‘Reject this!’ cried Caylen, the Horned Warrior, and brought his axe down towards the African. The Negro danced backwards, the blade of the Berserker’s axe burying itself in the sand. The netless retiarius cast his trident at the Berserker, who ducked below it; the gladiator, still laughing, grasped for Laurgam’s sword, wrenching it from the dying man’s fingers, and drove the blade into Swiftaxe’s chest as the two men came together. The Berserker laughed.
‘By the goddess Pamelia!’ shrieked Kenbul. ‘I am lost!’
His head was still silently screaming as it rolled, severed, across the arena sands. The crowd hooted and yelled, more animal, more insatiable than the animal warrior it watched in action.
Gilius and Antonius exchanged appreciative glances in the royal box. Gilius was breathing heavily, his face red, the stickiness of his own ejaculate making sitting uncomfortable.
‘By the gods,’ he murmured. ‘This man destroys all concept of compassion. I have never been so excited in all my life.’
‘You are little better than this obscene rabble,’ said Antonius bitterly, forgetting the need for diplomacy with this dear friend of Nero. ‘If your life is filled with women and with violence you think no more of the meaning of your existence. You are too busy being engrossed and contained by your pleasures. You disgust me, Gilius.’
‘You bore me, Senator. If you are too old to appreciate such art, such fine art as this, then you must be bored out of your mind.’
‘Think what you will,’ said the Senator, not surprised to discover that his guest was not just interested in subtlety, as Gilius would have had him believe, ‘If my pleasure derives from seeing one man survive against impossible odds, I am not ashamed of it; I take little pleasure in the gore, but the man who inflicts such chaos in the lives of others, such a man is worthy of thought, of reflection. The Horned Warrior intrigues me. You, however, disgust me. But
no matter. The finale of our little show commences. Observe. Bedus the Ox enters the arena.’
Twenty paces separated them when each recognised the other. Bedivyg, his head bare, his hair stiffened in the fashion of the Britons, let his shield and sword fall to his sides. ‘Caylen!’ he cried. ‘By the Horns of Cernunnos, this explains the secrecy! They have faced us together at last.’
The bear in Caylen’s head, satiated with blood and death, was weak, and when Caylen reached forward it quiesced. Instead of leaping to the attack, and striking Bedivyg quickly, the Berserker stood paralysed as violence and compassion fought a brief duel within the warrior’s mind.
At length the bear, not unhappily, crept back into the recesses, to sleep, to ponder what it had made the warrior do. Odin was calm, his interest diverted elsewhere.
Caylen said, ‘Taranis has truly chased away the evil claws of Scaladd. My brother. My heart surges with joy to see you. My mind recoils with horror at what we are being made to do.’
The crowd screamed for blood, restless at the sight of the two warriors standing so still and staring at each other.
‘I cannot fight you,’ said Bedivyg. ‘Despite what you have become.’
‘How do we get out of this? They’ll kill us both if we refuse to fight.’
Bedivyg’s eyes flickered briefly towards the royal box, where the Senator who was the editor of these games sat and watched them. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, and briefly explained what he had in mind …
Antonius was puzzled by the pause in activity, and was only too aware of Gilius’s grinning silence next to him. ‘By Minerva, what are these two fools up to?’
Gilius said, ‘I think they’re going to dance, or kiss each other.’ He laughed loudly.
Antonius said, ‘I think not. Bedus has glanced towards us already … I think they’re up to something … By Mars, they come for us!’
Gilius screeched his panic as he realised that Antonius was right. The two Britons were racing across the sand towards the royal box, the Horned Warrior swinging his axe, and Bedus the Ox, his face distorted by anger, brandishing his Roman sword in the bright air.
People tumbled from the tiers about the royal box, fled down the tunnel way, stopping Gilius from moving from the front of the vulnerable place. The governor howled his anxiety.
Antonius jumped to his feet and yelled for the guards. Around the arena some twenty Roman soldiers came running across the sand, several of them pausing to throw long spears at the two gladiators.
At that moment the two men in front of Antonius stopped and turned,
knocking the spears aside, using shield and axe with all the ease of boys knocking down castles made out of sand. They then ran at the main troop of men, and burst through the ranks, slaughtering the soldiers with horrible efficiency.
The crowd loved this.
