by K. M. Ashman
Everyone looked stressed, but in the centre was the reason Gwydion had been summoned. A figure lay in a foetal position on the floor, his hands bound so tightly that his wrists bled and his hair was matted where a club had knocked him from his horse when he had been taken prisoner.
‘At last!’ said Togodumnus and turning to one of his warriors, indicated the man on the floor. ‘Pick him up.’
The warrior grabbed the captive’s hair and pulled him onto his knees, his head yanked backward until he faced Togodumnus, his face caked with dried blood. Gwydion was summoned forward by the King’s brother.
‘Right, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘time to earn your rations. Tell this shit who I am and that his life is about to get a whole lot worse.’
Gwydion stared at Togodumnus for a few seconds before turning to the miserable wreck of a man and translated his words into broken Latin. The man looked at him in abject misery, though didn’t answer.
‘Ask him how many men the Romans have,’ continued Togodumnus.
Again, Gwydion translated and again there was no answer.
‘Why doesn’t he answer?’ screamed Togodumnus, ‘he’s Roman, isn’t he?’
‘I know you understand me,’ said Gwydion. ‘If you do, just nod your head, or the pain you now suffer will increase tenfold.’
The captive nodded slowly.
‘Good!’ said Togodumnus, recognizing the gesture. ‘Ask him about their strengths and their plans. I need to know what they intend.’
Gwydion relayed the questions and after a few seconds, the man mumbled something through his smashed teeth. Gwydion bent to hear better before reporting back to Togodumnus.
‘He says he is not Roman, Sire, he is a Syrian archer who has no knowledge of the plans of the Roman Generals.’
‘Horseshit,’ exclaimed Togodumnus. ‘Archer or not, he must know something, ask him again.’
Gwydion did so and again relayed the answer.
‘He says all he knows is that the army is enormous and no one can stop the might of the Romans.’
‘Stand him up!’ said Togodumnus and two warriors dragged the man to his feet. He stood directly in front of the captive and stared into his face.
‘Tell him this!’ he said. ‘And make sure you repeat exactly what I say. You are already a dead man. All that you have left is the manner of dying. If you tell me what you know, the death will be quick and your head will hang on a chieftain's saddle, a sign to your Gods that you were a worthy opponent. If you don’t talk, you will die slowly and your flesh fed to the pigs of the forest. Make your choice!’
The man’s head sagged a little as if he was deep in thought before he looked up again at Togodumnus and answered through his shattered mouth.
‘Unlike your barbarian Gods, mine will greet me whatever my fate,’ he said. ‘Death is death and pain is fleeting. Do your worst barbarian, you have your answer.’
Silence fell as Gwydion translated and everyone looked toward Togodumnus waiting for the explosion of rage that would surely follow.
‘Burn him,’ he said, and the two warriors dragged him out of the tent into the darkness.
----
Outside, the archer was stripped naked and tied spread eagled to a wooden frame. A rope was thrown over an overhanging limb and the frame was hoisted upright in front of a low fire, tilting forward until the smell of singing body hair told them he was close enough. They secured the rope in position, watching the man bake slowly above the fire.
It was only a few minutes before they heard his first cry of pain in the King’s tent, though it seemed to Gwydion that he was the only one to find the sound disturbing. He had seen many men die and this was just another enemy, but the manner of death was repugnant to him. The man’s cries turned to screams as his flesh roasted, begging his Gods for death and release from his torment. Gwydion’s discomfort was suddenly interrupted, when another of Caratacus’s warriors ran into the tent in obvious panic and looking around the interior for the King.
‘What is it?’ asked Caratacus standing up quickly.
‘The Romans, Sire,’ he cried between gasps of breath, ‘they are here!’
‘Here, what do you mean here?’ he said. ‘They are miles away.’
‘No, Sire, their advance units have reached the far banks of the river. Our warriors are fighting them as we speak.’
‘How many?’
‘About five hundred, Sire, the Romans are trying to take the bridge.’
