Roman Courage

  Roman Courage

  Book 13

  in the Sword of Cartimandua Series

  By

  Griff Hosker

  Published by Sword Books 2017

  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.

  Prologue

  When Decurion Marcus Gaius Aurelius finally reached his home in the Dunum Valley, he realised the dying curse of Caronwyn, had come to fruition. The frontier was a volatile place. He would not be granted leave for a further three months. Sent north with the rest of his ala he had spent the time hunting raiders who had descended from the north and raided the land south of the wall. His service had been in the land of the Selgovae, in the west. The chase had been expensive. Many settlements had been destroyed. Slaves had been taken and animals stolen. For Marcus what was even worse was that he had lost men from his turma. When the Selgovae were finally routed or driven into their holes he was granted a brief leave.

  The farm where his brother and family lived, the place he had grown up, was not far from Morbium. He had been looking forward to seeing his wife and his family. His brother farmed the family estate and his wife and children lived there with them. He expected to be greeted by smiling faces and hugs. What he was not expecting was the lack of smoke spiralling from the farm. He expected to see animals in the fields and to hear dogs barking. What he found was an empty and deserted home. The last time he had been home the bad news which had greeted him was that his mother had died. As he dismounted from Raven’s back he wondered what could have happened in the three months he had been away.

  His first thought was that the farm had been raided. The Brigante and the other northern tribes were unhappy with Roman rule. His family supported the Romans. The door to the family home was closed. When he opened it, he was struck by a smell he did not recognise. Nothing had been disturbed. The cooking pots and the Samian ware his brother’s wife had so prized were still there. The small pots with the spices, worth a small fortune, still remained. The farm had not been raided. It begged the question, where were his family?

  A familiar and reassuring voice behind made him turn. It was Drugi. “I wondered when you would return.”

  Drugi stood in the doorway. He had been a bear of a man. He had once been a slave but now he lived in the woods of the Dunum. When Marcus saw him, he was shocked. His friend looked thin and emaciated. He could see his cheekbones.

  Marcus was perplexed and held his arms out in confusion, “Drugi! What happened?” He started towards his friend.

  “Stay! Do not come closer.” He took a step back. “It was the plague or the pestilence. It started just four days after you left. It struck the children first and then the old ones. Your brother sent for healers from the fort. As soon as they saw the pustules, they knew what it was. They forbade any to leave.”

  “The plague?”

  “That is what the healers said. I had never seen such a disease. Within a month all were dead but for your brother, Decius. He hung on for another month. He was a tough man. He could not eat and I fed him soups and broths. We spoke of you at great length.” Drugi coughed. Marcus saw blood. Drugi took a step backwards as Marcus moved towards him. “No, I beg of you. Stay away. I have it too. It began when I was caring for your brother. I do not have long to live.” He gave a rueful smile. “I know the signs.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It is the will of the Allfather.”

  “Or the curse of the witch!” Marcus looked back into the home he had shared with his family. “My wife?”

  “She is safe. She was away with the children. They had travelled to the market at Morbium. She is with the wife of Rufius Atrebeus, Mavourna, they are safe at their farm to the west of Morbium.”.

  Marcus dropped to his knees. He thanked the gods for saving his family. The raiders had come to his home many times and had always been beaten away. Now an even more dangerous enemy had crept inside and killed all within.

  “I burned the bodies. When I die then burn me too. I have made the pyre already.” He looked up at the sky. His voice was so calm that Marcus could not believe it. “Perhaps I will come back as a hawk. I should like that.”

  Marcus was an officer in a Roman Ala, Marcus’ Horse was not named for him but he was proud to serve in the Ala named after his father. He knew how to make decisions. On a battlefield he was never uncertain. Now, in his own home he felt helpless. What could he do? His hand went to the Sword of Cartimandua which hung from his waist. As he did so it felt hot to the touch.

  Drugi noticed it, “The magic weapon speaks to you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I could feel it. You were saved for a purpose Marcus. You brought Frann and me to this land and we were both happy here. I am happy to go to the Otherworld. The life I had here was unexpected and the memory of your children and of you and your wife will stay with me when I am a spirit. The sword has more that it needs you to do.”

  “No, this is not the sword. This is the curse of the witch! I thought, when I buried her in that cave that it was done, it was over. When I heard that my mother had died, I wondered if that had lifted the curse! I was wrong.”

  “Do not give up. When you were captured, and taken far to the east, you never gave up. You can defeat this witch.” He shrugged, “I know not how but you will find a way. Marcus, I know you are greater than I could ever have been. You are the son I never had. Live long and care for your children.” He turned.

  “Drugi!”

  “No, my friend. I have to go and find somewhere quiet to die. It will not be long. I have lived from the drink I make for the last ten days. Each time I go to sleep I sleep on my pyre. You need not touch my body. Just burn me and know that when the black smoke rises then the spirit of Drugi rises with it.”

