This is the first oneshot of a series that I've been wanting to write for quite some time. The oneshots will focus on various historic figures with geass and - later in the course of the story - on C.C.. Updates will come very unregularly. Please tell me what you think.
I never did, never will and do not own Code Geass.
The tribes of the Iceni, Trinovantes, Catuvellauni, Dobunni and Carnuti did exist, as did Mannuetios and Bodvocavaros, Cicero, Caesar (duh.), Trebonius, Quintus Cicero and Quintus Pedius, Iulia Caesar, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, Casca, Tillius Cimber, Brutus, Marcus Antonius, Cleopatra and Vercingetorix (note: yes, that's the Gallic guy from the Asterix comics). Dates are given in Roman republican style - that is, the ancient Roman calender and the years given by the names of the consuls of the year in the ablative, modern Britannian Imperial Calendar (ascensio thronum Britannicae, or a.t.b.) and normal AD/BC (CE/BCE is sort of nonsense considering that it uses the same date to relate to ...). Now, let the fun begin.
Through the Centuries
"The empire, long divided, must unite, long united, must divide. Thus it has always been."
– Luo Guanzhong: A Romance of Three Kingdoms
Eowyn and Caesar
Camulodunon, Land of the Trinovantes, Britannia
XVIII dies quintilii L Domitio Ap Claudio consulibus – 15th of July 1 a.t.b. – 54 BC
"One's still missing, am I right?"
Mannuetios, King of the Trinovantes, gave a disgusted chuckle. This was not due to Iameaya – he very much liked the young, beautiful ruler of the Iceni and there was a lot of trade between their peoples – but rather due to the one she had meant.
Eowyn, Lord of the Catuvellauni.
Once, during his father's time, Mannuetios' people had been great – had even taken tribute from its neighbours, the Catuvellauni, Iceni and Cantiaci. The Trinovantes' lands had reached as far as Londinos' temple.
But then had Eowyn, at the age of fifteen, killed his father and began ruling his people with the help of a powerful female druid – and after that it had gone from bad to worse. Quickly the Catuvellauni – once one of the more peaceful tribes of the isle – had become hostile, sought for direct confrontation. When Eowyn had annexed one of his precious tin mines near the border, Mannuetios had summoned his army and sought battle with the Catuvellauni.
It had been disastrous.
His men had fought valiantly, yet they were not up to the magic of Eowyn's druid: some had turned on their own allies in delusion during battle. Till they noticed what they were doing it was too late.
Thereafter the Catuvellauni had been predominant amongst all the tribes of Britannia.
Bodvocavaros, the elderly king of the Dobunni, scornfully wrinkled his nose at the mentioning of Eowyn. "I was against inviting him here from the beginning. Who knows what he'll do to us with his magic? Just look at him how he parades before us in his toga – that one will sell us to Caesar for a villa in Gallia before you can say knife!" He looked at Iameaya, who steadfastly countered his gaze. "And I'm quite sure he's not going to spare any of us."
It was an open secret that the young hotspur Eowyn had his eyes on the beautiful queen of the Iceni. What only few knew, however – possibly only a few intimates of Iameaya and Mannuetios himself – was that Iameaya returned these feelings.
It had been two years since the three tribal leaders had met in Eowyn's capital, Verlamion, to celebrate a feast in honour of the God of Thunder Taranis. Oh, it had been obvious: anyone could have seen it from the way they had looked at each other, how they had taken each other's hands during the ceremonies.
Iameaya again turned to Mannuetios. "Has he come at all?"
He nodded. "Eowyn's been in the town since yesterday. I sent a messenger for him."
Suddenly they heard voices from the house's front entrance, a horse's clip-clopping. Mannuetios frowned. "That will be he …"
The curtain serving as a door to the meeting hall was moved aside and a young man entered.
Old Bodvocavaros rose disgustedly upon seeing King Eowyn. "How dare you!"
First Mannuetios did not perceive the cause of the Dobunnus' agitation – Eowyn stood in the shadows. But then he slowly moved into their circle, into the shine of the fire: the blazing flames revealed a young, handsome man of perhaps 19 years with brownish-blonde hair and those hypnotic, oddly purple irides that granted him his charisma. But his chin was clean-shaven and he was dressed in a bright white tunic and a crimson cloak in the Roman style, his sandals were of the same style. And although his sword looked Gallic, even his dagger was Roman.
