The Legion of Blood

By Wayne Schreiber

Based on historical fact and written in fiction the ‘Legion of Blood’ follows the story of the Iceni rebellion and two Roman soldiers as they are forced to choose sides when they become embroiled with the daughter of Queen Boudicca. When their master Catus Decianus stoops to the low of grave robbing he stirs something far greater than the Iceni Queen’s wrath – he unleashes the terror of the Undead. His demands and actions become increasingly insane as he is touched by darkness and brings turmoil to the region. A hidden identity is revealed and new alliances are forged as the darkness begins to spread across ancient Britain. Many will try and halt its spread, yet only one man has the ability to do so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Schreiber
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311539892

Wayne Schreiber

Born in Croydon in 1971, my family moved to Norfolk where I grew up from an early age. After not taking school very seriously I then went on to continue my lack of interest in education at college for another year, before finally deciding that that it just wasn’t for me, instead took a new path and joining the Royal Air Force Regiment. After twelve years’ service, during which I got married, I had had more than my fill of military life and left to pursue a career in IT, for once with an element of success. However over the years, the old bedtime stories of myths and legends in the back of my head slowly worked their way back to the front. Now they have returned, in a new form – The Tanarian Chronicles, I hope that you enjoy them.

Book preview

The Legion of Blood

Wayne Schreiber

Copyright 2014 Wayne Schreiber

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.

Other titles by Wayne Schreiber

The Tanarian Chronicles – UK Edition

Book 1 Arise A Hero

Book 2 the Crystal king

Book 3 - Usurper of the Gods

Short Stories

A Forgotten Wound

A World Long Past

Visit my website www.wayneschreiber.co.uk

Cover design by Wayne Schreiber

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 – The Iceni

Chapter 2 – Trust

Chapter 3 – Eyes in the Shadows

Chapter 4 – Toil

Chapter 5 – Murder

Chapter 6 – Discovery

Chapter 7 – Life and Death

Chapter 8 – Unforgivable

Chapter 9 – Riot

Chapter 10 – Trapped

Chapter 11 – Phaedra

Chapter 12 – Roman Justice

Chapter 13 – A Storm Gathers

Chapter 14 – How the Ravens Fly

Chapter 15 – Londinium

Chapter 16 – The House of Death

Chapter 17 – Andante – Great of Tooth

Chapter 18 – Battle

Chapter 19 – The Tower

Afterword

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In war, events of importance are the result of trivial causes. Julius Caesar

Prologue – Year 60 AD

The large circular room was dimly lit by the fading embers of a smouldering fire; the hunger of its flames had long been neglected. A man lay close to its warmth, barely keeping the coldness of death at bay. A woman knelt over him; her attention had long since been stolen from the task of feeding the fire since her slaves had been sent away. She wept uncontrollably with her face buried deep into the chest of her dying husband; her dishevelled red hair hung over her wet face and reflected the glow of the embers. She pulled at one of the many animal furs that surrounded her husband attempting to warm the coldness in his limbs.

‘Stay with me my husband, my King… please my love – don’t leave me, fight this illness as you have always done... be strong, I need you.’ She took his cold hand and pressed it against her warm breast.

‘Feel my warmth and stay with me... your daughters need you.’ She sobbed out her words between breaths as she fought to control the rising panic that was spreading through her body. Prasutagus was delirious with fever; his dry lips moved slowly, attempting to form words as his weak lungs strained to gulp the air necessary to sustain him.

‘I’m sorry… but I’m finished, I feel death’s grip clenching tighter at my throat… send for my daughters now, I wish to see their faces one last time before I pass.’ He was a proud man and struggled to rise but his frail arms failed him and he slumped back down into the nest of furs.

