A Fragile Peace Read Online Free Page B
Author: Paul Bannister
behind the warrior king.
They were all as the necromancer had seen them before. First behind Caratacus was Britain’s greatest queen, red-maned Boadicea, whose spearmen had wetted their blades with the blood of 70,000 Romans in the costliest rebellion that Rome had ever known. At her shoulder stood the mythic warrior Brutus Darian Las, called Greenshield, behind him was ranked Cyllin from the western mountains, the Caledonian Calgacus and the transvallum chieftains Oengus and Albanac.
From the time when Gaius Julius Caesar waded ashore at Deal came Cunobelinus who rallied the tribes against the general who returned to seize Rome, and behind him stood two more of those who tried to turn back Caesar’s armoured ranks: Cogidunus of the Iceni and Boadicea’s betrayed husband King Pratsutagas.
Cloaked and hooded behind these stood Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes of the north, a tribe the Romans had never been able fully to suppress, and behind her, stretching away into the cloaking dark, continued the column of the spectres of rulers of Britain’s forests and mountains, a column that went back to the days of Odin and the most ancient gods and spirits of the land.
Myrddin viewed the silent spectres and spoke without words. “The gods are sending us omens, a blood moon, and a blood tide. We have found and retrieved the lost Torc of Caratacus that was the symbol of many of you and have honoured it, but now I have been given a dream of a swathe of death that will come to Britain. I do not understand. I need your help.”
The sorcerer bowed his head in unaccustomed humility, and he received the message from Britain’s royal dead. He understood from it that he had to fulfill the requirements he had heard before, but even that might not be enough. The scything of a crop of souls might not be averted, the old gods might never return, Britain might again be brought under the armoured heel of the conqueror. Nothing was guaranteed
The knowledge crushed the soul of the sorcerer. This time, if he were not allowed to leave the Underworld, if he could not once more make the reverse journey to the stone house under Yr Wyddfa’s sacred mountain, he would not care. If he went back to the living, he would be going back to a land of living death. Arthur and the green land of Britain were doomed. Maybe it would be be tter to stay in the Underworld.
V - Circus
Milo looked like a living statue, holding high an ivory baton that was topped with a golden eagle. He was wearing a wreath of gold leaves on top of his ash-blond hair, and had on a scarlet tunic under a tunic of the finest Tyrian purple.
Guinevia, maternally proud, was ecstatic. “He looks like Jupiter himself,” she gushed.
I looked at her, amused. I had not seen her this way since our son was a small child. My iron-willed pagan was softening.
My gaze turned back to Milo, poised above the race track in front of his throne of the presiding aedile. He held up his baton in his right hand. In his left was a square of white linen that he was about to throw down to signal the trumpets to sound for the first chariot race. The silence was palpable, with only the stamping and snorting of the horses disturbing the near-religious moment.
Five chariots were aligned, awaiting the brazen call and the drop of the rope that presently blocked their start. White, blue, green, red and purple, each chariot, horse and driver was covered in the favours of his faction; around the circuit blocks of the same colours showed where their supporters sat and stood.
The linen dropped, the brass sounded, the rope fell and in a clash of contact and thudding of hoof beats that were drowned by the surf roar of the crowd, the races began.
The beasts hammered by in a blur of colour, manes braided and interwoven with ribbons, tails knotted and held high, breastplates gleaming with polished metal plates. The whip-wielding drivers were in bright tunics of their faction’s colour, helmeted and wrapped
They were all as the necromancer had seen them before. First behind Caratacus was Britain’s greatest queen, red-maned Boadicea, whose spearmen had wetted their blades with the blood of 70,000 Romans in the costliest rebellion that Rome had ever known. At her shoulder stood the mythic warrior Brutus Darian Las, called Greenshield, behind him was ranked Cyllin from the western mountains, the Caledonian Calgacus and the transvallum chieftains Oengus and Albanac.
From the time when Gaius Julius Caesar waded ashore at Deal came Cunobelinus who rallied the tribes against the general who returned to seize Rome, and behind him stood two more of those who tried to turn back Caesar’s armoured ranks: Cogidunus of the Iceni and Boadicea’s betrayed husband King Pratsutagas.
Cloaked and hooded behind these stood Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes of the north, a tribe the Romans had never been able fully to suppress, and behind her, stretching away into the cloaking dark, continued the column of the spectres of rulers of Britain’s forests and mountains, a column that went back to the days of Odin and the most ancient gods and spirits of the land.
Myrddin viewed the silent spectres and spoke without words. “The gods are sending us omens, a blood moon, and a blood tide. We have found and retrieved the lost Torc of Caratacus that was the symbol of many of you and have honoured it, but now I have been given a dream of a swathe of death that will come to Britain. I do not understand. I need your help.”
The sorcerer bowed his head in unaccustomed humility, and he received the message from Britain’s royal dead. He understood from it that he had to fulfill the requirements he had heard before, but even that might not be enough. The scything of a crop of souls might not be averted, the old gods might never return, Britain might again be brought under the armoured heel of the conqueror. Nothing was guaranteed
The knowledge crushed the soul of the sorcerer. This time, if he were not allowed to leave the Underworld, if he could not once more make the reverse journey to the stone house under Yr Wyddfa’s sacred mountain, he would not care. If he went back to the living, he would be going back to a land of living death. Arthur and the green land of Britain were doomed. Maybe it would be be tter to stay in the Underworld.
V - Circus
Milo looked like a living statue, holding high an ivory baton that was topped with a golden eagle. He was wearing a wreath of gold leaves on top of his ash-blond hair, and had on a scarlet tunic under a tunic of the finest Tyrian purple.
Guinevia, maternally proud, was ecstatic. “He looks like Jupiter himself,” she gushed.
I looked at her, amused. I had not seen her this way since our son was a small child. My iron-willed pagan was softening.
My gaze turned back to Milo, poised above the race track in front of his throne of the presiding aedile. He held up his baton in his right hand. In his left was a square of white linen that he was about to throw down to signal the trumpets to sound for the first chariot race. The silence was palpable, with only the stamping and snorting of the horses disturbing the near-religious moment.
Five chariots were aligned, awaiting the brazen call and the drop of the rope that presently blocked their start. White, blue, green, red and purple, each chariot, horse and driver was covered in the favours of his faction; around the circuit blocks of the same colours showed where their supporters sat and stood.
The linen dropped, the brass sounded, the rope fell and in a clash of contact and thudding of hoof beats that were drowned by the surf roar of the crowd, the races began.
The beasts hammered by in a blur of colour, manes braided and interwoven with ribbons, tails knotted and held high, breastplates gleaming with polished metal plates. The whip-wielding drivers were in bright tunics of their faction’s colour, helmeted and wrapped
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