Ciaran Mac Rory THE STONE OF DESTINY Part VI Rome 60 A.D. .......... (From "Cymbeline", by William Shakespeare) Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come hear thee! Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave! Act IV, Scene II CYMBELINE Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before larges of proof, cannot be found: He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so. BELARIUS I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promises nought But beggary and poor looks. Act V, Scene V ………. The next morning, you and Scathach return to King Caractacus's house. Scathach wears her perpetual frown. She is not a woman accustomed to hope. Though it was she who first incited you and the other immortals of Britain to take up arms against the Romans -- fearing for the sanctity of her own retreat in the far north -- the subjgation or cooption of the Catavellauni, the Silures, the Brigantes, the Belgae, the Durotriges, the Iceni, and so many other tribes has left her bitterly pessimistic. She joined your quest for reasons of her own that you do not fully understand. She obviously holds out little hope for the Cymric tribes, and less for King Caractacus. She is prepared to be disappointed. The Roman page boy leads you inside again. The aftermath of the old king's revels is still scattered in his "throneroom"; dried food, spilled wine cups, broken plates. But the courtesans are gone. "My father was King Cunobelinus," says a voice behind you. You and Scathach turn, to see the old king, dressed in a seven-colored cloak, faded, ragged at the edges, and moth-eaten. He wears a torque, and an old sword hangs from a rope around his waist. The sword-belt he wore when he led the Silures against the Romans would no longer fit his expanded girth. "He left his kingdom to myself and my brother, Togodumnus. The Catavellauni were the strongest tribe in Prydain when he died. Me and my brother thought it would always be so." He walks in slowly, speaking in the Celtic tongue. "We first met the Romans in battle at the River Tamesis in Cennedd. They wiped us out. We lost nearly every battle against the Romans for the next fifteen years. We rallied the pride of the tribes, the druids exhorted us to do battle and promised the support of the gods, and we threw everything -- everything! -- we had against them. And with the exception of an ambushed patrol here and there, or a few battles where the Roman commander was foolish and got himself badly outnumbered and surrounded, we lost, again and again." "I lost my own tribe, then I fled to the west and rallied the Silures, who were always considered savages even by British standards." "A generation of warfare, and what has it gotten us? How did you react when you first came here? Do you see this city, big enough to hold every Celt in Britain? Prydain isn't even very important to the Romans -- it's a backwater, a minor tributory that supplies tin and lumber and a few other things to their empire. Everything we have, our land, our sea, our sky, is just a resource that the Romans exploit at their convenience. The heritage of our people, going all the way back to Parthelon, is quaint tribal folklore. They've conquered dozens of other peoples, some of whom are as ancient as we are, some who occupied lands far greater than ours, some who even put up a better fight." "When I came here, I asked why they bothered to conquer us, what possible need they could have for the land where we built our primitive hovels. They had no answer. I think they do it because it's their nature -- they blindly follow their own traditions just as we do. There's no real difference between Romans and Celts. Look at me, I've become more Roman than Celt after living here in luxurious imprisonment. We know there are treacherous, dishonorable Celts like Cartimundua, and I've met Romans who were as noble and worthy as any clansmen who fought at my side. They have a mad Emperor now, whom most of the Romans fear as much as we do." "If the gods determine the fate of a people, then the Roman gods are stronger than ours, though they seem to have no great love for their own people. If it's men who determine their own fate, then what you are seems to be less important than where you're born." "I fought the Romans believing one man could make a difference. Arrogant. I thought I was the one man, naturally. I got swallowed by this city, and I suppose, in a manner of speaking, I lost my manhood. I think in retrospect, I would rather have died in battle. I could have gone to my grave with my illusions intact." "I can't say I really believe in your cause, Ciaran MacRory. I don't believe in magic stones anymore, and I don't think what one man does will change our fate. But I'd have to cut out my own heart and deny everything I ever was if I refused to help you. If there was any reason at all for my being born, it's to be a Celt until I die." <><><><><> When the man voice caused him to turn, he was faced with a moment of mixed emotion. There stood before him a man whose fighting years were behind him. Whose clothes made him look less like a warrior, and more like a tired old fool who didn't know when to quit. But, this was Caractacus. A man who never quit. A man who fought against the odds and defied the rules of reality. He struggled for a cause that was destined to lose, and still he fought. Looking at him Ciaran saw beyond the tired shabbiness of the man's war cloak, and the rope at his waist.... and the obvious fact that he wasn't in shape for a fight. Ciaran saw the man he came here to find. He saw the fierce pride. He could feel his skin prickle and his throat tighten with emotion as he listened to Caractacus speak. The man had wisdom beyond his years and he had courage. It was that courage that made him a great man among the Cymric celts. It was many things that made Ciaran admire him and respect him. He gripped his spear tightly and he couldn't help but smile. A tear rolled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard. Ciaran cleared his throat slightly to speak. "I am honored, my King... No finer words have ever been spoken... and i will bear them in my heart... To be a Celt until I die..." "Our quest is to find the Stone of Destiny... We find this Achilleus, and we will find the Stone." <><><><><> <> King Caractacus nods, and says "Let us go find him, then." He dismisses the page with a wave of his hand. "I'm not drunk this morning...though by the gods I wish I was." He rubs an aching head with the back of a fist. "To find an officer in the Legions who may have returned recently with a prize from abroad....that means talking to officials who know who's being bribed, or nobles who know who's causing a stir in Rome this week." "I once mingled in Roman society. I was a feted guest at parties, even. All because I was the 'noble savage' who dressed down the Emperor. I was...quaint. And I put up with it, because I didn't know what else to do, and because I had hopes I'd learn to understand these Romans, possibly even influence them." "I stay away from court now, because Emperor Nero is even more of a madman than Claudius. He's a depraved child who's likely to have his own sycophants murdered for his amusement. If it had been Nero I called an effeminate, preening tyrant who hides behind his warriors, I'd probably have been flayed and fed to his pet lions one piece at a time." "We don't want to get too close to the Emperor, and possibly attract his notice. But I have some old friends I can look up. You two will have to play the part of the noble savage, though." <><><><><> *Lion?