“You are not going to do them any good dead! You are going to Londinium, and that is final!”
Delia’s mouth fell open, she turned around, and headed for the side of road where she trudged through deep ruts put there by countless wagons.
“Where the hell are you going?” Marius called above the noise.
The rain was coming down in torrents, so thick she could barely see him when she whirled around.
“What do you care?” Delia tried, without success, to get the soaking hair out of her face as the rain plastered it against her skin. She mustered what little dignity she could, even though she knew the down pore was making her tunic all but invisible, and the saturated woolen cloak was quickly becoming an anchor around her neck. Delia stood in a puddle up to her knees and could feel the muck slushing around her feet and calves, squishing through her toes. She was not certain if she was shivering from cold or fury.
“You are being unreasonable!” Marius said, dismounting and throwing the reins over Brutus’ head. “Let me at least get you out of the rain.”
“No, thank you!” she shouted above the din of the roaring storm, her words accentuated by a sudden clap of thunder.
With a great effort, she pulled her tunic and her cloak out of the water and tried to free her foot from the mud. It would not budge, so she tried the other foot, also without success. She finally dropped her skirt, wrapped both hands around her ankle, and pulled with all her strength. The foot came loose with an audible splash, sending mud everywhere, much of it landing on Marius’ face. Before she could catch herself, Delia suddenly fell to her back, immersed in the muddy water and sinking slowly into the sticky clay. In a moment of rage, all she could think to do was to yell at her naked foot, the treacherous sandal gone. Her other leg was buried in mud to the knee. She felt trapped.
Marius quickly wiped the mud from his eyes. As he slogged over to Delia, his red tunic and cape turned almost black in the pouring rain and his silver leggings became muddy. He had to hang onto a branch to balance himself before he reached for her.
“Give me your hand!”
Again, the thunder clashed and he glanced at the sky. The lightening was getting closer, and she ignored him.
“Give me your hand!”
As best she could, Delia folded her arms casually over her chest and frowned at him. “Go away!”
Marius blew out an angry breath and let go of the branch to reach her. Grabbing the front of her tunic, he pulled hard. Without warning, his sandals surrendered to the slick mud and Marius’s feet slithered out from beneath him. He let her go and twisted in mid air. Delia had never seen such skill; he seemed to float above her for one second and then land in the mud beside her the next second. Fountains of brown and gray cascaded everywhere and drenched both of them.
For a long time they sat in the rain as it poured in sheets from the sky, making trails of dirt on their faces, neither of them saying a thing. Finally, Delia pulled her hands out of the mud and haughtily attempted to wipe the mud-soaked hair from her eyes.
“Fine,” she said abruptly. “I will go.”
Marius turned his head very slowly and glared at her. When she cocked her head back at him, a reluctant smile dusted her spattered lips. The sight of the mighty centurion sitting in a puddle, covered from head to toe in brown Breton mud, was priceless.
A loud, uncontrollable laugh escaped her lips. The more she stared at him; the more she howled.
Marius’s eyes shined. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Unable to resist, she placed a muddy hand on his chest, leaving a dark handprint.
When Marius looked down at the stain, he scooped up a handful and pushed gooey mud onto her cheek.
Before long, they were frolicking in the mud like two toddlers, completely emersed and laughing their heads off, the lightening and thunder sparked showers of fire far above their heads.
That was how Kuna found them; muddy, soaked, and hysterical with laughter. Frolicking in the mire, pelting rain, as if had they lost their reason.
He shook his head, dismounted, and grabbed a rope. Gods help us, he thought to himself, knowing one day these two might well rule a new world.
C hapter Twenty
Conall rode at the front of a long column of Breton warriors. His head pounded miserably in the early morning light streaming in through the densely packed trees on either side of them.
He glared at the warrior next to him.
“Say it again and I will kill you,” he said through his teeth.
“Your Majesty,” the older man bravely repeated. “I understand your need to meet with this man in battle but this is foolhardy. I did not say anything in front of the other men, but what you are doing will not further our goals. Kill me if you must, my king, but listen to me first. Turn the men around now.”
“There are three hundred of us,” Conall spat. “Seasoned warriors. Do you think eighty Romans are a match for us? We will leave a swatch of blood a mile wide when we meet them. I will not turn back!”
The warrior sighed, nodded sadly, and simply turned his horse to join the ranks without another word.
As the column rounded a bend in the forest road, a hundred feet in front of them stood a single man on a tall Roman horse. Armored and helmed, the soldier waited.
Conall lifted his hand to stop the column, and then whistled for twenty guards to surround him. He clicked to his horse and cautiously led them forward.
They stopped ten feet away from the soldier, and he took off his helmet.
“You have looked better, Leonius,” Conall called across to him.
The second smiled back at him with difficulty. “So have you, Your Majesty. That looks like the centurion’s work.”
Conall growled, “What are you doing here?”
Leonius moved his horse forward. “I promised you your sister yesterday, in exchange for the blood of the centurion. I take it, he has freed her.”
“Yes,” he said. “I should kill you where you stand.”
Leonius nodded. “I can still give you both, if you are interested.”
