Caractacus: Precor Venia

By Aaron Jones

In AD79, the volcano Mount Vesuvius unleashed its terrifying wrath upon the cities of Prompeii and Herculaneum, and the smaller towns in its domain around, smothering them from the face of the earth with its spitting fires of molten pumice, deadly burning showers of ash, and rivers of red-hot lava.
Many tales and stories led toward this tragic event. One such tale was of a certain slave; a mean brought to Rome in chains, to entertain as a gladiator, to reluctantly kill his fellow man in the bloody arenas of the Roman world. But fate was to take him into conflicting fortunes; into strange, volatile destinies; that was to lead eventually to his involvement with the terrible catastrophe of Vesuvius.
Such a man was Caradawg; a prodigious, fearless man, from the mountainous regions of the island province of Britannia. A slave who became a demigod.
He was known to the Romans, as CARACTACUS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465302052

Aaron Jones

I was born in Ville Platte, Louisiana. I stayed in Eunice, Louisiana, until I was eight years old. I came to Oakland, California, with my grandmother, Lubertha Trammell, to be with the other members of our family. My first experience with poetry came in the fifth grade. My teacher, Mr. Muckelroy, introduced me to creative writing and poetry, and after listening to him read a poem by Carl Sandberg, I knew that a new avenue of expression was opened to me. When I wrote my first poem, called “The Sun,” I found a way to give voice to my feelings that I could not always mange to do verbally. I have been writing and living poetry since that day. I have also done poetry readings and taught poetry in the Oakland school system as a way to impart this love of writing into younger children as well.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Aaron Jones.

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4653-0206-9

ISBN: Ebook            978-1-4653-0205-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain 1999 by Aaron Jones

ISBN 0-9530145-1-7

Printed in Great Britain by BiddIes Books, King’s Lynn

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.XlibrisPublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

302454

Contents

Foreword by Author

Book 1

Into the Roman World

Chapter 1:   Idris Village

Chapter 2:   Rome

Chapter 3:   The School of Virruvius Galus

Chapter 4:   Pompeii

Book 2

Start of the Flavian Dynasty

Chapter 5:   Year of the Four Emperors

Chapter 6:   A Taste of Freedom

Chapter 7:   Flavius Vespasianus

Chapter 8:   The Freedman of Rome

Chapter 9:   The Big Race

Book 3

Charioteers: Gods, and Men

Chapter 10:   Pax Romana

Chapter 11:   The House of Julius Polybius

Chapter 12:   Back in Rome

Chapter 13:   The Race: and the Taverna of Aphrodite

Chapter 14:   The Spirits of the Gods

Book 4

Arricus: And The After Years

Chapter 15:   Arricus

Chapter 16:   Clash of the Titans

Chapter 17:   Christians and Lepers

Chapter 18:   The Gathering

Book V

The Angry Mountain

Chapter 19:   Back to the Volcano

Chapter 20:   Troubled Lands

Chapter 21:   Merciless Vesuvius

Chapter 22:   The Grand Opening

Foreword by Author

As author of this book, I would like to stress certain points about a few relating factors in the story. Although based upon an actual historical hero; a Welsh warlord by the name of Caratacus, this is entirely a fictional story.

Inspired by the name and history of the man, Caratacus, the hero of this book, Caractacus (spelt with a c inserted) is, as far as the reader, or any would-be historian critic is concerned, a purely fictional character, set in a purely invented tale.

However, by poetic licence, I have set our fictional hero into an actual period of Roman history, spanning from the final years of the emperor, Nero, through the decade of Vespasian’s rule, to his successor, his son, Titus, in 79AD. I have endeavoured to get the historical background of these periods as accurate as possible by doing some research on the times. However, to suit the story, I have taken the liberty of twisting a few facts just a little. Certain names of characters that actually existed, I have given different identities, even jumbled their names around a little. Perhaps, for example, someone who was a magistrate, I have made a senator, or vice-versa, etc. Another example, pertaining to the Coliseum, that stands in Rome today; in my story I have written of an older Coliseum existing in the Roman capital, near which the emperor, Vespasian, started to build his new, more magnificent Coliseum, meant to dominate the skyline of Rome.

Anyway, again I stress that this story is pure fiction; and is a story which I intended mainly, and hopefully, to entertain.

Aaron Jones.

Image67188.JPG

Book 1

Into the Roman World

Chapter 1

Idris Village

His bleak eyes shifted musefully across the gaunt escarpments of Snowdonia’s peaks to scan the shallow foothills to the east. Again that glint of something sparkled, as it had only moments sooner. Was it the sun glinting on the rain-drenched rocks as it beamed through the drifting grey clouds?