* He didn't dare ask. He was sure he didn't want to know. "Then Noble Savages we can be... I served Prasutagus and Boadiccea long enough to know the workings of a court... of savages." He chuckled slightly and then stared at the jagged edges of his spear. The chuckle faded quickly. "He may have brought the Celt mercenaries with him for protection in his travels, just one more thing to consider when asking for clues as to where this man might be found." <><><><><> <> "Prasutagus? Prasutagus.... Gods, the names. How fares the old man and the Iceni?" Caractacus pulls his cloak about him and leads you outside. "We will go to the home of a 'friend' of mine. I'm not sure I really would count him as a friend....he's a Roman Senator, and a nobleman, and he often hosted me when I first came to Rome. He's insufferably smug, and patronizing, but he did do a great deal to educate me about Rome, and introduce me to other influential patrons. He knows many people, and he'll probably volunteer anything he knows about recent arrivals from our quaint, barbaric little island." The old Celt's voice takes on a sardonic tone as he obviously is mimicking the attitude of the man to whom he is referring. "Try to remind yourself, as I often did, that he doesn't really mean any offense, and like most Romans, he just doesn't know any better. The idea that anyone might even question the obvious superiority of all things Roman has never crossed his mind." <><><><><> Caractacus mentioning the name of the old man and the people of the King and Queen that Ciaran had served brought back a few memories and wistful thoughts about the Queen and her daughters. How long would the fiery and hot tempered woman continue to take the abuses to her dignity and to the honor of herself and tribe before she boiled over? There was no way to know. It had been Prasutagus' sheer will that kept things in check there. History may not record things so, but Ciaran knew the man did what he had to in order to preserve peace and keep a way of life for his people that was anything close to what they had previously. The Goddess and Fate had conspired against the Iceni when it placed them in the path of the Roman Empire. But Prasutagus was dead, and Boadiccea was Queen, and already the tensions were on the rise. Ciaran didn't want to leave, and the Queen bid him remain, but they both knew that it wouldn't be so. Something would happen there soon. He shook his head as he followed Caractacus out of the roman villa. "The Iceni are troubled, and the old man is dead. A good man, but in a bad place... His wife, the Queen, has not his head for matters *politic*," he said with emphasis on the foreign word. "But she is a strong woman and the people do love her. I don't know what things are like since I have been gone, but the Romans take more and more and crush any who resist, by force of will, or force of iron." Ciaran followed the old king and nodded as he stepped alongside him, spear in hand, and sword upon his back. "I know what is at stake here... And I am not *so* arrogant or foolish," he said with a small chuckle, "That I can not suffer the Romans who think they do us all some great service... I shall follow your lead. You know these ways and how to attend these people far better than I." Ciaran glanced across to Scathach to make sure that she too was in agreement. <><><><><> <> "Prasutagus has died....that is sad news." Caractacus looks saddened indeed. "Probably not long before all of us who remember a time before the Romans are gone." "That may take a while, yet," Scathach says dryly. Caractacus glances at her, but his look doesn't hold the comprehension that yours does. She looks back at you straight-faced, and remains calm -- one might almost say demure, if one didn't know Scathach better -- as Caractacus cautions you about minding manners with Romans. She shrugs, and you suspect she'll probably avoid testing her patience by letting you and Caractacus do most all of the talking, as usual. The house that Caractacus leads you to is in one of those grand, wealthy neighborhoods -- in fact, a pair of soldiers wearing light armor stop you on the street, thinking that a trio of Celts is out of place here. "I am King Caractacus," he says jovially to them. "Surely my name is not already forgotten in these parts? I'm visiting my good friend, Flaccus Ovidius Decimus." The Legionnaires look at one another, and at him, and then at you and Scathach. "King Caractacus? Is he still alive?" one asks the other. "Well of course I am, I'm standing here, aren't I?" the king replies. The soldiers shrug. "If they admit you at his estate...don't let us catch you loitering about, though," one adds, looking at you darkly. You can see they are watching as you three approach a large, grand stone house with marble pillars. More than a spear-throw from the front garden, even, there is an iron gate and a liveried servant standing there. Only a rich Roman could or would have a servant spend all day doing nothing but waiting for guests to chance by. He seems to recognize Caractacus, though. "King Caractacus! It's been a while!" "Aye, it has, errr....umm....." the old man's mind fails him. The servant volunteers "Flavio," helpfully, and Caractacus nods. "Flavio, yes! Would you send a message inside that I have come to pay a visit to Flaccus Ovidius Decimus, with two friends from the old country?" Flavio nods, summons an errand boy, and the message is taken inside. The dark-haired servant looks at you and Scathach curiously. Caractacus engages him in idle chatter, and while it's a good sign that he's so well-received, you rather doubt that anyone the Romans consider important would be expected to chat with servants while waiting to be shown inside. For that matter, if he were still the proud king of yore, Caractacus would never deign to converse with a Roman servant. <><><><><> Admittedly, Ciaran knew that if Caractacus were an important man in Roman circles he would not have to wait to be granted admittance. The gateman would have shown him in. But, Ciaran knew that Caractacus was not influential. By his own admission, the King was never more than a quaint conversation piece to these ruling Roman types. A few befriended him and made him feel welcome enough, but years had passed since caractacus had withdrawn to his privacies and things change in the mortal world. So, it was a good thing indeed that the gateman recognized him and summoned an errand boy to deliver the message to request admittance. It was all that could be expected and the warmth of Flavio's greeting was good enough to spark some hope that the senator fellow, whatever one of those was... perhaps like a clan elder.... hope that the senator fellow would be as accomodating. As casually as possible, Ciaran kept a careful watch on the Roman soldiers who waited nearby. Town watch, no doubt, patrolling this neighborhood. He hadn't seen any who were nearly so diligent in the common areas of the city. For that matter, he barely saw any at all who were really there to be watching or guarding, or protecting. Most Soldiers passed through as part of military units going someplace. He kept his glances discrett and to a minimum, as the moments turned to minutes. He listened to the idle conversation between this Flavio and Caractacus but didn't pay it much mind. <><><><><> <> Caractacus is inquiring after his "friend" the