  He nodded and, in that nod, he disappeared. He never saw his friend in this world again. Marcus Gaius Aurelius’ world was shrinking. He had a wife, a son and a daughter. Other than that all that he had left were the men of the ala. Rufius, Metellus and Felix, Drugi’s acolyte, were all that he had left. His blood was gone. He and his two children were the last of his blood. Now he would have to make Marcus’ Horse replace his family. He sat on the chair on which his mother had sat and he wept.

  Decurion Marcus Gaius Aurelius spent a week at the farm. Drugi died two days after his arrival. He did not get to speak to him again. He knew his friend was dead when he saw birds pecking at his eyes. He lit the pyre and burned the former slave. He was going to do the same to the farm but he could not bring himself to do so. His family had carved a rich farm from the land and fought to protect it. He could not just let it go. He rode to Stanwyck and spoke with the head man there. All knew Marcus’ family. He was greeted with sympathy. They were Brigante but they were Brigante who liked Rome and the Roman way of life. He told him of the disaster. The head man clutched his amulet.

  “What will you do now, Decurion?”

  “I will return to my ala but I need someone to work the farm. It is still a rich farm. Have you any suggestions?”

  He nodded, “My son Arthfael has just taken a wife. He needs a home. He could run the farm for you.”

  “And the profits?”


  “If you split them, equally, with him Decurion you would guarantee yourself as much money as it was possible to get from the farm. And, when you leave the army, my son would have enough money to buy his own farm. This seems to me to be a solution which serves you both.”

  “Aye it does. Where is he?”

  “He went to trade at Cataractonivm. He will be back tomorrow.”

  That single day enabled Marcus to bury the most precious items belonging to his family and to collect the weapons his father had kept after he had left the army. The meeting went well and Marcus was happy that the farm would be run as his brother would have wished. As he rode north to Coriosopitum he knew that his life had changed forever. He would have to throw himself into the ala. Perhaps he would try to become Decurion Princeps. He would speak with the Legate. Julius Demetrius was wise. He would know what to do. Marcus needed an advisor now. He felt like a stick in a spring river. He was going where the river took him. The only constant was now the sword which hung from his waist.

  His horse neighed. Patting his neck Marcus said, “And you Raven. When I see Felix and Wolf I will be happier and on the return of Rufius and Metellus I may even smile but right now my spirits are below the soles of my boots.”

  He rode hard for the fort at Morbium. Guarding the Dunum it was as vital to the defence of the land as Coriosopitum, further north. He barely acknowledged the sentry on the bridge. He galloped at full speed for the farm. Rufius had a good farm. It lay north east of the fort. Scealis ran it for him. Scealis was a good man. He would protect Marcus’ family. Even as the thought came into his head he realised that he had thought Drugi more than capable of protecting his family. When he saw Frann playing in the yard with Marco and Ailis he felt such relief as he had not felt for a long time. He leapt from his saddle. The noise of his arrival brought Mavourna from inside the villa.

  Frann looked around in delight, “You are back!” Then she saw his face. “Drugi?”

  “He is dead. All are dead. You three are the only ones that the Allfather has saved.”

  He threw his arms around the three of them. They were now his world. He heard Mavourna for his eyes were closed. He did not trust himself to open them. “I will have food prepared. It is good to see you Marcus and I am sorry for your loss.”

  Later he sat and talked around the table with Scealis, Mavourna and Frann. He told them all and what he had done. “I knew not what to do. I hired a man, Arthfael, to run the farm for me.”

  Scealis nodded, “I think I have met him. He is a good man. I think you have made the right decision Decurion. Your brother would want a farmer to run the farm. You are a warrior.”

  “And you will be safer here.” The short ride from Morbium had shown Marcus that. Aware that they would be imposing on Mavourna he turned to Rufius’ wife. “If that is a satisfactory arrangement, domina?”

  She laughed, “Of course. My husband is away more than you!”

  “I would stay longer but I am almost out of leave as it is. I will need to ride in the morning.”

  Just then there was the sound of hooves in the yard. They had been talking for some time and now it was dark. Scealis frowned. “This is late for visitors. Decurion, we may need your sword.”

  Drawing his weapon Marcus joined Scealis as they went out to see who had arrived. To Marcus surprise it was Rufius. “A happy meeting, sir! Were you seeking me?”

  Rufius laughed and picked up his wife, “No, it was for my wife that I came. The ala has been ordered south. There is trouble on the border close by Deva. We go with the mixed cohort.”

  Marcus nodded, “Then I will leave with you in the morning.”

  “No, my friend, there are orders. The new ala at Coria is the Ala Petriana. They have come from Gaul. At the moment they are down at Lindum. You are attached to them as liaison officer. You will be returned to Marcus’ Horse when this trouble is over.” Rufius saw Marcus’ troubled face. “Is something amiss?”

  “I will speak with you before you leave.”

  Rufius was up in the small hours before false dawn. The noise of his movements woke Marcus and he too rose. “What is wrong, old friend?” Marcus told him. “My wife told me the news last night but your face suggests something more is troubling you.”

  “I had thought to throw myself into the ala. Become Decurion Princeps. I want to achieve something.”

  “You would have Metellus’ position?”

  Marcus laughed, “I am not ready yet but if you are in Deva then who knows, I may be stuck with the Ala Petriana.”

