Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

November, AD 181

A brisk autumnal breeze stirred the leaves lining the forest floor, the sharp gust lifting a handful of discarded foliage into a brief dancing spiral before leaving it to flutter its way back to the ground. Padding softly over the shadow-dappled ground, a small hunting party advanced slowly out of the forest’s gloom with spears held ready to throw. The men stepped with deliberate care, each foot lifted slowly and placed back on to the leafy carpet with smooth delicacy. Their movements were unconsciously coordinated, each man obviously familiar with his fellows’ actions from long practice. Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae and undisputed ruler of the free northern tribes, was doing what he usually did to relax when he wasn’t roaming the lands north of the Roman wall, pushing forward his preparations for the coming war. Accompanied by his five-man bodyguard, Calgus was hunting wild boar.

While his rule of the land to the north of the Roman wall that split Britannia into two halves was absolute, by right of both blood and simple domination of the other tribal leaders, the presence of his closest protectors was an obvious necessity. With a brooding imperial presence barely fifty miles to the south, it was prudent to assume the worst even in something as simple as a day’s hunting.

‘The pigs seem to have our scent, my lord, either that or something else has put them to fright.’

The speaker spat his disgust into the leaves. Another man, stepping softly across the leafy ground beyond him, nodded, keeping his eyes fixed to their front.

‘Aye. If this carries on we’ll be reduced to roasting hedgehogs.’

Calgus chuckled softly, hefting his spear as if rediscovering its balance.

‘You know the rules, Fael. We eat only what we kill in open hunt. If you want to put meat on the fire this evening then keep your wits about you and your spear ready to throw. You might offer a prayer to Cocidius while you’re at it. Pray for a big stag to wander our way. And you, Caes, for all that the local animal population isn’t jumping on to your pigsticker, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on a fine crisp day like this, now, would you?’

Caes grimaced, making a stabbing motion with his spear to emphasise his point.

‘I’d rather be hunting Romans, my lord.’

Fael smiled across at Calgus, raising his eyebrows into his ‘here we go again’ face. They were used to the bodyguard’s bloodthirsty hatred of their former overlords. Calgus winked at him before speaking, taking his eyes off the surrounding forest for a moment.

‘Yes, Caes, as you never tire of telling us. When we finally get the tribes to go to war with them I’ll free you from this tiresome duty and put you in the front rank of the warband, give you the chance to swing an axe with the other champions and…’

Caes, turning to reply with a wry smile, lurched backwards with the sudden impact of a hunting arrow which punched its vicious barbed-iron head into his chest with a sound like a spear driven hard into a boar’s ribs. He stared down stupidly at the arrow’s protruding shaft for a moment before dropping first to his knees, then on to all fours. Beyond him, Fael toppled backwards into the leaves with an arrow through his throat, a bright fan of blood spraying across the forest floor.

Calgus turned back to his front and hefted his spear, aware that he was hugely vulnerable whether he fought or ran. The hidden archers loosed another pair of arrows into the men to his left while the remaining bodyguards were still looking for targets for their own spears. His last companion fell as he bounded forward to defend his king, his spear arcing uselessly into the trees in a last desperate throw as he went down with a pair of arrows in his chest. The king waited for a long moment for his turn to come, bracing for the arrows’ impact, but none came. Thrusting his spear defiantly into the soft earth, he drew his sword, the scrape of metal loud in the sudden silence. He called out into the forest’s deadening gloom, lifting the weapon into a fighting stance.

‘Come on, then, let’s get this done. Sword, spear or bow, it makes no difference to me. I can go to meet Cocidius knowing that whoever you are, however far you run, my people will hunt you down and gut you slowly for what you do today.’

After another moment’s silence, with the only sound his own harsh breathing, figures broke from the cover of the forest’s scrubby bushes. Four men stood, two slinging bows across their backs and drawing swords, two carrying spears ready to throw. The latter advanced to within easy throwing range and halted, keeping him under constant threat, while the other two men followed with more leisure. One of them, his face obscured by a deep hood, spoke out while the other, a black-bearded athlete with a long sword at his belt, stood impassively beside him.

‘So, Calgus. It seems that we have you at something of a disadvantage.’

His Latin was cultured, almost urbane.

The Briton laughed, disturbingly relaxed in the face of levelled spears.

‘So, Roman, you’ve come to talk. And there I was bracing myself for your blade.’

The hooded figure nodded slowly.

‘Oh yes, you’re just as the stories tell. I’ve just slaughtered your bodyguard… well, most of them…’

He pointed to Caes, still helpless on hands and knees, a thin line of bloody drool trickling from his mouth.

‘Finish that one.’

His companion flashed out his blade and stepped forward, stabbing down into the helpless Briton’s exposed neck, then stepped back with the sword held ready. Calgus stood completely still, watching the act impassively. The hooded man spoke again.

‘Better… and yet there you stand, as relaxed as if we were your oldest friends and not foreign assassins with your life at the points of our spears and your brother warriors dead at our hands. Well, Calgus, for all your obviously genuine bravado, whether you live or die is as yet not clear. Not even to me… A word to my rather rough-edged colleague here will have your guts steaming in the leaves, without very much thought and certainly without any remorse at all. You can be a problem removed for Rome in the blink of an eye, or an ally for one particular Roman over the next few months. Choose the former and you’ll end your days here with minimal honour and no dignity. Choose the latter and you’ll stand to win a prize beyond that of any king of this land over the last hundred years.’

The Briton narrowed his eyes, seeking to discern the truth in his ambusher’s eyes.

‘What prize?’

‘An eagle, Calgus, an imperial legion’s standard, and quite possibly the head of that legion’s commander to boot. So, king of “free Britannia”, are you minded to discuss a bargain with me, or would you rather negotiate with this barbarian’s blade?’

‘You seem to leave me without much of a choice. What token do I have of your sincerity, if this is a deal to be made at the point of your sword? And how do you know I’ll keep it?’

The hooded man nodded to his companion, who struck at the nearest of the spearmen with unexpected speed and dropped him into the leaves with his throat opened, then reversed his sword and ducked under the other’s spear-thrust. He punched his blade’s point through the man’s ribs with one powerful thrust, then twisted the sword quickly and ripped it free, the open wound spraying blood across his booted feet as the man fell helplessly to the forest floor and started to bleed out.

‘You’ll be needing some sign of your victorious struggle with your would-be assassins if your people aren’t to smell a rat. I trust you can spin a colourful yarn to explain how you cheated your killers? And I know you’ll keep the bargain if you make it — the inducements I’m offering are too strong for you to do anything else. Now, make your mind up, Calgus. Shall we be partners in your long-planned war on my people?’