Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk (7 page)

The return of the chief was a major event on Hjarno and hundreds of people lined the jetty and the walls to scream and shout their welcomes. Anxious women looked for husbands, fathers and brothers; sometimes they did not return. They were all desperate for the glimpse of hair or hand which would tell them that this time their prayers had been answered. The lack of young men on the island told Marcus that most of the warriors were aboard the five ships he could see. He watched the chief, for in the past four days he had seen everyone defer to the tall leader and he knew that the blond haired warrior with the torc was the leader, as he signalled the other ships in first.  It marked him as an astute leader for it combined generosity in allowing others to be reunited with their families first with a political acumen which gave him the most number of people to cheer him ashore. As the other ships disembarked their cargo, Marcus could see that it had been successful and there were many women and children and animals. When he saw no men he knew that his troopers were dead and he mourned inside for them, saying a prayer to the Allfather to welcome them. He wondered when he would be leaving the ship and he glanced up at his guard; the man with the rope had rarely strayed far from his side.  Marcus had deduced that his name was Snorri.  He had picked up other words but he had kept that a secret from his captors.

The crew began to leave and with them the precious cargo they had captured, the coins and the boxes of jet. Marcus felt himself being tugged by Snorri and he contemplated pulling back to give his minder a soaking but relented, he would have to be subservient, for a while, at least. He saw everyone staring at him as he was led down the gangway. He tried to work out what their looks meant.  He would have been surprised to discover that it was two things, the fact that he was a man and t6hat he had no facial hair which marked him out as a new freak worthy of interest.

Trygg felt proud as his people roared his name over and over again.  He stood on the top of the gangplank and pulled his new sword from its scabbard.  One of his men had oiled and polished it for hours so that when he drew it the sunset caught the blade and reflected the rays making it appear to flame in Trygg’s hand. “Once again we have returned with riches beyond our wildest dreams and our people will prosper but Odin has given us two greater prizes.  See this mystical blade which Odin has given to me to smite our enemies and behold we have a Roman and not just any Roman but one of their chiefs.  From him we will learn much. Tonight we celebrate and tomorrow we plan our future, a future of greatness for the Tencteri will soon be the most powerful clan of the Eudose and we will rule all of Uiteland and we will drive the Suebi back to their holes!”

Marcus had no idea what the leader, he now knew was called Trygg, had said, but the effect was astounding and every face was raised to him as though he were the Emperor himself. As he was led through the throng, some of whom poked him, not maliciously, but out of curiosity, he could see that they all looked different to the people of Britannia.  Some of them had the red hair of the Caledonii and Pictii but most were blue eyed and blond.  They were also bigger in stature than the people at home. Marcus himself was bigger than most of the people in Stanwyck and Morbium but here he would be average.

Once they entered the stockade Marcus found himself in a different world.  The people who had captured him used neither round houses nor stone buildings but long halls which looked like upturned boats; they had a high roof and a hole to allow the smoke to escape. He was led to one which was next to the largest of the halls. Marcus was intrigued at the guards standing at the large double doors. Snorri led him into a large high room and the only light came from the huge fire in the centre. The women and children who were in the hall were obviously not of the tribe for they looked like peoples from Britannia and other lands.  Their emaciated forms and hollow eyes confirmed that they were indeed slaves. As his eyes became accustomed to the light he saw that there were large rings bedded into the wall and Snorri led him to one. Unlike the ropes which had hitherto bound him these were iron shackles and Marcus found himself shackled by the leg to the wall.  He could move eight or so paces from the wall but no more.  Snorri checked the security of the ring and, grinning at Marcus’ discomfort, left after first gently slapping him on the cheeks. The Roman decurion became accustomed to the gloom in his little corner of the great hall and he saw that the eyes which looked at him were dulled and lacking curiosity. He did not know it then but it was only the unique nature of his age and sex which afforded him a second glance for he was in the hall of the thralls, the place of the slaves.

