Pendragon

by James Wilde

  ‘Would like nothing more than to get his hands on her,’ Bellicus said.

  ‘If he is anything like his men, then you’ve done well to escape him. One of them visited this night. He had to be dealt with in the customary manner.’

  Bellicus and Mato winced.

  Amarina eyed Catia. ‘Hiding is not a solution, you know that? When the merchant leaves, there will still be a price to pay.’

  Catia said nothing.

  ‘You could bring your husband here. We would treat him with all the hospitality he deserves.’

  ‘That may well be an answer for another night,’ Mato said. Trying to dismiss this talk of the bastard husband, Amarina thought. Ah, Mato, always protecting the weak and wounded.

  While scrubbing the fur on Catulus’ head, she eyed Catia from under her lids. And yet this woman was not some cringing girl who ran after her man and meekly did all that she was ordered to do. She had fire in her belly; Lucanus would not value her so highly if that were not true. What drove her, then? Gold? That Amarina could understand, though no doubt this woman looking down her nose at her would not be flattered by any comparison between herself and the residents of the House of Wishes.

  ‘We have an agreement,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep her safe. And if anyone comes asking, I’ve not seen her, or you. You have your story straight?’

  ‘We were drunk in the vicus and saw her flee the advances of Varro and his men,’ Bellicus said. ‘She paid good coin and has been whisked away to be with kin until she is sure she is safe.’

  ‘A good enough lie. And Varro will doubtless have other things to talk about in the morning.’ Amarina smiled, enjoying the woman’s puzzled stare at her cryptic comment. She swung open the door and waved her hand a few times to usher the two men out.

  Once they were gone, she turned back to Catia. ‘You have good friends there.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not your friend. But you will be treated like a queen while you’re here.’

  ‘All I ask is a place to hide and some food. Can your girls be trusted?’

  ‘With my life, and I don’t trust lightly. You’ll find them like sisters, though they’ll cut you with their tongues if you presume to hold your nose in the air.’

  Catia shrugged. ‘I was suckled by wolves. I wouldn’t know how to be regal.’

  Amarina eyed her guest askance. She wasn’t the only one who enjoyed cryptic comments. ‘Good. Come with me.’ She swept through the House of Wishes, past rooms that rang with cries of pleasure and one that was silent.

  Far from the main entrance, she lifted one corner of a tapestry embroidered with spirals and stars to reveal another door. ‘Should any husbands need to hide from wives, or girls from drunken men,’ Amarina said.

  She pushed open the door and the two women squeezed into a small dark room. Amarina lit an oil-lamp, and the shadows danced away from a pile of furs and little else. She watched the other woman turn up her nose at the vinegary smell of stale sweat.

  ‘It’s not much and it’s rarely used,’ she said.

  ‘It will suffice.’ Catia sucked in a deep, juddering breath. ‘You have my thanks.’

  Amarina watched the other woman’s shoulders slump as the weight of her predicament settled on her. She nodded – what was there left to say? – and wandered back to help Decima and Galantha clean up. Afterwards, she sat with a cup of wine while she counted the gold that Bellicus had given her, then lifted the stone in the floor and tucked her earnings into the space beneath. A small fortune nestled there, but it was not enough. It would never be enough.

  The world was shading towards darkness and there would be a long night ahead, that was the talk circulating far from the seats of power. Yet she had her wits and the fire in her belly, and men would always need to pay for warm thighs and the comfort of love without demands.

  From the kitchen, she collected a bowl of cold stew and some wine and drifted back to the hidden room. Catia lay on her back on the furs, staring blankly at the ceiling.

  ‘Something to fill your belly and raise your spirits.’ Amarina set the bowl and wine down where the other woman could reach them.

  ‘How many men have you killed?’ Catia asked, from nowhere.

  Amarina could see where her thoughts had been. ‘I don’t keep count. As I don’t keep count of the meals I’ve eaten.’ She paused. ‘Men are not the problem. People who want power and will do anything to achieve it, they are the problem. Men. Women.’ She shrugged. ‘Most people are happy with their lot. Their currency is kindness.’

