“Arvandus, that said traitor, is arrested and on his way to Rome in chains for trial.” Coldly, he added, “In Rome, we deal with misdemeanours by the means of civilised methods.”
Bedwyr caught Arthur’s attention, stemmed an explosive retort by saying hastily, “It could be a mistake.” He spread his hands wide, searching for a more appropriate word. “A misunderstanding?”
Again the Roman spoke, his tone haughty, condescending. “Rome will sort the matter. Punish those who are guilty.”
Arthur stepped a pace nearer to him. “We sail, Mithras alone knows how many hundreds of miles, in answer to a plea from your Emperor. He begs us to unite with those loyal to Rome against the barbarian Euric, who is seeking for himself a kingdom. We then sit here for bloody weeks, doing sod all except scratch our arses – and I am calmly told, by a man appointed by Rome to govern Gaul, that a friend of his has written to Euric of the Goths, suggesting he does not sign the offered treaty of peace with Rome, but destroys the British instead!” He threw the parchment a second time, kicked it at the Roman as it rebounded off the tent wall, strode after it and caught hold of the officer by the throat. Shook him, like a dog with a rat, the reason for his anger bursting from him like cooked meat in over-stuffed pastry. “What bloody treaty of peace? I do not give a turd for this traitor or for Rome’s bloody laws – what treaty? If those stool-sitting arseholes in Rome have been suing for peace with Euric, why have I not been consulted? And if a peace treaty was the intention all along, why was I damned well brought here?”
The officer was spluttering and choking, his face suffusing red; he had dropped his helmet, his fingers were grappling with Arthur’s hands, attempting to loosen that tight grip around his throat – and Arthur let him go, let him drop like a stone to the floor, discarding him, leaving him to heave and choke for breath. The other two men, Bedwyr and Meriaun, ignored his discomfort.
“Rome is not likely to want a fight if it can be avoided,” Meriaun pointed out to Arthur. “After all, you have used the same tactics back home often enough to secure peace.”
“We would not be here if it were not for treaties,” Bedwyr added, trying to smooth Arthur’s ruffled temper. “Britain is free, at least for a while, of any uprising because of various such signed scrolls of parchment.” He rose from his stool, strolled to a table, questioned with his eyes whether anyone wanted wine. Arthur accepted, Meriaun shook his head. Bedwyr ignored the Roman, a man who had never seen a day’s fighting in his life despite the fancy uniform; would probably not know which end of a spear to hold. The mental insult was unjustified, but such men were not soldiers, they were couriers, the Emperor’s lap-dogs; trained to fetch and carry, to look smart, salute. Say aye or nay to command.
Reluctant, the Pendragon had to acknowledge the truth of his younger cousin’s point. Calming his racing breath he took the offered goblet of wine, drank; said, refusing to concede entirely, “Aye, but we proved ourselves first. The Saex settled along our eastern rivers and coast know me for my strength, know they cannot defeat my Artoriani. They agree peace because the alternative is slaughter. This… ” he crossed to the offensive letter, picked it up, looked at it with disgusted loathing and lobbed it out the open doorway, “this is admitting defeat before even a blade has been unsheathed!” He turned again to the Roman, who stood warily, shaken, his fingers massaging a bruised throat. Arthur asked again, “Why was I not informed that a treaty had been offered to Euric?”
About to answer with his first-come thought – that Rome’s business was none of this British king’s – the man shrugged his shoulder instead. “We have always made friends with the barbarians. This new king of the Goth’s dead brother, Theodoric, was a follower of Rome; he led his men for us. We have many such treaties with these new, petty kingdoms. They live in peace under our laws and rule. It is so with the Burgundians, the Franks,” – he smiled derisively – “the British.”
Arthur smiled back at him, seeming pleasant enough. Bedwyr, pouring more wine for himself groaned.
