by Jon Jacks
She felt a hand lightly touch her shoulder. She glanced back.
It was the boy. The boy she’d seen on the deck of the ship. The boy she’d seen in the lady’s tapestries.
He smiled: a sad smile. One full of concern and understanding.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything I can do? Anyway that I can help?’
Prytani shook her head miserably.
‘It’s a horse,’ she spluttered between her tears. ‘I just saw a horse die.’
‘The one back there, by the wooden wall?’
He looked back along the route Prytani had taken to walk here, back towards where she had watched the men torture and kill the horse.
Prytani nodded, again miserably.
‘You know, I don’t think the horse is dead,’ the boy said.
‘How could it live after that?’ Prytani sobbed.
‘After that? I didn’t see what caused its illness,’ the boy admitted. ‘But the men surrounding it are treating it well. They’ve covered it in warmed blankets. They’re treating its fever with both cold and hot water.’
Prytani was confused.
It made no sense. Why would the men deliberately kill the horse, and in such an awful manner too, only to then put in such strenuous efforts to revive it?
‘Are…are you sure?’
She couldn’t keep the sense of uncertainty from her voice.
The boy nodded, gave her a warm smile again. His eyes sparkled with innocence, with honesty.
How could Prytani read so much in someone’s eyes? She just could, that’s all. And she wasn’t sure if it was anything to do with her own abilities, or the boy’s own remarkable qualities.
She simply felt that she could trust him. That he possessed none of the ultimately selfish, envious characteristics more usually found lying beneath the surface of any man.
It didn’t seem to be in his nature to try and exert his own will over other people, to try and manipulate a situation to his own benefit.
It was an awful lot to read into such a brief exchange, Prytani knew; and yet, she felt this deeply, that this boy was not like any other person she had previously met.
‘You can speak our language?’ she asked.
‘My uncle taught me. He visits your land regularly: for the tin.’
‘Hah, yes, of course.’
Tin was mined everywhere around here. It was precious, being an indispensable constituent of bronze, from which everything from bowls to weapons and armour were made
‘You’re here to learn his trade?’ Prytani continued.
The boy chuckled, shook his head.
‘My uncle is far too important. Nobilis Decurio: a minister of mines for the Roman Empire. I’ve no hope of ever reaching his high position.’
He smiled once more, this time at Tamesis. The little vixen was watching him intently, as if she, too, sensed something remarkable about the boy.
‘Then why did you accompany him here? I can’t see that there would be anything in my land of interest to someone from the Great Empire.’
‘My father’s what we call a nagar; perhaps what you might call a builder, possibly even an architect, or a learned man? I’m learning the secrets of numbers and proportions. My uncle told me of the great circles of stones that still exist here.’
‘The ones we use for our ceremonies? You don’t have them back in your own land?
The boy shook his head.
‘No longer, no: or at least, not where we know of their existence any longer. But it’s written in our chronicles that great men in our past – Moses, Joshua – built circles like these. Gilgals, they were called, consisting of twelve great stones.’
‘But I’d heard that you have great temples to your gods in your land?’
‘To one God alone in my land,’ he corrected her good naturedly. ‘My father took part in the building of our great temple,’ he added, without any sense of the natural pride a normal boy would usually display when making such a declaration. ‘Ten thousand skilled craftsmen were employed by King Herod in its construction.’
Once again, Prytani wondered if he’d added this as a qualifying statement diminishing the role of his father, rather than the boastful pronouncement more usually expected of such a young boy.
Leaning forward, the boy tenderly patted Tamesis.
‘He – or is it a she? – seems unusually tame. You’ve trained her well.’
‘No, I’m not responsible for her being this way,’ Prytani modestly admitted. ‘That’s just the way she is. She’s like a sister to me.’
‘Bit young, for a fox, to be a sister, isn’t she?’ the boy chuckled, ruffling and massaging Tamesis’s neck affectionately.
And, before she realised what was happening, Prytani was telling the boy the story that she rarely told anyone else.
*
Chapter 12
The Dead Legion
The village had had to move a number of times now.
Each time, stronger clans than theirs, less accomplished at farming but more accomplished at war, had envied the productivity of their land. Either unwilling or incapable of undertaking the work required to transform previously wooded areas into arable land, these other clans had simply taken what they desired, what they believed was rightfully theirs. Why, didn’t their own people need it for their own survival?
The villagers soon learned that it was pointless to try and fight back. They would lose. Every time.
They were farmers, not warriors.
The more they resisted, the more lives they lost. The harder they fought, the fewer possessions the victorious clan would allow them to leave with.
Better, rather, to simply retreat. To vacate their village, their land. To recreate the village somewhere else.
Unfortunately, that new somewhere was always more inhospitable than the last place they’d lived in.
It took longer, and evermore exhausting labour, to clear the land. To hack down trees. To uproot great stumps and roots, with harshly driven teams of oxen. To remove great boulders, and whole cartloads of sharp stones. To prepare the soil with a mix of burnt wood and manure.
