A Painted Winter

by H. Barnard

  In a blur of bodies and metal, the warriors pushed through and overwhelmed the soldiers, encircling them until the Romans surrendered.

  With shaking fingers, Brei returned his sword to his leather scabbard. We have won. His mind turned to Anwen’s face. They don’t need me. The battle is over. He ducked out of the circle and sprinted along the deserted lane to the Western Gate. He ran along the river towards the flames that had engulfed all the buildings of the farmstead. Horses screamed in the stables as the fire claimed the building, but he pressed on, racing to the last roundhouse before the forest. Please don’t be dead.

  A body lay before the door of the burning house. Brei stooped over it and recognised Anwen’s father. He was covered in blood, and his intestines swam on his stomach in a pool of glistening red.

  “Where is Anwen? And Morfydd? Are they inside?”

  The man coughed, and blood dribbled from the edges of his mouth and down his chin. “They took Anwen. I tried to stop them, but they took her.”

  “Where? Where did they take her?” Brei yelled, his voice breaking.

  Anwen’s father raised a wavering finger towards the forest. “They are long gone now.” His breathing laboured, and Brei held his hand as he died.

  Brei jerked awake at the sound of chanting, opening his eyes to a procession of feet passing along the upper rampart wall at Caertarwos. The pink light of dawn shimmered on the faces of Taran, Dylan, and Naoise. Brei dragged his hands over his face, wiping off a cold sweat. He stood up and watched the Druwydds and Bandruwydds return through the carved bull stone passage, their robes sodden to their knees. Across the lower rampart, where the hill rose and dipped, two women surveyed the procession. One he recognised as Branwen, her auburn-haired companion was, he suspected, the other Healer, Morrigan. Brei glanced at Taran, who watched the Healers, a slight crease in his forehead as the women disappeared down the invisible steps under the hill.

  As the last of the procession entered the upper rampart to meet with Talorc, Brei yawned and lifted his arms above his head to stretch.

  Talorc beamed. “The Gods have spoken, and the same need for vengeance for the crimes of these barbarians against our fathers, mothers, and those who have gone before us, drives them as it drives us. We will have our southern invasion!”

  Taran jumped onto the wall of the rampart and yelled “Revenge or Tirscath!” The gathered kings and princes cheered. The Eldar Druwydd whispered to Talorc, but Talorc waved his hand at the Druwydd and walked away. Seeming to have aged a hundred years in one night, the Eldar Druwydd hobbled away, assisted by two apprentices.

  Talorc bounced around, shaking the hands of the kings and princes, grinning. “Wine!” he yelled, which was greeted by more cheers.

  Brei groaned, staring up at the pale pink sky. “I think I will go for a swim.”

  “I’ll join you,” Taran murmured, jumping off the wall.

  “Are you coming, Neesh?” Brei asked, but Naoise was staring across the upper rampart to the King’s Hall. Brei and Taran turned to look and saw Eithne had joined her brothers, Talorc and Drest. Taran grinned and ruffled Naoise’s thick black hair. Naoise turned and tried to punch him, but Taran stepped out of the way, dancing around him, and slapped him on the back of the head before running towards the small hill above the mysterious chamber.

  Brei smirked and jogged after Taran. His stomach tightened as he saw Taran’s body disappear behind the hill. First his knees, then up to his waist, until only his head bobbed above the grass, before it too disappeared. Brei reached the knoll and looked at the stone staircase as it sloped down under the hill. At the base was a square doorway made of stone. Inside, the chamber was black, and Taran stood at the last step on the balls of his feet, seemingly frozen. Murmuring rose from the chamber, and it was as if Taran was talking to the darkness. After a few minutes, he turned and climbed back up the stairs, not meeting Brei’s eye until he reached the top.

  “Well?” Brei asked.

  “Well what?” Taran said without stopping, and he continued over the lower rampart.

  “Why did you go down there, and who were you talking to?” Brei asked, struggling to keep up as he followed to the beach on the other side of the headland.

