Arthur grimaced. He was no moralist, had no prudish censorship, but this thing brought a sour taste to his mouth. The girl could be no more than nine or eight and ten. Fat Man was in his sixth decade at least.
Arthur jiggled his fingers at the money pouch secured at his waist. He had not much coin – bronze and silver was becoming rare, nothing had been minted in Britain since Vortigern had died. Idly, casual, he took a ring from his finger, tossed it in the air, caught it, saw the slave-master’s greedy eyes follow its movement. Fat Man had stopped tugging at the rope; the girl ceased her shrieking.
Bedwyr tapped at his cousin’s arm. “Leave it. What want you with her?”
Arthur waved him silent. His attention had never left the slave-master. “As she says, a noble-born, even a king, might be interested in her.”
The man laughed, derisive. “As much as such a profit would be pleasing, no man of that rank would be seeking a bed-mate in this midden heap of a place.”
Raising one eyebrow higher, Arthur considered the situation. He had obviously not been recognised. On the two occasions he had visited this Forum he had not lingered, the tavern he frequented was on the far side of town, and the citizens of Juliomagus most certainly did not venture into his own army encampment down-river. There was no reason, save for the quality of his appearance, that he would be recognised. His cloak was fastened close, hiding his sword and the royal torque around his neck. Save for the dragon ring on his left hand there was nothing to show who he was.
“I may be interested in her, assuming she does not carry the cock-pox.”
Sensing a better deal, Tadius answered quickly. “She’s clean, a maiden pure.”
The latter, Arthur very much doubted. The girl was looking at him, kneeling in the mire, her expression pleading – anything, anyone, rather than the fat man. A maiden? Arthur studied her. Na, she had the look of the world-wise about her, no naive innocence lingered behind those blue eyes.
Fat Man snorted his contempt, tightened his grip around the rope. He had no intention of losing his bargain. “You are a bloody soldier, one of those cursed British, as bad as any Saex or Goth. We did not invite you here. We want you gone, want rid of you. You plunder us for food and whores and wine; you brawl, make a nuisance of yourselves. Your poxed, bastard king promises to pay, to settle all debts with us, the honest traders and merchantmen – huh! Aye, that he will, on the day pigs fly in the sky!”
Arthur stood very quiet, very still. Bedwyr, a step behind knowing his cousin so very well, had his hand resting lightly on his sword pommel.
Tossing the ring once more, Arthur flipped it in the slave-master’s direction. “That is good gold: the gem is small but a quality garnet, for all its lack of size.” He indicated the purse of coins. “That will not match my offer.”
The slave-master examined the ring. He suspected the garnet was probably glass and the gold would be poor quality, but it was of a higher value than the other offer. He nodded acceptance, put the ring in his pouch and reached for the girl’s rope, tossing the coin pouch back to its owner, who ignored it, let it fall.
With surprising speed a dagger came into Fat Man’s hand. “You agreed the deal, Tadius. She is mine!”
Arthur’s hand had, even faster, clenched around the man’s pudgy neck – and he was sailing forward, not far or high, but far enough for Arthur to laugh, “I’ll be damned, a pig flying!” Then he had his sword out, the blade slicing through the slave rope. He picked up the severed end, his blade hovering above Fat Man’s groin.
“I get the girl or your balls? Your choice.” A heartbeat pause, no answer. Arthur grinned. “It seems I get the girl.” He grasped her hand, brought her to her feet. “You’d better be woman-clean, girl. Riothamus, despite popular opinion, may be a bastard but he’s not, yet, a poxed bastard.”
He shrugged back the folds of his cloak, let the glimmer of his torque show, a coil of twisted gold shaped like a dragon. Only one man wore such a thing.
“Come, Bedwyr, we are late for that meeting.” Holding the slave rope as casually as if it were a dog’s lead, Arthur walked away, heading for the northern exit from the Forum, the girl trotting obedient, wide-eyed and silent at his heel.
Tadius re-examined the garnet ring, ignoring the fat man, who, breathless, was struggling to his feet. “God’s Fortune!” Tadius whistled aloud, “That was the Pendragon, this is the real thing!”
