Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  They walked a few more yards in silence.

  ‘Willow,’ ventured Gwenno after a while. ‘Have you served other girls before me?’

  ‘Yes miss, though you are by far the prettiest.’

  ‘Many others?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss and sometimes we even have princes as well as princesses.’

  Gwenno laughed.

  ‘I am no princess, Willow,’ she said, ‘I am a simple village girl whose father is a clan leader. Nothing more.’

  ‘You look like a princess to me,’ blushed Willow and they both laughed in the morning air.

  ‘So tell me, Willow,’ said Gwenno, ‘All these other acolytes, where are they now?

  ‘They have gone through the Henge, miss, to the kingdom of the Gods.’

  ‘The kingdom of the gods?’

  ‘Oh it is a wonderful place,’ said Willow, ‘Where the trees are heavy with the sweetest fruit and no one grows old. A magical place where animals can talk and gods appear to mortal man.’

  ‘You have been there?’ asked Gwenno in awe.

  ‘Oh no, miss, I’m not important enough, though my cousin’s friend has,’ she said excitedly, ‘And he said, that in the ceremony of the cape, a giant god comes to a sacred glade, and if he looks upon you his blinding gaze can strike you dead.’

  ‘Well!’ laughed Gwenno, ‘I am sure it is a special place but even so, your cousin’s friend or whoever he is may have exaggerated just a bit.’

  ‘Oh no, miss,’ said Willow, a look of awe in her face, ‘It is true, for though I have never been to the Henge, I have seen the cape with my own eyes.’

  ‘You have?’ asked Gwenno in amusement. ‘What is it like?’

  ‘The most beautiful thing you have ever seen,’ said Willow wistfully, ‘So beautiful in fact, I don’t have the words to describe it. No matter though, you will see it yourself soon enough.’

  ‘And what is it for?’

  ‘When the chosen one is summoned, they are given the cape as a sign of their purity and are given a kingdom of their own,’ said Willow. ‘A beautiful place, full of grazing and waterfalls as far as the eye can see. You see, miss, you must be a princess, for only princesses can become queens. And that is what you will soon be, a queen of your own lands.’

  Gwenno gasped in astonishment, her heart racing.

  ‘I knew it, ‘she said excitedly, ‘I always said my destiny was to become a queen.’ She grabbed Willows both hands in hers. ‘Oh Willow,’ she said, ‘I can hardly wait. When do you think my time will come?’

  ‘Soon, miss,’ said Willow, ‘Very soon.’

  Chapter 14

  Prydain swung a high blow towards his opponent’s head, easily parried by the German’s own blade, and immediately brought down his Gladius to deflect Hanzer’s retaliatory thrust. The fight had been equal, and both had fought ferociously until the exhaustion took its toll and the ferociousness of the attacks waned. The two combatants fell apart again, gasping for breath yet both still equal in skill and intent.

  ‘You fight well, Roman.’ gasped Hanzer.

  ‘Not well enough,’ replied Prydain, ‘For you still breathe, but that is about to change.’

  The sound of running men crashing through the undergrowth interrupted the confrontation and both span around, brandishing their weapons in defence. Hanzer lowered his sword in relief as Germanic warriors surrounded their leader and his opponent. Prydain cursed his luck and maintained his defensive stance, spinning around on the spot as they closed in on him.

  ‘I want him alive,’ shouted Hanzer in his native language, the strange words not understood by Prydain.

  The circle closed even tighter, and, as Prydain defended a false attack from a warrior to his front, the haft of a spear smashed him across the head from behind. He dropped to the floor, blood pouring from the wound in his head, half-conscious as several men fell on him and tied his arms behind his back. Hanzer crouched down next to him.

  ‘It seems you were wrong, Roman.’ he said, ‘I breathe yet,’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ grimaced Prydain through gritted teeth, struggling to deal with the pain in his head.

