said.
He must really be in trouble.
“Listen to me, Claudius,” Scipio said. “Borrus will bring the Trinovantes, who change sides daily according to who can make them the best deal, under the terms of the treaty. The lesser southern tribes will follow his lead, they always do. I cannot afford to say no. The winter has just begun. Who knows what our losses might be if we have to fight through it? Last year was a disaster. I don’t want to answer to Octavian for the loss of another five thousand men. He wants the tribes quiet and his troops here intact. This treaty will give us both.”
“What makes you think Borrus will abide by it? You just said he disregards whatever he has promised at will.”
“He has lost his son, and if we go through with this proposal his daughter, his only remaining child, will be in a position of jeopardy. What will happen to her if he flouts the terms of the agreement? Just the fact that he has suggested this marriage means, to my mind, that he is serious about peace.”
Claudius realized that Scipio was right, but the notion of the wedding was still anathema to him. “Are we Greeks now?” he said wearily to Scipio, shaking his head. “Do we take native wives in every new territory like Alexander?”
Scipio made a dismissive gesture. “The Celtic ceremony means something only to them. It’s just a formality which carries no weight under Roman law. The girl is more a hostage than a bride. Her fate will hang in the balance if Borrus doesn’t adhere to the terms of the treaty as well as deliver the other tribes as promised.”
“Then I take it the marriage will not be consummated?” Claudius asked warily.
Scipio spread his hands. “That will be up to you. If the girl is willing, why not take her? I’m certain she will be instructed to submit. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the women here are very beautiful, but they are likely to come to bed with a razor, so be careful.”
“When will this happen?” Claudius asked in a resigned tone.
“As soon as we can arrange it. Go back to your quarters and get your things together. After the marriage you will be moving to the Catalinus house your predecessor left vacant when he went back to Rome. We can’t have the princess camping out in the barracks.”
Claudius, still reeling from shock, did not see the humor in the last remark. He merely nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room.
“I won’t do it,” Bronwen said to her father, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“Yes, Bronwen, you will,” Borrus answered her firmly, his expression grim.
The king of the Iceni was a handsome man, his looks reflected in the comeliness of his two children. His hair, which had once been Bronwen’s golden red, had darkened with age to a gray tinged russet, and he displayed the full, bristling beard and moustache typical of the Celtic male. He was wearing the belted tunic and bracae , or trousers, that were almost the tribal uniform, and his features were set in a determined mold. He was tired of struggling against overwhelming and exhausting odds; he wanted the Romans eradicated for good, and now that his son was gone he felt he had nothing left to lose in pursuing that goal.
“Listen to me,” he said to Bronwen. “Your brother is dead. Do you want to take revenge on the people who killed him, the same people who have overrun our country for the last ten years and turned us all into little more than slaves?”
Bronwen was silent, staring sullenly at the earthen floor of her father’s house.
“Well?”
“I won’t let one of them touch me.”
“So your brother’s life counts for nothing?”
“Get someone else!”
“There is no one else. There is
He must really be in trouble.
“Listen to me, Claudius,” Scipio said. “Borrus will bring the Trinovantes, who change sides daily according to who can make them the best deal, under the terms of the treaty. The lesser southern tribes will follow his lead, they always do. I cannot afford to say no. The winter has just begun. Who knows what our losses might be if we have to fight through it? Last year was a disaster. I don’t want to answer to Octavian for the loss of another five thousand men. He wants the tribes quiet and his troops here intact. This treaty will give us both.”
“What makes you think Borrus will abide by it? You just said he disregards whatever he has promised at will.”
“He has lost his son, and if we go through with this proposal his daughter, his only remaining child, will be in a position of jeopardy. What will happen to her if he flouts the terms of the agreement? Just the fact that he has suggested this marriage means, to my mind, that he is serious about peace.”
Claudius realized that Scipio was right, but the notion of the wedding was still anathema to him. “Are we Greeks now?” he said wearily to Scipio, shaking his head. “Do we take native wives in every new territory like Alexander?”
Scipio made a dismissive gesture. “The Celtic ceremony means something only to them. It’s just a formality which carries no weight under Roman law. The girl is more a hostage than a bride. Her fate will hang in the balance if Borrus doesn’t adhere to the terms of the treaty as well as deliver the other tribes as promised.”
“Then I take it the marriage will not be consummated?” Claudius asked warily.
Scipio spread his hands. “That will be up to you. If the girl is willing, why not take her? I’m certain she will be instructed to submit. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the women here are very beautiful, but they are likely to come to bed with a razor, so be careful.”
“When will this happen?” Claudius asked in a resigned tone.
“As soon as we can arrange it. Go back to your quarters and get your things together. After the marriage you will be moving to the Catalinus house your predecessor left vacant when he went back to Rome. We can’t have the princess camping out in the barracks.”
Claudius, still reeling from shock, did not see the humor in the last remark. He merely nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room.
“I won’t do it,” Bronwen said to her father, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“Yes, Bronwen, you will,” Borrus answered her firmly, his expression grim.
The king of the Iceni was a handsome man, his looks reflected in the comeliness of his two children. His hair, which had once been Bronwen’s golden red, had darkened with age to a gray tinged russet, and he displayed the full, bristling beard and moustache typical of the Celtic male. He was wearing the belted tunic and bracae , or trousers, that were almost the tribal uniform, and his features were set in a determined mold. He was tired of struggling against overwhelming and exhausting odds; he wanted the Romans eradicated for good, and now that his son was gone he felt he had nothing left to lose in pursuing that goal.
“Listen to me,” he said to Bronwen. “Your brother is dead. Do you want to take revenge on the people who killed him, the same people who have overrun our country for the last ten years and turned us all into little more than slaves?”
Bronwen was silent, staring sullenly at the earthen floor of her father’s house.
“Well?”
“I won’t let one of them touch me.”
“So your brother’s life counts for nothing?”
“Get someone else!”
“There is no one else. There is
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