by Kevin Ashman
Andronicus made his way out of the village and back up to the woods where his horse was secreted, relieved at last that the time was approaching to be heading back to his unit and the friendly sound of Latin tongue instead of this horrible rubbish the barbarians called a language.
Chapter 33
Fifty miles away, over a hundred men, women and children who had not been required by Caratacus, stood nervously behind the pointed logs of a small stockade, brandishing a range of old weapons and field implements in defiance of the force to their front.
Before them, grassland that less than an hour ago had held only a few scrawny goats, now held almost five hundred heavy infantry in battle formation, supported by twenty cavalry and two centuries of Germanic archers.
A few yards to their front, Tribune Mateus sat astride his horse alongside Centurion Remus, both amused at the feeble defences of the stockade. A bruised and bleeding prisoner lay in a heap at their feet, clinging onto life. It was his testimony that had brought them to the stockade, the severe beating finally convincing him that his only chance was to let the Romans know what they wanted to hear. They were looking for a deserter and at first the boy had denied any knowledge, but, after the brutal attention of Remus, realised he had no choice and told them of the one taken by his people a few days earlier. He looked up in misery. He had given in to the pain and betrayed his people by bringing the enemy here, and was surely dammed. Mateus spoke to his interpreter who called out to the defenders on the wall, relaying the answers back to the Tribune.
‘Who speaks for your people?’ he called.
‘I do!’ said an old man, brandishing a pitchfork above the palisade, ‘There is nothing for you here, be on your way,’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mateus, ‘You have something I value very much, a Roman prisoner. We would have him back.’
‘We have no prisoners,’ said the old man.’
‘Don’t waste my time, old man,’ said Mateus, ‘If you value the lives of all within your quaint little stockade, you would hand him over or suffer our wrath.’
‘I’ve already told you, there is no Roman here,’ repeated the old man.
Centurion Remus gave a signal and a moment later, a long metal arrow slammed into the chest of the old man, surprising both the defenders and the Tribune who turned suddenly to stare at the Scorpio operator.
‘Who ordered that?’ he barked.
‘I did!’ said Remus, ‘We waste time and it is the only language they understand.’
Mateus grunted and decided to let it go. He couldn’t afford an argument with his Centurion in front of the men. Panic was ensuing on the wall and confusion reigned for a few moments before Mateus called out again.
‘Silence!’ he shouted, ‘I will ask one more time, hand over the prisoner.’
A woman screamed back at him in rage.
‘He told you he is not here,’ she shouted, ‘But you Romans never listen. There was a prisoner but he was sold to a man named Gwydion many days ago.’
‘Where will we find this Gwydion?’ shouted Remus, frustrated at the response.
‘He is of the Blaidd, a Khymric clan of the Deceangli tribe to the west,’ spat the woman. ‘If it’s a fight you seek, take your tyranny to them. I promise you their warriors will give you a warmer welcome than we can, or would you take pleasure in killing a handful of old men and women?’
‘Cease your rant, woman,’ answered Mateus, ‘You are lucky that my sword has no taste for barbarian blood today. We will leave you to rot in your own filth.’
They turned their horses to return to the cohort but before they took a few paces Remus’s mount screamed and reared upwards, throwing the Centurion to the floor. He jumped up instantly and saw the Tribune frantically holding on to the horse’s reins as it bucked and reared in pain, an arrow sticking out of its side. An order rang out from another Centurion and a Contubernium of men ran forward, using their shields to form one wall of a defensive Testudo.
Behind the shield, Remus helped restrain the horse, realising that the frothy blood meant the beast’s lungs had been pierced. There was nothing he could do for him. He put his arms around the horse’s neck and held its head against his chest, whispering soothing words to calm it down. The horses frenzy eased and finally stood still, though his breath was laboured.