‘Easy my lord, Cyric has already gone for them, now calm yourself and rest, they will not be long.’ She tried her best to hide the despair in her voice. For over fifteen years he had been the world to her. As a young woman and daughter of a chieftain she had been forced to take his hand and secure the alliances of their tribes. Yet from the very first day of their marriage he had treated her with the respect warranted as the queen of his people. With time, a spark had ignited between them and she had eventually come to love him. She had been born into a noble family, a princess of the south who had been used to having everyone at her beck and call; surrounded at all times by the faces of her family, friends and servants. With her marriage she had suddenly been plunged into a world of strangers and with the waves of apprehension lapping about her legs he had been her rock to cling onto. He had never failed her and she had rewarded him with two fine daughters but a small part of her always felt the shame of not providing him with the son and heir that she knew he truly desired. In kindness he had never spoken these personal thoughts to her or shown any signs of resentment - yet she had sensed them all the same.

Prasutagus clutched at his chest in pain and shook his head. His other hand fumbled out from the stack of furs to grasp hers. She was shocked at how cold he was.

‘There is more you must know of my agreement with the Romans and the matters concerning our nation. Our long standing peace was brought at a high price, but fear not my love… I have studied their ways. The Kingdom will be…’ Prasutagus suddenly burst into a fit of uncontrollable coughing.

‘It will be safe in my hands,’ the weeping redhead finished off his words for him. The dying man patted her hand reassuringly as Cyric came rushing into the hut with two teenage girls following in tow. The first was approaching womanhood at sixteen; the second was several years younger. Cyric was himself of a mature age, but the bearded giant could move quickly enough when he had need.

‘Father,’ both girls cried out in unison and rushed to his side, joining their mother in smothering the poor fellow. Prasutagus wriggled upwards and pointed over towards the large sword that hung from a post near the fire.

‘Bring me… my sword… Little Hen,’ he feebly panted out his words in the direction of his eldest daughter, it was his pet name for her after it had stuck years ago. As an infant she had crawled off just before the rites of her naming day and had been discovered outside playing in the grass with the chickens. She had sat there excitedly repeating the words ‘Hen… Hen,’ to her new clucking friends and it had swayed the King’s original choice for her given name at the ceremony that day. The Druids would often preach to them about how the spirits of the animals were linked to our human forms, so the King had thought it a fitting blessing that would bring her luck to name her Hen.

She followed her father’s command and rose, stretching to reach the handle of the long weapon - her long blonde hair waved behind her as she went. Hen did not share her mother’s auburn colour like her younger sister, Liana. Instead her long locks brushed across her back like liquid gold.

‘Here father,’ she presented the warm steel to him, handle first; she avoided the sharp edge as her father’s shaking hands gripped hold of the weapon. Once he could wield the sword for hours in battle, but now he struggled to lift its weight alone. Prasutagus pushed the sword into the ground and used it as a tool to pull himself up to his feet.

‘Mark my words girls, look after this blade - for once I am gone I fear you may have use for it soon,’ he leant heavily on the sword’s pommel as he doubled over in pain, he could feel the deep engravings of his name rub across his finger-tips as he gripped the weapon and struggled to stay upright. A second engraving along the blade read ‘Prasutagus, King of the Iceni and Vassal State of Rome.’ He remembered his part in securing the safety of his people against the invader. He had done the very best he could do for them under the circumstances and did not regret his actions as he recalled that moment again in his mind. The sword had been presented to him by Emperor Claudius himself and he had always despised the last sentence on the blade. He was sure the Vassal State of Rome part had been added to remind them each and every day of their obligation to their real masters. His capitulation to Rome had saved a lot of lives and his people had maintained a fine level of freedom and independence that was still celebrated annually. It had not been a light or idle decision at the time, but it had been the right one for several of the other tribes that had fought on alone against the Romans were now eliminated or in the bonds of slavery. Prasutagus had fought against the Romans many years before, when the tribes had come together as one in the rare alliance of war. He knew the folly in opposing them. When it came to war they did not honour the challenge of personal combat, instead they banded together in tight formations and hid behind their shields – they were shameless but ruthlessly effective.

‘They are not to be trusted,’ he hissed with his final breath as he toppled to the ground. Liana, Prasutagus younger and some would say favourite daughter rushed to his side.

‘No, father… no,’ his glazed eyes looked past her to the underworld.