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Roman,’ said Hanzer, ‘You will die soon enough.’ He stood up sharply. ‘The battle is lost,’ he called to the rapidly increasing numbers joining him in the clearing, ‘But our ancestors can still be honoured. Get back to the camp.’ Prydain was hauled to his feet and forced forward at spear-point, stumbling through the undergrowth as he tried to keep up with the pace of the escaping warriors.

  ----

  Several hours later, Prydain was sat against a tree in the warrior’s camp, his hands tied tightly behind the trunk. Hanzer had made it clear that this was to be his last night in this life and while the warriors had got drunk, Prydain had tried, unsuccessfully to free his bonds. One eye was completely closed and his body ached from the beating he had received when they reached the camp. Night had fallen and a single fire burnt in the centre of the camp, shielded on three sides to minimise the light that may be seen from the valleys below. Warriors lay sleeping around the clearing and the camp was silent except for the occasional crackle from the fire.

  Suddenly a familiar voice whispered from the undergrowth.

  ‘Prydain,’

  Prydain lifted his head, and strained to hear the voice again.

  ‘Prydain, keep quiet, it is me,’ said the voice again.

  ‘Montellus?’ quizzed Prydain through his swollen lips, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well it’s not for the intelligent conversation that’s for sure, now shut up while I cut your bonds. I have a horse back in the woods. We have to get there as quietly as possible and get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘There’s a guard that passes every minute,’ whispered Prydain, ‘He will notice I’m gone and raise the alarm.’

  ‘Leave him to me,’ said Montellus finally cutting through the binds, ‘I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Most of them are drunk and I don’t fancy your chances much when they sober up.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Prydain before adding, ‘Montellus wait, look over there, by the fire.’

  Montellus stared in the direction of Prydain’s gaze and saw the item attracting his attention. Stuck in the ground was Hanzer’s lance and hanging from the shaft was the Germanic standard. Enemy standards were greatly prized by all armies and seldom did a soldier of any country get a chance to obtain one.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Montellus, ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

  ‘Like you said, most of them are sleeping; we won’t get another chance like this.’

  Montellus hesitated but before he could answer, a guard came towards them out of the dark. The Roman retreated silently back into the undergrowth and Prydain stared up at the German in contempt, his arms still behind the tree but unbound. The old warrior paused for a moment, grinned an evil smile and spat in Prydain’s face, the globule of spittle running down his cheek. It took all of Prydain’s self control not to jump up immediately now his hands were free, but, realising they were far too close to the others and that any noise would bring them running, drunk or not, he stayed still and watched as the man continued his patrol along the perimeter of the camp.

  A moment later Prydain heard a muffled sound and saw the warrior struggling quietly in the darkness. Montellus had grabbed him from behind and with one hand over his mouth, sliced open the warrior’s throat with his Pugio. The guard fell to the floor and Montellus beckoned Prydain to follow him. Prydain hesitated for a second, but deciding to seize the opportunity, crept between the trees towards the standard, stepping over two drunken bodies as he went. He pulled the spear from the ground, and started back towards the forest edge, holding the weapon in front of him as he went.

  Unexpectedly, out of nowhere, came a second guard, both he and Prydain as shocked as each other at the unexpected confrontation. Prydain could see the guard was young, nothing more than
a teenager and the inexperienced boy was momentarily paralysed in fear. His terrified eyes opened wide, but, before he could utter any sound of warning, Prydain drove the spear straight through his face, and out through the back of his skull. The boy fell backwards to the ground, arms flailing uselessly at the lethal staff.

  The very position of the standard behind the spear point meant that it too was driven through the shattered skull and realising it would be too complicated to retrieve the lance, Prydain took the boy’s own knife and cut the bloodstained cloth from the pole. He looked around one more time to see if the alert had been given, and when no further movement was evident, he left the camp, making his way as quietly as possible through the thicket to where Montellus was waiting.

  ‘Over here!’ hissed a voice and Prydain joined his comrade by the horse. ‘You prick,’ said Montellus, ‘You could have got us both killed.’

  ‘No harm done,’ said Prydain, tucking the standard beneath the front of the saddle, ‘Now let’s get out of here, there may be others.’

