Douglas Jackson - Hero of Rome

The flames reached out to him like a lover’s arms as he walked naked between the twin fires. He felt their warm caress upon his skin but knew they could not harm him, for they were the flames of Taranis and he was the god’s servant. Another man’s flesh would have been scorched and shrivelled by their heat yet he remained untouched.

When he reached the far side of the chamber, Aymer, high priest of the sect, awaited him with the clothing he would wear on his journey, cleansed and blessed in its turn. The druid was very ancient, a shrunken husk of a man, dried out and worn down by all the long years of toil and study and abstinence in the great oak-walled halls of Pencerrig. But the life force was still strong in him and Gwlym felt it now, along with a palpable expansion of his own mind as the milky, faded eyes locked on his. No words were spoken as Aymer passed to him the knowledge that would take him to his goal, but he saw the path ahead clearly. The black mountains, with their deep gorges and narrow paths along foaming, rock-strewn streams. The great river, swirling, deep and dark, which he must cross unseen. Then, more dangerous still, the flat green pastureland with its well-worn tracks and curious inhabitants, before he reached the final sanctuary of the forests and the faraway sea.

‘It is done,’ the priest said, his voice brittle with age. ‘The cleansing is complete.’

Gwlym dressed quickly and followed the druid into the darkness where the ponies waited. They picked their way through the night along hidden trackways until they reached the edge of a low cliff over-looking a narrow beach. From below came the gentle hiss of waves breaking rhythmically against a pebble shore and he saw a shadowy figure working on the fragile wood and animal-skin craft which would carry him across. The light, or lack of it, made the sea a dull, leaden silver, and beyond it was visible the darker, more sinister contour of the mainland. Shorter routes existed between Mona, the sacred isle of the druids, and the country of the Deceangli, but they would undoubtedly be watched.

‘They will come for us soon.’ Aymer’s words were barely audible. ‘By then you must have completed your task.’

Gwlym nodded. There was nothing more to say. He understood he would never see Aymer again after this night. Soon, the legions of Rome would march through those same mountain gorges to destroy the last stronghold of the druids and break their power for ever. He felt the dull ache of regret at the knowledge he would not share the fate of the priests who had trained him and nurtured his unceasing quest for knowledge. But he had his own mission and it was more important still. For even as the spears of the legions descended upon Mona, he would fan the embers of the long-neglected fire that was Celtic pride and create a conflagration that would consume every Roman and every Roman-lover on the island of Britain. Shame and resentment and humiliation would be his greatest weapons. After sixteen years of conquest and debasement the tribes were ripe for rebellion; all they needed was a spark and a leader. Gwlym would be the spark, the gods would provide the leader.

‘Carry the word. Carry it far, but carry it with care. You must not be taken.’ Aymer paused, allowing Gwlym time to reflect on the grim reality of his last words. ‘Counsel patience. When the time is right the gods will send a sign: the wrath of Andraste will rain from the sky and the people of Britain will rise from their bondage and sweep the usurpers from our land in a maelstrom of blood and flame.’

‘The wrath of Andraste.’ The younger man whispered the words to himself as if they were a prayer before he picked his way carefully down to the beach without a backward glance.

Severn Valley, Siluria, September AD 59

Could it only have been ten minutes? Gaius Valerius Verrens gritted his teeth behind his smile and his eyes locked on his opponent’s, but the message, if message there were beneath those hooded lids, was the opposite of what he wanted to see: the bastard was mocking him. He breathed hard through his nostrils, drawing in the sharp pine scent of the freshly cut stump on which his right elbow rested. At the same time he felt the agony that had been tearing the big muscle in his upper arm ease a little. He channelled the relief up into his forearm and along his inner wrist to the fingers of his right hand. The increase in power must have been infinitesimal — he barely registered it himself — but he noticed a slight movement as Crespo’s eyebrows twitched and he knew the centurion had sensed it too. So. The hand that gripped his — the elbow resting precisely to the left of his own — was horny and calloused and had all the yield of a hypocaust brick. Fingers like talons clasped with a force designed to break bone, but he resisted the temptation to meet the challenge. Instead, he directed all his own strength into moving Crespo’s fist to the left; any movement, even a hair’s breadth, would do. So far, Crespo hadn’t yielded even that. But then again neither had he. The thought made him grin, and the crowd of legionaries ringing the tree stump cheered encouragement at the sign of confidence. Arm wrestling was a favoured pastime in the First cohort of the Twentieth legion. All you needed was a flat surface and the inclination. Sometimes they wrestled for fun. Sometimes to gamble. And sometimes because they hated each other’s guts.

The First had been in the temporary camp in the lee of the Silurian hill fort for six days. When the cavalry patrol had failed to return two weeks earlier, the legate’s reaction had been immediate. Reprisal in force. Three thousand men — five legionary cohorts and a mixed unit of auxiliary infantry and horse from Gaul and Thrace — had marched behind their standards down the River Severn, then west into the rough hill country beyond. They had found the heads, twenty of them, still in their helmets, like marker points on a trail. A few unfortunate Celtic peasants picked up along the way and put to the question had led them here. It had taken five of those six days to dig the ditch and rampart around the base of the rugged hill which now entirely isolated the fort’s inhabitants from either help or escape. When the legionaries weren’t digging they spent the time on guard, drilling, exercising or patrolling, but during their occasional rest periods they were able to sit outside their leather eight-man tents and do the things soldiers always do: mend and polish their equipment, gamble their pay away and grumble about their officers, or just sit and stare at the sky and the blue-grey haze of the distant mountains.

Valerius concentrated on his right arm, attempting to will more power into it. The big muscle bulged below the short sleeve of his tunic as if it were trying to burst free from the skin and he could see the twisting snakes of dark veins beneath the tanned surface. It had swelled to the size of a small melon and matched that of Crespo, who was judged the strongest man in the cohort. The forearm was broad, tapering towards the wrist, where the tendons stood out like tree roots. His wrist was bound firmly to Crespo’s by a strap of red cloth, so that neither man could shift his grip and win by trickery. But he knew Crespo would try, because Crespo was a cheat, a liar and a thief. But he was also a senior centurion, which made him untouchable. Almost.

He had discovered Crespo beating one of the new recruits, young Quintus from Ravenna, with the gnarled vine stick he carried as the traditional badge of his rank. Every centurion disciplined his men, because discipline was what made a legion a legion. But Crespo confused discipline with brutality, or maybe he just enjoyed brutality for its own sake, because he had beaten Quintus half to death. When Valerius ordered him to stop, Crespo had looked him up and down with those expressionless ice-chip eyes of his. The two men had a history, of sorts, but one that was more animal wariness than physical hostility. The first time they’d met had been like two dogs coming together on a narrow path: a rising of the hackles, a sizing up of strengths and weaknesses, a quick sniff and a moving on; gone, but far from forgotten.