GIRL GLADIATOR (4 page)

“I … I … “ Sharn began.

Suddenly all the things he did not know overwhelmed him – and he was afraid that Fritha would see his ignorance, so he turned away and fled into the night.

S
leep would not come to Sharn because he could still feel Fritha’s knowing kiss on his mouth; and his own clumsy response made his cheeks still burn with shame. But inexperience of a different sort was nagging at him too.

It was not long before he would face the test he was dreading, when he would have to kill or be killed. He lay thinking about all the good things of his boyhood – swimming in the river at the height of summer, gorging on fruit from a neighbour’s tree, staying up all night catching eels – without a care in the world. But that was a different world, when his mother was alive and the Romans were not everywhere and his father did not drink so much. He reached out and touched his sword and shield standing against the side of the sleeping platform and continued to fret. He fell into an uneasy slumber and woke up with the same thoughts churning around in his mind.

Should he go and see Fritha now? But she might do something else that would show him up. Perhaps she would kiss him farewell and he would muck that up. He could tell from the way she kissed that she had done it many times before. Well, he would show her. He would disappear without saying goodbye and she would be left wondering how he felt about her. That’d teacher her!

He heard his father stir. “It’s time, Sharn. Go and feed the horses, and give them plenty. They’ve got a lot of work ahead of them.”

Sharn slipped out into the misty dawn. He pulled his cloak tighter – autumn was giving way to winter – as he walked down to the paddock where the horses were kept. He rounded up the three strongest workhorses and the three fittest ponies. He broke out some oats and stayed with the animals to make sure they had their fill. While they munched, he looked back at the village, morning smoke drifting up from the cooking fires, and wondered what would happen before he saw his home again – if he ever saw it again. He sighed to himself – he hoped he was a better killer than a kisser, otherwise that clumsy collision would be the only kiss he would ever have.

As he led the horses up to the dun, he saw Fritha come to the door of her hut. She waved at him and smiled weakly, as if she was unsure what to expect from him. Sharn knew he should go to her and say goodbye properly … but his awkwardness held him back. Fritha’s shoulders caved in and she turned away.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Rufus and his cronies, Gee and Magee, arrived and drank two or three bowls of ale with Colun, Rufus taking the time to make some scathing remark about Sharn and his weapons. “So you know how to use a sword – or is it just for show?”

Sharn did not retaliate – after all they were meant to be on the same side.

Colun, Brion and Sharn drove the carts out through the gates of the dun, with Rem, Rufus and Gee and Magee riding on their ponies.

To avoid drawing attention to themselves, the raiding party headed along a seldom used track. They had decided not to go through the Roman wall anywhere near one of the mile-castles but through an out-of-the-way gate manned by six auxiliaries. Sharn was pleased to see their stained uniforms and unpolished gear. Sloppy equipment meant sloppy security.

The soldier who challenged them looked at their carts suspiciously. “Where are you taking them?”

Colun did the talking. “We’re going to pick up a load of peat.”

The soldier stared at their weapons, or the ones that were visible.

“Expecting trouble?”

“No,” Colun replied with a disarming grin, “but you know about Picts. Never turn your back on one.”

The soldier nodded to his men to open the gate. Sharn breathed a sigh of relief as he urged his horse through.

After a long bone-jarring day on the rutted track, the woodlands gave way to fields of corn stubble. Sharn’s sharp eyes picked up a horseman approaching. It was Alpin. The Pict reined in and greeted the others with a smile; his glance at Sharn was more of a scowl. Alpin led them to Cirig, his village, and introduced them to the other raiders. Alpin’s men may have been smaller people then the Celts, but they had a fierce look in their eye that seemed to promise they were good fighters.

Having turned the draft horses out of their shafts, Colun, Brion, Rem, Sharn and Rufus and his henchmen lounged around in the dying sun, eating and drinking the simple meal the Picts put in front of them. The rest of the villagers hung back out of the strangers’ way. Every now and then the young people crept near for a closer look, but when Sharn glanced up, they would disappear again. He noticed that the girls had the same bird like slightness as Fritha.

