Magic’s Last Stand

Table of Contents

Half-Title

Title Page

Praise for The Last Caesar

Author’s Note

I

II

III

IV

V

Epilogue

Next in Series

Copyright

Magic’s Last Stand

By Henry Venmore-Rowland

A short story in the

Aulus Severus Adventures

Prequel to

The Last Caesar

Praise for The Last Caesar

“Fast, colourful and engaging, THE LAST CAESAR is a period yarn in the best traditions of Scarrow and Cornwell and fans of both will love it!” (MANDA SCOTT, bestselling author of the Rome series and the Sunday Times Thriller of the Month A TREACHERY OF SPIES)

Five Stars A fine read from first to last page. The story lines were believable as well as spellbinding. I would strongly recommend this book. (US Amazon reviewer)

Five Stars The best historical novel I have read since Conn Iggulden’s Emperor series. (UK Amazon reviewer)

Author’s Note

In AD 68, Aulus Caecina Severus and his Irish freedman Totavalas were caught up in what came to the known as the Year of the Four Emperors, a raging civil war in which rival generals fought to replace Nero, the last of Caesar’s Julio-Claudian dynasty. Their story is told in my full novels, THE LAST CAESAR and THE SWORD AND THE THRONE.

Eight years earlier, just as Boudica and her army marched on Camulodunum, Roman Colchester, Caecina and a Roman army were poised to invade a mysterious island known as Mona, today’s Anglesey in north Wales. Mona was the fabled stronghold of the druids, the centre of magic in the lands of Britannia and a threat to the pax Romana.

This is the story of how Caecina and a young Irish exile, Tuathal, met for the very first time on opposite sides of the battlefield. I hope you enjoy it.

I

The Feast of the New Spears was a day that every boy longed for, and Tuathal was no different. From all over the Blessed Isle the boys had come to the sacred grove. Sons of warriors, farmers, shepherds, merchants, the gods saw no distinction. Except there was no feast, not this year. For the druids of Mona, breaking with tradition and sacred rite was no small thing. The custom was to hold the feast on the night of the new moon, so that the boys would emerge the next cycle as men of the tribe, but this year everything was different.

New moon was still several days away, Tuathal could see the waning crescent emerging from one of the few wisps of cloud on the starry night. At this hour the initiates and their families should have been feasting in celebration, fathers and mothers, siblings, cousins, even grandparents if they had survived to see their sons’ sons reach the night of mysteries. Only once the feast was over would the womenfolk and younger children be sent back to their homes. This night wasn’t for them. Yet just ahead of him on a grey mare, their finest possession, rode his mother Queen Eithne.

Eithne was a queen in exile, born in the Caledonian lands in the far north but married to Fiachu, High King of an island that its people called Eriu, or Hibernia in the Roman tongue. Eithne wished that her husband had lived to see this day. She wished that Tuathal might have been paraded on the royal hill of Tara, a newly-made man for all their subjects to see. The priests ruled on Mona though, and bloodline or not her son was one of dozens of young lads that would be initiated in a great batch. Before the gods, all the boys were equal.

At Eithne’s side rode her son’s tutor: a man with long hair that had once been golden but was now almost snow-white, like the robes he wore. Like the queen he wore a fur cloak to keep the cold night air at bay. Madog, like most of his brethren, had spent most of his life on the island, learning the mysteries of his order. The white of his robe showed that he had completed twenty years of arduous training to become what Tuathal’s people called a drui, a wise man. Not all those who took the path stayed on it until the bitter end. Those whose passions inclined to stories and the deeds of men could curtail their learning once they had learned the lore and legends of heroes past, when the gods had walked the earth. These fili acted not just as bards, but their counsel was sometimes sought by lords and kings. A man who knows the stories of the past was often well-placed to advise on the unfurling stories of the present.

Madog though was not a fili, nor was he a lawgiver, one who sat in judgement of his fellow man, storing all the laws and customs of the Celtic peoples in his head. He was of the third caste, one who sought to commune with the gods, interpret their will and, when called upon, to practise magic. Tuathal was privileged to have such a man as his tutor, even if he came of the blood of kings. The lad was sharp, he had drunk in what lessons Madog could share without betraying the secrets of his order. The druid had even taught the boy some Latin. With each passing year the Roman presence in Britannia looked more assured, and the druids had surmised that Latin speakers amongst their own people would make excellent spies. All that learning wasted, Madog thought, if the Romans should cross The Narrows – a channel of mercurial water that was the island’s last defence.

‘A lot of the boys here are older than Tuathal,’ Eithne observed. Boys tended to be initiated in the spring of their fifteenth year, though sometimes earlier if the lad had grown taller and stronger than his peers. ‘Much older.’ Tuathal was barely ten years old.

‘Exceptional measures, my lady,’ Madog assured her. ‘We need everyone capable of bearing arms.’

‘I understand that, Madog, but Tuathal is only ten. These other boys look to be twelve and older.’

‘A special honour, my lady.’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Madog. I know you’re blooding these boys so they can fight when the Romans land. That’s why you’re holding the ceremony now.’

Madog looked into the former queen’s eyes. She was still a young woman, nearer thirty than forty, and yet she hadn’t found a new husband since arriving on Mona’s shores an exile. Those who knew her less well thought her solitude smacked of pride, but Madog knew better. In recent generations, crowns in distant Eriu changed heads swiftly and bloodily. While her son lived he had a claim to the throne. She was saving her marriage for an ambitious man with enough men or influence to help put Tuathal back where he belonged. The cold blue eyes stared relentlessly, even as the western wind whipped her flaming red hair in her face.

‘Once Tuathal becomes a man, that will be his choice. Those too young to hold a sword or spear will be put with the slingers, out of harm’s way. If he chooses to remain with you there will be no dishonour.’

‘He’s a boy, Madog. He’s never seen battle, seen that it’s not like the stories the fili sing to us. War is bloody, filthy and terrifying, and no place for a child.’

‘After the ceremony is over, you’ll be free to tell him so.’

‘Madog, you were a boy once.’

‘A long time ago, lady,’ Madog said ruefully.

‘If all the other boys wanted to do something, and your mother told you not to do it, what did you do?’

‘The exact opposite of what my mother told me.’

‘That’s why he needs to hear it from you. He respects you.’

Eithne turned back to look at her child. Tuathal and the rest of the initiates walked in a great huddle, led by a dark-haired druid in the brown robes of an apprentice. The flash of gold in the torchlight helped her find her son’s face amongst the gaggle of chattering children. As befit one of his status, he wore a thin torque about his neck that no other child on Mona wore.

Mona itself belonged to no king. It was a place of magic and of learning, but also a place of refuge. While there were some from the land of Eriu, like Tuathal and Eithne, there were many more from tribes in the south that were falling one by one to the Roman legions. The druids gave them land to farm and took a portion of the harvest, and in return the wanderers found a new place to call home. There were Iceni like Madog; Silures; Brigantes; Gauls; Caledonians; even an Iberian druid who had travelled for months to learn from the secret-keepers of Mona. And unless the gods came to their aid, that world was about to end.

The procession reached the edge of a forest, a wall of impenetrable darkness. Either side of a gap in the treeline stood woad-smeared warriors holding their torches aloft. Parents and older siblings murmured reassuring words or chirped blessings and offers of good luck to the bewildered huddle of boys. Madog eased his aching bones out of the saddle, using the tip of his blackthorn staff to help him reach the ground gently. He gave a cursory nod to the soldiers.

‘Everything is prepared?’

One of the soldiers nodded. All men on the island knew what the boys could expect, but it was a great sin to betray that knowledge to the young boys. Not that they could know or understand the mysteries themselves, but no man forgot the fear, the giddy highs and the awe the first time they saw the Horned One up close.

Madog marched to the head of the crowd. As he passed the group of young lads, his eyes automatically sought out Tuathal amongst the other boys. The prince’s face was full of curiosity, a trait that the druid had tried to nurture these past years.

‘The ceremony of the New Spears is the night you announce yourselves to the gods as men. It is time for the families to depart. The accursed Red-Crests are less than a day’s march from The Narrows. Those who will join us in battle will march to Ifor’s Hall, the rest of you, most of the women, the children and those too old to fight will spend the night at the Grove of Toutatis. There you will pray for victory and prepare for the offering the god will demand as tribute. Say your farewells to the boys now.’

The families dutifully obeyed. Eithne had remained on her grey mare, she wouldn’t embarrass her son by wading into the gaggle of other boys to hug him goodbye. Instead she mouthed the words ‘Be brave’, slowly enough that Tuathal could read her lips. He gave her a nervous smile before she rode away. It was a long time before the noise of the crowd and the lights of their torches disappeared into nothingness.

‘As your brothers and fathers did before you, it is now your turn to walk the Winding Path. All of you, remove your tunics. Men do not fear the cold.’

The boys obeyed, removing their tunics and standing half-naked. Some of the more cruel boys sniggered at those who carried too much fat. The sniggers stopped when the druid fixed them with an icy stare. He beckoned at the soldiers who brought over gourds filled with liquid.

‘One gulp, no more, no less. Then pass the gourd onto the next boy.’

When it came to Tuathal’s turn, he took hold of the gourd and poured in the liquid. The scent was earthy and rancid, but that was nothing compared to the potion itself. He found himself coughing and spluttering. At Madog’s nod, the warrior nearest to him put his hand forcefully under Tuathal’s chin and used the other to hold his nose, forcing the boy to swallow the foul concoction. Once he had been seen to swallow, Tuathal was able to breathe once more and continued to splutter. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

‘You must all take the path, and keep to it, no matter what you find there. The path will take you to the sacred grove. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, keep moving forwards. Lest any of you forget, any boy who fails the test of manhood will never hold a sword or spear. They will never hold land. They will be a burden to their families and a stain on their honour.’

The druid strode over to the gap in the trees. ‘You will go in groups of five. Now, five of you step forward.’

Some of the older boys volunteered, being braver than the younger children. Madog smiled at them, the mind-bending properties of the potion they had drunk would take a little while before they began to have an effect. The boys who went first would suffer less on the journey to the centre of the forest, a fitting reward.

‘Good lads. In you go.’

Solemnly, the youths entered. Tuathal and the rest watched and waited, straining as the small group vanished into the darkness.

‘Next five, forwards,’ Madog called.

Tuathal held himself back. He had counted the number of initiates, and he wanted to impress his tutor. The next few boys shuffled forwards, but the spearman nearest to them held out his weapon.

‘Give the first group time to get ahead. The gods will test you on the march.’