Her mother’s hand touched her shoulder reassuringly, steadying her against the overwhelming grief that washed over her like a wave.

‘He is gone. You must be strong… we all must be strong. We will weep for him tonight, but come the morning we must weep no more. It is what he would have wanted. The people will need strong leadership in these trying times and they will look to us, for none other in our tribe have any claim to lead the Iceni.’ Cyric who had remained to the back of the grieving family nodded his head in agreement, it was not the blood right of a family to rule, but none would oppose her claim. Everyone knew she held the favour of the Druids and besides, she had been holding the nation together for the last six months during the King’s illness. Cyric patted the backs of the grieving girls before turning to face the queen.

‘Your mother is right, she is always right – Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni; you must lead our people now.’

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Chapter 1 – The Iceni

The line of warriors stood defiant, bare muscular chests flexed with strength gained from years of exercise and combat. These were chosen men and they knew it, they stood proud and tall as they listened to the enchantments of the Druid. The long-robed man in a white hood whipped them enthusiastically with a leafy branch as he bestowed his final blessing upon them. Their skin glistened with a cerulean blue-coloured dye which appeared even brighter and lurid, as a rare ray of sunshine broke through the thick grey clouds. Their women moved in between them applying further pigments and decorations to their skin. Their hands eased around their taunt bodies rubbing woad colouring over every muscle and crevice; it was lovingly applied. The females passed to the front of the young warriors moving salaciously amongst them, they used the application of their own bodies to rub and smear the dye across the men. Several would visit the men’s lips with a long embrace smudging the blue dye across their own lips with the depths of their passion. Hours before, the women had been given to the men as a gift by Morcant the Druid, a gift which the men had vigorously indulged in. They were young men from the displaced Trinovantes tribe, warriors bred to fight through necessity rather than sport, but now with their families destitute and evicted from their ancestral lands by the increasing greed of the invader, they were forced to become mercenaries and were easy to turn to the Druid’s needs. For months now Morcant’s crazed visions had unsettled his dreams as he anticipated their events drawing ever nearer. Being blessed with the Sight was a hindrance that he had never asked for nor wanted. He had desperately sought the meaning to his dreams, piecing together the many strands of their puzzle and struggling to interpret the warning that they carried. Everything pointed conclusively to a danger to his people from the Romans, but his visions had been difficult to interpret.

They appeared to foretell of a foreign man that would come to the tribe of the Iceni and would hold the fate of his people in his hands. With the passing of the King, his decisions and actions may well hold the power of life and death for his tribe. All respected the word of the Druids but none had the frightening foresight that he had witnessed in his dreams. Morcant was a powerful man indeed. He shuddered as he recalled his vivid memories and the vision showing the desecration of Prasutagus’s final resting place. He could always feel the tingling sensation of fear spreading through his body as he watched on in his dreams – it was always from the angle as if he were standing above the scene, yet he never knew why? The man in his visions always went to the King’s grave yet his face could never be seen. Why should he be so fearful of a grave robber? Another dream had shown the faceless man killing his bodyguards and then his dark shadow would fall over him. He sensed that the man had been sent personally by the emperor of Rome himself, for a golden laurel wreath was always clenched in the hand that did not wield the sword. His visions always needed a level of interpretation of the smaller elements in them to pick at the truth and Morcant found them disturbing as the faceless figures wandered about in his sleeping mind. The image of blood and bodies filled his mind, they were Iceni dead – no doubt the result of what may yet come to pass. This man had to be stopped – the future was not written in stone. Morcant had heard news of a large Roman convoy setting out from Camulodunum to the north shortly after the news of the King’s death had spread; the path that they had taken could only take them into one territory – the Iceni. His dreams of destruction all centred about this tribe and as a Druid in charge of his own destiny he had placed himself with these people by his own accord. It was no coincidence that the Romans were sending an important official to this region, a powerful man, which also fitted with his recurring dreams. Was this the moment that he had been waiting for? The intelligence from his spies in the town confirmed that a high-ranking official had travelled from Londinium; he had picked up a full complement of troops and was now being escorted to the lands of the grieving Queen. They were allies and with the death of a king a Roman delegation would be expected to attend. Some would call it good protocol, but the educated knew that they would be testing the water of the new political situation or buying off the more influential personalities to secure their aims in the region.

