by K. M. Ashman
Gwenno sighed, before joining Willow at the table.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s beautiful, Miss,’ she said, ‘and very, very precious.’ Willow untied the hemp wrapping and unfolded the flaps to unveil one of the most beautiful things Gwenno had ever seen.
‘Oh, Willow!’ gasped Gwenno, ‘it is beautiful.’ She reached down and gently picked up the fabric with both hands, lifting it up to feel the luxury against her cheek.
‘I have never seen such a thing,’ she said and held the garment up to examine the finery. The silk fabric shone in the firelight, its royal purple colour providing a perfect backdrop for the golden thread piping that trimmed the edges. Decorated with the finest embroidery, each intricate design depicted different beasts and flowers of the forest. The patterns were embellished with threads of gold and silver, bordering panels of silk in a rainbow of colours, but most of all, it was the eyes of the animals that caught her breath, tiny precious jewels that reflected the flames of the fire with a life of their very own.
‘Is this for me, Willow?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Miss, it is yours.’
‘Can I try it on?’
‘Yes, Miss, but I guarantee it will fit.’
Gwenno swung the cape around her shoulders and fastened it at her chest with the built in broach of exquisite jade. Despite its embroidery, it felt as light as a feather and fell snugly around her shoulders. The hem hung down to her calves and she spun around, making the robe flare outwards.
‘Wait a minute, Miss,’ said Willow, and ran to her bed space to retrieve a polished brass mirror. She quickly returned and held it up for Gwenno to see the effect.
Gwenno stared at her reflection, her troubles momentarily forgotten and raised the ermine trimmed hood to frame her face before teasing out her long blonde hair to fall over her chest.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.
‘Wait, Miss, there’s more,’ said Willow, and she returned to the table to retrieve another object from the parcel. She handed over a moulded eye mask, studded with exquisite tiny stones of ruby and sapphire.
Gwenno lowered the hood and placed the mask gently on the bridge of her nose. Willow tied it at the back of her head before Gwenno looked again into the brass mirror. Staring back at her was the gilded and bejewelled mask of a mountain cat, pierced by the sparkle of her deep blue eyes. The fringe of ermine around the hood framed her face beautifully, and the overall effect was an apparition of half human, half cat, enhanced by the thick golden hair falling about her face. Her eyes shifted slightly and she focussed on Willow in the mirror.
‘Truly you are the chosen one, Miss,’ whispered Willow.
Gwenno’s gaze hardened and suddenly she tore the mask from her face, spinning to face the girl.
‘Why would they give me this, Willow?’ she snapped, ‘all this finery, all these precious stones. I’ll tell you why, shall I? These are ceremonial clothes, designed for my journey into the next world. This is nothing more than my shroud.’
She ripped off the cloak and stormed back to her bed, throwing herself face down onto the mattress, bursting into tears again.
Willow paused to collect a hair brush before following her to the mattress. She gently started to brush Gwenno’s hair until the sobs eased.
‘Miss,’ she said eventually, ‘do you trust me?’
‘What?’ came a muffled reply.
‘I said, do you trust me?’
Gwenno turned her head slightly and wiped some tears from her eyes.
‘Trust you? I don’t understand.’
Willow kept brushing her hair before answering, her voice, whimsical in tone.
‘Well, Miss,’ she said, ‘If you trust me, I can help you. But you must do as I say for the next few days before the solstice.’
Gwenno sat up.
‘Help me, how?’
‘I can’t say, Miss,’ said Willow gently, ‘but if you do exactly as I say before the ceremony, there’s a chance, just a slight chance mind you, that I can help you escape.’
Gwenno grasped Willow by the hands.
‘I don’t understand, Willow,’ she said, blinking away the tears. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘I can’t tell you, Miss,’ said Willow again, ‘for if you knew, the plan would fail. All I ask is that you do everything I tell you.’
Gwenno stared back for what seemed an age.
‘Willow,’ she said, ‘you seem to be my only friend at the moment, I will trust you. What do I have to do?’
Willow repositioned herself behind Gwenno and resumed the brushing.
