Ithaca Found, page 15
Lillian shifted uneasily on her wooden bench, all too aware of the other patrons around them. A group of soldiers huddled near the door, their red cloaks dark with melting snow. Merchants and artisans crowded the tables, sharing warmth and news. Any one of them could be an informant.
"And what of his daughter?" she asked.
“The White Tart?” Marcus leaned forward, wine sloshing dangerously close to the cup's rim. “The Iceni whore has been writing to all the great patrician families of Rome. The Cornelii, the Claudii, the Aemilii – any with eligible sons. A marriage alliance with Albinus's only daughter? The patricians are falling over themselves to offer terms."
A burst of laughter from the soldiers' table made Julius start. Lillian touched his arm, steadying him.
"Pale as milk, like her father. She looks like moonlight," Marcus sighed, the alcohol letting loose his poetical prowess.
"And what do the augurs say of her future marriage?" Julius asked, careful to modulate his accent.
"They stay silent. The prophet has convinced Albinus that only she can interpret the gods' will." Marcus drained his cup. "Strange times we live in. A woman with that much power?"
They waited until Marcus had stumbled out into the snowy street before leaving themselves, taking care to follow a different route back to their lodging. Only when they were safely behind closed doors did Lillian allow herself to process what they'd learned.
Jane wasn't just changing the details of history — she was fundamentally altering the power structures of Rome itself. A strategic marriage for Apple could cement alliances that never existed, shift loyalties that shaped the empire's future.
"We have to stop her," she repeated for what must have been the ten-thousandth time.
"How?" Julius demanded, shaking snow from his cloak. "We can barely show our faces in public. And if she sees you..."
He didn't need to finish. Jane knew exactly who Lillian was, what she could do. One word from her, and they'd both be arrested as spies.
"There might be a way," Lillian said slowly. "But it's dangerous. And it involves using something Jane won't expect. The truth."
Julius raised an eyebrow.
"Not the whole truth," she amended. "But enough to make Rome's noble families question whether Albinus's miraculous daughter is really who she claims to be."
"You're talking about spreading rumours against Apple? Your friend. Surely that would put her life more at risk?”
"Only if she really was his daughter." Lillian met his eyes. "And we both know she isn't."
The Viper’s Shadows
Bricius nursed his watered wine in the darkest corner of the Boar's Head, watching Lillian and Julius through the tavern's smoky air. He'd tracked them from Ithaca Fort, learning their patterns, watching them watch others. They were good at staying hidden — but not good enough to spot him.
The wine merchant's drunken voice carried across the room: "The Iceni prophet has Albinus's ear completely now."
Bricius's fingers tightened around his cup. Iceni prophet. The words tasted like bile. Jane Badrick was no more Iceni than the Roman dogs who'd captured Gar. She was a serpent who'd slithered into their midst, poisoning everything she touched with her lies.
"His most trusted advisors — dismissed like common slaves. She tells him they're all Severus's spies."
The memory of Gar's capture rose unbidden. Jane using her Iron Beast to double cross them, allowing the Roman’s to slaughter his brave warriors and to capture their chieftain.
Bricius spat. Iolo had been right about her. The old druid had seen through her lies, his sunken eyes blazing with hatred as he'd demanded her sacrifice. But Gar had refused, and now... now he had no idea where Iolo was, and Gar lay in Roman chains.
Perhaps if he'd sought out Iolo before coming to Londinium? No. The thought of the druid's fanaticism still made his skin crawl. The way Iolo used his beliefs as an excuse to torture others. To kill…
"The White Tart?" Marcus was saying now, wine sloshing. "The Iceni whore has been writing to all the great patrician families."
Across the room, he saw Lillian tense at the words. So, she cared what happened to the pale girl. Interesting. Bricius had wondered about their connection.
He watched Julius touch Lillian's arm. There was something more there. Bricius filed that away for later.
