Laryn & the Ghost-Warrior (a short story).

An emergency war council had been called-for in Caswallawn’s great hall and was attended by the five monarchs and all the Gŵyrd of the alliance, as all had been drawn here to CaerGwlyb to discuss this latest and most alarming intelligence. It came to be known, that a huge Roman support fleet was about to set-sail for Prydein, with five complete Legions and four thousand cavalry in the host. The rumours placed the legendary General and Consul; Pompey at the head of this vast force, all of which was about to sail from somewhere in relief of Caesar, but no one knew for sure where or when. Brythonic spies had confirmed that Julius Caesar’s primary invasion fleet was prepared and on the point of departure from Porth Bonon and many pigeons had recently exhausted themselves carrying their messages to and from Gaul and Prydein. A great deal had already been put in place for the defence of Prydein against Caesar’s invasion force, but if this secondary and much larger fleet materialised, this country would be doomed. Many of Prydein’s military leaders had been hurriedly consulted by the ruling Kings at this shocking news and this great war-council frantically convened in Casufelawny’s Capital.

The hulking, broad-shouldered King Ederus of Galedon had spoken up in his growl, drawing everyone’s attention to him, as he had remained stoically silent until now.

“I have a certain agent in the field currently.” This infamous northern King told them lugubriously, eyeing all around the huge table in Caswallawn’s Great Hall, whose thick, carved beams above them were glazed a honey-brown from the smoke of generations. The huge oak and iron-riveted door was coal-black in comparison but was locked and guarded, with several armed guards stationed outside to secure their privacy.

“She is in the precarious but established position, of being Caesar’s senior hospitality cook in Fort Bonon.” The regal King of Galedon told them casually but the response from around the table was far from casual, and he had to hold his hand up to achieve some measure of silence to continue, from the babble of raised voices and questions around him. “Please allow me gentlemen and I will answer all your questions as they come. Firstly as to motive, our plan was to give Caesar a gwenwyn.” He said easily and the surprise at such a bold plan to poison the General, was clear by the agreeable sounds these warriors around him all made. “Through the offices of my ghost-warriors, I was able to put this agent in position to be captured by Caesar’s forces, during their conquest of Treviri two years ago and when they vanquished Dun....”

“Two years ago?” King Cridas of Albion interrupted him in shocked surprise, his eyes wide across the table and making Ederus chuckle. “Your guile and long-term planning shame us all good Ederus, and I am so-glad we will soon be family!” Cridas added seriously, making many laugh around this littered and beer-stained table but it was short-lived, as all were on the edges of their seats at this revelation.

“Well further to this, we were able to arrange it so that she was captured whilst demonstrating her immense skills, in preparing a banquet of the most delicious food imaginable. Her wits had kept her alive that day in the fraught early moments of defeat, as you all know what happens when a Caer falls.”

All these men around the table nodded at that dark remark, as most had experienced it personally although mostly on the winning side, but they knew and had seen first-hand the horrors which befall the inhabitants of a vanquished fortress.

“This lady had cooked for Kings and Queens across Prydein and Gaul but is known also by some as Laryn, the wife to ghost-warrior Nêr Fuanladd and she is our most accomplished agent.” He told them.

“Good Gods! Laryn has cooked for us more than once at CaerUswer!” Bellnor spluttered. “She’s a spy? I would never have believed it!” He declared in wonder, looking at the King of Galedon in surprise.

“Rather the point, eh Bellnor!” Ederus responded with a smile and a nod, and Bellnor chuckled, nodding himself at his own blindness and tapping the table in approbation. “We knew it was an extremely risky undertaking at the time but thought the possible outcome worth the effort.” Ederus continued and all nodded in agreement at this too, as the head of any snake is always the primary target for a quick defeat. “It was hard on my man Fuanladd, as it was almost certainly a mission of almost suicidal requirements.” He said this thoughtfully and more to himself, but he snapped out of it and straightened in his chair. “Laryn of course made herself noticed, by tempting a group of cavalry officers amid the bedlam with her delicacies and as a result, some of the General’s officers had taken her captive as a cooking slave. They soon came to rave about her cooking, so much so, that Caesar himself had been tempted to try her food. All was going to plan surprisingly well at this point and the General himself had become impressed with Laryn’s skills, securing her safety and service. It took a great deal of time and effort on her part to get his trust up, to a point where he no longer picked at her offerings but ate enough that we may make use of it. However this has proved far more difficult in reality, as the General is an extremely careful man who has had attempts on his life by poison before, and so employs a number of slaves to taste his food before he eats.” Ederus paused here to wet his whistle, before continuing and his audience hung on every word. “The poisons we have available to us are just too obvious and would never have got past the General’s tasters, as they weren’t just employed to discover any poison by dropping dead, they are all trained to discern the tastes and smells of a host of other dangerous, but perhaps slower acting compounds and potions. All the cooks are overseen and closely scrutinised and Laryn has never had the opportunity of drawing near to the General for a suicidal attempt with a blade, apart from the rare occasion he visits the kitchens to congratulate and reward her. Even then he is always accompanied and closely guarded.”

Many faces were showing uncertainty now around this table but Ederus pressed on.

“We were not the first to set-out to poison the General that much became clear, and we are sadly certain now that we cannot put our plan into action. Anyway, I won’t risk the life of that marvellous lady for a forlorn attempt, and of course Laryn is still stuck in the Wolf’s lair and forced to work in his service.” He finished glumly, thinking of the long-parted couple and their sacrifice, but he was warmed by recent reports. “We do also have contact with Fuanladd currently, as he is monitoring the situation in Bononia for us along with another, long-established comrade.” Ederus added casually. “So I have been planning to have her spirited out of there any day now!”

“I bet HênDdu knows of a suitable poison!” Caswallawn offered and then snapped his fingers. “What am I saying! Here’s the man to ask!” He proposed, hiking a thumb at his brother who sat thoughtfully beside him. All eyes turned to Lludd Llaw Ereint at this and he looked up then, still clearly deep in thought.

“I have a cunning plan.” The silver-handed King said with a smirk and you could have heard a beard-comb drop to the doeskin rugs underfoot. Not only was this man High-King of all Cymbri, he was the Prime Dewin of Prydein and possessed mysterious and unknown powers, commanding their attention. “What if we change the target and the goal?” He said sitting up straighter and signalling an arwein for more drinks. “Don’t pull Laryn out just yet Lord Ederus, as we need information now more than anything and although I am all for rescuing such a wonderful and forthright lady, we may have work for her yet.” He said to Ederus, but his gaze was focused elsewhere, as his mind stretched to the task.

“What would you suggest Lord Lludd?” Ederus asked him following a brief pause and with a respectful bow of his head.

“I have a number of…. compounds in my chest, which may offer us a slightly different opportunity.” Lludd said enigmatically, more to himself, but those distant, blue eyes were glittering. “Firstly, we need to select a lesser officer than Caesar as a target, so that we are able to get the first element into his food a lot easier. It will need to be someone in a position to know about the existence of this support fleet of Pompey’s and its arrival, if it exists at all and is not just propaganda or anecdotal, confused gossip. However we all know too, that we cannot leave such a thing to chance as our very existence depends upon it!” He told them seriously and the solemn faces around him confirmed their agreement. “We simply must know, as our plans will need to be completely altered if Pompey’s fleet of reinforcement is proved factual. We will have to draw-down all our reserve forces if we are to even survive!” He added darkly, and the full ramifications of this possible arrival of over thirty thousand men, cavalry and artillery struck these men now, with a cold certainty that this spelled doom for southern Prydein, maybe even the country as a whole. “Even the werrin-army may have to be called-out, as with the cleanest hearts and the best will in the world, the chances of repelling this great and professional force are slim at best and we may be forced to agree terms or be annihilated in this world by that Roman….” Lludd bit-off the curse and took another drink.

There was a pregnant, ominous pause following these foreboding words. Lludd paused here too, as his mind was flashing through the details.

“This liquid I have in mind for the first phase, tastes a little strange but is masked quite well with mushrooms. This will make him very ill.” He said with a dark and rather unnerving smile, and Bellnor was transfixed to his chiselled, inscrutable face.

