Jimmy Loong
May 7th 2016
the tale on a legend.
Part
I
The
first knights.
0
The
solitary fisherman in the rounded floating contraption was oval in shape alike
to a half shell. The framework was of interwoven willow rods tied to the bark.
The outer layer of the contraption was an animal skin covered with a layer of
tar. The fisherman rowed the contraption which bottom was only mere inches
below and appeared bobbing instead sailing on the water. The fisherman somehow
managed to steer the contraption later to be known as the coracle used then off
the coasts of Wales. The fisherman rowed on with the small paddle and reached
the spot which marked his fish trap. It was a fish weir; a series of sticks and
stones to form a V shape trap in the shallow end where the fishes once swam in
will be trapped there with the narrow V opening. He reached into the water to
test the stakes there.
“It’s
still there.” The fisherman muttered to himself. He looked to the right and saw
the high cliffs there. It was a steady formation and he had always thought of
building his home there on the edge. It will be his grand home overlooking the
inlet here. He envisaged himself standing on the edge looking out to the sea by
the stacked woods. Once he seen those plunderers he will light up the signal
there by burning the stacked woods. The village two mile inland will have
adequate time to pack and leave for the nearby hills. It may arouse the
sentries at the old castle at about three miles the other direction but he
doubt the Lord there will spare any of his staff to help the village. The old
sod is useless like the old battlements; for show and not of any other use. By
then he would had run for the sea caves and hid there. It was all so simple but
nothing was ever simple then. Well for one, the fishes ain’t biting that
season. It must be the sea or the plunderers. They have come from across the
sea and took what they want. It does not matter what as long its’ of value to
them. There were over three hundred of the villagers then with a hundred able
bodied men but with the relentless attacks, they have halves in the numbers
with about twenty able bodied men remaining. The fought the earlier battles but
each time they lost, they lose a dozen more men. It was a stupid move to fight
against them. They learned to run soon after. Maybe the fishes knew that too
and avoided the inlet.
The
fisherman rowed the contraption to the side and then docked there. He climbed
out and looked to the skies. It won’t rain that day from his reckoning but he
was wrong on many occasions. He grabbed his empty basket and walked back to the
village. He hoped his friends have better luck than him. While he was to take
the path back his instinct told him to look behind. He did and saw the fleet
there. He dropped the basket and ran. He has a head start but he wished he had
both legs to run on. His left leg was maimed at the knee and he had the
assistance of the wooden stick which was his paddle. He hobbled on while
calling out at the top of his voice. He needed to do that to warn the others.
All then in his mind was this thought.
“It
was too early in the season and they kept on coming back much earlier. It had
to stop.”
1
Aron
Bedyr stared at the earthen jug that was used to serve the toxic drink he had
drunk half of it. He had not tasted anything then for his parched throat wanted
was something to wet it. He had stood there for hours on the square with the
dozen others waiting for the ceremony to be over then. It was his final
servitude as the Centurion to the ever mighty Roman Empire. He had stood there in his full armor and
weapons to listen to the Senator there complete his speech on the empire. The
later had the luxury of standing beneath the cotton canopy but not the faithful
Roman finest. They were lined up like the offerings at the slave market except
this line up was at the end of their service then. They were soon to be
citizens of the Rome Empire.
Fifteen
years he had served the Empire. He was Aron the Mad or to his friends then,
Arthur. He joined as a young recruit to be given the distinct citizenship of
the Empire and a piece of land for his service on the end of it. He had joined
with three of his friends but only he had remained alive for the final ceremony.
Both his friends, Uru and Dunt died during training. During those training
days, there were the harsh sessions of training with the brutal beatings by the
trainers. Above all, they were Welsh and never liked by the others, for they
stood together. They were at it then during meals and in fights. They trained
harder and it was then he lost his first friend who lost his life during a mock
fight. Their opponents were rival Roman trainees which just arrived then. It
was a grueling day of marching and then the ring side fight with knuckles.
Uru
got cornered by two of the Romans while the others were preoccupied with the
odds of eight against five. Two picked on Uri and was decimating him with
punches. Aron saw the punched up but he was having the clubbing of his own opponent.
He landed the right fist in a closed punch at the Roman’s midriff and followed
up with a left handed fist into the right shoulder. The second punch raised the
Roman face for a direct right fist into it. That fixed the Roman and Aron
turned to his friend. He saw Uru dropped to his knees and was chopped by the
standing Roman. The Roman was then laying kicks on the fallen Uru. Aron tried
to assist but he was intercepted by his opponent who had recovered. The Roman
dropped him with a body slam and both went down. Aron pushed his arms inside
the struggle and jabbed his right fingers into the Roman’s eyes. With the Roman
crying out in pain, Aron managed to kick free and then used his fists to
clobber the Roman. He rolled over and turned to look at Uru but the other was
flat on the ground. He was trampled by the two Romans. By then the training was
called off but Uru died from his wounds. Nothing was done for him as he was
Welsh. Dunt died just before the final training. He was found with the gladius
wound on his back at the barracks.
