Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

  Lossio didn’t wait to find out what happened next. As the Saxon died, the former legionary sprinted away to the northwest where he knew bushes grew thickly enough for him to hide in.

  He felt no shame in his flight. He had done what he could and two of the whoresons were dead thanks to him, but Luguvalium was doomed. He’d known it as soon as he saw the battle, if it could properly be called that. Only four of the townsmen remained alive, as at least double that number of Saxons closed in to finish the slaughter. Lossio couldn’t have stopped that happening; if he’d waited any longer he’d simply have died along with the rest.

  He circled around, through the woods that came right up to the edge of the town, and found the juniper bushes easily – they’d been growing in that same spot since he was a child and used them for games of hide and seek. They served a similar purpose for him now and he threw himself onto the ground, trying to wish himself invisible as he stared back towards doomed Luguvalium.

  By luck or design, the Saxon warband had picked a good time to attack the place, as many of the young men were out in the fields, harvesting the wheat that would see the town through the winter. Lossio hoped someone had gone to raise the alarm and the workers would return quickly but, for now, he watched, stomach tightened into a knot, as the invading warriors finished off the last of the Britons opposing them and then…

  “No!” Lossio couldn’t help an oath escaping his lips as a huge limping Saxon, taller than the rest of them, led a middle-aged lady out from one of the houses. Behind him a pair of similarly murderous-looking warriors pushed and kicked Dumnocoveros, the settlement’s headman, ahead of them until he finally collapsed, distraught, onto the ground beside the corpses of his slaughtered countrymen.

  The woman was stronger than the old man though, and she twisted around to try and slap her tall captor, but the Saxon knocked her arm easily aside and punched her in the mouth. She fell with a cry onto the road and didn’t try to get back up, doubtless too dazed from the tremendous blow.

  Only then did Lossio begin to wonder if Duro’s impetuous actions of weeks earlier had been wise.

  “The old man here,” one of the warriors kicked Dumnocoveros brutally in the ribs as he addressed the fallen woman, “says you’re the fat baker’s wife. Yes?”

  The Saxon’s accent was thick, but he spoke the Briton language well enough and Lossio wished he could force his legs to carry him somewhere far away from this, for he knew only too well what was going to happen next. He was rooted to the ground though, too horrified to move.

  “Mithras, I beg you: don’t let her suffer too much.”

  As the giant Saxon undid his breeches Lossio knew his prayer would go unheeded and he tried to shut his eyes and ears to what was happening before him.

  * * *

  “About time you showed up.”

  Bellicus’s head spun to the right, to the bushes that grew beside the road, his sword flashing out of its scabbard before another moment passed. Even Cai hadn’t noticed the newcomer in the shadowy foliage but the voice that addressed him was hardly threatening. Bel was somewhat on edge given their circumstances though, and ready to defend Catia from anyone that might seek to thwart their journey home.

  “Oh, it’s you.” The druid smiled in recognition, but he didn’t put his sword away just yet. “Lug’s blessings on you, old one—”

  “Never mind that,” the woman grumbled irritably, looking up at Bel and then to Duro, a look of distaste on her face. “What took you so long to get here?”

  “What’s the hurry, Tancorix?” the centurion demanded, her tone and agitation permeating the atmosphere like the scent of rotten eggs. Or death. “Look, we rescued the little girl—remember, the one whose life you saved with your potion?”

  “Aye, I guessed as much,” the white-haired, bent old crone replied, nodding ruefully. “That’ll be why the Saxons returned. They obviously recognised you, baker, and came looking for revenge, or to recapture her.”

  A shiver ran through Bellicus and he glanced at Duro, whose face had turned pale. “They’re in Luguvalium? Now?”

  Tancorix shrugged. “They attacked the place earlier and some of the children ran to my house in the forest. They told me what was happening, and I figured you would be along any time.”

