GIRL GLADIATOR (5 page)

One good thing Sharn could say about the Romans – they were harsh overlords, yes – but fair. The soldiers could have taken reprisals, but the Roman administration insisted that any charge be proven, and for that they needed evidence. Sharn reflected that his own people would have been much more rough and ready dealing with suspects. So after the soldiers had searched Ryant but could find no cache of grain they returned to their barracks empty-handed.

Sharn’s dislike of Rufus grew in the week after the raid. He and Gee and Magee stayed on, lounging around and drinking. Sharn didn’t like Rufus’s smouldering eyes following Cumbria as she prepared and served the food … until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Rufus, do you know the saying that guests and fish stink after the third day?”

Rufus’s bloodshot eyes kindled with malice. “And do you know the saying children should be seen and not heard?”

“I’m not a child!”

“You’re a kid – despite what you get up to with wolf-girl.”

Sharn coloured with anger at the ruffian’s leering tone. “Get out of our house before I throw you out.”

“I’m going to beat some manners into you one day, you cheeky brat.”

“Why wait?” Sharn shouted, waving Rufus forward. Sharn figured maybe he could get the better of Rufus because he was so drunk and his bodyguards were not with him.

As Rufus was lumbering to his feet Cumbria intervened. “Sharn, stop! It’s not worth it.”

Sharn tried to brush his sister off but she grabbed hold of his arm.

“You’ll just make matters worse,” she said, as she dragged him out of the hut.

“That’s right, hide behind your sister,” Rufus jeered.

Sharn turned to say something but Cumbria shoved him outside. “They’re just staying on for the feast, then they’ll go. Try to ignore them until then,” she said.

Sharn had to admit once again his sister was right.

I
t was the biggest gathering of the clan that Sharn could remember. Blood relatives arrived from all over the tribal lands. Colun had bartered some of the grain for an ox now turning on a spit over hot coals, and a portion of the barley had been brewed into ale. Sharn did not approve of this. Better that the grain be stored in case the winter was another hard one and spring slow in coming.

So large was the gathering that Colun opened up the round house where clan assemblies used to be held when the clan was worthy of the name. The thatch was missing from some parts of the roof and the rats and birds had to be shooed out, but with a sweep and a scrub, Sharn was surprised how good it looked in the glow of the torches.

Fritha helped serve the feast, carrying big platters of steaming meat to where the menfolk sat. The women and children squatted around outside the huts eating and drinking also.

It was a long evening full of boasting and rambling tales of magnificent feats, which grew more and more exaggerated as the night wore on. The girls serving the meal finally wandered off to their sleeping quarters, all except Fritha. She passed among the men keeping their ale topped up, paying particular attention to Sharn. Perhaps this was what provoked Rufus.

Every time Fritha passed close to Rufus, he would allow his hand to touch her in some way. Sharn tensed but Colun told him to ignore it. Sharn was glad to obey because he wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do.

Sharn was growing weary of the party that never seemed to end. He got up and went outside to relieve himself. He looked up at the starry night, which always brought his mother to mind. He wondered what she would have thought of Fritha and whether she would have approved of her special name.

The heat hit Sharn like a blow when he stepped back into the round house. At first he wasn’t sure what was happening, but sensed the whole atmosphere had changed – and then he saw what was riveting everybody’s attention. Rufus had Fritha on the ground.

All the men were watching with slack-mouthed fascination at the evil thing happening in front of them.

“Stop!” Sharn screamed. Sharn ran to assist Fritha but the biggest of Rufus’s henchmen, Magee, grabbed him in a grip of steel.

“Da, do something!” In better times, the chieftain would not have permitted this breach of custom – but these were not good times.

Sharn struggled to free himself but Magee was too strong and he was forced to look on as Fritha wilted under the weight of her attacker, like a spider shrinking into a crack. She made no effort to fight back, seeming to be paralysed.

But Fritha was not paralysed – she was remembering what Bredan had told her. “You do not have strength, little one, but you have cunning. Cunning beats force. What you must do is trick your opponent, make him underestimate you, make him believe too early that he has you beaten.”