His spies indicated that the man attending to these duties was of a far higher rank than would normally be required; he was reputed to be the second-in-command of Britannia. Why would such a powerful man leave his lands to visit the Iceni if it were not for what he had already witnessed in his visions? There was more than just an element of politics and law at play here. The Roman would be attending to hear the reading of the dead King’s will and final testament. It was imperative to Morcant that he did not make it. He understood that should this man fail to make the official reading of the will, then under their very own laws, any claim to contest its contents would be forfeited. It would make for a much more interesting reading if the Roman were not able to make his appointment, but the attack that he had planned would need to be outside Iceni lands to avoid suspicion. The Trinovantes that he had selected were perfect for the job at hand. They still respected the rule of the Druids and had been treated no better than slaves by the new Roman landowners that had lorded over them for the past five years. The warriors lined up before him were from a small fragment of their clan. Some of them had already been forced to the lows of robbery and some even worse in their efforts just to survive in these harsh times. They all had willingly received his gift of coin and the women, to attack the Roman convoy. Morcant knew that it would only be a matter of time before this marauding group moved territories and attacked their own people for personal gain or out of hunger. This way with his blessing they would serve a higher purpose. They were a tenacious bunch and better they fought the Romans than their own people.

‘Remember men; strike the carriage fast whilst their escorts are spread out on the march. There are many soldiers in escort but if you strike them exactly where I said, you can reach the carriage in seconds, stick the Roman pig that rides inside it and fade back into the woods before the men following their master are alerted to your attack. You carry the blessing of Andraste – your victory is assured.’ The men gave out a loud war-cry saluting his words and raising their weapons to the sky. Morcant watched the men run off into the woodland and wondered if thirty would really be enough. Unfortunately his visions did not supply him with numbers and he had never expected several Cohorts to escort a single man, normally only a squad of bodyguards would escort Roman nobles through these safer territories. It was an irrelevant thought, second-guessing his chances of success as thirty swords were all he had. The women had done their job well, not only had they incited the young studs to fight for him, but as they had relieved the young warriors of their clothing to tend to their more urgent needs, they had also followed his orders and removed any incriminating belongings from the men. It would be for the best if any personal belongings that could link the warriors to any specific tribe were removed. Sometimes a corpse could give away more information than the living with the discovery of a simple regional coin or trinket. Their new-found women and their original possessions would all be awaiting their return… if they were successful. Morcant had been as careful as possible to conceal his hand in events. For all the Romans would be able to tell, this group could have been nothing more than a band of raiding Silures who decided to further their displeasure at the invaders. He had instructed the women to use the blue woad favoured by this tribe for they had never made their peace with the Romans. This act was done to further protect the local tribes from Roman retribution and hide the true reason of the attack. It would be odd, but far from impossible, to encounter such a band of raiders in these parts; these lands had long since bowed to the rule of the invader. Against such a large escort it would be unlikely that many would make it back, the Roman had a huge escort and in some ways it would be better if none made it back – as long as they got the job done, it would only take a single thrust of a sword to end the man and stop the Romans from attending the reading of the will. Still, he was a man of his word and any of the men that did return would earn enough to forget about their fallen comrades.

‘Apollo’s balls, will this rain never cease,’ Manus turned to Albin cursing about the weather again. He had done nothing but moan since they had set off, complaining repeatedly about the continuous downpours that had soaked them.

‘Enough. You moan more than that Thracian whore Primus was with last week… I didn’t get a wink of sleep that night,’ Manus called back through the downpour. They had been marching through the rain in a formation of troops escorting Catus Decianus, the Roman Procurator and ‘fat cat’ of this province for several days. He held the power of this island in his hands and he only had to answer to Suetonius the military governor and of course the emperor himself. His appointment was of great importance and he bathed in his power and importance at all times, for he controlled the purse strings of the province.