  “I have to go,” Duro said, his voice a hoarse whisper as he hastily lifted the unresisting Catia from the horse they shared and down to the ground next to the wise-woman. “Alatucca…”

  At the mention of the centurion’s wife Bellicus understood the man’s need for haste and he nodded decisively. “Can you take care of the girl while we head for the town?” he asked Tancorix, as Duro glared impatiently at him then couldn’t wait any longer and kicked his horse into a gallop towards Luguvalium.

  “She’ll be safe with me, druid,” the wise-woman promised, but Bel had already urged Darac into a canter, Cai running with them, following the stricken Duro at a short distance, not wanting to charge blindly into a place where they knew a Saxon warband had been on the rampage just a short time before.

  Was he making a mistake going with the baker to see what had befallen Alatucca? They’d only just rescued Catia and here was placing her into the care of a doddering old woman. He pushed the doubts aside—Tancorix was no fool, she’d survived on her own in the forest for decades. She’d take good care of Catia until…What? If the Saxons were in Luguvalium what chance did he and Duro have against them?

  It didn’t matter—Duro was his friend. He had to help him.

  The trees whipped past and the settlement soon came in sight, the black greasy smoke that rose above it confirming their worst fears. That much smoke didn’t come from just one or two houses—much of the town must be burning.

  Bellicus kicked Darac’s flanks, pushing the big black faster for fear he’d lose sight of Duro who would surely ride directly to his own home, searching for Alatucca.

  As he barrelled into the outskirts of the settlement frightened faces stared up at him. Locals.

  There appeared to be no fighting now, although a number of bloody corpses dotted the ground – there had been a battle of sorts earlier, but the Saxons had either been defeated, or moved on before a force of Britons large enough to stand against them could be mustered. Bellicus wagered it was the latter and he muttered a prayer to Taranis to strike down the craven sea-wolves.

  The town was a mess. At least a dozen buildings were burning, some of which had collapsed in upon themselves already, and the corpses of men, women, children, even dogs, lay in the road. The air was thick with black smoke and the tortured wailing of the survivors.

  Darac dodged past a smouldering cart that was tethered to a pair of dead oxen and around a corner into a narrow side street where Bellicus saw Duro’s horse standing outside a low building he took for the bakery. The guess was confirmed a moment later when the centurion, spatha in hand, hurtled out through the open doorway and, apparently forgetting his horse, sprinted up the road past Bellicus.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” the druid demanded, trying to turn Darac without much success in the confined space.

  “She’s not in there,” Duro shouted over his shoulder. “I’m going to the town centre to see if anyone knows where she is!”

  At last, Bellicus made his mount turn and they sped after the receding figure of the centurion, Cai just behind, passing more distraught locals on the way as another possible source of trouble hit the druid. It wasn’t just the Saxons who would be in the mood for killing.

  “Duro, wait!” The druid’s call went unheeded again, but he reached the town centre moments later and jumped down in a fluid motion from Darac’s saddle, sword coming into his hand almost of its own volition. Then, with some sense of what the future might hold, he sheathed the sword again and reached up to unclip his staff from the horse’s saddle instead.

  There were no signs of continued fighting here, so his staff of office would surely be more use than the naked steel of a longsword.

  Almost as tal
l as Bellicus’s near seven-foot height, the length of ashwood was topped with a finely cast bronze eagle—the sight of it would command respect from almost any Briton but even if it didn’t, it doubled as an effective, and quite deadly, weapon in the druid’s expert hands.

  “Easy boy,” he murmured, stroking Cai’s ears reassuringly. The dog had seen plenty of death in his time, but an atmosphere like this was enough to unnerve anyone, man or beast.

  Although the battle was over, the centre of town was a scene of carnage. Bloody, brutalised corpses, mostly of men but some women too, lay scattered about the place and, much to Bel’s chagrin, only a couple appeared to be Saxon. He looked around, a sick feeling in his stomach at what the raiders had done to the people of Luguvalium, and then his attention was drawn to the kneeling figure of Duro.

  An anguished cry came from the centurion’s lips and he collapsed onto the lifeless body of a woman. Bel had no doubt who she was: Alatucca.