  Taran did not answer, but as their boots sunk into the sand, he stopped. “I had a question.”

  “Did you get an answer?”

  “Yes,” he grunted, pulling off his boots. He strode across the sand and dived into water that was so flat in the dawn stillness that it appeared Taran had dived into a pink mirror reflecting the sky.

  Twenty-Nine

  Summer, 367 C.E., Britannia

  “Kill it! Kill it!”

  A frenzied roar rose from the crowd, drowning out the snarling dogs. Sorsha closed her eyes as an animal howled, low and thick with misery. Her stomach churned. Put it out of its suffering. Please. The animal gasped and let out a strangled groan.

  Sorsha opened her eyes as the crowd erupted. On the dirt floor of a large stone amphitheatre, just outside the walls of Corinium Dobunnorum, the brown bear sprawled, motionless, in a pool of its own blood. The bear had been tied to a pole, while five mastiffs attacked it. Moisture gathered across her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, willing the tears to disperse.

  “I told you to put money on the dogs, Lucia!” Cecily saidd as she brandished a slip of red fabric in the air to gain the attention of the bookie. The folds of her red palla covered her dark brown hair, which was puffed high atop her head, and around her arms, golden bracelets glittered in the sun.

  Sorsha surveyed the crowd. Thousands had gathered for the fights and were clearly excited by the bloodshed. Some seemed annoyed and must have bet on the bear. But others, like Cecily, had drunken smiles and waved slips of crimson fabric above their heads. Sorsha swallowed. This is just foreplay.

  A slave dressed in a shabby tunic approached Cecily and, in exchange for her piece of red fabric, pressed ten gold denarii into her hand before he moved on to the people sitting behind them. “I bet you’ve missed this?” Cecily purred as she slipped the gold into a red silk purse.

  “I’ve only been once before.” Sorsha’s skin prickled as a chain gang of five men were hauled across the arena floor. They were pale, and some had hair of fire.

  “You’ll enjoy this,” Cecily whispered.

  The crowd hushed as the Governor of Britannia Prima strode into the arena, resplendent in a white toga that draped over thick purple bands running either side of the shoulders of his tunic. “Citizens! Behold! From the depths of the coldest corners of the north! I give you the Picti!”

  Slaves removed the chains from the warriors, and the crowd gasped.

  “How will the barbarians of the north match up against the gladiators of Carthage?” the governor roared.

  The crowd screamed and stamped their feet. Sorsha craned her neck to see ten armed men enter the arena, wearing protective armour and carrying shields. She looked back at the northern men, who were shirtless and without a weapon. Surely, they will at least give them a sword?

  The sound of a gong reverberated around the arena just as Marcus jogged up a wooden staircase and into the box Sorsha and Cecily were sitting in. He smiled at them as he took his seat, handing Cecily a cup of wine.

  Sorsha studied the gladiators, the sun shimmering off their dark olive skin. How is it possible that Rome conquered Carthage when their warriors look so formidable?

  Seemingly well practised at herding, the gladiators separated two men from the group. One gladiator lunged at a red-haired man, splitting open the man’s stomach. Sorsha sucked the air in through her teeth. For a frozen moment, the crowd hushed. The silence was broken by the splat of guts slopping to the ground. The crowd screamed again and drummed their feet like thunder.

  “How is this entertainment when they are not even given a chance?” Sorsha hissed.

  “Why do you care, Lucia? They are animals.”

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” the crowd chanted.

  Sorsha watched the man�
�s face writhe in agony as the gladiator lifted him up by his hair. I’m going to be sick. A second gladiator swung his sword and beheaded the northern man. The crowd leapt into the air and roared as the victorious gladiator paraded the head around the arena, waving up at his screaming fans.

  Sorsha gazed up at the grinning red faces in the crowd. “Cecily, I need to go for a walk.”

  “Are you not well, my dear? The sun is hot today. I’ll take you back to the apartment.”

  Sorsha shook her head. “No, thank you, I’ll be all right. I know my way around Corinium, and I don’t want to ruin your day.” She forced a smile and accepted a kiss on the cheek from Cecily’s rouged lips.

