Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

c.100BC – 43AD

Deep within a clearing many years ago, the trees grew tall and crooked. Wet moss reached from the soil, its green hands coating and smothering the soft bark, mindless of the thick ivy growing from its back. A small pond lay gently swaying, rocking back and forth across the stones of the shore, the slightest of breezes skimming its surface, a cool whisper amid the otherwise humid heat of the forest. Perhaps there was birdsong, their lively melodies echoing as they flitted from tree to tree, or even the familiar crunching of leaves and branches, trodden underfoot by a doe and her young fawn. Maybe the smell of campfire hung in the air, permeating woollen clothes and stuck to braided hair – or even the smell of roasting meat, being prepared past the bush and carried on the air.

Most of the sounds and smells of Arthur’s first memory were only a fog to him now. A faded image past the point of recognition to him after a couple thousand years.

But the image of his mother, a halo of fire surrounding her head, uncombed and unbraided hair lightly swaying in the wind as she stared down at him with wide, concerned eyes – that sight burned the back of his retinas, effectively scarred into his living memory. And her hands too, rough and calloused, caked in dirt from pulling him out of the ground. Though most else blurred, the distinct smell of wet earth flushed his nose when her hands came to cradle his face. Even now, on April days spent in the park after a brief shower of rain, Arthur could close his eyes and feel his mother’s touch on his cheek.

‘My child,’ she sounded, her voice deep but smooth, ‘are you alright?’

Nations were not born as infants. Sudden and alarming, they were born from the earth, from the very dirt they would stand upon. Those who were lucky were pulled out. Those who were not, would drag their weight, all weight of a 3 or 4 year old child, on the arms of a newborn infant.

The limbs beneath him were clumsy, the eyes in his head unfocused and the brain in his skull frazzled and confused. Again, the red-headed woman’s mouth moved with the sound of a familiar language but to a pair of ears that could not understand.

‘Answer, boy.’

His head was nodding, moving finally, his brain catching up with the sensation of her hand, palm cupping his cheek, thumb rubbing from apple to temple.

‘You must be hungry.’ She said. He didn’t say anything. He was not familiar with the word. Her eyes watched him, scanned from his face to his feet, and back up again. The wind blew her hair into her face, obscuring her lips. ‘But first, a wash.’

She stepped backwards, tucking the lock of hair behind her ear, her feet dragging through the dry leaves on the forest floor. He sat, transfixed with this woman that turned him with soft motions, guiding his unsteady feet towards the pond. His wide eyes scanned the clearing, blown out pupils greedily eating the world around them, stumbling and falling hard to the ground with every couple steps as he learned to walk within the first few moments of his existence.

He sat mutely as he let her push him down into the water, the cold temperature shooting up his spine and flushing his entire body suddenly awake and alert. He looked up at her again, at the green eyes that paid his gaze no mind, at the brown freckled skin of her shoulders, at the hard hands that scrubbed the dirt from his naked skin. This woman was a complete stranger to him, but the instinctual fluttering in his chest told him there was no other safer place than where he was in that moment.

His attention drifted over her shoulder, to the birds and insects in the trees, to the fallen log in the distance, its insides vibrating with the twitching of bugs and larvae. A deep sense of a memory sang from his gut – but he didn’t understand the sensation. The rush of confusing information was very quickly giving him a headache.

She lifted him then, hands cupping under his legs to place his naked body on her hip. His own hands, small and chubby, tangled into her wild hair, gripping hard at the strands as his other went to his mouth to slobber over. A young child, with the mannerisms of one even younger.

She pulled her cloak over him, using its rough fabric to dry the water from his skin as she headed for the exit of the clearing, her feet steady and firm on the littered ground. She held to his back and thigh tightly, nervous of dropping him even when he held her just as hard. Her chest began to hum with a slow melody, and though he’d never heard it with his own ears, the warmness of familiarity bloomed in his chest. His green eyes, curious to the point of disturbance, remained trained on her face. Committing the freckles and pock scars on her skin to deep memory.

She squeezed herself between the wet rocks that formed the exit of the clearing and dropped onto a dirt path, heavily dense woods crowding either side of them, their twisting arms of bark crossing above their heads. But the path broke open further down, and the old woods laid way to farmland. The trail scored so deeply into the earth from thousands of other feet, it was almost a gash in the ground. She must have visited the clearing often.

It was late afternoon and the sun climbed high in the sky but inched ever closer to the horizon, and the birds along the treeline swooped low, their hunting time approaching quickly. He wasn’t prey, but he also wasn’t aware of that fact.

The woman jumped when he shrieked, caught off-guard by his outburst, but then she laughed, the deep lines of her crow’s feet squeezing together as she smiled. ‘Birds, child. Nothing to be afraid of.’

He quieted at her calming, but tucked his head into her hair, curling himself into the comforting crook of her neck. The throbbing in his temples and the racing of his thoughts only grew worse, but the touch of her coarse hair and soft skin stilled the chorus in his mind.

The smell came then, the commonplace stench of fire drifting on the wind towards them. In the distance, groups of small structures (houses, as he could remember) surrounded the base of a hill, the earth sloping high into the air before dipping and rising again. Rows of these dips and rises continued to the top of the hill, where a tall, wooden wall began and circled the periphery. Their path carved through the centre, straight to a gate that led inside.

He pointed with a shaking finger, ‘What is?’

She chuckled again, her right-hand pinching at his cheek, endeared at his lack of speech. ‘That is a hillfort. It’s where we all live.’

He didn’t say anything. He was too trained on the dark mass of figures that began pouring out of the gate and down the hill, quickly approaching where they stood. And they were all watching him. His grip turned painful on her hair as he tried to push himself as deep into her arms as possible, but her skin wouldn’t shift and part ways for him.

‘It’s okay,’ she murmured, ‘they’re just very excited to see you.’

Of all the mysterious figures, 3 of them came first, all small and excited and catching up to them very quickly. He ducked his head again, away and into the mass of her red hair. They were shouting, their little feet pattering around them, equally little hands starting to pull on the arms and clothes of the woman.

‘Let us see him!’

‘Why does he look like that?’

‘What’s his name?’

He trembled. Whether from cold or fear he didn’t know, but all he wished for was to crawl back into the dirt. But she clutched him harder, and her voice became hard when she told them to calm down.

‘Enough. You’re scaring him.’ She crouched down, shifting him to present him to these 3 young boys. They were all of varying ages. The eldest was clear – taller than the others, his dark hair lay shaggy atop his head, covering the traces of bushy eyebrows behind his fringe. His green eyes were scrutinising. He stood further back than the other two, scanning him from a distance. His intensity was frightening, so he looked away.

The woman’s hand reached out for one of the other boys, small and blonde and far too excited. ‘Dylan,’ she said, ‘stand still, so he may get a good look at you.’

She pulled him closer, and this young boy – Dylan, happily stepped to hold his hands.

‘Hello!’ He grinned. ‘I’m Dylan! You’re my new brother!’

His head felt bad. Uncomfortably strange, as if something was shifting and cracking and growing behind his skull. The words that were spoken to him were slowly beginning to make sense. They were suddenly standing straight, their forms falling into pre-made moulds in his brain. Like he was remembering, rather than learning.

