The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “It will work,” I said, more calmly than I felt. “For once the rain will be our ally.”

  A moment later, small, icy raindrops bounced off our faces. “Your newfound ally is falling again,” Crispus said. He took a deep breath, grabbed the hilt of his spatha, and in a slow and deliberate stride returned to his mount.

  *

  As the patrol continued, the woods gradually changed from scrub to a dense pine forest, carpeted with an underbrush of lowlying heather and bristly, yellow gorse. Black and brown rotting leaves piled thick on the trail, hid limbs and branches, and caused the horses to stumble. Tall, wet bushes jutted from the shadows and slapped the men about the face and body, annoying everyone with the smell of must and mildew. Tempers soon matched the climate.

  “This place stinks like a hog pen,” Albinus whined. “I haven’t smelled anything this bad since I left the farm.”

  “If anyone knows the smell of hog pens, you do,” drifted a reply from stubby-built Indibil. “Your nose is always up an officer’s arse.”

  The men laughed, but I suppressed mine. “That’s enough!” I said in a low, growling voice.

  They continued to grumble, violating our standard orders. Enforced silence was mandatory while on reconnaissance patrols. I whirled Argento around, startling the men. They halted abruptly. I gave the surprised, weasel-eyed Albinus a withering look and glared at the rest. I yanked my spatha from the worn leather scabbard and pointed it in their direction.

  “I’ll slice off the fucking head of the next arsehole who says a word,” I said in a hissing voice. “We’re in enemy territory. I won’t tolerate your insubordination. Is that clear?” They glanced at one another and a few looked at the muddy ground. Crispus, his anger apparently gone, winked in approval.

  Still facing the men, I heard the muffled sound of hooves from behind me. The big-nosed point man, Andubal, who was scouting far ahead of us, rode slowly towards the squadron. He glanced over his shoulder and drew up alongside. “I’ve spotted savages.”

  “Where?” I slid my weapon back into the scabbard.

  “They’re in some sort of temple just ahead.”

  “How many?”

  “Can’t be sure, maybe a half dozen.”

  “Are they on foot or horseback?”

  “They’re mounted.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. Was this the rumored Druid temple? A feeling of dread seeped into my bones as tiny bumps formed on my arms and down my back. I knew the consequences if I carried out my plan. On the pain of death, we were ordered to leave the native temples alone, especially those bordering lands of the Regni and Durotrigians. King Verica of the Regni was supposedly a Roman ally, and King Unig was neutral. By leaving their temples unmolested, the Romans showed their supposed good faith and trust.

  If my suspicions were correct, Verica was using the scouts as spies. I would expose his treachery and stop the raids and bloody ambushes at their source, saving more of our men from being killed. Then I remembered Crispus’s remarks at the pond. If we succeeded, perhaps my daring would be recognized. It might be the first step on the road to the Equestrian Order. If we failed, then Gallus would have my head, a pleasure I’m sure he would relish. Either way, I was determined to stop the attacks against my troop.

  I ordered the men to dismount, drop the horses to their knees, and maintain silence. The troopers stayed behind, quietly soothing the restless animals, as Crispus, Andubal, and I proceeded down the seldom-used path on foot.

  A short distance later, Andubal motioned for us to halt. He continued looking about. A faint downwind breeze blew from the direction of the temple.

  “How much farther?” I asked the point man.

  “About three hundred paces.”

  We crept forward until we reached the edge of the clearance.

  Less than a bow shot away, the temple sat surrounded by ancient, gnarled oak trees, sacred to the Druids. Hanging from many of the branches were gold bracelets and torc collars, brass quarter moons, stars, and other charms. It was common knowledge that worshippers had placed them there to appease the gods of planting and the harvest. The natives of Germania, where we had previously been posted, had similar customs.

  A squared lattice archway formed a vined entrance to the sanctuary. On each side stood a long, narrow pole dug into the ground. Set into a niche within each post sat a bleached white, slack-jawed human skull, whose empty sockets gaped southward, forever blind.

  An ancient earthwork consisting of a weed-covered mound and a shallow mud-filled ditch circled the temple. Nearby bubbled a small stream, sacred to the Druids. Only a narrow, wooden pathway crossed the moat, but it was large enough to support the weight of a horse and rider.

