The Eagles' Brood cc-3

by Jack Whyte

  "We are Christians, Father, are we not? We are told to love our enemy, to turn the other cheek. We cannot do it, of course, in life. But surely we can try? We cannot claim to be Christians if we condone senseless and unnecessary slaughter. You are the one who taught me about taking personal responsibility for my own actions." I broke off, and thought again about what I wanted to say. "I suppose what I mean is that I did not choose to be responsible for what I saw as the needless deaths of three hundred beaten men plus those of my own men who would have died in the killing of them." I looked at him, fully expecting him to interrupt me there, but he said nothing and I continued. "I suspect you were having precisely the same kind of thoughts when I arrived. Am I correct? Or would you have had your troopers kill these people out of hand, in cold blood?" He frowned and his lips thinned, but I hurried on before he could respond. "That's rhetorical, of course. Had you intended that, you'd never have taken them as prisoners in the first place. In any case, young Donuil offered a way out. His life, in servitude, as hostage for the absence of his people from our lands. It seemed to me to be a fair solution."

  "From what viewpoint?" My father's voice was calmer now.

  I plucked a long stem of grass and nibbled on the soft end of it. "From the viewpoint of history, I suppose. Our own history. Rome herself set the example centuries ago, and has continued to do so ever since. Better, I thought, to let them leave with their lives and be responsible for the life of their own prince than to exterminate them and await reprisals."

  He was biting at the skin of his lip, his eyes fixed on mine. "And you would trust this prince, this Donuil, to keep his own word?"

  "Yes, Father. I would trust this Donuil."

  He twisted sideways and fumbled with his swordbelt, trying to make it lie more comfortably beneath him. He was only partially successful, and ended up drawing his dagger from its sheath and gazing at the point of it.

  "Vortigern," he said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Vortigern. It's a man's name. He's a warlord in the north-east. Have you heard of him?"

  I shook my head. "No. Never. Should I have heard of him? Who is he?"

  My father stabbed his dagger into the ground, hard, and then drew it out again, the gritty, alien sound of the earth scraping against the iron blade setting my teeth on edge. "Vortigern is doing what you're doing," he said. "He is putting his life and the lives of his people into jeopardy by trusting an alien people who have no conception of what trust means. Reason tells me that the idea of trust, as we understand it, must be a truly alien concept to them." He stopped and looked at me and then, seeing my incomprehension, wiped the blade on the hem of his tunic and went on to explain.

  "Vortigern's lands are up on the north-east coast, in the area that has been getting the heaviest raids and the roughest treatment from invading Saxons. He and his people fought them well enough for years, but there were more fresh raiders coming in each year, while Vortigern's best people were being killed off steadily. Finally, he made an arrangement with a man called Hengist, one of the Saxon chiefs who came back year after year. He would give the Saxons land, he told them, land for them to farm and live on, if they would agree to help him defend his own land and theirs from other raiders."

  "And?" I finally had to ask him. "Did they agree?"

  For a long time I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all, but then he shrugged and sighed deeply. "Aye, they agreed."

  "Why, that's marvellous," I said, full of enthusiasm.

  My father looked at me with a strange expression, part pity, part impatience. "Is it now? And what happens tomorrow, or next year, or the year after that, when the Saxons he has invited to live with him want to go home and bring back their wives and children and brothers and families? And what happens when all their friends and families come here and there isn't enough land for them to farm?"

  I blinked. "They'll clear more land and farm that."

  "Aye, Caius, that they will. And they'll need more and more as their numbers grow, and one day they will decide that there isn't room for Vortigern and his people there any longer, because by that time it will be their land, and they'll throw Vortigern and his descendants out, alive if they're lucky." His voice had been rising as he spoke and now he paused and gathered his patience again, lowering his tone. "Vortigern is playing a suicidal game, Caius. He is not merely welcoming strangers to his lands. He is allowing uncontested entry to an alien race, an alien culture, an uncivilized and savage people who are intrinsically inimical to Vortigern's traditions and way of life. He will lose everything, sooner or later. It's inevitable." He paused. "Inevitable. You do see that, don't you?"