The track that they followed was nothing more than a mud path and their pace was severely hampered by the large carriage that led their convoy. Its wheels regularly stuck in the thick mud requiring the following soldiers to break from their ranks and gather about it to push it through any deep patches. Several of the legionaries assigned to the task slipped into the mud fighting to gain a foothold as they assisted with the carriage. The other soldiers behind them staggered along like pack mules, burdened with carrying their weapons and shields as well as their own. The men assisting the carriage stood back up swearing and cursing at their luck - they looked like mud-men covered from head to toe in the stuff as they struggled to pull themselves to their feet in the thick gunge.

‘Ha,’ Manus commented amused for the first time since setting off as he watched the struggling men. He had narrowly missed their fate, being in the fifth rank behind the carriage – after the first four ranks were ordered to break formation and help. He jeered at the unfortunate group.

‘That’s going to be a bitch to clean off, but don’t worry lads, the rain will eventually wash that mud out of your chain mail,’ he laughed at the miserable men who were less than impressed.

Catus sat rigid in his carriage; it was difficult to relax as he was buffeted about with every bump. The men of the legion in the rank and file behind him had endured a very different experience to his own. They kept a close escort to his carriage with only the relentless movement of their feet slipping and squelching in the mud to keep their toes from freezing. Each of the soldiers in the mud glared up with resentment at the small contingent of the Praetorian Guard that was turned out immaculately dressed. The guard bore irregular arms; each man was allowed to select their weapons and armour of choice unlike the uniformed men of the legion. Regardless of design each man’s helmet was highly polished silver and topped with a long blue plume which bobbed annoyingly as they rode alongside the carriage. The banner of a sword marked their duty as Praetorians and the right to carry arms in the forbidden sanctuary of Rome itself. They were the personal bodyguard to Catus and had refused to dirty their hands in pushing his carriage through the mud; it was far too undignified for them to assist. Manus knew that their presence meant trouble, the Praetorian were rarely seen away from the emperor’s side and only attended the provinces in smaller numbers to provide protection to nobles of worth or as an execution squad to bring back the heads of those who defied Rome. It was Fabius their commander who had ordered the rank and file to assist with the carriage. The commander of the first Cohort was a relatively young Roman named Quintus Velius, although, despite his youth, he was far from inexperienced. He originally came from a rich and noble family from central Rome, his father had brought his commission into the army several years ago but he had learned quickly and paid for his position in Britannia with several scars from the western tribes. He had a deep scar to his thigh where an arrow head had struck shortly after arriving on the island, but luckily it had left little impairment to his movement. He also sported a long gash to his arm where a sword’s blow had been deflected by his greaves when dealing with some Silurian raiders. Quintus had quickly become a man and a proven officer with his campaigning in this new frontier and he disliked his men being ordered about by the Praetorians. The bodyguards held a lesser rank and had bypassed his chain of command in ordering his soldiers to carry out the task directly. It was disrespectful to his authority. He had noticed them several times throwing their weight around and citing that the protection of their lord was the only matter of importance to them, ’Impeding their orders could put their lord in danger,’ was their favourite quote when challenged with any real work. They had arrived at the escort with a message directly from Seneca in Rome – a wax-covered slate for Lord Catus and their remaining presence was unsettling when they failed to leave. Still, Quintus had assisted with their request this time by overriding their words with his own, in order to make it appear that the order had instead come from him. He made a show of commanding one of his centurions to see to the task, sending his closest ranks of men to help with the carriage. He did not like following the orders of lesser men, but he fulfilled their request – he let this break in command go just this once, to attempt to defuse the tension and resentment that had been growing on the trail between the Praetorian Guard and his men. Worse of all the first cohort was comprised of his most senior and experienced men and the order to get into the mud was not well received. However the action of compliance was mostly to stay on the right side of Fabius the Praetorian commander who closely watched the men as they approached the carriage. Fabius was of equal rank and unsettled him as he hadn’t found the measure of the man yet. The Praetorian commander had newly taken over the unit and was still finding his feet with the various personalities in the camp. Quintus knew nothing of the man other than his important appointment as head of Catus’s bodyguard – it was a position that had to be paid for in blood. Quintus did not know yet whether to regard the man as a rival or an ally, for most men in his position focused on improving their standing. Fabius was not from one of the major noble families that held power in Rome, this much he knew – for he knew of all their bloodlines, a man of quality should always know of his peers. It would have been better had Fabius come from one of these families for he would have known how to play the game better. They always played nicely to your face but would backstab you given opportunity. The trick to their game was to feed them false openings and allow them enough slack to show their hand or hang themselves. Quintus desired advancement above all else to prove his father wrong but he knew that his desire would need to sit dormant for now. He had heard talk around the campfires that Fabius was a dangerous man, one soldier had recognized him from a former unit back in Gaul and explained that he was the kind of man who cared little of rank. The whispers that spread suggested that he had a reputation for duelling those that he did not see eye to eye with, or had leaned on him from positions of power above – it appeared that he played on a man’s natural arrogance to draw a blade when coaxed with his words rather than apply their own wit. It was said that he was deadly with the blade.

