Eboracum: The Village Book I

By Graham Clews

The time is A.D. 71, the place is Northern Britain. Set against the founding of York, and the real life characters who founded the ancient city, this award-winning novel follows the fate of Roman and Celt alike. Cethen Lamh-fada and his wife Elena are forced from their home by the Roman engineer Gaius Sabinius, as the Ninth legion moves in. From the first skirmish at Cethen’s village, to the inevitable battle as Stannick, The Village is a riveting tale laced with dark humour, hard romance and the reality of life in dangerous times. With no dashing heroes or outrageous villains, the story is about the people of the time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Clews
• Release date: Jul 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370803316

Graham Clews

I’m a retired chartered accountant, who loves to write.My tales include fascinating award winning fiction novels: well rated tales about first century Roman/Celtic Britain and the violent, yet poignant, clash of cultures; an accidental hero, a 60 year old accountant with a tainted past; a tongue in cheek look at the political mayhem in Canada; and finally, an unique magical world for YAs where time is destination, not a state of mind.

Book preview

Dedication

Notes

Foreword

Historic Characters

Author’s Comment

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter VIIII

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XVIIII

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Epilogue

Appendix I

Appendix II

Appendix III

Appendix IV

About the Author

Connect with Graham Clews

Other books by Graham Clews

Dedication:

To Marie, who gamely plodded over hill and dale (literally),

helping explore nearly every Roman ruin in Northern England.

Eboracvm, The Village

Notes

Certain words or place names have been typed in italics;

please refer to Appendix II or III, respectively, for modern definitions

See the Appendix IV for the use of the Roman numeral: VIIII

Foreword

A fact based historical novel often uses a number of unfamiliar names, both for people and places. The Eboracum trilogy is no exception; and at first these names may be hard to pick up on and follow. In the interest of historical accuracy they must be used, however, so the reader is asked to tough it out.

Where the ‘double barreled’ names are found (or to put it another way, names of three syllables or more), these are the names of real people taken from the pages of history. The ones that are of two syllables or less (for the most part) are invented characters, though they do have Celtic and Roman origins. In order to help, a brief list of the real characters whose names appear in this book can be found below, along with a brief description of who they were.

As to historic place names, the first time the reader finds them they are printed in italics; the applicable modern name can be found in Appendix III.

Historic Characters:

Cartimandua: the ruler of the tribal area known as Brigantia, and a client queen of Rome (sometimes shortened in the book to Catey);

Quintus Petilius Cerialis (senator and general): Governor of Britannia from AD 71–74.

Vellocatus: second husband of Cartimandua, and former shield bearer to Venutius.

Venutius: first husband of Cartimandua, and likely a Brigantian king in his own right.

Titus Flavius Vespasian(us): Roman emperor from AD 69-79.

Author’s Comment:

There is a certain amount of profane language in the book. Some people might find it coarse. If such words offend, then I apologize; I do not, however, make apology for their use. It is not gratuitous. The reader will find that such language is employed almost exclusively by the soldiers and warriors in the book, and then merely for emphasis. I spent sixteen years in the Canadian Armed Forces (Reserve) and, quite bluntly, this is the way soldiers talk. My research finds that soldiers and warriors two thousand years ago used to cuss with just as much colour. To use their actual words, however, (such as cunno, futuo, verpa etc.) would mean nothing, so modern equivalents have been substituted.

Prologue

Sir!

What now?

There, down the road. I think it’s the man himself…

Gaius Sabinius Trebonius swore and stepped from the shelter of the leather tent module. A large puddle had pooled by the opening and he carefully hopped across; which was a pointless gesture, for his boots were soaked and his feet felt like iced granite. Shading his eyes against the drizzle, he squinted back at the sodden battlefield and cursed again. There could be no question: Cerialis! Two riders led a small troop of cavalry along the mud splattered road, each bearing a sodden standard. The general followed on a large grey horse, half hidden in a gaggle of red cloaks and crested helmets that could only belong to staff officers. The escort trailed behind—a full company—each man hunched in the saddle and doubtless shivering under the endless downpour.

Form the men up, and do it fast, Gaius muttered, and glanced skyward. Thunderous black clouds scudded south on a gusting wind; and while the rain was no longer heavy, it lashed hard at the skin and stung the eyes. Surely, sometime soon, the damn weather would change...

His gaze returned to the road, and the carnage that lay beyond. A charnel stink hung in the air, a lingering fog that drifted across the battlefield on the smoke of a hundred sputtering pyres. Dark figures flitted in the dawn gloom, stripping the dead of salvage. The sharp odour of death hung everywhere despite the rain and a battle less than two days old. At least the flies weren’t swarming, Gaius supposed; and the stench wasn’t thick enough to choke a man. Though a hot sun would have been warm and dry...

