Tancorix nodded. “I’ll take them back to my safe place. You send men with wagons. I’ll be waiting.” Without another word she gestured towards the passage and, obediently—their silence a clear indication of their defeated, exhausted state—the women and children filed back into the undergrowth.
Bellicus watched them go, impressed by the way the foliage swallowed them up. This Tancorix was a formidable woman and a true gift from the gods to the people of Luguvalium.
“Let’s move,” the druid grunted, kicking his heels into Darac and cantering back along the path towards the town, which was easy to spot thanks to the pall of black smoke that still lingered above it.
When they returned, Bellicus sought out the blacksmith and asked him to organise some ox-drawn wagons to bring the refugees back to town. Bel suspected it would do the man good to be given an important task to oversee, and keep his mind from thoughts of vengeance against Duro. For his part, the blacksmith seemed happy enough to take on the job and Bellicus rode, in no great hurry, to the bakery, with Catia and Cai.
Alatucca had been carried there by the centurion -- Bellicus couldn’t think of Duro as a baker now, even in the man’s own shop – and she lay on top of the long table normally used to knead dough and prepare savouries for the oven. The room was filled with sacks of flour, baskets, trays, barrels and all the other mundane paraphernalia required to craft bread and cakes. In the centre of it all, Alatucca’s slim, pale figure seemed hauntingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Are you all right?”
Duro looked up almost sheepishly as the druid came in, bending so his head didn’t hit the doorframe.
“Aye, my friend, I’ll be fine.” The baker glanced at his dead wife’s pale face and sighed. “We’ll meet again one day, and I’ll apologise for…” The words trailed off as he looked at Catia and a maelstrom of emotions flitted across his face. Bellicus felt terribly sorry for the centurion – if he’d left the princess to her fate she’d have died horribly at the Saxons’ hands and yet, that’s exactly what had happened to his own wife.
“Where’s Horsa?” Duro muttered. “And his warband. Do you think they’ll return?” There was a hopeful note in his voice, as if he wanted the Saxons to come back so he could slaughter them all, even if it wouldn’t restore Alatucca to life.
“No,” Bellicus said. “They’ve gone back to Garrianum. They must have given up looking for us, and travel now to give Hengist the news. We’ll not see them again any time soon.”
“Why do the gods torture us so, Bel?” Duro whispered and his head dropped.
Cai sat down, looking perplexed, but Catia strode past Bellicus and put her arms around the sobbing baker. Her empathy initially seemed to magnify his sadness but, after a few heartbeats he put one arm around the girl and wiped his tear-streaked, grimy face, smiling at her.
“At least she didn’t die for nothing. She wanted to help you just as much as I did, little Catia.”
There was silence for a time, not an awkward silence, just sad and thoughtful, and then Bellicus spoke, a grim determination in his powerful voice.
“We need to smash the Saxons completely. Wipe every last one of them out, starting with Horsa and Hengist. If we don’t, they’ll overrun the entire country within a few years.” He gripped the hilt of his sword and met Duro’s gaze. “When I return to Dun Breatann I will advise King Coroticus to send men for Arthur’s army. He’ll put a stop to raids like the one your people suffered here today.”
“We.” Duro said, and Bel’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.
“We what?”
“When we return to Dun Breatann,” Duro growled. “I’m coming with you.”
The druid didn’t say anything, for there was no need. He’d be happy to have the centurion along and, given the way things stood here in Luguvalium, it was probably the best thing Duro could do. If it wasn’t such a sad day, Bellicus would have grinned at the prospect of continuing his adventures with the former legionary. As it was, he simply nodded, and that was enough.
“First, though,” Duro said, and his voice dropped to almost a whisper as he returned his gaze to Alatucca’s bruised body. “I need to bury my wife.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Bellicus, Catia at his side, watched the funeral ceremony take place and sighed. Sorrow and anger filled his heart as he looked upon the faces of those who had lost loved ones, many of whom would suffer even more than Duro. The centurion had lost his wife, a woman he had loved for many years, but he was able to look after himself and earn his keep within the village, should he have chosen to stay. But many of the bereft townsfolk were women who had lost their men, and even children whose parents had both been slaughtered by the Saxon raiders.
