Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration

[Theodotos I]

Chapter VI: Dead Men Walking

That night we encamped in the plain facing Ictis, preparing for the fight to come. Several of the nobles had counseled flight, but Tancogeistla, although now perfectly sober, was still adamant. We were the warriors of the Aedui, and we would remain where we were, stand our ground. Eventually most of the Brihentin went over to his side of the argument.
“This is madness, Cadwalador,” Cavarillos said as he joined me by the campfire. The flames danced into the night sky, casting strange shadows all around us. The number of our fires was pitiful in comparison to the light blazing up from Ictis. In the distance, torch-bearing runners could be seen hurrying through the woods, undoubtedly rallying the warriors of the Dumnones to the standard of Drustan.
“Tancogeistla actually believes we can win,” he said a moment later, his tones full of disbelief.
“He was not appointed by the Vergobret for nothing,” I said weakly. “Perhaps we can.”
Cavarillos glanced across the fire at me. “Cadwalador, have you been pillaging the general’s wine?” He shook his head derisively. “We have no more chance of winning than we do of taking wing like the birds. Several of the men are planning to run tonight.”
“They are betraying us!” I cried heatedly, anger rising within me. My hand reached out for the longsword laying beside me. “Tell me who they are.”
“I don’t think I will,” Cavarillos replied in a voice more amused than angry. His humor nettled me.
“Why do they run?”
“Because they are mercenaries like me, businessmen. A dead mercenary does not show up to collect his pay. It goes to another, just like his woman and everything else he possesses. That’s not good business.”
“Serving your country is not about business!”
His eyes locked with mine and all humor was gone from his voice. “These are not my people, Cadwalador. This is not my tribe. All of my tribesmen died in the mountains on our journey to meet Tancogeistla. This mythical country you speak of is but an ancient dream from the days of the Keltoi Confederation. Those days are gone, just like the men who leave camp tonight.”
“Then why don’t you go with them?” I shot back.
He shrugged. “As I said before, I am a businessman. Just as dying does not strike me as a good proposition, neither does running through an unknown land peopled by those hostile to me. There is safety in numbers, Cadwalador---even if those numbers are commanded by a drunken fool. Go to sleep.”
I lay there for a long time as the flames danced high in the air above me, as Cavarillos snored noisily on the other side of the fire. I was seeing another side of my friend, and I didn’t know what to think of it. Finally I fell asleep, there on my cloak on the hard ground. Deserters were not my problem, staying alive soon would be. . .

When next I woke, the sun was rising in the eastern sky, casting its rays over the camp. Cavarillos was stirring the ashes of the fire, apparently hoping to find some hot coals. Two fish lay at his feet.
“Where did you find those?” I demanded, raising myself on one elbow.
He smiled for the first time in days. “A stream back that way,” he replied, pointing. “Our last meal should be a good one.”
Just then a shout arose from the town. “What’s that?” Cavarillos dropped the fish and sprang to his feet.
I was at his side in a moment, my hand going nervously to the hilt of the longsword at my waist. Before us, we could see the Dumnones issuing forth from the town, their warriors marching in formation.


Drustan was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a man rode out before them with a horn in his hand. “Hear me, foreigners!” He screamed, rising in his saddle. “Prepare to die!”
“He’s not wasting his breath,” Cavarillos observed dryly. He kicked the fire out and grabbed up his cloak and sword. “We’ll fight on empty stomachs, Cadwalador. Perhaps it’s just as well.”
All around us, our warriors were scrambling to get ready. Behind us I could see Tancogeistla pulling on his armor as he called for his horse. The scene was chaos. We were encamped slightly below the town, and we knew without being told what would happen if the enemy charged down the slopes into us. Massacre.
The Lugoae were already moving up to the ridge, their simple spears grasped in one hand. Cavarillos was gone, gathering his men. Together we ran to the high ground, barely a dozen of us. Thirty of the Gaeroas were moving up behind us.
The enemy continued to pour from their gates, hundreds and hundreds of armed men. I tried counting the battle standards of the chieftains, but lost count. Cavarillos had been right.
The slingers began their fire from behind us, stones whizzing overhead to fall upon the bodies of the enemy. A number of the Dumnones had stripped off their cloaks and were completely naked as they marched against us. I had seen our own warriors do this, but it still unnerved me. They were completely without fear.

“What did I tell you?” Cavarillos appeared suddenly at my side. His javelins were clutched in his right hand, his longsword still sheathed. “We throw these first,” he said quietly, reminding me of my duty.
I flushed hot, returning my sword to its scabbard and taking my own two javelins in my hand. In my excitement, I was forgetting the proper order of things.
I looked back to where Tancogeistla waited, with his band of Brihentin. Perhaps they would be the deciding factor in this battle. The enemy seemed to possess no cavalry.

The slingers were taking a toll of the enemy, but I could tell it would not be enough. They would run out of stones before the Dumnones ran out of bodies to absorb them.
To our left, the first enemies advanced, tossing their javelins into the ill-protected Lugoae before charging home. I closed my eyes, hearing the sound of metal tearing into flesh, the screams of the wounded and dying.

