by Ross Laidlaw
A moment’s silence, then a great cheer arose. It grew in volume to a thunderous roar of acclamation, then slowly died away.
To confront the Angles’ advance, Artorius had marched his army from Dacore round the fringes of the Cumbrian mountains to a great lake on the south-east edge of the massif. Here, on a great plain called Camlan, he had drawn up his troops — infantry in the centre, cavalry and archers on the wings. Behind, on the lake shore, a field hospital had been set up under the supervision of Myrddin, assisted by orderlies (now including Cella) and a group of nuns, whose convent was situated on the largest of the islands with which the mere was dotted.* Heavy horse — the riders clad in ancient imperial-issue mail and helmets (many times patched and repaired) — formed his main strength. The site, level and open, was good cavalry terrain, with wooded rising ground on either side affording security against being outflanked. However, these features, combined with the lake to the rear, ensured that, should the battle go against the Britons, there was no avenue of escape. They must prevail — or die.
In the front rank of the infantry, a mail-clad Connal, his Celtic blood racing at the prospect of the coming battle, leant on the shaft of the great battle-axe he had chosen from the stores; it was a fearsome weapon, whose heavy iron head was welded to a cutting edge of razor-sharp steel. Scouts galloping in gave warning that the Angles were approaching; soon the van came in sight, a dense throng of warriors on foot, big, fair-haired men, most of them unarmoured, bearing spears and shields. With a savage roar, they quickened their pace and rushed to meet the British line. Came a tremendous clash as the battle closed, then the two sides swayed back and forth, each striving to break the other’s front.
Filled with the joy of battle, Connal swung his battle-axe, splitting skulls or cleaving limbs with almost every stroke. A trumpet-call rang out, then from either side a mass of armoured cavalry hurtled down upon the Angles, smashing into their flanks to carve red swathes through their close-packed ranks, before withdrawing to let the horses breathe. Desperately, the Angles tried to force a gap in their opponents’ line, knowing that, as long as the British centre held, they themselves would be exposed to constant onslaught from those terrible mailed horsemen.
But the centre did hold. Time and again the British cavalry charged, after each attack leaving in their wake windrows of enemy dead — whereupon the archers took their turn to pour in volleys of deadly shafts. Like standing corn in a wheatfield when the mowers have begun their work, the Angle host by slow degrees attenuated, until at last, weakened and fought to a bloody standstill, they began to give ground. Their retreat was no rout, however; fighting grimly all the way, they withdrew in good order from the field.
At length a trumpet-signal called off the pursuit, and the Exercitus Britanniae took stock. Though the enemy had been repulsed with great loss, British casualties were high, and one appalling discovery robbed the day of triumph. Artorius was sorely wounded; finding a weak point in his armour, a spear had pierced his lung. His captains gathered round the cot where he lay, tended by Myrddin and the nuns in the field hospital beside the lake.
‘Cei, Bedwyr, my faithful comites,’ gasped the stricken Dux, frothy pink bubbles escaping from his lips, ‘I leave the army in your charge. Today we have earned a respite, but no more than that. The Angles will return; persistence is in their very bones. You must hold the ground we have won. To ensure that you can do so, I will send for help to the Votadini, our kinsmen to the north-east, who have offered their aid. Myrddin, old friend, will you be my emissary? You know the way, and your skills in diplomacy will prove invaluable. Meanwhile, these holy sisters here have, in their kindness, offered to nurse me — though I fear they will not save my life, only prolong it a little. So now, dear comrades, I will take my leave of you. Vale.’
Watched by his assembled soldiers, many in tears, Artorius was rowed by the black-clad nuns to their island convent in the lake.
Three days after the battle, three travellers came in sight of an arresting spectacle: a mighty ribbon of stone undulating along the horizon. Twenty feet high, studded with turrets and blockhouses, it dipped and rose across the landscape like an endless serpent.
‘There she is, the Vallum Hadriani,’ announced Myrddin. ‘Built four centuries ago “to separate the Romans from the barbarians”’, as the emperor said. Did a good job for close on three-quarters of that time. But eventually the greater threat came not from the north but from the east, across the German Ocean. As we know to our cost.’