Bricius drained his cup and stood, leaving a coin on the table. Outside, snow was falling again, thick enough to mask his footsteps as he followed the path Julius and Lillian had taken. It was time to see what other pieces were in play before he made his move to free Gar, and to take his revenge on what the Roman’s were calling the Iceni Whore. Jane Badrick. The Betrayer.
Bricius found Mared's pottery shop by following the smell of clay and wood smoke. To Roman eyes, it was just another workshop in the artisan quarter, producing the everyday vessels that kept the city's commerce flowing. But the spiral pattern scratched into the doorpost marked it as a gathering place for those who needed a place of safety. Even Kim Philby would be proud of the subterfuge, the way Iceni secrets were hidden in plain sight of the Romans.
Inside, the warmth of the kilns drove back the winter chill. Mared herself stood at her wheel, her grey hair tied back in the Roman style, her hands shaping clay with practiced ease. She didn't look up as he entered.
"The ice holds," she said, her fingers never stopping their work.
"But spring always comes," Bricius replied, completing the recognition phrase.
Only then did she lift her head. “We expected you sooner.” Her eyes were sharp despite her age. "We heard about Gar's capture. And about the woman prophet."
"Jane Badrick,” The name tasted like poison on his tongue. "She calls herself an Iceni prophet now."
"We know." Mared's voice was bitter. "Her lies echo through every street. The Romans lap up her every word, and why shouldn't they? She tells them exactly what they want to hear."
Other figures emerged from the shadows of the workshop — men and women Bricius had known in better days, before they'd chosen to live among the Romans. Cadoc the merchant, wearing a toga now instead of tribal clothes. Young Rhiannon, who'd married a Roman soldier but still kept the old ways in secret.
"They say Albinus plans to take Gar to Rome," Cadoc said. "Once the ice breaks, they're shipping him to Rome as if he were nothing more than a shipment of ale."
"That's why I'm here.” Bricius's hand went to his knife.
"To die uselessly?" Mared's hands slapped clay onto the wheel with unnecessary force. "Look around you. This is how we survive now. We adapt. We blend in. We—"
"We forget who we are?" Bricius challenged. "Like you've forgotten? Trading our pride for Roman coins?"
"My pots keep our people fed," Mared snapped. "What has your pride done except fill graves?"
Rhiannon stepped between them. "Both paths have their place," she said quietly.
"What we need," said a new voice from the door, "is to deal with the Betrayer before she destroys everything.”
"What we need," said a new voice from the door, "is to deal with the Betrayer before she destroys everything.”
They turned to find Ennion, the metalworker, shutting the door against the snow. His face grim. "Jane visited the temple with Albinus today," he reported. “She trying to convince Albinus that Gar's execution will appease the gods. That it will guarantee his victory over Severus.”
The news hit Bricius like a physical blow. Mared's wheel stopped turning.
"How long do we have?" Bricius demanded.
Ennion shook his head. “The man didn’t seem persuaded, yet. The priests made noises against it. He’s not fully under her spell.”
The crackle of the kilns filled the silence as Bricius looked at each of the Iceni – his people — who'd found their own ways to survive in the shadow of Rome. There were few that they could trust, and even fewer who had the skills to fight the Romans on their turf.
“We need an ally," he said. “Before it’s too late. I followed a couple from Ithaca Fort to Londinium," Bricius said carefully. “Julius, and a woman."
“The centurion Julius? The deserter?" Rhiannon looked up sharply.
"Is that what they're calling him?" Bricius had fought against Julius enough times to know his worth as a soldier. “Together with the woman, they followed Albinus’s retinue, but stayed clear of his scouts, and of mine.”
Mared's hands stilled on her wheel. "You want to trust a Roman deserter?"
“He has deserted for a reason, and clearly it is not in support of the governor of Britannia. He may… be prepared to assist us.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Bricius. Iolo warned us all that someone would betray us from inside. Is that you?”
