by Mike Ashley
Men were needed – Rome itself was in peril – my grandfather followed in his father’s footsteps, into mystery, and never returned. None of the levies returned, and his wife, left lorn with young children, my father among them, moved west toward the mountains of Cambria and brought up her brood in Viriconium.
Rome sent us no more governors, no more high officials or low. Our fortresses in the west continued to be held by the decimated Sixth, but the very best men were gone, and I do not know where even their graves may lie.
Then the Jutes, Saxons and Angli, who had occasionally fought beside us as allies against the Picts, turned against us, and my mother fled across the Cambrian border, looking over her shoulder at flaming Viriconium, where my father with other brave men fought and died that Rome might be perpetuated in Britain.
My early childhood was spent in wandering about among the wild Cymri, whose bravery had challenged and broken all the power that Rome could hurl against them, and which now remained the only corner of Britain which was free from the Saxon peril and which, strangely enough, now protected the culture of Rome. And at last I come to my own time and the story you must know.
Among these Cymri dwelt the strange man known to them as Myrdhinn, but to us across the border as Ambrosius; a man of noble aspect and terrifying eye, of flowing white beard and majestic carriage; a man whose very origin is shrouded in mystery.
If the tale is true, Myrdhinn was sired by a demon in the reign of King Vortigern, baptized instantly by Blayse, the mother’s confessor, thus becoming a Christian, but retaining the demoniac powers of magic, insight and prophecy. Other have considered him so wise that he could not be even slightly mortal, and maintain that he was born at the age of eighty at a time co-existent with the construction of Earth and has since been growing wiser!
It is more probable, however, that he was a foundling brought up in childhood by Druids who still keep up their ancient practices in Cambria, and taught by them their mystical lore, though he in later life embraced Christianity. Druidism warred in his heart with Christian tenets.
It is well known that the sages of antiquity possessed knowledge lost to us in these times of decadence, and locked fast in Myrdhinn’s brain were many secrets, including that of prolonged life.
I am beaten down by years, grizzled, gaunt and almost toothless, yet Myrdhinn in all the time of my acquaintance remained the same as that of my mother’s description, when as a young women she first saw him among the hills of Cambria, striding along a lonely glen, hale, rugged and strong, the child Arthur holding his hand and half trotting to keep up with the old man’s vigorous pace.
They must then have been going to find his friend. Antor, to whom Myrdhinn delivered Arthur for tuition, and whose diligent care developed the stripling into Arthur, the hoped-for, the undying – Arthur, Imperator, the great Pendragon, dictator – Arthur, save only for treachery’s intervention the savior of Britain.
At that time he was about fifteen years older than I who, still a suckling, knew nothing of the stirring events around me. By the time I was growing calluses practicing with sword and spear, Arthur already was leading forays into Saxon land.
Old crippled soldiers of the scattered legion remnants trained the savage youth of Cambria to a fantastic semblance of the iron ranks of Rome. Again the smiths pounded red iron into white blades, again sow and pig6 talked on carroballista and catapult, and at last a ghost of the old Legion marched over the border, with tattered standards, battle-scarred armor, dented shields.
But we marched in full strength! Our metal was bright and polished, our bows strong and arrows sharp (every man an archer, whether a member of the cavalry, engineers or simple legionary), and leading us all the glittering eagles gave us courage.
Sixth Legion, Victrix! Hail and farewell! Thy bones make the fields of Britain greener now.
Something of the old imperial spirit came back. Viriconium was captured, lost and held again, and the Cymri streamed over the border, rebuilding all possible of the past glory. On the plain outside the walls scampered the shaggy Cambrian ponies in laughable contrast to the thundering charge of the Roman horse. But the Saxon footmen scattered before the charge, and as time went by we penetrated deeper into hostile country, winning back foot by foot the soil of Britain to be once again free land for us exiles and lovers of Rome.
Here and there we came upon noble steeds and mares in the fertile lowlands, and by the time Arthur’s forces were strong enough to meet in pitched battle a superior force of Saxons, three hundred horsemen smashed the shield walls.
