Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

  Just then a boy walked into the hall and asked Matugena if she needed him to sweep the floor. Before she could reply he saw the druid, who looked up at him, eyes locking on one another, and then the boy sprinted outside as if a demon was after him.

  “That’s the little shit that stole Melltgwyn,” Bellicus growled, half-rising, but Matugena waved him back down.

  “His name is Ward,” she said. “And you’re right—you have a good memory, although I suppose that’s be expected from a druid.”

  “He cleans for you now? What happened to his father?”

  “Atto? We gave him a trial, as you ordered, and found him guilty of murdering the family that you found on the next farm over. He was hanged. We couldn’t hang the boy though.”

  “No,” Bel agreed softly. “Of course not.”

  “He was taken in by a childless family and he does odd jobs around the village to earn his keep.” She smiled fondly and sipped her beer. “He’s a good worker, and it’s nice to have him around when the men are all at work and I’m here myself.” Her face became grim again as she remembered Atto. “That father of his was always a useless good-for-nothing. The boy’s better off without him.”

  There was silence as the woman contemplated the hanged man and his worthlessness, then Bellicus bade her continue.

  “Ward told us where his father had hidden your sword. The bastard had a secret stash of things he’d stolen, out in the woods, hidden in the hollow of a tree. Mostly rubbish, apart from your sword.” She shrugged. “Once he realised we weren’t going to hang him too, the boy was happy enough to tell us all about it.”

  Bellicus stood again, taking off the old longsword he’d worn for the past few weeks and buckling on Melltgwyn before taking his seat again.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This blade has been with me for years. I felt its loss keenly.”

  She shrugged and smiled at Catia. “Men and their swords eh?”

  The princess sniggered as Bel and Duro looked mortally offended.

  “Think of it as if someone had stolen your favourite pot,” the centurion said plaintively.

  “I’d get another one and think nothing of it,” Matugena replied. “They all do the same thing, and I don’t give them silly names like ‘White Lightning’ or ‘Brain Biter’ either.”

  Duro shook his head as if she was moon-touched. “Women just don’t understand the sacred bond between a warrior and his weapon.”

  “And they never will, my friend,” Bellicus agreed with mock-sadness. “But I just remembered.” He turned back to Matugena, face serious again. “I asked you to try and find out Atto’s recipe, remember? For the draught he made that knocked me out and allowed him to steal my things. Were you able to get it from him?”

  “Aye,” she said, getting up from the table and hurrying through once again to the kitchen. The sound of a chest opening and various utensils being shifted about came to them, and then she came back out to the table with a scrap of pottery. She handed it to the druid and he looked down at it curiously.

  “You can write?” he asked in surprise as he took in the letters and numbers scratched onto the sherd

  “Aye,” Matugena replied proudly. “I keep the records for our business here in the pottery, so I need to be able to read and write.”

  Bellicus shook his head with a rueful smile as he read the recipe Atto had given Matugena. It was simple – so simple he was surprised he’d never come across it before.

  “This recipe will be very useful I’m sure,” he grinned, shoving the piece of pottery into his pack, although he’d already committed the formula to memory.

  “Oh, it does,” the woman agreed, smirking. “It’s very handy when you want to keep your man’s wandering hands away from you of an evening.” She laughed wickedly and Duro gaped at her. Catia, Bellicus was pleased to see, hadn’t understood what Matugena meant, although she was smiling anyway.

  “Well, my thanks again to you,” the druid said, getting to his feet and pointing to his discarded longsword which lay on the table. “Would you see that’s returned to its rightful owner, along with this?” He took off a silver ring worth four or five times the old sword’s value and placed it down beside the blade. Matugena nodded, and he took off another ring, this time of gold, and handed it to her.

  She took it in astonishment. “Are you sure?” she mumbled. “This must be worth, well, I don’t know exactly, but a lot!”

