Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk Read online

  ROMAN HAWK

  Book 10 in the Sword of Cartimandua Series

  By

  Griff Hosker

  Dedication

  Thank you to all of you who have contacted me with comments about my books. I do appreciate all comments and advice. Thanks Rich- you are Drugi!!

  Published by Griff Hosker 2012

  Copyright © Griff Hosker First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  The Northern Empire 123 A.D

  Prologue

  The Eudose lived in the dangerous waters off the Mare Germania and were a fierce tribe of Germanic warriors who raided and preyed on weaker communities. Many generations earlier they had fled the harsh winters, visited on them by the capricious gods, of the northern lake lands across the cold black northern sea. They had found a more benevolent climate in which they prospered and raised animals, the men fished and the women wove cloth. They believed that they had found a better land until the Suebi confederation of tribes began to edge further and further north moving dangerously close to their tiny toehold on Uiteland. The emerging Roman Empire was squeezing anyone who would not conform out of their newly conquered lands to the badlands further north.

  Trygg Tryggvasson was the chief of the Tencteri tribe who lived on the eastern coast of the land of the Eudose. His father, who had been a wise warrior as well as a good warrior, had moved the clan from the mainland to the two islands they had fortified and protected. The land was a little poorer than on the mainland and they were severely overcrowded but they were safer and they could watch, from the security of their island fortresses, the privations suffered by others of their tribe who were attacked and enslaved by wave after wave of Suebi raiders, fleeing to easier lands than those in Germania. Every successive wave ended with the Suebi returning south and, inevitably some of the tribe would return to the mainland where, for a few more years they would be prosperous- until the next invasion.

  When Trygg became chief he made the decision that they would just stay on their islands where they were safe. Over the years they had become adept sailors and seaman, travelling vast distances in their dragon boats which could dart out and capture unwary traders or land at isolated villages to ransack and plunder. Consequently the women and the old were often left alone for long periods without men to protect them. That task was left to the older warriors and those unable to fight. Sigambri was the shaman of the tribe, and one of the older and wiser heads amongst the ruling council. It had been at the first meeting, following Trygg’s father death, that the young warrior put forward his ideas for the way the tribe would prosper.

  Sigambri had not had much to do with the young Trygg. He had spent all of his time advising the old chief whose health had deteriorated rapidly in the months before he died. The shaman had become used to ruling the tribe and it had been a surprise when Trygg had convened the meeting. He noticed that the young warrior had filled out considerably over the past few years and the muscles rippled across his lean body. His hair showed where they had come from and flowed over his shoulders, like golden water. His blue eyes were an intense colour, marking him as different from others but it was his voice which was his most powerful weapon. When he spoke, men listened, and he was very persuasive. It was said that his skills were even greater with women, who longed for a son with the intense blue eyes. Trygg had been away for some time with the younger warriors; bringing back much treasure and slaves to enhance the prosperity of Hjarno-by. Sigambri listened with trepidation as he spoke, knowing that the young man would be persuasive and others would listen but it would take much to convince the old shaman whose way had worked for the old chief.

  “The Suebi are spreading northwards again. Even as we journeyed home to this haven of Hjarno-by, we could see the burning farmsteads and fishing ports on the mainland. Soon you will see them close to our land, again, and our brethren who sought a home there will soon be slaves.”

  Sigambri stood up. “We know this, it is why we live on the island but why should we worry about the mainland?”

  Trygg smiled; he knew that the opposition would come from the shaman. When families left the tribe to go to the mainland they paid for the shaman to intervene with the gods and bring them good fortune. It was a profitable enterprise. The fact that the payment only seemed to work for a short time was explained away by the wily shaman who told anyone who asked that the spell had to be renewed to keep it effective. Trygg would have to give the shaman something else to replace his lost revenue. “I do not want our people to go to the mainland where they will die or be enslaved. I want out people to stay with us where they will be safe and we can prosper.” The shaman smiled, the young chief was easily defeated.

  One of the council, whose brother had gone to the mainland two years earlier with his family where they had been enslaved, spoke up. “But the land cannot support many of us. Apart from plentiful fish we only have the produce of our few animals. Why, there is little to hunt here and the men we send to the mainland are hunted and enslaved themselves.”

  Trygg took out a small bag which he jangled. “Do you hear that? It can be hunted but not eaten, it can be herded, but not milked, and it can be grown, but does not live.” He knew he had all of them intrigued for his people loved riddles. He emptied out the gold and silver coins, all of which had the face of various Roman Emperors embossed upon them and they lay in a healthy pile on the table before the intrigued council.

  Sigambri was almost disappointed. “Coins! Of what use are they to a people who need land? You cannot farm coins, you cannot milk coins. It is land that we need and the men to protect it.” He smiled smugly, Trygg Tryggvasson was not the only one who could play with words.