After a little while Madog waved his hand and the warrior raised his spear. The five boys ambled slowly forwards. Far in the distance an owl hooted. At least it started off like a hoot – to Tuathal’s impressionable mind it seemed to turn into a malicious cackle. He shook his head, and the keening call stopped.

In this way three more groups were called, held and sent into the forest. From deep inside they heard what sounded like a scream of terror, but it was quickly choked off. One last group remained. Madog looked at them, six children in all. Besides Tuathal, four of them were the smallest and youngest of the initiates. The fifth was the older brother of one of the scrawny boys, no doubt hanging back on his father’s instructions so as to be a comforting presence in the brooding blackness of night.

‘Come forward, all of you,’ the druid called for the last time. Five boys stepped forward, one did not. Madog’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tuathal, you have to go in.’

‘Please, Madog, let the others go in first. I want to go in alone and show the gods that I’m not afraid.’

The druid smiled faintly. ‘As you wish.’

A wind from the western ocean picked up in strength. Goosebumps rose along Tuathal’s pale and hairless arms as the cold gust seemed to blow right through him. As the wind whistled through the trees it seemed to Tuathal that it whispered words, words he could not quite catch. He shook his head, and the voices stopped. Madog was beckoning him forwards. The warriors remained still and grim, but Madog allowed himself a gentle and reassuring smile for his young pupil.

‘Keep to the path and all will be well. Now go, the ceremony can’t begin without you.’

Tuathal took a deep breath and strode into the forest. After he had taken ten paces he glanced over his shoulder. Madog and the warriors had disappeared. He was alone, and the black of night surrounded him like a shroud. Only a hint of moonlight pierced the trees, and though his eyes adjusted it was difficult to see more than a few paces ahead of him. Following the path around to the left, he then saw an eerie green glow. Growing at the base of an oak tree were mushrooms that emitted a low light from their gills. Another ten or so paces ahead Tuathal could see another glow. They had to be markers for the Winding Path.

Somewhere in the distance, a fox began to bark. The high-pitched yap was nothing new to Tuathal, but to his addled senses the sound seemed to be coming from ahead of him, behind him and all around.

The snapping of a twig made him spin about. Up ahead of him, a dark blur crossed the path. The prince’s heart was pounding now, but he could not turn back. It would bring everlasting shame. None of the boys had come back down the ghostly glowing path, which meant they must have gone on.

The path twisted to the left and right, snaking towards the very centre of the forest. The bark of the silver beeches caught the moonlight when she emerged from behind the clouds and shone through the canopy. There was just enough light to make out the point where the path suddenly gave way, bisected by a great trench. The distance was too great for a boy to jump, and the depth of a man. Madog’s last instruction echoed in his head, even as he looked left and right to see if there was some way across. The trench ran as far as he could see. But peering downwards, he could just make out on the far wall some jutting stones and thick tree roots that he was clearly meant to use to climb out.

Tuathal had enough sense not to dive straight in – at that depth he might sprain his ankle, or worse. Dropping to his hands and knees he shuffled towards the edge of the pit. Facing back the way he had come, he gripped the lip of the trench and dangled his legs so that he could lower himself as far as his arms could reach before dropping to the bottom. The earth was rich and soggy, still wet from the morning’s rain. On turning to face the far wall Tuathal yelped in terror. Embedded in the earth was the gurning face of a human skull. The jaw was gaping and askew. The great holes of the eye sockets bored into Tuathal, and from somewhere the boy heard a sinister laugh. Some unseen force pinched at his heart and played havoc with his bowels.

The boy’s mind flew back to a distant day when he and Madog had been walking in the woods near his adopted home. He recalled a lecture about the healing properties of certain roots and herbs, some which could kill, and others which the druids concocted into potions that let them commune with the gods. His eyes and ears told him that the grisly skull was laughing at him, but his mind told him that no boy had yet turned back, so they must have gone forwards. Scuffmarks in the earth, illuminated by the moonlight, showed where the boys had used their hands and feet to climb the wall of the pit.

The gaps between the various pieces of flint or gnarled tree root were a stretch for the young prince, and one such stretch put his face directly in front of that hellish deathmask. Though he screwed his eyes shut and felt for the next foothold, his imagination couldn’t shift the spectre of the ghoulish grin, and a wriggling worm crawling from the space where his eye should be. The climb was soon over, and Tuathal lay on his belly, his breathing fast and shallow in fear and revulsion. At last he got to his knees before feeling an iron grip on his stomach. The liquid surged up inside of him until he spewed the bile onto the forest floor, leaving him feeling drained and wretched.

II

Madog couldn’t help but feel nervous for his young charge. The secret path he had taken led to the sacred grove, reaching it long before the first group of boys emerged from the Warrior’s Way. At one end of the grove, lit by burning torches, newly forged swords had been driven into the soft earth. As each boy emerged from the path a Browncloak, the most junior of the druid’s order, guided the boy to the forest of spears and bade them kneel and grip the spear. Then they waited, reliving their recent ordeal in their heads.

Eirys, the High Priestess, stood at Madog’s side. They had been lovers once, before she rose to become head of the order and beyond such simple and earthly pleasures. As High Priestess, her duty was to commune with the gods: to learn their will, to placate them and to ensure their order’s survival. She knew of mysteries that Madog could never know, and though she was close enough for the old man to hear her breathing to him she seemed more distant than ever. Like Madog she wore the white robes of a druid who had completed twenty years of study and contemplation, but she wore a circlet of blood-bleached bone over her crown of grey hair: a constant reminder of the tribute owed to the gods.

Most of the boys were in place by now, and Eirys broke the silence.

‘It seems they get younger every year.’

‘And each year I say that it’s we who are older. Only this year it’s true,’ Madog replied.

‘It’s necessary. The scouts of the Ordovices say that the army of Red-Crests is larger than they’ve ever seen.’

‘But you asked for Tuathal by name, Eirys. Why single him out of all the rest?’

The priestess sighed. For the first time in years, she took her old lover’s hand in hers. Madog froze like a hare, sensing a great change. ‘This is my last night, Madog. Come the dawn, it’s my duty to speak to the gods.’

‘You mean-’

‘I mean that I will give my life gladly, and cross into the Otherworld. It is the only way to know for sure that the gods will heed my prayers and stir themselves to save us from the army of the Red-Crests.’

‘Eirys,’ Madog said weakly. He couldn’t find the words. He wanted to tell her to stay with him, to live, but he understood her reasoning. Sacrifice was the surest way to ingratiate their people with the gods. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the power of the magic. The sacrifice of a High Priestess should bring the entire pantheon together so that her spirit could plead the case for those of her people still living.

‘You will lead the magic at The Narrows tomorrow, Madog. I know of no-one better. My apprentice will tend to me before I conduct the ritual at dawn. But I have to ask a sacrifice of you. The boy.’

Madog’s eyes widened as his thoughts went back to the deep magic he learned from his own mentor, many long years ago. The sacrifice of the High Priestess was the greatest gift the druids could offer, but on the eve of their potential destruction Eirys did not want to take any chances. The blood of kings was called for – she meant for Tuathal to die.

‘I know you care for him, Madog. If you didn’t care for him then it wouldn’t be a sacrifice, and I need to buy the favour of the gods if our people are to see another dawn. If Mona falls, the gods will abandon us and the people will lose faith. The rest of Alba will fall.’

‘You don’t think your own sacrifice is enough?’ Madog asked.

‘My apprentice thinks that the two of us together will be an offering that the gods can not ignore. The prince’s life will buy me time, and I will have to plead our cause in that time.’

‘He’s just a boy, Eirys.’

‘I know that, but if the gods don’t help us tomorrow we’ll all die just the same.’

‘Then why go through with initiating him as a New Spear?’

‘Because the sacrifice of a child is meaningless. An adult knows what he is giving up, and the purpose his death will serve. A child, a soul of complete innocence…if they can not understand the meaning of sacrifice, why would their sacrifice be meaningful? Why should the gods value such an act? For a man to take his own life in service to his people, though? That’s a gift worthy of the gods. That is why the prince must carry the scars that will mark him as a man.’

On the far side of the clearing Tuathal emerged from the darkness, having caught up the batch of boys who had gone on before him. These last initiates were sent to their allotted swords, which they gripped tightly. Madog could see the prince drinking in his surroundings. Generations ago their ancestors had used ropes to tether the silver beeches in place, growing up straight and true at first before bending inwards and intertwining with the other trees. The roof of the grove resembled the keel of a boat as branches met high in the centre and overlapped with each other.

Tuathal’s eyes darted back down to earth when he heard many of the boys gasp. A shaggy, terrifying figure had entered the clearing. It was taller than any man Tuathal had ever seen, covered in a great fur cloak. The man, if it was indeed a man, had a majestic pair of antlers sprouting from his head. This was Carnunnos, the Horned One. The god was not alone. On a length of rope he led a young stag that was just as afraid as the boys who watched and waited. It pulled at the leash, bellowing in confusion and fear.

One of the Browncloaks beckoned the oldest of the New Spears forwards, and jabbed a finger at the sword in the ground. The rest of the boys crouched in awed silence, even as other Browncloaks appeared on either side of the huddled group. In their hands the low-ranking druids carried an antler, but the points had been honed until they were sharp enough to slice flesh.

The Horned One spoke to them, in a voice as deep and rich as the earth itself. ‘Do not shame yourselves before the gods by letting go of the sword. A warrior keeps hold of his weapons, until death and beyond.’

‘Until death and beyond,’ the Browncloaks intoned.

The eldest boy, a tall lad of fifteen summers, crept towards the flailing stag. His sword out in front of him, ready to parry away those wicked points. He knew what was expected of him. The stag backed away until the Horned One yanked at the rope. The stag stumbled at the sudden pull, but the stumble turned quickly into a charge. The boy jumped aide, but Tuathal did not see what happened next. A searing pain shot up his spine as, unseen, one of the druids had drawn the points hard and fast across his back.

Tuathal gave a yelp, but still he clung onto the sword. Other boys cried out as they too felt the pain, the druids walking between their ranks to ensure that each of the initiates gained the red, throbbing marks that would show the world they had endured a warrior’s wound.

Clenching his jaw and trying to blot out the horrible sensation of the trickle of blood that crept down his bare skin, Tuathal kept his eyes fixed on the gruesome spectacle. The boy had taken a cut to his arm, but the stag had a great red gash on its flank. The beast lolloped unsteadily, already weakened by the loss of blood. The boy stepped in for the kill, lunging to stab the animal in its throat. Tuathal had never heard the cry of a wounded animal, had never been permitted to attend a hunt despite his royal parentage. The wail was soon over, but the sound cut straight to his heart as easily as any blade. A surge of arterial blood spattered the young warrior, and with a quick tug of the sword the blade was out and the stag was dead, collapsing to the ground.

