by Sean Poage
“What do horns and hooves have to do with steel?” Gawain asked, nervous and curious about this talk of spells and reagents.
“To pass the essence of the animal to the blade,” Tohodyfn answered as if Gawain should have known that. “The strength of a bull is held in his horns and hooves. The bones of a warrior are better, but the priests have seen an end to that,” he grumbled. “I’ll need you to grind these while I prepare the blade.”
Gawain agreed, and they settled on a price. More than Gawain thought the sword was worth, but one did not just throw away a sword, and it was useless in its current condition. Tohodyfn set to work removing the pommel, grip and hilt from the blade before putting it into the forge to heat. Gawain used a stone mill to grind broken pieces of hooves and horn into a coarse meal.
When he had finished, he thanked Tohodyfn and set out for Cei’s house behind one of the barracks buildings. Gawain waited outside as a few other men trickled in and joined him, eventually forming a group of ten. While waiting, they chatted about the upcoming meeting, and Gawain learnt that they were all assigned as Decuriones under one of Cei’s two cavalry wings. Three were from the Gododdin contingent, while the rest were from the cavalry of Alt Clut, though none whom Gawain knew well. Nobody knew if Modred had been given a command, as he had been away on patrol for several days. Gawain was the youngest of the lot and received somewhat sceptical looks from the more seasoned warriors.
Finally, the door to the house opened, and a servant ushered the men into the central room, where they stood near the hearth and waited for Cei to arrive. Within a few minutes, they heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs at the back of the room, and he appeared, looking tired and stern.
He directed them to find seats on the few benches or the floor, while he poured himself a mug of ale and took a long drink before turning to address them.
“Arthur has honoured me with command of a legion.” He paused to look doubtfully around the room. “Such as it is.
“Each of you is appointed a Decurion to my second ala. The first is already in Letavia, as are the first six turma of your ala. Take a shard from this bag. It bears the number of your turma.” He handed a bag to the first man to his right, and it was passed around, each taking a piece of broken pottery out. Gawain’s bore ‘IX’, the Ninth Turma of the Second Ala of Cei’s legion. It was a very propitious number.
“In Gaul, you’ll report to your praefectus, Hyfaidd. He will give you your specific assignments. But as Decuriones, your duties include training and leading your men in battle, arranging their portion of the camp, inspecting the security of your part of the camp, inspecting the sick quarters, attending the soldiers’ mealtimes to ensure the quartermasters are not cheating, and hearing complaints and punishing offences.
“Your rank is not a privilege. It is an obligation,” Cei said sharply. “More will be demanded of you than of any man in your command. Lead by example, see to their well-being, and your men will elevate the fame of your name.” Cei relaxed and leant back against a table.
“We set out the day after tomorrow. For months, the Rigotamos has been preparing for this campaign and moving much of his army to Letavia. While waiting for you, they’ve been clearing the northern shores of Saxon pirates and settlers. Upon our arrival, preparation gives way to action as we march south, to Namnetis on the Leger River. The Leger valley is infested with Saxon pirates, and they hold the town. Retaking it is the first step towards securing our lines of supply before facing the Vesi.
“Now I must address the issue of our transport. To provide the great number of ships needed to transport his army to Gaul, the Rigotamos has had to resort to an unpleasant, but necessary expediency. He has hired Saxon ships.” Cei paused to allow the expected wave of shock and babble run its course. When it had subsided, he gave them a brief explanation, similar to what Gawain had heard from Gwenwyn. It did not convince many.
“Understand this,” Cei glared at the faces around the room. “It is not open to debate. The success of this endeavour rides upon these ships. These Saxon seamen have acted honourably to this point, and that has much to do with the efforts of our leaders, such as yourselves. You must impress on your men that any instigation of strife will be dealt with harshly. Any problems with the Saxon crews are to be brought to your attention and higher as needed. Is this absolutely clear?” Everyone voiced assent, and Cei continued.
“That is all for now. Go to the camp, meet your men and prepare them for what’s ahead. My father has spent the morning organising the men into their troops. It’s a thankless but necessary job, and no one will question his decisions. Is that clear?” Nervous assent was mumbled by all, and Cei stood.
“Good. You are dismissed.”
They walked back to camp through drizzling rain and passed the infantry, who were drawn up according to their new command structure. The men of the cavalry stood in the field on the other side of the road in ten groups of twenty-nine, waiting for their commanders. Cynyr stood in front of them speaking to Presuda, Cunbelin and Aergyn until the new Decuriones had assembled nearby.
“Each of you has been chosen for command based on the ability you’ve displayed during your training sessions,” Cynyr began. He knew them all well enough from the training, but Gawain knew that it often had more to do with social status and patronage.
“Our current contingent of cavalrymen conveniently divides evenly amongst you,” Cynyr continued. “We’ve done our best to keep together kin groups, though it hasn’t always been possible. However, we fight as one army and will seldom be much separated.” He paused to open the wooden lid of a wax writing tablet. Gawain’s coriios was small, but he was nervous about being separated from his men.
Cynyr started by calling out the numbers of each turma, and when the Ninth was called, Gawain stepped forward. Cynyr looked at Gawain, checked his list, then pointed towards a group. Gawain was elated to see familiar faces there and hurried to join them.
