Knight of Rome Part II

by Malcolm Davies

  “I am Otto son of Badurad, now called Otto Longius. I too fought as a Roman cavalryman but I did not break my sacred oath taken under the eagle.”

  Apart from Cynan and Quintus, hardly anyone understood a word of what was bring said. It did not really matter to them. They had heard the recitation of pedigree and the ritual exchange of insults before single combat many times.

  “At first I thought you wore many arm rings, Otto son of Badurad. Now I see they are the bangles rich Romans buy for their sweethearts. Are you the plaything of a rich old Roman?”

  “Your own arm rings are scanty but I will enjoy adding them to mine when I have killed you, Farval son of Berinhard.”

  “Not an easy matter to kill a king, boy,” Farval snarled.

  “If fucking a horse made a man into a king, every braggart with no self-respect would be one,” Otto told him.

  It was enough to goad him into action. Farval ran a few steps forward and hurled his lance. Otto deflected it and cast his own. It was lighter than the legionary javelin he was used to which spoiled his aim. It flew out of his hand so fast that the watching warrior saw only a dark blur in the air. It hit Farval on the boss of his helmet crest, a poor shot for Otto. The force of the strike snapped Farval’s neck back and raised a grunt of appreciation from the assembled warriors. Farval heard it and was further enraged. The two men ran at each other drawing their swords and striking almost simultaneously, blade to blade. The steel rang, sparks flew. The combatants stepped back and crouched. Each had felt the force of the other’s right arm. Otto knew that Farval was too strong for him; his extra weight in the chest and shoulder tipped the balance in his favour. He must move and probe and think, seeking a way to wipe out the other’s advantage.

  They circled, launching attack after attack, defending with shield and sword, parrying the other’s blade aside, blocking and side-stepping. They had been tight-lipped to start with but now their mouths hung open in the effort to drag oxygen into their burning lungs. Sweat beaded on their eyebrows and rolled down their faces. Their feet kicked up clouds of dust around their legs. If Farval was stronger, Otto was faster; quick enough to keep him out of danger. They fought on, five minutes, ten minutes, muscles screaming, chests heaving then Otto spotted his enemy’s weakness. Farval used his weapon in overhand cuts. He rarely thrust and when he did, he kept his sword arm locked and lunged forward on his right leg. It was a cavalryman’s thrust, relying on the speed of his horse and leaning forward in the saddle to send it home. It was highly effective; except that now, they were fighting on foot. Otto had spent years training with infantry legionaries. He had learned their method; whipping the blade out with the strength of his right arm from the shoulder with a snap of the elbow and a twist of the wrist. It was the lightning thrust from the side of a shield that had made Rome victorious from Parthia to the German Ocean. He had to find the opportunity to perform it.

  They fought on, hacking crudely at each other now as fatigue took its toll. The onlookers shuffled on their stools or leaned forward on their spears, knowing the crisis was imminent. Farval aimed a blow at the side of Otto’s neck. It was a fraction slow and gave Otto his chance. He took it on his shield but instead of counter cutting, he cocked his elbow and launched a straight thrust at Farval’s face. The blade entered under his left cheekbone and as Otto twisted his wrist to withdraw, it smashed Farval’s upper-jaw and destroyed his hearing on that side. Blood welled out and he began to go into shock. Unconsciously he let his shield drop and a second thrust burst through his chain mail into his chest below the collarbone. Blood bubbled at the corners of his lips and he fell. Silence followed the clatter of his armoured body crashing into the ground.

  Otto knew that he had to act swiftly now or all would be lost. He did not know how well supported Farval had been among the people of this city. He raised his dripping sword and walked to the edge of the crowd. He drew a deep breath, feeling his heart pound as adrenalin still flooded his bloodstream,

  “What do you call the man who kills the Horse King?” he shouted in Belgic, to Cynan’s combined astonishment and fury. There was no response so he answered his own question. “You call him the King! Does any man wish to dispute my right? What do you call the man who kills the Horse King?” This time a few voices shouted, “The King!” back at him. He went round the circle yelling his challenge and demanding their response until the whole square resounded with voices chanting, “The King! The King! The King!”.