Then Madog appeared, his white robes in stark contrast to the raw, primeval appearance of the Horned One. The ‘god’ bowed to the superior Whitecloak and withdrew. The boy dropped to his knees in reverence. Madog raised an arm high and beckoned for the others to join him at the side of the fallen beast. Each boy drew his sword from the earth, many of them pale-faced and shaken after what they had just witnessed. The initiates naturally formed a half-circle.

‘Each of you, put your sword-points into the wounds, deep enough to stain the iron. Then with your fingers wipe the blood onto your forehead.’

Tuathal obeyed, as did all of the other boys. The blood on his blade was still warm from the heat of the stag’s body, whereas the blood on his back had begun to clot and cake. Dabbing his fingertips on the dark iron he then smeared a streak across his forehead, automatically feeling the small scar in its centre, leftover from an outbreak of pox he had suffered as an infant. Now that the potion’s effects had all but worn off and the grotesque ceremony seemed to be at an end, the young prince started to feel cold once more. Other boys where shivering too, little wisps of condensation swirling from their mouths and nostrils as their warm breath met the cold night air.

Madog started to chant a prayer to the gods in a language that none of the boys knew. The common tongue, or variations of it, was spoken all over the island of Alba. In Tuathal’s land of Hibernia it had taken on its own form, but Tuathal had been on Mona long enough to speak as his neighbours did, only his accent his fine clothes and his jewellery marked him out as different from other boys on the island. There was one exception: the others hadn’t had a druid as their personal tutor.

Following Madog’s lead, the boys all closed their eyes to receive his prayer. The old druid chanted in words known only to those of his order, words that had never been put down in writing for fear that they would lose their power. In the darkness, Tuathal let the mysterious words wash over him, drinking them in. Only he recognised a word, repeated at intervals amongst all the other words: princeps. It was a Latin word, and it was how Madog would address him during their language lessons. He told him that it meant “prince”.

Tuathal opened his eyes to see Madog staring straight at him. As soon as the druid saw the boy’s eyes open, he closed his own again in apparent prayer. Though he still chanted in solemn tones, the words he spoke were all of the Roman speech.

‘Spectamur. Ceteri sacerdotum te necare volunt. Dum potes, curre ad austram.’

Tuathal’s mind raced, snatching at the meaning. The druid repeated the words again, giving the boy a chance to translate the message: ‘We are being watched. The rest of the priests wish to kill you. Run to the south when you can.’

Madog’s chant return to the high words of the gods, leaving Tuathal afraid and confused. The druid kept his eyes closed but slowly lifted his arms heavenwards. At the signal, a mighty blast rang out. It was a Browncloak, but more than that, he was what Tuathal’s people called a fili, one who learned the songs and music of their people. The fili blew a great horn made of bronze. The mouth of the horn had been fashioned into the shape of a boar’s head, right down to the pricked ears and vicious tusks. The horn was longer than all but the tallest of the boys there, and the fili rested the curved head of the instrument on the low branch of a tree. The notes veered from high and haunting to deep and rasping. The music signalled the end of the initiation.

‘These iron swords are a gift to you from all the island of Mona. Those of you who grow to be warriors will either trade or plunder themselves a steel sword, but these will serve you well enough until that day comes. The oldest of you will be presented with spears in front of your families, and the rest of you will be given slings.’

The Browncloaks gathered at the edge of the grove, where a path lead to the far edge of the forest, where food, drink, family and sleep waited for them. The carnyx player took down his instrument from the branch and a young apprentice carried the boar’s head over his shoulder. The fili started to play a new tune as he led the procession away down the path. The Browncloaks went next, carrying torches to light the way. Madog was next, leaning gently on his staff as he went, and beckoned for the boys to follow.

The initiates could barely contain their excitement, chattering amongst each other and comparing their swords. They were men now, and walked with a spring in their step, proud that they had completed the ritual and brought honour to their families.

Tuathal kept a little apart. He knew none of the boys very well, his mother Queen Eithne preferring to keep him largely apart from the sons of common farmers, smiths and shepherds. They did not notice him hanging back a few paces behind as they left the grove and followed the procession along a broad path. Nor did they hear him dive off and sneak through the undergrowth, despite the crackle of twigs and leaves underfoot. If what Madog had said was true, Tuathal thought, then he had to disappear before the weapon-take where he would be surrounded by druids and soldiers loyal to the High Priestess. Not only that, he needed to put as much distance between him and then as he could. They would easily ride him down if he were caught in the open, but then again he was just one boy in the vast blackness of night. With luck, and speed, he might be able to disappear into the dark. Once he was sure that he was far enough away for his footsteps to be drowned out by the carnyx’s call, the prince ran as fast as his scrawny legs would carry hit, his heart already pounding hard.

Though he stumbled and fell several times in the dark wood, ill-aided by moonlight, it wasn’t long before he found himself at the outer reaches of the forest. Away to his right, he could see far off a blazing bonfire and hear the drone of a chattering crowd. Looking up towards the heavens, he thought back to his lessons about the stars to try and get his bearings. Once he found the north star, his first instinct was to head that way, whatever Madog had said. North would take him away from the coming battle, and back towards the safety of the large hut that the people of Mona had given to his mother when she arrived, a penniless exile with an orphaned son.

Why had Madog told him to run south? Thinking it through, when the druids discovered that he was missing, they knew that his first instinct would be just as Tuathal had shown, and the safest choice for him was to do what they least expected. South was to the left, and somewhere in the distance lay The Narrows: the island of Mona’s great defence against an invading army.

Though less familiar on this side of the island, Tuathal knew that ahead of him lay a broad stretch of open country used for grazing sheep and some cattle. He started running, the North Star at his back. Even on a dark night he had to find some shelter or the riders would soon overtake him. After some time, with a stabbing pain from a stitch, Tuathal stopped to catch his breath. As he noisily gasped for air, it seemed far off that he could he the rising call of a horn that usually signalled the start of a hunt for the boar or stag. He knew that they had a different quarry in mind. Praying that Madog’s advice to avoid the north was sound, Tuathal forced himself to carry on.

Glancing back, he could just make out two pinpricks of orange that bobbed up and down in the darkness. Two riders bearing torches, he guessed. To his left, the first hints of a lighter blue in the dark night sky heralded the distant but inevitable dawn. Underneath his feet were tufts of grass and the odd pile of sheep excrement. He had to find somewhere to go to ground and hide.

As if answer to his silent prayers, a large shape loomed ahead of him. It was a burial mound, built long ago in the days of the Forgotten People. Even the druids did not know everything about those who had inhabited the land before them. Such places were scattered across Mona, resting places of the nameless dead.

Tuathal’s foot caught a small rock that was half-embedded in the earth, sending him sprawling. He landed awkwardly, bruising himself in the fall. Wiping the mud from his hands he tried to get to his feet, but his ankle was sore and. In front of him the mouth of the old barrow yawned at him like some beast of the night. None but the priest-kind could enter a tomb without bringing down the wrath of the spirits within, young as he was even Tuathal knew that. Faced with a choice between risking the anger of the spirits and dragging himself southwards with riders on his trail, Tuathal decided that it was no choice at all. Hobbling over, the prince’s hand was soon on the cold, dank stone that formed the walls of the inner chamber. Hiding on the threshold was no good, dawn was not so very far off and he had to go where the light wouldn’t find him. The tip of his sword scraped along the rock, but the noise was soon drowned out by the drum of hoofbeats.

Tuathal lay flat, the earth of the chamber dry but cold against his naked torso. Down the chamber a voice floated and echoed: ‘What about in that tomb? He could be hiding?’

‘No boy would be fool enough to enter a tomb, not on his own. Even the High Priestess would have to appease the spirits before going in there, else she’d be dragged to the Otherworld.’

‘We don’t know if we don’t look,’ the first man said.

‘If you do look, can I have your widow? The boy’s probably gone north anyway, back to his mother. We’ll be needed at The Narrows come dawn, if the Red-Crests are brave enough to cross. If tomorrow is our last day in this world I want to spend it fighting with my sword-brothers, not chasing after some child from across the sea.’

‘You mean we just give up?’

‘Try that forest over their first, he can’t have reached any further than there since the ceremony finished, not unless he’s got wings on his feet. Someone else will find him, I’m sure of that.’

The boy almost wept with relief as the horsemen department. Lying there, exhausted, he closed his eyes and sank into a deep sleep.

III

Tribune Aulus Caecina Severus stared at the wooded bank on the far side of The Narrows. Today would be his first battle. There had been a few skirmishes as Governor Paulinus’ army of two legions and supporting auxiliaries had marched west from the great fortress at Deva, but those had involved small detachments of the legions being sent to flush out raiding tribesman. This would be the real thing. Brutal, but swift, the young man prayed.

Caecina had only been with the Twentieth Legion for a matter of months. He had left behind a pregnant wife at his family estate near Vicetia, between the rich farmlands of the River Padus and the great Alpine ranges to the north. At twenty years old and the scion of a distinguished line, it was his duty to serve his military apprenticeship for a few years before he could start to turn his eyes towards Rome and politics. Now he was nominally second-in-command of entire legion. Five thousand men, trained to kill, and Caecina was barely out of his twenties, knew perhaps a dozen men by name, and now he was meant to supervise the crossing of the first cohort while his legate and Governor Paulinus surveyed the situation from the southern bank. His guts were doing an elaborate dance routine inside, but he was doing his very best not to show it.

The legion’s crew of carpenters had spent the last few days felling trees, cutting the timber down into planks and building transport ships: flat-bottomed crates almost, spreading the weight of as many troops as possible over a wide area as the waters they had to cross would be very shallow in places. The Master Carpenter was checking each and every transport for ill-fitting joints or gaps between the planks. If a transport were to sink halfway across, even at low tide hen with all the armour the legionaries wore they’d plummet to the bottom of the channel and drown. If they survived the crossing then there was the small matter of fighting the wildest tribe that the Romans had yet encountered in Britannia.

‘Will they serve?’ Caecina asked the Master Carpenter. The craftsman looked at the young tribune and thought he’d have a little fun.

‘To be honest, sir, I’ve never had to build a boat before. Navy’s job.’

‘You’ve never built a boat? How do you know you’re doing it right?’

