Bear of Britannia: A story of Artus book I

By Andrew Capone

The Bear of Brittania
Andrew Capone
2020
ISBN 978-1-716-33078-0

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716330780

Book preview

Prologue

The guard on duty was asleep. He sat on his wooden stool, leaning against the gate, the spear slipping out of his hands as he dribbled down the side of his mouth. The moon was high, the sky was clear, and a silver hue lit up the path and the valley before him. On the path trotted a mule, unwashed and hungry. It ate at the grass on the verge when its rider brought it to a halt outside the stone-walled city of Aquaesulis, one of the four cities of Atrebatia and the seat Therun chief of western Atrebatia. The rider threw his leg over the beast’s head and his crudely showed feet touched gravel and mud and he fell to his knees.

He trudged, barely keeping step, up to the gatehouse where the guard slept and shook him awake. The man started and seized the spear tightly in his hand and almost slashed it at the intruder before realising it was only a boy, no more than twelve years old. He was dressed in a bearskin, tied at his waist with leather rope. His face was dirty and he looked half starved. Take me to the chief was all he said before collapsing in the guard’s arms.

Therun was woken and brought to the great hall where the boy was asleep on a bench next to the fire. Therun’s temper could be thunderous but Father Johannes tried his best to calm it when the chief saw the dirty and scruffy boy sleeping in his hall. Be at peace, lord, I beg you.

Who is that boy? he thundered back. Why is he here? Did you have me woken for this?

My lord, I know what it looks like, but the guard found him outside. He collapsed from the exhaustion.

Then he should have left him there.

But he is a boy!

And I am tired! Send him home. If he has none, then take him yourself. You can keep him in that church you’ve built with all my gold. Now let me sleep, you old fool. This was not the first homeless boy to come fainting at Therun’s hall and he had grown tired of their pleading for help. So, with no more words and a final refusal to listen to any argument, Therun, lord of Aquaesulis, turned around, drew his furs closer to his shoulders and climbed the stone steps back to his chamber not seeing his wife standing in the shadows along the gallery.

The Lady of Aquaesulis descended the steps slowly and quietly and pre-emptively shushed the priest lest he alert Therun to her presence. He would fall asleep without even acknowledging her absence; such was his temperament these days. Father, who is this boy?

The priest placed a hand on the boy’s shivering shoulder as he responded. He arrived in the night. He had nothing on him to suggest who he is or where he is from. He looked up and down at the boy’s ragged state and reflected, In truth, my lady, with the conflict Lord Therun wages against Visca over Sorviodunum and its surrounding villages, he might be from anywhere in Atrebatia or Durotrigia. It is more likely than not that he does not even know.

As they spoke over him, the boy’s eyelids fluttered open and he looked at one face and then the other before rising to sit. The priest withdrew his hand but held out his palms as a sign of peace to reassure him. You are safe, lad, you are safe. The boy looked back to the woman and cocked his head to one side. The priest followed the boy’s gaze to the lady and then answered the boy’s unasked question. This is the Lady Valda; she is Lord Therun’s wife. You asked after Lord Therun when you arrived.

The boy said nothing. Then he gestured to his mouth. Water?

Of course, Valda blurted as though ashamed not to have thought to offer it. She walked to the main board where a jug stood and seized it and a clay cup.

While she was pouring the water, the boy gripped the priest’s hand and the old cleric was sure the boy would faint again. Valda returned and proffered the cup, wary that the boy would snatch it from her, but he took it patiently and only then did he spill the water thirstily into his mouth. When it was fully drained he dropped his hand and leaned back against the cold plastered wall. He breathed quickly as though the effort of drinking itself exhausted him, then he looked quizzically up at the two staring curiously at him. I apologise. He stood onto his feet and dropped his hands, then offered a slight bow. I am pleased to meet you, my lady.

Both were a little startled by the boy’s manners but it was the priest who interrupted the silence that followed the courtesy. It is late and this boy needs rest. Father Johannes put his hand to the boy’s shoulder. Tomorrow I will send out word to all surrounding villages that he is found, my lady. His family should be terrified at his absence.

