To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Eight: The Ggaron

       They resumed their journey, this time on horseback, sorry as the steeds were, slowly making their way through the woods. They had not buried the bodies.

       The fourth horse was tethered to Raphael's mount and carried their packs and assorted goods from their various conquests. Rebecca again brought up the rear while Carl scouted in front, only he scouted farther ahead.

       When they had started out Carl had glanced at his wrist watch. It was three-thirty, for he had adjusted it at noon. He would get a more precise fix as he had the sun to guide him each day. He had bought the solar-powered watch when the price dropped. Supposedly, it would never run down, so long as there was enough sun in England to keep it going. Perhaps the watches Rebecca or Raphael owned had springs, which a skillful craftsman could copy. Even ancient warriors could use timepieces to coordinate attacks.

       It took an hour to reach the southern edge of the woods where they paused before leaving the shelter of the trees. Ahead lay high grass, in a broad, shallow valley, which led into the foothills. Patches of timber dotted the grassland to the west, and a path or road lay ahead.

       Carl scanned the woods and the meadow, until the road entered the woods well over a mile away. A spring gushing forth near their feet provided water for the lush pasture. "Let's pause here and decide on a course of action," he said. "We'll rest the ponies."

       Rebecca chimed in after drinking from the spring herself. "I can use the rest, and I know that Raphael can." She felt his forehead.

       They remained just within the tree line, in filtered sun, with the ponies tethered to the trees while Rebecca redressed Raphael's wound. It had opened again when he had grabbed the pony's reins.

       The stillness was broken by irregular squeaks, like a bicycle hand brake against a rusty wheel rim. All turned toward the sound in time to see a caravan break from the woods half a mile to the east, traveling along the barely visible road.

       There were five guards on horses, not ponies, and a caravan of five wagons, each pulled by two oxen. The lead wagon had a high canopy, somewhat like a gypsy wagon. The others had goods stacked even with the side boards, but covered with mottled cloth or canvas. One of the men sitting in the lead wagon called to the captain of the guard, who turned back to talk with him.

       "Look at that," Rebecca whispered. "It's like an American Western."

       The captain of the guards called out a series of commands, and the little caravan split for the evening, forming into a box shape, with one wagon on each side, the covered wagon inside the rough square.

       "Should we go and introduce ourselves?" Carl's lips were twisted, only partly from the split.

       "So far the people we've met have tried to kill us," Raphael whispered. "They don't want to talk with us."

       "I'm leery, too," Rebecca said. "I'd love to join them since it looks like they're going to cook dinner, but those five guards look mean. They're well dressed and they have swords and pikes. I'm not sure how close they would let us get before charging."

       Carl looked at Raphael, whose face was flushed. He felt the fever on his brow. "We might be able to get help for Raphael, or at least directions on how to get to Bath the shortest . . ."

       He was interrupted by shouts from the caravan, the guards pointing to the south where ten men mounted on ponies rushed from the woods, followed by another six men on foot. The horsemen carried swords, the footmen short pikes.

       Like gods on Mount Olympus observing the antics of men, the trio watched the drama unfold—a violent drama. The guards mounted and formed a line, four men abreast. Bunched together, they raised their swords and hefted small round shields then rode slowly toward the oncoming bandits. The captain stood aside observing the scene, looking for other bandits.

       The bandits perceptibly slowed before the leader pulled two other horsemen aside to attack the solitary captain while the remainder rushed against the four guards. The sounds of battle could be heard clearly from where the three time travelers watched, totally absorbed in the tableau. The guards' swords and closed ranks took a heavy toll. One bandit died in the first rush, two were badly wounded and withdrew.

       Meanwhile, the captain of the guard had spurred his massive black horse into the three bandits as they closed on him, catching them unprepared. He split the leader with a flashing sword to the head, then wheeled his horse into one of the other riders and bowled his pony over. As the man fell from his horse, the captain slashed into his side, spilling blood.

       The third horseman had not hesitated, which was the correct tactic. He charged his pony into the captain's horse, leaping onto him, both of them tumbling to the ground. Both regained their feet, but the captain suddenly straightened with a dirk in his side. As he knelt on the ground he whipped his sword across the legs of the bandit, partially severing them. The bandit pitched headlong into turf already stained with his comrades' blood.

       The guards meanwhile held their position. Only one of them was seriously injured, but when their captain clutched his side and fell to the ground, they began an assault on the bandits, slashing with sword and broadaxe, killing yet another horseman, until the pikemen neared.

       Then one of the guards yelled something unintelligible to the onlookers on the hillside. With renewed fury they charged the ponies, slashing right and left, breaking through the bandits and racing toward the hills. The bandits pulled one guard from his horse as he fled, and the pikemen pounced on him as his frenzied horse galloped away. He died of a hundred wounds.

       Several bandits started in pursuit of the guards until one took charge and called them back. Only six brigand horsemen remained, and three of them were severely wounded. Two pikemen had been killed in the frantic retreat of the guards. The bandits had won the field, but it had been a costly victory. Of the original sixteen only seven unscathed warriors remained, but the caravan was theirs for plundering.