Since his honourable and much-appreciated appearance in Breganta at his great military council, Bellnor had made a few tactful enquiries about this impressive wizard-warrior of such note. Over and above the lurid stuff surrounding his legend which could be heard in any tavern in the country, he had discovered the real details about this fearless and mysterious man who had trained at the legendary CaerBraint in Môn, all of which his agents had gathered with the utmost care and secrecy. He had become even more impressed at the truths of this man, with his impeccable lineage, his infamous silver hand and ferocious intellect. He was glad to number such a man as a friend and nodded his complete support now, to whatever Lludd Llaw Ereint came up with.

“This violent sickness will come-on over a period of ten to twelve hours and will not only turn the bowels of the victim to vinegar but will manifest itself in the most alarming blue blotches on the skin, which will look like emerging blue flowers.”

Everyone looked surprised at this, as it sounded like no sickness they had ever heard of. Lludd smiled at their ignorance. “They will be equally surprised I’m sure!” He looked at each of them in-turn, before continuing with that same enigmatic smile on his rugged face. “We will make-sure that the rumours fly among the captive werrin in that fortress, in that this is a peculiar disease to northern Gallia and Prydein alone. It is transmitted by a tiny fly we shall call the Dewin!” He said his grin widening, and his listeners laughed at this irony and his play on words. “None of their healers will have a clue and no matter what they attempt, the blue flowers of the Dewin will continue to blossom and the victim will shit his life away!” Lludd said emphatically.

“How does this aid in our quest for knowledge brother?” Caswallawn asked him, wishing he hadn’t almost immediately but Lludd didn’t even blink.

“Laryn will let it be known that she can cure this ailment and will be allowed to forage for the things she needs, as they only grow there, or here in Prydein. No-doubt she will be guarded but I’m sure we can get what we need to her before hand through your contact without too much trouble, just as we can get the information out.” He proposed nodding at Ederus who agreed readily, and it was clear to all around this long table, that this impressive King-wizard-warrior was still thinking through the details ‘on the hoof’.

“A certain infusion will seem to cure this individual and he will have improved by the following morning to a great extent, but he will still have to be under Laryn’s constant care, in case of sudden relapse which is common. During this period of intensive care, she will have the opportunity to carry-out the real mission.” He told them with his enthusiasm rising, warming to his extempore plan.

Lludd had everyone’s undivided attention now as their cups were refilled but from long practice and even longer tradition, he waited for the servants to withdraw before continuing.

“I have another… formula.” He said obliquely. “Which renders the recipient utterly unable to tell a lie or hold back anything of importance when asked. It has the marvellous added benefit, of obliterating any memory of the period and the interrogation. Hopefully Laryn can use this compound to extract the information we need and then find a way of extracting herself, before the man has the inevitable relapse about a day later, when he will die screaming and black blood will squirt painfully from every orifice in his body!” The Dewin growled this and some here swallowed noisily at not just his words, nor the manner of their delivery. It was the bleak expression on Lludd’s harsh features at that moment and the stark, pitiless look in his blazing blue eyes which had unnerved his newest allies around this table.

“Fantastic idea!” Bellnor breathed, voicing all their thoughts and the King of Breged had a look of utter respect on his own, less terrifying features at that edifying moment.

“However it’s not without its problems gentlemen, as the interrogation will have to be done in whispers by necessity, but the man may continue to talk freely for some time after, which may not be a problem in itself unless he starts to yell-out, which is highly likely and would condemn our agent. As just being known to hear those intelligences were they true, however garbled and fever-driven would put her life in instant jeopardy. I’m not quite sure how those two compounds will work alongside each other either!” Lludd said this to himself, his brow furrowed. “There is no counteracting compound to the truth potion unfortunately and it has to run its course, which from the amount required will be three to four hours. However from what I know about Laryn, she is ever inventive and may have to render the man unconscious after the examination, but I think it might just work!” He said more hopefully, looking up at his rapt audience. Ederus stood then and bowed deeply to King Lludd of the silver hand and the scraping noise of wooden seating erupted along with much applause, as these aristocrats rose to their feet in approbation.

“One more thing!” Bellnor called-out and the cheering faded, all eyes turning to him. “I suggest we make thorough enquiries as to the root of this rumour, as I believe our other little problem may well be involved!” The King of Breged offered obliquely, referring to the rebellious Houses of Northern Trinobanta and looking down his nose at them all. His friends, peers and colleagues all nodded at his wisdom. “Speak to your Gŵyr and track-down every single lead, find out who told who, and we may get a sharper picture of the source of this rumour.” He advised, as they began to break up and head for the door.

There was much consternation in the senior Medicus’ tent of Fortress Bononia, where lay the pale, pain-racked and sweat soaked body of one Titus Ocluvium Durum, Tribunus Equitarius of the Tenth Legion and one of Quaestor Longinus’ favoured young cavalry officers. Born to a small and virtually unknown Patrician family, the stricken young Titus was the last of his line. This unfortunate young officer had been struck-down the previous day by a strange and completely unknown sickness and now lay in a sweat-soaked funk on his soaking linen.

Along with a joint-cracking fever, his skin had blossomed in the most curious, flower-shaped blue blotches which were incredibly painful to the touch. None of the Medics, the officers or any of the men had heard of such a sickness and rumours of a deadly contagion swept the camp, flashing through the soldiers like all bad news. However, the Medics were sure that whatever this mysterious illness was, it was not contagious, as no-one else had succumbed to its blue floral visitation. No matter what they tried to alleviate the young officer’s pain and symptoms, nothing had any effect whatsoever and they had thrown-up their hands in submission, just as young Titus had thrown-up his stomach lining in agony.

His condition had worsened throughout the day and if it continued unabated, the Senior Medicus was convinced he would not survive until the next morning and with the invasion apparent, it was a problem. Some bright spark had asked one of the Gallic slaves about the curious illness of the blue flowers and had been informed matter-of-factly, that it was a sickness known in this region but in Prittania mainly. It came from the bite of a tiny sand-fly called a Devin apparently and local herbs should alleviate the problem. The chief-cook was nominated as the best healer amongst them and Laryn had been rushed into the sick chamber, where she had immediately confirmed that it was indeed the blue-flower sickness of the Dewin and that she would have to leave immediately, to try to find the necessary herbs and roots she would need.

Due to the Tribune’s relative importance and popularity, a dozen Auxiliaries were dispatched with this well-regarded lady, to find these medicines as quickly as they could, and she was loaned a horse with leather panniers, so they could complete this mercy mission that much quicker. On returning two hours later Laryn gave her instructions to the Medicus’, who were put-out by this healing coup-de-tat and put up much bluster, until Longinus had been summoned. That imperious Patrician had torn such a strip off each of them, by the time he’d finished with them the doctors jumped every time Laryn asked them for anything. The delirious and fevered Cavalry officer was carried in his sweat-soaked bedding, to a smaller isolation tent with ventilation flaps and under Laryn’s personal care. She had forbidden entry to all, nursing him herself and a guard was placed outside her door to enforce that, and to fetch-and-carry whatever the great lady demanded.

It was just a couple of hours later when the delirious shouts of the sick man had burst out, to shatter the tranquillity of these hospital tents. Meaningless and fever-addled shouts of ‘Not true!’ and then just the shouted name; ‘Pompey!’ were heard before they were curtailed suddenly, as if the poor lad had passed-out from his suffering.

When Laryn emerged exhausted a short while later the Medics were amazed, as Titus was soundly asleep and breathing heavily but with little sign of fever. They were astonished too, to see that the blue stains on his clammy skin were abating noticeably. Longinus was summoned once more, and the Legate was effusive with his compliments to the nurse, cum chief-cook, promising that he would inform Caesar himself and that she would be handsomely rewarded for her services. Laryn had given him her sweetest smile in return, her lovely, intelligent eyes sparkling, and the tall Roman officer had given her an altogether more appreciative look then, before departing with a broad smile of his own.

A small group of servants left the rear of the kitchen tents this moonlit night and headed for the eastern gate, under the guard of a young soldier. Some carried a wooden bucket in each hand to fill from the spring there and two male servants pushed a hand cart in front of them. A large, dark-haired woman was in charge of these servants and she walked along at the front, talking casually with their young guard. The unmistakeable ‘clonking’ of crotal bells drew their attention then and their supplier was thankfully there as arranged. The old goatherder which some of these soldiers had seen around these lanes recently, stood bent-over by his own hand-cart, which was piled with around a dozen carcasses of freshly skinned goats.

