by M. K. Hume
‘Personally, I’d prefer a strong sword, a stout shield and a good battle plan, my lord. These three gifts seem far more useful to someone like me than erecting large rocks into a magic circle. Besides, the Giant’s Carol has been standing out there on the plain for more than a thousand years - and you’re not quite that old.’
‘The making of a legend is a form of poetry, my friend, an art that is an extension of pure gossip, especially when stories are passed from one mouth into another’s ear. If we could live on and on through the ages, I doubt we’d recognize ourselves in the stories that will be woven around us.’
‘Well, no one’s likely to remember me,’ Gruffydd grinned.
‘Don’t be so sure, friend Gruffydd. You’ve played your part in the making of this new legend.’
Gruffydd left the presence of Myrddion Merlinus, wondering if the wise tactician was a little mad.
Three weeks before the coronation was to take place, Artorex began to move selected members of his household to Venta Belgarum. The kitchen staff and under-servants were not required, for Venonae could not be abandoned. Only an essential, fortunate few could be spared from the constant danger that emanated from the east.
Nor did Artorex choose to lead a large company of warriors, for those Celtic tribes who had answered the Dux Bellorum’s call to arms could not supply so many battle-seasoned men that Artorex could afford to waste them on useless ceremony.
In Artorex’s absence, trusted captains would hold the line, under the strong command of Pinhead, or Pelles, as he now chose to be called. The new commander was the last surviving member of Targo’s scum who’d been present at the battle at Anderida two years earlier. Since that glorious day, all but Pelles had perished in battles against the barbarian hordes. Such were his survival skills that he’d earned his promotion on innumerable occasions, and Artorex trusted him to defend Venonae to the last man.
Caius had no cause to complain at being overlooked for command for he was to be a special guest at Artorex’s coronation. Caius and Ector, along with other notables from Aquae Sulis, had been invited to attend Artorex’s final assumption of complete power. Artorex understood Caius perfectly, and he knew that as long as his personal honour was not insulted, Caius would accept the limited measure of public acknowledgement.
Late at night, Artorex relaxed and reverted to being a hesitant young man once again as he shared ale and talked of tactics with Targo. Although his old sword master was too old to be a truly effective bodyguard, he was still the crafty mentor and practical friend he had always been. Artorex needed Targo for his bluntness of speech and his unrivalled honesty rather than the flexibility of his knee joints. Artorex had a niggling fear that old Targo would pine and die should his master send him back to honourable retirement at the Villa Poppinidii.
Odin, for his part, was enormously strong and in excellent health. His weapons skills made him the equal of four men.
‘The crown and the sword may be the symbols of power, Targo, but they are just showy outward glitter that is designed to amaze the ordinary people. I wish I knew the path that leads to the hearts of so many of our squabbling tribal chiefs. We must gain an edge to forge unity, but how do we find that edge?’
‘Did I ever tell you the solutions to your problems, lad? Nay, you found them for yourself. Think. How did Uther unite the tribes?’
‘Through fear. With his sword and an iron fist.’
‘And will that tactic work again?’ Targo demanded, rather than asked.
‘No. Uther was detested by most of the minor kings and his strength was dissipated as he protected his own back from their attacks. I don’t have the peaceful kingdom that Uther wrestled from Vortigern and his sons. Unfortunately, that feather won’t fly again, not on such turbulent air as now stirs the hearts of the Britons.’
‘So how are you different from your father? What is your edge?’
Artorex pondered the problem. ‘I am strong - but so was Uther. I have excellent advisers - but so did Uther. Myrddion assisted my father, as he assists me. I am the rightful Celtic claimant but Uther took the throne by force, so my birthright means nothing.’
‘Go back, lad. Go back to the very beginning at Villa Poppinidii. Why were you so successful as a steward in those simple days?’ Targo grinned encouragingly as Artorex forced his tired mind to search out the correct answers.
The young man stared into his simple wooden cup of ale and the strong, scarred fingers that were wrapped round it.
‘I had confidence in my people and I worked at honing my skills. Uther took his skills for granted.’
