Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  Magnus understood. He knew Metellus was hoping to take leave to spend time with his family in Aqua Sulis. Perhaps he needed some time away from the legion, as well.

  “You had best pack your things,” Tyranus said. “I don’t want to see you return before the Ides of February.”

  Magnus returned to his tent and began sorting through his clothing and personal belongings. As he folded some spare tunics and socks into his pack, he wasn’t exactly sure where he would go. It would take at least two weeks to return by sea to Ostia, provided he could find transport. Even then, little was left for him there. He had not seen his eldest brother in more than twenty years and didn’t know if he was still alive. His grown nephews, he had never met. He supposed he could take a holiday to Malaca in southern Hispania. The weather would be warm and pleasant. As he leaned over his camp bed, packing his shaving and personal hygiene effects, the flap to his tent was flung open and a hard kick sent him sprawling onto the bed.

  “By Freya’s frigged tits, are you not packed yet?”

  The voice of his brother, Hansi, turned his anger at having been assailed to one of bemusement. Magnus pulled himself off the camp bed into a low crouch, spun quickly on the balls of his feet, and slammed his fist into his brother’s groin.

  Hansi doubled over and collapsed on the ground, eyes wide and mouth agape. “G…good one, old boy,” he gasped.

  “That’s twice you’ve left your man-parts unprotected,” Magnus said, pulling himself to his feet. “The admiralty has a sense of humour, if they’ve sent you to ferry me away from this place.”

  “My last assignment before I return home,” Hansi replied, pulling himself to his feet, hand clutching his crotch. “I get to take my baby brother on a little voyage before I depart for warmer waters.”

  “And where is it we’re going?”

  Hansi beamed. “Home.”

  Chapter XI: Heading North, Heading Home

  The Northlands

  November 48 A.D.

  ***

  Having departed from the winter camp in the westernmost reaches of Britannia, Magnus was bound for lands few in the Roman world had ever seen. The first leg of their voyage would take them to Belgica. Ostensibly, Admiral-select Hansi Flavianus was being dispatched with an imperial magistrate to the Northlands, in order to secure a trade deal with an indigenous warlord. The magistrate, a rather fat, pompous fellow who was terribly prone to seasickness, was waiting for them at Gesoriacum, the very port from where the invasion force had launched four years earlier. The following day, with strong winds at their back, they came upon the large mouth of the River Rhine. A small outpost of a town, which bore the same name as the Gallic capital city of Lugdunum, seemed to stand watch against the forested barbaric lands to the east.

  “The very edge of the empire,” Hansi observed. “Therein lies the last bastion of Roman civilization in this part of the world.”

  They continued onward, following the coast east and northward. On the sixth day, they spotted a large river inlet. To Magnus, it looked the same as any other. And yet, there was a sense of familiarity he could not quite place. He knew he had been here before, albeit thirty-two years before.

  “Is that…” he started to ask.

  “The River Weser,” Hansi confirmed. “The same river you lads took to reach Idistaviso. Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

  “It was,” the centurion emphasized. “I was little more than an overgrown boy then. You know, I was reminiscing with Commander Julianus, about when I fought beside his regiment during the Rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus. It seemed like so long ago. Yet, the last time I came this way was even before that.”

  The flotilla made its way past a series of islands and veered north, following the coastline. They spotted the wide bay leading into another river known as the Albis. Magnus had heard of it during his years posted to the Rhine, but had never been this far eastward. Another day of sailing due north, and the air became much colder. They were out in the open waters now, far beyond the reach of the empire.

  “Worry not, Brother,” Hansi said, joining Magnus on the prow of the ship. “The seas are a bit choppy, but there aren’t any nefarious sea monsters lurking in the depths that can swallow ships whole.”

  “Yes, clearly Neptune prefers warmer waters,” Magnus replied, wrapping his cloak around him.