This big, good-looking lady with the clever eyes inspected these rather thin offerings, thrown onto this shabby cart with little care and she curled her lip at their poor quality. She walked around the crippled ancient’s cart, with its patched-up boards and much-repaired wheels and was about to dismiss him and his paltry goods, when she looked into the depths of his hood to condemn the man for bringing her such underfed beasts, when she was shocked to the core!

A frisson of electricity flashed through her body then and she froze, as this was not the spy she was expecting. Her eyes flew open when she recognised the eyes that stared back at her. It nearly undid all her self-confidence and bravado, and her knees felt suddenly very weak. Her longed-for lover’s eyes blazed his adoration and support from this filthy woollen hood and she was wide-awake now, her fingers trembling. Laryn’s training and character kicked-in at this marvellous and enlightening moment, but her eyes were wet and her breathing suddenly ragged. She took a deep breath and seemed to gather herself, continuing her scowling scrutiny of this goatherder’s meagre offerings.

“Hardly the succulent beasts you promised are they, you old rogue? I’ve seen more meat on a chicken’s lip!” She growled in the local dialect at the goatherder, and he bobbed up and down on his staff in apology as best he could. “I suppose I can use them.” She said begrudgingly, poking them with an accusing finger and was still poking them when she brushed past him, slipping a small cylinder of bark shaving into his hand and they touched, for the first time in almost three years. This most fleeting contact was a physical shock to Laryn and her soul soared, making her heart thump in her chest as she turned to the guard. “Pay him.” She said gruffly and just nodded to the two male servants, who began to transfer the meat to their own cart.

Without a backward glance, the old man limped away pushing his cart, once he had his coin in-hand and the remaining survivors of his flock followed him forlornly, their bells clonking softly.

“Feed those goats!” Laryn scolded her husband with a shout, as the guard shut and barred the gate between them and she stood there for long moments, reliving every fleeting moment with her heart thudding at her throat.

Their enforced separation had been one of the hardest things she and Fuanladd had been faced with in their lives, but duty was all, and they had kissed that day for the last time. The odds were so small of her safe return, they had both known that this mission was very likely to be her last and it had made their parting so much more melancholy. Laryn had sent regular reports home via the servant and slave network that she was indeed still alive, but she knew Fuanladd would have gained no pleasure or hope from those reports, as he had known what lay ahead of her. This cold understanding had forestalled any flare of hope within that fatalistic ghost-warrior and Fuanladd had thrown himself headlong into his duties from that day, but every now and again she still wondered how he was. Now she knew from the evidence of her own eyes, and those beautiful, hazel eyes glistened from this sweet knowledge.  

The ghost-warriors of Galedon had at-least twenty very different and irregular weaves at their disposal, in their attempt at total invisibility in the line of duty. There were some new patterns being designed every day in their tribe’s fine and ancient, ghostly tradition. These were made by the women of the ghost-warriors alone and they kept the patterns secret. All other Brythonic mantles and bracs were designed and woven for colour and style, mostly in the simple plaid patterns of the werrin, so their specialised clothing could not be purchased anywhere and so needed be carried with them everywhere they travelled. Much deliberation and design had been brought together to produce the leather horse-luggage and satchels they required to do this effectively and their amazing women produced these too.

To get the utmost from these miraculous, sight-evading mantles, forward planning was also needed, but the best advice always came from bird messengers from a colleague on the ground, naming the best weaves for the conditions and terrain around. Each of the twenty patterns had names; from ‘Summer Bracken’ to ‘Autumn Heather’ and they must each choose the five weaves that will fill their customised panniers.  When the weave of their mantles matched the location to a high degree, they were a fantastic method of concealment and were a big part of their success and fame, at accomplishing the most covert and dangerous surveillance missions in their long and legendary history. Ghost-warriors were believed to have the power of invisibility on command, due largely to the skill and efforts of their women, like this incomparable and re-motivated spy Laryn.

Much later, and some miles east along this coast, and some distance past the Roman Portius Ulterior lay the Môrini’s north-eastern border with the Menapi. Here was a long crescent of gravelly beach, which all the locals knew lay on the spit of land which was closest to the shore of Prydein, across this the narrowest part of the great northern channel. A small, twin-masted fishing boat bobbed away northeast from this beach, heading for distant Prydein too, but would be there long before Caesar’s lumbering fleet found its way there, like a blind man on a strange lane, if it ever did.

The Gallic Captain of this little trader and his brother the experienced Pilot, steered this sturdy vessel along this intimately familiar route in the rising westerly. Their two hooded passengers were still wrapped in each other’s arms in the stern, making up for lost time no-doubt.

For several days following their welcome return home, Laryn and Fuanladd were nowhere to be found, however their confirmation that Pompey’s support fleet was nothing more than an apparition, conjured up by Belgic propaganda-merchants and given life by the gossip of their werrin was like a blessing from the Gods. The news had swept Prydein like a tidal wave, flowing outwards like a flame-quenching ring-wave, washing away their fears with the icy water of truth, being received by the thankful werrin of Prydein as nothing less than a miracle. The doom which had hung over Prydein at the stark and imminent arrival of an overwhelming additional force, had been a black and fear-filled spectre haunting their nightmares. All had come to accept that the successful resistance of such a dual invasion, would take nothing short of a miracle wrought by all their Gods in harmony and it had been gratefully received.

Should Caesar have been joined by Pompey, and ten whole Legions of implacable, merciless Roman looters come ashore at Caint’s coast, supported by thousands of the finest cavalry in the world and led by those unmatched conquerors, all had known Prydein wouldn’t stand - couldn’t stand. Now this appalling prospect proved unfounded, it changed everything. Now honourable and imperative success was back on the table and Arglwydd Prydein breathed the sweet, hopeful air of reprieve, and her people’s valiant spirits rose to the heavens once more.

*   *   *   *   *

Finally the die was cast, and Caesar’s lumbering fleet of invasion battled into the teeth of a rising easterly, to discover an unknown world, to repay the General’s debts, to repair his damaged reputation and to change Roman history forever.

Titus Ocluvium Durum; ‘Tribunus Angusticlavi Equestris’, the well-heeled and polite Junior Cavalry Tribune of Legio X who had been so unwell, died shortly after the fourth watch. The young officer still felt ill when he boarded the Staff Bireme but seemed somewhat improved, as he had eaten a good supper and had embarked with little trouble. However, he’d paled as they were lifted high by the first great, dark-green waves of the channel’s interior, and the men and officers on Longinus’ Bireme had been concerned when the young and popular Equestrian Tribune had begun to complain of stomach pains again. Their concern turned to horror as Titus doubled-up suddenly and fell to the wet decking in agony, screaming and clutching himself. Titus then threw-up a black, blood-filled vomit to the deck, which stank of death and decay and which repelled those around him. Everyone’s eyes were enormous, and the officers and crew backed away quickly in fear, praying to their Gods at the horrific sight. Titus screamed and kicked, as black stinking blood oozed from his eyes and ears, his gums, nose and even his anus. He screeched and sputtered his life away on the swaying, vomit splashed, sea-swilling bilges of this ship before everyone, clawing at his guts. As this Bireme bucked and rode the waves under him, Titus kicked-off his mortal coil.

After a short discussion by the officers, his wasted, blue-flowered body had been cast to the sea amid much superstition and fear but inside the hour, the incident was virtually forgotten by those aristocrats.

“Bad fucking business!” A Centurion spat-out, but these men stayed silent and wide-eyed, as the terrifying, unholy death of the young tribune was still bright in their memories. “Don’t let it fucking spook you! We’ve enough to worry about on this little trip, without my best soldiers going fucking wobbly on me!” The Centurion growled and the men began to respond, their heads coming up.  “No-one else has caught this fucking blue-flower sickness, so put it from your minds. Tribune Titus was just unlucky is all.” He told them, looking at each man and assessing the morale of each young officer. “More people die in these small hours of the night before it gives way to day, than any other time. It’s just a fact of fucking life!” He said pragmatically, before moving away in his swaying gait. This pale and nervous group of young officers eyed each other in fear, as their grisly Centurion departed like a drunkard, feeling not a fraction of his confidence in this deeply terrifying, pioneering mission but there was absolutely nothing any of them could do about it, except grit their teeth, hang onto the drenched timbers and prepare themselves for the unknown.

