by M. K. Hume
The minutes continued to drag on as each man probed, until both were breathing heavily.
Artorex never took his eyes from Luka’s face.
Suddenly, he found his edge.
Luka showed the smallest fraction of his forward planning in his eyes and in his free hand which twitched away from the intended direction of his next movement.
There! It happened again. Luka’s mind revealed the nature of his next attack.
Now is the time to wear him down, Artorex ordered himself as he attempted to control the thud of his wildly beating heart, although in truth he was near to exhaustion himself. I have a height, strength and speed advantage over him, Artorex reasoned. I must wear him down until he makes an error.
And then, suddenly, Luka lowered his sword.
‘You speak truthfully, Artorex,’ he panted. ‘You have strength and speed enough.’
Luka turned his back on Artorex and ambled over to Targo. Artorex, still in the fighter’s crouch, was left feeling confused and foolish.
Luka clapped the veteran on the shoulder.
‘Damn me, but he’ll be good. You are to be congratulated.’
‘I’ll grant you he’s a good enough student,’ Targo replied complacently.
Artorex shook his head to clear his concentration, then sheathed his sword with an angry thud.
‘His eyes say nothing, Targo, not a blessed thing,’ Luka muttered. ‘I think he had my measure - and I’m not really ashamed to admit it.’
Targo nodded ruminatively. ‘You’re right, master. I believe he’d have held off your attack for some time.’
‘Good. Good. And now I think we old soldiers deserve some wine.’
After the men ambled off companionably, Artorex was left alone on the field of combat.
‘That’s it?’ he asked the descending sun. ‘Nearly three years of work - and that’s it?’
But the trial by combat was not quite it.
The feast passed much as all such occasions did at the Villa Poppinidii. A supply of fresh fish had been delivered to the villa and the mistress had ordered that the finest sea bass should be stuffed with spicy fungi and a concoction of herbs, bread and chestnuts for the banquet. Against all his finer thoughts, Artorex’s mouth watered at the smell of succulent roast piglets and honey-glazed venison covered in sauces so exotic that the villa cook had screamed curses at anyone brave enough to interrupt his ministrations.
Serving women struggled under full platters and Artorex followed in their wake, checking the oil burners and wall sconces automatically. As usual, he prepared and served the wine, and exercised considerably more deftness than on the first occasion when he had met Myrddion Merlinus and Luka. The lad tried to remain invisible, as was his custom, but he was forced to hear himself being discussed openly as if he was mere smoke and shadows.
‘You have our congratulations, and our thanks, friend Ector, for your foster-son has grown in stature as a fighting man.’ Luka smiled across at his host.
‘We are quite aware that the training the boy has received has been expensive, Ector.’ Luka crossed himself sardonically for, like many sensible Celts, he paid lip service to many gods. ‘The good Lucius has sent a purse to recompense you for the effort you have expended on his behalf. ’
Myrddion turned to face Livinia. ‘Our friend, Llanwith pen Bryn, is acutely aware of his rudeness and failures in gallantry towards you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He sends a gift as a peace offering between you.’
Both Livinia and Ector received their gifts with some perplexity.
When the mistress of the villa opened the oiled wrappings, a pair of pearl earrings caught the light with their extraordinary exotic lustre. Screws of gold were designed to fit through holes in Livinia’s ears and Artorex winced when he saw the thickness of these plugs of precious metal.
Women are very strange creatures to endure such pain for physical adornment, he thought as he watched Mistress Livinia’s face blossom delightedly at the gift. Then she rewrapped the oilskins and hid the irregular, refulgent pearls from sight with a sigh of regret.
‘I cannot accept such a gift, Myrddion Merlinus. I’ve done my duty by my husband and my family; courtesy towards my guests does not warrant such a reward.’
Myrddion waved an elegant hand in her direction as if to dismiss her qualms.
