by Griff Hosker
The Sword of Cartimandua
by
Griff Hosker
Published by Sword Books Ltd. 2013
Copyright © Griff Hosker Fifth Edition
The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Dedicated to mum who kept on buying me typewriters; thanks for believing in me. Thanks to Eileen, Vicky and David; without you there would be no book.
Prologue
AD 50 Stanwyck
Claudius might have been Emperor of the largest Empire the world had ever seen but he still hated the rain. This outpost of the Empire was a foul, wet, disease ridden cesspit. In addition he had a wicked and persistent cold; he never had a cold in Rome. He sneezed noisily and glowered angrily at the slave by his side. “Well? Why are we still waiting?” His famous stammer disappeared when he addressed servants or was angry and on this wet and dismal morning he was not at his best.
“I was assured, divine one, that she would be here presently.”
He shuddered at the title; like his Uncle Tiberius and his father Germanicus he despised the very notion that a mortal could become a living god. He had hoped that both the horrendous journey across the interminable land of Gaul, the ferocious ocean leading to this end of the world and the barbaric people he had so far met would make the journey worthwhile. The kings and queens who had been presented to him were all barbarians and the not so divine Claudius was glad that his Praetorians were on hand for he did not trust one of them.
Claudius was about to make some barbed comment about divinity when he heard the three blasts on the buccina which heralded the arrival of Queen Cartimandua, leader of the Brigantes. Even Claudius was impressed by the striking young woman who confidently manoeuvred her chariot between the waiting lines of legionaries. He had heard stories of her beauty but he was not prepared for both her presence and power; she seemed to dwarf her surroundings. Her jet black hair framed an incredibly white face. Her deep set violet eyes seemed to leap out from her face and her lips, obviously coloured by the crushed body of a scarab beetle, surrounded by remarkably white teeth looked like luscious plums. The Queen was, Claudius realised, everything he had heard and more. He found it hard to countenance that a young woman who looked as though she had only seen a handful of summers should rule the most powerful tribe in Northern Britannia and had done so, successfully, for over seven years. The way she handled a chariot showed that she was a warrior as did the skulls adorning the outside of the chariot. He could make out, just behind the chariot, the wretch who was being dragged in chains. Although he had never seen him, the Emperor knew it was Caractacus the leader of the Britons in their fight against Rome. Caractacus was the charismatic leader who had sought refuge with the most powerful ruler in the North of these islands, Cartimandua. Caractactus he was also the ex-lover of the rapacious young Queen and had been used and then discarded. If there was one thing that Claudius admired it was someone who could scheme, plot and survive as well as he had. She certainly had been a confident young queen who took over the rule of her land, Brigantia when her father was murdered. She ruled the largest tribal lands in Britannia; spanning the country from coast to coast. Claudius realised that she was wise beyond her years; she had seen the power of the Roman war machine and come to an accommodation rather than conflict. Perhaps that was why she ruled this enormous land of wild men and even wilder places. The Emperor of Rome himself would need to be careful about the promises he made.
“Welcome Queen.”
“All Hail Claudius.” Claudius was impressed that her Latin was flawless, this was an educated woman. “I bring you a gift. “She gestured with her arm and her bodyguards brought out Caractacus, the putative King of the Britons, and his face displayed just how much he hated the woman who had betrayed him. The queen to whom he had turned in the hope that, united, they could defeat the monster that was Rome. Instead she had ensured the safety of Brigantia and her high place in the Emperor’s favour. “It is Caractacus. He was your enemy and now he is mine.” Her guards dragged the bound warrior to be symbolically thrown at the feet of the Emperor. Before Claudius could speak, he always gathered his thoughts before uttering anything important, Cartimandua drew from a scabbard in her chariot, the most magnificent sword Claudius had ever seen. Although a cerebral rather than military man Claudius admired beauty and functionality and this magnificent weapon fulfilled both as well as anything he had seen before. Its steel blade was so highly polished it was almost silver, with a line of gold trickling sinuously along its length. It was half as long as the tall Queen’s body and looked as though it needed two hands to hold it, although the warrior queen held it in one. The handle was adorned with a red jewel, the size of a grape and Claudius surmised that it must be a ruby, an incredibly rare ruby. The black ebony hilt was engraved with what appeared to be pure gold. “Would it please the Emperor for me to despatch this rebel and part his sorry head from his body?”
“N-n-no Queen. I wish to take him back to Rome so that the whole Empire can see the power of the Emperor and the Brigante.” Her cold callous attitude to execution impressed the Emperor. She had no problem with carrying out the act herself, something the Emperor knew he could not do. He could order a murder or an execution as easily as he ordered supper but he could not soil his hands. Claudius turned to a grizzled centurion who stood at his side. “Gerantium, untie the prisoner and have your men take him away then join the Queen and myself inside my tent for we have much business to discuss.”