The incomparable Laryn.

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Adrastus.

Primus Pili Falco reads the charge.

The Legions were assembled to bear witness in their shining formations, as when a Roman soldier enrolled in service to the state, he swore a military oath known as the sacramentum, something every man within these walls had sworn. An inviolate, Gods witnessed oath, which every soldier had sworn to the Senate and the Republic in front of their peers, priests and their Gods. This holy oath-sworn sacramentum stated, that the soldier would dutifully fulfil his conditions of service on pain of punishment, up to and inclusive of death.

Discipline in this army was extremely rigorous by necessity and the great General had the power to summarily execute any one of these soldiers under his command. Tradition dictates that the punishments inflicted by a commander on one or more of his subordinates, be divided into punishments for military crimes, and the punishments reserved for ‘unmanly acts’, and although they are scratched into the waxed tablets of the scribes as reflecting this division, in reality there is little difference in the harsh nature of punishments for the most serious of crimes.  Although some minor indiscretions may only be given a ‘pecunaria multa’, a simple fine in the form of a deduction from the pay allowance, or ‘gradus deiectio’, a reduction in rank, or loss of advantages gained from length of service. For thoughtless errors, possibly a ‘militiae mutatio’ would be conferred, which meant instant relegation to inferior service or duties. For more serious misdemeanours however, a ‘castigatio’ was usually administered, which amounted to being walloped soundly by your Centurion with his heavy vine staff but graver misconduct, was punished with a brutal thrashing with a ‘flagella’, or short-whip by the same man, a punishment usually reserved for the ‘volones’, their euphemistically named slave-volunteers. For serious crimes, a ‘Fustuarium’, or a ‘Bastinado’ was the usual sentence and both these punishments were invariably grave and violent. Extremely damaging and often crippling if not fatal beatings were the norm, usually carried out by the rest of the condemned man’s Contubernium, with either stout staffs or rocks and a recipient who lived through it to be a cripple, could count himself extremely fortunate. Summary execution was also levied on those deemed worthy as every man here knew, as he had sworn to the same on his sacramentum.

Repeated, rising tones were then heard from the Buccinator’s curving horn and two gleaming Optio Principalii appeared with a naked prisoner between them from a Centurion’s tent situated on the south-western quarter of the camp, off the Via Sagularis, which was the inner perimeter pathway. This gravel road went all the way around the encampment and behind which lay the ranks of leather sleeping tents, set-out as they were in their groupings and between the narrow footpaths which divided them. This large leather tent of the Centurions had served as a temporary holding place for the prisoner and a venue for the Quaestionarius to ply his specialised training and techniques. The Quaestionarius of this camp was a dour and utterly merciless Senior Centurion of the 2^nd Cohort of the Tenth, who had served as interrogator of this man but torture hadn’t been required of this feared and experienced officer, as the empty amphora had been found under the accused soldier’s tented bedroll. The lowly Miles had admitted ownership handily enough, as he was faced with no real alternative but denied culpability and had sworn on Jupiter it had not been theft, as he’d only drank the dregs of a cast-off amphora he had found.

These two Senior Optios had each been nominated acting Tesserarii for today’s proceedings and these appointed Guard Commander’s vice-like grip held their prisoner firmly either side by his arms.  Adrastus’ hands were tightly bound in front of him with a leather thong and the Optios frog-marched him around the Via Sagularis, until they approached the ‘Via Praetoria’, the arrow-straight road which cut across the lower part of the large expanse of parade ground, known as the Praetorium. The trio turned right off the perimeter road and up the lower half of the Via Praetoria, the central road, which headed away from the main gate and marching up this broad sandy path between the parade grounds, they made their way toward the centre and the General’s accommodation.

No one wanted the appalling spectre of ‘Decimatio’ to rear its ugly head here, the dreaded punishment meted out for massed indiscipline or if no culprit was caught or stepped forward, as it then became a complete lottery. These days, the Cohort selected for punishment by Decimation was divided firstly into its Centuries as usual on parade but then further, to each Century’s individual Contubernii and each Optio would then draw lots to determine which ten-man group, would take the lottery of death, including their Decanus and their terrified servant. These ten chosen men who lived so closely together, would then draw their own lots from a clay jar and the soldier who pulled-out the black token, was fallen-upon immediately by his nine comrades, often with stones or clubs and invariably, until he had been battered to death. The remaining nine men were punished too, although in a more ritualistic form, as they were given rations of horse barley instead of wheat and forced to eat the animal fodder with bloodied hands. They were also made to sleep outside the fortress, near the Porta Decumana that night and were not permitted to wash the blood of their comrade off their hands until sunrise, when they were readmitted.

This ancient and terrifying punishment of Decimatio had been resurrected by General Marcus Licinius Crassus, seventeen years previously and from their ancient and bloody past. It was during the infamous Spartacus gladiator rebellion known as the Third Servile War, when two of Crassus’ Legions had disobeyed his direct orders, not to engage the rebel enemy. As a result of their rash, blood-rush attack, they had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of Spartacus’ skilled and accomplished rebels and Crassus' response to their disobedience had been swift and brutal, as expected. This sordid tale had been imparted to every new Probatio and Tirone standing here in this fortress, as a stark and salutary reminder to their sworn sacramentum and every man here knew the story intimately. The General had assembled the survivors of the two Legions before him that day and Crassus had then pulled out every 10^th man, as he walked across and in between the ranks. Each man who was pulled out was beaten to death by the other comrades around him.

The two disgraced Legions that historic day had been those of Consuls Gellius and Clodianus, who had long returned to Rome in reduced state, but they were both widely known as Pompey’s own Consuls and were effectively under the protection of his large and powerful political wing. Gellius possessed the cunning of a harbour rat and the hide of an elephant and had always been the consummate politician, rising again in those intervening years to his current position as Censor. The setback to Clodianus’ career was only temporary too, as with the support of Pompey and now the added patronage of the all-powerful, all-wealthy Crassus, both Gellius and Clodianus were appointed Censors and continued to enjoy the privileged lives of Rome’s leading citizens. 

Marcus Licinius Crassus was an unlikely ally of Pompey and a man who was now sixty years of age but immensely influential. He had grown to become the wealthiest man in all Rome and possessed so many properties in the city, many thought the Consul owned the Capitol itself. He currently shared power with Pompey again in Rome and these two powerful men whilst ever watchful of each other, together remained the political and financial powerhouse behind their General Julius Caesar. Four years ago, Pompey and Crassus were joined by Julius Caesar in what they had called their Triumvirate in those years, a period which saw the three of them cover the complete raft of Roman power and helm it so effectively, that they ruled virtually unopposed. Their Triumvirate operated to the benefit of each, as Pompey and Crassus would make Caesar Consul and Caesar would in-turn, use his Consular power to promote their claims. Caesar's consulship four years ago, secured land for Pompey’s veterans and a new wife for him, being Julia Caesar’s own daughter and although the fair Julia was Pompey’s fourth bride, he was said to be besotted with her.

The survivors of those insubordinate Legions of Gellius and Clodianus, had been joined together six years ago by their General Caesar in Hispania, into one newly levied Legio he named his 10^th Legion. His Legio X had since gained much notoriety throughout Hispania Ulterior and Gaul, becoming known familiarly as Caesar’s Legio X Equestris since their Gaulish exploits. His tenth legion had proved themselves utterly loyal to him and steadfast in battle but a shadow hung over the General’s favoured Legion today and their honour was thrown under close scrutiny. 

The soldiers of Legio X were arrayed in their finery in the rising warmth of this morning, standing to 'intente' in the western half of this fortress, and the soldiers of Legio VII faced them in the sandy dust across the Praetorium from the east. Two 2^nd File Centurions of the Tenth then stepped from their tents and marched toward the spot on the parade ground, to where the prisoner was being marched by their two Senior Optios. This doomed man was well-known to all as one Adrastus, the simple Miles Gregarius who so loved his red wine. His abiding love of the fermented juice of the grape may have cost him his life this day but if he was innocent of the theft, it was his reputation for the worship of Baccus which had drawn the shadow of accusation over him, like the black mantle of death itself.

