Hero of Rome

XXI

Gwlym knew he was being followed. He had seen out the winter in a Catuvellauni roundhouse close to the place the Romans called Durobrivae, alternately starving and freezing, and looked upon with increasing resentment by his hosts. Boredom had corroded his brain and he fought it by whispering to himself the epic history of his people from the time of giants and the great flood. Generation after generation of fighting and suffering and always moving westwards. The endless name-lists of kings and mighty champions, tales of natural disaster and betrayal by peoples who were inferior but more numerous. It was this prodigious memory which had been recognized by the druids when he was chosen at the age of nine to study among them and be trained in the rites. He remembered the long days of repetition and testing as he prepared for the trials of Taranis, Esus and Teutates. Now he called on the same power that had carried him through that horror. Sometimes he felt so tired he suspected his body was dying from lack of will: only his mission and the inner fire kindled on Mona kept him alive.

For the past week he’d noticed the forest gradually thinning as he travelled further east and he knew he must maintain his vigilance or he’d end up in the hands of one of the Roman cavalry patrols which seemed more numerous here. Strange Romans, dark-eyed and heavy-browed, seemingly part man and part horse for they never left the saddle. That thought had brought him another vision, a man with a horse’s face, long and narrow with prominent nostrils and protruding teeth. A memorable face, and yet it was only now he remembered he had seen it twice, at different gatherings separated by several weeks and many miles. The thought sent a shiver through him. He knew he wouldn’t last a week without the silence of those who took him into their homes.

He entered an area of scrubby trees, low and thin-trunked but with broad canopies. The trees told him he was close to a river or a stream and with the sun close to its high point he decided to stop to eat his meagre rations, rest, and above all think. He realized belatedly that he’d been careless over the past few days, travelling in a direct line towards his next destination. It was a sign of his tiredness but also of something more. He’d always known he was likely to die before he had completed his task. Now it seemed his mind had accepted it as inevitable and was reaching out to it. He must become hard again, rediscover the iron which had been tempered in the flames of Mona’s fiery chamber. Careful not to disturb the vegetation, he moved fifty paces away from the path and deeper into the trees and bushes.

He waited for an hour, sitting in the shadow of a hawthorn bush with nothing in his ears but the buzz of flying insects and the crunch of his teeth on the gritty corn cakes he’d been given at the last farm. Perhaps he was wrong? But no, he knew with certainty he was being trailed. Who were they? Roman spies? It was possible. Every Celt knew the eyes and ears of Rome extended far and wide over this land. It was why he had been so careful at first and why he now cursed himself for his stupidity. More likely they were Britons in the pay of a local petty chieftain anxious to gain approval with the Romans. Handing over a druid would offset a year of taxes and more. One thing was in his favour. They hadn’t yet reported his presence or the area would be swarming with patrols.

The sharp crack of a broken twig froze his blood. The sound came from behind him. With infinite care he turned his head and recognized Horseface, the man from the meetings, less than a spear’s length distant, thankfully scanning the trees to his left, away from Gwlym’s hide. Unthinkingly, Gwlym slipped the long, curved knife from his belt, rose and with three quick strides wrapped his hand across his hunter’s mouth and plunged the blade deep into his back. He had never killed before and it proved more difficult than he would have believed. Horseface was tall and strong and the sting of the knife point gave his strength a greater urgency. He struggled and shook in Gwlym’s grasp, emitting animal grunting sounds beneath the clasped hand. At last Gwlym found the gap between the ribs and forced the knife blade through it, the movement accompanied by a warm flood of liquid over his hand. Horseface shuddered, but still he twisted and squealed like a piglet being hunted for a feast. Somehow the dying man found the strength to turn, wrenching the hilt from Gwlym’s grasp and breaking the grip over his mouth. He let out a roar of agony as he clawed at the blade buried deep in his back.

At first Gwlym froze, but a shout of alarm from away to the right broke the spell. He bolted into the trees in the opposite direction from the cry. Too late. He could hear the sound of pursuit and when he risked a glance across his shoulder he saw that his hunter was less than thirty feet behind and carried a long sword. Gwlym knew his exertions of the past months had left him too weak to outrun the man, but what alternative did he have? He crashed blindly through the trees, ignoring the snagging branches and the leaves that whipped his face. His left foot hit thin air. He was falling. A shock like death itself knocked the breath from his lungs as he struck the freezing water of the river and went under. Desperate for air, he fought his way to the surface only to find the spy towering over him with the sword raised to strike. A grin spread across the man’s face as Gwlym attempted to burrow into the bank. He was still grinning when his belly erupted in a fountain of blood and guts and he was catapulted over the druid’s head into the river with a spear shaft transfixing his body.

Sheltered by the high bank, Gwlym allowed the current to carry him downstream into the shadow of an overhanging tree. He gripped a low branch for just long enough to witness the Roman auxiliary cavalryman retrieve his spear from the corpse and gleefully remove its head, then his numbed fingers slipped and he found he didn’t have the will or the strength to fight the river.