Otto felt dizzy. He staggered and tripped over, bouncing his head off the ground and knocking the air out of his lungs himself when he landed flat on his back. In his mind, he flew back through time and space and was again in the cave staring at the wise woman, smelling the Frankincense, hearing her words in his head somehow screaming and whispering at the same time, “A man is entering your life. He wears black plumes; black as the deepest night; black as death within the grave. Your spirit already knows him. Wherever he finds you, whenever he finds you, whatever you must sacrifice, go with him and he will set you on the path of your life’s journey. This is the way the gods have chosen for you.”
“Drink,” a voice told him in Latin and he felt the edge of a wooden bowl pressed against his lips. Cold water filled his mouth, he swallowed. He opened his eyes, the world looked as it he was seeing it under water but it cleared in a few seconds. He drank again. Someone had removed his helmet. He was lying with Tud supporting his head and shoulders. The black-cloaked man knelt over him holding the bowl. He smiled. His lips were very red, his teeth white and sharp and his eyes green, flecked with yellow. He was much younger than the white hair had made him appear at first glance. Suddenly all was calm, all was clear. But as he regained complete consciousness, for one fleeting moment he saw his father sitting on a log contentedly watching a small river. “Take care, my son,” he called, waved one hand and faded.
“Father!” Otto cried out involuntarily and struggled to a sitting position.
“You saw your father?”
“I did,” Otto said with a regretful sigh.
“He is far away?”
“He is dead”.
They helped him to his feet. He pushed them away and took a couple of wavering steps. His full strength returned and with it shame at the weakness he had shown.
“Your father’s shade came to you in this holy place, young man. It is not unknown. The dead may pass between the worlds and here the veil separating them is very thin. After you fell, you were half here and half in the other realm. Now you have wholly come back to us,” he explained. “But these experiences are exhausting; you must rest a little and have something to eat and drink to restore your forces.”
They sat on a bench eating the soft bread and thick soup Tud had brought them.
“Why did you invite me here?” Otto asked after a while.
“Introductions first; I am Cynan, a humble priest in the service of the Gods,” Cynan answered in his perfect, cultured Latin.
“I am Otto Longius, an Imperial Military Prefect in the service of Emperor Augustus.”
“You do not look much like a soldier of Rome to me.”
“Nevertheless, I am a Roman citizen, an Equestrian and an officer.”
“You wear the arm rings of a German warrior.”
“I took them off the bodies of enemies of Rome who fell to me. It is the custom. It honours them because they are not forgotten as long as I wear these trophies. Now that we know each other’s names, why am I here?”
“You are here of your own free will because you want to be. I asked you to come for two reasons. I wished to meet a mighty Roman who owns a magic sword. If he strikes a man with it, no blood flows but the one who received the blow will dance until he falls dead…”
Otto snorted. “Some men tried to rob me. I hit one of them on the head with the flat of my sword and he twitched and convulsed before he died. I have seen this before on the battlefield. What is your second reason?”
“You are looking for someone, a Roman. I know where he is…”
“He is alive?”
“Yes.”
Otto said no more. After a few minutes silence, Cynan spoke again.
“You have no further questions?”
“You know where to find my friend and that he is alive. You want something from me. You will let me know in your own time.”
“He is your friend?”
“I have not known him long but I believe we shall become good friends.”
“You are confident that you will see him again?”
“Is that not your purpose, to take me to him?”
Cynan laughed. “I can see you are more than a commonplace killer of your fellowmen. You have a glimmer of intelligence, Otto Longius.” The priest stood up. “I have affairs to which I must attend. Tud will look after you. We shall speak again.”
Tud helped to tether the horse in the stable which contained three mules, one of them white. Once the gelding’s back had been rubbed dry with wisps of straw and his feet checked, Otto was led over to the smaller of the two huts. It held a bed and a pitcher of water. Tud brought him bread and cheese and then left him. Otto sat outside for a while musing as the gloaming deepened. When the dew began to fall, he lay down in the hut wearing his mail shirt, his sword near at hand and his lance and shield propped at the side of his bed. He had disciplined himself to act normally in Cynan’s company but he had been shaken to the soul and needed to clear his mind.