And then, after all that, the most backbreaking work of all was irrigating the new fields. Protecting the young crops from pests, harsh winds, torrential rain, freezing snow and ice. Harvesting it in weather that transformed even twigs and grass into blades that cut deep into the flesh.
While all this was going on, they lived in leaking, incredibly cold hovels. Only when the land had been tamed could they afford the time to rebuild their homes and the village itself.
Despite all their strenuous efforts, this last place they had chosen to live in was by far the worst they had ever been forced to try and transform into their home.
The surrounding woods seemed forever dark, with little sunlight streaming down through the densely packed branches and twigs, the closely set trees. When the wind coursed through it, it set the branches creaking and cackling, like old, gossiping women. The wind itself howled and wailed, like perpetual complaints, agonised musings.
The little game that came from the woods was itself famished and scrawny. Their eyes were wide, but from hunger or fear, no one could tell.
One night, a man walked from these woods. His gait was a steady shuffle, one leg dragging slightly, as if from a badly healed wound. And the closer he drew towards the village, the more wounds he was revealed to be suffering.
An arm was tied to his breast, as if it had been snapped, and was now useless. His other arm was severed badly, as if by numerous sword cuts. Worst of all, however, was the wound to his head, the top of his skull cleaved so badly that it was almost hanging by nothing more than a flap of his scalp.
No one approached the man to offer aid. Everyone hung back. His blazing, resolute glare alone was enough to make them step back in horror.
He smelt of death, of long-rotting flesh.
He strode through the village as if familiar with its layout. He headed direct
ly for the main hall, were most of the villagers gathered each night to eat, drink, talk.
As the man strode into the hall, everyone stopped eating, the morsel held halfway to their mouth, the drink spilling down stunned lips.
He stood in the very centre of the hall, the best place to address everyone there.
‘Most of you here know me.’ His voice was a harshly angry croak. ‘Though you all disowned me; falsely blamed me for the punishments served on you.’
It was true: many in the hall that night recognised the crippled man standing before them.
They recognised the vicious wounds to his body, if nothing else.
They recognised them because they were so bad, his body had almost fallen apart as they had hastily buried him.
*
Dubhan had been the last of the village chiefs to lead them in a resistance against the invaders who constantly blighted their lives.
He had died, many of the men had died. And many of the women had later paid with the molestation of their own flesh for the men’s foolishness.
Never again, the villagers had declared. We must always parlay with the invaders, beg for their mercy. At least that way we can decide which of us will be taken away into slavery.
Dubhan still carried the wounds he had earned himself that day. Still carried himself like the warrior he had declared they must all aspire to be like, if they were to hold the lands they had rightfully claimed as theirs.
As he stood before them, his pose became even more rigidly resolute. His wounds faded, mended before their very eyes, until he was once again whole and completely uninjured.
‘I’ve only been allowed to stand here before you tonight because I begged to be given a chance to help you see the error of your ways.’
‘And what error would that be, Dubhan?’ Although he would have preferred to remain silent, the new village chief saw that he had little choice but to represent his fellow villagers and talk to this horror that stood before them. ‘Seeing that we are still amongst the living – while you, quite obviously, are not!’
He guffawed at his own nervous witticism, but only a few joined him in his laughter.
Dubhan didn’t appear offended.
‘You have fled too far from your enemies,’ he thundered. ‘You are not amongst the living – you are amongst the dead! That is why I speak with you tonight. You have encroached into lands that the dead have already declared as theirs!’
The exchanged looks between the assembled villagers ranged from terror to disbelief.
Yet what Dubhan said would explain the eerie wailing that constantly emanated from the nearby woods. It would explain the increasing sense of unease everyone had experienced, the fear of going into the woods, the way that even working in the fields generated a feeling of complete isolation and despair.
Yes, what Dubhan said made sense.
‘We didn’t know,’ someone cried out.
‘How could we know?’
‘Tell them we meant no harm!’ another pleaded.
‘No harm?’ Dubhan replied with a mocking chortle. ‘The harm is already done. You have brought life – crops, herds – to land set aside purely for the dead.’
‘We’ll leave!’
‘Leave tonight!
‘We’ll destroy all the fields. Salt them so nothing grows there again!”’
‘What can we do?’
‘Do?’ Dubhan contemptuously laughed. ‘There is only one payment than can be made for such an intrusion!’
‘What payment do you mean? We’ll pay anything!’
‘Good!’ For the first time, Dubhan spoke with a sense of satisfaction. ‘For once, you must die bravely! Then, and only then, you may be spared some form of life: if not the life you obviously wish for!’
The villagers rose from their seats in uproar, every voice raised, each voice inaudible amongst all the others.
‘That’s the payment?’ The village chief finally made himself heard. ‘Our deaths?’
‘Do you have a better idea of what you could pay?’ Dubhan sneered dismissively, before adding more thoughtfully, more compassionately, ‘You won’t win; you’ll lose. But this time, the easier you give in, the more you lose. So fight, damn you; or be damned for ever!’