Then
there was only Aron and he made it to the battlefields where he fought from the
Gaul to the Picts. It mattered not who they are but once the order was given,
he will march to kill them all. He had the use of the pilus; the long handled
spear or the gladius, his trusted blade. He will thrust or slash where needed
and deflect with his shield. He will slam his body against the other and hope
to draw first blood or die trying. Death evaded him somehow although the wounds
were aplenty. He was told that in battle, ‘you do not feel the pain until it’s
was over. Once you have lowered the shield or pulled the embedded gladius, then
you will feel it all. The spurting blood for the cuts and the second wave of
numbness stepped in. You will turn and walk to the line before collapsing
there. Most times, you can’t remember much after that except to be ready for
the next call of battle.’
“Hey,
Arthur.” The one who spoke was another Centurion. His name was Jules Carna but
everyone who knew him hailed him as Julius. “We are going to miss you.”
Arthur
looked at the man who called him. Julius was a tall German who had pledged his
life to the Empire. He was one year short of the long awaited rewards. He was
clean shaven at the top but his parts of the body were covered with hair. He
once boasted that he was probably a werewolf when it comes to the full moon. He
placed his mug on the table which Arthur had taken for himself. Then he placed
the Centurion helmet next to it. The sideway horse crest design was the mark of
the rank. Arthur had returned his to the Senator when the late requested it.
“It’s
a fine helmet but let us retained it for the next promoted Centurion.” The
Senator had told him with a sneer on the face. He knew the message that he was
not keep it for his heritage and above all, he had once confronted the Senator
on the killing of some slaves.
“Still
the sour face, huh?” Julius sat himself at the table and then reached for the
jug. He poured himself a tall one and then continued on.
“Arthur,
brighten up. You got your parchment and piece of land to call your own.”
“Back
off, Julius. I am no more the Centurion to them or to you for now.” Arthur
replied. “But give me a day or two, and I will be back. It will be then Prime
and you will hailed to me.”
“Prime?
Yourself? Please Arthur. Do me a favor and rolled over and die.” Julius burst
out laughing. “The Eagle needs no more of your service. Retire and find
yourself a whore to be your wife.”
“I
had a wife then and she died before I joined the Legionnaires. Mention one more
time of my wife and I will have your throat slit.” Arthur voiced out in anger and
the other had ignored him.
“Arthur,
you hold too much anger inside you. Let the past be bygones. Retire and be
yourself with the land.” Julius took a swig of the fermented drink. He then
used his wrist to rub off the spill over from his lips. “The Legion is leaving
in a week. We are going back to the main continent. The Visigoths had crossed
the lines once for more. Emperor Honorius III had recalled the Legion to stem
the invasion.”
“What
of the island?”
“Provicia
Britannia will be self-ruled by the Civitaes. It’s their land after all.”
Julius replied and then call for a toast to Rome.
“We
return to defend our home. Yes to Rome we will defend.” Julius voice was
carried throughout the tavern and many joined him and Arthur also raised his
mug to salute on their next campaign. He looked to the others seated there in
the tavern. Some of them were from his cohort but they ignored him. Arthur was
a strict Centurion and he had few friends among the Legionnaires. They would
have knifed him in the back many times but he was a renowned fighter with any
of his weapon including the pugio; the dagger he had on his waist belt. He took
his drink and then staggered out of the tavern. It was dusk then and the crowds
were rushing for their supper at their home. He has no home to go with the
barracks sealed from him. He staggered on along the cobbled street and then
disappeared into the side paths. The doors there were closed but he knew of one
which may open to him. He reached out with his hands to steady himself on the
walls and took each step with the caution of the young child.
Suddenly
his instinct kicked in and saved him a splitting headache. The blow landed on
his right shoulder at the back but the Centurion was alert then. It was his
years of fighting that assist him in shaking off the drunken stupor and made
him what he was once. He pulled at the gladius on his waistband and stabbed it
with a reverse thrust. He felt the blade cut in deep into flesh before he
withdrew it. He then stepped forward before turning to look at the attacker. It
was a hired hand off the alleys dressed in the loose tunic and belted sandals.
The attacker was holding his left ribs where the gladius had cut. The attacker
was not alone but there were three more with him.
“Retreat
while you still hold of your legs.” Arthur cautioned them but the three hired
hands spread out holding the wooden stick as their weapon. At the tip of the
stick were the embedded nails which could tear a Man’s flesh. Arthur feigned
moves with his gladius at them. Without warning, the middle figure charged at
him with an upper swing of the stick at Arthur’s head but the later had side
stepped and used his gladius in a tight swing at the middle section of the
attacker. He cut the attacker across the torso and then when for the attack on
the left attacker. The later was standing there for an opening brought his
stick down to deflect the gladius thrust. Arthur had seen that move and with
his left hand had grabbed the pugio at the waist belt to stab at the attacker
in the throat. It was a deadly move which drew blood from the dying attacker.
Arthur did not stop there and swung the gladius in a wide swing at the
remaining attacker on the right arm to dislodge the stack held by it. He then
withdrew to the wall to watch his dying attackers screamed at their wounds.
“Surely
you are a sad Centurion to spare the life of these low born?” The voice came
from above of Arthur.
