Apollo's Raven

by Linnea Tanner

  Marcellus gaped at the raven. “What is with that thing?”

  “It is my animal guide that protects me,” Catrin said, opening the outside door for the raven to fly through.

  Marcellus gave Catrin a puzzled look, then walked through the doorway and looked all around. “Is there a candle out here?”

  Trying to contain a nervous giggle, Catrin motioned him toward an alley that looked upon open horse stalls at the side of the royal residence. A black stallion poked its head over a rail and snickered at Marcellus. He chuckled and patted its neck. “This looks like one of the Spanish horses that my family breeds for chariot racing.”

  “You drive chariots?” Catrin asked excitedly, surmising Marcellus was a warrior trained for combat.

  Marcellus smiled. “No, we have drivers for that. I did help train horses when I lived my boyhood at our villa in Gaul. It has almost been six years since I lived there. I still ride, though.”

  Catrin’s cheeks warmed as he stepped closer. Grinning, she said, “Perhaps we could ride together tomorrow. You can teach me some of your words and tell me why you are here.”

  “I would like that.” Marcellus glanced down the narrow pathway between the stalls and the dwelling. “Are the king’s guards quartered here?”

  “Only the stablemen sleep here.”

  Marcellus drew even closer to Catrin and lifted one of the thin braids out of her loose hair. Heart racing, she felt hot blood rush into her face when he carefully placed the braid on her shoulder. His touch made her stomach skitter, and so did his piercing stare.

  “You look different tonight,” he said, feasting his eyes on her face. “You are beautiful with your hair down. Tomorrow on our ride, I would like to learn more about you.”

  “Uhh….” Catrin panicked when Marcellus leaned closer, the heat of his lips descending on hers. Oh sweet Mother Goddess, think! She jerked her head toward the sound of approaching footsteps. At the alley’s entrance, she saw two men carrying a spitted and roasted boar with an apple crammed in its mouth. Her face felt on fire when she looked at Marcellus and announced, “Time to eat!”

  He gave her a mischievous grin and reached for her hand. “I can hardly wait—”

  A door slam startled both of them out of the moment.

  Belinus was striding toward them with a knife in hand and yelling in Celtic, “Catrin, what are you doing with that Roman?”

  Placing hands on hips, Catrin roared back, “Who are you to question me after your reckless antics with my sister? Put that weapon away!”

  “I bolted the door to that Roman’s room. You must have let him out.”

  “No, he let himself out.”

  “Not likely. When I checked on him, he was gone and so were you. Then the gods piss on me. I bumped into the king in the hallway. He almost tore my head off!”

  Catrin smirked. “Did he catch you with Mor?”

  Belinus tilted his head to look at the sky. “No … thank the gods. The king would have me flogged and dismissed for leaving my guard.” He looked at Catrin again. “Your father demanded to know where the Roman was. Then he ordered me to find you. He wants you in his private chambers now!”

  The unexpected chuckle from Marcellus distracted Catrin. He seemed entertained by their boisterous Celtic ranting. Now infuriated at Belinus for ordering her around like a naughty child in front of this engaging foreigner, she said, “Tell my father that I will join him shortly.”

  “No, you are coming with me,” Belinus demanded, taking a hold of her arm. “Let someone else show this pompous cock where to roost.”

  At that moment, Catrin only wanted to stay with Marcellus. Besides, she reasoned, it was more important to gain his trust, so he would more willingly answer her questions. She ordered Belinus, “Deliver this message to the king. I am making our Roman guest comfortable. I’ll speak to him after I am done.”

  Belinus blocked Catrin. “His wrath will fall on me for not controlling his defiant daughter.”

  Catrin softened her voice, trying another tactic. “Please do what I say. I will make sure my father understands your predicament of watching me.”

  Belinus rolled his eyes and scrunched his face in exasperation. Catrin smiled; she knew he would acquiesce. Shaking his head, he turned and strode toward the back of the dwelling.

  Catrin smiled sweetly at Marcellus. “Now, I take you to feast.”

  He returned her smile with a broad grin. “I would enjoy that, thank you.”

  Taking Catrin’s hand, Marcellus interlaced his fingers with hers, a magical moment as if their hands became one. Drawn to his deep-set eyes, she felt giddy every time he smiled at her as they ambled down the alley.