His face spoke volumes of his fear and shame between the two granite faces of these Optios and he wasn’t alone in expecting a flogging or a bloody fustuarium this morning, but his nakedness had been a surprise. All he could do was pray to his Gods, and put his worldly faith in his comrades to spare his miserable life and leave him battered but breathing still, as after all it was only a mouthful of discarded wine he claimed to have supped. All the arrayed ranks of soldiers were thankful for the appearance of the condemned Adrastus, relieved at the confirmation of their release from the dreaded lottery of death but their eyes were hard, as all knew the possible consequences of theft in this army. The senior soldiers in this assembly knew better, they knew from bitter experience that the crime of theft especially from such an officer, was filed alongside the crime of treason and the punishments were invariably the same and always fatal.

“You’d think the cretin would know better, coming from the tenth.” Didacus’ cultured and scornful voice carried backwards to Agapitus standing behind the rows of soldiers and it caused a few chuckles and derisive snorts among the ranks of the 3^rd Cohort, Legio VII. The Optio’s face darkened ominously at this bold restlessness.

“One more word from you Didacus, you big-mouthed cunnus and you will be joining Adrastus in that big hessian bag!” Agapitus snarled quietly and it must have had the desired effect, as the ranks ahead of him were suddenly as silent as the cool confines of a marble temple. The centrepiece and the ‘hessian bag’ to where Adrastus was being marched, was dominated by the big stone watering trough they used for their horses, which they had rudely requisitioned from the nearby village, where it had been used for many generations for watering their own animals, as it had been fed by a tiny spring held sacred by the local barbarians. These acquisitive Romans had torn this long and heavy, rectangular stone bath from its ancient foundations when they had first stormed through this coastal territory last summer. They had transported it on a cart, up to their newly outlined fortress and had installed it under another spring they’d discovered, just outside the planned eastern gate of the fort, for precisely the same purpose. 

This ancient stone trough had been crudely carved on its outer faces but these swirling patterns were worn to almost non-existence by its great age. The Romans knew-not that they had interfered with the natural balance of two local water-spirits and cared-less when informed, denying all entreaties for its return by the priests of the village. Its presence in the centre of the parade ground seemed a mystery to many of the onlookers today, especially the recruits and the handful of local Tirones but the veterans knew its purpose, as there was no river close enough for the procedure they knew was about to take place. 

Strong Macedonian men had man-handled, rolled and levered this heavy stone sarcophagus into position and its sides were over three feet tall and the big trough was now brimmed full with cold carried water. The multitude of soggy, dimpled footprints around it and heading east attested to the labour it took the Auxiliaries with leather buckets, to and from the spring to fill it but this was merely an irritation to the Primus Pilus, the Senior Centurion of the 1^st Cohort of Legio X and the officer who had ordered it done. This Prime Centurion was the champion and commander of the first and Prime Cohort of the Tenth Legion and he made his glorious appearance then, through the entrance to Caesar’s reception pavilion and he was joined in the bright morning sunshine by the equally resplendent Primus Pilus of the 7^th. These two indomitable warriors stood guard, as a pair of slaves pulled back the two great flaps of this tent behind them and tied them back neatly, there revealing the great General in his stout campaign chair and dressed in his favourite toga and breastplate, flanked by his pair of enormous hounds.

Behind and around the General were arrayed his General Staff on sumptuous couches, among which reclined Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Legate and Commander of Legio VII on Caesar’s left hand and behind him stood his subordinate, today’s complainant Gnaeus Domitus Calvinus, the Senior Tribune and 2^nd in Command of the 7^th.  To Caesar’s right hand reposed Legate Titus Labienus, Senior Tribune and Commander of Legio X and Second in Command of the whole invasion force. This tall Patrician officer was subordinate only to his old friend General Caesar and behind this legendary Roman Officer, known as the scourge of the Atrebates and the Treviri tribes of Gaul, stood the Tenth’s Quaestor; Quintus Cassius Longinus who would command the cavalry fleet. This muscular man of great repute stood incongruous beside the taller and slender figure of one Lucius Pinarius Scarpus, a Junior Tribune who had little experience and bore the embarrassed expression of a man who knows he looks out of place. In spite of the title, he also seemed a little short in years to hold the position. The Legion’s gossipers believed the presence of young Pinarius on the General’s staff was due to his family connections, as he was a great nephew of the General himself through one of his sisters. It appears his esteemed great uncle was determined that young Pinarius would receive the experience he needed so much and under the General’s own protective eye, as it was a very old and immutable truth that youth can never match experience in the Roman army. There was too another person in this extended group of aristocrats, standing behind the General and to his right alongside the immature Pinarius. This man looked completely different to all around him and seemed to exude a natural authority and a bold fearlessness. 

Although this unfamiliar man wore the clothes of a Roman, he was tall and regal with dark but greying hair, worn in a long plait down his back. His big craggy face of character, bore the bristling and drooping moustaches of the long-haired Gaul and a stunning gold Torc glinted around his neck, confirming both his ethnicity and status. This was the infamous King Commios of the Prittanic Atrebates, whom Caesar had made King over the nearby conquered sister tribe of the same name. His rule had recently been allowed to spread over the Môrini tribe and these lands they now occupied to much complaint and his presence here was superficial at best, but Caesar had plans for him before he landed on Prittania’s shores, as the King would end his exile and return to his tribe in his service. 

King Commios had been conversing with his ‘Atrebates over the channel’ for many months on Caesar’s behalf and the General had invested a small part of his longer-term hopes in this Belgic King, in that he will have a great and desirable influence on his related Prittanic Tribe before he lands. He is also hoped to have a persuasive influence on the other Belgic tribes of Southern Prittania once they consolidate their position after landing, a number of which had secretly allied to his banner already and were busy with their own preparations for the invasion. 

The General seemed relaxed and almost disinterested at this bright morning’s proceedings, as he laid a calm hand on the big black head of each of his huge and beloved Germanic boar-hounds Negris Primo and Negris Alto, but he sat up nonetheless when the guilty party was marched up the Praetorium to face him and his own doom.

The Primus Pilii of the two assembled legions took up position in front of each of these large, triangular flaps of Caesar’s tent and stood smartly to ‘intente’ there, their transverse helmet crests bristling in the morning sunshine, which glanced off these fabulous helmets and their metal greaves, their polished breastplates and the phalerae hung around their necks. These round metal discs worn with great pride were always gleaming, as they were awarded for courage and the envy of their men. Each impressive Primus Pili bore a magnificent Gladius with a white contoured grip, which unlike the legionaries' blades were worn on their left hips, as was required by all Roman officers. Both wore a coveted gold torc on their left wrists and were known to each have a bagful of similar trophies and awards tucked away. These two indomitable men were the pride of both legions and their attitude and demeanour acknowledged this with a fierce pride, as their positions were incredibly hard-won and invariably short-lived.

The powerful looking Falcus, the Primus Pili of Legio VII took several measured paces forward, as he had been appointed acting ‘Praefectus Castrorum’ for today’s proceedings and Falcus was considered Camp Prefect - ‘Ad Spem Ordinis’, as it was a post he was in-line for on a more permanent basis. This extremely experienced veteran of so many battles looked magnificent in his immaculately polished armour and the many decorations he had been awarded in his long service, from bronze armillae around his forearms, to the gleaming phalerae and bronze Roman torc which burdened his neck and the smaller, solid gold version on his wrist. These overt symbols of his fearsome abilities almost outnumbered the scars that marred his brutal face, which all spoke of those same battles as he marched forward with a fine and thoughtless form. All this bespoke the man’s undeniable prowess in the ancient art of warfare and were vivid proof if any were required, of Falcus’ innate ability to survive the same. This grisly acting Camp Prefect was the conductor of this early morning’s ceremony and his terrifying visage broke into a hateful sneer, as the prisoner was brought forward. Falcus' cold, hard eyes surveyed Adrastus as if he was a louse he’d found in his bedroll as the two Optios dragged him forward. 

When Adrastus was finally able to tear his awe-struck eyes from the great General and his august and noble attendants in the open pavilion, he caught sight of Falcus’ face and the overt hatred blazing at him, and he paled at the sight. Falcus then turned on his heel in insult and to face Caesar’s pavilion. Standing smartly to intente then, he gave the General a crisp salute.