  He stepped wearily past corpses and stunned locals to stand over his bereft companion and another body caught his eye. A man in his early-fifties, wearing hunting clothes, it was Duro’s former legionary friend, a man Bellicus had met on his previous visit to the town. Lossio, that was his name. His proximity to the murdered Alatucca suggested the old legionary had tried his best to stop the Saxons from doing whatever it was they’d been doing to her.

  It was easy to guess what that had been.

  The centurion hadn’t even noticed Lossio yet, so lost was he in grieving for his dead wife, and neither did he notice the arrival of half-a-dozen more townsmen, led by a stocky man - presumably the blacksmith - wearing a bloodstained leather apron.

  Bellicus guessed what was going to happen next and he stepped in front of the sobbing Duro, staff of office held in front of him in both hands, defensively, knowing his great size, and the muscular wardog beside him, would force the men to take a moment before they acted rashly.

  “It’s the baker,” the blacksmith shouted, pointing his reddened hammer at Duro. “The bastard decided to show his face here again. Too damn late though, the Saxons have already finished their bloody work and moved on!”

  “Aye, where have you been, you useless sack of crap?” another demanded, cheeks flushing red with anger.

  “This is all your fault, you fat old arsehole!”

  One of the small party made to run forward, with the clear intention of attacking Duro who still hadn’t lifted his head from Alatucca’s chest, but Bel stepped forward, blocking the man’s way with his staff.

  The townsman seemed to notice the giant druid for the first time and stopped in his tracks, looking up into Bellicus’s eyes. A slight shake of the druid’s head, and a low growl from deep in Cai’s chest, was enough to send the would-be attacker back a few steps, to the safety of his friends, but he pointed a long, bloody knife at Duro. “My brother’s dead because of the fat baker. He should never have started that fight with the Saxons. What was he trying to do anyway?”

  “Rescue some foreign lass,” the blacksmith shouted. “None of his, or our, business. And this is what we get for it. Half the place burnt to the ground and a dozen or more of our people raped and murdered!”

  Bel could see the righteous fury in the men’s faces – it burned like the fire he’d seen in the eyes of the Christian priests when they’d come to Dun Breatann to convert the people to their new religion. It was a fire born of conviction. This blacksmith and his friends believed Duro to be the cause of Luguvalium’s misery and, unless the druid could stop them like he’d stopped those priests, they would string the centurion up right now from the nearest strong branch.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Duro isn’t to blame for what happened here today,” Bellicus said, voice low but powerful enough thanks to his years of specialist training that it penetrated even the grief-ravaged minds of the angry townsmen. “We all are.”

  “What does that mean?” the blacksmith demanded, eyes fixed on the sobbing man in the centurion uniform. “It’s not my fault the Saxons came here looking for revenge.”

  “Aye,” one of his companions agreed. “We just wanted to be left alone.”

  “And that’s the problem,” the druid nodded, looking down at the ground sadly. “We all just want to be left alone.” He waited until there were murmurs of surprised agreement from the angry blacksmith and his friends then his head came up and his eyes blazed. “Left alone? That is why your town was targeted by the sea-wolves. They knew you people were an easy target after their last visit here, when only your fat baker was willing to stand against them.”

  “Why would we stop them?” the blacksmith demanded. “That lass was nothing to us—”

  “That lass was a Briton, and you knew that!” Bellicus roared, the rage in his voice making more than one of the men facing him step back warily as a crowd of soot-blackened locals began to form around them. “If more of you were as brave as Duro there, the Saxons might have been cut down like the animals they’ve shown themselves to be here today. If you—” he pointed directly at the blacksmith whose eyes narrowed “—had used that hammer to help a little girl, well…” He trailed off shaking his head, looking around at the scattered bodies sorrowfully. “None of this would have happened.”

