by M. K. Hume
The Saxons warriors shouted their responses, forgetting in the heat of the moment that they, too, had skulked in holes in the ground to ambush Caradoc’s men during the previous day of mayhem and sudden death.
‘Do we Saxons use fire to kill our enemies? No! Not even on cowardly British scum?’
‘No!’ The response was accompanied by the thud of near to a hundred stamping feet.
‘Do we Saxons depend on the Romans to do our dirty work for us?’
‘No!’ This final shout sent dozens of birds flapping and clattering through the yew trees and upwards towards the lightening sky. Llew realised that the trees were full of carrion birds waiting to feed.
‘What Romans?’ Llew asked.
‘Those, perhaps,’ Huw hissed. Suddenly, from beyond the wall, a contingent of some fifty Roman cavalrymen appeared as if they had suddenly materialised from Rome itself. At their head, a man on a white horse sat at his ease beyond the stone wall. His scarlet cloak, his gold-embossed helmet and his highly polished armour marked him as an officer of some rank.
Then, wonder of wonders, Caradoc joined the mounted Roman with a wild whoop of exhilaration. With the sunlight shining along his blade, Caradoc swung his sword over his head. ‘For Britannia!’ he shouted in a powerful voice.
‘Attack! No quarter!’ The Dumnonii king roared out the battle cry as his cavalry poured around the ranks of the Romans, cleared the low wall on their chargers and struck at the Saxon shield wall with a cruel, resounding clang of metal against metal and flesh against flesh.
Shaking his head, Cadal gave the same order to send his own men into the fray from the southern side of the graveyard. Even as he fought, the prince’s eyes sought out the tall figure on the white horse who was waiting with his men to dispose of stragglers that strayed in their direction. He had met this man, many years earlier, when he was little more than a boy. And then he remembered.
‘Magnus Maximus,’ he exclaimed as he stabbed at a tall Saxon who had unwittingly exposed one side of his body when he struck out at the prince’s horse with his axe. The warrior screamed shrilly when Cadal’s sword slid into his side and then ripped upwards to make the killing stroke.
My father’s friend, the Roman, has come again, he thought. The tribune has returned.
CHAPTER XIV
AN ODD REQUEST
Just as the sweet-apple reddens on the high branch, high on the highest, and the apple-pickers missed it, or rather did not miss it out, but could not reach it.
Sappho, Rossetti
‘You’re always around when the spoils are divided,’ Caradoc joked, his whole face alive with excitement. The arrival of Maximus from out of nowhere had powerfully affected the Dumnonii king, who felt the years roll away, for he had last seen his friend when his arms, his back and his eyes were still sharp and strong. Invigorated and energetic, Caradoc could barely sit still, continually leaping to his feet and waving his horn mug of pillaged wine so violently that the sweet nectar within was spraying over his son. Cadal barely noticed his impromptu bath as he grinned at the sudden exuberance of his father’s victory dance.
‘Perhaps that’s because I’m following you,’ Maximus retorted lazily as he lounged on a makeshift pallet of saddles in the sparsely cobbled square. He raised his personal wine cup that he’d fished out of his saddlebag and began to sip on the sweet, heavy wine with the Hispanic sun trapped inside its body.
‘I have to hand it to Harald Ironfoot, may his soul rot in the Underworld until the end of time.’ Caradoc raised his mug in an impromptu toast. ‘He knew a good wine when he stole it.’
‘Your assistance was late, but nonetheless appreciated,’ Caradoc added. ‘When your troop rode in from the east, I thought my old eyes were playing tricks on me.’
Cadal nibbled on a purloined slice of salted meat that had been sliced directly from the bone. The Saxons had been very busy. Prior to the battle, they had begun loading their booty for shipping home to Saxony. Loading stores was a time-consuming task, so Cadal had been surprised to find that one of the larger ceols had been filled to the gunnels with preserved meat, dried fruits and wines of all kinds. Confused by his first battle, and exhausted after thirty-six hours without sleep, he listened to the two older men’s repartee and tried to keep his gritty eyes open.