Fat Man, at his shoulder, peered at the ring, unimpressed. “If he can squander such things on a whore, happen it’s about time he paid some of us honest townsfolk.”
Tadius laughed, put the ring safe away. “Honest folk? God’s balls! Honest? Here? There be no such person!”
XIV
Sidonius Apollinaris welcomed the Pendragon – or Riothamus, as he was titled in Less Britain and Gaul – with wide arms and a wider smile. If he was annoyed at the late arrival of his guest, he made no mention of it. Instead, he ushered Arthur and Bedwyr into the luxury of a private room at the rear of the tavern, raising his eyebrow only slightly at the British king’s request to have the bedraggled girl accompanying him sent to the kitchens for food and a chance to dry her clothes and hair. Sidonius was a man who took the unexpected in his stride – storing such glimmers of tantalising information away in his brain for later, private reflection.
There was another man in the room, seated, sipping wine. He rose as Arthur entered, bowed formally. A young man, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, tall and clean-shaven. He bounded forward, offered his hand to Arthur not caring to wait for formal introduction. “My lord, I am Ecdicius; my elder sister being Sidonius’s good lady wife. I have heard much of you, am honoured to meet you.” His hand was pumping Arthur’s arm, his grin broad and genuine. Sidonius, Arthur noted, seemed slightly embarrassed at this reckless enthusiasm.
“My brother-by-law,” with a light laugh Sidonius explained, indicating his guests be seated and offering them wine, “is an incurable romantic. He has a notion of riding with you to sweep the Goths from Gaul forever, in one deft charge.” He shook his head at the naivety of such an impossible idea, seated himself on a cushioned chair arranging his body straight, small feet neatly placed together. “He has an unfortunate disability not to be able to recognise the realities of life.” His accompanying smile was sated with indulgent affection.
Sipping his wine – it was good stuff, the best he had tasted here in this town – Arthur answered, “Given the men, horses and financial backing I was promised, more than a year since, I could do just that.” His false smile did little to hide his annoyance. Sidonius, ordering the slaves to bring in food and more wine, either did not hear or chose to ignore the comment.
Bedwyr, sitting beside Arthur, asked eagerly, “Are you the Ecdicius who after that disastrous harvest a few years past, fed all your estate tenants from your own granaries through the entire winter?”
Ecdicius nodded assent. “Not just my tenants, the folk of the settlements and their families also. About four thousand in all.” His beam of pride was extravagant. Incredulous, Bedwyr encouraged him to tell more.
“I sent horses and carts to bring all those poor people onto my estate. I saved them from starving.” Ecdicius flapped one hand dismissively. It was no large thing, a simple matter of helping one’s neighbour.
Sidonius snorted. “Damn fool nigh on beggared himself! Used all his grain surplus and a good deal of gold to buy in more to feed classless peasant farmers and their whores and brats. Let them find their own way or go without I say. There’s always someone else to take over an empty farm.”
Ecdicius kept his smile but his retort was barbed, for all his outward pleasantness. “Aye, there is many a Goth who would like to get his hands on good farm land.” He had been baited with this same line of contempt for his generosity many times. “Is it not a lord’s duty to care for those less well off in the time of need? By following my duty, I am assured of loyalty from my tenants and servants.” There was mischief in his eyes as he added, looking direct at Sidon
ius, “I do not constantly need to watch the shadows growing larger behind my back.”
Sensing something more than family disagreement over the treatment of servants and tenant farmers, Arthur searched for plausible reasons. Why would a man need such a large, loyal following? He tried a blind stab at one. “Have you, then, an ambition to become Emperor like your father, Avitus?”
Ecdicius laughed, head back, large hands slapping his thighs. He had a bold, full-of-humour bellow. “What? And have a dagger plunged into my back a few months later? No thank you my lord Riothamus! My father was foolish enough to want to wear the purple, he held that dubious pleasure for less than a year.” He sat at ease, spread his arms along the back of the couch. “I am content with what I have. A wealthy estate, a loving wife and an articulate brother-by-law who is soon to become Bishop of Augustonemtum”
This was news to Arthur.