The clatter of running feet echoed from behind the tent as the centurio barked orders to form ranks, and Gaius turned back to the bridge. He paced over to the jagged opening torn in the middle and stared down at the current rushing below. The thick, plank decking had been ripped away as ordered, leaving a large gap. A brave man, riding an exceptionally fine horse, might clear it at a gallop; though few would be willing to place coin on his chances—or do it themselves. The milk-brown soup of the swollen Nabalia was a torrent that would swallow, in a trice, the fool who failed. Which was what headquarters intended, Gaius supposed, and sighed.

As an engineer, he found the order distasteful: take a perfectly good bridge and destroy the damned thing! It was a total waste, and not just for the damage done. In a day or two some poor bugger would doubtless be rebuilding the structure, and he’d willingly place coin on that as to who it would be!

Damn Civilis, and damn his craven refusal to meet face to face with the man who had beaten him...

About ready, sir.

The centurio stood in front of the tent module, seemingly amused by the fluster of the general’s unexpected appearance. The smug old bugger was called Rufus, Gaius recalled—which was easy enough to remember—the name was the same as his own horse.

Is it him?

Yes, sir. Rufus offered a gap-toothed grin, framed by a helmet that dripped rain onto a lorica that wept streaks of rust. Not many with him.

Just himself is enough, Gaius muttered and turned impatiently back to the tent module. Nigh on ten years had passed since seeing service with the general, and the man likely wouldn’t know him from a thousand other tribunes. Not that he cared...

Quintus Petilius Cerialis raised a hand to halt the small column of cavalry as it neared the bridge, and rode onto the deck accompanied by a single rider. Gaius blinked through rain soaked lashes: the second man was the Eighth Augusta’s primus, who stopped short at the tent and dismounted. The general continued on and reined in a few paces short of the gaping hole, where he sat staring at the bloated river. Rufus moved cautiously forward and grasped the horse’s bridle, his face showing concern at the animal’s nervousness.

Cerialis seemed unperturbed, and for the moment Gaius stood motionless in the whipping wind studying the general’s face. A decade had hardly changed the man. His mouth was drawn tight above a square, soldier’s jaw that was thrust forward against the weather. The cheeks carried more flesh than he remembered, and were beginning to jowl. Oddly enough, the long, patrician nose showed the greatest change. It had been broken, and was shorter and flatter; it gave him the look of a fighter. Gaius wondered if the man’s hair remained thick under his helmet. It had been black and curly a decade ago at Lindum, much as his was now. Perversely, he hoped the showy helmet covered nothing more than a balding dome.

So what do you see, young Trebo? Cerialis broke the silence without turning his gaze from the river. Yourself in a few more years?

Gaius winced at the name; he’d always hated it. Young Trebo! Yet it showed the man did remember. Perhaps, sir.

It’s been a long time. What, a decade or so?

About that. When the Iceni woman..., Gaius began then broke off, choosing another track. "The province of Britannia. Lindum."

Hah! The Iceni woman! Trebonius, you have the tact of a warthog. Cerialis’s mouth twisted in a cold, humourless smile and he finally turned to look at Gaius. You find it difficult to speak her name? I don’t, and with far more reason. Boudicca! The fey bitch whipped my backside halfway across the province. Yours too, I might add. We’re both lucky to be alive. Not many who where there can say that, hey?

Gaius nodded but said nothing. The failure was long in his past: a battle lost, and nothing more. There was no gain in scratching old wounds. He’d been a tribune in the Ninth Hispana back then, barely in his twenties. Two thousand men were lost, and not all of them dead when Cerialis fled the field with what remained of the legion’s small cavalry contingent. Gaius flushed, despite the cold. There had been no choice, of course. The Ninth was overwhelmed and ill prepared: strung out in column of march, and struck hard, with no warning.

Yet there should have been.

And who was to blame?

General Quintus Petilius Cerialis!

Gaius sighed. The general had survived the slaughter tainted by the stink of failure; but in the end, he had not been badly burned. When you have the connections…

By the way, congratulations.

The general’s praise caught Gaius by surprise. Sir?

A silver spear and a gold standard. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The wrong place at the right time, Gaius murmured, at first flattered and making light of decorations earned over a decade of campaigning. Then, as his mind turned the words over, he realized the general must have made inquiries. Was this meeting no accident? That could spell good fortune—or, conversely, nothing but trouble.

No such thing as the wrong place, Trebonius, Cerialis murmured, his eyes once more on the gap in the bridge. Destiny and fortune are forged by a man and his gods. Don’t make light of them.

Gaius muttered agreement: though a good dose of influence doesn’t hurt, either. Then he smiled to himself. Perhaps the older man was correct. What else was influence other than a man’s good fortune? And where else did good fortune—or luck—come from, but the gods? Cerialis had been blessed with more luck than a grey-haired gladiator. On more than one of his bumbled campaigns, the general had damned near snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Yet each time he’d been saved by the gods; perhaps the same gods who had given him Emperor Vespasian’s daughter as wife. Then Gaius frowned. Perhaps fortune did not always smile. The woman had died last year...

As if sensing Gaius’s thoughts, Cerialis chuckled. "Of course, who you know does count a peck more than a poor man’s prayer. A senator here, a consul there; and an occasional emperor don’t hurt, either. He turned in his saddle and grinned at Gaius, a glint in his dark eyes. There can be advantage in knowing the right people, young Trebo."

