Roman – The Fall of Britannia

It was an age of fear,

an age of brutality,

yet overall, when all is said and done,

it was an age of glory!

Prologue

The Roman Province of Picenum – 20AD

Karim stood at the centre of the amphitheatre, every muscle aching as rivulets of blood oozed down his face to drip lazily onto the ever-thirsty sand. Damocles the Greek, his comrade from the ludus, knelt in the sun-scorched arena nursing a stab wound to his side, an injury received just before he had crushed his opponent’s skull under the heel of his hobnailed Caligae in a frenzy of aggression and self-preservation. All around, those who had fought like demons to keep hold of their miserable lives and the faint promise of an elusive freedom, lay dead or dying, pathetic victims of gladiatorial savagery.

Governor Sibelus Augusta’s birthday celebrations had started earlier that day with an air of frivolity. A troop of travelling dwarves assembled from all over Europe entertained the crowds with mock battles and raced tiny ponies around the amphitheatre.

Oddities of nature rarely seen in Rome, let alone Picenum, paraded around the arena on display. Giraffes strode gracefully around the ring, eye to eye with those in the lower tiers, while giant apes contained within barred crates were wheeled into the centre to be taunted into banging their chests by their keepers.

Teams of trainee gladiators followed, fighting violent but non-lethal battles to prepare the crowd for what was yet to come. Throughout the day, the level of passion and violence increased until eventually the faint rhythmic sound of distant drums permeated the arena, raising the crowd’s anticipation.

The excitement finally exploded when two wooden gates were flung open and a herd of bulls, frothing at the mouth and mad with pain, burst into the arena seeking escape from the torture behind the scenes. This was the Venatio, the brutal spectacle of animal against man in a one-sided contest of pain and gore. Another gate opened and ten Bestiarii, well-trained animal fighters, ran forward to screams of approval from the impatient crowds.

As soon as the staged conflicts had ended, criminal classes with little or no training faced exotic animals, including tigers from the east and hippos and crocodiles from Africa. At last, the first human blood was spilt yet it was a simple prelude to what was to come.

The crowd took a well-earned break; it was thirsty work watching so much violence. Vendors in the vomitories offered drinks and sweetmeats for sale and a column of bare breasted female slaves, bearing baskets of the animals’ roasted flesh circled the arena throwing chunks into the crowd. Many had brought their own refreshments and picnicked on fruit and cheese or if they were well off, slabs of cold meat washed down by flasks of tepid wine.

Eventually the crowd returned to their seats for the late afternoon’s entertainment. This was when the real excitement started, what everyone had been waiting for. Blood and gore, preferably human.

First to come were Noxii, the criminals condemned to the arena for indiscretions punishable by death. Adulterers, escaped slaves, deserters, or simply captured enemy, were made to fight each other to the death for the chance to live another day. Mock battles filled the arena where soldiers dressed in their finest parade gear mercilessly cut down unarmed slaves representing the enemies of Rome, in lavish re-enactments of famous battles known to the audience.

Condemned women and children were released unarmed into the ring, momentarily relieved at the unexpected freedom before the snarls of the hungry lions brought their short-term life expectancy into sharp and terrifying focus. Finally, the time came that everyone had been waiting for, the main event of the day, the Ludi Gladiatori.

Sixteen highly trained fighters at their physical peak of fitness and ability, marched into the arena to the accompaniment of deafening cheers and music. This was what it was all about, the final celebrations for Governor Sibelus Augusta on his fiftieth birthday. A display of gladiatorial magnificence that had been awarded the emperor’s privilege of Sine Missione.

The crowd knew this was a rare occasion and many had travelled hundreds of miles to see a gladiatorial contest where every combatant knew he had to win or die. It was as simple as that. Sine Missione was rarely granted, as the cost of training gladiators was so exorbitant and the compensation you had to pay the opponent’s ludus so high, that only the wealthiest of men could afford to sponsor such games. Governor Sibelus was such a man, or at least he portrayed that image. In truth, he was drowning in a sea of debt due to a gambling addiction that threatened to destroy his privileged and influential position.

However, today was his birthday, and he had an ace up his sleeve, a gladiator whose name was hardly known in the area. Sibelus was risking everything on this extraordinary man. He had made a huge wager with Gaius Pelonius Maecilius, a recently returned war hero who had retired with a substantial pension and extended lands granted to him by the emperor in recognition of his bravery during twenty-five years of military service.

