by M. K. Hume
Ector and his wife, Livinia, their son, Caius, and three unknown gentlemen were all reclining in the Roman fashion on carved couches around a low table that was piled high with delicacies. Eel in aspic, a boar’s head splendidly presented with boiled barley, a sliced haunch of venison, salted vegetables and periwinkles that swam in exotic sauces were displayed on the low, central table.
The dining room was quite large, as befitted the honour of Livinia’s ancient family, and gave directly on to the atrium where, under a pale moon, water danced and splashed from an imaginative bronze statue of a monstrous fish. Sweet-smelling oils burned brightly in rare glass vessels, and the best torches hung on heavy iron wall brackets, yet no unsightly stains of oil smoke marred a fine fresco of an olive grove. Ector might be a bastard Celt, but he had married the last child of an ancient family, and had taken the Poppinidii name as his own. In the nearest town of Aquae Sulis, he was deemed to be a man of significant wit - and extraordinary luck.
‘Yes, Foster-Father,’ the boy replied neutrally, then bowed formally to each guest, even the hateful Caius.
He sought out the villa’s steward, a Greek slave called Cletus, and collected large jars of honeyed wine from Gaul and the crisp, clean vintages of Spain. Ector was noted as a connoisseur of good wines, and it was the boy’s task at these functions to ensure that the gilded cups of the visitors were kept full to the brim.
The boy was also adept at becoming invisible. As the meal progressed, his presence was soon forgotten.
‘What news from the east, Myrddion?’ Ector asked with no little interest.
‘The wolves from over the narrow sea come to pillage almost every spring,’ a thin-faced man answered. ‘Fortunately, the barbarians rarely venture far inland, but I fear one day they will arrive with their women and their broods and build their own settlements.’
‘Then they will die here,’ Caius drawled in a way that he believed showed his sophistication.
‘Perhaps,’ the man called Myrddion replied vaguely.
‘Oh, come, Myrddion. What are a few savages to us? Londinium, Eburacum, and Camulodunum are heavily fortified, and the native legions are well trained. We’ll smash any naked barbarians like roaches.’ Ector plucked up a sliver of venison with a dainty knife.
Another stranger, notable for the long brown plaits that hung from his forehead, suppressed a grim laugh.
‘I don’t think anything amusing was said, Luka,’ Ector retorted, his face flushing under what was left of his chestnut hair.
‘My pardon, friend Ector,’ Luka replied. ‘I meant no offence - but these little toys,’ he paused, and made the eating dagger spin in his neat hands, ‘are no match for the war axes of the barbarians. Their swords are almost of your height - and they have iron, too, my brother.’
Caius began to speak, but Livinia quelled him with an imperial lifting of her narrow brows.
‘There is no offence taken, Luka. I served with your father on the Wall, and we shared the same wet nurse for some seasons in Lavatrae. We both grew tall hearing the horror tales of Boedicca of the Iceni and the nearness of her victory when she rebelled against Rome. But that bloodstained bitch was one of us. She was civilized in her fashion, and not some ignorant Saxon pig-stealer, or a dog from Jutland who comes hunting enough grain to feed his filthy brood.’
‘Luka is merely asking that we heed the warnings, Ector,’ Myrddion soothed, although his expression, to the boy’s mind, lacked compromise. ‘Warned, we are strong; complacent, we are soft in the belly.’
‘Rome owns the entire world, including Britannia,’ Caius cut in excitedly.
Ector shot a swift glance of disapproval at his only birth son.
‘But would the might of Rome come to our aid if we were under attack? I believe they’d leave us to our fate,’ Luka replied, with a casual intensity that gave weight to his words.
‘Uther Pendragon still holds the south and the west of our land under his foot,’ Myrddion answered. ‘But he grows old and frightened. God help the west should Uther fail.’
Caius and Ector both snorted. Neither possessed a flattering opinion of the High King who held the tribes to treaties won by bloodshed during his vigorous youth.
‘I don’t think we should ever discount Uther Pendragon,’ Luka added.
‘And your villa lies safe because of the protection of his rule,’ Myrddion reminded Ector.