  He drummed his sword against his shield for silence.

  “Let no man enter this circle unless he is called,” he proclaimed then switched to Latin. “Greetings Quintus Mucius, would you care to join me?” With a foolish smile on his face, still not quite sure if he was dreaming, Quintus limped over. “Just hold on to your courage for a little longer and we shall be out of here, he muttered. He placed one hand on the quaestor’s shoulder and reverted to Belgic. “This Roman is the grandson of the great general Julius Caesar. The priest Cynan and I must return him to his own people before a Roman army comes to massacre every man, woman and child in this city. They will slaughter all your livestock and burn your homes and barns to the ground. You know they have done such things elsewhere. It was a grave error to bring him here but if he is returned unharmed, I will obtain mercy for you.”

  The name of the Divine Julius still had enough force to strike fear, even though so much time had passed since his death. A low mumble of approval rose from the crowd.

  “One of you fetch me Farval’s two best horses, saddled and bridled, now!” Otto barked.

  A young man stood up at the back of the crowd and jogged through one of the entrances of the square. Otto stripped the dead man of his ornaments and picked up his sword.

  “Who is the wisest among you? Which man among you is best fitted to lead this city? I will wait while you decide.”

  A concentrated discussion broke out and went on for several minutes but Otto could see most eyes and pointing fingers were aimed at one older man, dignified in appearance, well dressed and armed, obviously of high rank. At the insistence of the crowd he stood up.

  “Stand forward,” Otto commanded him.

  He walked over, boldly but without swaggering. Two horses were led in. A heavily muscled bay charger, snorting and stamping his hooves and a leggy, mouse-coloured mare, a riding horse. Otto put the late Horse King’s sword in the man’s hand and helped him up onto the back of the charger.

  “You have elected this man to govern your city. I share my spoils with him to show he had the authority of the new King. Obey his lawful commands. Now I must leave for a short while to take the Roman back to his people.”

  Half an hour later, Otto had paid the incredulous innkeeper for what they and their animals had already eaten. He handed over something extra for provisions loaded onto one of the pack-mules for their journey and they left through the gate by which they had first entered the city.

  Quintus, mounted on Farval’s riding horse, was too stunned to talk. Cynan was in a sullen, bitter rage. Otto was cheerful, singing and whistling as they rode along, Tud trotted behind with a broad smile on his face.

  That night they made camp beside a pool in a babbling steam. Quintus stripped and washed himself while Tud scrubbed his tunic and loin cloth. Tud boiled up some water and shaved him before applying an ointment to his battered face. Wearing almost clean fire-dried clothes, Quintus began to look like his previous self although his hollow cheeks showed that he had lost a lot of weight. Bread soaked in warmed, honeyed wine revived him even more. He could tell next to nothing of his kidnap. He was walking towards the trading post when a sack was thrown over his head, he was hit in the face and passed out. He came to, still hooded, lashed onto the back of a horse. Wrists tied, lying in a dirty shed, kicks, mouldy bread and foul water. Punches, cold porridge and then being marched into the centre of a throng of fierce barbarians. The rest they all knew.

  “How long will it take to get back to the port?” he asked.

 
; “Three days at most,” Otto told him.

  Cynan glared. Otto laughed.

  “Let me tell you my tale, Quintus…”

  “Wait a little before you do,” Quintus said and wandered off among the trees. He returned a few minutes later. He had made a wreath of freshly picked oak laves. He placed it on Otto’s head.

  “Imperial Prefect Otto Longius, you have saved my life today. I, Quaestor Quintus Mucius proclaim your courage and present you with this civic crown. The Emperor will hear of this and you have my undying gratitude, my dear friend. Now, tell me your story…”

  “This man, Cynan the Priest led me to you. But before you express your thanks, you might like to know it was for his own reasons. You and I were supposed to be the means by which he re-established the dominance of his priestly order. He spun the journey out over ten days so that we would arrive on the night of the full moon and the ceremony. The warrior I fought had been proclaimed the Horse King and he needed to kill a Roman to show how brave he was. You happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; it was nothing personal. Did you think I didn’t know what you were doing Cynan? What really gave away your ruse is when we crossed the same river twice in different directions. That’s all there is to say…”

  “Except, Otto Longius, in your stupidity you have turned your back on a kingdom….” Cynan snarled.