Albin was actually unbothered by the rain, but enjoyed moaning about it because it obviously aggravated Manus and it would set him off moaning again. Unlike his friend he was used to the inclement weather, it was similar to that of his native Germania where he had grown up. He had baited Manus many times about being a soft-skinned Roman over the last year in which they had become friends, but his olive-skinned partner-in-crime normally just soaked it all up with little more response than a roll of his eyes. He knew that his friend would save up today’s insults and dish it all back to him later when around the camp fire, he always seemed to need time to think of his responses. For now Manus was more concerned with how he was going to find dry wood to light a cooking fire rather than the German’s comments; with all this damned rain a fire may not even be possible and he hated the thought of cold rations. They marched on; from time to time the men’s loathing eyes would look up from the beating rain that forced their gaze down to the ground, they would glare across at the only shelter – the regal carriage carrying their Lord in comfort.

‘Why’s the Magister bothering the army for his little trip then? I heard that he never usually ventures outside his comfortable villa in Londinium... he doesn’t like the weather.’ Albin added as he poured the accumulated water from his helmet, he reattached the hanging strap to better avoid the water. Manus looked up from the monotony of the march.

‘I guess he wants to make an impression,’ he glanced over at Catus’s carriage, it had several impressive paintings of the imperial eagle depicted on its wooden sides and above it a golden outstretched hand that was their symbol of absolute power. The carriage was drawn along by six white stallions of impressive breeding. The man was definitely out to make an impression wherever they were heading, he grumbled back at Albin in a low tone to avoid the nearby Centurion from overhearing.

‘That carriage is only made so large to hold his fat belly I’ll wager – never seen him yet, but the rich ones are never slim.’ Albin grunted his agreement and then indicated to Manus to stay silent. Torg, their Centurion, was walking back down the line towards them. He had already organised the work party to push the stricken wheels of the carriage and was ever ready to volunteer any grumbling men to further assist with the task. Manus nodded and changed the tone of their conversation.

‘Anyone got any idea where we’re headed?’ he called out to the men in line.

‘Wherever that carriage goes lad,’ shouted back Torg, as he passed the men and continued to walk back down the line to pick on some other unfortunate men several ranks back about the way that they had packed their equipment. Torg hated sloppiness and flapping straps were his pet hate as they marched. Albin shrugged his shoulders, they were never told anything other than how much food and water to bring or who they might be fighting. This time when they had set out they had been told nothing other than to pack a week’s trail rations.

‘I don’t know but I would rather we turned about, back to Camulodunum, it has a particularly good brothel down by the Head gate. The women there are from the tribes and will do anything for a bowl of food, let alone coin. I have got to say, I don’t like the look of this job much; we have far too many men with us for just a standard escort and not enough provisions for a campaign,’ Albin suggested.

‘Indeed,’ Manus replied solemnly, he looked about at the dense rows of trees lining the muddy road.