He knew there was little point in making a break for freedom in daylight and the fact that the slaves were herded outside soon after his arrival confirmed that it was still daylight. He was left almost alone. Whilst the ships had been arriving they had been kept apart, they were not of the tribe and were a commodity, like the pigs and hens they kept.  In the far corner were three women with nursing babies and another woman covered by a blanket. As none looked as though they were going to speak to him any time soon he began to examine the inside of the hall. It had a much higher roof than a roundhouse and the curve of the timbers would have made it impossible for him to climb the walls and escape through the turf which lined the top of the hall.  That left the door as his only exit. He could see there would be a problem of the two guards who stood with spears and shields at the huge doors. He had to assume that they would either lock the doors at night or leave the guards there to prevent the slaves escaping. If it was just the guards then he would have a chance.  All he would need would be a weapon of some description. As he moved his arms the iron shackles rattled not only was it noisy it told him that he could not just walk away.  He would have to find a way of escaping the iron bonds which bound him to this prison. Unless they let him out in the day he would find it hard to acquire the tools he would need.

He began to feel depressed, even though he was an optimist he could not see a way out of this web.  He was trapped like a fly on the spider’s web and this web was in a land he did not know.  He was doomed to die in a foreign land far from his family, his friends and his men. Suddenly he sat upright. They had spared him for a reason.  Perhaps they wanted him to torture or humiliate in some public way. He remembered that his namesake, the Prefect Marcus, had been captured by the witch Fainch and imprisoned in a wicker cage to be burnt alive.  It could be that the people who had captured him had the same practice. Some peoples believed that human sacrifice produced good fortune for their clan, perhaps he was to be a sacrifice. He could think of no other reason for his capture. He wondered, if that were the case, why they had fed him on the voyage across, why they had not treated him with cruelty for they had taken pains to protect him from the cold and see to his bodily needs.  He shook his head. He would have to wait and see their purpose but he would also watch and observe for escape would come.  He had been an Explorate and had more skills than these people could conceive.

He dozed a little, more induced by mental exhaustion than physical tiredness.  He was awoken by rough hands lifting him to his feet.  Two armed warriors took him by the arms, whilst a third held on to his metal shackle and led him into the light.  He found the light of the sunset too bright and tried to shade his eyes with his hand.  The tight grip of the guards prevented it and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and he stumbled across the open space between the halls. As he stubbed his toe on a step he looked down and saw that he was climbing the steps of the huge hall which he had seen close by the one in which he had been imprisoned. Here the two guards were dressed in fine armour and each had a double handed axe next to him.  The warrior in Marcus recognised them as elite fighters who would be dangerous adversaries in a fight. Once again the hall had no windows but this one had bowls filled with oil which burned brightly on the tables in the middle.  This added to the light from the fires, which were half way down on either side, making this hall seem to sparkle and glow. At the end was a raised dais and there sat on fine chair was Trygg.  Next to him sat a beautiful woman of about the same age who also wore a torc and Marcus assumed that was the wife of the chief.  To one side stood Snorri now dressed in much finer clothes that those on the voyage and, for the first time, Marcus could see that he too was a chief of some description and, from the sword by his side, a warrior. The only other person on the dais was a female slave at the foot of the dais.

Once again, when he was forced to his knees next to the slave he heard Trygg speak but once again he could not understand a word. There was a pause and then the slave began to speak to him.

“The chief of this tribe, Trygg Tryggvasson welcomes you to Hjarno-by and asks, what is your name?”

Marcus looked at her in amazement.  She had spoken Latin.  “Who are you?”

The terrified look in her eyes was echoed by her words. “Just answer my questions or we will be punished.”

The terror in her words made him nod. “I am Decurion Marcus Gaius Aurelius of the Second Sallustian ala of Pannonians.”

