Pendragon

by James Wilde

  ‘A campfire, the signs of a council perhaps. We saw some among the trees, but not an army, a war-band at best. More than us, so we fled.’

  ‘What did they look like?’ Falx asked.

  He was, perhaps, praying for some description that wouldn’t match the ghastly visions running through his head. The Wolf couldn’t help him. ‘Shadows. That was all we saw.’

  ‘Shadows,’ the centurion repeated, his voice low and wavering, as if Lucanus had described something far worse.

  ‘What troubles me,’ Atellus continued, ‘is that the arcani have been thick on the ground in the Wilds along the whole length of the wall, yet not a single band has reported anything out of the ordinary. If any had found something like this, the messengers would have been racing from the other forts long ago.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re ghosts,’ Falx croaked, ‘who melt away at the first light of dawn.’

  ‘Enough of that talk,’ the commandant snapped. ‘These are men. Barbarians. The worst kind, yes, barely more than savage beasts. But they are men, have no doubt of that. And we will do to them what we do to all our enemies.’ At the gate, he paused and looked back. ‘There’s nothing more we can do tonight. Go about your business. Try to forget what you have seen. Tomorrow we make plans for a campaign that will destroy these Eaters of the Dead once and for all. They have woken the bear.’

  He stormed off towards his rooms. Falx continued to stare into the night and then shook himself from his reverie. ‘This is a bad business, but we have better ahead. I’ve already spoken to your friend Amatius about the wine and we’re in agreement. But when the merchant from Rome gets here, there’s a greater deal coming.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘We’ll be awash in gold soon, Lucanus, mark my words. Go see your friends. Keep them sweet. And we’ll talk on this soon.’

  The centurion ambled away, everything he had just seen seemingly forgotten. Falx was a simple man, that was for sure. As he went, he whistled one of the soldiers’ bawdy songs about a girl who enjoyed the pleasures of the legion’s best. ‘A Hundred Times A Night’, they called it. Lucanus had always thought that couldn’t have been particularly enjoyable for either party.

  Lucanus shivered as he tramped up the slope away from the fort. Frozen puddles cracked under his feet. Before he’d gone far, he sensed movement in the corner of his eye, what looked like a giant crow pecking at the marshy area near where the spring trickled out of the ground. It was a woman, swathed all in black, her back twisted with age. Her hand hovered over whatever she was searching for, and then she craned her head towards him as if he’d hailed her.

  Lucanus shrugged and marched on, but when he glanced back he saw she was still staring. He shuddered, not sure why. As he climbed the slope, he could feel her eyes on his back, and only when he reached the higher ground did he again allow himself to look over his shoulder. This time she was nowhere to be seen.

  Away in the gloom, a wolf howled. Lucanus pushed back his head and bayed in turn, in salute to his brother.

  He felt a yearning to be back in the Wilds. The folk of the civilized world could never understand what it meant to be arcani. They thought that all things were what they appeared to be. Out there, the scouts shucked off the skins of men and became the beasts they had pledged themselves to, putting on fur, seeing with amber eyes, their senses afire with new sights and sounds and smells. They could hear the beating heart in the ground and the whispers in the branches.

  Civilized folk didn’t know what it meant to be alive.

  Vercovicium was a ship sailing upon the vast sea of night, its lamps glittering in the dark. The watch upon the wall would be changing their shift now. New eyes turning towards the north, trying to pierce the black veil.

  Lucanus trekked on past the marker stone at the boundary of Catia’s family’s land. A little further and he was comforted by the soft glow of the lamps at the gates to the villa. Now he could smell the stew of smoked fish simmering in the pots in the kitchen. After the hardships of the vicus, it would be good to rest for a while on couches imported from Rome, dazzled by gold everywhere he looked and breathing in the perfume of lavender and rose.

  The villa loomed out of the dark, with its two new wings enclosing a forecourt, and the farm buildings and brewhouse silhouetted against the starry sky. It hadn’t always been so grand. Lucanus remembered a house that resembled a filthy beggar winding down towards death. But that was when the family had split in two, and the ones left here had been beaten to their knees.