  To the right of the temple, seven horses grazed next to a pillar. One mount looked familiar. Scattered among the animals, white temple geese arrogantly strutted, occasionally honking and nipping at the horses’ shanks. Inside the multi-torch-lit edifice I easily discerned the figures of a half-dozen Britons, conversing as they milled about a dark-stained sacrificial altar. The tallest had grown a trimmed, white beard and wore a woolen, blue and green cloak with a hood. A large gold, half-moon disk, hanging by a chain, draped his chest, and he held a wooden staff in his right hand. He had to be a Druid priest. A younger, dark-bearded priest stood attentively near the sacrificial stone. The others were battle-dressed warriors wearing plain conical helmets.

  A warrior stepped outside the temple.

  We froze. Then quietly, we ducked behind the bushes before he spotted us.

  He glanced around and momentarily peered in our direction before returning to the temple.

  I recognized him. Even with little more than a dim, gray light filtering through the forest, I knew he was one of our scouts.

  My suspicions were confirmed. He worked for the enemy. Druid priests hated Romans, and there was no doubt that the natives had orders from the priests to deceive and ambush our troops.

  Now I could justify raiding the temple.

  Did he see us? I prayed that he hadn’t. I motioned to Crispus and Andubal, and we returned to the squadron.

  A light rain began to fall. For a moment, I studied the gloomy faces of my troopers. “Load your slings and grab your swords,” I said with all the confidence I could muster. “Albinus, take the point, we’re going to catch a spy.”

  Chapter 5

  At breakneck speed, the squadron charged from the woods, screaming curses in breath fogged from the cold. The Britons, caught by surprise, without time to reach their horses, stood their ground. Even the two Druid priests attempted to defend themselves, pulling hidden swords from beneath their robes. The fight was furious but brief.

  Albinus led the charge across the narrow bridge and into the sanctuary. I was close behind. Once across we encircled the barbarians. They threw themselves at us as if backed by an army. Albinus hacked a native’s head and arm in a single blow, bathing himself and his charger in blood. Then he whirled left, stabbing another savage who had attempted to hamstring his mare.

  I ran another through with my sword after he made a flying leap and lanced the left side of my face with his weapon. I didn’t have time to think about the wound. A short javelin dart flew past my head and slammed into the chest of the younger priest. He screamed as his massive bulk toppled backwards across the sacrificial altar.

  Crispus fended off a warrior’s glancing blow with his shield and countered swiftly with a slice from his spatha splitting the enemy’s head.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Indibil stabbing a shaggy warrior in the throat. Blood gushed from the wound as he stumbled, collapsed, and died. The native, who I had earlier recognized as one of our scouts, jumped bareback onto a horse and attempted to flee. I shouted at Andubal and Crispus.

  Andubal, the point man, pulled a leather sling from within the satchel tied to his saddle and twirled it above his head. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a small, lead ball from its pouch. At a speed faster than a Syrian’s a
rrow, the ball flew toward the barbarian and careened off his helmet. The Celt galloped faster, jumping the ditch, with Crispus in pursuit. Crispus fired his sling, and the missile struck the savage in the small of the back. He yelped, flinging his sword away, and rolled off the rump of his mount. Landing hard, he tumbled facedown on the muddy earth, and for a moment lay motionless. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his knees. Crispus reined up and threw a noose of rope around the spy’s neck. He tied the other end to the saddle pommel. Slowly, he worked the horse backwards until the noose tightened about the Briton’s throat who suddenly came to life, desperately clutching the rope. Crispus stopped.

  “Stand up, savage, or I’ll wring your neck like a chicken!”

  The barbarian seemed to understand, and with great effort, pulled himself to his feet. With another lunge on the rope to get his attention, Crispus cantered back to the temple grounds, the trotting native in tow.

  By now, the priest had backed towards the covered altar. After glancing to his slain comrade, he dropped the sword and reached inside his robe.

  “Albinus! Kimon!” I shouted. “Grab the priest!”

  The Druid pulled a dagger and was about to plunge it into his own chest when Kimon knocked the weapon away. He and Albinus threw the Druid to the ground, and rolling him over, twisted his arms into hammer locks. They yanked him to his feet.