senator's fortunes in these times, and the liveried servant Flavio answers cautiously, mentioning good trade with a place called Egypt, but poor prices here in Rome. Caractacus asks if Flaccus Ovidius visits Nero's court, and even the mention of the Emperor seems to intimidate the servant. "Not very often," he admits reluctantly. The errand-boy returns, and says his master will see his guests. He conducts Caractacus, with you and Scathach, inside, to the interior of a mansion as much larger and more luxurious than Alvita's as Rome is larger than Masilia. This is a palace the likes of which no king in Britain could dream of, and yet from what Caractacus says, this Flaccus Ovidius fellow is only of moderately great importance in Rome. The three of you wait in the splendid greeting hall, filled with stone sculptures and finely painted pottery, for quite some time. Finally, a voice rings out: "Caractacus old boy! It's been ages since I saw you last!" Flaccus Ovidius Decimus is a head shorter than Caractacus, shorter than Scathach even. He is pudgy and balding, and his eyes squint pig-like from the folds of his face. His voice is rather comical too, high-pitched and raspy, with an unfamiliar lilt to his words -- perhaps the Latin spoken by Roman nobles is different than what you've learned from soldiers and administrators. Caractacus offers his hand, Celtic-style, and the Roman seizes it and grasps his wrist with a broad grin, inordinately pleased with himself for indulging in this quaint, barbaric custom. Caractacus says "Flaccus Ovidius, these two are friends....their fathers fought with me, back in Prydain, and they have come to Rome...err, seeking their fortune." Flaccus turns to you and Scathach. "So your fathers were rebels?" he asks mildly. "How very exciting, and you still look quite the warrior, young man!" He offers you his wrist, with awkward affectation. Then he looks Scathach over in more detail, and his grin broadens. "You know, I've always admired the beauty of Keltoi women," he purrs. Scathach smiles at him. Still smiling, she says in Celtic, "Tell him I don't speak Latin, Caractacus....and figure out a way to disabuse him of any notion that he's going to get me in bed, or I'll kill him." Caractacus, standing behind the Roman, goes slightly pale, and coughs. "Err...she says she's honored to meet such an important man," he says. Flaccus beams. <><><><><> Ciaran kept a respectful distance and deferred his stance anytime the Roman man came close by. When offered the wrist, Ciaran accepted it with a smile. He allowed the man to maintain the greater pressure so as not to embarass him before his servants and slaves and anyone else who might be watching with interest. Ciaran nodded and spoke in a halting Latin. "Yes Rebels.... Such a time ago. I the ways of war do know. But Latin I not very well do speak. We to Rome have come, and hope to learn it's ways we do." He fell silent as the Roman surveyed Scathach and spoke his praises of her. It was a tense moment when she spoke to Caractacus. Caractacus covered himself well though and Ciaran added a bit to close the issue. "Yes, my wife and I, happy and honored we both are. You do us honor too, and that our peoples feel is the worth of a great man." He offered his wrist again, hoping the quaintness of his awkward behaviour would appeal to the man who fancied himself a scholarly dabbler in cultures foreign to the empire. <><><><><> <> Flaccus accepts your wrist a second time, looking at Scathach appraisingly again when you call her your wife. "And your names, I don't believe I was told your names?" "So, Caractacus old boy, what brings you here after so long without visiting? Truth be told, I thought perhaps you'd passed on..." Caractacus chuckles. "Not yet....Rome won't be rid of me that easily, Flaccus Ovidius." The Roman grins. "Defiant to the last, eh old boy?" Caractacus chuckles again, but you can see just a flicker of something besides humor in his eyes. Some of the pride, and anger, you aroused last night is burning in the old king, and you know this charade, playing the part of the bucolic old barbarian, pains him, but behind his smile, perhaps he is having his own laugh. <><><><><> Ciaran looked at his *wife* and spoke in Celtic, and quickly as if he were translating for her. He wanted to make the charade before Ovidius look complete. "Aye woman, I was thinkin' about just what it would take to get us run out of Rome right fast... You killin' him might just be the thing," he said in a sarcastic tone "If'n it doesn't get us dead first." He knew full well that his words wouldn't even phase his mentor, and they weren't meant in anything but jest. Still he wanted to remind her that killing people in this city wasn't the best course of action. He returned his attention to Flaccus Ovidius after any response from her and answered the Senator. A cruel and twisted idea came to his mind and he couldn't resist the chance to play just a little. "Arawn is mine name," he began and motioned to his wife and continued, "And this is Morrigan... old families come we from there on the isles." <><><><><> <> Caractacus looks like he's going to choke. Even Scathach's eyes flare for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "So, Arawn, Morrigan....what brings you to Rome?" the senator asks. "As I said, they are seeking their fortune," Caractacus says. He pauses a moment, glances at you, then says "Apparently there was a....notable Roman commander in Prydain who was hiring Celt mercenaries. He left Prydain before they could try to join his company, but they hoped in Rome, they might find him again, or someone else...." "Oh, that sounds like Achilleus, perhaps," Flaccus replies. Caractacus opens his mouth again, startled at hearing the name you were both looking for so readily produced, but the Roman continues, looking at Scathach, "Both warriors, you say? But I'd heard it was an exaggeration, all those stories we hear about savage woman warriors, that Keltoi women mostly take care of their homes and raise babies just as ours do." He looks at you, his interest aroused. "How do you feel about your wife going into battle, Arawn?" <><><><><> He suspected that Flaccus Ovidius didn't know much about the culture of the *Keltoi* and was proven correct. The man had a keen interest but no hard knowledge. The use of the names served him as he hoped and let him know what he could and couldn't say. Besides, it was amusing to see Scathach reaction at being called Morrigan. And Caractacus too. Lord Arawn indeed. Ciaran remembered his meeting with the ancient Immortal in the Fen Moors. Not something he'd care ever to repeat again. But none-the-less the use of the names served well. Caractacus proved himself a cunning adversary and a man of quick wit and quick thought when he conjured the story of the reason for Ciaran and Scathach to be in Rome. Ciaran's own idea was similar but not quite so well crafted. When the Roman Senator narrowed down their search with the utterance of a single name, Ciaran realized they were very close indeed to finding Achilleus. Seeking out Caractacus was a good idea, and letting the old man lead them was even better. Care would have to be taken from this point forward though. Rumor could spread faster than a fire through this dangerous city. Ciaran answered in his forcibly broken Latin. "Aye... Both warriors are we... A different culture are we.... Harder lives we live... Everyone must does all things... Tend the home...bring