No wonder Bodvocavaros had been this agitated – in a summit such as this it bordered on open betrayal to dress like Eowyn.
Mannuetios rose. "What's the meaning of this, Eowyn?," he fiercely asked, his hand on his sword's hilt. "You already sold us to the Romans? I hope they paid you enough."
Yet Eowyn, arrogant and rude as ever, ignored them both. Instead he stood before the seat they had left free for him; casually resting his hand on his sword's pommel he granted Iameaya a coy smile. Even in the fire's faint light her blush was obvious. Only then Eowyn turned to them. "Sit down, Bodvocavaros. You as well, Mannuetios. I can't stand the two of you but I'm no traitor."
Reluctantly first Mannuetios, then Bodvocavaros complied to the request. Only now Eowyn sat down as well, casually leaned back in his seat and with his legs crossed, as the Romans did.
"So I guess you want to fight?," he then asked.
It was Iameaya to answer first. "That's why we met," she confirmed, "to plan our strategy."
Frustratedly Eowyn waved it aside. "Then it's hopeless." He rose. "Excuse me, then, friends, Britannians, countrymen, I shall then better bury my treasures somewhere …"
This time it was the Iceni to jump up. "Wait!," she called out, unwillingly reaching out for him. Mannuetios felt ardent jealousy growing in himself. It should be he she reached for.
It took her a moment to calm down again. "What … what do you propose, Eowyn?"
His eyes twinkled. Apparently that was the question he had waited for.
"If you desire to win …," he began, "if you desire to drive Caesar's eagles from our isle again …", he smirked, "then make me your leader."
If Mannuetios had believed that Eowyn's entrance had provoked a tumult, then now all hells were breaking loose. Now almost every single tribal lord was on his feet, yelling at Eowyn.
Only Iameaya and he were still seated – they knew Eowyn well, they had known something like this would happen.
Bodvocavaros however was, once again, disgusted at the prospect of making Eowyn his superior. "That is outrageous! The last humiliation indeed! My people, my Dobunni, have been independent and sovereign for eternal times, we have ruled the entire Cotswolds for a great many years! Never we bowed to some random guy, not to speak of a father-murdering brat as you …"
Mannuetios sighed, looked at Iameaya. She returned his gaze, firm and certain. Then he rose, interrupted the enangered lords.
"Shut up. Shut up, all of you, damn it! Let us hear what Eowyn has to say."
The Catuvellaunus glanced at him, and Mannuetios had to wonder whether he had really seen surprise, perhaps even gratitude, in Eowyn's eyes.
Unwillingly the kings awaited what he had to say.
"Listen to me, war chiefs, listen to me, O fair queen. For all of you know that Gaius Iulius Caesar, the man that has brought about the downfall of Gaul, has again dared to reach out for our beloved isle. All of you know that he has invaded the land of the Cantiaci with five entire legions and cavalry." He laughed. "And yet – I shall not propose to fight, no. Not as you plan to. Just what are you planning to do? Do you want to engage the Romans in battle? Don't make me laugh! Do not you know that in all the lands from the Channel to the Tyne there are not half as many people as in the city of Rome alone? Do not you know that Caesar advances 25,000 legionnaires and two thousand horsemen and that he can always ask for reinforcements from Gaul? You may pride yourselves on your aptness in combat with chariot and sword, but this way you cannot even slow a Roman army in its march."
Mannuetios ground his teeth in anger. As much as he loathed to admit it – Eowyn was right. To think they could be a match to Caesar was ridiculous – this time they could not fight him. But what else could they do?
"So then, what do you propose? Even should we be willing to grant you command for the time of this war we won't just buy a pig in a poke."
Eowyn smirked. Could it be that he had just waited for this question …?
"We shall use our greatest weapon to our advantage: our land, our blest Britannia. We shall not charge for their camps nor for their lines – we shall attack when they are vulnerable – we shall attack when they do not expect it. If we allow them to engage us in battle we have far more to lose – and we will lose. We shall take our blood toll as Caesar's legions march – we shall take fight when they scavenge, we shall fight when they march, we shall fight when they retreat. We shall fight for their supply lines, we shall fight for their ships and we shall one by one destroy them and – eventually, we shall win."
