by K. M. Ashman
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ she said, touching her husband’s head gently. ‘He has had a hard time. He hates the inequality of life imposed by those in power, and often wakes in the night screaming at memories I cannot even imagine.’
‘My father speaks very highly of him,’ said Cassus gently. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘I will be fine,’ she said, ‘you go to bed, I will have the desert sent up. It is only fruit, but it was picked fresh today. Goodnight, boys and good luck in the future.’
The two young men took their leave and went back to their room, leaving the domestic scene behind them. As they walked up the stairs, Prydain looked over at Cassus.
‘What did you think about that?’
‘About what?’
‘He was quite scathing about service.’
‘What does he know? He was no-one of importance,’ said Cassus.
‘He served for ten years, so he must know something.’
‘If you fear service, Prydain, then walk away. No one is forcing you to join. I for one am happy to take Rome’s glory to the heathen.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Prydain, ‘it’s just different from everything I had ever thought.’
‘Well stop thinking’ said Cassus,’ all we need to concentrate on is enjoying the next two days.’
Prydain nodded and they retired to their room, Cassus still clutching a half-full amphora of wine. The following morning, a linen pack containing fruit and the remains of the pork from the previous evening was waiting outside their door. A folded parchment was atop the pack. Cassus opened it up and read aloud the contents.
To Perre, my oldest and dearest friend,
The two unfortunate scoundrels that bear this note are in particular need of your help. If you can help them achieve their goal in my name, I would be eternally grateful. I look forward to exploring the taverns of Ostia with you the next time you are in Rome, though be patient as there are still some in the Vigils who resent your last visit, despite their injuries having healed nicely.
Until next we meet
Marcus.
‘Sounds like a character,’ said Cassus and placed the note in an internal pocket of his tunic before they both crept quietly out of Marcus’s home.
----
Chapter 4
Gwydion rode along the path, seeking the capital of the Deceangli. Erwyn’s directions still clear in his mind.
Erwyn had told him to keep the sea to his right and when he reached the fishing village of Treforum, ask the locals to show him the road. It was well known that there was a great fort not far from the sacred isle of Mona, recognized as the centre of the Deceangli tribe, but apart from the warriors who had served in the armies of the King, most of the Blaidd had never travelled this far north.
Gwydion had filled out in frame over the last few years and had gained in confidence, as his role within the clan had been cemented. He had spurned the longer sword preferred by the older warriors, preferring the shorter style offered by traders from the east coast but unhappy with the quality, had begged his father known as Hammer, due to his skill as a blacksmith, to make his own bespoke weapon.
On Gwydion’s sixteenth birthday, Hammer had called Gwydion to his forge. He pointed to a stone gourd containing molten iron and Gwydion realized that at last, he was seeing the birth of his own sword.
‘Give me your hand,’ said Hammer, and holding his son’s wrist firmly in his own grip, drew a knife across Gwydion’s palm, allowing the blood to drip into the molten steel. He then spent a day forging the blade, steadily adding charcoal to the molten iron to harden the blade, and by repeated beating and quenching, formed a weapon of unsurpassed hardness and quality. To make the hilt, Hammer made him grasp a rod of hot wax, forming an exact replica of his grip, and a skilled woodsman had carefully carved seasoned oak into the exact shape of his hand, using the wax as a template. The final product was magnificent, lightweight and lethal.
Gwydion had practiced with every able bodied man willing to go against him, strengthening his arm, and improving his technique, until eventually he was considered the best swordsman in the village.
----
Gwydion rode his horse through the outskirts of the coastal town. The streets were alive with sound, smell and colour. Wooden crates of chickens competed with squealing piglets for the attention of anyone wanting to purchase meat that morning. Sooth-Sayers vied for trade, each calling out from the doorways of their huts, promising to tell your future for a few coins and weavers hung out examples of their finest work for passers-by to see. Sailing boats, tied to the wooden jetty, unloaded their hauls from the rich fish beds just outside the harbour, and the smell of freshly baked bread from giant ovens, wafted tantalizingly throughout the village.
