by Henry Treece
‘What will you do now, Artos the Bear?’ called a thin, sarcastic voice from across the tent, and all eyes turned towards the British leader. It was Aurelius Caninus who spoke, and Festus knew that one day this man must be prepared for Artorius to repay him for that impertinence. But now the Bear only smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
‘How should a poor general of horse compete with two such masters of magic?’ he asked, smiling in the torchlight.
‘Yet you must, Artos the Bear, if you would win an army,’ yelled Caninus ‘the Dog’.
Artorius rose and slowly slipped off his long cloak, handing it back to Festus who stood behind his chair.
‘I can only show you a simple soldier’s magic,’ he said, and walked between the tables, towards the open place where
Cuneglassus had stood. When he had taken his position, he called out for a sword, and a bearded soldier handed him a long, two-handed blade, with a grin.
Artorius tested the weapon and gave a wry shrug, as though it was not entirely to his liking, but as though he must be content.
‘Now,’ he called again, ‘do two men throw me an apple each, one from my right side, one from my left. And see that you choose the biggest fruit you can find!’
Laughing, the men flung the smallest and most shrivelled apples that lay in the wooden dishes on their board. Artorius did not budge an inch as the fruits flew through the air, but with a high slash to right and then to left, clove the two apples so that four pieces fell at his feet.
A hum of delight went up from the tables, but Cuneglassus said for all to hear, ‘Yes, that was neatly done, Artos the Bear, but a boy could have done the same, had he the practice. Where is the strength we have heard of, friend? Show us that now and we will be content.’
Artorius stared back at him until the fat man looked away into his wine-cup. Then turning to the great company he said, ‘Which of you here present are the strongest? Let two of you step forth to me.’
‘What is the nature of the trick, Bear?’ shouted out a great red-haired man who wore the hull’s horn helmet of the Brigantes.
‘You may well ask, friend,’ said Artorius with a smile. ‘I do not know, unless it be that I have the strange power of making any man ask for mercy.’
‘That you shall never do, then,’ said the warrior, and leapt over the table to get to the leader.
Now Artorius turned again and looked once more at Cuneglassus, who, seeing that his own strength was being challenged, rose again, as clumsily as before and at last stood by Artorius.
‘There is nothing subtle in this affair,’ said the Bear, holding out his hands for them to clasp.
‘So much the better,’ said Cuneglassus, as he and the warrior took the Roman’s hands and began to squeeze. For a while there was no movement in the little group, for each man was spending all his breath and motion on securing a firm hold and on exerting all his strength when once the hold was effected.
The men at the tables looked on, wondering when the Bear would cry halt and ask leave to sit down again, defeated. But as they watched, suddenly the warrior who wore the bull’s horn helmet gave a great cry and sank to his knees. ‘Enough! I beg for mercy, Bear. The bones of my hand are cracking.’
Then Artorius released him with a sudden jerk and the great man fell sprawling under one of the tables, groaning and holding his crushed fingers under his armpit to bring life back to them. But Cuneglassus, his great bulk swaying with agony, never spoke once. All men saw the beads of sweat begin to roll suddenly down his face, until the front of his faded tunic was as wet as it might have been in a rain-shower. They saw the veins knot in his neck as he tried a last attempt to break from the grasp of Artorius. Then, biting his lip until the blood ran on to his chin, the king of the midland country sank slowly to his knees, like a pole-axed bull, and with great head bent to the ground, beat slowly and rhythmically with his other hand on the turf, as though to stem back the pain.
‘I beg you, Cuneglassus, ask for mercy,’ whispered Artorius, anxious not to harm the king any further. But the monstrous man would not speak. Suddenly his face and the great bull neck went deathly white and he pitched forward, all sense gone from him. Only then did Artorius loose his grip. There was a deadly silence in the pavilion as a group of men came forward and with difficulty raised the king and bore him back to his chair.
Now shouting broke out again as Artorius put on his cloak. Some were for the Bear, others, half-drunk, were fumbling for sword or knife.