I have no family. The boy’s head dropped. They are dead. He said this decisively and certainly.

Valda and Father Johannes looked at each other with concern but said nothing. In that case, in the morning I will find a home for him.

What will I do? The boy looked up at the priest and then at Valda innocently as though lost in a world he did not understand.

Valda placed a hand on his other shoulder to encourage him. In time we will find something for you to do. You might enjoy farming or smith work or even work here in the castle. Valda smiled as she said this, hoping to give the boy some hope that the future was not as bleak as the past seemed to be.

In response, the boy looked passed them both and pointed across the hall at a mosaic of a warrior astride a horse, sword in hand raised heavenwards. I want to be like him.

Admittedly, the priest had hoped that Therun’s denunciation of the boy would mean another able body in the church, but the boy seemed resolute.

Very well, young one, I will speak with Cargan, he is Lord Therun’s commander-at-arms. Perhaps, with a good word from Lady Valda, he will agree to take you into the barracks and make a soldier of you.

The boy smiled and, as he walked towards the mosaic, Valda’s and Father Johannes’ hands fell from his shoulders. When he reached the wall, he touched the clay tiles. They were cold under his fingers. He traced the shape of the sword and clenched his fist as though he was holding it himself. Then he looked back to the priest and nodded.

Father Johannes started to lead the boy away when a voice came from the gallery. Who’s that?

The priest and the boy looked up to see a girl of only eight years old look down at them. Her hair was long and dark and it flowed over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and bright and they searched the boy for an explanation. My darling, Valda called up to her, why are you awake?

I heard voices. Who is that?

Father Johannes turned the boy around to introduce him but then realised that he did not know his name. He looked to him for an answer, but none came. Instead, the boy dropped and shook his head bringing the heel of his hand to his cheek to wipe away a tear as though the thought of recalling his old name brought with it the pain of all that had gone before. Looking at the skin draped around his scrawny body the priest nodded to himself. Young man, may I present you to Lord Therun and Lady Valda’s daughter, the Lady Faye. Faye, this is young Artus.

Part 1 – The Knotted Ring

1.

It was the hooves that could be heard first.

Artus reached for his Spatha and drew it a little, checking the edge with his thumb and then slid it silently back into its scabbard. It was the sword carried by the cavalry of the old Roman legions. Normally worn high on the belt for ease of reach while mounted, Artus carried it slung lower on his hip for better use while on foot, marrying the ancient with the modern. He checked its blade as a habit when approaching a town, as he was now approaching Iscalis.

He sat on his horse he breathed in deeply and smelt the salty sea air. The Sabrina Estuary narrowed most markedly at this point such that the power of the west seas was most concentrated here. It was for this reason that Iscalis’ water mills had been built where the Afon estuary joined it. This meant that the full surge of the dramatic current kept them turning all day and night, churning, grinding and moaning so that just beneath the sound of the ocean was the sound of the mills carrying on with their work, supplying much of western Atrebatia’s flour and wheat, bringing work and wealth to this little but vital coastal town. But with that success, came unwanted attention from across the sea.

Artus looked across to his two companions who had been watching the sun setting. It would be a dark night. The clouds had gathered already which meant no star or moon light. Tomorrow the tribute would be made to Aquaesulis, so tonight the town’s coffers were at their most full and the storehouses were filled with the bountiful harvest. This all bode ill. Such a night and such a temptation were sure invitation for a raid. A plea to the curia at Aquaesulis, the capital of the region, had resulted in consent to send men to ensure the delivery’s arrival, but little stock was put into Artus’ fear of a raid requiring more than he and his own companions to ward off.

Artus nodded to those beside him, clucked his tongue to his horse, and tapped his flanks with his fur lined boots urging his steed onwards towards the town. The spatha clanked against the buckle of his saddle with every motion of the horse. Though no rain had fallen all day, the earth was still soft, so with each step of the horse the iron shoes sank a little into the sod. A breeze picked up, and the three men clutched for their cloaks, blood red of the old empire, also trimmed with fur for the cold autumn nights. Iscalis was only a short stretch onward and there would be hot broth and wine awaiting them as always there was. On the cold breeze all that could be heard was the sound of the hooves in the turf.

