Apollo's Raven

by Linnea Tanner

  With the pitched fervor of the queen’s voice, Marcellus’s head felt as if a mallet was hammering his brain. Becoming nauseated again, he curled into a ball and moaned, regretting the copious amount of ale and wine he had drunk. The queen must be delighting in his misery by forcing him to wait before she confronted him about sleeping with Catrin. Perhaps he could use the secret tidbit about Mor’s affair to his advantage if the queen’s hostility spilled over to him.

  The voices on the other side of the curtain suddenly quieted when someone left the room. Nonetheless, powerful men continued arguing in Marcellus’s head about his next move with Catrin. On one side was his father asserting his authority as the paterfamilias. Get whatever information you can. If that means bedding Catrin, do it! But don’t get caught.

  On the other side was King Amren, astride a steed and extending his sword. Make no mistake! Don’t even think about overpowering Catrin. She is one of our best warriors.

  Even Tribune Decimus Flavius joined in the lively argument. Apollo will bring his wrath down on you for defiling Catrin.

  The loud arguments finally subsided when Marcellus inhaled a waft of sweet lavender. In his mind’s eye, the image of Catrin massaging scented oil into his skin aroused him. The curves underneath her thin undergarments brought a prurient smile to his face. With his sexual experience, he knew by the way she blushed every time he gazed at her that he could have easily taken advantage of the situation. Yet, after she wrapped her arm around him as they fell asleep, he felt a special connection to this kind woman who had only showed him friendship. It was as if they had known each other in another lifetime, as she had said, and rediscovered each other.

  The sexual drought on this trip must have finally gotten to him. Rubbing his eyes to ease his headache, he muttered, “How did I get myself into this predicament? Apollo, get Catrin out of my mind and let me sleep.”

  Fatigue and wine finally conquered him and he floated into deep slumber.

  The next morning, Marcellus was roughly awakened by Belinus. His tavern opponent’s face had been sorrowfully ravaged by the storms of alcohol from the feast and the queen’s late night rebuke. The red veins spidering around the warrior’s puffed green eyes seemed a reflection of Marcellus in his recent battle with the grape. Marcellus’s spirits lifted when Belinus tossed him fresh garments. As Belinus watched, Marcellus inspected the plaid trousers and gray tunic for any defects. Seeing none, he pulled on the oversized garments. The breeches hung low on his hips and the shirt stretched to his knees.

  “Follow me,” Belinus grunted. “The queen wants to see you in her chambers, now!”

  Armed with the knowledge of this warrior’s affair with Mor, Marcellus asked with an undertone of sarcasm, “Did you have a pleasant romp with Mor?”

  Belinus instantly slammed Marcellus against the jagged stone wall. “Shut your mouth, Roman, if you want to keep your head!”

  With pain shooting through his back, Marcellus thought it wise to contain his tongue, at least for the moment. He apprehensively followed Belinus through a corridor to the chamber where Queen Rhiannon and Catrin were eating porridge at a wooden table. Rhiannon motioned for Marcellus to sit by Catrin, who was dressed in brown leather breeches and a burgundy-and-rose plaid shirt. She looked tired and lifeless. Her eyes seemed pasty as she stared at her bowl of porridge. It was no wonder after last night.

  Marcellus noticed the queen’s icy stare at Belinus as he left the chamber. Sitting down, Marcellus jabbed at the unappetizing glob of porridge with a crude spoon as he anticipated hard questioning.

  Rhiannon politely asked, “Did you sleep well?”

  Glancing up, Marcellus was surprised to see the queen smiling. He twitched a half smile in return. “At first, I found it difficult to sleep with the loud voices from the other room. It sounded as if you were scolding Mor and Belinus. What could they have done to raise your ire?”

  Other than arching an eyebrow, the queen’s face remained emotionless. “It was a slight misunderstanding of expectations that has now been resolved.” She handed Marcellus a plate of berries. “You must be famished. Eat. Gather your strength.”

  Unlike Catrin, the queen spoke Latin eloquently without a trace of accent. Wary of her pleasantries, Marcellus swallowed a few bites of porridge and blackberries. His stomach still queasy, he pushed the bowl aside and glanced at Catrin. He wondered what the queen had told her before he joined them for breakfast. As he sipped some mint water from a brass goblet, the queen apprised him of the day’s activities.

  “At all times, Catrin will escort and interpret for you. She will serve as your guide, showing you our village and lands. You may want to wash off last night’s festivities in our nearby river. My daughter can show you the place.”

  Marcellus gave a bewildered look. After last night’s adventures, why would she suggest having her daughter watch him while he bathed? He turned to Catrin for her reaction. Her cheeks were a sunburst of red as the spoon dropped out of her hand.

  Rhiannon cleared her throat, regaining Marcellus’s attention. “Catrin told me you train chariot horses.”

  “No, we have special slaves for that,” he replied.

  “Interesting,” Rhiannon tapped the corner of her mouth. “I train my own horses for battle.”

  “You fight?”

  “In my younger days, I did.” As the queen sipped some water, Marcellus could feel her eyes probing him. She continued, “Catrin told me my husband’s black stallion took a liking to you when she showed you the stables last night.”