  “We should reach land by nightfall,” his brother reassured him. “It’s been some time since I’ve sailed these waters, but it is not difficult to find. I just hope we don’t crash into any of the small islands or rock outcroppings that pollute the seas leading into the harbour.”

  Magnus gazed around, puzzled that they were the only ship on the water. “Where are your other ships?”

  Hansi sighed and gave a mirthless chuckle. “Bloody cowards refused to sail past the Albis. We may dominate the waters of the Mediterranean, but on the whole, Romans are not exactly a maritime people. I hear even the Divine Julius about shit himself getting his little expedition across the channel into Britannia, a hundred years ago.”

  The waves became larger and choppier the further north they sailed. And though the winds were cold, they were not as frigid as Magnus anticipated. Land was spotted close to sunset. As a safety measure, Hansi ordered the ship to anchor in place, rather than try to navigate in the dark.

  The next morning brought a chilly fog, and the ship could only creep forward until it burned off close to midday. Magnus smiled at the sight of the land that greeted them. High rolling hills covered in groves of evergreen trees, the highest peaks were capped with traces of late autumn snow. It was beautiful, magnificent, and strangely familiar to him.

  “Our ancestral home, Brother,” Hansi said, clasping a hand on Magnus’ shoulder.

  The ship found its way past a plethora of small islands, as well as jagged outcroppings of rock constantly pummelled by the violent waves. The harbour was really little more than a series of small docks and fishing huts, with a single long dock for merchant ships. Nets were hung between the huts, with fishermen gutting and cleaning their catches, while dogs and cats ran off with whatever they could scavenge.

  The first thing Magnus noticed about the people was how big they were, even larger than most Germans he had seen. His grandfather, who had been short in stature, was certainly an anomaly among these giants. Fair-skinned like himself, they were mostly blonde of hair, though there were occasional redheads milling about. Most of the men had hair either to their shoulders or long and braided down the back. Long moustaches and beards were prevalent, although there were a surprising number of clean shaven faces. The women, many of whom worked beside the men, were tall and strong, with their hair similarly braided or hanging off their shoulders.

  “Welcome home,” Hansi said, as the two stepped off the dock and onto the sandy beach.

  “If you say so,” Magnus replied with a laugh. He may have resembled these people in size and appearance but he had been born and raised just outside of Rome. And while he often invoked the names of Nordic gods, in his heart he was still a Roman.

  A dozen marines disembarked as part of Hansi’s personal guard. The locals paid them little mind.

  “How many times have you been here?” Magnus asked.

  “A few,” his brother acknowledged. He caught Magnus’ inquisitive gaze and was quick to explain. “I brought you here to take you as far away as possible from what haunts you. What better place than the land of our ancestors?”

  “And Admiral Stoppello simply let you take one of his ships on a personal errand?” Magnus asked incredulously.

  “Oh no, the mission of establishing trade is very real. The hills here are teaming with iron and copper. The regional warlord is actually our cousin, Janne, who inherited the title from Uncle Gunnar.”

  “I vaguely remember him,” Magnus replied, deep in thought. “Father rarely spoke of him. I do recall Gunnar thought Grandfather mad for abandoning his position as a Norse warlord to join the Roman auxilia.”

 
They continued up the dirt road that led into the town proper.

  Another thought occurred to Magnus. “Did you bring an interpreter? I cannot imagine you’ve picked up the local tongue over the course of a couple visits, and I doubt that our cousin, Janne, speaks Latin.”

  Hansi grinned knowingly. “You might be surprised. We’ve had a Roman liaison living here for the past four years now who’s been teaching the chief to speak properly.”

  “Who?”

  “Me, you sodden old bastard!”

  The two turned to see a face Magnus almost did not recognize. The man was shorter than most of the locals with black hair that was greying on the sides, coupled with a darker complexion. Perhaps it was his manner of dress that confused Magnus for a moment. He was dressed in a thick tunic, trousers, and a fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

  “By Thor’s hammer…Valens?”