‘How hard can it be? You just put one plank on top of another, bang in some nails,’ the carpenter gave a nearby boat a gentle kick for good measure, ‘and there you are. Job done. What’s the worst that could happen?’

‘We could all drown.’

‘There is that.’ The Master Carpenter couldn’t help but smile as the young tribune’s eyes widened and cheeks visibly paled. Then the smile became a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t resist. The transports will hold up, just so long as the men use the oars properly and take care in the currents then there shouldn’t be any problems. These things have got to do multiple trips to carry hundreds of armoured legionaries across the water, so we’ve built them to last.’

Caecina tried not to look too relieved, but privately he thought it a good sign that the carpenter had been having him on – it meant that the men thought he was approachable. These were men with years of fighting experience and he would have to lead them in battle, even though his only preparation had been to devour the prescribed military manuals he could find in the libraries of Rome and to recall a few precious words of wisdom from his long-dead father. The manuals were somewhat helpful, but Caesar in his Commentaries had never written about what a young officer should do to prevent shitting himself in fear on the eve of battle!

The local Ordovicean fisherman had, for a couple of gold coins, advised General Paulinus and his staff about The Narrows, the tide, the sand and mudbanks. The plan was to launch the first assault not at low tide, as the islanders might expect, but an hour or so before. That way the current wouldn’t be strong enough to stop the cavalry fording the water at a distant point so as to surprise the enemy at their rear. It also meant there was a narrow window to ferry the infantry over to the far shore, while there was still enough water to carry the low-displacement ships from bank to bank. That meant no hiccups, no delays. As soon as a boatload of men had been dropped off, the troop transport would have to be rowed quickly back for the next batch, and so on, all in the face of the enemy. The legions would be equal to the task, Caecina was sure. He only wished he could be sure of himself.

Secrecy of their movements was crucial. The Britons would no doubt have scouts that had by now reported the legions’ advance, but they could not know about their plans for an imminent attack. That was why the boats were being assembled a good five hundred paces south of the strait. Between the field where the last of the transports was assembled and the river bank itself was a belt of woodland that provided additional cover.

Hoofbeats made Caecina turn around. It was one of the few faces on the island that was familiar to him. Julius Agricola held the same rank as Caecina, but he had become an aide to General Paulinus himself while Caecina was more closely tethered to his legion. Their friendship went far beyond that, having grown up together in Rome as friends and fatherless sons – the bond between them was very strong.

‘Message from the general, Caecina. You’re to shift your arse and bring the transports to the treeline.’

‘Have you seen the size of these boats, Julius? Maybe you’d like to lend us a hand?’

Julius Agricola smiled. ‘Gods no, that’s work for infantry and their officers. I have a higher calling.’

‘General Paulinus’ wine cup getting a bit heavy for you these days? When’s the last time you actually held a sword?’

‘As a matter of fact, the general has allowed me to join the cavalry assault.’

‘You’ll get your feet wet,’ Caecina jibed.

‘My soul is prepared. See you on the other side, Caecina.’

Agricola rode to find the cavalry unit who would be making the crossing a few of miles to the east, where the sandbanks at low tide would offer the shortest path from mainland to island. Caecina cast his eye over the men awaiting his command. Eight hundred men of the double-strength first cohort of the Twentieth legion, accompanied by a cohort of auxilia from Batavia. Their homeland was one of swamps, marshes and great rivers, the perfect troops for an amphibious attack. Caecina took a moment to wet his lips and get some saliva in his mouth – the apprehension had turned it suddenly dry.

While the men were sat in the grass, enjoying the brief moment of quiet and calm, their officers were stood to attention. Aemillus was First Spear Centurion, the most senior officer in the Twentieth who was not of noble birth, such as the tribunes like Caecina or the legate who commanded the legion. He was a veteran of iron will, with nine silver phalera that hung over his breastplate on formal parade which spoke of his bravery and length of service more than the man himself ever did. The other man was a lad not much younger than Caecina, an officer of equestrian rank whose first step on the military ladder was as Prefect of an Auxiliary Infantry cohort.

The pair of them caught Caecina’s gaze, and the tribune summoned them with a curt nod.

‘Orders from the general, sir?’ Aemillus asked.

‘Yes, we’re to shift the barges to the treeline, but in silence. We have fifteen barges, each taking thirty men. I want twenty-four legionaries and six Batavians per boat. The six Batavians will stay aboard and row the boats back to this shore to pick up the next wave, but those Batavians not rowing will swim across with the first wave.’

‘Understood, sir,’ the young prefect said.

‘Good, have the fifteen groups of six Batavians stand by the boats. Centurion, three contubernia makes twenty-four does it not?’

‘It does, Tribune.’

‘Then that’s how we’ll assign men to the boats. Each group of thirty to carry their boat to the treeline and await further instructions.’

The two officers saluted Caecina, whose nerves were starting to settle. The young prefect aside, these were men who knew the business of war and would need little instruction. In a matter of moments the allotted men were moving to position and beginning to haul the boats across the open field. Caecina followed the men of the first wave, overseeing the task. He glanced back to where he had glimpsed General Paulinus’ command tent. He was just thinking about whether he might get a mention in dispatches if the day’s assault went well, when there came a scream of surprise and horror.

Caecina ran forwards. The front-most men carrying the boats were at the edge of the woodland now, and the men had frozen in horror. In a moment Caecina saw why. It was the decapitated head of a legionary, his darkening tongue lolling grotesquely out of his mouth. Either side of his head were placed at intervals his hacked off arms, and beyond them were his legs. Caecina could already feel his guts rebelling as he followed the grisly pointers: where one leg pointed another followed, then another arm, then another head. The Britons had made a line of mutilated body parts that the soldiers did not dare pass.

To the north, on Mona itself, Prince Tuathal woke with a start. The Forgotten People who had built the tomb had been worshippers of sun, moon and star. The passageway faced eastwards, and as the sun climbed over the horizon her golden rays pierced the darkness of the burial chamber. The sun caught the boy full in the face, and for a moment he lay there blinking, dazzled and confused. Then he remembered where he was.

He was cold and alone, with nothing to his name but his breeches, his simple iron sword and thin torque of gold around his neck. He shivered in the chill darkness and wondered what he should do. It had been no secret that the Red-Crests were coming to conquer the island of Mona and wipe out the centre of the Britons’ religion. His instinct was to fight alongside the islanders, as this was his home as much as anywhere, except perhaps Hibernia. As an exile and son of a murdered king he could not go back, not yet. He thought of his mother, Eithne. Tuathal couldn’t for one moment think that she knew that the druids wanted him dead when he went to be initiated as a man, but she would have seen the chaos and confusion when he had failed to appear after the ceremony. She would be alone, childless and friendless. Perhaps he should head back to the north, to their home where the waters of the Hibernian Sea lapped at the sandy shore.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Tuathal said out loud. The druids would have men watching for him on the paths to the north. It seemed mad, but perhaps the safest place for him would be in battle. No-one would suspect that a boy on the run would shelter on a battlefield, and if I am to die, thought to himself, then far better to die with a sword in hand facing an enemy than bound and gagged on a burning pyre.

Tuathal felt a tear crawl down his cheek as once more he thought of his mother. Would he ever see her again? If the Red-Crests were defeated, then the druids would have no need to kill him. Perhaps he’d be allowed to rejoin her. If the islanders lost and the Red-Crests put Mona to fire and sword, then he would go back north and die alongside her. No choice seemed good, but standing alongside his fellow islanders against the foreign invaders was perhaps the least bad.

Rubbing his bare arms and chest to try and warm himself, Tuathal edged towards the mouth of the passageway, towards the rising sun. In his fearful state he imagined the two warriors from the previous night hiding outside of the tomb, ready to pounce on him when he emerged. Once he was within three double-steps of the threshold, he breathed as quietly as he could and listened for any signs of life. After what seemed like an age, he took a breath and stepped outside. There was nobody in sight. To his right he could make out the peaks of the great mountains on the mainland. Somwhere between there and the tomb lay The Narrows. The young prince removed the golden torque from his neck and put it in his breeches’ pockets, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Taking one last look around him for would-be abductors, he turned to the south and began to march.

General Suetonius Paulinus, Governor and Imperator, stood over the dismembered corpse of the soldier with Caecina at his side. Also with them was a staff officer, a Briton descended from chieftains of a southern tribe but whose family had taken to Roman ways earlier than most. He knew the line for what it was.

‘It’s a ghost fence, general,’ the staff officer said. The young man was shaken. To the Romans this was a grim and barbaric sight, but there was more to it than pure savagery, there was magic.

‘And what in Hades is a ghost fence?’ General Paulinus asked.

‘A barrier, a magic wall built of the souls of the dead. Except on Samhain’s Eve, when the spirits come to walk the earth, no living man can cross a ghost-fence and live.’

‘Utter nonsense,’ the general commented. Well you take a step across and see what happens, Caecina thought to himself. The general looked through the woods and across the narrow strait. On the far side he could see glints of colour amongst the trees. The Britons would be using the delay to prepare, and it was essential that the naval assault began when the tide was right. Low tide had already passed, and soon the water would be coming in at speed. In the field beyond, men were wondering at the delay and rumours were flying at speed amongst the fearful and the superstitious.

‘Is there a way to break a ghost fence?’ Caecina asked.

The Briton shrugged. ‘A druid would know how.’

‘A fat lot of help that is. Caecina,’ the general commanded, ‘the cavalry has already set off for the ford downriver. If they meet the Britons without infantry support, they’ll be cut down like wheat. Get your men across, now.’

‘And the fence, General?’ Caecina asked, still tasting the vomit he had brought up moments after seeing the grisly thing.

‘I’ll have it cleared once the first wave is over, but I need men on the far shore to establish a bridgehead, now.’

Caecina saluted and walked back to rejoin his men. General Paulinus and his staff officer remounted at the treeline but did not ride off at once. They watched and waited to see that the men obeyed their orders. Centurion Aemillus and the young tribune were waiting, the older man’s face grim and hard-set, the younger man’s ghostly pale.

‘There’s no time to clear the druids’ magic, we have to cross over now. Aemillus, you know these men better than I do. Will they cross?’

‘They’ll do what I tell them, sir.’

‘And your Batavians, tribune?’

‘My men aren’t Britons, sir, they may not know so much about druids and their magic. Where the Romans march, my men will follow.’

‘Good,’ Caecina started, but Aemillus interrupted.

‘Will you be leading from the front, sir?’ Only it can only help the men’s morale to see that the senior tribune has no qualms in crossing.’

