Roman - The Fall of Britannia (9 page)

‘
You
and a thousand others,’ laughed Gwydion. ‘He is a shrewd
man.’

‘
What business do you have?’ asked the old woman. ‘Perhaps we
can help.’

‘
You
may be able to point me in the right direction,’ said Gwydion. ‘We
have lost a lot of foals to the wolves this year, and seek to
purchase more horses from the council.’

‘
Horses?’ asked the old man, his eyebrows rising. ‘Then I fear
your journey will be in vain.’

‘
Why
so?’ asked Gwydion, scooping the last of the soup into his
mouth.

‘
The
council has claimed all available horses for defence of the
territory. Look around you traveller, there are far more people
walking these streets than ever before. Yet try to engage them and
many speak in foreign tongue.’

‘
And
are they a threat?’

‘
On
the contrary,’ he said, ‘they may be a drain on resources, but the
foreigners are seen as allies. However, their presence here is a
symptom of a greater problem.’

‘
Which is?’

‘
The
Romans. They are refugees from Gaul, Belgica and Gemina, fleeing
the heel of the legions.’

‘
There have always been foreigners on these shores,’ said
Gwydion. ‘Why is this different?’

‘
Think about it,’ the reply came, ‘if anyone knows the
brutality of Rome, these people do, for they have witnessed it
first-hand. Word has come that their Emperor has cast a covetous
eye on these islands and our foreign friends flee their path, long
before the Roman galleys have even caught wind.’

‘
But
I thought that you were happy to trade with the Romans,’ said
Gwydion. ‘Not ten minutes ago you were seeking Roman coinage to
engage in trade.’

‘
This is true, for they are a strange lot the Romans. If you
roll over and accept their heel, they bring trade and prosperity,
though always on their terms. If you resist, they fall on your
cities with fire and steel, sparing no one and turning the rivers
red with the landowner’s blood.

‘
Then they have not faced the Deceangli, yet,’ said Gwydion,
‘we would not roll over so easy.’

‘
Spoken with the exuberance of youth,’ said the old man.
‘Trust me, I have witnessed these soldiers operate. They fight as
one, unrelenting and with overwhelming force. Nothing can withstand
them. No, it is far better to trade with this monster than to fight
it. I feel that you will probably see a few more sunsets that
way.’

Gwydion drank
the last of his beer and wiped the froth from his lips.

‘
Well, old man,’ he said, ‘it is just as well that you don’t
lead our tribe. I would rather have seen my last sunset, than see a
thousand under the heel of an oppressor.’ He handed the empty cup
back to the old woman. ‘So,’ he said, ‘can you direct me to the
council?’

The old man
turned around and pointed southwest toward a mountain range that
dominated the skyline.

‘
They overlook you as we speak,’ he said, ‘in the Cerrig on
the mountain of our ancestors.’

‘
And
how do I get to this Cerrig?’ asked Gwydion.

‘
Follow the road through the village and into the hills. Do
not worry about finding them, they will find you.’

‘
Thank you,’ said Gwydion and mounted his horse again. ‘Keep
that pot well stocked, old mother,’ he said, ‘for I will surely
tell my fellows to sample its contents whenever they pass this
way.’ He turned away and trotted up the street toward the hills in
the distance.

----

High above the
fishing village, the fort encircled a rocky plateau nestling
between two hills. A steep path ensured the approach was easily
defended and high walls topped the natural crag, hewn from the very
ground upon which the Cerrig had stood for hundreds of years. Entry
was gained through a pair of wooden gates, framed within thick
walls that channelled visitors into an easily defended
corridor.

Gwydion stared
up at the awe-inspiring fort in amazement. He had only travelled a
short way up the hill before two outlying guards appeared from the
undergrowth and demanded to know his business. After hearing his
explanation, they escorted him up the Cerrig, passing numerous
checkpoints on the way until he stood before the doors of an
impressive central hall.