The torrential rain had now ceased, and the rain-clouds were gradually dispersing. Will-o’-the-wisp rushed smoothly across the Snowdon heights, as the autumn wind gusted icily into the man’s craggy old face; a face as cracked with age as the ancient crags that surrounded him. His wild, coarse grey hair flared back in the wind, as his dishevelled rag clothes furled about his withered yet still-muscular old body. He steadied his stance upon his gnarled oaken staff, glaring fixed at the distant glints. An old nanny-goat bleated on the rock just below him.

At first he appraised these glints with indifference, or merely mild interest. But then those few odd glints increased into many sparkles. There were more; and there was a strange glittering and flashing of light. Then in the soft whistling wind he heard distant faint voices, and like the faraway neighing of horses. He focused his old but sharp eyes more intensely. Then he could make out that they were men and horses. He waited and he watched: then to perceive they were soldiers; at least a hundred of them. And shortly he knew. They were Romans.

Old Myron knew a little about Romans. Armour-clad soldiers from an alien land; way beyond the south sea. They had sacked villages along the border of Comovii: though the Celts there had fought hard against them. But there were too many invaders, and they fought in ways so differently clever, adorned in armour, and possessing weapons like the Celts had never known. The Romans were harsh upon many villages, and they slaughtered, raped and burned. Ominous tidings pervaded through the hills of Wales.

Myron scrambled down the rugged mountain-slopes, avoiding his bleating goats and sheep, eventually corning into his village of low stone huts, whose roofs were thatched with furze and purple heather. A wild ravine river rushed down through the village, and stood beside this river, with his two children daughters sat upon rocks close by him, was young Myrvyn the Mentor. Mentor to the villagers, and to old Soryl Haragan, the ancient village chieftain, now lying ill and dying in his hut.

Myrvyn was tall and slender, garbed in a long gown weaved out of local tufted wool. His ardent blue eyes gazed across the rapids in distant meditation, his aquiline face looking noble and proud. His hair was shoulder length, and tawny-brown.

As Myron approached Myrvyn, he cried out in alarm: Romans! Romans!—coming this way! Myron paused to take breath. They are in the Borwyn Hills!

Myrvyn snapped out of his reverie, startled by the old man’s blurting alarm. He turned and approached Myron, who just stood there exhausted, his eyes just glaring with frustration.

Myrvyn, with a stem frown, grasped Myron’s arm.

How many? he asked; a sobering concern fIXed in his gaze. Are they many? Myrvyn’s little girls were giggling, and just ran off to play. Yes, many, replied Myron. And there are horses, and there were those shiny gleams we hear about; with those weapons, and raiment they adorn.

By now quite a number of villagers had rushed out from their huts, curious and somewhat disturbed by what they were hearing. There were the murmurs and whisperings, and the ominous news quickly spread through the village. The whole village sank into a sobering grip of fear and despair. Until now the Roman soldiers had not invaded this vicinity; though Romans had passed through peacefully at times; even through Idris Village. Protected leaders, daring surveyors and patricians. And in many villages just a little of Roman culture, their manner and their weapons, and suchlike had been learnt. There were even crudely forged iron copies of Roman swords and shields, possessed by some hardy vigilantes in some nearby villages. There were hostile, war-like tribes dwelling high up in the Snowdonia mountains, and weapons were needed at times by the village vigilantes. But what was now approaching from the eastern way, was something by far more fearful than the occasional regional conflicts and plunders. A relatively small but powerful malignant army was marching through the Welsh hills, imminent to the Idris Village; though were only the precursors of more powerful cohorts and legions to follow.

It was 66AD. M Trebellius Maximus was the proconsul of the land. The Romans had established settlements and garrisons over most of Britannia since the conquest. The wild Celts of Comovii, the north-west, and along the north Brigantes borders, held the invaders back for many years. But now the Roman armies came in ever greater strength, and the struggle W&s becoming futile.

The Romans

Melchion sat tall upon his black stallion, his armour glinting like his foot soldiers’ behind him. Several others on horseback were spaced out across the broad hillsides, their vermilion cloaks and helmet plumes wavering in the wind; and though not situated at a very high elevation, they could easily see the Idris Village in the distant vale. Melchion arched his long back, then straightened it to heave as though it were relieved from aching. His slant, black eyes looked on toward the village, rather disdainfully, as though he sensed it was hardly a worthwhile place to take. Not long ago he had overtaken a rather prosperous little town on the Comovii border, and he felt rather inclined to settle in and enjoy the town for a much longer spell; but his orders were to march deep into North Wales; the regions of the Ordovices, with a mere maniple of less than a hundred and fifty men.