Caecina had known deep down that it was necessary, but he had hoped against hope that he would not have to be the first man to cross the gruesome line of lifeless limbs and severed heads. ‘Of course, Aemillus. That goes without saying. Have the cornicen sound the advance.’

At a nod from the centurion, the legionary carrying the curved brass cornu blew the rising notes that ordered the men to advance. The motley mix of Romans and Batavians grabbed the barges and oars and lifted them off the ground. The trees were too close together for the barges to be carried width-ways, so the men turned the long boats onto the sides and began to march northwards.

Aemillus and the tribune took their places behind Caecina, while the standard bearers of the First Cohort and the Batavian Cohort ran up to take their proper places one pace behind them. The Batavians’ vexillum was a red pennant with their name proudly emblazoned, while the legionaries were represented by three men: the aquilifer in his lion-headdress who carried the treasured eagle of the Twentieth legion, the imaginifer who carried a mask of the Emperor Nero in beaten metal, and the signifer with his spear standard for the First Cohort. Each man had been chosen for his honourable conduct and trained to defend himself using no sword but just a small buckler shield. Where the standards went, the men would follow without question. Or so Caecina hoped.

Putting on his ornate, stifling helmet Caecina felt the sweat on his brow as the leather padding inside slid down his forehead. He only wished his father had lived to see this moment, his first proper battle in Rome’s service, and that he would survive the day to see his young wife and new child. The birth must have happened by now, and he was impatiently waiting for news from Rome. A son to continue his line, a family that had attained the consulship – a son to bear his name, that was what he most wanted in the world, or else if he died that day the line of the Severi of the gens Caecina would die with him.

The first wave marched into the trees, Caecina at their head. With every step the ghost fence came closer and closer. As commander he had to set an example, but the fear of unknown magic and strange gods was enough to grip his heart with fear. Behind him, the crashing of heavy feet through undergrowth came to a halt as more of the men saw for themselves what had caused the panic in the first rank and the confusion in their officers. Caecina took two paces forwards until his foot was at the mouth of the poor prisoner who had died so that the Britons could work their death-magic. Caecina hesitated. To march forwards was to invite death. To stall or retreat was to make dishonour certain. Summoning up his courage, Caecina put his foot through the invisible barrier and planted it firmly on the ground. The second foot followed. Then another pace, and another, and another. He wasn’t dead!

Caecina turned round, smiling. The smile vanished as he saw the four standard-bearers hesitate. Then he heard the unsheathing of a sword. Aemillus had the point of his gladius resting against the back of the man who carried the legion’s eagle.

‘March, soldier, or I’ll take the eagle from your cold dead hands.’

The threat was enough. The bronze eagle, its sweeping wings outstretched, surged forwards. The honour of the legion was bound up in that small piece of metal. The legion would march, come what may.

IV

Tuathal knew that battle was coming, but he didn’t know quite how close until he saw the jumble of men and some women all headed in the same direction. Here in the rolling wooded country at the south of the island, the great mountains on the mainland were now obscured beyond the horizon. The stream of warriors and farmers were all headed in that direction though. The islanders marched along the flank of a patch of woodland where Tuathal had briefly hidden himself. Tuathal decided that his safety lay in numbers, and that he needed to get in amongst the crowd and blend in. He just had to hope that the news of his escape hadn’t reached the ears of the ordinary tribesmen, and that it was just those in the druidic order who were searching for him.

Taking a leap of faith, the prince stepped out from the trees and into the rambling column. No-one took any real notice of him, a lost boy amongst men marching with purpose. Tuathal walked southwards like the rest of them, searching for a friendly face. On the edge of the great woods that bordered The Narrows, Tuathal at last caught sight of a man who held lands in the valley beneath the small farm that had been gifted to his mother. Bowen had his two adult sons with him, each of them carrying a spear and shield.

‘Bowen!’ Tuathal cried, and the farmer was taken by surprise.

‘Tuathal? Forgive me, lord prince. I didn’t think to see you here.’

‘Madog was taking me to the battle, but my horse fell and broke its neck. He had to go on ahead, so I’ve been walking,’ Tuathal lied, hoping that the story of his disappearance hadn’t reached the farmers’ ears, or those of the soldiers around him.

‘Queen Eithne isn’t with you?’

‘I’m a man now, Bowen,’ Tuathal said, turning around to show him the scars on his back he had received from the sharpened antlers in the ritual of the New Spears. ‘I can look after myself.’ Tuathal spoke with pride, but his cheeks reddened as he realised that his next sentence would undercut his last. ‘May I join you and your sons?’

‘We would be honoured, lord prince. Do you have any other weapons?’

Tuathal put his hand on the pommel of his sword, and the farmer chuckled. ‘That will do as a last resort. Your initiation sword is only iron, most of the warriors here fight with steel. Besides, I doubt you’ve used a man’s sword before, you’d be more of a danger to the man next to you than to any Red-Crest. Idwal, do you still have your old sling?’

Idwal was a spry lad of around seventeen summers, who had become a man the year before and now had the weapons of a warrior, the shield, sword and spear. The young man did not carry a steel sword like his father, only rich families could afford to equip each fighting man with his own blade of tempered metal. Tuathal took the sling and a pouch of stones from Idwal. The farmer had taught Tuathal how to use the weapon, despite his mother’s protests that a king did not fight with the tools of a shepherd. Madog had argued though that a boy had to learn how to defend himself, and on Mona all boys trained with a sling before learning the weapons of a man, so Tuathal shouldn’t be an exception.

‘The Red-Crests will have to cross The Narrows before they can fight us, so the more men you can kill as they land, the easier time the sword and spearmen like us will have.’

Tuathal nodded, grateful that it was a sling he wielded instead of a sword. He’d never killed anything bigger than a fox before, let alone a man. He had been trained to loose a slingshot from twenty or thirty paces with deadly accuracy, and it was a kinder role for a boy who had never killed a man before. He wouldn’t have to share the same air as his enemy or feel their warm breath on his face.

The stream of warriors seemed to be converging on a point at the nearside of the woodlands to the south. There was a group of around forty women in amongst the heaving mass of men. The women, all wearing long robes of black and with their long hair hanging loose, were offering groups of warriors small bowls of dark liquid. Once Tuathal and Bowen’s family were closer they could see the men painting their bare chests and faces with streaks and swirls of woad. One of the women, her hands blue from making the great vat of dye and with splashes of indigo spattered on her black robes, offered Bowen a small bowl and a rag for smearing the liquid onto the body.

‘Tunics off, lads,’ Bowen said to his sons. Tuathal took an expectant step forwards as he had removed his tunic before the ceremony of the New Spears, but the farmer shook his head. ‘Only for sword and spearmen.’

‘Why not?’ Tuathal whined, disappointed.

‘We put on the woad to show the enemy we don’t fear them, or death. If the gods want us to die today, no armour in the world will stop that from happening. You and the other slingers won’t be coming face to face with the Romans, you won’t need it.’

‘Father,’ Bowen’s eldest interrupted. He pointed to a clutch of younger lads and a few women, all of whom had slings and pouches bulging with stones. The group was led by a one-armed man and was headed for the woods.

‘You should join them, princeling. You’ll do more good with your sling than your sword.’

‘Please, Bowen, just some on my face. I want the gods to know that I don’t fear death.’

‘Gods above, I’m glad your mother’s not here to see this. Get over here and close your eyes.’

Bowen dipped his fingers in the inky dye, and Tuathal scrunched his eyes tightly shut. The farmer began to trace curling patterns over the boy’s chest and abdomen. Then he dipped all five fingertips in the woad and drew them down across Tuathal’s face, mimicking the scars of a mauling wolf or bear.

‘Does it look fierce?’ Tuathal asked. Bowen smiled.

‘Very fierce. Now go, and if we win today, as far as your mother’s concerned you didn’t get the woad or weapons from me. Because if the Romans don’t kill me, she certainly will! Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Good lad. Now go on.’

Tuathal ran towards the woods, beaming. He turned at the foot of a great tree to give the family a final wave.

The dark earth of the woodland floor had been churned into mud by the constant footfall of warriors tramping towards The Narrows. Once inside the woods though, Tuathal realised that he had lost sight of the group of slingers. The spearmen he could see, heading eastwards in dribs and drabs, but he could have sworn that the younger ones and the women had gone another direction.

Through gaps in the trees Tuathal could just make out the grey-blue waters of The Narrows. He wandered southwards, reasoning that the party of slingers would be somewhere along the waterfront, and once out of the trees he would have a clear view. The snap of twigs underfoot made Tuathal spin round. A tall figure, hooded and cloaked, was gliding towards him. The shrouded head was downcast, scanning the ground. Though he called himself a man, Tuathal was filled with fear. The figure held a bronze sickle in his hand, deadly sharp. The hooded figure stopped, then swept down upon a plant growing at the roots of a great oak tree. Perhaps it was a god, Tuathal thought. Perhaps it was The Morrigan herself, drawn to the prospect of battle and promise of death.

Tuathal took a step backwards, and the figure, sensing the movement, looked up. Deep within the hood was a ghoulish blue face. He had seen him before. He was a Blackcloak, a druid from the Brigantian tribe on the mainland. The rumour was that he was apprentice to Eirys, the High Priestess.

‘Are you lost, boy?’ the druid asked. Then his eyes narrowed as he thought he recognised the child from somewhere. Had it been in the sacred grove the night before, when the cursed Hibernian prince had gone missing. ‘You!’ – the word came out as a stifled cry.

Both of them were filled with fear, one for his own life, the other for his cause.

‘How did you escape? Did Madog warn you?’

Tuathal’s mouth was dry, but his trembling legs regained their strength. He turned on his heels and fled. The druid dropped the herb he had gathered and started to chase the young boy, desperate to carry out his mentor’s command. If he caught the child, perhaps there would still be time to make the double sacrifice and bring down the wrath of the gods upon the Red-Crests.

On the southern shore, Caecina and the first wave of legionaries and Batavians were gingerly stepping through slippery rocks and squelching mud. The young officer’s heart sank as he saw the level and speed of the water. The delay at the ghost fence meant that slack water had now passed. The Narrows were navigable now, but the current was growing stronger with every passing moment. Further to the east was a clutch of small rocky islands, but at this beach it was no more than four hundred paces to the far shore. The northern beach was broad and flat, but what drew the eye were three great piles of wood arranged in a perfect triangle. Between the two piles at the triangle’s base stood a man in shining white robes, a long staff in his hands. Over the water the Romans could hear this man crying strange words, and the men stood still, watching this strange spectacle.