  By late afternoon, groups of exhausted, drunk, and sunburnt patrons returned through the tower gate and poured into Corinium Dobunnorum. Sorsha walked against the tide of the crowd and headed back towards the stadium. Inside the tiered stone amphitheatre, slaves bustled through with brooms, and two heaved a bag of sawdust across the stadium floor, scattering it over pools of blood. She walked through a wooden gate and crossed the dirt floor into the centre of the stadium, imagining what it would feel like to have a crowd of people screaming at her while she fought for her life.

  “Can I help you, lady?”

  Sorsha turned around at the sound of a lightly accented, soft voice. A young man with olive skin waited with his arms behind his back. His nose was sharp and his black eyes reminded her of a hawk.

  “I just wanted to see what it was like. It seems terrifying.”

  He nodded. “It is.”

  “You are a gladiator?”

  He shook his head and drew his right arm from behind his back. In place of a tanned limb was a mangled stump ending above where the elbow should have been.

  “They let you live?”

  He licked his brown lips. “I try to be indispensable.”

  “How?”

  “I train the gladiators.”

  Sorsha smiled. “Impressive. Where are you from?”

  “Carthage. But I haven’t been there for a long time. Not since I was ten.”

  “You became a slave when you were ten?”

  His gaze dropped to the sawdust on the ground. “No, lady, I was born a slave. But I was sold to my current master when I was ten. Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking, lady?”

  “I’m from Corinium Dobunnorum, but I spent the winter in the north with the Painted People.”

  He raised his dark, preened eyebrows. “That almost seems unbelievable, but things are making sense now.”

  Sorsha tilted her head. “What things?”

  “The fact you are down here when everyone else is drunk and gone home. The fact you are trying to imagine what it would be like to be a gladiator. And I saw you leave early. You looked like you might throw up.”

  “You saw me?”

  “It is impertinent, I know.” He dropped his eyes to the ground and a faint crimson flushed his olive cheeks. “Forgive me.”

  She studied his face. If not for his tattered robes, he could be anyone. She smiled. “Could you do me a favour?”

  “If it is within my power, lady, but note that not much is.”

  “Are there any Painted People alive? I’d like to speak to them if I can.”

  “Two men survived, but one may be dead by now. I can take you to their cages, but I don’t know if you should see them. It is not for ladies such as yourself.”

  “They are kept in cages?”

  He nodded.

  “What is your name?”

  “They call me Hannibal. But they call all Carthaginian gladiators Hannibal.”

  “What was the name your mother gave you?”

  “Mago.”

  Sorsha smiled. “Well, my name is Sorsha. Please take me to see him, Mago.”

  Mago bowed and led her across the arena floor and through a wooden gate to a line of iron cages fixed atop unhooked carts. He pointed to the closest cage, where five men leaned against the bars. Three were olive-skinned and bore the same sharp noses and almond eyes as Mago.

  “Are these your countrymen?” Sorsha asked.

  “From Carthage or the surrounding African province, yes.”

  One man was dressing the shoulder of another with a linen bandage. They glared at her from behind the iron bars.

  She stepped towards the cage. “Who are the other men?”

  Two men with lighter skin leant against the bars with their backs to her. Their wrists were bound and hung through the bars behind them.

  “My master says they are from the Alamanni. They do not speak Latin. They arrived here only a few weeks ago. We keep them bound because they are dangerous.”

  Sorsha approached the back wheel of the cart.

  “Stay back, lady Sorsha, I do not want them to harm you.”

  The Alamanni men did not turn as she placed her right hand around a bar and gazed up into the cage. The Carthaginians watched her but did not move forwards.

  “Hello,” she whispered in Latin to the Carthaginian, whose shoulder was bandaged. “Is your arm badly hurt?”

  His black eyes searched hers, and he shook his head. “A scratch.”