It was this noise that the children heard first, coming down the hills. They had run to the town’s limit to greet the three mounted soldiers who slowed down to a trot as they approached. The children ran up to them, smiling and clapping their hands. Only last spring two of the young men of the village had been called away by Aquaesulis to join the guard, one of them had been an older brother of some of these children. Every time soldiers appeared they would rush up in the hopes of seeing their kin in armour and carrying a Roman weapon, but it never happened. Artus himself did not know the lads, but men had been lost this summer keeping peace with Visca in the east, as had been for the past decade, and Artus dare not know the boys’ names in case their kin were among them.

When the three riders’ faces came into clear view, the children’s smiles turned into accepting frowns before they caught sight of a stray pig and made a game of chasing it. Artus and his companions dismounted and led their mounts towards the barn where hay was always in fresh supply and the owner was a friend. Hail, Artus. We hoped we would see you tonight. Antonius had been a stout warrior back in the early days of Britannia’s independence, but war with the Saxons in the neighbouring region of Londein had left him without a leg which had ended his career as a soldier. Family had brought him home to Iscalis where he had used his few gold coins to establish himself as a respectable horse breeder. But soon everyone’s efforts turned to the mill, keeping it, maintaining it, supplying it with grain and ultimately distributing it, so now Antonius was responsible for its transport to Aquaesulis and various other towns in the region. Tomorrow, he would be leading the convoy, the largest delivery of the year, and it was only too pleasing to him to see an old friend come to protect the delivery. The two men took each other’s arms in an old familiar embrace. He looked passed Artus to his companions and nodded acknowledgement to them. Daniel, Marcus: as good as a whole legion to see our delivery off.

Daniel took his arm and slapped him on the back as was his way as he replied. Not that you needed the help, you old warhorse.

And you know it; I may have lost my leg but…

You haven’t lost your spirit? Marcus finished Antonius’s common saying as a question, as if he had never heard it before.

Antonius laughed and slapped his stomach, the evidence of a good appetite and a life that nurtured it. He led them into the barn where his two sons took the horses and tied them up so they could still reach the hay, then he led them into his home where his wife had a cauldron bubbling with hot fish stew. Artus directed his men to remove their weapons from their belts and leave them by the door before sitting at the table. A pitcher of wine was awaiting them and Antonius bade them to drink up. So, I know you are not here to escort me to Aquaesulis tomorrow. You know the road is as safe now as it ever has been, and my boys will be enough in case we come across any Bacaudae. The look of surprise on Marcus' face at Antonius’ use of the term caused Antonius to immediately rebuke his silent protest. Oh hush. You know they exist as well as I do. But, like I said, that’s not why you’re all here. You think a raid? We’ve been safe now from raids for at least two summers.

It was Artus who responded as Daniel and Marcus were busy quenching their thirst. I’ve had reports from down the coast. Black sails were spotted a few nights back but we’ve had no news of raids between Glevum and Vexalla.

That’s because them Eirish don’t raid this way anymore. They’re too busy with their pickings on the coast of Dumnonia or Durotrigia or up in Dyfed. They don’t sail this far up the Sabrina anymore.

And yet he saw sails.

Could have been fishermen, traders… This is the busiest estuary aside from the Tamesa.

less common on honest vessels. Most likely it’s a raiding party coming up the estuary early and waiting for the right time to strike."

I don’t know, lads. I doubt Bricius will see it your way. Antonius sat back in his chair and took his jar to his lips. Expect a cold welcome when he hears of your arrival.

With black sails? Artus’ persisted.

At this point Daniel continued. "Black sails would be hard to see on a dark night. It’s

Don’t worry, Marcus slapped his goblet on the table spilling some of the dark liquid onto the rough wood so that it soaked into the grain, The curia didn’t believe us either, we don’t expect any more from spotty.