“I,” Arthur said, patiently, “have signed no such treaty with your poxed masters in Rome.” He held up one finger to stem the protest hovering on the imperial officer’s lip. “Nor is any treaty proffered by the dignitaries of Less Britain valid. I am King of Britanniarum, Less and Greater. The island across the sea is mine, and so is Armorica, as you still call it. I personally own an estate a few miles from Condivicnum. I rule in my own right, with my laws, my word. I, Arthur Riothamus the Pendragon, not you.” He poked the man’s chest with one finger, sending him wobbling backwards a step. “Not this traitor Arvandus, nor Rome’s Governor, Sidonius Apollinaris, who is so proud of his fawning, overrated letter-writing; not Anthemius your Emperor – nor his puppet-master, Ricimer, the man who pulls the strings of all Rome’s snivelling governors. I, Arthur, have the title Pendragon in Greater Britain; and in Less Britain, that of Riothamus. I am Supreme King.” Each word had been punctuated by a prod that increased in intensity. The officer was backing away, found the open tent flap behind him.
Arthur moved suddenly, alarmingly fast, had the man’s arm up behind his back and was trundling him from the tent, marching him across the flattened grass that officiated as a parade ground towards the horse lines.
“Get on your mount and go back to the imbecile who sent you! I will hear nothing of treaties, letters, or peace. I have been asked here to fight and fight I will. As soon as Syagrius of Soissons joins with me.”
The officer was unhurt but affronted and humiliated. He had come as ordered from Rome to officially, and politely, inform this arrogant bastard of a king that a traitor had been arrested before rumour permeated the wrong impression – and had been treated in response as less than a midden boy! These British had fewer manners and fouler language than Euric and his barbarian Goth whoresons!
He scrambled onto his horse, gathered up the reins and began trotting for the open gate, set between the wooden-fenced palisade. He had to say something, something to avenge his dignity.
“Syagrius?” he shouted, looking back over his shoulder at the gathering, laughing men; at Arthur, the British King. “Syagrius has no intention of joining you. It was he who suggested offering a treaty with Euric, not Rome!” He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped off. Remembering, too late, that his ornate parade helmet lay on the floor of Arthur’s tent.
IX
Arthur stood beyond his tent watching the splendours of the sunset fade into the purple of approaching night. Evening was different here in Less Britain, quicker, more vibrant. Back home, the coming of night seemed to settle with a gentle, softening sigh. Here, it shouted at you.
He wondered if the day had been as hot in Britain. Or was it raining there? Almost he could smell the pleasing fresh dampness of the Summer Land, the scent of damp earth and water, the approach of a low-lying mist. Here, everything was dry, brown, beneath the arid scent of sun-baked heat. Another sigh. In the name of all the gods, he should not have come!
He heard Gwenhwyfar’s voice – seeming so close he almost felt that were he to turn around she would be there, behind him, her copper hair tossing, her green, tawny-flecked eyes flashing. Why must you go?
The men were preparing for night, shaking out their blankets, finishing supper, heading for the latrine ditch.
I need to aid Less Britain, it is as much a part of my kingdom as the lands of Geraint’s Dumnonia or your brother’s Gwynedd. I am the Supreme Lord, I swore to protect, to keep peace.
Had she been angry with him because she had seen the whole thing was a slaughterhouse mess of disguised half-truths, deceptions and hollow fabrications?
He looked again around the sprawling camp and the rows of tents; across at the picketed horses; the smith’s bothy; the grain tent, all the paraphernalia that accompanied a king’s army. Looked at his men, his Artoriani, trained, disciplined, professional men. Almost four hundred had accompanied him, twelve turmae of his best. Volunteers. He had not demanded of any of them although t
hey had all wanted to come. He had answered this urgent plea for help from the Emperor with the proviso that he would bring no more than half of his Artoriani. Huh! Where was the urgency now?
He could not bleed Britain dry, not – for all the agreed treaties of peace – with so many of the Saex settled along the coasts and rivers. Not when Ambrosius Aurelianus, his uncle and a pro-Roman, was so much more popular with Council than himself. And not with an ex-wife determined to see her son wearing the Pendragon’s royal torque around his own neck one day – not that the last mattered with Cerdic gone, out of her reach.
There needed to be some secure, loyal force left behind, some stabilising deterrent. Someone to keep care of Gwenhwyfar and their daughter if something happened to him. ‘I have to add British weight to the counter-defensive.’ His argument had sounded reasonable back at Caer Cadan, even knowing that when he returned, Ambrosius might not give up the new-found power if he got a taste for ruling.
Arthur swore silently to himself, started walking towards the horse lines. He would see the animals were settled before seeking his bed. If he came back, what in the Bull’s name was wrong with him this night?