  Trygg almost asked about the irony of a shaman asking for such worthless coins but he let it pass. “We took these from Romans and those conquered by the Romans. They live in Gaul and they are all rich. With this gold we can buy better weapons and wood to build better boats and more of our young men can join us to raid their heartland. “He leaned forwards, his eye evangelically zealous. “They are like young lambs with no sheepdog to protect them. The Romans who protect them live in stone forts and are unable to stop our raids. Once we have more then we can settle, once more on the mainland, but we will have slaves to work the land and build our walls so that we can be defended from the Suebi.”

  There was much nodding of heads. Sigambri stood up again. “And while you and the young men are all away who will protect the families who remain? Who will make the decisions for the people?”

  Triumphantly he sat down, looking like the cat who has stolen the cream. Trygg spread his arms and gave his most disarming smile, the shaman had walked straight into his trap. “Why you, of course, shaman. You will use your influence with the gods to protect us and, of course, we will make Hjarno-by into a fortress which cannot be assailed easily.”

  Sigambri had not considered that idea. He had felt certain that the young chief was attempting to alienate him in some way, to get rid of him, but it appeared that he was not. The old man had the vision to understand, in an instant, that he would have the power to be
come even richer and wield am even greater influence on the tribe. The wives of the men who were away making his money would be easy prey for his lascivious conquests. He even wondered why he had not thought of the plan himself. “We would need wood for the islands have little and we would need more ships.”

  Trygg had his man, bought and paid for. “We will buy the wood we need from the land of the lakes to the north or even take our young men to harvest the forests themselves.” He held up the coins and let them tinkle from his hand like rain, “This is but one of the bags of coin we took and we brought many weapons which can be used by our young men but,” his voice became even more commanding, “I want no more families to leave the island. The clan needs every warrior it can get.” The nods of approbation, from all, including the shaman told the young chief that he had won. The first stage of his enlargement of the tribe and the creation of a secure base on the mainland had begun.

  That was twenty years earlier and Trygg had been as good as his word, as had Sigambri. Trygg raided successfully and the fleet was gradually enlarged and the shaman ruled the islands. The two of them had made a powerful team and there were many young Trygg and Sigambri babies on the two islands and the mainland colony testimony to their endeavours. They had been so successful that they had managed to gain a foothold, with the building of their port of Orsen, on the mainland. It was better suited as a port than Hjarno-by for the water was deeper and afforded more protection during the harsh winter storms. Its security came from the citadel they had constructed, powerfully built over a long summer, it sat on a higher piece of ground which over looked the harbour and it was manned by those older warriors who no longer went raiding. It had successfully resisted the frequent invasions of the Suebi so well that they now went further west to find easier targets and the Eudose were left alone; for the first time in a generation their numbers grew; the tribe prospered, as Trygg had promised. Although Sigambri had died some years earlier, his legacy lived on and Trygg used a counsel of shamans to run his fiefdom while he was away. The slaves they had captured were an asset, working the fields, hunting in the fine forests on the mainland and none of them able to escape for the only viable route to their homes lay through Suebi land and there they would be enslaved again. Trygg had a perfect organisation for his tribe and he was loved. All of their security and prosperity came from the chief and he could do no wrong. The gods did indeed smile upon him. Now that the Romans had built up their sea defences in Gaul he was adapting. He needed new sources of income and, on his last trip he had found one, Britannia which was even richer and easier to pluck than Gaul had been. The next time they sailed, he and his ten boats would cross the short stretch of water to the east coast of Britannia where slaves, gold and jet were in abundance. Soon they would have two fortresses on the mainland!

  Chapter 1

  The five ships slipped slowly down the starkly steep cliffs which lined the east coast of Britannia. Although autumn with a chill cold wind blowing from their homeland in the east the Tencteri did not wear their cloaks as they rowed their dragon ships purposefully south. Their muscled bare arms were used to colder northern weather than this and the rhythm of rowing kept them warm. The two boys, Ormsson and Sigurd, scampered along the narrow aisle separating the rowers handing out dried fish and beakers of watered ale to keep up their energy. To the boys it was an adventure; their first raid in Britannia and they were both keen to impress Chief Trygg Tryggvasson. If they performed well on this voyage they would have the chance to return the following year as warriors. They enviously eyed the row of round shields which lined the sides of the ship; the chips and scars of each one a testament to a brave deed. The blades and axes, protected beneath the rowing benches by oiled sheepskins were the secret desire of both boys. To own a blade was to be a warrior and to own a blade of power was to be a hero.

  The ships slowly slowed and turned towards the sandy beach. The art of a good captain was to get the boat close enough in without ripping out its hull and yet close enough for the warriors to wade in through the surf. As the oars came up, almost as though by magic the bloat slowed and then bobbed up and down on the tide. The rough anchors were thrown astern and then the warriors prepared themselves for the raid. Those lucky few with helmets, like the Chief and Snorri, donned the protection, whilst others, like Ormsson’s father Orm and Lars took their shield and slung it over their back before grabbing their weapon of choice. As the two boys fingered their slingshots they dreamed of the day when they too would go through this magnificent ritual.

