B. Alexander Howerton (7 page)

I cannot believe it.  Here I am, far away from my homeland,
making a new life for myself.  I, Thalastrel, from Tyre, have traveled the
breadth of the Mediterranean Sea, brought under the controlling yoke of the
great Roman Empire, and have arrived here, in Britain, at the farthest outpost
of civilization.

I have set up shop here in Camulodunum, a trading post
pretending to be a city here near the southeast coast of Britain.  The Romans
have conquered this savage land only seventeen years hence, and still they only
really control this southeast corner.  They have made Camulodunum their
capital.  Farther afield the barbarian Celts still hold sway.

I will earn my fortune here, then return to Rome and reap
the benefits of full citizenship.  There is much trading to be done, and my
Tyrian upbringing prepares me well for taking advantage of the many
opportunities here.  I understand that the native population is fond of Roman
wine, and they will eagerly trade for it their abundant stores of gold, silver,
iron, and tin.  I can also make a good profit on hides, corn, and hunting
dogs.  I hear some unscrupulous traders deal in slaves, but that is a business
for which I have never had the stomach.  I can get rich enough on the other
goods.

I am proud of the shop I have set up here.  I am located on
the main thoroughfare of Camulodunum, and I can see the rising edifice of the
temple of the emperor Claudius from my open window.  He has crossed the river
Styx, and we are now ruled by that fool Nero, but they have not yet completed
Claudius’ temple.  It may be several years yet before they are finished.

Although I have only been here a short time, I have already
made some wonderful contacts with the townspeople and with the surrounding
natives.  The people of Britain in our vicinity are known as the Catavelaunii. 
They seem to have welcomed Roman rule, and are thriving under it.  Not so their
neighbors.  Other tribes of the Celts deeply resent the Roman presence, and
insurrection always seems to be fomenting just beneath the surface.  This
presents me with challenges, because they command rich resources.  I would very
much like to trade with them, but so far, they turn a deaf ear to my
entreaties.

The Catavelaunii with whom I have interacted have taught me
a great deal concerning the local customs.  One in particular has been
especially helpful.  Her name is Melinca, and she is a beautiful young girl of
about twenty or so.  She has rich, long dark hair and olive skin, rare among
her people.  She comes from a family which has relations in Iberia, and that
more southern climate has influenced her family’s appearance. 

She stands in rather sharp contrast to my ruddy appearance. 
I have a rare look for people of my race, due to a great intermingling of blood
in my family.  A legend in my family relates that I can trace my ancestry back
to the Admiral of the Greek fleet during the sack of Tyre by Alexander, but
that is unproven hearsay.  Most likely I am the product of many wandering
merchants in that great chaotic market known as Tyre.  I am the third son, and
my father had no legacy for me.  Therefore, I cast my fortunes with the Romans,
and intend to make my own fortune.

This girl Melinca is rather comely, and if I did not have my
sights set on a marriage to some woman of standing in Roman society, I could
quite easily make a wife of her.  She casts down her big, watery, dark eyes
every time we meet, in such a demure way as to make my heart flutter.  She
apparently has been designated as the primary liaison between me and her tribe,
delivering messages as to when and where to receive or deliver goods.  I must
say she is very good at it, although it still unsettles me to do business with
a woman.  It seems in Celtic society, however, women hold equal stature to men,
and can own land and engage in commerce.  Oh well, when in Britain, do as the
British do.

Melinca has provided me with a rather detailed sketch of the
race relations here in Britain.  It appears that the Iceni to the north chafe
under the yoke of Rome.  According to the girl, a great ruler of the Iceni,
named Prasutagus, died last year.  Apparently, the Romans, who held an uneasy
hand over these people, attempted to claim what they believed to be their right
to half the Iceni lands and wealth.  Their queen, Boudicca, the wife of
Prasutagus, protested.  The Romans dealt harshly with her.  They whipped her
publicly, right here in front of Claudius’ temple, and violated her daughters,
on the theory that no self-respecting native would want anything to do with
them thereafter.  This seems to have cowed the Iceni, but Melinca warns me that
this river of discontent has not yet run all the way to the sea. 