‘Makes you wonder how a people who could raise a thing like that could lose an empire,’ murmured Connal, awestruck. (A combination of skill, strength, stout mail protection and a modicum of luck had enabled him to survive the battle unscathed, barring a few contusions and minor cuts.)
At Petriana, a fortress near the western end of the great Wall, they requested shelter from the ‘commandant’. He was a chieftain of the Selgovae who, with his war-band, occupied the fort, continuing a tradition established by Cunedda, a Romano-British leader who had maintained a military presence on the Wall after the departure of the legions. Myrddin was known by repute among the Britons everywhere. Following the disclosure of who he was and what his mission, the welcome given him and his companions was warm indeed. (As a result of Connal and Cella staying to help Artorius, a strong bond of friendship had developed between them and Myrddin, leading to the pair deciding, for reasons of comradeship and mutual security, to accompany the medicus on his mission to the Votadini.)
‘Let me see that hand,’ Cella said sharply to Myrddin, as the three companions prepared to bed down in one of the fort’s old dormitory blocks, which they were to share with members of the war-band. ‘I noticed you’ve been favouring it — at supper you used your left hand to hold your spoon.’
‘It’s nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, holding out his bandaged right hand. ‘Caught it on the barb of a javelin I removed from a patient’s thigh, during the battle.’
‘Infected,’ pronounced Cella, after removing the bandage. He shook his head at the sight of the puffy, inflamed flesh that surrounded a ragged gash below the thumb. ‘It’ll need regular cleaning and dressing — as if you didn’t know that. Lucky I’m here to do it for you.’
Next day, the trio headed through the Wall via the fort’s North Gate, and pressed on in that direction across open heathery moorland, until intersecting a considerable river flowing to the south-west. This Myrddin pronounced to be the Isca.* Over the next three days they followed the stream to its head, travelling through a desolate landscape of great rounded hills, and sleeping rough at night wrapped in their thick woollen robes. The weather kept fine and dry, which was as well, since the condition of Myrddin’s injured hand continued to deteriorate, despite constant washing, rebandaging and treating with salves, a supply of which the medicus had in his scrip.
From the headwaters of the Isca, they crossed a watershed to pick up a young river flowing north and east, the Tuesis,* according to Myrddin. His hand was now grotesquely swollen, with an ominous red line ‘tracking’ steadily up his arm. Urgent medical attention was called for, but in this wilderness of moors and barren hills that was a forlorn hope. There was nothing for it but to press on and hope soon to reach a settlement, where rest, and the ministrations of persons skilled in the arts of healing, combined with the patient’s own medical lore, might effect recovery.
But it was not to be. After two days following the course of the Tuesis, Myrddin was delirious and could go no further. Making him as comfortable as possible, his companions laid him down on a bed of bracken. For a time he tossed, and muttered incoherently, then he fell into a slumber. When he awoke a short time later, the fever seemed to have left him, for he began to speak in a faint but clear voice. ‘My friends, you must complete my mission for me. The way is not hard to find. Follow this river for a further two days; it will take you to Trimontium, a fortress of the Romans beneath a three-peaked hill. There you will meet the great road Agricola built, which will lead you
north through a range of hills. From the summit you will see the plain of Lothian stretching to the Bodotria Aestuaria, and in its midst a huge eminence shaped like the shell of a tortoise. That is Dunpender, crowned by a mighty hill fort, the capital of the Votadini.† You know what you must tell them.’
‘But we cannot speak the British tongue,’ Cella pointed out, his voice breaking.
‘You both acquired a smattering when we travelled through the Cambrias. It will be enough for your purpose. Besides, some may have a little Latin. The Votadini were always Friends of Rome, and maintained contact with the empire to the end. You will manage, that I know. And now, my friends, I must say farewell, for the sands of Myrddin’s life have run their course.’
Weeping, they clasped his left hand in their own, and in a little space he breathed his last. With their knives they scraped a shallow grave, and gently laid him to rest.*
* Near the site of the present Penrith, north-east of Ullswater.
