Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk

by Griff Hosker

  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.

  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 bou
nd 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.