Drawing his sword, he brought the blade up in front of his face in salute. Then, spinning on his heels, he strode towards the hall’s doors.
The doors sprang open before him, letting in a whirl of cold, night air.
‘Wait, wait!’ the village chief urgently called after him. ‘How long do we have to prepare?’
Dubhan briefly turned, said;
‘How long do you need to prepare to die?’
*
It could have been the wailing of the woods that they were familiar with, yet had never become accustomed to.
It could have been the elongated lowing of a battle horn.
Whatever it was, it made the villagers rush out from the hall. Called out those sitting in their homes. Woke those who had gone to sleep, including every child.
As Dubhan strode towards the edge of the village, the moonlight was flickering through the woods in a way the sun had never managed. The light reflected off brightly glistening branches, split then merged with the shadows.
It was this interplay of moonlight and darkness that gradually gave birth to the Dead Legion.
Each mounted man began to take form, the light being that reflected from his armour and weapons, the darkness the hard shadows of hidden faces, of nightmare-black horses.
Such a horse was patiently waiting for Dubhan. He lithely swung up into the saddle.
The ends of the raised spears glinted. The pennants fluttered, the noise like the beats of faltering hearts.
‘Arm everyone: even the children,’ the village chief ordered grimly, adding urgently, ‘Quickly!
At least the silently waiting troops gave them this grace, the time to arm themselves.
The villagers grabbed and hurriedly shared out scythes, hammers, staffs: anything that could serve as a weapon. Women sternly took hold of them too, weighing them up in their hands, getting the balance right. Bleary eyed children, freshly woken, cried as hoes were shoved into their hands.
The battle horns, the woods, wailed.
*
Dubris had an extra reason to fight more bitterly than most.
Surely her unborn child couldn’t be held accountable for their transgression of land properly belonging to the dead?
Surely she could protect her baby, if not herself?
Was that possible?
Of course, she didn’t have time to think things through.
All around her, friends were falling, dying, despite the way they valiantly fought back against the rampaging riders. Her own husband was amongst those who had already dropped, exhausted and terribly wounded, to the floor.
Those that more immediately died rose from the ground only moments later, but only to find their own night-black mount waiting for them, only to join the legions of the attackers. Thereby, every death amongst the villagers led to a weakening of their own resistance, a strengthening of the already irresistible attack.
How could you kill someone who was already dead? The riders shrugged off every stroke, every slash of a scythe, even fighting on after being expertly beheaded by the strongest and largest amongst the farmers. The dead’s own swords curved down remorselessly, deeply cleaving into or hewing off arms, legs, even chunks of waist. Their spears skewered and pinioned man, woman and child alike, the victims left writhing in agony amid the carefully tilled ruts of their fields.
The scythe Dubris wielded was a fearsome weapon against normal riders. It could be used to curve around a rider and drag him from his horse, to cut away the legs of his mount, to simply hack at body or limbs and slice them as easily as a sheaf of hay. Against these dark riders, though, it was useless.
Dubris found herself being forced back towards the river, her feet slipping in the mud lining the banks. It only
added to her difficulties in swinging the scythe, her exertions already having exhausted her to the point where she could hardly lift the shaft any longer. Within, her child whirled, protested, lashing out with violent kicks.
A dark rider urged his mount into a charge, darted forward, his sword curling down in a perfectly executed stroke.
As the blade carved into the top of her skull, Dubris looked up into the dead eyes of her husband.
She fell back into the pooling water behind her. A splash, plumes of water. Waves sent rippling outwards across the pool.
She sank, watching the blood swirling about her head in complete surprise and wonder.
The child sensed the change in her mother. The quickening of the heart. Of the blood being pumped into the womb. The sharp, painful straining of muscles.
Dubris’s scream gurgled in the water around her as she gave life to her child, the globules of air rising like glowing, miniature planets.
The baby girl exited with her birth waters, moving in one easy motion from womb to river.
The river took her, rolled her, span her around and around. It buffeted her, dragging her down and down and along, threatening to instantly take away her new life; then, as if playing with her, it would briefly throw her up towards the surface, allowing a sudden gasp of air, a cry.
The current became a whirlpool, became a seemingly endless spinning, an ever-downward spiralling. Then the child, at last, was spat clear at the very bottom, just as she would have thought (if she could have thought such a thing) that her rapidly emptying lungs could take no more.
She rose up towards the surface, the planets of air swirling about her, the moonlight strikingly bright as it was magnified by the clear, undulating waters. She felt a sharp pain to the back of her neck, felt herself being dragged backwards through the waters.
She coughed, spluttered, as the vixen opened her jaw, let the child fall into the riverbank’s mud. Alongside her lay two fox pups, one saved, barely alive like the girl, the other dead, drowned, like the girl’s mother.
The vixen raised them as siblings. Feeding them. Keeping them warm. Teaching them how to scavenge.
And within their first week as sisters, they had both, as one, visited the lady in the tower.
And she, too, taught them many things.