Conall glared at him apprehensively. With a whistle, four men came out of the thick forest on either side of the road. “Anything?” he shouted at them.
“Nothing, sir. The woods are clear.”
The king moved his horse to stand before Leonius. “What do you have in mind?”
A slow satisfied smile spread over the second’s face. He licked one of the wounds on his lips. “Have your men rest, Your Majesty. You and I have a lot to discuss.”
An hour later, the Corieltauvi warriors made their way to the fork in the road Leonius had discussed with the king. The second left them after the plans were set to do his part in keeping the Romans occupied while Conall brought his troops in to finish them. The plan was perfect, and Conall felt better since no opposition presented itself, as Leonius had promised. The Romans had not posted sentries or scouts. Feeling elated, he motioned to his warriors to follow him onto the right fork of the road and began the charge. Leonius said the army would be camped less than a half league from the split.
When the column was well down the road, Conall became concerned when he saw nothing of the Romans, only thickening forests on either side, dense brush and a solid wall of trees. He stopped his men with a wave of his hand and searched the narrowing road ahead. Something sparked inside his rage-filled mind, and his warrior conditioning emerged with a sudden jolt of realization. Conall had been so intent on his revenge, the concept of a trap had not even occurred to him. His stomach turned to water, and the revelation sent pins of pain through his neck and shoulders.
Conall twisted to order his men off the road, but as the jingle of their tack subsided, he heard another sound that sent a chilling rush of fear through his loins. The unmistakable beat of swords hitting wooden shields resonated through the woods and echoed in his ears. Ahead of him, advancing out of the gloom of the stifling forests, a line of crimson was out of place against
the brown and green of the surrounding trees. A solid wall of brightly painted red and gold shields loomed before them, brisling with silver swords, topped with shining helmets and a thicket of black javelins above them. The phalanx was less than two hundred feet from his army, and his horse reared at the deafening crash of the advancing men.
“Attack!” he yelled from his horse and stunned warriors on foot poured past him, ordered by their leaders to move. A hundred fighters screamed at the top of their lungs, charging toward the Romans.
“Ad aciem!” rippled from Roman to Roman from behind the barrier of shields that stopped before the advancing Bretons. When the warriors were within a hundred feet of the red wall, another command echoed through the forest.
“Pila iace!”
The muted shadow of forty elongated black spears rained down upon the advancing warriors. Few of the spikes missed their mark, and thirty plus men fell screaming to the ground; shrieks of the wounded and dying echoed back to the mounted Bretons.
Those that remained continued but immediately another loud command came from the wall.
“Pila iace!”
The sky darkened when a storm of spears shot overhead slicing through the Breton warriors. When the remaining warriors hit the wall of Romans, it was a slaughter.
Only ten warriors could hit the line at a time allowing Romans to kill them at their leisure, protected as they were behind their shields and training. The Bretons swung their long swords down against the shield, but the little gladius, propelled by an experienced Roman hand, would come up beneath it, and drive into the mans exposed gullet, lungs, and heart. As the red wall of soldiers cut down a line of men, they took a slow step forward to dispatch the next, stepping over the dead, or kicking them aside.
“Second charge!” Conall cried, and the order went from man to man. More warriors ran by him.
This time the throng of men met the wall head on, but again, it was tight and they could not budge their enemy. Almost two hundred men fell in less than a quarter hour against the deadly human wall, the Romans rotating their men in the front line to keep them fresh. Very quickly, the road filled with bodies and blood. The Romans advanced slowly, methodically—relentlessly.
At the heated insistence of his leaders, the king finally accepted they had been out flanked and reluctantly ordered the retreat, unable to gather their wounded. He turned his horse to order his men back up the road.
When Conall reached the rear of the line, his horse skidded to a stop. Behind them was an identical wall of red, pushing forward, moving more rapidly than its reflection on the other side. The Bretons stood trapped between the jaws of the Roman century. They could not escape.
The king turned his horse repeatedly, trying to fathom what was happening to them. He watched more men fall to the advancing hedge of death. Many Bretons threw down their swords, trying to claw their way through the thick foliage on either side of the road. It was a barrier almost as impenetrable as the line of shields.
The Romans halted their advance with the remaining fifty caught between them, less than a hundred yards apart. The Bretons huddled in the center, afraid to advance.
Two hundred and fifty warriors lay dead or wounded on both sides of the road. Mad blackness filled Conall’s heart, watching piles of his men writhe in agony. He knew he was defeated, knew none of them would leave this place, knew his reign was over, and his life; but that did not matter. Nothing mattered more than seeing the blood of Marius on his hands.
The centurion sat on a horse directly behind his men, his black eyes shining from beneath the silver helmet with its bloody red crest, staring arrogantly back at him.
With a furious battle roar, Conall charged the Roman front line, his remaining leaders shouting behind him to stop. Ignoring their pleas, he dug his heels into his horse, bent his head against the neck, and pulled his sword free.
He hit the line of shields at full speed. Several swords pierced the luckless beast, sending it up on thrashing legs, shrieking, pushing her onto her back.
