Song of the Centurion

by Steven A McKay

  “Should have gone yourself,” Cunneda shouted mockingly. “Sending someone else after your own flesh and blood while you cower here in your stronghold like a frightened woman. For shame Coroticus, I thought men of the Damnonii tribe were braver than that!”

  Narina had felt like her legs would give way beneath her at the first mention of Catia’s name but she had, by now, pulled herself together and she grasped her husband’s arm, whispering calming words into his ear.

  “Don’t let them get to you, Coroticus. You know how this game works. This is just another ploy to anger you and make you act rashly. Ignore them and they’ll have to go away.”

  The king, eyes blazing, seemed like he wouldn’t listen to Narina’s counsel but, after a moment he let out a heavy sigh and forced a smile that was more of a grimace onto his face. Narina relaxed and wished Drest and his lackeys would just piss off back to their own lands right now.

  The Dalriadan king hadn’t yet had his say though. Loarn mac Eirc tilted his head back to look up at Coroticus and, in clear but oddly accented Cumbric, told the Damnonii king what he wanted to do, sexually, to the missing princess.

  It was too much for Narina who let out a tortured sob and felt her legs give way. Coroticus instinctively steadied her so she wouldn’t hurt herself as she fell, but she knelt on the wooden platform, mercifully hidden from the enemies’ watching eyes, crying for her stolen child whose fate was yet unknown.

  Coroticus, shocked into silence, stared murderously at Loarn Mac Eirc for what seemed an age and then, through gritted teeth spoke in a soft voice that somehow reached the men outside.

  “I will kill you for that,” he promised the Dalriadan. “It’s one thing to trade insults about a man’s wife, but to say such a thing about his missing child is…” He trailed off, lost for words, before drawing his sword and pointing it at the older king. “I swear to Dis, god of the underworld – I will send you to him as an offering. I will slice out your cursed tongue and fill your empty mouth with your own balls before I cut off your limbs one by one and leave you to die in agony.”

  The onlooking warriors from both sides remained quiet as the powerful oath was cast and the druid Qunavo stepped a pace to the side, away from Loarn, as if he feared to be tainted by such a hate-filled vow. The Dalriadan king seemed completely unfazed by the change in atmosphere however, laughing up at Coroticus and rubbing his crotch suggestively.

  “Will you surrender?” Drest demanded, clearly trying to move the negotiation past this dark interlude. “Or should I order the attack?”

  Coroticus replied to the Pictish king but his eyes never left Loarn Mac Eirc as he did so. “Do your worst, Drest. When your men are dead, I’ll march out and become High King of all the lands north of the Roman walls.”

  With that he turned away and knelt to take Narina in his arms. Neither moved for a long time, not caring who saw them in their sad embrace but, after a while the sound of the enemy warriors heading back to their own lines could be heard.

  “They were right,” the king murmured as silence fell all around them. Even Gavo, faithful captain of the guard, had retreated off the gatehouse platform, allowing the king and queen some small measure of privacy.

  “About what?” Narina asked, her voice thin and filled with despair.

  “I should have gone after Catia instead of sending Bellicus to do it.”

  Narina didn’t reply. Not because she agreed with the statement – she didn’t. She was simply too dazed to reassure her husband at that point.

  “What are we going to do?” Coroticus wondered. It was a rhetorical question but Narina looked up at him from tear-reddened eyes and bared her teeth.

  “What are we going to do?” she demanded, and the king was taken aback by the fury in her gaze. “When those bastards leave to go back to their own lands,” she growled, “you will take the men northwest and fulfil your oath to Dis, do you hear me? I want to nail Loarn mac Eirc’s head to the top of this damn gatehouse myself!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Are you my father?”

  The question shocked Bellicus and it took all his druid training to hold the neutral expression on his face rather than turning to stare at the eight-year-old princess.

  Bel hadn’t expected Catia, who was riding now with the former centurion Duro, to ask him this and he mentally kicked himself for not foreseeing it. He had to say something in reply, or the girl would grow suspicious, so he glanced across at her with a baffled look, one eyebrow raised, a half-smile on his lips.