“Your merry band of troublemakers has grown significantly,” Gareth grinned. “Peredur is attending to camp.” He was likewise greeted by Keir, Mabon and Teilo, while the rest looked on apprehensively. Gawain noticed this and stepped out of the huddle to address the others.
“I’ve been honoured with the leadership of this troop,” Gawain said to all of them. “Pray for me, that God makes me worthy of the task and your trust.” His humility made a visible impact, but he wanted to be sure that he did not appear weak, so he continued in a stronger voice.
“I will expect much of each of you, but nothing more than I am willing to endure,” he said, looking around at the faces, clustered together in peer groups. About half he recognised from the Alt Clut contingent, most of the others were of the Gododdin, and three he did not recognise at all. “We’re of different tribes, but as of now, we’re brothers. We do not refer to ourselves as Alt Clut, or Gododdin, or anything but soldiers of the Ninth Turma. Is this understood?” There was an awkward murmur, as the men glanced around at the strangers nearby.
“Is this understood?” Gawain barked, causing those around him to take a step back and heads to turn from other points in the field. A definite, if still somewhat subdued, affirmation rumbled from the group. Gawain had some work ahead of him.
After each Decurion had been assigned, Cynyr called them back.
“You’ll be busy assuming your command,” he said. “You must each choose your second and third, as well as prepare for the march to the ships. Each man may only bring what he can carry on his own back. Saddles and tack will be supplied upon arrival at Aletum.”
“My lord,” one of the men interrupted, earning a glare from Cynyr. “What of our horses and tack? They won’t be coming with us?”
“Space on the ships is limited,” Cynyr answered. “It’s more efficient to use the horses that are set aside for you in Letavia. You may arrange for your animals to be cared for here, sell them or arrange for them to be sen
t to your home.”
Some unhappy looks were his only response, and the meeting was adjourned. Gawain returned to his troop and gave them the latest news, bringing a burst of dismay from many. After the furore had died down, Gawain spent several minutes ensuring everyone was introduced. The men of Alt Clut and Gododdin melded easily, most having connections of some sort through kin or friends.
Two of the soldiers, Padern and Pedr, were brothers from Anderida, a walled town far to the east, bordering the lands controlled by the Saxons in Cantia. They were young warriors who had travelled to Cadubrega against their father’s will to fight for the king who made the Saxons flee at the rumour of his approach.
The third stranger introduced himself as Illtud, the son of a minor chieftain near Dolus in Letavia, not far from Aletum. Gawain was glad to have him as a source of information about where they were going.
Many had questions, especially of what to expect in Gaul. Gawain said only that they would receive their specific instructions on arriving in Aletum. He told the men to see to their preparations and to meet together that evening for their meal. He then set off for the market.
With a larger group and the need to strike a bond quickly, Gawain expected to have to pay dearly for the provisions to entertain his troops that night. But the merchants had caught wind of the army’s impending departure and were having a bit of a fire sale while they still had an abundance of customers.
Those arrangements made, he went to find Peredur, who was in an open area, exercising their horses. Peredur congratulated Gawain on his new commission, and Gawain praised Peredur for his hard work. He then quizzed him on his cavalryman’s knowledge and progress in Latin and was quite pleased with the results. Peredur would be ready to take his place as a fully-fledged member of the cavalry before long.
But for now, something had to be done about their horses. Gawain was a bit dismayed by the thought of leaving them behind but also relieved that they would be safe while he was in Gaul. War could be harder on horses than on the men they bore. He did not want to sell them, and having them sent home would be difficult. He had an inspiration and went to find Glyf.
The old warrior was in his usual place, supervising the younger soldiers on the south gate. He greeted Gawain with relative warmth and congratulated Gawain on his promotion. Word certainly travelled in this community.
“Glyf, I need your advice,” Gawain began.
“Of course you do,” Glyf replied. “About what?”
“I need to hire a family nearby who I can trust to care for my horses while I am away. Is there someone you can recommend?”
“Certainly,” Glyf nodded. “Me. And do not think of paying me. You saved my life, and this is the least I can do in return.”
Gawain gratefully accepted, after first convincing Glyf to take a small sum to pay for the horses’ provisions for a year. They chatted a bit about each horse’s peculiarities and then bade each other farewell, as the time for the evening meal was approaching.
On the walk back, Gawain passed closed to Tohodyfn’s workshop, so he decided to stop by and check on the progress. The glow of the forge showed around a screen in front of the opening, so Gawain stepped around it. The smith was alone, his back to him, standing over a long iron box, and pouring what looked like a mixture of charcoal dust and the powdered horn over Gawain’s sword blade. Gawain looked on with interest until Tohodyfn finished packing the powder down with clay and placed a tight-fitting lid over the box while muttering what Gawain realised was poorly pronounced Latin.
“Equifacies sum ac stultus,” Tohodyfn repeated, striking the lid with a hammer. Gawain was startled and jumped, causing Tohodyfn to spin around in surprise, his face turning red in either anger or embarrassment.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “How long have you been there? Spying on me?”
