Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
It was the evening after their battle. The central fire in Sorcha’s roundhouse blazed, lighting the faces of her people and sending smoke up to the rafters.
Sorcha sat on an ornate chair, flanked by her family.
All around, her people laughed, ate, drank, and shared stories of their prowess during the battle.
Euphoria crackled like lightning in the air.
Sorcha watched the feasting progress from toasts to Lucius for leading the Durotriges’ victory over their attackers, to her people lifting him on their shoulders as though he was their Caesar.
Mostly, she wanted to join in their celebration of his success…
their success, but part of her wanted to scream that he was their hostage, not their chieftain.
She admired his warfare skills. He had devised the new defensive walls and ditches. He and Garamaros had built the lethal bolt-firing machines.
Most surprisingly, he had rallied the community while making it appear that she, Sorcha, was their leader and he her assistant. That had been a soothing balm for her battered ego.
That was until the battle, when his direction of their actions had been decisive and definitive.
It wasn’t fair that Lucius was a Roman, a hostage, and the most compelling man Sorcha had ever met. And it had become utterly clear that he led them.
For his efforts, did he deserve his freedom?
The question swirled in Sorcha’s mind. She had the power to free him and could probably convince her people he deserved that freedom.
But then he would leave. And he could use his knowledge of their defenses to destroy them after he returned to the Roman army.
She could not allow that.
They needed to survive this Roman invasion. Not just survive, but thrive and maintain their Celtic way of life.
To do that, they must fortify their settlement, secure their lands and establish trade links with the continent.
Commerce with Gaul had died with the arrival of the Romans—their navy patrolled the intervening sea, while their army blazed a trail of death and destruction across Albion.
It would take time, the right people, good fortune, and all the cunning they could summon to succeed.
Wealth through trade was essential.
Over the last twenty years, Garamaros had traded successfully from his base at Dun Limen. He had raised the idea with her one evening and spoken of his business links with Roman Gaul. At the time, she had been too preoccupied with defending the settlement to give his suggestion full consideration.
Now, the idea haunted her mind. They needed additional supplies to last through the possible…
nay, probable, coming Roman siege. If they were spared that eventuality, they could become a wealthy settlement, earning income through trade both with the Silures on the other side of the Hafren Sea and with the Gauls and Belgae over the sea.
All it required was to ensure the wide-hulled boat moored below the cliffs was seaworthy, had supplies for the journey, goods to trade, and a crew for the ship.
Hah! All?
She scanned the people before her.
Perhaps it wasn’t impossible?
The men of fighting age who had survived the first Dumnone attack were the few who had been fishing in the Hafren Sea when the attack occurred. They had returned to shore at the end of the day to find their traumatized womenfolk and children hiding in the cavern below the cliff.
Garamaros must lead the trading expedition, taking the fishermen as crew. They had surplus Dumnone weapons, Garamaros’s jewelry, and her dowry of highest quality plate, goblets, and Roman glass to sell, and the womenfolk here wove cloth and sewed fine embroidery.
Could she actually make this work?
Today, they had survived one battle. What if more Dumnone returned? Sorcha chewed her bottom lip. They needed to continue improving their defenses and their training of young warriors, while attempting to start trading.
She must try.
Under cover of the noise around them, she would have this discussion now. Sorcha beckoned Garamaros to join her. He approached with a warm smile on his face.
Hesitant to ask a favor of the beadmaker… her father, Sorcha swallowed. “I need to you lead a trading mission to Gaul,” she said in a rush.
Garamaros’s eyebrows lifted briefly.
“And you need to choose someone to accompany you and learn the business.”
Garamaros’s eyebrows lifted. “Hmm.” His eyes narrowed as he appeared to consider her demand. “Let Drustan accompany me. He’s barter-savvy. I can teach him, if he’s willing,” Garamaros said.
“Drustan is only fifteen, still two years away from manhood,” Sorcha voiced her thoughts.
She would be sending him into danger, undoubtedly.
But Garamaros was correct. Of all her brothers, he was the most suited to this role and brave enough to take on the mission with Garamaros. “I agree. Drustan will accompany you.”