‘Cuneglassus will never hold a blade again,’ yelled one young man, who had already risen and had whipped out a long dagger from beneath his tunic.
Those about him tried to restrain him, for it was at such times that a feast might turn into a bloody massacre. Artorius’s own company were already feeling in their clothes for their knives, though they would have been too late to save their leader.
Suddenly, and without further warning, the young man swung back his arm and the sharp knife blazed through the air at the throat of the smiling Artorius. It is doubtful whether he saw its path; it is certain that even had he seen it, his pride would not have let him move from it.
Yet Festus saw it, and cried sharply for the leader to beware. Then, almost at the same moment, he flung himself before the Bear of Britain. The knife took the boy in the shoulder, entering deeply and quivering there.
Festus gave a short groan and sank forward, almost on to the knees of his lord.
Before he lost consciousness, he glimpsed the Bear’s white face and heard that great voice suddenly break into a roar.
‘Artos the Bear and Holy Cross! Out knives and take vengeance!’
Then Festus fainted. He did not hear the weak voice of Cuneglassus say, ‘Such a man and such a master shall never be harmed in my pavilion! Artos the Bear, we bow to you! That traitor shall be strangled. Let us not meet only to slay each other!’
10. Strange Meeting
Before Festus was well again, autumn had turned to winter, and he lay in the darkened draughty tent and watched the rugs lifting with the wind that blew beneath the canvas, snuggling back among the sheepskins that formed his bed when the air proved too keen.
Artorius sat with him each day, telling him of his plans to march south in the Spring, and treating him in every way like a kindly uncle. A new sword and cuirass stood by the boy’s bed, a gift from the Bear for his brave action, specially forged in the ironworks that lay in the south-east of Wales, Gwent, and inlaid with bronze and silver. Stern-faced Votiporix, who loved horses more than he did men, had promised the boy a mettle-horse when he could ride again, for he admired bravery in anyone, friend or foe. Even fat Cuneglassus had called to see Festus a time or two and had brought him sweetmeats and a new pair of caligulae, made after the pattern of his own, with gold-wire laces. As for Festus, he felt rather ashamed of it all; he had done nothing wonderful, he thought. Anyone would have done that for Artorius. Indeed, he felt that he had perhaps not been very clever after all; he should have warded off the knife with a trencher, say, and not with his own body!
One of his most frequent visitors now was the big warrior whose hand the Bear had mauled so badly. He wore it in a sling and laughed about it, saying that it would be whole again before the snow came. His name, Festus discovered, was Kei, and besides being a fine soldier, he had the reputation of immense strength. Men said that he could throw a boulder so far that it went out of sight! Whatever the truth of that, he was a man without master for tenacity; Kei had never in his long days as a warrior surrendered any hill-fort he had held, whatever the odds, and his nickname was ‘the castle-keeper’. But when he sat at the boy’s bedside, there was no talk of war; always he did his best to amuse Festus, especially during the trying period when his wound would keep breaking open again. Kei had a strange upper lip, which he kept hidden under a heavy and hanging moustache; but when he wished to amuse his friends he would take his lip and stretch it, pulling it upwards until it almost reached the bridge of his nose! The result was ho
rrifying to those who had never seen him do it before; but now Festus had become used to it and would have thought Kei was ailing if he had not done it immediately on entering the tent!
It was from Kei that Festus learned of the sudden death of old Constantine. It appeared that he had passed away in the night and that by morning time Aurelius had already had himself proclaimed King of Dumnonia, as Artorius had said he would. Kei did not like ‘the Dog’, especially since he had had Constantine’s little greyhound killed and burned on the funeral pyre with his mad old master, who had adhered to the old rites which had been current before the Romans came.
‘It is bad luck to kill one’s namesake,’ said Kei, who, though he professed to be a Christian of sorts, still recalled the old beliefs which were observed in the distant past when every man took a wild creature as his symbol.
