Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk (6 page)

Entering the ala office, the mood of gloom and depression was even greater than outside and both Livius and Julius Longinus, the ala clerk, looked greyer and older than they had the previous week. “What is wrong Livius?  You both look as though some disaster has occurred.”

When Livius looked up a spark of anger flashed across his face before the Prefect controlled it, Julius Demetrius was not only his superior he was a friend and he did not deserve scorn. “Decurion Marcus has been taken by raiders from across the Mare Germania. He is now a slave.”

Julius slumped into the chair.  First Macro had died and now Marcus, his adopted brother, had been taken.  He could now understand the mood in the camp. The two were the Romulus and Remus of this unit, they were its heart and the sword was its soul. “Where did this happen?”

“On the Dunum.  He was with two other troopers when they were surprised by barbarians; five boat loads.” He paused and looked meaningfully at the Legate, the pain in his eyes reflecting the pain he felt in his heart. “They have the sword.”

Julius shook his head; it was bad enough that Marcus had been taken but if word got out that the symbol of the Brigante people had been taken then the whole of the north of Britannia could be filled with unrest. Many of the Brigante tribe accepted Roman rule because a descendant of the Brigante royal family wielded the weapon.  Already the younger warriors had rebelled but the loss of the sword could be the spark to ignite the frontier and rekindle the fires of rebellion and freedom from Roman rule.

Neither man heard the door quietly open. Julius had always been a positive person, an optimist who looked for a light in the darkest room and he sought to lessen the pain in the Prefect’s face. “At least we have the stone now and the frontier will be safer.”

Livius’ face filled with a fierce anger which Julius Longinus, the clerk, had never seen before. “Well that makes everything fine then doesn’t it? You may have gained your stone, Legate, but the ala and I have lost our heart and, you know, I don’t think the wall is worth it!” He spat the words out and his pretence of stoicism crumbled like frozen cement.

The Emperor’s quiet voice made them both jump. “That is not a comment I thought I would hear from a Prefect in the Roman army.  You had better explain yourself.”

Julius saw the look on Livius’ face and, before his friend could get himself into trouble, he interceded. “The Prefect has just lost a Decurion on the Dunum sir.  Decurion Marcus and the Sword of Cartimandua.  He is naturally upset.”

A soldier himself, the Emperor could understand Livius’ views but not his words. “I am sorry for your loss as I am sorry when the Empire loses any of its warriors who die for their country but understand this Prefect, there is no greater priority than the building of this wall and even if every man in your command dies then that would be a price worth paying to secure the safety and security of the Empire. Is that clear?”

Even as Livius stood and said, “Sir, yes sir.” He realised that he was just a pawn to be used by the Emperor. His men were there to be used and sacrificed for the greater good of the Empire. Just because he had fought alongside the Emperor in Surrentum he had felt that there was a bond between them, as there was with the men of the ala.  Now he saw that that had been an illusion; the Emperor’s first thoughts were always with the Empire and neither the ala nor he was important to him, merely a useful tool. It would change the way that Livius commanded from that moment on.  Perhaps his brother and his uncle had been correct, perhaps Britannia did need a British ruler; someone who cared for the land and its people. For him it was the family of the ala which was important and he believed that the security of the Empire would benefit from that family, obviously the Emperor did not share his views. As soon as he could he would discuss with Julius and the decurions what they could do about the lost decurion because Livius was certain about one thing, they would not forget his friend and the living embodiment of the ala nor would he let him die as a slave across the sea.  Something would be done. He knew not what it would be but they would do something. He would not leave his young decurion to end his days as a slave in the lands to the east.

Julius glanced over his shoulder to his young acolyte.  He had taken a huge risk with his outburst and the Senator was politician enough to know that the Emperor Hadrian, good man though he was would not forget the display of disloyalty.  He did agree with Livius that something should be done but the Legate knew that it would have to be something created away from the Emperor’s hearing and knowledge or it might jeopardise not only the Prefect’s future but also his life. As the gates slammed shut behind the departing Imperial column Julius began to formulate an idea which, if he could bring it off, would be the only chance young Marcus had to be rescued.  He had known the boy since birth and he knew that he was a strong character from good stock.  He hoped that he would be coping with the horror of capture and slavery.

