The Eagles Have Flown

by Henry Treece

  The militia-man grunted and sank on to the cobble-stones, his arms and legs splayed out. What would have happened next is anyone’s guess, for by now the boy was fighting-mad - the descendant of warlike old Festus, the Celtic chieftain, and not of a well-drilled legionary of the Empire. But just then a hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up into the stern eyes of a young man who wore the embossed cuirass of a regular soldier and the gold-emblazoned belt of an officer. This was a true Roman, Festus thought. His rage subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

  ‘Stand up, boy,’ said the officer. ‘Hold out your hands so that I shall know you have no weapon.’

  Festus did as he was bidden, for the man’s voice carried authority.

  ‘This dog struck me first, sir,’ he said. ‘I am a good Roman, and have come for aid, not for abuse by a midden-churl.’

  The officer’s face wrinkled ever so slightly in a smile, which passed away as quickly as it came and left behind it the impressive gravitas of expression by which the Roman soldier hides his emotions,

  ‘I am not interested in what you have come for,’ said the soldier. ‘I only know that you have struck down one of my men. That is an action punishable by flogging at the least. Did you not know that?’

  Festus felt his anger rising again, even towards this tall young officer, but he controlled it with an effort.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘my home has been destroyed and my family are dead among the deepest ashes for all I know. Would you have me accept further punishment from this man?’

  By now the guard was sitting up on the cobbles and rubbing the nape of his neck. He looked towards Festus and began to swear at him. The officer turned on him smartly and struck him on the side of the head with the flat of his long scabbard.

  ‘Get back to your post, ‘ he said. ‘If you cannot deal with a lad of fifteen or so, how can I trust you to save Magiovinium from the barbarian?’

  The man picked himself up, and, glaring at Festus, saluted and went back to the gates. Then the officer turned back to the boy.

  ‘A Roman does not take the law into his own hands,’ he said. ‘That is what savages do. You should obey a soldier and then seek redress from a magistrate. You should know that. Did your father never tell you?’

  Festus began, ‘Adrianus, my father, was a fine man. He told me all that a Roman should know. You shall not speak a word against him…’

  The officer started and a look of grave concern came into his dark face.

  ‘Adrianus?’ he said. ‘Has the farmstead of Adrianus suffered from the Saxon, then?’

  Festus nodded. ‘Did you know my father, sir?’ he said. But the soldier had taken the boy by the shoulder and began to drag him towards a high door that seemed to lead to a great stone council chamber set alongside the wall. ‘Adrianus taught me all I know of sword-play,’ he said. ‘Your father was my tutor at the military school in Londinium when we raised a force to fight the traitor Vortigern. Adrianus was the finest man I knew, and I should be an ungrateful dog if I did not see justice done to his son.’

  At the door the officer waved aside a guard who stepped forward and presented the point of his javelin towards them.

  ‘Stand back, you fool,’ he said. ‘Here is a Roman who has a right to see the Count of Britain if anyone has.’

  Festus stopped in spite of himself. ‘The Count of Britain himself?’ he said, wide-eyed. ‘Is the great Ambrosius here to dispense justice, then? We thought he had gone away to Brittany, or had died.’

  The young officer patted the boy’s shoulder. ‘He has been quiet for many years, my friend,’ he said. ‘But I can assure you, he is here now. It is like the old days again, for we have a leader at last.’

  Festus said, ‘Ambrosius is too old to lead the soldiers, is he not?’

  The officer smiled down at him. ‘Ambrosius may be too old, but his godson is not, and that is the man who will bring back the great days of Rome to us once more. Artos will do that!’

  ‘Artos,’ said the boy. ‘That means “the Bear”, doesn’t it?’ For although the official language of the country was still Latin, Celtic was spoken in most homes outside the city, and Festus’s mother had never forgotten that she was the daughter of a chieftain.

  ‘Yes,’ said the soldier. ‘The Bear! And, by all the gods, these Saxons shall know his claws before another harvest falls to the sickle!’