† West Wales or Cornwall as opposed to North Cambria, Wales.
‡ Whithorn in Galloway and Downpatrick in Ireland, where the shrines of, respectively, SS Ninian and Patrick were located.
* The Derwent in Cumberland, then part of the Confederacy of the Britons, which was bounded to the north by Dalriada (Scots) and Alban (Picts).
* From ‘Cambroges’, fellow countrymen.
* The Humber and the Wear.
† Reged corresponded roughly to the old county of Cumberland. ‘Cumbria’ covered a far greater area than the present county, extending well into what is now Scotland.
* Belle Isle on Lake Windermere.
* The Esk.
* The Tweed.
† The three-peaked hill is the Eildon range; Agricola’s road (named Dere Street by the Angles) is now the A68; Bodotria Aestuaria is the Firth of Forth; Dunpender is Traprain Law in East Lothian.
* And he lies there to this day, at Drumelzier by the Tweed, his resting-place marked by a notice stating simply, ‘Merlin’s Grave’.
THIRTY-SIX
No man of high and generous spirit will flatter a tyrant
Aristotle, Politics, V, c. 322 BC
‘Paul!’ exclaimed Timothy, answering his door to a new gerulus or oddjob-man cum janitor for the household guards. ‘Last time I saw you, you were a silentiarius in the palace. What happened?’
‘Creeping Germanization, that’s what happened,’ replied Paul bitterly, setting down his laundry basket. ‘First he got rid of the protectores domestici, the Roman palace bodyguard, now it’s the turn of the silentiarii, both of them replaced by Goths. Gothic gentlemen-ushers — an oxymoron, if ever there was!’
Timothy invited Paul into his cubiculum or bedroom, while he looked out dirty tunics and bed-linen to be replaced by the clean items the gerulus handed him. The conditions of his house arrest were not oppressive. He had been assigned a small suite in the guards’ compound — part of the civitas barbara — and shared the soldiers’ facilities. This was the zone of Ravenna occupied by the Goths along the platea maior,* which also included the palace, court church and Arian episcopal complex. His bodily needs were amply catered for, and, though forbidden to leave the compound, he was permitted to move freely within its spacious confines, and make use of amenities such as the baths and gymnasium.
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,’ observed Paul, rolling up the sheets Timothy passed him, ‘you seem to have come down a bit in the world yourself.’ His refined face registered concern. ‘You used to be Theoderic’s right-hand man, as I recall.’
‘Past tense is correct,’ confirmed Timothy, gesturing Paul to take the room’s only chair, then seating himself on his cot. Suddenly, activated by the Roman’s sympathy, a tide of anger, frustration, and resentment — for too long bottled up — welled up, clamouring for outlet.
‘The man’s paranoid,’ he heard himself cry, ‘obsessed with crazy notions about becoming emperor. The Romans would never wear it. More to the point, neither would Justin — for which read Justinian, if what I hear’s correct. I did the king a favour, pointing out that he was making a big mistake. And what did I get for my pains? Clapped in this hole, with a lot of sweaty Goths for company.’
‘How much do you know about what’s going on in the outside world?’
‘A fair amount. I take my meals in the mess hall with the soldiers; no one’s told me I can’t use my ears.’
‘Then you’ll have heard about the riots?’
‘Yes, also the death of Eutharic, the succession crisis, the defection of the Vandals, et cetera, et cetera.’
‘Common knowledge, sir. There’s something else — much bigger — which only a few are privy to. Something which could bring hope to a man in your position. Of course, it’s only rumour.’
‘Tell me,’ demanded Timothy, feeling a stirring of excitement.
‘Only if you promise not to breathe a word, sir. If anything got out, it wouldn’t just be my job on the line. It would be my neck.’
‘You can trust me, Paul. It’s the same axe we’re grinding.’
‘Very well, sir. Some of us silentiarii have contacts in the Senate, most of whom would welcome a change of regime. That, of course, could only happen through the intervention of Justinian, a step which some leading senators are urging him to take.’