the food... fight the battles... In time, with Rome's help... we will grow and things will change. Already, much we learn... like Roman language... Simply we do what must we do. " He didn't like to say what he felt he had to, but it was necessary to appease the old man. To make this work, and to encourage the man's willingness to assist them, Ciaran would have to suck up his pride. He didn't dare admit that he had fought and would continue to fight any and all Romans who tried to force their culture upon his peoples. Now was not the time, and Ciaran had some savvy. <><><><><> <> The senator is snapping his fingers at one of his servants, says something about bringing something from a bookroom. He seems genuinely fascinated with your halting explanation. "Yes, I hear they're building many roads and cities in Britainnia," he says. "And veterans are settling there to retire. Why, soon you might have a tourist industry there, as in Egypt and Mesopotamia!" "Tourist" is another unfamiliar word to you, but Caractacus' lips almost curl back, before he returns to smiling as Flaccus Ovidius glances back at him. "It's unfortunate that Caractacus's exile is for life, or else he could probably return and become a richer man than he ever was as a king." A servant brings a scroll to the senator, and he spreads it out on a table. "I was wondering, what part of Brittania exactly do you come from? I understand you have many different tribes--" The scroll has drawings, with many odd shapes on it, as well as Roman lettering. It has no meaning to you, until he points at one spot on the parchment and says "This area here is where Caractacus is from. And there's....what was it you call it? Maiden Castle?" At the indicated spot is a large "X" symbol. Several others are scattered around the drawing, and the outline of the largest shape, you realize, roughly corresponds to what you know of Prydain's southern coast. You've heard of them, but aside from crude sketches in the dirt or on treebark, showing locations relative to rivers, mountains and the like, this is your first time seeing a map. <><><><><> He watched speechless as the Senator spread out the scrolled paper. It amazed and scared him to come to the realization that these Romans could show what a land looked like as if one were a bird so very high in the air. How could they know these things. The shapes and the squiggles, it meant nothing to Ciaran. he knew about riding and walking and how many days travel from place to place and where to keep the sun and the moon and what stars to follow. But these Romans used things like this and it seemed to say much to a man who had never set foot in Prydain. He shook his head as he looked from place to place and it helped him to understand where Caractacus' kingdom had been, for Ciaran could picture that. He didn't want to reveal to much to the man, and hardly wanted to speak for Scathach, but he needed the man and his patronage in this coming affair with Achilleus was important. It was best to act the noble savage and offer the man a fine tale indeed. "Upland of that," he offered with a pointed finger at the place the Senator indicated was the home of the old king. "Upland and near to the morning sea. Upland of the new city, Londinium. Upland still more.The home of the Iceni and upland again by a day's walk. And my wife, from the farthest reaches of Prydain and close to the evening sea she does come." <><><><><> <> "Morning Sea, Evening Sea....I don't know those," the Roman says, frowning. "What is the name of your tribe? It sounds as if you come from beyond the current frontier." Even with your limited Latin, you caught the word "current", and its significance. But like all the other casual slights he's dropped, the Senator clearly means no insult -- he isn't even watching your faces for your reactions. Scathach stirs restlessly. The information you seek has been waved tantalizingly in front of your noses, and indulging in the Roman's scholarly interest in barbarians is making her impatient. <><><><><> he too wants to get back to Achilleus, but he isn't really sure how to do it. At least not at first and then an idea strikes him. "I for many years with the Iceni have lived, King Prasutagus and his court. Within your current borders he was. Dead now, age took him. My own peoples are long since gone. To prasutagus I came, and take me in he did. His Queen does rule now, and it was there that Achilleus we did meet. Yes, Achilleus, the name of him that surely is it. Most kind and wise you are to know it and share it. Where might one such as he be found?" <><><><><> <> Flaccus Ovidius looks up. "Achilleus...boorish fellow, but he seems to have impressed Consul Sicarus Pollio. Brought back wealth from his foray to Britain, now he's bribing government officials, or so they say. I haven't paid much attention to the rumors, he doesn't seem the sort to make a permanent political impression." "I suppose you might find him lurking around the Praetorian Gymnastika. He seems to be angling for a position as a Praetorian commander. I suppose these days, it shouldn't be surprising that important offices are up for sale." The Senator sighs, then looks at you with something like sympathy. "You would probably find it difficult to see him. The Praetorians....well, they're not overly friendly towards Keltoi or other barbarians..." <><><><><> Barbarian? Who was he calling a barbarian... That word always rankled him. It was an odd word, an alien on his tongue, but he knew what it meant and he had heard it before in Prydain. The Romans considered anyone who wasn't their kind to be this barbarian insult. And it was very likely that the senator used the term as if it were simply a word to use without realizing he was being insulting. Ciaran steeled his expression to let it pass. He narrowed his eyes for a moment as he thought about what the senator told him of Achilleus. This Paetor... Praetor.... whatever Guard was likely to be a military unit of some repute and if Achilleus wanted in, then they might be elite soldiers. It would be bad to try and find him there. And the Senator was probably right, this group might not have any patience for two Celts lurking about. The Gymnastika was right out. "Wise and sage advice, not to disturb or rile this Guard. Then perhaps," he offered. "Might know you.... might you know the place where he stays while in Rome. You mentioned a Senator.... Might he stay there?" <><><><><> <> "No, not a Senator... Sicarus Pollio is a Consul. Veteran of the Egyptian campaigns," the Senator corrects you. Caractacus clears his throat and says to you in Celtic, "A Consul is a very high-ranking Roman military officer, in charge of an entire army. The governor of all Roman forces in Prydain is below a Consul. Sicarus Pollio is one of the most important men in Rome. Achilleus has a very powerful friend." He smiles at Flaccus Ovidius and says in Latin "I was explaining what a Consul is to my fellow barbarian." Flaccus chuckles, missing the sardonic glint in the old king's eye. "Yes, it's quite possible Achilleus is a guest in Sicarus Pollio's home." He lights up, and says "Say... there is an Imperial fete the day after tomorrow. Sicarus Pollio and I will both be there. Perhaps he'll bring Achilleus too. Perhaps the three of you could come as my personal guests..." he turns back to Scathach, wiggling his eyebrows in what's probably meant to be a suggestive manner. Scathach manages to keep a straight face. Caractacus mumbles in