by Griff Hosker
“Ulpius!”
Opening his eye Ulpius realised he was still alive. “Is that you Marcus?”
“It is. Rest I have sent for a surgeon.”
“No my friend for I will not recover from these wounds but do not weep for me for I shall be with the Queen and the Allfather.” He coughed and Marcus could see the flecks of blood which told him his friend had deep injuries and had suffered a death wound. “I want you to do two things for me.”
“Anything but you must live.”
“We both know that cannot be so for I am dying. First take the sword of the Brigante back to her people. The princesses will know what to do and,” he coughed more blood and spittle, “you must find and kill Cresens and the witch.”
“Witch?”
“It was not just the fat one who caused the death of my Queen, there was a witch. Paid for by Venutius. Look to Eboracum that is where you shall find her.” He opened his eye. “Marcus you have been as a son to me now be a father to our men.” Marcus nodded and gave the Roman salute; the oath was sworn.
Although the eye remained open Marcus told Decius and Gaius later that he saw the life leave his leader as Ulpius Felix, decurion princeps of the auxiliary smiled and passed over to be with his queen and his warriors.
Alexandria
The newly appointed Emperor Vespasian sat in the cool throne room in the Imperial palace in Alexandria. Now that the East was subdued he could turn his attention to Britannia, the site of his first action with Aulus Paulinus. He had determined whilst serving there that one day Rome would rule that northern outpost of the known world. He summoned his clerk. He knew just the man to take charge and conquer that barbaric wild land.
“Send an order to Gnaeus Julius Agricola he is on the Rhine. He is to assume command of all the forces in Britannia and take control in the name of the Emperor Vespasian and Rome.”
Epilogue
It was a cold clear morning as the wagon and small escort made their way across the spring hills sparkling with a sharp frost. Leading the way was Marcus with Gaius and Decius in close attendance. The silence in which they rode was a reflective silence as they carried the body of the warrior who had led them through many close encounters with death. As warriors they knew that the death of Ulpius Felix was the only death they could expect. So far no Pannonian had reached the goal of retirement and citizenship with all the benefits that brought. He had died on the battlefield, he had died undefeated, he had avenged the death of his love; what more could a warrior desire?
In the wagon Macha and Lenta were also thinking about the man who had brought love late in the life of their half-sister; the man who had saved them and their children format best death and at worst slavery. As Macha suckled the young warrior to be named Ulpius by his father she dwelt on the thought that her husband, the new commander of the Ala, Marcus would probably end his days much as Ulpius Felix with a sword in his hand. She determined to make the most of every second they had together.
The newly promoted decurion Decius was perhaps also thinking less about Ulpius and more about Marcus for he now saw that the young warrior had changed him, had made him a better soldier and, if he was honest, a better man. He came on this journey not only to honour Ulpius but to protect Marcus. Although the Carvetii and Brigante rebels had been beaten Decius knew that there were still rogue bands wandering the lonely fells. Alasica had not yet begun the long process of mopping up all the dissident tribesmen.
The barrow loomed into sight, the earth still fresh from the burial of the Queen. This time they found the entrance instantly. When it had been opened they reverently took out the shrouded body of Ulpius. His hair was combed, his armour polished, his amulets and torcs shone; he looked resplendent, the complete warrior. .
“Are you sure you do not want me to put the sword in the grave with him? The three of them would be united forever.”
“No. Ulpius made it clear to you did him not that he wished it to be passed back to the Brigante?” Marcus nodded. “We are now the leaders of the Brigante and we want the weapon wielded by a warrior. And when your son is old enough he too is Brigante and he will honour both his people, Brigante and Roman by fighting with the sword of Cartimandua.”
So it was that Ulpius Felix warrior of Rome was laid to rest in an unmarked barrow with the last Queen of the Brigante, Cartimandua whose fabled sword continued to be used by Marcus Aurelius Maxuminus decurion of Rome.
From the cover of the high cliffs Fainch peered down. Her work was not over, it had hardly begun. When she returned from Mona she would be even more powerful and the little group in front of her would be the first to feel her power and she burned their faces on her mind. They would all die, the Romans, the Brigante traitors and even the suckling child, all would feel the wrath and revenge of Fainch.
In the land of the lakes Earl Maeve viewed the returning remnants of his half brother’s warband. They were a pitiful sight but they were now his warband and he swore that when he had built them back up into a fierce fighting force he would rid his land, the land of the lakes, of this insidious invader.