The Saxons, streaming away, left us masters of the field in the first great battle to break the invaders’ power, and harrying the retreat the cataphracts pursued, hacking them down and wreaking such havoc that from the survivors of the troop Arthur formed his noble band of knights.
Their leather armor, knobbled with bronze, was replaced with plate; stronger horses were bred to carry the extra weight; and as Arthur came victor from field upon field, armies, chieftains, kings thronging to him, naming him amheradawr (or imperator) – the Round Table came into being and held high court in Isca Silurum.
Thus from battle to battle we passed – our glory increasing, our confidence growing, recruits coming in – sneaking by night along hostile shores in coracles of hide and wicker, creeping by the moored Saxon longships – until flaming hilltop beacons farther than the eye could see marked the boundaries of recovered Britain.
Grumbling, growling to ourselves, watching the Legion grow to double strength, we waited for the word to sweep over the Saxon remnant. Then came unexpected help from Armorica – our compatriots across the sea sailing in roundships and galleys to our aid.
Myrdhinn had asked for their help, and nobly they answered.
At that time we had but one warship, the Prydwen, a great dromon built as an experiment from a design found in an old book, modeled to be a cruiser which could meet and plow under the enemy galleys. Its like had not been seen in British waters for hundreds of years. Armed with ballistas and arrow engines, driven by oars and sails and with overhanging galleries the better to repel boarders, it towered over the hulking roundships and low galleys, like a proud cock who struts among his family, protector of all.
Already the barbarians were marching upon us, out of Wessex, while at sea a fleet sailed to land forces in our rear.
We met them at Mons Badonicus and spent the day and most of a long moonlight night in killing, while upon the water the allied fleet covered itself with glory.
Armorican, Hibernian and Saxon galleys crashed and flamed to heaven, while among them, ramming, casting firepots, roamed the Prydwen in the arrow-sleet, trampling the foe under her forefoot.
Then to us at last came peace, time to live and love and rest – and for some, time to plot treachery.
Myrdhinn had planned for Arthur a marriage with Gwenhyvar, daughter of a noble chieftain, Loadegan of Carmelide; and journeying thither in disguise to see the maid before wooing, Arthur arrived at an opportune time. The walled city of Carmelide was besieged by a wandering foray of savage mountain raiders, but Arthur’s armored knights scattered them and drove them far.
Entering the city, Myrdhinn spoke for Arthur, beseeching the hand of Gwenhyvar as a reward to the city’s savior.
It was open talk afterward that Myrdhinn had engineered this attack and rescue to bring about his own plans, but I know nothing of the matter, having been far away. I believe him capable of it, for his mind worked in devious ways and he was not a man to do a thing in a simple way if something spectacular could complicate it.
This time, however, if he was at bottom of the matter, his love for a brave show ruined himself, Arthur, Gwenhyvar – and Britain. You see, Gwenhyvar was already in love with a young man named Lanceloc.
Arthur was approaching middle age, Gwenhyvar and Lanceloc much younger. Theirs was the proper union, but how could an ambitious father refuse the great Pendragon, savior of the city? Laodegan commanded, Gwenhyvar obeyed like a
dutiful child, and evil began.
“Forbidden fruit the sweetest of all” – so runs the ancient saw. Others knew what went on in all its seamy detail, but noble Arthur, the soul of bravery and honor, remained in ignorance for years.
Then Agrivain and Medrawd, kinsmen who aspired to be mighty themselves and who thought that could be best done by bringing low those already mighty, came sneaking, telling tales, spewing venom upon all that Arthur held dear, and down crashed our hopes for Britain.
Lanceloc, Agrivain and Medrawd fled into Wessex, fleeing their outraged ruler, taking their kinsmen, their vassals, and their friends.
Here they allied themselves with what remained of Saxon power, sending word overseas that it was safe again for pirates to come and murder, rape and pillage, for Arthur was stricken to the heart and Rome had forgotten her lost colony.
So the Sixth marched and the Saxons marched, and both great armies came toward the fatal field of Camlan – and the end of all glory!