At last, when the weather had changed for the worse, Festus was delighted one morning to hear that he could now ride again. Artorius was preparing to go out in search of a wolf that had been attacking the sheep which bleated all round the camp. Votiporix rode beside him on a little hill-pony, his legs dangling down in the long stirrup-leathers; Cuneglassus, who was too fat to ride, was carried in a litter, supported by six men. Aurelius Caninus, very conscious of his new estate, deigned to accompany the hunting-party on a fine white charger that had belonged to Constantine, but which the doddering old man had never had the courage to ride. Each leader took with him a handful of men, so that when Artorius invited Festus to try his new mount, no one objected. In any case, by now the boy was a great favourite with all but Aurelius, who seemed to bear a grudge against anyone who was fortunate - and Festus considered himself that now!
Not long before midday, they ran a wolf to its lair at the edge of a wood, and Kei, who now followed Artorius like a shadow, despatched it with a well-aimed javelin throw, not wishing to risk his horse’s legs by going in close to use his sword on the beast.
The party was about to return to the encampment, when Votiporix, with a wry smile, rode beside Artorius and said, ‘Since we are so close to his place of campment, would it not be well to meet someone who swears himself to be your closest friend?’
The Bear looked puzzled and said that he knew no one in those parts, but Votiporix and Cuneglassus exchanged so crafty a smile that Artorius changed his mind and asked to be taken to see this unknown friend.
After a short ride, the party came to a great circular clearing in the wood, and Votiporix blew his horn. They waited for a while and at last heard an answering blast. Shortly afterwards, there came the heavy tramp of many horsemen among the dried and fallen boughs. Artorius, who suspected treachery, swung his sword, Caliburn, on to his thigh in case he needed to fight his way out of the wood. Only Festus and Kei saw him do this, and Kei rode to him and whispered that he did not think they meant him ill, but that if there was any treachery, he would account for the kings if it was his last act. Artorius clasped the man’s hand quickly and then turned to face the oncoming troop.
The first man to appear round the thick trees was Medrodus, who came forward with a smile on his dark face and his hands held out to clasp those of Artorius.
He said, ‘Greetings, brother, I feared I should never see you again after you had entered the plague-ridden village. I can tell you, no man of mine would follow me when I wanted to go there after you. They swore that we should spread desolation through Britain, and I had to bow to their wishes, for they are free men.’
Artorius said, ‘There was no plague; only foxglove poison.’ But Medrodus did not seem to hear. He said, ‘It is a deadly thing, brother. I thank God that you survived.’
All the time the others were watching these two men. At last Cuneglassus said, so that all should hear, ‘I see that you are friends, as Medrodus said. At first I disbelieved him, but I see it is true. He swore that he was a dux bellorum for Ambrosius, of equal status with you, Bear. Is that also true!’
There was a tense silence before Artorius answered. Then he said quietly, ‘Yes, it is true.’
Kei looked at Festus and said, ‘Why does he say that! Has not the black-browed one already betrayed him!’
Festus, who had now come to understand the Bear a little, said, ‘Yes, but I think that he feels some allegiance to Medrodus, if only because they are both Romans and find themselves among….’
Then, afraid that he might hurt Kei’s feelings, he stopped, uncertain what to say next.
‘Barbarians?’ asked the great warrior, smiling. Festus did not know what to say, but suddenly Kei leaned over him fiercely, then, at the last moment, pulled out his great lip and made such a horrible face that they both began to laugh.
Later that day, after they had drunk mead at the encampment of Medrodus, the whole party, including the three hundred horse that rode with the traitor, began the journey back to the Place of the Kings.
A heavy drizzle came up when they were on the rolling grey uplands above the camp, and the five leaders were ahead of the cavalcade, their cloaks wet through and blown hard against their bodies. Suddenly those who were closest behind them heard loud words breaking out amongst them, concerning the order of precedence into the encampment.
At last, Cuneglassus, the only dry man in the party, leaned out from his litter and addressing Artorius said, ‘You are the dux bellorum, Bear, despite what anyone says. We have freely elected you to lead us all in war. Now, what do you say? Who is the greatest amongst us? We will follow your ruling.’
There on the high hill, with the rain sweeping into his face and his cloak now flying open, Artorius, the Bear of Britain, swung his great round shield from its saddle-peg and with a broad gesture flung it from him so that it skimmed on to the turf and lay with the bronze boss uppermost.