  Marcellus glanced at Catrin and caught her with a sheepish grin. He wondered what else she had told her mother. Turning to the queen again, Marcellus said, “The stallion looks like the Spanish breeds we raise for chariot racing in Gaul.”

  Rhiannon appeared confused. “But I thought your home was in Rome.”

  “Now it is,” he clarified. “As a boy, I lived in Lugdunum.”

  “But now you reside in Rome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the emperor?”

  The conversation’s turn made Marcellus gag. Was the queen’s intent to glean more information about his family’s political connections to Tiberius? He again glanced at Catrin who quickly averted her eyes. He wondered if the queen had instructed her to dredge more information out of him when they were alone.

  The queen repeated, “Do you know the emperor?”

  Marcellus hesitated. “I met him once.”

  “And your father?”

  “As you know, he is the emperor’s envoy.”

  “Does your father speak often with Emperor Tiberius?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  The queen leaned back in her wooden chair. “In Germania, my husband fought for Tiberius when he was in the Roman auxiliary. Tiberius often told Amren how much he valued the Cantiaci warriors in his army. As reward for fighting with him, he recognized my husband as a client king of Rome.”

  The queen’s revelation disconcerted Marcellus. His father never spoke of Amren’s close ties with the emperor, but he knew the tribune had previously met the Cantiaci king when they both fought in Germania.

  Marcellus added, “The tribune, Decimus, also fought for Tiberius. He, too, speaks highly of your people’s skill with weapons and horses.”

  Rhiannon reached over and patted Catrin’s hand. “You will see we are a peaceful people, loyal to your emperor. I hope you convey this to your father.”

  Marcellus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Yesterday, these wild barbarians openly challenged him with their bravado and raucous games with weapons. Yet today, the queen was proffering a softer image. His gut told him not to trust her, to end the conversation. Perhaps later, he could gain more insight from Catrin, who seemed more genuine, about the political rivalry between the tribal kings. He scooted his chair back, stood, and stretched his arms above his head. “If you
don’t mind, I would like to ride that black stallion.”

  Rhiannon smiled slyly at her daughter. “Escort Marcellus to the stream where he can bathe. Take a couple of spears for hunting and, of course, for your protection.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Marcellus gawked at Catrin. What did your mother mean by that? He then turned to the queen. “Is there a way I can send a message to my father?”

  Rhiannon considered Marcellus for a moment. “That will be quite impossible. The location of his meeting has been kept from me.”

  “How will I know how the negotiations are proceeding?”

  “Hmmm … good question. The king will likely send word after the meeting ends.” Rhiannon abruptly stood and waved her fingers. “Enjoy the ride. I have a council to attend.”

  17

  Seduction

  Breathing harder, he pulled her closer and deftly unsheathed the sword at her side and dropped it on the ground.

  Uneasy that he could not get a message to his father, Marcellus followed Catrin to the great hall where the tables from the previous night’s feast had been replaced with women weaving at looms with long strands of yarn weighed down with flat stones. Their fingers interlaced brightly colored threads at right angles to form the plaid cloth. Walking alongside Catrin between the rows of looms, he asked, “Do you weave?”

  “Widows weave for our family. In turn, we protect and feed them,” Catrin answered. “I’ve tried weaving, though, but the threads often unravel on me. It is a skill I have yet to master.”

  “Oh …” Marcellus opened the heavy front door for Catrin and followed her outside where he continued. “My mother sometimes weaves with other noblewomen, but we primarily use slaves for that.”

  Catrin stopped and turned to Marcellus. “The gods have a different purpose for me.”

  The confidence in her voice intrigued Marcellus. He still struggled to understand his role as the youngest in his family while she boldly exclaimed her divine destiny. He asked, “What is that purpose … to be a queen?”

  “Something more,” Catrin said, squaring her shoulders. “The gods have yet to reveal this to me. I am like a spirit warrior who travels to other worlds. No, not that …” Catrin lifted her eyes as if searching for another word. “Otherworld.”

  “Otherworld? You mean the Underworld where the dead go?”

  “No, it is a place where souls await to be placed into another body. I was born with a raven spirit. It is possible we met in a previous life when our souls were in different bodies.”

  Marcellus puzzled over what Catrin meant by meeting in a previous life. He then recalled the tribune’s warning that the raven at the sacrificial ritual was a sign that Catrin was a sorceress. Though Marcellus had seldom sought advice from oracles, Decimus often spoke of consulting various priests, particularly those serving Apollo, before making any major decision. He said, “I would like to learn more about this world.”

  Catrin glanced sideways. “We need to go.”

  Marcellus became cognizant of two other elderly women gawking at them. He trailed Catrin down the alley beside the royal residence. At the stables, a dirt-smeared stableman in torn trousers greeted them with a broad grin that displayed rotting teeth. As Marcellus took the reins of the black stallion, the steed reared its head, but he quickly calmed it and jumped onto its back.

  The stableman helped Catrin fasten a sheathed sword to a leather baldric on her back, then boosted her onto a bay horse and handed her two spears. He said something in Celtic, but she waved him away.