  How much wealth had been frittered away to turn this place into a palace, so far beyond the cold stone roundhouses that sat at the heart of most of the other farmsteads? To show their recovery from destitution, the patriarch, Menius, had insisted it be reconstructed in the modern Roman way, like the villas he had heard tell of in the south. It had its own baths, and a library. Lucanus still marvelled every time he stepped through the door. There was no more comfort in all of the north, he was sure of it.

  His shadow danced ahead of him through the gates. Somewhere nearby, a creaking voice conjured an old song, the maudlin melody plucking images of when he was a boy, squatting in fear by the fireside out in the wilderness as the wolves howled in the distance. Perhaps he had heard the song then, too.

  In the centre of the forecourt, an old man craned his neck to watch the moon appear from behind a cloud. Menius was like one of the wind-blasted trees that clung on to the thin soil of the high land in that place. He’d always been the sternest man Lucanus had known, but in recent times he’d softened a little.

  ‘The Wolf,’ the old man called. ‘It’s been too long since you graced our halls.’ He surprised Lucanus with a hug. ‘I promised your father I’d treat you as one of my own blood, and you are, you are. You will always be like a son to me.’

  Lucanus heard an odd note in Menius’ voice that he couldn’t quite identify. ‘The Wilds called to me. I couldn’t deny them.’

  ‘The Wilds always call to you, brother of wolves.’ The old man rested a frail arm across Lucanus’ shoulders and guided him towards the villa. ‘The family has been abroad, looking for Marcus. He abandoned his chores and went out to play this morning. No one has seen him since.’

  ‘He has a fire in his belly, that one. I wouldn’t worry yet.’

  ‘And in that, he’s a lot like you when you were that age.’ Menius peered up at the moon once again and mouthed something. A prayer, perhaps. ‘When you walked through the gate, I thought for one moment that it was Lucanus the Elder. I think of your father from time to time, and more as the years lie heavily upon me, remembering the days we shared as children. I would see him again before I die.’

  ‘My father is dead, Menius.’ It was his standard response. He’d often prayed that some miracle would happen and his father would walk back into his life, but that was the dream of a child. And if his father had taught him one thing, it was that he was a man from the moment he could lift a sword.

  ‘Have you seen his body? Have you seen his blood spilled upon the hard ground? No—’

  ‘I watched my father walk away into the mists that morning, into the Wilds, to do his work as one of the arcani. If he chose not to return to me … if he preferred a life alone … then that is worse than his passing. No. He would have come back to me, if he could. He’s left this world.’

  Menius seemed on the brink of saying something else, but then he caught himself and smiled and nodded. ‘Let us speak of brighter things. We have good food for the table, and wine. Falx was here. He reached some agreement with Amatius. I imagine both will have seen their purses swell. They are much alike, those two. Gold and gold, and gold.’

  Lucanus couldn’t deny that. Amatius was clever, but his wit was far exceeded by his cunning, and his greed. He’d married Catia when she was twelve and he seventeen. That marriage was the first step back from the miseries that had befallen her family, a joining with another family of wealthy merchants. Both sides had done well out of the arrangement.

  Lucanus pus
hed aside the wave of bitterness.

  At the threshold, they heard footsteps behind them. Catia appeared out of the night, her golden hair glowing in the circle of light under the lamps by the door. Lucanus winced when he saw the lines furrowing her brow and the dullness of her eyes.

  ‘Have you found Marcus?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s punishing me. I know he’s hiding out there …’ she waved a hand towards the dark, ‘hoping to fill me with worry. And then he’ll dance back when his belly is rumbling, filled with some tale of magic and murder.’

  ‘You let that boy run wild,’ Menius scolded. ‘He’ll be the ruin of you.’

  ‘Father, he’s eight. There’s plenty of time to learn responsibility.’

  ‘I learned responsibility when I was a boy younger than that, and then again when I was a man and my brother stole everything I had. Lucanus, did I tell you how I fought to claw this family back up out of the mud?’

