Morrigan perches atop the rock. She urges me closer.
Cadmon looks to me with shame and I notice his heavy panting and dripping torc. Blood surrounds his body and he seems to float buoyantly within it like the ship at sea set to take me away.
He has lost his manhood on the ground next to him. Someone has cut it off, and it is to that flaccid member and the attached flaps of skin clinging to it that holds his gaze. He bleeds from a hole between his legs; it pulses out of him.
The black crow on the rock laughs as his body slowly drains.
I wait for him to die before carving off his head with my dagger.
****
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand – his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop’d head sinks gradually low –
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him – he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail’d the wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not – his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There where his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother – he, their sire,
Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday–
All this rush’d with his blood – Shall he expire
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
~ Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
(from Canto the Fourth)
****
I carry Cadmon’s head with pride. It hangs at my side ― now all but drained ― as I think of Ianthe and how it has come to pass that we can be together as I had once dreamed. Cadmon watches the ship at sea as his head swings back and forth in pendulum. The vessel sails away without me aboard and his dead eyes cannot look away.
Those I pass glance strangely, for they recognize Cadmon and his sad fate. Is it respect, curiosity, fear? It doesn’t matter. I swing his severed head by a wad of matted brown hair as one would swing a basket of fruits.
It is my gift to Ianthe.
And she waits for me.
Watch, says the voice of the crow. I look around, but the black bird is nowhere to be found. The phantom word is only in my head; it sends cold water down my spine as I walk toward my love.
I see her through the silken shade. On woolen sheets she lies naked, vulnerable and as white and bare again as the early evening stars forming in the sky. She is the essence of beauty, and the outline and curves of her slender body remind me that our love will no longer be a triangle of three. We can now be two as we form into one. She will take me inside. She will moan and call out my name. Harold, she will whisper into my ear. Ianthe, I will mutter in a broken breath. Her back will arc skyward with pleasure. We will melt like the wax from two candles placed close together. Tears will run down our cheeks from the bliss.
Ianthe: I can finally have her; she belongs to no one now. She is mine. I am hers. I raise the head as I enter the room.
But the smile on her face holds a secret, and her eyes cannot see what I offer.
The handle of a dagger protrudes from the soft flesh beneath her navel. Dead hands grip the hilt. She has taken her life.
I replace the head staked to the wall with that of Cadmon’s. He looks upon us as I weep over Ianthe and slide the blade from her stomach. I toss it aside as easily as Cadmon had tossed Ianthe the night before. I kiss her cold lips. She kisses back. I confess my love and this time, fear doesn’t make her push me away.
Cadmon watches with cloudy eyes.
****
Afterword
‘The Dying Gaul’ is an experimental piece of fiction on my part. It is a love story, of sorts, and I tend to stay away from love stories as a general rule. Love is an emotion. It’s easy to write about and it’s been done to death. If I’m going to write a love story, someone is going to get maimed a few pages into it.
Romance novels could be to blame: some chiseled warrior man-handling some large-busted woman on the cover...they’re all the same, with titles like Eternal Flame of the Heart.
This tale is also a period piece, and I normally avoid writing about the past. ‘The Dying Gaul’ is also a tragedy; and horror cannot be horror without tragedy to some degree. Someone has to get hurt; someone has to die; something bad has to happen to a character the reader has fallen in love with, or it’s not truly tragedy.
Prior to discovering the call for submissions for The Phantom Queen Awakes, I knew absolutely nothing about Celtic mythology. Blame the U.S. educational system. I do. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage popped up during my extensive research for this project, and I was instantly drawn into its words. If you haven’t read the narrative poem by George Gordon (Lord Byron), I suggest dumping the title into an Internet search engine and finding a copy.
Also stumbled upon during my Celtic self-enlightenment was a marble sculpture called The Dying Gaul (hence the title of my story), a Hellenistic work from the late third century BC, sculptor unknown. The work reveals a naked man wearing only a torc, kneeling over his shield as he fights against death; the look on his face is a complex mix of emotion. This was the character I wanted to portray with Cadmon, and I have Lord Byron to thank:
He leans upon his hand – his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low–
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one...
****
Biography
Michael Bailey is the author of the nonlinear novel, Palindrome Hannah, a finalist for the 2006 Independent Publisher Awards for horror fiction. He is currently revising his overly-complex follow-up novel, Phoenix Rose, and has started a third, titled, Psychotropic Dragon.
A collection of short stories and poetry, Scales and Petals, is also in the works. In writing this bio ― in third-person, no less ― he has also come to realize that all of his novels start with the letter P, which is disconcerting because only one of them sounds like it. While he doesn’t write a great deal of short fiction, some of his darker tales have appeared in various literary journals, comics, print magazines and anthologies in the United States, Australia, the United Kingdom, Sweden and as far away as South Africa (from a Californian’s point of view). His short story, ‘Defenestrate’, previously appeared in the glorious In Bad Dreams anthology, published by Eneit Press.