It seems that the Romans’ interactions with other tribes are
no better, especially the Brigantes to the north.  The new governor, Caius
Suetonius Paulinus, has seen fit to attempt to get matters in hand.  He has
embarked this spring to an island off the west coast of Britain where it is
reported that the ancient order of priests of these people, known as druids,
hold sacred rights, and even have a school.  Suetonius intends once and for all
to emasculate this troublesome sect of busybodies.  Well, he has his charge and
his responsibilities.  I just hope that his activities do not disrupt my trade.

What a lovely day!  Britain can be so gloomy, especially in
winter.  The skies are gray and cloudy, and this stuff called snow falls from
the sky.  It is cold, and wet, and simply must be endured.  Nothing like this
occurs in my native Tyre.  Yet now the trees bud, and the first flowers, which
the natives call crocuses, are pushing through the earth.  Soon the sowing will
begin, and a new crop will grow, which I can send off to Rome at a handsome
profit.  The birds are singing, the sun is shining, my heart is light.  What a
lovely day!

Here comes Melinca, most likely to transact some business. 
She is lovely, too, her long loose tunic flowing about her, her dark tresses
caught in the wind.  She sees me.  She smiles.  Look at how her mouth widens to
dominate her whole face, the way her nose wrinkles on the sides, how her eyes
disappear behind those luscious dark eyelashes.

“Greetings to you, Thalastrel.  All goes well?”

“Indeed, my lovely Melinca.  And with you?”

“Quite well, thank you.”  She speaks very good Latin, albeit
with a thick accent that only makes her more attractive.

“What news do you bring me today?”

“We have been trading with our neighbors, and can provide
you with a great shipment of gold and silver, both raw and refined into jewelry.”

“Splendid!  Splendid!  Come in, if you please, and we’ll
discuss terms over tea.”  This tea is a drink the natives make from pouring hot
water over herbs.  I must admit at first I was put off by it, but now I have
become quite fond of it.

She comes into my shop and sits at the small wooden table in
the back.  I put a pot of water on the warming charcoals and sit to speak with
her.

“You look lovely today.  Is that a fresh spring flower I see
in your hair?”

She blushes and demurely looks aside, but in such a fashion
as to enable me to better see the flower adorning her hair.

“You really are a beautiful creature, Melinca.”

“Thank you, Thalastrel.  My father sends greetings.”

“Deceanglo?  How is the old bear?”

“Well, thank you.  Now that winter’s chill is gone, he fares
much better.”

We pass the time with such small talk as I get up to finish
preparing the tea.  Then we sit down and talk business.  She enumerates to me,
besides the customary wine, those goods her tribe would most appreciate.  They
especially like fine wrought glassware, which is very rare in these parts.

“Come,” I say, “Let me show you a sample of the glasswork I
have just received from Corinth.”  I lead her to my storage shelves and present
to her an ornate glass goblet adorned with many colored pieces of glass.  It
catches the early morning sun coming in through my window and casts dazzling
reflections about the shop.

“It is beautiful,” she says admiringly, turning it over in
her hand., observing the craftsmanship.

I am standing very close to her.  Her head is just under
mine, the hair on the top of her head almost tickling my nose.  I inhale a deep
scent of the fresh young woman.  It has been a long time since I have been in
the company of a lady.  I slowly, carefully, reach out and cup my hands around
hers, which are still holding the glass goblet.  “Yes, you are very
beautiful.”  I lean down and alight my lips on her cheek.

She whips her head around to look at me.  There is confusion
and fear in her face, but she does not try to withdraw hers hands.  There is
also longing in her eyes.  I have seen it before.  She has had similar thoughts
concerning me.

We look deeply into each others’ eyes, then, inevitably,
compulsively, our lips are slowly drawn together in that universal language of
a kiss.  It does not matter how many times you have kissed women.  The first
time you meet the lips of a new woman, it sends fire up to the top of your head
and down your back to your toes.  I guide her hands to set the goblet back on
the shelf from whence it came, then I turn to give her a full embrace.  She
responds willingly, passionately.