“So the battle begins,” Cavarillos observed quietly. He looked my way, a quizzical expression on his face. “Have you ever been in a battle, Cadwalador?”
I shook my head. “We raided a village---a year ago. It was just a skirmish.”
“I see.” His voice was studiously neutral, but I could tell he was not pleased.
A second band of the Dumnones suddenly appeared in front of us, charging into the Gaeroas on our left. Once again the clatter of weapons and the shrieks of the dying filled the air. A new sound, hoofbeats to my right. Tancogeistla and the Brihentin were circling around us. They were obviously planning to charge into the axemen that had attacked the Gaeroas. Javelins slew several of the nobles even as they passed before us.

One could tell from where we were standing that our brethren were taking heavy casualties. The javelins seemed to tremble in my hand, as though they wished to bury themselves in the flesh of our enemy. Cavarillos’ face was impassive, unmoved by the carnage. Aloof. The Brihentin slammed into the enemy flank, trampling many of the axemen.
For a moment, I thought perhaps they might succeed in routing the enemy army, in turning this debacle into a victory for our tribe. It was not to be. Their moment of glory was short-lived indeed, as yet another warband of our enemy descended, trapping Tancogeistla and his bodyguards.

We were the last uncommitted body of warriors. I glanced to Cavarillos. “Now?”
He looked around, saw the bloodlust in the faces of his men. Perhaps he realized he could restrain them no longer. “Follow me,” he ordered simply, breaking into a trot.
We charged the enemy spearmen. I hefted my javelin in my right hand, hurling it ahead of me as I ran.
“Rabo!” we screamed, expelling the air from our lungs in the age-old cry of the Aedui.
“Rabo!”
My javelin caught one of the Dumnones in the arm, ripping him open. He lost his grasp of his spear and stumbled backward. One of Cavarillos’ men was upon him before he could recover, nearly disemboweling the man with a single slash of the sword.
We slammed into the enemy ranks, swords drawn. We had never bothered throwing our second javelin. One of the spearmen tried to block my sword, but I knocked him backward. To my right, one of my brothers fell, his face covered with blood. I stepped over the corpse, driving my blade between the ribs of the man who had killed him.
A strangled cry rose from his lips, a strange, gurgling sound. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and he collapsed forward, his blood spilling onto my trousers, a dark red life-fluid. I pulled my sword from his flesh with an effort, raising it to protect myself as a blow descended toward my head.
The force of it nearly took me to my knees, but I recovered. I had lost all sense of what was happening around me. My world was now restricted to the few feet around me, which were filled with my enemies. We were badly outnumbered.

My comrades were dying all around me. We were dead men. I brought my sword’s edge down on the wrist of one of the Dumnones, severing the hand. He screamed in pain, blood spurting from the stump as his shield fell to the ground. He tried to bring his sword up to block me, but I knocked it aside, ignoring the terror in his eyes. Another moment and he lay dead at my feet.
From behind me, I heard a long, keening cry of rage, resounding above the cacophony of the battlefield. A blade sliced across the bare skin of my back, opening a wound. I spun around, my longsword raised high. A boy my own age stood in front of me, a sword in his hand. A sword which was descending toward my head. I raised my shield to block it, but the force of his blow knocked me to the ground. I lost my grasp on the shield, rolled away to escape his next slash. I saw his eyes in that moment of time, saw the hatred and agony there. Perhaps I had killed his father, his brother—none of that really mattered now. I raised my sword to deflect his, but he beat down my guard. I was losing for all the reasons Cavarillos had taught. Balance, mobility, I had lost both of those and now I stood to lose my life because of it.
I saw his eyes again as he aimed a final blow to my head, and I couldn’t tell which fate was the more merciful. Mine, to die. His, to live with the knowledge of his loss.
He screamed again, but in pain, not rage. Drops of something wet showered over me and I looked up. Cavarillos stood over me, a bloody sword clutched in both his hands. My opponent was sagging to the ground, nearly beheaded by his blow. I was covered in his blood. I staggered to my feet, starting to thank my savior. Cavarillos stopped me.
“Run for your life, brother!” he screamed in my ear. I glanced around. There were only four of us left. The Lugoae had already broken and were running from the field. One of the Dumnones aimed a blow at Cavarillos and I blocked it savagely. My mind refused to believe this was happening. That we were losing.
Cavarillos took me by both shoulders and thrust me toward the rear. “Run, Cadwalador!”
I did as I was told, running for my life. It filled my heart with shame, but Cavarillos ran at my side, threatening to run me through if I turned back. I kept running.

Behind us, Tancogeistla himself was fleeing, with only a few of his bodyguards remaining. They had been butchered.
Tears were running down my face, tears of shame and rage. Behind me, I could hear the cries of our pursuers, baying like wolves on the trail.
“Have the gods abandoned us, Cavarillos?” I cried. It was a stupid question, but for some reason, I had to ask it.
He struck me between the shoulderblades, forcing me onward. “The gods haven’t been with us since we were washed ashore on this land! Don’t talk—run!”
And we were all running, all those of us that were left alive. All the valiant tribesmen of the Aedui. Running from the enemy. Running in defeat. . .