Of course, Aurelius had not intended that there should be any prisoners, but that the fight should have been fought to the death. Had the Saecsen won, it would have been. Though a warrior might kill in the heat of battle, slaying time and again without hesitation, among civilized men there are not many who can slaughter defenseless human creatures as they stand mute and passive before him.
I say this because when the fighting was done, there remained several thousand Saecsen still alive and it was simply not possible to run the spear through them all. If we had, we should have been worse barbarians than those we fought!
“Well?” I asked Uther. He was still in the saddle, his bloody sword across his thigh. “What will you do?” Aurelius had sent me ahead to Uther while he saw the smaller fights ended and organized aid for our wounded.
Uther scowled darkly, as if it were somehow my fault that this decision had fallen to him. He sought to put off the question by asking, “What says Aurelius?”
“The High King says you are war leader; it is your decision.”
He groaned. Uther was no murderer. “What do you say, Exalted Ambrosious?”
“I agree with Aurelius. You must decide—and quickly, if you will not lose the trust and respect of your men.”
“I know that! But what am I to do? If I kill the prisoners, I am a butcher and I lose respect; let them live and I am softhearted, and I lose even more.”
I sympathized. “In war there is no easy course.”
“Tell me something I do not already know.” His words were harsh, but his eyes pleaded.
“I will tell you what I would do if it were my decision.”
“Tell me then, O Wisdom Incarnate. What would you do?”
“I would do the only thing I could do and still call myself a human being.”
“Which is?”
“Let them go,” I told him. “There is no other choice.”
“Every one I release today will come back. And he will father sons that will come back. Every life I spare today will be a life spent later—the life of a countryman.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed. “That is the way of it.”
“Have you nothing else to say, Mighty Prophet?” he mocked, his face twisted with distaste.
“I say only what is, Uther. It is for you to decide: kill them all and you may save a future life, and prove us more detestable in the sight of God than these poor wretches who do not know him. But if you let them go, you will prove the true nobility of the British spirit. You will truly exalt yourself far above those you have defeated.”
He saw this, but he did not like it. “I could obtain blood oaths and hostages.”
“That can be done, but I advise against it. These men are not to be trusted to keep an oath made to one they despise.”
“I have to do something!”
“Very well,” I relented, “but choose the youngest of them for your hostages.”
“And I will not spare Hengist.”
“Uther, think! He is beaten and disgraced. If you kill him, he will become a leader whose life must be avenged. Let him go; Hengist will trouble us no more.”
Jesu help me, my own heart was not in it. Perhaps I might have made Uther believe if I had believed myself.
“And I say he will not go free from this battle.” Uther had made up his mind.
Hengist was brought forward, tightly bound, his broad face snarling in silent defiance. Those of his bodyguard who still lived were brought forth too, and made to stand behind him. The rest of the Saecsen host, disarmed, the fight gone completely out of them, stood a little way away up the hillside, heads lowered in defeat, watching in sullen silence.
Gorlas, hot from the fight, galloped in quickly and threw himself from his horse. He ran up and, before anyone could stop him, seized Hengist by the arms and spat in his face. The Saecsen leader regarded Gorlas impassively, spittle glistening on his cheeks. The prisoners murmured ominously.
It was a stupid thing to do. I wanted to shake Gorlas by the shoulders and make him see what he had done. “Stay, Gorlas!”
The voice was Aurelius’, who now joined us. He strode slowly toward the captives, stopped, and stood regarding Hengist casually. After a moment he turned and spoke to Uther. “Well, Duke of Britain, what is it to be?”
“Death for Hengist and his chieftains,” Uther replied evenly. “The rest will go free—” He shot a quick glance at me. “They will be escorted to the coast and put on ships, never to return to this land again under pain of death.”
“Very well,” said Aurelius, “so be it.”
Gorlas, hanging back, now thrust himself forward. “If Hengist is to be killed, Lord Aurelius, let it be by my hand.”
Aurelius looked at him shrewdly. “Why, Lord Gorlas, should you be his executioner?”
“It is a matter of honor between us, lord,” Gorlas confessed. “My brother was murdered in the Massacre of the Knives, when Vortigern was king. I have made an oath that if ever I were to meet Hengist, I would kill him. I had hoped to meet him in battle.”
Aurelius considered this. He glanced at Uther. “I have no objections.”
“Someone must do the deed,” muttered Uther.
The High King turned to me. “What say you, Wise Counselor?”
“The taking of life in revenge is hateful to me. But if his life is forfeit for the wrong he has done, let him be killed quickly and quietly—but alone and away from here.”
A strange light glinted in Gorlas’ eyes. He threw back his head and laughed hideously. “Kill him quietly?” he hooted. “We have just slaughtered ten thousand of these motherless bastards! Here is the Chief Bastard himself—if any deserve to die, he does!”
“We killed today because we had no choice,” I spat. “We killed to save ourselves and our people. But now we have a choice, and I tell you that killing for revenge is murder, and has no place among civilized men.”
“My Lord Aurelius,” shouted Gorlas, angry now, “let Hengist be killed here and now, before all his people. I would have them see and remember how we punish treachery.”