  I nodded. "Yes, Father, I do, now that you explain it so graphically. But I can't see how it affects my own decision regarding this young Celtic chieftain. I am not inviting him to come here and farm my land. I can't find it in me to think that I have made the wrong decision."

  My father squeezed his face between his palms and rose to his feet, his decision made. "Very well, Caius. You are my son and a soldier. More than that, you are your own man, with the right to make your own judgments. I have my doubts, but I will not say I told you so if you are wrong. I'll only hope you learn from your mistake—if you have indeed made one. How do you intend to proceed now?"

  I tried hard not to allow my relief to show in any way, but got to my feet as casually as I could and replaced my helmet on my head. My father could still make me feel like a small boy. "I will have Donuil speak to your prisoners and explain the situation to them. I expect no trouble, since they have no choice. They are barbarian, but I think they do not lack honour. I will escort all of them back to the coast and send them home. Then we'll return to Camulod. We should be no more than three days behind you."

  "How many are we freeing altogether?"

  "Six hundred here, five hundred at the coast, guarding their ships."

  "Eleven hundred men..." He shook his head again. "I hope you have the right of it, Caius, for if you are wrong they will eat you alive."

  "I know that, Father. I believe I'm right."

  He nodded. "Well, don't be longer than three days behind me or I'll pronounce you dead."

  I smiled. "No need of that, Commander. By the way, what were our losses on the road?"

  "Less than a hundred," he said, looking around him. "We lost one for ten. Not a bad exchange, under the circumstances."

  "No," I said. "I suppose not."

  He glanced at me, sharp-eyed. "What's the matter?"

  "Oh, nothing. This is my first major battle, in terms of the numbers of men involved. I suppose I'm still trying to adjust to the thought of eleven or twelve hundred lives being snuffed out like lamps within the space of an hour. Eleven hundred. That's a lot of corpses. They'll breed a lot of maggots."

  He frowned slightly. "It's half as many as it would have been without your bargain! But you're right. That road will be unpleasant to travel for the next few months. I don't think, however, that you have lost sight of what would have happened at Camulod had we let them get through this valley unscathed."

  I nodded agreement. "It had to be done, I'm aware of that, but it doesn't make it any the less sickening." I put my foot into the stirrup and swung myself up onto my horse. "As long as people like the Scotii and the Picts, and the Saxons for that matter, see us as weak, helpless victims in a leaderless land, this kind of carnage will go on. But it galls me that Lot of Cornwall should stoop so low as to bring in invaders to help him."

  My father cleared his throat derisively and I marvelled again, for the first time; in ages, at how clear his speaking voice had become. "Well, my son, I can guarantee you that Lot would not describe himself as stooping low to achieve his ends. That one is aiming high. He seeks dominion. Lot of Cornwall sees himself as High King of Britain, I fear." He mounted his own horse.

  "High King of Britain? Lot of Cornwall? You jest, surely, Father?"

  But there was no humour in my father's grim face. He grunted and spat, clear
ing his mouth before he spoke again. "No, by the ancient gods, I mean it. I have ill reports of him. He looks to conquer all of us."

  "Then his ambition will kill him, for he has to reckon with Uther, myself and you, and he's not man enough for any of us. I wonder how Uther is faring right now?"

  My father hitched around in his saddle, peering backward to where his army awaited him. "We'll find out soon enough," he said, abstractedly. "Go you and see your prisoners out to sea. And don't take too long about it. We'll be waiting for you in Camulod."

  XIV

  In the event, we were no more than one day behind my father in reaching Camulod. I took Prince Donuil to meet his surviving men immediately upon leaving my father, and the joy with which they greeted the young man was worth beholding. He explained to them the terms under which he had bought their lives and extracted a pledge from all of them to honour his commitment. There was little argument.