The two Optio Pricipalii brought Adrastus up toward the place of punishment then and he frowned at the sight of this long stone horse-trough before him, wondering at its relevance. Then his eyes fell on a long but shallow timber box, which lay on the ground nearby with panels of fine mesh let into the woodwork and a large hessian sack, which had been draped casually over this box. His heart lurched painfully in his chest then, as these innocuous looking items colluded to paint a vivid picture of what horror awaited him. It dawned on Adrastus then, like a prophetic, cold and terrifying deluge of freezing water, the form and manner of his chosen punishment. In that flash of unbearable insight, Adrastus realised with an electrifying shock that this was far beyond any beating and he now faced his own stark demise in the face. 

Adrastus was suddenly galvanised into frantic movement and began to wail in terror, his feet trying without thought to propel him backwards and away from this unjust and inconceivable judgement. The grip of the Optios was unshakeable however and all his feet managed to achieve, were two small clouds of dust and alternate drag-marks on the ground behind him, as he was dragged inexorably forward to his doom.

Caesar and his military staff relaxed and picked their choice from the plump bunches of freshly picked local grapes and berries, laid-out within reach in deep silver dishes, as a number of slaves were in nervous and lively attendance. A superb Caecuban wine brought from Rome was enjoyed from charming and delicate glassware and all looked-on, with the jaded and hard eyes of the merciless Roman noble. The two Centurions detailed to carry-out the punishment who had taken their places earlier, turned then as the pair of muscular Tesserarii dragged Adrastus before the sight of Caesar.

The General made an almost imperceptible nod to Falcus, who saluted in response and about-turned once more to face the condemned man. The Centurion gave a brief signal to his two tough looking officers, tasked to carry out the punishment and they turned and nodded in-turn, to their two Senior Optios. These powerful men re-affirmed their grip on the struggling and gibbering Adrastus who seemed to have lost his wits, as his fate became clear and immediate and he raved broken, panic-stricken sentences. Saliva flew from his wild lips and without thought, his feet still thrummed the ground in a pointless rhythm of protest. The two seasoned soldiers didn’t even blink when the dancing Adrastus’ hot urine splashed their bare legs and they held him firm without expression, as the Centurions bent to prepare the items on the trampled earth around the trough. One opened the big hessian bag on the ground and the other carefully slid one end of the wide and long wooden box into its gaping mouth. He then seemed to pull some kind of catch on the bagged end of this box and upended it carefully, shaking out the contents into this strong sack, as his partner held it open.

Adrastus needed no sight of the slithering contents to know they were living, venomous things of nightmare and he was certain now exactly what awaited him in this bag, as the belly of it moved menacingly. Another savage scream erupted from Adrastus in his hysteria, kicking his feet frantically now as the two big Centurions moved-in and grabbed his wiry and piss-streaked, flailing legs. They lashed his feet together in an instant and between the four strong men, they managed to manipulate the naked and screaming Adrastus into this bag and the Centurions quickly lifted it, sealing his fate. One quickly lashed the gathered neck tightly closed with a length of strong leather and the sack now burst into life, as Adrastus was introduced to his fate and he thrashed around inside it, howling and screaming terribly.

The two Optios lifted this living, thrashing bag onto the edge of the huge water trough and let the screaming, squirming bundle fall into the cold water, which slopped over the rim with a splash. The moving bag sank immediately below the surface, until the trapped air inside it lent it buoyancy and caused it bob-up again and the screeching became loud once more. As the water began to seep into this dusty bag, the thrashing became even wilder along with the piteous screaming and the water slopped wildly over the stone sides, as Adrastus was savaged by the dozen or so frantic snakes he now shared his bag of execution with.  

As bubbles streamed from countless places in the hessian, the two Centurions used long poles to push the writhing and hideously bucking bag under the surface again. Although the harrowing screaming of Adrastus was muted by the water, everyone watching could tell that the struggle was still ongoing and terrible, as the violent kicking and struggling was transmitted up these two poles, which jumped and bucked as the Centurions lent their weight to them. It took several more minutes before the commotion in the water trough began to lessen and the wooden poles stopped their jumping, to become calm and a few minutes longer, before the large leather flaps of Caesar’s tent were dropped back into place.

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Cadwy meets the Cymbri.

Cadwy had only yesterday been introduced to this fearsome and awesome King by his son Gwerdded, and Nynniaw had been generous with his praise of their shared adventures. He had also offered his deepest sympathies for the loss of his close friend and empathised completely, as he had lost many precious friends in battle.

Nynniaw was a huge man, with bulging shoulders framing an enormous chest and being the finest swordsman in all Prydein, his self-confidence and his Bri radiated from him as he passed through the crowd greeting old friends and comrades. The great man impressed Cadwy with not only his deep understanding of his own grief but by his sharp intelligence and quick humour. Cadwy had heard all the legends and stories about this huge and powerful son of Beli Mawr, as he was one of the infamous Red Dragons of Cymbri and respected throughout the known world. Around the long, beer-stained top-table, King Nynniaw the Pencampwr of all Prydein along with King Lludd, King Caswallawn and Crown Prince Afallach talked freely about their past exploits, each fantastic tale full of famous historic detail, making Cadwy and his friends hang on every word. They named other family members and Brythonic legends all in these tales, such as King Llefelys and the late King Rianaw, whilst Cadwy and his wide-eyed cyfail had sat agog alongside them, speechless.

All day his cyfail had been morose and heart-broken over Ioddo’s death, especially Cadwy who felt an acute sense of responsibility. Each had worn a sprig of mistletoe in his remembrance and honour, but their morose wanderings had been ended by the arrival of a fabulously attired Cymbric arwein with their invitation. Cadwy had chosen to wear Ioddo’s silver eagle brooch, still struggling with the loss and just couldn’t believe yet that he would never see him again. Ioddo had given his life in service to him and had been instrumental in saving Bleddyn’s. It was only Eirwen who prevented Cadwy from losing his wits over his beloved combrogi’s harrowing death, but nothing could ever erase that soul-searing vision of his casual slaughter by that Roman Centurion.

As the sun went down across southern Prydein, the Albion aristocracy had been welcomed as heroes to the Cymbric Cadlys, and Cridas had beamed his pleasure at the welcome as the Cymbric hospitality had been faultless. The Royals and aristocracy of Albion were well-received by a small army of immaculate servants, all wearing the pristine white tabards of their occupation, each emblazoned with the Gorddofican armorial in bright woollen embroidery on the breast. Cadwy, Bleddyn and Hefin were made honoured guests, as were Major Brast and Sergeant-Major Meyrug and shown to the tables at the head of this great canvas pavilion. They had all blushed to the roots, when the assembled Lords and Ladies had stood to applaud them for their service to Prydein. Even Bleddyn in his linen sling looked awed and speechless at the company he found himself in, and Cadwy had been extremely thankful for small mercies.

These huge Cymbric pavilions had been filled with the most fantastically dressed Nobility and once the Kings had officially greeted each other to more resounding applause, Lludd Llaw Ereint honoured Cadwy deeply, by bowing to him. Stepping up with an engaging smile, he shook his hand warmly in his unique way before introducing his family and two more legendary sons of the great King Beli Mawr. These giants of men had all offered their deepest condolences and spoke well of the brave young Prince Ioddo ap Cennydd of Fotadinau, and Cadwy was so filled with pride that these men should even know Ioddo’s name, he became quite emotional.

Eirwen had been agog at all this gilded fame and splendour and although her heart was also heavy, her spirit was unassailable and her liquid emerald eyes had glistened with her mounting excitement. She had looked absolutely stunning on Cadwy’s arm, wearing a gem-encrusted tiara over her lustrous auburn curls, with matching stones glittering in her ears. The white ermine stole she’d worn tonight around a long, flowing dress of the finest green silk, had given her glowing hair a stunning canvas in the flickering glow of hundreds of candles. Eirwen had always possessed a natural poise with a strong aura of femininity and alloyed to her spectacular beauty, she drew men’s eyes to her irresistibly like moths to a flame. King Caswallawn had introduced her to a tall and beautiful woman with huge blue eyes and the longest and finest of fair hair, braided neatly with golden jewellery and whom he’d introduced as his Lady Fflur. This magnificent and gracious Lady had drawn Eirwen into her group of fabulous Cymbric Ladies, in a loud and cheerful corner of this marquee. She was soon lifted from her grief and chatting to the noble but bold Ladies of Cymbri like old friends.

