by E. Knight
Decianus jolted as the wheel dipped into one of the ruts in the ill-made road. “Ah. Well. I haven’t met her, but she’s terribly unpopular. The local tribesmen call her the Betrayer of the Britons and the legionaries call her the Cleopatra of the Celts. Given recent tensions within the tribes, and between the tribes, it would be better for her to go home.”
Valeria’s brow arched higher. “You’re not worried just because of the complaints of a few ruffians, are you? These tribesmen are prone to complain about anything.”
Decianus felt his jaw tighten. “Well, the Iceni, in particular, have much to complain about thanks to Seneca and some of the emperor’s other friends.”
“Seneca has become a great man in Rome,” Valeria said.
“Yes, well, this isn’t Rome. And Seneca’s calling in loans with little notice and sending private collectors to rough up the natives . . . well, it's not a friendly way to do business, is it?”
Valeria glanced out the curtain at the countryside, all covered in snow. “I do hope the emperor’s friends don’t get the wrong impression of you. Just because you grew so fond of that Iceni boy that we fostered doesn’t mean that you’ll be too soft on all barbarians when duty calls.”
By which she meant, You’re too soft on all barbarians.
And truthfully, she might be right. Decianus thought he might be exactly the wrong man for this job. Since he was a small child, he’d been able to memorize tables of numbers and spit out quick calculations. That’s how he knew precisely who owed what to the emperor down to the smallest copper. He liked that part of his job. But he found the collection of imperial debts to be profoundly unpleasant business. “It isn’t a matter of softness. It’s that trying to explain the concept of accrued interest to giant tattooed tribesmen who are deep in their cups is a harrowing experience, even with battle-hardened centurions and soldiers at my side.”
A concern his wife dismissed with a wave of her hand. “True Romans never show fear.”
Easy for her to say when she wasn’t the one pressed to squeeze the tribesmen. The cost of occupying Britannia was enormous, and the locals were expected to pay their share, not that they seemed to view it that way. Money was tight and getting tighter. Meanwhile, the natives were angry and getting angrier, so Decianus had every reason to dread the coming confrontation.
Still, he needed to say something to counteract his wife’s apparent belief that he was a damnable coward. “Not to worry, my dear. I have fearlessly levied a land tax. A property tax, too. Customs duties. And a grain levy to feed our legions. The governor will get all the glory, of course, for subduing those trouble-making Druids in the west—but our soldiers would be marching on empty bellies if I wasn’t snatching every last kernel of wheat from the mouths of small tattooed babes.”
That came out rather more sarcastically than Decianus intended. And his brand of sarcasm was one of the many things for which his wife had little patience. “Do these savages tattoo their babies that young?”
Decianus’ jaw hitched tighter because babies—with or without tattoos—were not one of the subjects upon which he and his wife could converse without resentment. Childlessness was one of the many ways his marriage was lacking—though perhaps the only insurmountable obstacle to marital accord. “The point—” Surely he had a point, though he had forgotten it now. “The point is that the Iceni king has died, the Iceni tribesmen are in an uproar, and the last thing I need is the controversial Queen of the Brigantes anywhere in the vicinity.”
He had hoped to impress his wife with his forward thinking on the matter. Stomping out problems before they happened. It should have impressed her. But Valeria seemed entirely unimpressed. “I should think the death of the Iceni king a rather fortunate circumstance for us. Client kings have proved to be nothing but trouble for Rome, and now there is one less. We should keep it that—” His wife cut herself off, as if only now remembering that a woman ought not have political opinions. And in the awkward silence that followed, Valeria absently adjusted a ring upon her finger. It was their betrothal ring, and it was perhaps as irritating to her as the marriage it represented. Or the role she felt that marriage demanded of her.
A role to which she was as ill suited as he sometimes felt to his own.
Between the two of them, it was Valeria who had all the ambition. Decianus had little doubt that had his wife been born a man, she’d have conquered a province in the same orderly and efficient manner she marshaled his household.