She translated and Trygg asked her a question which she then answered. Marcus wondered what had been said for Trygg turned and smiled at Snorri who shrugged. Under her breath she said, “He wanted to know what you did.  I said a cavalryman.” The chief then spoke at some length and the slave turned to him. “The chief said that this is your new home and you will be a slave of the Tencteri.  He urged you not to attempt to escape for if you do they will cut off your toes. A second attempt will cost you your left hand,” she spread her arms out, “and I think you can work out the rest. You will be taught our language and then you will teach the Tencteri about horses and the Romans. If you work well then you not be shackled and you will be allowed to move around the island freely.”

Marcus looked up at the chief, almost for the first time. He had seen many barbarian leaders but, hitherto they had all seemed cruel unthinking barbarians.  This one appeared different and in that lay danger for Marcus, it was an unknown factor, a thinking barbarian.

The chief spoke again and she translated once more. “The chief wants to know if you understand.”

“Tell him yes.” Marcus was desperate to question the young slave but he knew that he could not do so in the hall.

The chief seem pleased with the answer but then took out the sword and spoke again to the slave. “The chief wishes to know about the sword which was yours and is now his.”

Marcus could feel his face reddening and filling with anger and he was also acutely aware of the close inspection Trygg was giving him. “Tell him that the sword belongs to my family and is a sword sacred to the Brigante tribe. It is the Sword of Cartimandua.” He paused as she translated.  As soon as she stopped speaking he began again.  “Tell him I will happily fight him for the right to bear the weapon.” She looked at Marcus and shook her head. “Tell him!”

When she told him Marcus noticed that the chief nodded, as though to himself, whilst his men burst out laughing and began jeering the Roman. Trygg allowed it for a few moments and then held up his hands for silence.  He spoke again.

“The chief says that he had the measure of you when he captured you.  You are a brave man and a worthy warrior, as would any man would be, who wielded such a weapon. He asks why he should fight you for it when he already owns it and you, a slave, can own nothing.” The men began cheering and banging their beakers on the table. Trygg smiled at his men and sheathed the sword before he continued. “Besides he would gain no honour from killing a slave.”

He spoke again as Marcus reddened. The female slave spoke quietly to the decurion as though to calm him. “The king asks which part of Britannia does the sword come from?”

Sighing Marcus began. “The sword comes from the land south of the Dunum, close to my home. I hold the sword thought my father and my mother who is a descendant of the last Queen of the Brigante, Cartimandua.”

When the girl had finished translating the King spoke with those around him. They kept looking at Marcus and pointing. The decurion did not enjoy the examination. He knew that they were impressed, both with the sword and Marcus’ lineage. The chief spoke again to the slave.

The girl stood and Marcus felt himself jerked to his feet.  The girl took his arm and said quietly, “We are dismissed.  We can talk in the hall.”

Marcus was torn between trying to invoke a confrontation and talking to the girl about their predicament.  The Metellus side of his mind overcame the Macro side and he nodded.  They left to the jeers of the warriors who continued their feasting. It had become very dark and very cold during the interview in the hall and Marcus could feel himself shivering.  The girl did not seem to mind the cold and he wondered how she had come to be there. The guards on the door did not enter the hall and merely dropped the bar on the door as they entered.  One of Marcus’ questions was answered; he would be locked in and guarded each night but at least he would not be shackled.  If he could discover a way out of the hall then escape was possible..

The girl led him to a corner of the hall where there was a bearskin and she sat down.  “Sit here Decurion.”

“What is your name and how came you here?”

“First I will get you some warm milk for you are cold.”

She rose to go to the pan which was laid by the fire. “I am all right.  I do not need it.”

“But I need you to be well for as long as you are alive my life is better.” Enigmatically she walked over to the pan leaving Marcus wondering at her words.  Her face looked young but her actions and her words seemed like those of a grown woman.  The Parcae had woven a serious web around Marcus this time. When she returned with the beaker she watched as he drank it all down.  It tasted good to Marcus and he recognised honey as well as some other indistinct taste. If he had been offered a drink in Britannia by some strange girl he would have refused fearing poison but, somehow, the girl seemed to inspire confidence.