  They crept silently down the track until they were out of earshot and after mounting the horse, made their way quickly down the tree-covered slopes. Neither was familiar with the area, and the only reference they had was the glade where the battle had taken place earlier. Luckily for Prydain, who had been semi conscious most of the way to the enemy camp, Montellus had had a chance to memorize the route and they made their way there as fast as the poor horse could carry them.

  ‘I think this is it,’ said Montellus over his shoulder to Prydain. ‘I recognise that stream.’ They got off the horse to take a drink. ‘The glade is at the base of this mountain,’ continued Montellus, ‘From there it is another five hours march back to camp, but if we.......’

  He stopped short as if suddenly confused and looked down at the arrow head protruding from his own chest. Prydain had heard the thud of the strike, but he too was momentarily confused as to the implications until he saw the blood pouring from the wound. Another arrow slammed into Montellus’s back and he fell forward into Prydain’s arms, who quickly dragged him down behind the cover of some rocks.

  ‘Shit,’ said Prydain, ‘It must be a straggler from the battle, hang on in there friend, I’ll try and sort you out.’

  Montellus tried to speak, but no sound came, and Prydain held him in his arms as his comrade descended into oblivion.

  ‘Fuck!’ he hissed to himself, realising Montellus was dead. He laid him down gently; fully aware he was still in trouble. The span of time between arrows meant that there was probably only one archer and he must be close due to the strength of the impact, but Prydain had no idea where he was. He peered over the rocks at the upper slope, trying to spot the archers position. He knew he couldn’t waste any time, as Hanzer and his men were surely aware of his escape by know and must be in pursuit. He undid the leather strap of Montellus’s helmet and placing it on a stick, lifted it slightly above the lip of the rocks, inviting the archer to take another shot.

  He peered through the undergrowth at the side of the rocks, watching for the attacker to fall for the ruse. A movement in the bracken caught Prydain’s eye and sure enough, an arrow bounced off the rock next to the helmet, revealing the ambusher’s position. Prydain immediately sprinted forward into the dead ground directly below the archer, knowing he had seconds before the bow could be re-armed. Now he was in cover he shuffled sideways along the ground, and crawled up the stream bed until he was above the archer’s position. He peered over the bank and after a few seconds, saw the back of the archer as he stared nervously down towards Prydain’s last known position. As slowly as he could and keeping his body tightly pressed onto a muddy boar trail, Prydain half crawled and half slid down towards his attacker, who was now kneeling up, his neck stretched to try to see where his target had gone. When he was within ten metres Prydain realised it was as close as he could get and taking a fresh grip on Montellus’s Gladius, got slowly to his feet.

  Intending to creep up on the archer, he took a step forward but a resounding crack echoed through the trees as a dead branch under the moss, gave way beneath his feet. Having no other option Prydain charged down the slope, and, without thinking, hurled his Gladius at the archer. Prydain smashed into the man and they both rolled down the slope onto the track, wrestling with each other, nothing less than their very lives at stake.

  The archer was strong, especially in the arms, and he gathered Prydain in a bear hug forcing the breath from the Roman’s lungs, his garlic laden breath overpowering in Prydain’s face. With his arms tightly pinned, Prydain realised his options were limited and he had to act quickly. Drawing back his head he drove his forehead forward into the grinning German’s nose, breaking the bone and causing him to loosen his grip. Prydain followed up with a knee to his groin and the warrior fell to his knees in excruciating pain. Prydain took advantage and slammed his foot into his enemy’s face before diving onto the prone body in a frenzied follow up. He clamped his arms around the German’s body from behind, and, holding the German’s head tight against his own chest, forced it around until it was almost facing backwards, and he was staring in the man’s terrified eyes.

  ‘No, please, no!’ gasped the terrified man in accented Latin as the realization of imminent death kicked in.

  Gritting his teeth and expending every last ounce of energy Prydain forced the archer’s head past the point of its natural limits, and the terrified scream that had started a few seconds earlier, was instantly silenced by a sickening crunch of vertebrae crushing spinal cord. The archer’s body fell limp in Prydain’s arms.