Perfectly calm Eowyn returned to his seat, resting his hand on the throne's back.
Again Mannuetios had to admit that the Catuvellaunus was right. He wondered if he could have thought of such a strategy – well, rather not. Mannuetios looked at Iameaya … her beautiful azure blue eyes were brightly shining and completely focused on Eowyn.
"Therefore," Eowyn concluded, "I give you a choice – subordinate yourselves to me and you will retain your land and your lives. If not … I will come to an arrangement with the Romans and you will be strangled beneath the Forum Romanum."
Finally he was silent, yet did not sit again.
Bodvocavaros snarled at him. "Why?," he asked, "Why should we trust you of all people? Just look at you! You dress like a Roman, walk like a Roman, speak like a Roman – and just like a Roman you desire our riches! Do you see a single lord in this round you did not affront, you did not war with? Do you see a single lord in this round whose men you did not drive mad and whose men you did not kill? That wicked creature that you are even killed its own father to gain power! – so, Eowyn, Prince of the Catuvellauni, tell us: what guarantee can you offer us? Why shouldn't you just stab us in the back?"
To everyone's surprise it was not Eowyn, but Iameaya to answer. "You just answered your own question, Bodvocavaros. He wants power – even if you don't trust him, it's just not in his interest to sell us out. What do you think can the Romans offer him if Britannia becomes just another province of the Senate and People of Rome, like Gaul? He cannot fight alone, not even he. And even if Catuvellauni and Iceni do battle together, the Romans will easily surpass us. We have to co-operate for once – live together or die alone, there is no other choice." She rose with ostentation, casually smoothed out a wrinkle in her dress with slender white hands, then she stood beside Eowyn. "I trust Eowyn. The Iceni shall fight at his side."
He appreciatively smiled and shortly took her hand.
Slowly Mannuetios rose and stood beside her.
That pulled the trigger: one by one the lords of the Britannic tribes joined Eowyn.
"By the Gods, long live Eowyn, Imperator Britannicae!"
Coast of Britannia
KAL septembri L Domitio Ap Claudio consulibus – 1st of September BC
C Iulius Caesar suo M Tullium Ciceronem salutat.
My friend, I thank you for your last letter. I do not know how much time passed since you sent it – the Senate's dispatch riders takes weeks for my reports from Gallia, and this unholy isle of Britannia is so much farther away from Rome.
The message of Iulia's death you sent me plunges me into deep grief. As you will surely know, she always was the cause of my heart's delight. With her death the Parcae forever extinguished the light of my world. Perhaps Time will heal my wounds – the rough coasts of Britannia will not, though maybe they shall give me satisfaction. I beg you to express Pompeius my sympathies as his – now former – father-in-law.
But I do not wish to bore you any longer with myself and my grief, O Marcus – you of all people know best that there are far greater men than me. As you know I currently stand in Britannia with the VI Ferrata, the VII Claudia, the Legio VIII, IX Hispana and the Legio XIII – the country, as mentioned above, is barren, cold and rough, the coasts steep, the native Celts more warlike than the Belgae and more savage than the Germans – although we are making good progress and are already more than 120 miles from our landing place my men are constantly attacked. The barbarians move swiftly and undetected in their woods, like wolves, and just like this they do attack – but more on that later. Be assured, Marcus, that I shall not omit the conquest of Britannia for the Republic in my Commentarii de Bello Gallico.
But now I shall amount to more severe matters. With my Iulia's death the fragile alliance binding me and Cn Pompeius is passée as well – yet on this alliance were based all my hopes to be able to fulfil my deepest desire: to strengthen our beloved Republic, the Senate and the People of Rome, to which both of us just as Pompeius have sacrificed all our lives. You know better than me that Pompeius is acting as though he were the master of The City. They say that he had a giant theatre built outside the sacred pomerium and that he has himself celebrated – just as if he had been granted a triumph! He, the amateurish ἰδιώτης that is of no use for anything but war, arrogates to be the master of the Republic!
I assure you, Marcus Cicero, that I, despite some ill-meaning rumours, do not have such desires and that I shall always support you against my former ally's oppression of the Senate.