Chapter 4

Marcus knew he was on a ship before he even opened his eyes; having spent almost two days below decks on
The Swan
the previous year, he recognised the gentle rocking motion of a ship at sea. He was immediately aware that he could not move his arms for he could feel the ropes biti9ng into them and, lying there rolling across the deck with the surge of the sea he began to piece together what had happened.  The last thing he remembered was being knocked from his horse and hitting the ground and then blackness.  Before then he had seen the masts of the ships.  He had been captured; that much was obvious.  He had blundered into an ambush and he was immediately angry with himself. As an Explorate he had been trained to assess the risks and dangers of potential ambushes.  He had become complacent and paid the price. What of his two companions; the two young troopers who had followed him through the woods? He would have to wait until he opened his eyes to discover what had happened to them but lying in the darkness he used his other senses, those of smell and hearing, to work out what was going on around him. The language he heard was neither Latin nor Brigante but it did sound vaguely Germanic and one or two of the words were familiar. At least it was not the Hibernians.  His first fear when he saw the masts of the ships was that the Hibernians had come to finish off what they started with his brother.  He knew that he was not heading into the clutches of the witches and the Irish and that thought gave him some comfort.  He assumed that he was heading east, towards the lands as yet unconquered by Rome. He could hear the noise of wood rubbing on wood; he was on a ship propelled by oars.  He could smell the sea but it was intermingled with the sour smell of men who have not bathed in a long time. They were barbarians then.  Finally, as his ears became attuned to the sounds around him he heard sounds from further away, the sound of gulls and the surf hitting the bow and then, very distinctly he heard it, the sound of a hawk, high above.  He felt comforted for his brother was nearby, Macro was watching him. He could begin to plan to escape; he had hope again.

“That hawk has followed us from the Dunum.  Should I try to shoot it with an arrow?”

Trygg looked at the warrior, standing next to the steersman, “Snorri, we have no one on this ship who could hit it.  The only man who might stand a chance is Drugi the hunter, and he is on the island.  Besides it is a fine bird and I hope to see it hunt.  If it follows us home then we may try to capture it.  Drugi would be the man for that.” Trygg looked at the recumbent form at his feet.  “I hope this Roman does not die on us, I have many questions.  The Norns have done well to give us such a rich treasure.”

Snorri looked at Marcus and snorted, “I cannot see where the treasure is there. We captured him easily enough.”

Trygg shook his head. “Look at the sword, look at the armour. Look at his muscles and his scars.  They all lead to one inescapable truth, this is a warrior and a warrior who has fought in many battles.  Odin and the Norns conspired to bring him to us. Had one of his men been felled rather than this their leader and chief then he would have fought hard to survive; we might have lost many warriors trying to take him and his sword.  No, he has been brought to us for a purpose. I will wait until I have spoken with him to find out why.”

Snorri still looked dubious. “If he is so great a warrior, will he not escape as soon as we reach our land?”

Trygg laughed and pointed to the sea. “And where would he go? Even if he were to flee from our island fortress and swim to the mainland, would he survive the Germans? No the only way he could escape is by sea and we control the seaways.  Fear not Snorri, I am not worried about his escape.  I do have some ideas about how we may use this warrior, this gift from the gods. There is a woman from Britannia who, I fancy, would produce healthy offspring with this warrior.  Once he has accepted his fate he will become one of us then we will have someone who can teach us to ride, teach us about the Romans, their language and ideas and, most importantly, how to fight the Romans.”

“Fight them? I thought we just raided their land.  We have not fought them. They are like ants they are so numerous.  How could we defeat them in their large numbers?” Snorri had heard of the numbers who fought in Roman armies and he could not comprehend the numbers.  For him an army was a hundred warriors; he had heard that the Romans fielded thousands. He was still uncertain about the veracity of that for he had yet to see so many men in one place.

“No we have not fought them because I knew we would not win and yet as a warrior I felt shamed when we fled.  I would like to have met them blade to blade but look at his.” He picked up Marcus’ armour which had been stripped from his body. “I think that it would take a fine sword or a good axe blow to pierce this and what of the helmet?  How many of our men have helmets? And even fewer have armour. No Snorri, we take on the Romans when we have arms and armour which can defeat them and then that will be a glorious day when we meet them blade to blade.”