‘Pen Bryn thought you might refuse his gift on such grounds. So he asked me to thank you, in advance, for your part in polishing the social skills of this young man. Our plans for him are such that he’ll become much more than a fighting machine and should learn the skills of courtesy, nobility and patience. My friend asks that you accept these trifles as a small reward for the efforts that you will spend instilling these qualities into our young protégé.’
Lady Livinia bowed her head in acquiescence, and Artorex groaned inwardly.
His mistress spent much of her day presiding over the smooth running of her household and weaving fine cloth on her looms, and Artorex did not relish being confined to the villa at her beck and call through the winter months. Any thoughts of leisure when snow shrouded the villa were fast disappearing in the pleasure reflected in Lady Livinia’s eyes.
Ector expressed his gratitude at the honour bestowed on his family.
‘I ask that you thank Lucius and Lord pen Bryn for the courtesy they have shown our house, not only for your fine gifts, but also because you have given us what we might never have anticipated - a strong arm to protect the Villa Poppinidii and keep it safe if ever violent hands are raised against us.’ With age, Ector had discovered that he, too, could speak with a suave polish, especially when he felt totally beyond his depth.
‘Of course, the boy still needs some . . . rounding out,’ Luka added.
‘Of course,’ Ector agreed cautiously.
‘We feel that horsemanship is a vital tool in the arsenal of the warrior, especially as barbarians always travel by foot.’
Artorex gasped.
‘Er . . . yes, I can see your argument,’ Ector agreed, his confusion now clear in his bluff, red face.
‘But Artorex isn’t a gentleman!’ Caius protested.
All eyes, apart from those of Artorex, swivelled towards Ector’s son.
‘Young man, would the good Lucius, priest of the Christian god at Holy Glastonbury, have sent the son of a slave to be reared by a man as worthy as your father?’
Myrddion’s words cut far more deeply than Luka’s sword could have done. They sliced open the youthful pride of Caius. He flushed unbecomingly and opened his mouth to speak but, as one, the men turned away from him as if he was of no account.
Only Livinia stared fixedly at Caius, and she raised a finger to her small mouth to silence the young man.
She had no inkling of the importance Artorex held for these great ones, but she instinctively realized that his person was vital to them. Villa Poppinidii, of all the great houses, had been chosen to nurture a cuckoo in its nest, and her husband and son could only profit from that choice - especially if Caius could be forced to relinquish the prejudices of his childhood and birth. Lady Livinia lived and prospered through her duty to her house so, from this point on, she would give Artorex the benefit of her full attention.
‘How old are you now, Artorex?’ Myrddion asked, as the boy filled his wine cup.
‘I am in my fifteenth year, my lord.’
‘So young,’ Myrddion mused. ‘And so tall.’
‘He’s a little too tall,’ Luka stated. ‘He will draw the greatest warriors towards him when he is on the battlefield.’
‘Unless he’s truly exceptional, or mounted on a large horse.’
‘It would have to be a very large horse - once the boy is fully grown.’ Luka laughed. ‘Else it will soon grow swaybacked under his weight.’
As he listened to the discussion flowing over and around him, Artorex wanted to scream and shout questions at the honoured guests. It was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to hold his curiosity in check.
/> Although Artorex’s eyes said nothing, they had lightened with his mounting anger. He was still very young.
Luka saw the start of red spots high on the boy’s cheekbones.
‘These changes must be difficult for you to understand, Artorex. We come out of nowhere, make decisions that change the order of your life and then disappear without providing any explanation for our actions. However, you can be assured we do have our reasons for monitoring your education.’
Artorex lifted his chin. His face now reddened further in embarrassment and confusion.
‘That may be true, my lord. But any man would wish to understand his place in the world in which he lives.’
‘Then ask your questions. If it is in my power to answer, be very sure that I will do so. It is far better than listening behind closed doors.’
Now, Artorex flushed hotly in acute embarrassment.
‘You wrong me, my lord. I was only a curious child when last we saw you here - one of no account. You treated me like an untrained hawk, not yet fit for the glove. But I must know what is intended if I am to serve whatever purpose has been ordained for me.’