Once again I thank you for your letter. No matter how distant Britannia and The City might be – this letter bears witness that the Roman imperium shall soon extend even to these savage lands. Concerning your brother Quintus he is not with me near the coast at the moment, but has asked to be sent out with an unit of scouts to be able to report of this country to you. However I am certain that he will soon be close to our landing place again.
Vale.
Land of the Cantiaci, Britannia
III dies septembri L Domitio Ap Claudio consulibus – 3rd of September 1 a.t.b. – 54 BC
"You see something?"
"Over there … two cohorts perhaps. That is … eight hundred men."
"Armed?"
"Half of them only gladii and daggers … apparently their scavenging. The other part in full combat armour."
Now Eowyn and Iameaya as well looked over the slope they misused as cover on short notice.
"Shall we attack?"
Mannuetios frowned. They had about the same number of men as the Romans, furthermore five chariots and thirty horses. The Romans had brought no cavalry – great odds for a gambler like Eowyn.
In the barely three weeks Mannuetios had been fighting alongside Eowyn now he had learned a great deal of things about the same-aged Prince. He had, for example, not known that Eowyn had been sent to Rome as a hostage at age ten, that he was fluent in Latin – that is, not only dressed like a Roman but almost was one. But also he had not known that Eowyn could be this reliable, friendly and generally pleasant to be with.
Mannuetios had to suppress a smile as he thought of what they had almost become – friends (though he'd never, never, never ever admit it). Eowyn undoubtedly was a genius – usually he was the one to plan their actions, after all being the one that had had himself proclaimed Imperator Britannicae, that is, commander of the armies of Britannia. Meanwhile it usually was Mannuetios to rescue them from precarious situations (Eowyn's plans had a small, yet disturbing tendency to go spectacularly wrong). And Iameaya – Iameaya was the one that held them together, that again and again kept from from strangling each other – and yet the cause of all their conflicts.
There was no denying it – both he and Eowyn had completely fallen for Iameaya. The problem was, of course, that none of them could accept sharing with a rival in love – and that Iameaya did not or only enigmatically answer to subtle inquiries on whom she would chose.
Mannuetios was certain that one of them would long since have died from the other's hand if Caesar had stayed in Gaul.
"We are numerically on par with them and have the advantage of surprise," Eowyn pondered, then he decided. "We attack. Iameaya, you keep back with your men until we struggle. Mannuetios, watch my back."
The other leaders merely nodded without a word, they long since were used to Eowyn's short orders.
Mannuetios unsheathed his sword, Eowyn followed suit.
Then they at the head of six hundred men charged for the legionnaires with loud battle cries.
"... and that's why I deem it necessary to second further two cohorts to secure our supply lines," concluded the legate and sat down again.
"Thank you for your advice, Trebonius," Caesar answered, noting down TREB II COHORTES AD DEFENS COMMEATI on a wax tablet. "I shall think about it and re-examine how many men we can dispense with."
This was the first summit of staff he had held since receiving Cicero's letter. For three days he had mourned Iulia and barely left his tent, then finally he had written a response to Cicero and sent it to Rome. Only moments after the messenger had left his tent, he had given Quintus Pedius command over the ships and the supply lines, taken the Legio XIII's First Cohort's primus pilus and had followed the rest of his army. Upon arrival in the camp of Legio IX Hispana he had sent for Gaius Trebonius and the other legates and tribunes.
"Caesar," Quintus Cicero addressed him, the brother of the famed orator and politician, "On our expedition we were able to question some of the natives. Apparently the Britannians proclaimed the king of the … Iovinarii, something like that … tribe their imperator. I believe his name is Cassivelaunus."
Caesar raised a brow. "You mean our opponent is better coordinated now?"
Quintus shrugged. "Possibly. I have not seen much of his alleged genius."
The general nodded grimly. That would probably up to him if this … Cassivelaunus was a serious opponent. In his youth he had doubted that beside the Romans, Greeks and a few other civilised people anyone could bring forth genius – but Vercingetorix, a young Gallic tribal leader that, if he entered the provincial government or went to the eagles, would soon advance, had convinced him of the opposite.
Caesar sacrificed to the Gods that Vercingetorix would never rise against him.
