by Jan Surasky
As Votorix spied her, he turned, throwing his arms about her. Then, he stood back, beaming upon her. "How goes the newborn babe?" he asked.
Boudicca smiled, and returned, "She is fine, Papa. And, her tuft of locks looks very much like yours."
At this, Catrinellia moved toward her daughter, alerted by Votorix' booming voice. She embraced her, then stood back to look upon her. "Valeda must learn the royal ways," she reminded her. "And, Alaina is old enough to follow you about. She must begin her royal training."
"Alaina was born with royal ways, Mama," laughed Boudicca. "She orders the servants about and almost always gets her way."
"I have brought her some tiny platters," continued Catrinellia, "etched in silver and gold. She must practice in the nursery."
"And I," said Votorix, "have brought her a dapple-grey pony. She must learn the island countryside."
Boudicca laughed. "I know Alaina will not rest until she and her pony are one about the countryside."
Boudicca embraced them once again and took her leave. As she went, she looked about for Diviticus. As she strolled the hillside, the talk flew all about her. Intertribal justice, raids on tribal grain fields in the dark of night, the new ease of trade upon the Continent, and the gossip of palace halls.
She found Diviticus lost in heavy talk on the interpretation of omens with Avantes and his Brigantes Druids. As she came upon him, he stretched out his arms to wrap her in a great, welcoming embrace, the warmth of his familiar laughter rising above the buzz of the noisy crowd. "It has been long since I have looked upon you, Boudicca," he said, as he stood back. "You must come soon for a chat in the sacred grove."
He took his leave of Avantes and turned to stroll the hillside with Boudicca. "Do you remember the omens we learned and the prayers we chanted beside the sacred stream?" he asked, his great strides visible beneath his long, white robes.
"Oh, yes, Diviticus, I have not forgotten," she answered, as she hastened to keep up with him. "I must send Alaina to you to learn them as well when she is able, and Valeda when she grows to run and climb about."
"I shall soon be very busy," he continued, as they strolled. "Galix, son of Andromatus, has come to me to study the learning of the Druids." He paused, then spoke. "He is very quick and serious. But it will be many years before he stands beside me to perform the ancient rites. He must learn the name of every woodland plant, the magic of its healing, the omens of the birds and woodland creatures, the tales of the stars, and the many chants of the ancient Celtic rites. He must travel, too, to learn the ways of tribal justice." He paused. "My own training," he added, "passed more than twenty Beltanes."
"Will you go to the isle of Mona?" asked Boudicca, puffing slightly in her quest to keep up with Diviticus.
"Yes," he answered. "I shall leave soon to travel north for the Druids' annual gathering."
Diviticus ended his strolling, standing atop a hillside which looked out over the vast Brigantes lands, the blaze of torches beneath them a vivid orange and yellow mist against the starlit sky, its warmth a comfort to the slight chill of the evening. Then, he took his leave, promising Boudicca news of the newly discovered stars and omens, and edicts handed down after long and intense discussion.
Marcus Quintilius Calenus looked over the rail of the Roman warship. The oarsmen, slaves of the Roman empire, pulled fast and furious beneath him. The sails were hoisted, but there was little wind to fill them.
The blue-green waters of the ocean disappeared behind him, only to be replaced by waters of identical hue. The mist of the horizon surrounded the galley ship.
As Marcus stood, he mused upon the follies of youth. He had joined the praetorian guard against his father's wishes, cutting short his schooling and pushing farther into the future the certain comfort of a Roman senator's life.
It was just a few short days ago when he had been standing in the streets of Rome on leave, in counsel with his closest friends, all sons of high-born families. The headiness of ale had loosened their tongues. As the shadows of evening fell about them over the cobbled streets, they argued the merits of their families' slave girls, leaving the matter of where they spent the night to a gold and silver rounded gambling puck.
As they talked, Marcus felt the hand of a praetorian guard fall gently on his shoulder. It was Gaius Lapidus, older and a career soldier, whom he knew very little.
