by Hume, M. K.
‘Tie him up until I decide what to do with him,’ Arthur snapped.
But, aware of his likely fate if his lord, Eoppa, was informed of his attempts to steal firewood, the peasant took a dreadful chance, opting to strike quickly and then flee back along the route that had brought him to the oak tree.
He launched himself at Arthur’s back while his right hand extricated a long, thin blade from where it had been secreted inside his sheepskin leggings. Arthur could have been impaled, but the voice in his head had screamed a warning and he ducked below the arc of the blade’s downward sweep. Nevertheless, Arthur still felt the hot sting of the man’s knife as it skidded against a rib.
Gareth’s reaction was immediate. Stepping forward with lighting speed, he removed the head of the Angle with a single blow from his sword.
For one short moment, the corpse remained upright with its neck fountaining blood, but then the knees buckled and the body folded slowly as if its bones had turned to jelly.
‘Damnation!’ Arthur swore. ‘Why did you have to do that? The bastard will be missed now – and his absence will draw suspicion to the fortress.’
‘Thanks, Arthur, it was nothing!’ Gareth responded sardonically, but his master ignored the irony. Feeling a little light-headed from his wound, he leaned against the oak to rest for a brief moment and press a pad of cloth to the free-bleeding area.
Gareth stepped over the Angle’s corpse and bared Arthur’s wound. ‘You’ll have another impressive scar, master, but it’s only a narrow slice. It’s more blood than anything else, so you’re lucky your leathers are so thick and your voice gave you some warning. As long as the wound doesn’t become infected, it’ll cause you no trouble. I can stitch it up as neatly as Father Lorcan would have done.’
‘We’ll have to solve the problem of what to do with this man first, Gareth. We’ll need to take his body, his dog’s, his cart and his horse as far as possible from here. With luck, no one will think to look in this area if his remains are found somewhere along the Roman road. Our whole venture could be wrecked if a search finds us before our friends can bring the fleet up the coast and moor the boats at the fortress.’
As Lars bundled the corpse into the cart and his comrades hunted for the severed head, a solution to the problem suddenly occurred to Arthur.
‘Fill the cart with firewood. I don’t care where we get it from, but we’ll find a highly visible spot to the west of here where the wagon can be found by searchers. The corpse can be placed close to the wagon so our friend will appear to have met his death at that spot. We can dump the body of the hound at the same time. When his people find them, they’ll assume that our unfortunate friend was thieving wood that belongs to his king and was put to the sword. We don’t want any visitors coming to the fortress until we’re good and ready to receive guests.’
How quickly the world could change. One moment, they were safe and fast asleep in the ideal winter camp and, in the next, the whole enterprise had been put at risk.
‘When we were on the tower last night, I could see the remains of the Roman wharves. I’m convinced that this fortress is the perfect jumping-off point for our people to annex the whole area where we intend to build a permanent settlement. The wharves will serve for the flotilla during the coming winter, while we can moor the smaller vessels under the willows along the banks of the flood. I doubt that the Angles or their allies have vessels that can attack our ships from the seaward side of the coast, so the moorings can be easily defended.
‘I want you to hurry back to the base camp, Lars! Your task is to pass my orders on to Snorri. Tell him he is to sail the entire fleet to the moorings at the Segedunum wharves immediately, with all of our people and whatever supplies can be stripped from the land around the cove. He must bring any stores that have already been unloaded and leave the cove as untouched in appearance as possible. While we await the fleet, we’ll begin assessing what can be done to turn the remains of the fortress into a bastion that will protect us in the months to come. God speed, Lars.’