By the way.
"Quintus, what do I read here? The Carnuti rebel?"
"I'm quite afraid they do, Caesar. Apparently they are enangered about the raise of taxes and the demand for auxiliary forces for our expedition. They killed the legates of the quaestor and called back their tribesmen – we detained all the Carnuti in our army. What shall we do, proconsul?"
Caesar barely thought about his answer, he was too lost in thoughts. Iulia's beautiful girlish face manifested before his inner eye. "Have them choose between staying loyal to Rome or returning to their tribe. Impose a decimatio on the loyal ones," that meant that every tenth man would be executed, "and eradicate the traitors."
"Yes, sir," the legate answered not batting an eyelid. For a moment Caesar had to think of Quintus' older brother Marcus, who had never served beneath the eagles and almost been unable to impose the death sentence on Catilina and his co-conspirators (excepting Caesar, who had changed sides last minute) after smashing the Catilinarian conspiracy. It was only slightly ridiculous. Cicero, no matter how literate, charming and popular he was – he was also weak, the embodiment of the old Republic that could not persist without fundamental changing.
While he was at it …
"Quintus," Caesar asked again, "what's that over there?"
"Where, Caesar?"
"Over there, above the woods. No, there."
"It … it looks like a cloud of dust."
"Like a cloud of dust, indeed. Have my horse be readied, I will take the cavalry of the Ninth. It's high time to test our Cassivelaunus."
Elegantly Mannuetios parried a gladius' stab, halted another with his shield and then rammed his own blade into the legionnaire's throat before turning to the next Roman.
By now, fifteen minutes after the ambush, the battlefield was clearing. Apparently he, Eowyn and Iameaya, who had joined with their men shortly after them, were still well and standing – something that could not be said of most of the twelve centurions including both primi pili or cohort commanders.
Parade, a blow with the shield, feint, abdomen. Parade with shield, parade, dodge, sword hand, throat.
Thus worked the deadly dance – thus he had learned from his early youth. Thus it was done, thus was killed. Before his inner eye the southerners in their white tunics and occasional chain-mail, Eowyn's raging warriors from their past wars and all the others he had ever killed merged into name- and faceless figures. It was to kill or be killed!
And then sounded the metallic signal of a Roman cornu.
And loud Latin cries.
And the clopping of horses.
And then Eowyn's cry: "Cavalry!"
And then three hundred Roman horsemen stormed onto the field with thundering hooves and loud battle cries. Only barely he could jump out of the way – his opponent was less lucky, he was trampled down by his own allies in their ruthless charge.
Instinctively Mannuetios rammed his sword into the side of a horse galloping past, the beast fell, throwing of its rider. Then the Trinovant retreated a few feet as the Roman cavalry began attacking his men.
It was odd – he noted strangely distant – how easily his men died. The Roman cavalry was not exactly renowned for its efficiency and actually should be inferior to footmen with long swords. Yet even when his men dealt the Romans fatal blows they did not retreat, but only got stronger, and one by one the warriors of his group fell.
Finally he was attacked by a rider himself, the first flourish he paraded with his shield. But the black horse and the rider with the brazen face mask underneath the helmet aptly galloped around him, outside the reach of his sword. The soldier snarled something he could not understand, then he closed in again, dealing a blow again Mannuetios' helmet. He dodged it, then thrusting his blade deeply into the black flank of the horse. Whinnying and foaming the beast fell to the forest ground. Blood splattered, but the rider light-footedly jumped off, even dealing another blow to Mannuetios breast meanwhile. The blade scratched his skin, just enough so that blood was spilled.
Without hesitating Mannuetios used his opponent's moment of weakness and thrust his blade into the man's thigh, just above the brazen leg pieces. The rider screamed.
Still he fought on – even after Mannuetios had dealt him further gory wounds in his side and arm.
By all Gods, what was wrong with these men?
But then he felt a wave of energy go through him like a lightning's stroke, and then there only was hatred and anger and blood thirst. He wanted to, no, he had to kill this man – and he would enjoy it.
Moments later the cavalryman was dead and Mannuetios looked around the battlefield, searching for more. He saw Iameaya, surrounded by the men of her bodyguard, flying through the Roman lines like a beautiful angel of death, and then he saw Eowyn.
