by Scott Hurst
‘When will you ever learn, Maximus? We Dobunnic women are made of tougher material than your Catuvellaunian women.’
He grimaced at her then bent down for a kiss. ‘Let’s hope the same is not true of all your men.’
‘I’ve been wondering for days now whether or not to share this with you…’ She looked at him fervently. ‘Whether telling you would weaken or strengthen you in the battle to come.’
Max’s voice was full of misgivings. ‘What is it, my love?’
In answer Sabrina placed a palm under her heart. ‘I carry your child.’
*****
The rain stopped, with still no sign of Guidolin’s army. Two messengers arrived to report no sign of movement on the eastern or the southern flank. Suddenly there was movement out in front, a group of men running towards them out of the morning mist. Feeling the men tense around him Max shouted, ‘Get ready!’ Surveying the men running towards them he realised there were only about a hundred of them. They weren’t holding their weapons as if about to charge. They weren’t grouped in any kind of attacking formation. Instead they started holding their arms wide, cheering and waving. He stared intently at their shields and decided he could make out the blue Eagle symbol of the Atrebates they had adopted from their long, but now finished, friendship with Rome.
Max waved to his bodyguard. ‘Follow me.’ Cantering out towards the oncoming men he quickly recognized the man up front - Eppilus. Like his men, he was sweating and panting from the run. As Max galloped up to him, the Atrebate grinned. ‘Don’t kill us, for God’s sake, Maximus. We’ve come to join you!’
‘That’s the second bit of good news I’ve had today. Welcome, friend, welcome indeed.’
Running back towards Catuvellaunian lines, Eppilus was still grinning. ‘I almost got caught last night getting back to the camp after meeting you. Some snotty Dobunnic officer told me off for wandering around in the dark. Then Guidolin laid on some of his usual entertainment, executing a couple of Catuvellauni his scouts had dragged in. I lay there afterwards, thinking, ‘Why am lining up for a man I hate? And I thought, you know what, I’m too old to fight just because somebody tells me I should. I’m only going to fight for people I want to fight for. Turns out my Arelate crew felt the same.’ His smile widened. ‘Not only them, some of the Atrebatian contingent too.’ By now his bearded face was almost split in half with his smile. ‘And I’ve saved the best for last. The rest of the Atrebates have gone home, Max! They didn’t want to fight for you, because you’re Catuvellaunian, but they didn’t want to fight for a Guidolin either!’ They were almost at the Catuvellaunian lines. Eppilus slowed to a walk. ‘So about five hundred Atrebates are heading home. Guidolin’s up there wondering whether to chase them or get on and deal with you. You know what it’s like. You want to kill everybody, but some days you just have to choose.’
At the news the Catuvellauni started to cheer all along the lines. What a boost to morale. Max had begun cheering too when he heard a scream behind him. Turning he saw a man at the back of Eppilus’ unit fall forward, a javelin through his back. Thundering up the road behind them was a small unit of Dobunnic cavalry.
At its head rode a grinning Dobunnic officer, screaming, ‘We shit on Caratacus! Today you die!’ With that he wheeled and galloped away, pursued by a smattering of javelins and jeers from the Catuvellauni.
As Eppilus gathered his men a calm, quiet voice behind Maximus said, ‘Not exactly a speech Homer would have been proud of.’
Max whipped round. ‘Paulinus!’ he shouted. ‘What news?’
Paulinus knew what he was asking. ‘My Guild brothers and I did our best, but there was so little time, Maximus. I doubt we achieved our objective.’
Max exhaled. Not what he had been hoping for. And when more news came, it too was bad. A Corieltauvian force of almost a thousand men had invaded their northern flank. They were pushing south. Their militia up there was struggling to hold them back.
He had little time to dwell on that now.
Guidolin’s main army was marching up the road towards them.