Privately, Sibelus gloated. What would a mere soldier know about such things? By the end of the day, his debts would be substantially reduced at the ex-soldier’s expense. The bet was simple. He had wagered that in the finale, Karim, the jet-black Numidian would be the last man alive in the arena.

Pelonius had accepted the wager in a drunken haze and now, three weeks later and having seen the gladiator train, regretted that evening and in particular his love for un-watered wine, the curse that had so often cost him much. However, the die was cast and there was nothing he could do.

Karim had trained as a Provocatores and fought with sword and shield, whilst protected by a breastplate, arm guard and double feathered helmet. Provocatores usually fought each other, but in this instance, they could be paired against other gladiators, from Retiarii, who fought with trident, dagger and net, through to the Hoplomachi, who fought with the standard Roman issue sword, the gladius and a small round shield.

The bloody conflict started and when the original sixteen had been reduced to eight, the mix was altered by the sudden addition of two chariots bursting unexpectedly into the arena. The chariots were from a different ludus and each held two combatants armed with spears. These were the feared Essedarii, and their sole purpose was to kill the remaining combatants.

The home gladiators worked together to bring the chariots crashing down. Spears were driven between spokes and horses’ legs cleaved from beneath them with blade or axe. Without the advantage of their chariots, the riders were ineffective and though they put up a frantic defence, they were no match for the local gladiators’ overwhelming expertise in the administration of bloody and painful death.

Just when the remaining eight had started to believe they would survive, they were instructed to fight each other. Each exhausted combatant drew on every last ounce of strength to try and defeat his opponent, each as skilled as the other in their own speciality, until eventually, the evening’s extreme activities left two bloody gladiators standing, Karim the Numidian and Damocles the Greek.

Karim looked over again at Damocles. Now it was clear that there would indeed be no Missione and that the governor would make them fight to the last man standing. The Greek was his friend and both had trained together at the ludus. It was never a good idea to make friends because of the probability that one day you would have to fight each other. However, over the last year, the two had formed a close bond borne out of mutual respect and understanding. Karim realised that despite his friendship, the time had come and they would have to meet each other in the final contest. It was what they trained for, and they both knew they would die in the ring one day. Death held no fear for either, but the manner of dying was important. He limped over to the Greek and helped him to his feet.

‘Come, friend,’ he said, ‘we have a corrupt Roman and a bloodthirsty crowd to entertain.’

Damocles looked up at the cheering mob.

‘Have they not tasted enough blood?’

‘They are Roman,’ the reply came, ‘they will never have enough.’

‘Then let’s give them a finale to remember.’

They walked toward the centre of the arena and stood twenty paces apart, facing the sponsor. Both gladiators dripped with blood, standing proud amongst the carnage that surrounded them, yet gaining strength from the screams and chants of the adoring crowd.

High in the stand, Governor Sibelus and his guests enjoyed the spectacle from their comfortable seats, picking on sweetmeats and drinking the best-chilled wine from the deepest cellar in the governor’s villa, an extravagance he could ill afford. Sibelus called for silence.

‘Citizens of Picenum,’ he announced when the crowd had settled, ‘behold your two remaining champions, Damocles of Greece and Karim the Numidian. I think you will agree that the contests have been fair and both have earned the rudis.’

He caught the eye of the referee, whose careful pairings had ensured Karim had a favourable draw through to the last two. The official felt no guilt, the two hundred Denarii paid to him by one of Sibelus’s henchmen, was a year’s wages for a minor official and he had a family to support.

The crowd cheered in appreciation. The wooden sword of freedom was seldom awarded and never to two combatants. Sibelus raised his hand, waiting for the crowd to settle.

‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘there can be only one rudis.’

‘Release them both,’ someone shouted from the crowd.

Once again, Sibelus raised his hand with a benevolent smile.

‘However,’ he continued, ‘the contest is not yet over.’

Silence fell again and he turned toward the two bleeding gladiators staring up at him from the blood-soaked arena.

‘One last contest,’ he thundered, ‘against a common foe. Survive this and you are both free men.’

Karim and Damocles straightened their tired bodies and held up their swords in acknowledgement. Raising his voice to its maximum, Sibelus turned toward another gate and with his voice echoing around the walls of the arena, called out the final challenge.

‘Citizens of Picenum,’ he shouted, ‘behold the Gauls!’