  ‘You’ve told him so many times he can probably recount it word for word,’ Catia said with a sigh. ‘Come. I won’t play Marcus’ games. The slaves will continue the search.’

  As Lucanus entered the largest room, his feet echoed on the marble floor and he lowered his eyes against the glare from the white walls. After the silence and shadows of the Wilds, this world felt alien to him. But the scent of the pungent fish stew was stronger there and he breathed in a deep draught.

  Aelius lounged at the low table, watching their guest over the rim of his goblet, with one eyebrow crooked and, Lucanus was sure, a hidden sardonic smile.

  ‘Entertain us with tales of the Wilds, Wolf,’ Aelius said.

  ‘It’s cold. The forests are dark. There are things that will eat you. Will that do?’

  ‘Stay anyway. As long as you don’t drink all the wine,’ Aelius said.

  Lucanus hoped that was all of them, but a moment later Amatius breezed in and kissed Catia on the cheek in passing. When he saw Lucanus, he pounced forward with a grin and loomed over him as he clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘My friend,’ he gushed.

  The Wolf forced a smile. Behind him, he could hear Aelius’ hollow chuckles.

  ‘Falx told me you suggested he bring the wine to me,’ he said. ‘I thank you for that. We’ll do well out of this trade.’ He swept to the side of the room, poured a fresh goblet of wine and proffered it to Lucanus.

  Menius popped a fat olive in his mouth and rolled it around with his tongue so that his words sounded muffled. ‘You’d do well to take care when you play these games. Here we survive at the mercy of the army … and men like Lucanus. If word got out that you were robbing them of good wine, and all the other fine things that find their way across our land, we’d pay a high price.’

  ‘Word will not get out. Besides, Falx will always protect us. We pay him well enough.’

  Lucanus took the wine and sipped it. ‘Falx has only one interest at heart … his own. Don’t forget that.’

  Amatius shrugged. ‘And you … you’ll always look out for this family, too. You’re one of us.’

  ‘I’m one man.’

  ‘Not to hear Falx and the other soldiers speak of you. Ten men, they say, ten men or a cornered wolf.’

  Aelius waved his goblet in the air for Amatius to fill it, not even deigning to glance at the older man. ‘I’m bored,’ he sighed.

  ‘You’re always bored.’ Catia eased her husband out of the way so she could refill her brother’s cup. Lucanus watched her fix an eye on Aelius, silently warning him not to cause trouble.

  ‘You’ve lived your life in peaceful times.’ Menius wagged a finger at his son. ‘An attack here, an attack there, but nothing that keeps you from your wine. Don’t wish for the kind of excitement that was seen in times long gone.’

  Aelius leaned back and rolled his eyes.

  Lucanus watched Catia staring at the space at the table where Marcus usually sat and wished he could comfort her. ‘I want to say a prayer at the shrine before we dine,’ she said. As she moved away from the table, she glanced at him.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, understanding that look.

  The villa was quiet, but he could hear the questioning cries of the slaves out in the night as they searched for the boy.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could be a world away from here.’ Catia hugged her arms around her as they passed the grand mosaic of Artemis, the old man’s pride. ‘Perhaps in Rome, with my mother.’

  ‘Don’t let your father hear those words.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean with my mother. But Rome …’

  ‘You’re not happy here?’

  One look was enough. He felt foolish for saying it.

  By the niche where the bronze statues of the family guardians stood, Catia lit three candles and murmured a few words to the penates to look after her son. But that was not enough, it seemed. Breath steaming in the open air, she strode across the gardens, past the spectral bulk of the mausoleum, to the lararium. Inside the shrine, Lucanus shivered as Catia lit a fourth candle and a mosaic shimmered out of the dark, the genius hovering over a coiled serpent. After another prayer, she turned and looked up at him. In the confined space, Lucanus smelled the scent of rose petals on her skin. Her eyes were black pools.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  Before she could continue, he heard cries echoing across the grounds outside.

  ‘Oh,’ Catia said. ‘They’ve found Marcus.’ Her face flooded with relief and she slipped out of the shrine, leaving Lucanus swimming in questions. He hurried after her into the villa. Low voices droned.

