As war cries split the night and warriors forced their way inside the buildings, axes and swords smashing wood, Dumnoc heard shouting and screaming from inside followed by the sound of clashing swords. Shock and surprise however, had once again ensured that they quickly overpowered all those inside the villa. He discovered that scar face was the one who had tried to put up some resistance but was quickly knocked unconscious and dragged outside, the rest of his men were slaughtered in their beds. The slaves disturbed from their sleep by the attack stumbled outside and congregated together, milling about talking excitedly. Vanutius Friscus and his wife were taken to the middle of the large courtyard where scar face lay on the ground. Friscus, eyes wide looked about in horror physically shaking. His wife stared at their captors, defiance over her features.
“Bring some water from the well.” Dumnoc ordered one of his men. He nodded quickly returning with a large wooden bucket that Dumnoc threw over scar face. He coughed and spluttered regaining consciousness, muttering and cursing, looking around.
“You,” he turned, “father of the boy.” Dumnoc pointed to the man who had come to the aid of his son, he stepped forward. Dumnoc pointed at the bloated and soaked freedman on the ground. “This man struck your son with a whip for no reason, now he can take his revenge.”
The father replied, “My son is here but he is only sixteen summers old,” he beckoned for him to leave his mother’s side, “I don’t know if he will want to or if I would want a man’s life on his conscience, even if it is the life of an animal like him.” The son stepped forward, brutal red lines of dry blood across his face. His father spoke to him quietly and his eyes widened, he rubbed at his face.
“He says he doesn’t want this man’s life.” The father said. Dumnoc looked perplexed, “If he doesn’t take action, I will.”
The father looked at him his stare hardening, he stepped forward, “I didn’t say that I wouldn’t, this swine,” he said pointing to the man on the ground, “has hurt many of us not just my son and deserves to pay for what he has done but then so does she.” He pointed to Vanutius Friscus and the woman beside him. “That creature he calls a wife.”
Friscus and his wife clearly couldn’t understand what he said as he wasn’t speaking Latin, but they could see the venom of his words and knew that the future didn’t bode well for them.
“They could have treated us well, with some dignity but because our fate had determined that we were to be their slaves, they treated us like animals.” The father continued, “We were fed on fat and gristle, the only bread we ever had was hard and often blue as it rotted.” He looked back at Dumnoc. “That scar faced pig even helped himself to the young girls when he chose and raped them all except for the ugly one over there.” He nodded to a girl who shrunk away behind her mother, her face covered in a red birth mark, her mouth distorted. “I will take revenge on this animal for all he has done, if I may?”
Dumnoc smiled, “You may.” He turned his sword and offered him the hilt, which he accepted. The man on the ground began squealing and crying, begging.
“He,” said the freedman, squirming on the stones, pointing to Friscus and his wife, “made us treat them that way.” No-one responded. The father of the young man approached the pathetic figure and raised the sword. The freedman covered his head and curled into a ball. The sword swung down and sliced into his arm covering his head almost severing it completely from the rest of the limb, the man wailed, blood gushed out of the wound. Some of those watching turned away. He tried to raise his arm again over his head but the limb hung down at an awkward angle, he screamed as blood dripped freely onto his face. The father scythed down again and the edge of the blade cut deep into his victim’s forehead with a wet hard crack. The eyes went wide in shock as his executioner tried to remove the blade, but it was stuck. He pulled on the handle and the man’s head was yanked towards him, more blood spilled from the open wound, his arm at an odd angle. The blade was pulled free followed by a gush of dark blood. As he began to gurgle and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the sword came down again one final time and almost cut his head off completely. The sharp blade cut through his neck severing arteries and spraying blood out onto those who watched, one former slave was sick at the sight of it. The man on the ground fell silent.
The father turned to Dumnoc, now spattered with blood, “Thank you my friend, whoever you are.” He held the red stained sword out.
Dumnoc smiled again, “I am a warrior of Caradoc,” he said, “Dumnoc is my given name, Dumnoc of the Catuvellauni.” He turned. “You have two left.” He said pointing to the two Romans. Friscus was now crying freely and had urinated on himself, warm piss evident on his bedclothes. His wife still stood defiant, hatred in her eyes.
“Maybe another would like the honour.” The father said turning the sword around and pointing the hilt towards those who were still watching, people he had lived and suffered with in slavery. Most shook their heads, horror on their faces but a woman stepped forward as someone else behind her vomited.
“I will take the wife.” She said. She walked forward accepting the handle of the sword. “My baby girl died because she wouldn’t feed us properly and when she got ill, because we didn’t have enough food, she refused to let me take her to the nearest fort for help.”
She walked straight up to the Roman female and swung the large sword with two hands. The tip of the blade struck her on the left temple, slicing through bone and removing an eye. She staggered sideways screaming and fell to the ground grabbing at her head and face. The top of her nose was hanging loose over her mouth where the blade had sliced down through flesh. The former slave now attacked her in a frenzy hacking and stabbing, groaning with effort as she took vengeance for her daughter’s death. The wife of Friscus had been reduced to a bloody mass of lacerated flesh and shattered bone in seconds. She was dead.
“Another.” The female Briton said panting and staggering towards those who had witnessed her wrath. She held out the sword, her face and arms splattered with blood, a man stepped forward.
“My wife,” he said looking at Friscus, “has made sure your whores soul is in the underworld, where she will exist forever in turmoil for what she has done to us.” He took a step towards Friscus. “I will take your life now so you can be together in your suffering for all time.” He took hold of the sword as Friscus collapsed onto the blood soaked ground crying and wailing. The Briton walked quickly towards him and took one almighty swing with the large blade and cut his head in half from the top down to his neck, he died instantly. Pink blooded grey brain cut neatly in two halves was now visible to those who watched as the sound of vomiting was heard again.
Dumnoc surveyed the scene of shattered and broken bodies before him, “Good but I would have taken a few slices of flesh from him first.” He said. Turning he spoke to those standing around the walls.
“You are now all free to go where you wish. Our lands here are occupied but you will find sanctuary with Caradoc in the land of the Silures to the north. You can take the wagons and horses from here,” He pointed towards the stable, “or you can try and find your families, it’s up to you.”
Some of those listening were still sobbing after what they had just witnessed. “If you stay in these lands and the Romans identify you from here, we will not be able to protect you. I cannot afford to let any of my people go with you if you go north so you will have to travel alone. I will give you a few moments to gather your belongings if you have any, then the building will be torched and we will leave.”