  Catia studied her face. ‘That gives me some comfort. You’re not as I imagined.’

  ‘A whore can’t be wise?’

  ‘Would a wise woman choose to be a whore?’

  ‘You presume there’s a choice.’

  ‘Then what made you follow this path?’

  ‘I was stolen from my village by pirates when I was a young girl. The entire ship had their way with me, time and again. A hundred times each. One night, when they were moored offshore and the men were asleep on deck, I turned over the fire-pot and set the ship ablaze. I swam for the beach and stood there watching them all die in flames. A girl alone with no kin … what do you do?’

  Catia had no response.

  ‘You escaped Varro’s slobbering advances?’ Amarina sat on the end of the pile of furs.

  ‘By the skin of my teeth.’ She hesitated, staring at her hands. ‘This night was about more than that fat slug’s hungers.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, he was ready to defile me. There was no doubt of that. But that was at the end, after everything else.’ Amarina watched Catia stare into the middle distance. She seemed to be talking to herself, trying to make sense of what had happened to her. ‘He said I was special.’

  ‘Every man says that to a woman. It’s the cock speaking.’

  ‘No. He said he’d been searching through Britannia for a woman with the mark of the dragon upon her.’

  Amarina let this sink in. ‘You have such a mark upon you?’

  Catia half turned towards her and lowered the shoulder of her dress. Amarina leaned in and traced her fingers around the distorted scar. The circle sprang to life in the light of the oil-lamp. Unmistakably a serpent eating its own tail.

  ‘It was branded upon me when I was a babe. Varro called it the Ouroboros.’

  ‘Birth and rebirth,’ Amarina mused.

  Catia started. ‘You know of this?’

  ‘Am I not a little box of surprises?’

  Catia’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t play games with me. I’ve had my fill of being pushed around by everyone I meet.’

  Amarina pulled the shoulder of the other woman’s dress back up. ‘There are stories. Old stories. Told by the wise women who live in the woods. Like all old stories, the telling changes with the teller. Some say one thing, some another. But this …’ She tapped Catia’s shoulder. ‘It’s always been a sign of something great. Of the gods’ plan, perhaps. The mark of the great architect who builds the temple of the world. The plans of men too. It would seem you’ve been chosen.’

  Catia pulled up her knees and hugged her arms around her. ‘Chosen for what?’

  Amarina leaned back against the wall, calculating what advantage there was in this knowledge. ‘There are secrets everywhere, hidden behind things we all know. You’ve heard the folk sing of King Barleycorn when the harvest has been brought in?’

  ‘Of course. They sing about the reaping of the crop and the beer made from it.’

  ‘That, and more. It’s an old song. Very old. Suffering, death and resurrection—’

  ‘The reaping, the malting, the new growth in the spring as it all begins again.’

  Amarina smiled. ‘And we are all revived by the drinking of King Barleycorn’s blood.’ She paused, plucking her words from the depths of her memory. ‘There’s one story that’s been long told, as old as that song. Of the coming of the king who will not die. The followers of the Christ have a similar s
tory, I’m told. Suffering and death and resurrection. The Messiah, they call him. The one who will return to unite the people and save the land. The followers of Mithras say the same. And …’ she laughed silently, ‘everyone. It’s an old, old tale. All tell it.’

  ‘What does that have to do with me?’

  ‘The king who will not die is often called the Dragon.’ She tapped Catia’s shoulder blade again. ‘Suffering, death and resurrection; the circle never ends.’

  Catia shook her head. Until this moment her life had been small and she was struggling to accept what she was hearing, Amarina could see. ‘Varro asked about my son,’ she breathed.

  ‘My heart’s hard. When I hear these old tales, I don’t think here is the saviour that will lead us all to a land of wine and honey-cakes. I think whoever owns the king, rules the land. Those people who want power, the ones we talked about just now … I would think they’d be keen to find and lay claim to this king, whether he is real or imagined. Even an imagined king has power, if his name is praised enough. Take your son and hide, that would be my advice.’

