Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘That blade was forged by a smith from Avaricum, a man famous throughout the tribes of Gaul. Caesar’s men had stormed the town, slaughtering everyone in their hatred, but a prefect of cavalry sought out the smith and ringed his forge with soldiers who were sober and still obeyed his will. The prefect was from Narbo, his mother of the Allobroges, and he knew of the sword-maker’s renown. Amid the screams as a town died, he offered the smith protection at the price of making the finest sword he had ever made. So he worked, putting all his skill and essence into that blade, mouthing spells to make it strong, yet flexible, keen and yet light, and hammering at the iron to save his life and keep his daughter from violation.’

‘Were you there?’ Ferox asked flippantly, and received a violent kick in the stomach.

‘When the task was done the town was in ruin and the smith wept because he knew that he would never again make anything so perfect, and he melted his hammer and other tools in the fire knowing that he would not wield them again. In the days that had passed his daughter and the tribune became lovers and married, and a year later she was made a Roman. Caesar was generous to his followers, and with that sword in his hand the prefect led charge after charge. At Alesia he slew two kings, and when Romans turned on Romans he cut down many of the famous men who dared to oppose Caesar. Later he went back to Gaul, became a great man in the new province, and his son and grandson each in turn buckled on the sword and served Augustus, Drusus, Tiberius, Germanicus and a host of lesser commanders, until the great-grandson came to Britannia. With this sword he slew your father on the shore, and it was not that day your kin caught him, but only after many stern fights.

‘All this he told me, and for all that he was Roman the blood of Gaul still flowed in his veins. The others the wolf people killed, slowly as only they know how, but I took the tribune with me to Mona.’

‘Did his blood flow there?’ Ferox gasped as he was kicked again. How much of this was true? His father had died years after Suetonius Paulinus went to Mona.

‘Fool. We talked a good deal on that journey, and he called me brother and willingly bowed for the knife by the end. There, between the two lakes where only a thin sapling grew where once there had been a hundred sacred oaks, I killed him as an offering to the gods. A quick death and one with meaning, and I have no doubt that one day he shall greet me again as brother in the Otherworld.’

Ferox heard another thrum as the blade cut through air and even though he could not see, he could sense the long tip was close to his face. ‘Tell me, boy, do you deserve a quick death?’

‘I no longer know what I deserve.’

Acco cackled. ‘That is something, at least. This is a fine blade, a killing blade, and it does not care whose hand wields it. I am old, but have no doubt that I could drive this through your eye. It might need both hands and my weight behind it. Yet, for your grandfather’s sake and yours, I should prefer to let you live. Will you join me? Become Comus instead of Ferox, a prince of the Silures and no mere centurion, and lead your people to freedom? I will help you at every stage, help you to find the true power within you and draw strength from your ancestors back to the first man.’

‘Why do you want me?’ Ferox expected another kick, but instead there was silence. He sensed the sword was withdrawn.

‘For many reasons, and because it is your destiny. I read the signs when you were born and have never seen the like. Your story is a strange one, great and not great, true to your soul and not true, and you are fated to do something no one else could do. It came to me in a dream that night after you were born, a message from the gods as clear as any I have ever heard. It is your fate to kill me.’ The cackle was louder this time. ‘Who am I to question the will of the gods, strange though it may seem? I will fall by your hand – perhaps even by this very blade. So be it, that is the prophecy, but if my death is to have meaning I should die at the hand of one who is true to his blood, a leader of his people and not a lackey of Rome.’

Ferox lay there, unable to see or move his limbs, and unsure what to believe. He wondered whether to pretend to agree, in the hope of escape. Yet Acco would know the truth, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps if he spoke the truth about the prophecy then it would not end here. The dog returned, slobbering over his chin for a moment. Then it drew back, but he felt the warm, wet spray on his tunic as it urinated over his chest. It seemed to go on for a very long time before he heard the animal pant as it wandered away.

‘Come, boy, what is your answer?’

‘I have sworn an oath.’

Ferox was not quite sure whether or not he heard a sigh.

‘So be it,’ the old man said.

There were footsteps of two or three people and what smelled like a burning torch.

‘It is done.’ A woman spoke in Latin, with an odd accent he did not recognise.

‘Good. Then give me the torch.’ To Ferox’s surprise it was Domitius who replied. Did the merchant know who Acco really was or fear him as he should? The man was a Gaul, but all the Gauls had been peaceful provinces for many years. He did not sound or look like anyone’s fool, so perhaps there was profit for him in raising rebellion, or he was confident of controlling the druid so that all served the purpose of creating a new emperor. ‘Did you have to kill anyone?’

‘Two, and one more who will most likely die.’

‘You should have finished him,’ Domitius snapped. ‘He may talk.’

The woman did not sound overawed. ‘What can he say and what harm will it do now? We have brought what you wanted and have our payment.’

‘Then go.’ There was no warmth in the merchant’s voice. ‘If you are wise you will be on the ship and leave before dawn. In case he does talk and they are looking for you. Go. We will deal with this one.’

Footsteps departed and for a while there was only silence.

‘I will leave your sword here on the floor,’ Acco said. ‘You may manage to reach it and cut your bonds or you may not. Soon this place will be on fire. The timbers will burn slowly, but when the amphorae start to crack the oil inside them will…’ The soft voice trailed off. Ferox heard the sword drop and knew it was not close.

‘You have chosen your path, boy, and the gods will decide. Farewell.’

‘What of your prophecy?’ Ferox tried to inch across the floor.

‘It was a dream,’ the druid said. ‘Dreams can be wrong.’

Ferox heard the dog whimper as it was kicked and the tread of the druid as he left, by the sound of it climbing down creaking wooden stairs. He tried rolling over and that moved him a little more until he was on his front. He shifted his shoulders to turn again, managed to do it, but it was awkward now that his hands were under him. Halfway through the next roll his knees hit something hard and solid. There was a box or barrel in the way. He caught the scent of smoke. Pushing hard failed to shift whatever was blocking his path. Ferox rolled back and then brought up his knees and shifted his weight to edge clear. It took a while, and then finally he rolled again and this time it worked. Then his head struck another crate.

It was getting warmer and through his blindfold he saw a faint glow. As he rolled again it grew stronger and he coughed because smoke was filling the room. Two more rolls and he felt a shape digging into his chest. It was the pommel of his sword. He rolled away, so that his tied hands were towards it, and then shifted his weight again and again to edge back towards it. He felt the wooden pommel, wriggled with his fingers, trying to get them around the grip. Instead the sword moved away from him. He tried again, ever more desperate because the glow of the fire was stronger and he could hear the flames roaring below. He felt the sword, but it skidded and banged as it fell down the stairs.