by K. M. Ashman
‘Did you kill anyone?’ she whispered, eyes wide.
‘No child, there was no need of any killing.’
‘But how did you get so many cattle?’
‘Let’s just say that they were very understanding of our request.’
Gwenno glanced again at the heavily armed warriors. She had heard rumours of how persuasive her father could be during these trading missions.
‘Have you brought me anything?’ she asked shyly.
‘In the name of Ocelus, child,’ he laughed, ‘at least let me get home first.’
‘Stop calling me child,’ she hissed, looking around in alarm to see who had heard, ‘I am almost fourteen.’
‘You are just turned thirteen and you are still my child.’ he chided gently, and picking Gwenno up, swung her around in his muscular arms as his freed horse trotted on through the gates, eager to get back to familiar surroundings.
‘Tad!’ she screamed in mock anger, yet secretly delighted at her father’s affection. ‘Stop it!’
Erwyn smiled and put her down gently.
‘Wait here, he will be along shortly.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she said with a huff and a haughty flick of her head.
‘So all this nonsense is for me then, is it?’ he asked, looking at the flowers in her hair.
‘No!’ she laughed, ‘Mother has her own flowers for you.’ She straightened her crumpled dress and after giving him a big kiss on the cheek, ran back through the gates to wait at the bridge as the rest of the trading party passed.
Erwyn walked through the outlying roundhouses of the protected village. It had spread out over the last two years, as the attacks from neighbouring tribes had eased off and the families had felt more confident in the strength of their warriors. As the clan numbers increased, more roundhouses were being built and the timber stockade that afforded them protection from raiding parties, had needed to be increased in size twice in the last year. Swirls of smoke emanated from the conical thatched roofs, as the women prepared evening meals for their families, and grubby children played in the dirt, waiting for their dinner.
The frames of the roundhouses were made from a circle of poles, sunk deep into the floor, and intertwined with walls of hazel or birch. Their thatched roofs swept down to almost floor level and daubed walls of mud, straw and animal droppings, kept the house cool in the summer, and surprisingly warm in the winter. They had made their houses like this for as long as anyone could remember and the same construction was used throughout the country.
It was a good time for the Blaidd clan and the Deceangli in general. The ruggedness of the landscape, their willingness to defend their own territory from the other tribes, and the tactical positioning of their hill forts, meant they were seldom troubled by would be invaders. In addition, because of the role they played in protecting the nearby sacred island of Mona, they also enjoyed the spiritual patronage of the all-powerful Druids and the possibility of upsetting the religious sect, meant few tribes were willing to risk their wrath.
Most tribes were happy trading with their neighbours or farming their own lands. Conflict was more likely to be between clans of the same tribe, and most of these could be sorted out in the gatherings of elders that met every moon to sort out their differences.
Trading missions were frequent and they rarely ended in quarrels. However, honour needed to be satisfied occasionally, and champions from either side often fought to the death. There was no honour in losing a duel, only in winning.
Throughout Britannia, all the tribes interacted with each other on a regular basis, though little was known about the Silures situated in the south. They were a fierce and uncompromising tribe of mountain warriors, who seldom ventured out of the hills of their own territory and few people were ever allowed in.
----
Gwydion rode his pony at the rear of the column; the halter hanging loose around his mount’s neck. The boy guided his steed with pressure from his thighs, and the animal responded to the slightest touch of the skilled rider. He wore plaid leggings made from coarse wool and a linen tunic, which hung down over his upper legs. A heavy plaid cape hung from his shoulders, fixed at one side with a bronze clasp. His weapons consisted of a sword hanging from a leather belt and a yew bow lying across his lap, ready strung for instant use.
Because of Gwydion’s skill with a bow, Erwyn had given him the role of Cefn, an important position that guarded the rear of the column. A group of experienced warriors had turned off the track an hour before, and circled miles back along their route, to lie in ambush on their trail. Any unwary followers stupid enough to think they could catch the Deceangli unaware, would find themselves caught in an onslaught of steel and willow, long before they got anywhere near the village.