Gaius couldn’t stop the look of dismay that crossed his features. The comment was rife with inference. He glanced cautiously at Cerialis, and the general roared with laughter.

"Don’t worry, Trebo, I’m not asking you to hoist your pteruges. What I have in mind is of mutual advantage." The general slid from the horse and removed his helmet, hanging it on the saddle’s cross-pommel. The bugger had a thick mop of curly, iron-grey hair!

Sir? The horse? Rufus was left holding the bridle, clearly unsure what to do with animal.

Have him held back of the tent module, son, Cerealis said, and pulled his damp cloak around his shoulders for whatever warmth it might offer.

Gaius smiled at the general’s choice of words: ‘son’! The centurio had to be in his mid-forties, and it was questionable as to which one was the older. Rufus smiled too as he led the horse from the bridge. The slow clop of the animal’s hooves rang loud on the planking as Gaius returned to his musing. Was Cerialis here to look over the preparations for a making a truce; or had he come to speak with Gaius Sabinius Trebonius? Dammit, he hadn’t seen the man for ten years; yet here he was, and making enquiries...

I asked the primus who’d been tasked for this foolishness, Cerialis gestured vaguely toward the jagged gap, his tone friendly enough, and he mentioned your name. I thought it might be you. How did you get mixed with this mongrel legion?.

"I happened to be at Ravenna when it was being raised. Gaius smiled ruefully, recalling the chaos of a year ago. Troops were desperately needed all across the empire as yet another general made a bid for the purple. A new legion, The Second Adiutrix, was being raised from the fleet at Ravenna. He was returning from Judaea on leave, and had the misfortune to be part of a small flotilla diverted north to Ravenna. They were short of experienced officers, and so..."

We’re always short of experienced officers, Cerialis grumbled, and glanced sharply at Gaius. How long since you’ve been home?

I don’t know, he shrugged, as if indifferent. About two years? Two and a half?

Hmm. For a moment Cerialis was thoughtful, then he grinned. Miss the wife?

Helvia? Gaius grinned back, and gave an honest answer. Not so much as the two children.

Aye, I suppose. You know, this will be over here today, Trebo. For all of us. I imagine you’re wondering what happens next?

The thought had crossed my mind.

I imagine. Cerialis said dryly. We’ve lost too many troops fighting amongst ourselves to return men from the Second Adiutrix to the fleet You could be looking at a three year stint with the unit, for it will be kept on strength.

I’d already figured that, Gaius muttered, which he had, and at length; and the idea itself didn’t particularly bother him. He was, after all, a soldier. What did pick at his mind was remaining in rank as a senior tribune, with no sight of promotion. Any influence held by the Sabinius family had, for too many years now, carried no more weight than a fistful of feathers...

When this is over, the old bugger is sending me back to Britannia, Cerialis continued. Not right away. Winter in Rome first—then an early start next year. The tribes are at it again.

The western tribes, or the Brigantes? Gaius said; there was no need to ask who the ‘old bugger’ was.

Yes to both questions. Cerialis did not seem to relish the idea. The province needs a new governor. The usual three years, I suppose. I might even take your regiment with me. Odd, isn’t it? Now that we’ve thrashed Civilis, we’ve got more troops in the area than is healthy.

I suppose, Gaius’s voice was neutral, his mind skipping at the words ‘your regiment’. The phrase wasn’t meant literally, of course; but the legate of the Second was ailing! The man suffered terrible belly pains, the flesh falling from his body like melting ice. Now the campaign was closing the poor sod was returning home, though few thought much of his chances of getting there. The command would be open, which was something Gaius had never dared hope for...

His mind flew over the possibility. He was the right age, certainly; but there were others who were not encumbered with his dismal background. The family’s poor choice of politics had already forced Gaius to spend more than a decade with the legions. A ‘correct’ path would have followed another direction: minor political positions; an administrative post in the provinces, perhaps; certainly a better marriage; and after that, just maybe, a stint commanding a legion. Necessity had instead driven him to stay with the army; which, he supposed, actually left him far more qualified than most legates sent out to command....

The general turned away, his eyes falling on the large tent module. It was set less than ten paces from the jagged gap, and the side that faced the river was wide open. The Eighth’s primus, a man called Titus Urbicus, stood under its shelter instructing one of the decani. Cerialis cupped his chin in one hand, his features thoughtful as he stared at the arrangement. It struck Gaius that the general was viewing it from the same angle as would Civilis. A half dozen chairs were set in a row under the shelter of the dripping canopy—the central one a large, carved, throne-like seat padded in dark blue leather. Before it was a long, low table, the top cluttered with platters of food and large pitchers of wine. Several soldiers fussed over the setting, and two more were busy spacing the chairs.

Primus! Cerialis called out.

Sir?

I think a dozen of our tallest men, in a single rank behind the chairs. And three or four more on either side. Cerialis nodded as if pleased with the idea. See if you can find a few planks for them to stand on. Make them even taller.

