by Griff Hosker
“Do you know where it is then?”
“Aye it is on the farm with Ailis and Gaius. I lived there for a while but Gaius was still serving the ala. I think he is older now, mayhap, he may have left the ala and be but a farmer. That would make it easier.”
“The Roman cavalry may be a problem my love for did they not defeat your father?”
“They did and for that they will be the first to die and when they are gone there will be none to stop me.”
Prefect Julius Demetrius had committed the ala to controlling the land north of the Dunum. The tribes north of the river were not as pacified as they had been and the raids from the north had made them apprehensive perhaps even a little resentful of the Roman presence. For the first time since he had come to Britannia, the Prefect wondered if the people of the island actually wanted Roman rule.
Livius felt confused. His mentor, Marcus was off in the north trying to find his family and his hero, Macro was a deserter. All that he had known and trusted in; all that he had believed in and valued had been turned upside down. He had been betrayed by his uncle. Governor Sallustius Lucullus and by his cousin but he had come to the ala and found a rock in an uncertain world. Suddenly that rock was shown to be insubstantial and ephemeral. All he could do, as Decurion Princeps Cilo had told him, was to do his duty and focus on the turma under his command. His role was to patrol the eastern side of the province. The Votadini had already revolted and Livius had helped to put down the revolt. This latest incursion from the north had caused all the uncertainties about Roman rule to the surface. Livius found distrust and hooded eyes when he took his turmae on patrol. No longer did he feel safe as he travelled through the valleys and rich farmland of the coastal strip. His camps were those that one would build in a hostile environment. The burning of Coriosopitum had cast a long and black shadow. There was nothing in the east to stop an invasion, just a small damaged fort and a bridge at Morbium.
They stopped at a small settlement in the Ituna valley. The eyes of the headman were cold and scathing. Livius smiled, as he always smiled, to ferment concord but there was none. “What of my children, taken by these Caledonii? When will they be retuned to me? When will you stop the rape of my land? When the eagle came we were promised peace and calm. Where is the peace? Perhaps we need to rebuild our forts and arm our young men.”
“We will stop these barbarians chief but it will take time.” Even as he uttered the words he realised the futility and inanity of them. The truth was the ala, on its own, could do nothing without reinforcements and Livius felt as impotent as a castrated bullock. He hoped that the new governor, Tiberius Avidius Quietus, would do what his uncle, his predecessor had not done, concentrate on ruling Britannia and stopping the barbarian incursions. “We will do as we promised. My men and I will ride the roads and try to bring peace.”
The grudging nod told Livius that he had bought some time but that was all. “Gratius take your men north to what remains of Coriosopitum. It may be that not all the raiders have returned north.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It may be that some more are coming south. Either way you will be our warning.”
“But the Prefect wanted four turmae together.”
“I know but we need to do something to gain an advantage.”
As the single turma headed north Livius thanked the Allfather that he had this part of the frontier to patrol. It was perfectly suited to cavalry with not too many forests and slopes which his mounts could master. The Prefect had given himself the harder task riding the spine of the country where, even in summer, the winds howled and made it feel far colder than it actually was.
The Prefect was finding it hard going. His men were not just exhausted, they were demoralised and exhausted. He had always known what a shadow Macro had cast, now he knew just how important the Decurion was and had been. No man voiced his disapproval of his actions but Julius could tell from the slight delay in following orders, from the veiled looks he received and the chilly response he got from any kind of humour; they blamed him for Macro’s desertion. Gazing northwards the Prefect hoped beyond all hope that Macro was still alive and able to help Marcus and Gaius. “Sir, scout returning.”
The two scouts had been sent by Julius to investigate a small plume of smoke in the north west. He had hoped secretly, that it was a friend and he could ride in and find Macro and Gaius sharing a meal. In his heart he knew that this would not be.
“Sir it is a small band of warriors.”
“What tribe?”
“We were too far away to see Sir.”
Not for the first time the Prefect regretted that he did not have Gaelwyn as a scout. Had Gaelwyn been the scout he would have identified not only the tribe but the settlement in which they lived. “Very well. We will ride in as though they are hostile. Cassius take two turmae and fan out east. We will approach from the west.”
The gorse and undergrowth came up to the horse’s haunches and the troopers found it difficult to navigate an even line. “Keep together!” The warriors stood as the turmae surrounded the camp. Julius could immediately see that they were Selgovae and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The Selgovae were an untrustworthy bunch and even when they were pacified could still stab you in the back.
The chief, for the Prefect could see the torc around his neck, stepped forward, his palms open in a sign of peace. “Welcome Romans rest and eat with us.”
Even as his men began to relax the Prefect’s sword was coming from its scabbard, he had seen movement in the gorse and noticed that all the weapons of the tribesmen were handily placed. “It is a trap!” The trap was sprung and the hundreds of warriors hiding in the gorse rose up behind the troopers. The warriors had the advantage and, as the ala tried to turn to fight their foes swords and axes were hamstringing the helpless horses. Julius’s sword was out and he took the chief’s head off in one blow. Turning he urged his horse towards four men surrounding his signifier. His blade sliced down the unarmoured back of one warrior cutting him open to his backbone. His horse trampled a second. The third broke and the signifier killed the fourth. “Sound the retreat!” This was not a battle which could be won for they were outnumbered and surprised. Julius needed to regroup his men and then attack the Selgovae on grounds of his choosing, not theirs.