Melchion was a Roman centurion, but he was not a Roman, but a recruited Spaniard who earned his way up in rank. His eyes were sinisterly black, and he was evil: as evil as any Roman ever was. He loved to butcher, and he slaughtered, often without any reason; men, women, children, even animals for his own pleasure. Even some of his own soldiers disliked him.

He looked askance to his second-in-command, who had just ridden up beside him:

Lucius!—Send several of our good men: diligent men, on to reconnoitre. Tbe village must be easy to take, but there could be some formidable fighters, protectors etcetera, watching from high in their local hills. An ambush could make things difficult. The burly Spaniard issued a harsh belch. Mayas well take it with as much ease as we can. But we’ll camp down here in these hills for the night. The sun’s low over the western peaks. It’ll be better in the morning.

Very well, answered Lucius, turning his broad face away in a secret smirk; and wanting to add: ‘Another bloody day then, to appease your bloody lust.’

Lucius Porus didn’t approve much of Melchion’s extreme lust for killing. But he was loyal to Rome, and he ever served well. The soldiers began to set up their bivouac for the night; and many guards were posted upon the hills around.

Next morning was bright and sunny, just a few scanty clouds drifting over the Snowdon summits. It was breezy but warm. The Roman soldiers mustered into usual formation as best they could for marching, but in the awkward, rugged hills they could never be too uniform. Melchion waved them on through the hill passes, he and a number of the others mounted, leading the foot-soldiers over the rough, stony pathways. Men had returned to report that all seemed well, and there appeared no set-up for confrontation or resistance around the village. Never-the-Iess, Melchion was as ever cautious and he ordered men on to flank the higher hillsides as best they could on the march. Melchion, however monstrous, was a shrewd and formidable soldier.

The Idris Village consisted of around forty small stone huts, mostly mustered closely in the vale, with some scattered about up higher in the hills. Nervously the villagers awaited for the soldiers to arrive, having decided in conference not to oppose them in any way. Myrvyn spoke most at the council, old Haragon now too feeble to understand or care, and the senile ancient chieftain was expected to die very soon. Myrvyn realized it would be futile to resist, and that the Romans would likely treat them more fairly if they showed hospitality. Albeit there were many men, strong and proud, in the village, who might prefer to reveal their protest and anger. Such a man was Caradwg; although he had not been seen in many days: nor his sturdy followers; men who cared over the village when outside trouble came. Often Caradwg, alone or with friends, would venture afar: sometimes to trade, to learn, or flirt with wenches in various communes. In Idris Village, of his family only his sister, Myldred, still survived. His mother, father, and his elder brother, had all died of a mutual mysterious illness. It was several years since the last of them, his brother, died.

Myrvyn was talking about Caradwg’s absense as the Romans came among the first huts. Many villagers remained in their huts, yet many waited outside in the sunlight; men and women, young and old, and children; mostly clad in crude fur raiment, or ragged woven garments. To the Romans they appeared dishevelled and barbaric. Most were frightened, yet some, rather excited. They all glared with amazement at the brawny soldiers as they marched in clad in scintillating armour, with their gleaming shields and pikes. And at Melchion, and his sturdy horsemen riding in front.

Myrvyn had just emerged from a hut, escorted by a giant; a colossal, tall burly man: wild-like. Myrvyn stood still as Melchion rode up close, ogling; and somehow Melchion, with his prescient sense, knew he was appraising the wise-man, or some chieftain of the village. Melchion halted and leered at Myrvyn, grinning with a sardonic, sinister smirk.

The Spaniard’s slanting eyes darted over the villagers around, before he then called for a middle-aged soldier from his army: an interpreter, who could speak Latin and knew much of the Celtic, or Welsh dialect and culture. He was an intellect: a Briton from Colchester, in the lowlands.

In his hoarse, gravel voice, Melchion asked Myrvyn: Are you the head of this village? The interpreter got the answer, to say: He says—‘In a way, now I am. Our true chieftain is old and dying.’ And he says, ‘Welcome to our village.’ Melchion nodded his head and grunted: Tell him we want to sample his victuals, his wines, or whatever goods his village has to offer. The centurion showed no vestige of gratitude to Myrvyn’s offer of welcome.

One soldier cried out: Ask the man if he has a sister!