Eowyn had mounted one of the Roman horses, without a problem sitting firmly in the saddle, handling the elegant beast with grace and efficiency. He was engaged in a fierce duel with another rider, a tall man on a white horse. Again Mannuetios joined the fight, and soon he was close enough to perceive details.
The Roman was very meagre, with declining greyish hair – he wore no helmet, but instead a richly decorated brazen muscle armour and above that a wavy red general's mantle. His face was scraggy, almost eagle-like, his mien firm and concentrated. His right eye was glowing reddishly, as was Eowyn's left one.
This was Caesar.
Mannuetios wanted to help the Catuvellaunus – if Caesar died, the Roman campaign in Britannia was over for good – if he killed Caesar, Iameaya was his.
But then he was attacked by a legionnaire in full armour.
He did not know how long it did take – but sometime he was only one or two arms lengths away from Caesar … and then the Roman collapsed in his saddle, out of the blue, and Eowyn laughed triumphantly, thrusting at the Roman with his sword. The blade merely scratched his armour, but then the commander regained his composure, broke off the fight and cancelled the fight.
The corni called for a retreat and the Britannians erupted into cheers.
Mannuetios rejoiced as well, but then he felt an odd moistness on his skin, near the epigastrium. Slightly irritated he wiped aside whatever there was – then he felt the deep sword wound.
When he fell to the ground he was held by about a dozen hands. Above him he saw Eowyn's and Iameaya's worried faces, then there was only darkness left around him.
Britannia
XXV dies L Domitio Ap Claudio consulibus - 26th of September 1 a.t.b. - 54 BC
C Iulius Caesar suo M Tullium Ciceronem salutat.
My friend, as Quintus will have told you, the Britannian expedition did not develop to our advantage. The prince they call Cassivelaunus fights dishonourably, but efficiently – my men can barely leave the camp since he destroyed two cohorts and half the cavalry of the IX Hispana at this month's third day. At the same time rebellion broke out amongst the barbaric Carnuti in Gallia Celtica shortly after I had turned to Britannia. We took hostages, but did not take booty and are now on our retreat.
The things that follow, Cicero, are for your eyes only – from now on I shall speak sub rosa.
In the battle at the third of September I had the pleasure of directly engaging Cassivelaunus himself. Although it appears to be an implausible choice, the Britannians made a young man of at most twenty years their leader – but during the fight I found out that he possesses a power that perfectly compensates his youth and inexperience. His power seems to be on par with mine, so that I had to use it to compensate – you know how much I despise to rely on this sacred power – his soldier's bloody rage. For thus is the shape of his power – his men shall fight the harder, the more blood they have shed and they do not fear injuries upon having tastes the blood of their foes. Therefore it seems quite similar to mine, though as you may guess I was at disadvantage for joining the battle too late.
Therefore I ask of you, my friend Marcus, to use this knowledge to the best of the Republic: try to arrange a meeting with our common acquaintance among the Keepers of the Sacred Hearth Fire – the more we know about Cassivelaunus, the better. Try to find out if it was she or another of her kin that granted him his power. But beware of Pompeius, my dear friend – you know that he desires the demise of the Republic and strives for Kingship.
Also tell the Senate of my success in Gallia and Britannia – you of all people, you greatest of all orators even without your divine power, will be easily able to convince the Senate of the necessities. It is only advantageous to our cause if one thinks highly of me in Rome, so please do not misinterpret this as ambition. Make sure, though, that the Senate does not insist on a conquest of Britannia, neither now nor later – you surely understand that we cannot just reveal the barbarian leader's power, no matter how much it hurts us to keep secrets from the Senate. As Quintus will have told you, the isle of Britannia holds neither treasures of the soil nor fertile land, so it will not be difficult to convince the Senators.
Concerning your brother: Quintus is in perfectly good health. There was a slight problem with discipline amongst the auxiliares, but they were sorted by their loyalty, the traitors eradicated and the loyals decimated so that the Carnuti in my army comply again.
Vale.
Verlamion, Land of the Catuvellauni, Britannia
Pridie K Octobrae L Domitio Ap Claudio consulibus - 29th of September 1 a.t.b. - 54 BC
What Mannuetios saw as he opened his eyes was the face of a goddess.
