Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Next they took the Spear of Camulos, and one snapped the shaft across his knee. Then the other took the part with the head and hammered the iron until it was bent. Again they faced the druid and again Acco nodded. The two fragments of the broken spear flew further before they sank into the dark mere. The skull of the witch was shattered with the hammer and tossed into the water. When they came to the cloak, they threw it into the fire.

Ferox wondered whether he could reach the gladius stuck in the ground. It was not much more than a yard away, so the chances were good and if he would not be able to wield it properly with these manacles, at least it would give him a chance to take one or two of them with him. Should he kill Acco first? For all that the man wanted to kill him and the woman beside him, he shrank from the deed. It was Samhain still, and he felt as if his ancestors watched him from the shadows of the night. The druid’s power was growing almost visibly as the heat of the fire stirred his hair and made it stand on end. Killing these artefacts one by one, sending them down through fire or water into the Otherworld, fed Acco’s spirit and his magic. Would the iron even bite if Ferox got the chance? Instead of acting, he watched and waited.

The mirror of Cartimandua was next.

‘Please, no.’ Enica sounded like a child, so unlike her usual confidence, let alone the chatter of Claudia.

‘It is just a mirror, child,’ Acco told her. A warrior struck the bronze back with the hammer, bending it. Another took it and threw it far into the lake.

‘They say the cauldron of the Morrigan can raise the dead,’ Acco said. Ferox wondered why he was taking so long to do everything. Perhaps that was the nature of magic. Unlike the Stallion, Acco had patience. ‘Place a corpse inside the bowl, say the right words, and he will leap out, able to run, fight, make love, in fact do anything, except he cannot speak.

‘I never saw it done. There were plenty killed when I came to Mona that first time. My comrades, my commilitones if you will, died one by one.’

‘Domitius,’ Ferox said, as the last pieces slid into place, and he knew the old druid had once been a Roman and Gaul, and an officer in the legions.

‘You understand at last. You should, you know, for like both of you I have two lives intertwined. I was born Cnaeus Domitius Tullus of Lugdunum and can become him again when need be. That…’ He glanced at the sword sticking in the grass and Ferox felt the druid saw into his mind. ‘That sword was the sword of my family, although for some reason my father did not give it to me when I went to serve as a tribune here in Britannia and was captured by the Silures, who sent me to Mona with their other prisoners.

‘The gods shaped their plans and I followed the path set me. Truth can speak to the right mind. My comrades died one by one. Some were brave and cursed back, and some died screaming or begging for mercy. Days passed and they did not come for me. They hung me up by my arms from that tree and sliced at me with knives, and I made no sound at all. That was not why they let me live. The truth came to me and they knew it, for they were old druids, men who knew the true ways of the gods. Now and again they found a pupil who had not come willingly, and found that he learned faster and more deeply than those who chose themselves. They saw that I was such a one, and I saw at last that Rome was a poison, but that here in Britannia Rome did not have to win, not in the end.’ He nodded to the warriors and they took the cauldron and sent it into the lake.

‘It is almost time.’ Acco walked round behind them, raising the flint knife he had used to kill Prasto. He stood there, both arms above his head. A warrior came and stood in front of him, his long sword held low and blocking the path to his gladius. Still Acco waited. At least they were not to go into the fire, and a cut throat would be quick. Yet it was strange that they were to be spared the triple death of sacrifice, for the druid was not in a hurry. They should have eaten the grain and beans with their slow poison, have the cords at their throat ready to tighten, and suffered the death blow with knife or club just before their last breath left them.

‘It is the last day,’ Acco screamed at the night sky. ‘The end of the past.’

Ferox waited. In a moment he would spring up, knocking into the warrior and then hoping to break free and reach his sword. If Enica was quick she might get away. Her arms and legs were free and she was a good swimmer. She could cross the lake and then…? The boats were surely gone and even the best swimmer would struggle to cross the sea to safety. The most he could hope for was to let her live a little longer and perhaps by some miracle find a way out. That was all he could do for his new ‘wife’.

‘The last breath is spent,’ Acco wailed at the heavens. The little warriors started clashing spears against their shields, going faster and faster. The moment was coming. He could not wait any longer, for his plan had obviously failed. Then a warrior a few paces away sprouted a long shafted arrow from his face and spun around. Ferox flung himself forward, struck the man in front just below the waist and knocked him down. He raised his arms and slammed them down. It was a small blow, but the weight of the iron manacles gave it force and the man’s nose broke in bloody ruin. Enica tried to bound forward, then snapped back with a hiss. The warrior standing behind her had whipped a rope around her neck and was pulling hard. Acco raised his knife.

‘Morrigan!’ he screamed. One of the warriors by the lake was knocked over as an arrow buried itself deep in his chest. The islanders had stopped clashing their weapons and instead there were screams and grunts as a line of Batavians charged into them. Gannascus was in the centre, towering over the little men, his blade carving down through bone, muscle and flesh. Blood jetted high as he beheaded the chieftain.

Ferox pushed up, his knee hard on the warrior’s chest, winding him. He reached the sword, pulled it free and was up. Enica’s eyes were bulging, hands grasping at the rope as it tightened. Acco stepped towards her. The flint knife was ready to thrust down.

‘Lugh, take this soul!’

Ferox stamped forward and thrust awkwardly into the druid’s back. The long triangular point of the gladius slid into the old man’s body, and if the blow was poorly aimed there was the power of both hands and all his hate behind it, driving the iron so hard that it burst out of Acco’s stomach. The old man arched his back, limbs flailing, and the knife flew through the air.

The warrior behind Enica gaped at the dying druid, and must have loosened his grip for she slipped free and slumped to her knees. Ferox left the sword in the old man and ran at the warrior, screaming in rage. He swung his manacled arms at the warrior’s face and he fell. Ferox pounced on top of him. Enica was gasping for breath. Ferox slammed the bracelets and his fists into the warrior’s face again and again until there was only a bloody ruin.

Gannascus slashed his way through the line of islanders. Vindex was on one side and Longinus on the other. Their chieftain dead and the druid cut down, the little men broke, dropping spears and shields in their flight. There was nowhere for them to go and they were slaughtered one by one.

Ferox kept hammering the warrior’s face, but he no longer moved. A hand touched his shoulder.

‘He’s dead,’ Enica croaked. There was a livid mark around her neck, but she was breathing more naturally again.

Ferox stopped. His hands and the manacles were filthy with blood, pieces of flesh and bone. He stood up, panting.

‘Sorry it took so long to find you,’ Vindex said, as he wiped his sword on the hem of his tunic. Ferox went over to the druid. Acco was on his side, face pale, his white tunic dark with his own blood. The druid looked up, and Ferox was sure he smiled.