The day had seemed impossibly long. Although the last Saxons had been outnumbered, if the Roman guardsmen were included, the northern warriors were proud and vicious fighters who were extremely dangerous when they were backed into corners. The sun was scarcely up when the combined British forces charged at them, again and again, and were forced to shed some of their own blood for every Saxon life taken. In this brutal war of attrition, Caradoc’s success had been won at a huge cost. Over half of the force that had entered the forests to take Anderida would not return to their homes. On the other hand, only death would release the Saxons from the ugly trap in which they found themselves. The best that Harald Ironfoot could hope for was to die gloriously and to take many of his enemies with him when he entered the shadows of death. And so he would win his entry to Valhalla, the hall of the heroes and the gods.
The strongest warrior weakens when he is forced to fight under the summer sun, even under the mild suns of Britannia. Cadal’s head began to ache dully and his eyes were unable to focus. His stomach heaved as if he had overeaten and his arms soon became too heavy to lift. But Saxons appeared in front of him, determined to kill him with axe blows that few men could withstand. His youth and dexterity saved him from a fatal blow on several occasions, but by noon, when the Saxons were down to their last twenty men, the Dumnonii heir had received a shallow wound across his ribs when he was too slow to avoid a swinging axe. A more serious wound to his shield arm rendered his whole hand effectively useless, although he could still move his fingers independently.
With the dull realisation that he was completely exhausted, he stared at his wounded hand and the fingers barely opened and closed. Perhaps he would have perished there, staring at nothing in particular and too tired for thought, but Rowen ap Aidan, Caradoc’s captain, saw his distress and dragged him bodily out of the front line. With some violence, the guardsman shook his master until he eventually broke through the haze of weariness and blood loss.
‘Retire to the rear, Master Cadal. Someone will see to your wounds when you get there. Do you hear me, Cadal? Retire! Now!’
And so Cadal was able to watch the hideous finale to that terrible Saxon summer from a place of relative safety beyond the stone wall.
As so often happened in protracted conflicts, both sides paused, as if the protagonists had fought themselves to a standstill. As the tribal warriors retreated back to their line and the Saxons hastily repaired what was left of the shield wall, Caradoc moved into the open. Although he was an easy target for any Saxon archer who remained alive, the Dumnonii king had the measure of Harald Ironfoot. The enemy had made their final stand on the uneven ground of the graveyard, a place where horses proved to be dangerous. Caradoc had ordered his remaining cavalrymen to dismount after the first charge, when the sunken earth of old graves and the elevated mounds of fresher interments felled some of the horses and injured their riders. Now, knowing that Ironfoot desired a good death before all other earthly boons, Caradoc was confident that a cowardly bowshot would be rejected by the thane as an unmanly act.
‘Do you still live, Harald Ironfoot?’ he called out into the suddenly quiet field where only the groans of wounded men and the cawing of scavenger birds broke the unnatural stillness. The noontime shimmered in the heat haze and visibility was further reduced by smoke and dust. When the single line of Saxons shivered and opened, Ironfoot stepped out of their ranks. His features were red-tinged, bloody, and sweat-stained, but his weary eyes were undimmed by the reality of his defeat.
‘Aye! No Briton has yet hefted the blade that can kill me,’ his stentorian voice boomed
out as the tight press of Saxons behind him raised their battered shields in defiance.
‘Come forth, Harald Ironfoot, so we can talk like men. No one here will loosen arrows or spears to kill you by foul means. I swear this on my daughter’s life.’ Caradoc made the sign of the cross over his breast and Cadal, leaning on the far side of the wall in a haze of pain, was surprised at the gesture. Caradoc was technically a Christian, but the king had a personal preference for the soldier’s god, Mithras, whose altars had been deserted in favour of the Jewish messiah.
Harald Ironfoot stepped away from the locked ranks of Saxon shields and his huge, bear-like figure shouldered his way to the front to stand within reach of Caradoc’s sword. Ironfoot’s own weapon remained in its scabbard, so Caradoc felt no fear. Ironfoot might be a barbarian, but he remained true to his own code of honour.