       The newly installed leader rode up to the closest wagon driver, who submitted himself to him. Without warning the bandit decapitated him. A massacre was in the making.

       Carl dropped prone, his rifle ready. He wasn't a Greek god. He couldn't stand aside and watch the foolishness of men. Rebecca got her rifle.

       "I'll get the guy who cut off the driver's head," he said. "Take one of the other horsemen, then we'll work on the pikemen until they decide they've had enough and retreat."

       He sighted quickly, afraid the leader would kill again. Adjusting his telescopic sights, for the shot was close to 400 yards, he dropped the leader with one bullet. Rebecca sighted but couldn't fire. Carl switched to the other horseman. He wasn't so lucky this time. The horseman lurched, but he stayed upright. All eyes turned toward them, attracted by the reports of the rifle. Raphael already was picking up the hot casings. He knew of their importance to their future.

       The horseman turned his pony toward them. Carl allowed him to ride closer to be sure of his shot, when suddenly the bandit disappeared from his sights. The bullet's work was completed.

       The pikemen halted their advance, then they panicked. The wounded horsemen led a hurried retreat to their own woods, a mile or more across the meadow. A wounded companion lying in the meadow grass reached out as one rode past, grabbing the tail of his pony, but the frantic rider turned and drove a sword into his head when the pony slowed.

       Indeed, one of the pikemen was leaving the retreat to charge toward the unprotected captain, who was standing weakly away from his sword. Carl shifted to draw a quick bead as the pikeman trotted up a small mound, stopped, and prepared to throw his pike. It was a long, difficult shot. Muttering to himself, Carl adjusted for the slight breeze and fired. The bandit staggered as though hit. Rapidly reloading, Carl fired again, and the pikeman pitched face forward into the meadow. You had your chance to escape, Billy Boy, and you didn't take it.

       The remaining bandits quickly gained the safety of the woods and disappeared from view.

       Now, every person in the caravan turned anxious eyes as the three of them mounted and rode down the slope into the meadow.

       The men of the caravan were as frightened of this new apparition as they had been of the bandits. Only a fearsome enemy could strike from so far with such deadly force and with such thunder. They saw only three people, but those three had killed two horsemen, routed the pikemen, and saved the captain of the guard by sorcery. They saw no swords or axes, but only bows that hadn't been used and odd shaped, dull weapons that sent forth thunder that resulted in three deaths. Were they wood genies or gods in disguise?

       As soon as they arrived at the caravan, Carl motioned to two of the drivers to retrieve the captain of the guards. He had been a courageous warrior. Such a man was too good to lose.

       The problem of language immediately presented itself. Rebecca knew Welsh. Many of the wagoners spoke Gaelic. An older man, obviously in control of the train, cautiously made his way to Carl. He spoke a language none of them were able to follow. He then switched to another tongue, which Carl barely recognized from his study of Old French.

       Raphael looked closely at the old man, then spoke slowly in a third language. The old man's face exploded in a grin and he rushed to embrace Raphael but stopped short when he saw both the expression on his face and his fevered look. He stood apart and spoke earnestly to Raphael.

       "He's a Jew," Raphael said. "Wouldn't you know it. We've saved a caravan owned by a Jew!" He spat on the ground as he said the word.

       "Easy, Raphael. What did you use, Arabic?"

       "No, Aramaic. It's an ancient dialect used in Maaloula, the village where I was raised before we moved to Damascus. That's the language of Jews and Christians in ancient Syria and Palestine."

       The Jewish owner, recognizing the seriousness of Raphael's condition, called a young man from the lead wagon, who led Raphael into the square. The young man examined Raphael's wound then spoke softly to the owner in Greek. Upon receiving approval, he brought herbs and ointments from the wagon.

       Rebecca was interested in the process but stopped him from applying the herbs to a protesting Raphael. She removed her helmet. "Explain to him that my medicines will heal the infection," she said to Raphael even as she took a pill from the bottle. "But thank him."

       The young man shrugged his shoulders as though to say it would have been a waste of medicine anyway, for the wound was too infected.

       Carl with help from Raphael, learned the caravan's owner was Aaron the Trader, who lived under King Commicus of the Atrebates. Aaron was on his way home to Clausentum, a port in the south of Britannia, having bought lead, hides, and furs in the north to sell to Caesar Tiberius' legions in Gaul. It was Carl's first concrete indication of when they lived.

       Fearful for his life, Aaron implored Carl to take what he wanted from the caravan but to spare his life and those of his men. "My slave, a Greek named Gaio, is young but schooled in medicine and will do what he can for Raphael."

       Aaron was perturbed to find Raphael was not Jewish. While his Aramaic was filled with phrases Aaron could not understand, they were able to communicate. That he was Arab was quite all right with Aaron. The Arabs aren't God's chosen people, but we both have the same Father Abraham, he thought. We've lived together for centuries. "I will enjoy speaking with Raphael when he is well again," he said out loud. "No one in this part of Britannia speaks Aramaic outside of my family." Raphael translated.

