The Warrior’s Princess

A figure was standing about ten feet from her on the faded Aubusson carpet.

‘Eigon?’ she whispered. Her whole body went cold.

There was no mistaking her. The child was small, delicate, her wild dark hair tied into a bundle at the nape of her neck. She was wearing some sort of pale long tunic. There were silver bangles at her wrists. Jess stared at her. ‘You came. You heard Carmella –’ But the figure was fading before her eyes. She could see the carpet through the fine gauze of the dress, then the bed. Then she had gone.

‘Eigon?’ Jess called sharply. ‘Wait! I want to help you!’

She sat down on the low velvet chair beside the window and suddenly she was shaking. She had seen the child; made eye contact. Eigon had come to find her.

Jess eyed the door. She wanted Steph. She needed to talk to Steph, but to do that she would have to unlock the door.

Getting up she tiptoed across to it and put her ear to the heavy panelling. What the fuck was Dan doing, following her here? A wave of anger shot through her fear. Did he intend to try and intimidate her into silence? Or did he still intend to kill her?

She paced away from the door, shaking her head. That was idiotic. Of course he didn’t. He never had. That was sheer melodramatic nonsense. He had managed to scare her and she had overreacted. All she had to do was reassure him that she wasn’t going to tell anyone what he had done. After all, she wasn’t. Was she? She shivered suddenly. A cold breeze strayed in through the windows, stirring the heavy curtains.

There was a creak on the landing on the far side of the door. She froze. There was someone out there. Pressing her ear closer to the wood she listened intently. Silence. She sensed someone had paused outside the door. ‘Dan?’ She mouthed the word soundlessly. Slowly the handle began to turn. The door creaked slightly as it was pushed from the outside. The lock held firm and she heard a quiet chuckle. A man’s voice. Dan or Will? Did she even need to ask?

She hurried to the window and looked out. As she had thought, there was no way up to her room that way. The wall was high and there were no creepers or drainpipes on the outside. The lower part of the casement had an ornate wrought iron grille across it, more of a container for pots than a protection. There was no way anyone could get in from there. And no way of escape either.

11

Miserably Eigon hugged the pillow to her, muffling the sound of her tears. Outside she could hear the sounds of the big city all around her. The rattle of wagon wheels in the early morning light, the shouts of street vendors and in the distance the deeper throaty sound of a huge crowd gathering. It was a day of festival and triumph. The Emperor was to process through the streets of Rome to celebrate his successes. Behind him would follow symbols of his glorious victories, treasures of gold and jewellery, richly caparisoned horses, ornately collared hunting dogs, weapons and above all, his captives from Gaul and from Britannia, and most important of those was the captive king, her father, with his wife and daughter. The outer door of the prison clanged open and she heard the shouts of the men outside with a shudder. They were coming for them. Bringing chains to hammer onto their wrists and ankles. And after the procession, they would be dragged out into the sandy arena and killed. Her mother and father had tried to prevent her hearing their fate, but she had listened. She had crept closer and strained her ears to hear their whispered conversations. She had heard the guards talking, heard their cruel chuckles, seen their lascivious glances as they discussed how long it would take the beautiful wife of the British leader to die.

‘We are proud and we are royal,’ her father had told her again the night before. ‘We will go to our deaths, if that is what the gods have ordained, with dignity and courage. Think of your next life, my child. This is just one of many. Our pain will be quickly over and there will be many lifetimes for you again. He had pulled her close to him and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I shall be proud of you tomorrow, Eigon. You will hold your head high and you will show the people of Rome that we are not ignorant peasants as they believe. We are noble and educated and as good as they are. Better. They have lost touch with the gods of the land in their quest for conquest. This city may be vast, there may be hundreds of thousands of people here, but if their spirits languish and their souls are lost then they are nothing compared to us. Remember that, my daughter.’ He had glanced over her head at Cerys and smiled with sad resignation.

The sound of marching men rang through the stone walls and Eigon shrank further under her blanket. She heard the sharp bark of a command and the men came to a halt, the nails of their boots as they stamped to attention a crisp double report on the roadway somewhere nearby.

A shadow fell across the bed. ‘Eigon. It is time to get up.’ It was her mother. Cerys was pale, but resolute as she waited for Eigon to scramble miserably out of the bed. They had been brought fresh clothes. Cerys gave a wry smile. ‘The more glorious we look, the better it reflects upon the Emperor that he has defeated us,’ she said bitterly. ‘See, they have given us beautiful tunics and mantles and even bangles of gold. They are calling your father king.’

‘I don’t know how brave I can be, Mam,’ Eigon whispered as she pulled the tunic over her head. ‘I am trying very hard.’ She pulled the plaited girdle tight around her middle and held out her arms for her mantle. It was a smaller copy of her mother’s.

‘I know you are, sweetheart.’ Cerys pulled her close. ‘You will be a credit to us. Your father is certain of it.’ There was a shout outside. Somewhere a door banged. Eigon shrank closer to her mother. ‘Will it hurt? Being killed?’

Cerys shook her head firmly. ‘No. The gods will bring you strength and comfort.’

They brought the chains at the last moment. Manacles and neck rings like those of slaves. Then they were ushered outside to their places in the procession which was forming on the barracks parade ground. Eigon caught her breath and gripped her mother’s hand tightly. There was no sign of her father. There were hundreds of captives being ushered from the prison cells barefoot, emaciated, stinking from the filth of their imprisonment. Warriors. Farmers. Peasants who somehow had avoided being slaughtered, formed into ranks between the Roman guards who marshalled them into groups with swords and whips. There were noblemen from the tribes there too. Some smartly dressed like Eigon and Cerys. Others crippled with wounds or disease. All in chains. Somewhere at the front of the procession there were trumpeters, dignitaries in chariots, wagonloads of captured treasure, and interspersed with the prisoners were groups of horsemen and everywhere legionaries and auxiliaries of the Roman army. They heard the triumphant summons of the trumpet and knew the front of the long parade had started. It was a long time before it was their turn, walking hand in hand in their places as the procession wound its way through the baying crowds, towards the centre of Rome.

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