by K. M. Ashman
‘Enough games, Cassus,’ he said. ‘This trial will not end until blood is spilled. Stand and face me as an equal.’
‘So be it,’ said Cassus and walked forward to within a few paces of the Gladiator.
Moments later, steel crashed upon steel as both men threw everything they had into the contest. Every blow was met by an equally skilful riposte and the constant exertion took its toll on both muscle and breath. Both men raced around the arena and rivers of sweat ran down their faces as they sought non-existent openings in each other’s defence. Clouds of dust flew from their feet and deflected blows from the swords were followed up by clenched fists from free hands as every avenue was desperately explored.
Realising he was tiring rapidly, Cassus took a calculated gamble and deliberately swung a weak strike toward his opponent’s head, allowing his sword to be deflected easily by Titus’s blade, but as his body was forced to twist to follow the sword’s progress, he used every ounce of his strength to smash his elbow back into Titus’s head, forcing the man to stumble backward. Cassus repeated the back-hand blow, though this time with the pommel of his sword and though the Gladiator’s head was protected by his helmet, Titus staggered backward in a daze. Cassus saw his opening and quickly followed up his advantage with a kick to the Gladiators midriff, sending him crashing to the floor.
Cassus threw away his word and drew the dagger from his belt before dropping onto the prone man’s chest. He lifted up the Gladiator’s visor and both men stared at each other, one the victor and the other the vanquished. Both men were exhausted and for a few moments neither said a thing as they caught their breath.
‘You have drawn your blade,’ said Titus eventually.
‘You said there had to be blood,’ said Cassus.
‘The agreement was made,’ said Titus, ‘and must be fulfilled.’
‘So be it,’ said Cassus and drew the blade across his own palm, before standing up and holding out his arm to help the Gladiator up.
Titus paused before accepting the arm and got to his feet.
‘You could have taken my life,’ said Titus, ‘it was your right.’
‘To what end?’ asked Cassus. ‘There are other men who need your tuition as once did I.’
‘Perhaps my journey is ended,’ said Titus, ‘for you are the first man to better me.’
‘That may be true,’ said Cassus, ‘but I have learned from the best.’
Titus drew his own dagger and cut his own palm before offering it to Cassus.
‘Your time has come, Cassus. Go with head held high.’
Cassus gripped his hand and their blood flowed together.
‘You have my gratitude, Titus,’ he said and released his grip to walk out of the arena.
Archer appeared from behind the huts leading Cassus’s horse. Behind him came Terrimus carrying his usual staff. The Syrian Sagittarius held out his arm and Cassus grasped his forearm to say goodbye. When they were done, Terrimus stepped forward and held up his staff as a gift. It was a very special gesture and Cassus hesitated, not quite sure what to do.
‘Take it,’ said a voice and Cassus turned to see Ocelus stood in a doorway, peeling his obligatory apple.
‘I cannot take his staff,’ said Cassus, ‘it is the very soul of him.’
‘There will be other staffs,’ said Ocelus, ‘honour him by accepting the gift.’
Cassus turned to face Terrimus. Of all the instructors, he had become closest and Cassus considered him a friend.
‘Your ways have shone new light on my life, Terrimus and I will always be in your debt.’
Terrimus just smiled and stepped back as Ocelus approached.
‘You are one of us now, Cassus,’ said Ocelus, ‘and the natives have no equal. Yet you are still flesh and bone. Use the skills learned here to avoid conflict. Your role is to disappear in plain sight and become the eyes of the Legion within the heart of the enemy. Return to Plautius for there are things afoot that need your skills but before you do, there is one last lesson. Learn it well.’
He bent forward and using his knife, scratched a design in the dirt. It was very simple yet Cassus recognised it immediately; it was the classic shape of a Pugio, the roman knife that every soldier carried.
‘Remember this sign, Cassus,’ said Ocelus, ‘for it is the way we recognise our brotherhood. Keep the meaning hidden but if your path should cross with a fellow, hold back nothing in your support. Now be gone for your purpose awaits.’
