Retribution

Chapter One

The two men sat in the coracle watching their fishing lines as the breeze and current gently lifted them up and down in the water. The weather had been mild over the winter months and was once again kind as the day’s sun reflected glistening light off the shimmering water. They had become like brothers over the past three years, living and fighting together through victories and defeats against a common enemy, resisting the men intent on bringing about their destruction. Today however, wasn’t a day for fighting, setting out before dawn, they had wanted to get an early start knowing that the fish would bite and hoping their haul would be good. Six large fish already lay at the side of the small boat, eyes unseeing, waiting to be smoked later.

From a distance the small vessel was a mere speck on the water in the valley as it floated freely allowing the current to move it as was it’s want, this way and that, gently rising and falling. From the shore a war band of fifty warriors watched on, as their leaders fished, keeping guard and making sure they weren’t disturbed by unwelcome visitors. Caratacus wore a thin sleeveless green tunic with light woollen breeches; his dark blue and claret coloured woven cloak was folded over neatly in the base of the boat with his long sword at his side.

Gone was his long hair of a few years before, taken by the lime he had applied so often before going to war against the foreign aggressors. His head was now clean shaven and shone with perspiration and a close cropped beard covered his face. He gave his line a gentle tug, but there was nothing there. The skin over his muscled arms was quickly browning again in the early spring sunshine as he sat enjoying the warmth and the company of his close friend and companion, his cousin Ardwen. Blue Celtic swirls and patterns were tattooed on both men’s arms reaching up to their shoulders and necks as was the fashion for the warriors of Albion. Ardwen still had a full head of hair that reached down to his shoulders and beyond, he wore only his beige breeches; so warm was the weather. His other clothing had been thrown in a heap next to his cousin’s cloak.

“It’ll not last.” Ardwen announced, suddenly bringing Caratacus out of his day dream. He looked up at him knowing full well exactly what he meant.

“What won’t last? What are you talking about?” He asked.

“The peace,” Ardwen replied, “the peace won’t last,” He stared at Caratacus, “and you know it. We can sit here for weeks, a month maybe more but now the spring is here, they’ll come again.” Ardwen looked around at the water, “With winter over, our friends at Isca will be preparing to come and ruin our tranquillity once again it’s just a question of when.”

Caratacus looked back at the fishing lines, “I’m sure you’re right, I wonder who they will send against us this time, one thing’s certain, it won’t be the great General Vespasian. I heard that after he returned to Rome he retired from the military and went to the country to lick his wounds but was called back to the Senate where he now builds his career as a politician. They will have many more competent generals to send into the hills to die, maybe one commanding the Second Augusta, although after the mauling we gave them, some of their men will be hesitant.”

“I still can’t believe all the tribes in the east just rolled over and bent their knees, fucking cowards the lot of them.” Ardwen said hawking up phlegm and spitting it into the water, where it landed with a splash and then floated.

“Steady on, we don’t want the fish diseased through the scrapings of your nose eh?” Caratacus said. “I don’t want to find that in my food either, I wouldn’t be in any condition to fight if I ended up swallowing that thing.”

Ardwen smiled and looked to the tree covered shore. “Did you think they’d be here this long?” He asked.

Caratacus followed his gaze, “Albion? I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it too much. The tribes in the east seem to have allowed them to settle in, although we still hear reports of unrest from time to time. I think most of the chieftains are content to have a quiet life. Initially they were happy to take their gold and bribes but now they are the ones paying the price through taxes, slaves and having to give high quotas of their crops to feed the legions. I couldn’t have lived that way but I think some of the people were glad to see the back of us Catuvellauni to be honest.” He felt his line tug and go taught, he pulled quickly, smiling as he hauled in another thrashing fish. “I often think about Camoludunum and those we left behind. What must they think of us, of me for abandoning them?” He corrected himself.

Ardwen removed the hook and put the still struggling fish with the others. “You didn’t abandon anybody if you remember. You left so that you could continue to fight. Anyway they could have come with you if they’d wanted to but they chose to stay there, so fuck them.” He looked at the fish again as its struggle slowed and finally it stopped its mouth wide as if still searching for breath. “The place won’t look the same anyway now or the people. It will be full of square stone buildings and that temple to Claudius that we heard they were building. That tells you something about the man! He actually thinks he’s a God or something, just like the others before him.”