Life, hard enough already, would be almost unbearable for those people unless their compatriots rallied around and helped them rebuild their shattered existence. The druid’s resolve to convince King Coroticus to send men who could aid in Arthur and Merlin’s fight against the foreign invaders hardened as he looked around at the grief-stricken inhabitants of Luguvalium.
Almost twenty people had been killed in the attack – not including two of the enemy whose corpses had been dumped in the forest for the animals – so this funeral was lasting much longer than normal. A great mass grave had been dug in the cemetery which was a little way off from the main town itself. The bodies were washed and prepared, then carried to their final resting place with great reverence, and now the grieving friends and family stood next to their loved ones as the ceremony reached an end.
Bellicus watched proceedings with interest, seeing a mixture of the native Britons’ ancient rituals, along with Roman, and Christian elements, that offered a glimpse of how future generations would view religion: as a synthesis of all these disparate beliefs. It seemed a good compromise to him, but he expected one of the factions – probably the Christians since their faith was young and aggressive – would seek to sweep away the others.
Unless the Saxons managed to conquer the entire island. In that case, their harsh gods would destroy the followers of Christ and bring yet another new belief system to these lands.
Was there any hope for the old gods of the Britons? The gods that Bellicus’s brotherhood had venerated for untold centuries? Unlike the Christians, the druids did not believe in just one god, or even one unified pantheon of divine beings as the Greeks had done. Instead, the Britons had a countless multitude of gods and goddesses, different ones in every town and village, even if they shared certain aspects and traits.
Such ideas were unimportant before the Christians came. The Romans were happy to adopt local gods into their own pantheon – Belenus, the sun god, was analogous to Apollo for example, while Sulis, goddess of healing, was, for the Romans, an aspect of the one they called Minerva. Even the Saxons, despite their murderous ways, appeared to follow similar gods – their Thor being so similar to Taranis that, to the druid, it was obvious there was some connection between them, lost so far back in the distant past that no-one could now remember it.
But the Christians were a different matter entirely. They had no place for any other god but their own, although Bellicus found that confusing in itself, since they appeared to venerate more than one god themselves! What were saints, if not other gods?
“Druid?”
Bellicus was brought back to the present by a strong yet respectful voice and he looked around to see the blacksmith, hand outstretched as if inviting him forward.
“Yes?”
The blacksmith, who had taken on the mantle of headman since the murder of old Dumnocoveros, repeated the question Bel had missed in his reverie.
“The ceremony is almost over. Would you care to say a few words to speed our dead on their way? We would be very grateful.”
“Yes. Of course,” the druid readily agreed, stepping across and up onto the wooden platform that had been occupied thus far by Tancorix, the wise-woman having presided over the ceremony as she had done on countless occasions over the
years, although rarely for so many soul-travellers as this. She stepped aside to allow him up, her small frame completely dwarfed by his, and the gathered townspeople craned their necks upwards to look at this distinguished visitor.
Like the crone, Bellicus had presided over funerals in the past but he could see, and hear – the earlier loud wailing and chanting having faded now to low sobs and sniffs – that all this ceremony needed to be complete was a blessing.
“It is natural to feel grief for the loss of loved ones,” he said. “Yet their souls have departed this earthly realm only for a short time: they will be reborn anew, and the cycle will begin again, as it always has and always will.” There were nods at this from many of the crowd. “So, grieve not overmuch for your lost friends and family – you will meet them again on this earth one day. Instead, give thanks to have known such fine people, to have enjoyed their fellowship, even for a short time, and take strength from the knowledge that you will carry them forever within your hearts.”
