The Eagles Have Flown

by Henry Treece

  And so that no feeling of softness should creep into this war-party, Artorius had refused to take any women or children on the march. Even the baggage-men and the field-servants who made the fires and cooked such meals as they ate were old soldiers who, because of age or wounds, could not fight in the front line of battle.

  For a while Festus and Wulf, who rode turn and turn about on the pony, stationed themselves by the wagons at the tail of the column, but gradually they moved forward up the line, for one day Festus had heard a grizzled old veteran say to his one-armed companion in the wagon, ‘The Bear made a mistake, ‘ bringing those two. Why should they ride a pony and old soldiers like us sit in a wagon and wash greasy dishes?’

  The other had nodded and said, ‘One of them is a slave anyway, yet he does not work. Let him come into our wagon and serve the army. I will look after him, never fear. You can go down and take the pony from the Roman lad. He can walk as well as the next.’

  After overhearing those words, Festus made up his mind to act; and one day when Artorius rode down the line to chat with the men, he called out to him.

  ‘Bear of the British,’ he said, ‘may I ask a favour?’ Artos reined in his black stallion and looked at the boy, fiercely but at the same time distantly, as though he had forgotten who he was. He did not answer, but when one of his chosen guards rode forward to silence Festus, he held the man back and waited for the boy to say more.

  ‘You promised me a favour at Magiovinium, but if I am to be stationed at the tail of the route, there will be no Saxons for me to kill, when the time comes. Your forward troops will have done all the work! May I ride further forward, Bear?’

  The boy spoke with a smile, although his heart was beating wildly. Artorius surveyed him grimly for a moment, and then a smile spread across his own scarred face, and his lips curled back among the tawny hair of his moustaches, to show the broken fang.

  ‘Fare forward, man,’ he said, ‘and may you have a belly full of fighting before the journey is done. I shall watch you from now on, and should you so much as tremble when the enemy appears, I will cut you down myself, with this!’

  He slapped the long, broad-bladed sword that he always carried strapped to his right thigh, for he had had to fight left-handed since his accident on the battle-field which had cost him two fingers.

  ‘So be it, master,’ said Festus, and as soon as the leader had ridden on, he swung out into the road, and, passing the double lines of horsemen, rode half-way the length of the column to take up his new position.

  Wulf smiled up at him a little sadly. ‘It will make it harder for me to run away in the night now,’ he said.

  Festus said, ‘Do you still intend to do that, friend?’

  The Jute considered for a while, then he said, ‘I do not know. Sometimes the feeling comes over me; it did last night, when it was my turn to ride the pony; but I didn’t. To confess all, I have come to like you, in a way. Besides, my father is dead, and I have only an old uncle living among the Cantwara. He had five mouths to feed at his steading, and would not welcome me back. By now he will have given me up for lost, too.’

  ‘We may yet do great things together,’ said Festus.

  Now they were well to the north, having ridden out for the best part of a week, though at little more than a walking pace. To the right hand now stretched a great misty tract of marshland, where the reeds grew almost shoulder high, and nothing seemed to live but screaming sea-birds. It was a desolate and melancholy reach of salt-flat, where the sea ran in at the highest tides.

  The cavalryman who rode next to Festus observed dryly, ‘Once this was cornland, in the great days. Then the Romans were engineers and built sea-dykes and channels to take away the water. But now men have lost the craft they once had and the sea has come in again. The northmen live there now and eat frogs until they are as yellow-bellied as those beasts themselves.’

  Wulf began to bridle at the man’s words, but Festus nudged him and said with a grin, ‘You need not take offence. You are of the Cantwara, aren’t you?’

  But even so, Wulf was some time before he smiled again. Then two things happened to take the boys’ minds off such minor upsets.