The crowd screamed in excitement as two dozen warriors spilled out of the gate into the arena but then fell silent, confused at the sight before them. These weren’t warriors, they were women. Their hair was wild and stuck up into terrifying shapes with horse glue, and their naked bodies were daubed in blue dye. Each woman held a skinning knife and they searched the bloody arena for the targets that held the key to their survival.

The spectators weren’t the only ones confused; Gaius Pelonius didn’t understand either. He had expected Sibelus to cheat him, but this was completely unexpected. Women or not, their numbers were many and there was a definite chance that Karim could still be killed.

‘Happy with your wager?’ asked the governor, sitting back down alongside his guest.

‘Shouldn’t I be?’ asked Pelonius.

‘I don’t see why not; the odds are in your favour.’

A horn echoed around the arena, followed by the screams of the women as they rushed toward the two wounded gladiators, both sounds drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the last battle commenced.

Karim braced himself. He had no problem killing women, he had done so many times before, and these women were no different. He prepared himself for the onslaught, legs, shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, shield presented and gladius held in the attack position. However, the expected impact never came as the screaming women swerved around him and made a beeline for Damocles. Karim spun around, confused as the screaming mass enveloped his friend and though many fell victim to the Greek’s sword, he was quickly driven to the floor by sheer weight of numbers.

Earlier the jailer had made it clear to the slave women.

‘If you kill the white man first,’ he had said, ‘any survivors will be taken back to their homeland and released. If the black man is killed first, all who survive will be fed to the lions.’

The lie had worked perfectly on the women. As far as they knew, this was their only chance to escape the hell of slavery and return home. Therefore, with false hope in their hearts, they had endured the attempts of other slaves to make them look fierce with paint and glue, before being herded into the arena.

Too late Karim realised the danger and, roaring in anger, charged forward into the fray, slashing indiscriminately at anything that moved. The women panicked and those hysterical few that were left fled around the arena seeking refuge. Karim knelt beside his comrade, already aware that it was too late. Damocles had lost his sword in the onslaught and fallen from multiple stab wounds.

Karim picked up the gladius and folded the Greek’s fingers around the hilt, ensuring the fellow gladiator died with his sword in hand.

‘So it ends,’ said Damocles weakly.

‘You die well, friend,’ said Karim, ‘I will mark your stone as such.’

‘Bury me deep, Numidian,’ smiled Damocles, ‘that wooden sword was almost mine.’

‘You will soon be free, Greek,’ he answered, ‘sleep well.’

Damocles’ eyes closed as his life slipped away, his blood greedily soaked up by the floor of the arena.

It was a dishonourable fate for a gladiator to die at the hands of a woman and Karim knew the Greek’s shade would wander forever in shame. He gently lowered his friend’s body to the floor and stood up to raise his gaze to the heavens before releasing a primeval roar that chilled the blood of all watching. He turned around with cold murder in his eyes, seeking those responsible for the death of the Greek.

The next few minutes were the bloodiest of the whole day as Karim went berserk. The crowd were frenzied in their enjoyment of the spectacle and screamed instructions to Karim, taking untold pleasure in this unprecedented display of savagery. Finally, Karim stood again in the centre of the circle, gladius hanging limply from his hand, his head hanging in exhaustion as the crowd threw flowers from the stands.

‘Karim, Karim, Karim,’ they chanted, over and over again.

Governor Sibelus was beside himself with glee, realising his carefully laid plans had come to fruition. Surely, these were the best games seen in his generation and even Emperor Tiberius would be impressed. He grinned at the sullen Pelonius and raised his hand for silence, waiting as the bloodthirsty crowd settled again.

‘Karim of Numidia,’ he began, ‘you have…’

Suddenly a woman in the crowd screamed.

‘Another!’ she shouted. ‘One of the heathen still lives.’

Karim spun around, alert to the danger, and ran toward a dead horse behind which the barbarian was hiding. Again, the spectators were hysterical as the gladiator dragged his enemy from her hiding place by her hair. Casting her to the floor in full view of the crowd, he raised his gladius to administer the decapitating blow but stopped suddenly, confusion and disbelief in his eyes.

‘Do it!’ someone screamed.

‘What are you waiting for?’ cried another. ‘Kill the witch!’

