Roman - The Fall of Britannia (37 page)

‘
Hasn’t had a meal in days by the look of him,’ he said before
trying again. ‘Gaul?’ he asked pointing at the man’s chest. ‘Are
you from Gaul?’

The man looked
puzzled for a moment and then nodded in agreement.

‘
Oui,’ he said, ‘Gaul.’

‘
I
knew it,’ said the old man, ‘another refugee from the Romans, I’ll
wager.’

The man looked
up again, spoon halfway to his mouth seemingly alarmed at the
familiar word and he sprang up, drawing his knife and looking
around him nervously.

‘
Roomans
?’ he repeated in his strange language and
looked quizzically at the old man.

‘
Don’t worry,’ laughed the old man, ‘no
Roomans
around
here. Well, not yet anyway.’

‘
Poor thing!’ said his wife. ‘Must have had some bad
experiences.’

‘
What’s your name, friend?’ asked the old man slowly, trying
to break through the language barrier, ‘I am Owen,’ he continued
pointing at his own chest, ‘You?’

The man looked
puzzled but then realisation dawned.

‘
Jeanne,’ he answered, ‘Jeanne.’

Owen
laughed.

‘
See,’ he called to his wife, ‘the smelly brute isn’t so
stupid after all; he understands me.’

‘
Owen, Jeanne!’ repeated the stranger again.

‘
Well, Jeanne,’ said Owen, ‘we may not be able to understand
each other, but anyone who has faced the Romans and survived is
welcome here. Wife!’ he called, ‘bring our friend a tankard of
beer.’

As the old woman
poured the ale, a commotion appeared further down the track and a
troop of horses appeared from around the bend to gallop past the
hut in a cloud of dust. The old woman came out carrying the ale and
watched the warriors passing.

‘
Where are they going?’ she asked.

‘
Out
to the clans,’ said the old man. ‘Idwal is calling them to
arms.’

Jeanne looked at
the riders and then quizzically at Owen, the unspoken question
obvious on his face.

‘
Warriors!’ said Owen slowly. ‘From the Cerrig,’ he pointed up
toward the nearby mountain, ‘The King’s fort up in the
hills.’

Jeanne shrugged
and smiled simply, his demeanour displaying his lack of
understanding.

‘
Never you mind, Jeanne,’ said Owen. ‘here’s your
ale.’

Jeanne took the
drink and sat back down on the grass verge before picking up the
bowl once again. His eyes were focussed on the soup, but
underneath, his mind was racing. Not only did he understand
everything the old couple were saying, but he had only been in the
village an hour and already he had learned vital intelligence.
Jeanne of Gaul, otherwise known as Andronicus of Rome and scout of
the General Plautius’s personal elite, put down his empty bowl and
finished his ale. He had to admit, despite their backward ways,
they certainly knew how to treat a guest.

----

Andronicus
wandered through Treforum, careful not to be too conspicuous, yet
taking in everything he could about the people. He had learnt the
Britannic languages back in Gaul, taught by prisoners who had been
sent to Rome by minor Britannic kings. He had learnt the
particularly difficult Khymric tongue, and whilst he would never
pass as a local, could understand enough to gather the intelligence
he sought. He had landed secretly on the shoreline many months ago
in anticipation of the invasion and had spent the time embedding
himself in the locality as the harmless foreign buffoon he
portrayed. Others of his unit were undertaking similar tasks in
villages across the country and the time was fast approaching when
he would be expected to rendezvous with Plautius.

----

Chapter 33

Fifty miles
away, over a hundred men, women and children who had not been
required by Caratacus, stood nervously behind the pointed logs of a
small stockade, brandishing a range of old weapons and field
implements in defiance of the force to their front.

Before them,
grassland that less than an hour ago had held only a few scrawny
goats, now held almost five hundred heavy infantry in battle
formation, supported by twenty cavalry and two centuries of
Germanic archers.