Sir.

And fill the area between the tent and the bridge rails with troops. Full battle order, and at least a half dozen ranks deep.

What about a troop of mounted cavalry straddling the ramp onto the bridge?

Good idea. Make it two, and see they’re cleaned up and fresh.

Gaius tried to imagine the impact. The general was striving for both pomp and strength; but, most important, he wanted a display of confidence. Civilis, standing out in the open on the far side of the bridge, would be even further disadvantaged. It was too bad the weather was so damned cold and miserable.

The only thing missing is a blazing fire, Gaius joked when the general turned away, apparently satisfied.

Shit! You trying to burn the rest of the bridge down? Cerialis growled, seemingly taking the remark at face value; but his focus, just as quickly, swung back again. Brigantia! It’s not a bad place, were it not for the food, the people, and the weather.

Gaius decided that was a joke, and laughed. Then he coughed and spoke, phrasing his words to hide his optimism. "My regiment? Where would the Second be posted, sir? Should you take it with you."

The Second? Cerialis shrugged, as if the legion was of little importance. "Whatever legion I do take, it will be posted to Lindum. It will replace your old regiment, the Ninth. That one will be marching north."

Gaius tried to remember what lay beyond the fortress at Lindum, and could think of nothing. "I thought Lindum was the north."

It is now, I suppose, but not for long. Cerialis snorted as if in disgust. The Brigantes are pissing on the pact we made. This is the third time, and Vespasian’s had enough.

The Brigantes. Gaius racked his brain, trying remember anything that might impress the general. Aren’t they led by a woman?

They were. Cartimandua. Cerialis’s eyes lost focus as he stared down at the current and smiled, as if lost in memory. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, but the smile remained. Quite the woman. A good head, a pretty face, and when I knew her, she had the body of Venus. I tell you, Trebo, barbarian women have a damned healthy attitude to life and Catey was no exception. The smile broadened, then he saw fit to add, "Or so I heard. The woman doesn’t particularly like Rome, but she’s practical. She kept the peace. Venutius is the hothead who keeps breaking it. He is, or was, her husband. Trouble is, most of the chieftains are moving into his camp, not hers. Typical of the stupid bastards: always ready to follow a fading flame."

So what happened to the woman, sir? Gaius asked, the Second Adiutrix momentarily forgotten.

You find barbarian women interesting, Trebo? Cerialis leered, then shook his head. She took up with her husband’s shield bearer. Doesn’t surprise me. Catey was a fine, lusty woman. Well rid of the old one.

Er, how old is she, sir? Gaius ventured.

Don’t clutter your mind with prurient thoughts. Cerialis sounded thoroughly amused. The woman’s old. Maybe even older than I am. She’s probably a wrinkled crone by now. Native women don’t seem to age well.

The shield bearer apparently doesn’t think so, Gaius suggested, but his mind had returned to the vacant command. So the Second Adiutrix will be stationed at Lindum.

And the Ninth will move north, tasked with ensuring that Venutius keeps the peace. Or beating him into it, if he doesn’t. The first task is to site a fortress in Brigantia.

A new fortress...

Yes. Have you ever built one before?

The question was unexpected, and all Gaius could muster was a vague, A fortress, sir?

Yes, a fortress, dammit, Cerialis said testily. You know what that is, don’t you? Ramparts, gates, palisades, that kind of shit. Soldiers live inside. Thousands of them. You’re supposed to be an engineer. Have you ever built one?

N-not a full-sized fortress, Gaius stammered, his hopes plummeting as he grasped where the question was leading. I’ve overseen the construction of forts, watch towers, armed camps, and more roads than I’ve probably marched on, but never a full-sized fortress. Never been attached to a legion that’s been tasked with the job.

Well, you are now, Cerialis grunted, suddenly impatient—or, Gaius wondered, shocked at the notion: was he suddenly edgy? At the beginning of the new year, how would you like to be back with the Ninth?

Sounds interesting, Gaius said, his tone noncommittal as his mind skidded down the slope of possibilities. A sodding fortress! But never mind that: why me in particular? Even as the question occurred, Gaius thought he had the answer. Soldiers loved the familiar; and even more, they believed in a man’s luck. When Cerialis heard the name Gaius Trebonius, it would have been both familiar, and loaded with luck: both men had served side by side in the Ninth; both had survived almost certain death. And, since then, his own luck had more or less held…

Cerialis said nothing more for the moment, and bit hard on his lip. Then he grunted as if settling his mind, and turned to face Gaius. "Brigantia is a swamp of intrigue, Trebo. Aggripinna herself might have been sucked under by it. The general began ticking facts off on his fingers. Venutius is conspiring with the northern tribes—the Carvetii, maybe even the Selgovae. He’s building an army on bribes and promises, which means he’s getting money from somewhere. Some of it may even be from Vellocatus, his old shield bearer. That one’s a major chief in his own right, and certainly not poor. It’s possible he’s playing both sides. Whatever the reason, our traders say Venutius has more coin than is good for a barbarian."