“No! Of course not,” Gawain asserted. “I just came by to see how the blade was coming along. I meant no harm.”
“Did you hear the words I spoke over your sword?” Tohodyfn eyed Gawain suspiciously. “Those are words of enchantment that Myrddin taught me. Any man repeating those words without the proper instruction would be destroyed!”
“I—uh, no,” Gawain stuttered, utterly confused now. Obviously, Tohodyfn did not speak Latin, because the phrase he uttered meant something along the lines of, ‘I am a horse-faced idiot’. Gawain couldn’t imagine how that could be part of a spell, and he didn’t want to get involved in a dispute, so he said he had just arrived and apologised for disturbing him, as he backed out of the workshop. Tohodyfn said nothing but glowered at him until he was outside again. Gawain shook his head, stifled a laugh and hurried back to camp.
That night, the men of the Ninth Turma gathered for food, drink and to start the bonding that is so vital to soldiers. It allowed Gawain an opportunity to meet each member of the troop and begin to evaluate him. He would need to deal with the politically sticky issue of how to arrange the turma into three files of ten men. Gawain was the leader of the turma, but also led the first file. Whomever he chose for second and third in command would lead the corresponding files. He would undoubtedly have to appoint one of the Gododdin to prevent even the appearance of favouritism to his own.
Among the Gododdin, there was a clear leader, Cadwaladr, or Cadwal, as his companions called him. He was an overbearing braggart, and Gawain was not sure he was the best man for the job, but the others of his group looked up to him and expected that he would be their leader. Better to have him on Gawain’s side than causing trouble in the background.
Gawain saw Illtud sitting quietly among the group, listening and smiling, but contributing little. He sat down beside him and struck up a conversation, quickly finding Illtud to be a friendly and intelligent young man, and very unlike most warriors.
Illtud’s parents had raised him to join the clergy and had given him an extensive classical education including scripture, philosophy, geometry, arithmetic, rhetoric and Greek as well as Latin. His father had sent him to Britain to study under Bishop Eldadus of Cair Gloui, but Illtud had fallen in love with Trynihid, the daughter of one of Arthur’s warriors, and had married her. With his father-in-law’s help, he had joined Arthur’s army to provide for her and appease her father. Now he found himself preparing to return to the lands of his birth to fight a war. Unlike most of the young men who were forever discussing what was to come, he remained patiently stoic about the future. That night Gawain offered him the position of Duplicarius, his second in command, and leader of the turma’s second file.
The next morning Gawain awoke with the pounding head that indicated a successful night. It also came with the realisation that he had acted somewhat rashly in making Illtud his second over more experienced members of the group. He may have been a good choice, but it might cause issues, even resentment among his fellows.
The snoring of the other men in the tent was broken by a groan and loud fart from Gareth, nearby. Gawain grimaced and shoved him away with his foot, eliciting a garbled protest. Gawain sat up, rubbed his head and started dressing.
“Why are you getting up?” Gareth said groggily. “It may be the last day you can sleep all you wish for quite some time.”
“Because you’re stinking the tent up so much I can’t breathe,” Gawain answered.
“You are quite the delicate flower,” Gareth yawned.
After a pause, Gawain apprehensively stated, “Last night I gave the second and third files to Illtud and Cadwal.”
“Oh, good,” Gareth replied. “I was worried you’d try to saddle me with the job.”
“I’m not that great a fool,” Gawain retorted. “Though it crossed my mind that you might be offended that I didn’t offer you the post. Or how it might be viewed by others of our coriios, particularly some of the more experienced men.”
“Gawain,” Gareth lifted his head up to look at his friend. “Who is the leader of ou
r coriios?”
“Well, I am.”
“And of our turma?”
“What’s your point?” Gawain frowned.
“My point is that you must stop worrying about what others will think of your decisions before you’ve had time to see the results. You’ve been appointed commander twice now,” Gareth rolled over and pulled his cloak over his head. “There’s a reason men keep putting their faith in you, so stop doubting yourself and be the leader we will need.”
Gawain sat for a moment thinking, then stood and quietly left the tent. The sun was just lighting a sky covered in thin clouds that would burn off by midday. He poured a cup of water from a rain barrel over his head and thought about what Gareth had said. It was good to have a friend who could be blatantly frank when needed.
The rest of the day was subdued, with Sunday Mass and clean-up around the encampments. There was an air of excitement as the men prepared for the next day’s march. Arthur quietly appeared among them, speaking words of encouragement and praise for their hard work and for the deeds he was certain they would accomplish. It increased their morale and endeared him to them.
Well past midday, a horn sounded beyond the walls, and soon a troop of horsemen leading a riderless horse and a string of half a dozen forlorn female captives on foot entered the fort. Gawain recognised Modred at the head of the column and hurried to the barracks where they had stopped.
A few of the men had minor wounds, and Gawain was surprised to see human heads tied to the fronts of several saddles by their hair. Modred, in high spirits, moved amongst the men, helping as needed and speaking words of encouragement. When he spotted Gawain, he broke into a grin and walked up, arms wide to embrace him.
“Gawain! I’m glad you’re here. I believe we’ve delivered some vengeance upon the villains who ambushed you!”