The magnificent and huge banner of Gorddofica hung in that daunting corner draped over a pole, placed in a large plated socket on the ground. Its utterly black, star-spangled background displayed the Gorddofican flaming war-hammer, surmounting the crowned triple-lane symbol of the Druids. Two smaller, splayed flags of the Essyllyr framed this fearsome banner, with fire-breathing scarlet dragons curving through their heavy, white linen folds. This night, the green hump-backed Boar of Albion flag shared this back canvas-wall with these sacred armorials, as this celebration had been arranged in their honour. No-doubt there had been talk of trade and politics going on everywhere but most of all it was gossip.

Cadwy had glanced over at those glorious, infamous banners near to that rowdy corner and at Eirwen, seeing many unfamiliar Ladies boldly pointing him out with some comment or other. He felt his neck redden at this bold inspection, done to much ribald laughter and with the tall and elegant Fflur gazing at him with a strange and unnerving look. Eirwen joined them then, laughing with a hand over her mouth and he’d looked away quickly, blushing furiously. Grabbing a cup of mead from the table he’d covered his blushes, turning away and inserting himself back into his cyfail’s conversation. Cadwy had resisted the compulsion to glance back at that rowdy corner, all night.

Cadwy’s spirit had been lifted nonetheless and High-King Lludd had thrown his arm about his shoulders, enquiring as to the condition of his still bandaged head-wound as if they were lifelong friends. Soon and in his musical voice, Lludd began to describe how beautiful the land around his CaerAulidar was in southern Cymbri. Describing his fabulous Caer, which he assured him was formed in the shape of a battle-axe, Lludd conjured up visions of a green and wonderful paradise with his melodic, lilting words and Cadwy had been entranced. This legendary Cymbric King seemed to have a real gift for the spoken word and he described these images with the most amazing vocabulary, from the broad and swift rivers and crashing waterfalls, to the beaver dams and the huge salmon and trout in the surrounding rivers and lakes. He’d promised that the forests around CaerAulidar were alive with game and went-on to invite him and his cyfail to visit him there, promising a fine week of hunting in his honour and some superb artisans to tempt Eirwen with their finery.

Cadwy hadn’t been able to help himself and had asked King Lludd about his revered parents and the very cornerstones of Prydein’s most recent history. He’d spent the next hour transported to another world, as Lludd the storyteller came to the fore and told him all about his amazing childhood and the great Godlike King and Queen, who had ruled the six hundred Caers in Cymbri and eventually every Caer in Prydein so successfully. In the following hour Beli and Dôn, the revered and deeply worshipped monarchs whom Lludd had been fortunate enough to call his Tad and Mam, took real form in Cadwy’s imagination for the first time in his life. Cadwy had finally come to know too the value, the substance and the glory that came with a warriors Bri and tonight although vicariously, he bathed in its warm and comforting glow.

Lludd Llaw Ereint of Gorddofica & Cymbri.

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Picell Dych (The sport of return-javelin).

The Princedom of the Damnoniau occupies the land above Enouanta and Selgofa to the south, and they face the northern border of Albion and Galedon alone. Northern Selgofa sits to the east of Damnonia, facing Galedon from its northern coastline over the estuary of Linn Gwidan, whilst further east lies Fotadina and their rugged coastline to the German Ocean.

“Picell Dych?” Ioddo the handsome, son of Cennydd the handsome proposed with a smirk on this training ground of DunAlclwyd, one blond eyebrow arched in challenge. 

He was proposing the dangerous sport of ‘return-saffwy’, where each would stand at opposite ends of the throwing straight and loose three javelins at each other by turn. The Bri came from eyeing these narrow missiles as they flew toward you, and either moving your body away at the last moment without a step for a Tlws, or knocking them aside with a hand or an arm for a Double-Tlws. The ultimate goal of catching it and swiftly returning it from whence it came, earned the warrior a sacred triad; the Triple-Tlws. This feat was uncommon, especially in battle but was accomplished at one time or another by many warriors on the practice ground and Cadwy had dreamed of achieving it for as long as he could remember. This was made more difficult, by opponents throwing the three saffwy swiftly after each other and some of the renown javelin experts could have all three in the air at once. On the rare occasion one of them was caught and returned, ‘Picell Dych’ was declared and it was well rewarded by a silver coin from the King himself, if witnessed and performed in his Dun.

Ioddo grabbed three saffwy from the barrel and began to trot the fifty reeds down the course, as Selwyn waved his arms madly, recalling Hefin and the raucous sword-swinging Bleddyn, so the serious and popular sport of Picell Dych could take place.  Ioddo reached his position, as the horses and chariot came to rest at the ‘smithy’ end of this vast parade ground and he stuck his three saffwy in the sandy dirt, alongside the two upright poles, which marked the boundary for the age-old challenge. Cadwy waited until the dust devils had settled somewhat and then raised his right arm with the javelin in hand, to show he was first to throw and gripping the leather thong wrapped around the belly of the javelin, he envisioned the throw. The boundary mark was well inside the furthest range of all competitors, as it was a sport of accuracy, courage and agility not distance. Taking account of the wind that swept this hilltop, regardless of the towering palisade and taking two swift steps, he hurled it downrange.

Cadwy’s first saffwy sailed into the sky, streaking in an accurate arc toward his target, its slim tail vibrating as it flew and Cadwy launched the other two behind it in quick succession. The third flew from his fingers, when he watched Ioddo take a half-step and brush his first aside with his left arm for a dubious score but with a demonstrated measure of contempt, earning a loud cheer and applause from his audience of three friends. The second however, was perfectly aimed at the space he’d moved into and he was forced to hop out of the way quickly, as it barely missed him by inches. This elicited more hooting and cheering from the boys, now sitting on Cadwy’s carbad to watch the sport. His third was marginally underthrown and needed no dramatics from Ioddo to dodge its onrush and it thumped harmlessly into the ground, a reed from his right foot. The second had been the ace and Ioddo had to admit it with a deep and exaggerated bow. Behind him Hefin whistled like a stockman from the driver’s seat, with Bleddyn in noisy support and Cadwy prepared himself to receive his combrogi’s best efforts.

Flapping his fingers to relax his forearms and dancing on the spot, he watched closely as Ioddo launched his first missile, sinking into a wide, easy stance with his knees slightly bent to receive it. A small part of him watched as Ioddo grabbed his second javelin but most of his immense focus was on the first, as it arrowed inexorably toward him. His hunting instincts came alive and his focus zoomed-in to the bright pointed tip of this saffwy, and as if in slow-motion he made to grab it with his left hand, as it flashed past him a foot from his left shoulder, but he hadn’t even touched it.  However, courageously Cadwy hadn’t moved a step from his wide, balanced stance and he instantly focused on the next javelin, as the boys whistled and yelled their encouragement from behind him.

The second saffwy was well-thrown too and it forced him to take a step away, as it was headed directly for his breastbone. Cadwy stepped to his left and tried again with his right hand, this time making a fleeting contact with the wood as it scorched through his fingers. The yelling and cheering got louder at this excellent throw and Cadwy had to tune-out the noise and bring all his focus to bear on this last javelin as it streaked toward him. It was coming straight for his head and was Ioddo’s best throw by far, but Cadwy bravely stood his ground, his heart hammering against his heaving chest.

At the very last, split-second he twisted his torso and his head, throwing up his right hand and he felt the jarring impact of the wood hitting his palm, as the deadly point whistled mere inches past his face. His fingers had clamped tight around the timber shaft without thought and the momentum threw him off balance, making him spin, but he went with the movement instinctively. Holding onto the saffwy he pirouetted gracefully, to stop and present it with panache to his audience of three and his friends went berserk. Cadwy turned amid the noise and with a broad grin, launched it back at his friend, who was jumping around in celebration too at this rare feat. Cadwy was concerned for a brief-moment but relaxed, as Ioddo had clearly seen the missile and allowed it to fall and puncture the ground, before he yanked it out and ran toward him, brandishing it and he too was grinning broadly.

“Picell Dych you mad bugger!” Ioddo laughed, as the others gathered around the Prince, clapping him on the back.

“Lug’s arse, that was some throw Ioddo!” Cadwy grinned back, kissing the iron ring on his left wrist before taking the saffwy from his vanquished opponent. “It would have punctured my head for sure! I’m keeping this one.” He told him hefting it again in his hand, appreciating the perfectly placed strips of thin leather that made the grip around its belly, its fine balance, beautiful lines and its sharp steel tip, which had narrowly missed his head.