Cassus nodded and after a final look around, rode his horse out of the village to follow the river East toward Londinium. He had ridden here as an opinionated soldier but was riding back an Exploratore.
Chatper 10
The Camp of Caratacus
48 AD
Caratacus strode through the camp followed by his personal guard. His army had grown to an enormous size and was now housed in hundreds of roundhouses, each housing several warriors, some complete with families and children. Since joining with the Silures, he had grown in political stature and was now counted as an equal amongst the tribal elders. Word had reached him that Caedmon, the chief of the Silures, was dying and it was in his interests to be present at the death bed.
‘Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ he roared as he passed through the village, ‘attend me.’
Gwydion ducked out of the hut that had formed his home since arriving two years earlier. He had done as Prydain had suggested and joined the army of Caratacus, rising rapidly through the ranks to become one of his trusted warriors. Due to the rapid growth of his army, Caratacus’s camp had been moved northwards across the nearby mountain ranges, to share out the burden of supporting so many men in such a small area. As the army grew, they started to raid the villages of the Dobunii tribe across the Eastern River, building a reputation for brutality against those who failed to rally to their cause and it was common knowledge that they would soon be ready to take on the Romans once more.
Caratacus himself was a large man and bore the scars of battle that proved his courage. As always, he wore his chainmail vest over a leather jerkin and carried his longsword strapped to his side. His bodyguards wore a mixture of clothing, varying from chainmail armour to woollen jerkins, as though their fighting skills were excellent, they saw no merit in uniformity. Each man wore his own helmet of choice ranging from simple round helmets with leather straps keeping them secure to ornately decorated symbols of their tribe, crested with leaping wolves or soaring eagles.
Gwydion ran over to walk alongside the bearded king, matching him stride for stride. He had been expecting the call and knew that their destiny would be decided in the next few hours. When they reached the horse compound, they mounted the small but sturdy horses that were native to these lands and rode out to travel to Llanmelin, several hours ride away to the south.
‘What news, my lord?’ asked Gwydion as they rode.
‘My spies tell me Caedmon will not see this sunset,’ said Caratacus, ‘and his legacy balances on the edge of a sword. The next chief will be chosen from his word and both of his sons claim power. One is considerate in his manner while the other is reckless and would attack Rome itself single handedly. We travel to lend support to the former.’
For the next few hours they rode hard and fast, desperate to reach Llanmelin before the chieftain died. Finally they were riding between the impressive oaken gates that Gwydion had first seen two years previously.
‘What news of Caedmon?’ asked Caratacus as he dismounted.
‘He lives yet,’ said the servant, ‘though his men build a pyre in his name.’
Caratacus nodded. The preparations meant that though he was in time, the chief was not expected to live much longer.
‘Take me to him,’ said Caratacus, ‘I would pay tribute.’
The servant led the way followed by Caratacus and Gwydion. On the way they passed a beautiful black stallion being harnessed with reins of gold and a blanket of fine silver links. The horse was being groomed until its coat gleamed in the afternoon s
un and Gwydion couldn’t help but feel it was a shame that such a magnificent beast was doomed to join the chief on his journey to the afterlife.
A few minutes later they reached a clearing in the centre of the fort and a crowd of warriors, thousands strong, sat silently in a giant circle around the solitary roundhouse at its centre. Caratacus paused at the outer edge of the crowd knowing that this magnificent display of warriors was but a fraction of those available to the Silures. If everything went to plan, these and many more could soon come under his command.
They made their way through the warriors and paused before the hut, waiting as word was sent inside to announce their arrival. A few moments later, Prydain emerged and spoke to Caratacus.
‘We are honoured by your presence, Lord,’ he said, ‘please enter and pay tribute.’
Caratacus entered the hut leaving Gwydion outside. Prydain turned to Gwydion and the men grasped each other’s sword arm in the recognised gesture of friendship.
‘Good to see you, friend,’ said Prydain, ‘it has been a long time.’
‘Too long,’ agreed Gwydion, ‘and I am shamed that it takes the death of a king to bring me here.’
