Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 05] Revolt of the Red Witch

by Griff Hosker

  The authoritative voice brooked no dissention and the men volunteered the information readily. “It is Colla, “and they pointed up the main avenue to the largest building; a rectangular building partly made with stone.

  The small party rode on. Aodh noticed that there were more rectangular buildings here that in other Brigante villages. The Roman influence was clear to see. He worried that a love of Roman buildings might also reflect a friendly disposition towards the Romans. As they dismounted he saw that the two acolytes had not followed them but ridden to another hut some distance away. Aodh had learned never to question; he would discover where they had been later, if Morwenna chose to tell him.

  An imposing warrior came to the door, taller than Aodh and with a decorated helmet. As he looked closer Aodh saw that he had been imposing but his waist was bulging and his jowls showed that he liked a drink. “I am Colla, headman of this town who are you?”

  Morwenna did not speak but walked closer to him and said, very quietly, “Do you discuss all business on the steps of your home? When you have made us welcome then we will talk.”

  His guards slipped their hands towards their swords for their chief was not spoken to in this manner, especially by a woman. Aodh did not move, he merely smiled. Morwenna did not need his protection, yet. Her eyes flashed a glare at the men who shrank back. “I am forgetting myself please enter.” Colla’s voice was humbler and he half bowed as Morwenna entered.

  When they were seated Morwenna scanned the men before her. There was obviously some sort of meeting taking place and Aodh noticed that some of the men looked unhappy that it had been interrupted especially as the interruption was from a woman. When Morwenna felt that the silence had gone on long enough she stood looking, to all who saw her, as a regal figure. “I am Morwenna, daughter of the last heir to the Brigante crown, Aed and his wife, the sorceress Fainch.” There was an audible intake of breath. The lie about wife could not be disproved. She waited and then held her hand out. Aodh knew his role in this drama and he took out the golden torc and placed it reverently into her waiting hand. “This is the royal torc of the Brigante and I wear it now as a symbol of the power and lineage which is rightfully mine.”

  As soon as she placed it around her neck Aodh dropped to his knees. The warriors and Colla looked at each other in a confused manner. Some started to half bend and then seeing their peers still standing, straightened their backs. Morwenna nodded as though she had expected some dissension of this sort.

  Colla gave a half cough and said, almost apologetically, “We see the torc but it takes more than a piece of gold to prove you are the rightful heir. We know of the sorceress Fainch. What sign have you that she was your mother?”

  Morwenna took the jet raven from beneath her white shift and displayed it below the shining torc. To Aodh it seemed that the white shift seemed to glow and it affected some of the warriors who did drop to their knees.

  One angry looking warrior stepped forward. “I am Ownie and I fought with Aed. It will take more than a piece of black stone and a golden ring to make me drop to my knees.”

  Morwenna stepped towards the haughty warrior, her eyes never leaving his. Even though she was smaller than the powerfully built warrior she seemed to grow in stature the closer she came to him and he seemed to shrink. When she was very close to him she hissed, “I am Morwenna. My father was Aed and my mother was Fainch. Do not doubt my power Ownie the Brigante for if I become as angry as you then all will see my true power.”

  He held her gaze for but a moment and then dropped to his knees. As soon as he did the rest fell to their knees. Suddenly the room was filled with the women of the town who also dropped to their knees their chanting becoming more audible with each chant, “Mother, Mother, Mother!” Finally they all raised their arms and gave a shout of “Mother!”

  The men looked around in shock and Aodh finally saw the two acolytes behind the women. Morwenna had left nothing to chance, her women had worked their own wondrous magic and ensured that Morwenna would have the support of the wives of the elders.

  She sat down and Colla found his voice again,”What is it you would have us do Queen Morwenna?”

  “The time has come for us to throw off the shackles of this Roman yoke. The Caledonii raid you with impunity and there is no protection. Soon they will be followed by the Selgovae and the Votadini. The Irish will come from across the seas and steal your children. We are the Brigante and the Carvetii. We ruled this land from far to the north all the way to the mighty rivers in the south, even to the borders of holy Mona. Why can we not be powerful again?”