"Marcus," he said, as he stood facing the younger man, "Fabius Antonius has commanded every soldier on leave to return to camp immediately. I will accompany you back to our quarters."
As they walked through the streets of Rome toward the great number of buildings which housed them, Marcus still a bit wobbly on his feet, Gaius Lapidus catching him at intervals, Marcus wondered what news Fabius Antonius, their centurion, had to tell them.
As they assembled upon the field of camp, all roused from their barracks and the streets of Rome, Fabius Antonius, tall, his dark, curly locks falling about his ears, his jagged features hardened from the several campaigns he had spent in the service of Rome, stood before them.
"Our great emperor Claudius, ruler of Rome, has decreed that we finish the job which our great ancestor Julius Caesar set out to accomplish nearly a century ago. The Roman senate has concurred. We must conquer the island of the Britons which lays west of the Roman empire."
He paused, then continued. "Today, we collect very little of the tribute which the few tribes Caesar managed to bow into submission on the island agreed upon, before he was called back again to Gaul. But, the Celtic tribes of the British Isles will be easy to conquer." He paused, letting the effect of his words sink in.
Then, he continued. "Their people are barbaric, with strange customs. They worship their gods at the feet of strange, religious priests, who wave their arms wildly worshiping mistletoe about a flock of sacred geese. In battle, they make strange noises, covering themselves with the blue of the woad plant, and often fighting naked.
"In Caesar's time they aided the cause of Gaul. Now, they stand alone, no Celts left to challenge the Roman empire, save the few along the Danube and the Rhine."
He paused again, then continued. "Their people live simply, in huts with no luxuries and only a loose alliance to a tribal chief. We shall soon be back again on the streets of Rome, the Roman empire richer. Our games will be filled with sport, our tables with the finest wines and sauces, and our evenings with slave girls and chance."
As Fabius Antonius ended his speech, they all filed back into the barracks, spare by the standards of home and the plushness of the taverns and baths, to reflect and to gather together their few possessions into a traveling pack.
Although even the praetorian guard were discouraged from personal possessions, Marcus had saved a few mementos from his many nights in Rome. A golden gambling puck which had brought him luck. A silver stylus inscribed with the name of his closest friend, Lacertian Minucius Vespillo, who lost the writing instrument to Marcus in a game of chance on the night they had first discovered the headiness of ale. He also included a letter he had received from his father on the first night he had joined the praetorian guard. As he re-read the words, he gazed at the boldness of the script.
Dear Marcus,
As you know, I did not agree with your decision to join the praetorian guard. But, the guard is filled with men of courage and honor, the elite of the Roman army, many with the tactical skills which has brought to us for centuries the glory that is Rome. Learn well from them, for many a Roman senator has risen from their ranks, versed in the art of governing the men of Rome.
Your mother sends her good wishes, and your sisters, too. Keep well, my son. May the gods be with you.
Your Father,
Gaius Antonius Calenus
Marcus took a last glance at the letter, its script penned boldly on the finest of writing papers, and tucked it neatly in his traveling pack. Then, he prepared for sleep, for it would be some time he knew before he felt even the comfort of the sparsest barracks bed.
As M
arcus reflected on the deck of the galley ship, miles across the Continent from Rome, he remembered Fabius Antonius' words. As a student in one of the finest schools in Rome, tutored by a household slave from Crete, he had learned the history of Rome, the great deeds of Caesar, the glory of the Roman empire. He felt certain his unit would be back in Rome by the Ides of May, nearly a year from now, for his favorite amusement, the annual race of the best charioteers, the winner to be promised freedom, a competition laid out on the grounds of the great Circus Maximus. By then, he mused, he would have enough adventure to earn the respect of his father, regale his sisters with tales of foreign lands, and impress the city's most nubile maidens and slave girls.
As he stood, Lucius Varrus, a career officer, ambled to the side of the deck, leaning over the railing to lose his morning's fare. His curly, dark locks, usually groomed and neat, fell tousled about a face nearly the hue of the sea. As he recovered, he nodded and grinned at Marcus.