He and Artus exchanged glances following the jest over the Gallic origin of Bricius’ name. With the passing years there had been more and more interaction between the southwest of Britannia and Armorica on the northwest peninsular of the Gallic prefecture across the south channel. Many of the residents of the region had family that had left these shores for a new life overseas. With the exchange in residents went goods, trade and even given names so it was not surprising that the leader of this coastal town had a Gallic name. However, there was still some jest to be had over the translations. Marcus considered it good healthy rivalry between neighbours, but in Artus’ opinion, drawn out wars began on good healthy rivalry.

I would speak with Bricius.

He’ll know you are here already, don’t worry about that.

I know; however, this is not our town and we have been here long enough without making ourselves known to him. I will go alone. He turned to address his companions, eat well. It’ll be a long night. Excusing himself from the table, Artus took up his spatha again and ducked under the low arch and felt the slap of cold sea air against his cheeks.

The town was large compared to the other fishing villages along the coast on account of its business. The mill was for certain the focal point of the town’s interest but fishing still went on and it was impossible to take the farming out of some men’s souls, so dotted along the dirt track to Bricius’ house were net-drying shacks, ploughs and piles of manure. It was all as he remembered it from his last visit when Bricius had demanded that he leave lest he and his warmongering comrades eat his town out of hearth and home. It was for that reason, amongst others, that the curia had refused to send a body of men with him on this hunch.

Bricius’ house was the largest in the town, as was his due. Now that the sun had fully set and the only light came from the torchlight that burned in the copper dishes outside the buildings of importance, the whitewash of Bricius’ house almost gleamed against the night so that it was the only building that could be distinguished in the town. Bricius was not the oldest in the village, not by many years, but his father had been chief before him, and if there was one thing that the Britons maintained in the absence of the Romans it was a sense of maintaining the patriarchal traditions and nepotism. So Bricius took his father’s house and leadership.

On approaching the brick and plaster structure, Artus could already hear raised voices and suspected he knew what was happening. The nasal sound of the town chief was raised high and he was not allowing his guest much time to reply, but reply came in the softer tones of the village priest. It would seem that the cleric had been called from his church to add God’s wrath to the already enraged Bricius, who no doubt would have raised a mob if Artus had not come now in attempt to calm him. His knock on the oak door went unheard, so he knocked a second time, but only on the third attempt with the pommel was he answered by the priest. The look of surprise on his face was quickly replaced by one of gratitude that Bricius’ anger might be diverted from him.

My lord, Bricius, you have a visitor. Father Winston stood with a hunch; Artus presumed it was a consequence of presiding so often over the sacraments and not spending enough time standing up to Bricius’ tyrannical chiefdom. Father Winston was a weak clergyman and Artus’ zealous distrust of him was only balanced by the outspoken goodness and fortitude of Father Johannes in Aquaesulis with whom Artus had infinitely more dealings.

Standing across the room, Bricius might have appeared a terrifying man, he had the stature for it, he was tall, built like a warrior, and he had his father’s mosaics depicting warriors and heroes of legend adorning the walls behind him. However, years of unashamed vice and wealth had taken its toll on him and, instead of a man of dread, Artus looked upon a man missing several teeth, with long, unkempt hair, a stomach that was reaching over his belt and stains of food and wine down his jerkin. Artus felt the anger swell but he stopped himself from walking right out of the villa and demanding that the people of the village form a rebellion against such a loathsome creature. My lord, Bricius, I come as a friend. I know…

The opening speech he had been reciting since leaving Antonius’s home was cut short by Bricius’ demand for respect which came in the form of a strut, a yell and a piece of his dinner spitting across the distance to land on Artus’ cheek. How dare you enter my city without direct invitation from me? You and your warmongers are not welcome here! Get out!

Of course, you have reason to be upset with our arrival, Artus replied, wiping the gristle from his face, however, I have a directive from Lord Therun himself permitting me and my companions to lodge within your town’s limits until tomorrow when we will escort your tribute to Aquaesulis. As he spoke, Artus produced a signed document written by the manservant of Magistrate Vaughan, of Aquaesulis, and signed by the hand of Therun, Lord of Aquaesulis, and its surrounding lands, including Iscalis.