‘
Wait there,’ said the guard and he entered the hall leaving
Gwydion outside, guarded by six heavily armed warriors.

Within the hall,
six tribal elders sat around a horseshoe shaped table, deep in
conversation. In the open end of the horseshoe sat two visitors,
each eating a platter of cold meat. The door at the end of the hall
opened and the guard walked up to the table, interrupting an
argument.

‘
Sire’s’ he said, ‘there is a Gwydion of the Blaidd outside
seeking audience.’

‘
Can’t you see we are busy,’ snapped one member. ‘Send him
away.’

‘
Who
are the Blaidd?’ asked Owen, a senior member of the
council.

‘
A
client clan to the south,’ answered a colleague. ‘Loyal to the
tribe, but of no great significance. Get rid of him.’

‘
Sire, he is very insistent,’ said the guard. ‘He said to give
you this.’ He placed a golden Torc with a wolf pendant on the
table.

‘
What is it?’ asked one of the visitors.

‘
It
is the symbol of the Blaidd,’ said Owen, realizing like everyone
else that any emissary bearing the symbol of their own clan, could
expect audience and hospitality with any other Deceangli. ‘We will
humour him, send him in.’

The guard left
the building as the council stood to stretch their legs, some
seeking to warm their backs against the roaring log fire at the end
of the hall. A minute later, he returned, closely followed by
Gwydion.

‘
Welcome, Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ said Owen. ‘You bear your
clan’s totem. I assume you hold the legal right.’

‘
I
do, Sire,’ answered Gwydion, ‘I was sent by Erwyn of the Blaidd to
conduct business on his behalf.

‘
I
know of Erwyn,’ said Owen. ‘But I forget my manners, have you
eaten?’

‘
I
have, Sire,’ he replied, ‘though my thirst is great.’

‘
Then let me serve you,’ said Owen, pouring a tankard of beer,
‘and after you have quenched your thirst, you can tell us how we
can help you.’

Gwydion sank
half the draft in one go, before placing the tankard back on the
table.

‘
Well Sir,’ he said wiping the froth from his mouth, ‘my
initial task was to source twenty horses for my clan, but while
passing through the village, I learned that there are none to be
had due to the threat of invasion.’

‘
And?’

‘
If
this is true, Sire, I would seek clarification.’

‘
Your concern is understandable,’ said Owen. ‘But worry not,
we will send word should a threat arise and you will know in plenty
of time.’

‘
But
why then are you securing the horses, Sire?’ asked
Gwydion.

‘
And
why should I share the Kings business with you?’ asked
Owen.

‘
I
am sorry if I offend, Sire, I think only of my clan. We will have
need of horses, whatever the situation. If there is a threat, then
we need to defend ourselves, and if there is not, then I fail to
see why I cannot purchase the beasts. I passed many on the farms
along the coast.

‘
They are being sent to Caratacus,’ said Owen, ‘Cunobelinus’
heir, and new king of the Catuvellauni.’

Gwydion nodded
in recognition. During his time with the Catuvellauni, he had seen
Caratacus on many occasions and he was an imposing man. He looked
over to the two Catuvellauni travellers talking quietly together,
slightly apart from the others.

‘
I
realize we are at peace with the Catuvellauni, Sire, but surely we
should not be selling our resources to another tribe. Horses are
hard to come by.’

‘
Guard your manner, young man,’ said Owen, ‘despite their
birth they still enjoy the safety of our hospitality. We do not
sell anything. The horses are given freely in the name of the
King.’ The rest of the occupants had drawn closer to hear the
conversation.

Gwydion drew a
purse from his belt and threw it on the table.

‘
I
can pay a fair price with good Khymric gold, Sire,’ he said. ‘You
deny your own people the horses they need, yet give them away
freely to your enemies?’

One of the
travellers stepped forward.

‘
You
have already stated the answer, young man,’ he said in a strange
accent.

