Apollo's Raven Read online

  Mor spun toward Catrin. “Belinus is set to go. I’m getting your horse ready, so you can practice spear throwing.”

  Catrin shook her head in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? We need to go now and tell Father what we have seen.”

  Mor shot a seething glare. “I don’t take orders from someone who practices black magic with a raven. You see things nobody else can.”

  Catrin ripped the reins from her sister’s fingers. “I don’t care what you think. I’m going. If Father asks why you’re not with me, I will tell him about your little meeting with Belinus.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  Wordlessly, Catrin mounted her bay and stared at her red-faced sister.

  Mor shouted, “Answer me!”

  Struggling to remain calm, Catrin pointed to the spear on the grass. “Hand me that lance. I’ll tell Belinus about what I saw. You can load up your weapons and join us.”

  Mor angrily flung the spear up to Catrin. She adjusted the weapon and kneed her horse into a gallop. Gales from the sea stung Catrin’s eyes as she drove her horse near the cliff’s edge and up the ridge to where Belinus was waiting. With thoughts running wild about a possible attack by Marrock, she ignored the perils of the precipice and the rocks below. With spear in hand, she clamped her legs against the horse and threw it.

  The metal tip pierced the raven’s image on a shield that Belinus was holding. Clad in leather breeches and chain mail, he yelled, “Why did you do that? I wasn’t ready.”

  Catrin halted in front of him. “We need to get back! Warships have landed; Marrock is leading them!”

  Belinus gave a shocked look. “Marrock? Warships? Where?”

  Catrin pointed northward. “In the nearby bay.”

  Hearing horses approaching, Catrin turned; it was her sister riding the black stallion and leading a pack horse.

  Mor huffed. “Why didn’t you wait for me? You are lucky I don’t have to scrape your smashed bones and flesh off the rocks.”

  “No time to argue!” Catrin said, then looked at Belinus and ordered, “See to the weapons. I will explain everything on our way back to the village.”

  Mor blazed at Catrin as Belinus packed the weapons. After he mounted his horse, he told Catrin, “With the coming fog, it may be difficult to see the ships on our way home. Ride with me and tell me more about what you saw.”

  Catrin rode with Belinus on the pathway while Mor followed them. As they descended the grassy hilltop, Catrin told Belinus of the warships and of Marrock’s return. Unlike Mor, Belinus appeared agitated, glancing all around. He asked Catrin more questions and suggested they take a closer look at the seashore.

  They veered their horses into a darkening forest in the valley. When they rode out of the woods and approached the beach, thick fog was swallowing the ships in the bay and marching out of the haze were soldiers heading their way.

  Catrin glanced back at Mor. “See … there is the danger.”

  Mor’s shoulders stiffened. “Keep riding.”

  Belinus rode ahead and kept his hand on his sword’s pommel. “Follow me. Don’t look scared. These are Romans!”

  3

  Roman Demands

  She seethed. This is brazen betrayal. Marrock cannot become king! He will destroy everyone in my family!

  Catrin watched for any untoward movement from the marching Romans as she followed Belinus, with Mor trailing her. They wove their horses around some infantrymen laden with heavy gear. Some of the soldiers glared at them while others grumbled among themselves.

  Passing the troops, Catrin wiped some cold sweat from her brow and looked down at her ragged trousers. She twitched a smile. She remembered the queen’s instructions for her to dress more befittingly of their family’s noble status at the feast to be held that night. Curious she would think of that now, she groaned at the thought of wearing a skirt.

  Belinus must have heard her. He looked back at her and grimaced. “I don’t like the looks of those soldiers. They look hungry for battle.”

  The comment from one of the most renowned warriors in the kingdom reinforced Catrin’s trepidation. She added, “It looks like Marrock is behind this.”

  Belinus rasped, “We need to get back and tell your father.”

  Mor bellowed from behind, “What are you two jabbering about?”

  Belinus glanced back. “The Romans! Now get up here, so I don’t have to yell.”