As they entered the pavilion especially erected for the occasion Claudius began to wonder if this island was as wild as he had thought. Although the buildings were primitive and some of the actions of its people somewhat barbaric he could see a sophisticated level of politics which made him think it might become civilised one day. In this young queen he had seen someone who could have held her own with the senate. She was confident, she was cruel, she was calculating and she was charming. The old Emperor shook his head to free himself from the spell he was falling under. He felt happier now with this island for the northern part would be secure with an ally. He had no doubt that Queen Cartimandua would remain in power and the Emperor determined to support her in that. He was glad that she did not live in Rome for if she did he would fear for his throne.
Aracillium in Cantabria
Himli son of Barcus was concerned about the mare about to foal. The birthing was not going well and he knew that his family needed the new horse for times were hard in Cantabria. Although he had only seen eight summers the boy had the responsibility of the mare as he was the only one of his mother’s children to have survived, a fact which sat heavily on his prematurely aged mother who blamed herself for her lost children. It had made his father into a hard bitter man, a fierce warrior chieftain who had wanted sons to take over the small clan when he passed over. Himli had much responsibility, not least the fact that he had been named after a famous Carthaginian who had fought hard against the Roman invaders. Those same Romans were now his father’s enemies and Himli was desperate to be old enough to fight against them and earn praise from his father,
a rare event.
The mare whinnied in pain and her brown eyes looked pleadingly at the boy who knew not how to relieve the pain. His father would know but he was gone, with most of the other men in another raid in the Roman lands to the north. Himli sighed, it was up to him. “Well, Moon-child, it is up to you and me.” He stroked the mare’s mane and then looked to see the foal beginning to emerge. “Not long now and you will have your first young. And I hope that the others are easier than this one.” His face creased into a frown as he saw that the foal’s legs were caught up in the umbilical cord. If he did not do the correct thing then the foal would die. “Easy girl I see what is wrong.” He slipped his hands inside the mare, their small size an advantage. More by feel than anything else the young boy eased the umbilical cord over the legs and out of the way. “Come on girl,” he shouted reassuringly to the mare that seemed to know that the boy was helping her. With a sudden gush and slip of afterbirth the foal erupted onto the grassy valley side. “There’s a good girl.” Grabbing a handful of straw Himli began to clean up the foal. His father might be pleased for they now had another horse and the family would be richer. More importantly Himli had done it by himself. His pleasure and delight were short lived as he heard the unmistakable sound of a Roman horn. It was sound which every Cantabrian feared for the horn meant that the Romans were coming and when the Romans left they left only death.
Marcus Aurelius Maximunius, centurion of the second Augusta, held up his hand to halt the century. He could smell the village his scouts had told him was over the rise. He wanted his men fresh for their assault although, in truth, since they had ambushed the Cantabri war party he was almost certain that they would only find the old, the young and the women but they had to rid the land of this nest of vipers who had preyed on Roman villages and patrols for too long. He also paused to enable the Thracian auxiliaries to get in position on the other side of the village. There would be no quarter given.
The centurion signalled to his men and they took position in an extended line; this formation was not normally used but he had to ensure that the century surrounded the village and prevent any flight. Nodding to his optio, who signalled the advance, the line moved forward as the buccina sounded. The solid line of soldiers marched relentlessly forward as the villages fled. A few older warriors saw the futility in flight and armed themselves with their short swords, prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Those who fled were suddenly stopped by a wall of mounted men hacking and slashing indiscriminately at young, old and women alike.
Marcus smiled to himself; it had been a good action for there were no casualties and, as far as he could see, no survivors. “Check the huts for anything of value collect the horses and then burn the village.” Suddenly there was a whinny from a hidden dell and Marcus ran swiftly followed by a handful of legionaries. As they reached the top of the rise they saw a Cantabrian child with a short dagger guarding a newly born foal. He had such a fierce look on his face that Marcus smiled to himself. “Steady lads, he’s just a boy.” He held his hand up to stop the javelin that was being aimed by his chosen man. “No Julius, this one did not flee. He deserves to live.”
“But the standing orders...”
“I know about the standing orders but the boy has a skill. He might be useful. I’ll sell him to the Thracians.”
Just then the auxiliary cavalry hove into view, their horses adorned with the skulls of their victims. Himli looked from one set of enemies to the other. He did not understand any of the words he had heard spoken but he had seen the Roman leader stop the javelin which he knew would have ended his short life. His eyes suddenly opened wide as he saw the lifeless, bloody skull that had been his father hanging from the waist of the Thracian.
“Julius, disarm him and tie him up. You, decurion, how much for the boy? He appears to be good with horses”
The Thracian looked down at the scrawny boy. He would have preferred to have his head but the big centurion was not a man to be crossed. “We have no need of a stable boy.”
“I didn’t ask that, I asked how much you would pay for him.”