The next boy stepped up then, his hair the same startling shade of red as the woman, the same brown freckles dusting his face and hands. He stood taller than Dylan, and when he grinned, he showed off his holey smile. He pulled at the other boy to move, but when he stood firm and in his way, he quickly shoved him aside. Dylan landed in the dirt with a whine, huffing angrily as he scrambled back to his feet and yanked at the arm of the redhead.

‘Hey!’

They started to scuffle, their small faces screwed up in frustration, but the woman used one hand to yank at the collar of the older boy.

‘Stop it! Can you behave for one second? You haven’t even said hello.’

‘But-’

‘No!’

He crossed his arms defiantly over his chest, his lips pouting out as he verged on the edge of a tantrum. But the woman raised her brows, and obediently, he said, ‘I’m Ciarán.’

He glanced at her face, stern and unimpressed, before turning back. ‘What’s your name?’

Arthur stared, his mouth squeezing uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to say. Ciarán’s head swivelled to the woman. ‘Mama, what is his name?’

Mama? Was that her name?

She hummed. ‘I’m not sure. Alistair? What do you think he should be named?’

The taller, intimidating boy came closer. He crossed his arms, the jingle of his golden bangles sounding with his movement. ‘That’s up to you, Mama. He is your son.’

She snuggled Arthur’s cheek with her own, one of her hands twining through his hair as she hugged him. ‘And he is your brother.’

The boys fell silent, each looking towards Mama for an answer. She sighed happily, wrapping him further into her cloak. She was close enough to smell his skin, the wave of breath tickling and making him giggle. A grin, and her finger came to rub his cheek.

‘I like the name Arthan. Don’t you?’

Ciarán and Dylan burst into noise, and Alistair helped his mother up when she tried to stand. The crowd that waited by the gate began to hesitantly move, crowding the small family on their walk up the hill, keen to catch a glimpse of the newborn nation.

‘You?’ Arthan asked, his chubby finger stabbing into her cheek, movement unpracticed.

‘Me?’ She smiled. ‘I am Pritani. But you, my darling, may call me Mama. You are my baby boy.’

Arthan got the gist of what she was saying. The crowd around him made no sense, but Mama wrapped him tightly against her chest, and in her warm arms, smelling of nature after it had rained and the smoke of campfires, Arthan felt an overwhelming sense of safety, even if he wasn’t quite sure what the feeling was or how it was called.

She took him through the gates, the boys following closely behind. A street lay before them, a muddy and wet path splitting a crowd of buildings, at its end, a structure much larger than the others, with a thatched roof in the shape of a dome. Clouds of smoke billowed from the top – as if a large fire was burning inside. In fact, most of the town was full of smoke, with it coming the smell of cooking food, lingering just below his nostrils.

Mama led them down the path, ducking through the entrance of the domed home, readjusting her grip on Arthan as they did. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, and the smell of burning wood was overpowering. Some corners were too dark to make out, but in the centre of the vast room, a fire raged, almost as red as Mama’s hair. A woman prodded at it with a long stick, a wooden apparatus propped over the top, the yellow flickering flames tickling the bottom of a suspended pot. A child was strapped to her chest, and besides here a gaggle of children, of various ages. At Arthan’s entrance, they snickered with glee and ran from the fire, chasing each other around the room.

Their absence revealed a man crouched by the fire, his frame large and bulking and covered head to toe in intricate and complex blue paint. He stood when he noticed their entrance, his bushy eyebrows pulled down into a deep frown. Arthan clutched onto Mama even harder.

He was slow in his approach. His great mass hunkered over slowly, as if it was taking great effort to move his body. The closer he got, the clearer he became. The complex blue paint showed itself to be spirals and dots and stripes, hidden underneath a thick layer of hair. Brown tendrils over his chest, his arms, his hands, his legs, curling over hard muscle and trapped beneath stacks of gold bangles.

‘So, this is him, Pritani?’ He asked, his voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.

Mama bounced him on her hip, readjusting her hold to his thighs. Arthan felt something shake in his legs, an instinctual feeling he didn’t have a name for yet, and he quickly stuck his thumb in his mouth to suckle. A child that has never known a breast, but seeks its comfort all the same.

‘Yes, my lord. This is Arthan. My fourth son.’

The man tilted his head as he regarded Arthan. His hands came upwards, his thick and hairy fingers coming to gently trace Arthan’s hair and cheek. His dark frown softened then, melting down into a warm smile. He dropped his hands to readjust his belt, a thick and gaudy gold, dusted with jewels of various colours and sizes. In the dark light it glinted and glimmered with the orange of the fire. Dazzling colours poured outwards, transfixing Arthan with its illusions.

‘A healthy young boy indeed.’ He laughed. He looked down and behind Mama, straight down to Alistair. ‘Son, would you fetch me a bowl of woad?’

He was quick to bow his head, a quick ‘my lord’ leaving his mouth before he flew from the building.

‘We will have a good feast tonight, Pritani.’ He boomed. He turned to the room, to the flock of people that had followed them in. ‘A feast, to celebrate this gift from Canunnos!’

The crowd erupted into cheer and applause, too excited to notice Alistair elbowing his way back into the centre. The man gripped him by his shoulder, pulling him forward as he tried to keep the bowl in his hands from spilling.

The circle dulled into a murmur when he dipped his fingers into its content, dropping in a pale white but coming back a brilliant cobalt blue. He painted thick streaks and spirals of blue across Arthan’s face and chest with an experienced hand before he leant back and announced, ‘He will be a great fighter!’

The crowd broke out in shouts and hollers then, and Mama began bouncing him playfully, forcing giggles out of his mouth and exciting the children into running.

φ

In the next couple of hours, the settlement had exploded into celebration. It was not common, after all, for a nation to be born.

The smell of cooking food stuffed the air, causing a weird grumble in Arthan’s stomach that he later remembered to be hunger. Mama dressed him in a simple grey tunic, clipping a green cloak over his back with a brooch. She showed him its details first – the gold warped into the shape of a deer, a single stone of amber for its eye. The large man (who Arthan remembered as the lord of the settlement) gifted Arthan a gold waistband of his own, accompanied by a small dagger wrapped in embossed leather. Mama thanked him for his generosity, but stowed the small dagger away.

‘You’re just a baby. What would you need a dagger for?’

As the time passed, Arthan felt his body rapidly changing with his exposure to the world around him. In a couple thousand years, he would look back on his first day as strange and uncomfortable. How could it be physically possible for a child, just born that morning, to be fully capable of speech and walking by himself by the end of the day? But, that was why it was uncomfortable. A nation’s experience of existing – it is an act of remembrance, rather than learning. For the basics, that is. In just one day, Arthan lived with a splitting headache as his brain rapidly developed and remembered almost everything about his culture. The language they spoke, the gods they worshipped, the food they ate and the clothes they wore. Arthan was born from this very culture. He wasn’t a baby, but a nation – and so why would he ever have to learn about his people? That fact ran through every part of him; his blood, his muscle, his bone, his sinew: it was who he was. So, of course, he would remember.