So Fritha yielded and yielded … until she saw a smile of triumph begin on Rufus’s face – then she switched.

Sharn watched with astonishment as Fritha’s body bulked out as she sucked in lungfuls of air, turning her bones to steel. And then she shoved up hard, levering herself off the ground, her muscles swelling and sinews arching.

Rufus looked startled as Fritha forced her thin arms against his enclosing fists, ripping his fingers apart by twisting her wrists. And then like arrows from a bow, her thumbs homed into his eyes. She hooked them into the sockets and gouged. Rufus’s bellows of agony filled the hushed round house. He reeled back as one eyeball spilled out onto his cheek and the other filled with blood.

Magee released Sharn and raced to the aid of his master. Gee made a grab for Fritha, as she scrambled to her feet, but she eluded him and ran to the corner behind Sharn.

Rufus had recovered enough to be screaming vengeance. “Kill her!”

Gee and Magee made towards Fritha in the corner, their daggers out, but Sharn moved swiftly to shield her.

“Out of the way!” they bellowed.

Sharn retreated until he could feel the heat of Fritha’s body against his back and her panting breath on his neck.

“You’ll have to go through me to get to her,” Sharn said trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.

“Then prepare to die!” Gee spat.

Sharn desperately snatched up a carving knife from a meat platter and turned to face the raised daggers.

“There will be no blood spilt in my round house,” Colun had stirred at last, jumping to his feet and joining Sharn. His voice cut through the atmosphere, ringing with an authority Sharn had not heard in a long time. “The girl is under my son’s protection and he is under mine.”

Sharn’s uncles and cousins rallied to Colun. If Rufus and his men forced the issue now there would be a bloodbath.

“Sharn, fetch Guyleen!” Colun ordered. Sharn looked uncertainly at Fritha against the wall behind him. “It’s all right. She will come to no harm while you’re gone,” Colun said.

Sharn rushed out of the round house. He ran down the rows of huts and burst in on Guyleen who was nodding off next to the fire. The old healing woman grumpily grabbed her satchel of herbs and ointments and followed Sharn.

When she saw Rufus’s injury, she tut-tutted gloomily. “There is nothing I can do about this eye,” and she pointed at the one dangling down his cheek. “Even if I could pop it back, it would die. I have some hope for the one still in your head. I can stop the bleeding and you may get some sight back – but she has done a thorough job on you,” and she shot a dark look at Fritha.

Appalled at what had just taken place, tired and drunk and ashamed, the revellers drifted off. Fritha grabbed Sharn’s hand and they hurried back to their hut. She pushed the door closed and rammed the bolt home hard. Then she stripped off and began washing herself like she was sluicing off something unclean. Sharn stared at her.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.

But Fritha just kept on scrubbing herself, as if she hadn’t heard.

T
he next day, Gee, Magee and Rufus, his face heavily bandaged, went to the secret cave with a hired cart and trucked out their share of the grain, plus a couple of sacks extra for pain and suffering.

Colun clicked his tongue in disgust. If the Romans caught wind of such a quantity of grain appearing from nowhere, they would be on the warpath with a vengeance, but Rufus just scowled at him through his bandages and headed off to market.

“I’ll come back and kill that she-devil one dark night,” he hurled back over his shoulder.

“Don’t expect he’ll be doing anything with an eye like that – except in broad daylight,” Colun muttered to Sharn, but Sharn did not smile – his mind was racing with another thought.

“Da, we should move the grain to a different cave – one he doesn’t know about.”

Colun gave Sharn a look of approval. “You’ve got your mother’s brains.”

They immediately set about relocating the grain to a cave further away from the village – which was just as well because the next day Sharn heard a racket outside. “The Romans are coming!” Two village boys raced into the hut wide eyed. “There’s a column of legionnaires heading this way!” they shouted.

Sharn turned to his father. “Should we make a run for it?’

Colun shook his head. “They’d catch us for certain. Let’s see what happens. The grain is well hidden … thanks to you.”