The other men were able to talk and joke as they waited for nightfall, but Sharn was too full of nerves. And his mood was not improved when Alpin sat down next to him, peeling an apple.

“If I find out you’ve hurt Deadra in anyway, you’ll be sorry,” and he waved his dagger under Sharn’s nose.

A lump of meat stuck in Sharn’s throat as he struggled to reply. “We took Fritha in and looked after her. She would have died if it wasn’t for us.”

“Her name’s Deadra.” Alpin said harshly. “What I don’t understand is why she hasn’t tried to escape.”

Sharn was on the verge of suggesting that maybe it was because she was happy where she was when Alpin shoved his face into Sharn’s.

“She belongs to me.” And he fixed Sharn with a malevolent look as he wiped his dagger on his leggings. Then he stood, belched and moved off, shouting his final instructions.

“The reapers will be bringing the day’s harvest in. I’m going to join them. Wait until all lights are out … and then move in.”

T
he Celts and eight Pictish warriors jogged through the night towards the rear of the darkened fort. Sharn felt sick with fright, as he checked the buckles on his belt and scabbard for the hundredth time.

They crept up to the perimeter wall, then keeping in its shadow, quickly worked their way round to the front. They paused, trying to get their laboured breathing under control. In the end it was Rufus who gave them away. As he was drawing his sword, he somehow dislodged his knife, which fell with a clatter onto the stones. After a second of silence, the lookout on the rampart raised the alarm. There was a frantic commotion from inside – men screaming for their arms.

Colun and his brothers were the first to burst through the now unbarred gate. The disorganised garrison rushed forward, panicking because they could not put their hands on their weapons, the archers had their bows but no arrows. It was obvious, even to Sharn that these were raw recruits. They were further panicked when Alpin leapt out of hiding and hacked into them from the rear.

The raiders made short work of the defenders. Sharn helped his father despatch one of the legionnaires, distracting him while Colun ran him through.

“Make sure there are no witnesses,” Rufus bawled.

Sharn crossed the quadrangle that formed the heart of the fort and caught a glimpse of someone disappearing around a corner – it was a young black soldier. Rufus had seen the movement too. “Get after him!”

Sharn ran around the side of the barracks and saw a door edging closed. He took a deep breath and summoned up all his courage. This was it! Here at last, the moment of truth. Let’s go!

Sharn kicked the door open violently and barged into the lightless room. He was suddenly facing the African youth. Sharn had always wondered what this would be like, confronting an enemy in a fight to the death, but it was nothing like he had expected. He felt no hatred towards the stocky youth scarcely older than himself – in fact he felt curiosity. He had never got this close to a black man before and he wondered what sort of person he was.

Sharn, fair and freckled with coppery hair like so many of his race, was fascinated by the coal-black skin of the boy breathing hard in the small stone room. Sharn could smell the garlic the boy must have had with his supper, mixed with something else – the acrid smell of fear, a smell Sharn whiffed on himself. Then something weird happened – the African’s lips parted, his teeth glowing white. Was he smiling at Sharn?

Everything changed as Rufus crashed through the door. “Cut him down!”

Sharn saw the African’s hand go for his weapon. Rufus was shouting something but Sharn could not make it out, fear curdled his mind. Sharn didn’t take his eye off the African’s sword which was by now unsheathed – but he seemed loath to deploy it, almost as though the he was giving Sharn a start. Without this, Sharn would have been in trouble because his sweaty hand slipped on his own sword handle.

“Kill him!” Rufus screamed.

Sharn’s blade was now nearing the top of its upward sweep, and for a moment, he thought of bringing it down on the loudmouthed Rufus. The African seemed fascinated by the Celtic sword poised above him, his own weapon scarcely out of its scabbard. And then Sharn started to strike down. The whites of the African’s eyes pulsed in the dark as he followed its arc. He screamed as the steel split his torso and Sharn was splashed with the last beat of his heart. Sharn would never forget the look on the dying boy’s face – as if something had been taken from him while he was still using it.