His words seemed to galvanise the townsfolk, jaws firming, small smiles forming where there had previously been twisted frowns, and thoughtful gazes replacing tears. Duro stood in the grave-pit next to Alatucca’s body, nodding silently at his friend’s comforting words. His wife, like all the other dead, was laid out with her head facing to the west, feet to the east. The centurion had placed a coin in her hand, with a bronze brooch – her favourite piece of jewellery – by her head, and a dagger by her side, just in case she ever met the shades of her Saxon killers in the otherworld.
Bellicus spoke the words of the blessing – words he had heard his mentor, Qunavo, speak, after a young boy was killed by a falling rock while out playing almost twenty years ago, far to the north, in Pictish Dunnottar.
"A butterfly alights beside us like a sunbeam,” he said, softly. “And, for a fleeting moment its glory and beauty belong to our world. But then it flies again. And, although we wish it could have stayed by our side forever, we feel blessed to have seen it."
Thoughts of that child from Dunnottar came to Bel’s mind as he recited the blessing and, for a moment, he wondered why they were there at all. What was the point of living? He looked down at Catia who stood next to Duro and noticed she was crying silently, sobs wracking her small frame, and his own doubts seemed unimportant then.
He stepped down from the dais and went to her, kneeling on the grass to draw her into his strong embrace, tears in his own eyes as he once again cursed the Saxon vermin for ruining this little girl’s previously happy childhood. Catia didn’t grieve for any of the dead here in Luguvalium, even if she did feel sad for Duro. No, Catia mourned the loss of her own previous, innocent existence. Her world had changed forever Bellicus knew, and that seemed almost as sad as any death.
CHAPTER SIX
Gavo had been captain of Coroticus’s guard for years and served Alt Clota faithfully his whole life. A bear of a man with long hair and an unkempt beard which was starting to show silver streaks through the brown, he was a good warrior to have at your side in a fight.
He had never known the king to behave as irrationally as he’d done in recent months but put it down to the little princess’s abduction. As a father of four himself the guard captain could almost understand his ruler’s actions in bringing war to their very door. Almost. Aye, it was natural to feel like you should have protected your child better, and to want to punish those who were to blame. But taking out your anger on the neighbouring tribes was only ever going to end in trouble.
No wonder the other kings had banded together and laid siege to the capital of Alt Clota. Gavo had no doubt at least one of the three enemy kings was ambitious enough to want Dun Breatann for himself. Drest was likeliest, being the most powerful of their besiegers, but it was Loarn Mac Eirc of the Dalriadans who Coroticus was making preparations to destroy at that moment.
“I knew they were bluffing,” the king had grunted when, just a few days after the meeting with the enemy delegation, and a few more ineffectual attacks, the obvious signs of the armies making ready to leave could be seen from the eastern peak of Dun Breatann. “They’re not even going to attempt to scale our walls.” He snorted in disdain and looked at Gavo with a triumphant look on his face. “Get the men ready. We’re going after the Dalriadans.”
Gavo didn’t question the wisdom of such a course of action. Once, he had been ever ready to speak up if he felt the king was acting rashly but recently Coroticus hadn’t taken kindly to his orders being questioned, instead preferring to listen to men like Senecio who agreed with whatever he said. So Gavo, like everyone else in Dun Breatann lately, simply did as he was told.
“How many men should we take, my lord? Our spies suggested Loarn’s warband numbered close to forty.” The Dalriadans had the smallest contingent in the would-be invading army, with Cunneda’s Votadini bringing sixty spears, while Drest commanded nearly a hundred men. Still, forty warriors formed a larger assemblage than most of the Alt Clotan men had ever stood against, and needed to be met with a similarly-sized force. That could be a problem though.
“Fifty,” Coroticus replied, eyes once again focused on the tiny figures on the plain far below making ready to depart for their own lands.
Gavo frowned but this time he knew he had to voice his concerns, despite the fact Senecio was nodding hearty agreement with the king’s command.