The corner of Garamaros’s mouth quirked. “You might wish to ask him if he agrees. On such a dangerous expedition, enforced participation threatens success.”
It was galling, but she had to admit he was right. Sorcha caught her brother’s eye and gestured for the gangling youth to join them.
Sorcha smiled at Drustan as he sat down next to them. “I’m proud of your skill today against the Dumnone,” she began.
Drustan’s faced flushed and he struggled to stop a pleased grin breaking out.
“Now I have a proposition for you, which you can refuse, but I believe you are well-suited to the task.”
His eyes widened. “Go on.”
Sorcha explained the plan to commence trading with Gaul. “If you’re willing, Garamaros will train you to act on behalf of our settlement. It will change your future role from warrior. Are you interested in such an occupation? I know it isn’t a role you would have expected while father lived.”
Drustan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Definitely. As long as I’m permitted to continue weapons’ training with the others, when I’m here.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Sorcha said with a smile. “We need everyone capable of defending our small settlement.”
Garamaros thrust out his hand to Drustan and they gripped arms. “I expect we will be away for four to six weeks—up to a week of sailing each way and several weeks of trading,” he said.
“The sooner we depart, the sooner we will return with supplies to relieve the fort, should the Romans lay siege here.”
“Agreed,” Sorcha said. “We will make detailed plans tomorrow.”
Then it was time for Sorcha to address her people and make the announcement. She filled her goblet with ale and rose to her feet. It took a few moments for a hush to fall on the crowd, leaving only the crackle of the blazing fire filling the air.
Sorcha raised her drink. “My people, we have triumphed over the Dumnone attackers who killed so many when they last dared to venture here. You have shown that the Durotriges are not a defeated people and that we will always fight to survive. Let us toast our victory and our future!”
A roar of acclamation greeted her words, and they drained their drinking vessels.
Sorcha refilled her goblet and remained standing, indicating she had more to say.
The room quietened again.
“And now we must look to our future and the path that will restore our fortunes. To do this, we will establish trade with the lands of the Belgae and Gaul. From tomorrow we set those plans in motion. Garamaros will lead the expedition, and the sailors among you will accompany him.” She scanned the crowd for their response and found most faces filled with surprise, while others nodded their agreement.
“To our future as traders to the continent.” She raised her goblet and swept her gaze around the astonished faces in challenge, before drinking.
They followed her lead and drank. As she resumed her seat, a burble of chatter broke out.
Alina leaned towards her. “Well done, daughter,” she whispered in Sorcha’s ear. Garamaros’s look was warm with approval. Her gaze travelled over her brothers, finding no dissent. The Roman stood in the shadows of the room beyond them.
His dark eyes watched her. A frown line divided his straight eyebrows, while the corners of his mouth were upturned. She read interest, speculation, and grudging admiration in that look.
Her heart stuttered.
Dressed as a Briton, with his hair now grown out from its Roman crop, only his leather-strap boots and his dark good looks revealed his heritage. Her body still thrummed from the adrenalin of battle and the excitement of having a plan for the future. Even so, at the sight of him her pulse sped up.
As she continued to watch him, her fingers itched to slide over his wide shoulders and down the rippling muscles of his back. Heat flooded her face.
Sorcha shook her head to free her mind of its wayward thoughts. She would not give in to her lustful and inappropriate desires and become his captive.
He was her prisoner.
To use as goods with which to bargain.
Sorcha stared him down. His gaze shifted from her to the crowd where it collided with a look of interest from one of the widows. Jealousy, like a snarling monster, rose up in her chest. She grabbed her goblet again, and with a gulp of beer, tried to force the beast back into its den.
As the Durotriges sought their beds in other roundhouses, the feasting wound down, leaving just Sorcha and her family in the chieftain’s house. As their hostage, Lucius slept on a pallet of bracken farthest from the fire and the entrance. He went there now.
Sorcha watched him strip off his boots and unbuckle his leather belt. Garamaros had given him more clothes, so he could wash his own, which were covered in Dumnone blood. His plaid trousers dropped to the ground, revealing muscular legs dusted with black hairs.