They galloped away, swinging beneath leaning boughs, fording streams with a white scatter of foam, whipping their horses eastwards and then north. Cynwas went in the front, riding like a vengeful god, hunched in the saddle, his broad sword at his right hip. The four Romans held the middle place, going knee to knee with no thoughts of rank now, always aware that behind them came the Coritani tribesmen, their javelins across their thighs as they galloped.
Once as they came fast towards a crumbling wall of old grey stone, Marcus called out to Cynwas, “Slower, man! Slower! You’ll have your pony down.” But the Celt thumped in his heels even harder and took the wall like a bird, seeming hardly to waver in his travelling, and landing so lightly on the far side that his horse’s hooves scarcely disturbed the tall grasses. But Cynwas did not turn in the saddle, either to thank or to mock Marcus. He rode like a man alone in the world, ignorant of friends and enemies alike.
Tigidius grunted as his bony mount worked at the hard ground. He said to Marcus, “Hold your tongue, lad. He’ll tire first, then we can talk sense to him.”
But half a day passed, through woodland, beside rivers, along bridle paths, and Cynwas did not look back. And when the sun stood above the riders’ heads and the country opened out towards the great military road, Marcus said to the centurion, “This is madness. The horses will drop dead beneath us, and we shall be too weary to lift a hand to save the girl or to defend ourselves.” He kicked hard at his pony’s ribs and drew away from the other Romans. Cynwas heard the thudding of hooves and glanced back, red-faced and furious. “Get back, Roman!” he shouted. But Marcus urged his pony onwards until he was almost able to reach forward and touch the cloak of Cynwas as it flared out behind him.
Then suddenly the Celt swung round, his thong-whip hissing like a snake, and struck the Tribune full across the face with the heavy lash. The Roman gasped, tasted the salt from his broken lips, then with a cry of anger surged forwards until he could grasp at the flailing whip. For a moment he thought of dragging Cynwas out of the saddle. But then his fury died back a little and all he did was to wrench the thong away from him and, riding so close that their leg-bones jolted together painfully, he yelled, “If you are so much a fool as not to know friend from enemy, then gallop to your death, and good riddance to you!”
He had meant to veer away to the left then, where the turf was cropped by sheep and seemed easier going, instead of straight on, which led to a shadowy basin, grown round with gorse-bushes and straggling thorn. But before the words had left him, Cynwas had leaned across and had him by the belt, drawing him from the saddle. Then Marcus saw with horror that the Celt had slipped his sword from the sheath and holding it with shortened blade was about to push it at him.
Rolling sideways, he watched the bright iron slide past him, only an inch from his body, ripping through the fabric of his padded tunic. He let loose the reins and with both hands took the arm of Cynwas, thrusting it down like a stick to be broken over the knee, and shouted, “You madman! If you will not be warned, then suffer!”
He saw the sword fly away to his left, the sudden wide staring of the Celt’s eyes, then both ponies were down, rolling over and over into the gorse-grown hollow.
Now all thoughts of hurting the Celt went from the Roman’s mind. He flung up his hands to cover his head and tumbled down and down, among thistles and daisies and dock, like a rolling ball. He heard the horses falling too, heard their great hooves thudding and scraping at the turf, heard the riders behind him shouting and slithering over the edge.
A fleck of foam from one of the horses flew gently through the air and landed on the Tribune’s cheek. In all that fierce falling he knew what it was, and even put his fingers to it, to wipe it away.
And then everything changed. He was no longer angry with Cynwas; no longer afraid that the horses would roll on him, or that the riders behind him would gallop on to him. For now, all at once, he lay among the dead, and what they looked like took his thoughts away from all other things.
At the dry base of the little round basin, where the ground ivy twined about the struggling holly shoots, Novantico lay white-faced and gaping, stripped of his armour, his arms spread wide. And above him and below him, their limbs twisted about bushes, their bodies scratched by wild brambles, lay the other legionaries. Between them all there was not enough cloth to cover a scarecrow.
Marcus was on his knees, staring at them, when he realised that Cynwas was beside him, staring also. And half-way down that steep slope the other riders sat aghast at what lay below.
Tigidius spoke first. “I do not see the girl,” he said. And then the spell was broken. Marcus and the chieftain rose and stumbled about among the bodies, speechlessly, but now without anger. What had happened to the runaways and their leader drove all fury from the searchers.
Cynwas stood then like a man bewitched, his hand on his head, his blue eyes staring blankly. Marcus came to him and putting his own hand on the Celt’s shoulder, said, “Someone got to them before we did, brother. Now we must look for Aranrhod.”
Cynwas turned and struck out at the Tribune, catching him at the side of the face with the clenched fist. Marcus hardly moved at the blow, but took the Celt’s hand kindly and held it by his chest. He said, “I would have done the same, brother. But now that it has been done, let us forget our fury. Much blood has been shed already. Let us not wait until more runs to waste.”
As he said this a brown-faced tribesman ran up with an arrow in his hand. To Cynwas he said, “Master, they were ambushed by Iceni. These arrow-flights are streaked with blue and red. It is their sign.”
Cynwas pushed the man away then turned to Marcus and said, “Do you know what you have done? You have killed my sister, as truly as though you had put the spear to her yourself.”
Marcus gazed at him in amazement. “I?” he said. “I killed her?”
Cynwas laughed drily, like a stream dying, and said, “She wore your medallion, did she not? They will think she is a Roman brat. At the least she will be a slave for the rest of her poor days.”