‘They cannot take the bridge,’ said Togodumnus. ‘Our forces are disorganized, we will stand no chance. We must send more warriors across.’
‘No!’ said Caratacus. ‘They will be concentrated in too small an area.’ He paused for a few seconds before adding ‘burn the bridge!’
‘Sire, we still have men on the other side,’ said the messenger.
‘It’s too late for them,’ said Caratacus. ‘They will buy us some valuable time. Fire the bridge and cut the lines, they must not take the crossing. The rest of you, mobilize your clans along the bank. Togodumnus, get me spear throwers. We have to hold them while the rest of our people cross the Tamesas.’
Gwydion turned to leave the command tent, but paused as he heard the next sentence from the King’s brother.
‘Let’s hope your people are better at being sacrificed than you are at intelligence gathering.’
Gwydion turned.
‘Sorry, Sire,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand.’
Togodumnus ignored him, but the ever-present Druid stationed just inside the tent flaps explained.
‘Caratacus’s armies will be aided by the strength of the Gods in just three week’s time,’ he said. ‘At the celebration of the solstice, the elders will make a sacrifice.’
‘What type of sacrifice?’ asked Gwydion, already dreading the answer.
‘The most powerful,’ said the Druid. ‘And your tribe have the honour of supplying the chosen one.’
‘I thought the chosen one had to be taught the ways of the Gods,’ said Gwydion. ‘The solstice is in fifteen days, surely this is too short a time for the instruction to be given.’
‘We already have someone,’ said the Druid. ‘She was given freely by the Blaidd many months ago, a pure girl with extraordinary golden hair as I understand. The Gods can’t fail to be impressed.’
‘Be gone!’ shouted Togodumnus and Gwydion fell through the entrance to the tent, his mind racing as he struggled with the implications. He stood outside the tent for several minutes, watching the chaotic scenes as men ran everywhere, organizing their arms and defences. In amongst the mayhem, Gwydion again heard the pitiful cries of the dying Syrian as his charred skin peeled from his flesh. Everyone was preoccupied with preparing for the forthcoming battle and the area quickly cleared of warriors leaving only Gwydion and the dying archer. The victim turned his charred and sightless face toward Gwydion.
‘Please,’ he begged in broken Latin, ‘help me!’
Gwydion looked around the clearing and realizing they were alone, approached the dying captive. He was the enemy and deserved to die, but he was also a warrior who had only been doing his duty. There was no honour here and no man warranted such a fate. He withdrew his sword and placed the tip under the rib cage of the tormented man. The Syrian felt the point of the blade against his flesh and realised relief was at hand.
‘Do it!’ he said through blistered lips and Gwydion thrust his sword upwards into the Syrian’s heart.
The archer’s head flung back and his mouth fell open as the pain ripped through his body and as he died, Gwydion cut the rope with a swipe of his blade, releasing the body to fall into the flames. He looked around and wiped his blade on the wall of the tent before running off to find his own men.
----
Gwydion raced through the woods to the camp, his hands fending the branches away from his face as he took a shortcut through the thicket and burst into the clearing where his troops were bivouacked. All around, women and children were making their way nort
hwards to the Tamesas, eager to reach the ferries and bridges that would carry them to the safety of the other side and the road to Camulodunum. Warriors raced in the opposite direction, toward the banks of the Medway to face the Roman army.
Gwydion’s followers span around at the noise, their hands reaching for their swords, their instincts sharpened by the sudden downturn in events.
‘Gwydion,’ shouted Cody, ‘where have you been?’
‘No time for that,’ answered Gwydion brushing past him. ‘Gather your things, we are getting out of here.’
‘What?’ asked Cody incredulously, ‘surely we are needed here?’
Gwydion started to saddle his horse.
‘We were sent here to help Caratacus throw the invaders back into the sea,’ he said. ‘So far, the Romans have landed tens of thousands of heavily armed soldiers, built a string of fortresses along the coast and we haven’t fired an arrow in anger. Even as we speak, they are in the process of slaughtering Catuvellauni on the other side of the river while Caratacus’s chariots lie idle.’