*****
From a distance they looked like birds – each Dobunnic warrior had amulets fastened to their helmets, feathers, bird wings, even horses’ tails. Their shields, hide covered wood with metal ribbing, were covered with their designs, spirals, circles, animal motifs. Many of them were still the red angular Dobunnic horsehead that he had come to fear, but many too now carried blued heads that looked more like bear heads. Most of their warriors wore bracae and light cloaks. They wore the old round ring British brooches still loved by people in the west of the island. Few wore armour, though their nobles wore chest plates – light bronze, far beyond the means of the common man. Max was surprised to see that some of them even carried spears with heavy metal orbs at the opposite end to the blades. It was an old form of spear, only used by people of the far west or far north.
Max scanned their lines. Sabrina’s father was probably among them.
Warriors began riding up and down the battle lines, throwing javelins, screaming intimidating battle cries. The Dobunni were a warrior culture. Courage on the battleground was a virtue.
They showed it now.
The Dobunni came forward in a mass charge, a wild frontal attack, devastating in its ferocity, with Guidolin’s bodyguard letting loose a disciplined volley of the little, but lethal, darts weighted with lead they had inherited from the Romans. The volley fell among his men, catching them by surprise, leaving little holes in the line as men fell.
‘Hold fast, men!’ Control was vital now – or they would be quickly overpowered by the sheer force of the rushing Dobunni warriors. Though less well armoured, less disciplined, they began attacking, their courage vicious, frenzied. Max knew if they could withstand this initial ferocity they would win a more prolonged attack. He signalled to his men to form a deadly shield wall, a tight formation.
Immediately he sent small group of cavalry out to harass the advance. His horsemen were unable to do much damage before being driven off by the larger body of Guidolin’s cavalry. Max observed the skirmish carefully. This battle was going to be decided by the infantry. And as Guidolin’s force moved into full view, he could see his enemy had no lack of foot soldiers. Though numbers could be deceptive, Guidolin’s force looked many times the size of his. Knowing his own men would be looking and calculating too, Max ran his eyes up and down his lines, checking for signs of men running. Desertion could be infectious, particularly with inexperienced men. But his Catuvellauni were standing firm. He bowed his head, feeling humbled by their loyalty to him. To Salvius he shouted, ‘Keep the Torc high, whatever happens. The men must know it’s still here.’
Guidolin’s army grew closer. Max started scanning their ranks for Dye and his men. It was not long before he saw kit and armour he recognized. The exiled Catuvellauni nobles – his own people, now his enemy - were sandwiched between two Dobunnic units. Off to the right of centre as he looked at the line. Next he identified Guidolin’s allied units, the Cantii and Corieltauvi. They were harder to make out. Finally he saw the black raven symbols of the Corieltauvi over towards the left of the line.
The enemy army had begun chanting, voices ringing out in the damp morning air. ‘Guid-o-lin! Dobunni! Guid-o-lin! Dobunni! Guid-o-lin! Dobunni!’
His own men shouted their response. ‘Car-a-ta-cus!’ Here and there were shouts which made him proud. ‘Maximus Arcturus!’
The noise of the approaching force began, pounding in his ears. Suddenly there was a mighty roar. Guidolin’s army lurched forward, accelerating into a charge. Max forced his heart to be still. Many of Guidolin’s men would be inexperienced too. There would be no clever tactics from Guidolin. The Dobunni were given more to individual courage than any strategy. Besides, Guidolin would imagine he could win by numbers alone.
Seeing the mass of men and weapons approaching, he could well be right.
Catuvellaunian javelins flew into the oncoming mass. Men must be dying out there,
but to Max’s eyes the projectiles seemed to have little effect. And then javelins started flying from the enemy force. Max watched the first Catuvellauni die before him. Two veterans from Arelate. Family men with wives and children. There would be time for grieving later, if he lived through the day. As Guidolin’s army finally hit his front lines, Max found himself shouting orders. ‘Steady! Steady! Hold firm!’ In the roar of the onslaught how many of them could even hear him?
The Catuvellauni lines sagged with the impact of the attack, reeling backwards. Max rode up and down the line, Salvius beside him bearing the Torc, shouting ‘Hold firm! Hold firm!’ It was vital now that any recoil from the initial impact did not turn into a retreat and then a rout. He was forced to duck as javelins sailed overhead, but what was that, when his men in the front lines were suffering?