Sidonius shrugged modestly, though the flicker of annoyance and bitterness was not lost to the Pendragon’s keen, watching eye. “It is an honour that has been offered to me.” The modesty was false. “I have humbly decided to accept the position.”
Polite, hiding his amusement – and satisfaction – Arthur offered congratulations, while rapidly digesting the information. So, Sidonius was thought to have been involved with that treasonous letter sent by Arvandus to Euric of the Goths. Because of it, he had fallen from his high place of favour in Rome. That Arthur knew already, though the reason had not been made clear. Nothing had been openly said or declared, there was probably no evidence to support the suspicions. But this sealed the lid to the coffin, did it not? To be forced into accepting the oblivion of a bishopric! Hah! Happen there was justice in this world after all.
“I hear,” Arthur decided to stir a few muddied puddles, “that Arvandus was saved from execution by a sentence of exile instead. The man was your friend, Sidonius, was he not?”
Quickly, too quickly, too hotly, Sidonius denied it. “He was a colleague, nothing more. The man was foolish in not understanding the intricacies of Roman law, that was all, was unfortunate enough to fall foul of others with more evil intent than ever he could dream of.”
“So, plotting with Euric to destroy us British and then to overthrow all traces of Roman rule in Gaul is not evil intent?” Bedwyr responded, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice.
“The episode was all a misunderstanding, I assure you.” Sidonius had to say that, had to believe it, for he too had very nearly been lured into the plotting, had only escaped by reason of his own eloquence and wit. Arvandus had been his friend, they shared the same views, the same beliefs, knew the only hope to rekindle prosperity and peace in Gaul was to let Euric become the legal and only lord. Sidonius had attempted, discreetly, to give defence for the arrested traitor – not expecting the idiot to trumpet his guilt all over Rome. Nothing had been proven to involve Sidonius, beyond a wrong-made friendship, but in consequence he had lost his exalted position as Prefect of Rome and his lands had been confiscated. Offered instead the binding chains of a bishopric! An offer only a fool would refuse.
A slave was refilling Arthur’s goblet. He smiled at her, a pretty young thing. That reminded him of the girl he had bought. What in the Bull’s name was he do with her? He grinned to himself. Happen he could think of some use. He sat back, relaxed, all the anger and frustrations of these long, slow passing weeks suddenly evaporating.
What do you do with a dignitary against whom you cannot prove corruption and treason? You bind his hands and silence his tongue, you bury him alive. You make him a bishop. Raising his goblet, Arthur saluted his host. “A good choice of career, my friend, I am sure you will make an admirable bishop.”
Ecdicius echoed Arthur’s toast. “Oh he will, my lord, my brother-by-law has a taste for telling others what to do, as long as it causes no discomfort for himself.”
Sidonius scowled, deeply regretting allowing Ecdicius to accompany him here to Juliomagus, and bitterly regretting the suggestion of this meeting. It would be an idea to get to the business side and be gone. He cleared his throat.
“I have been asked to suggest you move your men on, my Lord Arthur. You would be more effective as a deterrent near Avaricum.”
“Effective? With the few men I have? My men, Sidonius, my Artoriani. Where are the men I was promised by your Emperor? Men we British were supposed to be joined with in this fight against Euric and his Goths? Where are the horses I need? When will Syagrius be joining us? He was supposed to have brought several thousand infantry to me last summer!” Arthur’s anger was rising. Too many damned questions and never a satisfactory answer. “I have been here a year around waiting to see this business done with, yet have done nothing but scratch for lice and fleas!”
Sidonius retained a pleasant smile. He had been warned of this British king’s foul temper. Euric a barbarian? Huh! It was in Sidonius’s experience that the Goths were generous, mild mannered and welcoming.
Not Euric personally, but his brother certainly had been. He had much liked that brother, a firm, large man, given to much laughter and a pleasant outlook on life. He had treated Sidonius like a visiting king. A pity Euric was so different, had murdered him; but it was Riothamus, Sidonius was thinking, who needed to be made an end of.