‘True,’ Targo encouraged.
‘I tried to defend the ordinary men and women who were my charges, and they were grateful. Uther didn’t bother to do so.’
‘That’s also true, my boy.’
‘I tried to treat everyone as if they were of equal status, and I attempted to use their talents as best I could,’ Artorex stated uncomfortably; he found it difficult to indulge in self-praise.
‘And Uther didn’t,’ Targo finished for him. ‘He had no respect for anyone. And he didn’t care if their talents were wasted - as Botha discovered.’
Artorex nodded in agreement.
‘In the greater scheme of things, Uther’s misuse of Botha was a minor matter for the High King. But as a loyal servant, I sympathize with Botha and how he must have felt when Uther ordered him to carry out such an ignoble task. You must always remember the example of Botha, who was faithful to his liege lord until death. Every order that you issue can hurt someone like me, or Gruffydd, a tribe or even the whole nation.’
‘You’re saying that even the lowliest subject should be considered when I make a decision, even if my actions may hurt them,’ Artorex summarized.
‘Exactly, lad,’ Targo replied seriously. ‘That’s all leadership is, coupled with making the best of what you have.’
‘Leadership can’t be so simple. Although, now I come to think about it, you ask a great deal.’ Artorex frowned even harder and struggled to imagine himself in the shoes of one such as King Lot. This man was married to Uther’s stepdaughter, and he was expected to ally himself with his wife’s enemy in a war that had little to do with Lot’s kingdom - at least in the short term.
At once, Artorex felt a greater sympathy and respect for Lot, simply by imagining the situation in which the Otadini was placed. Targo’s lesson became clear.
‘It’s also obvious that I must always be the first to lead, and the first to risk death, for I can’t send men into battle without facing danger myself. The writings of the great Julius Caesar surely reflect the truth of this lesson.
‘And I must understand strategy and the long view. Rulers such as Lot have little to lose at the present time, but the Saxons will eventually turn their avaricious eyes on his kingdom. It will be my task to arouse Lot’s fear and imagination.
‘And I must make every ally, every friend and every warrior committed to serve the one united cause, and that cause must not simply result in an increase of my power but empower those who are allied with me. They must believe that they act of their own free will and that they are my equal, even if I have manipulated their fears in the process.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Targo answered simply. ‘But can you do these things? There are few rulers who can bear to count their personal power as nothing.’
‘What choice do I have,’ Artorex countered, ‘if I am to hold to the only edge I possess?’
‘Why, none at all, my lord, none at all. But wasn’t it ever so? I fought for Rome in battles across the whole world, without being given one single reason for all the death and destruction I participated in. But I am a happier man now that I have a purpose in my life.’
‘Targo, my friend, what would I have done without you and your constant lessons?’ Artorex whispered softly to his friend and companion.
Targo began to laugh, quietly at first and then louder and louder. His mottled cheeks and jowls quivered, while his horny, scarre
d hands slapped his knees and tears leapt from his dark eyes.
Artorex was entirely at a loss.
‘I don’t understand your laughter, Targo,’ he said, a little offended. ‘What did I say that was so amusing?’
‘My boy, did you really think I knew the answers on those occasions when I asked you to find a solution to a problem? By the gods above, half the time I didn’t know the answers myself. But I believed that you had to dissect the problems for yourself so that you could devise a solution. And, most times, you did exactly that.’
‘Shite!’ Artorex swore. Then he, too, began to laugh. ‘Do you mean that I didn’t have to jump that awful fence, or fall off Aphrodite on to my arse so many times?’
Targo grinned evilly. ‘Of course you did. How else would you have learned? And a little pain never hurt a growing lad.’
‘You’re an old fraud, Targo. I’ve jumped fences, I’ve mounted great ugly horses and I’ve learned to fight my way through all manner of problems because you made me devise my own solutions - when all the time you only pretended to know the answers.’
That night, when Artorex fell asleep, his body felt light and boyish. Nor was he troubled by terrible dreams and nameless fears of possible shortcomings.