  “You will achieve that position. You are highly thought of. It was I recommended you for this task. It keeps you close to home.” He pointed to the sword. “And it keeps the sword in its homeland. This is all good.”

  Marcus felt better as he saddled Raven and left in the early morning.

  Chapter 1

  Province of Britannia 130 A.D.

  North of the Wall

  Randel watched the column of legionaries as they marched up the Roman Road. He and his men were lying in the bracken. They knew how to hide in plain sight. The Romans built such long straight roads that it was possible to see down them from a long way off. Here, north of the wall, the Romans had built to cut his homeland in two. They rarely went abroad with less than forty men. This was a larger number for in this column there were sixty of them. Randel had fought them since he had been a boy. He had learned to respect them. He hated them but that respect was tinged with admiration. They knew how to fight and they knew how to die. Today Randel, now a chief of the wolf clan, planned for them to die. He and his clan lived high in the valley north of the town the Romans called Coriosopitum. His clan had no name for it. The place had been little more than a couple of crude, rude huts before the Romans came. If it had been named it would have had a name like Ardh’s home by the river. Randel had been told of a clan who had lived there many generations ago. Their chief was Ardh and he had died. The Romans did that. They came to a place and disregarded the people who lived there and the rituals they had. So far they had not built a fort in Randel’s valley. Perhaps that was because they lived north of the wall. The White Wall offended the land but Randel and the other tribes had long ago realised the futility of trying to destroy it. The Roman soldiers barred the gates and waited for their horsemen to appear and slaughter the tribes. Randel’s tribe had lost

  Randel might have left the Romans alone. He and his clan might have carried on, in their remote valley, much as they had for generations. They would have raised their cattle and sheep. They would have raided their neighbours and, in the good times, they would have traded their surplus. That had all stopped with the wall. The White Wall meant that they could no longer either raid or trade with the Brigante. For the last six summers they had traded and raided north, in equal measure. The pickings from the raids were lean and the barters for their animals were poor. Randel’s clan were becoming poorer. The young warriors and their families were leaving. He had decided to make a raid on the Romans themselves. A mark in the land had to be made and Randel would make it. Part of it had been his wife. She was a priestess and had had a vision which showed Randel wearing a golden torc. Roman forts had been seen burning. It was too clear a dream to ignore.

  They had built a number of forts to guard their road. The people who had lived there had been moved away. Randel remembered that the chief of the fort closest to Coriosopitum was called Abitus. He had never met him but his father had told him about the clan and how they had been moved. They had farmed the valley of the Rede. The fort they called Bremenium was the closest to his valley. Habitancvm, however, barred the old road which his people had used for generations. He and the warriors of his clan had decided to punish the Romans and make themselves richer. Every warrior knew that the Romans paid their men in gold, salt and food. They men who guarded the forts wore mail. Randel realised that the mail they wore might make his own men as hard to defeat as the Romans. He had to strike soon. Each year more of the young men in the clan left an
d the clan became weaker.

  The sixty men were marching to the fort. He knew the Romans called it Habitancvm. They looked to be replacements for they were encumbered with gear. They had a couple of carts being pulled by their soldiers. His men were waiting. Fifty of them were a thousand paces up the road with his brother, Baradh. Randel had sixty. Baradh was on the sunrise side of the road and Randel was on the sunset side. The attack would begin when the Roman with the red horsehair helmet reached his brother. The Romans would outnumber his brother and they would react as Romans always did. They would form three lines and present a forest of spears. They would advance to flick away the barbarians. When that happened then Randel would lead the rest from behind. He knew that many of his clan would die. When you fought the Romans that was inevitable but the victory would draw more warriors to the clan. They would see the strength that lay in Randel and his clan.

  These were not the dreaded legionaries. He knew that by their shields. They carried the oval shield of the weaker warriors. They still wore mail but they wore mail made from rings and it could be pierced. They carried a long spear and two throwing spears. They showed that they were not as tough as the legions for they wore trousers which went to their feet. Randel’s people wore trousers but they respected the legionaries who did not. Theirs came to the knees. The men they would be attacking were heading to the fort to reinforce the garrison. One of the other clans had raided the fort a moon since. Tadgh had led a clan who eked out a living closer to the sea. He and his warriors had fought bravely but they had been beaten. Tadgh’s head was displayed on a spike on the gatehouse. Although they had lost the battle their attack had depleted the fort’s garrison. The survivors had come to Randel and were eager for vengeance. It was they who followed Baradh.

  Randel could smell them as they passed him. They smelled foreign! Some smelled like women. Their skin was not white like the clan. Randel did not know whence they came but it was not from this land. He heard them talking. Their words meant nothing to him. It was just sounds but the noise showed that they were not expecting trouble. The fort was just four Roman miles away and they thought that they would soon be there. Randel had learned about Roman miles from the stones they laid next to the road. He could not read but he could count. Baradh was waiting at the next marker. The men were marching in fours. The leader had a helmet with red horsehair and next to him was a warrior with a wolf skin over his helmet and a pole with a bird of some description. The men carried their belongings hung from their spears.