Dark North mkoa-3

by Paul Finch

  Rufio turned to face him, stiff-shouldered. “That kind of talk is verging on treason.”

  “Treason? I thought we were discussing history.”

  “The Caesars are with us now. Embodied in our sovereign lord, Lucius Julio Bizerta.”

  Maximion pursed his lips. “You idolise him, Rufio?”

  “How could I not? One so young and yet so brilliant. One who in such a short time has achieved so much.”

  “I hate to say this… but it’s not impossible that he could lose it all in considerably less time. In a single day, perhaps? Today?”

  Rufio’s eyebrows arched. Shocking though it was to hear such disloyalty, it was also sobering to suddenly realise that everything they’d achieved in the last few years — all the Emperor’s diplomatic offensives, the army’s military gains, all the money they’d spent, the treaties they’d agreed, the new governorships they’d set up, the consuls they’d appointed, the roads they’d repaired, the bridges they’d built, the cities they’d walled, the new sense of power and security that had come to run through all their lives — it could all be for naught if this one day went against them.

  But of course it wouldn’t.

  Arthur’s force was so small that its arms barely glinted through the clouds of dust created by the rivers of Roman troops flowing past him.

  “Prudence is important for a commander,” Rufio said loftily. “But there is a fine line between prudence and cowardice. Take care yours doesn’t vanish altogether, Maximion.”

  Maximion said nothing.

  Rufio took the reins from his groom, climbed into his saddle and cantered away. Before he found his command, he rode up onto a thinly wooded bluff to the east of the vale. Here, the wives and courtesans of the army’s senior officers had found a vantage point. Many were seated on stools or at cloth-laid tables, sipping wine and picking at pastries and sweetmeats.

  Trelawna and Gerta refrained from such indulgence.

  Gerta was seated, and concentrating on her needlework. Trelawna stared down at the tide of men that, slowly and with great noise and confusion, was organising itself into three separate but immense companies. Despite the rising heat, she was scarfed and wrapped in a shawl, and hugged herself as if she was cold.

  On first leaving home, she’d thought she’d be able to do without her small entourage of ladies and maids, who’d rarely had more to offer than gossip and flattery. But being alone — being really alone — was a new experience for Trelawna. She didn’t know any of the Roman women who dined on the hillside around her; they’d made no effort at friendship, and some even turned their noses away when she entered their presence. She had Gerta of course, but she had always had Gerta — Gerta was at times a comfort, though she also spoke her mind and, as she’d disapproved of this “ill-conceived adventure,” as she called it, from the outset, she was now given to waspish comments that Trelawna found tiresome.

  It was a relief to hear Rufio’s voice as he trotted up the grassy slope. “Trelawna… how goes it?”

  “I’m a trifle nervous, as always on occasions like these.”

  “Have no fear.” He jumped from his horse and gathered her in his arms. “That small band at the end of the valley would do well to leave now. I imagine they’re already contemplating it.” He kissed her forehead. “I promise you, my love, they cannot prevail. Even were numbers more evenly matched, the Emperor must win. There is far too much at stake.”

  “Felix… all that’s at stake here is our future. Mine and yours.”

  “I know, my love, but…”

  “But nothing.” She disentangled herself from his arms. “I don’t know how many battles you’ve actually fought…?”

  Rufio made no response to that, which was not encouraging. In fact, he’d spoken little about his military escapades, and she now wondered with some alarm if he was yet another of these pink young officers who had risen through the ranks of the academy on the basis of his family name rather than through experience.

  “I’ve seen war many times,” she said. “Never from this position, admittedly… as if from the spectators’ gallery at a tournament.” She tried not to sound as scathing as she felt. “But I’ve seen enough to know that when swords clash and spears break, only one thing matters — survival.”

  “We will survive. Our love can survive anything…”

  “I’m talking about you, Felix. You!” She put her hands on the burnished roundels covering his shoulders. “Only one thing matters today… not your Emperor’s vainglorious quest to recapture the world, nor the bounty of wealth and harvest of slaves that New Rome will reap. It’s you, Felix. You must survive.”