‘Goodbye, old friend,’ said Remus as he petted the animals head, ‘I’ll seek you out in the next world.’ With a sudden thrust, Remus drove his Gladius up through the horse’s throat and into its brain, killing him instantly. The horse dropped at his feet and Remus stared up at the stockade, and, in particular, the frightened face of a young boy, no more than ten years old who had sent the arrow at his back.
‘Well sir?’ asked Remus without taking his eyes of the wall.
‘What?’
‘They tried to kill one of us,’ he said, ‘Are you going to let them get away with it?’
‘He is only a boy,’ answered Mateus, ‘He made a mistake.’
Remus bent over and placing his foot on the body of his dead horse, wrenched the arrow free, ripping out flesh and fur as it came.
‘This was meant for you or me,’ snapped Remus under his breath, ‘If you don’t do something now they will feel free to send arrows at the next Roman that passes. Next time he might not miss!’
‘But......’
‘But nothing,’ said Remus, ‘You have a cohort behind you expecting you to do something. Fail this and you will lose them.’
‘You’re right,’ said Mateus, ‘We cannot allow them to threaten the glory of Rome, do what you have to do.’
Remus turned away and walked back to the Roman lines, cursing under his breath.
‘Glory of Rome!’ he thought, ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ He called his Optio to him. ‘Pass the order to the cavalry,’ he said, ‘Collect as much deadwood and dry brush as they can. When it is here, pile it up against the gate under the protection of full Testudo.’
‘We are going in then?’ asked the Optio, his manner displaying the rising excitement at the thought of battle.
‘We are,’ said Remus, ‘Over the ashes of their puny gates. First two centuries only, shouldn’t need much more than that. Pass the command, relinquish Pila, we are going in with swords only. No prisoners!’
‘Yes sir,’ answered the soldier and barked out the necessary commands.
Remus called to one of the attendants to bring his armour and a fresh horse. He faced the fort once more as he fastened his helmet under his chin, preparing for the assault. Up on the palisade, panic started to set in as the elderly defenders realised what was going to happen.
Remus walked to the young prisoner still sprawled in the dirt by the dead horse. Grabbing him by the hair he tilted his head back and held his Pugio to the boy’s throat. The captive’s eyes widened in fear as Remus’s intention became clear.
‘No!’ he pleaded in his own language, ‘Please, don’t....’
Both his thin arms grasped Remus’s battle hardened arm in a desperate, yet futile attempt to pull the knife away from his throat.
‘Centurion no!’ shouted Tribune Mateus. Remus paused, and looked at his Tribune before dragging his Pugio deep across the boy’s neck to open his throat.
The boy released the Centurion’s arms and clutched desperately at the wound in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding. Picking himself up off the floor, he staggered across the pasture towards the wall of the palisade, desperate to reach his home and the help within. He managed to get to within ten yards of the gate before collapsing to the floor, his strength failing as his life spurted out between his fingers. The Tribune’s face drained of colour as he watched the boy die.
‘Was there any need of that?’ he hissed.
‘Every need sir,’ said Remus. ‘You have to shock them into realising what they are dealing with. Let them know the futility of their actions.’
‘Won’t that make them fight all the harder,’ asked Mateus, a look of nervousness on his face.
‘Some will, but most will hide, shitting themselves in fear,’ answered Remus scornfully. ‘Anyway, you don’t think any of that scum is a match for your sword do you sir?’
‘Of course not!’ blustered the Tribune, ‘I was only asking so I could understand the threat.’
‘Oh there will be a threat sir’ said Remus, ‘A small one, but a threat nonetheless. I am sure you will deal with it admirably.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Remus, ‘This is your chance. You are leading us in.’
Chapter 34
Back at the Henge, Gwydion kicked in the door and raced inside to find Gwenno but stopped in the doorway, momentarily confused. There was no sign of life and Gwydion called out in the Gloom.
‘Gwenno!’ he hissed, ‘Where are you?’
There was no reply but seeing the silhouette of a girl laying still on the bed, he lurched forward fearing the worst. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it was the short-haired girl in the red cape, face down in a pool of blood.