"It is a coincidence, of course," Iameaya, who stood by his bedside, explained, "I just dropped in and in a moment I will leave again."
He wanted to sit up, but she gently pushed him back into the soft pillows. He did not resist, tried to look around while lying.
They were alone inside a tiny furnished in the Gallic style. On a bench were his arms. He was rested on a Roman divan …
"What happened?," he asked weakly. Mannuetios tried to remember, but found that he could not.
"You were wounded," Iameaya gently explained, "and the wound infected. You were down with fever for twenty-six days."
Twenty-six days!
"How are you?"
Iameaya tried to smile, but apparently failed. "Only some scratches. I nearly lost my head two weeks ago, but it's all right."
Mannuetios hesitated. He wanted to say something, beg her not to go into battle again – how easy it would have been with one of the women of his tribe that had to obey him! But could a woman of his tribe have ignited his interest and his love this strongly?
"And what about the Romans?"
Iameaya tenderly took his hand, smiled.
"They retreated to the continent the day before yesterday. Eo claims the victory for himself and has his mysterious female druid perform thanksgivings on the banks of the Thames. He wants me to greet you – it might surprise you, but Eo worried about you."
Although she would not know it, there was nothing more insulting to Mannuetios than the idea that Eowyn was worried about him (he shuddered at the thought of what might have happened that she called him 'Eo'). But how could he say that? How could he admit that to her without hurting Iameaya – without driving her away from him?
"So Eowyn claims the victory?," he snorted instead. "How like him. He's worse than Caesar himself in his thirst for glory."
Iameaya laughed, quietly, light and clear – he had never heard her laugh till the invasion, but he knew that he loved it.
"Indeed," she said to his greatest surprise, "Eo's quite childish about that. Probably the ones to drive Caesar away were the Carnuti in Gaul … well, I don't begrudge him. He lead us well."
Iameaya hesitated, then knelt beside his divan.
"Eo was angry I spent so much time at your bedside. He is jealous."
For a long moment Mannuetios stared at her, losing herself in her eyes. She had sat by his bedside, watching over his fevered sleep … and risked to enrage Eowyn?
"So …," he managed to ask, "will you leave me?"
She smiled. "No," the Iceni promised, "I'll stay with you.
And then she kissed him.
At first he was surprised, then he thoroughly embraced her kiss, gently closing his arms around her, tenderly exploring her lips with his.
With a lot of effort they divided, staring into each other's eyes.
At once their lips met again, more greedily now, their tongues twisted in a savage dance.
"I love you, by the Gods, I love you …"
And then Iameaya pulled her dress over her head and laid next to him.
Casually Eowyn jumped off his chariot – in the war against the Romans those archaic weapons had proven more effective than modern cavalry. Plus the marvellous old chariot he had inherited from his … late … father called back a past supposed 'glorious'.
He had to suppress a disgusted laugh. What idiocy – there was no glorious past. Neither with the Catuvellauni nor with the Trinovantes nor with any other tribe of the British Isles. Eowyn thought of Rome – thought of vast marble buildings on the Forum, thought of the chariot races in the Circus Maximus, thought of the girls' red lips. That was glorious, that was civilisation, that was desirable … no, liveable. Whilst he approached the small hut, the unnerving question that tended to bother him lately bumped up in his head: just what had resistance against Caesar gained them? Surely they had kept their freedom – but what had they lost?
Eowyn did not bother knocking and briskly entered the hut.
"Iameaya, you didn't possibly …," he began, then he froze.
On the luxurious lecta he had had brought in for Mannuetios laid the King of the Trinovantes and … Iameaya, both fully nude, closely nestled against each other, breathing heavily.
… and his blood froze. "What …," he whispered, not able to say any more. Wearily Iameaya turned to him, for a moment he merely examined her slender, white body, the close-to-perfect skin, the small, firm breasts. Then her beautiful face was deformed by a mien of utter horror.
"Eowyn, I …"
It was only his own name to wake him from his silent confusion. Suddenly he saw red. Mannuetios apparently had awakened, set up despite his wound, his face alarmed.
Eowyn screamed something, without a thought drew his sword. How could he dare … how could he dare desecrate what was his!