‘We are still in the land of the Trinovantes... I think, if we keep on heading east we’ll be approaching Iceni country and if we go any further we’ll hit the sea. I don’t understand it, both of these tribes are client kingdoms to us, we shouldn’t need two Cohorts to travel amongst our allies. The fat man may be important, but it sets the wrong impression, take too many men and these damned locals think you’re invading them and start crying revolution.’ Albin nodded.

‘But take too few and they think us weak and cry revolution anyhow,’ the men along the rank gave a low laugh, each one of them was thinking the same thing.

Inside the dry carriage Catus Decianus, Procurator to the entire island continued to read through his papers. They were just getting through the worst of the mud and the jiggling of the carriage was now tolerable. As legal representative of this province and the emperor himself, there was only one other man as powerful as himself on the island, Gaius Suetonius Paullinus, the appointed governor. Luckily Gaius was a military man and focused mostly on his plans of conquest, he generally kept well out of the way of his affairs, leaving him to carry out his duties and make his wealth in the manner of his own choosing. They had clashed a number of times with various disagreements since his term in office, but Catus had discovered that as long as everyone got paid on time Gaius would become reasonably content and find no social reason to seek his company. Catus had been going over the old papers from Claudius’s agreements with the vassal kingdoms; he was attempting to learn more of the Iceni before his arrival. The departed emperor had set up a number of client kingdoms to bring peace to the region; he had discovered that it was sometimes easier to buy peace rather than forge it with blood. It was not long before Catus came across some details in the papers that disturbed him. The agreements had been arranged and drawn up long before his term in office and the documentation was definitely open to interpretation. It was sloppy paperwork; it looked as if it had been rushed and in his opinion was surprising generosity from the old emperor. Shaking his head in disapproval he decided to rest his eyes from the small text for a moment. He listened to the relentless patter of the rain against the roof whilst he contemplated the document further; it was soothing to his mood. His posting to this cursed island had not proved as profitable as he had first hoped; all the stories about Britannia brimming with wealth were disappointingly exaggerated. He sat for a moment reflecting on his current posting. What had he discovered for himself so far? Well the people were savage, but at least they understood well enough when they were beaten. The north was yet to be tamed but once the ruling class of the Druids was dealt with and their pagan religion extinguished, the other nobles should fall into place. The country was rich in natural resources, such as tin and iron. On its coastline pearls could be found, but these commodities were tightly controlled and he was not going to be able to siphon off the kind of money that he needed to clear his large gambling debts through juggling the figures alone. The frustrating problem was that over three million Sestertii passed through his administration in taxes and pay for the soldiers each year and it was near impossible to cream a little bit off for himself, at least not without being caught with his fingers in the pot. His team back in Londinium were comprised of well-educated Greeks who just loved all their mathematics and number-crunching a little too much. If he were to take from one area to cover the huge amounts that he needed to clear his debts it would be all too obvious in another. Merely siphoning off a little cream from the top of the pot was not going to settle anything near enough. He had been a foolish man and now as always, somebody else would have to pay for it. Perhaps he would need to invest instead in a new batch of inept slaves to employ, they could then make a sizable blunder and when their mistake was revealed and the funds had disappeared from the coffers, their heads and the blame could be easily lost? No, perhaps not… the army would be smashing down the doors and rioting long before things could be properly investigated, he had too much money already tied up in property over here; he could ill afford the risk of damaging his own lands with his scheming. Ah well, these issues would have to wait. He opened his window shutter to blow away the cobwebs from his mind; he felt refreshed by the dampness of the heavy rain that instantly splashed through the window and into his face - it did the job just fine. Replacing the canvas screen and closing the window he returned back to the scrolls. He read through the grants again and his jaw dropped. He just couldn’t believe the generosity of the former emperor; it was clear that Claudius had effectively paid off the opposing tribes to claim a quick victory, no doubt for some political gain. Judging from the long lists of payments paid out to the various tribes, the former Emperor’s conquest had been nothing more than a long string of hand-outs. This obviously had not been common knowledge, but his move had worked well enough, Britannia had been officially declared conquered and tamed by his hand. The people loved him for it. Glory to the man, yet it was obvious to him from the records in his hands that despite the hype and claims of the old Emperor his rapid advances into these lands had been exclusively through payments to the local tribes for peace. Fair play to the man, it had produced the desired effect, for the tribes to the south and east were now loyal subjects to the empire, some even adopting their more civilized ways and the people of Rome had celebrated his adventures. Only a handful of men had rank enough to read these records and the memory of Claudius was now but a shade. Catus only saw this kind of diplomacy as dangerous; these locals may actually start to believe that they were better than their breeding warranted.