  Late in the afternoon, as they were ambling along a stretch of the road which was bordered by straggling oaks and pines, they were suddenly aware of a clattering of hoofs and a rumbling of wheels, and without warning a heavily-laden wagon lurched towards them round a bend in the road. It was driven by a ragged old man, who lashed his two thin horses unmercifully. On either side of the wagon rode a roughly armed guard, who, when they saw the approaching cavalry, reined in their horses and wheeled round.

  One of the foremost riders called out for them to stop but they only laughed derisively and began to gallop back round the bend of the road. Artos nodded to the man who rode beside him, a gaunt Pict who carried an eastern horn bow. This man unslung his weapon and put an arrow through one of the retreating horsemen before he gained the shelter of the trees. The man flung up his arms and fell from the saddle; His foot caught in one stirrup, so that he was dragged along. His terrified mount swung off from the road and into the woods, where they were lost to view. The other horseman was beyond bow-shot before the archer could fit another arrow to the string, and the last they saw of him was a shimmer of dust that steadily grew smaller and was finally lost in a dip of the road.

  But the wagon had pulled up by the roadside and the ragged old man was on his knees, his hands raised in prayer to Artos, who towered over him on his black stallion. The boys came up as close as they dared and heard the old man begging for mercy. One of the guards climbed into the wagon and came out again with a short fat man, who was dressed in good serviceable clothes of wool, and whose hair and beard were trimmed carefully, as though he might be a man of substance. Festus did not hear the words which Artos spoke to this man, but suddenly he too fell on his knees and begged fervently, the spittle running down his chin as he spoke, for he was terror-stricken. Such was bis fear, indeed, that his words were almost unintelligible, but it was apparent that he was denying whatever charge had been levelled at him.

  Then the guard who had climbed into the wagon appeared again, holding up a great golden dish in each hand. Festus saw that they were wonderfully fashioned, and were moulded with figures of the old Roman gods, such as Neptunus and Minerva. When the fat man saw these, he bent his head until his forehead almost brushed the dust, and cried piteously.

  ‘What is happening?’ Wulf asked a rider, who was sitting still in the saddle with a strange tight smile on his bearded face.

  The man did not turn for he was anxious not to miss anything that might happen. ‘Some rich landowner who thinks to dodge the tax-gatherer by running away from his villa. The land is full of such vermin,’ he said. ‘They are worse than the Saxon and deserve only death.’

  Wulf leaned forward to look over the crupper of a horse that stood in the way, but he was too late. He heard a sad sighing gasp, and then a groan. Then a sudden whisper broke out among the watching horsemen who clustered round. After that there was only the blubbering of the ragged old man, who still knelt in the road, asking for mercy. Wulf recognised the voice of Artos; he was laughing in a strange manner, but it was not a laugh that he liked.

  ‘Did you see what happened, Festus?’ said the Jutish lad.

  Festus was shuddering, his head held low as though he tried not to see anything else that might happen.

  ‘Yes, it was awful,’ he said. ‘The Bear did it himself. I shall hate that great sword of his for evermore.’

  Later they moved on again, having rolled the two bodies into a weed-filled ditch by the roadside. The gold plate was unloaded and packed in the field-wagons, and the rich man’s cart was fired where it stood. Now the war-party had gained two horses, one of which was tethered at the tail of the column and the other given to Wulf, for although he was only regarded as a slave, who had no right to a mount, yet Artos was a sensible military leader who let no such consideration stand in the
way when it came to moving his troop quickly along the road.

  Yet this was not the worst that Festus was to see that day. Towards evening time, when they had passed the marshes and were well on their way towards the old fortress of Lindum, they all saw a flickering light somewhere to the east, as though a house had been fired and was still guttering.

  A side road led over the rough moorland and there Artos halted, calling back along the line, ‘Where is the young Roman who would strike a blow for Britain? Send him over there so that he may find out what that light means.’

  Festus and Wulf spurred forward and saluting Artos as they passed him, took the side road, which they saw had once been a well-metalled military road.

  ‘That must be a minor fortress,’ said Festus.