‘First of all, Miss, you must resume the training with the Druids,’ she said. ‘The solstice is in seven days’ time and they need to be assured that the ceremony will go ahead as planned. Attend all the teachings and the rehearsals. You must convince them that you have had a change of heart. From now on, you must wear the robe and carry yourself in a manner appropriate to the Gods chosen one. Show everyone that you accept your fate and are willing to embrace your destiny. Give them no cause to doubt your intentions.’
‘How long must I carry on the pretence?’ asked Gwenno.
‘Right up until the last moment, and if the Gods are on our side, everyone will achieve their desired outcome.’
‘I will live?’ asked Gwenno, a hint of hope in her voice.
‘I hope so, Miss,’ said Willow.
‘And if it goes wrong?’ asked Gwenno.
‘Then you will die,’ stated Willow bluntly. ‘We both will.’ She shuffled around to face Gwenno. ‘I know I ask a lot, Miss,’ she said, ‘but it is your only chance.’
‘I don’t understand, Willow,’ whispered Gwenno. ‘Why can’t you tell me? Surely if I knew the plan, I could help.’
‘Not this one, Miss,’ answered Willow. ‘If you knew, it would fail. So will you trust me?’
Gwenno nodded grimly and Willow resumed her place behind her. Despite her excitement, Gwenno finally relaxed, hypnotised by Willows gentle tones as she brushed her hair.
‘Such beautiful hair, Miss,’ she said, ‘you are so lucky.’
----
Chapter 27
Once again, Gwydion stood in the hall of King Idwal in the heart of the Cerrig. There were no council members this time, and passage up to the hall was much easier due to so many men having been sent to support Caratacus. Gwydion and Cody stood side by side, and between them stood the bedraggled Roman prisoner. Finally a door crashed open and Idwal strode into the chamber. He circled around the giant table and sat on the edge before his visitors.
‘Gwydion!’ he announced, ‘you have returned sooner than I expected. What news of the battle?’
‘I am afraid it does not bode well, Sire,’ said Gwydion. ‘Caratacus was routed at Medway and fled into the hills. Thousands have fallen and the rest of the army is scattered across the land.’
‘How can this be?’ asked Idwal. ‘Caratacus had the largest army ever assembled. I even sent him a thousand of our best men.’
‘The Romans fight like nothing I have ever seen.’ said Gwydion. ‘They stand tightly side by side and act as one, each protecting each other.’
‘Nothing a good horseman couldn’t break through,’ said Idwal.
‘Our horses are torn apart before they reach their lines,’ said Gwydion. ‘Balls of fire fall like hail and explode amongst our men before they are within range of our spears. The skies darken with countless arrows and slingshot cuts down our warriors like hay. For every Roman that falls, a hundred of ours are killed. We cannot beat this foe.’
Idwal was silent as he absorbed the news, his face grey as the implications sank in. Finally, his gaze fell on the prisoner.
‘Who is this?’ he asked eventually.
‘This is the Roman.’ said Gwydion. ‘He is a deserter and I have brought him to you as a payment.’
‘Payment?’
‘Yes, Sire, I seek a favour.’ For the next few minutes, Gwydion explained the news he h
ad received about Gwenno and the fate that lay before her on Mona.
‘And what is it you expect of me?’ asked Idwal.
‘Sire, with a troop of armed men and your seal, I could ride to Isla Mona and free her. I could be back within days.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Idwal bemusedly.
‘Sire, this Roman has knowledge of the enemy. The way they fight, their strengths, and their weaknesses. All this information is of value to you and our people.’ He paused. ‘Sire, I was to marry this girl and I have little gold to pay for the favour I seek, but the Roman’s knowledge is worth a cart full of gold. If you cannot spare the troop, I ask only for your seal to instruct the Druids to release her.’
‘Tell me something,’ said Idwal, ‘even if I wanted to, what makes you think that I hold sway over the Druids?’
‘You are their King, sire. They will listen to you.’
