by Hume, M. K.
Then the she-dragon giggled like a young girl. She was so captivating and flirtatious that Arthur had wanted to vomit.
‘The name that will echo down the ages is not yours, Arthur. And nor is it the name of Artor. You will be lauded as an Anglii barbarian, one of those northern warriors whom your birth-father struggled so hard to defeat and, through your strong and just rule, the Dene will come to rule the British lands as the last act of betrayal against the Celtic peoples. Ah . . . but you are a foolish little man! You would have been more content if you had remained in my ossuary.’
Then Arthur awoke with a start as a new day of sleet and intense cold spurred him on to greater efforts of will.
There it was!
There lay the fortress that protected the eastern end of Hadrian’s Wall. The name stirred Arthur’s memories of Lorcan’s lessons. Segedunum, the great fort! It would live in the history of men until Myrddion Merlinus’s predictions came to be, and the great healer’s cities of glass would rise into the sky like spires of ice.
The patrol arrived as the afternoon of the second day lengthened towards night. Seeking a semblance of cover, they had spotted traces of stonework ahead through a curtain of stubborn gorse and copses of aspens.
The Roman fortress was unmistakably constructed in the classical military style of the legions. It appeared to cover an area of about four acres and showed obvious signs of deterioration. The southern gate, a structure of large planks, was gaping open and, when Arthur’s patrol approached, they discovered that it was frozen into position by the growth of young trees and shrubs. However, some judicious tree lopping and minor excavations would remedy that.
So far: so good!
Lars was stunned into silence by the sheer size of the structure. Three times the height of a grown man, it was surrounded by a protective ditch; at the gateway, Arthur pointed out the thickness of the walls that had been designed to survive, and had, for generations. At each corner, towers provided added height and protection, and four gates were laid out evenly to allow entry from all sides.
‘Peasants may have been taking some of the stones from the walls for use on their farms,’ Lars noted, for parts of the fortress wall and the Vallum Hadriani seemed to have been nibbled at by giant mice.
‘Aye! What a splendid structure this fort must have been in its prime,’ Arthur replied, his face shining with admiration for the long-dead Roman engineers.
‘If you discount the forests that are growing out of the ramparts,’ Gareth replied dourly. The young warrior could usually be depended upon to be glum in any situation. Grass and shrubs had indeed seeded where stones had been stolen, giving the walls the odd appearance of having sprouted large swathes of dried brown hair.
‘It’s nothing that a winter’s labour can’t put to rights,’ Arthur said bracingly and forced his way through the underbrush at the entrance to survey the interior of the fort.
A road had run through the fortress between the gates on the eastern and western walls, but the eastern gate had obviously remained closed since the Romans had marched away from the Wall, and from Britain. He retraced his steps around the building to what he now realised was a path flattened out over two hundred years earlier by the feet of peasants as they pillaged the structure. When he reached the eastern gate, he saw at once that someone had tried to burn down the gates at some time, so the timber was scarred and splintered. The metal bindings and fittings had been torn off for re-use, but the legions had certainly built this fortification to last.
When Arthur rejoined his companions, he discovered they had found a stone pedestal once obviously topped by some kind of commemorative statue, long since stolen or destroyed. Lars was scraping at the clinging green lichen that blurred the lettering, but once it was cleaned away, all five men scratched their heads, for the inscription was written in Latin.
‘The legionnaires of the Second Augustan Legion were the original builders of this fortress,’ Arthur told his warriors. He pointed out the letters and numbers carved into the stone. ‘The carving tells us that the words are LEG II AVG, and the Latin script tells us that it stands for Legion Two in the reign of the Emperor Augustus. This cohort of Romans built it, and they took pride in their work.’
There were many more inscriptions scattered throughout the enclosure, far too many to explore before the onset of darkness. Arthur tried to remember everything he had ever been told about Roman defences. He climbed to the top of one of the four corner towers designed to protect bowmen and house other unpleasant weapons as well as providing a view of the whole of the inner sanctum. Driven by curiosity, Gareth and the Dene warriors had followed him, for they had immediately grasped the towers’ purpose.