But Arthan wasn’t aware of any of that, at least not then. He only sat and sucked at his thumb, seeking comfort from the physical pain in his head, and the emotional pain of not understanding.

Alistair and Ciaran had wandered off to play with the other children, but Mama had sat next to him at one of the tables, pulling apart a roasted chicken, handing its supple flesh to Arthan to eat. She tried to explain the differences between the gristle and the bones, pointing out the pink tendons that ran along, but Dylan, who sat at his other side, yammered above her talking. Arthan was quickly learning he was an excitable child and took an awful lot of effort to shut up.

‘You and I are brothers,’ Dylan rambled loudly into his ear, ‘One day we’re gonna be big and strong, and we’re gonna take over the world!’

Mama chuckled above them, licking at her grease-soaked fingers. Maybe she should have corrected his interruptions, but she enjoyed Dylan’s energy.

‘Take over…the world?’ Arthan asked.

‘Yeah! We’re gonna grow a big army and fight and kill Rome!’ He turned to Mama, the thick layer of meat fat on the edges of his mouth threatening to run down his chin. ‘Right, Mama?’

‘Who?’ Arthan asked.

‘Rome! The Roman Empire!’

Mama’s hand grabbed Dylan by the back of his collar, shifting him back into his own personal space. ‘That’s enough of that now.’

‘No, it’s not!’ He yelled. He clenched his little fingers together, cheeks reddening from his effort.

‘It is more than enough.’ She leant forward, roughly wiping Dylan’s face for him. The calm smile on her mouth was slowly dropping.

‘But you said that Gaul might die!’

Mama’s hand came down hard on the table, her fingers spread with an open palm when she slammed. Their plates and cups shuddered from the force, and the distinct bang made Arthan cover his ears with his hands. Dylan had gone silent.

‘There will be no word of that at this table, do you understand?’ Her voice was hard and stern – commanding in a way that Arthan was entirely new to.

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Good.’

The three of them lapsed into silence whilst Mama went back to her chicken. Eventually, Dylan broke away from the table, slinking away silently to find his two other brothers.

Dylan had said the word ‘die’. This word Arthan could recognise, especially as something bad, but the meaning was lost on him. He wanted to ask Mama, but she got so angry at Dylan, he felt it best not to. He picked at his chicken instead, and watched the man by the fire, a drum between his legs that he steadily beat, a woman alongside him singing a low-pitched tune.

Arthan liked music. He liked the sound of it in his ears and the feeling it gave him in his feet. The woman held an instrument as well, with a wooden body with two curled arms and a bar that crossed over the top of them. Strings stretched across the centre of it, and when the woman began to play, a flittering high tune danced from her fingers. Arthan watched with rapt attention. The drum was something familiar, but this instrument was alien to him. His chest bloomed with warmth when he heard its song, but it was not a warmth of familiarity.

‘Do you enjoy the music?’ Mama asked. She had been watching him.

‘Yes.’ He nodded. He pointed his finger, childish curiosity calling to the mystery instrument. ‘What is that?’

Mama’s eyes followed his point, and she only chewed as she watched the player. Arthan assumed she wasn’t going to answer him – he was beginning to realise quite quickly what embarrassment was – before she picked up her bread, and between its ripping, she muttered, ‘It’s a lyre. It’s a Roman instrument.’

Dylan had said that word.

‘Roman?’ He asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What is “Roman”?’

She sighed, closing her eyes briefly. ‘Rome. The Roman Empire. He is a nation, a powerful nation.’

‘Nation?’

Mama put down her food and licked each finger before she wiped them on her cloak. She pulled Arthan over and onto her lap, licking her fingers again to wipe at the fat on his cheeks.

‘Yes, a nation. It is what we are, too. Only not so strong.’ Her hand stroked the back of his hair lovingly.

‘We are nation?’

‘We are nations,’ she corrected, ‘me, you, and your brothers.’

‘But what does that mean?’

The lyre-player still performed, and the people around her still danced and laughed – but things suddenly felt very serious for Arthan.

‘Well, what is beneath us, right now? What do we stand on?’

Arthan looked down. ‘Dirt?’

‘Yes, dirt. But dirt is land. And when humans are from different places, they draw lines in the dirt – and they say this is mine, and that is yours.’ She reached for a knife from the table, and bent down to etch into the earth below them. ‘And when there are enough people from one piece of land, and they make their own cultures – when they choose what they eat and wear, and how they do things – we are born.’

Arthan watched as she drew out blobs and shapes. He didn’t know then, but he would later realise it was a primitive attempt at a map of Europe.

‘You, your brothers and I, are from here.’ She pointed to Briton. ‘You and your brothers have cultures that are just about different enough that there are four of you. But you are all my babies, so you are not different at all.’

She kissed him atop the head.

‘But who is human?’

She held his arms gently and lifted them to gesture at everyone in the building. ‘All these people.’

‘But I am not human?’

‘No. You’re a nation. And a nation has a duty to protect their people.’

‘Protect? From? From Rome?’

Mama nodded slowly. ‘Yes, he is one of them. Sometimes, nations get greedy, and they want to be bigger. This is Rome.’ She sighed again. ‘I didn’t want you to know so early, but Rome is a threat to us and our people. Other nations, like us, are being threatened by Rome.’

She pointed at the map again. ‘Like Gaul. It may be their time soon. They may die.’

‘What does die mean?’

‘Dying means when something happens to someone that they cannot survive, and they return back to the Earth.’

‘Like how I-?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, but nations don’t die like humans do. Humans may fall to a knife, or starvation, or disease – but we only die when our people are gone. When our culture is squashed, and we are taken over by nations much stronger than us.’

Arthan felt the panic climbing in his chest. ‘But Rome may die us?’

‘Kill. Kill us, not die us.’ She caught herself. ‘But, no! No, he won’t do that.’

‘But-’

She gripped him hard, using one calloused finger to tilt his chin up. ‘No. He won’t kill us. It is my duty not just to protect my people but also to protect you, and all your brothers.’

She hugged him. ‘My beautiful boys. I will take care of you.’

Arthan enjoyed when she would kiss him and hold him. When she would pull him tightly into her chest, filling his nose with her scent and her warmth, and the sensation of home and safety would blanket over him. Mama was the wisest person in the world. She was the strongest, the fastest – capable of everything. She would protect him and his brothers from the end of the world.

And when Arthan put his head down on a bed of straw that night, he thought about his day. His remembrance and his feasting and his dancing. He looked back at it, excited for tomorrow, but unaware of how many more hundreds of thousands of days he would have left to endure.

φ

In the coming years, Arthan learned what it was to just be alive. Though the culture in Briton at the time was entirely based by tribes, Mama didn’t hold an allegiance to any of them, so during this period, she led the boys across the country. It was a lot of effort, especially considering Arthan was just a baby, but the beauties of his land made it entirely worth it. Arthan was young. But the vastness of his land – the hills and the valleys and the beaches and the bogs – they were all awe-inspiring to Arthan.

Mama and his brothers took him far and wide, teaching him how to fish – what time of day they bit best, what bait to use, how to carve your rod to its best performance without snapping under strain – they taught him how to hunt and which berries he could eat from the wild bush. Alistair was the first to put a bow in his hand.