But that wasn’t the way of the world, or at least not the way of Rome.
She’s taller than me, Decianus thought, peevishly. But then, the barbarians were giants. Even their women, and this one was no exception. He had perhaps expected to find Queen Cartimandua—the so-called Cleopatra of the Celts—luxuriating upon some imported silk couch while servants warmed a bath for her of goat’s milk and honey. Instead, he came upon the impressively tall and red-haired Queen of the Brigantes with a ghostly white snake twined between her fingers.
Which was worse. Infinitely worse.
Decianus hated snakes. And he gave a shudder.
Inside the Roman enclosure at Durobrivae, where she’d sought respite for the winter, the queen stood giving directions to servants who were dashing about bare-armed in the cold as they packed her belongings into a wagon. Of course, the Brigantes were northerners, better prepared for the cold than poor Decianus, who was shivering as he fantasized about the warm atrium of his little villa in Gaul overlooking the sun-drenched coastline of Narbo.
Meanwhile, wearing a marvelous white fur cloak over a garment dyed in striking green-blue checks, Queen Cartimandua did not seem to notice the snow gathering upon her red tresses. From rings upon each finger to earrings and girdle and shoulder brooches, she was adorned in gold. That was to say nothing of the golden torc she wore upon her neck, intricately carved with scenes of battle—more suited to a warrior than a woman, but the Britons did not discriminate between genders when it came to leadership or spear wielders. Which is how Decianus came to the uncomfortable situation of facing a woman who had the full sovereign authority of a client king.
But of course, Decianus had the authority of the emperor, or nearly so. That should help matters. Decianus announced himself while extending an arm to get the full effect of power conveyed by the folds of his snowy white toga. “Greetings, Madam. I am Catus Decianus, procurator. Personal agent of the emperor.”
“Procurator,” Cartimandua said with a surprisingly charming smile. “How pleased I am to make the acquaintance of the man who oversees the treasury. It is said that he who holds the key to a strongbox filled with gold holds the keys to the world.”
Decianus was accustomed to the eloquence of the Celts, who seemed, as a people, even more prone to poetry than to drink. But he hadn’t expected Cartimandua to flatter him in perfect Latin. “I like to think of myself as merely an accountant,” he said in self-effacing reply while blowing warmth into his hands. “And I see we shall not need an interpreter. Shall we go in?”
She agreed, following him inside. Decianus cleared his throat before presenting his wife.
Queen Cartimandua set her white snake into a basket on the floor, and then, in greeting, warmly clasped Valeria, who all but recoiled. His wife would, no doubt, insist upon a delousing later, but if Cartimandua noticed Valeria’s dismay, she did not mention it. Instead, the queen said, “Would that I could introduce my own consort to you.”
“Oh?” Valeria asked, trying desperately to withdraw from the queen’s embrace without looking as if she was doing exactly that. “Is he away on some business?”
Ordinarily, Valeria managed astute chitchat with barbarians as easily as she did anyone else, but in this case, she was so appalled by the serpent and the savage that she seemed to have quite forgotten who she was speaking to.
Otherwise, she’d have never asked about Cartimandua’s husband.
Cartimandua gave a rueful shake of her head. “No, my husband
is off brooding in some tent in the snowy hills, still sulking because I crushed his last rebellion against me.” She nodded in acknowledgment. “I must thank you Romans for your assistance there.”
Valeria paled as if the impropriety of discussing such marital woes in mixed company made her blood run cold. “Well!” Valeria managed to say.
How uncouth, she meant.
“Queen Cartimandua, it looks as if you are packing up to return to your kingdom,” Decianus began, not liking the thread of anxious hope in his own voice. His wife was right. This should be a simple matter of commanding the barbarian woman to go home. And yet he feared it would not be a simple matter. It never was with women. “Is that the case?”
“No,” was the reply of Cartimandua, who sobered and stared off into the fire. “I’ve had word that King Prasutagus of the Iceni has died, and I intend to pay respects at his funeral.”