****
James Lecky
The Children of Badb Catha
“They’re savages,” Optio Olcinius said. “Worse than the bloody Iceni.” He snorted and spat a wad of phlegm onto the wet ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s no way for a Roman to die.”
“It’s no way for any man to die,” Larcius Servius said. “Cut them down, Olcinius.”
Optio Olcinius Decimus nodded curtly and spat again, seeming to try and get the abattoir stench of the grove from his mouth. He was a big, gray bear of a man, a veteran of the campaigns in Caledonia and Germania and no stranger to violence, but even he balked at the prospect of touching those ruined, wretched figures.
There were eight of them, hanging like broken playthings from the lower branches of the grove’s oak trees. They had been soldiers once, before the Gaels had taken them, and now they were meat for the crows.
How long did they take to die? Larcius wondered, as he watched his men take the bodies down and wrap them in blankets. Did they scream and cry out to the gods while the flesh was stripped from their bones or did they face death like a good legionnaire should, stoic and defiant to the last?
“What now, Centurion?” Olcinius asked when the corpses had been tended to.
“Now we do our duty,” Larcius said.
Olcinius grinned wolfishly. “Some good, old-fashioned Roman vengeance, eh, Centurion?”
“Roman justice, Optio Olcinius.” Larcius corrected. “Civilized men do not indulge in vengeance.” He kicked his horse into a trot while behind him, the centuria formed together with practiced efficiency.
****
Roman justice or Roman vengeance? They were the same thing, Larcius decided, or at the very least, they had the same outcome. He had seen it in Gaul, Britannia and Caledonia. And now it had come to Hibernia, the newest, farthest outpost of the Empire.
The decades since Gnaeus Julius Agricola and his legions had crossed the sea that the Gaels called Muir Meann had been years of steel and iron, blood and fire. Agricola himself had boasted that he could subdue the whole island with a single legion. He had been wrong.
True, he had smashed and scattered the tribes with ruthless efficiency, slaughtered their druids and desecrated the shrines of their gods, but the Gaels had refused to admit defeat and it had become a war of attrition, hit and run, atrocity and reprisal. More blood, more steel. More death.
That morning, as the centuria had set out from Campus Roborum on the banks of the Modarnus River, Larcius had known what they would find. The local tribes ― the Vennicnii and the Erdin ― had been restless and belligerent for months now, raiding across the river from Dungallum for cattle and slaves until even Quintus Cassius, the sedentary and slow-witted commander of the Roborum garrison, realized something had to be done.
But with typical caution, he had sent his troops out in small patrols of no more than ten men.
“When they see the might of Rome, the Gaels will flee back into the hills,” Quintus had announced. “No need for a legion when a contubernium or two will do the same job. We’ll put the fear of Mars into them, eh?”
It had been inevitable that Roman lives would be lost, and equally as inevitable that Larcius would have to clean up the mess.
The contubernium under Decanus Catulinnius had been missing for over a week before word of their slaughter reached Roborum, and another two days passed while Quintus wailed and moaned and offered up sacrifices to his household gods in repentance.
Finally, he called Larcius to his villa.
“They have to be taught a lesson,” he said. “If word of this gets to Eblana or, Pluto forbid, Rome itself, our careers will be ruined. Take a centuria into Dungallum and show these barbarian bastards what it means to take Roman lives.”
“They will be punished, Tribune Cassius, you have my word on it.”
Quintus waved a soft, podgy hand to dismiss him. “Do it by whatever means you deem necessary, Larcius.” he said. “Rome demands blood from those who kill her children. You know your duty.”
“Quite so, Tribune.”
“One other thing, Larcius,” Quintus said as the centurion turned to leave. “These Gaels make poor slaves ― I don’t see the need to bring any back with you. Remember the words of Cicero: ‘In time of war the law falls silent’.”
Larcius knew what the Tribune meant, just as he knew that any disaster or scandal would fall on his own head. A fool he may have been, but Quintus Cassius knew how to cover his tracks. As commander in the field, Larcius would hold sole responsibility for any decision.
“Do not concern yourself, Tribune Cassius. If Rome demands blood, then blood she will have.”
****
By late afternoon, the centuria had reached the Rapa hills, guided by Conall O’Ceirin, an Erdin collaborator whose love for Roman silver far outweighed his tribal loyalties.
“A mile, maybe a mile and a half to the next Vennicnii settlement, centurion,” Conall told him. “There’ll be plenty of work for your swords there.” The scout was a small, dark man with braided hair: the broad axe and iron sword he carried were those of his people, but his clothing ― the short tunic and red battle cloak ― were readily accepted gifts from Rome.