  He shrugged. “At the end of the day, I’m a soldier. I must fight.”

  “Do what you need to, and no more. And then come back to me with all speed.” His mood, so buoyant before, seemed a little deflated by her lack of faith. She wondered just how buoyant it had actually been, if it could falter so quickly. “It’s not just about surviving, it’s about emerging intact,” she added. “What good are you to me crippled or blinded?”

  “There is such a thing as glory and honour…”

  “Bah!” She folded her arms and walked away. “If there was such a thing as glory and honour, Felix, there would be empty chairs all around King Arthur’s Round Table, but there aren’t. You know why? Because whenever they are emptied they are filled again. By necessity, new men are elevated, and with indecent haste. Those they replace are venerated for maybe a day, and then forgotten. As you will be. All men are expendable. That is our fate from the moment we are born.”

  “This is the way you send me into battle?” Rufio looked as hurt as he was baffled. “With a reminder that I’m nothing but dust? I thought you ladies of Camelot were renowned for the favours you cast upon knights before combat. Am I so inferior that I don’t qualify?”

  There was earnestness in his face that she hadn’t seen before — a plea for kindness. Suddenly he looked so young and, yes, if she was honest, a little nervous. Guilt struck her at having unmanned him in the face of what might be his greatest challenge. She embraced him, holding him to her as tightly as she could, but at the same time lowering her head to the moulded curve of his breastplate. It was important — nay, vital — that he felt he was protecting her rather than the other way around.

  “Forgive me, my love,” she said. “War is a terrible thing. I’m just frightened.”

  “I know,” he replied with understanding. He stroked her hair. “It’s to be expected. But soon you’ll be my wife, and the wife of a Roman officer must show fortitude.”

  “Here is something for you,” she said.

  As a tribune in the Fourteenth Legion, which almost entirely comprised heavy cavalry, he was well attired, wearing greaves from ankle to knee, a battle-skirt made from strips of thick leather inlaid with iron, his heavy breastplate over a mail jerkin, and vambraces and rerebraces on his arms. For weaponry he carried the falcata, a curved sabre specifically designed to be wielded from the saddle, but also a gladius — the short stabbing sword so symbolic of old Rome. Trelawna paused to choose, and then the gladius rasped as she drew it from its leather scabbard. She lifted the blue silk scarf from her neck and knotted it to the sword’s hilt. “A favour for you.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss his ruddy lips. “Wear it always in combat and think of me, the sweetheart who waits on your return.”

  He gave her a smile of such joy that Trelawna’s heart almost broke.

  “The day will be ours, my love… you’ll see!” He leapt back into the saddle and, before riding gallantly away, shouted: “I’ll bring you King Arthur’s head. And Earl Lucan’s. We’ll toast them at our own private victory dinner.”

  She watched in silence as he cantered down the slope, soon enveloped in the dust and confusion of the forming army.

  “And how many heads is that you’ve been promised over the years?” a voice wondered from behind.

  “Oh, do shut up, Gerta!”

  The night before, Arthur�
��s army had heard Mass. Then they’d returned to their tents and campfires to contemplate the coming day. Few had been able to sleep, so the leading nobles had wandered through their ranks, slapping shoulders and sharing jokes. Arthur had made rousing speeches and led choruses of heroic songs.

  The fighting men of Albion had stood together many times. They had great trust in their King and his knights, who’d become talismanic figures on the battlefield. They knew they’d be outnumbered, but strength could be found in comradeship. Uncles, cousins, fathers and brothers now sat alongside each other — so there was much more here than mere familiarity. They knew that many present would die on the morrow, possibly all, but priests and monks were also active in their midst, hearing confessions, giving blessings, assuring everyone that to die in the service of their King and their land would open the gateway to Heaven.