Men of dubious honour offered slave girls for pleasure, many cheaper than he would pay for a mug of beer and he paused briefly, wondering if he had enough time to sample their particular wares, but remembering the seriousness of his mission, reluctantly moved on.
Gwydion had been travelling hard since before dawn and eventually pulled up alongside a timber shelter. An old woman stirred a large iron pot hanging from a frame over a fire.
‘Hwyl, old mother,’ said Gwydion from astride his horse, ‘what place is this?’
‘You are in Treforum,’ she replied, stirring her pot, ‘and are welcome as long as your sword stays sheathed.’
‘Your pot smells good,’ he said. ‘What does it contain?’
‘It contains whatever you want it to,’ she said. ‘Pork, mutton, rabbit, you name it, it is in it.’
‘Well my belly thinks my throat has had a confrontation with a brigand’s blade,’ he said. ‘How much for a plate?’
‘Cawl, bread and beer for just a copper coin,’ she said, ‘though for a Roman coin, you can eat all your stomach can carry.’
Gwydion’s brow furrowed.
‘Why would those trader’s coins buy me more food than our own?’ he asked.
‘The Romans bring strange and fabulous things from their far shores,’ said an old man, coming out of the hut, ‘but they only accept their own coins or precious metal in payment.’
‘What do they bring that is so different to what we can grow on our own farms?’ scowled Gwydion.
The old woman ladled scoops of steaming soup into a wooden bowl and ripped a generous chunk of bread from a nearby loaf.
‘Spices, the oil of the olive, perfumes, fruit and vegetables, the likes of which you have never seen before. You name it, they have it,’ she said. ‘Even this pot was made on distant shores. If you have Roman coins, you can buy anything.’
Gwydion dipped the bread into the steaming soup, soaking up the rich gravy from around the chunky vegetables and meat.
‘You make a hearty Cawl, old mother,’ he said, speaking through a mouthful of stew. ‘There is nothing wrong with this and I trust the ingredients were out in our own fields just a few days ago. As far as I am concerned, the Romans can keep their spices.
‘Thank you,’ she answered. ‘You’re not from around here are you? Do you have business in the town, or are you just passing through?’
‘I am hoping to do business,’ he answered. ‘I am of the Blaidd, a days’ ride south of here.’
‘I know of the Blaidd,’ said the old man, ‘I have had cause to lose out in trade to someone called Erwyn.’
‘You and a thousand others,’ laughed Gwydion. ‘He is a shrewd man.’
‘What business do you have?’ asked the old woman. ‘Perhaps we can help.’
‘You may be able to point me in the right direction,’ said Gwydion. ‘We have lost a lot of foals to the wolves this year, and seek to purchase more horses from the council.’
‘Horses?’ asked the old man, his eyebrows rising. ‘Then I fear your journey will be in vain.’
‘Why so?’ asked Gwydion, scooping the last of the soup into his mouth.
‘The council has claimed all available horses for defence of the territory.
Look around you traveller, there are far more people walking these streets than ever before. Yet try to engage them and many speak in foreign tongue.’
‘And are they a threat?’
‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘they may be a drain on resources, but the foreigners are seen as allies. However, their presence here is a symptom of a greater problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘The Romans. They are refugees from Gaul, Belgica and Gemina, fleeing the heel of the legions.’
‘There have always been foreigners on these shores,’ said Gwydion. ‘Why is this different?’
‘Think about it,’ the reply came, ‘if anyone knows the brutality of Rome, these people do, for they have witnessed it first-hand. Word has come that their Emperor has cast a covetous eye on these islands and our foreign friends flee their path, long before the Roman galleys have even caught wind.’
‘But I thought that you were happy to trade with the Romans,’ said Gwydion. ‘Not ten minutes ago you were seeking Roman coinage to engage in trade.’