This week’s business was to administer the law and deal with the ceremonial and legal duties during the transfer of power. The Iceni were a dominant power amongst the tribes, renowned for their trade and wealth. Securing their continued allegiance to Rome was too important a task to leave to the various diplomats that Catus had under his command. Well that was the official outline of his duty but what was actually going to happen would depend on him. He had taken a sniff of the coin to be had, for the King of the Iceni was reputed to have been one of the richest men in the kingdom and this could aid his own precarious situation. Prasutagus had been a king to his people and a far too lenient one by all account. He had signed with Claudius’s terms early in his invasion, doing very well for himself and his people in the process. Much of the coin had been used to develop further trading agreements which had in turn brought the Iceni a healthy return. Now their trade goods were sought after in the far reaches of Germania and Gaul. Their skill in metal working and weaving were second to none and always bore the brand of their name or a large ‘I’ woven into a corner of their cloth. He had dreaded this week after receiving the news of Prasutagus’ passing; he hated the travel and knew that this task promised to be an administrative nightmare but he knew a shrewd man like himself may yet find a way to extract a substantial profit from this visit. Catus looked back down at the papers scattered across the seats and began to read further into the scrolls.

‘To Prasutagus I entrust the grand sum of two thousand five hundred golden Aureus, to ensure your loyalty until the day you die.’ The Aureus were their largest denomination and few Romans had seen one let alone thousands, most were more familiar in dealing with the silver denarius. He disliked the fact that the barbarian king had been paid over sixty two thousand denarius all those years ago and had further profited on the interest from its investment. Claudius must have been simple to pay the man rather than just destroy him? But then he surmised that the tribes must have been different then, they had been united to stand against the Roman invader, rather than the fragmented rabble that they are today. Perhaps they had united for the very fact of being brought out rather than to fight? He sighed to himself and continued to read through the scroll. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said to himself and reread the former sentence, before laughing excitedly out loud.

‘Yes, yes that’s it,’ a plan was forming in his mind. The money given to the barbarians was already accounted for by the state and there were no longer any books to balance for the gold was long since paid out. It was all spent coin, and had been written off under the administration of the last emperor. It had been a one-off payment and it was never considered that that money could ever be reclaimed by the empire. It was perfect, if the state knew nothing of its recovery; it could easily be diverted into his personal funds and could settle his affairs very nicely. His debts were considerable, even by his standards and this could offer him the chance that he had desperately been looking for. He believed, if handled correctly, the task of settling his vast debts was within his reach and it was all made possible due to the simple inadequate wording of the agreement that sat before him. Thank the gods for simpletons. The old scroll was open to interpretation, it had sat for years in his library in Londinium gathering dust - all innocent and understated. Yet it was a potential gold mine – why hadn’t he found the time to read it before? It would need some clever manoeuvring with Prasutagus’ successor – whoever he may be. He did not care who took over from the King, for he had the might of Rome watching his back, no one would dare to oppose him. He read the sentence in question out loud excitedly to himself, just to make sure he was correct.

‘To Prasutagus I entrust the grand sum of two thousand five hundred golden Aureus, to ensure your loyalty until the day you die.’ The word ‘entrust’ in official Roman legal terms could also mean to hold custody of the sum of money as well as in the meaning of a gift. Also when mixed with the words ‘until the day you die,’ it could then be interpreted that the sum of