Mekhion gave a wicked laugh; and by this time soldiers were beginning to accost those women they fancied. Then there came a scream, and a loud cry of protest as one soldier grappled with a young woman, forcing her toward the nearby hillside. Then came more screams, and crying; before one of the village men objected to the taking of his spouse, and was brutally speared to death.

MeIchion still stayed mounted, and grinning at the concerned reaction of Myrvyn alone. He took trivial notice of the anger in the wild-man behind him, or the worried people around. He had obviously given his permission, and likely longing for the soldiers to satisfy their lustful pleasures. Lucius just looked on unsmiling, with apparent indifference.

Many of the soldiers stepped away from the rugged roadway to investigate in or around the village huts to seek what goods or pleasures they might find. It was perhaps a crude village, but they found good food, large urns of potent ale: and there came more screams as they raped, and slew those who stood in their way.

While all this went on, Haragon died in his hut, laid upon his fern-sack bed, his long white beard and hair streaked down over his shrivelled thin body. He was told what was going on, but his mind had gone far beyond senile, and he understood nothing. He nodded, even smiled as if all was well.

Outside MeIchion dismounted to approach closer to Myrvyn, whose head was drooped and sickened.

Why must you do this’? cried Myrvyn, in a sullen voice. But MeIchion did not care to understand his words, and just gloated at the mentor, enjoying his distress. Myrvyn’s huge companion, Uyrgoryn, was holding back his rage in frustration. He grunted at MeIchion, but the Spaniard only laughed.

Villagers were beginning to panic now, and in their mayhem some attempted to run away from the village, but were diligently stopped and slaughtered as they ran. The soldiers were watching them everywhere. Sentries were promptly posted all around. Then a very old, long-bearded man, so infuriated, staggered toward Melchion flaunting a long stick. Leave us alone! Leave us alone! he cried. He swiped at the Spaniard with his stick, but fell to the ground.

The Spaniard bent over to glare down at the aged one.

Let me lift you up, old man, laughed Melchion. He drew his sword and stuck its sharp point under the old man’s chin, then he lifted up the old man by the sword, its blade piercing through his jaw and face as blood splattered forth. Some of the soldiers there even, did not like what they saw, and Myrvyn sank limply to the ground, nauseated and frightened. Many villagers were crying.

Llyrgoryn, raging with hate for this man, could hold back no more and he leapt upon Melchion, grabbed his arms from behind to force the bloody sword from his hand, then he flung him hard against the stone wall of a nearby hut. The old man lay dead.

Uyrgoryn was a large man, then so was Melchion. Melchion recovered from the surprise attack to face the snarling wild-man approaching. He managed a disdainful sneer as he straightened himself for the fight. But quickly several Roman soldiers grabbed Llyrgoryn to eventually overpower him.

A little shaken, Melchion ordered: Don’t kill him yet!

He called for his interpreter, and growled:

Ask him where his hut is!

The interpreter asked, but Uyrgoryn would not answer.

The Spaniard, now with sword again, thrust his blade deeply into the wild-man’s arm, and Llyrgoryn inevitably cried out.

Llyrgoryn led them to his hut, situated some way up upon the slendering hillside. Melchion entered inside to find nothing but a simple home, with basic needs. Wooden stools and table, caskets, and urns made of clay; and a palliasse against the wall.

Melchion returned outside.

Nothing. It merely stinks, he said to the translator. Tell this wild pig that I thought he might have a sister, or a daughter that might amuse me. But then— Melchion frowned arrogantly over the bushy-haired wild-man. What could possibly look good that is related to this ugly beast?

Llyrgoryn was now bound and held tight with thongs. But he cried out in thunderous voice: Get from my house and village!

Melchion learnt what he demanded.

Very well, grunted MeIchion. It’s his house. Nail him to it!

Nail him? the nearest soldier grimaced.

Yes! Nail him! demanded the centurion.

To which part of the hut shall we nail him? asked a soldier.

MeIchion looked at the soldier, screwing his face in wonder; then to retort with sarcasm: The doors are made of wood. Nails will pierce wood easier than stone. Nail him to the door!

With great long nails, as those that were used for crucifixions, they nailed Llyrgoryn alive to his door. MeIchion watched with feIVour as Llyrgoryn screamed, and blood streamed down from the door of death; for Llyrgoryn was to die there later in the day. And his body was not allowed to be taken from the door.