He saw himself again as a youth facing armed legionaries with only an axe in his hands, his world ending in blood and fire all around him and Tribune Lucius Longius, nimbly stepping down off his horse and the smoke clearing to show his youthful, broken-nosed face under a glittering helmet topped with black plumes. “He wears black plumes; black as the deepest night; black as death within the grave.” He had followed Lucius because he had believed that was what the prophecy demanded of him. The result had been honour, promotion and wealth, although he cared little for that, comradeship, friendship, his wife and by now, perhaps his son or daughter, had followed. The wise woman had called him “Killer of Kings”. He had cut down King Helmund. Surely all this must mean that he had been treading his destined path and yet…
Cynan the priest wore a cloak of raven feathers. Cynan had intervened in his life. Could it be that he had been misguided and that the priest was the one to lead him to his destiny? But as he pondered, he recollected the priest’s green eyes and sharp teeth; a forest-cat of a man. He was instinctively wary of him and he did not feel that “his spirit already knew him”. Another train of thought occurred to Otto. Had Cynan been sent by the Gods to test him? Had he been put in his path so they could see whether he was to true to the oaths he had given, first to Lucius and then to Rome? He had heard the Immortals played such games with men. His last thought before sleep overtook him was of his father’s warning.
The dawn chorus awoke him. He stepped from the hut onto the damp grass and struggled out of his mail shirt and subarmalis. He stripped naked and poured buckets of icy well-water over his head and body. Gasping but cleaner, he jogged around the enclosure in the growing warmth of the sun to dry his skin. He had dressed in his loin cloth and tunic when Tud appeared and beckoned him to the bench where Cynan waited. He served them a breakfast of cracked-wheat porridge, cheese, warm fresh bread and milk but Otto had seen no oven, no cow.
“Is he an important man, this possible good friend of yours?” Cynan asked.
Otto considered before replying. “Not important yet not unimportant. He is young and in ten, or fifteen year’s time he may be one of the chief men of Rome.”
“He is of a noble family then?”
“He is.”
“And you are not. Can you hope to be more than you are now?”
“Who knows?”
“Who knows indeed, but we do, you will never rise to the highest rank. Your lowly birth condemns you to be a servant, even if your service is prestigious and well rewarded.”
“Are you not a humble servant of the Gods, as I believe you told me?”
Cynan laughed and slapped his knee.
“A telling shot. Otto; your friend now, is he an official?”
“He is a quaestor.”
“And what were you and the quaestor about that you ended up where you did?”
“We were caught in a sudden storm off Gesoriacum and ran before it until we reached a safe haven.”
“And if the storm had not driven you off cours
e?”
“We would have made our rendezvous with a Roman naval ship off the mouth of the Sequanae river in Gallia Lugdunensis,” he lied without the slightest hesitation.
“I do not believe you.”
“Then there is no point in questioning me further. If you think I lie, how can you be sure if anything I say in the future will be true?”
Cynan’s green eyes flared with sparks of irritation but he took a deep breath and controlled himself. “Otto Longius, if you do not tell me the complete truth I cannot assist you in finding your friend,” he said with a note of finality in his voice.
“I did not come to you begging for your help. If you have none to offer, I shall be on my way, thanking you for your hospitality.” Otto told him and stood up.
Before he could take one pace, Cynan put a restraining hand on his forearm.
“We leave now to go to him. You will not need your armour when you are in my company. I am sure that will be more comfortable for you. It will take us ten days to reach him.”
