Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk

by Griff Hosker

  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.

  She inspected the beaker when he had drunk and then said. “Good. For you must not become ill. My name is Frann. I know you, for my home was on the road from Morbium to Eboracum and I saw you and your men as you patrolled the road. I recognised the Sword of Cartimandua when the chief brandished it. I was captured in a raid five summers ago when I had seen but ten springs. My father spoke well of you and your family for he had served with your father. He taught me how to speak as a Roman for he was proud to serve with Marcus’ Horse and my mother was Brigante.”

  Marcus knew the answer to his question before he asked it but he went ahead anyway. “And your family where are they now?”

  “My father was killed in the raid defending us. My mother suffered a blow to the head and did not survive the crossing. My sister lived until last year.” She looked for the question which she had thought he would ask and when he did not, answered it anyway. “She was older than I and…” She drank some of the honeyed milk from her own beaker.

  “Why did you say that I should not become ill? What is it to you?”

  “I was taken as a slave as you were but have
you not noticed that you are the only man in this hall?”

  Marcus looked around again and saw that even the boys who were in the hall were less than ten summers old. “I wondered but then I did not know what the chief wanted of me. Now I do.”

  “The older women work the fields, preserve the fish and tend the halls. The boys look after the animals and the girls… we are there to be used by the men. My sister became ill after she was taken too many times last year and she bled. That is how many of the girls die. There are few of us who become grown women.” She shrugged, “At least I have seen none in my seven summers in this place. As long as you live I am safe for the chief has said I am not to be taken until he has learned all he can from you.”

  There was a silence as Marcus took that information in. It slowly sank in that he now had a responsibility to the girl. He could not escape without taking her for he would not allow her to be raped to death like her sister. The Parcae had woven their spells well. “So that is how you were chosen to be with me because you spoke the language.”

  She nodded, “As soon as I saw you I felt hope soar in my heart.” She leaned in to him. “Can I tell you something?” Marcus nodded, intrigued by this resourceful young woman, for she was no longer a child, or even a girl. “I knew you would come for yesterday when I was picking seaweed on the beach I heard a bird and when I looked up I saw a hawk such as we have on the Dunum and he was circling above me. When I saw the bird I knew that someone would come. As soon as you arrived I told the shaman that I could speak your words and I was chosen.” She smiled, a cheeky smile, which suddenly made her look her age. “I made sure I beat the other girls to offer those services and I give thanks to the hawk.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and nodded. “Now I know that the Allfather is looking over us and this has all been intended.” The girl looked at him curiously. “My brother died last year and he took a death oath to protect me. As his spirit left this earth we saw a hawk and I heard it as I was taken over the sea. The hawk is my brother’s spirit and now I have hope.”

  “I am glad that you were brought here for now I too have hope.” She pulled the bearskin over them. “If you want to take me…” Marcus recoiled. The girl looked appalled. “Am I too ugly? I can…”

  Marcus shook his head. “No you are beautiful. You are lovely but you are not an object to be used. There may come a time when we…there will, come a time but we will choose the time and the place because we wish it to happen and it will not be a coupling in a barn with others listening and watching.”

  She moved her head back to look more closely at him. “You have never had a woman have you?”

  Marcus thought that it was a good thing that it was dark for he felt himself reddening. “That does not matter. You father served with my father; I do not think that either of them would want me to take you here in this hall.”

  She shrugged and snuggled in next to him. “If you change your mind… but we will need to be close for it is very cold in the night here and we need each other’s warmth.” As she cuddled in to him Marcus wondered if he had been too hasty with his words for he felt a stirring in his loins he had not felt before but he then thought back to his mother, Ailis, and how she had been a slave used by others and how his father had waitied until they could be married and Metellus, his mentor, had also waited with Nanna the other Brigante slave. He sighed as he heard the gentle breathing of the sleeping girl; he had been brought up too well with too much honour.

  The next day and the ones which followed were a pleasant interlude for the Roman decurion. Trygg had had warm clothes provided for Marcus and insisted that the girl spend every waking hour teaching him their language. It was on the third day that Marcus noticed a sadness which seemed to hang about the girl. “What is the matter Frann? Am I not learning quickly enough?” Marcus had been really trying to learn the language, partly to please Frann but also so that he would know what the barbarians were saying.

  There was a wry smile on the old face of the young girl. “You are learning too well for once you can speak to them why would they need me for you? I would go back to being…”

  Marcus was horrified. He had not thought it through. “I will learn slowly then, so that I can never speak their words and will always need you.”

  “That would not work. They would blame me and there are other girls. Lars would love that to happen and then he could get his hands on me.”

  “Lars?”