  And with that he had pushed the boy through the door and into the corridor that led to the Council Chamber.

  3. The Bear of the British

  Festus found himself standing on a crowded gallery, looking down on a broad square courtyard, the far end of which contained two wide archways which seemed to lead into yet another open space. Below him, all round the sides of the court, were massed the citizens of Magiovinium, many of them, especially the elder ones, still dressed in the tunic and toga virilis of the old Imperial days; some of them more roughly attired, as befitted artisans who gained their bread at the forge and at the baking-ovens. Here and there, less noisy than the rest, were men from outlying country areas, dressed in the Celtic fashion, as Festus himself was dressed, with thick woollen shirt, broad belt and parti-coloured breeches.

  It was obviously an important moment, and Festus wondered why he had not known of it before. But perhaps this preparation for war had arisen suddenly, while he had been away from home, as things were apt to do in those uncertain and troubled times, when men lived rather from day to day than year to year.

  At the far end of the courtyard, and between the two great arches, was set a raised dais. In its centre, on a chair of tarnished gilt, and surrounded by men-at-arms who stood strictly to attention, sat an old man, dressed in a long grey robe edged with faded purple. About his grizzled head was a thin circlet of gold, and in his right hand was the silver-gilt sword of justice with the blunted point. This must be Ambrosius, the great Count of Britain, appointed to govern the Province after the legions had sailed away. Ambrosius, the last of all the Romans, almost a Caesar, a man about whom the legends clustered thickly, for he had held his power so long and had moved about the island so secretly, so that no man might know where he would next be found….

  Festus looked down at the still face, with its lean, cleanshaven brown cheeks, and at the immobile, hunched shoulders. He was a man on whom authority rested naturally though heavily; one who neither feared nor favoured any man living. But it was the eyes of Ambrosius that drew the boy’s attention, for they were like those of a bird, a hawk, say; impersonal, cold and almost hooded. It was only when the old man rose from his chair later and held out his hand helplessly, that Festus realised the meaning of those stone-like eyes - the Count of Britain was now nearly blind.

  But for the moment Festus had no thought of such things; he was listening to the words that were being spoken in a declamatory voice by a dark-skinned man at the foot of the dais - the official orator of Magiovinium, whose duty it was to read the proclamations of the Vicarius in the old days, and whose office still persisted;

  ‘Know ye then that this Artorius, elect of the Comes, is appointed to lead the armies of this Province against all enemies of the State, be they Roman or barbarian, and that all men of goodwill be commanded to follow this Artorius in all his bidding, for well or for ill. And be it observed that whoso shall refuse service of whatever kind to this Artorius shall thereby announce his rebellion against Rome, against the Province of Britain and its officers, and against the good of all true Romans. Such rebels shall suffer the justice of the State as established under Ambrosius, Comes Britanniarum, elect of Rome, Saviour of Britain.’

  As the orator brought his words to a conclusion, the assembled people in the courtyard shouted and waved their arms. A wry smile seemed to flicker over the set face of the old Ambrosius. Festus turned round to the officer who stood behind him and said, ‘Who is Artorius?’

  The man whispered, ‘It is Artos, the Bear. The other is his Roman name. He is to lead us against the Saxon.’ He could say no more for suddenly
a score of trumpets screamed out and there was a great shout as a body of horsemen clattered through the archway behind the dais and stood in full view of the people, in the centre of the yard. They were all accoutred in light chain mail, but wore helmets of the old Roman style, with nodding red horse-hair plumes, and carried long lances besides the curved cavalry swords that had come to replace the short stabbing sword of the legionary.

  The man who sat foremost of the band immediately attracted the boy’s eyes, for floating from his lance was a long white silk pennant, on which was delicately embroidered in gold, red and jet the figure of a bear, with jaws agape and lolling tongue. There was no need to ask who this man might be. Festus gazed at him in awe.