Slowly, gradually, the backward motion of the Catuvellaunian force came to a halt. Max looked them over. His tactics were working. Because of the terrain he’d chosen Guidolin had only been able to get a comparatively small number of his men into the actual frontline. The Catuvellauni were managing to hold those men back for now. Backwards and forwards the lines wavered. Little knots of men would break off before being sucked back into the hacking and shoving and stabbing. Sometimes gaps appeared briefly before disappearing again amidst the fighting.
Max watched knowing that men were dying, men he’d known all his life alongside men who had fought alongside him in Gaul. His every instinct was to throw himself into the fighting, but he knew he had to hang back, watch the progress of the battle, always ready to give commands and send his reserves into action where necessary. He could see a tight knot of horsemen behind the Dobunni forces too. Guidolin would be amongst them. And was that Calista, regal in blue robes? He’d welcome the chance to deal with her later.
The fighting had been going on for a long time. The morning mist had long since cleared. It was daylight when he noticed problems on his right flank. The men there were under pressure. They were starting to yield ground. Dye and his exiles were pushing forward. Guidolin had seen the weakness too – more of his men started racing forward to exploit the frailty. Fighting began to spread out onto the marshy ground on that side. Even as Max was preparing to lead his reserves towards the danger zone, the Catuvellaunian line started to crumble. Men started fleeing the battle line, or were cut down by the Dobunni. Dye’s followers started pushing through Max’s line. Any moment now it would be Catuvellauni against Catuvellauni. The madness of it was more than Max could bear. Even as he started galloping towards the break he knew he would not get there in time.
Suddenly, there in the melee, was Dye’s face, turned towards him. His brother’s eyes met his. For a few brief instants amidst the screaming and shouting and clashing of weapons, Max had a sudden vision of that same face when they were both young, long before Calista, long before this insanity. He saw the young Dye and himself in the house at Verulamium, the sun turning red, Dye laughing as he played. In that moment he’d known he would always love his exasperating, stubborn, pig-headed brother, no matter what. That he loved him even now.
Suddenly Max was back in the battle and somehow he knew what was going to happen.
Dye held up his hand, as if in salutation or farewell.
At his signal Dye’s exiled Catuvellaunian halted their forward progress. Spreading sideways, they began cutting into the sides of the Guidolin’s units fighting beside them. They were turning on their allies! Their exiled nobles were coming back to the fold.
Elated, Max and the Catuvellauni turned and rejoined the battle. He reached the scene just in time to see Dye cutting his way towards Guidolin, through the Dobunni leader’s bodyguard. It was suicide.
For long seconds Max saw his brother’s arm, still raised above the battle. And then he was gone.
Max tried to get to him, but it was impossible. Howling like an animal, he raised his face to the sky. The battlefield swam with his tears.
He had no more stomach for this, could stand no more senseless death.
Salvius was there. ‘Move, Maximus! Now! Don’t let Dye’s sacrifice be in vain.’ Max’s eyes followed his pointing finger. Where before the gap had been in their line, now there was a gap in Guidolin’s. Driven by fury and pride Max led his reserves straight into the breach, smashing apart the fragmented Dobunni.
A blow from an unseen enemy toppled Max from Zephyr’s back. A mass of bodies broke his fall. Panting, Max got to his feet again. Zephyr was too far off to be reached. A large Dobunnic warrior stabbed his spear in Max’s direction. He swerved, catching the man in the base of the neck with his sword edge, almost decapitating him. As the next came charging at him Max smashed his shield into the man’s face. Then he was charging forward himself again, manoeuvring to avoid the dead and wounded, the fallen weapons strewn underfoot. Dobunni were scattering before him. One desperate warrior turned to launch a javelin at him. Max caught him in the face and he disappeared among the other corpses on the battle floor.
Just as he thought his men were through the line Guidolin’s reserves smashed into them. Knocked off his feet by the impact of the charge Max struggled to right himself, slipping on someone’s entrails. Instinct had him cover himself with his shield and he was up again, in time to slash his attacker in the back. Elbowing a second man in the face he kicked a third in the crotch. Then he and his reserve were moving forward again.