  Then, at the sound of loud hammering from a weapons forger, she felt his hand flinch. His eyes shifted to armed warriors at the end of the alley. When they walked to the entrance of the reception hall, she noticed Marcellus warily watching two warriors wearing hostile glares. She touched his hand reassuringly. “Let us go inside and eat. We can talk awhile in there. Then I must speak with Father.”

  Inside the stone-walled Great Hall, tables were set with platters of roasted boar, bread, and boiled leeks. Most of the guests were the king’s champions, some of them maidens who had delayed marriage to train and fight as soldiers. A group of warriors sitting at one table scowled at Marcellus as they gnawed on their supper and drank dark ale. She wisely led Marcellus to another table where they sat on a wood bench. Across from them were Cynwrig, a skilled axe man, and his red-haired wife. In the past, the bare-chested warrior with spiked, lime-bleached hair had been celebrated for hacking off an enemy’s head with one swipe of his battle-ax. He then was celebrated as the Red Executioner. His bride tamed him, though. He always gave her a bouquet of wild flowers before the morning meal. Even so, no man in the village would challenge Cynwrig who relished being a husband and farmer. At feasts, he always seated himself at the center of the high table—a dare for any warrior to challenge him.

  In Celtic, Catrin introduced Cynwrig to Marcellus. “This is our Roman guest, Marcellus.”

  Cynwrig grunted, “Does he know our tongue?”

  “No.”

  “So what do you want me to do? I cannot speak his.”

  “Just give him a friendly smile,” Catrin suggested.

  Cynwrig gave Marcellus a haughty smile and turned to Catrin. “I can do that, but some warriors here want me to contest his manhood.”

  “Contest?”

  “Yes. With axes.”

  Catrin questioned leaving Marcellus alone. Competitive games sometimes turned deadly in the drunken revelry. She said, “Don’t do anything until I return.”

  Cynwrig nodded. Noticing his wicked-looking smirk, Catrin nervously poured some wine from an amphora into a goblet for Marcellus. His fingers touched her hand as he took the stem. Seeing a kindred soul hiding behind his eyes, she felt herself floating into him until, suddenly, the goblet slipped out of their hands. Wine splashed all over him.

  Flustered, she swiped at the red liquid. “Sorry, sorry…clumsy hands.”

  He clasped her hand. “I can do that.”

  When Catrin heard a man clear his throat from behind her, she pulled her hand away. Then a strong grip on her shoulder shook her.

  “Maiden, your father wants you to join him in his chamber now!” Belinus said sharply. “He ordered me to watch the Roman. I warn you. Do not defy the king again.”

  Rising quickly, Catrin glanced at Marcellus. “I will be back. Eat. Drink. Enjoy.”

  Marcellus gave her a worried frown. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Not long,” Catrin quickly replied. “Belinus will stay with you. He can translate what Cynwrig and his wife says.”

  Marcellus gawked at Belinus as Catrin mouthed to Cynwrig. Give Marcellus some meat.

  As instructed, Cynwrig plopped some boar meat on a
terra cotta platter, shoved it in front of Marcellus, and grunted, “Eat.”

  Marcellus stared at the platter for a moment “What does that Cynrectum want me to do with this?”

  “Cynwrig,” Catrin corrected. “Eat. If you drink with him, you become good friends.”

  Marcellus looked at Cynwrig. “Does he know that?”

  “Of course, he does,” Catrin reassured.

  Marcellus gave an uneasy smile.

  Somewhat assured that Marcellus was in safe hands with Belinus and Cynwrig, she said good-bye and left to join her father.

  14

  Deadly Warrior Games

  Belinus stared at Marcellus like a crazed boar and snorted, “I accept your challenge. We will then see who the better warrior is.”

  Marcellus tensely watched the Celtic barbarians feast on roasted boar, the juices dripping down their chins. The boisterous men readily helped themselves to wine and ale, the aroma so thick he could get drunk off the fumes. He would make a toast to these savages, if only he knew how to speak their guttural language. He wondered what was taking Catrin so long. At least, he could have an amiable chat with her. Now he questioned his sanity for volunteering to be a hostage, imprisoned in the musty royal suites guarded by a one-eyed cat and a foreboding raven.