  A blast of chill air cut through the warmth from the hypocaust. The door to the courtyard hung open to the night, and beyond the circle of lamplight he could just make out a line of figures. The family had abandoned their meal.

  ‘Is it Marcus?’ Catia called. ‘Has he returned?’

  As Lucanus caught up with her the family drifted apart, and now he could see lowered eyes and taut mouths. Beyond them stood five soldiers; at the front was Falx. He flashed the Wolf the irritated look of a man who thought he would get no rest that night, but when he turned back to Catia Lucanus saw his expression change.

  She looked into the centurion’s face, reading it, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Trail

  THE TORCH ROARED in the wind blasting over the wall. Lucanus braced himself against the gale, snarling his fists in his billowing cloak, and looked down at the silver-haired woman huddling at his feet. He’d expected her to be afraid, surrounded by those stone-faced soldiers. But though one eye was milky, the other gleamed with a cold, confident intelligence.

  ‘I saw you earlier this night, in the marsh by the spring.’ The crow who had been watching him.

  ‘Speak, you old crone. Tell them what you told my men.’ Falx leaned over her, scowling.

  The woman pointed a trembling finger towards the moonlit Wilds beyond the wall. Gusts of snow swirled above the long grass.

  ‘Out there. That’s where I saw him. The boy.’

  ‘Alone?’ Lucanus snapped.

  She shook her head and he felt cold in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Who was with him?’

  ‘I could not see. It was dark by the wall. But he was being led by the hand.’

  Lucanus could sense the family at his back. Catia had choked back her sobs, and he was proud of her for that, but he could feel the weight of their fear. ‘How could they leave?’ He looked along the wall, past the watchtowers. Torches glimmered into the distance, soldiers standing here and there.

  ‘The gate was left open.’ Falx shifted and looked away. ‘Perhaps after the … ah, the fire, earlier. When I find out who’s responsible, I’ll have their bollocks.’ Catching himself, the centurion glanced back at the family and said, ‘Apologies.’

  Amatius shook a finger in the centurion’s face. ‘You tell me one of those barbarians could have slipped in, found my son playing in the dark, and tak
en him away. One barbarian? When they come, they come in war-bands. This is unheard of.’

  Falx snapped round to the old woman. She cowered away from him. ‘Or perhaps you’re lying, is that it? Perhaps you’ve taken him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ve heard the stories. Blood for the pot. Whispered spells—’

  Catia cried out.

  Lucanus held up a hand to silence the centurion. ‘If she’d taken the boy, would she have come to you and told you she’d seen him?’ He looked out towards the black band of trees on the horizon. ‘I’ll go after him. Now. Before they’ve gone too far.’

  ‘If you go, you go alone,’ Falx cautioned. ‘This may be a trap. Lure out my men, or the Grim Wolves, and those barbarian bastards will descend upon us. After what happened earlier, we can’t take any risks.’

  Menius pushed his way forward, shaking, whether from the bitter cold or with emotion Lucanus couldn’t be sure. ‘This is madness. You can’t abandon the boy to his fate.’

  ‘I’ll send out men at first light to search for him,’ Falx said.

  By then it might be too late. They all knew that.

  Lucanus turned to Catia. ‘I’ll leave now, and I won’t return without Marcus.’

  Blinking away a tear, she smiled, but though her lips worked she couldn’t find any words. He nodded. None were needed.

  As he turned back, Amatius clasped his arm. ‘You’re a good man. We’ll never forget this.’

  Menius almost shoved his son-in-law aside and leaned in, trembling. ‘Your father would be proud.’ For Lucanus, those words were payment enough for whatever was to come. He turned to Falx.

  ‘Send word to Bellicus, but leave it a while,’ he said. ‘He’ll try to follow me, and he’ll disobey all orders not to do so. If you try to stop him, he’ll throw you on your arse, and that won’t end well for either of you. Don’t let him know what direction I went in. But tell him I’ll see him soon. And Menius, take Catia home and give whatever prayers you can find in your hearts to the gods. There’s still hope.’