  ‘It is only a heap of hot stones now,’ said Wulf, grimly. The small square building was fire-blackened and deserted. The light they had seen was the glow from such timbering as still remained. Grass grew thick between the paving-stones of the courtyard, as though it had not been used for military exercise for many years, and the surrounding wall, once so proudly kept, was a shambling heap of scattered stones.

  The boys dismounted and made towards the main gateway but suddenly Wulf drew back, for the body of a man lay in the gateway, his sword still in his hand, though he was dead.

  ‘That is a sea-rover,’ he said. ‘They have left him behind, so they must be barbarians.’ Festus looked down at the man’s face; it was serene, even in death, as though the Saxon had expected nothing more, was even glad that death had come on him in the thick of battle. All his wounds were on the front of his body, for he wore no protection but a torn old leathern jerkin, plated here and there with narrow iron strips.

  ‘He was a brave man,’ said Festus. ‘He must have led the assault and been first through the gate.’

  But when they reached the window that gave into the guardhouse, Festus had reason to change his opinion about the bravery of the Saxon attackers, for the fortress had long since been unoccupied by soldiers, and must have served as a home for wandering peasants and similar landless men when the attack occurred. The unarmed defenders lay about the floor. Whatever weapons they had held must have been taken by the retreating raiders. Festus gasped in horror at the sight which met his eyes. He had never before seen the results of a violent affray such as this had been. War, to him, had always seemed a manly, even a noble occupation. Now he gazed down at the pathetic still forms of those peasants who had so dearly sold their poor lives.

  Wulf too was sick at heart. ‘The sea-farers make sure that their fallen enemies will not rise again,’ he said briefly, backing away from the signs of the tragic defence.

  Festus stood still, staring about him at the bare and blackened stonework, which had witnessed the grim incident.

  Wulf looked through the open doorway, anxious to leave this place of death. ‘There is nothing for us to do here now,’ he said. ‘This is outside the power of our hands.’

  So they turned and rode back to the waiting column, and Festus summoned up enough strength to tell Artos what they had seen. Then he rode into the bushes and was very sick. The Bear’s face was turned towards him, he saw, when he rode back to his place in the line. Artos was smiling, grimly, but in a strange way kindly.

  ‘That young Roman whelp will understand what war means now,’ he said to a trumpeter who sat near him, and who had children of his own, somewhere near the forest of Anderida.

  ‘It is not pleasant for a young lad,’ said the trumpeter.

  ‘No, that may be,’ said the Bear, ‘but it is necessary that we should break them all in, like young colts, if we are ever to live in a free Britain again.’

  The lines moved forward, and the boys were too sick to eat when at last a halt was called for supper. Out of the glare of a camp fire, Festus whispered to “Wulf, ‘What we saw has sickened me, my friend. Now, if you are willing, I am prepared to ride with you away from this army. What do you say, Wulf? Shall we go together?’

  But Wulf only looked back towards the fire, his face set. ‘Where can we ride in these days that will not show us sights as bad as that?’ he said. ‘You are a soldier now, Festus. We must go on.’

  Festus was silent for a time. Then he said, almost ashamedly, ‘I would be happier on my father’s farm, to tell the truth. It seems now that we have wandered into a world of cruelty, and that no man is free from it, The taint is everywhere.’

  Wulf said, ‘Your people call mine barbarians, so I may not be a good judge, but in my opinion it does not matter who lives here, whether they be gold-haired or black, if they lead the good life and plough their fields and feed their cattle and help their neighbours in time of need. But that is beside the point; you are promised to your lord, Artos, and you must follow him, be he wrong or right, for you chose to obey him of your own free will. With me, it is different. I did not choose to become your slave; that duty was forced upon me, when I had right and justice on my side. I am therefore free, should the occasion arise, to leave this company, without having perjured my soul.’

  ‘That was a Christian word,’ said Festus, wondering how he could counter Wulf’s argument, and playing for time.