  “Eh? What are you talking about, lass? Coroticus – King of Alt Clota – is your father, that’s why you’re a princess. Did the Saxons addle your brain when they abducted you?”

  Again, the giant druid mentally berated himself, this time for asking such an insensitive question. Of course her brain had been affected by her harrowing ordeal – being kidnapped by a Saxon warband and dragged half the length of Britain before being almost sacrificed to the invaders’ brutal gods would do that to a person.

  Anyone would have found it hard to deal with, never mind a little girl.

  She had been mostly silent ever since Bellicus and the centurion had rescued her from the clutches of the warlord Hengist and his volva – witch – Thorbjorg, and now she retreated back into herself, staring at the road ahead as the two horses carried their passengers north.

  “Sorry, Catia,” Bel said softly. “You’ve been through a lot, but we’ll soon be home. We’ll be in Luguvalium in a day or two – that’s where Duro lives – and then it’s not very far back to Dun Breatann. Coroticus and Queen Narina will be overjoyed to see you safe again.”

  She didn’t reply other than to purse her lips and Bel looked at the centurion who was staring back at him thoughtfully. Thankfully Duro kept any questions to himself, for now, but the druid expected the man might want to know the truth of it once they stopped for the night and Catia fell asleep.

  It was another fine, sunny day although a gentle breeze from the east was bringing puffy grey clouds that promised to lower the temperature. Beside them, the druid’s powerful dog, Cai, loped along, keeping pace with them easily enough, muscles rippling in his legs, tongue lolling, ever-alert for signs of danger.

  Bel was glad of the hound’s presence, but he had started the journey to rescue the princess with two dogs. The older one, Eolas, was killed in a fight with the Saxons and the loss was still painfully fresh in the druid’s mind. Still, Eolas’s sacrifice hadn’t been wasted – Catia might not be quite herself but she was at least physically unharmed.

  The memory of that dark night at the stone circle known as the Giant’s Dance would live in his mind forever. The laughing volva ritually slaughtering four unfortunate Briton slaves as eerie blue lights and weird sounds terrified the Saxon warriors, before, at last, Catia was on her knees, preparing to have her throat cut open with the witch’s stone knife.

  Bellicus looked over again at Catia and his heart ached to see the once-gregarious child now so withdrawn from the world around her.

  All he could do was show her kindness and compassion.

  And pray to Lug that she wouldn’t bring up the question of her parenthood in front of Coroticus once they were home again…

  “Shall we stop for something to eat?”

  That at least brought a smile from the princess. During the weeks of her captivity the Saxons had fed her mainly dried beef and bread; another trial for her to endure along with the rest. Bellicus had made an effort, therefore, to vary their meals as far as was possible given their circumstances. There seemed little chance of the thwarted Saxons tracking them, so the druid was content to allow a fire for cooking when they stopped at night.

  They hunted, or bartered for ingredients in settlements they passed, and Duro, who made his living as a baker in Luguvalium, was able to cook up tasty soups and pottage which Bel would season with the herbs and spices he carried in hidden pockets within his dark robe.

  It was a wonderful sight to see the little girl tuck
ing into a steaming bowl of mutton broth in the evenings but, for now, they dismounted and made do with bread and cheese. It wasn’t the greatest meal, the late summer heat making the cheese soft and warm, but Catia wolfed it down with gusto and Bel was pleased that she at least hadn’t lost her appetite.

  That was surely a good sign.

  Cai, his own meal of dried pig liver quickly finished, lay next to the girl, great head resting protectively against her leg, and she stroked his smooth coat as she ate in silence.

  Bel was unsure of his own feelings. He’d always felt an affection for the princess but now, as he looked at her, he wondered how he should feel and, rarely for him, didn’t really have an answer. He thought he could see similarities in their features, and mannerisms, and a swelling of pride built inside him that he’d fathered such a strong girl.