  Bellicus laughed at her direct way of speaking and closed her fingers around the ring. “Aye, I’m sure. You’ve more than earned it, even if you don’t understand what Melltgwyn means to me. Besides, we’re almost home now and the princess’s father will doubtless reward me with many rings like that when I return Catia to him.”

  “Before you go,” Matugena said, as if remembering something that had been forgotten in the shock of receiving the ring. “Wait there.”

  She disappeared once more into the kitchen, and when she came back she held a sack which she tossed to Duro.

  “Provisions,” she said. “For you three, and this lovely big lad here.” She knelt on one knee and grasped Cai by the head, jerking back with a laugh, almost falling over when the muscular hound licked her nose.

  “I told you she loved dogs,” Bellicus murmured to Catia, who grinned up at him, all trace of her previous apprehension gone completely, and his own spirits soared.

  Aye, that gold ring he’d given Matugena was worth a fortune, true enough, but it was worth it. Not only for the return of his beloved sword, and the recipe for the sleeping draught, but to see Catia back to her old, cheerful self again.

  Now lay the final stretch of the road to Dun Breatann. They would be home within a few days, and the princess could finally put everything behind her and start life anew with her parents.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Someone do something!”

  “Can no-one else swim?”

  “Captain, help him!”

  The men in the boat shouted excitedly and looked to Gavo for leadership but he was as lost as they were, and the waters of Loch Fada remained deathly still for what felt like an eternity. A strange calm settled over the warriors, and even the birds and buzzing insects seemed to fall silent as it became clear there would be no rescue for the king.

  For weeks now the guard captain had wondered if it would serve Damnonii better if Coroticus was supplanted – replaced by someone who wasn’t going mad with anxiety for their missing daughter. Yet Gavo had never once wanted to see his lord and friend – for they had been friends of a sort for many years – dead. He knew what had driven the king to jump into the water, or at least he thought he did. The king had heard the anguish in Troucisso’s voice as he’d contemplated the death of his brother and it had struck a raw nerve within Coroticus.

  This was no cynical attempt to be lauded as a hero by the king, who was a powerful swimmer, Gavo mused. This was simply one man suffering the loss of a family member and trying his best to save another from the same painful fate, with no thought for the consequences.

  It was a truly kingly act and the reverential silence of the men on board the ship assured Gavo the sacrifice would never be forgotten. If the druid, Bellicus, ever did return to Dun Breatann he would have no shortage of testimony to inspire a song about that day’s events and Coroticus’s brave, selfless part in it.

  The guard captain sighed, gazing into the inky depths, wishing the holed ship would either sink or be carried away although the lack of wind or any real current in the loch meant the vessel remained floating stubbornly in place, its shadow rendering the waters completely opaque.

  Troucisso had fallen onto his backside and sat, weeping in silence, muttering to himself about what he’d tell their mother, for he’d swore to protect his young brother and failed in that duty before a blow had even been struck.

  Around them, the world returned to normal, the sounds of gulls and other sea-birds mingling with the almost-inaudible buzzing of the tiny, despised, biting flies known as midge
s.

  “My lord?” Cistumucus must have decided they’d lingered long enough, tapping Gavo softly on the arm and clearing his throat self-consciously. “Should I order the men to row for shore?”

  The guard captain drew in a long breath, staring into the impenetrable, murderous waters of the loch, then, with a sigh, nodded his head.

  “Aye. Once we’re safely on solid ground again we’ll—”

  Without warning, the water next to him broke in a terrific splash from below and the tortured sound of a man drawing in as much air as possible split the air.

  “Coroticus! The king is alive – help me!”

  Gavo reached down, grasping his lord’s outstretched arm and hauling upwards as Cistumucus, Bri and Taranis-knew who else joined in and, in a heartbeat, the gasping, coughing king was prone on the ship’s deck.

  There was no sign of the boy he’d tried to save.

  “Are you all right, my lord? Just lie there for now, gather your breath. Gods be praised, we thought you were surely dead!”