  Eyeing Catrin’s bone-hilted sword, Marcellus wondered how skilled she was with the weapon. He asked “What did that servant say to you?”

  “He asked about your trousers.”

  “My trousers?”

  “What you are wearing. They are his.”

  “Oh …” Marcellus looked down at his loose trousers, then kneed the steed and followed Catrin out of the alley.

  They threaded through several domed structures to the entrance gate where metalworkers were forging iron. He yelled above the clanking hammers. “Are these your father’s weapons makers?”

  “Some are,” Catrin answered.

  Marcellus stopped his horse in front of a roundhouse where he studied a blacksmith hammering away the jagged edge of a red-hot sword blade as a warrior awaited nearby. Another nearby metalworker was pushing on bellows, feeding air into a blast furnace where iron was being smelted. Several swords and spears were leaning against the thatched façade, giving the appearance that additional armaments were being forged in preparation for battle—something of note he should tell his father.

  Catrin shouted, “Come on!”

  He caught up with her near the entrance gate. They rode through the rampart and descended the hilltop to the farmlands where laborers worked the dark soil. A group of warriors were practicing nearby. He recognized one of the warriors as Cynwrig, the hatchet-thrower from the contest. The Red Executioner’s eyes bore into Marcellus, spiking a chill down his spine. Uneasy, Marcellus trailed Catrin onto a patchwork pathway of grass and gravel. Beyond the fields was a meandering river along the forest’s edge.

  Marcellus shifted his gaze to Catrin’s backside. Her multi-braided golden hair bounced off her broad shoulders with each sway of the horse. He could tell she had small hips in her tight-skinned breeches which were more typical of an athlete. In Rome, women with rounded hips that accentuated a small waist had always aroused him, but the prospect of exploring between Catrin’s legs excited him even more. He knew it would be reckless to seduce her, particularly after the long night when the queen had caught them in bed together. Even so, Venus must be turning his sound reasoning into unadulterated desire for the exotic princess.

  He reined his horse next to Catrin and flashed a big grin. “You look beautiful today. Are you taking me to a special place where you show all young men?”

  Catrin smiled demurely and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “You might say that. I am taking you to a place my ancestors worship. Here, in early summer, young warriors celebrate Bel’s fire ritual to assure fertility and good harvests. You did say you wanted to learn more about my world.”

  Imagining how lovers might celebrate the fire ritual, Marcellus smiled lewdly. “And who is this Bel?”

  “The sun god you call Apollo.” Catrin tilted her head sideways, appearing reticent about what she was going to say, but then her eyes lit up. “I dreamt of you last night.”

  Curiosity piqued, Marcellus asked, “And what did we do in this dream?”

  “I saw you as a boy on a majestic black stallion. You galloped down a pathway in a forest where two rivers joined. You looked so happy. The special place I am taking you looks just like the woods in my dream. Is this close to Rome?”

  Marcellus stared at Catrin in amazement. “You dreamt of the countryside near my family’s villa in Gaul. So is it true. You talk to the gods in your dreams.”

  “Maybe …” Catrin’s voice trailed off as she reined her horse around. She pointed to a towering oak and challenged him to a race.

  Marcellus smirked. “Now let us see which one of us is the better rider.”

  Catrin shot him an arrogant smile.

  Marcellus kicked his steed into a gallop. Misty air whipped at his face as he sped toward the woods. Behind him, he could hear the pounding of hoofs. Then suddenly, Catrin bounded past him. He kicked his stallion to run faster. He again caught up with her. They raced head-to-head for a while, but then she surged ahead, reaching breakneck speed. She released a spear that bore into a gigantic oak at the forest’s edge.

  Astonished by the force of her throw, Marcellus slowed his mount toward the quivering spear while she veered to the left. He dismounted and yanked the weapon’s shaft out of the gnarled bark. Few Roman men were as skilled with horses and javelin as Marcellus, but today he had met his match. The l
ively horse race with Catrin invigorated him and the cloudless sky promised a bright day. He turned and watched Catrin confidently ride toward him. He looked all around to make sure no guards had followed them. The thick woods would obscure his next move with her. He handed the spear to Catrin.

  “I’ve never seen a woman, much less a man, hurl a spear like that. Did you intend this as a warning?”

  She chuckled. “My father did order that I guard you.”

  Marcellus laughed. “Indeed, you have proven your point. I rather you watch me than that brute warrior with the sun tattoo. What is his name, the one with your sister last night?”

  “Belinus.”

  “Ahh … Belinus. I thought for sure he would have slashed my throat if it had not been for your bold action.”

  Catrin beamed. “Not me, it was Father who stopped him.”

  “But you made your father pause. And for that, I am grateful.” Marcellus held the reins as Catrin dismounted. “Why did you save me—a foreigner?”

  Not answering, Catrin tethered her horse’s reins to a low-lying oak branch. She appeared an enigmatic goddess standing under the sunrays filtering through the treetops. He drew closer and gazed into her bright turquoise eyes. He said, “You didn’t answer me. Why did you save me?”

  Catrin averted his gaze. “No one should attack a guest. I would have done that for anyone.”

  Marcellus clasped Catrin’s wrist. “Is that how you view me now—a guest?”