II
It is not for me to describe that tragic calamity to my Emperor, feeling certain that during the passage of these many years the sad events of that cursed day have been so fully described to you that by now you must have a clearer picture of the battle than any I could give. After all, I was but a centurion, nor had I any knowledge of the whole plan of battle. Still, all plans were frustrated by a thick cold fog that shrouded us from the beginning, so that soon we broke up into troops hunting for similar small enemy bands, killing and being killed in many bitter encounters. Then as the daylight grew more dim, the clash of arms became feebler, and wandering alone, separated from my century, I dismounted from a charger I had previously found running masterless through the slaughter, and now led him along a beach where the waves of an ebbing tide came slowly in, whispering a mournful requiem to all my hopes. The clammy, darkening fog seemed pressing down upon my very soul.
The narrow stand separated the ocean-sea from a small brackish lake at which I mean to water my steed. So I turned to my left, hearing the plash of little waves among the sedges of the salty marsh surrounding the fresher water. There was no other sound, save the occasional croak of a sea bird flying blindly through the mist.
My horse was raising his head from his drink, with a long sigh, when the fog abruptly lifted and gave me a clear view of perhaps a hundred yards. We were standing at the edge of a narrow inlet, and upon its other shore I saw the wreckage of a furious encounter.
Dead men lay in the water and carpeted the sand beyond as far as I could see into the farther haze. But not all there were corpses.
One lay bleeding, partly raised upon an elbow, while bending over him was a ghastly knight. Much of their armor was hacked away and that remaining was dabbled with blood. I recognized the pair.
The dying man was Arthur; the other, with whom he weakly argued, was Sir Bedwyr, one of the most trusted of his knights. I hailed them, but Arthur was too far gone or too absorbed to hear me, though Sir Bedwyr looked across the water and lifted his hand for silence.
Again Arthur commanded and this time Sir Bedwyr agreed, picked up Arthur’s great sword, Caliburn, and walked away into the mist. Then the cold gray curtain fell again, and through it I rode around the inlet until the sound of voices halted me.
“This time you did not fail me?” queried Arthur.
“Regretfully I obeyed, my King.”
“And what did you see and hear?”
“I threw the sword into the mere, as you commanded, and as it circled flashing, something cried out most dolefully, while up from the mere there raised a long arm in a flowing sleeve of white samite. Caliburn was caught, brandished thrice and drawn under, while from all the mere rose up a various keening of sorrowful voices.”
“So Caliburn returns to the hand that gave it, to be held in trust for another who shall succor Britain. Strange that I heard no sound.”
“Sadly I say it, my King, but your ears are becoming attuned to other rhythms than those of earth.”
“So soon? With my work barely begun?”
With that exclamation his eyes closed. As I approached, I could not tell if Death had touched him or if it was but a swoon.
Sir Bedwyr met me before I reached Arthur, and explained, whispering, the scene I had just witnessed.
“He seems out of his head with despair. His wounds are grievous, but I think not fatal could I only stop the bleeding. I think it is his soul that is dying. He is firmly convinced that the end is come, for himself, for all of us, and for Britain. That is why he bade me cast his great sword into the mere.
“God forgive me! I am a forsworn knight! I have lied to a dying man. You can understand, Centurion? How could I cast it away? The brand has become a symbol to men. With Arthur gone, the scraps of our army will rally only to something they cherish. You know how the rabble need something to follow, a hero, an eagle, a sacred relic. With something to protect or follow they are giants; without it they are only men, afraid of death, afraid of pain. They would fight like demons to keep Arthur’s sword out of the hands of the Saxons.”
I had dropped upon my knees, examining the deep wounds in side and thigh, but my efforts at stanching were no better than the other’s had been, and we worked together while he continued:
“So I cast the jeweled scabbard into the mere and lied! There was no arm in white samite, no wailing, only ripples on the mere and a sea bird’s croak!”
“Nor would there have been more had you hurled the sword after the scabbard,” I grunted. “Hand me more of that linen shirt.”