Many others agreed with Gorlas, and loudly; so Aurelius gave his assent, and Gorlas wasted no time about it. He picked up a long spear and shoved it into the Saecsen’s belly. Hengist groaned but did not fall. Gorlas withdrew the spear and stabbed Hengist with it again. Blood gushed out onto the ground and the barbarian leader crashed to his knees, doubled over his wound. Still, he did not cry out.
Gorlas stepped quickly to his victim’s side, drew his sword, raised it, and struck off Hengist’s head. The body pitched forward into the dust. Gorlas raised his grisly trophy in triumph.
Then, seized by the frenzy of his vengeance, Gorlas turned and fell on the corpse, chopping and chopping with his sword. He hacked the body into pieces and, when he was finished, scattered the pieces in the dust.
All the while the men…the men, Holy Father, forgive us all, cheered him.
6
When the cheering was over, an awful silence descended upon the battlefield, a silence instantly shattered by a heart-rending shriek. A youth thrust himself forward from the mass of captives. Tall, thin—he had not yet attained his manly growth—his fair hair hung in long braids from his temples, and beneath the dirt his face, now distorted in grief, bore the same proud aspect as his father. There was no question whose offspring it was.
The boy threw himself upon the severed head of his father and hugged it to his breast. Gorlas, breathless and sweating from his exertion, whirled on the youth and raised his sword to strike.
“Gorlas! Hold!” Uther swung down from the saddle and strode to where they were. “It is done. Put your sword away.”
“Not while the wolf’s whelp lives,” said Gorlas thickly. “Let me kill him and make an end.”
“Do we kill children now, Gorlas? Look at him—he is only a boy.” The youth had not so much as glanced at the danger looming over him; he continued to wail, rocking back and forth piteously, cradling the bloody head in his arms
.
“Lleu blind me, he is Hengist’s son. Kill him now or he returns to lead another murdering wolf pack when he is grown.”
“There has been enough killing for one day,” replied Uther. “Put your sword away, Gorlas. I tell you there is no shame in it.”
Muttering dark oaths, Gorlas sheathed the blade and contented himself with a sharp kick at the boy before him. Then he stomped off to rejoin his warband.
Uther raised the boy to his feet where he stood sullenly, his dirty face streaked with his tears. “What is your name, boy?” Uther asked.
The youth understood him well enough and answered, “Octa.”
“I give you the gift of your life, Octa. If you or your people ever return here again, I will take back my gift. Do you understand?”
The boy said nothing. Uther took the youth’s naked arm in his glove, turned him, and pushed him gently back to his place among the other captives. Aurelius, who had kept himself apart, now came forth and, placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders, kissed him and embraced him. “Hail Uther! Duke of Britain! The victory is yours! To you belongs the triumph and the spoil!”
There was little enough spoil, and much of it of British origin. Most of what we collected from the captives and their camp had been stolen earlier in the summer by the Saecsens. But there were some handsome armbands and bracelets of red gold and jeweled knives, all of which Uther divided among his battlechiefs, keeping nothing for himself.
When the wounded had been tended and the dead buried—or, in the case of the enemy, heaped onto impromptu pyres and set alight—the Saecsen captives were escorted to the coast: back across fields they had destroyed, back through settlements they had decimated on their way to the place of battle. At each place the survivors came out to rail against them, pelting them with stones and dirt.
Many wanted blood for the blood the Saecsens had spilled: wives for the husbands they had lost; husbands for their dead women and children. But Uther would not be swayed. He did not allow any harm to come to the enemy under his care, though his soul writhed within him. In this, he showed the grace of an angel.
“In truth, Merlin,” he told me when it was finished, “if I had seen what they had done, I would never have let a single Saecsen escape. I would have made them face the justice of those they had wronged, and there would not be a barbarian drawing breath in all this land tonight, I can tell you.” He paused and dashed down the rest of his wine and then slammed the cup down on the board. “It is over, and that is something at least.”
Aurelius sympathized. “Showing mercy to an enemy is battle’s most difficult charge. But you have acquitted yourself well, Utha. For your deed this day, you have covered yourself in honor. I drink to you, brother. Hail Uther, Merciful Conqueror!”
It was the night of the day following the battle, and Uther was exhausted to the point of collapse. He swayed on his feet—wine and fatigue vying to claim him—his smile thin and uncertain.
“Go to bed, Uther,” I said, holding out a cloak to him. “Come, I will take you to your tent.”
He allowed himself to be led to his tent where he fell face first onto his pallet. His steward, a west-country youth named Ulfin, was there to help him, but I loosened his boots and belt and covered him with the cloak. “Douse the light,” I told Ulfin. “Your lord will not need it tonight.”
I left Uther asleep in the dark and returned to Aurelius’ tent. He was yawning while his steward unbuckled his leather breastplate. “Well,” he said, “it looks as if I will be High King after all.”
“You will, my Lord Aurelie. There is no avoiding it.”
The steward removed the armor, and Aurelius scratched himself. “A last drink, Merlin?” he asked, gesturing toward the pitcher on the board.
“It is late and I am tired. Another night we will drink together. Still, I will pour one for you, if you like.”