The role of Cefn was an honour for Gwydion and he took the position very seriously. If they were attacked, he would be the first to know, and he would sound the alarm to the rest of the clan. Every twenty or so paces, he turned his horse around to stare back down the trail, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Villagers were already herding some of the cattle into prepared pens and their families, relieved to see them home, greeted the dismounted riders. Gwydion noticed someone waving frantically at the gate and was pleased to see Gwenno waiting to greet him. He started to raise his hand to return the wave, but had second thoughts. His smile changed to a frown and a look of serious concentration appeared on his face.
Just in time, he realised it would do his credibility no good at all for any of the other young men of the village to see him with a stupid grin on his face. This had been his first serious expedition with Erwyn, chief of the Blaidd, and he had his image to think about. Other boys of his age would be green with envy when he recalled the tales of this adventure. Though there had been no fighting, the hardship and subterfuge on the trading trip had been exciting enough for the young man, and he was slightly relieved to be coming home to this familiar place after three weeks of hardship.
‘Hwyl, Gwydion!’ called Gwenno, greeting the young man in the traditional way.
Although he didn’t return the greeting, Gwydion acknowledged her with a nod of his head. Instead, when he reached the gate, he turned his horse for the last time and peered into the distance, making sure Gwenno could see the bow in his hand. She joined him alongside his horse, taking hold of the harness.
‘Who are you looking for?’ she asked, following the boy’s stare.
‘Cornovii warriors!’ he said.
Gwenno looked startled.
‘Cornovii!’ she said. ‘Are we being attacked?’
‘They may have followed us and it is my job to make sure the clan is safe.’
They both stared in silence.
‘Are you coming in?’ asked Gwenno.
‘Not yet, I am the Cefn, it is my job to protect the tribe,’ he answered.
‘Tell me, Gwydion,’ said Gwenno, ‘how many warriors do the Cornovii have?’
‘Hundreds, perhaps even thousands,’ said Gwydion, his stare unrelenting.
‘What would you do if they appeared now?’
‘Attack them,’ he said, sitting slightly higher on his horse in self-importance.
‘Then, I think you should come in for a while.’
He frowned and looked down at the girl. She had a wicked grin on her face.
‘Why would I do that?’ he asked.
‘You are going to need a few more arrows,’ she laughed and pointed at his quiver.
In his efforts to impress the girl, the quiver had tipped forward and emptied his arrows silently onto the bracken.
‘Oh no!’ he gasped, frantically looking around to check that no one had seen. He jumped down from his horse and dropped to his knees, repacking his quiver as quickly as he could.
Gwenno joined him, trying her best not to laugh He counted the arrows furiously.
‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘There is one missing.’
‘Is there?’ asked Gwenno, a
look of innocence on her face.
‘Have you got it, Gwenno?’ asked Gwydion. ‘What’s behind your back?’
She walked backwards, a smile on her face.
‘Gwenno, give it here,’ he said and reached out to grab her.
She skipped out of his reach, revealing the goose-fletched arrow she had been hiding.
‘Make me!’ she said mischievously.
‘Gwenno,’ he hissed, ‘someone might see.’
‘So let them see. I don’t care.’
‘Gwenno, please,’ he repeated, ‘it is not good to lose a weapon. If your father finds out, he won’t let me go again. You won’t tell him, will you?’
Gwenno stopped, and walked toward him.
‘What is it worth?’ she asked, suddenly serious.
‘What?’
‘Make it worth my while.’
‘How?’
‘A kiss,’ she said suddenly, shocked at her own audacity.
‘A kiss?’ he asked incredulously, ‘I can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘No one will know.’
‘Gwenno,’ he said, ‘If your father finds out, he will have me whipped.’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ she said, blushing.
‘I can’t’ he repeated, ‘I daren’t.’