  The following day, Arthur deployed his forces at first light. Mist begirt the vale when clarions sounded the assembly. Arthur anticipated that the Romans would attack with their heavy infantry to the fore. It was traditional, and the geography of the vale almost ensured it — there was no room for a sweeping cavalry assault. So thinking, he arrayed his own infantry in a battle-line several ranks deep, stretching from one side of the vale to the other, but shielded in the front by a row of sharpened stakes. At their own insistence, the Saxons occupied the first rank. Behind them, Arthur placed the footmen of his elite Familiaris Regis. This would already make a difficult hedge for the Romans to hack their way through — the Saxon housecarls had their battle-axes and iron-bossed linden-wood shields, the Familiaris their short, steel-tipped lances — but Arthur was not yet content. Behind them, he drew dismounted men-at-arms from the companies of his retainers who, now that they were on foot, dispensed with their longswords for maces, war-hammers and pole-axes, while the fyrd and yeomen made up the rear with their mallets and reaping-hooks.

  Arthur’s longbows were deployed in two separate phalanxes to the rear of the infantry — on raised ground to the west and east. Behind them were placed the artillery pieces, onagers, mangonels and sling-throwers. Like the archers, they were only to be used at specific moments in the battle, as decided on by Arthur.

  All of this had come naturally, dictated by the landscape. But the problem remained for Arthur to decide what to do with his knights, those men whose names alone were pillars of strength. In the end he decided on a simple ploy. He and his army had gained access to the north end of the vale via two parallel gulleys, to the east and west. These were deep and sheltered, inaccessible to enemy missiles, and could only be approached from a plateau behind Arthur’s army, where his stockaded camp was located, so it was impossible for them to be assaulted from behind. He now placed contingents of knights and horsemen in both of these. They were to be his mailed fists; they would not be called upon to enter the fray straight away, but when they were, aisles would clear through the ranks of the infantry and they would charge down and deal a pulverising blow to the enemy.

  Not all were pleased — it seemed contrary to the chivalrous code that knights would join the melee behind the common men — but they knew enough of tactics and of the enemy’s strength to raise no serious objections.

  Thanks to the early start, Arthur’s host was in full array when the Romans began to form up. Emperor Lucius organised his force into three main army-groups — solid blocks of infantry composed of symmetrically aligned phalanxes — Flail Cohort marching alongside Mace Cohort, Axe Cohort in support of Mattock Cohort, and so on, each army-group in total some sixty or seventy thousand strong, any one of which was vastly larger than Arthur’s entire force. The Roman horse companies were deployed as buffer units between them, so if the first army-group floundered it could draw immediate support from cavalry at its rear. In effect, Lucius intended to drive a titanic battering ram of men and horses along the centre of the valley, straight into the heart of Arthur’s deployment. He was still convinced that, if nothing else, he would crush the opposition by sheer strength of numbers.

  So confident was Lucius that he and his personal bodyguard mounted up and posted themselves beneath the Imperial purple banner in the centre of the first cavalry company. Much to Tribune Rufio’s chagrin, these units were not drawn from the Fourteenth Legion, but from the Eighth, who were augmented by the Saracen horse-warriors of Prince Jalhid. The squadrons of the Fourteenth were placed between the second and third army-groups, well to the rear, though Rufio grudgingly supposed that at least Trelawna would be pleased.

  Arthur chose an equally visible and vulnerable position to the Emperor.

  In his case, this was not born of soaring confidence or a greedy desire to claim the spoil when the battle was won, but a choice made of necessity. The King could not afford to hide. If he did, the morale of his men would suffer. As such, Arthur placed his distinctive standard — the red dragon on the white weave — on high rocks to the immediate rear of the infantry line, in the very centre of the field.

  Sir Kay, in the blunt language that only an older brother would use, told him that this was rank, mule-headed folly. Arthur could be killed instantly, and then what would happen? Sir Bedivere agreed. The Romans were hauling artillery up field in support of their infantry; they would assail the British with a fierce bombardment before actually engaging. If Arthur were to perish before a blow had been struck it would be the worst disaster in the history of Albion.

  Arthur merely laughed. “I need to see what’s happening on the field, do I not?” he argued.