  Amarina thought Catia was about to be sick. ‘My son has been stolen. Taken beyond the wall by … I don’t know whom. Lucanus has gone in search of him.’ She bowed her head and muttered a prayer that Amarina couldn’t hear.

  ‘You’re right. I’m a whore. I don’t know anything. Do not heed me.’ Amarina stood and stepped to the door. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son. If any man can bring him back, Lucanus can, you know that.’

  Before dawn, she woke her girls and together they dumped the body in the bog, weighted down with stones. Afterwards, they finished their task by leaving a sign that would show the way forward; no Ouroboros this. Then they hurried back to light the hearth-fires and prepare new perfume and incense. The beds would be creaking soon enough. She sent food and ale to the hidden room, and then ventured out into the cold morning.

  She smiled as the hubbub rising from the camp reached her ears long before she saw the small crowd gathered on the edge of the crescent of tents and wagons. Amarina pushed her way to the front and stood beside the Grim Wolves. Mato and Bellicus eyed her, but said nothing.

  Still fastening his cloak, Varro stormed from his tent, with Bucco and one of his guards hurrying at his heels. He marched up to his wagon, studied what had drawn the attention and then spun back to the crowd. ‘What is this?’ he roared.

  Amarina narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the chunk of flesh nailed to the rheda. ‘I would say it looked like a cock, if it were larger.’

  Varro snarled, a bestial sound, and stepped forward. His fingers flexed as if he would strangle her. ‘Whore. This is your doing.’

  She raised one eyebrow, showing an unperturbed face, in the full knowledge that it would only whip his anger to greater heights. Before the merchant could advance, Bellicus and Mato leapt in front of her.

  ‘Step back,’ Mato commanded, raising a hand.

  ‘You would defend this sow too?’

  Amarina pushed the two wolf-brothers aside. ‘I need no protection.’

  ‘One of my men is dead. You must pay for this crime.’

  ‘Dead, you say? That’s news to me. All I know is that one of your men was little more than a wild beast in the House of Wishes last night, and he was sent on his way.’

  She smiled as the merchant jabbed a finger at her. ‘I will have words with Atellus. You will not escape judgement.’

  From along the Stanegate came the thunder of hooves and Amarina turned to watch a group of perhaps thirty men galloping along the stone road and then turning towards the fort. Varro’s furious expression softened into a smile. When he glanced back at her, Amarina saw a look in his eyes that troubled her. Sly, hinting of victory.

  He hauled his huge frame away from the crowd and across to the track to the Stanegate, where he waited to meet the riders.

  ‘What is this?’ Bellicus growled.

  ‘If you forced me to wager, I’d say Varro sent out word last night for more swords to serve him,’ Amarina replied.

  ‘That’s more guards than he needs,’ Mato murmured. ‘He’s building an army.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  City of Gods

  ROME GLOWED IN the rosy dawn light. Above the walls, the mountains of marble looked down, silent and ethereal, ready to lift a man up to the heavens or smite him down. Corvus pushed himself upright on his horse and marvelled at the vision.

  ‘Remember the stories we heard at our mothers’ knee, back home in Britannia?’ He heard a rare wistful tone in Pavo’s voice. The days of their childhood were hazy now, that cold land barely more than smears of brown and green, only half shaped before his mother and father had whisked him away to the east.

  ‘Romulus and Remus,’ Pavo mused. He was leaning forward across his horse’s neck, his short stature emphasized by the hunching of his broad shoulders. ‘The twins, suckled by the she-wolf. From the wilds they came, and turned their dreams into the stones that built this place.’

  Corvus looked back at his own brother, Ruga, perched on the bench of the wagon, oblivious of the view. ‘Just a story,’ he said.

  ‘In every story there’s a truth. A lesson to be learned.’

  ‘And what should I learn from Romulus and Remus?’

  Pavo was grinning now. Corvus knew that grin. It said that whatever words came out of his friend’s mouth, much more was lying behind them. ‘So many lessons, but for now let us consider the wolf.’

  ‘The wolf?’

  ‘What does a wolf do? Why, in all the stories I’ve heard, he leads you into the forest where you face your deepest fears. The wolf has already conquered them. Learn from the wolf and you can conquer them too.’