‘Your Romans were a surprise, Briton, but they haven’t spoiled our little game. What is your name? We have never met in battle before and I would like to know the name of the man who thwarted my return to my homeland. I would like to watch you from the abode of heroes, although I’ll warn you that I don’t intend to die easily.’
The Saxon’s voice was very deep as befitted the wide chest and bowed legs that were as thick as young trees. His great height, at least a hand taller than the tallest Briton, made him very difficult to kill, but he was carrying several minor wounds which, despite having bled on his armour, seemed mere gnat’s bites on the body of a behemoth.
‘You are honoured, Ironfoot, for our visitor from Rome is Magnus Maximus, also known as Macsen Wledig, the hero of hundreds of battles across the world. He has assured me that he will take no part in our conflict, for you have wronged my people – not his.’
Ironfoot darted a quick glance at Maximus and inclined his head.
‘As for your second question, I am Caradoc ap Llyr, King of the Dumnonii tribe who live along the wild coast to the west of Britannia. No boats, be they Saxon, Roman or Middle Sea, will venture willingly into my waters for fear of their total destruction.’
‘So you have no argument with me and mine,’ Ironfoot retorted.
‘A blow at my allies, my brothers, is a blow at me.’ Caradoc shrugged deprecatingly, but Ironfoot could tell that the word of this king was as strong and as razor-sharp as his sword.
‘I believe you are an honourable man, Caradoc, so I would ask a boon of you. If I should win a good death, I ask that you don’t demean me by displaying my head on the end of a spear. I have sons and, although they will never see my humiliation, they might hear word of it.’
Caradoc thought for a moment. Yes, he acknowledged to himself, Ironfoot’s head would normally be displayed on a spearhead and passed through the villages and towns of the Regni and Atrebates lands so the population could hurl abuse, dung and rocks at those hated features. But would he face the same fate with equanimity if their roles were reversed?
‘If I have anything to say on this matter, your body will be burned with the corpses of the rest of your men. That is my practice and I see no reason to change it.’
Harald Ironfoot knew that Caradoc could lie to him. He understood, too, that the old king could perish in the last throes of the battle, rendering promises worthless. Still, the thane was heartened by Caradoc’s assurance. He acknowledged his fate. He would soon be with the Valkyrie, flying high and fast in the arms of the warrior women towards the abode of the blessed. The only matter in doubt was the manner of his death.
‘I bid you farewell, King Caradoc. Perhaps we will meet in the fields of the gods where warriors go after death to drink and carouse with the gods until Ragnarök. I pray that will be so, for what use is life and its struggles if there is no judgement waiting for us in the afterlife? I wish you and your daughter well.’
‘I wish the same to you, Thane Harald. If any religion rules the shades, then I have no doubt that the Blessed Jesus will know if you have lived your life honestly and you have acted with valour. Let both our hearts be judged by what we did in this world, given what has been meted out to us.’
‘Do your friends believe as you do? Your black-crow priests promised us the fires of your Hades, even as we killed them.’
‘Then it’s to be hoped that neither of us will be judged by such a narrow yardstick. Take my respect with you as you travel to the land of heroes. I will remember you, Harald Ironfoot.’
‘And I, you! Farewell, Caradoc of the Dumnonii.’
Harald Ironfoot bowed once, before turning to rejoin his men.
And so, with the knowledge that his troops had gained a little rest during this impromptu truce, the Saxon strode back to his command and the line opened up to swallow him.
Caradoc scorned to act the coward, so he turned his back on his enemy and swaggered back to the British lines.
Inevitably, the final battle began as the sun began its long slide towards the horizon.
Cadal jerked awake as a callused hand shook his shoulder.
‘Hades! What’s happening?’
‘Sorry, son, but your snoring is making it difficult for us elderly dodderers to hear our own voices.’ Caradoc patted his son’s knee. ‘Get off to your pallet, lad, and leave the night to us old men who’ll know the darkness all too soon.’