‘Don’t just stand there, make the boats ready for launch!’ Caecina shouted, and the soldiers set about lashing the oars into place so that they could make uniform strokes rather than flailing them about in the water. While the men set about their work, Caecina watched as a small crowd of cloaked figures appeared out of the trees on the far shore. Three of them carried torches, and each Briton made for one of the three great bonfires. Whether they had chanted some spell or the islanders had laced each pile with something more than just wood, Caecina did not know, for the fires sprang immediately to life.

The soldiers were ready to embark at last. Caecina stepped up into the bow of the lead barge. Aemillus and the aquilifer followed closely, followed by half a dozen men taking up the oars nearest the bow. The rest of the men took up their pushing positions at the stern. The Batavian auxiliaries that were about to swim had exchanged their usual mail for leather, it would offer them less protection but no sane man would try to swim the great channel encased in heavy metal. It would drag down even the strongest of men.

With a great heave, the soldiers at the stern pushed the boat off the muddy beach and into the water. The further into the water the barge glided, the more soldiers hastily leapt aboard before the water got too deep. Caecina looked behind him to make sure the other barges were following his lead. Fourteen other barges slid into the burbling water, Roman soldiers and the select Batavian oarsmen scrabbled into their allotted places to take up the oars. The Batavian swimmers plunged into the water to the eastern side of the barges, using the long wooden boats as protection against the fast-flowing tide. Caecina marvelled at how the men lay on top of their wooden shields to give them added buoyancy, swords lying flat between shield and chest, leaving their great arms free to cut into the water and swim at a speed that the Roman would never match. But then he hadn’t been born and raised in the waters of the Rhenus river, nor his legionaries from the towns of Italia and beyond who treated the fast-flowing water as something to be feared. For the Batavians though, the river was their lifeblood.

As the soldiers began to row, the flat-bottomed barges sat high in the water. There was no keel to cut through the water, but it meant they were better able to pass over the shallows of the strait. A howling cry rent the air. Aemillus was looking forwards, his implacable demeanour wavering slightly as he gripped Caecina by the forearm.

‘Gods above and below,’ he said. Caecina spun around and almost fell over as the bow of the barge hit an eddy. From amongst the crowd of Britons, five inhuman creatures had run to the shoreline. All of them were naked, blue and terrifying. One wore a wolf pelt and stood on all fours, howling. Another bore the antlers of a stag, pawing at the ground. A third had the tusks of a wild boar. One huge man stood on his own two feet, head obscured by the preserved head and pelt of a bear, while the fifth was a woman who opened her cloak wide, showing the black and white feathers of a gyrfalcon, whose keening cry was taken up by the female priestess behind the fires, while the men roared in defiance.

Some of the rowers instinctively turned to face the threat.

‘Eyes front!’ Aemillus shouted. ‘Next man whose eyes meet mine will not make it to dry land, I’ll fling you out of the boat myself.’

The soldiers continued their strokes, but the swimmers lost some of their speed as they saw the horrors before them. Caecina could see on the dwindling southern shore the second and third waves of men arriving on the beach and standing stock still, appalled.

‘Remember you are soldiers of Rome,’ Caecina shouted over the heads of the oarsmen. ‘There is no army in the world that can stand against you.’

The barge gave a great lurch. The waters in The Narrows spilled over hidden rocks, creating whirlpools and swells that would trouble most boats. The flat-bottomed barges were ungainly and long, so that even as the bow passed through the maelstrom and was buffeted the stern was still in calmer waters and wanting to go in the original direction. Caecina’s boat veered off course. The blades of the oars struck the swimmers, smacking them hard on the head or in the mouth. Several of them screamed in pain and spat out blood or even teeth. Another barge was having the same problems, veering so much that it crashed into her neighbour. The force of the impact and the speed of the water was enough to tip the boat up onto its side. The men in the boat fell on top of each other, the extra weight on one side capsizing the boat completely. Men in full armour desperately flailed before sinking without a trace.

‘Port side, double pace,’ one of the Batavian rowers called out in accented Latin. His compatriots at the stern of the boat obeyed. The Romans, many of them missing the water with their oars entirely in confusion, then started to match the speed set by the Batavians. The boat started to correct her course.

Then Caecina heard a sound unlike anything he had ever experienced, a metallic wailing that sent shivers the length of his spine. He’d heard stories in Rome from those who had served with the legions on this island at the edge of the world. The carnyx, the great war horn used by the Celtic peoples – Caecina could not see the man blowing the horn, but then he wasn’t meant to. Like his men, he was meant to be dispirited by a ghoulish noise that erupted from the woods. Then on either flank, other horns sounded. These were higher pitched, reminding Caecina of a time in the Colisseum when the old Emperor Claudius had put on a re-enactment of Hannibal’s defeat at Zama. They had used two elephants that day, and when one was wounded it blasted its trunk with a shrill scream. Caecina had been a boy then, and to suddenly hear so similar a sound unnerved him.

On the northern beach, the army of Mona began to spill out of the forests. The druid in white cried out a curse and raised his staff high in the air. The army behind him shouted as one, echoing his words back to him so that the gods would hear them. Caecina’s insides gurgled and squelched in fear.

Tuathal ran as fast as his legs would carry him. There was no thought to run towards the battle. All the men would see was a druid chasing a child, there would be no salvation there, for no-one would stand in a druid’s way for fear of risking the gods’ wrath and the druid’s curse.

The Brigantian’s longer legs meant that he was catching up with Tuathal, slowly, inevitably. The trees were clearing now, leading to wet boggy country saturated by the spring rains. The mud splashed up Tuathal’s breeches, his heart was pounding and his lungs were searing in pain. He checked over his shoulder, and the druid was barely five paces behind him, arms outstretched.

‘If you stop running,’ the man panted, ‘I’ll make it quick.’

Tuathal at last saw what he was looking for, a patch of bog less tufted than the rest as Madog had once shown him. Summoning up all his remaining strength he leapt high and hard. He was still in the air, arms flailing, when he heard the great squelch behind him followed by a cry of surprise. Tuathal landed on the firmer ground, one of his legs sinking halfway to his knee. Heaving upwards, the mud squelched as his leg came free but his leather shoe slipped and stayed buried in the ooze.

The druid was up to his waist in the bog, mud splattered all over his chest and face. The man snarled: ‘Why aren’t you dead?’

Tuathal smiled in triumph. ‘Because I wanted to live.’

‘We all want to live, boy. But the Romans are coming for all of us. Your sacrifice would have brought the gods to our side.’

‘Maybe the gods have turned on you for trying to kill me. Maybe the Romans are your punishment.’

The druid tried to reach for something, anything, that would help him to pull himself out of the mire, but the struggle sent him down another hand’s breadth. Tuathal had heard tales of boars and even horses straying into the bog, sucked under into a stinking grave. The druid felt himself sinking slowly, feet desperately feeling for a firm floor at the bottom of the bog.

‘Help me!’ the Brigantian cried, fear turning his voice shrill. Tuathal stood absolutely still, then shook his heas. The boy was puzzled as the druid started laughing maniacally, latching on to the only crumb of comfort he could find.

‘Not to save me is to kill me, and to kill a druid is a sacrilege. I curse you, Tuathal son of Fiachu. The gods will use you as their plaything. All that you love will be taken from you, your mother, your friends, you will never see your homeland again. Your guts will writhe, your piss will burn, your bones will crack. The day will come where you will pray for the ground to swallow you up and end your misery.’

Tuathal said nothing, but edged round the firmer part of the bog so that he could get closer to the struggling druid. Tuathal leant over, out of the reach of the man’s grasping arms. Filling his mouth with saliva he spat in the man’s face. ‘You first.’

Fishing the sodden leather shoe out of the mud, Tuathal put it back on before facing the druid one last time. ‘If the gods decide that today is the day I die, then it’s going to be on a Roman sword and not a druid’s dagger. If that sacrifice isn’t good enough, then the gods you pray to don’t deserve our faith.’ The young prince then turned towards the south, to the shore where Mona’s fate would be settled. The druid’s shouts and frantic pleas for help were soon nothing more than a distant burble carried on the wind.

V

The little fleet of barges was at last nearing the northern bank. Caecina had tried to count the men on the beach. There were perhaps seven or eight thousand men on the beach. General Paulinus’ army numbered over ten thousand all told, and in open battle any commander worth the name would have been comfortable taking on a barbarian force twice or maybe even three times the size of disciplined, armoured troops. But Paulinus couldn’t bring those ten thousand to bear at once. Caecina’s first wave, not counting the Batavians who would be rowing back to pick up the second wave, numbered three hundred and sixty legionaries and four hundred Batavian swimmers. That number was fewer now after one of the barges had capsized, meaning that Caecina and his men faced odds of ten to one. They had to reach land and hold their position long enough to be reinforced by the second wave, and even if by some miracle all his men survived, the odds would only fall to five barbarians for every Roman or Batavian.

The beach was now a hundred paces away, the worst of the whirlpools was now behind them. A few more strokes and the centurion Aemillus would blast his whistle, the legionaries would get to their feet and prepare to jump off at the bow. Aemillus already had his hand on the whistle, when suddenly a group of Britons appeared on the left flank.

There were perhaps fifty of them, old men, women and even a few children who had been hiding on a rocky promontory. Spread out across the rocks they whirled slings above their heads and loosed a volley. The hail of stones crackled and rattled against helmets and armour as the missiles struck with frightening accuracy. One legionary was nursing a forearm that was already sporting a growing lump, the bone beneath likely broken.

At Caecina’s side the aquilifer was crouched down into a ball to protect himself and the eagle standard dropped down to water-level. Aemillus grabbed the man by the neck.

‘Stand up!’ he snarled. ‘Keep the eagle high for the men to follow.’

The Batavians in the water kept low, still supporting themselves on their shields. They were all on the eastern side of the boats and remained under cover, slowing their speed to match the faltering barges.

‘Six more strokes, men, that’s all we need,’ Caecina cried. The men obeyed, and on the sixth stroke Aemillus gave two blasts on his whistle. Instantly the Batavians got up and went to the other side of their oars so that they could quickly head back to the temporary safety of The Narrows’ southern shore. The legionaries grabbed swords, shields and spears, bounding towards Caecina at the bow. The Batavians in the water were now able to stand, waist-deep and sodden, pushing against the river’s resistance.