Arthur clasped the young man’s arm in the Roman salute. ‘Get the body of that damned dog, Lars, take our Anglii friend and his wagon with you on the first part of your journey, and abandon them some distance down the road where the Anglii searchers can easily find them. Uncouple the horse and hobble it so it can feed, then leave the bodies on the ground close to the wagon. I’m hoping they’ll think he was taken by outlaws if they have doubts about their thane putting him to the sword. Meanwhile, take Ragnar and Knud with you in case you run into any trouble. You must scatter if you come under attack. If that happens, make your separate ways back to the cove. At least one of you must reach the base camp to ensure that Snorri receives his orders. Understood?’
Lars, Knud and Ragnar nodded their understanding. Ragnar strode off to load the grisly bodies into the cart while the remainder of the patrol set about cleaning up the small clearing and the area in the vicinity of the oak tree, flushing away the worst of the blood spill with river water collected in helmets. Arthur thanked the heavens that the river was so close. Some judicious spreading of soil where the ground had been churned served to return it to its normal wild tangle of vegetation. The first rains would wash away any residual signs of combat and bloody death and, as the smell of moisture in the air indicated, rain was already near at hand.
Lars and his two companions set off with the horse and cart while the others made a final, careful search of the area before returning to the fortress. But, before Arthur would permit Gareth to treat his wound, he insisted on stacking the cut firewood over the bloodstained stones outside the commander’s house where the dog had died, so that the supply of fuel would be ready for burning in the fire pits. Then, once he was satisfied that their confrontation would pass some form of scrutiny, Arthur finally agreed to strip to his torso, have the wound washed and allow Gareth to stitch the cut together. Fortunately, Gareth always carried a small medical and surgical kit; he had promised Lorcan years earlier that he would keep this small kit filled and close to hand, for one of Father Lorcan’s greatest fears was that one of his friends might succumb to some minor cut or illness.
Arthur endured the stitching and the application of a salve spread onto a length of clean rag. Then, once the ministrations were completed, a pad was tied in place around his back and chest.
Perhaps Arthur should have rested, but his first priority must be to prepare the fortress for the imminent arrival of several hundred people, clearing the inner sanctum of the forest of young trees and underbrush that impeded access to the various buildings. The same trees would provide firewood, and logs to repair any gross holes in the walls or roofs. The deserted countryside worked in their favour, because the Yellow Disease, whatever that was, had killed almost all the local population. The survivors had fled.
Methodically, Arthur set about planning the use of the precinct. With a determined glint in his eyes, he pointed out a bathhouse and, when they checked the subterranean levels of tanks, pipes and drains, they found that the hypocaust could be made operational.
‘I had a Roman bath many years ago,’ Arthur crowed at Gareth. ‘I know you grew up with them at Aquae Sulis, but they’re a luxury that’s almost dead in Britain.’ He smiled happily. ‘I can’t wait to have my first bath here.’
Gareth had almost become used to the realities of being filthy for weeks at a stretch, but he could still remember how pleasant a long, hot soak had been in the bathhouse of the Villa Poppinidii.
‘Other priorities must come before bathing, Arthur. We’ll need barracks to house the men, so we need to decide which buildings to repair. Once the ships arrive with more manpower, the work will progress much faster.’
‘Still, we can make a start,’ Arthur retorted amicably as he set to work.
Gareth, Arthur and Harald used the few tools that were available to them to begin the preliminary work of converting t
hese ruins into a fully serviceable fortress. Arthur had never become used to the array of ironware carried by all Dene warriors, but these weighty tools now came in handy. In their first day of labour, they managed to clear the entrance to both the southern and eastern gates, to allow their companions an easier passage when they arrived at the fort. Not only were the trees chopped down, but the remnants were cut into firewood and stored in the old hospital. Then the three men set themselves to the task of digging out the centuries of earth and humus that had built up against the gates.
And so, four days passed in heavy labour, although Arthur’s wound remained an irritant. Happily, the lands outside the fort were rich, green and ready for the Dene settlers to begin cultivation. All they needed were ploughs and seed.