He and the aquilifer hacked their way through the warriors, other troopers falling in behind until suddenly there were no more warriors before him. He halted and said to the signifier, “Sound recall!” Although few would hear the call for the remnants of the turmae were with Julius, it would tell those further away that there were survivors. He glanced around and saw, to his dismay that there were less than sixty men in their saddles. He had lost half his command in a few moments. The Selgovae were busy desecrating the dead and suddenly Julius was angry; the pent up frustration of the past weeks erupted. “Marcus’ Horse let’s show them what we can do! Charge!”
The tiny line of troopers was a mere sixty men wide but this time they had the advantage of space in which to build up speed. In addition the Selgovae had made the cardinal error of assuming they had won the battle when they had merely won the first encounter. The troopers were as angry and vengeful as Julius; each blow they struck was a blow for their dead and dying friends, and more importantly, for their lost hero Macro. The Selgovae fell to their blades as a wall of sand before the incoming tide. Each trooper was filled with a rush of blood which brooked no defence and soon the only Selgovae remaining on the field were the dead. “Find our wounded and tend to them. Cassius find the dead and let us burn them.”
Later, as the Prefect led the remnants of his turmae south to Morbium he felt that they had, at least acquitted themselves well. They had found ten of their comrades wounded and counted over a hundred dead barbarians. But as Julius felt every blow and cut he knew that this meant the Selgovae had joined the revolt it was going to become more difficult before it became easier. Leading his weary warriors south Julius could only pray that his comrades in the north were faring b
etter than his beleaguered ala.
Gaelwyn came hurtling down the trail. “Hide! Caledonii!” Ever used to instinctive reactions his two comrades raced into the trees with their mounts, pulling swords from scabbards in anticipation of action. The three of them were as stationary as statues when the barbarians raced down the trail. Gaius noticed that they were all afoot which meant that they could probably outrun them if they had to but at the same time he didn’t want their presence advertised. They were so close to the Clota that they could smell the sea but they had also encountered many bands of warriors patrolling the estuary to protect their prince, Lulach. When they had passed by Macro was the first to speak. “We will be spotted soon.”
“I know.”
“We need to find their base and then seek a place of seclusion before we meet with the tribune.”
Gaelwyn shook his head. “You two still look like Romans. Take the horses to the meeting place and camp. I will find where they are keeping Ailis.”
Gaius could see Macro reddening and about to argue. He had come to realise, after Marcus’ advice, that Gaelwyn was looking out for all of them and they had to obey the scout. They were no longer in the world of the ala with orders and regimentation, they were in the barbarian world and the old scout was king. What they would do without him Gaius could not begin to imagine. “He is right Macro. Let us go.”
Gaelwyn left the two younger men. Perhaps this would be his last ride, perhaps he would die in this quest but it would be an honourable death. He would be serving, as he had always served, the Brigante royal family and Ailis and Gaius were as much his children as any. He was resigned to his fate. The Allfather had been kind to him; the past few years had been the happiest of his life. He had loved every minute he had spent with the extended family. The three boys had been a joy to the old man, listening to his every word watching him, even copying him. If he could return them to their happy life south of the Dunum then any price was worth paying, even his life.
Far to the west Marcus approached the small settlement carefully. He remembered that the Novontae had welcomed the ala in the past but things changed and people moved on. The raids by the Caledonii and Irish may have turned them from allies to foes. He felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders more than at any other time; even when he had been Tribune he had not held so many lives in his hand. He was under no illusions, if they could not acquire a boat then they would not escape; three children and a woman would not escape the horde that was Lulach’s warband. They were deep in enemy territory and so far from home that the journey did not bear thinking about. Winter was bad enough in the rest of the province, up here it was lethal. So far he had seen no sign of the Classis Britannica. He had almost given up hope of finding any boat Roman or Novontae. This small settlement with the tiny boats drawn up like crabs upon the beach was his only chance.
He dismounted and dug a shallow hole. In the hole he buried two thirds of his gold and his spare sword. He had thought he would bury all his weapons but then he realised that they would respect him more if he had a sword. If he had had more time he would have waited until the morning but he had only one day to make the rendezvous with the others. He had to secure a boat and, in the darkening twilight this was his best chance.
There were ten families who eked a living from the sea. They would never have money but they were well fed and they traded enough to ensure that they could buy those items they could not make. The stranger who rode into their village looked strange. He was not a Novontae and the old man spat into the fire and said, “Roman!” It had been many years since the Romans had passed through on their way to Caledonia and few of the villagers had seen them let alone met them. The men took out their spears although they needed them not for just one man but, as the old man said, “Romans rarely travel alone.”
“Welcome Roman what brings you to our little village?”