  The Jute nodded. ‘We are quick folk,’ he said, smiling. ‘There are a few Christians amongst us of the Cantwara, and even those like myself, who hold to Woden, use some of your words.’

  ‘I am beginning to wonder why we are fighting,’ said Festus at last. ‘Or perhaps I am just tired and shall see things differently in the morning.’

  They rode off then in silence, like the rest of the war-band, their heads lowered as they swayed from side to side in the high saddles. The dusk fell quickly around them, turning them into dark centaurs, rather than mounted men, for their cloaks merged with the duns and blacks and browns of their horses’ flanks, and their bodies moved in unison, as though they were of one flesh.

  It was as they rode thus that, at a place where a chalk wold ran down to the road, and the thick trees shut out all light of the moon, there was a sudden scurry of hoofs and the jingle of harness, and the boys looked up to see that they had ridden into the heart of a strong ambush; that, in the whole length of the wood, horsemen were stationed, their long bows drawn and their arrows fitted and trained. There must have been at least a hundred horse-archers more than they had themselves.

  In sudden alarm, they saw that Artos himself was surrounded by these archers, and that he was sitting still, his hands in his lap, as though he realised that now all resistance would be futile.

  ‘We could escape now,’ whispered Festus.

  Wulf spurred his horse a few steps forward and took his friend’s bridle rein, holding it fast. He said nothing, but only looked into the eyes of Festus. The Roman boy turned his head away.

  ‘I am sorry, Wulf,’ he said. ‘I am not a coward, whatever you may think.’

  Then, without another word, he spurred forward towards the group at the head of the column, reckless of the archers, and holding his knife out before him. Wulf did not wait, but followed him immediately, although the halted troopers swore at them both and told them to be still.

  8. Medrawt the Black

  As they reached the circle of horsemen who surrounded their leader, the boys halted, surprised and even in a way disappointed. Artos was leaning back in the saddle as though enjoying a joke and his hands were well away from, his weapons, so there could be no immediate danger, at least. Moreover, he was smiling in his grim, sardonic way, as were his troopers, who had clustered as close to him as they might. But it was the man who faced Artos who attracted the eyes of all.

  A little shorter in height than Artos, and far slimmer in build, he made a handsome though sinister figure, as he sat on his white charger, upright and proud, his harness, everything about him, gleaming richly as the moonlight caught his accoutrements. Below the great peak of his golden helmet, on which were chased the figures of such wild animals as bull and boar, his raven hair hung in curls, oiled and shiny, over his swart
hy olive skin. Beneath thick dark brows his eyes flashed like dangerous but precious stones, while his fine, aquiline nose added further to the effect of watchful fierceness. Below that predatory nose, his moustaches, thin and black, curled out on either side of the full red lips, and joined again below with the curled hair of his pointed beard. Gold rings glistened and jingled from his ears. All that, together with the scarlet of his cloak, the gilt of his cuirass and the richness of his broad sword-belt, gave him the aspect rather of an eastern potentate than a British captain. Only his speech proclaimed him to be the latter, for he spoke the purest Latin, mingled here and there with the Celtic of Gaul, and so could not be a sea-rover.

  ‘I am Medrodus,’ he was saying, ‘sometimes called Medrawt by the less elevated who prefer the vernacular.’

  Artos had bowed his great head slightly. ‘Medrawt the Black, to name you in full, is it not?’ The boys sensed that he was somehow teasing the other fine leader. But if he was, the taunt did not strike home, for the other nodded in agreement and went on talking as though Artos had not said a word.

  ‘I ride down from what was Lindum with my force,’ he said. ‘I ride to join Ambrosius and to offer him my army against the sea-wolves.’

  Artos the Bear looked him straight in the eye. ‘It seems that we are on the same errand, though we ride from different directions, he said. ‘I was going north to collect such men as you have there, my intention then being to harry the Saxon wherever he might be found.’

  Medrodus bowed, insolently, and said, ‘My men will serve none but me. That I shall tell Ambrosius, who will no doubt give me the command.’