Sharn ran past Rufus out into the yard and retched and retched and retched, like he was going to bring up the soles of his feet.

I
t was still night when the straining horses pulled the five carts piled high with sacks of grain out of the granary. Alpin had kept the outpost under observation for weeks and knew that a cavalry patrol visited it every three days. So they had three days’ start, before the legions tried to catch them.

On the outskirts of Cirig, the people congregated in the dawn light. The Picts’ share of grain was unloaded and spirited off to be hidden in fifty different dwellings. The two empty carts were loaded with rocks so the wheels would leave deep impressions in the ground and then driven off directly north to confuse anybody tracking them.

The Celtic band turned their three carts south. Alpin rode up alongside Sharn and hissed, “If you don’t want trouble, you better send Deadra back to me.”

Sharn felt as though he’d done ten years of growing in the past night, “It’s her decision.”

“She’ll just cause you grief. She’s too fiery for a Celt.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sharn said, as he veered the cart away from Alpin and gee-ed up the horse.

Alpin scowled and hauled his horse around. “You better sleep with one eye open.”

But there was no chance of sleep for Sharn or any of the raiding party as their convoy of horses and carts moved south.

It was night again when the Celts neared the remote gate they had passed through on the outward journey and they put their plan into effect immediately. Colun, Brion and Sharn stayed with the carts while the others gathered wood, and under cover of dark, started a fire against the wall. There was a huge din on the ramparts as soon as the flames were seen.

Three of the guards exited their fort to investigate. Rufus, Gee and Magee, and Rem attacked them with a lot of shouting and screaming, driving them away from the gate. The startled soldiers called on the three remaining guards for back up. It wasn’t the intention of the Celts to harm anyone – they just wanted to create a diversion to allow the carts to drive through unobserved. After chasing the panicked troopers away from the gate, Rufus, his bodyguards and Rem passed through themselves. The troopers, uncertain of just how many madmen were loose that night, did not give chase.

The carts were a mile south of the wall when Rem and the others caught them up. Everything had gone off without a hitch and Colun was exultant. “We’ve done well.” But he noticed Sharn drooping over the reins. “How do you feel, Sharn?”

Sharn was almost passing out with weariness. “Tired.”

“The first kill is always the worst – it gets easier.”

“And before long, you’ll be enjoying it,” Rufus said with and ugly snicker.

Sharn grunted. More killing wasn’t a prospect he looked forward to.

The raiding party was almost dead on their feet, as they unloaded the stolen grain in a dry storage cave in the hills near Ryant.

Sharn had resolved the first thing he needed to do when he got back to the dun was to see Fritha again. He was very nervous about this – because he now knew for sure that Alpin and she had been involved with each other. When he staggered into the hut and saw her, halo-ed in the light of the fire, he suddenly knew something else, like a landslide in his head – he had fallen in love with her.

She stood there by the hearth half turned to the opening door. She put down the wooden spoon on the rim of the cauldron and ran into his arms. Tears quivered on the end of her eyelashes.

Sharn was bone-weary but he had two things – no, three things now – to tell Fritha, but the words did not come easily.

She sensed his distress and led him to the bed. He noticed for the first time there was a big spray of dried blood on his sleeve, and this didn’t help his mood.

“Fritha, I have just killed someone. He was about our age … it wasn’t heroic like I thought it would be … because he let me do it.” Fritha nodded solemnly and stroked his arm. “And Alpin, he’s coming to take you back to your village.” These two things were hard enough for Sharn to say, but the third was even harder.

“And there’s something else …” but the words seemed to stick like a fishbone in his gullet. She put her arm around him coaxingly.

Sharn finally got it out, all in a rush. “I love you.”

Fritha looked at Sharn as if she was turning this piece of information over in her mind to test it. And then she smiled and did something which took Sharn’s breath away – she pulled her shift over her head. And kissed him.

T
he next day, Roman legionnaires from Damnonium turned the countryside upside down. Colun and the others had wisely told no one about their mission because informers were everywhere, eager to earn a reward.