Upon Marcia’s further insistence, he told her all about his first year as an auxiliary infantryman, and how at the Battle of Braduhenna, he and about thirty other troopers were separated from their unit and, by chance, ended up fighting alongside Artorius and his legionaries, on the extreme right of the entire army.
“We were both badly wounded that day,” he explained. “Honestly, I don’t know how it is either of us survived. The war against the Frisians ended soon after and, while convalescing, I was able to finally meet Artorius in person and tell him who I was.”
“And he believed you?”
“According to him, my resemblance to my father is uncanny. Several years later I met my grandfather, and he said the same. At the time, however, I knew I needed something I could show him. What I had were a series of letters he had written to my father, when Artorius was a young boy and my father was a soldier in the legions. My mother never got rid of them, perhaps she knew that someday I would have to find my uncle and claim what was rightfully mine.”
They continued to walk in silence for a few minutes as Marcia tried to take in all that he had said. It was a clear night, and the crescent moon glowed off the water as the waves lapped gently over the sand. Metellus was momentarily startled when he felt her reach over and take his hand.
“And now you’re a centurion in the legions!” Marcia noted respectfully. “A pity we could not have met much sooner.”
“There is time,” Metellus said. “I have another three weeks left on my leave before I have to start my journey back to the Rhine.”
“Then we’d best make the most of it,” Marcia replied with a smile. This walk with the young centurion seemed to be exactly what her wounded soul needed. Since she was a young girl she had longed to find the man she thought was her father. Finding that he was not had shattered her hopes, and yet now she dared to think that perhaps events were transpiring as they were meant to.
Guide me, mother, she thought wordlessly to herself.
Chapter Endnotes:
1 — Bordeaux, France
2 — Silchester, England
3 — The Brigante Kingdom covered much of what is now Northern England, as well as portions of the Midlands. Their capitol was in what is now Yorkshire. A tribe of the same name also controlled several counties in Ireland, though if these were the same people is unknown.
4 — English East Midlands
Chapter VI: A King in Exile
The Imperial Palace, Rome
July, 41 A.D.
It had been twenty-six years since Verica had succeeded his elder brother as king of the Atrebates. They were but one tribal kingdom among the many that inhabited the Isle of Britannia. Originally of Gallic and Belgic origin, they were a conglomeration of various peoples who came to be ruled by the kings of Atrebas. One of the smaller kingdoms on the isle, their far more powerful neighbors constantly pressed their borders. Verica’s twenty-five year reign had been one of near constant turmoil, until finally Caratacus decided to do away with his kingdom altogether and annex the lands as his own in a short but brutal war of conquest.
Though the king and a small escort had been saved from capture by a Roman warship, they had not been allowed to see the emperor after their arrival. At the time, Caligula was making a spectacle about his pending invasion of Britannia, and so he felt he had no need to deal with those who could not even hold onto their lands in the face of barbarian invaders. As such, Verica and Cogidubnus had remained just outside the city, in the area known as Campus Martius, or Field of Mars. It was populated mostly by foreign dignitaries and hosts of those waiting to get into the city proper. Their stay was comfortable enough, and they were put up in a block of rooms near the Baths of Agrippa. Both the king and the few warriors who accompanied him were in awe at the sight of the imperial city. The tents, small cottages, and even the great meeting halls of the Britannic kings were but humble shanties of squalor when compared to the massive and ornate structures that dotted the Roman landscape.
Now, after a year in exile and seven months following the assassination of Gaius Caligula and the rise of Claudius, Verica was at last summoned to the imperial palace. The elderly Briton was helped by his young great-nephew as they were escorted up the steps by several squads of praetorian guardsmen. The massive city was worlds apart from where Verica had come. He stood for a moment in awe of the massive stone pillars and gigantic statues portraying men and deities; seeing them up close for the first time.
“These men will restore us to our rightful place,” he asserted, as he looked over at his nephew, Cogidubnus.
“A bitter irony that we must first subjugate ourselves to a foreign emperor,” the young man said, for what must have been the hundredth time since they began their journey several months before. “I petitioned them for assistance when no others would come.”
“And what would you call Caratacus and the Catuvellauni?” Verica retorted. “Are they not a foreign people who now occupy our kingdom? We have not the size or strength to resist them like the Brigantes, who sat idle while our people were slaughtered and enslaved. Caratacus sacked our capitol and sits in my great hall, provided he has not burned it to the ground. We may share similar ancestry and religion, but he is just as much a foreigner to us as Emperor Claudius of the Romans.”
As the two men conversed, a tall, bald Roman in a resplendent toga, accented with a narrow purple stripe, descended the steps to greet them. He was well built with a prominent nose, and he carried a small ornate baton in his right hand.
“King Verica,” he said, “I am Aulus Nautius Cursor, Tribune of the Plebs. On behalf of the people of Rome, I welcome you.” He then placed his hand over his heart and gave a short bow of respect. “I am to escort you to the emperor, who is most anxious to meet you.”
“And I him,” Verica replied. “I am glad he is a more receptive host than his predecessor was.”
With the decades of trade between their nations, plus status as a Roman ally, the king had learned to speak Latin at a very young age. As he had elected to dress in Roman garb, while cropping his hair shorter than usual and shaving so as not to stand out as conspicuously, the trace of foreign accent was the only thing that betrayed Verica’s origins. Cursor’s mouth twitched knowingly at the king’s last remark, though he held his tongue. He waved his hand towards the entrance of the palace and guided the men up the long steps.
With Metellus’ leave at an end, he would be making his way back to the Rhine soon. However, he would not be traveling alone. Though his union with Marcia may have felt a bit rushed, Artorius was by no means disappointed. It proved to be a rather small gathering, as Marcia only had a handful of friends, and all of Metellus’ companions were with the legions in Germania.
“A pity my father isn’t here to see this,” Artorius said quietly as he took Diana’s hand. “Given the kindness he and Juliana showed Camilla at the end of her short life, how fitting that her daughter now joins our house.”
“Those who we love never really leave us,” Diana replied, squeezing her husband’s hand in emphasis.
Marcia was practically beaming in her radiant white gown and floral crown. Metellus had elected to wear his uniform, minus the helmet. His armor was highly polished, as were the phalerae discs that adorned his chest. The priest bound their hands together and recited a few prayers for long life, happiness, and fertility. As he finished, Metellus and Marcia spoke their very brief vows as they became husband and wife. As they slowly walked through the small number of guests, Marcia released her husband’s hand and embraced Artorius.