‘Then power to their elbow!’ declared Timothy. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say it — I who used to count myself Theoderic’s friend — but for his own good and that of Italy it’s time his rule was ended, hopefully without bloodshed. Honourable retirement with a consulship would be a kind end to a career which in many ways has been a great one.’
‘Unfortunately, that isn’t the Roman way,’ said Paul, shaking his head sadly. ‘More likely, he’d share the fate of Stilicho.’
‘Better that, perhaps, than dragging out the remainder of his days in discord and disappointment.’
‘That’s true.’ Paul rose and picked up his basket. ‘Well, I must be on my rounds; would you mind opening the door for me? Keep your spirits up, sir. Change may happen sooner than you think.’ And with a smile, he slipped out and was gone.
Struggling muzzily from sleep in response to the knocking on his door, Timothy glanced at the window; grey dawn light was filtering through cracks in the shutters.
Opening the door, he found himself confronted by Fridibad, the saio* in charge of messages between the palace and the military compound.
‘My apologies, Herr Timothy, for waking you at such an hour,’ said Fridibad, a tough-looking Goth of middle years. ‘You are to come with me.’
‘What’s all this about?’ asked Timothy, alarm churning in his stomach as he donned leggings, tunic and shoes. A dawn call could only betoken bad news.
‘My orders — from the king himself — are that you be taken under escort to Ticinum† and lodged in that city’s tower.’
‘On what charge?’ Timothy seemed to feel a cold hand squeeze his heart. The Tower of Ticinum! That was one place you didn’t want to end up in. It had a sinister reputation as the final destination of those who had offended against the state.
‘I was not told, Herr Timothy,’ replied the saio with gruff sympathy. He shifted his stance awkwardly, and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. Timothy had been a popular ‘guest’ in the compound, his store of racy anecdotes going down well with the Gothic soldiery at meals in the mess. Whereas, in similar circumstances, Romans would have shunned him as persona non grata, the Amal had taken Timothy to their hearts as a fellow warrior and teller of stirring tales, his status enhanced by their Teutonic respect for grey hairs.
As he accompanied Fridibad across the compound’s great quadratum towards the guard-room, it was suddenly clear to Timothy what had happened. Paul had been a ‘plant’, sent by Theoderic to sound out Timothy for his real views about the king. How could he have been so gullible as to fall for such a ruse? Timothy asked himself with bitter self-recrimination. It seemed that, like a thief in the night, his dotage had cre
pt up on him, eroding his customary guardedness. No fool like an old fool, somebody had once said. Well, they certainly got that right, he thought savagely, all at once feeling every one of his eighty-four years. This would never have happened with Timothy the gang-leader of Tarsus, Timothy the prince’s minder in Constantinople, Timothy the king’s resourceful friend and right-hand man of the great migration and the glory days in Italy — before everything turned sour. Like the leader of a wolf pack past his prime who finds his supremacy usurped by a younger rival, he had lost his edge and must therefore pay the price.
A few hundred yards away, his mood alternating between rage and sorrow, Theoderic wandered the pathways of his orchard, trying to come to terms with the information that Paulus, silentiarius turned informer, had brought to him concerning Timothy. In his mind he had rehearsed, with joyful anticipation, the scene when he and Timothy (freed from house arrest following a little test of loyalty — which surely would prove no more than a formality) would at last be reconciled. Instead, there had come the revelation that his once loyal friend and mentor had turned against him. Wounded to the heart, his mind clouded by fits of fury followed by depression, the old king had blindly paced the palace corridors and grounds — none daring to intervene — finally coming to himself as the shapes of his beloved fruit trees emerged slowly in the first pale rays of dawn. Timothy’s rejection meant that he was now alone, Theoderic told himself, the storm of his emotions resolving itself into an overwhelming sadness.
No, wait; there was still Boethius, his loyal Roman servant and adviser. The description could also apply to Symmachus and Cassiodorus as well, but Boethius was more than that. He was a true friend, whose unfailing sympathy and understanding had helped the king before in many a pass. Now, in this time of trouble and distress, he would surely prove a strong staff on which to lean. Comforted, his steps now steady and assured, Theoderic began to make his way back towards the palace.