When gladiators fought it was one highly trained man against another, and there was pleasure in wondering who would win out over the other – when quality was balanced there was the excitement of uncertainty. But the crowd now learned of another uncertainty … two men against twenty, quality on the side of the Britons, but quantity in favour of the Romans, the crowd’s own guardians.
Soon the cheering, screaming excitement of the crowd died as, one by one, the audience realised that it was their own people being so swiftly and easily slaughtered in the arena.
After a few minutes the surviving soldiers turned and ran, prudence kicking aside bravado. Bedivyg and Swiftaxe laughed loudly, then turned to face Antonius, raising their weapons in salute and walking across the scattered bodies and remains of those who had fallen beneath their wrath.
Antonius walked to the front of the box as Caylen, the Horned Warrior, approached him, his axe left on the ground behind him.
‘We are Britons,’ screamed the Berserker so that all might hear him. ‘And we are united by blood. We shall not fight each other, and nothing shall induce us to do so. We demand, instead, our freedom to join with Nero’s army and return to our own lands!’
‘Get out of that,’ whispered Gilius with a grin.
Antonius said loudly, ‘The people shall decide your fate. If they cheer …’ he shouted, now, so that all could hear him in his turn, ‘I shall agree to your demands. If they jeer, however, I shall order archers to turn you into porcupines where you stand.
How say the people?
’
The people cheered until they were out of breath!
It had rained earlier in the day; the ground was dank and soft in the camp, and the air smelled heavy with vegetation and sweet water. Tribune Lucius Fabius, co-ordinator of the garrisons in this eastern part of the province, was glad of the freshness of the atmosphere. It reminded him of his home, a hundred miles north of Rome, a small village that his heart often yearned for during these years of his assignment in the Celtic Westlands.
Whoever had said that it always rained in Britain must have come during a thunder shower and not bothered to stay for the duration of it. It had been baking hot, and dry, for over a month; this morning’s early summer shower had brought both men and animals, and even the Tribune himself, out into the small area between the high palisades, shouting and laughing with more relief than pleasure.
Fabius stood in the entrance to the Commander’s tent and watched the garrison. A group of check-trousered Iceni were being conducted through the camp with food goods from Venta, the main stronghold of the Britons, a few miles away. It was an uneasy peace, this agreement between Roman and Briton to live in harmony and not interfere with either way of life. The token force of Roman troops in Venta itself was a constant source of complaint, and Fabius was well aware of how dangerous it was keeping them there. They were a perfect excuse for an uprising, the more so since their presence in the Icenian fortress was overtly and infuriatingly (to the Britons) to keep their angry queen in check.
Fabius was irritated that it should have been Centurion Gaius Silanus – who at the moment was sprawled, fat and contented, behind the Tribune – who had been given the command of this garrison whilst better, more conscientious men were in command of garrisons far removed from any potential trouble.
It was the way the dice fell, he was sure of that: Nero was incapable of making decisions in any other way. He cared more for his prize pigs and music than for his colonies in hostile lands, and yet he would insist on making all command decisions himself. He didn’t want to appear uninterested, obviously, but his choice of commanders gave the lie to his concern.
Thinking of the rain again, Tribune Lucius Fabius recognised how he
could voice his concern with the impending – and potentially disastrous – political change in this eastern part of the Province, which lay eight days’ north of Verulanium (and a measure of civilisation) and as many days from the main force of those Legions that had been left in the east.
‘She has the power to strike as swiftly and as effectively as that rain shower,’ he said. Behind him there was the sound of men shuffling in low-basined teak chairs, or shifting uneasily on couches. As always, metal rattled as the men moved, for no Roman these days ever seemed to take his cumbersome uniform off and relax.
Fabius turned and stared at the three men who sat there, replete after a meal of chicken and fruit, and much wine that had been imported, of course, from the Gaulish province of Belgica, but which had been tarted up in some way by the highly inventive Britons. It tasted good.
Centurion Gaius Silanus who, like Fabius himself, was fat and greying at the temples, but whose eyes and expression were those of a dullard, said, ‘Who? Boudicca?’
‘Who else, in Vulcan’s name,’ snapped the Tribune, ‘are we talking about?’
The blond-haired man who sat next to Silanus at the table, a thin Roman whose armour seemed uncomfortably big upon him, shifted uneasily and frowned. ‘Please don’t invoke the names of gods for the sake of anger,’ he said, his pale features flushing.