An officer burst into the hut followed by four burly legionnaires and went straight to Colun. “I am Crassus Antonius, centurion of the ninth legion. Where are your brothers?”

Sharn and Colun exchanged a look – the information was so accurate, somebody must have informed; and Sharn learnt later that a cohort of legionnaires had gone straight to the cave from where the grain had just been removed.

Within half an hour, Colun, Rem and Brion were chained together and kneeling in the slush next to the village well, while the soldiers fanned out and ransacked Ryant from top to bottom. As Sharn sat in the hut with the sharp eyes of Crassus boring into him, he heard the screams of protest from the village women as the Romans tore apart their larders.

“Have you been anywhere lately?”

Sharn tried to look as innocent as possible. “I haven’t moved from the dun.”

“If I thought you were lying I could have you tortured.”

Sharn tried to shrug casually.

“Rome deals with liars harshly. But I suppose your clan would deal with informers even more harshly,” and the centurion smiled mirthlessly.

Sharn couldn’t help but like the Roman officer with his tanned square face and close cropped hair.

“What are you going to do with my father and uncles?” Sharn asked.

It was Crassus’s turn to shrug. “They are under suspicion of butchering some of our auxiliaries. The judge will give it a more technical name but either way it’s a capital offence.”

“A capital offence … ?” Sharn swallowed.

“It means they’ll be put to death,” Crassus explained.

The earth seemed to lurch under Sharn’s feet.

“So think about this, young man. If you confessed and made a trial unnecessary … well … it might make the judge a little more lenient.”

“But what if we have done nothing in the first place?” Sharn sounded more belligerent than he had intended.

Crassus paused as he was putting his helmet back on. “You’re a fighter, aren’t you? … despite the boyish smile. Your father should be proud of you.” And he tramped outside.

It was a humiliating day for Ryant. Its headman and his two brothers, shackled like common criminals, were marched off to prison in Damnonium.

O
ver the next few days, Sharn descended into the blackest mood of his life. And he took it out on Fritha, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault.

Things would not have grown so bad if he was able to sleep properly – but as soon as he nodded off, the nightmares started. And the one he feared most was when he was being pecked to death by the black crow. He would skid between waking and sleeping, as the bird ripped him open, pulling out his heart with its powerful beak and leaving it flopping on the pillow beside him.

One evening, mad from lack of sleep, he turned to Fritha and said, “I wouldn’t be this way if we could talk. But you’re no use. You can’t say a word.”

It was as if he had slipped a skewer between her ribs. Tears started out in her eyes and she retreated to her place by the fire to stare into the embers, twisting her girdle around her fingers.

Sharn realised he should cross the room and beg her forgiveness for this unjustified attack but he wanted her to hurt like he was hurting.

They did not touch each other that night when they went to bed, lying rigidly apart like corpses.

And the next morning Fritha was gone.

When Sharn woke from his haunted sleep, he could not find her in the house or yard or in the fields. He sat in the empty hut, the fire cold on the hearth, Fritha’s chair yawning like a hole.

“Fritha, I’m sorry,” he muttered to himself, the rustling of the birds in the thatch seeming over-loud in the quietness. Sharn wished his sister was there to talk to, but she had not returned from Damnonium for several nights. There were only two women who mattered in his life, Fritha and Cumbria, and he wasn’t sure where either of them was. So, at his wit’s end, he set out for Damnonium to visit his father to see if he knew anything.

Sharn walked into the prison watchhouse with a familiar feeling of dread, his heart sinking even further when he saw who was on duty – it was the sarcastic guard who looked like a weasel.

“I want to see …”

“Who cares what you want?” the guard glowered and returned to reading a despatch on the table.

Sharn waited, as the sounds of the prison seeped into the room – the slam of a door, the clank of a chain, the whistle of a whip, a grunt of pain – but the guard continued to ignore him.

He swallowed hard and tried again. “I need to speak to my father.”

The guard looked up at him with distaste. “You should have kept that cheeky mouth of yours shut. No visit today.”

“You can’t stop me from …”

“I can do whatever I like,” the guard said.