  “What of the Sword of Cartimandua?” A quiet warrior who had kept to the back spoke up. “If we had the sword, as in the days before the Romans came, then all would fall before us. We have been a beaten people since the sword was taken by the Romans.”

  “I know,” her voice was hard and cold, “but the sword has been lost. I will find the sword and I will wield it but we must rise up quickly for the Romans are weak now and are busy defending the north from the privations of the Caledonii. While they are weak with few soldiers let us rise up and take back that which was stolen from us.”

  The quiet warrior nodded. “You are right Queen Morwenna for I have seen the empty forts. I, Parthalan, will follow you but hear this mighty Queen, without the sword we cannot win.”

  Others looked at the quiet warrior whose voice carried such power. “He is right. We must find the sword.”

  “Yes Colla and we will. But the sword is no longer close by.”

  “How do you know?”

  Her eyes flashed dangerously and Colla shrank a little. “I am the Romans worst nightmare for not only am I Queen but I am the sorceress who can see beyond the hills, who can see into men’s hearts and bring the power of the Mother against the invader. The sword has travelled north but it will return south and when it does it will be mine and we will use it to finally rid us of these Roman overlords.”

  Satisfied Colla said, “What would you have us do?”

  “Begin to train our warriors. Send out riders for the other chiefs to come here. By the new moon we will be ready and we will put Cataractonium and Eboracum to the sword.”

  Every voice was raised in a cheer for they all felt the power of her words and believed in the darkness of her magic. Even Aodh was impressed. Lulach and Calgathus were powerful speakers but this young woman had more power in a look than they had in their armies.

  Lulach and his father embraced. It was many months since he had been north of the Bodotria and Lulach could see that his father had aged. The grey now covered his head like winter snow and he looked a little thinner as though he was being eaten from within. “You have done well my son.” Even his voice showed the signs of age. “Warriors have told me of the captives and treasure you have amassed and the Romans you have slaughtered.”

  “We did not kill as many Romans as I would have wished but this was but a trial. We have learned how to defeat them without losing many warriors. We have learned their weaknesses and where they are vulnerable.”

  “Where are the captives for I see you have come with just your guards?”

  This was the reason Lulach had come back. He had a difficult speech to make and he hoped that his father would understand. The deterioration in his father gave him hope. “I intend, father, to build a new stronghold north of the Clota. The Selgovae see me as their leader and, with the warriors I have amassed I can build a bigger kingdom in the west than we have in the east.” Lulach watched his father to see if he detected any anger but there appeared to be none.

  His father stroked his grey beard. “Do you do this to create Lulach’s kingdom or do you still serve Calgathus and the Caledonii?”

  Lulach dropped to his knees. “King Calgathus I serve only you and the people of Caledonia. By making the west as strong as the east we make all our people safer. When we have defeated the Romans I will go across the waters to the Irish and punish them for their raids on our lands and we will add to
the land of the Caledonii, the land of King Calgathus.”

  “That is good my son for I have grieved for the lost ones taken by those pirates. You have my blessing but we will need those warriors you took for your raids.” Lulach looked up sharply. “We are weaker now because of the losses. If the Votadini or those raiders from across the eastern seas come we will not be able to defend our people.”

  Lulach knew then that his father might be greyer but he had not lost any of his acumen. By reclaiming his warriors he was making Lulach rely on his new allies and keeping his own army stronger. “Very well father when I return to my new lands I will send your warriors back to defend this land.”

  Prefect Julius Demetrius had withdrawn his depleted ala to Morbium. “You see Salvius we have not replaced mounts and we have had no recruits. I believe we need to reorganise the ala. We do no have enough troopers for twelve turmae.”

  Decurion Princeps Cilo shook his head, “Nor do we have enough Decurions. I think we can muster eight turmae.”

  “I agree. You can command four and I will take the other four. When they are remounted and re-equipped we will patrol again. You can take the east and I will take the west.”