Conall flew through the air and landed with a thud on several of the dead Breton warriors, his sword flying out of his hands, his breath knocked out of him.
When he opened his eyes, Marius stood over him with Leonius and several of the centurion’s men. The other Romans wasted no time engaging the rest of the scattered Bretons, bringing them down; none spared.
Marius’ eyes were ablaze with rage.
“I keep my promises, King,” he said, and crossed to the only open space on the road. He removed his helmet, took off his cloak, and handed them to a soldier at his side. Without releasing Conall from his sight, he drew the gladius out of its sheath, and everyone moved away from them.
“Give him his sword.”
Conall pulled air into his lungs and got to his knees, taking a moment to regain his senses. Around him, all he could see was a sea of red and silver. Someone tossed his sword into the clearing before the centurion.
Conall rose to his feet and crossed to his sword, lifting it out of the bloody mud. Without wasting a moment, he clumsily swung the long blade at the centurion, and Marius stepped back, giving him an infuriating smirk.
With an effort, Conall calmed his fear and anger and charged at the centurion.
The king was good and fought bravely, but he was grossly outmatched. Marius landed hits against him many times, only wounding him, painfully, in non-vital areas, until his tartan, his hair, and his beard were soaked with blood. Marius was cruel, patient, and precise, prolonging Conall’s agony for as long as he could by letting the king think he had an advantage, and then casually taking it away. Marius was torturing the man. He knew it was a side that none of his men had ever seen; the killing side, the merciless side, and the side of himself he rarely let out. There was no controlling the monster now as it relished the suffering of Delia’s tormentor. Marius would let it rule him until it was satiated… then he would kill the king. Marius had no other choice.
When Conall became exhausted, Marius sneered. “Do you remember what I told you, King?”
Conall remained silent and swung again. Marius caught the long blade with his sword and pushed his body close to the king’s body. In a swift movement, he smashed his elbow into the man’s face, breaking his nose and dislodging the sword from his hand. Conall stumbled and fell, and Marius swiftly moved in. In one quick flick of his wrists, he slashed the king’s groin, castrating him in one easy pass. A piercing shriek escaped the Breton. He curled into a ball in the mud, his hands between his legs filling with blood.
Marius crossed to him slowly and stared down.
“I always keep my promises.”
In a swift movement, Marius’ blade came down, went through Conall’s heart and buried itself in the ground beneath him.
The Romans wasted no time in clearing the remnants of the battle and taking care of what few wounded they had. The Breton wounded were gathered to one side of the road.
Marius sadly gazed down at the dead king when Aelius tentatively approached him.
“Orders, sir?”
Marius blinked. The fire of vengeance was gone, leaving him feeling faded and exhausted. He rubbed his eyes.
He had ridden all night and had barely made it back to the camp in time to organize his troops, sending Leonius as a decoy to gain them the precious time they needed to put the hastily thrown together plan into action. Marius had seen the fork in the road and the dense woods when he raced back to the camp the night before. The inspection of the site had been nothing more than a glimpse in the dark. He was not even sure if it would work until they were in battle. None of his soldiers knew that, of course.
Now that it was over, he did not have enough energy to be grateful.
“Survivors?”
“Only wounded, sir, and less than twenty of them.”
“Leave them,” he said. “Form the march and prepare the men. We will have to make double time to the Iter if we are to reach our rendezvous.”
“Yes, sir.”<
br />
Two men picked up Conall’s body to throw it with the rest where they lay along the ditches of the forest way. The gruesome line of dead warriors disappeared down the road. Flies and birds gathered. The bright patches of yellow, blue, and green that peeked from the reddened masses looked strangely ludicrous.
Marius sighed deeply. “It is such a waste. These Bretons—if they would only cooperate. They are going to lose their civilization, Aelius. If only there was one wise head among them.”
Aelius smiled. “Funny you say that, sir, considering what you have just done.”
Marius glared. “What have I just done?”
“Well,” Aelius said, looking sly. “You have just made Queen Delia their ruler, have you not?” He walked away to help the other soldiers, and Marius scowled after him.
C hapter Twenty-One
They made their way to Londinium, and Delia was becoming increasingly anxious with each passing league. The emptiness was unbearable. She had left her kingdom and Marius behind, everything of familiarity, comfort. She felt as if she betrayed her people, walked away from them. Shame clouded her mind when she thought of them, along with shades of fear and regret. The feelings would simply not go away. When they finally reached the outside of the city, Delia was wretched.
Standing on a high hill above the city, her first view from behind Kuna was staggering. It was the largest place she had ever seen, with hundreds of buildings, homes, temples, and going on for a mile to the east and a half-mile to the north. Skirting the city to the south was the great wide Thames , sluggishly glittering in the first rays of the dawn. Delia felt an overwhelming apprehension when she stared down at Londinium. It was a crowning achievement; the jewel in the Roman Britannia eye, a sprawling center of trade for the foreign conqueror. It was so un-Breton that the sight, along with the frigid breeze coming off the river, sent chills through her body. Her misery was complete.
Kuna clicked to his horse and started his descent down the Iter III road that opened into a wide lane through the center of the city.
The Centurion and the Queen Page 15