You trust the traders, sir?

As far as the tip of my sword, Cerialis growled, and spat sideways into the river. They have their uses, but I’m not a fool; there’s not one that won’t sell his mother for coin. But what they say fits well with what we hear from the barbarian queen.

Carta . . . ?

Cartimandua. Catey. She favours Rome, but only because it makes sense. Satisfying her taste in luxuries doesn’t hurt, either. The legate of the Ninth takes care of that, and also listens to her whining. But I’ve no doubt she has him in the palm of her hand. The thought made Cerialis shake his head. And knowing Catey, I’d make a shrewd guess what part of him is in that hand.

The woman’s that wanton? Gaius asked, incredulous.

The general was amused. No, not really. The remark is probably half regret.

‘I see. Gaius stifled his surprise. The legate, sir—how long has he been in command?"

Petronius? A year now, and he’ll likely go another two. Cerialis’s eyes narrowed, as if gauging Gaius. Nice fellow. He’s sitting on his backside, though, and needs prodding. I’ll be there in the spring, but there’s trouble in the west too, and that is going to—

You want me to prod a legate, sir? Gaius blurted, appalled at the idea.

Not at all, Cerialis said smoothly, and turned to face the tent module where the primus stood with hands on hips, eyeing the results. I need someone who is keen, Trebo. Keen and sharp. Someone who will set an example for Petronius. Someone I know, to keep an eye on him. A man who can help the man lead from one step behind. Someone I can trust. The general glanced sideways, one eyebrow raised as if expecting response.

I have enjoyed the complete trust of every commander I’ve served, Gaius said stiffly.

Which is the way it should be, Trebo, the way it should be. But for myself, I trust a man far more when he wants something from me. Cerialis’s eyes swung back to the leather tent, and his chin thrust upward as he gazed blankly at the neat array of seats. Which is doubly true when I also want something from him.

Gaius felt a bead of moisture trickle down his back that was not rain. When he spoke, his voice was plainly unsteady. S-sir?

Ah, Trebo, don’t go looking for vipers in the bed sheets; there are none. Cerialis paused then turned back again, his voice falling to almost a whisper. Dammit, I don’t want to finish another campaign accused of shitting in my own nest. Petronius is a career man, not a real soldier, and his primus pilus is inexperienced. Weak. I need reassurance. I need a real soldier on the ground in Brigantia. A soldier’s soldier. Not just one who can build a lousy fortress. I want someone there who’s got talent, as well as luck. You’ve got plenty of both.

The words stunned Gaius. He hadn’t thought he’d been particularly blessed with either, and certainly not over-endowed with luck. He glanced warily toward the tent module, but it was safely out of earshot. He coughed nervously as Cerialis continued.

I can replace the primus. The general nodded toward the module. You’ll take Titus with you. But Petronius must stay. Cerialis sniffed and ran a hand across the end of his nose. Funnily enough, I like the man. Decent sort. Perhaps his only problem is lack of good people.

Gaius, already on the bottom drift of disappointment, simply shrugged. I’ll do my best, sir.

Good, good. That’s all a man can ask! Cerialis slapped him heartily on the shoulder, his voice suddenly light. It’s a good posting, one that certainly won’t do your career any harm. I’ll keep an eye on you.

Which could mean anything, Gaius thought bitterly as the general turned his attention back to the tent module. To make sure he’d understood, though, he asked, And that’s all, then?

Cerialis hesitated, as if pondering the question. No, nothing else, really. Just keep an eye open. Let me know what’s happening. He shook his head, scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers as if remembering. Oh yes, there is one thing.

Sir? Gaius swore silently, waiting for the rock to fall.

You’re probably aware that my wife died.

My condolences, sir.

Yes, thank you, Trebo. Cerialis waved a hand, dismissing the sympathy. We had a good marriage, you know—or as good as a soldier can ever have—but it left me childless. Without a son. I adjusted and said nothing of course, but now she’s gone, there is no need.

You want to father a son? Gaius asked, astonished at the direction of the talk.

Shit, no! The general spoke impatiently. There is reason to believe I already have one. In Brigantia. It’s not that important, but if you hear anything while you’re there, let me know.

Of course. Gaius felt his cheeks flush, and fumbled for something to say. If you hear anything? How long had it been since Cerialis was in Britannia? Almost a decade? How old is he, sir? Nine? Ten?

Cerialis snorted with laughter. Double that. This did not happen when I was legate of the Ninth, Trebo. I was a raw tribune serving the Twentieth. If a child exists, I’d like to see how it sits with his birthright. The mother is supposedly Cartimandua.

C-Catey? Gaius found himself again caught in midstride.

She was young then, and lusty. Cerialis could not repress a smile. And as to the lad’s birthright, there’s likely a kingdom to be claimed when his mother dies; and along with it, maybe a ransom in barbarian trinkets. There’s a gold torque that’s rumoured to weigh more than a Caesar’s sword and be ten times as precious.