  “Oh yes; I nearly forgot,” Otto continued, talking to Quintus once more, “I am now the king of that city where you were held captive. Our friend the priest wanted me to rule as his puppet but I prefer to stick to my oath.”

  He turned to Cynan. “You insinuated and flattered and finally asked me to choose. So hear my choice. It is Rome. You are a clever man Cynan but like a lot of intelligent people, you underestimate the rest of us. Did you ask if I could speak Belgic? No. Did you not consider that I might be able to find my direction by the sun and the stars? No. You have partially succeeded; the Horse King is dead. Be content with that.”

  At the coast, eight days of careful grooming by his body-servant and regular meals restored Quintus to his former elegance. They sailed on sparkling sapphire seas to where the land rose presenting them with soaring white cliffs. Dubrae was in an inlet and from there they were conveyed to the court of the Cantiari King. Praetor Quintus Mucius was the picture of Roman nobility as he stood in front of the king in his capital and presented the gold-framed cameo portrait of Augustus. The king was delighted and gave a gigantic pure-white wolf pelt in return.

  “My king knows that the Emperor has given him a fabulous treasure but we believe the wolf is the totem animal of all Romans and he humbly offers this skin with that in mind,” the translator told Quintus who replied that there could be nothing more thoughtful or that would please the Emperor more.

  The quaestor with his translator and his secretary spent a day in talks ostensibly aimed at cementing the mutual ties between Rome and the Cantiari but really to make the tribesmen feel more important to the Emperor than they truly were. Otto was left at a at a loose end. The nobles of the king’s court were curious about him. The younger warriors in particular had envied his fine parade armour, his medals and trophies. They plucked up the courage to ask questions.

  “How can you be a Roman? You don’t look like the rest of them?” one asked by means of another translator.

  “I was born in Upper Germany but the Emperor himself made me a Roman.”

  “And an officer?”

  “I commanded over five hundred cavalrymen with lower-rank officers under me.”

  “Were these men also Romans? “

  “Indeed they were,” Otto replied. “But I am nothing special. Any man in the Empire can rise as high in the service of Rome if he is loyal and steadfast….”

  As he said these words, Otto saw with a flash of clarity why he had been chosen to accompany Quintus. He made sure that he sang the praises of Rome and the Emperor every time he could from then on.

  Their duty done, they took ship again, waved off from the quay by a group of young Cantiari nobles.

  At Gesoriacum, after a voyage of less than a day under fair skies, they set foot on the mainland once more. The boats were paid off with a little extra for the skippers by way of thanks for accommodating Farval’s riding horse.

  Despatches were sent ahead to Rome. It was arranged that the legionaries would escort the servants and baggage as far as Luca by road. They would return to barracks; the quaestor would organise his people’s onward transport from Luca to Rome. Otto lined up his men on the quayside and presented everyone with an arm ring taken from the Horse King.

  “In token of service overseas,” he told them. “Literally overseas; storms and all!”

  He and Quintus used the Imperial Courier Service to hasten their own journey to Rome, the others would catch up, eventually. The news of their success had preceded them and by the time they arrived the city was buzzing with the story.

  This time, Otto not was received by the Emperor in the intimate room leading on to the garden terrace but in a grand audience chamber, pillared in marble and floored with mosaics of the triumphal Gods. Some old friends and fifty of Rome’s influential men stood along the walls at either side of the chair of state occupied by Augustus. Otto was pleased to notice his first commanding officer, Publius Quadratus, among the throng standing beside his old comrade Soranus with his maimed hand and the exquisitely uniformed and turned-out Praetorian, Cassius Plancus. He halted, came to attention and bowed to the Emperor. Quaestor Quintus Mucius was already there with a scroll in his hand. He bowed his head and began to read an abbreviated but florid account of their adventure in Britain. When he finished, he rolled up the parchment and bowed again.

