project is that the ancient Celts left almost no written records. Historical events had to be supplanted by Greek and Roman historians and medieval writers that spun Celtic mythology into their Christian beliefs. Archaeological findings from this time period also help fill in some of the gaps.
The political background used in this series is based on my research on southeast Celtic tribes in Britain which evolved differently than those in Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. After Julius Caesar’s military expeditions to this area in 55-54 BC, there was strong Roman influence over the politics and trading. Powerful Celtic kings expanded their territories and minted coins. Many of the rulers were educated in Rome and adopted many of the Romans’ tastes for luxury goods. To support their extravagant lifestyles, pro-Roman kings warred with other tribal territories to supply the Roman Empire with slaves. Although there is no written account of any Roman expeditionary forces sent to Britain before Claudius’s invasion in 43 AD, there are recorded incidences that pro-Roman rulers pleaded for Rome’s help to intervene on their behalf. Archaeological evidence now supports that Claudius’s invasion was nothing more than a peacekeeping mission to halt the expansion of the anti-Roman factions led by Cunobelin’s sons, Caratacus and Togodumnus. There may have already been a Roman military presence that protected the areas of Britain vital to trading with the empire. The tribal names in this novel are based on Ptolemy’s map of Celtic kingdoms generated in 150 AD.
The Celtic characters in this novel are fictional except for Cunobelin, referred as the King of Britannia by the Romans, and his son Adminius. Several Celtic characters in the novel spoke Latin either through formal training in Rome and Britain, or through interactions with Roman merchants. Although the Celtic society was becoming more paternalistic, women were still held in high regard and could rule. The most famous warrior queen was Boudica who united the Britons in 61 BC and almost expelled the Romans. She was also known as a powerful Druidess who Romans claimed sacrificed some of her victims to the war goddess Andaste.
The Roman characters are fictional except for Lucius Antonius, the son of Iull
us Antonius and grandson of Marcus Antonius (Mark Antony). Very little is known about Lucius Antonius except that he was banished in 2 AD to Gaul after his father, Iullus Antonius, was accused of treason and forced to fall on his sword. It is unclear whether Lucius had any children, but it is coincidental that another famous Roman general, Marcus Antonius Primus, was born in Gaul about 30 AD.
The fantastical elements in this novel are based on mystical powers of heroes and heroines from the Celtic legends in Ireland and Wales. Most interestingly, ancient historians, including Julius Caesar, write the Celts believed in the reincarnation of the soul. This philosophy is consistent with the Greek philosopher, Pythagoras, in 500 BC. I have freely expanded on the concept of the soul as a way to explain Catrin’s mystical powers. There are more than three hundred documented names of Celtic gods and goddesses, but only a few of the more popular names referred by the Romans are presented in this story. Also of note, several Celtic healing sites are named after Apollo, probably a consequence of the blending of religious beliefs.
It should be noted that “cathos” means detestation or hatred in the ancient Celtic language.
About the Author
Linnea Tanner is a native of Colorado where she attended the University of Colorado and earned both her bachelor’s and master’s degree in Chemistry. She is pursuing her lifelong passion to write historical fiction/fantasy based on her love of ancient history and mythology.
The Apollo’s Raven series is inspired by the history and rich mythology of the ancient Celtic and Roman civilizations. Catrin is inspired by historical accounts and legends of Celtic women warriors, while the legacy of Mark Antony and his tragic love story with Cleopatra sparked the creation of Marcellus.
Linnea has done broad research and traveled extensively to the United Kingdom and France. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society, Lighthouse Writers, Pikes Peak Writers, Northern Colorado Writers, and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. Currently, she and her husband live in Windsor, CO, and have two children and six grandchildren. Her interests include ancient and medieval history, action movies, flamenco dancing, and gardening.
EMPIRE’S ANVIL
BOOK TWO IN THE APOLLO’S RAVEN SERIES
Follow Catrin and Marcellus in their epic Celtic tale of love, magic, adventure, intrigue and betrayal in Ancient Rome and Britannia. Don’t miss Book Two in the Apollo’s Raven series coming soon:
Linnea Tanner’s
EMPIRE’S ANVIL
See the following pages for a preview . . .
War looms over 24 AD Britannia where rival tribal rulers fight each other for power and the Romans threaten to invade to settle their differences. Princess Catrin is accused of treason for abetting her Roman lover, Marcellus. To redeem herself, she must prove her loyalty to her father by forsaking all men and defending their kingdom, even to the death. Forged into a fierce warrior, Catrin must overcome tribulations in her quest to break the curse that foretells their kingdom will be destroyed by a great empire. She is tested and her mettle hardened on the brutality of the Roman Empire’s anvil. Yet, when she again reunites with Marcellus, she must face her greatest challenger that could destroy her life, freedom, and humanity.
To keep up-to-date with the latest news on the development of the Apollo’s Raven epic series please visit and sign up for the FREE e-Bulletin: linneatanner.com
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1
treason
The only reason her father would order warriors out of hearing range was to reprimand her. He must know about her relationship with Marcellus, a Roman hostage who had been put under her charge.
August 24 AD, Southeast Britannia
All around Princess Catrin were warriors carrying the casualties from the conflict that broke out at the prisoner exchange. Her heart still pounded from the fierce fighting as she ran alongside the king’s commander, Trystan, to the hillside cave—a haven where the injured were being placed. Some of the warriors claimed her father had been retaken as prisoner, but with the chaos of battle he could as well have been among the wounded … or that was what she hoped.