Caratacus put some more bait on his hook and threw the line back into the water. “He’s no God, that’s for sure. I’d like to see him take my sword through the stomach. That would prove he’s just a man. I’d thrust it in so far his ancestors would feel it. There wouldn’t be any divine intervention, just a dead fool.” He watched as Ardwen laughed and pulled in another fish.

“Thank you fish, I couldn’t go back with less of your friends than this fellow here.” He counted the catch, “That will do for today won’t it? There are enough juicy ones here for a feast tonight after we’ve given them a little smoking.”

Caratacus replied, “Yes I suppose your right.” Then he looked back at Ardwen.

“What is it?” Ardwen asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Do you remember some time ago, you said that I should give up my name because you thought it sounded too Roman?”

“Yes I do remember, and yes it does. I think your parents must have been too influenced by all the trade with Rome or something, maybe all that wine went to their heads, so what about it, what are you saying?” He asked.

“I think you were right. I don’t want to be known as Caratacus anymore, I want to cast it aside.” He looked to the shoreline where he could just about make out the war band baking in the sun. “When we get back to shore, my name will be Caradoc. That is the name of the man who will lead the fight for our people. Caratacus, we leave behind for the water to take.”

Ardwen smiled, “Good it’s about time as well.” He picked up an oar from the floor of the small boat, “Right then, Caradoc it is, come on,” he nodded at the other oar, “time to row. You may have changed your name but that doesn’t mean that you can just lounge about and let everyone else do all the hard work does it?”

They slowly made their way to the shore where they stepped out of the small boat and dragged it onto dry land. Ardwen handed the fish to one of the waiting men, who slid two thin sharpened wooden stakes through their heads and then strapped them to the side of his saddle for safe carriage back to the settlement. It would take a few hours to get back to the mountain hideout but the journey would be safe and uneventful. Although the Second Augusta had attempted to make a major incursion into their territory a few years before, they had not been seen since. Trapped and isolated, the men of Vespasian’s legion had sought refuge on a mountain top after their column was ambushed in the valleys below. The battle had raged on for days until the Twentieth Legion came to their aid and the Britons eventually withdrew. With a high casualty rate and men running out of ammunition for their bows, few javelins left and virtually no food, the Twentieth had arrived just in time as the Britons pushed for a complete and all out victory.

The Catuvellauni and the Silures had withdrawn from the region almost entirely initially but on seeing the Roman army retreat all the way back to Isca Dumnoniorium, they had returned and had now established full control of the mountains and valleys to the far west of the country. At Isca Dumnoniorium, the Second Augusta were replenished of the men killed or so badly wounded that they were retired from the army altogether. Legionaries were taken from other legions in Britannia and within a few months, they were back to full strength, five thousand men. With small revolts occurring in the south west, they were kept busy enough and had not yet returned to challenge Caradoc. After two years those rebelling against the occupation in their region were put down and a fragile peace began.

Work on the garrison at Isca Dumnoniorium had also continued and now where initially there had been a relatively small fort where soldiers had lived in tents, it had been replaced with wooden and concrete structures as more permanent buildings were erected. The new garrison town now dominated the land for miles around. A forty two acre site made Isca Dumnoniorium one of the largest Roman fortified installations in the country and slowly trade began to flourish. A permanent sea harbour had also been constructed a few miles from the garrison, where galleys and supply vessels could be seen off-loading supplies bound for the growing town and surrounding regions.

Relationships with the local people had also developed as they began to see some of the benefits from the occupying force but a few were still yet to be convinced that they could live with the men who had come from afar bringing with them traders and even civilian settlers. There were still problems however, and every once in a while a dispute would end in violence between the indigenous populations and the new arrivals, but overall, life was beginning to settle into a routine.

The same thing could be said of the mountainous region where Caradoc now found himself with the Silures. Tribes in the region had heard of his success against Vespasian’s legion and some had joined their growing number after they were given captured soldiers to use as slaves or as their people saw fit. Word had spread that the Roman’s had reached as far north as the southern lands of the Brigantes during the last campaigning season. Those who had not joined Caradoc now watched with interested eyes to see how this would affect him and his allies. If the rumours were true it meant that all those living in the west would effectively be cut off from the east and the north. If the abstainers chose to fight Caradoc knew full well that it could determine the overall outcome of the occupation. The question now however was on whose side would they fall if any. Consequently, he and Ardwen had spent a lot of time talking to the councils and elders of the other tribes, trying to win their swords in the event of a further Roman incursion.

