Free Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 10] Roman Hawk by Griff Hosker

inspection Trygg was giving him. “Tell him that the sword belongs to my family and is a sword sacred to the Brigante tribe. It is the Sword of Cartimandua.” He paused as she translated.  As soon as she stopped speaking he began again.  “Tell him I will happily fight him for the right to bear the weapon.” She looked at Marcus and shook her head. “Tell him!”
    When she told him Marcus noticed that the chief nodded, as though to himself, whilst his men burst out laughing and began jeering the Roman. Trygg allowed it for a few moments and then held up his hands for silence.  He spoke again.
    “The chief says that he had the measure of you when he captured you.  You are a brave man and a worthy warrior, as would any man would be, who wielded such a weapon. He asks why he should fight you for it when he already owns it and you, a slave, can own nothing.” The men began cheering and banging their beakers on the table. Trygg smiled at his men and sheathed the sword before he continued. “Besides he would gain no honour from killing a slave.”
    He spoke again as Marcus reddened. The female slave spoke quietly to the decurion as though to calm him. “The king asks which part of Britannia does the sword come from?”
    Sighing Marcus began. “The sword comes from the land south of the Dunum, close to my home. I hold the sword thought my father and my mother who is a descendant of the last Queen of the Brigante, Cartimandua.”
    When the girl had finished translating the King spoke with those around him. They kept looking at Marcus and pointing. The decurion did not enjoy the examination. He knew that they were impressed, both with the sword and Marcus’ lineage. The chief spoke again to the slave.
    The girl stood and Marcus felt himself jerked to his feet.  The girl took his arm and said quietly, “We are dismissed.  We can talk in the hall.”
    Marcus was torn between trying to invoke a confrontation and talking to the girl about their predicament.  The Metellus side of his mind overcame the Macro side and he nodded.  They left to the jeers of the warriors who continued their feasting. It had become very dark and very cold during the interview in the hall and Marcus could feel himself shivering.  The girl did not seem to mind the cold and he wondered how she had come to be there. The guards on the door did not enter the hall and merely dropped the bar on the door as they entered.  One of Marcus’ questions was answered; he would be locked in and guarded each night but at least he would not be shackled.  If he could discover a way out of the hall then escape was possible..
    The girl led him to a corner of the hall where there was a bearskin and she sat down.  “Sit here Decurion.”
    “What is your name and how came you here?”
    “First I will get you some warm milk for you are cold.”
    She rose to go to the pan which was laid by the fire. “I am all right.  I do not need it.”
    “But I need you to be well for as long as you are alive my life is better.” Enigmatically she walked over to the pan leaving Marcus wondering at her words.  Her face looked young but her actions and her words seemed like those of a grown woman.  The Parcae had woven a serious web around Marcus this time. When she returned with the beaker she watched as he drank it all down.  It tasted good to Marcus and he recognised honey as well as some other indistinct taste. If he had been offered a drink in Britannia by some strange girl he would have refused fearing poison but, somehow, the girl seemed to inspire confidence.
    She inspected the beaker when he had drunk and then said.  “Good.  For you must not become ill.  My name is Frann. I know you, for my home was on the road from Morbium to Eboracum and I saw you and your men as you patrolled the road. I recognised the Sword of Cartimandua when the chief brandished it.  I was captured in a raid five summers ago when I had seen but ten springs. My father spoke well of