Later, when he had tried to explain his reaction to the druid earlier to Ardwen, all he could say was that it was like being taken over by something. Without thinking he had removed his dagger from the belt at his side and thrust it upward into the druids lower chin, piercing the skin instantly and driving the blade up into his skull through tongue and brain. He had stood there with blood pouring onto his arm and turned to the other druids now standing in shock all around them, pivoting with the dead man’s eyes staring at him he shouted.
“You will all, all of you to a man share his fate and worse,” he spat out, “if I find that you have done this or anything like it again.” He raised his arm and then hurled the dead man to the ground, other druids backed away as the body bounced and rolled.
“He was our leader, our high priest.” One man stepped forward, Caradoc recognised him.
“I know you. We met soon after the Romans landed.” He said.
“Yes we did and I warned you of what was to come.” The druid said.
“You didn’t see this did you?” Caradoc asked, anger flaring as he looked at the dead attached to trees all around them. “We are fighting for our very survival and this,” he waved at the corpses struggling to find the words, “this will not help. No more.” He pointed the blood soaked blade at the hooded faces. “The Romans will be the last of your concerns if I hear this has happened again.” He wiped the blade on his cloak, its sharp edge easily slicing through the thick woollen material.
“From this day forward if there are any prisoners brought here, even one, I want to know about it. If I’m not told but find out, I will return with hundreds of warriors and cover the ground with your bloodied and tortured corpses and leave you for the birds to eat. Do you understand?” He said clenching his teeth as he walked towards the druids, who hurriedly nodded their understanding.
Chapter Fourteen
After an uncomfortable but dry night, Varro and his companions packed their kit and bid their farewells to Vidus, Helco and the other soldier at the outpost. The messengers had already left before first light, heading to their own destinations. The day was cold and overcast but the rain threatening to fall held off and they continued their journey. As a light drizzle started, Isca came into view on the horizon as the travellers hunched down trying to prevent the wet from seeping down their necks. Approaching the large garrison’s gate, one of four, rain fell freely off Varro’s helmet.
“I’ll be glad to get into a hot bath,” he said, “my feet are numb.”
“I second that.” Grattius replied and then shouted up to the guard above who, straining through the now heavy rain, recognised them and shouted for the doors to open. They cantered in and headed directly for the stables where a legionary happily took their horses.
“Right let’s get out of these wet clothes.” Varro said, “Then I’ll go and see the Legate and tell him about the task we’ve been set, I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed.” A group of eight legionaries marched by outside followed by another, two tent parties glistening in the rain.
“Grattius, you can go and see the quartermaster and see what he can give us, anything local, clothes, boots, carrying bags, you know what we need, but get these two some accommodation first and not in the barracks with the men, we’ll never see them again.” He smiled at Brenna and Lita. “I’ll come and find you later.” He headed off towards his own accommodation as Grattius and the two females spoke briefly.
“Well ladies, looks like you’re mine for the time being, come on I know just the place for you.” They looked at him with worried expressions, “Don’t worry it’s nothing awful although it is at the back of the stables, not attached,” he added, “and it has heating and baths, even a roof. It’s used for visiting dignitaries,” the women looked at him confused, “important people, like you.” He smiled and waved an arm indicating the way, “Come on, the sooner we get out of these clothes the better, and no I don’t mean in that way.” He led the way to the building where they were to be accommodated.
After Varro had taken off his soaked clothes inside his warm room and dried off, he changed into a fresh tunic and draped a cloak over his shoulders, checked his appearance in the long brass mirror against the wall and went to see the Legate. All the permanent buildings were now served by the hypocaust under floor heating system so he felt the chill again as soon as he went outside. He knew that the information was to be kept to a minimum regarding the plan to speak with Caratacus, but clearly the Legate was one person who had to know the details. As it turned out, the Primus Pilus was discussing plans with the legion’s commander when he entered the Principia headquarters well lit room. He was vaguely aware of the unit’s symbols on the walls, Capricornus the horned goat, Pegasus the winged horse and Mars, god of War, son of Jupiter and Juno. Varro handed over the scrolls given to him by Aulus Plautius and was promised every assistance he required, he acknowledged their words with a salute but felt dizzy, not at all like himself. As he left the building he shuddered, feeling the cold as if it had entered his bones, he pulled the cloak around his shoulders and sneezed. He walked quickly back to his room and threw the now wet cloak down over a chair and picked up a thick blanket, he wrapped it around himself and then fell onto the bed and was asleep in moments.
“I can’t believe you killed him.” Ardwen said to Caradoc once they had mounted their horses and were heading back travelling east.
“Can’t you?” He shouted over the noise of the clattering hooves on the path. “We aren’t animals but even an animal wouldn’t do that to another. I don’t have a problem killing the enemy but those men didn’t deserve to die like that Ardwen. Nobody deserves a death like that.”
“They do the same to us,” He shouted back, “when they nail our people to trees and crosses.”
Caradoc pulled on the reins of his horse and stopped, “We’re not going to argue over this cousin and I don’t care what they do, we are not like them. They,” he pointed in the direction of Mona, “will not behave like them nor will we, war is one thing, barbarity of that kind is something else altogether.”
Ardwen frowned clearly not understanding his cousins reasoning.
“Imagine yourself in the same position as those men, stripped of your flesh,” Caradoc said, “in agony, seeing it happen to others, those around you, men you had lived with, fought with.” He spat. “That is no way for a warrior to behave, take arms, cleave heads and kill but do it in battle where there is honour, man against man or woman for that.” He reached out and grabbed Ardwen’s wrist. “We are better than that vile diseased creature back there or do you think me wrong?”
Ardwen was surprised by the question, “I didn’t think of it in that way,” he placed a hand over Caradoc’s, “but you’re right, it is no way for any man to die or any creature for that.”
Caradoc turned his horse and addressed the warriors that had accompanied him, whose very presence had assured his safety on Mona after the death of the high priest, “I did not go there intending to kill a druid on their sacred island, but I will not allow that sort of torture to prevail as long as I lead you as a people. Do not think of me as weak for I am not, but if you cannot abide by what I say as an entire people, then I will re-consider leading you against the threat we face.” His horse whinnied. “If you kill a man in battle, take his eyes, cut out his heart, rip the flesh off his face, then do it as men not as cowards who lurk waiting for those to be sacrificed later.” The horse spun round sensing the tension. “That is all I ask, I understand your hatred of Rome and all it stands for believe me, I have seen what they are capable of but that,” he pointed again to Mona, “is no way for anyone to behave and I will not accept it from any of you.”