  “You will see nothing at all my lord, if your eyes are smashed apart by a lead grenade,” Bedivere replied.

  Arthur laughed all the more. “Your concern is appreciated. But I put my trust in the Lord. God has decided that from this day on, the Roman Empire will be an empire of the soul, not the sword. It is our duty to enforce this transition.”

  “Amen to that,” said Aldemar, the Breton Archbishop of Lorient, who had joined eight hundred of his own knights to “Arthur’s crusade,” as he called it, and now stood alongside the King, wearing mail under his golden tabard and a pig-snouted helm instead of a mitre.

  By eleven o’clock in the morning, the Roman formation was complete, and a group of heralds and officers detached from their ranks and cantered up the vale under a pennant of truce. A similar group detached from Arthur’s ranks. They met mid-way.

  Ardeus Vigilano, Duke of Spoleto, had command of the Roman party. Kay had command of the Britons. The Duke was a short, portly man, red-faced and with longish ginger locks now running to grey, which, when he shook them loose from his helmet, were already damp with sweat. Spoleto had shown little inclination to be a diplomat during the colloquy at Camelot, and he showed even less now. His terms were simple. Beforehand, the Emperor of New Rome had been prepared to deal with Arthur as a lawful monarch and an equal, but now that Arthur had performed belligerent acts on New Roman territory he must be regarded as a transgressor. The only way he could save himself and the lives of his men would be to surrender all arms forthwith and put himself and his host in the charge of New Rome. The Emperor would then be pleased to enter discussions concerning the easiest and quickest way to hand over power in the former kingdoms of Brittany and Albion.

  Kay replied in a casual tone that the battlefield was no place for jest, that they had business to attend to and that they had best get it concluded swiftly.

  “However,” he added, “King Arthur is not a barbarous man, and is loath to shed the blood of so many. He proposes that we settle this affair in the correct way — a duel to the death between two champions, the winner to take all.”

  Spoleto looked amused. It had not gone unnoticed by him that one of the knights in the British party wore the white leopard and blue livery of Lancelot du Lac, who it was said no man alive could defeat. “How interesting that you offer such a solution,” he said, “when our host outnumbers yours by almost five to one.”

  Kay shrugged. “A single combat between champions would be the chivalrous option.”

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nbsp; A junior officer mounted alongside Spoleto removed his helm, revealing tightly curled white-blond hair and astonishingly youthful features, which now seethed with indignation.

  “Hiding behind chivalry, sir knight?” he scoffed. “There wasn’t much of that on offer when you captured the free-companies.”

  “The free-companies, what remained of them, were gelded to reduce their baleful temperament,” Kay explained. “Had I had my way, they’d have been branded and blinded as well, and each one forced to carry the stump of his right hand.”

  “There will be no combat between champions,” Spoleto said decisively. “If your king feels he has overreached himself, he must now pay the price of his recklessness.”

  “Then many men will die today because not a single Roman was brave enough to stand alone.”

  The young officer spluttered with anger.

  Spoleto merely smiled. “The festivities may commence whenever your king is ready.”

  “How gracious of you. But first we have a debt to repay.”

  Kay turned in the saddle and signalled. A gap appeared in the front rank of Arthur’s army, as men shuffled aside to permit the exit of a four-wheeled cart drawn by a single horse and driven by a single driver, who, rather dramatically, stood with legs astride as he lashed the reins. Those who recognised him would have been surprised to see the luxury-loving King Hoel of Brittany. He now wore full plate armour, but had removed his helmet and drawn back his coif so there would be no mistaking him.

  Hoel brought the vehicle to a halt thirty yards to the west of Kay’s party, drew a great, two-handed sword from the scabbard on his back and leapt down. In the back of the cart, two men-at-arms wrestled with a burly prisoner — a massive, misshapen brute, a savage animal more than a man, but less terrifying given the manacles that bound his limbs, and the single, bloodstained shift that had replaced his mail and leather.

  Hoel stood patiently as the men-at-arms dragged the brute from the cart, and forced him into a kneeling posture.