Mama thought he was much too young, but Alistair was firm on the idea that the sooner he learnt, the better. To Alistair, the Roman threat was imminent. Out of them all, he was the firmest with Arthan.

‘Geographically, you’re the closest to Rome.’ He’d said. ‘My brother, that means you are the most likely to be attacked first.’

But this only scared Arthan. He would sit with his bow, clutching it between underdeveloped hands whilst he slept, and when he awoke in the morning and Mama would see it – that meant that she and Alistair would go to a private room and argue for a couple of hours.

Alistair was mature. He was only a preteen – Arthan would realise much later that he really was only a child – but he had authority. He was calm and collected, and he knew what to do when things would become dire – so it was no surprise, when that messenger arrived and Alistair was left in charge.

Arthan had almost lived an entire lifetime by the time the messenger arrived. He’d only just managed to learn to swim – though his mental age was nearly of a preteen boy himself, his body was still of a baby. He would whine and cry to Mama, beg of her to tell him when he’d finally grow as big as Alistair. But when the messenger came, a young boy – not even a curled hair upon his body – Arthan was still but a babe. But a babe, when the news of Caesar’s arrival on the Kent coast came.

Late summer, it was mid morning on a hot day, and Arthan and his brothers were de-scaling and beginning the process of salting the fish that they had caught that morning. Mama had been locked in the bedchambers of the hillfort’s roundhouse, engaged in a tense conversation with the tribal leader all day.

Arthan didn’t know why. The past few months, Gaul’s name had carried on whispers and shouts, but Mama never let him listen.

He looked at his lap, at the cod carcass that lay on a scrap of leather folded over of his legs. White, wet and translucent scales littered his skin. He was much slower than his brothers, lacking the strength in his arms to do it any faster. He looked to Alistair, to his face, pulled down in an intense and angry frown. He was brutalising his fish, ripping off thick layers of flesh with the scales.

‘You’re ruining the meat.’ Ciarán muttered.

Everything had been far too tense. The air was thick enough to cut – Arthan only had no idea why.

Alistair closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His hands froze in his lap. Arthan turned away, nervous for the arguing that was undoubtedly bound to come.

But there was a loud commotion coming from the entrance of the roundhouse, and from the bright and hot light of the sun, a young and dirtied man fell inside, collapsing face-first in the dirt. The boys shot out of their seats, all but Arthan, and Alistair dashed across the room to meet him where he laid and caught his breath. More men flooded through, their shouts deafening and confusing.

Mama quickly emerged, her steady feet pounding the earth as she did, her hard and pale features pulled into a nasty and concerned scowl. She grabbed the boy by his shoulders and dragged him to his feet, dismissive of Alistair when she demanded, ‘Speak.’

Arthan watched nervously. The fish between his legs lay forgotten – the attention of all in the room turning from food to alarm.

‘The Southern coast,’ he gasped, ‘Romans.’

The men erupted into noise. Yelling and clamouring and pounding their chests and their feet, sending dark dust flying into the air. Arthan quickly covered his ears, shrinking down into himself, trying to make himself as small as possible in his sudden fear.

‘Gaul has fallen!’ Mama shouted, but it only made the noise even louder. A whine left Arthan’s mouth and Ciaràn’s arms came around him, yanking him from his spot and dragging him to his side. Arthan curled himself in, under Ciaràn’s only slightly older armpit. He was sure he spoke to him, soft and comforting words, but Arthan couldn’t remember.

Alistair was right. He should have been training much earlier. He still couldn’t hit anything with his bow. How was he supposed to defend himself? How was he supposed to protect his land and people from this large and bulking force when he’d only just learnt to swim?

The room began to heave. People running out, screaming of the news and inviting more people in to see the messenger.

But Mama was leaving the building and all the men were following her. Arthan’s heart cried out. Where was she going? Why wasn’t she coming to him? Why wasn’t she coming to hug and kiss him? To stroke his hair and kiss his grazes, to come and comfort him and reassure him that all will be okay?

Ciarán pulled him to his feet to follow the crowd, Dylan leading their way out. They funnelled through the doorway, spilling out into the centre of the hillfort. People dashed to them, coming from their homes, from outside the guarded gate, from their tasks and their chores, leaving food cooking over coals to burn in their absence.

Mama began to shout again, her hair billowing in the wind, her arm lifting her sword high in the air with a call to arms. But Arthan was too afraid to pay attention to what she was saying. All his mind could settle on was the trembling of his limbs, the knocking of the knees below him.

Arthan realised in that moment he had never been truly afraid before. He had lived more than an average lifetime, but this white-hot adrenaline that flushed through every vein in his body was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

There was one time, when the family had camped out in the wilderness and that pack of wolves fell upon them, but with Mama and Alistair there, Arthan had never doubted his own security.

This was entirely different.

This was an impending doom. This was an inevitable. And now that it was happening, Arthan was too young to handle the big emotions it brought on.

So they stayed at the edge of the crowd, shuffling backwards as it grew. Arthan, Ciarán and Dylan all huddled together, skin-on-skin for comfort as they watched Mama, Alistair right besides, shouting for war. Despite the hot day, the ground had turned to a muddy slush – the adults paid them no mind. Their jostling and running splashed mud all over their feet and legs. Arthan couldn’t tell if he trembled from fear or shook from the sudden cold on his lower half.

They didn’t have much time. Men dashed across the hillfort as they attempted to prepare, and a few hours passed before Mama came back to the hut they were staying in.

Alistair had been fast when he packed his kit, not sparing a word for his brothers, though he knew they watched his frantic movements with curiosity. He took only his essentials, strapping his sword, the one gifted by the lord of the hillfort he had been born in, which was still much too big for his young frame, to his side. Then, he sat by the door and waited for Mama, his eyes staring hard at the hustle and bustle of the tribe. But when she finally stepped through the door, she stopped in her tracks to stare at her eldest son.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ She demanded.

Alistair huffed. ‘I’m not going to fight with no weapon, am I?’

Mama was usually soft and gentle and patient when explaining things to the boys. But her anger sparked like an explosion.

‘Take those damned things off now. Right now. Don’t be so utterly ridiculous, you’re going nowhere but here.’

Alistair stood. ‘What?’

‘You are staying. I will not repeat myself.’

‘So I’m just going to sit here and wait for Rome to turn up? Fuck that! I’m coming with you.’

Mama’s mouth formed into a thin line, like it always did when she was losing her patience. Arthan lived many years before he recognised the same mannerism in himself. The breath from her nose came hard and fast, and she began to slowly move towards Alistair. She got in his face, almost nose-to-nose, before she started talking.

‘I need men to fight. Not boys.’ She ground out.

‘I am a man.’

‘No. You may act like one, but you are still just a child.’ She sneered. ‘And I’ll be damned before I let you fight by my side when you are just a boy.’

Alistair’s face crumpled despite his best efforts to remain defiant. His lower lips wobbled. His eyes teared up, a select few tears escaping the corners and running down his cheeks.

‘So I’m just to wait?’ He asked, his voice trembling, his hands shaking.

