Finally, Jesus lifted his head. “Where is Fedwig?”
They searched the amphitheater, but their friend was not to be found. They searched the upper decks on the ramparts, but he was not there, either. Then they looked outside the ramparts, and they found him. A chance arrow had pierced his lung. It must have happened when Fergus’s men were sweeping the pirates and their ladders from the ramparts.
Jesus ran to Fedwig’s side and collapsed on his knees, weeping.
Daniel, unable to hold back his own tears, put a hand on Jesus’s shoulder.
Fedwig still breathed, but the wound was clearly mortal.
A
s the day waned, Jesus prayed over his friend, beseeching the Father to spare Fedwig’s life. Every so often Fedwig awoke. He would cough up blood whenever he tried to speak, so Jesus urged him just to rest. Jesus clasped Fedwig’s hand and let his own eyes close.
Never have I felt such sorrow. He is my friend, and now I will lose him.
Jesus was startled to feel Fedwig loosen his grip, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that Fedwig was sleeping soundly.
Jesus watched while Fedwig slept.
He was so brave to ride out. I should have been the one to do it. My Father would have protected me, and Fedwig would be safe. I should have tried harder to persuade Tristan to send me.
Jesus gnashed his teeth.
I cannot undo what is done. I must think of something else before this sorrow drives me insane.
Jesus turned his attention from Fedwig and looked around. The carnage continued. The victorious Dumnonii were severing the heads of their fallen enemies, collecting them as trophies.
Elsigar came by often but did not stay long. There were many wounded to attend to, some with real hope. Fedwig could not drink the tea made from mistletoe and other herbs that Elsigar administered to the others. The druid had to content himself with spreading mistletoe cuttings over Fedwig.
“Why do our warriors cut off the heads of the fallen enemies?” asked Jesus. “It’s barbaric.”
“Diancecth is one of our principal gods,” the druid answered. “The Romans have compared him to Apollo, but he is more than that. He is the greatest healer. He boasted to Lugh at the beginning of the world that he could heal any warrior for combat the next morning as long as he had not suffered the severing of his head. Decapitating the fallen enemy assures our warriors that the enemy will not be healed to rise against us.”
“If that is true, why do our own wounded still die? Fedwig’s head still rests on his shoulders, like most of our wounded. Why can’t you save them all?”
“I can only appeal to Diancecth. I am not Diancecth himself. The gods will heal who they will. But surely they will welcome all of our fallen into paradise.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit presumptuous to appeal to Diancecth to help our own fallen, while our warriors prevent him from healing our enemies?”
“Should we do nothing to prevent our enemies from rising against us again?”
“It’s your religion—not mine,” Jesus answered. “I can think of one time our ancestors fought against the Midians—more than a thousand years ago. One of our greatest leaders, Gideon, rounded up all the men he could, but he had only thirty-two thousand against one hundred thirty-five thousand Midians. God commanded Gideon to release most of his men, until he was left with only three hundred to face the enemy. At the end of the day, God gave Gideon the victory despite the odds, and he went forth and proclaimed that the glory was God’s and not his.”
“That is great faith to place in your god,” observed Elsigar. “I suppose Gideon would have left the heads of his enemies alone, even if it meant that the gods might raise them again.”
“Gideon served the God of Israel,” Jesus answered. “But he would not have tried to stop God from healing his enemies.”
“Our gods speak with many voices,” said Elsigar. “It is hard to put complete trust in any one of them.”
“I imagine that is so,” said Jesus. “Gideon showed incredible faith by turning to God for strength, but our Dumnonii warriors think they find strength in stopping your gods from healing their enemies. In doing so, they reveal their lack of faith. It is no different from hypocrites among my own people who claim to follow God, but would never put their faith in him the way Gideon did. Even among my people, not many would fight among the final three hundred of Gideon’s men.”
While Jesus spoke, Elsigar fingered a golden coin he had removed from his pocket. He showed it when Jesus asked to see it. The image on the coin depicted a snake egg, with dozens of snakes curled around each other to form a ball.
“What does it mean?” Jesus asked.
“I will explain it to you sometime,” said Elsigar. “For now, we have duty to attend to.” The druid left Fedwig in Jesus’s hands.