‘The timber is still sound,’ Lars observed. ‘It will hold for a year or two at any rate, although most of the roofs are in need of serious work.’
‘From memory, the ornate building in the centre of the fort was called a principia and it was used as the regimental headquarters. There, to the right, is the praetorium where the commander would have lived and to the left is the horraea where grains were stored. I doubt if any of these buildings will be of any use to us.’
‘They’re under cover, aren’t they?’ Ragnar pointed out.
Arthur’s careful description, including his use of Latin, surprised Lars.
‘My master was trained by Father Lorcan, and this training covered everything that was worth knowing about Rome’s conquest of their world,’ Gareth explained to Lars and Knud as they looked out over the countryside below. ‘So was I, for that matter, because my father, who was my tutor, had learned everything he knew second-hand in the court of King Artor. But Father Lorcan had actually lived in Rome for some years, and he’s been well travelled throughout his life. What is certain is that my master was trained to rule from birth.’
‘Then we’re fucking lucky to have a leader who knows what he’s doing,’ Knut replied dourly. ‘And it’s stopped raining, at long last.’
Arthur was half listening as his men looked outwards over the darkening landscape. No lights showed in the steadily advancing gloom, but the land seemed tamed and was divided into a patchwork quilt of cultivated fields with walls of fieldstone separating one crop from another. Now, because of the inexorable march of winter, the fields remained fallow.
‘Arthur was right about this country. If we can survive the winter, and if we can avoid discovery, and if we can plant a spring crop, we’ll have ourselves a land of milk and honey,’ Lars decided.
‘That’s a hell of a lot of guessing,’ Knud retorted, but Gareth slapped his hand aggressively on the stone sill.
‘Are you suggesting that Arthur would lie?’
Arthur hastily brought their attention back to their discussions on the fortress. He pointed out how easily a little thatch could repair roofs, or better still, his men could take good tiles from damaged buildings to repair others where the decay was relatively minor.
‘To the north, six infantry centuria, or about four hundred and eighty men, would have been housed in four barracks. Can you see those buildings in the southern section of the compound? The stables were situated there, and also accommodation for about one hundred and twenty horsemen, about the normal number for the cavalry unit which would have been stationed here. We have stables, something that looks a lot like a bathhouse and, by my reckoning, there would have to be a temple and a hospital.’ He smiled companionably at his men. ‘So, where would you like to spend the night?’
Lars grinned impishly. ‘I vote we sleep in the commander’s house. I always wanted to be a master or a jarl, and this might be as close as I ever come.’
‘Why shouldn’t you become a jarl?’ Arthur responded. ‘This is a new land, Lars, with many possibilities for men of courage. There’s no reason you can’t become a jarl, and it might happen sooner than you think.’
Lars was dumbstruck b
y Arthur’s words, for he had never considered the possibility.
While Lars pondered a glowing future, Arthur pointed towards a row of large stone tanks positioned just inside the walls of the compound.
‘See over there, gentlemen! Those huge water tanks you can see have sealed covers and I believe they are still holding plenty of water. Because they are sealed, the water should have remained fresh and clean, even after all the time that has elapsed since the fort was abandoned. The Romans used a system of sandpits to filter the ground water until it was pure enough to drink and they collected rainwater which, as we’ve noticed, Britannia doesn’t seem to lack. With luck, that system will have been built into this fortress.’
Arthur could see at once that the Dene warriors had no idea what he was talking about. They asked a number of questions that he tried to answer, but eventually he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Why would the Saxons and Angles destroy a defendable fortification where the water was safe to drink?’ Ragnar asked.
Arthur had no answer to that.