That was exactly what Decianus had feared.
But before he could say as much, the queen called for wine and refreshments, to which she was entitled by the local rules of hospitality, if not by way of her status. After that, Cartimandua insisted on treating them to the poetry of her bard and introducing everyone in her party. Including the armor bearer. Decianus did not find an opportunity to raise the subject again until his own wife retired to bed and he was left alone with the controversial queen. Decianus had intended to lure the woman slowly into the subject, but instead he blurted, “You’re not well loved by the Iceni.”
“Am I not?” Cartimandua asked, as if it were a great surprise to her, but her weary blue eyes told a different tale. “The Brigantes and the Iceni are both loyal allies of Rome. Why should I not be welcome?”
How to phrase it delicately? “Because . . .” Decianus scratched at the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “Because of your conduct in the matter of . . . because of what is said about . . .”
The fire crackled, and a spark lit behind her eyes. She gave him a charming smile, leaning in conspiratorially. “Procurator, it is kind of you to try to spare my feelings, but I prefer candor. There is very little you could tell me about my reputation that I don’t already know. Collaborator. Betrayer. Roman whore. I’ve heard it all.”
Decianus was surprised she could say it so calmly. Weren’t women supposed to care for their reputation above all else? His wife certainly did. And he felt the tips of his ears burn at the word whore. Especially given that Cartimandua was a remarkably attractive woman for her age. At least in firelight.
The procurator had always been drawn to petite women like Valeria, but given the cool state of his marriage bed, he supposed that he had the wrong priorities when it came to such things. “Well then. In complete candor . . . yes, in complete candor.” He cleared his throat again, aware this was becoming a nervous habit. “The Iceni are in an agitated state since the death of their king, and we cannot guarantee your safety should you attend the funeral.”
Cartimandua gave a deep, throaty laugh that was somehow both unfeminine and alluring. “Do you mean to say that the legions you have on this island won’t be enough to defend a single woman against some aggrieved and unarmed Iceni tribesmen? Goodness, how can you hope to hold your province of Britannia if that’s the case? I never thought to see the day Roman honor would withstand a plea of impotence, even to achieve a convenient end.”
Decianus stiffened on the word impotence. He would not discuss the subject of Roman honor with the likes of Cartimandua. Nor did he want to discuss the fact that the bulk of the soldiery was in the west with Governor Paulinus, which she surely knew. Moreover, he did not wish to explain that he had a reason for wanting her far away from Iceni lands—a very good reason that had nothing to do with her personal safety.
To be exact, ever since he’d had word of the Iceni king’s death, Decianus had been making a grim little game of counting the days it would take before an order arrived from the emperor commanding the annexation of Iceni territory. Client kingship was a temporary arrangement. King Prasutagus had enjoyed a lifetime stewardship over Iceni lands, but now that he was dead, that arrangement was at an end. If he had died with a male heir, perhaps the emperor would allow the family to continue their rule, but since Prasutagus had only daughters—
“Procurator, your warning is very much appreciated,” Cartimandua said, breaking into his thoughts. “But I’ll simply have to muster the pride of my ancestry, and the courage for which my people are known, and risk attending the funeral anyway.”
This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. A woman should be more pliable. Even Valeria, for all her sighs and arched brows and sidelong glances would still, in the end, always obey a direct order. So Decianus said bluntly, “Go back to Brigantia.”
“I cannot.”
He stared. “Why not?”
“Because I made a promise.”
“I don’t see what promise should so obligate you.”
Cartimandua’s smile became wistful. Touching a fingertip to the torc at her neck, she said very softly, “No, I don’t suppose you would. But the fact remains that I must go. I must go with Roman protection or without it. In truth, I would go even if I were stripped of my crown, lost my servants, and was forced to walk barefoot upon icy roads.”