  “Do you have anything to add, Imperial Prefect Otto Longius?” the Emperor asked.

  “Yes sir, I do. Quaestor Quintus Mucius is the bravest man I have ever seen. He looked without fear at Farval the Horse King, a bear of a man, sir. Without disrespect to the noble Quintus Mucius, he had no chance of surviving the combat, let alone winning. But there he stood, sword and shield in the ready position, defying his enemy to do his worst. You would have been proud to see it sir, I am sure.”

  Quintus squared his shoulders and his father who was, unknown to Otto, standing next to Cassius Plancus, beamed with paternal pride.

  “And yet you killed this fearsome Horse King. In the habit of killing kings, Otto Longius, are you?” Augustus enquired, his expressive eyes suddenly cold and piercing.

  “Kings are of no account in Rome, sir, where we are guided by The Father of the People,” Otto replied, holding the Emperor’s gaze.

  Of all the honours and titles awarded to Augustus, the one he held dearest was that; “The Father of the People”. He smiled broadly and wagged a finger at Otto as if to say, “Don’t flatter me!” but he was delighted all the same. He stood up and held out his right hand. An official placed a golden oak leaf wreath in it.

  “Imperial Prefect Otto Longius take this civic crown awarded to you for saving the life of a fellow citizen. Although it is passed to you by my hand, the family of Quintus Mucius had it made at their expense to thank you for what you have done.”

  He leaned forward and as he did so he whispered, “Well done again, lad,” before passing the wreath over to Otto who put it on his head to general applause. Friends crowded round and congratulated him while the Emperor looked benignly on. After a few minutes a steward called them to order. Formal silence was restored.

  “Gentlemen, this is how affairs of state should be carried out; with mutual support, with courage and seen through to the end. I commend them both. Otto Longius, return to your duties as Imperial Prefect stationed in Luca. Your Emperor’s personal reward awaits you outside. Menities will explain.”

  A few days later as the afternoon sun slanted across the garden and into the house, Lollia lay back in her reclining chair. The filet of gold oak leaves on her head had slipped forward over her left eyebrow. She looked at the open chest of gold coins placed at her fee
t and over at Otto with a contented smile on her lips. He was leaning over a cot staring down in wonder at his first child.

  The End

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  Regards,

  Malcolm Davies

  (You can contact me by e-mail at malcolmdav46@outlook.com, Best Books by Malcolm Davies on Facebook. My website is www.malcolm-davies.com.)

  The Butterfly Fool Part One

  Being an account of the Remarkable Early Life of Mr. Augustus Reynolds of Split Water City, Montana Territory. How he came to leave the Country Of His Birth to travel to the Frontier of the United States of America. His Thrilling Voyages by Steamboat up the great Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. His Dangerous Encounter with a Savage and Fearsome Blackfoot Chief. How he Comported himself in Mortal Combats with Ferocious Wild Beasts and Brigands. And the Many, Remarkable and Diverse Characters he met on his journeys. Also the History of Miss Charlotte Reynolds, Sister of the Above who Heroically accompanied Her Brother on his Adventure. How an English Gentlewoman fared in the Wilderness with neither Cook nor Maid. Her Primitive Domestic Economy. A Romantic Attachment which would have distressed the Many Friends she had left at Home. In Addition, how the Thriving Metropolis of Split Water City rose from the Plains. Its Rude Beginnings and First Development.

  The Butterfly Fool Part Two

  The Second and Final Volume Depicting the Exploits and Times of Mr. Augustus Reynolds the Celebrated Frontiersman, his Family and Friends. A Theft and Pursuit across the Vastness of the American Prairies. Retribution upon the Felons. Confrontations with Fierce Natives. A Hunt for the Indigenous Bison. A Violent Death followed by Remorse. The Moral Repugnance of Mrs. Reynolds at developments in Split Water City, Metropolis of the Plains. The Arrival of the Mechanical Wonders of our Age in the Remote Wilderness. Celebration of the American Public Holiday known as “The Fourth of July”. Wonder at the Resilience of The Inhabitants of The Far Western Territories. Thrill to the Dangers Faced and Overcome by Them with Undaunted Steadfastness