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The captain of the ship, Locus, stood at the side, waiting anxiously for his passengers to come topside. He wanted this affair over and done with as soon as possible, but it felt like the two men were taking forever. He personally wouldn't have agreed to give them passage had it not been for the presence of a sour faced Roman centurion who had said something about the command of the emperor and that was that. When the emperor's name was invoked on anything, everyone had to listen and obey. The captain didn't care for being ordered about on his own ship, let alone by a centurion. He was a Gaul, himself, and while he carried a Roman citizenship, it meant little to him beyond trading matters. He held a firm belief that the tribes would one day unite and overthrow the Roman rule, but until that day he would just have to swallow his pride and do what he was told. Which meant that two young Roman men had come aboard his ship to sail to Britain.
They had paid their fare and a little extra to avoid undue questioning. That meant something to the captain, who had seen his share of secretive people. He had done some smuggling in his day, but these two had not seemed like that type. They didn't carry anything unnecessary with them. They didn't seem to have any money on them, other than the money they had paid him. In fact, there was very little to distinguish them for any other Roman citizen, except for the armour they carried with them. The taller man, who the captain heard called Agravain, carried with him the kit of a Roman soldier. He had long since lost the red uniform and the heavy breastplate, but he had the cassis, the large shield with the insignia rubbed out, the short gladius, and the stout boots. His gear was in good repair, even if obviously old, and he wore them easily enough. He had been trained, though he was too young to have seen combat. The other man, who was a head shorter at least, carried simple traveling equipment as well as a dagger and his own sword. Comparing the two men's weapons had tipped the captain off to their real identities. The shorter man carried an ornate broadsword that had obviously been used before. He wore it on his back in a baldric and was hardly ever without it. He did not carry it as easily as his companion did his gear, even to the point of seeming uncomfortable with his weaponry. The captain had seen this before in the hostages returning home. They had finally earned their freedom and been given their weapons back. Most of them felt awkward after having been so long without them. Obviously, this man had been one of those captives of the state staying in Rome, a sort of collateral against any uprisings on the part of his people. Looking at him, the captain decided he was one of the Britons who had been taken to Rome. Now that the empire had pulled out of Britain, many such hostages were returning to their homeland. With this in mind and the activity of the centurion at the dock, the captain had stayed well away from his passengers. Now, he would finally be rid of them for good.
His men had lowered a boat into the water and sat there, waiting for their cargo to climb down. Two other sailors lowered the men's equipment, while the men themselves came up from below for the last time. Neither of them seemed to be sad about leaving. Agravain was practically giddy, smiling broadly at the captain as he shook his hand emphatically. The shorter man seemed less enthused, his mood leaning more towards preoccupation than interest.
"It was a pleasure, captain," said Agravain, finally releasing the man's hand. He swung himself over the side and climbed down.
The shorter man looked the captain in the eye for a long moment, evaluating. "You are bound for the port of Durobrivae, correct?" he asked, his voice low and controlled. The captain nodded and spat over the side. There was a small cry of protest from whomever his spit barely missed. The man took a sealed letter from under his cloak and a small bag of coins. "I want this delivered to a blacksmith called Aodh. He will be expecting you when you land."
The captain looked at the bag of coins, considering. The man was well prepared, he had to give him that. The fact that someone would be expecting the ship to come in meant that he had sent word ahead and that he had friends in Britain. That coupled with the ornate nature of the man's sword made the captain unable to help being more curious than he should have been. "I'll take the letter on one condition," he said, finally. The man showed no surprise at this. "I want to know who you are."
"My name is of little importance to you," the man said, showing no emotion. "You are Morvyn of the Gaulish tribes. Our peoples do not mix."
"Nevertheless," the captain continued, "I have given you the hospitality of my ship."
That made the ghost of a smile play on the man's lips. He knew the dictates of hospitality, as did all Britons, and to ignore this request would have been very bad form, an insult to a host. "My name is Cador of the Trinovantes," he said, formally.
Morvyn drew breath quickly. "So the rumors are true," he said, eagerly. "You're alive."
"And returning to my people after a long absence," Cador said wistfully. He looked over the side towards the land, where the mist was rolling in.
"Are all the rumors true?" asked the captain. "Do you really plan on uniting the Britons?"
Cador looked at him sharply. "It is best to ignore rumors, as they fly much faster from the lips than truth does. Wait for the truth to arrive, then speak."
"Are saying they aren't true? I have heard this from many passengers' lips, all hostages returning home, even some who claimed to be your companions in Rome. Did they lie?"
"Men tell the truths they want to believe. For my part," he said, somberly, "I wish to sit at my home fire and bask in its glow. My heart flies home when my body remains still."
Morvyn nodded in understanding. "I too have suffered the home longing," he said. "I will not keep you from where your heart belongs." He took the letter and left the gold. "May you reach your destination swiftly and remember me kindly to your friends."
Cador nodded and climbed over the side. Morvyn watched his sailors row thee two men towards the shore, wondering silently to himself. True, he had been told not to believe the rumors, but all rumor carried even the hint of the truth. Cador, known in Rome as Caius Britainarum, was a minor prince of the Trinovantes. After the death of his family fighting against the Romans, he had been taken as a hostage to Rome, leaving the care of his tribe in the hands of other less worthy men. The Trinovantes had suffered under the Roman rule for their part in Boudica's rebellion, and that suffering had only intensified without a member of the ruling house to lead them. But people who would know such things had prophesied that once Cador returned, the path to unifiying the Britons would begin with him to lead. Druids carried stories of signs in the earth, water and sky that prophesied his future greatness. Bards sang stories of his works in battle, comparing him to the great heroes Pwyll and Cuchulainn. The midwives named children after him to bring them bright futures. His name was spreading along the coast and inland, carrying with it a hope that had long lain buried in the hearts of the Britons. Morvyn had heard too and wondered whether the stories could possibly be true. The man seemed hardly up to the task that lay before him. Finally, the tiny boat disappeared into the mist and he turned away to work. It was only then that he noticed the bag of gold sitting on the railing.