Celtic "We'd be shown off like exotic animals, his little barbarian pets, and we'd be surrounded by the wealthiest, most powerful men in the Empire.....Gods help us if Nero himself attends." <><><><><> Ciaran looked to Scathach as well. "Aye... That could place us at a disadvatage," he said in Eriu Celtic. "Walking in there and being presented like that... If Achilleus were to say near to anything at all, we could be exposed. At the very least he could cause this man to doubt us and hand us over..... I'm not sure what to do? You're the expert... What think you?" <><><><><> <> "I don't like it," Scathach says, "but how will we avoid it now without offending this self-important ass? We have to find a way out of it -- even if Achilleus isn't there, if there are any other Roman immortals, an Imperial fete is probably the most likely place to find them. We don't need that kind of trouble." <><><><><> Ciaran answered Scathach. "I'm not exactly sure what a *fete* is, but that's not hardly important... I can imagine it's not good for us... And I agree, we must find a way out." Ciaran then shifted his attention back to the senator. "My pardons," he said in his coarse Latin. "Not good I am at many words and slow to translate for my wife am I, and slower to make her understand... I will be much time before I learn this language good enough." He furrowed his brow as he thought for a moment and then fixed his gaze on the man. "You sir, most kind you have been. We are honored by the hospitality you offer. You have studied our customs and that too honors us... A man whose importance is high in such a kingdom... empire as this.... It means much to us who are not so great." "Please bear with, as there is much for me to say now. I must ask forgiveness this day though for my wife and I can not accept your wide grace and invitation to this fete.... We are not worldly and so new here that we fear many would not be so wise and accepting as you... Came we to find Achilleus so that we might continue to learn the Roman ways, and we can not delay in meeting him... but not in so grand a way... We would fumble our words and make us to be fools before him because we be in the presence of such great and important men. Forgive us to turn this invitation down, but mayhap we come to another fete another time... mayhap one that you hold... We would be honored and accept to be your guests at your own fete, for then we would be guest of host and not guests of guest.... Do I speak my custom well enough, or have I betrayed my own lack of intelligence before you... Dominus." <><><><><> <> "A fete is a big feast -- Romans love them," she says. Flaccus Ovodius looks disappointed. "Oh. Well..... no one would expect you to know our customs, you are barbarians after all..." He sighs. "Well, if Achilleus is there I might mention where you are staying. Are you guests of Caractacus?" He turns to Caractacus and says "*You* will come, won't you, old boy?" The old king looks stymied, and opens his mouth uncertainly. Obviously he is not enthused about the prospect. Scathach says aloud in Prydain Celtic, "Yes, you go." When the king blinks at her, she adds "Please." Flaccus once more looks puzzled and a little annoyed -- no one likes having a conversation going on around them that one doesn't understand. <><><><><> He pursed his lips tightly as he watched the exchange of looks and listened to everyone speak. Things were unraveling fast. Scathach was a quick thinker and she obviously felt it was important for Caractacus to be there at the Imperial Fete, but she was acting a little too quickly. Now he couldn't cover her burst by saying she was simply encouraging caractacus to go to the fete.... She wasn't supposed to be able to speak Latin. There was no further time to discuss matters openly, the senator was growing uneasy. Ciaran turned to the man and spoke. "Senator Ovodius that would be most kind of you," he said trying to distract the man's attention. He stepped forward with a smile. "My wife she can see that the king is unsure and she wants him to know we will be fine for one night without him." He knew he was walking on dangerous ground right now, but he had to regain control. He stepped closer and offered his hand and wrist. The fact that the man called him a barbarian again was not lost on him, but he did have it coming by the way he spoke with the man. "Good Sir.... You do us much honor," he continued. "More than we deserve, we have come a long way and we impose upon you much. You're patience is beyond any hope that we could have wished for. Perhaps my wife and I can meet soonest with Achilleus and if we can, mayhap join you for this fete." <><><><><> <> "Oh, I'm sure you will be," the Senator replies. He clasps your wrist again, then holds his hand out to Scathach, offering the same gesture. Maybe curious to find out whether Celtic woman clasp wrists also, more likely just because he wants to clasp *her* wrist. Scathach smiles thinly and humors him, grabbing the Roman's wrist and squeezing hard enough to surprise him -- though certainly not as hard as she could. "So I'll see you at the fete, old boy?" he says to Caractacus. The King manages a thin smile similar to Scathach's. "Aye, how could I miss it?" he replies, with wry irony even you get through the language barrier. <><><><><> He smiled but he wasn't quite sure what the man meant. *I'm sure you will be?* he thought back over what he had said and made sure he was clear on that in his own mind. The Senator's words could have been a threat, or a promise, or just wishful thinking. Perhaps there was sarcasm there, but he didn't think so. This whole thing was not turning out as well as he had hoped. it suceeded in pushing his schedule very far ahead. Ciaran would have to find Achilleus before this oaf blew his cover. Achilleus would be far too suspicious at the mention of celts from Prydain and might even alert people to look for them. It would also endanger Caractacus, for he had sponsored them in this meeting. No matter what names were given, if Achilleus asked for a description and the senator gave it.... all would be lost. Time for action was now.... Kill Achilleus. Tonight. "Then Honorable one," he said to the Senator. "We won't delay any longer... We shall endeavor to locate our future employer and make haste to settle those arrangements so that we may join you." He looked sidelong at Scathach and then back to the Senator. <><><><><> <> "Good luck to you then," the Senator says. He allows a servant to show you out. Once out of earshot of Romans, Caractacus says "Thank you kindly for inviting me to the Consul's fete, woman! I've avoided those spectacles as best I could for the past many years." "You can meet Achilleus more safely than we can," Scathach replies evenly. "He wouldn't recognize you, you'd just be an amusing old relic in his eyes, and he might be willing to say things to you, even boast about his looting of Prydain and Eiru." "Such a kindly way you have with words," the old king mutters. "Traveling with her must be a joy, Ciaran." <><><><><> "Oh Aye," he replied with a grin. "I couldna' think of a thing more enjoyable in this whole world." He then switched to Eriu. "This fete is two days from now, what do you suppose we should do til then? Aye, perhaps ye can tour me around and show me the sights, tell me the history... all that stuff." <><><><><> <> "If'n ye like," Scathach replies. "Remember the more we wander around Rome, though, the more likely 'tis we'll