The men seemed cheerful as he strode past the tents, some of them calling out in good humour, sharing lewd remarks about the local womenfolk, exchanging jests and comments with him. They all seemed happy enough to be here. But they had come expecting a fight. That was what they were trained for, what they lived for. They were brothers, comrades, men who lived and fought and died as one family. His family. And he had told them Less Britain and Gaul were in danger from Euric and his rabble; that his people, their people, were threatened, as once, not so very long ago, the people of Britain had been threatened. The men had answered that they were willing to join with those allied to Rome against these Goths. To fight.
Some of the horses were already dozing, their heads drooping, ears flopped, hind legs resting. One or two, recognising him, whickered softly as he approached, ran his hand along a neck, gently pulling at an ear; touching a muzzle. You knew where you were with horses. They did not lie or cheat. They served, proud but without arrogance, with strength bound within gentleness. A horse gave you all it could without question. As did the Artoriani, his men.
Arthur groaned, laid his face against the mane of the next horse in line, a broad-headed grey. Rome had no need of his fine, brave men. Bringing them over, all this expense and time and effort had been a knee-jerk panic reaction, a show of bravado, a threat. Live in peace with us, Euric, as did the brother you murdered, or face the consequences… only the consequences had turned out to be as threatening as a broken spear. He had not seen that possibility back in Britain – or had he not wanted to see it? Had he, like his men, been so enthusiastic for a fight he had turned his eye and sense to the reality? He patted the horse. Too late to realise the suspected truth now. One nagging question persisted; had he only listened to what he had wanted to hear or to what he had been meant to?
He moved to another horse, Bedwyr’s chestnut. His own favourite stallion, Onager, he had left in Britain. A damn good horse in battle, but a bad tempered brute with a will of his own. He would have been unsafe in the confines of those flat-bottomed transport ships.
By seeking a treaty of peace, Rome was only doing what he had done as king, except on a larger, grander scale. Why fight if the need to spill blood could be averted by other means? He had settled peace in such a way back home – but by the Bull, he had not wasted all this time and energy in moving men and horses about unnecessarily! Ah, he countered his own thoughts, but then, he supposed it had been necessary. To bring his trained men and horses all this way had taken a deal of effort and organisation: the loading and unloading of ships; the sea crossing; the march up from the estuary along the course of the river here, to Juliomagus, their base camp for now. Manoeuvres that had taken weeks, not days to complete. If Euric had decided on taking an immediate defensive position, all this land would be blackened ruins by now.
The town of Juliomagus, one mile or so distant, had been engulfed by the night, only a few scattered watchtower lights glimmered in the darkness. The stars were different here too. Bolder, sharper, a few down on the horizon he remembered seeing as a boy at his father’s estate downriver near Condivicnum. Only he had not known the great Uthr Pendragon to be his father then, for his identity had been hidden until it was safe to announce him for the son he was.
Juliomagus had survived one bloody attack already, a few years past. The Saxons had been raiding along the river, building their homesteadings on the numerous islands, and, growing bolder, had tried for something more than holding a few scattered villages. The fighting had been bitter, but in the end Odovacer, their leader, had been driven out, running.
The whole of Gaul was a simmering cauldron. If watched it would bubble away without harm, but if left to its own there was every possibility the heat would grow too high and the thing would boil and spurt over like a volcano blowing its top.
Arthur wandered back to his tent. It was that which niggled him. He did not much like being a pot-watcher
October 468
X
The remnants of an autumn dawn lay over the levels of the Summer Land. The Tor, eleven miles distant as the raven would fly, sat like a faery island rising solid amid the white, shape-shifting mist, and as the sun rose, deep, black shadows lengthened away from the ramparts and ditches of the King’s stronghold of Caer Cadan. The heart-place of Arthur, the Pendragon. Finger shadows stretched out across the moving mist, shadows cast from tree and bush and scattered copses of alder, ash and willow, the tumble of uneven ground. Another morning, another day.
Gwenhwyfar shivered, drew her cloak nearer around her shoulders. It was chill this morning. Summer had faded into the sharp tang of autumn; already the colours had altered from pleasant green to the fire-bright bursts of red and yellow and orange. With the lifting sun the mist too, was turning gold. How this great welt of loneliness and despair gripped her, clutched at her, like the unrelenting numbness of a frozen winter! Arthur was gone, ridden away with the laughter and hopeful excitement of his men. Gone to chase the lure of a promised fight. Gone, not knowing when – if – he would be back. As he had been gone so many, many times before.