Cynan led the way on his white mule. Otto rode behind him, wearing his subarmalis under his tunic with his sword at his side. Tud brought up the rear on foot, leading the two other mules, their packsaddles loaded with Cynan’s baggage and Otto’s mail shirt and equipment. Once they were beyond the woods, the land rolled in front of them rich with pastureland, fields of ripening grain and orchards. Small hamlets with rickety protective fences and half-filled ditches were dotted about always near the numerous brooks and streams. It was a fatter, kinder land than the Germany Otto had known as a boy. Here, the forests were long gone but belts and groves of beech, oak and ash covered the hilly ground where it would be difficult to plough. Cattle and sheep grazed or dozed as much as the flies would let them in the heat of the day. The farmers and their families did not rush to grab weapons or find themselves somewhere to hide as Cynan and his party rode by. They watched respectfully and then carried on with their work once he was out of sight. Otto insisted on keeping to his alternate riding and walking routine even though they were not travelling faster than a walking pace. Cynan never dismounted to rest his mule during the entire day. Towards sunset, they stopped at a palisade encircling twenty huts so low that the thatch of their roofs touched the ground. Cynan called out and after a short wait, two frightened, dirty-faced women came out holding a water skin and a sack. Tud took them.
“Will we sleep here tonight?” he asked his master.
The priest shook his head. “I am not interested in sharing their lice as well as their food,” he said then made complex gestures with his hands and called out what Otto took to be a blessing in a tongue unknown to him. They camped in an oak grove. Tud pegged down a low-growing branch and cut others to lay over it like a pitched roof. Cynan slept in its shelter on a thin mattress stuffed with fragrant herbs that Tud had unrolled for him. Otto lay down on the bare ground wrapped in his cloak. It was a long time since he had slept in the open. The stars were brilliant through the trembling leaves overhead. The air carried a rich scent like mushrooms. The branches of the oak sighed and creaked gently in the night breeze. Otto drifted away. In the morning, one shoulder and hip were aching. “Getting soft,” he reproached himself.
It began to rain later in the day. That night they slept undercover in a barn. There was little hay or straw left at that time of year but enough for Otto and Tud to make themselves more comfortable than the night before. The farmer’s wife came in with bread and a bowl of vegetable soup. She knelt and whispered to Cynan. He touched her breasts and sang in a high, nasal register. When he had finished she kissed his hands and left with a light step. Otto looked at him enquiringly.
“She wants a child,” Cynan explained. “She thinks she’ll get pregnant now.”
“And will she?”
Cynan shrugged. “Who knows? But at least she’s happy. If she approaches her husband tonight, her enthusiasm may spur him on to greater efforts and her prayer will be granted.”
They finished the soup. Tud had not been allowed to share it with them but now he used the breadcrusts to wipe the bowl clean.
“Tell me, why not carry on with your mission? You still have the boats.” Cynan asked.
“You know I cannot abandon the quaestor. In any case, I don’t know the details of what we are supposed to be doing. I am only the captain of the bodyguard.”
The priest shook his head. “I seriously doubt that, Otto. In their arrogance the Romans may think of you as a weapon they keep at the ready but we both know you are worth more than that. Tell me, would the man we seek search for you if you were lost?”
“The question does not arise,” Otto told him. “He is neither trained nor equipped for a rescue attempt.”
“I still ask whether a noble Roman would go out of his way to help someone like you. They regard everyone else as dispensable.”
The next day they descended into a valley with a broad sluggish river running through it. A ferryman took them over in three trips. When they were assembled on the far bank, Cynan mounted his mule and blessed the man. He did not seem to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Otto winked at him and flipped a silver coin out of his purse. He caught it in mid-air with a broad smile and a nod.
“You undermined my authority by doing that,” Cynan complained.
“Not at all,” Otto told him. “He ferried both of us over; you paid him your way, I paid him in mine.”
The priest thumped his heels into his mule’s sides and hurried on, his lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval.
“You understand that if this quaestor is not safely returned to them, the Romans will punish you?” he asked Otto that night as they sat beside a small fire in a hazel coppice.
“I don’t believe so,” Otto replied.
