David Pilling - The Red Death

I grunted, and felt teeth crunch and splinter as I fell onto my back. Leo loomed above me like the shadow of an avenging spirit, his spatha raised in both hands to plunge down into my gut.

The Heruli had taught me never to give up a fight as lost, even if I was on my back in the dirt. I kicked out with both legs, a move Pharas had shown me, and swept his left leg from under him.

Leo fell on top of me. His face smacked into mine, and for a moment we struggled in an obscene parody of a lover’s embrace. I tasted his blood on my lips. His screams were dreadful to hear, the more so for being so close, and my left hand and wrist were suddenly warm and soaking.

He bucked and shuddered and went still. His mouth gaped wide in a silent howl, his eyes stared at nothing. I looked down and saw he had impaled himself on Caledflwch, which I had held upright when he fell. The sword had burst through the links of Leo’s mail and drilled through the layers of wool and flesh beneath. Its bloody tip protruded from his back.

With a final burst of strength I rolled his dead weight off me. The fight had probably lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like hours since I had tumbled from my chariot. I had forgotten all about the arena and the crowd.

Reality came flooding back as the Hippodrome erupted in wild applause. The Romans had wanted to see blood. They had got it, and now rose in acclamation of the supplier. I looked to the imperial box, and saw Belisarius rise from his seat.

He pointed at me and mouthed my name. Not the false name attributed to me by Theodora, but the name my parents gave me. My true name. The crowd took up his shout. It spread like fire through the stands.

“Coel! Coel! Coel!”

I felt sick and weary. My legs shook, and it took a huge effort of will to remain standing. Caledfwlch was still buried inside Leo, its blood-spattered hilt standing upright and gleaming in the warm sun.

“Coel! Coel! Coel!”

Behind the shouts of the Romans I thought I heard the triumphant shouts of British warriors. They were chanting my grandfather’s name on the slopes of Mount Badon. Somewhere in Heaven or Hell or the Otherworld, Arthur’s grim countenance broke into a smile of approval.

I was free of him at last.