The document stood as a barrier between Artus and Bricius’ anger. Both men knew that if Bricius chose to ignore such a decree it would place him in direct opposition to Therun, and that would mean risking his chiefdom. But his pride did not allow for him to back down and so he turned to Father Winston. You fool of a priest. Did I not tell you to go to the Bishop and command that this man never be allowed into my city? Turning to Artus he continued, I want you gone from here at first light. Not a moment later. And I want you out of my home this instant. I presume there is nothing in your precious directive instructing me to entertain you in my own house?

Not at all, my lord. However, might I ask that I call together the town’s militia? I am concerned about the safety of the town this night. I fear a raid.

Ha! You hear him, Winston? He would make himself battle chief in my town, to call my militia his own army! Turning back to Artus he scoffed and pointed a finger. Be happy I don’t write to the Bishop and have you excommunicated! With the last outburst the chief turned and walked away from his visitors. He rang a bell that stood on a polished wooden table and, within moments, a young girl, too young to be his wife and too affectionate to be his daughter, rushed to his side. Artus looked to the priest whose impotent reaction to the coupling spoke volumes of his lack of any form of moral conviction. In fact, Bricius, taking the girl in his arm up the stairs, turned and bade the priest a good night, highlighting his authority over the priest’s admonitions.

Appalled, Artus turned to let himself out, but the priest interrupted him. Do not be too hard on Bricius; the weight of his responsibilities forces his poor judgements.

Artus had no time for weak people. His own responsibilities were enough to occupy him. Folding the letter from Therun and tucking it into his belt, he closed the villa door behind him, clutched the cloak around his shoulders and retraced his steps back to Antonius’s home. Though he had not been at Bricius’ house long, it was already pitch-black. He could smell the sea though he could not see it. The wind was cold but blew gently. The tide would be steady and the waves gentle. So, there would be few white-water breaks indicating approaching boughs. It was a bad omen.

Daniel and Marcus were sound asleep on a bed of hay strewn across the barn floor. Bricius’ disdain for Artus’ presence felt its way into Antonius’ home such that the horse-master was forbidden from permitting any of the unwanted trio from sleeping under his roof on pain of losing his other leg. Antonius tried to convince them that Bricius’ bark was worse than his bite, but the three would not hear of Antonius risking his standing and livelihood on their account; If it’s good enough for the horses then it is good enough for us, was Daniel’s ever-cheerful response.

Artus relayed the conversation and updated his companions as well as Antonius that he had been denied the right to call the town’s militia together. Antonius urged him to allow him to summon them anyway, but Artus refused to contradict the chief’s word. It was his town, after all.

It was not long before the two sword brothers were snoring loud enough to keep their mounts awake, leaving Artus to first watch. Finding a spot outside the barn with a clear view of the village below, but more importantly the beachhead and fishing wharfs, he bared his spatha, took a whet stone from his satchel, and began sharpening the edge. He knew it was already sharp, but there was always sharper. Neither of his companions favoured the long blade: Daniel preferred the shorter gladius and pilum spear, as a true legionnaire of the old empire; and Marcus preferred the more Brittonic choice of a pair of axes and a backup javelin. Whichever their choice of arms, each was experienced enough to know that all that was needed for the triumph of evil over the innocent was a tempting enough coffer and favourable weather. Both were present this night despite Bricius’ insistence that their presence was unwelcome, and so it came with little surprise to Artus when he spied the first open boat approaching the coast.

It would have gone unnoticed to anyone else if they were not especially looking for it, but Artus’ eyes were as sharp as his blade’s edge and when water broke against a bow, no matter how far off the coastline and no matter how matted the vessel, white spray betrayed its presence and that was what Artus saw less than half a soldier’s mile out and approaching fast, and not alone. Not far behind were at least two more vessels, each manned by no less than four, perhaps six or even eight men. He had been right after all.

Raising a torch to the hanging lamp, Artus ignited two others and shook his comrades awake by the shoulders, thrusting the lights into their hands. It is starting: ten to twenty men on three boats heading in. Arm yourselves and let’s start mounting a defence.