  The men were either mollified by the druid’s words, or perhaps embarrassed. Shamed by his accusations maybe. Whatever it was, most of them just stood there, looking dumbly at the druid. One stepped forward threateningly, clearly hoping his companions would follow his lead, but none did and, when Cai bared his teeth and barked at him, he stopped instantly in his tracks.

  “The Saxons didn’t come here today because Duro stood up to them,” Bellicus went on into the uneasy silence that followed. “They came here because none of the rest of you were willing to stand up to them. And that,” he spread his massive arms wide, as if encompassing the whole of Britain, “is also why they have invaded our lands. It’s time we all understood this—it is no longer enough to want to be left in peace, in the hope that these raiders will pass us by. They see us as weaklings, and they’ll not rest until either they’ve subjugated every one of us, or we’ve stood before them like men and shown them what it means to face a warrior of the Britons.”

  He walked forward and placed a hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder, looking earnestly into the man’s damp, tired eyes. “Duro isn’t to blame. He’s suffered as much as any of you this day. Look – his wife has been murdered, and his old comrade from the legions as well.”

  Beside him he heard the centurion’s sobs grow quiet, and then the familiar voice mumbled the name of his fallen friend in surprise and despair, as if noticing the mangled corpse beside him for the first time.

  “Lossio?”

  * * *

  When all the fires had been doused and the task of finding shelter for those made homeless by the Saxons’ destruction was well underway, Bellicus rode back towards the forest accompanied by Cai, and one of the local men to show him where Tancorix’s house was.

  Before they reached the place the wise-woman flagged them down. She’d been hidden in a tall bush and Bel wondered how the prominent thorns hadn’t scratched her skin bloody.

  “Are the sea-wolves gone?” she demanded.

  “Aye,” the druid confirmed. “Although they’ve left the town in a mess.”

  She shrugged. “That’s what men in a group always do if there’s no-one around to stop them.”

  Her words, and her glare, seemed to be accusing him personally but Bellicus had no time to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the sexes.

  “Where’s the princess?”

  A small head peered out from the same thorn bush that had concealed Tancorix and the old woman waved Catia out onto the path. Cai ambled over, tail wagging, and lifted his head to lick her face.

  Bel jumped down from Darac’s saddle and, smiling, bent to give her an awkward hug. The girl returned his smile, but he wondered if she was also eyeing him accusingly, as if wondering how, after rescuing her from
the Saxons, he could then abandon her into the care of some withered crone.

  He asked himself the same question. Would Coroticus have acted the same in such a situation? Or would he have remained with the girl instead of seeing to the safety of a companion? How was a father supposed to act?

  He squeezed Catia’s shoulder once more then drew himself up, eyes and ears scanning the trees around, ever alert for signs of danger. Such questions could be pondered another time, for now they had to get back to the relative safety of Luguvalium.

  “Thank you for looking after her.” He lifted the princess up onto Darac’s back and placed a foot in the stirrup to follow. “We’ll get back to the town. Are you coming?” He glanced across at his silent guide who sat atop a rather old horse, then back at the crone. “You can ride with the lad there.”

  Tancorix shook her head as if he was the biggest fool she’d ever come across and gestured once again towards the thorn bushes.

  “And what about this lot? Are they all going to fit on the backs of your two horses?”

  Bellicus pulled himself up into the saddle and fixed his gaze on the thorny bushes which he now saw had been cleverly grown and tended to form a narrow, hidden pathway that allowed Tancorix and her charges to pass through without being ripped to shreds. A boy of about seven years came out, wide-eyed and clearly terrified. Then another boy, holding the hand of what had to be his grandmother.

  Before long twenty women and children had filled the small space, every face tear-streaked and shocked. The druid looked at them, taking in their downtrodden, beaten look then he spoke to Tancorix again.

  “The Saxons are gone—the townsmen rode out to try and track them, to gain some small measure of justice if they could, but the bastards’ trail leads back south. So there should be no danger here, but…” he swept his gaze across the sorry group of refugees. “Some of them look in no state to make the walk back to the town. Their flight here has clearly taken everything out of them.”