"The Roman soldier," he said, as he steadied his feet upon the lurching deck, "faces perils he has not prepared for in training."
Marcus grinned back. "When we reach Londinium, you will lead us in tactical maneuvers."
"Londinium is well fortified," he answered. "Its gates are strong and their stakes are sharply honed. But," he added, as a ruddy hue began to return faintly to his features, "the city and its countryside shall be easy to conquer. Our weapons, our armor, our discipline, and our tactics far surpass those of the Celtic barbarians."
Marcus turned to look again at the sea, picturing the grandest chariot races of the Circus Maximus, and the comrades he would regale there with tales of his wartime adventures.
Chapter Nine
Caractacus sat across the council table from Bellovaci, the Ordoveces chieftain. Ale and honeyed cakes lay on a nearby rough-hewn oaken table, but neither chieftain had touched them.
The great Trinovantes seaport had been sacked by the Roman army, and the remaining tribal cities soon vanquished. Ambiorix, the Trinovantes chieftain, had surrendered to the Roman army and a Roman governor had been set over the Trinovantes lands. Ambiorix had been taken off in chains, along with his closest advisors. The warriors who survived the battle, along with the Trinovantes strongest and most nubile maidens, were shipped to Rome in chains as slaves.
The Duboni to the west stood between the Silures and the approaching Roman army. The Duboni, an inland tribe which had refused to align itself with other Celtic tribes in trade or battle, would almost certainly fall to the Roman army, fresh from victory, its generals carefully trained in the art of tactical battle.
The Belgae to the south were warlike, fighting amongst themselves as well as with most of the island tribes. But, they had paid a price when they had asked for Caesar's help to stave off the Duboni's raids upon their fields nearly a century ago. Their tribute was sent to Rome almost every year, and they had ties to the Roman empire. They would not resist the Roman army.
Caractacus looked at Belovaci before he spoke. The Ordoveces chieftain sat nearly filling his great, oaken chair, his mustache flowing, his blond locks falling beneath his massive shoulders. "Our only hope," began Caractacus, earnestly leaning forward upon his elbows as he spoke, "is joining the forces of our two great tribes."
Belovaci spoke. "I agree," he answered, as he paused in thought. He continued. "I shall call Cotius and Litavacus to ride with you come morning. They shall sit in council with your oldest and best warriors, for they know the strength of the Ordoveces."
"We must also forge the weapons of battle," he continued, as he leaned forward, his elbows upon the rough-hewn timbers of the council table. He paused, then spoke again. "Our artisans are quick to turn out the swords and shields, but they must have the large supply of bronze which favors the Silures lands."
Caractacus agreed. "We must turn out chariots as well, for the Romans fight mounted to match our skills in battle. And helmets," he added, "for the Romans are trained to throw their lances with certain aim."
Belovaci spoke. "You must spend the night among the comforts of the palace," he said, as he rose. "And," he added, as he motioned toward the nearby laden table, "you must take refreshment, for you and your advisors rode long and hard to sit at the council table."
Servants pulled chairs to the low-placed table as the two chiefs settled themselves beside it. Others brought from the larder cheeses and breads as well. As they ate, Caractacus mused on the fate that had brought the two together. Belovaci was the most independent of the island's chieftains, repelling border raids alone with Ordoveces warriors, turning out the supplies of daily life with raw materials found only on Ordoveces lands. He eschewed the politics of festivals and inter-tribal council, keeping peace with the Silures tribe whose lands bordered on the Ordoveces'.
After several long draughts, Belovaci laid his tankard of ale on the table and spoke. "My father and his father were chieftains before me, and my grandfather's father before him. Our warriors have never bent before an attack, even when the Ordoveces tribe was settled along the Danube river."
Caractacus licked his fingers after a hearty slab of bread and cheese and honeyed cakes and ale. "My great grandfather Viridomarus stood against the Roman army when Caesar was pledged to draw our island into the Roman empire." He paused, then spoke again. "His warriors drove off the Romans and aided the conquered tribes of Gaul, sending Caesar fleeing to the Continent to subdue the rebellious tribes."