The frontmost legionaries, taking up position towards the bow with their swords sheathed for the moment, launched the first volley of pila at the Britons. No sooner were they in the air than another was passed into the hands by the men behind. Caecina watched admiringly as the pila arced into the air then fell towards the writhing mass of Britons. The metal points easily pierced through the wooden shields and into unguarded flesh below. Some of the Britons were skewered, but those whose shield bore all the damage were forced to throw them away. The metal point was designed to bend on impact, lodging itself deep within the shield and making it completely unwieldy. Before another volley of stones was launched, the left-hand rank of legionaries had their shields up, and the barrage of small, hard rocks battered and bounced off.

Caecina’s barge grounded out, scraping along the rocks beneath. The aquilifer jumped into the water, eagle standard held aloft. Caecina’s role was not to be the first among the Britons’ spears. He had to lead the men and co-ordinate the men of each new wave as they arrived, so he had to live. He jumped down to the side to let the legionaries charge forwards, their pila spent.

A young Briton, naked but for leather shoes to stop him from slipping on the muddy beach, was the first to come within reach of Roman swords. He must have been the son of a wealthy man, for his long hexagonal shield was decorated with images of two prancing horses either side of the heavy boss at its centre. The horses shone in the morning light which suggested they had been finished off with silver. The Briton screamed his defiance, taking a wild hack at the first legionary.

The Briton’s blade was longer than the standard issue gladius, so the soldier took the wild swipe on his shield before raising it horizontally and punching the Briton in the stomach with its rim. The warrior bent double, the breath knocked out of him. By the time he could stand upright one of the leather-clad Batavians, dripping wet, rushed up and gave the warrior a mighty kick on the shield. The young man landed flat on his back and yelped as a sword was rammed deep into his belly.

More Britons were arriving and Aemillus was already shoving men into a rough formation.

‘Form ranks,’ the veteran bellowed. ‘Close up, close up.’

The legionaries and Batavian auxiliaries stood alongside each other, men from different units but all trained in the same manner of warfare. In the chaos of the landing some of the Britons had been able to cut down two or three of Caecina’s men. The rattle and screams told Caecina that the slingers were also finding their mark, aiming for exposed necks and faces. He had already seen one soldier with a bloodied face and smashed nose.

The front rank at last began to form a semblance of a great red wall that the frenzied Britons threw themselves upon. In the press of bodies the gladius was in its element, snaking out between the gap in shields or over the rim to stab the heathen warriors. Caecina looked back and saw that his barges were almost halfway done with the return journey. His men had to hold out ready for the next wave. There was no thought to advance, just to hold the ground.

Caecina heard a deep bass roar and saw the lolloping bear’s head over the top of the shield wall. The Britons seemed to take encouragement as the bear-priest surged forwards, a mass of whooping young bucks in his wake, each carrying two-handed axes. Through gaps in the fighting Caecina could see the bear-priest clearly now, towering above the rest and carrying a great axe himself. For a moment the bear’s head dropped and he disappeared from sight, then suddenly he was catapulted high into the air, launched by the shields of warriors crouching beneath him. The bear-priest landed on the heads of those in the front rank, flattening them. Before the Romans had a chance to recover he was laying about him, the axe head biting into wood, iron and flesh as it was wielded with terrifying strength. The bloodshot white eyes stood out in the recesses of his dark blue face, his tongue wriggling and writhing as he exulted in the death and destruction.

Through the gap in the defences the axemen spilled, and Caecina was an obvious target with a great plume of imperial purple on his helmet. In the chaos, Caecina had even forgotten to draw his sword. The metal rasped against the scabbard. While the bear-priest was laying about him, one of the Britons had ducked through and was bearing down on the terrified tribune. Shields were for common infantrymen, so Caecina had to rely on skill and speed as the barbarian charged. The axe swung hard and fast, but Caecina was able to take the blow high up on his gladius and spin aside.

Fleeting memories of a day in the fields of the family estate came to him. His father looking on as the hired veteran came at him with a wooden axe. The twelve-year old Caecina had shied away instinctively.

‘Fight your fear,’ the veteran shouted. ‘My axe is long, your sword is short. To kill me you’ve got to get up close.

The Briton, as if to prove the veteran’s point, took another mighty swing at Caecina. Fighting every instinct, every feeling of self-preservation that screamed at him to back away, Caecina dropped to his knees and ducked the wild swipe. The duck turned into a roll, his helmet scraping along a sandy rock. Once the world was the right way up Caecina lunged upwards, driving his gladius up through the man’s belly and towards his shoulder blades. The axe fell out of the astonished Briton’s hands and he gargled, thick red blood spewing out of his mouth.

The bear-priest was beginning to tire, and a lightly-armoured Batavian danced within reach of the blood-stained axe. The soldier’s gladius flicked like a serpent’s tongue, nicking the tendons behind the Briton’s knee. The entire leg gave way, sapped of strength, and the soldiers surrounding him pounced. One sword gashed him in the side, another his chest. It was Aemillus the stoic centurion that took aim at the druid’s neck for the final blow. The bear-priest howled his curses at the invaders before his bellow was choked off, steel slicing through flesh, muscle and bone.

Soon the gap created by the bear-priest’s charge was filled, and the Romans had created a solid red wall once more. Aemillus, his burnished breastplate heaving as he gulped down air, drew a small whistle from a cord around his neck and gave it a blast. Mechanically, the second rank behind the wall advanced while the men in front dropped to the rear, bloodied and exhausted. Caecina looked behind him. The barges had made it back to the southern bank at last, and he could see little figures scrambling to get aboard. It was too chaotic to try and count the fallen men, but Caecina knew that if most of those still alive were standing when the next wave came, victory would eventually come.

The wind turned, swinging round from west to north. Did the druids have the ability to command the weather? Caecina did not know, but the wind in the north was blowing smoke and ash into the eyes of his men. Then he spotted the gyrfalcon-priest. She was sat on the shoulders of a tall warrior, arms aloft and spreading her wings, displaying her scanty breasts for all to see. She threw her head back and emitted a piercing cry, mimicking the call of her totem. The Britons in front of the wall took a step back, leaving dozens of bodied strewn over the beach. Surely they couldn’t be retreating? His men on the western flank were still being peppered by the slingers, forcing them to crouch behind their shields.

Through the mass of men came women, covered in robes of black. They wore their hair long, streaked with smears of ash, looking for all the world live avenging Furies coming to bring righteous torment and anguish to the Romans’ souls for having dared to set foot on their holy isle. In their hands they carried burning torches. They started shrieking a shrill cry and the first of them flung her torch into the mass of men.

‘Form testudo!’ Aemillus ordered. With the men in two lines rather than in cohort formation, and with Batavian auxiliaries mixed amongst Roman legionaries Caecina was nervous that the command would cause still more chaos. But just as the burning brands began to fall, the second rank already had their shields up, protecting themselves and the man in front from the projectiles. One man screamed as a torch slipped between skyward shields and burned his neck. The men were coughing and spluttering in the smoke of the bonfire.

As the last of the brands fell, Centurion Aemillus put the whistle to his lips to signal for the men to break formation, when there was a sickening squelch. The centurion spluttered and gurgled as his windpipe filled with blood. The point of a javelin was buried deep in his back. Caecina spun around. Out of the water came thirty warriors, their woad patterns smeared after swimming along The Narrows to catch the Romans in the rear. Most of them were swordsmen, but some of them also had missiles to fling. Centurion Aemillus sank to his knees, hands pawing at his throat as he choked on his own blood.

‘Rear rank, about turn,’ Caecina shouted, his voice high in panic and fear. The soldiers obeyed immediately and saw the danger. Caecina flung himself to the ground, nose touching the wet sand. The volley of javelins thudded into wood, and then the Britons were charging forwards. The second rank charged to meet them, with a band of four legionaries rushing to stand before their prostrate tribune, shields cocooning him. At the same time the main Briton force charged the front rank once more, so that the remainder of Caecina’s command now fought on two fronts. Caecina struggled to his feet, appalled at the sudden reversal. His protectors formed a ring around him as the armourless, shieldless Britons weaved among them, half-white and half-blue, whirring their swords in a demented fury.

On the rocky promontory, Tuathal and the rest of the slingers were out of ammunition once again. The one-armed man at their head gave a loud whistle. Once again, Tuathal and the other young lads from the motley group of boys, women and wounded veterans leaped nimbly down to the pebble beach for more stones to fling. With the Britons attacking the Roman troops on both sides, the slingers would be risking their comrades’ lives with another volley anyway. If the ambushers from the water were cut down, then the surviving Romans would have to take cover from another volley from the humble but effective weapon.

Tuathal grabbed handfuls of stones, filling up the sling that rested against his stomach. The beach was a good source, for the pebbles there mostly weren’t so big that they wouldn’t fit in the sling, nor so small that they’d do little damage if they found their mark in the gaps between the Romans’ helmets, armour and cheekpieces.

Casting a fearful look southwards, the young prince could see that the strange flat-bottomed boats had set off from the far shore. It would take them some time to reach Mona and her smoky, stinging embrace, but they had to kill the Romans still standing before the work would begin again. But the next men to land on the beach would be half-broken, they hoped. They simply had to kill enough men to make the Roman general call off his attack. Tuathal had heard whispers that riders had been sent to all corners of Britannia as soon as the elders had heard of the army that had marched out of Deva, bent on their destruction. The riders bore a druid-sanctioned call to arms, urging all those who believed in the true gods to rise up and cast the invaders out.

Over the sound of battle behind and the ripple of waves at his feet, Tuathal thought he could hear another noise: a low rumbling. Thunder? The sky overhead was grey and foreboding. The sound grew nearer, more defined. Hoofbeats, Tuathal could swear to it. He had heard stories about chariots bringing warriors to battle, as they did in his own land of Hibernia. The driver would handle the horses at the front of a bouncing wicker cart while an elite warrior would throw spears or step down and join the ranks of battle. Perhaps the chariots bore men from the far north of Mona, those who wouldn’t have had time to reach The Narrows on foot.

Only there were no chariots. Through small gaps in the trees Tuathal could make out riders in cloaks of brilliant scarlet.

‘The Red-Crests! The Red-Crests are here,’ he bawled. The other boys just stopped and gaped. Then the brightest of them turned and ran towards the rocky promontory where the veteran was waiting for more ammunition. Tuathal saw the fastest boy tugging at the cripple’s empty sleeve, and the veteran raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Then his jaw dropped and he stood, dazed and confused. Others had seen and began waving wildly at their comrades tearing into the Romans on the waterfront.

At the foot of the front rank of Romans a pile of bodies had begun to build, and the steel-encased soldiers were using this to their advantage, treating the strewn carcasses as a wall. Tuathal could see a man with a purple crest on his helmet dragging sea-stained Briton bodies towards the front, adding to the pile. The ambush party had been dealt with quickly it seemed, but the army of Mona had no idea about the danger to their own flank.