Jesus continued to pray for Fedwig, even knowing that hope was gone. Daniel joined him as soon as Fergus could spare him.
At midday, Fergus approached with a small company of men, including Elsigar, and interrupted their prayers. They were dragging a man whom they had bound and gagged. Bruises covered his face and body, and his clothes were ripped to rags.
Pirro.
Fergus shoved him roughly to the ground. “We found this coward hiding behind a bush. He deserves death for his treachery.”
“I witnessed his treachery myself,” said Daniel. “But why do you bring him to us?” He turned to Elsigar. “Aren’t you the lawgiver here?”
“I am the lawgiver among the Dumnonii, but he is one of your people. It is up to you to pass judgment. It is your right and responsibility.”
“But he is Greek, and we are Israelite,” Daniel answered. “He is not one of the people of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. His gods are Greek and Roman.”
“Your father brought him to these shores, and our people welcomed all of you and gave you our protection,” said Elsigar. “It would be dishonorable for us to render a judgment of death while there is peace between us. We must turn to you and Jesus for justice.”
“If I am to render judgment, I must hear him out,” said Jesus. “Let him speak.”
Elsigar loosened the gag, and Fergus pulled Pirro up on his knees. The Greek trembled.
“Daniel saw you lead the pirates up the hidden stairway into the fortress,” Jesus began. “Do you deny that?”
Pirro shook his head no.
“Then why did you do it?”
Pirro looked up at Jesus. “What do you care about me? I am just the trinket guy. While you and Daniel make big money in tin, I get by with the crumbs.”
“Uncle Joseph was kind and generous to you. Perhaps if you’d gambled and drank less, your earnings would have stretched farther. Wasn’t it your idea to fill our half-empty hulls going back to Gaul with trade goods from the Dumnonii?”
“No one back in Gaul wants the miserable bits of cloth and pottery these people make. I hardly make enough on what I sell to cover what I bring back in trade.”
“Couldn’t you try anything else?”
“Oh, yes. I tried. I wanted to bring back the one commodity that would have made me a fortune. But your uncle wouldn’t have it, even though there would have been plenty of profit for him, too. Just down the coast in Yengi you can get a fine slave for little more than an amphora of wine. But your uncle would have no part in it.”
“My father would never trade in the misery of others,” said Daniel. “He made that clear to you from the day you first met.”
“Where does that leave me? I am just the trinket man, the fool. I know how you laugh and joke about me when my back is turned.”
“What did the pirates offer you to betray us?” Jesus asked.
“They promised me three shiploads of slaves and men to keep them in line. I was to have my pick of the Dumnonii as soon as they subdued this backward tribe. I would have been set for life.”
“You would have condemned us all to slavery and death!” Fergus eyes blazed with anger. He started to draw his sword. But Elsigar reached out and stayed his hand. “I lost Tristan,” said Fergus. “Fedwig lies here dying. And there are dozens more.” Fergus slapped Pirro’s face hard with the back of his hand and then spat on him. “I think we’ve heard enough. Be done with him.”
“Is there anything else you want to say?” Jesus asked.
“What’s the use?” muttered Pirro. “My life is over. You despise me. You always have.”
“Gag him,” said Daniel. “I cannot stand to hear another foul whine from his lips.” He turned to Jesus as one of Fergus’s men reinserted the gag. “If anyone deserves death, he clearly does. What do you say, cousin?”
Jesus turned to Elsigar. “How do you execute a man who is condemned to death?”
“We usually just lop off his head. Sometimes he is strangled, but it is over in minutes.”
“It is hard to see why the Romans call you barbarians. I have seen them do far worse.” Jesus paled.
That vision of myself, on a cross.
He quickly recovered and continued. “You are all quite right; this man is deserving of death, and it is just that you should demand it. The Celtic method of ultimate punishment is mercifully quick.” Jesus buried his face in his hands, and then he looked up, directly at Pirro. “Here is the judgment I pronounce upon this man. Take him from this place in chains and sell him as a slave. Let him experience one small part of the pain and sorrow he would inflict on others.” Pirro looked shocked and he tried to protest, but the gag silenced him. “Let him live long, suffering in his slavery, working in misery and toil.”
A hush fell over the warriors. Some glared in anger, for they wanted to see the severance of Pirro’s head.