‘But Caratacus’s army outnumber the Romans tenfold. The invaders stand no chance.’
Gwydion grabbed Cody by the tunic and dragged him close.
‘You listen to me, Cody,’ he said. ‘When I was in Caratacus’s tent, I heard the reports from his clan leaders. Thousands of Romans are marching toward Camulodunum. They have hundreds of cavalry, thousands of heavily armoured men and machines that throw fire across the sky. They have wiped out dozens of villages on the way here, receiving only a handful of casualties in return. When there were no more men to kill, they turned on the women and the children, slaughtering everyone they could ride down. No-one was spared, do you hear me, no one!’
‘That may be so,’ said Cody pulling himself free from Gwydion’s grasp, ‘but if everyone runs, then the Romans will walk unopposed to Camulodunum.’
‘We are but ten men, Cody,’ said Gwydion. ‘We will make no difference to the outcome of this fight. I cannot make you leave, but you have your own families back in the hills to defend and when the Romans turn their face to the Khymru, you should be there to defend your own kin. There is no honour in a futile death here. If your blood must spill, then let it enrich the soil of our youth, not Catuvellauni soil’
‘You speak like you are not coming with us,’ said Cody.
‘I am also leaving,’ said Gwydion turning his attention back to the securing of his saddle, ‘but not back to the Blaidd, I ride to Mona.’
‘Why Mona?’
‘I believe Gwenno is to be offered in sacrifice by the Druids. I will not let that happen.’
The men fell silent. Gwydion’s love for Gwenno was common knowledge and they all had a soft spot for the girl.
‘When?’ asked Cody.
‘Solstice,’ said Gwydion simply and ducked into his tent to retrieve his few possessions. When he emerged, the whole group were waiting for him.
‘We can’t let you do this,’ said Cody. ‘Even if you are successful, what will you do? They won’t let you settle down anywhere, you will be branded a coward and an outlaw. The Druids will send word around Britannia and you will be hunted down like an animal. There will be nowhere you can hide.’
‘I’ll worry about that when it happens,’ said Gwydion, tying the final knots on the fastenings securing his equipment to his fidgeting horse. ‘ I will not stand by and let Gwenno be sacrificed to avoid that which cannot be avoided.’ He vaulted onto his horse. ‘I am leaving.’ he said. ‘My fate is written. Stay and fight, or leave and defend your families, the choice is yours, now get out of my way!’
‘Wait!’ said Cody. ‘A few more minutes will not make any difference.’
The group walked a little distance from the mounted Gwydion and talked rapidly discussing the options, eventually coming back into the fire-lit clearing.
‘We are split, Gwydion,’ said Cody, ‘so every man will follow his own heart. Some swords ache to taste Roman blood and will fight alongside the Catuvellauni. The family men will return to the Blaidd and will defend their clans. I have no ties back home and have no wish to die defending Catuvellauni lands, so I will ride with you and meet my fate alongside yours.’
‘I cannot ask you to do that,’ said Gwydion, ‘the cause is mine and mine alone.’
‘You forget that I also grew up alongside Gwenno,’ said Cody. ‘She deserves a better fate than the axe-man’s blade.’
Gwydion stared at the man who was willing to live the life of an outlaw and suffer a probable early death to help him in his quest.
‘My mind is set,’ said Cody. ‘I ride with you!’
‘Thank you,’ said Gwydion, simply.
‘Didn’t have a choice,’ said Cody. ‘You wouldn’t cope without me to hold your hand, now get lost; I have a horse to load.’
----
Chapter 21
Willow sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes between sentences as she explained what she knew about Gwenno’s fate.
‘All the poems and stories you have been learning,’ she said, ‘they are all messages to the Gods. Usually they are chanted at the gatherings of the Druids, but sometimes they are taken in person by the chosen ones.’
‘How, Willow?’ asked Gwenno earnestly, ‘how can someone speak to the Gods when they live in the otherworld?’
