True Tomas and the 9th Legion

True Tomas

The roundhouse at Caer Ebrauc had been re-Brythonicised since Cartimanuda had taken to Rome for her own safety. The tiles had been overlaid with rushes, the "effiminate" (in Venutios' words) furniture had been replaced with trestle tables and benches of good Brigantian oak, and the frescoes of Roman mythology covered with tapestries of scenes from the Brut y Brenhinedd [History of the Kings of Britain], brought from Gaer Garreg: Brutus founding Troia Nova, Bladud, Britain's great magician, Lier, suffering through his daughters, Llhud who founded Caer Lundem and Myrddin, fighting with two dragons.

A central fire cast a warm glow on the figures, reflecting on the gold-coloured threads of their armour and weapons, and on the fiery flames that shot from the dragons' mouths, making them seem alive. The effect was magnified by the draft from the door, which made the figures seem to move – it was as though the ghosts of the past lived among them, inspiring them to new deeds worthy of the Brut.

In the high seat, at the centre of the high table, sat Venutios – Brenhin y Brigantiad – high king of the Brigantes. At least, that is what he called himself, though, technically, since his divorce from Cartimandua, he was only king of one of the sub-tribes of Brigantia, the Garregi, though, with Cartimandua gone, he was Brigantia's de facto king.

He was now in his early 50's, but still a magnificent figure of a man. He had a magnificent mane of ox-blood red hair, now streaked with grey, and the long drooping moustache with no beard that was then the fashion among Brythonic warriors. He held his head held high with pride and passion (which sometimes overcame his reason) and looked at you with steely blue eyes that mastered you and claimed your loyalty, though, tonight, they seemed clouded, and his usually clear brow was furrowed as though something was troubling him. In an effort to put his troubles aside, he took a deep draft of mead and called on Moryd, his bardd [bard] to sing again of his victory over Cartimandua.

Moryd picked up his clarsach (Celtic harp), sounded a rippling arpeggio, and began:

"Ugh, ugh!" he coughed, clearing his throat. "Syr, forgive me, my old voice..."

He coughed again, then chanted:

Venutios deployed his army

around the walls of Caer Ebrauc,

He placed his powerful siege engines,

fashioned by a Roman captive,

strategically before the gatehouse.

He was prepared now – unlike last time –

and would prevail, even if a legion

reinforced the city's garrison..."

"Ugh, ugh!" spluttered Moryd. "Syr, forgive me..."

Venutios controlled his urge to snap at the faithful old bard and said instead, "Pour a few horns of mead down your throat! That should do the trick! Now, is there anyone else who can sing me a battle lay?"

There was a minor commotion at the back of the hall and voices were heard saying, "Go on, Tomas, you can do it!" followed by the protest, "No, I can't! I'm a rhymer, not a bardd!" Nevertheless, he was pushed forward to the high table.

"Well, young man, recite!" the king commanded, at which Tomas repeated his protest:

"Syr! I'm a rhymer not a bardd. I can't sing that kind of battle lay, and I can't play the clarsach. This is my instrument." He held up a geitryn [gittern]. "I sing love songs for the ladies – and sometimes praise songs for the lords – but they're all short."

"Sing us a love song!" chorused the ladies.

Branwen, Venutios' queen, now in her late 30's, but still beautiful – the result of her high cheekbones and cosmetic routine (which made much use of morning dew), added her appeal, and my lord acquiesced.