Caradoc also knew that having eyes and ears in Roman occupied land was vital not only to their survival but also in order that he could plan a strategy of attack. His intelligence network had already outlined where they had built new forts and had constructed roads as they spread their boot prints over the country. Not long after he had arrived in the mountains, he had sent out spies to live and work the land near all Roman military encampments and settlements. Crofters, carpenters, shepherds, butchers and ironsmiths were now deeply in-bedded so that he had a good understanding of the enemy, what they were doing and most vitally, what their intentions were.

The lands to the south west had seen the occupiers build large stone buildings that he understood were called villas. These places were where important and influential Roman families lived, those who had followed their army intent on plunder and theft. Some were isolated and those that weren’t, only had small forts nearby for protection. Cavalry patrols monitored these areas, visiting these places fairly often but he knew they could not be at all places at all times. As they became more confident and assured of their safety, the villas began to spring up even further into the countryside, so the aid from the forts became less reliable and some were literally hours from help. Caradoc had asked his spies to provide him with drawn plans of these buildings and maps detailing their whereabouts. He had studied them carefully and knew they were tempting targets as he found various weak points. If he could attack and successfully destroy even a few of these places, other Romans would think twice before trying to settle there again and it would provoke their military into action, which is what he wanted.

The previous years had given him time to reflect on his defeats and he had come to realise that unless he had overwhelming numbers and even then, changed his tactics, it would be foolish to face them again as he had at the Medway and Thames, when they had first arrived. A better strategy was called for and a different way of thinking and striking terror into the hearts of those who had come to enslave the people of Albion.

With the war band mounted, they set off into the hills and rode towards one of their major settlements high in the hills, along narrow twisting paths and tracks.

“So what of Dumnoc?” Asked Ardwen. “Have you heard when he intends to attack the villa we discussed?”

“We’ll know soon enough but I’m sure it will be long after it’s actually happened and those who live there are all dead.” Caradoc answered as he swung his cloak over the rump of his horse. He had chosen his first target as autumn had begun the previous year. He had to temper the urge to attack as soon as he had identified a likely dwelling, and realised that waiting would be better and would cause more damage to the minds of others when it did occur. A slow trickle of attacks would soon turn into a tide; one that he hoped would force the intruders back. A high ranking civilian official was residing there with his family and slaves far to the south west of the country in the land of the Dumnonii. It was a large agricultural region and ran down to the toe of the map, south west of the River Exe. The Romans had already begun to become complacent as they constructed their fine buildings with pictures on the floors and walls as they settled further and further away from any military assistance.

Caradoc had been told that the occupiers intended to show the Britons that they were not the demons they had been described as and were willing to live amongst them with their families, side by side, working together, prospering. The civilian official who ‘owned’ this land was said to have come from Rome itself and was intent on constructing large vineyards on Dumnonii land, where the weather was warmer and the climate kinder. He lived there with his wife and three daughters, all thought to be under twelve years of age. The household consisted of ten slaves and fifty others who worked the land. They were overseen by what the Romans called freedmen. There were twelve all told and they wore swords at their sides but would be easily overcome by determined warrior’s intent on their destruction.

“That’s good, the sooner we start spreading the poison of terror into them the better.” Ardwen replied. “What will Dumnoc and his people do afterwards, come north?” He asked.

“I’ve told him to make sure they vanish back to their crofts and settlements and carry on as if nothing happened. They’ll wait until things are quiet and then strike again when the time is right. Three of the slaves at this particular villa have even said they want to help during the attack if they can, they want to join us; they will escort their families north afterwards.” Caradoc said.

“What of the Roman children?” Ardwen asked.

Caradoc looked at him with hard determined eyes, “I’ve told Dumnoc to take them if possible and have them brought here, they will make good slaves and their taking will horrify any other families who are trying to show that they are the same as us. If that is not possible, they are to have their throats cut and will burn with those who resist.”

“Is that wise? Ardwen asked. “They will want retribution.”