‘Villa Poppinidii lies strong because it is in my hands,’ Ector retorted, his face reddening.
‘And very well-provisioned it is too,’ Luka soothed. ‘I admit I have longed for a civilized bed for many weeks during my travels.’
Somewhat mollified, Ector allowed the conversation to veer on to safer ground, with talk of fashion and trade in the south. Lady Livinia, especially, was starved for tales of civilized Gaul, and she managed to dominate the conversation for some little time, mainly by right of the purity of her breeding.
The three travellers acknowledged Livinia’s superior qualities by the deference they showed her. She was small, even for a Roman matron, but her posture was so straight and uncompromising that few visitors noticed her diminutive form. Like all gentle domestic tyrants, she was possessed of great charm and wit, making her a hostess of distinction. Gracefully, she ensured that Myrddion Merlinus and his friends would find nothing amiss in the hospitality of the house.
The boy filled the gilded wine cups from his jugs and listened to the words of the guests with his senses all aquiver.
The third visitor, a dark-complexioned man, remained silent throughout the conversation that swirled around him.
Llanwith poured water into his cup, brushing aside Artorex’s proffered wine jug with a flick of his huge beringed hands. His black eyes were watchful and intent, even when the other guests spoke of women’s matters, as if the Villa Poppinidii held the answers to secrets he had yet to discover through stealth.
The boy felt his stomach muscles contract with nervousness when the dark-faced man stared covertly at him across the succulent meats and rich sauces. Black eyes forced grey eyes to meet and be examined.
When the honeyed sweetmeats were served, and the men lounged in comfort with the edges of their differences blunted by good food and wine, the silent stranger chose to speak.
‘Who is the boy?’ he asked in a voice that rumbled from his wide chest. It was a voice of command that demanded an answer.
‘He is my foster-son,’ Ector replied sleepily. The villa normally held to farm hours, and the water dial showed that the hour was now late.
The boy almost dropped the Spanish wine in surprise as all eyes flickered towards him.
‘What is his name, good Ector?’
‘Artorex. His name is Artorex.’
‘But we call him Lump,’ Caius giggled drunkenly.
‘He bears a noble name. Stand under the wall sconce, young Artorex, where I can see you properly.’
‘He’s a good enough lad,’ Ector mumbled. ‘But he’s not a sharp dagger, Llanwith pen Bryn, if you take my meaning.’
Llanwith son of Bryn, the boy thought to himself, as he moved to carry out the stranger’s bidding. I’ll not forget you quickly.
‘He is a tall young man. What is his age?’
‘Twelve - I believe,’ replied Ector carelessly. ‘Yes, he makes fair to be strong and large. But why are you so interested in the boy?’
Myrddion Merlinus smiled enigmatically and waved a negligent hand in Artorex’s direction. ‘Bishop Lucius is curious to know how the child grows. He expected that you’d see to his learning so we may assume he knows some letters. We’re simply finishing what was started when we brought the babe to you - how many years ago?’
‘It’s been too many years, old friend, too many years!’ Ector was disposed to be sentimental, but Llanwith was still staring at Artorex as if they were alone in the triclinium.
‘Speak for yourself, young Artorex,’ Llanwith demanded. ‘Are you strong?’
‘Aye, master, I’m strong enough,
’ the boy replied bluntly.
The stranger ignored the boy’s effrontery, although Ector frowned in his direction.
‘Are you fast, Artorex?’ the stranger continued. ‘Strong lads are rarely fast.’
Caius giggled.
The boy felt his face flush. He straightened his shoulders and raised his chin.
‘Fast enough, master.’
The narrow eating dagger flashed from Llanwith’s large hand across the light in a neat parabola that was aimed directly at Artorex’s heart.
Unblinkingly, the boy watched the blade arc towards him. Acting on instinct, he moved to one side, and dashed the blade aside with his forearm. The knife clattered to the floor, where it lay like a silver reptile with the dragon aglitter on its hilt.
‘Aye, you are fast enough, young man,’ Llanwith replied with a laugh as the boy retrieved the dagger and handed it to him, hilt first. ‘You bleed, boy.’
‘It is only a scratch, master. A nothing.’ The boy’s face was as inscrutable as the bland features of Llanwith pen Bryn.