When Targo checked his master’s room near dawn, he found the young man smiling in his sleep and the old warrior knew that Artorex was far off in time with his Gallia.
And Targo was content.
CHAPTER XXII
A SAXON SUMMER
A multitude gathered at Venta Belgarum on what, by ancient reckoning, was the longest day of the year. Rain had fallen overnight and roadways, cobbles and houses seemed newly dipped in the gleam of water from tile, stone, timber and thatch. Even the cottages of the humble people, clustered like three-day-old chicks under the skirts of the city walls, were bright with festoons of branches and wild flowers, while rushes, hay and mown grass soaked up the usual mud of the roadway.
Not one tavern in Venta Belgarum could squeeze in another guest. Every building, including Uther’s fortress, had been put to good use, and noble visitors were quartered wherever space was available, their flags and banners stirring in the cool breeze. The streets were alive, as if the hive of the city had been stirred vigorously and all the bees had poured forth, seeking either to work for their new master or to attack the interloper.
Artorex had not slept in the city, preferring to rest under the stars on the one night of freedom left to him before the commencement of his new life. For this last night of liberty, he preferred to lie under stout canvas, as if he was still fighting a campaign with his warriors. Time enough for soft living if he could survive the challenges he knew awaited him on the church stairs at the heart of the city.
With the aid of Gruffydd, Targo and Odin, Artorex dressed with unhurried care. His bodyguards had already donned their finery, plaited their hair and polished their arms until every piece of metal on their bodies gleamed in the sunlight. Against the wishes of his loyal servants, Artorex insisted on wearing the snowy mantle of wolf fur that he had won at Anderida more than two years earlier, although he acknowledged that it would drag in the dirt once he alighted from his horse. King Llanwith’s pin held the fur together on his left shoulder and King Luka’s torc gleamed at his throat like a living serpent with silver scales. His long fingers were free of ornament except for the ring gifted by Lucius on his left thumb and the pearl ring fashioned by Simon on his right.
Beneath his heavy cloak, Artorex wore a gift from Ector that had been made by Bregan, the smith who had forged his dragon blade. The gift consisted of a curious vest that clasped at the shoulders and down his sides to finish at his thighs. It was constructed of tiny rings of tempered iron that were surprisingly light for a tunic. Ector swore the smith had tried, unsuccessfully, to pierce the metal rings with daggers and swords and, although Artorex’s flesh might be bruised in a battle, the tunic would deflect all but the heaviest of blades. The coat was laced at the upper shoulders, leaving Artorex’s bronzed skin mostly bare, for speed depended upon freedom of movement. Targo had polished the tunic for hours on the previous night until it shimmered like silver dragon’s scales under the snow-white fur.
Under the coat of iron, Artorex wore a snowy-white tunic in the Roman style. His bronzed legs were bare except where his new boots were laced up to his calves and Odin had ensured that the leather was as soft as linen and as burnished as bronze. Targo told disgusting stories of Odin’s use of lamb’s brains and the other concoctions that made the leather as pliant as any woven fabric. Odin himself had even elected to wear boots in honour of the occasion and plaited his beard into two rather frightening fangs.
Alone, except for his three companions, and with neither sword belt nor scabbard, Artorex rode Coal into the outskirts of Venta Belgarum. With the wolf pelt cloak cast back over his right shoulder, to trail over the shining black flanks of his horse, Artorex was an imposing sight.
His hair, unbound and waving in the breeze, spread out over the pelts like red-gold silk.
At each village, the populace stared at him with their mouths agape for, in their simple imaginings, he seemed like a hero out of legend who had returned to the earth. But then he grinned boyishly at the villagers while bowing deeply to the left and the right. The villagers shook the air with their cheers, while maidens ran to strew flowers from the fields beneath the feet of his horse. Daisies, lavender, buttercups, mint and late-flowering bulbs scented the air as Coal strode proudly over a carpet of colour.
