‘You are a true warrior.’ It was a statement of truth and the druid did not seem to judge one way or the other. ‘Killing is natural for you, even more than your kin and they are the wolf people. Do you know the story of this sword? It is a long one and took many lives before you saw it, let alone learned to wield it.’
‘My grandfather took it from a Roman officer,’ Ferox said. ‘And gave it to me when I was not yet strong enough to hold it steady.’
‘He did, and I was the one who told him to do it, though in truth he needed little urging for you were his favourite, more even than your father, the son he lost in his prime.’
Ferox flexed his legs, bending them at the knee, for they were starting to feel numb. Acco did nothing to stop him. ‘I felt his hand often enough,’ Ferox said after a while. ‘And he was a stern lord and sterner still with me.’
‘That is because he loved you. I remember your birth, seeing your mother’s whole spirit spent as it gave life and power to you. I was the one who gave you your name, your true name, that I will not speak. Did you know that?’
‘No.’ A man’s name was a sacred, secret key to his soul, hidden from all save the closest family. Ferox had never known his mother and was barely walking when his father fell in battle against the Romans. Acco had appeared at times while he was a child, like a harsh wind that blew for a few days and then vanished. The Lord of the Hills took guidance from the druid as he did from no other man – save, it was said, Caratacus in the old days.
‘I know your name, boy, and it is not Flavius or Ferox, or even Comus as the boys called you. With your true name and a little of your blood I could make you do my bidding, but the cost would be high for your soul and I will not destroy you in that way. I see inside you, boy, I have always seen inside you and I know your destiny.’ There was another swish as the sword slashed through the air. ‘This sword was meant for you, but it was not made for you. The day we took it I spoke to that Roman before he died. He was a prisoner and a brave man, refusing to bow or beg for mercy as many of the others did. They knew the skill of your kin in inflicting pain and so did he, but it did not unman him. I really think he understood.
‘That blade was forged by a smith from Avaricum, a man famous throughout the tribes of Gaul. Caesar’s men had stormed the town, slaughtering everyone in their hatred, but a prefect of cavalry sought out the smith and ringed his forge with soldiers who were sober and still obeyed his will. The prefect was from Narbo, his mother of the Allobroges, and he knew of the sword-maker’s renown. Amid the screams as a town died, he offered the smith protection at the price of making the finest sword he had ever made. So he worked, putting all his skill and essence into that blade, mouthing spells to make it strong, yet flexible, keen and yet light, and hammering at the iron to save his life and keep his daughter from violation.’
‘Were you there?’ Ferox asked flippantly, and received a violent kick in the stomach.
‘When the task was done the town was in ruin and the smith wept because he knew that he would never again make anything so perfect, and he melted his hammer and other tools in the fire knowing that he would not wield them again. In the days that had passed his daughter and the tribune became lovers and married, and a year later she was made a Roman. Caesar was generous to his followers, and with that sword in his hand the prefect led charge after charge. At Alesia he slew two kings, and when Romans turned on Romans he cut down many of the famous men who dared to oppose Caesar. Later he went back to Gaul, became a great man in the new province, and his son and grandson each in turn buckled on the sword and served Augustus, Drusus, Tiberius, Germanicus and a host of lesser commanders, until the great-grandson came to Britannia. With this sword he slew your father on the shore, and it was not that day your kin caught him, but only after many stern fights.
‘All this he told me, and for all that he was Roman the blood of Gaul still flowed in his veins. The others the wolf people killed, slowly as only they know how, but I took the tribune with me to Mona.’
‘Did his blood flow there?’ Ferox gasped as he was kicked again. How much of this was true? His father had died years after Suetonius Paulinus went to Mona.
‘Fool. We talked a good deal on that journey, and he called me brother and willingly bowed for the knife by the end. There, between the two lakes where only a thin sapling grew where once there had been a hundred sacred oaks, I killed him as an offering to the gods. A quick death and one with meaning, and I have no doubt that one day he shall greet me again as brother in the Otherworld.’
Ferox heard another thrum as the blade cut through air and even though he could not see, he could sense the long tip was close to his face. ‘Tell me, boy, do you deserve a quick death?’
‘I no longer know what I deserve.’
Acco cackled. ‘That is something, at least. This is a fine blade, a killing blade, and it does not care whose hand wields it. I am old, but have no doubt that I could drive this through your eye. It might need both hands and my weight behind it. Yet, for your grandfather’s sake and yours, I should prefer to let you live. Will you join me? Become Comus instead of Ferox, a prince of the Silures and no mere centurion, and lead your people to freedom? I will help you at every stage, help you to find the true power within you and draw strength from your ancestors back to the first man.’
‘Why do you want me?’ Ferox expected another kick, but instead there was silence. He sensed the sword was withdrawn.
‘For many reasons, and because it is your destiny. I read the signs when you were born and have never seen the like. Your story is a strange one, great and not great, true to your soul and not true, and you are fated to do something no one else could do. It came to me in a dream that night after you were born, a message from the gods as clear as any I have ever heard. It is your fate to kill me.’ The cackle was louder this time. ‘Who am I to question the will of the gods, strange though it may seem? I will fall by your hand – perhaps even by this very blade. So be it, that is the prophecy, but if my death is to have meaning I should die at the hand of one who is true to his blood, a leader of his people and not a lackey of Rome.’
Ferox lay there, unable to see or move his limbs, and unsure what to believe. He wondered whether to pretend to agree, in the hope of escape. Yet Acco would know the truth, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps if he spoke the truth about the prophecy then it would not end here. The dog returned, slobbering over his chin for a moment. Then it drew back, but he felt the warm, wet spray on his tunic as it urinated over his chest. It seemed to go on for a very long time before he heard the animal pant as it wandered away.
‘Come, boy, what is your answer?’
‘I have sworn an oath.’
Ferox was not quite sure whether or not he heard a sigh.
‘So be it,’ the old man said.
There were footsteps of two or three people and what smelled like a burning torch.
‘It is done.’ A woman spoke in Latin, with an odd accent he did not recognise.
‘Good. Then give me the torch.’ To Ferox’s surprise it was Domitius who replied. Did the merchant know who Acco really was or fear him as he should? The man was a Gaul, but all the Gauls had been peaceful provinces for many years. He did not sound or look like anyone’s fool, so perhaps there was profit for him in raising rebellion, or he was confident of controlling the druid so that all served the purpose of creating a new emperor. ‘Did you have to kill anyone?’