‘Huh,’ she snapped, ‘you’re afraid of a little whipping, and you call yourself a warrior? What good would you be against the Cornovii?’
‘I am not afraid of anyone,’ scowled Gwydion.
‘Don’t you like me anymore?’
‘Of course, I do, Gwenno,’ he pleaded, ‘but Erwyn is my leader. I will not disrespect him.’
‘Not even for me?’ she asked. ‘Just one little kiss on the cheek.’
Gwydion wanted nothing more than to kiss this beautiful girl, but even though he was a Deceangli, he had been brought up with strict Catuvellauni honour. Just after his birth fifteen years earlier, Gwydion had been fostered out to a different family, as was the tradition in his people. However, in his case, he had not been given to a family within his own clan, or even his own tribe, but had been sent many miles to the east in a conciliatory gesture to seal an uneasy truce between Deceangli and Catuvellauni. Similarly, a Catuvellauni baby had taken his place at the hearth of his own family, and both boys had returned to the clans of their birth at the age of fourteen.
Gwydion had been lucky enough to have been fostered to a family close to the now dead King, Cunobelinus. As well as becoming an expert archer and swordsman, he had also been taught the Roman language by a slave brought back by Gallic traders from the forests of Gemina.
Both boys were safe from harm, as long as the truce endured, but had either tribe transgressed the agreed terms, then the Druids would have sacrificed both boys, and a bloody war joined. Luckily, for them, the past fourteen years had been relatively peaceful and both were back where they belonged.
----
‘Do what you will, Gwenno,’ he said eventually, ‘I will not betray Erwyn’s trust.’
‘I am glad to hear it, boy,’ boomed a voice and the two teenagers spun around to face Erwyn, who had returned to see where they were.
‘Give him the arrow, Gwenno’ he said, ‘and get back to your mother.’
‘Sorry, father,’ she murmured, looking down at the floor.
‘Quick about it,’ he ordered.
Gwenno sneaked a wicked smile to the boy before running into the camp, dropping the arrow as she went. Erwyn picked it up and joined Gwydion near his horse. Gwydion stared into the distance, the shame evident in his eyes. After a while, Erwyn addressed him.
‘Tell me, boy,’ he said, ‘why do you favour the bow over the sword when you can gain much more honour in close combat?’
‘I do not spurn the sword, Erwyn,’ he replied, ‘and will pit myself against any man if challenged, but arrows can kill many men from a great distance. Surely, this is a great advantage in battle when the enemy is larger in number?’
‘Perhaps so, but how can you take the head of your enemy if you are a hundred paces away? Let me teach you the skills of the double axe. That truly is a warrior’s weapon and will gain you many heads.’
‘I seek no trophies, Erwyn,’ said Gwydion.
‘Then, I fear you will gain little honour,’ sighed the leader. ‘The heads of our enemies bestow much honour on the taker.’
‘I am happy with my bow.’
‘You proclaim your weapon’s virtues, yet allow your arrows to fall like firewood. You even allow a mere girl to take one from you. Is this what you have been taught by those Catuvellauni dogs?’
‘It is only one arrow, I have eleven more,’ answered the young man defensively.
‘Only one,’ repeated the warrior. ‘Tell me Gwydion, how much do you like my daughter?’
‘Err…I suppose…’
‘Speak up, boy,’ snapped the warrior.
‘A lot, Sir,’ he said quickly.
‘Do you wish to court her?’
‘I don’t know, I mean, yes Sir, I would like that very much.’
‘Tell me, why should I let a man who loses weapons court my daughter?’
Gwydion hung his head and silence fell again. They both knew there was no correct answer to the question.
‘You made a mistake today, boy. It will be the first of many, but consider this. Imagine we were under attack and you had already used eleven arrows. Consider further, if an enemy then set his sight on Gwenno and you reached for your last arrow in her defence, what would become of my daughter?’
Gwydion looked shocked.
‘I would defend her with my life, Sir,’ he said.
