“It is Rome that darkens your past, isn’t it?” Breogan asked at length. Milla started to sob again while Cartimandua held her close and whispered into her ear that everything would be alright.
“The Romans murdered our people,” Alaric said. All eyes turned to him, Milla shaking her head, but the boy was tired of keeping their past a secret. “We are of the Marsi; a tribe that was butchered by the legions eight years ago. My mother is Milla, wife of the war chief, Barholden. We are all that is left of our people.” Milla placed her hand over her eyes, a host of painful memories overwhelming her. Breogan turned to face the lad. Alaric was fast becoming a man and was but a few inches shorter than he.
“But you are not the last of your people,” the king replied. “Mallovendus, who I assume is your uncle, has ruled the remnants of the Marsi ever since the end of the wars between Arminius and Rome.”
“He is my husband’s brother,” Milla said, desperately trying to regain her composure. She sat upright, Cartimandua keeping her hands on her shoulders. Milla then recounted her and Alaric fleeing their village when it was destroyed by the legions. She recalled in brutal detail the savage beating her father took at the hands of a legionary before he was slain; how her sister was stabbed in the back trying to flee, and her newborn niece drowning in the river. The Romans had been particularly cruel to the women, smashing many to death with rocks and clubs rather than granting them the quick death rendered by the gladius.
“Many tribes paid a terrible price during the wars,” Breogan said when Milla had finished.
“I never heard what had happened after we fled,” Milla replied. “I only wished to get my son as far away from that scene of death as I could. That is why I came here. The ocean stands between your people and Rome; and yet they still come.”
“Traders, not legionaries,” Cartimandua said reassuringly. Milla shook her head.
“A Roman is a Roman,” she asserted, “and my fear is that they will find too much to their liking here; for if they do the legions will follow.” Breogan dropped to a knee and took one of Milla’s hands in his own.
“I must beg for your forgiveness, my dear,” he pleaded. Cartimandua closed her eyes, for she knew what her father would say. “It is I who brought the Romans into my lands. We have had a trade agreement with them for years, as have many of the kingdoms of this isle. Many of the statues and décor you see in my city come from Rome; we trade goods and luxuries with them for tin, which this island has much of.” Milla lowered her eyes, though she did not pull her hand away. In truth she did not know what Roman art or architecture looked like. She had never even seen a Roman until they came to murder her people.
“I know nothing of the Romans except the horrors they brought to my people,” Milla replied. “They murder entire nations and dare to call it peace!”
“I wish to know more of the Romans,” Alaric said. “If they do come to this land, then I should like to be ready for them.” Breogan looked back at him and nodded as Milla lowered her head. Alaric knelt before his mother and took her other hand.
“Your mother’s heart breaks at you leaving,” Cartimandua observed as she and Alaric walked through the woods that evening.
“Have you ever seen Rome?” Alaric asked, stepping over a fallen log.
“Once, a long time ago. When my grandfather was still king of the Brigantes he was a guest of the Emperor Tiberius, soon after his assumption of power. Germanicus was making ready to invade Germania and the Emperor wanted the reassurance of any allies or trading partners on the island that the tribes of Britain would stay out of the war.”
“So your grandfather allied himself to Rome while my people were murdered,” Alaric said quietly.
“It was not for us to pass judgment in the conflict between Rome and the tribes of Germania,” Cartimandua replied sternly. “Rome was already a strong trading partner and our people had flourished because of it.”
“You intend to remain allied to Rome when you succeed your father, don’t you?” Alaric stated rather than asked. Cartimandua folded her arms across her chest and breathed in deeply through her nose before giving a curt response.
“Yes. Remember little brother; it is a brutal world that you are stepping back into. I am not unsympathetic to what happened to you and your mother. However, if I am to spare my people the same fate, the last thing I should do is antagonize the Empire that has been a valuable partner to my father and me.
“Your mother was right about one thing; Rome will come. Perhaps it will happen in our lifetime, perhaps not. The Emperor Tiberius has no ambition to expand the Empire further, but what’s to say his successors will feel the same way? The whole of this island is volatile, with tribes constantly at war with each other. The Iceni are particularly troublesome. I daresay a Roman invasion would be a blessing!” Alaric was appalled by what he heard, but still he listened.
“Your Highness,” the shipmaster said, surprised as he was to see King Breogan at his dock. “What pleasure brings you here?”
“A favor to ask, old friend,” the king replied, his hand on Alaric’s shoulder.
“Ah, and who do we have here?” the shipmaster asked, appraising the lad. Alaric was well-built for his age and gave the appearance being older than he was.
“This is the son of a close friend,” Breogan explained. “He seeks passage to Rome.”
“I’m willing to work, sir,” Alaric spoke up. “I will earn my way, I promise you.” The shipmaster looked him over once more and shrugged.
“I’m sure I can find work for you as an oarsman,” he consented. “It’s hard and tedious; but it pays a fair wage. We sail tomorrow at first tide. We have a number of ports to call upon before we head to Rome, though. We have a tin delivery to make to Burdigala in Gaul, where we will pick up wine to deliver to Brigantium in Hispania. After that it’s a long ways to Ostia with a shipment of gold.”
“I promise to serve you well,” Alaric replied confidently.
The next morning as he sat working his oar he gazed out the small portside window and thought about his coming journey. Indeed there was little to do but think when an oarsman on a ship. Gaul, Hispania, possibly Corsica; all places he had never seen. From the sketching Cartimandua had shown him these lands were vast. And yet they were but a fraction of the Empire that was Rome. He knew not why he had to see the Imperial city; he felt as if there was an underlying force that was drawing him east.
The light had gone out of Tiberius’ life. His son was dead. As if the gods were mocking him, they had taken from him the last person he truly loved. First it had been his father, then his brother, after that his beloved Vipsania, and now his only son. At thirty-six years of age, Julius Caesar Drusus had been relatively young, yet he had been ill for some time, the result of too much drinking no doubt. His closest friend, Herod Agrippa, was tormented by guilt, having felt responsible for his demise. Tiberius had consoled the Jew, telling him that his son had made his own choices in life, and that he had to bear the responsibilities for them. While Herod appreciated the Emperor’s vindication, he still felt the guilt that always afflicted those who lost a friend and brother. Always would he wonder if he could have somehow saved Drusus?