So I would . . . ? Gaius asked nervously, letting the words hang.

If the lad exists and follows his mother’s path, he’ll be a good friend to Rome. If not, then what is his is also mine by law, and the procurator be damned. Cerialis licked his lips. I’ll sort it out later with Vespasian.

So he’s with his mother, then?

Could be. Could be with Venutius, too, I suppose.

So it happened when she was married to . . . Gaius stopped, his mind boggling.

Cerealis shrugged indifferently. That didn’t seem to bother her.

Gaius swallowed hard, and not too subtly voiced the first words that came to mind. "So that’s what you want me to do!"

Cerialis breathed a deep a sigh as if relieved the business was finally in the open. "At the moment, Trebo, the Ninth has no serving laticlavius. I’ll see it remains that way, which will effectively leave you as second officer to the legate. Petronius is lax, Trebo, which will give you all the freedom you need to enjoy the posting. This…"

I have enjoyed every posting I’ve been assigned to, Gaius interrupted, finding little advantage in being Cerialis’s eyes in northern Britannia.

This posting Trebo— Cerialis continued, coughing as if embarrassed, —this posting will set your career on the track it should have taken were it not for the name ‘Sabinius.’ A sad turn of events, I know, and due entirely to your late father—and your brother. You are how old now. Thirty? Thirty-one?

Thirty-two, sir.

When I was your age, I was finishing my tour of duty as the Ninth’s legate. With your talent, Cerialis rapped his knuckles against Gaius’s dripping breastplate, such rank is still possible.

Gaius flushed, his reply cautious. Perhaps, sir.

I would say that it is, Trebo. Do we clearly understand each other?

Clearly, sir.

Cerialis nodded, his face devoid of expression, and with no further word turned and beckoned the pilus.

Titus was fidgeting with the chairs, tactfully awaiting the general’s summons. Is this what you wanted, sir?

More or less, primus, Cerialis muttered, his eyes scanning the neat, court-like array of chairs, and the heavily laden table. A final detail, perhaps. Throw a thick layer of mud and stone on the wooden deck; maybe a pace or two in front of the shelter. I want a large fire burning when Civilis arrives. The bastard will be soaking wet and surly. When he sees me roasting my feet it’ll set his piss to boiling.

Gaius rolled his eyes and silently murmured, Typical!

Chapter I

Dawn came fast, and with it a foul headache and a bursting bladder that forced Cethen Lamh-fada from his warm bed earlier than was decent. For a while he tried to stay the inevitable, tossing about the rope mattress in bloated torment. Elena finally put an end to his misery.

Get up and piss, dammit, or neither of us will have peace, she muttered in a thick voice, then sniffed loudly and wailed, Did someone let the hogs loose? It stinks in here.

She rolled over and buried her head beneath the covers, leaving Cethen to curse and crawl from his bed. He swung his bare feet onto the icy floor with a painful groan, and sat gazing numbly about the lodge. Vague memories flooded his mind, like cold water seeping across a dirt floor. The room was packed with people. More than a score lay sprawled about the hut where they had either bedded down or fallen in a drunken stupor. The reek of vomit filled his nose, piercing the ripe odour of dank clothing, unwashed bodies, wet boots, cold ashes, and stale, beery breath.

Shit! Cethen cursed and shook his head, which was a mistake. He groaned again, then peered bleary eyed in search of the night bucket. It was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it was just as well, for the place already stank worse than a pig sty. He fumbled for the cloak that had served as a blanket, and staggered to his feet. The need for relief was urgent, and a quick search for his boots proved fruitless. They should have been beside the bed, which was where he always left them, but another glance revealed only one, soaked and limp under the weight of an upturned beer jug.

A second curse fell from his lips and his eyes wandered over several pairs of boots scattered near the dead ashes. None of them were his, but one pair seemed a likely size; he slipped them on. They were ice cold with the night’s dampness, but at least they weren’t soaked in stale beer. That thought was enough for a final curse, then Cethen lurched to his feet and tottered outside.

The early morning brilliance made his eyeballs hurt, but it also prompted a broad smile. The sky, dark and heavy for months, was cloudless. The air was sharp, but the sun warmed his face and the change of weather was welcome. The small stone lodge and the surrounding clutter of huts had felt like an island in a sea of snow and slushy mud. If the bright skies lasted, the village might finally rid itself of winter and welcome the warm green of spring.

Feeling better for the thought, Cethen shuffled to an open pit dug close by the stake fence that circled the tiny village. He balanced on the edge, opened his cloak, and sighed at the pleasure of relief.

A deaf man with his nose plugged couldn’t sleep in there, a voice complained.

Cethen turned to find Elena standing with her arms folded across her chest, and a grim, determined look on her face. He groaned, not because of the dull throb that pounded in his head, but because of ‘The Look’. Fifteen years married to the woman had taught him to be wary of it. Elena said nothing more, but stood with her cloak belted tight around her waist and her head cocked to one side. After a moment she calmly began combing with her fingers at the tangle in her hair.