‘
And
who are you?’ asked Gwydion scornfully.

‘
Hold your tongue,’ shouted Owen standing up from his chair.
‘You too are a visitor and hold no sway here. You will not question
our guests.’

The bearded man
held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

‘
Be
calm, Owen,’ he said. ‘If we are to meet this threat as allies,
then we must share many things, knowledge as well as horses. I am
Rebellon of the Catuvellauni,’ he said, addressing Gwydion
directly, ‘and I speak for King Caratacus. We expect the Romans to
send their armies before the year is out and our lands overlook the
seas from whence they will come. We intend to meet these invaders
and crush them like beetles beneath our feet. Roman traders are one
thing; Roman soldiers are another. Even as we speak, riders are
travelling between all the clans of Catuvellauni gathering warriors
to defend our island. Thousands are gathering at the coast and our
villages have been tasked to turn out as many chariots as possible,
but therein lay the problem. Chariots we can make. Horses take a
while longer.’

Gwydion
considered the man’s words.

‘
I
hear the Romans are a formidable foe,’ he said. ‘What makes you
think you can defeat them?’

‘
Because we have done so before,’ said Rebellon confidently.
‘Twice in the last hundred years, they have dared to wave their
swords over our people and twice our tribe has turned them away
with steel and willow. This time will be no different.’

‘
And
if you do?’ asked Gwydion. ‘When it is all over and the blood lust
is still high in your warrior’s veins, what is to stop you from
turning your war chariots against us?’

‘
We
do not covet your lands, Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ laughed Rebellon.
‘Rest assured you can keep your lung tearing mountains and your
foot rotting weather, we have lands enough. What we require are
enough of your horses to draw a hundred chariots.’

‘
And
if you fail?’ asked Gwydion, his tone a lot calmer.

‘
If
we fail, young man, I fear the loss of two hundred horses will be
the last thing on your mind.’

‘
Enough talk!’ interjected Owen. ‘You have had your answer,
Gwydion, the deal is already done. Rebellion’s party will take two
hundred horses from the village. Now, we have business to conclude.
Be on your way.’

‘
Wait!’ said a voice from the shadows, and a well-built
warrior stepped into the light. He was dressed in protective tunic
of leather and a fine cape of chain mail hung from his shoulders.
He had a sword strapped to his back and a dagger hung from his
belt.

‘
You
are a strange one, boy,’ he said to Gwydion. ‘You come in here,
interrupting a meeting of your betters, demanding that we explain
ourselves to you. What gives you the right?’

‘
I
only seek to protect my clan and my tribe, Sire,’ said Gwydion,
‘and if I have offended, then I apologize.’

‘
And
I accept your apology,’ said the man, ‘but I am intrigued, your
tenacity is both admirable and annoying. I don’t know whether to
enrol you in my army or have you beaten for your insolence. Where
are you from?’

‘
The
Blaidd clan,’ replied Gwydion.

The amour-clad
man, walked slowly around the table, picking up Gwydion’s purse as
he went.

‘
I
don’t recognize the accent. Have you always been with the
Blaidd?’

‘
I
was fostered to the Catuvellauni as a child, Sire, and grew up in
the court of Cunobelinus, the ward of a Roman slave. Despite my
Deceangli bloodline, I still carry some accent.’

The warrior
stopped and looked back.

‘
You
were taught by a Roman?’

‘
Yes
Sire, a slave captured in Gaul and sold to Cunobelinus as one of
many. They were all sacrificed by the Druids to gain him honour,
but her life was spared as she was of particular beauty.

‘
How
long were you in the care of this Roman slave?’

‘
Fourteen years.’

‘
Can
you speak her tongue?’

‘
I
can, and I also know their writing.’

The man
approached Gwydion again.

‘
I
like you, Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ he said, tossing the purse up and
down in his palm, ‘you remind me of myself when I was your age.’
Without taking his eyes off Gwydion, he called out across the
hall.