‘Who will look after the boys if we’re both gone?’ Her voice softened, and her hand cupped his cheek, her thumb swiping away the tears it met. Alistair hung his head. ‘You must protect them whilst I fight for us, son.’

Alistair always seemed so old and mature to Arthan. But in that moment, when his face finally crumpled into snotty sobs, and his thin, small arms wrapped around the back of their mother – he was just a baby. A baby that was as scared as the rest of them.

‘Come back to us.’ He blubbered, the spit at the corners of his mouth bubbling from his emotion.

Mama kissed him on the head. ‘Not even Badb could keep me away.’

Her eyes turned to the others. She crossed the room to reach them, her arms spread out to take all three of them into her bosom. Alistair fell back into his seat behind her, his face falling into his hands, his shoulders violent trembling a clear indication of the sobs that racked his body.

Her smile enveloped them, all dirt and plants after it has rained. It was the smell of comfort and safety. But what would they do when it was gone?

‘Take care of each other whilst I’m away, okay?’ She said. The boys nodded against her, all too busy crying to answer her with words.

She left only an hour later. To travel to the coast to try her best to defend them and their people. The boys stayed up, day and night, Ciarán and Alistair taking turns to take watch, to await a messenger to give them some sort of update on their mother.

But no news came.

Perhaps a month later – who knows how long, Arthan was too caught up to keep track of time – a guard atop the palisade of the hillfort began to scream and shout. Alistair was first to reach him, and he too screamed and shouted when he spotted their Mama’s large force making their way up the hill.

They had returned.

Mama had come back, not a scratch on her skin, not a tear on her face – but a large, dazzling grin.

They’d defeated the Roman forces, led by a man they called ‘Caesar’. Mama mocked him and his preparation. In her confident arrogance, she tore apart his reputation, unbelieving that such an under-prepared man could manage to conquer Gaul. Poets sang of their exploits, of their ease in thwarting a Roman invasion.

So, when news of Caesar’s second arrival reached them just a year later, nobody worried. Nobody cried, nobody fretted, when Mama left for the South with her forces in tow. The boys had even fetched her weapons for her, dropping them in her lap with obnoxious laughter. They hung over the top of the defensive walls, waving goodbye and running along the palisade as her forces began their move.

She’d only been gone for 2 weeks when a messenger arrived, telling how the Trinovantes, perhaps the most powerful tribe of the South, had allied themselves with Caesar.

Alistair was furious. Arthan, Dylan and Ciarán huddled out in the rain in the stables, preferring to be miserable and wet instead of being in the house whilst he rampaged in there. The messenger brought no direct word from Mama. Dylan cried silently to himself, his back facing them, not willing to let them see. Ciarán tried his best to console him, to take on Alistair’s role - but he was inexperienced. Arthan watched his failed attempt from a bale of hay, his small hand choosing to stroke at a horse’s nose. The emotions didn’t overwhelm him. He couldn’t remember why – he either didn’t understand the gravity of this betrayal, or he was entirely confident in his Mama’s abilities. Caesar had been defeated once, how hard would it be, the second time?

It was 4 more weeks before the tribe saw the returning force coming up the hill.

Only it was smaller. Significantly smaller. Arthan watched as they stumbled up the hill. Some men limped, some walked with the aid of a friend – but many were carried by horses, slumped lifelessly over their saddles, their arms dangling limply and their legs ending in bloody stumps. At the back of the force, wooden carriages pulled along, filled to the brim with something – the horses visibly strained from the weight. It was only when they got closer did Arthan realise they were filled with corpses, mangled and butchered past the point of recognition, the only colour visible amongst them the shocking shade of violent red.

Arthan ducked under the wooden palisade, his hands quickly clutching at his face as he began to cry. Of course, he’d seen dead bodies before – but not like that. Alistair stood behind him, his green eyes staring down hard, scanning for their mother in the ravaged force. He crouched, scooping Arthan into his arms, settling him on his prepubescent hip.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said, his voice impossibly soft for the circumstances, ‘Mama’s right there.’

Arthan followed the point of his finger, down across the grass and to her unmistakeable red hair. But it only made him tremble.

That look of terror did not belong on Mama’s face. She was calm and collected, strong and wilful. Nothing caught her off guard. But the sight of her then, the severe limp in her leg, her eyes bulging in a manic craze, the blood covering her face blending sickly with the colour of her hair – whether from the wound on her cheek or someone else; Mama looked terrified.

It was a sight that Arthan would notice, hundreds of years later, as the sight of wartime trauma. The distant, hollow stare, oblivious of anything besides her, would be a feeling Arthan would come to know well.

He ducked himself further into his brother, trying his best to burrow into his armpit to cry. Alistair’s hand tangled into his hair, pressing the back of his head in a comforting gesture before he began to walk down to the gate, the other brother’s hot on his heels.

But Mama didn’t seem to be the slightest bit interested. Her gaze was far away, uninterested, as if she didn’t even recognise her four sons stood before her.

‘Mama.’ Alistair said. ‘What happened?’

Nothing. She didn’t even look at him.

‘Pritani.’ The boys looked at him. They never called her by her title. Her name was Mama.

But it worked, because her pupils finally focused, and her strained gaze fell on her eldest. She stood, clenching and unclenching her fists.

‘We were underprepared.’ She whispered. ‘We had to surrender.’

They stared at her.

‘This is it, Alistair. We are at war.’ Her eyes widened again, her eyebrows falling into a harsh scowl, her breath quickening from her nose. She stormed past them, past the crowd that gathered for answers, and she disappeared into the longhouse. They didn’t follow her. Alistair clutched Arthan tighter when his tears became sobs.

In the following years, Arthan grew. Only slightly, but when Ciarán marked his height on the wooden pole in the roundhouse they stayed in for the tenth time and he’d grown a couple centimetres, he celebrated like there was no war. Like there was no imminent threat of invasion.

But this supposed war – this war that brought men from tribes from all over, this war that forced Alistair to train Arthan harshly and endlessly – this war didn’t seem to exist.

Because of this threat, Mama chose to stay put at the current settlement. The boys missed the freedom of travel, but Arthan enjoyed that there was always food to eat, that he and his brothers didn’t have to personally catch.

But what he didn’t like was the suddenness of people in the settlement. Men from tribes from all over flocked to the hillfort for meetings. Tribesmen, chieftains – all those not allied with Rome collected to discuss supplies and training and strategies. At least that was what Arthan presumed many years later. As a child, he only recognised the tenseness and the influx of people.

Mama had said there was war, but more and more years passed with nothing happening, and Mama only grew more distant the more time that passed.

Gone was her laughter and her affection. No longer did she throw him in the air just to catch him. No longer did she play hide and seek with him and blow raspberries on his stomach when she caught him. No longer did she brush and braid his hair, just to feel his scalp against her fingers.

Now she only buried herself in plans with the chieftains, now she spent her dinners talking in hushed anger about Germania and Gaul. Now she spent weeks travelling to the coast by herself to watch the sea.

Alistair tried his best. He tried his best to replace her affections with his own – but he was just a child. And even when he didn’t act like it, he was just as afraid as the other boys were.