“Lies. It was the woman they call the Prophet. This fighting does nothing to move us forward. In the absence of Gar, I make the decisions. And I say we trust the deserter. He will help get us inside.”
"Gar is in the cells beneath the praetorium. Two guards, rotating every three hours. The cold makes them sloppy — they huddle around braziers instead of watching the shadows.” Cadoc offered.
"The ice works both ways," Mared warned. "If something goes wrong, there's no escape from the city. We'd all pay the price."
"We're already paying it," Bricius countered. "Every day the Betrayer’s lies increase the risk to Gar’s life.”
Rhiannon's voice was quiet. "There is another way. The old way.”
Bricius's stomach clenched. He knew what was coming.
"Iolo still has followers in the city," she continued. "The Romans think that they have crushed the druids, but their power remains. The people still believe."
"Iolo is a madman," Bricius spat. The old beliefs ran deep, especially now, with their world crumbling around them.
"A madman who saw Jane for what she was before any of us," Mared pointed out. "And his followers have ways of moving unseen, even in winter."
Bricius remembered Iolo's sunken eyes, the way they'd blazed with fanatical certainty as he'd performed his rituals. The thought of working with him made Bricius's skin crawl. But he couldn't deny the druid's influence, or his network of devoted followers.
"The people need a sign," Rhiannon pressed. "Something to remind them of who we are. Iolo could provide that."
"Along with how many sacrifices?" Bricius demanded. "How many more hearts ripped out to feed his bloodlust?"
"Sometimes," Cadoc said softly, "blood is the only language Rome understands."
In the silence, Bricius understood that they needed every advantage they could get, every weapon they could wield. Including the druid.
"Find him," he said finally, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "But make it clear — we do this my way. No sacrifices. No rituals. Just Gar's freedom and Jane's downfall."
"And the deserter?" Mared asked. "His woman?"
"We watch them first," Bricius decided. "See what game they're playing in all this. Julius was no friend to us before – I need to know what's changed."
The ice would hold a while longer. Time enough to gather allies, even ones he’d rather run through with his dagger.
Don’t Drop A Stitch
As Ryan and Emma ate their lunch at Greggs. Loretta watched them through the window of the Bellingham Tea Rooms, her knitting needles clicking as she worked on what appeared to be a Roman legionnaire’s helmet. They made an attractive couple; she thought — both sharp-featured and intent, heads bent together over their laptops.
If only they weren’t so good at their jobs.
She’d looked up Ryan Francis on the internet — one of the Art Loss Register’s star investigators, known for recovering stolen artefacts across Europe. And Emma, with her connections to both the Royal Mint and the Register... they were getting too close. Far too close.
Her fingers fumbled, dropping a stitch. The drilled coin in her pocket seemed to burn, a constant reminder of that day. July 1st, 1969. The day everything changed.
Dafydd had access to all the treasures at Caernarfon Castle – he was the only one with a key to the coin cabinet. That morning, he’d been preoccupied with the upcoming investiture of Prince Charles and all the security arrangements it required. But he’d still remembered their anniversary.
“I saved this one for you,” he’d said, slipping the coin into her jewellery box. “A proper piece of history.”
She hadn’t known that her husband’s minor act of sentiment would change her life forever.
The first jump had been that evening. One moment she was alone in their bedroom, holding the coin, the next she was standing in a Roman street, the smell of wood smoke and humanity overwhelming her senses. She’d barely had time to register the impossible before snapping back to 1969, the coin burning hot in her palm.
“More tea, dear?”
Loretta started. The waitress hovered beside her with a pot of Earl Grey. Through the window, she could see Ryan pointing something out in his files to Emma.
“Yes, please,” her voice was steady, despite her racing heart. They couldn’t know. How could they? The investigation into the missing coins had been cursory at best – the investiture was the primary focus. And she’d just expected everyone would assume that the thieves would have melted down the coins straightaway.