“That’s almost our full garrison, my lord,” the captain noted. “It’ll leave the place as good as undefended. What if this is a ploy to draw us out, so Drest can come back and take Dun Breatann while we’re gone?”
Coroticus gave him an irritated, sidelong look, plainly unhappy at this suggestion his orders were a mistake. His sour look faded somewhat after a moment however, presumably as he accepted the truth of Gavo’s words, and then he shrugged.
“Fine, we’ll take thirty. That leaves more than enough to defend this place in our absence. We’ll leave by way of the river to make sure we can get back should Drest indeed return and lay siege again. We can sail north and make landfall in the Dalriadans’ own lands; they won’t expect that, and we can choose the best spot for an ambuscade.”
Gavo mulled it over. They would be outnumbered but, assuming they could find some favourable terrain to mount an ambush, the numbers wouldn’t be so much of a concern.
Realising the strength of his own plan, and possibly rattled by Gavo’s suggestion of Drest returning, Coroticus shook his head. “No, thirty still leaves our walls a little short on defenders. I don’t want to come home and find Narina in Cunneda’s bed and Drest the lord of my fortress.” He spun and walked back, away from the wall, towards his own quarters to gather his weapons and armour. “Choose twenty of our best men, and have the ships made ready to depart in the morning.”
Gavo’s mouth dropped open as he realised the king was suggesting they meet the Dalriadans outnumbered two-to-one. The success or failure of this mission would now rest entirely on their being able to find some perfect killing ground from which to attack Loarn Mac Eirc’s warband. But he had already questioned the king’s orders and knew it would be ill-advised to do so again, especially with Senecio there to pounce on any opportunity to weaken Gavo’s position and strengthen his own.
The captain sucked in a breath and followed Coroticus’s departing figure down the shallow steps that curved around the peak back towards the centre of the fortress. If they succeeded in beating Loarn’s men, this would go down as one of the greatest Damnonii triumphs in history.
If they lost, the people of Alt Clota, already muttering about their king’s state of mind, might very well rise up against him.
Gavo wished Bellicus would return to them soon. The druid was the one man who might be able to get through to the king, but the captain had a horrible feeling they’d not see Bel, or Catia, ever again, and the likes of Senecio would goad Coroticus into a situation they would never recover from.
They left the next morning, once the two ships were loaded with provisions, the war-gear safely stow
ed, and all made ready for the short journey. Queen Narina was tasked with keeping things running smoothly in their absence, and Coroticus told her to heed the advice of old Senecio. Gavo could tell from the sour look on her face that she held no more love for the southern advisor than he did, however.
“Have a care, my queen,” the guard captain murmured as they made their farewells. “I would suggest you don’t need to look for advice from anyone. You’ve proven yourself more than capable of ruling Alt Clota in the past, when the king’s been away at war or whatever.”
Narina smiled graciously and replied in a similarly low tone. “Thank you, old friend. Have no fears, I can take care of myself. Just you make sure Coroticus comes back safely.”
“He will,” Gavo vowed, smiling. “Or neither of us will.”
Dun Breatann, as well as being a fortress for the Britons of Alt Clota, was a busy port. Trade had come here from all across the world since the earliest days of Roman occupation and it continued to this day. As a result, the king maintained a small fleet of ships to defend the River Clota from pirates, and to move his warband around if there was ever any trouble in his settlements. So, there would usually be boats of various sizes and designs, from seafaring ships with forty oars, to tiny, animal-skin covered currachs, which Coroticus might have used for this mission. The majority had sailed away to nearby ports, however, to make sure the besieging Pictish army didn’t steal them.
Five medium-sized vessels remained close to Dun Breatann though, two of which had been signalled to dock and take on supplies the night before. The boats selected were of the birlinn type. Built of oak planks, with a square sail and ten oars apiece, they had no space for cargo, being used mainly as troop transports. They could move quickly, but were small enough to be dragged on wooden rollers across land if need be.
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