Arthur knew the Dene presence would eventually be discovered, but he prayed each night for the leisure of time. Time would see them dig into the landscape and make it theirs; time would provide the comforts of a winter-proof camp; time would permit them to pick the countryside bare of the resources they would need in the months to come and allow them to plant crops; and time would give them a harvest to secure their futures and the lives of their wives and children.
Then, if the gods were kind, he would fight to hold this land in his mailed fist. He would forge a new kingdom here, or he would die in the attempt.
A happy man knows what he is meant to do with his future, and Arthur should have been elated as he saw ship after ship row up the river. The dim autumn light danced on the metal shield bosses and shimmered in droplets on the oars as they rose and fell like glistening diamonds in the bright waters. His heart caught fire in his throat as he looked out over the arrival of his fleet. He was truly home!
CHAPTER XIX
AN ENEMY IN THE FOREST
They answered that they were called Angles. ‘It is well,’ he (Pope Gregory the Great) said, ‘for they have the faces of angels, and such should be the co-heirs of the angels of heaven.’
Bede, Historia Ecclesiastica, Book 2
Winter had been hard for the members of the fledgling colony, not because the weather was particularly cold, but because their lack of supplies forced them to scavenge and hunt throughout the countryside, while still attempting to disguise their presence. When they had left the Dene lands, Arthur had packed as much grain as possible into the ungainly trade ships that had been used to transport their livestock, but the supply was far too small for them to depend entirely on this staple. Arthur’s long-dormant trapping skills must once again come to the fore.
There was much to do. The Dene warriors settled into the fortress as if it had been their home for many years. For security’s sake, no effort was expended to open three of the gates that were sealed shut and limited access to the fortress. Any passing Angle or Jute would notice such changes, but the half-open gate at the southern end must be addressed first for their safety. Arthur allotted one group of men the task of working to clear paving, doorways and entry areas, while another group was given the task of making buildings watertight. One other group became fishermen, trappers, hunters and scavengers and, finally, the fourth became scouts who were instructed to move beyond the local area and discover the politics and power structures within the local population. These men had some knowledge of the local languages and could fit seamlessly into the landscape.
The devil makes work for idle hands. Father Lorcan had often preached this simple axiom; now, in a late autumn and early winter when the snow had come early, the winds blew chill and the shallower parts of the river were freezing over, Arthur came to appreciate its aptness. Far from home and with nothing stimulating to challenge their minds, men quickly lost patience with each other, or harboured grudges and became irritable and difficult. However, the shared responsibility of patching roofs, felling trees, sawing and constructing shutters and making buildings snug kept the crews of men occupied and left them pleasantly tired at the end of the day. Further, Arthur allocated maintenance responsibilities for individual buildings to crews and turned what should have been hard work into competitive activities. As a reward, the winning crews were permitted to labour on repairs to the hypocaust and its promise of hot bathing if they ever managed to get the facility working again.
‘Typical fucking Britons!’ Lars grunted, deadpan. ‘We work hard and win a prize from Arthur – the right to work even harder! And, if we work extremely hard, we’ll be allowed to take a bath. Only he could think of rewards like that!’
‘Are you insulting my master?’ Gareth asked mildly, his forefinger toying with the small leather strap that secured the pommel of his sword to its scabbard. Lars heard an edge of insult under the silky voice, so he shut his mouth firmly, although his jaw jutted out aggressively.
‘Stop jesting, Lars,’ Snorri ordered.
‘My apologies, Gareth,’ Lars said with apparent contrition. ‘Arthur is our leader, so he’s entitled to decide who does what, where and when.’
Gareth ran a forefinger over his prickly jaw with a menacing rasp. ‘We’re all a little on edge, Lars, but I warn you not to criticise my master in my hearing. He’s already made you rich by inviting you to follow his banner. His journey has only just begun, so you’re destined to have lands of your own if you follow him with patience and loyalty. Who else would do that for you?’
The awkward moment was permitted to pass, but only the love that Arthur’s men felt for him had prevented certain disaster.