‘I’ll examine the entire water system tomorrow, but I’m certain that I’ll have no reason to be concerned about it. The Romans always made certain that they had permanent sources of good water and food so they could survive long sieges. Even if the Picts surrounded the fort, the Romans would have thumbed their noses at their enemies for months, perhaps years.’
‘That was clever of them,’ Gareth put in as he tried to recognise the water tanks. But the deepening shadows had become too inky.
‘Tonight, my friends, we’ll take our rest in the commandant’s house,’ Arthur decided abruptly. ‘That is, if it’s sound enough to accommodate house guests.’
The six men clattered down the stone steps of the tower. The once well-tended gravel paths between buildings had been destroyed by time and now supported a veritable forest of growth, but Arthur mentally removed the undergrowth and repaired the ravages. Yes! Given the availability of labour, this fortress could live again.
As night fell, a colony of bats rose from the nearest granary and flew out of some of the gaping holes in the structure’s brick walls. Then they rose in a long spool of leathery wings to change places with some of the birds who had found ways to enter other buildings where they lived in the rafters. In one of the barrack blocks where a whole section of rafters had collapsed and the tiles had shattered on the stone floors, whole families of birds had lived and died for generations and left deep drifts of guano that encouraged the growth of several trees whose roots were embedded in the floors.
Fortunately, although the commandant’s house had been picked bare of everything of value, it still retained its roof and the interior walls that revealed vestigial traces of a rich, brick-red paint. The first requirement for the warriors was to build a fire in a safe area.
During his youth, Arthur had spent many happy hours poring over scrolls that described his father’s childhood at Aquae Sulis, so he expected to find an atrium within the commander’s house, even though the building was situated inside a working military fortification. The Romans had considered an open courtyard in the centre of a living space to be essential for civilised living, so the last rays of daylight led the patrol into an open area at the centre of a rabbit warren of small rooms. After clearing pieces of broken tiles and stones, the six men quickly fashioned a protected fire pit, and a comforting fire was soon lit in the space under the roof’s overhang.
Fires always lifted the spirits of tired men. Better still, an apple tree had been planted in this atrium in its early days, still sufficiently fertile to bear misshapen fruit. The earth below the tree was thick with the remains of fallen fruit that, over the years, had acted as a perfect fertiliser to keep the tree alive.
Fallen boughs from the tree sweetened the fire smoke and the least-bruised apples from the current crop were scavenged for the feast to come. Roasted apples, impaled on stakes of wood, made their mouths water.
Then, wrapped in their furs in the snug confines of the inner room, the companions settled down to the simple joys of full bellies and warmth. Mercifully, the she-dragon remained silent within the coils and tunnels of Arthur’s brain.
Sometime before dawn, a hound bayed loudly in warning, an alarm that instantly brought all six to full consciousness. Arthur rose silently to his feet with his fingers to his lips, while gently unsheathing the Dragon Knife.
In the pitch darkness, the warriors stood with their bared blades at the ready. Their senses were totally alert as they listened for any alien sound in this silent ruin. Arthur pointed at his feet and they shrugged their way into their boots.
Something grated on the stones at the entrance to the commandant’s house. Arthur visualised the large flat stone at the entry; the scraping sound was so obviously caused by leather soles crossing that uneven surface that Arthur motioned to his companions to move back into the shadows.
‘Pwyl! Where are you, you stupid mutt?’ The coarse voice uttered the words in the Anglii language. Arthur understood perfectly.
A shadow appeared on the wall of the colonnade surrounding the atrium. To judge by the reek, someone was carrying a rough torch soaked in fish oil. A long double-sided axe was dangling from the other hand, making the shadow appear monstrous.
Arthur gestured to Lars and one of the others to encircle the figure who had slipped through the atrium, apparently without noticing the cold fire pit. Arthur and Gareth followed the bobbing torch and the other two slid out of the rear doorway in order to approach the figure from behind.