  After that, they trotted their horses through a pine forest, then onto a pathway between farm fields that led to Durovernum, the Cantiaci capital. There, they urged their horses up the steep hillside encircled by two concentric ditches. On top of the fort hill, they entered the fortressed settlement through the main tower gate. On the other side, heavy stench from nearby cattle corrals and smoky dome-clay furnaces racked their senses. Farmers and tradesmen, appearing agitated, were streaming toward the town’s center on the central thoroughfare.

  A foreboding dread overcame Catrin as she pressed her horse through the congestion, weaving between the thatch-roofed structures, until she reached the entrance of the stone wall palace. At the entryway, commoners were cursing and shoving against the king’s guards, who held firm to prevent them from entering. Catrin’s heart quickened. This was a bad sign that the omen of the blood moon would soon occur. Of what, she was yet uncertain.

  She halted her horse and waited for the king’s commander, Trystan, to order the rabble back. Unlike the scruffy commoners, he was clean-shaven, his military chain mail and a gold-pin clasped cape distinguishing him as a noble warrior. He shot a surly frown at Belinus and yelled, “Why are you late from training? King Amren has begun introductions.”

  Belinus shouted, “With whom?”

  “Roman agents,” Trystan shouted back. “He wants his daughters inside now!”

  The commander’s announcement alarmed Catrin. She dismounted her horse and gave the reins to a stable boy. The sisters trailed Belinus and Trystan into the reception hall jammed with the king’s guards and scurrilous villagers. The stifling chamber stank like gutted cattle, most likely from a couple of butchers standing nearby, still wearing brown-smeared aprons.

  Catrin knew the crowd’s presence meant that her father was ready to make a major decision. She again pondered if the blood moon in her dream portended dramatic changes to the kingdom as a result of a rebellion? She felt her stomach drop like a hung corpse when she heard her father’s gravelly voice echo off the room’s stone walls.

  “Mor and Catrin, come in here now.”

  Belinus and Trystan rammed Catrin through the masses to the front of the elevated thrones where her parents were seated. King Amren appeared calm, the gold torc around his thick neck reflecting his status and wealth. Sitting next to him was Queen Rhiannon elegantly attired in a burgundy dress and a black wolf pelt. The commoners usually held the king in reverence as a generous ruler who shared his plunder from rival kingdoms. Today, however, they were ready to riot.

  When her father rose from his throne, Catrin rushed up three stairs to the platform and into his arms. “Father, what is happening here?” she anxiously asked. “Did you know Marrock has returned with a Roman army?”

  She could smell her father’s musky scent as he hugged her. “I am aware of this. Don’t worry. Just stay close to me while I calm the situation down.”

  Catrin watched Mor climb the stairs to stand between her mother, still seated, and her other sister, standing erect. Staying at her father’s side, Catrin warily scanned the high-vaulted chamber to assess the assemblage. A caped Roman commander with a disfiguring facial scar and his soldiers stood at attention near the central hearth. Crammed near the entryway were the king’s warriors and commoners, squeezed in like fish caught in a net. Belinus and Trystan, both speakers of Latin, joined two Roman diplomats standing near the royal dais. The elder statesman reminded Catrin o
f a boxer with a thick neck, square jaw, and eagle-beaked nose. Next to him was a striking young Roman attired in a scarlet-edged, white toga. A few years older than her, the young man had short curly hair that gave him a boyish charm, but she could almost feel his licentious eyes wandering over her hips.

  No man from the village would dare look at her that way!

  A seething confusion boiled into her heart as she drank in the nobleman. The danger of galloping off a cliff now seemed tame. Her father also seemed to notice the Roman’s salacious mien. The young Roman, appearing aware of the king’s glower, turned to the elder statesman.

  King Amren then stepped away from Catrin to the front edge of the dais. He raised a hand for quiet. Silence fell over the chamber as he addressed the audience in Latin, a secondary language that Catrin could speak and read.

  “Welcome, Senator Lucius Antonius, noble descendant of the legendary Mark Antony. I recall our meeting as young men in Massilia, Gaul, where I was educated by your mentor. I assume the young man beside you is your son.”

  The revelation that her father knew the senator surprised Catrin. She could not keep her eyes off his imposing son as the senator introduced him in a commanding voice.

  “This is my youngest, Marcellus Antonius. He is training to be a diplomat and has journeyed with me to learn about your customs.”