‘This is true, for they are a strange lot the Romans. If you roll over and accept their heel, they bring trade and prosperity, though always on their terms. If you resist, they fall on your cities with fire and steel, sparing no one and turning the rivers red with the landowner’s blood.
‘Then they have not faced the Deceangli, yet,’ said Gwydion, ‘we would not roll over so easy.’
‘Spoken with the exuberance of youth,’ said the old man. ‘Trust me, I have witnessed these soldiers operate. They fight as one, unrelenting and with overwhelming force. Nothing can withstand them. No, it is far better to trade with this monster than to fight it. I feel that you will probably see a few more sunsets that way.’
Gwydion drank the last of his beer and wiped the froth from his lips.
‘Well, old man,’ he said, ‘it is just as well that you don’t lead our tribe. I would rather have seen my last sunset, than see a thousand under the heel of an oppressor.’ He handed the empty cup back to the old woman. ‘So,’ he said, ‘can you direct me to the council?’
The old man turned around and pointed southwest toward a mountain range that dominated the skyline.
‘They overlook you as we speak,’ he said, ‘in the Cerrig on the mountain of our ancestors.’
‘And how do I get to this Cerrig?’ asked Gwydion.
‘Follow the road through the village and into the hills. Do not worry about finding them, they will find you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gwydion and mounted his horse again. ‘Keep that pot well stocked, old mother,’ he said, ‘for I will surely tell my fellows to sample its contents whenever they pass this way.’ He turned away and trotted up the street toward the hills in the distance.
----
High above the fishing village, the fort encircled a rocky plateau nestling between two hills. A steep path ensured the approach was easily defended and high walls topped the natural crag, hewn from the very ground upon which the Cerrig had stood for hundreds of years. Entry was gained through a pair of wooden gates, framed within thick walls that channelled visitors into an easily defended corridor.
Gwydion stared up at the awe-inspiring fort in amazement. He had only travelled a short way up the hill before two outlying guards appeared from the undergrowth and demanded to know his business. After hearing his explanation, they escorted him up the Cerrig, passing numerous checkpoints on the way until he stood before the doors of an impressive central hall.
‘Wait there,’ said the guard and he entered the hall leaving Gwydion outside, guarded by six heavily armed warriors.
Within the hall, six tribal elders sat around a horseshoe shaped table, deep in conversation. In the open end of the horseshoe sat two visitors, each eating a platter of cold meat. The door at the end of the hall opened and the guard walked up to the table, interrupting an argument.
‘Sire’s’ he said, ‘there is a Gwydion of the Blaidd outside seeking audience.’
‘Can’t you see we are busy,’ snapped one member. ‘Send him away.’
‘Who are the Blaidd?’ asked Owen, a senior member of the council.
‘A client clan to the south,’ answered a colleague. ‘Loyal to the tribe, but of no great significance. Get rid of him.’
‘Sire, he is very insistent,’ said the guard. ‘He said to give you this.’ He placed a golden Torc with a wolf pendant on the table.
‘What is it?’ asked one of the visitors.
‘It is the symbol of the Blaidd,’ said Owen, realizing like everyone else that any emissary bearing the symbol of their own clan, could expect audience and hospitality with any other Deceangli. ‘We will humour him, send him in.’
The guard left the building as the council stood to stretch their legs, some seeking to warm their backs against the roaring log fire at the end of the hall. A minute later, he returned, closely followed by Gwydion.
‘Welcome, Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ said Owen. ‘You bear your clan’s totem. I assume you hold the legal right.’
‘I do, Sire,’ answered Gwydion, ‘I was sent by Erwyn of the Blaidd to conduct business on his behalf.
‘I know of Erwyn,’ said Owen. ‘But I forget my manners, have you eaten?’
‘I have, Sire,’ he replied, ‘though my thirst is great.’
‘Then let me serve you,’ said Owen, pouring a tankard of beer, ‘and after you have quenched your thirst, you can tell us how we can help you.’
Gwydion sank half the draft in one go, before placing the tankard back on the table.