  The old centurion responded with a laugh, rushing over and embracing his brother-in-law. “What? Did you forget I ran off to the ‘old country’ with your sister?”

  “I wasn’t exactly in a right state of mind when you left,” Magnus reminded him. “I scarcely recall you coming to say goodbye.”

  “Given you were still in hospital, trying not to bleed to death, that’s hardly surprising,” Valens noted. “You were even paler than normal, if that were possible!”

  “And Svetlana? She is here, too?”

  “Of course.” Valens smacked him hard on the shoulder, leading the group down a side road. “She is at the hall, as we speak. Hansi said that when he returned he would have a bit of a surprise for us. I never thought it would be you. I take it you have finished with your services to Caesar and the empire?”

  Magnus slowly shook his head.

  “What the fuck, old man? Are you waiting for the army to invalid you out, or are you that determined to reach Valhalla with a spear in your guts?”

  “A question I am still trying to answer,” Magnus confessed. “Perhaps my dear brother thinks I’ll find it here.”

  For Cogidubnus, King of Atrebates and High Steward of the Catuvellauni, the days at his court were a frenzy of activity. His lands now encompassed the southernmost regions of Britannia, to include the Roman admiralty at Portus Adurni, as well as many of the lands that once belonged to their nemeses, Caratacus. These acquisitions had been a gift from Emperor Claudius to the man who had been Rome’s closest ally in all Britannia. New lands brought him much wealth; a magnificent gift of stone and marble, along with the builders and craftsmen necessary to build him a magnificent palace just outside the Roman city of Noviomagus Regentium. At the moment, the palace was little more than a series of foundations with ground being excavated and tilled for the magnificent gardens.

  Floor mosaic at the Roman palace near Noviomagus Regentium (modern-day Chichester)

  The king stood admiring the construction work from across the bridge that spanned the channel inlet, just south of where the columns of the grand entrance were being erected. He wore a Roman style toga with the broad purple stripe of the senatorial class. The latest honours heaped on him by the emperor and senate had been the franchise of Roman citizenship, as well as acceptance as a peer of the senate. He kept his face clean-shaven, his brownish-blonde hair was long and straight, pulled back tight against his scalp.

  “Sire, a rider approaches,” one of his guardsmen said, nodding towards the north-eastern road that led to Londinium, eighty miles away.

  “Ah, that would be our old friend from Catuvellauni,” Cogidubnus said. He recognized the man’s dark, curly hair, and the deep brown riding cloak and tunic he preferred.

  The rider halted fifty feet from the king and his entourage and handed the reins of his horse to a servant, before striding forward boldly, his hand raised high in salute. He was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. His black hair was short in length, though he kept it thick, in part to cover up his rather pronounced ears. He was still a handsome man, though his nose was a bit oversized even by Roman standards.

  “Hail Cogidubnus, High King of Britannia!” the man said. Cogidubnus was, in actuality, only King of Atrebates. The Romans, however, had given him the moniker of High King of Britannia, granting him precedence over all other allied monarchs in the land. Even Queen Cartimandua was considered subservient to the Atrebates king.

  “And to you, Amminus, Prince of Catuvellauni.”

  “I was a prince,” Amminus corrected gently as he stood beside the king and admired the work being done on his palace. “My father revoked all my titles when I was exiled, and Caesar has yet to restore a single one.”

  “Give it time, my friend. You have only just returned to your ancestral home; a land in which much has changed since your hasty departure years ago.”

  “Because I did not fight alongside the Romans, like you, I am viewed as an outsider. And the same blood flows through my veins as Caratacus and our slain brother, Togodumnus. Because of this, our imperial friends regard me with a certain level of suspicion.”

  “Forgive me, but one can scarcely blame them,” the king observed. “You could have returned with me when the Romans invaded. Had you done so, Emperor Claudius would have probably given you your father’s hall and most of the royal lands.”