The Thracian began to work out how to make money from this. He had taken gold and copper from the dead tribesmen and he could afford the tiny amount the boy would cost him. He would gain the favour of the centurion which was no bad thing. The Pannonians were about to ship out and he had lied for they had no stable boy. He would buy the boy and sell him at double the price to auxiliaries that he would never see again.
The Thracian took out five bronze coins and showed them to the centurion who scowled as he countered. “Five pieces, that wouldn’t even pay for an amphora of wine. Twenty.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen,” The difference having been split they exchanged coins and shook hands, honour even. “Here take him and one more thing. I have no idea what his barbarian name is and I don’t want him named after a barbarian so his new name is Marcus Aurelius Maximunius. Right?”
As his men smiled at the conceit of their leader, the Thracian shrugged his shoulders. It mattered not to him what the brat was called for he knew he could sell the slave for a whole denarius. He had watched the boy who, despite his position, had continued to care for the mare and the foal. He was a horseman. “I’ll have to take the horse and foal as well.”
“That’s a denarius.” Hiding the smile the Thracian handed over the coin. The foot soldier did not understand the value of horses. He would sell both beasts on to the quartermaster and make two denari profit. Of course the quartermaster would make more but that was the way of world.
All that Himli knew, as he was led off, was that he was still with Moon-child and her foal and that was now his family. His hand instinctively went to the halter of the mare and he gripped it as though his life depended upon it. Passing the Roman leader he saw a strangely happy look on the man’s face as he ruffled his tangled hair. The Romans were like beasts from another world but as he was taken to the new world of the Roman army Himli knew that his past was gone, set on fire and slaughtered by his father’s enemies. As they were led from the village he saw his mother and grandfather’s bloodied corpses lying amidst the rest of the slaughtered village. On the way to the camp he would see his father crucified along with the rest of the warband.
Chapter 1
AD 69 Stanwyck Stronghold
The Queen looked at her face reflected in the water of the silvered bowl in front of her. She could see the hints of grey permeating her jet black tresses; she could see the crow’s feet daily growing from her eyes which, although still bright, drooped a little more each day. She looked down at her body and saw that there was a little more substance around her waist than there had been. Hearing a snuffling behind her she turned to see Vellocatus her lover and she smiled. The young shield bearer did not seem to mind the ripples of growing flesh or the ribbons of grey, he was satisfied with her. The problem was, the queen thought as she pulled her robe around her, she was not happy with herself. Her body had always been a temple and she had worked out with her warriors using her sword daily and this had kept her muscles toned. It was, indeed, how she had come to take Vellocatus to her bed and divorce her husband Venutius for she had grown attracted to the young man when using him to practice her sword play. The thought of Venutius caused her to frown and she left the comfort of her bedroom.
The Romans had brought some unpleasant things with them, such as their rule, taxes and authority but Cartimandua could not fault their engineering and building. The hall in which she sat was the only one of its type in Britannia; although built of wood, it had been built in the Roman style and was comfortable, clean and, in this damp northern climate, dry. She sat at her table and poured herself a beaker of weak beer and nibbled at the bread left by her slaves. What to do about Venutius? As she ate, she pondered her problem. Since her divorce, which was inevitable even without her affair with the convenient Vellocatus, he had grown increasingly belligerent. If she had not held his close family hostage she was under no
illusions that she would now be dead. Her tribe was split and, daily, warriors left the stronghold to join Venutius with the hope of combat and glory against the Romans.
She wondered now about her decision to ally so closely with the Romans. She had seen their might and knew she could not stand against them but in the past year she had seen them fall amongst themselves with four Emperors in one year. Hotheads like Venutius had become emboldened by the disarray and lack of focus on Britannia. Now that Vespasian was Emperor Cartimandua hoped for a reversal of policy. Perhaps now he would send the men and resources needed to tame this wild land. She resolved to stand by her original strategy. She would gamble that the Romans would triumph and she and her people would survive.
Her slave entered to clear away her table. “Ask Gerantium to come.”
The tough old centurion must have been hovering close to the door as he entered immediately. His dress was marked by the fact that he alone was permitted to her rooms armed with a sword. It was a sign not only of his status but the relationship he had with the queen. He had been protecting her for over twenty years and now regarded her more as a daughter than a monarch. He had come to see her capricious actions and sometimes ruthless gestures with the forgiving eye of a doting father. He had also seen the affection which was heaped upon her by the majority of the Brigante. Her people, warriors apart, had seen the tribe prosper under Roman protection. There were now roads, where there had been tracks and there was safety where there had been danger. Gerantium was rightly proud of what his people had done for the queen and the Brigante but equally he was proud of what the foresighted young queen had achieved and built.
“Yes my queen?”
“Send a trusted rider to the governor at Eboracum,” she smiled wryly, “as with the Emperors I know not who it will be. I will give a spoken message for I do not want it to fall into the hands of Venutius. I fear that my husband intends to take this home by force and as you know, old friend, we do not have enough warriors to defend it. I need the governor to come to our aid.”