  I dismounted and rushed forward, sword in hand. The Druid stood straight and tall, glaring defiantly as only those who face certain death can. “Unbelieving barbarians!” he spat in a guttural voice. “How dare you defile this sacred temple?”

  “By the gods, the old boy speaks Latin,” a surprised Crispus called as he removed the rope from the neck of the gasping scout. The Briton clutched his burned throat, but Crispus yanked his hands behind his back and bound them.

  “We know the ways of many people, heathen,” the Druid bellowed. “Yours and your Roman slave masters, too.”

  “Do you now?” I motioned for Kimon and Albinus to seize his flailing arms and force him to behave.

  “I know all about your people,” he crowed. “My spies are everywhere. Do you think us stupid?” His cruel, gray eyes glowered from beneath irregular eyebrows, as if trying to penetrate our souls. “You Spaniards are no more than cowering lackeys. The Romans treat you like pigs, but you keep coming back for more of their swill.”

  The Druid’s words begged for a swift death, but I settled for backhanding him across the mouth. The blow settled him to his knees, and my guards released him. He sprawled on the compact, dirt floor longer than the blow deserved. The priest started to spit out another curse, but checked himself when he wiped blood from his crooked mouth. I realized that he was attempting to draw attention away from the matter at hand. We had a spy, and a better prize, in the priest.

  “Bind him,” I motioned to Kimon. The huge half-Greek and Spaniard seemed to take great pleasure in tying the priest’s wrists behind his back, and as painfully tight as circulation would permit. The priest flinched, which was strange, for Druids were reputed to have great tolerance to pain. I ordered Indibil and six-fingered Severus to stand guard outside the temple while the rest of us surrounded the Druid and scout.

  “What’s your name, Priest?” I questioned.

  “Llugar ap Nudd, Druid of the Council of Mona,” he answered puffing out his chest.

  The Isle of Mona, located off the west coast of Britannia, was reported to be the sacred isle of the Druids. Reports indicated that their council fully supported Caratacus in his raids against the Romans.

  “Priest,” I said, “you, too, are a mercenary. Only you expect rewards in the world of darkness, your hereafter, which may come soon.” I nodded with a slight grin. Llugar ap Nudd seemed to appreciate the innuendo.

  After Kimon finished tying Llugar, he checked the scout’s bound hands, lashed tightly in front of him. Drawing the prisoner’s elbows to the rear, Kimon locked them behind his back, shoving a short pole through them. The scout mumbled something insulting to Kimon, who throttled him to the ground.

  “What’s that you said? The rope’s too loose? Why, thank you.” Kimon then placed a sandaled boot on his butt and pulled hard on the rope, provoking a satisfying cry of pain. “Well, they look the right shade of purple now. Let me know if they loosen up again.”

  I motioned for my quaestionarius, Obulco, who had been standing near Kimon. The torturer’s toothless grin spread from ear-to-ear across a dark, grimy face. He had ways of inflicting pain that others considered too revolting. Obulco leapt over the prostrate barbarian and halted before me.

  “We’ll save most of the detailed questioning for the legionary torturers,” I said, “but I need answers to important questions, now.”

  Obulco’s oily face twisted into a violent scowl, which meant he was happy. His battle-scarred face was laced with jagged welts that twisted into a frown any attempt to grin. The more contorted the scowl, the happier he was, and this was the ugliest he had been in some time.

  “Anything you says. When I finished, he’ll tell you everything,” he bragged. Obulco snorted, and with a dirty hand wiped away the thin film of mucous running from his oft-broken nose.

  “Whatever you do, they’re not to be killed,” I whispered.

  “Aye, how much time do I get?”

  “As much as you need.”

  He exhaled heavily, his breath smelling of gamy meat and wine. “Good, it’s better when I can do my work S-L-O-W-L-Y,” he lisped, “so theys can appreciate my craft.”

  “Get moving!” I ordered.