Many years had passed. The generation of Caesar had long ago left them, and even their children and their children had grown, and still, no war. And still, Arthan understood this situation no better. Still, their mother kept her distance.

Arthan missed her. His chest seized at her absence, and when he thought of how things used to be, a dark feeling opened in his chest that he was far too young to even begin to understand. How do you mourn someone that is still alive?

He missed his Mama.

The boys had started dining alone, without her. For many years, they kept a space for her at the table, a want that eventually turned into a naïve hope, before they accepted she dined over battle plans instead.

Dylan and Ciarán seemed to have lost hope completely. This was it. Mama would never return to them. But Arthan clutched onto his little white spot of hope. He still believed that she would one day return, and Alistair believed this too.

‘She’s scared.’ He’d say. ‘She wants to protect us. All of this will be worth it when Rome is finally dealt with, when he isn’t a threat anymore. She’ll come back to us when we have peace.’

Arthan would agree excitedly, but Dylan and Ciarán only ducked their heads.

So much time had passed since Caesar’s invasion. Many Britons had moved on – many had presumed the threat had passed, and Rome was no longer an invasion imminent. Pritani still demanded meetings. She still demanded training and trade and strategy planning.

Arthan had waited outside the longhouse in the cold and dark whilst Mama held a meeting inside. He learnt long ago that she didn’t like it when they all (except for Alistair) listened in on her meetings. So, he waited outside. He waited for the volume of voices to increase, and for the men – all apparently important – to funnel out of the building before he wandered in.

She stood at the head of the table, her eyes down, looking hard at a map. Her hands clutched the edge of the table tightly, to the point of paleness. She didn’t notice Arthan coming in, not till he called out a soft ‘Mama’, and her head shot up quickly to see him.

‘Arthan.’ She breathed. ‘What’s wrong?’

There she was, his Mama – she was still in there, buried underneath layers of stress and anger and pain. He didn’t know what to say. There was so much wrong he wouldn’t even know where to start.

‘I want a hug.’ He said. He wrung his fingers, looking away rather than at her.

‘A hug?’

He nodded, finally turning to look up at her. His mouth felt dry. His heart beat fast but he wasn’t sure why.

Mama sighed, and she finally sat on the chair behind her. She motioned for him to come closer and when he was within reach, she scooped him from the ground and into her lap. Arthan felt like he may cry. The feeling of her soft lips kissing at his cheek was a long-lost sensation. He missed his Mama. He didn’t stop the tears from leaking from his eyes and down his cheeks.

Sometimes, she showed the boys a glimmer of who she used to be. The loving and doting mother, obsessed with her children, full of so much love it drove her to war. But then this glimmer would disappear as quickly as it came, and they would be left, high and dry, with the delicious taste of their mother in their mouth that would rapidly turn to dust. Seeing these glimmers hurt more than not seeing them at all.

‘What’s wrong?’ She asked. She wiped at his face with the sleeve of her tunic, a dull shade of grey. Mama, for some reason, had stopped wearing her colourful clothes and her gaudy jewellery. She had reduced herself to her bare elements. Even her hair spent most of its time swept back into a plait nowadays.

‘Are you sad?’ He asked. Mama leant him back in her arms, moving to cradle him rather than hold.

‘No.’ Her voice was soft. Softer than he’d heard in a while. The tears came faster, and he clutched at the front of her tunic, squeezing it hard between his fist. ‘Are you sad?’

‘Yes.’ He sniffled. ‘Are you scared?’

She hesitated in answering, and even at Arthan’s young age, he knew that whatever was going to come from her mouth next, was a lie.

‘No. Are you scared?’

The tears began to choke him. They built in his throat, forcing a gargle and he had to nod to answer her. He pressed his face against her bosom, letting the tears from his eyes soak her clothes. Her smell, wet earth and fire – only made him cry harder.

‘Don’t be afraid. I am here.’ She soothed. Her hand wiped at his head, tried to pull his face away so she could see him, but he kept his face burrowed.

The fire crackled in the centre of the room, and Arthan focused on its crackle as he sniffled.

‘Maybe,’ he mumbled, ‘Rome won’t come again.’

The hands around him, Mama’s hands on his leg and his shoulder, began to tighten. ‘He will.’

‘But it’s been a long time.’

Her hands tightened to the point of pain, her hold on him beginning to force the breath from his chest. He whimpered, but when he looked to his mother, her eyes had widened and her mouth had stretched. The same far away look crept onto her face, and Arthan found himself pushing away from her.

‘That hurts.’

Her nails dug into his skin. ‘You must understand, Arthan. Rome is a test sent from the gods, and he will be back.’

Arthan pushed hard, and he fell to the dirt below him. Mama grabbed his arm, pulling him close again, her voice growing shrill.

‘He will take everything from us. Everything from you, Arthan – do you understand? He has already taken Gaul, and Germania – his greed only grows-’

‘What’s going on?’ Alistair entered the longhouse, Ciarán and Dylan closely behind him, clutching onto one another. He frowned angrily when he noticed her grasp, striding forward, peeling Mama’s fingers from his arm before pushing him towards the others. He didn’t notice his own strength, as Arthan tumbled hard into the dusty dirt, scraping his knees and the palms of his hands.

‘Rome is just on the horizon, Alistair.’ Mama looked as if she were about to cry. Dylan picked Arthan up from the ground, Ciarán pulling him close to his side.

‘Don’t scare the kid!’ He shouted. Ciarán shuffled them further back, closer to the entrance, ready to bolt at any moment. ‘Boys, go outside. Go to bed, I’ll be right there.’

Arthan shrugged off Ciarán’s hands and fled from the room, desperate for the cold air and the separation from his mother. He was sad. He wanted to go home.

Ciarán and Dylan followed him out, soft hands pushing him towards home, where dinner had been cooking over the fire. Venison and leeks, Ciarán had served and they’d eaten and prepared for bed by the time Alistair came back. He returned alone. He said nothing, but his frown was low whilst he dressed for bed. Ciarán served him a bowl, his eyes sad as he looked to him for answers. But Alistair was quiet till he sat besides the fire.

‘Mama’s not very well. But, she’ll get better.’ The flame flickered, casting oranges and yellows against his pale skin. The shadows of his face darkened, and he appeared years his elder. The responsibilities of a man on the shoulders of a boy.

The boys were silent, the only noise emitting from the fire and the tinkles of wooden spoons against clay bowls. Arthan’s hands still shook, and he spent most of dinner spilling it in his lap rather than putting it in his mouth.

φ

In the coming weeks, winter turned into spring, and spring turned into summer. Summer was Arthan’s favourite time of year. Warm weather and an abundance of food, it was also the time of year for his favourite festival – Lithe. Lithe marked the summer solstice and the longest day of the year – but Arthan just liked the singing and feasting.

Mama’s choice to stay North over the past four decades had changed the political state of his nation, though Arthan didn’t know it. He knew the Catuvellauni, who they’d been staying with, had moved and captured Camulodunon, but he didn’t know what that was, or what it meant. Ciarán told him it was the biggest settlement in the whole of Pritani, well protected by the hillfort there as well as the 3 rivers that surrounded it. It made perfect sense for the family to travel for the festival.