He smiled sadly.
“Now if he dies, he will die happy in that respect, thinking I obeyed him, and if he lives he will understand I meant it for the best and will forgive me, I hope. Do you think I was right?”
“Unquestionably,” I agreed. “With Arthur’s sword in our hands we can flee to the hills, gather strength and strike again. If I could only stop this cursed blood!”
His lips had become the color of clay, and I marveled that he still breathed, for it seemed that each faint gasp would be his last.
Hearing the approach of a company, I looking up and clutched my own sword, then relaxed. Robed men, sagely bearded, were about me. Myrdhinn and his Nine Bards had come, and never had I been so glad to see that mysterious person as now.
He wasted no words, but brushing us both away, deftly probed the wounds, pressed at the base of the skull and at two places upon Arthur’s back, then motioned for us to stand guard.
“The great Pendragon is departing.”
The bards began a sorrowful keening, cut short by the sage.
“Peace! That will not help us. I cannot cure him. Time only can do that, but I can prevent a further sinking while we seek safety.”
The groping tendrils of fog swirled thicker about us all as we watched those nimble fingers. Deftly he bound up those dreadful wounds from which the blood no longer pumped, his lips moving in a swift patter of mumbled words. Here was a scrap of Latin or a Cymric phrase, but mostly it was merely a sibilant hissing which belonged to no language of our ken.
And it seemed to us that in the pause between the longer incantations the mist became thicker and thicker yet, while just beyond the circle of our vision there sounded muttered rejoinders, as though Myrdhinn prayed for the life of Arthur and the cold lips of that great host of British dead on Camlan field must supply the responses.
And ever through the mist came the lapping of water on the distant shore. But was it distant? The sound seemed closer than it had been.
Once Myrdhinn paused to listen, but went on to complete his charm.
A cold touch lapped my ankles. I was in a puddle of lake water without having realized the fact. I moved closer to the mound upon which the others stood.
“Is he dead?” gasped Sir Bedwyr, and Myrdhinn shook his head.
“He would have been by now, but his breathing has stopped and he will live.”
“Stopped his breathing? Then he must die!”
“Not entire
ly stopped, perhaps,” smiled Myrdhinn. “He will breathe possibly once a day, until he has recovered during a long sleep the energy and the blood he has lost. He has been almost drained dry. We will take him to a safe and secret place where I can hide him away until he is recovered and ready to fight again for Britain.”
I moved out of the water again. Was I sinking in a marsh? The ground seemed solid.
“How long must he sleep?” Again Sir Bedwyr questioned.
“Longer than you would believe. Your bones will be mold and your very tomb forgotten, before Arthur has well begun to sleep! I cannot explain now – hear that clank of arms? Enemies are prowling in the mist! Quick, Varro, help my men to lift him across your saddle. We must flee!”
As I moved to obey, I saw again that I stepped from water to reach higher ground. I looked about me. Unperceived by us, the water of the mere was stealthily rising to surround and cut us off.
Quietly I showed Myrdhinn. His eyes widened. Then he laughed.
“Ah, Bedwyr. It would have been better had you returned Caliburn to the lady who loaned it. My wife, Vivienne, a somewhat grasping person. She may bear us a grudge for cheating her. She held me ensorceled in the wood of Broceliande for some time, I remember very vividly. Come quickly, before the water rises!”
A huge wave came up from the mere and hurled itself along the inlet, swirled about our knees and fell back as though loath to release us.
“Hurry! Hurry!” urged Myrdhinn.
Again we heard the clinking of accouterments, this time much closer, and soon the gruff words of Saxons could be distinguished.
They were hard upon us. Sir Bedwyr looked at me, and I at him. We were the only armed men in the party. With common consent we turned back, but for only a few steps when we again heard the rumble of a monstrous wave breaking upon the lowland we were leaving.
This time other sounds followed – cries of horror, of pain; the screams of tortured men; then groans, and bitter sobbing, awfully intermingled with mumbling, munching sounds, as though in the fog mercifully hidden from us some monstrous thing was feeding.