A few yards to
their front, Tribune Mateus sat astride his horse alongside
Centurion Remus, both amused at the feeble defences of the
stockade. A bruised and bleeding prisoner lay in a heap at their
feet, clinging onto life. It was his testimony that had brought
them to the stockade, the severe beating finally convincing him
that his only chance was to let the Romans know what they wanted to
hear. They were looking for a deserter and at first, the boy had
denied any knowledge, but after the brutal attention of Remus,
realised he had no choice and told them of the prisoner taken by
his people a few days earlier. He looked up in misery. He had given
in to the pain and betrayed his people by bringing the enemy here,
and was surely dammed. Mateus spoke to his interpreter who called
out to the defenders on the wall, relaying the answers back to the
Tribune.

‘
Who
speaks for your people?’ he called.

‘
I
do!’ said an old man, brandishing a pitchfork above the palisade.
‘There is nothing for you here, be on your way,’

‘
On
the contrary,’ said Mateus. ‘You have something I value very much,
a Roman prisoner. We would have him back.’

‘
We
have no prisoners,’ said the old man.’

‘
Don’t waste my time, old man,’ said Mateus. ‘If you value the
lives of all within your quaint little stockade, you would hand him
over or suffer our wrath.’

‘
I’ve already told you, there is no Roman here,’ repeated the
old man.

Centurion Remus
gave a signal and a moment later, a long metal arrow slammed into
the chest of the old man, surprising both the defenders and the
Tribune who turned suddenly to stare at the Scorpio
operator.

‘
Who
ordered that?’ he barked.

‘
I
did!’ said Remus. ‘We waste time and it is the only language they
understand.’

Mateus grunted
and decided to let it go. He couldn’t afford an argument with his
Centurion in front of the men. Panic was ensuing on the wall and
confusion reigned for a few moments before Mateus called out
again.

‘
Silence!’ he shouted. ‘I will ask one more time, hand over
the prisoner.’

A woman screamed
back at him in rage.

‘
He
told you he is not here,’ she shouted, ‘but you Romans never
listen. There was a prisoner, but he was sold to a man named
Gwydion many days ago.’

‘
Where will we find this Gwydion?’ shouted Remus, frustrated
at the response.

‘
He
is of the Blaidd, a Khymric clan of the Deceangli tribe to the
west,’ spat the woman. ‘If it’s a fight you seek, take your tyranny
to them. I promise you their warriors will give you a far warmer
welcome than we can, or would you take pleasure in killing a
handful of old men and women?’

‘
Cease your rant, woman,’ answered Mateus. ‘You are lucky that
my sword has no taste for barbarian blood today. We will leave you
to rot in your own filth.’

They turned
their horses to return to the Cohort, but before they took a few
paces, Remus’s mount screamed and reared upwards, throwing the
Centurion to the floor. He jumped up instantly and saw the Tribune
frantically holding on to the horse’s reins as it bucked and reared
in pain, an arrow sticking out of its side. An order rang out from
another Centurion and a Contubernium of men ran forward, using
their shields to form one wall of a defensive Testudo.

Behind the
shield, Remus helped restrain the horse, realising that the frothy
blood meant the beast’s lungs had been pierced. There was nothing
he could do for him. He put his arms around the horse’s neck and
held its head against his chest, whispering soothing words to calm
it down. The horses frenzy eased and finally stood still, though
his breath was laboured.

‘
Goodbye, old friend,’ said Remus as he petted the animal’s
head, ‘I’ll seek you out in the next world.’ With a sudden thrust,
Remus drove his Gladius up through the horse’s throat and into its
brain, killing him instantly. The horse dropped at his feet and
Remus stared up at the stockade, and in particular, the frightened
face of a young boy, no more than ten years old who had sent the
arrow at his back.

‘
Well, sir?’ asked Remus without taking his eyes of the
wall.

‘
What?’

‘
They tried to kill one of us,’ he said. ‘Are you going to let
them get away with it?’

‘
He
is only a boy,’ answered Mateus. ‘He made a mistake.’