And it certainly was the biggest Arthan had ever seen. On approach, the top of the hillfort was visible from miles around, even from above the treeline. Its great wooden fences soared high into the air, sharp spikes lining its periphery. Even from their distance, Arthan could see men marching along its lengths, trained and watchful eyes guarding the surrounding land.

When they’d passed through the woods and crossed one of the rivers, its banks fit to burst from the recent summer storm, the wealth of the land became visible. An ocean of small roundhouses, each settled on a piece of tamed farmland, a green sea of crops shooting from the wet arable land, livestock animals meandering and grazing. Arthan had never seen so much farmland in one place. The lord must be rich in food. He doubted he would ever have to hunt again.

There was a sharp feeling of eyes as they made their way past the ditches and hills of the fort. Alistair grumbled at this – don’t they know who we are? But Arthan supposed the lord was rich for a reason; all newcomers are suspicious till proven not.

Once allowed past the gate (it had even had iron locks), the oppidum spread open, revealing a vast town that seemed to spread from either side of the horizon. It certainly was the biggest settlement Arthan had ever seen.

And it had been thoroughly decorated for the festival. Strings of dried fruit hung between buildings, assortments of flowers pinned to walls and beams and posts, their colourful petals coating the ground they walked on. The smell of roasting meat was thick in the air, each of the roundhouses heavy with hustle and bustle as the settlement prepared for the week-long feasting. Piles of wood scattered across the ground – bonfires, heavy with magic, prepped and ready for burning. In the distance, Arthan could hear the disorganised beating of drums and out of tune lyres. Musicians practicing enough to put a grin on his face.

But Mama didn’t even smile once. The tension rolled off of her, and though Alistair tried his best to smile past it, eventually he too succumbed to whatever anxiety their Mama worried over.

Had Arthan been older he may have been able to look past it, but this clear anxiety infected him too. The festival was brilliant – an early morning rise for a full breakfast before heading to the centre of the hillfort for the beginning sacrifice. Music and celebrations, bonfires blazing that people danced and sung around, some leaping through for good luck and blessings. But Arthan didn’t enjoy any of it. Something was wrong. Something very important that Mama and Alistair weren’t talking about.

Mama didn’t join for the evening feast, which only made it worse. Not only was that bad luck, but Mama had locked herself away with a few lords, which could only ever mean bad news.

That night, Arthan laid himself to sleep, staying in one of the small roundhouses on the edge of the hillfort. Mama and Alistair still hadn’t returned, but the boys were tired from their day of celebrations, so they were unable to stay up even if they wanted to.

But Arthan was woken in the middle of the night by the distant sound of yelling. He curled up tighter, covering his ears with his hands, assuming people had simply drunk too much in their celebrating and had chosen to bother everyone else with their joviality. But there was a bang, and when he opened his eyes, Alistair had barged into the room, his eyes wide and startled. They landed on Arthan, and he darted forward to lift him onto his hip, nearly dropping him in his alarm.

‘Ciaràn! Dylan!’ He yelled, moving quick to drag them up to stand. ‘Get up, we have to go!’

‘What’s happening?’ Dylan rubbed at his eyes. His hair stood on end, frazzled and messed from a restless sleep.

‘We have to move to the longhouse.’ Alistair pulled him to his feet, pushing him toward Ciaràn, who had bolted from his sleep much faster than the others. Arthan began trembling, and he quickly put his thumb in his mouth for a semblance of comfort. Alistair ducked his head to get a good look at him, his deep eyes concerned, one of his young hands hugging his legs tightly and the other cupping his face, thumb stroking the sleep away from his eyes.

‘Rome is coming.’

Nothing more needed to be said. Sleep eradicated from their eyes, shock and adrenaline pulsing through their bodies, and the boys were instantly awake, fast in their dash for the longhouse. It was the middle of the night, but the hillfort was thick with people. Farmers from the land surrounding had flocked atop the hill with their families and their livestock, all sharing the same idea to get as close to the longhouse as possible. The decorations for Lithe looked limp and pathetic in the dark, whilst the hillforts people feared for their lives.

Alistair barged past them, shoving with surprising strength till they got inside.

It was carnage. The fire, neglected, had reduced to embers, leaving little light to see. But Mama was visible enough – standing with the local lord, clearly shouting but her voice drowned out by the volume of the room. She held a shield, and she looked frantic in her movements as she seemed to argue with the lord. As they approached, the lord began to plead.

‘They have already defeated a force, Pritani! They may be crossing the Thames as we speak!’ He cried.

‘All the more to muster our forces and intercept before they reach us!’ Even in the dim light, Arthan could see her face reddening as she shouted, panic setting in before she could stop it.

‘We can’t gather a force big enough to last against them. This is Camulodunon, this is the safest place you could be.’ The lord said. ‘We would do better to fortify ourselves here. Our location is an excellent natural defence, and it’s Lithe – the fort is full of food.’

Mama stared hard at him, her arms gone limp by her side and her lips rolled into a tight line.

‘Listen to me, Pritani. We have a better chance here. Meeting them in battle is a death sentence.’

‘As opposed to allowing them to siege us? So we can starve inside instead?’

The room had gone eerily quiet. Each pair of eyes trailed the two powers, nervously shifting where they stood, awaiting a final decision – anticipation hung thickly in the air, but lay fogged by the oppressive feeling of anxiety. The Romans were marching. Now was not the time for indecision.

‘We must send multiple riders. They must appeal to the other tribes for reinforcements. I know at least a few all too willing.’ Without Mama’s agreement, the lord plucked a few men from the crowd, who quickly ran from the building to set off. ‘We have months worth of food. If they were to choose any fort, Camulodunon was the right choice. We know this emperor is crippled and weak. Have trust, Pritani.’

Mama looked torn. Her face twisted into uncertainty and the shadows under her eyes seemed to deepen as they watched. Her face hardened.

‘Then we cannot waste anymore time. We must fortify ourselves.’ An eruption of noise and movement as the orders were shouted, and Arthan tucked his head closer to Alistair’s neck. It took Mama too long to take notice of them.

‘Alistair.’ She said, her voice hard and firm as stone. Arthan felt him stand taller – he didn’t want him to put him down, so he grabbed at the front of his cloak, firmly tightening his grip. ‘This is serious now. You must take charge of you and your brother’s safety.’

She grabbed both sides of his face, bringing them almost nose-to-nose.

‘You’re able, my love. You’re an excellent fighter. I will see you on the other side. I love you.’ She kissed his forehead, rubbing his cheek fondly before looking away and towards Arthan.

‘Don’t be scared, child. Alistair is big and strong, right?’ He nodded slowly. ‘Exactly. So there’s nothing to be afraid of. Mama loves you, okay?’

Arthan’s eyes flooded with tears and they quickly began to invade his face. Through the thick of them he barely saw Mama hug Dylan and Ciarán goodbye, and he only vaguely recognised her turning back and dash to her duty. His legs trembled despite Alistair’s strong hold, and he very suddenly wished to be anywhere but here. He was afraid.

In the coming hours Alistair kept them in the longhouse. He made a mad dash for their roundhouse for their weapons, believing something was better than nothing.