  The next day we reached the coast where they had beached their fleet. Seven hundred Scotii, as it turned out, escorted by my four hundred mounted men. Donuil himself went forward to speak to the guards he had left behind and I allowed him to do so without an escort. He was gone for more than an hour and returned with a grizzled veteran almost as big as he himself. When they came in sight of us they stopped and I rode out to meet them. The big man with Donuil was the first to speak.

  "My nephew here has told me of the terms he has reached with you, Merlyn Britannicus, and I have no choice but to abide by his terms and yours." He stopped and I waited for him to continue, which he did after clearing his throat and spitting. "Understand that had we known we were facing Romans, we would have behaved very differently!"

  I could not let him get away with that, for his bearing implied that by behaving differently they could have beaten us. "What does that mean? You lost more than a thousand men. You marched into an alien land without sending out scouts. You are lucky to be still alive, and luckier still to be sailing home with your weapons and your honour intact."

  The big man flushed. "I know that. I had no thought of demeaning you. What I meant was that we were marching to join King Lot. By his tale your people are nought but a nest of bandits who threaten die existence of his kingdom. He told us that you are a rabble."

  I grunted. "Well, if rabble we are, we are a well-disciplined rabble."

  "Aye, and a strangely honourable one. I am Fergus, brother to King Athol and uncle to Donuil. My nephew has told me of your behaviour and of your treatment of him. I will take back your conditions to my brother Athol, and I am here to swear my solemn pledge that you will hear no more of us for five years from this date." I nodded my head, accepting his pledge, and he went on, "At that time, five years from now, we will return to this spot to claim our prince. If he is well and alive, we will take him and leave."

  "He will be."

  "He had better be, noble Roman! Take good care of him, for if he is not here on the due date, you will have war with every man on our island, and not all your Roman wiles will win that war for you."

  I looked him straight in the eye. "I hear you. If your prince abides by his sworn word he will come to no ill at my hands, nor at the hands of any of my people."

  The big man did not take his eyes away from mine. "Make you sure that he takes no ill at the hand of any, be he friend or enemy."

  I allowed a smile to soften my next words. "Will you threaten me forever, or shall we take our leave of each other now?"

  He nodded. "So be it. He is in your hands."

  Donuil still had not spoken, but now he turned to his uncle and embraced him, and we withdrew to watch from a hillside as they embarked and put to sea, each boat towing an empty one behind it. When they had shrunk to the size of toys on the horizon, I turned to look at my young prisoner. He stood erect, straight as a spear, his eyes fixed on the distant fleet, his face giving not the slightest indication of what thoughts were going through his head. I felt for him, imagining what my own feelings would have been had our situations been reversed.

  "Prince Donuil," I said. "It is time. We must return to Camulod. You may ride behind one of my men."

  He looked at me with empty, emotionless eyes. "I will walk."

  "So be it." I gave the signal to my waiting troops and we began the long journey home.

  He walked every step of the way, his pace tireless and unflagging, at the left side of my horse. On one occasion, when we were crossing boggy ground, I told him to take hold of my stirrup, but he merely looked at me and kept his hands by his sides. We did not speak further. When we stopped to camp on the first and second nights, he accepted food wordlessly and then lay down to sleep in the spot I indicated to him, mid I had no doubt that he slept soundly, for we had been pushing our horses at a hard walk, which meant brutal speed for a man on foot.

  As soon as we reached Camulod, I handed over my prisoner into the keeping of a centurion with orders that he be confined, unchained, in one of the cells that we kept for our own petty offenders, and there I left him for twenty-four hours, giving him time to consider close confinement while I looked after the affairs that had accumulated during my absence.