       Rebecca worked on the captain with Gaio's help, and Carl rounded up the horses. The captain's large black horse held him without difficulty. The ponies of the brigands were rounded up, and the bodies were buried in the plain. They soon would be dug up by wild creatures, but they were out of sight and mind and would not stink up the camp that night.

       Carl was surprised at the lack of interest in their weapons, until Aaron expressed his concern about their sorcery. Carl said they practiced no magic, but he was of no mind to explain the matter.

       Gaio, through Aaron, explained that Raphael's arm would need to be removed, probably fairly soon, or the infection would spread and he would lose his life. There already was a little putrefaction around the wound. He argued that the hot waters at Aquae Sulis, for that was the name of Bath, would not heal the wound. Instead they would make it worse, causing the "sickness" to spread faster. But he did agree that Gunith, a village near Aquae Sulis, would be a better place to amputate the limb than on the plains of Ggaron. He would have help there in cauterizing the wound.

       Rebecca disagreed. "Not on your life," she said. "The wound is better already and these antibodies will do the job." She turned to Carl. "We'll still head for Bath, er, Aquae Sulis."

       Gaio understood only that she disagreed.

       The captain, Morius of Glempf, would recover from his wound if infection didn't set in. He had lost blood, but the flow had been quickly stanched. A good physical specimen, he already had survived many a wound, though he would have died that day if Carl had not intervened.

       Both Carl and Rebecca were exhausted physically and emotionally, but protection of the caravan now rested on them. When they refused to take goods from Aaron, he asked Carl to guard the caravan to the coast.

       "We can protect you to Aquae Sulis," Carl replied, "but we can go no farther. You can find guards there for the short distance to the coast."

       That night Carl and Rebecca traded off, every four hours, with wagoners also guarding part of the square. It was exhausting, but the warm food and the comfort of a fire inside the square worked wonders in the few hours of sleep they did get.

       She confronted Carl at breakfast. "While I was on guard duty I suddenly realized that you were an officer in Afghanistan, yet you were an expert marksman."

       "Sniper."

       "How could this be? Officers didn't fire weapons, did they?"

       "Why not? You need all of the firepower you can get. Anyway, the Special Forces were truly special. Every member of the team had several specialties. One of mine was sharpshooting."

       "I guess so! You told me of your experiences in Afghanistan, but that shooting was impressive."

       "And also lucky. If we'd had a cross wind I couldn't have hit anyone. I really hadn't calibrated properly for the distance. If I'd been off by a fraction I would've killed innocent earthworms, not bandits."

       "By the way, these people think my shooting is magic or sorcery. I've decided to keep the rifles secret as long as possible by covering myself with a blanket when people are about. Our blankets are enough different from anything in this time that my 'magic blanket' may deflect questions about what's under it."

       "Why? It'll make it harder to shoot, I should think."

       "You're right, though if they believe its sorcery it'll be even more effective. But it's primarily because if they know it's a powerful weapon, but just a weapon like a bow, they will want the secret of gunpowder and will do all they can to steal the rifle.

       "Anyway, I'll only be able to hide it for a short time. Some things can't be hidden in battle. And it looks as though we'll have a lot of those!"

       The "Ggaron," as Aaron called the brigands, had had enough, what with leaders and horses lost, it had been a disastrous day. The four horsemen in the forest also were Ggaron, who had been waiting to strike the caravan from behind. The body of this brigand force had been destroyed. Yet it would grow again from the spawn of a hundred villages, where men were willing to take rather than work and to fight when they had great odds in their favor.

        When camp broke and lined up into a caravan, Carl paused for his morning prayer and reflected on the dawn of a new day, their sixth day since the new birth. Violence had surrounded them on every side and had kept pace with every step. Was it a foretaste of what was to come? He lifted his voice to God. I've killed men so easily . . . isn't there another way? Oh God, what can I do?

       There was no answer from the clouds or his soul.

       The caravan moved slowly because of the oxen. Raphael and Morius rested easily on wagonloads of skins and furs, although the wagon's bracing transferred every jolt of the wheels directly to the wagon itself.

       Carl rode Morius' horse, a large black beast with a temper to match, but after fixing stirrups from some of Aaron's leather, there was nothing Murt could do that would throw him. Morius couldn't have weighed over one hundred and sixty pounds. Carl was lean and had lost weight, but he was heavily boned and his fighting weight was close to two hundred. Murt occupied his horsy mind with that extra weight and resigned himself to live with it.

       "Carl!"

       Startled, he looked around. It was Raphael.

       Carl trotted over to the wagon in which he and Morius were lying. There was a weak grin on Raphael's feverish face, though he already was looking healthier.

       "Morius calls you 'Lugus the Long Arm,' who's one of their deities. We'll introduce you as Carl of the Long Reach, if we teach these people English." He was still chuckling as he lay his fevered head back onto the pelts.