“Oh they will! They are a vengeful people. Someone must always answer and in this instance it will be you.”
“Considering that you hold Rome in such contempt you seem to know a lot about it. You even speak the language.”
“My Order is centred far to the west on the holy island of Ynys Mon. There you may find men of deep learning. I speak the language of Rome, Belgic and the Brythonic of this land. My peers know Greek also and some can interpret the symbolic writings of the Egyptians. It is our knowledge that enables us to guide the people and help them….”
“By eating their food without paying for it,” Otto retorted.
“Not so,” Cynan protested. “They receive a blessing and the additional spiritual reward of offering their hunger as a sacrifice to the Gods. They are well compensated for a little bread and a few vegetables.”
After three days, they made a second river crossing. This time the channel was narrower and the current ran swiftly over a gravel bed. Where they forded, the water came up to Otto’s knees but the mules were not as tall as his gelding. He grinned to see Cynan’s robe soaked nearly to his waist. On the far side, Cynan took it off and spread it on some branches to dry by a fire Tud had made.
The priest’s body carried no spare flesh and was hairless but what caught Otto’s attention were his tattoos. His belly up to his throat, half-hidden under his beard, and his back were covered in fantastic writhing beasts, suns, moons, trees and birds. They were picked out in blues and greens, some had red eyes. They seemed to move independently as his muscles played under his skin. He saw Otto staring.
“Each one records a study completed and a higher degree of lore attained. They are to me what your arm rings are to you; symbols of victory,” he said with pride in his voice.
They rode on. The land began to rise until they reached a high plateau. It was almost treeless and empty of signs of human habitation other than the rough, drystone shelters shepherds built against being caught in the open by sudden storms There were circles and lines of lofty standing-stones put there by forgotten people who were long gone. Small flocks of bleating sheep scattered at their approach but soon returned to nibbling the heath once they had passed by. When the sun was low, Tud collected dried dung an
d heather and lit a small fire outside a shepherd’s crude hut. A coil of grey smoke rose into the sky. Half an hour later, a figure loped towards them over the moor. He was shaggy-haired and dressed in equally unkempt, greasy sheepskins. He knelt at Cynan’s feet and held out a loaf, a block of white cheese wrapped in green leaves and a dozen wild plums. He received his blessing and made off. Otto watched carefully. He must have travelled over two miles before he was lost to sight in a fold in the ground.
The plums were small and bitter. Tud boiled them in a pot until they burst their skins. He picked the stones out and mixed in a little honey out of the jar he carried in his packsaddle. With sheep’s cheese, the sweetened fruit and the good bread, they ate well.
“See how far that humble shepherd came to make his offering? He knows that a blessing is a thing of immeasurable value,” Cynan crowed.
“Or he fears a curse if he ignores you,” countered Otto.
But the priest’s complacency would not be shaken. “In either case, he acknowledges my power.” he said.
The descended to lower ground among the woods and fields once more. As it grew dark on the evening of the ninth day since they had set out, Cynan made an announcement.
“Tomorrow we shall reach our destination. Your friend is held captive there and he will be alive, although in what condition I cannot say. You are to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. Give your sword and subarmalis to Tud who will put them out of sight with the rest of your arms. I shall ride your horse, Tud will ride my mule and you will lead the others…”
“You seriously expect me to give up my horse and sword?” Otto demanded incredulously.
“I do.”
“Cynan, I can think of three men I would trust so far and you are not one of them.”
The priest stared angrily at Otto with his sly, green eyes; they seemed to glow with a yellow flame. Otto thought again of a wild cat backed up on a rock, hissing and glaring defiance.
“I have not brought you here on a whim. I have not brought you to some country market fair. We are going to enter a place where death is already waiting. Whether yours or another’s is beyond my knowing. Make no mistake, Imperial Prefect Otto Longius, if you do not obey me in every detail, your friend will not see two more sunsets. Sleep on it and tell me in the morning that you agree.”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 29