  But he could never tell her the truth – Coroticus would surely kill the druid if word was ever to get out. Or would he? Bellicus hadn’t known he was sleeping with Queen Narina on that night nine years ago, and the king was his friend. Maybe the man would accept the reality - embrace it - once he came to terms with the shock of it. After all, as Narina had said before Bel left to find the abducted girl, Coroticus had been unable to produce an heir to his throne.

  At least this way, when the king died or stepped down, Catia would marry a suitable chieftain or his son, and the throne would remain within the family. That was better than the other possibility, of a civil war within Alt Clota as ambitious lordlings fought for power. What difference did it really make anyway? Coroticus and Catia had a bond as strong as any father and daughter, and nothing could take that away.

  Bel felt a wave of jealousy wash over him then and it shocked him to his core. He wanted the queen, and he wanted to be a father to Catia.

  He brushed the feeling aside—he’d never had such thoughts before, and he attributed it to the strangeness of their situation and all they’d been through in recent weeks. Certainly, he didn’t covet Narina or aspire to supplant Coroticus, the idea was ludicrous.

  “You know the Saxons will be coming after us?”

  Catia’s statement brought him back to reality with a jolt and, almost guiltily, looked across at her.

  “Even if they do, they can’t catch us on foot. You don’t need to worry about them anymore, princess.”

  “If your horse is so swift, why did it take you so long to rescue me?”

  There was no accusation in her question, much to Bel’s relief, just genuine curiosity.

  “I had no idea where they were going.” He shrugged. “I had to depend on my own tracking abilities and, more often, Cai’s nose. The Saxons knew exactly where they were heading so made better time than me, blundering about the place looking for signs of your passing, asking locals if they’d seen you. I also had troubles of my own on the journey that held me up.” He shrugged again. “But this time things are different. We are mounted, and we know exactly where we’re going.”

  “So do they,” Catia replied. “And Horsa will not let us just ride off without trying to kill us.” She looked away into the trees thoughtfully. “He’s an animal. We should be ready for them if they find us.”

  Duro finished his meal and took their small trenchers to the shallow stream that flanked the road next to them. Its waters were low thanks to the dry summer the country had enjoyed that year, but he managed to get the crumbs and soggy flakes of cheese from the wooden receptacles.

  “Can’t do any harm to follow Catia’s advice,” he grunted, nodding reassuringly at the youngster who managed the ghost of a smile in return. “If the Saxons can find horses of their own they’ll push them hard along this very road. I don’t think any of them recognised me, so they won’t make for Luguvalium, but this is the only main Roman road that leads to Dun Breatann around here.”

  “Very well,” Bellicus said, getting to his feet and making his way across to Darac. “We’ll keep our eyes open and ride harder. Not camp so close to the road each night either.” He waved Catia across to him. “And you can ride with me. If Horsa or Hengist or any of them do appear, I want you with me.”

  “Are you saying I couldn’t defend her?” Duro demanded, climbing onto his horse with an expression of mock outrage on his face.

  “You can stop and defend her if you like,” Bel laughed in reply. “I was just thinking Darac can run much faster than your old nag, so don’t expect us to hang around at your side as you fight them off!”

  The druid looked down at the girl in front of him and was glad to see his joke had reassured her. She’d seen Darac in full flow back in Dun Breatann, where the big black had been well known as the fastest horse in the land.

  If it did come to flight, the Saxons wouldn’t catch Darac.

  He hoped.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lossio let go of the bowstring and there was a satisfying crack as the arrow shot across the open meadow before hammering home in its target. The old legionary, trim and lean despite his fifty years, grinned in triumph as the rest of the hares scattered, leaving their companion to his fate.

  “That’ll make a nice stew for tonight’s dinner,” the hunter muttered as he left the concealment of the birch grove and ambled across to remove his missile from the small carcass. He placed the hare inside a sack and thought about trying to bring down something bigger but rejected the notion. The little hare, along with some cabbage and fresh bread, would be enough.