The other guests were momentarily robbed of words.
‘These are strange dinner manners for an honoured guest, my lord,’ Livinia chided. ‘If the conversation is to be so surprising, I will leave you for my bed. We keep country hours here, good sirs, and I must supervise the wool bleaching in the morning. Come, Caius, you also would be better served by sleep.’
‘I apologize for the want of manners in my friend,’ Myrddion replied diplomatically.
Llanwith pen Bryn did not concern himself with words of apology but simply inclined his head towards mother and son with a brief, regal dignity.
As Livinia and a sullen Caius left the chamber with a hiss of sandals on tessellated floors, the mistress paused briefly at the door.
‘Don’t keep the boy up too late, Ector. I want him fit for work in the morning.’
Ector merely grunted in acknowledgement.
Silence fell after mistress and son departed.
Artorex shuffled awkwardly. He was uncertain how to respond to the visitors, so he stayed in position beneath the sconce.
‘We now know that the boy is strong and fast,’ Luka said conversationally to Ector. ‘But does he read? Does he receive an education?’
‘Why this interest in Artorex, my friends? I took the lad into my household as a favour to Lucius of Glastonbury when the child was newly born. The priest has never asked for word of him, nor has he shown any interest in the lad since that distant time.’
‘I know his history, friend Ector,’ Myrddion said. ‘But I need to know if the boy can read.’
‘Well, yes, he reads as well as can be expected,’ Ector growled peevishly. He was unused to being questioned so autocratically in his own house.
‘May we judge his ability, my friend?’ Luka asked with a conciliatory smile.
The boy was totally bemused by the conversation that was taking place around him. He was conscious that he was being tested, but why? He was just Lump, of little more value than a good hound. In time to come he might be considered worthy of becoming a steward in the place of Cletus, but why should these great ones care a whit for his strength, his speed - or his intelligence?
‘Fetch a scroll from my baggage, Artorex,’ Llanwith ordered with barely a glance in the boy’s direction.
The boy stood, unsure of how to respond, or where to find such an item.
Ector, grumpily, waved a hand at Artorex to indicate that he was to carry out Llanwith’s bidding.
The boy ran from the room to seek out Cletus who took charge of all domestic matters. He escaped from the suddenly dangerous room with surprising agility.
Cletus had obviously been eavesdropping for his master’s orders, and a kitchen slave had already been sent to the guests’ quarters in the west wing to collect the scroll.
The steward said nothing to the boy, but glared at him suspiciously.
Enclosed in a fine hide case, the scroll was quickly found and thrust into Artorex’s hands.
‘Obey your masters, boy,’ Cletus hissed, and Ector’s foster-son slipped back into the dining chamber where the visitors were again speaking of matters in the east.
‘Master.’ Artorex offered the scroll to Llanwith pen Bryn.
‘Read for us, young Artorex. For our entertainment.’ The stranger did not even deign to look at him.
Artorex fumbled with the lacings, even clumsier than usual in his nervousness. The scroll was eventually unbound, and the boy stared down at the bold Latin script that marched across the fine hide. He was immediately seized by panic, for the text was totally unfamiliar.
‘Read,’ Llanwith repeated, his eyes on a stuffed egg speared on the end of his knife.
Haltingly, Artorex began to read the unfamiliar Latin script, becoming faster as he began to recognize more and more words. He had heard of the commentaries of the great Caesar in the Gaul Campaign, but he had never thought to have a copy in his hands.
‘I want you to read this scroll and translate it into the common tongue,’ Llanwith ordered.
His heart in his mouth, the boy obeyed.
Despite his confusion and fear, Artorex became caught up in the blunt, forthright description of the great Julian’s battle campaign.
‘Enough!’ Llanwith ordered. ‘What do you think, Myrddion? You are the scholar amongst us. Does the boy read well?’
Ector was staring at the boy with blank astonishment; there was more depth to his foster-son than he had ever imagined.
‘Surprisingly well,’ Myrddion replied. ‘You are to be congratulated, friend Ector,’ he added, turning to face the master of the villa.