encounter other Roman immortals." Caractacus is looking at the two of you oddly, much like the way Flaccus Ovidius looked at the three of you when he was the one linguistically excluded from the conversation. <><><><><> Words like *immortal* were likely very similar in the two dialects and he reminded himself to be careful of his speech when around Caractacus. He wasb't about to mention it to Scathach. She was the one who taught him the Rules. "Well, I don't fancy sittin' on my arse for two days... I dinna' know.... I wish I could jes' get this over wit'. We're asking this man to take considerable risks for us, he didna' want to go to this thing, and now we have him going while we wait in relative safety." He shook his head. "Nerves... they're gettin' all jangled... sorry." He sighed and looked to Caractacus. he spoke again but this time so the old king could understand clearly. "We're still tryin' to figure what we have to do, sorry to exclude you... I speak best in my own tongue." <><><><><> <> "You are a long way from home," Caractacus muses. "Well, I have been to these dreadful Roman banquets before, I don't reckon another one will kill me. But I've a good mind to convey to Flaccus Ovidius your *personal* appreciation for his hospitality, Scathach." Scathach snickers. "You do that, Caractacus, for I have no intention of ever laying eyes on that porcine little man again!" To you she says in Eiru Celtic "Well, let's tour the city then, it might be our last chance to do so. And if we meet other immortals -- perhaps we'll find they have no more love for Achilleus than we do. If not, then let the fates decide the outcome." She speaks lightly, for her, unusually recklessly. She is a recluse, and by her own account, she's lived this long by trusting to fate as little as possible. <><><><><> Something itched at the back of his mind, as if he could sense that Scathach was accepting a fate that she had already seen. He thought back to how displeased she was at him asking her to come to Rome, and how she responded that she was bound to do it by something she couldn't nor wouldn't explain. A gesa of sorts perhaps, like what he carried in the form of the Stone. he had to follow it. he had to get it back. Fate and destiny were things that were not unchangeable.... they could be altered. Life had to be that way, or there was no point in living. Fate was something seen as a possible outcome, and when it didn't happen, it was simply a dream. He had to watch her back now. "If you would rather not, then I can look about quietly enough... more than 100 summers... I can go out on my own," said with a laugh. "If you wish to go, then so be it, we will accept what comes together... I get first crack at any Immortals though," he said challengingly but with a playful tone and a sidelong glance. <><><><><> <> "You can take care of yourself, aye, but you don't know the city. And if you should happen to not come back, it falls on me to complete this quest by myself." She shrugs. "Ciaran and I will be bidding you goodnight, Caractacus," she says, switching to Prydain Celtic. "I reckon I will show him around the city." "And how are you so familiar with Rome?" Caractacus asks. "I thought you just came here from Prydain?" The longer the king goes without drinking, the sharper his mind becomes -- though he looks like he's missing the taste of alcohol now. He might well drink himself back into comfortable inebriousness in preparation for the fete. <><><><><> "Some questions are best left unanswered, King," he said in a quiet voice as he checked his gear. He walked over to the King. "We are asking a great deal of you King. More than anyone has a right to ask of a Chief... And now you must act for us in a dangerous place, but do understand that we have history with this man Achilleus, and we can't bring our confrontation into the open. All we need to know is where to find him, where to look... Be careful with these people... You know them well enough." He looked to Scathach. "We can leave whenever you are ready." <><><><><> <> Scathach walks with you, through the city. It is not quite so overwhelming as when you first entered it, if only because once you're down among the high-rise buildings, you cannot see more than a little bit of it at a time, and it doesn't seem so big. But when you ascend one of the many hills -- it is called the "City of Seven Hills," but it actually has a multitude of slopes and valleys, the ancient, rolling riverside landscape having been covered for centuries with brick and stone -- you can look out across parts of it, and see teeming neighborhoods where thousands upon thousands of Romans dwell, as many people as might be found in an entire Celtic tribe clustered together in a space the size of a good-sized village. And nearly every time you look across the nighttime expanse of the city, you see a fire burning somewhere. How many Romans must die in fires every day...and yet they continue living in buildings that can become funeral pyres with one careless kick of a brazier. Scathach doesn't speak for a while, but finally says "To tell you the truth, I don't really know this city that well. I know Romans well enough....but this is only the third time I've actually set foot in Rome itself." "It's a glorious place, isn't it? Amazing what mortals can do." She walks on a little farther, then glances at you. "Stop looking so worried, Ciaran. It's not your task to look after me." <><><><><> He nodded at the marvel that was the city. Dangerous and deadly and teeming with good and bad. There was no place like it. At least no place Ciaran had ever seen. Then again, that didn't say much. Massilia was the only other *real* city he had ever been to. Londinium was not much more than a few buildings and villas and huts. But Ciaran had to suppose that that was how Rome started too. So much Stone and marble and so much wealth. There didn't seem any way these people could be stopped or even slowed. *Hah... ye're only here to stop one Roman, not a damn legion... one Roman and get the Stone boyo.* Scathach could read him like a book and her perception often amazed him. "Aye Scathach, I know ye can take care of yerself... I know that all too well. But I can't change how I feel, any more than you can." <><><><><> <> "You worry about yourself and the Stone foremost, that's *your* task," Scathach says gruffly. She continues leading you through the city. "We have two choices, actually. We can wait for Caractacus to go to that fete and bring back any information he can -- assuming he doesn't go drink himself into a stupor again. I'm not sure I trust how long he'll hold out, he's been almost broken by his exile here. Or we can go searching the city ourselves. That's more dangerous, but in a couple of days we can cover a fair amount of ground, and have a good chance of feeling the Quickening from any other immortals in the proximity. The only problem then is dealing with them when we meet them, and hoping we don't run into Achilleus in a place that's to his advantage more than ours." <><><><><> "I like the second choice," he said in a matter of fact tone. "Puttin' all our expectations on the old king leaves us little room for alternatives... And we've wasted a good deal of time if'n he canna' get us any information. We will just have to deal wit' thin's as they happen." <><><><><> <> "Aye, so be it," Scathach says. With the elder immortal, you proceed to tour the great city, from its slums to the temple rows. There are