  ‘From anyone else, those would be wise words.’

  Laughing, Pavo rode on.

  Corvus dug his heels in the flanks of his own horse, keen to get home. The journey from Gaul had been wearying. High winter seas had almost dashed the ship to pieces. But when they sailed to the mouth of the Tiber and docked at Ostia, the sun came out, the breeze grew warm and all seemed right with the world.

  From the port, they’d ridden through the night, with Hecate sleeping in the back of the wagon.

  ‘Thinking about the witch again?’ He sensed Pavo’s eyes on him.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘To me.’

  ‘You know me too well.’ Corvus chewed on his lip. ‘I pity her. I don’t know exactly what Ruga has planned for her, but it isn’t going to be good. He’s already been …’ He bit off the final words, unable to say anything bad about his brother.

  Pavo finished it anyway. ‘A snake in the grass?’

  Corvus shrugged. ‘He loves to plot. The questions are spilling over in my head.’

  ‘You could ask him about his scheming, of course, if you wanted to be swatted away like a fly, as always.’

  ‘I can live with his intrigues when no one else is involved.’

  ‘But this time he’s dragging the witch into it,’ Pavo said with a nod. ‘And she’s an innocent here, a country girl with mud under her nails, not used to you cunning civilized men.’

  ‘And I was the one who lured her here.’ Corvus sighed.

  ‘Well, we’ve long since established that you’re a bastard to all who cross your path.’ Pavo shielded his eyes from the sun, judging the distance to the gate.

  ‘I should have known better than to expect sympathy from you.’

  His friend snorted. ‘I’ll show you sympathy when you’ve earned it.’ He rode on.

  ‘Now I feel even worse,’ Corvus muttered to himself.

  ‘The seven hills of Rome.’ The younger Theodosius had ridden up beside him and was craning his neck. ‘In the Bible, we’re told that seven is the number of perfection and completeness.’ The soldier pulled off his helmet and mopped the sweat dripping from his sandy hair.

  ‘Seven wolves,’ Corvus muttered to himself, ‘that’s what I need.’ He glanced at his friend and said, ‘You should be
overflowing with joy, escaping from those icy forests back to civilization. At least here you won’t have to crack the frozen snot off your top lip when you wake every morning.’

  ‘I am joyful, and the first thing I’ll do once we enter the city will be to visit the church and pray for our good fortune. Will you join me?’

  ‘Perhaps later. First I must visit my mother. Ruga sent word ahead and she will be expecting us. Perhaps she may even be pleased to discover I’m still alive.’

  Theodosius laughed. ‘You have a wit, my friend. This world would be darker without you.’ He patted the packed leather pouch hanging over his horse’s flanks. ‘This work may well take time. Preparing the supply lines for the campaign against the Alamanni won’t be easy when there are so many demands across the empire.’

  The longer it takes, the better, Corvus thought. Weeks of negotiations might dull the mind, but it would give him the time he needed to discover the full extent of his brother’s plans for Hecate.

  The Via Aurelia led them straight to the Pons Aemelius. Corvus shielded his eyes against the shimmering waters of the Tiber as he urged his horse across the bridge, past trundling carts and merchants laden with bulging bales. The city was already coming alive. The streets rang with voices, masters and apprentices whistling call and response, boys whirling by in search of supplies for the day’s business. Corvus pushed on through the growing throng, around the slopes of the Palatine Hill alongside columns of creamy marble and porticos holding up the blue sky.

  On the edge of the forum, dwarfed by the soaring arch of Septimus Severus, he tossed a coin to a boy to water the horses. When he looked round, Pavo had lost himself to the milling crowd, gambling or arguing or hunting for food. Theodosius soon followed him, in search of his conversation with God.

  While Ruga and the driver stretched their legs, Corvus cupped Hecate’s hand as she climbed down from the rear of the wagon. He watched her eyes widen with either fear or amazement. A life lived in the forest had not prepared her for the bustle of Reims, never mind the vastness of Rome. This heaving mass of life, this stew of choking scents, this ringing, fierce, wild den of vices.