  The young noble’s name resonated like a song in Catrin’s mind. Marcellus Antonius. He acknowledged with a nod, his eyes consuming her as they flamed in the torch light. She smiled shyly into his fiery grin. Heat flushed over her face as she looked again to her father, now presenting the queen.

  “Beside me is my beloved wife, Rhiannon. As queen, she stands as my equal.”

  Catrin noted the senator’s dismissive sneer while Marcellus leaned forward with interest. Her father then proudly introduced Vala, dressed as a warrior in a chain mail shirt, gray trousers, and variegated cape.

  “This is my eldest, Vala. As you can see …” —the king rubbed his lips, as if trying to restrain a chuckle— “she took height away from her younger sisters to see eye-to-eye with any opponent.”

  Catrin smirked, knowing Vala had soundly defeated every one of her challengers in single combat.

  The king gestured toward Mor. “Next to Vala is my middle daughter, Mor. She is a mirror image of my queen at a younger age.”

  Unlike Vala, Mor wore leather chest armor over a knee-high tunic and piqued the interest of many men in the kingdom. The king had recently negotiated a dowry for her to marry the son of the rival Catuvellauni king. Only Catrin knew Belinus was Mor’s true love.

  Lastly, King Amren affectionately wrapped his arm around Catrin. “This is my youngest daughter—the runt of the litter. Like me, she has bandy legs. Perchance …”—he peered at her trousers—“that is why her breeches are torn.”

  Hot sweat flooded all over Catrin’s face as she squirmed under her father’s comment. She glanced at the big rip in her plaid trousers and looked up to find Marcellus grinning with amusement. At that instant, she wanted to hide in a cave and disappear into its walls.

  The king continued jesting, “Don’t let size fool you. Catrin is the bravest of my daughters. She is—”

  Senator Lucius Antonius interrupted. “What of your son?”

  “My son?”

  “Marrock.”

  Catrin could feel her insides tumble when she observed her father’s smile sour. The chamber stilled like a moonless night before a tempest. She again pondered why Marrock had returned, another harbinger of potential conflict.

  King Amren finally proclaimed, “Marrock is no son of mine! I renounced and banished him almost seven years ago for his treacherous acts.”

  The senator remained adamant. “Rome only recognizes the birthright of your eldest male heir, not the queen or your daughters.”

  “Marrock!” Amren growled with contempt. “Why would Rome support him?”

  “Cunobelin, the king of the Catuvellauni, claims your son is the rightful heir.”

  The senator’s disclosure shocked Catrin; she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Even though her father and Cunobelin had been bitter rivals, they had recently forged a truce. Obviously, Cunobeline had offered her father a hand of friendship while stabbing him in the back by championing Marrock’s claims. She seethed. This is brazen betrayal. Marrock cannot become king! He will destroy everyone in my family!

  When Catrin’s noticed her father’s clenched jaw, she assumed that he had also reached the same conclusion. She had seldom seen him lose control of his steel-edged demeanor, but his face blazed like molten metal. A battle-hardened warrior, he might lash out. Her mother must have also seen this, because she rose to calm him with a soft touch. It seemed to work, as her father appeared to relax, his face returning to normal color. He looked at the senator and said in a more tempered voice, “How did you hear of Marrock’s claims?”

  The senator pulled at his toga. “From the mouth of the Catuvellauni king himself in Rome. Last fall, he presented your son’s case to Emperor Tiberius.”

  Every new disclosure by the senator grated on Catrin; nothing made sense. Why would the mighty emperor support her half-brother’s claim to the throne if he had seen his monstrous face?

  She then overheard her father grumble in Celtic, “Cunobelin, that treacherous dog.” Her mother again nudged him and shook her head. This time, the king made no attempt to hide his rage.

  “Why should Cunobelin’s support for Marrock matter to Rome? This is a local tribal issue that has no impact on the empire. For that matter, neither does it affect the Catuvellauni.”

  “I beg to differ,” the senator replied. “Cunobelin accuses you of blocking Roman merchants from traveling through your kingdom to trade with the Catuvellauni. Marrock promises to open trade ways through your territory.”

  “Where is Marrock now?”