  “It leaves Morbium and the road south vulnerable Prefect.”

  “I know but until the new Governor travels north and reorganises the garrisons we are helpless.”

  “I cannot understand it. We sent the news of the raids weeks ago.”

  “Sadly, Salvius, unless it affects them directly and their lands are threatened then they will move slowly. I just pray that the barbarians have raided enough this year and have satisfied their greed and lust.”

  Livius watched the Prefect as he went with the Quartermaster and Sergeant Cilo examining every mount and every piece of equipment. The side of his job which Livius, who aspired to lead the ala, would not relish was the mind numbingly complex area of logistics. He would have loved to lead the ala in battle but not this. Walking back to his quarters he reflected that the ala was but a shadow of its former self. The departure of Macro had left a hole which no one could fill. It was as though the big man was the heart of the ala. Taking off his armour he wondered if he would have dealt with Macro the same way as the Prefect had. That the Prefect regretted all of his actions since pursuing Modius was obvious but once the chain of events had started there was little that any of them could do. The Parcae were fickle creatures indeed.

  Aodh was impressed at the large number of Brigante and Carvetii chiefs who arrived over the next few days. It showed that they were dissatisfied with Roman rule. The Caledonii raids had worked in their favour. All of them wanted to speak with this new Queen and Aodh was privy to every conversation. He stood behind Morwenna as each man came for an audience. Perhaps why they wondered why this Caledonii warrior was guarding the Brigante queen but none dared ask the question. Each man was ensnared the moment they met her. She seemed to know something about each man as they entered. It took him some time to work out how she did the seemingly magical trick of telling each warrior about himself the first they met. Each chief took it as confirmation that she was, indeed a sorceress. Aodh spotted the trick when an acolyte brought in a beaker of a liquid for Morwenna prior to each audience. She would whisper something in her ear and then the other acolyte would bring in the chief.

  Rather than the knowledge diminishing his approval and adoration of Morwenna, it actually added to it. She soon had every chief of the Brigante and Carvetii not only behind her but willing her to greatness. They all wished for the heady days of Queen Cartimandua, now a tale told around fires by old men; a time when Brigantia was independent and not reliant on the crumbs from the Roman table. That she was a woman and a sorceress were taken to be good things for Queen Cartimandua herself had appeared to have magical traits. The Sword of Cartimandua was the only point over which they were uneasy. The story of the sword being lost did not sit well with them for if lost it could be found and used against them.

  Late in the evening when Aodh, Morwenna and the two acolytes were resting Morwenna summed it up. “We have to find the sword. I curse myself for when I lived with Ailis I had it almost in my grasp. Would that I had realised its significance. The Mother weaves complex and complicated baskets for our dreams and she makes us seek that which is most precious. Now we know what is precious we can seek it.”

  “I could go north to my home and find it for you.”

  Smiling maternally at the eager young warrior Morwenna explained, as though to a child, “I am afraid that Lulach would not be happy about your desertion. You left him to follow me. No we will go to war without it and, when we win, I will ask Lulach to find the sword for me.”

  The next day all the chiefs stood in a semi-circle around Morwenna; she was dressed simply in a white shift but the golden torc and the black raven seemed to accentuate her green eyes and red hair. Each chief knelt with his sword pointing upwards so that they all touched. She walked up to the blades, to the very point where they touched and she put her breast so close that one would have sworn the points entered her. “Today the land of Brigante goes to war. I will lead you and we will drive these invaders from our shore. It will not just be the men who fight for, as with Boudicca and the Iceni, all will fight for it is our war and our land and we must all fight to free it.” The ululation from the women was louder than the cheers and roars from the men and Aodh fully understood the power which the sorceress had unleashed. “Go for your fighters and your warriors. Rediscover your weapons and your warrior hearts. The day after tomorrow we destroy Cataractonium and then on to Eboracum!”