“That was some bloody catch Cadwy! And you get a silver coin from your Tad.” Ioddo said in return, giving his shoulder an affectionate punch.

“More luck than judgement Ioddo!” Cadwy breathed, his eyes shining as he smiled at his friend.

Lady Meleri turned from the window muttering to herself. “Damn fool boy, just like his Tad and his Taid before him. It’s a cursed sickness of the blood I’m sure of it!” She shook her head, determined to chastise young Cadwy for his foolishness, as he was fresh from his sick bed and she had almost screamed as he’d dodged the first two saffwy, but to stand there and catch that third was blatant recklessness. Her mouth had hung open at the sight and she still hadn’t quite recovered. “What if his vision had blurred again? What if he’d killed Prince Ioddo?” She grumbled to herself and then shivered at her own foolishness, sending a silent prayer to Brigida to avert the omen of her thoughtless words.

Standing straighter Meleri curled her lip now, as she had to admit to herself that the performance had filled her with pride too, and the feat had been done with such grace and artistry it had filled her eyes with tears. “Men and their blasted Bri!” Meleri grunted at her own foolishness and turned from the window, getting a grip of herself. Dabbing at her eyes with a white kerchief of the finest linen, she surveyed the roomful of industrious women that did her bidding in this manufacturing room of the great fortress. As she looked around the busy chamber, Meleri tried to think of the name of the local Aerwyr so she could commission the making of a silver ‘Saffwy gripped in hand’ brooch, which would make a fitting birthday present for the young Prince and her reckless great-nephew. She brought her thoughts back to the long list of things that still needed doing this day. Daily duties which were still demanded in every Dun and every Tref in the world.

Every woman of plain family in her employ carried a distaff and spindle, to spin the miles of woollen thread used in the weaving of fine linen and the mantles and bracs much loved by the northern Brythons. The wool was brought in bundles from the washing ponds and each household would send their children to fetch a constant stream of it to satisfy the demands of a growing town. A far more odious procedure was required for the great quantities of Flax this region required, for the endless yards of linen and the work here was virtually endless too. The herds of cattle and sheep needed to be constantly fed with the dwindling supplies of hay, whilst pigs needed feeding too and their sty’s cleaned and water needed to be fetched from the nearby river for all their animals. Dirty straw needed sweeping and burning and fresh straw needed spreading out on the floors of each of the four hundred thatches, which surrounded this vast Capital Fortress of the Selgofau. Every chamber of DunEil itself, this triple-hilled fortress which dominates the landscape, would be thoroughly cleaned under this impressive Lady’s withering supervision, as holy Beltain was only days away.

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The ‘Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt’ & their Cywarch Benyweg.

The 'Spiritual Sisterhood'; the Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt.

Almost two hundred carbads were mounted armed and ready, inside the great gates of CaerCant and the Belgic King Cyngetoric sat easily on his horse in his old-fashioned armour, awaiting the signal to throw his gates open and release the flood of rattling and banging vehicles of death, to go clattering down his broad ramp to the turf below.

A long and deep, base lowing of familiar horns wafted to him on the air then and all around him became animated, as the signal informed everyone that the Wolf of Rome had appeared from the south at last and had finally taken the field. 

In the heart of this great palisaded fortress and laid before King Cyngetoric on his parade ground, were the Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt, who prepared themselves for battle in their own sacred and private conclave, which the King had set-up on this sandy quadrangle for them. This sanctified ring was surrounded by hundreds of jostling chariots, horses and men but it had been enveloped by a great circle of stitched-sheets of white linen mounted on poles, to allow them the concealment they needed for their ancient rites. Voluminous clouds of aromatic pungent smoke wafted over the tall white curtain and it was redolent with the herbal weed the ‘Spiritual Sisterhood’ smoked through their noses, in long slender pipes with large bowls. The small dried buds they smoked were known as Cywarch Benyweg and they were harvested from a special strain of the Cywarch plant they normally used for making their hemp ropes. The females of this ancient land-race species once separated from the males and allowed to form unfertilised calyxes, would at the end of summer produce a resinous and herbal medicine which had been used for countless centuries by healers. Much careful selection and seeding by the Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt had over the years, developed a highly potent and effective medicine and this unique ‘wild sisterhood’ held glowing embers to the equally glowing bowls of their pipes and inhaled great lungsful of the redolent smoke through their noses, as their mouths had been forever sealed.

The Shahansha’s countless warriors of mighty Persia, the Carthaginians and the Syrians were known to consume it regularly before battle and many Gallic tribes were also known to use it in war. Most Brythons used Cywarch Benyweg to control pain, especially arthritic pain in the elderly but it was also commonly used to stimulate appetite and to aid restful sleep. The Chwaeroliaeth used the herbal medicine in the same way as the Persians, in that it allowed them to commune with their fierce Goddess of war before they were finally presented to her. It helped them prepare for battle and certain death in her name, whilst helping them to remain calm and focused in their one and only conflict.

The Sisterhood were always Druid led and inspired and it was HênDdu himself, who today dedicated and sanctified these ninety-nine spiritual female warriors.  Supported by Ladies Meleri and Karych the two Arch-Druidens of all Prydein, these senior priests would convey their sacred declarations to their Goddess Andras Fawr, as they battled the foreign invaders with no thought of survival. The Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt were tasked with first contact, even before the packs of great slavering war-hounds were released as they always had in war.

These completely naked, suicidal spirit warriors would attack first as was their long and honourable tradition, as a spiritual Brythonic introduction to what was soon to follow. These courageous women were all generational volunteers, who had already brought children into this world and would today fight unclothed, with a bronze torc around their necks and only a single short sword to fight with. The torcs were hollow bronze rather than the solid Gold reserved for royalty but still showed the reverence and respect given to these fierce warriors, mature and young alike. Their lips had been sewn-up with silver wire, so they couldn’t utter any sounds or screams, and their bodies were painted by the acolytes of the Uati, with the blue woad swirls and patterns that pleased their Goddess, and which ensured a glorious and conspicuous death.

Each had a white skull mask painted on their faces in lime, to signify their sacred status and that each was marked for holy sacrifice.  Mistletoe was woven into their braided hair, which declared that they belonged to the Druids and these ultimately courageous spiritual she-warriors prayed now, on their knees and with bloodshot eyes. They prayed to their fierce and warlike Arglwydd Andras, their beloved deity and they dedicated and sacrificed their lives to her and to the defence of Arglwydd Prydein. They would precede the main, manic onrushing attack of the tribes, as their predecessors have always done, and all would die as expected but songs and englyns are sung about the most successful of these religiously inspired warriors and will be, until the end of days. 

Their most lauded and famous Chwaer was one Gawres Cyllt, a phenomenal woman warrior who is deeply honoured to this day and who personified their fierce and terrible Goddess Andras Fawr. Sister Cyllt had cut great swathes of enemy spearmen down many years ago, spinning and pirouetting gracefully before inevitably, she was brought down. She was soon slaughtered, and her painted body pierced with so many spears, her body had resembled a giant hedgehog. One mindless enemy had done the unthinkable however. One idiotic, mead-addled and long-forgotten individual had cut off the head of this legendary heroine, throwing it over the shield wall with a curse, back into no-man’s land.  A howl of enraged and deranged disbelief had broken from the main body of her tribe at such unbelievable profanity, as none but a Druid could touch the body of a slain Sister without incurring the displeasure of the Goddess Andras and all the deities of Prydein, but to decapitate her was nothing short of sacrilege. It had turned the tide in the battle that day so long ago and cemented Cyllt’s place in Brythonic history and legend. Eventually the songs would have the listener believe that she slew forty armoured men that day before being brought down but whatever the tally, her name was revered centuries after her long-forgotten contemporaries had faded into the mists of time.

These wire-lipped and painted warriors now smoked their weed, held their arms wide and pleaded for the blessings of Arglwydd Andras Fawr in this sacred white circle, with the aid of the Brif-Druid of Prydein himself and his Arch-Druidens. Each and every one of these gods-sworn sisters were utterly convinced in view of this most revered and all-powerful group facilitating their connection, that they would be curled-up at the feet of their much-worshipped Goddess within the hour.

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