‘By the gods, Roman.’ he swore, ‘What’s happened here, where is she?’
‘I fear we are too late,’ said Prydain quietly. He was at the back wall, holding open one of the heavy drapes.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gwydion and joined Prydain at the wall, pulling open the second drape to see what lay beyond.
The flanks of the valley below were populated by countless onlookers and resonated with the sound of a thousand voices chanting in unison. In the distance the rays of the sun were starting to creep over the horizon, illuminating the stones of the Henge and the ceremony in all its glory.
Before them a procession walked serenely through the valley, two lines of Druids walking side by side, their white robes in stark contrast to the vibrant colours of the onlookers. An armed guard of honour lined each side of the path, resplendent in their leather armour polished to a high shine that mirrored the glint of their iron tipped spears.
Yet all this splendour was eclipsed by the lone figure that walked at the very centre. Even from this distance, the luxurious cape positively glowed in the pre dawn light, its glorious colours only interrupted by the long blond hair that hung down as far as the girl’s waist.
‘Gwenno,’ whispered Gwydion, distraught as he watched the girl walk to her death. He lurched forward to run down the path but was grabbed by Prydain before he managed to pass the curtains.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Prydain pinning him to the wall.
‘I can’t leave her to die like this,’ said Gwydion, ‘I’m going down there.’
‘And how far do you think you’ll get?’
‘I don’t care, I can’t just leave her.’
‘That’s exactly what you can do,’ insisted Prydain, ‘It’s too late. You have done everything you can and will achieve nothing by dying here. Honour her by living your life to the full and remembering her sacrifice. She would not want you to die.’
Gwydion stared back down the hill, tears in his eyes. He knew the Roman was right and he wouldn’t get twenty paces before he would be cut down. He would die for nothing.
The procession reached the Henge and the white clad escorts took their places around the stone circle, each in front of a pillar as the girl walked forward alone to stand before the black draped Druid waiting for her.
‘She does your tribe proud,’ said Prydain as they watched her dignified approach.
Gwydion mumbled an answer through his tears but Prydain’s attention was distracted by a sound behind him. He span around, poised to defend himself but the room was still empty. The sound came again and Prydain realised it came from the girl in the red cloak. They had forgotten about her and Prydain suddenly realised that she may still be alive. He crossed the room quickly and stared down at the body.
Something was wrong. If this Gwenno was so virtuous, why did she try to kill this girl before she left the hut?’ He lifted the wounded girl’s head gently from the pool of blood, trying not to hurt her but immediately realised something else didn’t add up.
‘Gwydion,’ he called, ‘Come here, quickly!’
The Celt reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the scene and looked at the Roman.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘This girl,’ said Prydain, ‘Who is she?’
‘I don’t know and care less,’ answered Gwydion, ‘And by the look of all that blood she won’t be here much longer anyway.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Prydain, ‘It’s not blood, it’s wine!’
Gwydion stared uncomprehendingly.
‘What do you mean wine?’
‘This liquid, it’s red wine,’ said Prydain, ‘In the darkness we mistook it for blood.’
Gwydion walked over.
‘Is she wounded?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Prydain, ‘Though I don’t understand the purpose of the knife.’ He indicated the weapon on the floor. He shifted slightly and Gwydion got a close look at the girl’s face. His eyes opened wide in astonishment.
‘By the gods, Roman.’ he said, ‘It’s Gwenno.’ He staggered forward and took the girl in his arms. ‘I don’t understand,’ he gasped, ‘How can this be, and her hair, where is her beautiful hair?’
Prydain picked up the knife and studied it closely before taking a few strands of blonde hair from the blade. He looked again around the bed and spied the empty wine goblet lying on the floor. He picked it up and sniffed the dregs.
‘Where am I?’ moaned Gwenno, returning to consciousness, ‘Gwydion, what are you doing here and where is Willow?’
‘We don’t have much time, we’ll talk later,’ said Gwydion, ‘But who is Willow?’