‘The boy speaks truthfully and Luka did resort to a low blow.’ Myrddion laughed easily.
Artorex clenched his jaw, for even the scholarly Myrddion was still treating him like a performing animal.
‘Who is my father?’ Artorex snapped.
‘It is not in my power to give you that information. However, you may be assured that he was a man of extraordinary gifts, else you would not be here.’ Luka spoke with conviction, and Artorex understood that, at last, the northerner was taking him seriously.
‘Where was I born?’
‘In a fortress to the south.’
‘Why was I taken from my mother? Is she still alive?’
‘Your mother lives. You were brought here to save your life.’
‘Oh!’
Luka recognized that Artorex’s size belied his maturity, and the warrior felt a pang of sorrow as he realized that this amenable and talented young man had no place in the world to call his own. A wealth of hurt feelings and sad experiences, both past and present, were compressed within Artorex’s regretful sigh.
But the boy also knew how to speak with a voice of unconscious command. For one short moment, Luka had almost slipped under the force of the boy’s personality, and had nearly revealed information that, for now, must be kept secret.
‘So you must continue to listen and learn, young Artorex. Perhaps we shall meet again soon, at which time you will almost certainly be able to defeat me in equal combat,’ Luka added, with surprising gentleness.
Myrddion Merlinus leaned forward and engaged the master and mistress, the heir and the foster-son with eyes that were hooded and brooding.
‘The Villa Poppinidii is far from the centre of the world,’ he declared. ‘It’s also far from the deeds of the great ones of Briton - and Briton is far from the Rome that was once the centre of the world until the barbarian hordes stripped the legions of their invincibility. You, Caius, speak of Rome with pride as if it will last forever. But the glory of Rome is gone, just like the empires of the Carthaginians and the Spartans before them, so that Constantinople is now the only city in the world where dreams of past glory still have some shadow of life. Odoacer and his Germanic sons now rule the Forum, and the great fortresses of Gaul are deserted.’ He gazed round at his audience with eyes that were infinitely sad. ‘The legions of Rome will never return. The end of times has come.’
Ector shivered and Livinia raised her hands to her eyes, but Caius shook his artful curls in denial.
‘No, Caius, what is done is done! The barbarians have been nibbling away at your world for two hundred years and now the end is near. Do we go down to the Saxons? Does our civilization fade and rot away under muddy, barbarian feet? Do not doubt me! Artorex has been trained for battle, for all men of the Celtic peoples must fight to ensure that the world we know is not obliterated, as Rome was!’
Blank, shocked eyes met Myrddion’s direct gaze and then looked down at the fine food and the good wine on the tables before them. Their world had changed, even as they dined, because they suddenly understood that men were fighting and dying so they could eat in peace.
‘We’ve often talked of Uther Pendragon and his failure to stem the Saxon tide that moves inexorably towards our peoples. The High King is old, and he is exhausted by a lifetime of attempting the impossible, for chaos has come upon us as the wild hordes of the north continue their march. Without Caius and his friends, and without Artorex and his kind, how shall we hold back the darkness when you and the High King go to the shadows?’
Ector blinked, and then shook his leonine head in understanding of what loomed before the Celtic peoples. Livinia gripped his hand across the eating couch.
‘Artorex, continue to learn.’ Myrddion added, and then smiled. ‘You will be needed. But we must not forget to praise you for your studies, young man. Our friend, Llanwith pen Bryn, had no doubt that you’d pass any test that Luka could devise, so he sent you a trophy of victory. He hopes it will be a small compensation for your many unanswered questions - and our unspoken motives.’
‘Did Lord pen Bryn truly use those words?’ Artorex asked. ‘Or do you embroider them in his name?’
Ector gasped at the effrontery of his foster-son, but Myrddion simply rose, lightly tapped the boy’s cheek and offered him a scroll case.
‘Much to my surprise, he said those very words. You have my word on it, Artorex. Llanwith pen Bryn is in no doubt of your value to our plans.’