Karim placed the tip of his sword under the woman’s chin, forcing her to her feet. He had fought in many countries, killing more men and women than he cared to remember, but never had he killed a foe such as this. The terrified woman looked at her executioner, tears streaming through the blue dye on her face, hope flickering in her eyes as she realised she had a chance.

‘Please,’ she whimpered in her strange language, ‘don’t hurt us.’

Shaking in terror, she offered him the sackcloth bundle she had been hiding enfolded within her maternal arms; a tiny, sleeping baby.

Karim stared at the child, fast asleep in the young mother’s arms and lowered his sword, all fury spent. Slowly, he walked back to the centre of the arena.

Someone in the crowd seized the opportunity to restore some sense and started to clap. The rest of the crowd mirrored the appreciation and the applause eventually escalated into wild cheering. Soon the occupants of the amphitheatre were again standing on their feet, celebrating not only the skill and savagery of the gladiator but also his humanity and mercy.

‘Fascinating,’ said Sibelus to Pelonius over the roar of the crowd, ‘but it matters not, the wager is complete. My gladiator is the last man alive, and in due course, I will make arrangements to receive the deeds of your estate.’ He stood to leave.

‘Wait,’ said Pelonius.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked the governor.

‘The wager has not ended,’ said Pelonius quietly, ‘there is another survivor.’

‘What other?’ snapped the governor. ‘The Greek is dead and the games are over. Now I must go, for I have a slave to free and a farm to inspect.’

‘The child,’ said Pelonius, not taking his eyes off the terrified girl being led from the arena by two guards.

‘What about the brat?’

‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘Why would it matter?’ asked Sibelus before the light of understanding dawned in his eyes. The bet had been the last male alive, and if the baby was a boy, it could be argued that he had technically lost the bet. He thought furiously. He could order the guard to kill the baby but without explaining the situation, risked losing the crowd’s support, defeating the object of the whole munera.

He stared at the old soldier and calculated the implications. Several respectable citizens had witnessed the wager. The last male survivor in the arena had been the bet, no one had mentioned race or age and many bets were fulfilled on lesser criteria. He could ignore the situation and take the farm by force but Pelonius enjoyed the favour of Tiberius himself. The governor sat back down, his mind racing.

‘Think well, soldier,’ he growled, ‘I will not bankrupt myself on a technicality. Do not think you will claim any of my wealth due to a heathen’s bastard child. I have won this wager and will claim my prize.’

Pelonius had not survived twenty-five years in military service without gaining a serious understanding of tactics himself. There was no way he could embarrass this man and expect to live more than a few weeks; he was too powerful. He knew he had to allow the governor to escape from the wager without losing face yet still have a chance of retaining his lands. The governor loved to gamble and though Pelonius had a terrible record when it came to gambling, he realised he had no option but to offer one more bet.

‘I have another option for you,’ he said slowly, ‘a new wager. If the child is a girl, the original agreement stands and my farm is yours.’ He turned to Sibelus. ‘However, if it is a boy, I will relinquish all claims against you but will retain my estate.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Sibelus, his eyes narrowing as he realised this was a way out.

‘I want the gladiator.’

‘Karim?’

‘Yes.’

‘And all bets will be cancelled?’

‘Everything.’

Sibelus stared at Pelonius for a long time. The gladiator was good but compared against the debt he would owe this jumped up soldier, his value was insignificant.

‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but on one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘As long as I draw breath, you will not give him his freedom or engage him as a gladiator to fight against me. He will remain a slave until the day I die.’

‘Agreed,’ said Pelonius.

‘Then we have a deal.’ The governor stood up and shouted down to the arena. ‘Guard, what sex is the child?’

The soldier strode over to the woman and after a brief struggle, used the back of his hand to knock her to the floor before lifting the baby up high by one foot.

‘A boy,’ he shouted back, ‘and hung like a mule.’

As Sibelus seethed through a false smile, everyone in the arena laughed.

‘Citizens,’ he cried out for the last time, ‘I have one last decree. In my infinite mercy, I release the Numidian into the custody of my good friend, Gaius Pelonius, in honour of his exploits in the servitude of our emperor, the glorious Tiberius. Long may he reign.’

‘Hail, Tiberius,’ roared the crowd, as was their expected duty.

The governor turned to Pelonius.

‘He is but one slave,’ he snarled, ‘I have a thousand.’