Fabius felt his irritation growing, but he controlled it. The man was Silanus’ Optione, his right hand man, and in his own way was as stupid as the garrison Centurion himself. The Tribune said, ‘I do beg your pardon, worthy Marcus Galba; but I did in fact invoke the name of a god whom we have long since ceased to worship, but I understand how you feel …’
Religious idiot, he thought with a smile playing sweetly across his face. Two imbeciles in command of this most crucial garrison. Something would have to be done about that, before long.
The fourth man in the room shook his head and patted his bronze-edged sword hilt nervously. He was a dark and swarthy Greek called Valentio who carried the rank of Centurion, but had no century of men at his command. He had been sent here, some weeks before, to assess the strength and troublesomeness of the Britons. Fabius had sent him.
‘You overestimate this woman, I’m sure. Boudicca has a temper like a bee-stung bull, but it’s all for show. She wouldn’t dare start anything, not while her husband is so weak and vulnerable to the mighty wrath of Rome.’
He used the words
mighty wrath of Rome
with something of an appealing cynicism in his voice, and Fabius grinned, approving heartily of his attitude. Much though he missed the country, he had no great respect for the Empire as governed by Nero.
He said, ‘I agree, Valentio. She screams around that wood and thatch
palace like a stone on the end of a string, getting nowhere. She’s certainly more bluster than muster. But you’re wrong to think of Prasitagus as being alive. No, don’t alarm yourselves, gentlemen. He is certainly alive now, and for a week or two, perhaps. But my doctors, and your doctors, Silanus, have pronounced him on his death bed.’
Centurion Silanus snorted his contempt. ‘King Prasitagus has been on his death bed since he was born. It’s a cunning piece of strategy designed to get a measure of sympathy from his conquerors. It has worked, too.’
‘Hardly conquerors,’ said Marcus Galba sourly. His blond hair fell over his eyes as he talked with animated movements of his body. He swept the hair back and Fabius felt his stomach knot at the sight of the man, long-haired and girlish, not at all the sort of leader he liked to think of as being in charge of hardened legionaries.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Tribune. Galba flushed again, and twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Well, how can we call ourselves conquerors when the Iceni live exactly as they’ve always lived, protected by treaty, allowed even to fight their tribal wars? It’s as if we never came. A few men stationed in a highly vulnerable position behind their lines does not a conquest make.’
Fabius shrugged, irritated that he was substantially in agreement with the effeminate Optione. ‘That will work in our favour in the end,’ he said. ‘For the moment we are not ready for trouble, not with Suetonius Paulinus engaged on his campaigns in the west, among the Ordovici.’
‘What is the news of Paulinus?’ asked the Centurion, and Fabius’ contempt for him increased. Did the man have no intelligence connections at all?
‘He will soon begin to storm through the fortified settlements along the north coast, which will bring him ultimately to the sacred sanctuary island of Mona. Once he has subdued the druids there, and that will not take long once he can get across the water gap that separates them, he may well come back to the east and return the strength of our garrisons.’
‘Or he may attack the Silures in the south,’ said Silanus with a scowl on his face, ‘or head due east to tackle the Cornovii. There are too many of these Saturn-damned tribal kingdoms. Why can’t the Britons have a single king, and a single army, and make it easier?’
Marcus Galba bristled at the blasphemy, and Fabius grinned. He felt like complimenting Silanus on his ability to read a map out of the corner of his eye, but repressed the facetiousness for the simple reason that Silanus’ fear (no matter how false) was a fear that Fabius had himself.
He said, ‘It would be easier, I agree, but a lot less pleasure. A conquest that takes time and effort to achieve, a treasure won at great cost, these things last longer because they are appreciated the more. I confess I agree that the subjugation of an island full of druids seems scarcely to any sort of point, but
you know how paranoid the hierarchy of Statesmen and Protectors can become. One druid, shrieking curses and trying to bring down the sky, can put the fear of death into a whole platoon of soldiers. It’s worth eliminating them, for peace of heart if not mind.’ He shivered. ‘They frighten me too. I don’t know why we haven’t been through the countryside seeking every druid and priestess and witch in their lair and putting them to the sword, but that’s another question, gentlemen … another question entirely.’ He turned around again to stare at the bustling garrison, and the gleaming, rain-soaked turf, partly chewed up where battalion drill had turned the earth into a virtual quagmire.