Why then, this portent of dread within her stomach? Because he had taken ship across the sea? Because, already, he had been gone longer than he had intended? Because the crows circled the Caer each night before going to their roost, the wind blew from the east, the old apple tree had not borne fruit… so many nonsense reasons to explain the questions that held no answers.
The mist lifted, evaporating with the new-risen burst of sun-warmed day, leaving the Tor once again stranded in the mortal world of the Christian God. Gwenhwyfar, seeing the magic of the whiteness disappear, had the thought that it was not so easy to chase away the fears haunting her night dreams or muttered so persistently at the back of her waking mind.
Nail-studded boots scraped on the wooden stairway, emerged out onto the rampart walkway. She recognised the step, the heavy tread, turned with a smile to greet Ider, the Captain of her personal guard.
“My Lady?” His voice showed concern, a question, aware of her sadness and fears. No sign, though, in his words or eyes of the unutterable devotion that he felt for her. He had a wife of his own, and a family, but still he loved his Queen. As did nigh on every man of Arthur’s elite cavalry of nine hundred men, the Artoriani.
“I have come for this day’s orders,” he said. The daily routine of a stronghold went on, king present, king absent.
She managed a wide smile, brighter, appearing content, knowing she did not fool Ider.
He stood as strong and tall as an ancient oak tree, his heart and kindness as gentle as the willow. He crossed to the palisade fencing, stood next to his lady, rested his arms along the top of the wooden fencing and gazed outward as Gwenhwyfar had. He breathed in the dew-wet smells of this new day. A rich aroma of earth and marsh, of water and autumn-withered grass, a
distant tang of the sea. Arthur’s Summer Land.
“It is in my heart,” he said at length, the northern burr of his accent pronounced even after all these years in service to the Artoriani, “to be with my comrades, my brothers, across the sea in Gaul following the Dragon Banner. A soldier needs the pull of a battle to keep an edge to his sword. But then,” he turned with a barrel-wide grin and an exaggerated inhalation of wafting smells, “then I catch the aroma of the remains of last night’s supper of ham cooking for breakfast down there, and change my mind!” He nodded to the scatter of wattle-built dwelling places and huts that made the Caer into its life-place, chuckled.
Gwenhwyfar laughed with him, laid her hand for a moment on his chest, against the leather of his tunic. “Glad I am that you did not go with my husband, you have always had the wicked ability to make my heart smile.”
Ider stepped back a pace, his expression displaying hurt. “And I thought you valued me for my good looks, strength and skill with a sword!”
Amused, the heaviness of heart, for a while at least, lifted, Gwenhwyfar teased back, “Those come without question, my lad!” She made her way to the steps, began to descend, the sun striking the brilliant copper-gold of her braided hair. For all the affection he held for his wife, Ider felt a knot tighten in his stomach. She was an attractive woman, Gwenhwyfar, her figure slim, despite the bearing of children, her skin fresh, unmarked, teeth white, all her own. Her thirty years showing only maturity and poised wisdom.
If Ider were her husband, he would not have been so eager to leave, to go to fight for a foreign cause. But then, Ider was not a king. The role of husband, he supposed, had to come second behind that of being the Pendragon. Even with a wife as lovely as Gwenhwyfar.
December 468
XI
Sorrowfully, Ambrosius surveyed the ragged, incomplete building before him; the half-height walls, the tumble of stone, a scatter of timber, the rutted wheel- and foot-churned ground. Half-built, abandoned for the other work, the other construction up on the hill where, it was said, the great Vespasian once made a stronghold back in those times when Britain was being harnessed to Rome’s superiority. There was to be a fortress again there. Ambrosius’s fortress, his place of command, his stronghold from where he would refasten those loosened straps and chains. The men were up there, labouring to dig the defensive ditches, toss up the huge ramparts and build the stone and timber palisade. Inside would come the dwelling places for the men and their families; the principia, the administration offices. He was determined to have a Roman-built praetorium for his own house, not the British-built, timbered Hall.
Shadow of the King Page 4