Bards standing at the ready, gathered before them at Belovaci's signal, pouring forth the tales of ancient Celtic warriors, told to the tunes of minstrel's lyres. The wood of the instruments was turned with the gods and the bounty of the lands, the melodies soothing the weariness of their souls.
As the entertainment ended, Belovaci rose, calling for his advisors to join him at the council table. Caractacus rose as well, heading for the guest chamber set aside for him at his arrival, accompanied by an Ordoveces servant. He must rest, for the return journey to the Silures palace would be hard and quick. The Silures must begin plans at once to thwart the Roman army.
Chapter Ten
Venutius turned his mount toward the sea. Iberia's roads were newly paved with the bricks of Roman ovens, laid by slaves in the toil of the Roman empire. The roads of the countryside were cobbled, the round and uneven stones giving an interesting pattern to a long and sometimes winding way, stones pulled and sorted as they stopped a farmer's plow.
In the two years since he had been made emperor of Rome, Claudius had restored order to the Roman empire. His newly restructured government had brought roads to the remotest of provinces, efficiently piped water to their greatest cities, and a great port to the city of Rome. Now, it was time to take the only unconquered land that lay west of the Roman empire.
Venutius slowed his mount to a trot. He would board a ship headed north, as soon as he was able to complete the necessary transactions to commission one. The sun felt warm upon his back and his gaze fell upon the great expanse of passing Iberian vineyards. Occasionally, the lushness of silvery olive groves replaced them.
As he urged along his mount, he mused on the mission which had brought him to Iberia. He had opened new trade routes for a variety of the best Brigantes goods. Cartimandua would be pleased, for daily she cajoled her artisans to increase their quotas, threatening, pleading, and promising rewards. Her efforts had paid off, bringing from the Continent the finest wines, first press oils, the most delicately spun silks from the east, and the most highly developed pungent scents she valued.
Venutius had also visited his family in their tiny villa. Placed far out into the countryside, it gave his father an advantage as he made his rounds as head tax collector for his provincial district. He was not too far from any Roman subject who failed to provide the full tax assessed upon his person.
As Venutius had approached the villa, dismounting as he handed the reins to a stable servant, he noticed his father working late, seated on the portico, a sheaf of papyrus and stylus strewn across a small, low table
, a candle next to it in the moonlight. As he saw Venutius, a smile burst upon his face, creased and worn beneath his thinning locks of grey. His body, heavy and settled, took on for the moment a flicker of his former youth. He rose to greet his son.
As he stood, a youthful version of the man, similar in features but slenderer in frame, bolted from the front entranceway, dashing past him to take the steps of the portico in one leap. Venutius laughed as the youth ran toward him, his arms outstretched, the newly acquired length of his slender legs bolstering his strides as he crossed the neatly clipped green which ran the length of the villa. Epidorix, once the pesky, younger brother who had followed Venutius everywhere about, had grown into a graceful and agile youth. As they embraced, their mingled laughter blotted out the void of the passing seasons, and brought to them both the memories of play they once shared about the villa.
Venutius stood back to look upon his brother. "Epidorix," he said, the gaze of the youth now full in line with his, above a stubble of growth newly sprung about his chin, "you have grown too tall and too swift for me to chase and catch."
"And, you," said Epidorix, eyeing the doeskin breeches and the scabbard about the waist, "have grown into a man."
Then, the two walked toward the portico, Epidorix chattering away, his arms still entwined about Venutius, to embrace their father. Erithrominus silently placed his arms about his eldest son. The gesture brought back memories of the past. The years of the father riding into the countryside, accompanied by his son. The cajoling, the sympathizing, the resentment of a peasant asked to part with crops after long toil which would barely feed his family. And, during rare but occasional leisure, lessons in fishing and catching game, though there were servants to land and place fare upon the family table.