He strapped the quiver around Arthan’s back for him, handing him the small wooden bow that had never been built for combat. His face was grim when he said, ‘Shoot only when you have to, okay, Arthan?’

In the dark moonless night, a heavy storm cloud crept over the land, settling over the hillfort with a heavy downpour. The boys watched through the doorway as the dirt road morphed into thick sludge. Alistair said it was good, as it would make the incline too slippery to storm, but Arthan wondered what would happen if they got past that.

Soon, a distant rumbling began sounding. Arthan cried out in fear, but the streaking of bright, blue light, jagged tendrils of heat clawing across the clouds in the black sky, reassured him it was only another thunderstorm.

Still, more time passed. There at the doorway of the longhouse, the boys sat at the highest point of the hillfort. They faced the South, giving them perfect view of the approaching Roman army – whenever they got there.

In the cold air of the night, Arthan eventually sat and began to nod off, startling himself awake whenever he fell asleep. The lord’s wife took pity and served them some leftovers from the feast, but Alistair was too anxious to eat and Arthan struggled to through his tremors.

It was late past midnight, perhaps closer to dawn, when the boys collectively watched as a bolt of blue struck across the sky, its blinding light illuminating a sudden dark mass out on the horizon. But the bolt disappeared as quickly as it came, and the world was thrust back into a stifling darkness. There was no moon, no stars; without the flashes of lightning, the night was a dark unknown.

Alistair shot to his feet and raced outside, pacing and straining to make out the distance, till then – another flash of lightning. Racing across the clouds, illuminating the world beneath it, revealing once again the dark mass that had moved closer.

In the distance, the haunting song of the carnyx sounded, flying through the doorway and chilling Arthan to his bones. He had never heard it used in battle before.

The roar of men joined the song, and out there in the dark, small dots of light began growing. The torches of the Roman army being lit. Only it spread, quick and far – the distant torchlight showed an army that spread from either side of the horizon. Another spark shot across the sky, and all of the men, and the banners, and the riders and war machines – they all came into awe-inspiring vision.

Arthan had never seen anything like it.

Alistair stormed back inside, and he quickly swept all three of them into the furthest corner of the longhouse. He turned to the lord’s wife, and her servants, and he huddled them over too. Just a boy, to protect them all.

He returned to the doorway, clutching at the wall as he took guard. He would watch the battle, scan their approach, act if necessary.

Arthan squatted with his brothers and the women. He feared not knowing what was happening – but the remembered image of the Roman force – so large it seemed to swallow the land whole – it made him urgently need the toilet. But he would hold it, because he was a big boy and big boys don’t wet themselves.

The roars and rumbles grew in volume, a steady hum of hell audibly approaching fast. Arthan didn’t need to be looking to recognise the clash of metal as the two forces collided in the fields.

He ducked his head, squeezing it further into Dylan’s lap, covering his ears so not to hear the approaching doom. But even then, the howls of battle were unavoidable. Even through his small, chubby hands, the noise of pain and death leaked through his fingers and swam in his ears.

But then the screaming of women began.

There was a deafening bang and Arthan was dragged to his feet, Alistair yanking him and his brothers from the ground.

‘We have to go!’ He yelled. His eyes were frenzied, they darted across the room as his hand rushed to his neck. He was panicking. ‘We have to get out of here!’

He rushed back to the doorway and the boys and women followed him.

Arthan froze in his tracks. In the doorway he faced the Southern gate. The gate, a great, heaving wood, its iron locks – he’d only just seen it that morning – lay smashed on the ground, split apart and embedded in the mud. People ran through the centre of the settlement, running from the gate – but, no. Running from men. From Romans, glinting in the firelight in their silver armour, the red of their uniform darkened in patches, soaked in blood that dripped down skin and watered the ground below them.

When Arthan needed to flee, he stood rooted to the ground. Every muscle in his body was unable to move, leaving him paralysed to watch the carnage before him. He watched as his own men rushed through the gate to intercept the enemy. He watched as Roman men befell and butchered them, hacking them apart through bursts of blood, barking laughter and loud whoops sounding through the screams. Women ran, only to fall and be caught, thrown about before being struck with their swords, their heads split from their bodies, their bodies touched in ways Arthan couldn’t understand.

Alistair dragged him, clutched him by the back of the neck to push him away.

‘Arthan, run!’ He yelled. ‘To the North gate!’

He slipped in the mud, falling face-first in the sludge in his attempt to run, and Alistair had to lift and partially carry him before he set him back down.

Through the panic, he could spot Mama, who must have bolted from the fields to the gate when it came crashing down. Her hair was wild, fallen (or perhaps ripped) from the plait that had laid down her back. Her eyes, wide and crazed, blinking past the flow of blood that ran down her forehead. If she had been struck in the head, she did not act like it. Arthan had spent years and years watching her train, but never had he seen her in the thick of battle. Swift-footed, she danced through her motions, swinging and slicing, cutting through enemies as if they were only leaves in the wind. How could the Romans defeat that? How could his Mama, the Pritani, ever be cut down in battle?

But then, the shriek of something loud penetrated the air, and the ground began to shake as something incredibly large began to storm them. Arthan split his eyes from his Mama, and the three boys turned, turned to glimpse through the sudden smoke, the homes around them set ablaze amongst the clamour, to see a great, huge beast, grey skin stained with the red of blood, this long, stretching nose -

Arthan couldn’t even get a good look at it, as it was approaching and fast – crushing people and children under its feet as it stormed.

He didn’t have to be pushed to begin running again. Alistair turned, bow in experienced hands, quickly firing a shot at the box strapped atop the great beast, but he missed. Arthan caught up with Dylan and Ciaràn, the women already long gone, and they broke into a full sprint towards the North Gate – clear of Romans but a long distance away.

But the ground was too wet, and Arthan was already blinded by the mud in his eyes and was too young to keep up his balance or his pace. The boys began to trek ahead, leaving Arthan further and further behind, unknowing in their panic –

And then he slipped.

A defensive palisade – a ditch carved into the ground, just at the edge of the fence – and Arthan slipped on the mud, carrying him straight down and into the path of a Roman.

He thrust himself up, scooting himself away, the wet mud squelching between his fingers, soaking his arms and the sleeves of his tunic. He could hear himself whimpering, but the screams of his name started suddenly as Dylan and Ciarán noticed his disappearance.

The Roman advanced on him quickly, a cruel grin on his mouth. Arthan fumbled for his bow, his hands shaking too violently to keep hold of the arrow he pulled from his quiver. The soldier laughed at him before he grabbed him by the ankles and began dragging him through the mud. He yelled, wailed out for Alistair, but the mud flooded his mouth and stuck in his throat, and he had to heave in hopes to breathe.

The man stopped pulling him, and Arthan looked up to see another man, staring down at him with a hard glare. He scrambled onto all fours, hoping to crawl away, but his legs got pulled again. He heard his name, screamed in panic – Alistair, atop the ditch, shrieking for him –

But a soldier fell atop him, and Alistair had to turn to defend himself, and Arthan reached out his hand, crying for his brother –

But then there was a sharp, sparking pain at the back of his head, and his eyes went white and his body went numb –

φ