control and sent out warnings in all directions.
It took two days for the Romans in the valley garrison to sort out the situation. Then they marched, burning every farm and killing every one of Mir’s people they could catch. Luckily, Mir—no fool—was prepared and had prepared his people for the attack. Most escaped to the forests. In those places where the late summer crop could be harvested, it was. In others, food reserves were cached in spots concealed from the Roman foraging parties.
When the first snows began to fall, the Roman cohorts had to pull back to prepare themselves to meet the winter, a savage season even in the comparatively sheltered area where the garrison was located.
The storm of Roman anger passed. Mir’s people survived . . . at least most of them.
By that time, Imona was certain of her fate. Kat was living with her husband’s people. Imona heard from her jailers that she lay with her face to the wall and wept most of the time. The only time Kat visited her, she cursed Imona viciously and then tried to rend her face with her nails. Imona was glad when they led Kat away.
The oppidum was only a small one. All of the large and important centers had been devastated during Caesar’s Gallic conquests. It was like all the rest—a hilltop fort with a small settlement that supported the large gatherings that occurred when a dispersed, rural people met periodically to transact their business. It was located at the outer edge of Roman power in the Alps. Only a relatively few people resided there all year round. The Romans might not own it, but they’d managed to invade and burn it at least once.
Imona was penned in what had once been a large weaving shed, used to confine the slave women, captives from other tribes, who worked here. The windows were narrow slits, and because weavers must have light, there were a large number of them. In fact, if one didn’t test the wall, the narrow beams looked almost like willowy slats. Actually they weren’t, but hard like the bars of a cell. The room was a secure prison. No one could force his way past them. There was an enclosed hearth in one corner. A dip in the roof allowed the smoke to escape.
At some time in her journey to the oppidum, she’d been given a loose cotton tunic. Later, traveling at night, a householder had added a heavy woolen mantle. She was wearing both and squatting near the hearth when Mir walked through the door.
As he entered, she rose and came toward him. He was ritually dressed, wearing a loose white robe and a strange crown, a silver circlet decorated with golden birds. The birds were set off from the crown, each on its own separate mounting in such a way that they moved, and seemed to fly at each turn of Mir’s head. A large, flat leather belt was tied around his waist. It held a sickle-shaped sword. The flat outer part of the sword glowed with the beautiful green patina of old bronze. A procession of figures, as an inlay of silver, marched around the outer edge. The inner curve of the sickle was filed to a glittering razor’s edge.
He held a paper in his right hand, a golden torque with lion-head finials in his left. Wordlessly, he handed Imona the paper. She unfolded it and began to read.
“Dearest daughter,” it began, “I hope this finds you well.”
Tears pricked at her eyes as she recognized her father’s handwriting.
One reason I hope this finds you well, is that the news I have to report is not good news. Tomorrow, we face Caesar. We have already lost one battle to him and, dear daughter, I greatly fear we will lose the next. Our trading ships are no match for his triremes, but we must fight. Better it is for a man to die quickly in battle than to see all he loves destroyed. No doubt he will write to his friends in the Roman Senate that I, King of the Veneti, gave him no choice in the matter. This will, of course, be a lie. I offered him full capitulation, hostages, tribute, all our gold if he would but
It took two days for the Romans in the valley garrison to sort out the situation. Then they marched, burning every farm and killing every one of Mir’s people they could catch. Luckily, Mir—no fool—was prepared and had prepared his people for the attack. Most escaped to the forests. In those places where the late summer crop could be harvested, it was. In others, food reserves were cached in spots concealed from the Roman foraging parties.
When the first snows began to fall, the Roman cohorts had to pull back to prepare themselves to meet the winter, a savage season even in the comparatively sheltered area where the garrison was located.
The storm of Roman anger passed. Mir’s people survived . . . at least most of them.
By that time, Imona was certain of her fate. Kat was living with her husband’s people. Imona heard from her jailers that she lay with her face to the wall and wept most of the time. The only time Kat visited her, she cursed Imona viciously and then tried to rend her face with her nails. Imona was glad when they led Kat away.
The oppidum was only a small one. All of the large and important centers had been devastated during Caesar’s Gallic conquests. It was like all the rest—a hilltop fort with a small settlement that supported the large gatherings that occurred when a dispersed, rural people met periodically to transact their business. It was located at the outer edge of Roman power in the Alps. Only a relatively few people resided there all year round. The Romans might not own it, but they’d managed to invade and burn it at least once.
Imona was penned in what had once been a large weaving shed, used to confine the slave women, captives from other tribes, who worked here. The windows were narrow slits, and because weavers must have light, there were a large number of them. In fact, if one didn’t test the wall, the narrow beams looked almost like willowy slats. Actually they weren’t, but hard like the bars of a cell. The room was a secure prison. No one could force his way past them. There was an enclosed hearth in one corner. A dip in the roof allowed the smoke to escape.
At some time in her journey to the oppidum, she’d been given a loose cotton tunic. Later, traveling at night, a householder had added a heavy woolen mantle. She was wearing both and squatting near the hearth when Mir walked through the door.
As he entered, she rose and came toward him. He was ritually dressed, wearing a loose white robe and a strange crown, a silver circlet decorated with golden birds. The birds were set off from the crown, each on its own separate mounting in such a way that they moved, and seemed to fly at each turn of Mir’s head. A large, flat leather belt was tied around his waist. It held a sickle-shaped sword. The flat outer part of the sword glowed with the beautiful green patina of old bronze. A procession of figures, as an inlay of silver, marched around the outer edge. The inner curve of the sickle was filed to a glittering razor’s edge.
He held a paper in his right hand, a golden torque with lion-head finials in his left. Wordlessly, he handed Imona the paper. She unfolded it and began to read.
“Dearest daughter,” it began, “I hope this finds you well.”
Tears pricked at her eyes as she recognized her father’s handwriting.
One reason I hope this finds you well, is that the news I have to report is not good news. Tomorrow, we face Caesar. We have already lost one battle to him and, dear daughter, I greatly fear we will lose the next. Our trading ships are no match for his triremes, but we must fight. Better it is for a man to die quickly in battle than to see all he loves destroyed. No doubt he will write to his friends in the Roman Senate that I, King of the Veneti, gave him no choice in the matter. This will, of course, be a lie. I offered him full capitulation, hostages, tribute, all our gold if he would but
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