The killing ceased as the villagers submitted to the futility of reactions. But for the noises of drunken soldiers, the village went into a calm night. Most villagers were bemused. stunned; resting listless with disbelief. Perhaps a few women enjoyed the Roman soldiers. But it was a black, grim night for Idris Village. No-one knew how it would end. The soldiers considered the village to be just a stopping place to refresh themselves. Their due reward for hard marching and duty. But not all Roman soldiers were alike. Many thought such cruelty bestowed on such a defenseless village to be bad, and unnecessary. Most of Britain was now garrisoned by the Romans; but many Britons were learning slowly to coexist peacefully with their conquerors, and to some Britons it seemed beneficial in many ways: as it was to people in other provinces of the great empire. Alas, not so for Idris Village this grim night.

Myrvyn was sitting with Myldred, sister of Caradwg. She had come to Myrvyn’s hut, crying. A soldier had taken her; but was not so bad a man, and at her request he brought her to Myrvyn’s hut, assuring her the hut would be watched and she would not be bothered again. At least for that night.

Be strong, said Myrvyn. This might soon pass, and we may come through unscathed.

Myldred lifted her whimpering face. She was sinewy looking, yet beautiful. Her raggedy clothing gave no credit to her shapely body. Her coarse hair was long and golden.

She said that the soldier appeared to like her in a very tender way. She wiped a tear from her eye. He took me, she said. Yet afterward he seemed remorseful for what he’d done. I could not understand his language, yet I know he was trying to tell me so.

Myrvyn was sat upon a stool, rested back against the hut wall. He uttered no sound for quite a spell, then to pensively say: In spite of all this terror of Rome, Rome must be a place of great wonders. I have learnt only a little of it. They say there are huge structures there, with columns made of polished white stone. And it is vast, spread over seven great hills. And people dwell there in vast numbers, dressed in beautiful clothing. There are tall images of people made out of stone, and so many other wondrous things that would bedazzle our simple minds. Myrvyn paused: Ah! but such an evil spirit must dwell among all this.

Myldred meditated a while. She raised her gaze to the rafter ceiling, intoning in a soft voice: I wonder where Caradwg is: and the other men. What would they have made of this day?

Even they could have done nothing against so many, replied Myrvyn. "If Caradwg was here then he may have tried something daring in his rage, thus perhaps would be dead now."

They just sat there in morose silence, until Myrvyn, wrapping himself in a warm deerskin blanket, suggested they should try to sleep. They could only wonder how the morrow would be.

In a corner of the hut, behind a curtain of heavy woven cloth, Myrvyn’s two little girls slept fast upon their feather-sack beds.

It was early autumn: windy yet unusually warm. The Romans still occupied Idris Village five days after their coming. Many of the soldiers wondered how long they would stay there, and what would be done with the village. There had been just a few more killings, and soldiers still took their chosen women. Myldred was left alone and befriended only by that soldier who first took her. He treated her well, and never sexually touched her again; and Myldred liked him. He well protected her. He was different. The killings were mostly of those womens’ spouses who, so enraged in their inevitable jealousy, set upon the raping perpetrators.

This was a frightened village, subdued without apparent hope. Myrvyn and his children, as yet, were never harmed or bothered, but Myrvyn always lay in fear. The villagers could only pray that the soldiers would leave: but they could not know that this army was only a precursor of greater armies to follow. For the rest of Wales was yet to be subdued and garrisoned. Many larger, and often fortified communes, still lay in wait. Brutal conflict; much bloodshed was still to come with the Ordovices in Wales.

Melchion had gone from and come back to the village several times, and onetime was not seen for two days. However, he was presently back in the village, having not long returned from some interest. A soldier took his black stallion, with bridle, halter and sadIe adorned with silver trinkets, red plumes affixed to its crown. Whatever Melchion was, he always strived to look most grand in every way. He strode among the soldiers tents, across the village, to where Myrvyn and his daughters sat; where they usually sat, beside the rapid flowing river. A crudely built bridge spanned the river close by. Simply two large felled trees placed together, and joined by oaken rafters. The bridge merged onto a stony pathway leading westward from the village.

Melchion was still striding toward Myrvyn, the bright evening sun gleaming upon his armour, when suddenly a horseman, not a Roman, stood upon the old wooden bridge. Then two more men on horseback followed onto the bridge. Whoever they were they were not Roman soldiers, and Melchion called soldiers nearby to muster close with him.