“No…” He shook his head, and the dark curls bobbed. “Another night it is.” He looked at me pensively. “Merlin, tell me—did I do right to let them go? Was it the best thing?”
“You did right, my lord. Was it the best thing? No. Aurelius, I fear it was not.”
“Gorlas was right then: they will come back.”
“Oh yes, they will come back. Trust in it,” I replied, adding, “But they will return in any case, and nothing you can do will prevent that.”
“But if I had ordered them put to the sword—”
“Do not let men like Gorlas deceive you, Aurelius, and do not deceive yourself. The barbarians were beaten yesterday, but not defeated. Killing the captives would have changed nothing—save burdening your soul with everlasting shame.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Am I to live with a sword in my hand all my days?”
“Yes,” I told him gently. “You will rule with the sword as long as you live, my king, for the man has not been born who will hold this land in peace.”
Aurelius considered this, and true to the spirit in him did not shrink from it. “Well,” he said slowly, “will I see him?”
I told him the truth. “No, Aurelius, you will not.” This was harsh to him, so I sought to soften it. “But he will know you, Aurelius, and he will revere you and win great honor in your name.”
Aurelius smiled, and yawned again. “That, as Utha says, is something at least.”
I went to my tent through the sleeping camp. How many fewer we were tonight! The men lying on the ground around low-burning campfires might have been dead, so soundly did they sleep. Yes, all the realm slept soundly this night, thanks to these brave warriors and their comrades who now slept under the gravemounds.
In my tent, I fell on my knees to pray, saying, “My Lord Jesu, Great Giver, Redeemer and Friend, King of Heaven, Beginning and End, hear my lament:
“Three times three hundred warriors, bright was their hope, fierce their grip on life—three times three hundred we were, but no more, for death has claimed the hero’s portion from the blood of good men.
“Three times three hundred, light of life shining full and without wavering, warm was their breath, quick their eyes—three times three hundred but no more, for tonight our sword brothers lay in silent turf-halls, cold and abandoned by their own who cannot follow where they go.
“Three times three hundred, bold in action, keen in battle, steadfast companions when the fire of battle raged—three times three hundred we were, but no more, for the raven croaks over the fields where grief has sown her seeds and watered them with women’s tears.
“Merciful Jesu, great of might, whose name is Light and Life, be light and life to these your fallen servants. As you delight in forgiveness, forgive them; do not count their sins, rather consider this their virtue: that when the call came to defend their homeland they took no thought for themselves, but roused courage and went forth to do battle, knowing death awaited them.
“Hear me, Lord Jesu, gather our friends to your hall; seat them in your palace in paradise, and you will not want for finer companions.”
* * *
The next day the High King struck camp and rode for Londinium, where his father had been made king, and where his own kingmaking would take place. Pelleas and I rode west to Dyfed, to find Bishop Dafyd. I had it in mind that Dafyd should officiate at Aurelius’ accession—if he was as hale as Pelleas indicated, and agreeable to the journey.
Londinium had a bishop, a priest named Urbanus, who, from what I had heard in camp, was a devout, if slightly ambitious, young man. I had nothing against Urbanus, but Dafyd’s attendance would, I thought, further strengthen Aurelius’ bond with the kings of the west. Also, I had not seen Dafyd since my return from my long vigil in Celyddon, and this weighed heavily on my heart. Now that I had time to myself once more I desperately wanted to see him.
Pelleas and I rode through a land that seemed to have passed from under the shadow of a preying bird. Everywhere men breathed more freely; we were welcomed in settlements, we met traders on the road, gates and doors were opened—all
this, and yet word of the Saecsen defeat could not have traveled from the battlefield. How did the people know?
I believe people living close to the land know these things instinctively; they sense fluctuations in the fortunes of men as they sense minute changes in the weather. They see a red sunglow at dusk and know it will rain on the morrow; they taste the wind and know that frost will cover the ground when they awake. They apprehend the subtle ripples that great events cause in the atmosphere of the spirit. Thus, they knew without having to be told that some great good had come to them and they did not have to be afraid anymore.
They knew, and yet they were glad to have news of the battle from us. This they would repeat to one another for many days until all—toddling child and bent-backed crone alike—could repeat it word for word just as it had come from my mouth.
We did not linger on the way, but sped with all haste to Llandaff, which was what men had begun calling the place where Dafyd had built his church: a sturdy rectangular structure of timber on a high stone foundation, surrounded by the smaller huts of the monks. Llandaff was a monastery like the others springing up like mushrooms all over the west country—not a few of them owing directly to Dafyd’s tireless work.
As we approached the tiny settlement we could see the good brothers going about their chores. The younger men wore homespun robes of undyed wool; their elders’ garments were light brown. The women among them, for many of the monks were married, wore the same simple garb, or more traditional clothing. All were busy about some task or other—toting firewood, building, thatching, tending the fields, feeding pigs, teaching the children of the nearby settlements and holdings—and all with the same jovial zeal. The place fairly hummed with earnest contentment.
We stopped to take this in, then dismounted and entered the compound on foot. I was greeted courteously, and addressed as a king—owing to my torc. “How may we help you, lord?” the priest asked, taking us in with frank appraisal.
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