‘My handmaiden,’ answered Gwenno, ‘She promised to help me escape. Where is she?’
‘I know where she is,’ interrupted Prydain from the curtains, ‘She is fulfilling her promise.’
----
Willow stood before Lapwing holding her breath, praying he would not see through her subterfuge. She was sweating heavily, not just through nervousness but the cape was far heavier than she had imagined and she had tied the mask a little too tightly around her head. It was uncomfortable but necessary to secure the long golden tresses carefully arranged only ten minutes earlier. Lapwing was concentrating on his mantra and anointed Willow with water before indicating she should lie on the altar. Willow breathed again as she realised she had got away with it. She sat on the edge of the stone before laying back as she had done many times before, though this time, it wasn’t for the sexual gratification of old men but for the ultimate sacrifice and the chance to travel to the otherworld.
----
Gwenno and Gwydion were alone in the hut while Prydain checked there were no more guards. Gwydion explained what had happened.
‘What do you mean?’ cried Gwenno, ‘What has she done?’
‘She drugged you with the wine,’ said Gwydion gently and took your place in the ceremony.’
‘But my hair,’ said Gwenno feeling her head, ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It would seem she needed to make herself look like you,’ answered Gwydion, ‘The one thing that makes you stand out, even from behind golden capes and bejewelled masks was your hair. If she had that, then perhaps no one would look too closely.’
‘Oh my god,’ cried Gwenno, ‘That poor girl.’
‘She is very brave,’ said Gwydion, ‘She must think an awful lot of you.’
Prydain came back into the hut.
‘I have got the guard’s horses,’ he said, ‘Come on we have to leave.’
‘We can’t just leave her,’ said Gwenno.
‘It is too late,’ said Gwydion, ‘We have to go now, there is nothing more we can do.’
----
Down in the Henge, Willow lay serenely on the altar looking up at the sky. Her gown had been arranged around her by some female acolytes and Gwenno’s golden locks hung magnificently from her head and over the sides of the stone slab. A
skein of geese flew overhead and she realised it would be the last thing she would see in this life. As her eyes followed the geese, they came to rest on the hut where she had spent her last night and for a split second, she thought she saw the face of Gwenno peering from behind the drapes. Willow smiled. The carefully measured drug had worked and Gwenno had woken.
The chanting reached a crescendo as the sun’s rays reached down to the altar and as they fell on Willow’s golden mask, she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the Druid’s raised axe.
The chanting suddenly ended and in the silence, some of the acolytes heard the girl’s last words.
‘I love you, miss!’ she whispered quietly.
Lapwing brought the axe swinging down and Willow’s world went dark forever.
----
The three fugitives rode hard away from the Henge, heading inland until they reached the ruins of a hut on the edge of a trading village. They stopped to rest while Gwydion walked into the village to seek a particular type of person, and, had only been there for half an hour when he spied a suitable target, a teenage boy who seemed to have too much time on his hands. Gwydion beckoned him over.
‘Boy, come here,’ he said.
The teenager looked up with suspicion.
‘Why?’ he said, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ said Gwydion, ‘How would you like to earn two coins?’
An hour later Gwydion returned to the ruined hut where Gwenno and Prydain were waiting.
‘There you are,’ said Gwenno jumping up and giving him a hug, ‘I was getting worried.’
‘I’m back now,’ said Gwydion, ‘And I’ve got some food.’ He pulled a large loaf of bread from beneath his cloak and handed it over.
‘Eat quickly,’ he said, ‘We have a long way to go.’
‘Where are the horses?’ asked Prydain through a mouthful of bread.
‘Gone!’ answered Gwydion, ‘I’ve given them away.’
‘Why?’ asked Gwenno.
‘We are leaving a trail too easy to follow. A farm boy is going to take all three eastward until dusk. Their saddles have been weighted down to simulate riders so hopefully, the trail they leave will give us a few extra hours to make our escape.’