‘I fear you hold me in too high esteem, young man,’ said Idwal. ‘The Druids are the real power holders in these lands. I am King in name only, as is Caratacus or any other tribal leader. The Druids do what the Druids want. If they wish to sacrifice this girl, then I have no power to stop it or indeed the inclination. They have their reasons, and if by this act they strengthen our warrior’s sword arms, then it can only be for the good. By your own words, it would seem that we will need all the help we can get, if we are to defeat these Romans. Your favour is denied. Over the next few days, I intend to gather the clans to defend our lands against the invader. Take my advice, go back to your kin, find another girl and make the most of her while you still can. This other one will be remembered as she whose sacrifice helped repel the invader.’
‘But, Sire!’
‘The decision is made and I have work to do. I will send for you in ten days.’. Idwal turned and left the hall leaving the three men staring after him.
‘What now?’ asked Cody.
‘There are still three days to the solstice,’ said Gwydion, ‘I can still get to her in time.’
‘The King has forbidden it, Gwydion, you have to stop this folly.’
‘No,’ said Gwydion, ‘he didn’t forbid it; he just denied me his support. You go back to the clan, Cody. I will continue alone.’
‘You can’t do this,’ said Cody, ‘It is suicide.’
‘You have stayed with me long enough, friend,’ said Gwydion. ‘This is now my fight. Go and see your family, for when the Romans come, you may not get another chance.’
Cody held out his arm in friendship.
‘May the Gods protect you, Gwydion,’ he said.
‘And you, Cody,’ said Gwydion grasping his comrade’s forearm.
Cody turned and strode out of the hall leaving Gwydion and his prisoner alone in the silence.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Prydain in Latin.
Gwydion turned to his prisoner, staring at him for a long time.
‘It would seem you have no value to me, Roman.’ he said. ‘Be-gone before the King returns and realises your worth.’
‘Where lies your fate?’ asked Prydain.
‘Mine?’ laughed Gwydion sarcastically. ‘My fate is to try to rescue a beautiful girl from a well-armed warrior tribe, and very probably die in the process. But that is no concern of yours. Go home, Roman. Go back from whence you came. This place will soon be dripping with blood.’
Gwydion strode toward the door before Prydain called out to him one last time.
‘A quest, you say, to save a pretty girl with death almost a certainty. I like the sound of it. Cut me loose and I will help.’
Gwydion stopped and turned back.
‘Why would you help?’
‘Why not?’ shrugged Prydain, ‘I have nowhere else to go. If I flee, how long would I last in these strange lands speaking only Latin? At least with you I have a chance, no matter how small.’
Gwydion walked up directly in front of Prydain.
‘And if I cut you loose, how do I know you would not kill me in my sleep?’
Prydain thought for a moment before replying.
‘You don’t!’ he said simply, and raised his tethered hands.
Gwydion nodded.
‘That’s probably the only answer I would have believed,’ he said. ‘Welcome to life as an outlaw, Roman,’ and with a single swipe, he cut through Prydain’s bonds with his sword.
----
Chapter 28
The battle of Medway was over! Plautius gazed over the plains, calculating the cost in terms of life lost. As far as he could see, was a bloody carpet of Britannic and Roman flesh. The end game had been savage and the outcome had been in doubt for a long time, but despite the enemies overwhelming numbers, the legion’s superior training and devastating technology had finally won through.
Wave after wave of barbarians had assaulted the advancing Roman lines despite catastrophic losses. Even when cut down, they were a risk, and his soldiers soon learned the meaning of the order ‘Kill them twice,’ a command designed to remind the legions of the need to ensure any fallen foe was definitely dead before advancing.
Plautius was full of admiration for his foe. They knew no fear and fought to the bitter end. If they had been better trained, then the battle could well have had a different outcome, but such was the will of the Gods. He now had to deal with the aftermath.
The surviving members of two legions stood scattered around the battlefield, exhausted by the relentless hand-to-hand conflict. Many sat in mud the colour of blood, tending their wounds or simply staring across the carnage, unable to grasp that they still lived. Many more lay in the filth, crying out for help as their blood drained into the foreign soil. Plautius noted grimly that few Britannic voices called out, and wondered whether the reason was there were fewer enemy survivors, or that they were made of sterner stuff. He suspected the latter.