When they finally reached the rocked façade of the cave, tree roots dangling over the entrance like snakes obscured her vision of the inside. She weaved through the entangled roots into the cavern’s dank womb. The heavy stench of feces, blood, and vomit filled her nostrils, and the warriors appeared as bustling shadows kneeling and tending the injured.
Trystan placed another burning torch in a sconce that clearly illuminated motionless bodies on the muddy floor. Catrin’s heart quickened when her eyes landed on her father lying prone against the back wall that was stacked with weapons. She rushed to his side and turned him over. A chill sliced down her spine when she saw her father’s blood-smeared face. Fearing that he may have already succumbed to his wounds, she placed a shaky palm on his forehead. His skin was hot and clammy which gave her momentary relief that he was still alive. She then scanned his torso for injuries. Noticing the dark streaks on his red tunic, she rubbed the sticky fabric and observed her blood-stained fingers under the light of the torch. She flicked her eyes at Cynwrig, a warrior renowned for his skill with the battle-ax, and ordered, “Help me remove the tunic. I need to stop the bleeding!”
Cynwrig supported the king as Catrin cut the fabric away from his chest. Seeing the crisscross cuts on her father’s chest and deep gash in his stomach made her cringe. She scrunched her nose from a waft of rotten egg odor.
King Amren, aware of Catrin, fidgeted under her stare. He rasped, “Fetch Agrona.”
Catrin gave Cynwrig a wary look, but Trystan quickly replied, “I will get her now.”
“No!” Catrin snapped to stop him. “There are traitors in our village. Agrona may be one of them. We can’t risk letting anyone know we have rescued the king. I will care for him. There are herbs in satchels next to the wall which I can use for swelling and festering.” She bent down and clasped her father’s hand. “Trust me on this.”
Amren regarded her for a moment and then ordered with a weak voice, “Do what my daughter says.”
The flaming torch reflected on Cynwrig’s hazel eyes as he pointed toward the entryway. “I’ll ignite a fire there and heat my dagger blade to seal the wounds.”
She looked at Trystan. “I need water from the river to wash him.”
The commander motioned for one of his men to do what Catrin instructed. She then rummaged through several pouches, smelling each to discern the herb it contained. When the warrior returned with a bucket of water, she soaked several strips of willow bark in it, then pinched some powdered blackberry, borage, and sage into a ceramic bowl and poured in some ale. After she finished preparing the paste dressing, she asked Cynwrig if the dagger was hot enough to seal the wounds.
He pulled the blade from the fire and inspected the fiery red surface. “It looks hot enough for me to proceed.”
“No. Let me do it,” Catrin demanded.
Cynwrig put a stick in the king’s mouth to muffle his cries and restrained his arms as Catrin pressed the hot metal on each wound, methodically moving right to left then downward. The king writhed with agony from every touch of the red-hot blade, his wild eyes reminding her of a wounded animal as he fought against Cynwrig’s restraint. The king’s jaw clenched so tight, she feared he might break one of his gritted teeth. Concentrating on her task, she swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth, but the ghastly stench of sizzling pus and burning skin finally made her gag and her stomach recoil. She handed the dagger to Cynwrig to reheat the blade, retched what little was in her belly, and broke into a cold sweat. Becoming light-headed, she leaned her head into the hard wall to brace herself before continuing.
After her stomach settled, she smoothed green paste over her father’s reddened wounds. With her every touch, his muscles flinched. Seeing the agony in his face, she placed
a blanket under his head and gave him chamomile and poppy in water to make him more comfortable before she proceeded. As she placed bark strips on the criss-cross cuts on his chest, the sudden grip of her father’s hand around her wrist startled her.
Amren said, “We need to speak about Agrona and Marcellus.”
Catrin winced. “What about?”
King Amren closed his eyelids for a moment and breathed deeply. He then waved Trystan over and whispered into his ear. The commander nodded and ordered everyone away from the king.
Catrin shuddered. The only reason her father would order warriors out of hearing range was to reprimand her. He must know about her relationship with Marcellus, a Roman hostage who had been put under her charge.
A slight growl vibrated in her father’s voice as he spoke. “Trystan told me, when he was imprisoned with me, that Cynwrig had found you delirious in Marcellus’s arms. When he brought you back home to be treated by Agrona, she found an amulet of Apollo around your neck. She warned that Marcellus’s patron god inflicted you with the falling sickness and made you go mad. She took you to her lair to lift the spell. I want to know what happened there.”
Throat becoming parched, Catrin could hardly swallow, afraid to upset her father in his weakened condition. She said sweetly, “You should rest now. We can talk about this later.”
“I want to know now!” Amren demanded.
Catrin said, her voice cracking, “The amulet never cursed me. Agrona drugged me to make it appear that I was mad. She is not who you think. She embodies a Druidic spirit from your past.”
“Get to your meaning,” Amren snapped angrily.
“I had a vision of the day you executed your former queen,” Catrin said. “Under a blood moon, you walked a pathway of red-hot rocks around a towering fire. A woman with a wolf pelt draped over her shoulder walked toward you between two lines of people chanting, “Rhan, Rhan, Rhan.”
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