  The thought of bread reminded him of his friend Duro. They had served together in the legions twenty years before and been neighbours here in Luguvalium ever since. But the baker had followed the giant druid on his quest to rescue the Alt Clotan princess and no-one had seen or heard from him since.

  Lossio headed back towards the settlement, wondering when, or if, Duro would return. The baker would surely have a wonderful tale to tell over a few mugs of beer. The old legionary hoped to Mithras that his friend and the druid had somehow managed to save the young princess from whatever fate the Saxon scum planned for her. He hadn’t seen the girl himself as he’d been off hunting that day too, but the whole incident was the talk of the place for weeks afterwards. Some of the local men had died as a result of Duro’s actions in standing up to the Saxons, but Lossio felt his friend had been right to try and help the lass.

  He’d have done the same if he’d been there. In fact, he wished he had been there, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the centurion—they might have made a better job of stopping the invaders if he’d been with Duro for the fight.

  The thoughts filled his head as he walked, so he was close to home before he even realised it and, when he spotted his own house, he pictured the hare, neatly skinned and cooked, its juices mixed with beer and oats, and his mouth began to water in anticipation. In fact, he could almost smell the cooking fires.

  Then a scream pierced the air, followed almost immediately by a man’s howl of agony, and Lossio forgot all about his feast. He wasn’t imagining the stench of woodsmoke – houses were burning in Luguvalium, as evidenced by the black soot curling into the air not too far ahead.

  “Shit.” What should he do? Yes, he’d been a soldier of Rome, but never more than that. Unlike Duro, he wasn’t good at making quick decisions. That was why Lossio had remained a lowly legionary while the younger man rapidly rose to the rank of centurion.

  Another woman’s scream was cut off by the sound of a fist meeting flesh and he ran to press himself against the rear of the nearest building, restringing his bow and nocking an arrow to it, in case whoever was setting the fires appeared from the street at the front. He listened intently, trying to make sense of what was happening. There were harsh, guttural voices, laughter interspersed with the tortured cries of that poor woman, and footsteps as a number of men passed his position and moved on, no doubt to perpetrate more wickedness.

  Lossio lived alone, with no family to rescue from the attackers, but Luguvalium was his home, its inhabitants his friends. If Duro could steel himself to make a stand against i
nvaders, so could he.

  Slowly he edged his way around the side of his hiding place and peered out into the street. He knew instantly who the enemy were: Saxons. They were here again! One of them was on top of a young girl Lossio knew well. Just fourteen years old, poor Velbutena stared across the ground, her eyes meeting his pleadingly, and the old soldier couldn’t help himself. He brought up the hunting bow, sighted along the arrow, and let fly.

  Decades of practise made his aim steady and the missile plunged deeply into the Saxon rapist’s face, smashing apart most of the nose and right eye socket, rocking the hairy head backwards and killing the man instantly.

  His victim needed no help to remove the corpse, the ordeal giving her desperate strength, and she rolled the Saxon off and tried to stand. Her legs gave way beneath her though, and she crawled, sobbing, past a rapidly burning house, towards the prone figure of an older woman.

  Lossio watched the girl collapse on top of her mother’s unmoving body but he couldn’t just stand there, waiting for more of the enemy to appear. He raised his eyes to the sky, prayed to Mithras for luck, and crept back behind the house that had hidden him before, moving along it in the direction of the town centre.

  It sounded like some of the local men had finally realised what was happening and come out with weapons ready to stand against the sea-wolves. The sounds of fighting—clatters, clangs, shouts and cries of pain—rang out across the town as the old legionary headed towards it, a fresh arrow already fitted to his bowstring.

  He slipped in between another pair of wooden buildings which brought him, judging from the noise, almost on top of the battle. Peering around the side of the wall he was stunned by what he saw. Without thinking, he loosed his arrow and watched it slam home, through the wolf-pelt on his targeted Saxon’s back. The thick fur, no doubt combined with chainmail beneath, took the killing force from the arrow, but it knocked the Saxon off balance, allowing the local he’d been about to kill the chance to land a flurry of furious slashes.