"Eo, no, let me explain!," Iameaya cried out, but he did not listen anymore.
Mannuetios could easily dodge his first, blinded by hatred strikes despite his – now again bleeding – wound. The third deeply cut open his side.
Mannuetios screamed, falling to his knees.
Iameaya attacked him from behind, trying to take the sword from Eowyn, but he simply thrust her aside.
Then he thrust his blade deeply into Mannuetios' heart. The Trinovant did not even manage to scream, only surprisedly and confusedly looking at him from big grey eyes. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.
That was not what he had wanted, Eowyn thought, terrified: quickly he turned the blade around in Mannuetios' heart. "Just die … die!"
Mannuetios finally did him the favour.
Drawing his sword out of his former friend's body Eowyn turned to Iameaya who sat in one of the hut's corners on the straw-covered floor, nude and crying.
"Stand up," he commanded, "stand up!"
The girl did not react, so he moved to her, ungently taking her wrist and pulling her up. She looked at him out of eyes covered in tears, afraid yet fearless. And then he kissed her.
Verlamion, Land of the Catuvellauni, Britannia
Nine months later
He could not rejoice when he was handed the child. It was just as expected – small, bloody, crying. After shortly examining it, Eowyn quickly handed the infant to the nurse.
Eowyn looked at the one who had born him the child. Iameaya was, although weary and bloody (should it be that much blood?, he though) again, as beautiful as ever: and yet he fought that she missed something, the one thing that had made him desire her – her laugh.
"It's his, isn't it?"
He would never get an answer. No-one should ever get an answer from her again.
"Long live the heir apparent of the Catuvellauni, Trinovantes and Iceni, the second Imperator Britannicae!"
Theatre of Pompeius, Rome, Italia
EID Martii C Iulio M Antonio consulibus – 15th of March 10 a.t.b. – 44 BC
Shedding tears Lucius Tillius Cimber knelt before his throne, embracing his knee. For a moment Caesar thought he had seen something blink below the senator's toga, yet ignored it.
"Oh, Caesar," Cimber began, "my dear brother, Publius, has been in exile for many years. I beg you – reconsider your decision, be merciful."
The other senators seemed to agree with Cimber. They kissed his hands, begging for Publius Tillius Cimber's freedom. Caesar ignored them.
"Not now, Tillius," he but smiled, "I shall think about your request, but your brother's crimes against the Republic … damn it, let go of me!" He jumped up as one particularly bold senator tried to embrace him.
Suddenly Cimber grasped his tunic's neckline, ripping the cloth apart. "What the hells …," he began … and then Cimber held a dagger in his hands.
"Why, this is violence!," Caesar disgustedly shouted, easily dodged an amateurish thrust. But then there was another stab, directed to his neck. The blade merely scratched him, but it still hurt. Caesar spun round, grabbing the culprit by his arm: it was Publius Servilius Casca … he had never expected his good friend Casca of all people to turn against him.
"Casca, you villain, what are you doing?"
The assassin moved back frightened, shouting in Greek: "Help me, brothers!"
… and within moments the senators were all over him. Forty hands, forty senators in pure white, amongst them some of his best friends, were thrusting at him with daggers … the pain was incredible as one stab after another found its target. He could barely see due to blood in his eyes, his blood. Without a single thought he freed himself, ran towards what he thought to be the entrance, the elderly senators following him … and then his sandal was caught in a step. Caesar fell. Already they were over him again, stabbing.
He had long since stopped thinking, not to speak of counting the wounds, his entire body was nothing more than – pain.
Caesar tried to use his power, but of what use would it be – to give his murderers even more courage?
Then, with odd clarity, he noticed two things: firstly, he laid to the feet of the statue of his old enemy Pompeius. What disgrace! Secondly … the one to stab most often was Brutus, his prodigy. With his last energy Caesar pulled his toga over his head, a gesture of humiliation and awe before the Gods.
"Καὶ σύ, τέκνον?"
He thought of Cleopatra, of Marcus Antonius, of the immortal vestal. He thought of Vercingetorix, who had turned against him, he thought of Cassivelaunus, who had almost defeated him. He thought of Iulia.
He had lost everything when the golden laurel wreath fell from his head.