“Should we concern ourselves with what they want or what they may do? It is for us Ardwen to take retribution, they are the ones who betrayed us. Catuvellauni heads stare out at people on the outskirts of Camoludunum on poles as we speak. If we are afraid to attack these people because of what they may or may not do, we will never rid ourselves of them.” Caradoc replied. “We will attack them when we can, where we can and as often as we can and we will not concern ourselves with their thoughts except one, fear. We will make fear eat away at them, until it is the only thought they have until they are gone. Remember my friend, we did not start this war and it was not us who invaded their lands, butchered their people and broke treaties, stopping trade that had been carried out for generations. We just wanted to be left alone, to live in peace but they wanted more, they wanted it all, everything. They have brought this upon themselves and we must make sure our hearts are black when dealing with them, whoever they are, no matter how old.”

Ardwen pressed his lips together but did not answer or make another comment as they rode on. He knew Caradoc was right but wished things were different, they all did. By late afternoon they had reached the first roundhouse of the settlement as they emerged from the trees blanketing the valley they had climbed. Five dwellings were surrounded by twined fencing in a family group, beyond that was another and more as they rode on. There were many such ringed habitations sprawling along the valley, all linked by fencing and gates. Children ran out to greet them as dogs barked and wagged their tails excitedly as they saw the men approach.

Riding along the perimeter, Caradoc said, “We’ll have to start building a defensive wall around the outskirts of the settlement. I’m sure that once the Romans start to bleed again, they’ll come looking for those responsible and we have to be ready. I don’t want them walking straight in like they did at home.” As they entered the fence line through a large open gate, he jumped from his horse and handed the reins to a young man who came running forward. He led the horse to an area where others were corralled, chewing grass under the spring sunshine.

“We’ll make a start on the walls tomorrow.” Ardwen said. “We’ll build ramparts two men high, maybe three and as straight as we can, it will make them harder to climb.” He handed his horse to the young man. “It will also help keep that biting wind out in winter, although we’ll lose the view.” He nodded towards the valley laid out below them. Caradoc followed his gaze and looked down the tree line; it truly was a peaceful and beautiful place. Only the track disturbed the thick trees but it soon vanished below the green leaves as it wound its way snake like down the valley. It would be a difficult place to attack, with its natural defences of mountains and valleys but Caradoc knew the enemy were organised and determined, professional fighters. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance. “Make the walls three men high.” He said. Ardwen nodded.

They had discussed their plans at council meetings with the chieftains and elders and knew that they would have advanced warning of any future Roman intrusions into their territory. Men, women and children had already agreed to help build the walls that would surround the roundhouses as it was acknowledged that the way things were the enemy would simply walk straight in.

“Come, let’s get some of that brew you’re so fond of and relax while those fish smoke and become extra tasty.” He said to Ardwen. “Let’s talk of these problems no more for the day.”

Ardwen smiled, “Good idea.”

***

As darkness began to fall many miles to the south, Dumnoc was lying down under the cover of a large oak tree and watched as the slaves began returning to the villa, after their days toil in the fields. He counted them off as they trudged back after a day digging and tilling soil, preparing the ground for yet another row of young trees for their master’s vines. When the last of them was inside and the large gated doors were closed behind them, he nodded to Drustan, who turned and went to where the others waited.

Dumnoc had been watching the villa on and off for a few weeks, so carefree were the occupiers who lived there. They had never noticed the solitary figure who would ride past nor had they paid him any attention, he was just another traveller on the dusty roads in this rural area. They had no suspicion of his intentions. Over two years before, he and some of his war band had gradually travelled south and taken occupations in and around garrisons and marching forts, some even working for Roman families providing them with food or had trained them how to hunt in the land they had come to. Others became shepherds or tanners, smiths, anything so that they could blend in unseen. They, the Romans, had no clue that some of the men and women they believed to be of the Domnonii tribe were actually Catuvellauni intent on revenge.

From watching the villa he knew what time they awoke, where the slaves and the freedmen went during their daily routine, when they tended the small rows of trees or dug new land, where they worked and what time they returned to the villa late at night. He knew what resistance he could expect from those who resided inside and suspected which of the slaves he could trust and those that would help when the attack came. Some had been openly badly treated, beaten and even whipped while he watched on, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

He had waited a long time for this moment, this opportunity to take the lives of those who had more than likely celebrated when his people had died a few years before, and had looked on eagerly wanting to take their land. His own family, two sons and his wife, had been wiped out during the battle at the river Medway and now as he waited for complete darkness, he felt his heart begin to surge and slowly pound as blood coursed through his veins as his battle rage grew.