Remus bent over,
and placing his foot on the body of his dead horse, wrenched the
arrow free, ripping out flesh and fur as it came.

‘
This was meant for you or me,’ snapped Remus under his
breath, ‘If you don’t do something now, they will feel free to send
arrows at the next Roman that passes. Next time, he might not
miss!’

‘
But...’

‘
But
nothing,’ said Remus. ‘You have a Cohort behind you expecting you
to do something. Fail this, and you will lose them.’

‘
You’re right,’ said Mateus, ‘we cannot allow them to threaten
the glory of Rome, do what you have to do.’

Remus turned
away and walked back to the Roman lines, cursing under his
breath.

‘
Glory of Rome!’ he thought. ‘Who the fuck does he think he
is?’ He called his Optio to him. ‘Pass the order to the cavalry,’
he said. ‘Collect as much deadwood and dry brush as they can and
pile it up against the gate under the protection of full
Testudo.’

‘
We
are going in then?’ asked the Optio, his manner displaying the
rising excitement at the thought of battle.

‘
We
are,’ said Remus. ‘Over the ashes of their puny gates. First two
centuries only, shouldn’t need much more than that. Pass the
command, relinquish Pila, we are going in with swords only. No
prisoners!’

‘
Yes, Sir,’ answered the soldier and barked out the necessary
commands.

Remus called to
one of the attendants to bring his armour and a fresh horse. He
faced the fort once more as he fastened his helmet under his chin,
preparing for the assault. Up on the palisade, panic started to set
in as the elderly defenders realised what was going to
happen.

Remus walked to
the young prisoner still sprawled in the dirt by the dead horse.
Grabbing him by the hair, he tilted his head back and held his
Pugio to the boy’s throat. The captive’s eyes widened in fear as
Remus’s intention became clear.

‘
No!’ he pleaded in his own language. ‘Please,
don’t...’

Both his thin
arms grasped Remus’s battle hardened arm in a desperate, yet futile
attempt to pull the knife away from his throat.

‘
Centurion no!’ shouted Tribune Mateus. Remus paused, and
looked at his Tribune before dragging his Pugio deep across the
boy’s neck to open his throat.

The boy released
the Centurion’s arms and clutched desperately at the wound in a
vain attempt to stem the bleeding. Picking himself up off the
floor, he staggered across the pasture toward the wall of the
palisade, desperate to reach his home and the help within. He
managed to get within ten yards of the gate before collapsing to
the floor, his strength failing as his life spurted out between his
fingers. The Tribune’s face drained of colour as he watched the boy
die.

‘
Was
there any need of that?’ he hissed.

‘
Every need,’ said Remus. ‘You have to shock them into
realising what they are dealing with. Let them know the futility of
their actions.’

‘
Won’t that make them fight all the harder?’ asked Mateus, a
look of nervousness on his face.

‘
Some will, but most will hide, shitting themselves in fear,’
answered Remus scornfully. ‘Anyway, you don’t think any of that
filth is a match for your sword, do you, Sire?’

‘
Of
course not!’ blustered the Tribune. ‘I was only asking so I could
understand the threat.’

‘
Oh
there will be a threat’ said Remus, ‘a small one, but a threat
nonetheless. I am sure you will deal with it admirably.’

‘
Me?’

‘
Yes, Sire,’ said Remus, ‘this is your chance. You are leading
us in.’

----

Chapter 34

Back at the
Henge, Gwydion kicked in the door and raced inside to find Gwenno,
but stopped in the doorway, momentarily confused. There was no sign
of life and Gwydion called out in the Gloom.?

‘
Gwenno!’ he hissed, ‘where are you?’

There was no
reply, but seeing the silhouette of a girl laying still on the bed,
he lurched forward fearing the worst. He stopped dead in his tracks
when he saw it was the short-haired girl in the red cape, face down
in a pool of blood.

‘
By
the Gods, Roman.’ he swore, ‘what’s happened here? Where is
she?’