  She gestured subtly with her head to a huge bear of a man who lurched past. Marcus had noticed him giving them both queer looks. He had a huge scar running down his face, through a whitened dead eye, and finishing near his mouth giving a strange lopsided grin making look like a simpleton. It was a frightening appearance. “My father did that to him when they attacked us, before he killed my father. He was the one who killed my sister and he swore he would do the same to me.”

  “I will tell this chief that if he does not let you stay with me I will not tell him what he wants to know.”

  “But they would then torture you.”

  “That would be preferable to what he would do to you.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “I would.” Marcus sounded defiant but he wondered how long he would hold out. He hoped it would be until his death but he was not certain.

  “Thank you for that but it would do no good for they would just torture me to get you to talk.” She kissed him on the cheek, “And I know that you would.”

  With a sinking heart Marcus could see no way out of the dilemma. At the same time a thought wormed its way into his consciousness. If the Allfather had saved him so far and the Parcae brought him together with Frann then it must be for a purpose. He needed to hold fast and keep faith. He was convinced that they would both escape this trap. Then just as quickly as the hope rushed into him it was taken away as he remembered the other deity who liked to play with men’s minds, suppose Morwenna and the Mother were toying with him and giving him false hope. Suppose they had brought him here to take away not only the sword and his freedom but the bright young girl who had leapt into his life.

  Chapter 5

  Marcus stood before Trygg in the main hall. The only other people who were there were Frann, Snorri and a young shaman, Karl Sigambrisson. Frann stood just behind Marcus and Trygg addressed her over Marcus’ head. “Let us see what you have taught this young Roman, slave.”

  “She has taught words Chief Trygg.” The words sounded awkward and he still did not have all the words he needed but Trygg was impressed.

  “You have all our words Roman?”

  “Not yet. Have some.”

  Trygg nodded. “Then you stay slave in case he does not understand. Tell me Roman how do you ride the horse?”

  Marcus looked up at the chief as though he had not understood and the chief repeated his question. “I understand words but not meaning. I sit on back of horse and ride.”

  Trygg looked amazed. “You do not fall off?”

  “When I first learn yes but then becomes easy.”

  “How old were you when you learned?” Marcus had not learned numbers yet so he held up three fingers. “That is young.” The Chief looked to be running the idea through his head. “So our sons could learn?” He pointed to the two boys who were standing close to the Chief. They looked to be about ten or twelve years old. Marcus nodded. “And could we? The warriors, could we learn?” Marcus did not have the words but he rocked his hand back and forth suggesting that it was a possibility. “We will get some horses and we will see.”

  The chief turned to Snorri. “Send for Drugi and have him capture some horses for us.” Marcus understood all the words but he kept his face impassive. If they had horses then they had the chance to escape. Despite what Frann had said about the German tribe would were between them and the Empire, Marcus spied a kind of hope and that was enough.

  Trygg turned again to Marcus. “Now Roman how do you Romans fight?”

  For the first time since he had ar
rived at Hjarno-by, Marcus grinned. “We fight well. Better than Tencteri.” He had wanted to say barbarian but he did not know the word.

  “Brave talk from a slave who was captured so easily.”

  “There were few of us. I have fought others like Tencteri and I have never lost. I have led my men against,” he held up his two hands, “that times the number of our men and we won.”

  Trygg could detect from the voice that this was not bravado. He was coming to understand how this warrior had had such a fine weapon. He was a warrior and now, it seemed, a mighty leader. “You Romans, do you fight in lines?”

  Marcus had a problem. He did not know how much they knew and he did not want to give them information which might result in Roman deaths. On the other hand if they thought he was lying or hiding something then it would go badly for the two of them. Having seen the numbers of the Tencteri and the weaponry he did not think that an insight into Roman tactics would help them. Besides other tribes knew the Roman way of war and still lost.

  “Foot soldiers fight together,” he pulled Frann next to him so that their shoulders touched, “this close. Men on horses, “he moved her arm’s length away, “this far.”

  Trygg smiled. He liked this young Roman. “You were a horseman?”

  “I am a horseman.”

  Trygg stood and walked down to Marcus. He was taller than Marcus and about the same breadth. Not for the first time Marcus thought of Macro. He would have been both taller and broader than the chief. They would have liked each other for Marcus did not dislike this chief. He had not been unkind and he could see a thoughtful, albeit barbaric side to the blond haired giant.

  Trygg wanted to see into Marcus’ eyes, to see the lie if it were there. “Would you fight for Tencteri?”

  The question took the shaman, Frann and Marcus by surprise. “Against Romans?” Marcus asked the question to allow the time to think of an appropriate and acceptable answer.