‘Worry not,’ said Prydain, ‘some things are beyond our control. Come; join me in tribute at the feet of a great man.’ He turned and led the way into the roundhouse.
Burning rush torches lit the interior and the acrid fumes burned Gwydion’s eyes. More warriors filled the interior, each sitting cross legged and focussed on the raised dais at the centre of the hut. Gwydion knew that every man there was a chief in his own right albeit of the smaller clans that made up the Silures tribe. In the centre, Caedmon lay dressed in the finery of a tribal chieftain.
The Shamen of the tribe stood around the dying king, chanting incantations to their gods to ensure a speedy passage. Behind the Dias, Gwydion could see two young men staring into the distance, seemingly oblivious that their king was dying before them. Ironbark and Hawkwing were brothers and they knew that with the death of their father, one would inherit his empire and lead this tribe in an uncertain future. In the gloom, the old man held up his arm and the room fell silent. Despite the weakness in his voice, his words reached the back of the room.
‘Silures,’ he said, ‘hear me. I have asked the gods to lead me in my thoughts and it is they who guide my words. Our lands are under threat from the Roman heel and our men tire from sharpening blades. I have been tortured by doubt these last days and the decision weighs heavy upon me. Our people need to be united and that means the strongest must lead.’
Caedmon started coughing and the room waited in silence, every man anticipating who he would name as successor. Slowly he caught his breath and the Shaman called for silence again.
‘You wait for a name,’ said Caedmon eventually, ‘yet I cannot choose between my sons for both are worthy leaders. So, as is the way of our ancestors, I gift the choice unto the hands of the gods.’
The roundhouse erupted into argument and as the implications sunk in, many left the hut to pass on the news to those outside. Gwydion looked to Prydain in confusion.
‘What does he mean?’ he asked.
‘It means a trial of arms,’ said Prydain, ‘between the two brothers. Whoever is victorious will lead the Silures without fear of question.’
‘And what if the other survives?’ asked Gwydion.
Prydain turned to face him.
‘There can be no survivor, Gwydion,’ he said. ‘Caedmon has just sentenced one of his own sons to death.’
* * *
It took two more days for Caedmon to die and when he did his body was placed atop of the biggest funeral pyre Gwydion had ever seen. The bonfire had been built around a timber cage containing the magnificent stallion and a hundred slaves were tied amongst the branches to serve the king in the afterlife. As soon as it got dark, the two sons lit the pyre and the whole tribe gathered around the fort to gaze up at the light from the flames as Caedmon’s spirit rose to the stars, accompanied by the screams of the burning slaves and the terrified horse. Gwydion thought it was a fitting end to the life of a king.
The following morning the ashes of the funeral pyre were spread out to form a large circular arena and the clan chiefs gathered as Caedmon’s sons faced each other across the still smoking ashes of their father. Both were stripped to the waist and armed with a broadsword and a knife. Gwydion stood alongside Caratacus and across the clearing he could see Prydain standing amongst the descendants of Caedmon.
A Shaman walked to the centre and waited until silence fell.
‘Let it be known,’ he called, ‘that by the dying words of our king and the ancient ways of our ancestors, today we choose a new leader. On pain of death, let no man intervene in the choice of gods.’ As he retreated from the arena, the two young warriors closed in to speak one last time before the challenge began.
‘It is a great path the gods have laid before us, brother,’ said Hawkwing, ‘and it falls on us to honour their will.’
‘Then show no mercy, brother,’ said Ironbark, ‘for I will not hold my sword from taking your head.’
‘I will meet your challenge, brother,’ said Hawkwing, ‘for we were born for this day, but let us pledge this: that whosoever stands at the end of the day, he takes arms against the Romans in the name of the other.’
‘So be it,’ said Ironbark and drew his longsword from the scabbard across his back. Hawkwing did the same and each man held his weapon high, crossing that of his opponent. In the distance, the sound of a thousand drums broke the silence of the morning air and each man took several steps back without breaking the gaze of the other.