The ache in his head throbbed harder. Not here. Cethen nodded meaningfully toward the lodge and, without waiting for a reply, started down to the river. If there was enough on his wife’s mind, he reasoned, she would follow. If she didn’t, then so much the better—but he knew she would. The distance to the dock was a few hundred paces, and she caught up before he was halfway there. Cethen limped along the mucky path, determined not to speak the first word.

Such minor matters of pride were of no concern to Elena. So what are you going to do?

About what? Cethen was deliberately obtuse.

You know damned well about what, Elena growled, and gestured back to the lodge. That idiot in there!

He’s not an idiot, he’s my king! Cethen said stiffly. I do as he tells me.

You all do. That’s what sticks in my gut. Look what it did for you last time. Elena gestured angrily toward his leg. You were lucky. Your da wasn’t.

Cethen flinched, his father’s death still an open sore. He spun on one heel, letting anger fill his features as he shook a finger and struggled for the right words.

Elena spoke before they were found, her tone softer. I don’t want the same thing happening to you as happened to your da, Cethen. And neither do the children.

Cethen glared, one part of his mind reluctant to accept the truth of her words, the other annoyed at the challenge. Lost for words, he finally turned and stalked off down the slope. The sun still sparkled on the melting snow and glittered across the rippled surface of the river, but it no longer lifted his spirits. He had awakened in a foul, aching mood, and now nothing was going to pry it from him. Certainly not his wife.

They said no more until they reached the dock, a crude, planked structure lashed to the top of thick log pilings, and set against the shallow curve in the riverbank. Cethen grunted as he stepped onto the rough deck and limped over to the edge.

You have a queen as well as a king, Elena persisted as she followed. The pair stood side by side, she almost as tall as her husband, both staring down at their reflection in the muddy water.

Queen? Queen of what? Cethen snorted in contempt. When Venutius left her, that was the end of it. The woman has no more right to rule than a mule.

She was the one who left him.

He left her. She took up with that weasel Vellocatus.

Just as I said. She left him.

He left her first because the treacherous bitch handed Caradoc over to the Romans. Everyone knows that, Cethen said contemptuously, and turned to face his wife. She’s in the pay of Rome, Elena. For that alone she deserves no loyalty.

She simply made peace with the Romans. Cartimandua is practical. If you are forced to deal with a pack of wolves, you make the best bargain you can, Elena said, then added self-righteously, And she took up with Vellocatus long before that. So there, it was she who left him.

Ha!

If you decide to follow Venutius, Cethen, I’m not going, Elena said, her eyes narrowed, as if testing him. And the children aren’t going, either. Damn him! Why couldn’t the old bugger just keep going north and leave us alone?

The children will go, Cethen growled. Dammit, even Vellocatus is following Venutius now.

A moment ago Vellocatus was a weasel, Elena crowed. Now you want to do what he’s doing. Just because he arrived yesterday with Venutius doesn’t mean he’s a changed man.

Well, he’s here, and that’s good enough for me, Cethen snapped. He’s following his king. So there to you, as well! That’s another man who’s left her.

Following someone blindly makes a man a sheep, not a weasel.

Following his king means he’s come to his senses. Cethen whirled on his wife, his hands outstretched in impatience. And why not? He was once Venutius’s friend. For the love of Dagda, he was the man’s shield bearer. The Romans are going to war again. He remembered where his true loyalty lies. I’m a warrior too. I understand that.

It’s not the Romans who are going to war again. It’s that idiot up there, stinking up my home, Elena sniffed, and started back to the village. If you want to believe Vellocatus has had a change of heart, that’s fine by me. Just don’t ask me to trust it and follow.

Cethen called out to Elena’s back as she stepped up onto the bank, Why wouldn’t I believe he’s had a change of heart?

Elena ignored the question and continued up the muddy path. Cethen watched for a moment, then cursed and slumped down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling above the dark water. His mind was as muddled as the ache inside his head. Why was life always so difficult? Why was there always more than one path to choose? And worse yet, why was someone always pushing him to make a choice?

Perhaps Elena was right in some small way, he reflected as he watched the dark water of the Abus flow below his feet; but dammit, the woman did not understand the way of the world. Loyalty! Above all, a man had to have loyalty, and loyalty was a sword honed on both sides of the blade. He had given his to Venutius. If he breached his side of the pact, how could he expect any loyalty in return? The throbbing inside his head grew. Cethen grudgingly agreed with his wife on one point: why hadn’t the old bugger just kept going north, and left them alone?

Venutius had arrived late the previous day, with a dozen warriors and a bard. No druid this time, just a bard. There was always a bard, for someone had to spread honey on the king’s words. While Venutius spoke of Roman treachery and angrily called for warriors who would fight, the bard sang softly of battles won and glories past.

Ah, but the man had been glorious, hadn’t he?

Cethen smiled at the memory, despite his aching head and his nagging doubts. The bard had been exceptional: a man named Eoghan, from the mountains far to the southwest. He had a fine, beautiful voice that plucked at the ache in a man’s heart. The words had turned the night mellow and Cethen’s kin, the Eburi, had been stirred. Few as they were, to a man each was eager to follow his king. Just as the old bugger intended!