‘I beg you, gentlemen,’ he said in his voice of command, ‘place yourselves about this shield.’
Festus and Kei saw the Kings range themselves about the great bronze buckler, as obediently as children. Then, when they looked up at him enquiringly, Artorius smiled back at them and said, ‘Who is at the head of this table? No man, for each has his own place, neither higher nor lower than another’s.’
The Kings bowed their heads in acceptance and from that time on they accepted the ruling of Artorius, each regarding himself the other’s equal and no more.
PART THREE
1. The Roads of Destiny
The British army lay, that winter, tolerably comfortable in sheepskin tents, wattle huts and such stone shelters as they could provide for themselves with materials dragged from nearby ruined villas and farmsteads.
It was a time of great activity, when the frosts cleared, for supplies had to be assembled and weapons prepared. Artorius, now the undisputed dux bellorum, the leader of all the armies of the Kings, had elected to ride with a thousand horse, with supplies following in the rear in many light baggage wagons. The remainder of the Celtic cavalry would stay behind in the West as reinforcements. There were to be no foot-soldiers, though any of proven worth who could provide themselves with horses were eligible to join the armies of reinforcement.
Artorius ruled firmly but with justice now, a cool and almost impersonal leader. With a thousand horse to control, he no longer was the hail-fellow-well-met captain who once had ridden the length of his column to slap a man on the back for a good deed or to knock him from his saddle for a bad one.
One morning, Festus saw with something like alarm that the Bear of Britain had been shorn. Gone were the long hair and the curling tawny beard. Now he was cropped and shaven as any Roman commander of the great days. Nor did he wear the thick breeches and cross-strapping of the past, but rode bare-legged, in long caligulae, despite the weather, as Julius Caesar himself had done so many, many years before.
One part of Festus sighed for a lost friend; the other part of him was glad for a new master; and there were many among the great band, who, though barbarians for generations, rejoiced to see that their dux bellorum was in truth a Roman of the ancient sort.
&n
bsp; But for Festus there was another disappointment; now that he was well again and a fledged cavalryman, he was billeted with the ten captains and no longer lay at the foot of the Bear’s bed. He no longer needed a cup-bearer, he had said, smiling gently as he broke the news. It was more appropriate that Festus should live among warriors and not waste his days as a menial servant! Festus received the news gravely and then went to the edge of the wood to weep what tears there were to shed. He consoled himself that he still had the sword and breastplate given to him by Artorius to remind him of the days when he was the Bear’s right-hand man.
Now Medrodus seemed to have assumed that position; dark, smiling, treacherous Medrawt. He always rode with Artorius, strangely quiet and even subservient, as though anxious to wipe out all memory of what had passed. Once, as the two rode by, big Kei nudged Festus and said, ‘I would not trust that black one any further than I could throw him.’ Festus, a little bitterly, replied, ‘If you could throw him as far as they say you can throw a stone, that should be distance enough!’ All the same, Festus often wondered whether Artorius was wise in forgiving black Medrawt so easily. He did not understand that in times like those, when treachery was the rule rather than the exception, it was better to have a companion whose uncertainty one knew of, than many whose loyalty was an unknown quantity. And in any case, Artorius had argued to himself, Medrodus was a Roman and as such was anxious to destroy the Saxon invader. He and Artorius had the same purpose in life, whereas the Western Kings, like their ancestor Vortigern, were always liable to sell Britain to anyone, Saxon or otherwise, provided they were the gainers, Medrodus wanted watching, that was all.
There was one good thing; Bedwyr, that grey-haired man who had held the rings of Medrodus when the two leaders had met so long ago on the Ermine Street, had come more and more to attach himself to Artorius now. Bedwyr was a man of good family and some reputation as a councillor. He had long distrusted Medrodus and the tragedy of the poisoning in the village had turned him away from his former master. Now he often joined the captains of the bodyguard and he and Kei became good friends, in the rough, jocular but sincere way of soldiers.