‘It is possible, Miss,’ she said, ‘but only those who have remained pure can enter the gates of Afallon.’
Gwenno wracked her brain. Although women in the clan had little to do with spiritual matters, she had overheard the name Afallon mentioned occasionally back in the Blaidd, when the warriors were drunk around the fires.
‘But isn’t Afallon just a small island of the coast to the west?’
‘All I know, Miss, is that all the messengers are taken there by the Druids after they have gone through the Henge. There lies their new kingdom, the lands that are your birth right as the chosen one. You will take your rightful place alongside those who have travelled before.’
‘But that cannot be,’ said Gwenno. ‘The island is too small, much smaller than even this one. How can so many people be given lands? There will not be enough to go around.’
‘You must be wrong, Miss; many have travelled the path before you.’
Gwenno’s mind was racing. None of this added up and the more she heard, the more worried she became.
‘This Henge, you told me about,’ she said, ‘tell me again what happens there.’
‘Well, Miss; there is a great ceremony where the Druids pay tribute to the chosen one. You will wear the cape and travel through the stone gateway before you are taken to Afallon.’
‘And you have seen this?’
‘Like I said before, Miss, my cousin...’
‘What exactly did your cousin say, Willow?’ she asked, interrupting the girl. ‘Think back, and try to remember everything he said.’
‘Just what I said, Miss,’ stuttered Willow, ‘about the Druids, and the cape and the stone gate, that’s all I know, really.’
‘I see,’ said Gwenno standing up and pacing back and fore. ‘About this Henge, do you know where it is?’
‘No, miss.’
‘You have not taken any other acolytes there before?’
‘No, Miss, you will be my first.’
‘Did your cousin describe where this place is?’
‘No, Miss, though he said the ceremony looks over the water toward Afallon.’
‘It must be on the west coast.’ She said before taking Willow’s hands in hers. ‘Willow, we have to go there.’
‘But we can’t,’ said Willow, ‘they will capture us and we will be punished.’
‘They won’t know,’ said Gwenno. ‘We can sneak away tonight and be long gone before we are missed.’
‘The guards will see us,’ said Willow.
‘There are no guards,’ said Gwenno. ‘They have been removed.’
‘The Druids know you saw the ceremony, Miss, and have instructed that you are guard
ed once more.’
Gwenno ran to the door and peered through the gaps between the planks. Sure enough, an armed guard stood across the clearing watching Gwenno’s hut. She returned to the bed and sat next to Willow.
‘So I am no better than a captive,’ she said.
‘I don’t think it is like that, Miss,’ said Willow. ‘It’s for your own protection.’
Gwenno turned to Willow slowly, and suddenly everything made sense.
‘Protection has nothing to do with it,’ she said. ‘Afallon is a small island and there is little room for the smallest of clans, let alone lands of beasts and forests. The Druids are not being truthful with you, Willow, there is no way the chosen ones live on Afallon. It is just not possible.’
‘But it is common knowledge, Miss, and even Lapwing has told me it is so.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt the chosen ones are taken there,’ said Gwenno, with tears welling up in her eyes, ‘but not to live in peace amongst lands of plenty, but to lie amongst the ancestors as an offering to the Gods. Oh, Willow,’ she said bursting into tears,’ I think I am going to be sacrificed!’
----
Chapter 22
Prydain stood alongside his horse waiting for Centurion Scipio to return from the ridge overlooking the enemy camp. He wondered how the other three legions were faring on their march northward and felt a little aggrieved that they would get to conquer a city while the Ninth had been sent to sort out a minor tribe. Glory lay northward not westward.
The whole Century of scouts were together for this action, a rare event for them as usually they were split up on different missions. They had cleared the slopes of lookouts overnight with a mixture of stealth and blade, and prepared the way for the diversionary tactics that would conclude their part in the action. At last Scipio scrambled back down from his vantage point.
‘Mount up,’ he said. ‘It is time.’