  The guard captain’s joy at Coroticus’s survival contrasted greatly with the sad warrior lamenting his sibling’s drowning, but Gavo was only interested now in his friend who was attempting to stand up, despite spluttering and coughing as what seemed like half of Loch Fada dripped from him onto the sodden deck.

  “Get off me, Gavo,” the king growled irritably, shoving his guard captain’s fretful hands away as he stretched up to his full height and drew in another deep breath before, finally, looking down at Troucisso.

  The young soldier was oblivious to the attention and continued to weep into his drawn-up knees before Gavo, guessing the king’s intention, kicked the man’s foot, making him peer up from sad, wet eyes.

  “You said he wouldn’t remove his mail,” the king said, drawing a nod from the sad warrior. “He wore no sword that I could see though. Which is his?”

  A confused expression crossed Troucisso’s face but then he shoved himself to his feet and hurried across to the deck where a number of weapons still lay, unclaimed in the drama. Recognising his brother’s sword instantly, the man bent down and retrieved it before passing it silently, almost reverentially to Coroticus.

  “I’ll take it to him,” the king murmured, grasping the hilt in one hand and placing the other on the grieving warrior’s shoulder before, to Gavo’s dismay, jumping back into the water and disappearing once more from view.

  More tense moments passed but it wasn’t long before the king resurfaced and was hauled aboard again. He spoke quietly to Troucisso, so quietly Gavo couldn’t make out the words, and then, dripping wet and clearly exhausted, Coroticus pointed back towards the damaged ship that was still tethered to their stern.

  “What will we do about that?” the king demanded. “Can we tow it ashore and repair it later, on our way back from Arachar?”

  Before Bri or Cistumucus could offer their expert opinion the answer to the king’s question became obvious as, overloaded at the stern where they were standing, water spilled in around their feet. Clearly, towing a dead weight was out of the question.

  “Spread out,” Cistumucus commanded, shoving the rescued warriors here and there as he attempted to distribute the weight evenly. Eventually he was happy enough—no more water leaked over the sides although they were still riding uncomfortably low. The captain cast off the doomed, holed shell and pushed the steering oar hard around so their remaining heavily loaded ship made its way, rowers hauling hard, towards the eastern shore. Gavo had commanded they make for that side of the loch despite it being further away than the other because he knew a well-used track followed that shore all the way around. If they had to continue on foot they might as well make things as easy as possible for themselves.

  As the boat made its slow way towards land the guard captain muttered a prayer beseeching Lug the Light-Bringer to guide them past any more hidden obstacles like the one that had wrecked their other ship. He wasn’t the only one petitioning the gods for aid in the quest for land, as at least half a dozen other low voices could be heard murmuring over the rhythmic swish of the oars.

  The previously pleasant trip had almost turned into a disaster for the Damnonii Gavo mused, calculating how much time this would add onto their journey. Not to mention the fact the men would now arrive in Arachar tired and footsore instead of rested and fresh as they should have been had the ships not failed them.

  Still, they should have gained enough ground on Loarn Mac Eirc’s warband to reach their destination before the Dalriadans, although finding suitable ground for the ambush would be a rushed job now.

  A solitary rook sailed overhead, calling out as if laughing at their plight and the guard captain shuddered involuntarily, seeing the bird, along with the young warrior’s death, as bad omens. From the looks the rest of the men gave one another as the ship finally bumped ashore, he wasn’t the only one whose thoughts had turned sour.

  Outnumbered two-to-one and apparently victim to a cruel jest of the gods, they would need to march as quickly as possible and locate a killing ground before their enemy overtook them or the mission would be, at best a failure but, at worst, a disaster.

  As he jumped onto dry land with a glad sigh Gavo uttered another imprecation to Lug. They were going to need all the help they could get over the next day or two.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Coroticus ordered Cistumucus to stay with the boat and the second captain, Bri, would also remain behind. They would look after the surviving vessel and make sure no-one came along to steal it. The king had no intention of walking any further than he had to on the return trip to Dun Breatann.