The last of the crowd left and Pelonius made his way down to the arena floor against the flow of the stragglers. He crossed the bloody sands, now busy with slaves as they piled up the corpses of horses and humans. He entered the gates of the basement, the cloying darkness stinking of animals and echoing with the groans of the injured and the dying. Out of the gloom he saw an approaching figure and recognised the guard who had identified the sex of the baby.

‘Evocatus,’ called Pelonius.

The soldier came over and they greeted each other by grasping forearms, both veterans of the army and full of mutual respect.

‘Hail, Gaius Pelonius,’ said the soldier, ‘I heard you had retired. I wager thousands of Gauls sleep better knowing you have hung up your gladius.’

‘I don’t know about that, friend,’ answered Pelonius, ‘there seems to be as much blood spilt here, as there ever was on foreign soil.’

‘Such is the way of the world,’ said the guard.

‘Where can I find the Numidian?’ asked Pelonius.

‘At the end of the corridor, the last cell on the right.’

‘Thanks,’ said Pelonius, ‘call around to my estate next time you are on leave. I have some amphorae of wine that need emptying and a yearning to relive past glories.’

‘Sounds good,’ said the guard before adding, ‘Pelonius, treat him well,’ nodding toward Karim’s cell, ‘he is a good man.’

Pelonius nodded and walked down the corridor. He found the cell easily and watched through the open door for a few moments as a female slave cleansed the Numidian’s wounds. He was sitting on a wooden cot and drinking deeply from a jug of wine, the flickering torchlight shimmering on his wet, black skin. The gladiator looked up and they stared at each other across the cell floor.

‘Do you know who I am, Karim?’ asked Pelonius eventually.

Karim swigged more wine, his eyes never leaving those of the old soldier. He nodded silently.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Why do you ask?’ asked Karim. ‘Am I not your property?’

Pelonius walked in and sat on a stool opposite the gladiator.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

‘I have just killed more than twenty men and women for no reason, except entertainment for a corrupt official and a thousand of his ignorant cronies. How do you think I feel?’

‘You are a gladiator, isn’t this what you have trained for?’

‘I trained to fight others such as myself, not to murder babies.’

‘The governor is not a happy man.’

‘I am beyond caring. I have shed enough blood for a hundred men in a hundred lifetimes.’

‘So why do you do it?’

‘What other option is there? If I refuse, I would be one more piece of meat for the stinking lions that share these cells, and as you pointed out, I am a gladiator. If I let myself die without fighting, my shade will wander amongst the lemures in everlasting darkness.’

Silence fell.

‘So, am I to be freed?’ asked Karim eventually.

‘What would you do if you were?’

Karim shrugged.

‘Probably get drunk, hurt someone and end up back in the arena as noxii. Who knows the path before them?’

‘Then I have a deal for you, Karim,’ said Pelonius. ‘I cannot free you, Sibelus has ensured that, but I can give you a life away from the arena.’

Karim stared in silence, waiting for Pelonius to continue.

‘Just before I came back from Germania,’ continued Pelonius, ‘I prevented some jumped-up officer from being killed in an ambush by Germanic tribesmen. It turned out that he was the cousin of Tiberius. When I returned, I was paraded as a hero through the streets of Rome, and they gave me a farm that takes half a day to ride across.’

‘And?’ asked Karim.

‘I am no farmer, Karim, I am a soldier. If it isn’t managed properly, I’ll be bankrupt in six months or probably lose it in a crooked dice game to that shit Sibelus. I cannot free you, but I can make you my farm prefect.’

‘What do I know about farming?’

‘Perhaps nothing but I have workers who have tilled that land all their lives and we can buy any extra labour or expertise we may need.’

‘You mean slaves?’

‘We would offer a future that is by far preferable to that offered by the beasts of the arena. You and I are the same, Karim. We know only the sword but farming is like anything else and can be learned. What I need is someone who can command respect from my staff and is not afraid to dish out discipline where needed. I also need someone who I can trust. I believe you are that man.’

‘You would trust a murderer.’

‘I would trust a gladiator.’

Again, there was silence.

‘If I say no?’

‘You can stay here and continue to kill for the entertainment of lesser men, but if you come with me, the work will be hard and the days long. At least you will have a warm bed at night, food in your belly and a modest salary at the end of each month. The choice is yours.’

‘When do you need to know?’

Pelonius laughed.

‘Do you really need time to consider, Karim? I am offering you a life of normality and peace against one of death and violence. I have been a soldier most of my life and have killed more men than I care to remember. I know which one is better, Karim. Trust me, there is no contest here.’ Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the gloomy corridor and both men turned to see the source.