They were asking questions about Caernarfon Castle. About the missing coins. Ones which matched the ones she’d buried all those years ago, the ones that had started this whole mess. And somewhere in those files might be Dafydd’s name, his position at the castle, his access to the coin cabinet. And next to Dafydd’s name might be hers.
Her knitting showed the strain — the pattern becoming erratic, the wool twisting as timelines shifted and reformed around her. She’d learned to read these signs over the years, recognising how her handicraft reflected the delicate fabric of time itself.
Movement across the road. Ryan stood up, closing his laptop with Emma following in his wake, her hand brushing his arm in a gesture that spoke of familiarity. They were heading toward the door of Greggs, and for one heart-stopping moment, Loretta thought they were coming to the tearooms.
But they turned the other way, toward the police station. The message clear that they weren’t giving up.
Sooner or later, they’d start asking the right questions.
Loretta touched the drilled coin in her pocket. This was why she never came back to this time. She was only here because of Pramod. Because she’d heard of another time traveller. Someone who needed guidance. Lillian. A fat lot of use she’d been to her.
After that first accidental jump, learning to control it had been like learning to ride a bicycle — terrifying at first, then exhilarating. The drilled coin responded to her wildest imaginings. But the jumps were erratic. Until she discovered the knitting.
It started with a scarf she was making, the familiar rhythm of the needles somehow steadying her through the temporal shifts. Later, Pramod would explain it — something about repetitive patterns creating anchor points in space-time. He’d carved her that little Welsh dragon, another focus point, and suddenly she could navigate time like sailing a well-mapped sea.
The Beatles had been her first deliberate destination. February 1961, the Cavern Club in Liverpool. She’d sat in that dank cellar, watching four young men who didn’t know they would change the world, and had thought to herself that this was better than any history book. Better than any life she’d left behind.
Then came the real adventures. London, 1888. She’d been determined to solve the Ripper mystery—what good was time travel if you couldn’t crack history’s greatest cases? She’d found him too or thought she had. A Polish barber in the Ten Bells pub, his broken English masking an educated mind.
Over steaming mugs of gin-laced tea, they had spoken of their time in the city, of how different it was to home. When he’d suggested fresh air, she’d followed, confident in her own abilities to protect herself. Outside, the cold bit through her thin coat as they stepped into the shadows of the street. Then the clatter of hooves on wet cobblestones, and the harsh bark of a constable’s voice as he rounded the corner. The barber stiffened, his posture shifting as if he’d just thought better of something before he tipped his hat and melted into the night.
Had she been in danger? Or had she misread him, her own suspicions twisting harmless conversation into something darker? She would never know.
And as she watched his silhouette disappear into the mist that night, she had the strangest feeling that history had been watching her.
Her knitting needles clicked faster as she remembered. Each project became a map of her journeys – Roman legionnaires, Viking longships, medieval castle keeps. The wool remembered where she’d been, what she’d seen. Sometimes the patterns would shift under her fingers, warning her of temporal disturbances, of history trying to rewrite itself.
“Joyce would be what, fifty now?” she mused, surprising herself with the thought. Her daughter’s face had faded in her memory, replaced by the faces of history – Marcus Aurelius remained her white whale, the one historical figure she was determined to meet. She’d caught glimpses of his reign, but never the man himself. Not yet.
The truth was, she’d never been meant for that life in Wales. The endless routine of housework, the demands of motherhood, the suffocating smallness of it all. Dafydd was kind, but limited — unable to see beyond his little corner of Wales.
She had freed those coins. Given them purpose. Used them to witness the great sweep of time itself. This was what she was meant for. Not darning socks or attending parent-teacher meetings, but walking through history’s pivotal moments, the fabric of time shifting around her.
The Roman legionnaire’s helmet on her needles was taking shape, the pattern complex but familiar. She’d seen the real thing now, touched it, understood the working of the metal. Her knitting was no longer an artist’s impression — it was a memory.