‘Well Sir,’ he said wiping the froth from his mouth, ‘my initial task was to source twenty horses for my clan, but while passing through the village, I learned that there are none to be had due to the threat of invasion.’
‘And?’
‘If this is true, Sire, I would seek clarification.’
‘Your concern is understandable,’ said Owen. ‘But worry not, we will send word should a threat arise and you will know in plenty of time.’
‘But why then are you securing the horses, Sire?’ asked Gwydion.
‘And why should I share the Kings business with you?’ asked Owen.
‘I am sorry if I offend, Sire, I think only of my clan. We will have need of horses, whatever the situation. If there is a threat, then we need to defend ourselves, and if there is not, then I fail to see why I cannot purchase the beasts. I passed many on the farms along the coast.
‘They are being sent to Caratacus,’ said Owen, ‘Cunobelinus’ heir, and new king of the Catuvellauni.’
Gwydion nodded in recognition. During his time with the Catuvellauni, he had seen Caratacus on many occasions and he was an imposing man. He looked over to the two Catuvellauni travellers talking quietly together, slightly apart from the others.
‘I realize we are at peace with the Catuvellauni, Sire, but surely we should not be selling our resources to another tribe. Horses are hard to come by.’
‘Guard your manner, young man,’ said Owen, ‘despite their birth they still enjoy the safety of our hospitality. We do not sell anything. The horses are given freely in the name of the King.’ The rest of the occupants had drawn closer to hear the conversation.
Gwydion drew a purse from his belt and threw it on the table.
‘I can pay a fair price with good Khymric gold, Sire,’ he said. ‘You deny your own people the horses they need, yet give them away freely to your enemies?’
One of the travellers stepped forward.
‘You have already stated the answer, young man,’ he said in a strange accent.
‘And who are you?’ asked Gwydion scornfully.
‘Hold your tongue,’ shouted Owen standing up from his chair. ‘You too are a visitor and hold no sway here. You will not question our guests.’
The bearded man held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture.
‘Be calm, Owen,’ he said. ‘If we are to meet this threat as allies, then we must share many things, knowledge as well as horses.
I am Rebellon of the Catuvellauni,’ he said, addressing Gwydion directly, ‘and I speak for King Caratacus. We expect the Romans to send their armies before the year is out and our lands overlook the seas from whence they will come. We intend to meet these invaders and crush them like beetles beneath our feet. Roman traders are one thing; Roman soldiers are another. Even as we speak, riders are travelling between all the clans of Catuvellauni gathering warriors to defend our island. Thousands are gathering at the coast and our villages have been tasked to turn out as many chariots as possible, but therein lay the problem. Chariots we can make. Horses take a while longer.’
Gwydion considered the man’s words.
‘I hear the Romans are a formidable foe,’ he said. ‘What makes you think you can defeat them?’
‘Because we have done so before,’ said Rebellon confidently. ‘Twice in the last hundred years, they have dared to wave their swords over our people and twice our tribe has turned them away with steel and willow. This time will be no different.’
‘And if you do?’ asked Gwydion. ‘When it is all over and the blood lust is still high in your warrior’s veins, what is to stop you from turning your war chariots against us?’
‘We do not covet your lands, Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ laughed Rebellon. ‘Rest assured you can keep your lung tearing mountains and your foot rotting weather, we have lands enough. What we require are enough of your horses to draw a hundred chariots.’
‘And if you fail?’ asked Gwydion, his tone a lot calmer.
‘If we fail, young man, I fear the loss of two hundred horses will be the last thing on your mind.’
‘Enough talk!’ interjected Owen. ‘You have had your answer, Gwydion, the deal is already done. Rebellion’s party will take two hundred horses from the village. Now, we have business to conclude. Be on your way.’
‘Wait!’ said a voice from the shadows, and a well-built warrior stepped into the light. He was dressed in protective tunic of leather and a fine cape of chain mail hung from his shoulders. He had a sword strapped to his back and a dagger hung from his belt.