Without any obvious alarm, the figure stopped and paused to shake a young aspen that was growing out of a crack in the paving near the stables. With a satisfied grunt, he began to chop at the lower trunk of the tree with quick and efficient axe strokes. As the severed trunk fell to the ground, the shaggy form found another and then another, until three small trees had been felled. Then the man began to trim off the useless twigs and leaves. When he had completed his task by the light of a small torch that he’d rammed into a crack in the nearby wall, he began to chop the trunks and larger branches into usable lengths of firewood.
‘Why is he cutting firewood now?’ Gareth hissed in Arthur’s ear. ‘He can see far more clearly if he waits until dawn.’
‘Shhh! He’ll hear you! I think he’s cautious because he’s thieving firewood . . . but I’m guessing, mind,’ Arthur hissed back.
Perhaps the intruder would have slipped away with his ill-gotten gains had he not brought his hound on this particular foray. Arthur heard the scrape of clawed pads on stone, a rumbling growl and then the concerted rush of a charging animal of considerable size that howled at the thought of gaining some easy prey. The dog launched itself at his throat in a blur of shaggy fur, red-rimmed eyes and white teeth. Its sheer size should have caught Arthur off guard, but he had expected the hound to sniff them out. The white teeth snapped impotently as Arthur gripped the massive neck with his large right hand and the Dragon Knife gutted the beast.
As if a light had been extinguished, the dog’s eyes clouded over and it fell to the ground with its heart sliced in two. It twitched twice, then lay still.
The man with the purloined firewood was fast on his feet. As the hound began his attack, the intruder turned and ran with inordinate speed towards the western gate. Obviously familiar with the fortress, he skilfully dodged every tree and depression in the foundations.
‘Don’t let him escape,’ Arthur shouted, as his warriors set off in pursuit.
Only seconds behind their prey, the Dene warriors forced their way through the narrow opening of the western gate and into the trees and undergrowth as they followed the noise of the intruder’s retreat.
‘He must be stopped,’ Arthur shouted again, his voice ragged with effort.
Within minutes, they had reached a small clearing where a mangy horse and cart waited. Unfortunately for t
he Anglii peasant, he had no time to mount the wagon and make good his escape; fearing for his life, he dodged and weaved his way through the thick growth of forest at the edge of the wall.
But luck eluded the peasant on this dark and wintry morning. Lars anticipated his escape route and ran on a tangent, hoping to intercept him.
Then, as the dark figure reached an old oak tree that had been spared by the Roman engineers some five hundred years earlier, Lars stepped out from behind its trunk and stood in the peasant’s path. The man skidded to a halt as his panicked eyes searched for an escape route, but he was swiftly trapped inside a cordon of armed warriors.
‘I didn’t mean no harm, master,’ the fugitive whined. ‘Lord Eoppa has banned us villagers from entering the ruins for fear of angering the gods and the wights that live there. But what’s a man to do if he needs firewood? Our master would cut off my hands if he caught me in there, but that’s better than seeing my children freezing when the snows come. Please, master, I didn’t mean no harm to the wights. Why would they want firewood anyway?’
Arthur responded to his pleas and lowered his blade marginally. The man’s eyes burned redly for an instant with a sudden hope that he might still survive this confrontation.
‘Surely there must be some firewood close to your village? Why in hell’s name would you come here, especially if you have to make sure you aren’t seen?’ Arthur’s voice was clipped and the peasant knew his life might depend on his answer.
‘The king has forbidden all movement along the roads because of the Yellow Death, so the land’s been picked clean of firewood around my village. But I decided to brave the wights to collect some wood and a little food for my family. Apples are always good, even though they might be a little soft. Please, masters, don’t hand me over to Lord Eoppa. I only wanted to protect my children from the cold.’
Somehow, this Anglii peasant had failed to realise that his captors were neither Angle nor Saxon. In his fear, he continued to gabble and weep till Arthur eventually felt a grudging pity for a man whose only real crime was his poverty.