‘I would expect no less, but for that one lost arrow, the clan would be less one warrior, and I would lose my only daughter.’
Gwydion hung his head again, realising he was being taught a valuable lesson.
‘Lift up your head and look at me!’ snapped Erwyn. ‘You are back amongst the Deceangli now and you bow your head to no man. If you make a mistake, you will take your pain with head held high, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ answered Gwydion, standing upright.
‘You have done well these last few weeks and I will not hold this mistake against you. Learn from this and ensure it doesn’t happen again. If it does, I will have you beaten in public. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You have a lot to learn, boy, but today you showed me respect. Take your bow and ensure you become the best you can be. The Deceangli have many warriors who wield sword, axe or spear, but few who are archers. Perhaps you may yet find a role. You may visit my daughter, but you will not walk out alone until her sixteenth year. Is that understood?’
Gwydion nodded, not quite understanding how this had turned around.
‘Now, stable your horse and get washed. Tonight, you will eat with us.’
Erwyn turned and walked back into the village nursing a wry smile. The poor boy did not know what he was letting himself in for with his daughter. He knew how tricky she could be. After all, she was exactly like her mother.
Gwydion watched as Erwyn disappeared inside the stockade. He was bemused and not sure what had just happened, but whatever it was, it felt good. He picked up the reins and followed in his leader’s footsteps.
----
Chapter 2
Cassus stood naked in the dawn’s early light, shivering slightly in the damp morning air. His hands rested on his hips, and his feet were planted slightly apart, the soft loam of the forest edge pushing up between his manicured toes. A day’s stubble darkened his strong chin and his sun-bleached hair fell about his shoulders like the mane of a desert lion. His body was muscular, and at twenty-one years old, he was nearing his physical peak. Strong and healthy, he was a vision of self-awareness that bordered on arrogance as he surveyed the world before him.
In front of him, the fertile hills of the farm rolled serenely away toward the Adriatic Sea, the slopes already alive with the estate workers maki
ng their way to the vineyards. Some were family, some were freedmen who took their skills from farm to farm, as the harvest demanded, but most were slaves, bought at the monthly market in Asculum where captured foreigners or disgraced Romans were sold to the highest bidder. If they worked hard and were loyal to the estate they were treated fairly, however, those who rebelled, were lazy, or tried to escape, were severely punished by the farm prefect and risked imprisonment, beatings, or death depending on their master’s whim.
He recognised the familiar frame of Karim, the ex-gladiator who ran the estate with an unbreakable loyalty to Cassus’s family. Karim had become the hardest worker on his father’s estate and as prefect, had run the farm with a fair but firm hand. He earned a small income and after he wed the nursemaid, who helped him raise the orphaned child, had been allowed to build a stone lodge for himself and his family. The child, Prydain, grew up alongside Cassus on the farm, and though they were the same age, the differences in upbringing were obvious. Cassus was well schooled and literate and his clothing was of the best quality. He ate the best food and spent his spare time taunting the workers of the farm.
Prydain, on the other hand, was the son of a slave and worked dawn until dusk in the fields. His clothes were plain and often second hand from the villa. It was a hard existence, yet despite this, he was a proud young man, and over the years, had formed a close yet strained friendship with Cassus.
As a boy, Prydain was often summoned from the fields to play with Cassus. At first, he would do whatever the spoilt boy demanded, but childhood has a way of bridging gaps of upbringing and soon, they were roaming side by side across the estate, swinging their wooden swords enthusiastically as they fought imaginary battles with invading barbarians.
As the years passed, both boys dreamed of a future in the armies of Rome, though in vastly different roles. Pelonius had already purchased a commission for his son in the Ninth Hispana legion, while the best Prydain could hope for was a place in the auxiliaries. Only true Roman citizens could serve in Rome’s legions, but despite this, Prydain was happy. Pelonius had granted Karim his freedom and as Karim’s son, Prydain was officially classed as a freeman and could enlist in the auxiliaries.