The opening chapter of Book 2 in the series, Horsewarriors
Chapter 1
Fainch
The closer she was to Mona the more uplifted and confident she became; she felt as though the spirits of her dead sisters were protecting her from the eyes of the Romans. She and her sisters worshipped Mother Earth. She had spent many years, as a child and as a young woman, on the island of Mona where she studied and worshipped with the Druids. She had been there when the Romans had first desecrated the holy places and slaughtered the Druids. As she had hidden and watched she had seen the ruthless Romans slaughtering the priests and priestesses, killing those that she thought of as family. She swore an oath then on the holy places that she would have revenge and drive these Romans from her land she would create an alliance which would defeat these Romans who had disembowelled and crucified the only man she had ever loved; Vosius son of Lugotrix a king killed himself by the Romans. They had killed the only chance she would have of happiness; she would ensure that they had none. In this part of the world the Romans had a habit of killing before questioning; they had learned the hard way that even the women of this wild land could be as ruthless as the men. Fainch did not find it difficult to travel at night time, in many ways she preferred it and she relished the deep dark cloak it afforded her. The most dangerous time was when she came to the shore of the mainland and she could see the sacred island of Mona rising above the fierce, raging white tops. She would need to find a way across the wild waters.
She watched the Roman patrols from a rocky crag and she quickly realised that their regular patrols were her salvation. They would not deviate from their routine. She smiled to herself. This was the Roman weakness, their predictability. This would be their downfall. She would need to persuade the warrior leaders that they could defeat the Romans but first she had to get across the straits of Menaii. The journey from her home had been difficult as she avoided the Roman patrols. On the second night she had rested enough and she left the safety of her cave and made her way down to the shore. The winds had abated somewhat and she knew that this was her best chance to get across the short stretch of water. She headed purposefully towards a wooded beach. She had remembered the place from the time she had spent growing up in this area and training to be a priestess. The coracle was invisible unless you knew where it was; the straggly undergrowth masked it completely. Fainch quickly checked that it was without holes and then she launched it into the waters. She made sure that the prevailing current worked in her favour and her strong strokes, which belied her size and sex, took her swiftly to the opposing beach. It was the work of moments to hide the boat and then she prostrated herself on the sands of the sacred shoreline. “Mother I have returned. Sisters I have returned. Vosius we will have revenge.”
It was a day later that she arrived at the sacred grove of Porthdafarch on the tiny island off the westernmost tip of Mona. It was wil
d and windswept with cliffs filled with screaming gulls. The beautiful trees which had coved the grove were long gone, ruthlessly ripped out by the Romans who feared the priests more than any warrior. The bones of the priests still littered the valley floor and Fainch was careful to avoid them.
By the time she had found the sheltered dell it was becoming dark and the rocks and crags took on sinister shapes. To Fainch they were reassuring for they were of the land and of the island and as such they would protect her. She lit a small fire with the dried wood she had carried for just such a purpose. She filled her water skin from the bubbling stream which erupted from the valley side and drank her first draught of this elixir of life. As soon as she tasted it she felt whole again. She half filled the small cauldron and then began the potion and incantation which would help her to see her sisters. Removing her clothes she knelt in front of the cauldron wafting its powerful smell into her face. The pungent, acrid aroma rose in tendrils of smoke barely visible in the purple cloak of night but they acted as a magnet. Even with her eyes closed she knew that her sisters had arrived. Without opening her eyes she murmured, “Welcome sisters, join me in the invocation.”
Her hands were taken in the hands of priestess on each side of her and she slowly opened her eyes. There were six priestesses joined in this circle of power and like Fainch they were all naked. Some were old with leathery skin hanging off skeletal bones whilst two of them were barely more than children with tiny breasts and pale skin. Even though most did not know each other their chants joined and unified them into a single being. The following morning saw all seven of them lying exhausted in the dell by a dead fire.
When they had awoken and dressed they sat in a circle nibbling on dried rabbit meat. One of the older ones recognised Fainch. “It is many years since I saw you child. The years have been as kind to you as they have been cruel to me.”
Fainch shook her head. “Do not think as a man Maelwyn. We of the sisterhood know that beauty is inside as the true beauty of our Mother Earth is hidden from others.”
The others nodded at the wisdom of the statement. Already she was acknowledged as the leader. “Is this all that remains?”
Maelwyn coughed and spoke for them all. “There are a couple of others on the main island but it is hard to move around for the Romans hunt us still. The people hide us but still we are found. Your coming is the first hopeful sign that the Mother has not forgotten us.”
“You should know that the Mother never forgets as the Romans will discover. Are you ready to defeat them?”
Their eyes, no longer tired, lit up and they all nodded eagerly.”I came here to find the survivors and to worship for one last time at this most holy of places. You are right; the Romans will hunt us until we are dead so we must move away from their eyes. We are the last; we seven sisters have one last duty to perform before we join with Mother Earth.” They leaned forward ready to devour Fainch’s words as manna to a beggar. “The Romans can be beaten. Caractacus had the right idea. Join all the tribes together. Too many kings and queens,” she spat the last word out as an insult, “looked to themselves and what they could gain. We will each travel to a different part of the land. I will go to the North, you to the Trinovantes, you to the Iceni, you to the Atrebate, you to the Silures and you two shall travel to the far south. We must persuade all the leaders of the tribes that they should all rise as one. We shall use the feast of Eostre as the day we attack. Use all your power and magic to aid these kings and princes for doubt it not, the Romans are still a mighty army but we can defeat them.”