  She glanced to her right, where the Alamanni men sat inches from her. The closest man was now staring down at her. His strong features and blue eyes reminded her of the men of Caledon. She reached across to where his bound hands poked through the bars and she placed her hand into his. He winced when she touched him, but then she felt his hand close around hers. I wish I could help you. I wish I could spare you the horrific death that awaits you.

  “Lady Sorsha, you wanted to see the Painted Man?” Mago whispered behind her. “I think he will die soon, and my master will be back any minute.”

  As she released the Alamanni’s hand, he closed his eyes and turned away.

  Sorsha followed Mago along the cages of men to the sixth cart, where two of the occupants had the palest skin of them all. Their red hair shone in the fading evening light. One man lay on his back, his hands covering his stomach, and another man sat cross-legged by his head, holding his hand. Blood dripped down the sides of the cart and onto the dirt-encrusted wheels.

  Sorsha strode to the cage and reached through the bars. “Push him towards me,” she said in the Ancient Tongue. “I can help him if you bring him closer.”

  The dying man turned his head and gazed at her. “Who are you?”

  “I am…” She paused. The tide of empathy rose inside her, and she pressed up against the bars. “I am a Healer, from Caledon. Let me help you.”

  She stretched her fingers out towards him, willing herself to reach, but he turned his head away and stared at the wooden roof of his cage. “I don’t want to be healed,” he croaked.

  “Why not? You are moments from death.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “I know. And it will be such a relief.”

  Sorsha glanced at the man who sat by the dying man’s head. “I don’t understand.”

  The man placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “If you heal him, what will you be saving him for? Are you planning on freeing us?”

  Sorsha lowered her eyes to the blood running along a spoke of the wheel.

  “I thought not,” said the man. “So you would save him now, only to go back out there tomorrow. To fear for his life in front of thousands of drunken faces laughing at him. To watch his countrymen have their limbs torn off by bears or other slaves. And lie in the indignity of a cage with the smell of his waste in his nostrils.” He pointed to a wooden bucket in the corner of the cage.

  She clasped the warm bars with both hands as tears fell from her cheeks. “When were you taken?”

  “It has been so long I don’t even remember. Many moons and winters have passed.”

  “Were you taken from Caercaled?”

  The man nodded. “They captured mostly women, but we were only boys when we were taken. They’ve only just started using us for the fights now that we are big enough.”

  “Was P
rincess Derelei taken with you?”

  “She was for a time. But when they loaded us onto boats, she was not on ours. And she was not at the markets in the big city, either.”

  “Lady, my master is coming,” Mago hissed.

  Sorsha glanced behind her and saw an obese, red-cheeked man ambling towards them.

  Sorsha wiped her cheek. “How can he not care that he kills defenceless men for sport?”

  “My master is not his enemy.” Mago frowned. “None of these men are. They may wield the sword that killed him, but they are not his enemy. Neither is my master. It is the crowds who seek the blood. They are his enemy.”

  Sorsha stumbled along the stone passageway, towards the flickering light in the square chamber. A lit torch lay on the ground and the wood crackled, but a gust of wind blew it out, plunging the chamber into darkness. She straightened and backed herself against the stone wall, listening to the footsteps getting closer. Someone was running up the passageway towards her. Sweat pooled on her forehead and along the top of her lip.

  “No! Stop it!” she screamed as emerald eyes closed in on her.

  Sorsha sat up, panting, and opened her eyes. Staring around the room, she took in the grey outlines of Cecily and Marcus’ splendid bedroom furniture. She rolled over and closed her eyes, determined to sleep. Once more, icy fingers slid up her chest and closed around her neck. Groaning, she pushed the palms of her hands into her eyes, but the icy fingers tightened their grip. She shuffled to the window and peered out into the dark. The cool air washed over her sweaty face and body.

  I have to go back.

  Sorsha yawned. The skin under her eyes was heavy and swollen.

  “Are you tired?” Nyfain asked.

  “Yes.” She had stayed awake to watch the sunrise, afraid to close her eyes again. But Sorsha had made arrangements to leave for Londinium that morning, instead of returning with Cecily and Marcus to Aquae Sulis.