“These Vennicnii,” Larcius asked, “they are the ones who killed Catulinnius and his men?”
Conall shrugged. “Would it matter?”
Larcius did not answer.
But no, he thought, it would not matter. An example needs to be made. Guilty or not, Roman justice makes no distinction and laws fall silent during a time of war.
It was growing dark by the time they reached the village and the autumn chill had begun to work its way into Larcius’ bones. The gods must hate this country, he decided, and who can blame them? Too wild, too savage, and too full of hatred.
“Orders, centurion?” Olcinius asked.
“Surround the village and burn it to the ground,” he said. “Kill everything that moves.”
“Women and children?”
“I said everything,” he snapped. Then his tone changed slightly. “But keep one of them alive ― someone will need to tell the tale.” There was a sour taste in his mouth as he spoke. He took no pleasure in this bloody work, but no matter what, he was first and last a soldier of Rome and it was his duty to protect her. In that, if nothing else, he could take pride.
The Gaels came to meet them when the centurion attacked. A score of warriors charged from their roundhouses, howling harsh battle cries. They were tall, fierce men who swung their swords and spears as if they were no more than toys, but their savagery was no match for Roman discipline and Roman steel. They charged and they died.
And when the warriors were dead, the real massacre began.
It took them over two hours and when it was done, the night was full of blood and flame. They piled the bodies in the centre of the village and put them to torch. Soon, the crisp night air was filled with the foul stench of burning flesh.
Larcius stood on the outskirts of the village, head bowed, sword in hand. His tunic was drenched with gore and his ears rung with screams.
Somewhere out in the darkness his men hunted down the few women and children who had managed to flee from the slaughter. He heard an infant crying, the sound thin and pathetic then abruptly cut off.
He wiped his sword clean on the edge of his cloak and sheathed it.
“Centurion.”
Larcius turned and saw Olcinius, Conall and two legionnaires coming towards him. Between them the two soldiers held an old woman. She struggled feebly in their grip, cursing fluently.
“Let her go,” Larcius ordered.
The woman swayed and almost fell as they released her.
“I am Gaius Larcius Servius, do you know of me, old mother?” Larcius asked. Of course she would, his reputation as a soldier preceded him, even into the wilds of Dungallum.
She nodded, her gray hair falling across her eyes. “I know you for the murderer you are, Gaius Larcius, just as I knew you would come here. But do you know me?”
And it seemed to him for a moment that he had seen her face before ― in the dead of a dozen campaigns.
“Who are you?”
She brushed the hair from her eyes and stood erect. The hair was dark as a crow’s wing: her face was pale and young, the lips a carmine slash in her alabaster features.
“I am Badb,” she said.
She was old again in a heartbeat, but older than any living human being could be, as though death itself had refused to claim her. The fetid perfume of old blood clung to her hair and tattered clothes.
“I am Macha.”
Her eyes were black, fathomless ― inhuman. Her hands ended in long, gnarled claws and when she spoke her voice was a cruel, staccato croak: “I am the Morrigu.”
Before he realized it, his sword was in his hand, rising free of the scabbard with a soft and familiar swish of steel. She stumbled forward to meet it on taloned feet and they came together in a deadly lover’s embrace, her hands upon his shoulders and his gladius stuck deep into her abdomen.
“I know your soul, Gaius Larcius,” she hissed. “I know your fears and your misery and I will make it a weapon to destroy all that you hold dear. As you have slaughtered my people, so I will slaug
hter yours.”
Larcius gave a startled yell and pushed her away. She toppled backwards onto the muddy earth and when she struck the ground she was an elderly woman once more, her rheumy eyes unseeing and her thin hands held up in supplication.
“You saw her, Olcinius,” Larcius said. “You saw what she became, didn’t you?”
“I saw an old woman, Centurion,” the Optio said. “Nothing more.”
With effort, Larcius gained control of his shaking hands and put away his sword. When he spoke again, his voice was measured and even, as befitted a Roman officer.
“Throw her on the fire with the others,” he said, then turned away, walking into the darkness.
****
“I know what you saw, Centurion,” Conall said.
The Erdin scout found Larcius by the edge of a small stream not far from the burning village, meticulously washing the blood from his hands.
“It was nothing,” Larcius told him. “A trick of the light or a passing fever of the brain, nothing more.”
Conall grimaced slightly. “Oh, it was more than that, Centurion Servius, it was the Morrigu.”
“You heard her speak? You heard her name herself?”
Conall shook his head. “Her words were for you alone, but I recognized her all right.”
“What was she?”
“The goddess of life and death ― Venus, Juno, Mars and Pluto all rolled into one.”
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