  I hate torture, it’s a dirty business. To stop the pain and suffering, victims will tell what they believe their interrogators want to hear, though it be a lie. However, a liar will tell the truth because of the fear of the impending pain. Its necessity is unfortunate, especially when dealing with Druids, because of their defiance. But I was willing to do anything to save the lives of my men and those of the cohort. We had methods of confirming the validity of his information. Every cohort had a detachment of interrogators.

  Obulco knelt behind the priest, forcing him to his knees. “You’re smarts enough to hurts more if I tell you first,” he hissed in the old man’s ear. He placed the strap around the Druid’s scalp. The priest tried shaking it loose, but Obulco shoved his knee into his back above the horizontal pole and grabbed and tightened the leather. He wrenched his head back forcing him to scream.

  “Llugar ap Nudd,” I said, “you can save yourself a lot of pain and grief if you simply answer my questions.”

  “Never! Never will I answer questions, Spanish SCUM!”

  I nodded to Obulco, and he tightened the strap. The priest, face crimson, again screamed.

  “Who is your master?”

  “No one is my master! Only the gods!”

  Again, Obulco applied the pressure, ever tightening the leather until the Druid cried out again.

  “Where is Caratacus’s main force concentrated?” I questioned in a low and even tone.

  “Don’t know!”

  Obulco slowly turned the handle of the strap tighter around the priest’s skull. His eyes bulged as another scream exploded from his lungs so piercing it could be heard throughout the forest.

  “Llugar ap Nudd, where is his army? Speak up, or you will die!”

  “Kill me!” he begged. “Kill me!”

  “That’s too easy. Your death will be long and painful, and your lackey,” I emphasized glancing to the Briton scout, “will have to watch as your flesh is burned one bit at a time. You’ll beg for a quicker death before we’re through.”

  Obulco tore his clothing exposing the Druid’s aging but sinewy body to the frigid air. I motioned to Kimon and Albinus to tie him onto the sacrificial altar. They shoved the fat, dead body of the younger priest onto the ground with a loud thud and tied Llugar ap Nudd with well-oiled leather straps on the altar. The scout was dragged before the Druid as Obulco unwrapped the cord and withdrew his prod from the glowing red coals he had placed earlier in
the nearby hearth.

  I bent my head and whispered to the scout. “Unless you and your friend confess, the priest will be scorched and slowly disemboweled.”

  The Briton closed his eyes and shook his shaggy, dark hair violently. Obulco slowly moved the glowing prod toward the priest’s face.

  “No! Don’t!” the ruddy-complected native rasped in heavily accented Latin, “I’ll talk, have mercy on him!” He gulped a couple of times attempting to raise his voice. The rope burn crossed his neck.

  “Shut up, you fool,” the priest hissed. “Tell them nothing!”

  “No, Lord, I can’t let them torture you,” the scout said. “Your life is . . . is worth more than mine.”

  “Silence, dog, or I will excommunicate you. You know your soul will wander forever!”

  The greasy torturer cuffed Llugar heavily with the back of his glove. Obulco grasped his testicles and waved a dagger dangerously close for the benefit of the scout. Noting the grimacing priest’s closed eyes, and that the scout had turned his head, Obulco quickly jabbed the hot iron back into the fire and picked up a cold dagger. He jerked the sack hard enough to command the Druid’s full attention, then laid the ice-cold blade broadside against the sack and made a harsh hissing sound. This brought the prized screech-of-terror with the damage of a hot blade. The priest fainted, and Obulco’s face twisted like crumpled parchment.

  “Stop! I don’t care!” the scout begged. His wide, hazel eyes came to rest upon mine. “I’ve . . . I’ve seen a torturing of many, and if this was another I . . . I would not care,” he said in broken Latin, a voice barely more than a whisper. He stopped and shook his head for a moment, as if feeling the pain of his own words. “But I cannot let a priest suffer. What . . . what do you want to know?”

  “Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “I tell . . . tell the truth so you’ll spare his life. He is a priest, not a spy.”

  “Priests—spies—they’re the same.”

  “Druids are special,” he answered as if it were self-evident. “They’re the lawgivers and . . . and wise men. No . . . no man is above them, not even kings. No harm must come to him.” He hung his head, unwilling to look upon the face of the Druid, who slowly regained consciousness. Llugar ap Nudd raised his wavering head in an attempt to inspect the feared damage.