As Artorex entered the fortified walls on the outskirts of the city, he continued to smile, wave and bow his head to the elderly without a hint of Uther’s sullen disdain. He gave special smiles to the children and gratefully accepted their offers of flowers. The crowd loved the sight of their heroic warrior king, while many of the populace joined the procession of townsfolk that followed behind him in a multicoloured tail.
Before Artorex reached the fortress, the gates swung inwards. The noise increased as, on cobbles thick with flowers laid out before him by young women and girls, Artorex made his stately, courteous passage through the narrow streets. One old beldam, dressed in her best finery, stopped him and offered him a circlet of daisies, and the young man bent his head low over the horse’s mane, allowing her to reach up her old arms and place it over his head. Then, when he kissed her arthritic fingers, the crowd howled its approval.
The closer Artorex came to the stone, cruciform church, the heavier the air became, and fewer bursts of new cheering rose to greet him. But with each step that Coal took, Artorex maintained his smiling demeanour and exhibited an impenetrable courtesy. He even smiled when King Lot stared ostentatiously over his head from the top of the church steps, and Queen Morgause pointedly turned her back on him.
Lot was dressed with eye-popping gorgeousness in a vast woollen skirt of woad blue and dull green stripes and checks of various widths. His huge chest was encased in a richly embroidered, woollen shirt under a breastplate coated with gold. Gargoyle faces with open, leering mouths decorated the breastplate, which was laced over his broad girth with cords of gold and silver. His cloak was bound at the shoulder with an enormous pin that was intricately carved and decorated with cabochon gems. It was as large as a grown man’s hand span.
Beside Lot’s huge bulk, Queen Morgause seemed tiny, but she could never be negligible. Unlike her husband, her dress subtly implied mourning, for her overskirt was of pale grey gauze over a heavier kirtle of dark, sanguine red. She had covered her hair with a confection of golden wire and red wool, while her whole ensemble was covered by a long black cloak that puddled at her feet.
Her sister outdid her in funereal black, without even the pretence of jewellery as ornamentation. Because she was a maiden, Morgan wore her hair unbound and her long, raven tresses, as straight as a spear shaft, hung down her back to her knees. That hair should have softened Morgan’s appearance but, instead, it merely heightened her unnatural glamour.
King Leodegran of the D
obunni tribe wore a toga and cloak edged, quite inappropriately, with imperial purple. His hair was curled around his smooth face and his hands dripped with rings and chains of gold and precious gems. By comparison, his companion, King Mark of the Deceangli, was elegant in a simple robe of grey wool with borders of black and silver. Mark’s lack of ornamentation was reflected in his pursed, disapproving lips and his womanish eyes.
En masse, the collection of kings, nobles and their ladies appeared in a tangle of colours and styles that were as contrasting and as conflicting as they were. The King of the Silures wore fur and leather, braced with plates of bronze, while the Dumnonii queen, wife of Gorlois’s brother, wore gauzy linen that had come from the looms of Egypt by trade ship. Few would even deign to speak to their nearest neighbour for it was only the old pacts enforced by Uther that had brought them together.
The clerics conspired to stand as far from each other as possible. The Druids wore homespun and carried tall, intricate staffs. Some had decorated their long hair and beards with garlands of mistletoe or ivy while others wore bands of gold or silver across their foreheads. Some Druids appeared to have walked, barefoot, out of the wild places, while others were obviously intellectuals and sophisticates.
Some of the Christian priests wore black that was slashed with red to represent the blood of Christ, while others, like the monks from Glastonbury, were dressed in unadorned homespun tied at the waist with simple rope. As with the rest of that great gathering, no unifying thread of shared thought, belief or empathy joined the clergy into one.
Artorex gazed at his guests who were so symbolic of his divided, complex and vital people, and felt a very natural thrill of inadequacy.
But no hint of his inner turmoil was reflected in his calm face.
Artorex dismounted at the steps of the church and climbed the shallow incline to a curule chair of the Roman style, chosen specifically by Myrddion because it suggested power without the grandiosity of a throne. Artorex then turned to face the assembled kings, princes, priests and bishops, while Myrddion stepped forward to speak of the crowning of the king that would be.