The veteran frantically gestured at the boys to bring the stones over. On the rocky outcrop they were safe from any cavalry attack and might even be able to do some help if the riders came within range. The Roman barges were partway across The Narrows now, soon they too would face a barrage of stones. There was no time to warn the army properly, all they could do was jump and wave and point…and hope.

The cavalrymen burst out of the woods, perhaps two hundred of them. Each man held aloft a javelin. Tuathal could only look on in awe as the men and horses kept rigid formation, riding across the rear of the army rather than charging headlong into it. The horsemen flung their javelins as one and maintained their raking ride. No sooner had the first volley landed, punching through flesh and breaking bone, than another force of cavalry armed only with long spatha swords broke from cover. This group rode in an arrow-like wedge, with another purple-plumed officer at their head. The first unit already had their second javelins in hand and flung them at the disorganised, bloody centre. The rest of the cavalry punched through, disarray and doubt in the Britons turning rapidly to full on fear. The wedge drove into the very heart of Mona’s army, making for the fires and the druids who tended to them, while the javelin-throwers drew their swords and followed through the gaping hole their comrades had created.

The Briton veteran raised his one arm for all his followers to see. ‘Slingers, on me!’

Tuathal and the others followed the grey-haired man back towards the woods. Their stones could do little against legionaries in full armour beyond pinning them down, though they might get lucky with the occasional shot. They could do more damage to the cavalry though, perhaps even panic some of the horses into bolting.

Back on sandy ground, the slingers naturally fanned out. Each needed a pace of space either side to ensure that they didn’t catch their neighbour in the face while whirling their stones around and around, gathering momentum for release.

‘Aim for the horses!’ was the cry, and young Tuathal’s heart sank at the prospect. To kill a soldier was one thing, but to hurt an innocent and noble creature was another matter entirely. Tuathal’s arms moved automatically, though the wiry muscles in his scrawny arms were beginning to ache and tire. This was his first battle, but even he knew that for the Britons to drive the Romans back into the water they couldn’t be fighting on two fronts.

After the first volley a few riders went down, horses whinnied and screamed in pain and panic. Again Tuathal spun a stone as Bowen had taught him, spinning the sling in a circle at his side and releasing it underarm. Behind Tuathal and the other boys stood the adults, flinging their stones overarm so as not to hit the youngsters. Tuathal could hear almost feel their projectiles whizzing through the air, but he couldn’t show fear in front of the others.

The purple-plumed cavalry officer gestured angrily at the slingers, and two dozen horsemen peeled away from the main fight to charge the slingers down. ‘Aim for the neck and face,’ the veteran reminded them all, and the targets grew bigger and bigger as the horsemen approached. Just as they were about to loose yet another volley, the riders all disappeared out of their saddles, the stones flying harmlessly over them. Tuathal could see that the men had gripped their horses’ manes and had slid towards the ground, feet dancing lightly over the ground as their steeds barely checked their pace. Once the danger had passed the men hauled themselves up again, getting a foot on the horse’s back and levering themselves back into position, all in the matter of a moment. Tuathal had never seen anything like it.

The slingers broke, no heroic notions of fighting to the last man. Tuathal’s anger at the druids and determination to see himself revenged on them dissolved in that instance, his fear stronger than his hatred. If he was going to die, it would be as he tried to get back to his mother, not futilely on a beach. Either side of him horses flashed past, their long swords hacking and slicing into the slingers, even the women. Tuathal stumbled over the corpse of a lad barely two years older than he was, a great red gash in his neck. The stumble saved his life as a sword scythed through the air just where his head had been. The horseman galloped past but tugged at his reins to try another pass.

A horn blew in quick, rising notes and the troop of cavalry wheeled around. The slingers posed no more threat and there were still many men on the beach needing to be killed. Tuathal made a break for the trees, glancing back only to see the Roman barges had reached the shore, bristling with legionaries. The men of Mona fought on, but the battle was lost.

Epilogue

Caecina and his friend Agricola stood before the hellish structure, saying nothing at first. They had rejoiced to find each other still alive after the Battle of The Narrows. The joy was shortlived, it had soon turned to anger and disgust as they discovered what the islanders had prepared for any prisoners taken after victory.

Men from the ordinances, General Paulinus’ clerks, were supervising the slave pens that had been built further down the slope. There the men, women and children were sized up, interrogated in the hope of discovering Latin-speakers that could turn a higher profit, each slave valued and then sent to the appropriate part of the great pen. The general and the legates would get first pick of course, as was their privilege, but as tribunes Caecina and Agricola would see some profits too.

The shadows of the afternoon were lengthening, and the grass at Caecina’s feet was covered by a creeping darkness. The ghoulish thing had been crudely built in the shape of a man, with a great cage door where the belly would have been. Inside were men wearing the brown, black or white robes of the druids and their apprentices. Bound hand and foot, they were willing to meet their fate with a silent dignity. Madog had been the last to be captured, the druid in white who had stood by the great bonfire on the beach and called down curses from the heavens. The islanders had fought like animals to protect him, but deep down the old man wondered if he and his kind had deserved to lose. The High Priestess’ demand for Tuathal’s death had chilled him, as he had cared for the boy over the years and instructed him as best he could. Perhaps this was the gods’ punishment. He sat in the belly of the wicker man, along with the others of his order who had survived. They had all been bound so that it was easier to fling them into the monstrous pyre and gagged so they couldn’t utter any curses or spells.

Tuathal and his mother, Queen Eithne, were suffering the humiliating process of trying to prove that they could speak Latin. The queen, a proud and bitter woman, knew enough of the world to realise that they would receive better treatment if they could prove their value to their captors. Their gold and jewellery had been torn from them already, and Eithne was looking far from regal.

Tuathal was struggling to form complete sentences of the alien tongue, turning red in frustration, and the clerk was making notes on a little wax tablet protected within a wooden box. Tuathal was desperately trying to recall the words that meant ‘son of a king’, to show these men he and his mother deserved their respect, when his eye fell on a man huddled amongst the mass of captured warriors. The Brigantian was covered in mud right up to his shoulders, where the Romans had tied ropes around him and dragged him out of the bog. Once he had seen where his brethren were being led, he had cast aside his robes and wore nothing but his long breeches, like many of the captured warriors. The mud of the bog still showed on his naked torso.

Tuathal pointed directly at the Brigantian and shouted at the top of his lungs. ‘He’s a druid! That man is a druid.’ The clerk understood little of the Celtic tongue, but all Romans who had served in Britannia recognised the word ‘druid’. Immediately the other Britons surged around Tuathal, eager to protect the identity of any druid who might have evaded capture. The soldiers acting as the clerk’s bodyguards held out the swords warily. A mass of men and women, even with their hands bound, presented a threat.

Some of the Britons spat at Tuathal and snarled at him to be quiet, but the prince wouldn’t stop shouting. The Brigantian had ducked out of sight somewhere amongst the crowd. Caecina and Agricola came to the slave pen to see what had caused the clamour.

‘You’ve got a druid in here?’ Agricola asked the clerk.

‘That’s what the boy says, Tribune.’

‘What reason has he got to lie?’ Caecina asked. He beckoned for a couple of idle soldiers to follow him into the pen. The crowd backed away as the legionaries spread out, Briton blood still on their gladii. Caecina looked down at the child, swirling patterns of woad on his face like the menfolk, except on one cheek where his mother had tried to rub it off.

‘Druid?’ Caecina said questioningly.

Eithne whispered to her son in the Hibernian tongue: ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Tuathal? What if the gods punish us?’. She gripped his shoulders tightly.

Tuathal shrugged her off. ‘What more can they do?’

The young prince wandered through the crowd, the hunter at last, no longer the hunted. Amongst all the disapproving faces there was one that was turned away, hoping against hope that he would escape Tuathal’s eye. But the face had burned brightly in Tuathal’s mind ever since he had emerged from that nightmarish tomb. Even though he tried to mask his face with smears of mud, but the solitary knot of hair on his shaven head he could not hide. Tuathal couldn’t suppress a grin of pride.

‘Him.’

At Caecina’s command, two soldiers grabbed the young druid, writhing desperately, while another gagged him. Subdued, they led him up the slope towards the wooden prison his brethren had built that morning to celebrate their supposed victory. The prince’s sacrifice was meant to have saved them, turning the gods’ ire on the Red-Crest invaders. It had all gone so wrong.

Caecina turned to the clerk. ‘Give the boy to Legate Cerialis, he treats his slaves well. That’s all the reward I can give you, lad.’

‘My mother too,’ Tuathal said in halting Latin.

Caecina laughed. ‘And his mother too. You’re a good negotiator.’

Agricola had a thought. ‘Have the children moved out of sight. I don’t think they should see what’s coming.’

The clerk nodded assent, inwardly sighing about the delay it would add. The tribunes’ word was law though, unless General Paulinus or one of the legates said otherwise. They were further inland, making sure that every temple, every sacred grove was sacked, torched or flattened. Rome would wipe the druids out of existence, and hopefully out of memory. But all the prisoners would remember the next hour for the rest of their back-breaking lives.

Madog sat motionless inside the wicker man, even as the gagged Brigantian was flung inside and the cage door was fastened with rope. Torches were put to the feet of the grisly prison, where a base layer of hay quickly caught light. On top of the hay were piled faggots of wood, so that the fire would burn with plenty of heat. The druids began to scream, muffled by the strips of cloth in their mouths. Madog watched as Tuathal and his mother were led away to safety and felt at peace. On such a black day for his people, seeing his young charge alive and well was a little victory. He thanked the gods in silent prayer before the flickering flames ultimately took him to the Otherworld, before their presence and before their judgement.

Next in The Aulus Severus Adventures:

The Last Caesar

AD 68: the tyrant emperor Nero has no son and no heir. With the very real possibility that Rome might become a republic once more, the ambitions of a few are about to bring untold corruption, chaos and bloodshed.

Aulus Caecina Severus, hero of the campaign against Boudica, is caught up in a conspiracy to overthrow Caesar’s dynasty, where he will commit treason, raise a rebellion, and face torture and intrigue. But is it really all for the good of Rome? The boundary between service and self-preservation is far from clear, and keeping to the dangerous path he’s chosen requires all Severus’ skills: as a cunning soldier and, increasingly, a deft politician.

As the Year of the Four Emperors unfolds, the mighty Roman empire will be plunged into anarchy and civil war…

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Copyright © Henry Venmore-Rowland 2020

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