‘Speak for yourself, Caradoc, for I’m still in the prime of life,’ Maximus retorted from across the open fire.
From over the sea, isolated sheets of lightning were flashing and dull clusters of thunder could be heard in the distance. The smell of ozone was making the hot air crackle with unleashed energy, so Caradoc hoped that a storm might finally arrive to dampen the oppressive atmosphere.
Awakened by the sound of thunder, Cadal stretched luxuriantly and vigorously ruffled his hair like a waking hound.
‘I’m awake now. Do we have anything worth drinking?’
His father pulled out a leather flask of beer and poured a draught into his son’s mug. Cadal hazarded a sip and discovered, much to his surprise, that Saxon beer was very good.
Meanwhile Maximus returned to the conversation.
‘I have been elevated to the position of Comes Britanniarum and I’m charged with the task of destroying the Picts, Hibernians and the northern Saxons who persist in challenging the Roman legions as soon as they recover from their last bout of defeats. They never seem to learn.’
Caradoc offered his congratulations.
‘I hadn’t realised quite how important you’ve become, Maximus. Well done, my friend. I was sorry to hear the news of your kinsman’s fall from grace some years ago, but it seems that his son now sits on the throne of Constantinople and rules the Eastern Empire. For all that, I have a distinct feeling that you still had to come to the emperor’s attention by feat of arms.’
Caradoc grinned mischievously and waved his hands at his friend. ‘Aye! I’m a busybody, near as bad as any of the old dames who gossip in the villages. Some things are certain. You’ve risen high and, if your dead uncle is any guide in this matter, your promotion wasn’t given to you because of your bloodline.’
Maximus snorted and his mobile mouth twisted. ‘Definitely not! The new Theodosius is a man of intelligence and subtlety. I can assure you that I had to work like a dockyard whore to gain my preferment. Shite, I worked my arse off when Theodosius minor was Magister Militum per Illyricum. The Goths and Visigoths make your Saxons seem pleasant and peace-loving, so I found myself fighting in Samatia, Thrace and Zagoria.’
Caradoc had no idea where these exotic-sounding places were, so nodded expansively to cover his ignorance.
‘I boiled in my armour during their summers, and froze solid in their winters. You can believe me, Caradoc, when I say that the wind in the mountains of Thrace and Dacia is hideous and the howl that comes from its play through the pipes and caverns of the mountains will give the shudders to any sensible man. Gods, I can still hear
it . . . no sane man would choose to go to those parts of the world. And the local tribes fight like maniacs.’
‘Where else have you served?’ Caradoc hazarded, hoping he might recognise some place that his friend described. Oh, to travel to such places; to smell the different earths and to be warmed by a different sun.
Maximus scratched his chin in a familiar gesture that Caradoc remembered well.
‘Africa . . . Egypt. And even the borders of Germania in the distant north. Only the Lord knows how the locals survive in some of those places. Germania is a wilderness of vast forests, cold rivers and very dirty and savage barbarians who live to the north of the Rhenus River in perpetual winter. I didn’t have a bath for six months. Your Saxons come from that part of the world, and the landscape showed me why the bastards are so bad-tempered and so eager to find a better place to live and raise their families.’
Caradoc understood that Maximus wasn’t a fop, although his conversation sometimes suggested as much. As the Roman had once explained, a little dissembling sometimes revealed deeper motives or prejudices in the listeners. Maximus discovered much about people by throwing out contentious comments just to elicit a response. However, his observations of the Saxons, while offered in a jocular fashion, were also a warning to the Dumnonii king. Britannia was a prize, a rich and generous land when it was compared with more northern lands that endured long, harsh winters.
‘Egypt is one of the truly strange lands, Caradoc. I thought of your Giant’s Dance when I first saw the Egyptian pyramids. They also sit on the landscape as if they’ve always been there. You’d probably laugh at my foolishness, old friend, but your small and very-ancient monument had a stronger pull on my superstitions. I remember how I was dismissive of the Giant’s Dance before I actually saw it, because I was still a relatively young and immature man in those days. But times change us, don’t they?’