Damn Bricius, we might have built a turret or something if only he’d let us. Marcus could never help himself complaining about the injustices of foolish leaders, but Artus planted a hand on his shoulder and tried to encourage him.

We’ll be just fine; they’ll be expecting nothing but fishermen and fat land owners.

And without the militia they’ll be right. Marcus’ scepticism could be legendary.

And we’ll be right behind them. Now, to it.

Armed and ready for battle, Artus paused only to kiss the pewter ring on his finger which was adorned with ancient knots, which his companions mimicked by kissing their own matching rings. This ritual complete, Artus lead his companions out of the barn and to each and every house, starting with Antonius’s, slapping hands on wood, calling men to arms. While the one-legged veteran was quick to follow with his old armour and rusted sword, many of the other villagers simply ignored the summons and went on sleeping, but here and there lanterns were struck alight and old men or young boys followed what was becoming something of a rally behind Artus and his men. The torches became a glowing wurm snaking around the town as pitchforks were lofted high and shovels joined the band. Passing St Mary’s church, Artus sent Marcus to instruct the priest to start shepherding women and children into the sanctuary, for all the respect raiders would show it, the church still had heavy doors that could be barricaded. When Marcus asked him what he should do if the priest refused to cooperate, Artus discretely glanced down to the axes in his belt. Before long, they were passing Bricius’ manor and Artus himself banged his fist against the oaken door, calling the chief out to support his men.

Bricius was a long time in replying but soon the whitewashed doorway framed a sleep deprived face and a woollen robed frame. What the devil is going on here? Didn’t I tell you that I’d have you excommunicated if I…

There’s no time, Bricius Artus seized him by the collar and pointed to the beach, raiders off the coast. He pushed him back into the mansion, bring your sword. Arm your servants. It’s time to act. Artus walked on before Bricius could respond for the maltreatment and he merely watched in fury as the unwelcome soldier lead the strength of the town behind him.

The rally reached the shore where Artus stood at the last edges of the grass before the mud, and consulted briefly with Antonius before addressing the crowd. They will bring their boats in here or further south. The rocks to the north will wreck their boughs. Those with javelins and bows… he waited for the response from the long-range fighters in the party, you form your line along the higher ground there. He pointed to the slightly raised mound a little to the south and inland. Keep distance between each of you, it will make you harder targets for the raiders. When they make their landing make it rain. The rest of us will wait here for them to clear the mud, shoulder to shoulder. Who has shields? There were a few carrying but not enough to form an adequate shield wall. You disperse yourselves along the line to maximise the effect. Be sure to protect the flanks. Left half of the line follow my lead, right half stay with Marcus at all times. Artus waited for nods of understanding. Antonius, gather some of the young boys to fetch firewood, I want a bonfire burning behind us, bright as a noonday sun. Quickly now, they are almost here.

As Artus gave his orders Daniel and Marcus ushered the nervous villagers into their positions and men started scrambling for their weapons and forming their lines. The raiders’ boats were in clear sight now and the villagers could start to hear the grunts and growls of the men aboard. The enemy’s element of surprise was lost, but it was still a party of possibly twenty armed and practiced pirates against only fifteen villagers and three soldiers. The odds were poor, but Artus didn’t lose hope.

When the boys had returned with firewood and Antonius was hurriedly igniting it with the torches, the five archers and javelineers felt their fingers around the withered wood awaiting Daniel’s call to throw, the ten melee fighters stood in their feeble line, Marcus grinning, duel axes in hands, and Artus stood in front and looked on at the seventeen brave men at his back. Bricius was nowhere to be seen.

You hear them? Artus shouted behind him. They have come for the wheat in your storehouses! They have come for the gold in your coffers! They have come for the women in your homes! They have come because you are farmers, fishermen and old cripples! As Artus cried, the first prow cut deep into the mud and fur wrapped feet landed deep. They have come because it is their way! And our way is to stop them! The rally call brought cheers and the clamour of weapon against weapon and shaft against stone. As Artus turned to face the first raiders running heavily through the mud, Daniel yelled the first volley from his troupe and the two other boats tore into the mud. Twenty men started running towards Artus’ outnumbered resistance, one suddenly bearing an arrow in the shoulder, the only damage from the first volley.