A ridiculous notion to bring him here in the first place. Nothing could hold back Euric from obtaining his ambition, nothing and no one. Rome realised that, these months on, there would not be the funding or the will to hold back the encroaching tide of inevitability. Syagrius, King of Soissons, knew it too. The funding had dried up; there was little left in Rome’s vaults, little save dust and empty coffers. Not even enough to send the British home.
Sidonius held his fixed, amiable expression. Arthur must never learn of that. Must not learn that bringing him here had been an appalling mistake. God’s truth, the anger that would be unleashed, the uproar… the cost of compensation! No, Arthur must be assured that reinforcements were on their way, that later in the summer the ships would be waiting to take him and his men home again. In the meanwhile, Arthur must be made to leave Juliomagus. The presence of his rabble of men could no longer be tolerated.
And with Fortuna’s blessing the problem would soon be solved. Euric would have a hand in that, when eventually he decided to make his move. Either the British would be wholly slaughtered, or at the least, there would be fewer of them to bother with.
XV
Mathild stretched languidly, relishing the feel of a comfortable mattress beneath her body; the absence of fleas and bedbugs and the warmth of fine-woven, soft blankets. She lay, arms and legs limp, relaxed, her eyes closed for fear this might all be a dream. If she opened them, she would find herself back in that bug-hopping, faeces-stinking slave pen. Then the man beside her moved, turning in his sleep and she realised she was awake, this was real, she had passed the night in the King of Britain’s bed. She had pleased him, she knew – was this day not Frigedeeg, the Lady’s own day? A self-satisfied smile crept over her face. Frig, wife to Woden, the Lady who blessed the union of man and woman, who was most surely giving blessing to her daughter this day.
“That expression on your face can only be described as smug.”
With a snap, Mathild opened her eyes. Arthur was awake, watching her. She blushed, feared he had read her erotic thoughts.
Happen he had, for his hand brushed over her breasts, her body responding eagerly. Arthur chuckled. “You are no stranger to a man’s touch, my Saex whore. Who taught you the art of pleasuring?”
About to say, ‘my husband’, Mathild choked back the truth. He was dead. Slaughtered with the others – the men, women and children – by the Gauls when they had come to destroy the English, who had lived peaceably for many years on their island settlements along the Liger. And then they wondered why Odovacer had called the men together! Wondered why they had marched to take their revenge for that wicked day of burning, killing, and slave-taking. No, she would not talk of the husband she had loved. Instead, she answered
in her own tongue of the English, “I am a noble-born, a daughter of the Goddess Frig. Her gentle hand guides my Wyrding.”
To her great surprise, Arthur understood. “So, your fate is decreed by the Lady.” His hand was stroking lower, more intimate. “Not so, my expensive whore. From now, I command your future.” He spoke also in English, was amused at her wonderment. Returning to Latin, he explained, “I find it most useful to understand what my enemies have to say about me.” He laughed. “Or what my whore may whisper in my ear.”
She was as eager as he for the sharing of pleasure. Her husband she had missed with great sorrowing. To be used as nothing more than a receptacle for need by the men who had taken her as slave, had been hard to endure these past two years. Mathild had pride for herself and her people; had accepted what fate, the Wyrding, her Goddess, the Lady, had sent. But oh, how much more pleasant, how much more worthwhile, to become the bedmate of the British King, Arthur Riothamus, the Pendragon! She would make an effort to please him, would serve him well. Her task all the easier from the intimate delight she was receiving from him.
Later, she announced into the night-dark tent, “I have many whispers I can tell to you.”
Arthur lay still. His heartbeat, after the exertion of lovemaking, easing. He was tired, wanted to sleep. Outside, beyond the leather walls of his command tent he heard the voices of the night watch changing. Day would be here soon, not much chance for more sleep. “And what whispers would they be?” he asked through a casual yawn.
“Syagrius of the Romano-Gauls and his allied Franks have no intention of coming to join you. Rome will continue to play games with you before Euric of the Goths chooses his own time to slaughter your British in a bathing of blood.” She paused then added, her voice hard, the anger as bitter as sour fruit. “Cerdic, your son, has become Lord of the Elbe and is gathering warriors to his hearth.”
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