countless monuments built here, to one Emperor or another, or to one of Rome's many gods, or simply to appease some obscure political or economic whim (for you are learning that Romans often act not for purposes, but for appearances). There are smoothly paved streets that aren't meant to be walked on by the likes of you, and Scathach points out the vigilant Praetorians who stand like sentries on street corners, ready to intercept and divert (or beat senseless) any of the plebian masses who would seek to walk where Senators tread. No doubt a pair of barbarian Celts would be received poorly as well. Rome has mighty sewers, "aquaducts" they call them, which carry the city's waste outside its walls, and which bring water from the Tiber in. Engineering such a system is beyond your ken; the Romans, in their might and arrogance, command the forces of nature herself. ("But nature spits in their eye now and then," Scathach points out. "The last time I was here, Rome was recovering from a flood.") These aquaducts are definite hazards if one is walking the streets at night; in places, there is no warning when one is about to come upon a steep drop directly into a fast current, and you can well imagine that not a few incautious citizens wind up drowning in their fabulous waterworks. Just another of the many hazards Rome presents. Even in the daylight, there are hordes of poor and desperate men who'd stab you in the back as soon as look at you. Walking through the filthy, overcrowded tenament districts, you feel many hostile eyes on you. The fact that you are considerably larger than the average Roman, and that both you and Scathach look well-armed and well-prepared to use your weapons, may discourage the average footpad. But you are alert for groups; a gang of Roman toughs might muster enough collective courage to try jumping a pair of barbarians wandering into their turf. Every Roman you meet, from wealthy merchants to bored wives of middle-class shopkeepers to slaves to beggars, looks at you with the same patronizing expression. "I may be a filthy, leprous panhandler with no teeth, wearing mouldering rags and dependent on strangers for enough coins to keep from starving to death," one beggar's curious but haughty gaze seems to say, as he eyes you and Scathach from his squat on a corner, "but I'm still a Roman and you're not!" But you aren't the only non-Romans here. The more you prowl the city, the more you see people who either weren't born here or whose parents weren't. There are those who come from elsewhere on the Italian peninsula, of course, granted "almost but not quite Roman" status by the proud natives of the capital city; they are citizens of the Empire like any other, but a slightly different complexion, or a regional accent to their Latin, marks them as hicks. Then there are Iberian Gauls, some of whom _were_ born here, some of whom have families that have been living in Rome for generations, and who have had plenty of Roman blood mingling with theirs. And they may be Roman citizens, if they aren't slaves. There is a small colony of Greeks living in an expatriate neighborhood, some of them scholars who tutor Roman children, some of them just poor immigrants seeking a better fortune than can be found fishing on their native isles, thinking Rome was where any bright-eyed lad can become wealthy and renowned. Scathach tells you the Greeks had a mighty empire too, once. There are Syrians and Egyptians and some more of those people Scathach called Jews, whom she says live throughout the Roman Empire, but when you ask where their homeland is, she isn't sure. And there are the Africans; them you find fascinating, with their dark skin and broad facial features and tall stature. Scathach says most of these Africans are light-skinned, that she has on occasion seen some whose skin was almost ebony; she thinks they come from deeper inland, and that most of those who come to Rome are from northern Afrik, where the people have been mingling with Romans and other coastal peoples for centuries. People from a hundred tribes, a hundred cities; surely from everywhere in the world where men live, there is at least one representative here in Rome! The tales that might be told if one could meet and talk to immortals from all those cultures.... But that is one thing you do not find. After a day, and then another day, of tromping around the city, until you're sure you must have hiked the equivalent of half the length of Prydain, not once have you and Scathach sensed the Quickening, other than from one another, or from the occasional temples and other holy areas you venture into. Scathach finds this strange, and disturbing. "I cannot imagine that more immortals wouldn't come to Rome," she says. "There is so much here to attract them. And hunters notwithstanding, you'd think a few immortals would manage to coexist in a city this size." <><><><><> "I wouldn't know... But if this place is truly the heart of all man knows to be the world, then here there should be more of our kind. We've come here.... so where are the others... Why won't they come here, or...." He paused as he continued to walk. "Who's killin' them off?" <><><><><> <> "Achilleus?" Scathach murmurs, voicing the obvious answer. "I suppose it's possible. He must be a formidable hunter, but I did not think he was a match for every ancient immortal who might dwell in Rome." "Then again," she says with a wry chuckle, "I think *I* once killed the oldest immortal in Rome." "Come to think of it, we're only assuming Achilleus was originally a Roman. He could be a truly ancient immortal from some other land to the north or the east, who's just chosen Rome as his home relatively recently...." She looks up and down the darkening city streets. "But to be frank, we could spend many more days and still not cover the entire city. We've walked all the most well-trodden areas and as many of the public places as we could, but if an immortal was living here and didn't _want_ to be sensed by other immortals passing through the city, there are plenty of places yet they could hide. So either someone has killed them all off, or they're hiding...." <><><><><> That thought didn't sit well with him. "Let's return to Caractacus, and see what he has learned... The sooner this is over... the sooner I can go home... or not... either way I want to be done with this damn Geas." <><><><><> <> Caractacus, as it turns out, has not learned anything, but of course the fete is not until the next evening. In the meantime, you find him passed out in his main chambers, after having partaken liberally of the Roman wines he's been supplied with. He isn't quite the souse you found when you first came here, but the stress of hauling himself into public before Roman nobles is obviously more than he can stand sober. The gate servant recognized you and let you in, with some reluctance at this late hour. He assures you the other slaves are used to caring for Caractacus, and that he actually drank less tonight than he often does. The man will probably feel like the underside of a snake tomorrow unless he kills the pain with more of what inflicted it. <><><><><> Casting Scathach a dark sidelong glance, he let he know his displeasure without words. He wasn't angry at her, but at the old man. It was an anger he wouldn't vent on Caractacus though, for the man was a king, a chieftain... and no matter what, that deserved respect. Caractacus would always command respect until he proved he could no longer