On command, Antonius’ hay fed the bonfire and suddenly the villagers’ shadows danced before them, the sudden light blinded the raiders as the second volley tore into a greater number: two javelins fond targets, one fatal, and one arrow claiming a life. A heartbeat later, the raiders threw their own arrows and spears. One villager carrying a shield caught an arrow off the boss, one of the archers took an arrow in his chest, and one spear narrowly missed Antonius near the bonfire. Before his next breath, Artus launched himself into the oncoming havoc.

Time slowed. Artus took the impact of a sharpened axe on his shield which he quickly parried aside to his left and lunged the tip of his blade into the attacker’s chest so that it all but slid between his ribs, blood spurting back onto Artus’ hand warming it in the cold night. The tip pushed out against the skins hanging down the raider’s back and Artus was quick to spin on his right foot around the dead man, withdrawing his blade as he did so, knocking aside the next raider’s spear with the rim of his shield and slicing the edge of his spatha down into the man’s exposed neck. The battle fury was upon him and blood stained his face.

After Daniel’s men had made their third volley, the pirates had gained so much ground that any subsequent missiles would endanger ally as well as foe, so their role as the ranged auxiliaries was abandoned. Always ready to adapt, Daniel pulled his pilum from its place, protruding from the soil, took up his small square shield and led his contingent into the south flank of the raiders. His first strike was a long and low jab which tore between the links of the mail coat of one of the larger pirates. This was followed up by kicking the carcass off the point and throwing the spear at close range at one of the raiders who had already claimed the life of one of the older villagers and had grossly wounded another. The raider took the spear on the shield and, as it was designed to do, the spear bent dramatically weighing down the raider’s shield arm and giving Daniel the opening to draw his gladius and cut into the man’s flank. Before Daniel had time to finish him off, the raider swung an axe wildly in retaliation, but the attack was feeble and predictable, and Daniel brushed it aside with his shield and then stabbed his gladius down into the man’s throat.

Two of the men in Marcus’ half of the line had already been lost to the attackers: one losing an eye to an ill-fortuned arrow, and the other losing his sword arm below the elbow to the wild swing of the raider’s would-be champion, but now headless corpse. Marcus spat on the bloodied crown as it sliced off under his axe, but he did not stay to grieve with his two screaming men-at-arms; instead, he went on into the fray, axes swinging wildly until he, Artus and Daniel had seen their way through the attacking charge and now turned to see the destruction left and the dispersal of the surviving raiders into the village.

The three soldiers counted ten of their enemy’s dead, at least seven at their own hands. Bleeding on the grass were eleven of their own, five dead for sure, four wounded beyond full recovery, two with flesh wounds that would heal, though not tonight. The other four were pale and shook where they stood, half praying thanks for being spared the ordeal, half terrified that somehow their surviving had committed them to enduring more punishment.

The bonfire went on burning, but without the guidance of Antonius or any of his helpers. The one-legged veteran was one of those less fortunate: he would not survive the night with the stomach wound he had taken without immediate aid. Artus directed one of the youngest of the four survivors to move the wounded to the shelter of the nearby net shack. To the other three, he beckoned them to join him as he and his two companions flicked blood from their weapons and readied to follow the pirates that had fled into town. Already fires were starting on roofs and animals were being released from pens. All was the work of a party familiar with the routine of a raiding a small village. They had not counted on a resistance but they had dealt with it notably: upon landing they broke through the defensive line and immediately dispersed into the dark streets to cause panic and fear. Artus’ men had to demonstrate the same conviction tonight, regardless of the outcome as they pursued, though with the only light being the dying bonfire, the raiders were all but invisible now.

The church was the first to open its doors, despite Marcus explicit instructions to keep them tightly shut and barricaded. Father Winston had sent two under his charge to extinguish the fire on the roof of the church’s south wing; the poor women did not have the chance of