Upon the bridge, on a magnificent wild grey horse, sat a man of great stature. His lengthy hair was pale-brown, flaring wildly in the soft wind. He wore a rough chenille cloak laced with leather thongs at the thorax. Beneath this cloak a jerkin and leg-tights of animal skins, led down to rough leather sandals. His face was as hard as the mountain rocks; bronzed and sinewy. His long sharp nose beaked down from his green-golden, eagle-like eyes. Heavy eyebrows frowned over them as he sternly glared at the Romans all around.

Myrvyn stood, and excitedly cried out: Caradwg!

Other villagers who saw him there ignored the soldiers, and they too cried out his name. Quickly there were excited murmurs and whispers: that Caradwg had returned. And some reacted like he was the saviour who would save them.

Caradwg rode off the bridge, his two staunch riders following behind him. He rode up to Melchion and dismounted. Melchion made sure enough soldiers were around him. He stared hard and curiously at Caradwg; this lofty man of magnificent, wild stature. Such was Caradwg’s striking appearance, the vain centurion, for the first time in a long while, appraised a man with admiration.

Caradwg walked fearlessly close up to Melchion, and fiercely stared into his black malevolent eyes. Such was Caradwg’s stare, the centurion slightly trembled.

In a stern voice, and in his native tongue, he exclaimed: What are you aliens doing in my land? What have you done to this village?

With a slight nervous twitch of his lip, Melchion called for his interpreter. But he was already there behind him. The interpreter promptly translated Caradwg’s words.

Garadwg gazed at the blood stains around the village, as the strange talking went on, and he could see Llyrgoryn’s hut up on the hillside, and the bloody corpse still hung nailed to the door.

He looked with disbelief, as a voice said: I am Cedric. I am a Briton, from Colchester. I speak their tongue, and yours. This man is in command of these soldiers. They are from Rome. He says you must be careful what you say, or you will surely die like that one up on the hill. He states, you can do nothing against us, and even more armies will follow soon. And you can do nothing against us now.

Caradwg only half heard what the man was saying; so sick for what he now realized had been happening.

Myrvyn was close beside Caradwg, tearfully telling him: They have raped our women; slaughtered some men. They are terrible soldiers, he cried. They cruelly killed Llyrgoryn.

Caradwg stood back in anger, drew his iron sword and cried out in ferocious voice to all the Romans around him: Get from this place, you alien swine! Go back from where you came!

Caradwg’s two men were close by with spears, as the soldiers rushed toward Caradwg. One Roman was pinned to the ground by a striking spear, and Caradwg thrust his sword into another’s groin. But quickly more than twenty soldiers were around them; and one of Caradwg’s men was cut down, and was killed. Swiftly Caradwg grabbed the interpreter around his neck, held him tight with one arm, sword in other hand.

Tell the man! he heaved angrily. Or ask him if he is afraid of me! Caradwg was pointing at Melchion. "Ask him if he or his soldiers are cowards when alone! Or is he afraid to fight me man to man, for the sake of honour!"

Cedric translated, and Melchion responded:

So be it, he grinned. I fear no-one. I will fight you. But the outcome will make no difference to our intentions, or the fate of this village. The will of Rome will be done.

Cedric translated, and Melchion ordered his men to stay back and spread out. All the villagers were there, concerned for a man who was mysterious even to them: but they loved him, for he was their tower of strength. He was not born in this village, but came there from some other part of Wales with his family as a young boy. But he made this village his home, and he loved it so.

Myldred, his sister, stood watching with fear. Soldiers aligned to form a broad cordon, simply as a routine reaction to such an event. They made a great space, as Melchion drew his sword and shifted slowly in sidewalking stances as Caradwg approached him with his iron sword in hand.

Caradwg went directly to his foe and lashed out viciously with his sword. His sudden, swift attack, caught Melchion by surprise, and his blade almost sliced Melchion’s throat. But Melchion fell back to regain his stance, and he fended off another swift strike from Caradwg.

They both crouched, sidling slowly around each other, both men tall: Melchion broad and bulky, Caradwg big-boned but lean and rangy. They leered hatefully into each others’ eyes, both men making suggestive short stabs with their swords.

Caradwg lunged wildly at Melchion, diving headlong with his entire body, the Spaniard skilfully sidestepping, lashing out at the wild man, sending him flying off-balance, and Caradwg fell forth to crack his head against a huge cauldron that hung over a fire in the square. The pot was filled with boiling broth-water prepared for the soldiers, and in his daze Caradwg unwittingly grabbed the hot cauldron rim to raise himself from the ground. As he tried out with his burning hand, Melchion rushed forward with sword raised poised to strike, but spontaneously Caradwg swerved aside as the blade cracked sparking against the cauldron.

The sword of resilient steel once again struck