  Artorius, the Bear of Britain, sat on a great black stallion, three hands taller than any other horse in the company, a man made by nature to govern others. He sat like a prince, his tawny head thrown back, his broad thick lips smiling sardonically down at the crowds who applauded him. The eyes of Festus strayed down from the gilded helmet with its streaming plume, to the face itself, and with something like surprise he noticed that Artos wore his hair in the old style, two short thick plaits that hung on either side of the helmet cheek-pieces, and heavily braided with gold. The hair of his chin was long too, and trimmed square. It was of a red colour, like that of burnished copper. The boy observed his light blue eyes, and then almost shrank away to see that the cheeks of the new leader had been cut across the bone, leaving the flesh raised, in a form of tattooing used by the northern barbarians of ancient days. Artos, the Bear, gazed round the courtyard, then smiled broadly and with confidence. His teeth were large and irregular and one of them, at the front, was missing, so that the effect of his smile was one of ironic gloating rather than pleasure.

  Suddenly he half-wheeled his great black horse and from the saddle made obeisance to Ambrosius. Then, almost as though ignoring him, he turned again and held up his right hand for silence. The two middle fingers were missing. Festus turned again to the officer, about to frame a question, but the other knew in advance what he would ask.

  ‘He is a true man of war,’ he said, ‘Artos has lost his fingers and his tooth in battle. A sword slash took the one and the butt of a lance the other. He is the man we want, no scholar, but a true warrior! Hush, now, he is going to speak!’

  A great silence fell on the gathering and Festus waited to hear the words which such a great man would utter. And once again he turned, bewildered, for Artos spoke in a dialect which Festus had never heard before. A man beside him, dressed in the rough homespun of a farmer, whispered, ‘That is the Celtic of the north. It is his land, where he was born. He has sworn he will speak in no other tongue, out of pride, until we Romans have accepted him.’

  A guard standing nearby stamped the heel of his javelin on the farmer’s foot and the man said no more, though as he hopped about on one leg his eyes spoke volumes at the soldier.

  At last Artos had finished and then a great roar of acclamation rose from the masses of people assembled, few of whom could possibly have understood a word of what he said.

  Then silence settled again and this time Artos spoke in Latin, interlarded here and there, when he was at a loss for a word, with the Celtic of the south. Now Festus understood what he was saying; that if men would trust and follow him he would lead them to victory against the sea-rovers whom Vortigern had let into Britain; that one day there would be peace again in Britain and that Rome would once more stand triumphant against the barbarian.

  But as he said the last words, Festus noticed a strange smile playing about his lips, and he knew then that Artos, or Artorius, whichever men chose to call him, was himself a barbarian, but one who rode in the service and not the destruction of the old Roman manners and government.

  The boy came out of his dreams to hear the summing-up of the Bear’s address: ‘And as a token of my love for you, let one of you ask of me a service. I will do what he shall ask!’ Before he knew what he was saying, almost, Festus shouted out above the hum of the crowd, ‘Artos, the Bear, I take you up! Give me justice against the Saxon! They have killed my folk and burned my home! Justice, Artos!’

  At this there was an uproar and many voices told the boy to be silent, to let older men ask a favour. A guard even pushed towards the boy, as though to turn him away from the gathering, but the young officer, a grim smile on his face, held the militia-man back. ‘Artos shall answer the lad, at least,’ he said, ‘or no man of mine shall follow him!’

  The Bear of Britain gazed up at the gallery, his smile gone now, and as Festus looked down into those eyes, as cold as the northern seas, a shudder passed through him and he knew that this man was one to be followed to the death, whatever his appearance and the sound of his voice.

  ‘Come down, man,’ said the Bear. ‘Come down and let us see you, who make such a bold request.’

  ‘Go on,’ said the officer, pushing the boy gently. Then, in an undertone, he said, ‘And if he refuses you, he shall lie in his bed tonight with this dagger between his shoulders.’

  Festus went down the stone steps into the courtyard and as he stood looking up at the giant on the black stallion, the mood of the crowd changed again and a great roar went up.

  ‘Give the lad his dues, Artos!’ they yelled. ‘Grant his request!’