  Uther had not returned from his foray against Lot, although he had sent back the legates Titus and Flavius with two hundred of the four hundred men they commanded. Frustrated by their failure to find Lot on our lands, Titus told me, Uther had decided to pursue him all the way back to Cornwall if he had to, but could not justify depriving Camulod of three of its senior commanders for a task he felt could be handled effectively by one. He had taken half of their troops in addition to his own and had penetrated the south-western peninsula with a force of five hundred, since which time no word had been heard of him. My father was worried. On his return, after speaking to the two legates, he had called an immediate meeting of the Council to discuss all that had happened since our departure, and to assess the state of readiness of the fort and of the colonists themselves. By the time I arrived with my cavalry, he had everything in order. He was in the midst of redeploying his infantry, who had had twenty-four hours' rest and were ready for anything, and I was happy to discover that there was almost nothing for me to do. The few minor duties that fell to me were quickly taken care of, and I was free to make my way to my hidden valley and Cassandra. I left word with my father and rode out of the fort just as the shadows began to stretch out in the late afternoon.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the sun was still hot and I sweated freely as I rode, the beads springing from my forehead beneath the headband of my helmet and running down to burn the corners of my eyes while others bedevilled me with the tickling of their progress down the valleys of my back and chest under my heavy armour. I found nothing strange, however, in riding to a lovers' tryst fully armed and armoured, and had the thought occurred to me then, I would have been hard pressed to recall a time when I went anywhere, even within Camulod itself, without my heavy and ungainly impedimenta. My armour, from helmet to boots, was as customary to me as my skin, so that I was aware of it—and uncomfortable—only when I removed any part of it.

  Evening was approaching as my horse emerged from the narrow path through the bushes into the tranquillity of Avalon. I saw Cassandra immediately, standing with her back to me, staring into the waters of the pool at her feet. Some instinct must have warned her that she was being watched, for she turned and saw me there. Even in the gathering dusk I saw the pleasure in her eyes at the sight of me. She came running across the short, green turf towards me, her teeth gleaming in a smile of welcome, and I sat there on my horse and watched her approach, feeling my own cheeks bunching in a smile. She stopped right in front of me and her hands bade me welcome, and invited me to step down from my saddle.

  As soon as my feet were on the ground she took me by the hand and began tugging me in the direction of the hut. I let her pull me and led my horse behind us, dropping the reins as we approached the door so that he began to graze immediately.

  The room was filled with flowers. Vases and bowls
of blossoms bedecked every available surface and the scent of them hung sweet and heavy in the air. A small fire burned brightly in the fireplace, but the room was free of smoke, and I was grateful once again to my uncle for teaching me die secret of building a flue. She stopped me in the middle of the floor and took hold of both my hands, holding me at arm's length and running her eyes over me from head to foot. I did the same to her and wondered again how I could ever have thought her ugly. Then her hands were undoing the fastening of my helmet and removing it from my head. When she had laid it on the table, she undid my new cloak, running her fingers admiringly over the great silver bear embroidered on it before she folded it and placed it beside the helmet. Next, she took off my swordbelt and armoured kirtle of leather, so that I wore only my knee-length tunic. She had never done this before, and I stood there like an ox, grinning with pleasure and making no move to help her as she ministered to me.

  When she had stripped me completely of my armour she grinned at me, poked me in the stomach, skipped nimbly to the door, and ran outside. Smiling, and wondering what she was about, I followed her slowly, only to find that she had already run more than half-way to the entrance of the path down which I had so recently arrived. Evidently, I was supposed to follow her. I drew a deep breath and took off in pursuit, thinking to overtake her easily, but by the time I began to experience my first shortness of breath, less than half-way up the steep, narrow path, it had begun to dawn on me that this young woman had no intention of being lightly overtaken; not only did she remain out of sight ahead of me, but I could hear no sound of her progress. I accepted the challenge, lengthened my stride and began conscientiously to control my breathing, sensing that victory in this chase might not come quickly.

  I was breathing hard, almost gasping for breath, by the time I reached the summit of the path and broke into the clear ground at the top of the hill. Cassandra was waiting, grinning merrily, a hundred paces from me at the opposite end of the rolling hilltop. As soon as she knew that I had seen her, she turned and disappeared downhill again. I stifled the urge to curse, paused for the space of several heartbeats to catch my breath again, and followed her.