It seems like delicious hours are floating by as we kiss in
the morning sun.  I do not know how long it has been before we realize there is
a commotion in the streets.  Melinca hears it first.  She abruptly pulls her
head back in an attitude of listening.  “There is trouble,” is all she says as
she pushes my arms from around her.  She hurriedly straightens her hair and
tunic, then rushes out into the street.  I follow, perplexed.

Many people, both Romans and natives, are rushing every
direction at once.  Cries of “They are coming!” and “Save yourselves!” and “We
are lost!”  can be heard in all directions.

“What is it?” I demand, grabbing at the sleeve of a running
native, jerking him to a stop.

“Queen Boudicca is coming with her warriors to sack the
town.  Quickly!  Flee!”  He tears himself loose and bolts away.

“Come!” I yell, reaching for Melinca as I rush toward the
unfinished temple of Claudius.  “From the steps of the temple we can see far
down the road in either direction.”  She willingly follows me.

We rush up the steps and follow the gaze of several
onlookers already gathered there.  Away on the north portion of the
arrow-straight Roman road we can see a vast dustcloud rising into the clear
morning sky.

“They have yoked their chariots,” a fellow Roman merchant
cries in horror.  “We are doomed!”

A century of Roman soldiers arrive at the foot of the stairs
from their camp east of town.  This is only a small retaining force of about
forty legionnaires, the others having gone on campaign with Suetonius.  He had
expected no trouble in the capital in his absence.  The centurion bellows to
the cringing crowd on the steps of the temple.

“As you can all plainly see, we shall soon be under attack. 
We have sent messengers to all the surrounding camps, but at the present, what
you see before you is the sum total of legionaries able to defend you.  I
hereby call on all able-bodied men to come to the defense of your city.  Go
now, quickly, to your dwellings, and gather whatever weapons you can.  Then
return with all haste here, to the temple, where we will mount our defense. 
Go!”

It is as if that last shout were a lightning bolt,
scattering the throng on the steps in all directions.  I turn and grab Melinca
by her shoulders.  “You must return to your people.  Hurry!”  I shove her, but
she grabs my arms.  Fear is etched in her face.  “I cannot.  My people are to
the north.  If that is the direction of Queen Boudicca’s attack, she has already
overrun my tribe.  There is no love lost between the Catavelaunii and the
Iceni.  I stay and fight with you.”

I begin to protest, but then I remember the strange customs
of these savages.  I remember hearing tales that the women fight alongside the
men, and they are all naked, except for a golden torc, as they call it, around
their necks.  Moreover, is not Queen Boudicca a woman?

“Come, quickly then.  I have many weapons for trade in my
shop.  We must gather as many as we can and return.”

We run to my shop and swiftly collect all kinds of swords
and shields and slings and other assorted weapons that natives have traded me
for various goods.  It is my duty to turn all of it over to the legion, for a
fair price, but I had not yet done so with my most recent trades.  We pile it
onto the small cart I use for transporting goods and rush as swiftly as
possible back to the temple. 

The centurion directs the disbursement among us of the
weapons, then barks rapid orders about how to prepare our defenses.  We intend
to make a last stand inside the temple, which is the sturdiest building in the
village.  As we rush up the stairs, we risk a glance to the north.  Horror
grips us as we realize we can now make out individuals in the approaching
horde.  The countenances we can make out are very grim;  I realize there will
be no quarter today.

We quickly enter the temple and follow the centurion’s
orders for our defense preparations. 

Then we wait.

It is horrible, the waiting.  Fear is growing in the pit of
my stomach.  I want to jump up and race about, screaming wildly.  I have no
goal in mind, just sheer panic.  Yet, I look at Melinca crouching beside me,
determination framing her features.  I steel myself, and continue to wait.

Then it begins.

First there is that awful noise.  The vanguard of the Iceni
are blowing upon what must be some sort of horn, extending far above their
heads, with the horrific faces of some animal demons making the mouth of the
windpipe.  I cover my ears to block the cacophony.