That seemed a rather extravagant statement, but the barbarians were tremendously dramatic. Decianus had had years of close observation to form such an opinion, after all—a few years back, he and Valeria had fostered an Iceni youth. A hostage, in truth, but Decianus had come to care for the boy. A wild boy, romantic and energetic and verbal like all the Celts—if Decianus instilled anything in that young Briton, he hoped it was a measure of . . . well, measured judgment. Which Queen Cartimandua apparently lacked. “Madam, I should very much like to know why you insist on attending this funeral. Despite my request,” he forced himself to add with squared shoulders, “as the emperor’s agent.”
Cartimandua tilted back her head, stretching her elegant limbs as her white snake twined around her ankle for warmth. “Would you like to know, Catus Decianus? Would you really? You seem to me the sort of man who likes the tangible. Roads. Coins. Lists. That sort of thing. Am I right?”
She was right. But Decianus felt small in admitting it, so although he nodded, he added, “As I said, I am an accountant. I’m here to ensure that the emperor’s financial interests are seen to. So if there is some money you hope to reclaim, some outstanding debt of the Iceni to the Brigantes—”
“A debt?” She snorted. Like a man might snort, no self-consciousness at all. “Oh yes, a debt is involved. But not the kind that goes in a ledger.” The woman turned onto her side on her dining couch, fixing her gaze on his. “I never thought to tell anyone this story. But you might be exactly the man to tell. Because you’re an accountant, Catus Decianus. And I am going to the funeral of King Prasutagus to make an accounting . . .”
CARTIMANDUA
Twenty Years Earlier
Three is a very important number in the lore of Brigantia. We worship the high goddess who has sovereignty over our land by burning three fires upon her altar. We acknowledge her three faces: the maiden, the mother, and the crone. We honor her three cherished vocations of healing, blacksmithing, and poetry. And so it was that in the first year of my rule, when all the most prominent princes of the land flocked to my kingdom to make merry and mischief under the auspices of seeking my hand, I narrowed my choice to three.
The first suitor, my kinsman, Venutius of the Carvetii. The second, Prasutagus, an older nobleman of the Iceni. And the third, Caratacus, the boastful and brash youngest son of the King of the Catuvellauni.
Venutius. Prasutagus. Caratacus.
Familiar names now. All famed kings. But that summer, I was the only one with a crown. And only one of these three seemed worthy in my young eyes to be my consort.
It is a bard’s trick to say that someone who rises to legend was recognized by all at the start as special, remarkable, destined for greatne
ss. But in the case of Caratacus, it was true. From the moment he appeared in my Great Hall, I saw in him a burning ambition as bright as any star. Decked out in ostentatious finery, he sparkled from the gold torc at his neck to the gold thread in the checkered length of his trousers to the gold laces of his shoes. He leaned so insolently upon his painted tribal shield that I knew he must be royal. Who else would dare to slouch like a peasant while awaiting a private audience with a queen? The brash young prince with his lime-washed hair and still-sparse mustache could not smother his smile when my herald announced me. Indeed, he laughed. He laughed so long that I began to take offense.
Only then did he hold up his hands in apology. “When my older brother told me to seek your hand in marriage, we decided that I must say that you were beautiful, even if you should have a beak and beady eyes. But you are so lovely in truth, that I now know the gods smile upon me and upon our alliance.”
Though I was still young enough to be flattered by praise of my beauty, I only smirked. “The gods smile upon you, perhaps, Prince Caratacus. But as for our alliance, that remains to be seen.”
“Oh, come now,” Prince Caratacus said. “Have a look at the fine steeds I have brought you as a gift. And the silver faceplates you may adorn them with when you ride in your war cart, to say nothing of the portion of wealth I will add to our marriage settlement. You will find no suitor from a tribe greater than the Catuvellauni. And the son of a king at that.”
“The youngest son of a king,” I replied, not willing to let him get too above himself.
Now it was his turn to smirk. “You shouldn’t hold that against me. I’ll be a king in my own right one day, that I promise.”
I believed him. That was the problem. “By displacing your older brothers, one by one?”
Set back on his heels for the first time, he let his mouth fall open, then snapped it shut again. “I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