  The Camp Prefect at Cataractonium was just grateful that the cohort of Tungrians on their way north to Morbium had spent the night at the fort. The Governor had finally reacted to the news of the Caledonii raids. It was too late to stop the raids but it boosted the number of soldiers in the north. At least he had not been worried about attack for with Marcus’ Horse constantly on patrol he was understaffed quite heavily. As he watched the autumn mist creeping along the ground he did not envy them their march north. Although he had not heard of any more raids the quiet was a little worrying. The Caledonii were unpredictable and the Selgovae and the Votadini appeared to be every bit as belligerent. The First Spear of the Tungrians waved his hand in salute, “Thank you Camp Prefect. When we are settled in to our new fort you must enjoy our hospitality/”

  “I will do. Beware of ambushes, especially just out side Morbium.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Come on step out lively there.”Smacking one of his recruits on the back the smiling Centurion headed out at the back of the column. Behind him the mules were still leaving the fort when suddenly the mist erupted in a sea of blades and savage blue painted barbarians. The young recruits stood no chance. As far as they were concerned they were safe for they were still in a fort. The disaster which ensued could have been minimised if they could have shut the gates of the fort but the recruits panicked and ran back, all semblance of order gone. The barbarians poured in after them. The Tungrian First Spear managed to form a thin line with the first century, all of whom were experienced.

  The Camp Prefect turned to his aquilifer. “Grab a horse and get a message to Eboracum, tell them the Brigante have revolted and Cataractonium is no more.” The man looked at him in shock. “Go on get on with you or Eboracum will fall too.” Grabbing his sword and his shield the old Centurion ran down the steps to the mayhem in the Praetorium. It had been many years since he had wielded a sword in anger he hope he still had it.

  He stepped into the gap next to the Tungrian Centurion. “The ambush came a little early!”

  “Sorry about that. Well let’s see if we can thin these out a little.” The two Centurions became the rock around which the sea of rebels broke. Had there been more soldiers of their calibre and fortitude they may have stemmed the tide but all around them the Tungrians were being assailed and assaulted from all sides. The auxiliaries had never faced an enemy before and their training had been in the open. The confined
space of the fort suited the barbarians. The young soldiers did not use their weapons as well as their officers and the casualties mounted as they were hacked, chopped and slashed by four warriors to every soldier. The Brigante and Carvetii were venting all their anger and frustrations upon the hapless Roman defenders. Their walls no longer protected them, they enclosed and imprisoned them. Gradually the Roman line fell back to the Porta Decumana, the last exit from the camp and the last hope of the Romans. Some of the weaker and fearful members of the cohort had opened it and fled south. As they came closer to the open gate the Tungrian First Spear said to the Camp Prefect. “If we hold them at the gate, it might give some of these lads the chance to escape.”

  The Camp Prefect had lived a long life and a good life. He had survived all those who had joined with him over thirty years ago. A sacrifice now might enable some of these young untried soldiers to become the veterans who would save Britannia. It would be a worthy death, an honourable death, a death with a sword in his hand. “You’re right and I am not running anywhere.” He gestured with his eyes to his leg which had been sliced from the ankle to the knee and pieces of bone protruded. “Right then. They’re your boys you tell them.”

  “Tungrians here is my last order. Get out of the fort and go to Eboracum tell them what has happened.” The two Centurions were still falling back and fighting for their lives yet the auxiliaries did not move. “Run! Now!” Like a dam which suddenly bursts the survivors fled around the two Centurions who moved backwards to fill the gate. Brigante warriors hurled themselves at the two but each was beaten back. The barbarians had not fought seriously for years and there was neither order nor method in their fighting. The Tungrian Centurion used his shield and sword in perfect harmony. He punched with the shield and stabbed with the gladius. The Camp Prefect covered his sword side and he too found his opponents less than skilful. Had they an experienced century then the two men might have held the enemy off indefinitely. Their end would come, inevitably, through tiredness but the gate was still filled by the two heroes and, in front of them the ground was filling up with the dead and dying warriors who continued to hurl themselves at the two rocks.