In the evenings, knowing the Dene love of story-telling, Arthur would search his memory for tales that would explain to his eager listeners the martial qualities of the Roman military machine in bygone days. Already the stuff of legends, the legions had developed a gloss of near-invincibility, so Arthur’s stories often surprised his uneducated audience.
‘The ordinary Roman soldier was about this high,’ he explained, indicating what five and a half feet would look like compared with Ragnar’s standing form. The warriors were unable to imagine how such little men could have conquered and ruled their world.
‘I’m sorry to gainsay you, Arthur, but that couldn’t be possible,’ Lars said, shaking his head. ‘My son’s that tall, and he’s only just turned eleven.’
‘In fact, many of them were much shorter,’ Arthur continued.
‘But they beat the Franks, the Goths, the Germans . . . everyone! It doesn’t seem possible,’ Snorri exclaimed.
Leaving his men to mull over this strange information, Arthur bade his jarls a good night and retired to his room to sleep.
Germanus and Gareth, in company with Thord, a willowy warrior who had been a contemporary of Stormbringer in the Sae Dene’s youth, eventually found signs of habitation that caused Arthur to re-evaluate his plans.
A small township comprised of defensive ditches, a familiar long-hall built of pillaged stone blocks and a number of small rectangular cottages straddled the smallish river but, although it was close to Segedunum as the crow flies, there didn’t seem to be any roads linking the fortress to the township.
However, when the scouts ranged further afield, they found a partially serviceable Roman road, a thoroughfare that indicated the town was probably old Onnum, once famous as a waypoint on the route running through the Vellum Hadriani to the agricultural lands beyond – lands that were full of savages, Celtic tribes and the weakening influence of the thane called Eoppa. The scouts knew what Arthur would expect of them, so they followed the road into the north.
They were two days from the fortress when they sighted a trail of early-morning smoke rising from a township that lay astride the road.
‘Better that we greet them now, rather than have a confrontation when we aren’t expecting each other,’ Germanus said pragmatically, as the three companions strolled through a copse towards a track leading into the outskirts of the grubby little township.
The road had once been paved, but was now little more than a track and was c
overed with slush and debris from traffic. But there was some evidence that efforts had been made to keep it serviceable, so Germanus checked the edges of the paved area where chipped and broken stone channels drained water away from the thoroughfare. Some fifteen feet away, a stone emerged from the fresh snow and Germanus pointed towards it. Gareth responded with a slight nod of recognition.
Thord was annoyed by his own ignorance. ‘What does that stone mean?’
‘It’s known as a distance marker and it tells a Roman traveller the distance from the nearest town of any significance. We’re a little north of the Wall and I wouldn’t have expected too many signs of Roman construction here, but it shows that this town must have been of some importance in the past.’
‘Oh!’ Thord noted that the ruler-straight path pointed directly at the distant signs of habitation. Germanus was certain that the handsome Dene was filing this evidence of Roman administration away so he could recall the knowledge if the opportunity should arise again.
‘Do we wait for nightfall before we enter the town?’ Thord asked, pointing towards the deep cluster of shanties and huts that surrounded the walls on all sides.
‘I expect that the gates will be closed and locked at dusk. We’ll draw too much attention if we try to enter at night, so we’ll go in now. All three of us speak Saxon, so there shouldn’t be any trouble over language.’
‘So we just stroll in then?’ Thord asked, surprised.
‘Absolutely!’ Germanus looked positively perky at the prospect. ‘I feel the need for a warm bed tonight and a good beef stew.’
As the trio strolled along, they came upon several farmers with carts who had obviously been into town for the markets, although what they could be selling in winter was a mystery. Germanus greeted them with courtesy and pleasant inquiries about their day. For his part, Thord watched in amazement at the easy conversation that the two Britons struck up with their enemies, and was agog at the wealth of information that they learned before they reached the outskirts of the town that had the unprepossessing name of The Rising.