function as a king... and despite his condition, Ciaran would continue to respect him until proven otherwise. That was the Celtic way. Entering the man's home, Ciaran chose to seclude himself in privacy. Tomorrow would be a new day. And there was much to think on, and much to consider. <><><><><> <> Caractacus roars like a bear the next morning, complaining of his headache. The servants bring him more wine, but he only drinks moderately -- for him. "Damn Romans and damn their feasts!" he curses in Cymric, while you and Scathach watch him dubiously. He slumps in his chair. "I don't have many years left, you know. What I'd give to die back in Prydain instead of here." <><><><><> "Let's get through tonight before we worry about what we'd like to do tomorrow or the next day," he said dryly while watching the old man. He agreed with the sentiment though. he didn't want to die here, and if he lived himself then he would see what could be done about granting the old man's wish. "Ye'll need yer wits about ye, King... One last fight, one last stab to let the Romans know ye aren't beaten down... Tonight." <><><><><> <> "Aye," says the king. "But you don't know how much better it would be to face them with a sword, even in my present condition, than to play their cursed social games. Sometimes I imagine I'll slit some fat Senator's throat as a final act...." He sighs. "Ah, but what would be the point? Killing an ignorant Roman who hasn't even the understanding to know why I hate him so much, and what's one less rich Roman?" With difficulty, and at last only aided by his woman-servants, he stands. "One last stab indeed," he grunts. "So, I am off to this fete, and if I make it back, maybe I will have some news of your Achilleus." "Remember not to ask too many direct questions -- Achilleus may be a shrewder man than he appears, and if he's not, he may have men around him who are," Scathach cautions. Caractacus turns and looks at her with a scornful expression. "I've been dealin' with Romans longer than ye've been alive, lass," he says. "And loosening tongues in conversation. I _was_ regarded as rather a shrewd man myself, once. If I can learn anything, I will." With that, he shoulders his worn and faded cloak again, and trundles out the gates accompanied by a servant. "And the fate of our quest lies in his hands," Scathach mutters, though not entirely without respect. <><><><><> He watched the man leave and nodded at Scathach's comment without looking at her. "Longer than you've been alive... aye... Imagine that now." He turned to face her. "What shall we do to pass the time? Wait to see if the old man even makes it back?" <><><><><> <> "I'm bluidy tired of waiting and waiting," Scathach grumbles. "But what else is there for us?" She shakes her head. "We're in entirely too much of a hurry, you know. We're immortals, we can take our time -- even a mortal would take weeks to scout out Rome and make contacts and try to get to know his way around." She pinches her lips. "If that old goat doesn't turn up anything useful, perhaps we should split up and try to infiltrate Rome each on our own? If there are no Roman immortals who will walk right out and challenge us, then we're in no more danger getting to know the city and trying to work our way towards Achilleus by doing so slowly than we are rushing to clash with him at the earliest opportunity." "I want this quest over with too, aye. But recklessness is a good way to lose your head. And I'm getting the feeling that we won't likely find Achilleus anywhere alone in the middle of a field." <><><><><> "Agreed and well enough said, Scathach," replied Ciaran. He too was tired of waiting, but he also knew that there were things going on in this city that he was not aware of. Well, that was obvious, he was a Celt and this was Rome. He didn't pretend to understand these people or their ways, but that was besides the point. The last Immortal they had seen was a military man who seemed to share no love for Achilleus, and he also didn't seem inclined to remain in the city either. Ciaran felt he might be thinking too much again and decided to drink instead. "Aye, we can split up and see what we find out, but we should meet at least once a day... here or near here," said as he scouted out a place where Caractacus kept his wines and other spirits. <><><><><> <> You and Scathach are woken up early by a tuneless, awful singing. It is almost dirgelike. Yet when you focus your ears upon it, it turns out to be Celtic, although so badly mangled by inebriation and regional dialect that you can barely understand the words. Some of King Caractacus's servants shuffle outside, to fetch the drunken old man. He has returned, at least, which was almost more than you expected. His wretched state (if his voice is any indication) doesn't offer much hope of his having accomplished anything useful. <><><><><> He lays very still for a moment and shuts his eyes tightly, as if he could blot this out altogether. He pitied the man. A man he once respected greatly had fallen to the times and had been broken by the world around him. And yet Ciaran suddenly found himself regretting that he pitied the man. Caractacus was once great and by a certainty that greatness has passed, but he was still that man. Circumstances and fate could not change the past and that past overshadowed the present. *Who am I,* he admonished himself. *Who am I to judge him? I lurk in shadows now, and I was never a man who led a nation... and I will never be one... I can never be one... I may lead men and women.. and I may be a part of things to come... but I will never be the man that Caractacus was, and he took his chance and made his name... and so even now, he is a great man.* Ciaran rose from the bedding and pulled his tunic about him and fastened the belt. He would find the servants and get the man settled for some rest. Let him sleep now, there would be time to talk later. <><><><><> <> Caractacus is staggeringly drunk, as was obvious from the sound of his returning. The servants, awake already, move quickly at your command, and help ease their master into his bedchambers. Scathach stands a short distance away, watching disdainfully. Having seen more kings than you, even a king who once knew greatness is less impressive to her, and so she is less forgiving of a great man who has fallen. Caractacus tries mumbling something to you, but takes several tries before anything coherent comes out: "Stone....Achilleus is here, damned.....arrogant..." he rambles on with many colorful obscenities about the Romans, before collapsing into bed. <><><><><> Caractacus knew what he was about. What he did, he did as a means to deal with the pain, misery, and hopelessness of what his life had become. Ciaran knew that Caractacus was well aware of what he had become. Ciaran had no right to judge him either. In the depths of the Pit in Medb's rath, Ciaran descended into an anguish and allowed his circumstances to dictate how he existed. Through it all, the old man delivered to him the crucial information and made it quite clear that he was keen enough to get a full measure of Achilleus. Ciaran looked sidelong at Scathach. Now, her knowledge of Rome would be most crucial. He pictured the arrogant brutish man in his mind. He remembered the beating he took at the man's hands. He delivered his licks, but had it not been for his disguised companion and the magic, Ciaran knew he would be dead. It was time to settle scores. *I'm coming for you....*