  As they assembled on the beach the chief summoned Orm and Sigurd. “Today you two will learn how to scout. Go with Harald Larsson. Watch and learn. This voyage will be his last as a scout and the next time he will be a warrior.”

  Eagerly they followed the youth who was only a little older than they but looked so assured. The bow he carried marked him as one of the few skilled archers in the tribe and the boys determined to learn its skills over the winter. The landing place was at the low point of the cliffs which were little more than a low grey scar across the green land and they swiftly headed south , up the sheep trail to the spongy turf at the top. Harald loped easily along with the rhythms of one who can keep the pace up for miles. The two boys sucked in the pain and gritted their teeth as they hurried after the scout. They watched as his eyes scanned left and right and then, surprisingly, upwards. Sigurd decided he would ask him later why he did that but as he only had enough breath to run he kept silent.

  When Harald’s hand came up they stopped, grateful for the rest but tensely aware that there was danger nearby. As Harald crawled forwards up the slight slope they emulated him exactly. He edged his head slowly over the grassy bank and, as they joined him, they saw the collection of huts and sheds which marked the Brigante settlement. Below them the men hacked and chopped with axes and hammers at the rock of the cliff. Small boys and women waited with reed baskets to take away the black gold they had discovered. They were jet miners and, in this part of Britannia, were hewing the most valuable commodity the earth had, the black jet which was sought by kings, queens, witches and druids.

  They slid back down the bank and Harald looked at the two boys. His scrutiny finally settled on Sigurd. “Run back to the warband and tell Chief Trygg that we have found the mines.” Eagerly Sigurd set off and Orm, for a brief moment, hoped that his friend would fall and he would have the honour of being the messenger. Harald must have seen the look for he smiled and said, “You will have the honour on the next scout.”

  The fifty warriors waited below the skyline as Trygg and Snorri, without their helmets, peered over the sides to view the mines. “There are two paths one to the left and one to the right. The miners will only see us for the bottom half.”

  Trygg nodded, “You have done well and that is acceptable. Snorri, you take the right and I will take the left.”

  The peaceful miners and their families were no match for the fierce warriors. The men fought back bravely with their hammers and axes but it was to no avail. They did have their victories, albeit small, and Harald Larsson, fell to an exe expertly hefted by the headman of the community who continued to fight against those who would deprive the people of their prosperity. He fell to the blade of Chief Trygg Tryggvasson. There was no honour in the blow for the miner, brave though he was had not been a warrior. The headman’s death had not been in vain for it allowed many of women and children to escape the rapacious warriors eager for female flesh after a month at sea.

  As the last miner was despatched they began to collect the valuable black ore. Trygg saw Sigurd and Ormsson looking sadly at Harald’s body. “He is now in Valhalla and he is happy. Do not grieve for him. A warrior can ask no more than to die in combat with his sword in his hand. You two are now the scouts of the warband. Do not let me down.”

  The two boys immediately forgot their dead mentor and swelled with pride. They had taken the first steps to becoming a warrior.

  Coriosopitum 122 A.D.

  The Emperor H
adrian gazed north to the road, built by one of Agricola’s legions which cut like a gladius through the thick forests of northern Britannia. In the six weeks since he had arrived he had seen how the weather in this part of the land could be as unpredictable as a woman’s mind. The weary auxiliaries trudging back to the fortress had not been building the wall. They had not been aiding the Sixth Legion to construct the monumental structure which would serve as a reminder to the barbarians of the power of Rome whilst enabling taxes to be collected. They were working alongside the Second Gallic Mixed cohort defending the legionaries from barbarian attack; no, the Batavian auxiliaries had been repairing the devastating damage from an autumn rainstorm which had seen six uncia of water fall in less than two days. The wooden bridge, already damaged, had been swept away along with some of the legionaries working on the wall. It had made the river level rise so much, as water from the hills added to it, that it had flooded the two ditches which were intended as a deterrent to attack filling them with the mud and soil from the top of the wall. Capricious and unpredictable Mother Nature had undone the work of weeks. Had the cult of the Mother known they would have ascribed it to the power of the Mother, but they were all on Manavia and Mona plotting and planning more mayhem,

  Hadrian turned to Governor Falco and Legate Demetrius, the two men the Emperor had given the task of building the ninety mile frontier. “Perhaps the gods do not want a wall here eh Julius?”

  Julius Demetrius had served in Britannia for many years and knew the frontier well. He shook his head. “In all the time I have served here I have never known a storm like that one. I did not think there was so much rain in the world. “It had trained for well over a week, night and day. “It is just fortunate that we had some stone in place or the whole of the soil section would have been washed away and we would have had to start from the beginning once again.”