Horns started to sound and rallying calls made, summoning the able-bodied back to their units. Centurions and Optios rallied their charges, doing the headcounts that Roman efficiency demanded. The day had seen the blurring of the edges between the two legion’s heavy infantry, and for the first time, Vespasian’s legionaries had fought shoulder to shoulder with those of Geta’s, until each unit’s colours merged into a uniform muddy brown.
Survivors staggered toward their standards, and troops of cavalry galloped from the legion arriving from the rear to chase down any enemy survivors. Hundreds of trained slaves swarmed onto the battlefield to tend to the wounded, or decant cool water from huge skins slung over their soldiers, a benefit gratefully received by survivors and dying alike. Auxiliary light infantry wandered through the enemy fallen, despatching any wounded with their spears as they found them, and medics erected tents at the edge of the carnage to receive the injured and treat their wounds.
Plautius despatched three Cohorts to the forward edge of the battlefield to provide a defensive line, while the rest of the Gemina was tasked with building a marching camp on a nearby hill. The General walked amongst the wounded with his entourage, giving comforting words or compliments on particular acts of bravery. Eventually he spied Vespasian, having a knife wound to his side tended by a medic. He was sipping on a flask of water.
‘Vespasian!’ stated Plautius, ‘you are wounded.’
‘Nothing more than a scratch, General,’ replied Vespasian, grimacing as the bandages were pulled tight.
‘The front line is no place for a Legate,’ said Plautius.
Vespasian laughed wryly.
‘For an age, there were no lines of any sort.’ he said. ‘They seemed to be everywhere and we fought whoever was within reach of our blades.’ He swigged from the flask again. ‘How is Geta?’ he asked eventually, ‘Did he prevail?’
‘Geta is fine and is busy making his men’s life hell,’ laughed Plautius, ‘That man has the lives of a cat.’
‘I suppose I had better do the same,’ Vespasian winced and struggled to his feet, ‘We still have a way to go to the heathen city.’
‘No rush,’ said Plaut
ius, ‘We will make a stronghold here and lick our wounds.’
‘But we should press home the advantage,’ said Vespasian, ‘take their city before they can regroup.’
‘There will be no further assault,’ said Plautius. ‘The bulk of their army is dead or soon will be. Our cavalry units are chasing them down as they run and our Batavians scour the forests seeking retribution for their dead comrades. We will consolidate here and send deputations to the local tribes, demanding their surrender. In the meantime, the Gemina will lay waste to the surrounding area. By the time the Emperor arrives, the barbarians will be begging for peace.’
‘The Emperor?’ queried Vespasian. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Legatus?’ said the General. ‘Even as we speak, Claudius travels through Gaul, fully expecting to claim Britannia as a province of Rome.’
‘Claudius is coming here?’ asked Vespasian in amazement.
‘He is, and will take the surrender of Caratacus personally. All we have to do now is find him. Anyway, enough politics, we have funeral pyres to build and wounded to tend. Get yourself sorted out and see to your men. The area is defended well, but it will take a few days to build the camp. Get them fed, watered, and ensure they are well rested. Who knows what these heathen may throw at us next?’
‘Yes Sir!’ said Vespasian and saluted as the General returned to his tour of the battlefield.
----
A hundred miles away, Legate Nasica was holding his own briefing in his command tent.
‘What was the name of this deserter?’ he asked.
‘Prydain Maecilius Sire’, answered Optio Remus, ‘from the province of Picenum.’
‘What was his unit?’
‘Second Century,’ said Remus, ‘but he was seconded to the scouts.’
‘One of your own, then?’ said Nasica in slight surprise.
‘Yes, Sire and I take full responsibility for his treachery. I should have beaten it out of him when I had the chance.’
‘You knew he was a problem?’
‘He is a son of a slave with ideas of grandeur,’ answered Remus. ‘I should have posted him to the auxiliaries back in Gaul.’