And Vellocatus had been there too, which was a surprise. Venutius had displayed his old shield bearer as if the man were a war trophy. His wife’s lover, yet! Cethen shook his head at the very idea. Even so, the king’s visit had been a triumph. The Eburi village was one of the last on the old man’s long trek before returning north. Venutius had swept the southern limits of his simmering kingdom, calling on the tuaths to send warriors. Warriors who were loyal to the old ways. Warriors who lusted for battle. Warriors who would fight, the old man cried. And he spoke of a thousand recruits camped half a day to the west, eagerly awaiting his return so they could start north. Or so he claimed.

And where is Cethen in this? Venutius had asked.

The question had at first set a chill in the lodge, but as the evening warmed to the soft glow of the fire, the bard sang the old songs and told the old tales: of warriors and gods; and of heroes, and undying love. The messages were warm and stirring, each cloaked in a smoky haze of beer, wine, and mead; and all of it consumed in great quantity, Elena had whispered more than once, with every drop supplied by Cethen Lamh-fada!

Cethen grunted his annoyance. The words Venutius spoke might have been smooth, but they did ring true. Besides, what other choice was there? Could Elena not see that? The throbbing in Cethen’s temples threatened to explode.

So, you going north, then?

The question came from nowhere and made Cethen’s heart leap. Horrified, he looked skyward for the source, then down at the murky waters. The voice repeated the question, this time clearly echoing from below. Cethen peered between his feet, relieved to see old Skolan pushing his coracle from under the dock.

You could murder a man with his own thoughts, hiding down there like a river rat, Cethen muttered.

Wasn’t hiding. Was pulling the nets.

And listening to the talk of your betters.

I was here first, the old man said stubbornly, pulling at the tangled mesh in the bottom of his small craft.

Catch anything? Cethen’s curiosity got the better of his mood.

A couple of dace, a few perch, and an eel. Skolan pointed to a bucket, but his own curiosity was still hanging. I suppose no answer means you’re going. By yourself.

Oh, she’ll change her mind.

Wouldn’t be so sure.

Cethen bridled at the comment, especially from one of the kin with no status, no honour price. She’ll do as I tell her, and there’s an end to it.

Skolan merely grinned through his tangled beard. Then I’m sure it’s settled.

Cethen climbed to his feet, annoyed that even the most menial of the kin were conspiring against him. The pounding returned full force and he stood on the edge of the dock, swaying slightly, and glared down at Skolan crouched in his coracle. The ache had grown; it seemed to be throbbing outside his head, as well as within. Puzzled, he cocked an ear and listened. A dull, thudding noise filled the air, a perfect match for the blood throbbing through his skull.

Do you hear anything? Cethen asked warily, afraid his mind was being taken.

Aye. Skolan calmly moved the small boat over to a ladder lashed to one of the pilings. It’s a drumbeat.

A what?

A drumbeat. Somebody pounding on a drum. Likely on a boat.

I know what a drumbeat is, Cethen said irritably and stared downriver, but there was nothing to be seen. It must be a trader. We haven’t seen a trader in months.

Skolan gasped under the weight of the fish splashing inside the bucket, and heaved himself onto the dock. There was a tight, smug smile on his face that failed to cover his nervousness as he squinted along the broad reach of water downstream. The beer still has your head, Cethen, the old man muttered. Traders don’t beat time like that. That there’s got to be a Roman boat.

Roman soldiers? Cethen tried to focus downriver to the first bend, which was the better part of a mile away, but still saw nothing. They must know Venutius is here.

Aye, mebbe. The old man paused, savouring the taste of bad news. Of course, one drum could be keeping time for ten of ‘em.

What do you mean? Cethen felt as if his wits had vanished.

Skolan explained. You can’t expect ten ships to pound their drums all at the same time, can you? It would addle those boats what’s close by. The old man pondered his words. Though I suppose it might not, ‘cause the drum is on the boat itself, and so only thems what’s on it would mebbe hear and …

Skolan was talking to himself. Cethen had bolted from the dock, haring up the snow-covered slope with barely the trace of a limp. The brightly coloured cloak streamed from his shoulders, and his feet sprayed slush and muck in every direction. He cleared the stake fence like a deer and burst into the lodge gasping for breath.

Up, up, you lazy turds, he roared. Romans are coming.

Elena gaped as her husband discarded his cloak, stumbled over a half-dozen groaning bodies, and rummaged through a mound of loose clothing piled alongside the bed.

My sword, Cethen roared as he pushed the jumbled heap aside and whirled on his wife. Dammit, woman. Where’s my sword? I left it right here!

Don’t snap at me. It’s probably where you put it.

Shit. Cethen returned to rummaging through the pile. The damned kids. Why can’t they leave—ah-hah!

He plucked the sword from the bottom of the heap, smiling grimly as he hefted its weight in his right hand. The weapon was a broad,