Without speaking they joined in a circle and held hands. Their last chant was much shorter but of such power that at the end they stood silently. Fainch kissed each of them hard and full on the lips as they left. Maelwyn had tears in her eyes for she knew that Fainch was the chosen one spoken of by the old ones and she was honoured to be part of the campaign that would throw the invaders back into the sea and give the land back to the people and the priests.
Cresens
Gaius Cresens, the ex-quartermaster of the auxiliary cavalry, felt lucky. He could have been captured and crucified for the murder of Cartimandua and the attempted murder of Ulpius Felix. He had been lucky because he had managed to turn his ill-gotten gains into jewels which were more portable. He had had the luck to avoid capture and secure a berth on a small sailing ship heading for Gaul. The luck he had had in escaping Eboracum deserted Gaius Cresens almost as soon as they reached the mouth of the estuary and the sea. As the small boat headed south east towards Gaul, a fierce storm began to blow from the east. Hail and snow mixed with winds which threatened to tear the tiny sail from the stick of a mast. The captain and sailors quickly tore it down lest they be driven onto the shore which was littered with the sharp teeth of submerged rocks just waiting for the opportunity to rip out the bottom of any boat foundering there. Cresens huddled near to the stern with his possessions gripped in his white knuckled hands. He had worked, and plotted a long time to acquire his riches and he had no intention of letting the sea have them. The sailors cursed the overweight Roman as they tried to control the doomed ship.
“Release all three anchors!” screamed the captain as he tried desperately to slow down their inexorable slide towards the shore. The helmsman, a mighty young man, clung on to the rudder for his very life, seemingly fighting the ocean on his own. The anchors slowed them for a time and the captain issued oars so that they could try to control the direction of the ship’s slide. Cresens was beginning to think they might just survive when disaster struck. One of the stern anchors was torn away by a particularly fierce gust and the ship began to cant and tip at an alarming angle. The captain’s dilemma was that to stop the cant of the ship he could have to cut the remaining anchors and if he did that then they would be wrecked upon the shore. It was one decision that the doomed sailor did not have to make as the frayed ropes of both anchors gave way and the ship was hurled onto the rocks beneath the towering cliffs.
Cresens found himself in the water, still clutching his bag of possessions. Looking back later he realised that this had, in fact, saved his life for it contained enough trapped air to support him. He could hear the cries of his fellows as they hit the rocks or were dragged beneath the waves. He could see that the shoreline was quite close and, fortunately for him, he was approaching a sandy spit at the foot of a cliff. As he dragged himself onto the sandy shore he could see the ship being driven and dragged over the rocks to a small inlet. He suddenly realised that the reason he could see so well was that there were lights on the shore. He could see men and women with flaming faggots of wood. It looked as though the few sailors who had survived would be rescued. He saw the people with the lights reach into the water and drag the unfortunate sailors to safety. Just as he was about to reveal himself to these erstwhile rescuers he was horrified to see them slitting the throats of the men. They had been cruelly pulled from the sea and then slaughtered like seals on the beach. A sandy charnel house which soon became littered with not only the flotsam and jetsam of the wreck but the mutilated bodies of the Roman sailors.
Lying as flat as he could, he watched as there pirates plundered the bodies and the wreck taking everything of value. As callous as he was even Cresens found the savagery of these predators hard to stomach. It was dawn before they had stripped the shore of all that could be salvaged. His eyes followed them as they trudged up the valley to their roundhouses on the cliff tops. He began to see how they were so successful for they could see far out to sea and they were totally isolated in their cliff top eyrie. He began to plot and scheme; he would control these savages and become their leader. As he raised himself from the sand he saw a shape lying on its back half in the surf. It looked like a survivor who had missed the culling. He crept slowly towards the recumbent shape. It was a sailor from the ship. It looked to be the young helmsman whom he had seen and he recognised the immensely strong helmsman who had obviously been powerful enough to defeat the sea.
Cresens grabbed the arm whic
h was lying in the sand and dragged the youth back into the shelter to the cliff overhang. He could feel the pulse throbbing in the boy’s arm, he was still alive. Cresens took out his wine flask and poured a few drops down the sailor’s throat. This was not an act of kindness nor even charity for Cresens intended to use the survivor as the first of his gang.
The youth coughed and spluttered, opening his eyes to view the person he thought had saved him. “Thank you sir, I owe you my life. Are there others?”
Gaius realised the error made by the sailor but did nothing to correct it. “No. I am afraid you were the only one I could save.”
“I will serve you until I have repaid my debt.”The smile which danced on Cresens lips was a cruel smile but the boy took it to be kindness. “My name is Atticus sir.”
“And I am,” Cresens paused. He had the chance for a new start in life and a new identity, Gaius Cresens died in the sea off this savage coast. “Just call me Master, it will serve.”
“That I will sir. What now?”
“First we need to get away from here for I fear the natives are savages. “He gestured to the body ridden beach. “They slaughtered the rest of the crew. We are all that is left. There looks to be a path going south. North is uncharted territory but at least to the south it should be more peaceful.”