  “Perhaps,” Amminus said, with a dismissive shrug. “But then I would have razed that filthy hovel to the ground, just like the Romans did. My reasons for not embarking with you are my own. But know this; I think my return will prove fortuitous to me and to our imperial allies.”

  “I understand Governor Scapula will be spending the winter at Camulodunum while his invasion force remains encamped along the western sea. When will you go see him?”

  “Before the solstice,” Amminus answered. “I need to make my presence known both here and within my ancestral homelands. I am certain you are aware that my brother has spies all over Britannia. I know of at least two at your own court.” He glanced over at the king, thinking this would cause him alarm, but Cogidubnus’ face was impassive. “My brother needs to know I am here, and that I intend to collaborate with the Romans. He is a great warrior of profound intellect, I will grant you. However, I also know he is a hot-head. Knowing that I intend to join the Romans in their quest to find him will drive him mad. His hatred for me will expose his weaknesses.”

  “Besides enraging him, how else do you plan to sell your services to the empire?”

  “Simple,” Amminus said with malice. “I am one of the few who knows what Caratacus looks like.”

  The imperial magistrate who’d come to negotiate with Janne over trade was still recovering from his dreadful bout of seasickness, leaving Magnus and Hansi to meet with their cousin void of distractions.

  The high chief’s hall was rather unusual, especially in contrast to the austere buildings that dominated the primitive city. The roof was triangular shaped with wooden shingles instead of thatch. A large walkway led up the short steps into the hold. These were lined by wooden columns painted red with white bases. To Magnus it seemed a crude Roman design made from wood, rather than stone and marble.

  “It was Valens’ idea,” Hansi explained. “Janne hopes to trade iron and copper for marble and tile.”

  “Hoping to add a touch of civilization to this land,” Magnus laughed.

  Janne was about fifteen years younger than his cousins, broad of shoulder and thick in the chest. He was shorter in stature like their grandfather, Olaf. Magnus only had childhood memories of his uncle, Gunnar; however, he could see a strong resemblance in Janne.

  “Kinsman, you have returned,” the high chief said. He spoke in Latin. His accent was thick, making him seem rather foreign to Magnus despite their relation. Janne turned his attention to Hansi. “And what manner of Roman accompanies you? Is this the magistrate you spoke of?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The magistrate is ill but promises to come see you on the morrow. This is my brother, your cousin Magnus.”

  “And I bid him welcome.”

  “And for that,
I thank you.” Magnus acknowledged, though his attention was no longer on his cousin or his brother, but on a rather striking woman who stood near the warlord.

  She was tall by Roman standards. Her flowing blonde hair was kept off her brow by a bronze circlet and hung loosely down her back. Janne was quick to notice his cousin’s distraction.

  “I see you’ve noticed our Ana,” he said, causing the woman to blush for a moment. “She is one of the finest copper smiths in all the land, not to mention a capable warrior.”

  “I have heard much about the men and women of this land,” Magnus replied. “The strength of your people is legendary.”

  “Your people,” Janne repeated, his face showing his confusion. He gave an understanding smile. “Of course. We may share the same blood, but you are Roman, like our friend, Tiberius Valens.”

  The sounds of a raucous scuffle caught their attention, and a rather well-dressed man stepped into the hall and began shouting and gesturing towards the commotion going on just outside the great hall. Magnus could not understand a word that was said.

  Janne nodded and calmly spoke a few words in reply. “Apologies, my friends,” he then said. “There is a dispute I must see to. Cousin Magnus, know that you are most welcome at any time within my home.”

  Magnus nodded almost to the point of a bow and took his leave. He first tried to leave via the way he’d come, but the main entrance was crammed with a mob of furious locals who were anxious to see their chief. He then saw Ana standing nearby. She tipped her head toward a small side door.

  “Looks like you’ve made a new friend,” Hansi said, slapping him on the back.

  “Are you coming?” Magnus asked. “Or will you take your chances with that mob?”