‘In the name of our father,’ shouted Ironbark over the drums.
‘In Caedmon’s memory,’ answered his brother and both charged forward to join battle.
* * *
Both men were strong and, as the sons of a chieftain, had spent their entire lives learning the skills of the longsword. Metal crashed on metal and both men applied every ounce of their strength to force each other back as each sword sought out unprotected flesh. High strokes followed body swings as each warrior reached into their very being, seeking the unexpected lunge that would catch their opponent unawares. Crash after crash echoed around the battlefield and each man enjoyed brief advantage, only to be forced onto the back foot as his opponent regained control. For an age the combat continued and Gwydion thought they would fight themselves to a standstill until suddenly, a rare mistake by Ironbark resulted in him misjudging a swing and completely losing his balance, albeit momentarily.
A communal gasp echoed from the experienced swordsmen around the arena; though it was a minor mistake, they knew it could be decisive.
Hawkwing also saw the mistake and without calculation, completed the now redundant swing of his axe in a complete circle to smash his blade into the body of his brother.
Though Ironbark’s sword took the brunt of the blow, enough blade met flesh to cut deep into his side and he staggered backward in shock and in pain. Both men stopped and stared at each other, both gasping for breath after the exhausting fight. Ironbark looked down and knew he wouldn’t be able to go on. The wound was deep and pouring with blood, and even if he had immediate attention from the Shamen it was unlikely he would survive. He looked back up at his brother.
‘I am done, brother,’ he said, ‘you will lead the tribe as it should be.’
Hawkwing’s aggression drained out of him as he realised he had struck a fatal blow. He had been close to his brother all his life and despite the warlike words before the fight, now the reckoning had come, the implications fell upon him like lead.
‘Ironbark,’ he said and started to step forward.
‘Hold,’ snapped Ironbark. ‘You have taken my life; brother, do not take my honour.’
‘Let me take you to the Shamen,’ said Hawkwing, ‘they may be able to stem the blood.’
‘This is not about us,’ said Ironbark, ‘it is about our people. They need to see a strong victor
; one they can look up to in battle. You are that man, brother; lead them as our father would wish.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Hawkwing.
‘No,’ snapped Ironbark, ‘I am done here. All that remains is to finish what we have started.’
‘I will not kill you, brother,’ said Hawkwing quietly.
‘You already have,’ said Ironbark, ‘and I do not hold grudge. Just bear me one favour, brother, allow me to die as a warrior before our people.’
‘Ironbark, I…’
‘Hawkwing, you have to do this, for both of us,’ said Ironbark.
Hawkwing looked around at the thousands of men surrounding the arena and on the slopes of the fort. He knew his brother was right. Every man there was watching with bated breath, waiting to see the outcome and thus the direction of their people. Finally he realised his brother was right. This was something that had to be done. He turned once more to face Ironbark.
‘You are right, brother,’ he said, ‘the Gods’ will must be done. Take up your sword and strike low, I will make it quick.’
Ironbark stood up straight and gripped the handle of his sword in both hands.
‘Strike strong and true, brother,’ he said.
Hawkwing nodded slowly.
‘Until the next life, brother,’ he answered and refreshed his grip on his own sword.
With the last of his strength, Ironbark lifted his sword parallel to the ground and staggered through the ashes toward his brother with blood pouring from his wound. Without breaking eye contact, Hawkwing stepped forward and swung his own sword against his brother’s neck, sending his head bouncing across the floor.
* * *
Hawkwing stood in the ashes of the arena, looking down at the body of his dead brother. The drums had stopped and the crowd had fallen silent. Even the rustling leaves seemed to pause for breath as the earth took in the momentous occasion. He took a step forward but staggered in pain and looked down at his own blood-stained body. Though he was covered in the blood of his brother, he hadn’t realised that he had his own wound and now that the battle lust was falling, the pain came in waves. He staggered forward and bent to pick up his brother’s body and everyone could see his strength was failing him yet despite this, they knew it was something he had to do.