“I have not been here for some years, friends but when I came through here with my ala of cavalry I was welcomed and I thought to spend the night here.”
His eyes scanned the men looking for fingers easing towards weapons. The old man stepped forward. “I remember a sword Roman; a sword of legend carried by a Roman warrior.”
Marcus nodded, a smile playing on his lips at the remembrance, “Yes the Sword of Cartimandua, it is no longer mine for I passed it on to the heir of Cartimandua as was right and proper.”
The old man nodded. “It is as I remembered. You are welcome Roman and you shall spend the night here.”
Marcus dismounted and, taking a small bag of silver from his belt said, “I am not here as a thief, I will pay for my food and my roof.”
The old man smiled, “You are the man I remember and I will enjoy sharing tales of times past.”
After they had eaten well on a dish of shellfish and flatfish Marcus turned to the old man. “I have money and I would like to buy a boat.”
There was an exchange of looks between the men sipping the water of life. “Boats are expensive.”Marcus threw down an extravagant amount of gold which the men ignored. “And sailing them is even harder. “ Marcus threw down a second bag.
“Friends, for I feel I may call you friends. I have no wish to own a boat, I merely wish to give you money to sail a boat and pick up some friends of mine and take them south. After that I have no need of the boat and I would give it as a gift to those who helped me.”
“We will need to speak.” The men spoke in the language of the Novontae. Marcus picked up some words but not enough to discern the direction the conversation was taking. It mattered not, they would either help him or not. After much arguing and gesticulation the old man said, “We will help you. Where do you need the ship and when?”
There was relief and consternation in Marcus’ mind. “As it will be my ship, for however short a time, I will need it where the Clota meets the sea. When? Take me there tomorrow and then I will tell you when.” The men discussed, debated and argued a little more. “My horse I will leave here for I shall not need it now that I own a boat.” Later when sailing north Marcus reflected that the horse, Marcus’ own horse raised by him from a foal was the deciding factor in the deal for it was a good horse which was probably worth as much as the boat itself.
“It is agreed and now we drink!”
As they sailed into the estuary Marcus was so impressed with the skills of the three men who sailed the boat. The old man had insisted on coming with them, Marcus felt it was a point of honour. Marcus scanned the shore but he could not see his companions. “If you take me in shore I will await my companions. Meet me again here, in seven days.” He paused, unsure of how to continue.
“We will be here Roman. We have given our word.”
“I know for you are a wise man and you will be rewarded.”
“You have paid enough for an honourable man, to pay us more would make me think we were not doing an honourable thing.” The clear blue eyes bored into Marcus’ and he returned the gaze.
“It is honourable and the Allfather would give it his blessing.”
The old man nodded. “Then we shall be here.”
As he waded ashore Marcus wondered if his friends would be there or if he would have a lonely night waiting for their return. Climbing the wooded bank he glanced around hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. Suddenly from out nowhere came a huge fist and a chuckling voice which said, “Thought you would never get here.”
“Macro!”
Gaius stepped out from behind the tree, an arrow notched in his bow. “We have found their camp. Gaelwyn is watching.” He gestured towards the boat. “Do we have transport?”
“They will return for us. They will come back here in seven days. Now we just need a plan.”
Gaelwyn looked at each of them in turn, “A plan which secures the captives and gets us back here safely.”
Chapter 7
“We will go to Brocauum.” When Morwenna spoke there was no discussion. Aodh felt a little uneasy as there had been a Roman garriso
n at the old Carvetii stronghold but he did not risk the wrath of the witch. She smiled at him, the smile a mother gives to a small troubled child. “The Romans will not be there Aodh and now that we have the torc we will soon gain the support of the people.”
The two acolytes also smiled at Aodh; he rarely saw Morwenna speak with them but they seemed to know all that she planned whilst he, the man, was excluded. He shrugged his shoulders. If this was the way his life would be then so be it. He had chosen to worship and serve the sorceress and the pains and trials were more than outweighed by the pleasures.
He had been a little wary when they had first left the safety of the cave hidden deep in the Land of the Lakes and travelled so close to Morbium; he remembered the horse warriors who patrolled there and they were but a day’s ride away from their destination in the land of the Carvetii. Morwenna was adamant; she wanted to visit the farm where she had lived with Ailis. She had told Aodh that he could approach the farm for he was unknown but, in the event, it was unnecessary. The blackened remains of the main building told the cruel story quite clearly as did the neatly laid graves. When Aodh had found the broken charred arrows he was able to confirm that it had been his clan. He had been reluctant to follow Morwenna’s orders and dig up the graves but such was her power that he had no choice. The grisly task was unpleasant enough but when the decomposing bodies were uncovered the smell almost knocked him from his feet. When she had been satisfied that they were all males, and none of them was Gaius she had allowed them to move on, towards Brocauum.
The settlement was stockaded but a small party of protected women did not warrant a rigorous inspection. The men at the gate merely checked what weapons Aodh carried. When Morwenna came next to them they almost shrank from her gaze. There was no hostility in her eyes, merely a power and a knowledge which made men quake. “Who is the leader here?”