  Both men fell to the floor, one lifeless, and one gasping for breath. After a few seconds Prydain became aware of a severe pain and looking down, saw the remains of an arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. The archer had managed to get an arrow off before Prydain’s assault but his aim had been affected just enough to miss the killing shot. The shaft had been snapped in the struggle but the arrowhead remained deep inside and though Prydain knew he had to get it out as soon as possible, he couldn’t do it on his own. He staggered down to the horse, and, despite the pain managed to wrap Montellus in his cape and lay him across the horse’s neck. He pulled himself onto the horses back and taking the captured standard from beneath the saddle, folded it into a pad and placed it against his arrow wound to staunch the bleeding. He leaned forward and patted the horse on the neck.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ he said and kicked the horse with his heels to start him going. Prydain knew his life now lay in the ability of the tired horse to get him back to the legion’s fort, and gritted his teeth in pain as the horse stumbled down the slope to the plains below.

  ----

  Two days later, eleven thousand men formed up on the training grounds outside the fort. Across the river, many of the township lined up to see the spectacle of an entire legion on parade.

  The legionaries were lined up ten deep, forming two sides of square, while the other two sides were taken up with the cohorts of the auxiliary units. To one end, the six trainee centuries stood in isolation, their armour gleaming in the morning sun. One Century stood slightly apart from the rest, the gleam of their armour slightly duller, the odd soldier not standing quite as straight as the others and the ranks not as full as those to either side. Eventually, trumpeters blasted a fanfare from the ramparts of the fort and an honour guard marched out of the gates, closely followed by the standards of the legion.

  First came the Vexillum bearers. Each two- foot square embroidered cloth was suspended from a cross bar fixed atop an eight foot pole, and carried proudly by a legionary wearing a wolf fur over his armour. Most took up position in front of the Century, whose number was depicted on their Vexillum, but five halted in the centre of the parade.

  Closely behind, came the Signum bearers. Similar sized poles, but this time topped with a clenched fist, and adorned with discs along its length, indicating the names and battle honours of their respective cohorts. When they had taken their place, a solitary figure e
merged from the gates carrying the Imaginifer, the sculptured image of Emperor Claudius as a reminder to all, exactly who they served. Finally, to a tumultuous fanfare, came the Aquilifer, fully armoured legionary, draped in a lion’s fur and bearing the legion’s sacred standard, the Aquila.

  Every pair of eyes stared at the sculptured golden eagle perched on its golden laurel wreath, wings outstretched and grasping a thunderbolt in its talons. It was a potent symbol of power, and every man present would lay down his life to protect it.

  The Aquilifer marched to the centre of the parade square and drove the silver staff deep into the ground. A murmur of approval rippled around the gathered legion as it held firm. It would have been a disastrous omen had the Aquila fallen over, especially this close to a campaign.

  Finally, a file of six horses rode out; their riders dressed in full ceremonial armour, and formed up behind the Aquila. As one they dismounted and Caesius Nasica, the Legatus Legionis and overall commander of the legion, stepped forward and waited for the fanfare to end, before addressing the parade.

  ‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he called out, his voice resounding around the gathered ranks. ‘In a few weeks time we assault the shores of Britannia. Today we move out into the field for battle training. We will shake out the cobwebs from our armour, sharpen our blunted blades and harden our lazy bodies. When the time comes, we will be ready for the fight and will do justice to our legion’s name, the name your predecessors fought and died for, but, before we march out, there are honours to bestow.’

  One of the five legionary’s holding a Vexillum stepped forward and gave his standard to Nasica. He took the standard and marched over to one of the five trainee centuries and presented it to the Centurion standing to its front.

  ‘Centurion Leonis,’ he called out formally. ‘Take your standard and join your cohort.’

  The Centurion saluted Nasica with clenched fist against his chest, and, accompanied by huge cheering from the gathered legion, marched his proud trainees to join the cohort depicted on the Vexillum. Nasica carried out the same ceremony five times until only the Century led by Severus was left on the field.