‘You should thank the masters, boy, and you should remember your manners,’ Ector ordered. He had understood very little of the conversation except for the imminence of the Saxon threat, but the purse sent by Lucius had held seven imperial gold coins, a vast amount, and Artorex was obviously favoured by fortune.
Artorex did his foster-father’s bidding and courteously thanked Myrddion.
Soon, the feast was over and the villa became still. The night had a cool privacy that enfolded the boy in his own thoughts, lending him the illusion of autonomy. In the quiet of his cubicle, Artorex opened the scroll case and discovered another part of the Commentaries of the great Caesar. He hugged the scroll with a pure and child-like joy.
On silent, bare feet, Artorex moved out into the colonnades, and thence to the atrium where he could observe the stars of the autumn night.
The midnight air was chill, and Artorex wore only his loincloth, but the gelid cold steadied the hot blood that thundered in his veins and denied him sleep. The moon was waning and now it appeared like a sickle or some strange silver blade that curved low towards the roof. Artorex’s breath steamed in the night. He was too weary for fear, and too confused for questions. He must consider the information Luka given him during the coming days at times when his brain could dissect and measure the message behind his words.
And tomorrow, he would begin to learn the art of riding a horse.
CHAPTER III
CHILDHOOD’S END
In the early morning, winter announced its arrival with chill, white fingers that left serpentine trails of frost in the drying grass. The days shortened noticeably as the corpses of leaves fell in great, scarlet carpets. A single gate barred the path to the villa, although it was never locked and any child could raise the long, iron tongue that held it closed. The path was deeply rutted by farm wagons and, in winter, it was a frozen agony of hardened mud and dried grass. Settled firmly on deep foundations, the villa and its outbuildings, its rich storehouses, its capacious servants’ quarters and its herds of horses, cattle, pigs and fowl hunched on the low hill overlooking the Roman road, brooding in the fading light.
Provident masters of the Villa Poppinidii had scorned to hide the villa and its wealth behind a strong exterior wall but, ever mindful of the dangers in an outpost colony, they had built their home to last. Over a foot thick, and largely free of any openings, its frame offered a blind, uncompromising fac
e to the casual visitor. Its neat, fruitful orchards, the fields that were a patchwork quilt of prudent agriculture and the verdant kitchen gardens might promise a warm welcome, but the villa’s heavy, studded door was prudently locked at night. The Villa Poppinidii looked inward at its fountains and its atrium garden, rather than outward at the long road that led to Aquae Sulis. In the eyes of its inhabitants, the enclave was their whole world and was complete as it stood.
But, beyond the fertile orchards and fallow fields, the Old Forest brooded. Artorex’s refuge was a constant reminder that the land was not completely safe and, now that Myrddion Merlinus had opened their eyes, Ector and Livinia surveyed their small kingdom with hearts that were weighted with foreboding.
Caius ventured into this winter landscape of grey skies and misty, skeletal trees with his customary elan. Unlike his parents, Caius refused to accept that Rome was dead, so he enjoyed his days with the same careless pursuit of pleasure that had always motivated him. With his hunting hounds and his trained hawks, he rode into the wilderness to harry his prey. He rarely returned with the boars, the foxes or the stags that he killed, preferring to leave their corpses to rot on the bloodstained, frozen earth. The local villagers learned to follow his blood spoor which unerringly provided them with enough fresh meat to last them through the winter months.
At other times, when he was bored with hunting, Caius spent his days and nights with a coterie of young men who were noted for their epicene habits and their conscious, offensive arrogance. Wealthy, idle and bored, they drank, whored and terrorized the villagers with stupid pranks that amused the young men hugely but embarrassed their elders when complaints inevitably came to their doors.
But even a much-loved and cosseted son couldn’t avoid all responsibility, and Caius was expected to put aside play to learn the duties of the villa, although he protested at first. Maintaining inventories, supervising crop rotation and planning new villa facilities crowded the days of the young heir as he learned the myriad responsibilities of a master. If he chafed under the yoke of his birth, Caius chose to hide any impatience under a glacial, patronizing composure suitable to his station.