A group of well-armed guards stood in the corridor, watching as one of their comrades dragged a woman from her cell by her hair.

‘Stop,’ shouted Pelonius, ‘what is going on?’

‘Don’t interfere old man,’ said one of the guards, ‘you no longer serve and have no authority here.’

Pelonius recognised the woman from the arena.

‘Where are you taking her?’ he asked, his tone a bit calmer, trying not to inflame the situation.

‘She has an appointment with Sibelus,’ said the soldier, ‘she just cost him a lot of money.’ The screaming continued as the soldier resumed his task.

‘Wait,’ shouted Pelonius again, his mind thinking furiously, ‘what of the child? Surely he has no use of the baby?’

For a moment, the soldier looked at the woman clutching her baby tightly to her bosom. Sibelus had not mentioned the baby and not even his perverted tastes sank that low. He shrugged.

‘What of it?’

‘I will give you ten denarii for him.’

‘He is not mine to sell.’

‘No, but surely he will not be missed. If the governor asks, I will return him to you and no one will ever know of our deal.’

The soldier hesitated.

‘Ten denarii,’ repeated Pelonius.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Fifty denarii,’ interjected Karim quietly.

Everyone looked at the gladiator in astonishment.

‘Where would you get such an amount?’ asked the soldier.

‘Being a gladiator is a lucrative career, as long as you stay alive,’ said Karim. ‘I have won many purses. Most have gone on wine and women but I have some money left. I will pay fifty denarii for the child.’

The terrified woman looked on in fear. Though she could not understand the conversation, she realised that something important was happening regarding her fate.

‘Agreed,’ said the soldier finally, ‘but if he asks, the child will be returned to me.’

Karim walked toward the woman and spoke gently, indicating she should give him the baby. The woman slowly realised that her future as a slave held little hope, the day’s events had proved that. This man had already spared her once and she had no reason to believe he had suddenly changed his mind. Her eyes filled with tears and she held her baby tight for the last time, smothering it with kisses. All present were silent as she said her goodbyes and taking an embroidered leather pendant from around her neck, she placed it around the throat of the baby, tears streaming down her face.

‘Enough!’ said the guard, ‘Sibelus is waiting.’

Karim took the child in his giant hands.

‘Prydain,’ the woman said through her tears in her strange language, ‘Prydain.’

‘Prydain,’ repeated Karim, ‘I will look after him.’

She let the baby go, realising this might be his only chance of survival.

‘Let’s go,’ said the guard and taking her by the arm, roughly escorted her from the cells. This time, she did not struggle.

Pelonius stared at the giant gladiator, the tiny baby seemingly out of place in his still bloody arms. Karim looked at the baby for a long time before eventually meeting the ex-soldier’s gaze.

‘Is the offer still open?’ he asked.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Now there are two mouths to feed.’

Pelonius paused, realising just how enormous this man was close up.

‘Well, you’ll have to work that much harder,’ he said, offering his sword arm in the recognised gesture of agreement. Karim grasped the offered forearm in his own hand and sealed the deal.

‘I will pick you up from the ludus at first light,’ said Pelonius. ‘Be ready.’

‘We will,’ said Karim.

An hour later, the cells were silent. Any surviving occupants had been returned to their owners and an army of slaves had built a bonfire in the empty arena to burn the corpses from the games.

The slave girl was bathing the baby.

‘What is his name?’ asked the girl quietly, after she had laid the baby down to sleep.

‘Prydain,’ said Karim, ‘and it seems our fates are entwined.’

‘You intend to bring him up as your own?’

‘It would seem so. Indeed this is a strange fate the gods have set before me. This morning, I thought this would be my last day under the sun, yet here I am hours later, a farmer with a ready-made son. I know nothing about farming, which is a damn sight more than I know about children. This is going to be the hardest challenge I have ever faced.’

He looked down at the sleeping baby. Prydain stirred gently in his sleep, blissfully unaware that less than a mile away in a back room of a palatial villa, his mother was screaming his name one last time before she died at the hands of Governor Sibelus Augusta.

Chapter 1

Khymru

Eastern coast of Britannia

42 AD

‘At last,’ thought Gwenno, seeing the wagon train exit the woods in the distance. She finished her daisy chain and placed it around her brow before adding a buttercup behind her ear