Smoke billowed out of the villa’s two chimneys and rose into the darkening sky as the occupants prepared fires to cook food after a hard day working, the slaves at least he thought. The compound was a large pale rectangle from this distance, with an open space in the centre. The slave’s quarters were to the south, adjoining them at a sharp right angle was another wall, behind which the horses were stabled. Attached to that block was another long straight wall that contained the gates and then came the part of the building where the occupiers lived with their household slaves in a small building beyond.

His mind showed him images of how the structure would look in the morning, burnt and ruined, with corpses lying outside, dark blood staining dead bodies. He felt no sympathy for what was to come or those whose lives he would take, just hatred, cold, black hatred, even the young would die if it came to that. He watched and waited until the last candle was extinguished from behind the window skins and then waited again. When after a while all was quiet, he searched the building with his eyes one final time to make sure no guards had been posted, there were none, how arrogant and at ease were these fools? He stood up, stretched his aching limbs and then joined his warriors beyond the bank, a short distance away where they waited.

“Is it time?” Drustan asked. Dumnoc placed a hand on his friends shoulder and smiled. “It is my friend.”

Some considerable miles further north-east at Isca Dumnoniorum, Centurion Varro secured his cloak with a brooch bearing the Second Augusta insignia engraved on it. It was usually positioned over his right shoulder when he was out in the field and held his deep red cloak in place away from his sword arm. Today it was above his sternum over the centre of his chest as he wasn’t expecting to fight within the heavily fortified garrison. He checked the leather laces of his boots, pulling them tight and then left his bunk. He was the officer of the watch and found himself once again going out to check the men who stood guard on the garrison’s walled perimeter. He would be glad when the campaigning season started again and he could leave the walls behind and the duties that he found himself performing. Like all other soldiers and officers, when they weren’t engaged in active duty, the routine of military life took over, guarding, maintaining equipment, drilling, training and more training. After a while it became monotonous but it was necessary as he well knew.

Consequently the winter months had brought nothing but training, hibernation and yet more training and he yearned to get back out into the fresh air on his horse and doing what he did best, scouting for information and intelligence. The repeated training although at times a chore, he knew was vitally important and believed that he was more competent with his spatha cavalry sword, than ever before. He had also practised for hours on end with heavy and light javelins and had extended his throwing distance by at least three paces. As a centurion, he could also choose other forms of training and had spent time with the archers and had now become quite proficient with the curved weapon that could kill from a distance. As a consequence he had ensured that all the men in his tent party were equally as good with a bow. He now felt better prepared for the months ahead, months that he would be spending with a relatively new scouting group.

The men that he had originally arrived in Britannia with a few years before, were all dead, they had been replaced by other members of the Second Augusta. He had mourned his comrades for some time especially Decimus, who had been killed at the hands of Brenna, a woman he had shared an intimate relationship and his heart with. He had not been able to avenge his friend’s death because of the circumstances at the time but he still felt an almost physical pain whenever his thoughts drifted to her image or that of Decimus. He had not seen anything of her since but had vowed that if the opportunity arose, he would kill her without hesitation for her betrayal.

He walked from the duty officer’s quarters and into the room where soldiers on standby rested, some were playing dice, others were talking quietly and some slept in double bunks lined against the walls. Those that were up and about wore their white tunics, their armour and weapons laid up near the door. They acknowledged him with a nod or “sir” as he went past. He fastened the chin straps on his helmet and walked out into the warm night air. Leaving the guardroom behind, he went directly to the nearest ladder to climb up onto the ramparts. At the top he felt a slight breeze and twenty paces away was legionary Marcus Pullo, standing looking out into the dark countryside. He heard Varro approach and turned saluting.

“Sir.” He said holding his pila straight as a sign of respect to his superior.

“Everything quiet?” He asked of the sentry.

“Like the grave sir, no-one has come in or out since I came on post and it’s dead out there as well.” Pullo nodded down to the gates and then looked beyond the garrison again.

“That’s good legionary Pullo believe me, better to be quiet and boring than to have a war band of hairy arsed barbarians trying to kill us eh?” He said in reply.