  The warrior called Cynwrig said very little and spoke only Celtic, but his tattooed lightning bolts and demeanor thundered his ferocity. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, Marcellus raised his wine-filled goblet to him. “Gaudete omnes.”

  Cynwrig grunted and raised his brass goblet in salute. Marcellus acknowledged him with a nervous smile. Then his eyes turned to a group of warriors moving to his table. Each one greeted him with a snarl, their bodies covered with a menagerie of tattooed monsters and animals. Looking more closely, he noticed several of the men had shaved their chests. He had to admit that was, at least, one admirable Roman trait. That was where the similarity ended between Britons and Romans.

  Except for the king and his commander, the men had long lime-bleached hair and unruly mustaches shaped like tusks. If it were not for the king’s fair skin and straw-colored hair, he would pass as a Roman. Marcellus was surprised to learn that his father had known King Amren as a young man being educated in the Roman culture. Though the king did not appear to accept the Roman patriarchal view toward females, Marcellus could not understand why the Roman emperor and the Senate were so disgruntled with their client king.

  Looking around the table at the drunken warriors teetering on their seats, guffawing, Marcellus resigned himself to indulge in their barbarian celebration. The tribune’s words “show no fear” emboldened him as he fingered the raven figurines curiously gawking at him from the cup’s handles. He gulped down his wine and poured some more from a flagon with a bronze duck on the spout that appeared to be paddling in the red liquid.

  “Nunc est bibendum,” he cried out. “To Bacchus.”

  Cynwrig and the other warriors grunted and raised their goblets for another toast.

  After awhile, Marcellus began losing track of how many “sloblets” of wine and flasks of ale he had washed down since Catrin had left. The sweet scent of honey mead would have intoxicated his nostrils if it were not for the stench of sweat clinging on the men’s bare chests pressing against him. The sunny warrior, Belinus, now next to him, refused to speak Latin. Instead, he set a bone-handled dagger on the table and garbled some fierce-sounding Celtic words. Eyeing the weapon, Marcellus rubbed his throat that still throbbed from the thin cut that Belinus graced him with at their first encounter. Every time the wild savage pounded his goblet on the table after each swig, he snorted maliciously, making Marcellus flinch. He again recalled the tribune’s advice that to gain these warriors’ respect, you must not show them any weakness. Hence, the best way he could demonstrate this was to join in their drunkenness and games. That should not be any problem, he figured, except the Britons drank their wine straight, unlike Romans who diluted it. There had to be something more in the mead and wine that made him feel as if he was Mars. Praise Bacchus for whatever that was. The foreign revelers almost seemed like old friends at one of his drink fests in Rome, except for the weapons’ glints winking at him.

  Across the table, Cynwrig was hungrily nibbling at the neck of his red-headed wench. She moaned with delight as she drank in Marcellus with her chestnut-brown eyes. Another table slam from Belinus made Marcellus jump off his seat.

  At last Belinus spoke familiarly. “Cynwrig challenges you to an axe fight.”

  Marcellus gawked at Belinus. “Cynwrig? You mean the warrior across the table?”

  Belinus answered with a sneer. “We call him the Red Executioner.”

  “What about you?” Marcellus asked brashly. “Are you man enough to face me when I have a weapon in hand—unlike today, when you put a blade to my throat like a coward when I was unarmed?”

  Belinus stared at Marcellus like a crazed boar and snorted, “I accept your challenge. We will then see who the better warrior is.”

  Marcellus inwardly groaned. The gods curse me! Now what? He knew the ways of a gladius, that short sword used for slashing; he had even used a pilum, the heavy javelin preferred by many soldiers, but a battle-ax? A crude weapon used by savages?

  Why not? Let me show these painted men what Roman men are made of.

  Marcellus raised his goblet. “Let’s do it!”

  Then he paused, reconsidering. Is this to the death? Am I a fool for their sport?

  Belinus slapped Marcellus on the back. “An enemy’s skull waits outside for your pleasure.”

  Steadying himself by gripping the table’s edge, Marcellus staggered to his feet. He recklessly shouted, “See if you are man enough to take my skull.”

