Apollo's Raven

Belinus stared at Marcellus like a crazed boar and snorted, “I accept your challenge. We will then see who the better warrior is.”

Marcellus tensely watched the Celtic barbarians feast on roasted boar, the juices dripping down their chins. The boisterous men readily helped themselves to wine and ale, the aroma so thick he could get drunk off the fumes. He would make a toast to these savages, if only he knew how to speak their guttural language. He wondered what was taking Catrin so long. At least, he could have an amiable chat with her. Now he questioned his sanity for volunteering to be a hostage, imprisoned in the musty royal suites guarded by a one-eyed cat and a foreboding raven.

The warrior called Cynwrig said very little and spoke only Celtic, but his tattooed lightning bolts and demeanor thundered his ferocity. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, Marcellus raised his wine-filled goblet to him. “Gaudete omnes.”

Cynwrig grunted and raised his brass goblet in salute. Marcellus acknowledged him with a nervous smile. Then his eyes turned to a group of warriors moving to his table. Each one greeted him with a snarl, their bodies covered with a menagerie of tattooed monsters and animals. Looking more closely, he noticed several of the men had shaved their chests. He had to admit that was, at least, one admirable Roman trait. That was where the similarity ended between Britons and Romans.

Except for the king and his commander, the men had long lime-bleached hair and unruly mustaches shaped like tusks. If it were not for the king’s fair skin and straw-colored hair, he would pass as a Roman. Marcellus was surprised to learn that his father had known King Amren as a young man being educated in the Roman culture. Though the king did not appear to accept the Roman patriarchal view toward females, Marcellus could not understand why the Roman emperor and the Senate were so disgruntled with their client king.

Looking around the table at the drunken warriors teetering on their seats, guffawing, Marcellus resigned himself to indulge in their barbarian celebration. The tribune’s words “show no fear” emboldened him as he fingered the raven figurines curiously gawking at him from the cup’s handles. He gulped down his wine and poured some more from a flagon with a bronze duck on the spout that appeared to be paddling in the red liquid.

“Nunc est bibendum,” he cried out. “To Bacchus.”

Cynwrig and the other warriors grunted and raised their goblets for another toast.

After awhile, Marcellus began losing track of how many “sloblets” of wine and flasks of ale he had washed down since Catrin had left. The sweet scent of honey mead would have intoxicated his nostrils if it were not for the stench of sweat clinging on the men’s bare chests pressing against him. The sunny warrior, Belinus, now next to him, refused to speak Latin. Instead, he set a bone-handled dagger on the table and garbled some fierce-sounding Celtic words. Eyeing the weapon, Marcellus rubbed his throat that still throbbed from the thin cut that Belinus graced him with at their first encounter. Every time the wild savage pounded his goblet on the table after each swig, he snorted maliciously, making Marcellus flinch. He again recalled the tribune’s advice that to gain these warriors’ respect, you must not show them any weakness. Hence, the best way he could demonstrate this was to join in their drunkenness and games. That should not be any problem, he figured, except the Britons drank their wine straight, unlike Romans who diluted it. There had to be something more in the mead and wine that made him feel as if he was Mars. Praise Bacchus for whatever that was. The foreign revelers almost seemed like old friends at one of his drink fests in Rome, except for the weapons’ glints winking at him.

Across the table, Cynwrig was hungrily nibbling at the neck of his red-headed wench. She moaned with delight as she drank in Marcellus with her chestnut-brown eyes. Another table slam from Belinus made Marcellus jump off his seat.

At last Belinus spoke familiarly. “Cynwrig challenges you to an axe fight.”

Marcellus gawked at Belinus. “Cynwrig? You mean the warrior across the table?”

Belinus answered with a sneer. “We call him the Red Executioner.”

“What about you?” Marcellus asked brashly. “Are you man enough to face me when I have a weapon in hand—unlike today, when you put a blade to my throat like a coward when I was unarmed?”

Belinus stared at Marcellus like a crazed boar and snorted, “I accept your challenge. We will then see who the better warrior is.”

Marcellus inwardly groaned. The gods curse me! Now what? He knew the ways of a gladius, that short sword used for slashing; he had even used a pilum, the heavy javelin preferred by many soldiers, but a battle-ax? A crude weapon used by savages?

Why not? Let me show these painted men what Roman men are made of.

Marcellus raised his goblet. “Let’s do it!”

Then he paused, reconsidering. Is this to the death? Am I a fool for their sport?

Belinus slapped Marcellus on the back. “An enemy’s skull waits outside for your pleasure.”

Steadying himself by gripping the table’s edge, Marcellus staggered to his feet. He recklessly shouted, “See if you are man enough to take my skull.”

With Belinus leading the way, Marcellus stumbled through the doorway into the biting mist. A Bacchanals’ mob had gathered around a domed, thatched-roof house. Against the reed façade was a spiked skull, its jaws locked in horror. The frenzied warriors cheered Cynwrig as he swaggered through their midst like a monolithic rock parting them as waves.

In Latin, Belinus blustered contemptuously, “Before Cynwrig competes with this Roman dog, I want a piece of him to hang on my wall!”

Marcellus looked around and muttered, “That must be me.” Staggering, he tried to focus on the long-handled blade of the axe, figuring he could copy Belinus’s moves. He watched the sun-tattooed warrior plant a leg, swing the axe, and snap his wrist. The blade flew into the skull, shattering an eye socket.

Several boisterous men shoved up against Marcellus, taunting him savagely. He tried to reassure himself, They must be cheering me on. Looking all around, he soon thought otherwise.

The sun-tattooed Belinus bellowed a war cry and handed Marcellus another axe suitable for the hands of a child. Realizing his toga was inappropriate attire for axe-throwing, Marcellus unraveled the unwieldy fabric and handed it to Belinus.

“Here, make yourself useful.”

Marcellus then wiped the warm sweat off his face with his arm. He spun the heavy handle, leaned back, and swung it forward. The axe handle crashed into an assisting warrior’s groin, sending the other warriors into spasms of laughter.

Raising a finger in drunken glee, Marcellus shouted, “Score one for Marcellus!”

Cynwrig pounded Marcellus so hard on the back that his feet slipped on the muddy ground, releasing a faint smell of dung. The Red Executioner offered him a horn-full of mead. Gulping it down, Marcellus ignored the sickening rumble in his belly and finished the brew off. He belched and moaned, “Ahhh, sweet nectar of Bacchus.”

Cynwrig, a full head taller than Marcellus, glowed fiercely in the firelight. Marcellus recoiled from the specter of tattooed bolts flashing down the warrior’s chest. He knew by the size of Cynwrig’s battle-ax, the blade could slice him in half. Puzzled that Cynwrig was offering him a skull, Marcellus turned to Belinus.

A grin flashed across Belinus’s face. He pointed to a nearby open stall. “The Red Executioner wants to knock the skull off your head.”