“Yes I suppose so sir but I wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement once in a while. I’ve been here six months now and the only Britons I’ve seen have been polite and courteous. It’s hard to believe all the stories we were told in training. Our centurion told us that he had served here since the invasion and had seen human sacrifices, Britons torturing captured soldiers, that they would throw themselves onto our shield walls without a care for their own safety and that they lived on butchered meat and milk. I haven’t seen any of that, just the opposite. They may be a little primitive but apart from that, they are no different than us in many ways.”

“Well Pullo,” Varro said, “I don’t know what you were told but I can assure you that things were different than this not too long ago and it could change just like that.” He snapped his fingers and went on. “When we first established the fort here Caratacus attacked and gave us a bloody nose. He sank a few vessels just there in the river,” he pointed to the water, “they hadn’t even been unloaded at the time and we ended up on rations for a while. If the first fort’s defences hadn’t been so good, they would have breached the walls and slaughtered us all. As it was the entire front line was virtually destroyed by fire.” He gazed out across the countryside. “Before that it was even worse, we had to fight for every piece of land, he and others like him are still there, waiting.”

Pullo raised an eyebrow, “How many of them were there then sir?” He asked.

Varro screwed up his nose thinking for a second, “That attacked Isca?”

Pullo nodded. “A few thousand,” Varro replied, “more than enough to destroy the first century that was sent out against them. The second one didn’t fare much better either, they were sent to help the first and had to retreat as they started to take arrows and were then set upon by the bastards that had wiped out the first century.”

Pullo looked down to the straight part of the water in the distance.” Hard to believe sir really, especially looking at the river now.”

Varro smiled thinking back to when he was little more than a recruit. “Don’t wish for too much excitement too soon Pullo because you may just get a bit more than you bargained for.”

Pullo looked back to his superior. “What’s it like though sir?” He cocked his head slightly. “I mean battle, when you have to kill for the first time? Did you just do it without thinking or did you hesitate?”

“It’s never easy and you can’t hesitate because if you do you’re likely to have your head removed or at best a limb. Hesitating is definitely not recommended especially when you’re so close that you can smell the stench of the enemy’s breath as they scream in your face, someone that is intending to kill you.” Varro replied.

“Tullus said that his first kill just wouldn’t die.” Pullo went on, “He said that he ended up hacking his head off just to make sure of the kill.” Pullo said.

“Tullus?” Varro replied. “That sounds Germanic.”

“It is,” said Pullo, “he’s the big German you must know him sir?”

Varro turned and began to walk away, “I don’t know every soldier in the Second. He’s probably just trying to scare the life out of you, don’t think about it.” He said.

“Remember, keep your shield tight and up high and your head low, so that you can just see through the gap between the shield and helmet. Thrust and stab out at them with your sword, don’t thrash, as you have been taught until they fall, you’ll be fine Pullo trust me.”

Pullo didn’t look convinced, “Thank you sir, I will.”

Varro smirked as he continued along the wall thinking about the first man he had killed in Gaul, it hadn’t been easy but he wasn’t going to tell Pullo that. He could remember every last detail of the encounter, the noise, the smell, the blood, even the man’s face as he had suddenly realised that he had been stabbed and was drawing his last breath. Killing was never easy, but a necessary fact of life in the legions sometimes. He checked the other sentries within his area of responsibility and began to make his way back down to the guard house located near the front gate.

“Rider’s approaching.” He heard Pullo shout from his position above. Varro didn’t think much of it and continued on his way. Visitors were always arriving at all hours, merchants, returning patrols even envoys from unknown tribes. The guards at the front would deal with whoever it was. It wasn’t unusual for people to come and go at all hours, especially at such a large garrison.

He had just removed his helmet when a soldier knocked on his bunk door. “Yes legionary,” he said turning, “what is it?” He asked.

“Sorry to disturb you sir but a group of riders have just arrived at the gate.” He reported standing to attention.

“What of it? What’s so special about them?” He asked perplexed.

“They’re Britons sir, about twenty of them.” The soldier replied.

“And?” Varro asked, beginning to feel himself get annoyed by the crumbs of information he was getting. He couldn’t keep going in and out every time someone came to the gate. The optio on duty out there was more than capable of dealing with visitors surely?

The soldier saw his frustration. “One of them asked for you sir, by name. She said you would know her.”

Varro frowned, “Come on man out with it, who is this mysterious Briton?”

“Brenna sir, she said her name was Brenna and that you would know her.” The soldier replied.

Varro felt rocked, dazed, as if the man’s words were blows.