‘I don’t see how, for I never heard him read so well in the past.’ Ector may have been a hard man, but he was also bluntly honest.
‘Have you read the memoirs of the great Caesar?’ Luka asked the boy.
‘No, my lord. But I am certain that I would like to do so,’ Artorex managed to reply.
‘Then keep this small gift, in payment for your diligence,’ Llanwith stated casually, as if this strange conversation had been insignificant. ‘Now leave the wine jars and get yourself off to bed. That is, if your master will give you leave.’
Ector waved Artorex away, his eyes troubled and gleaming in the light.
Clutching the precious scroll and its case to his chest, Artorex scurried to the door and was gone. Yet some wickedness in his curious nature caused him to pause outside the room and continue to listen. Even though he was aware of the presence of the faithful Cletus at his back, he could not bear to miss the last of the peculiar conversation.
‘We have intruded upon your hospitality, friend Ector, but you must believe me when I vow that we would not have imposed on you if our reasons were not of the gravest importance.’ Myrddion spoke with a statesman’s glibness overlaying a current of urgency.
‘Nor can we explain further tonight, Ector,’ Luka continued seamlessly. ‘Great affairs of state are marching on, old friend, and you and your family are a part of them, whether you will it to be so or not.’
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Ector grumbled through his beard.
‘You must trust us until such time as we can reveal more of what is to come. Twelve years ago, the good Lucius of Glastonbury sent you a gift, and asked you to take care of it. You have done well with that charge,’ Llanwith responded gravely.
‘Besides,’ Myrddion continued, ‘perhaps nothing will come of our fears, and you will have an admirable steward to serve your family when you are gone from this world.’
‘But it would be profitable for us all if childhood ceases for Artorex at this time,’ Luka stated. His companions nodded in agreement. ‘We ask that you commence to teach him those skills of the warrior that we ourselves learned as boys, old friend. Blade and shield! Horse and fire! Pain and bravery! Would you undertake such a task for us?’
‘Aye, but—’
‘And the boy must no longer be referred to as Lump by any member of your
household,’ Llanwith interrupted. ‘He will be of no use to us without self-respect.’
Ector recognized the sound of command in the voice of his guest.
As Artorex turned to leave his listening point, he saw Cletus bow his head low. The boy turned. Llanwith pen Bryn was leaning against the doorpost, regarding him with fathomless black eyes.
‘Learn your new duties well, boy. And remember that those who listen to private matters can sometimes hear more than they would wish.’ Then he grinned at Artorex, and returned to his friends.
‘He speaks wise words, young master,’ Cletus hissed with frightened respect. ‘You could yet get us all hanged if that black-eyed devil has any say in it.’
Artorex ran.
Back in his sleeping cubicle, he tried to chase the faces of the three strangers from his mind. Nothing had changed. He was still a fatherless son, not much higher than a house slave and only permitted to sleep in the main body of the villa complex on sufferance. He dwelt in the no-man’s land of Roman life, a foster-son without status.
Then he reached down and felt the scroll beside his sleeping pallet, and knew that his life was changed forever.
CHAPTER II
THE BLADE AND FIRE
Although Artorex’s sudden change of status was the talk of the villa for several weeks, masters and servants soon forgot him, and the narrow world the boy inhabited soon returned to its mundane unswerving routine. Wood had to be chopped into kindling for the kitchen ovens, the kitchen gardens required persistent, tedious weeding and birds stole the new fruit from the orchards and must be deterred with well-aimed stones. Mistress Livinia ensured that Artorex was never idle.
Except in one significant detail.
Each morning, after drawing water for the kitchen, currying the horses and feeding the hounds, the boy was ordered to attend on Targo.
Targo was a scarred veteran of indeterminate race who had served a lifetime in the noble art of soldiering. Small, bow-legged and deceptively white-haired, Targo had been washed up at the river port of Glevum, at the end of the Sabrina Aest, and had sold his skills to Ector as arms trainer to his son and captain of the small troop of men-at-arms who served the dual roles of field workers and protectors of the villa. The veteran had married a local widow from the nearby village, and was a man feared for his quick temper when drunk, and his even faster blade when sober. Who he was, and where he was originally born, was unknown to all save Ector.