  The second ship, rather irritatingly, had failed to sink. Instead, it floated back downstream until something—perhaps the very thing that had holed it in the first place—snagged it, and held it bobbing in place almost mockingly. Gavo, the king having turned away in disgust, ordered the two sailors to try and bring it into shore if possible and as long as the task didn’t threaten the safety of their surviving vessel. It would be a welcome sight if the warband were to return from Arachar to find Bri back on board his own boat, hull temporarily repaired with compacted plants and mulch, as unlikely as that seemed.

  The king led them north, nineteen warriors, grim and downcast, particularly the shaven-headed lad who’d lost his brother beneath the calm yet deadly waters. Gavo walked with him, learning he was but eighteen-years of age. Of average height and yet to fill out despite his broad shoulders, the lad looked even younger thanks to a wispy beard.

  “That was a truly honourable act he did,” the youth said, nodding almost reverentially at Coroticus’s back. “Jumping into the loch to try and rescue a lowly, untried warrior.”

  The guard captain was relieved to hear Troucisso exonerating the king from any blame in his brother’s drowning.

  “That’s why I follow him,” the lad went on proudly, as if he’d been part of Coroticus’s warband for decades. “He’s a real man, a real king. Not like that whoreson Loarn Mac Eirc.” A hate-filled sneer twisted the soldier’s face. “I heard what he said about the princess. Made me sick to my guts—my ma brought us up to be respectful of women and, for that foreign prick to say such a thing about a wee girl…No wonder the king wants to take his head!” He looked up at Gavo and his face fell as if he’d just remembered who he was talking to—a lord, captain of the king’s guard, a man way above his own humble rank. “I mean to make sure Loarn and his men pay for my brother’s death,” he muttered self-consciously, kicking a stone which went flying into the brush at the side of the track.

  Gavo expected Troucisso to be as good as his word in the coming battle, but he doubted many of the older, more experienced members of the warband shared the lad’s gratitude toward Coroticus. The king’s recent actions, along with such a dark omen as a drowning before battle had even been joined, placed him in a bad light among a growing number of the Damnonii.

  A good victory against Loarn would go some way to rebuilding that rapidly eroding loyalty, G
avo knew, allowing his thoughts to turn to the approaching confrontation, trying to recall the topography of their destination. He could think of one section of the road, where it dropped downhill from the neighbouring, even smaller, settlement of Tairbert towards Arachar. There were many trees flanking that stretch of the road and at least one place where the Damnonii warriors would be able to find higher ground from which to launch their attack on Loarn’s unsuspecting Dalriadans.

  He patted Troucisso on the arm encouragingly then hurried ahead to catch up with Coroticus at the front of the party.

  “Do you have any thoughts on where we should lay our ambush, my lord?”

  The king glanced around and raised a small smile at the appearance of his trusted advisor.

  “I have an idea of my own,” Gavo continued, encouraged by the friendly expression on the other’s face. “Once we reach the head of the loch we can follow the main track upwards, towards—”

  “Tairbert,” the king finished for him. “Aye, I know the place you mean. I think you’re right, it’s probably the best place we’ll find given our hurry after that hold-up with the boats.” He shook his head in frustration. “It’s not ideal – the raised ground you’re thinking of isn’t as steep as I’d have liked, meaning we can’t just drop great boulders down on the bastards, but it will have to do.”

  Gavo grunted agreement. “The men will at least be able to conceal themselves amongst the trees, and those with slings and hunting bows will be able to loose a volley of missiles before Loarn knows what’s hit him. If our aim is true, that first attack will even the numbers.”

  Coroticus grinned, picturing the scene in his head. “And then they’ll need to find cover or try to attack us in our raised position, allowing us time to get off another flurry of arrows and shot.”