Snorri was caught up in the rhetoric and found he was grinning like a child. “Soon we will have more men and more ships.  Why we will even defeat the Suebi who crawl over our land like evil little cockroaches.”

Trygg’s face darkened.  It galled him that they lived in fear from their neighbours.  Before they defeated the Romans they would drive the Germans from the mainland and send them back to their own lands.  That was why he had brought back the Roman for the Germans had been defeated by the Romans and this warrior would show them how.

Marcus was picked up bodily once the fleet began to turn east again to round the peninsula which jutted out into the cold black sea. Chief Trygg was not going to risk him being swept overboard and he had two men haul him upright. His plan to remain as though unconscious was thwarted when Snorri hurled the bucket of icy salt water onto him and his reflexes suddenly opened his eyes. The man with the bucket grinned and Marcus saw for the first time that they were all the blond haired giants from the north he had expected. He glanced around and saw that he was the only prisoner on the deck; had his men perished or escaped?  He hoped the latter. Behind the man with the bucket, steering the ship was a huge warrior with a long beard and moustache.  His hair was plaited and Marcus saw the shining torc which marked him as a chief.  Although wearing no armour he looked to be a powerful warrior with a well muscled body. As Marcus looked him up and down, assessing him as a future opponent his heart sank when he saw, strapped to his waist was the sword of Cartimandua. He had hoped, vainly as it turned out, that he had lost the blade in Britannia and one of his men had recovered the symbol which inspired his men.  Now his spirits fell to their lowest point as he began to appreciate the disaster which had befallen him.  He pulled at his hands to try to break his bonds for he had a foolish idea to grab the warrior and thrown them both over the side, better to lose the sword to the sea than to a barbarian.  Something in his movement alerted the man with the bucket for he suddenly tugged hard on the rope tied to his leg and Marcus crashed heavily to the floor.  He had been tethered well by his captors who were used to slave raids and ensuring their victims did not escape.  The Allfather had to have another plan for him and, resigned he sank to the floor. He heard them speaking but the only word he recognised was ‘
Roman
’.

“See Snorri.  The Roman warrior might be tied but he wants to fight and he struggles to escape his bonds even though he is alone.  We were lucky.  Feed him but shorten the tether.  I fear he would try to fight with us all if we gave him the chance.” Before he had captured this Roman he had wondered about them as warriors for they had short hair and neither beards not moustache.  To the Tencteri that was for women or those who chose to lived as women.  He also smelled of a woman and did not have the manly smell of his warriors and yet when he had stood and faced him he had had the dangerous look of a wild boar cornered and yet willing to sell its life dearly.  He would bear watching, this horseman of Rome.

Marcus was on his feet as the fleet edged into Orsen Fjord. He had seen glimpses of land as they had rounded the coast into this unknown sea but he had seen neither another boat, nor a single human save for his captors.  It was as though the five barbarian ships had left this world and entered another world, unknown to Marcus. He had eaten all that they had given him and he had drunk whenever offered.  He cared not that the fish was rancid nor that the drink smelled old, he had to survive and that meant keeping up his strength.  He surreptitiously exercised, lifting himself on his feet and hands when no-one was watching.  He did not want his muscles to become soft. 

He stood on tip toes to peer as far as he could see. The two islands of Alro and Hjarno were close both to each other and the mainland making navigation and entry difficult. The decurion noticed the concentration on all of the crew.  Despite its familiarity they treated the passage with caution. His military mind took in the fact that any ship which passed the island would have to pass whatever defences the people had. Already the Roman was thinking of escape. If they had brought him back to kill him then so be it, then Allfather had willed it but if he was spared, he would do all in his power and move heaven and earth to regain the sword and return to Britannia.  As they approached the wooden jetty he realised that escape was a long way off. The port he could see lay at the end of a long finger of a land, obviously an old sand bar which had been built up by the barbarians to provide a natural breakwater; it also afforded protection for any ships sheltering in the harbour. The village was a little way away from the port but was only the height of a child above the surrounding land. The soldier living in Marcus’ brain told him that it was the water which was the major defence.  If auxiliaries landed on the island then they would be able to scale the miniscule walls easily, the problem would be landing them on the island.