Guidolin’s reserves, impact spent, started falling back, trying to cover their retreat as they stepped backwards through abandoned bodies and weapons. Several stumbled, only to be killed by pursuing Catuvellauni before they could rise again. Now Guidolin’s right flank had collapsed, they were beginning to push the enemy line back, driving into the side of Guidolin’s main army. Covered with sweat and blood, Max forced himself to stand still. He needed to get his breath back and assess their progress.
They had won a great deal of ground. And Guidolin would soon have other problems to deal with. Over on the other side of the battle Guidolin’s allies were disengaging, leaving the battlefield. Towards the centre of the Dobunnic line, there was chaos. A large group was trying to cut a swathe through their own men towards Guidolin’s position. Max looked behind him. Paulinus, from a distance back, was looking in the same direction. He shouted triumphantly, ‘Lupicinius! Come to inspire his side to victory, no doubt. ’
The snatched seconds of observation cost Max dearly. A Dobunnic warrior rose from the earth, jabbing at him with his spear. Max felt its edge cut into his flesh before he kicked the man away. The Dobunni came at him again and he smashed his sword into the militiaman’s throat. Steadying himself he looked around the battlefield once more. The Catuvellauni were pushing forward across Guidolin’s lines, which were collapsing. Except for one position.
With quiet calm Max watched Guidolin hurl himself into the battle, his bodyguards around him. They were headed in his direction.
Max called his men to him. Together they charged forward to meet Guidolin’s counter-attack. Guidolin’s eyes seldom left him, darting from opponent to opponent as the Dobunni leader methodically dealt with any threat that came his way. But those dark eyes always returned to him.
Max’s men fought bravely. As did Eppilus the Atrebatic, cut down trying to halt the assault. Every part of him cried out to honour the man’s loss, but he had to keep fighting.
The two groups smashed into each other.
Max found himself facing his nemesis.
He had heard of riastradh, the mythic ability of Celtic heroes to exert control over their being, bending and warping their body to show their strength. As Guidolin came towards him it was as though he had become one of the giants of old. Along with his great size it seemed he had all the ferocity of the bear whose pelt he was wearing.
Driving straight at him, Guidolin jumped down onto the battlefield just a few paces from him. There was a sinister smile on his face, under the heavy bearskin.
The last time he had met him in battle, he had almost died.
>
Over the din of warfare Max shouted, ‘Your cause is lost, Guidolin! Surrender now. Stop the slaughter!’
But Guidolin had no intention of surrendering. ‘This is our battle, yours and mine! Take this for Morwen!’ he screamed, bringing his sword down on Max with all his might. Max took the blow on his shield. The sheer force of it smashed the safeguard down. Before he could raise it again, Guidolin went in for another blow, forcing Max to parry with his own sword.
‘For the love of Christ, man, I didn’t kill her!’ he bellowed.
Guidolin was still smiling as he raised his sword. ‘I know,’ he shouted. ‘I did. But you forced me to do it, making her love you more than me. Morwen had to die, before any other man touched her. But I was sure to make her mine first.’
The enormity of what Guidolin was saying clouded Max’s thinking. The bastard had raped her. That was why the sweet child killed herself. Stunned, he failed to raise his sword to meet Guidolin’s next threat. Guidolin’s sword smashed his weapon out of his hand and onto the battlefield below.
The Dobunnic’s face was manic now as he raised his sword. ‘Your life for my sister’s!’
Max saw the blade rise above his head to strike. With astonishing clarity it came to him. He was going to die just as their victory was won. And then he caught a golden flash as Salvius rammed the Great Torc standard into Guidolin’s side. Max fell to the ground, reaching for his sword. He was up again - just in time to see Guidolin’s sword slam into Salvius.
Morwen. Sabrina. Salvius. How many more were to be harmed by this man? Anger filled him. This time he would show no mercy. He charged Guidolin, slashing wildly at his head, his blade slicing through flesh and bone. Blood spurted.
Guidolin collapsed, face down, to join the dead.
The bear pelt rolled off his skull into the dust.
Immediately the Dobunni began leaving the battlefield. Fighting on without their chief would have brought them dishonour.