  With Belinus leading the way, Marcellus stumbled through the doorway into the biting mist. A Bacchanals’ mob had gathered around a domed, thatched-roof house. Against the reed façade was a spiked skull, its jaws locked in horror. The frenzied warriors cheered Cynwrig as he swaggered through their midst like a monolithic rock parting them as waves.

  In Latin, Belinus blustered contemptuously, “Before Cynwrig competes with this Roman dog, I want a piece of him to hang on my wall!”

  Marcellus looked around and muttered, “That must be me.” Staggering, he tried to focus on the long-handled blade of the axe, figuring he could copy Belinus’s moves. He watched the sun-tattooed warrior plant a leg, swing the axe, and snap his wrist. The blade flew into the skull, shattering an eye socket.

  Several boisterous men shoved up against Marcellus, taunting him savagely. He tried to reassure himself, They must be cheering me on. Looking all around, he soon thought otherwise.

  The sun-tattooed Belinus bellowed a war cry and handed Marcellus another axe suitable for the hands of a child. Realizing his toga was inappropriate attire for axe-throwing, Marcellus unraveled the unwieldy fabric and handed it to Belinus.

  “Here, make yourself useful.”

  Marcellus then wiped the warm sweat off his face with his arm. He spun the heavy handle, leaned back, and swung it forward. The axe handle crashed into an assisting warrior’s groin, sending the other warriors into spasms of laughter.

  Raising a finger in drunken glee, Marcellus shouted, “Score one for Marcellus!”

  Cynwrig pounded Marcellus so hard on the back that his feet slipped on the muddy ground, releasing a faint smell of dung. The Red Executioner offered him a horn-full of mead. Gulping it down, Marcellus ignored the sickening rumble in his belly and finished the brew off. He belched and moaned, “Ahhh, sweet nectar of Bacchus.”

  Cynwrig, a full head taller than Marcellus, glowed fiercely in the firelight. Marcellus recoiled from the specter of tattooed bolts flashing down the warrior’s chest. He knew by the size of Cynwrig’s battle-ax, the blade could slice him in half. Puzzled that Cynwrig was offering him a skull, Marcellus turned to Belinus.

 
A grin flashed across Belinus’s face. He pointed to a nearby open stall. “The Red Executioner wants to knock the skull off your head.”

  Marcellus said with a brash bravado, “If I do this, then I challenge you to do the same. This time, it will be a weapon of my choice to bash that skull out of your head.”

  Belinus glowered. “Do you think me stupid?”

  “No, I believe you a coward.”

  Belinus’s face scrunched and contorted like an angry boar. Marcellus smiled, then staggered to an open stall and balanced the skull’s jaw bone on his forehead. The flaming torches whirled around him as the blurred axe flew at his head. In an eye’s blink, the blade smashed the skull into the thatched structure. With the weight lifted, Marcellus patted the top of his head and looked at his hand for any sign of blood.

  Laughing hard, Cynwrig swaggered to Marcellus and lifted his arm as if they were both victors. The Red Executioner shouted, “Argom!”

  The wasted warriors raised their brew-filled horns in toast. “Argom!”

  Taking another horn filled with foaming ale from another warrior’s hand, Marcellus forced the gut-wrenching ale down and yelled, “Argom!” He could have been calling himself an idiot for all he knew, but with the strong alcohol stomping with delight in his brain, he no longer cared.

  The rest of the night became a blur of flaming torches as he stumbled through the boisterous celebrants, determined to find Belinus for one last bout. All around him, warriors were competing in an assortment of contests: sword-thrashing combats, bone-crunching fist fights, and spear-thrusting matches. Finally finding Belinus, Marcellus balled his hand into an iron fist. He screamed, “You cock-sucking barbarian,” then punched Belinus in the jaw with such force, the warrior crashed on the ground, his legs spread-eagle.

  Before Marcellus could land another punch, Cynwrig cranked both his arms back and restrained him as King Amren, mounted on a chestnut gelding, approached them. On foot behind the king were Queen Rhiannon and their three daughters.

  With Cynwrig’s tight grip, Marcellus settled down and observed the king handing the sword’s jewel-studded hilt to the queen. She raised it up for her people to see, a clear demonstration that she was now in command.