  “Under the protection of the Catuvellauni. Marrock is married to Cunobelin’s eldest daughter.”

  Shocked, Catrin gaped at the senator. How could Marrock have gained so much influence with Cunobelin without her family knowing? With the tensions escalating in the chamber, she intently studied each person’s stance and reactions as the bitter discourse continued.

  The king jabbed a finger at his own chest so hard that Catrin feared he would break a rib. His voice rose like a thunderstorm as he said, “Cunobelin should have consulted me before giving Marrock safe harbor. Rome should only deal with me about issues in my territory. Our treaty with Rome is separate from the Catuvellauni. Again, what does Rome hope to gain by declaring its support for Marrock?”

  The senator matched the king’s fervor. “Marrock promises to recompense sums still owed Rome from treaties bartered by your forefathers and Julius Caesar, almost eighty years ago. He also agrees to pay additional tribute in exchange for favorable trading and peace with Rome.”

  “What tribute?” Amren asked incredulously. “We have always met our obligations.”

  Each of the senator’s demands now rumbled through the chamber: “One thousand gold coins; fifty horsemen to serve in the empire’s auxiliary; one hundred slaves, including captured warriors to fight as gladiators.”

  “We never agreed to these in our treaties with Rome,” Amren said through gritted teeth. “How can you expect us to supply you with gladiators when our kingdom is at peace?”

  Trystan interrupted and shouted in Celtic to the crowd in the rear, “That slimy leach, Cunobelin, has turned on us. He demands that Marrock be declared heir to the Cantiaci throne. The next rightful heir is Queen Rhiannon, not that child murderer, rapist, and traitor! Rome wants our warriors to die in their legions ... or be sold as gladiators.”

  From the back of the hall came a staccato of cries. “Never … never … never!”

  Of all the people in the room, Catrin had the most compelling reason to hate Marrock for what he had
done to her, for abandoning her as a child to die in the forest. Nonetheless, Trystan’s inciting outburst was both reckless and stupid. Even worse, it was open defiance to the king. She looked to her father, expecting him to take control of the situation.

  King Amren roared, “Quiet! Let me deal with the Romans.”

  Trystan stomped closer to the platform. “My Lord Amren, I refuse to bow to this Roman boar’s demands. Every warrior has sworn to cut off Marrock’s balls!”

  “Stand down, Trystan,” the king ordered. “You forget your place! I negotiate for my people.”

  Trystan scowled and reluctantly stepped back.

  Catrin shifted her attention to the senator, whose eyes flitted between Trystan and the king. The elder statesman finally asked, “What did your guard say?”

  “The truth,” Amren answered in Latin. “Cunobelin intends to steal our lands through treachery and deception. He has negotiated from both sides of his face. He promised to forge an alliance with me through the marriage of my daughter to his son. Yet today, I’ve learned he has already married his daughter to Marrock, and behind my back has crawled to Rome pleading for support of Marrock’s treacherous claims. How can I trust Cunobelin? He threatens to tear my kingdom apart by using Rome to secure Marrock as the next king. Now you make new demands for tribute. My people will never accept this!”

  The senator fidgeted with his unraveling toga. “Remember, Rome’s reach extends far into Britannia. A cohort of expeditionary forces is now ashore to make sure you meet all the emperor’s demands. You must bend to Rome’s rule if you want favorable position as our client king.”

  The king roared, “Not if Rome chooses the wrong side!”

  When Belinus suddenly pulled a knife and pressed the blade against Marcellus’ throat, Catrin’s heart seized. The young Roman gasped as the blade cut into his throat and blood seeped from the wound. Trystan then clutched the senator by his toga. The fear-stricken statesman cried out, “Amren, remember your pledge. No harm must befall me or my son.”

  Catrin glanced all around. The loud clamor of shuffling feet and clanking swords rumbled throughout the room as both sides became restless. Warriors, appearing incited by the reckless actions of Trystan and Belinus, encircled the Roman soldiers. Amidst the commotion, Catrin could hear her rapid heartbeat in her ears. When she looked at Marcellus, he appeared deadly calm, even with a knife to his throat, as he rasped, “Easy, let us not get excited.”