  Artos looked down at the boy and seemed to consider him for a space. ‘Man,’ he said, speaking almost as though Festus were a centurion at least, ‘what you ask for is in God’s hands to give, not mine. I shall ride against the Saxon, and with God’s will, shall bow them down like corn before the scythe. That I shall do for all men of this land, not you alone. But it will take time. Tell me, man, what would you have that I can grant now, in this place, for all men to hear!’

  Festus looked up into the light eyes with courage now. ‘Let me ride with you, Artos,’ he said, in a loud voice, ‘so that I may enjoy my revenge on those who killed my people.’

  Artos began to pull at his beard, perplexed, for his war-band was to be chosen from seasoned warriors, but the people of Magiovinium shouted out, ‘Grant his request, Artorius. You promised him!’

  The Bear smiled again and bowed his head. ‘He shall ride in my comitatus,’ he said, ‘and what is more, he shall have a squire to serve him; an appropriate slave, a Saxon of his own age! Will that suit you, do you think, my lord?’

  He bent ironically towards the boy who nodded back at him seriously. ‘I want no slave, though, master,’ he said. ‘I would rather kill a Saxon than have him serve me.’

  At this the crowd roared again, and with an amused smile, Artos half turned towards the old man Ambrosius.

  ‘That is a symbol,’ said the Count, almost bitterly, speaking low as though the whole affair had been too much for his patience. ‘Bring in the Saxon and let the boy make good his wish. No doubt the people here would enjoy such a spectacle - they would if they were true Romans, as they boast to be.’ Then the old man seemed to relapse into a far-away dream. A great hush fell on the courtyard, and Artos backed his horse towards the dais, to leave a dear space. Then two guards came in through the archway, dragging a lad of Festus’s age between them.

  4. Wulf

  The boy stood before the dais, where the guards had dragged him. He stood a hand taller than Festus, but was slighter in build, though long-boned and wiry. His hair, roughly plaited in two strands, was as pale as straw, and his skin looked almost white against the swarthy complexions of those about him. He turned his wide blue eyes towards Festus for a moment, wondering who he was and why he was there, and then he looked again at Ambrosius.

  ‘Lord,’ he said, speaking Celtic easily though with a disregard for its grammar which seemed to indicate that he had picked it up in conversation and not from a teacher, ‘I ask for justice….’

  But he got no further for the crowd began to hoot and catcall, and so drowned his words. Artos held up his hand for silence and then said, ‘What justice do you merit, Saxon whelp?’

  The boy looked up
at him fearlessly and said, ‘I am no Saxon, horseman. I am of the Cantwara. I am Wulf, son of Cuthwin, and I demand fair play.’

  Festus swung round on him then and shouted, ‘Is it fair play, think you, to kill a woman and a little girl?’

  Wulf turned back, with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I have killed no woman or little girl,’ he said. But before he could say any more, Festus was on him and the two had grappled together.

  Festus was of middle height for his age and heavily muscled. His strength had been a byword at home, where he was always called when a stopper had been rammed too tightly into a wine amphora or a wheel-rim needed easing back again after dry weather. But Wulf was lithe and agile, and though not so strong, was more adept at evasion. Suddenly he slipped from the grasp of Festus and had leaped two yards away from him while the Roman was still plunging forward in his first attack. Wulf said, ‘I have no wish to fight you. You have not harmed me. I ask only for justice.’

  Then, seeing Festus coming on, he turned and ran lightly to put as much distance between them as he could while he made his plea again. But the crowd interpreted this movement as cowardice and began to yell for the Saxon’s blood. Festus, angered at being so easily avoided, swung off his heavy woollen cloak, and using it like a net in a gladiatorial contest, flicked it against the other boy’s legs as he ran. Wulf, his limbs entangled, fell heavily to the cobbles, and immediately Festus was on him, his head whirling with the confused shouting of the crowd.

  But Wulf was not beaten yet. He twisted round so that he faced his opponent and said, as calmly as he could, ‘I have done you no hurt, yet. But I shall do you an injury unless you listen to me.’