The druid spoke. “Your judgment is more terrible than anything I would pronounce. We do not hold with slavery, so he will find himself with some other tribe. He will live a year, maybe two at the most. Although you gave him life, it is nothing less than a slow and painful death. But the people will not accept your judgment unless they see him scourged.” The druid held out a cruel whip. “Care to start?”
Jesus shook his head. “Do with him as you will, but take him away from me and keep him alive. I have seen enough death and pain these last days.” Jesus nodded towards Pirro. “He’s not worth the trouble. I must get back to Fedwig and pray for him.”
Daniel stayed with Jesus and Fedwig as the others left. Mercifully, Fedwig slept, even as he grew weaker. They prayed over their friend for some time.
“Did you spare Pirro’s life just to make his punishment more terrible, as the druid said? Or were you moved by compassion?”
“He certainly deserved death, but something held me back. Maybe it was the call of the Holy Spirit. Maybe he will yet serve some purpose.”
“He is not entirely worse off than if you had sentenced him to immediate death, is he?” Daniel asked.
“No. He will have the chance to seek redemption with God.”
“That sounds like compassion to me. But he is such a miserable creature; it’s hard to see how he would ever deserve that.”
“Let’s leave that to God. I cannot call it compassion though. Fedwig will die soon because of him. Tristan is already dead. And he caused the death of so many others. I felt no love for him. It was just something holding me back. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him dead, as much as any of those who called for his head.”
They soon heard Pirro crying out in agony, as each surviving warrior and widow took a turn with the whip.
The next day they made their way back to Castle An Dinas. They bore Fedwig with them in a litter, but his strength continued to drain away. Bannoch and Tilda were at the fortress to meet their son. The chance to say good-bye to him was small comfort.
The next few days passed in a blur. An impressive funeral was held for old King Uryen. Many recounted the inspiring speech of Prince Fergus, now the king. They heard how his eloquence rallied the warriors to ride forth when Fedwig brought word of the danger they faced at Rumps.
They were all victorious heroes now—the fallen and the living. The living gathered in the banquet hall each night, singing for Tristan and toasting his memory. They sang for Fedwig and exhorted their gods to save him.
There was praise, too, for Jesus. Long forgotten was the awkward gift he had brought for King Uryen. Daniel listened, content to be obscure, as bards regaled the listeners with songs of Jesus’s deeds—how he had stilled the waters at the mouth of the Camel; how he had fought alongside Fedwig at Rock; how he had led the women and children to the safety of Rumps; and how he had led the daring sortie into the final melee in the amphitheater. Most of all, the songs celebrated the friendship of Jesus and Fedwig, companions in arms.
Jesus spent most of his time with Fedwig, whose strength was now almost gone. Tilda never left Fedwig’s side. Bannoch stayed too, except to do his duty in the banquet hall each evening to help celebrate Fedwig’s deeds and those of all the heroes. Elsigar came by regularly to refresh the mistletoe and recite his incantations over the dying boy.
Fedwig closed his eyes forever the day after King Uryen’s funeral, dying in the arms of his mother on the third night. As he breathed his last, not even Tilda expressed sorrow, at least not in words. Her son had died the death of a hero. Tilda and Bannoch offered a prayer of thanksgiving to Sucellos, the Jupiter God of the druids, for striking hard with his mallet and giving their son the best of deaths. Surely, they said, the gods would welcome their hero son into the Otherworld, the vast plain of Celtic paradise where horses run free, orchards produce apples in all seasons, and celestial music, wealth, beauty, and fairy-like women abound.
“He suffers no more pain,” said Jesus, through his tears, but he was not to be consoled. He rode way from the Castle to spend the rest of the day by himself.
The funeral procession started out for Carn Roz from Castle An Dinas the next day. Jesus rode alongside Daniel. Despite Daniel’s best efforts to raise his spirits over the day-long journey, Jesus said nothing. He ate nothing.
They came to Carn Roz in the evening. Daniel looked down from the hill overlooking the village and let out a long sigh. He glanced over to Jesus to make sure his cousin noticed what he saw. They exchanged looks; there was no need for words. Kendrick’s ship was waiting in the tidal pool. Papa was back. There would be hell to pay.