by Sean Poage
“But we want him to think that we still plan to take Pictavis,” he said. “For that, I need a fast, clever force to keep them confused and distracted. Do you think you can take your turma into enemy territory, alone, wreak havoc for a month or so and return to us at Biturigas?”
“I will accomplish whatever task you give me,” Gawain looked up, smiling. He was eager and apprehensive. It would require the mobile, quick raids he had grown up hearing stories about and trained for, and he would be in sole command. It was an exciting challenge.
“Excellent,” Arthur smiled. “This will also provide us with more men familiar with the lands around Pictavis for our eventual march on that city.
“I’m going to assign a guide to your turma. A sharp fellow who grew up in these parts named Lloch,” Arthur said. He reached into a chest beside the table, removed a small jingling bag and set it in front of Gawain. “You’ll need to supply yourselves from the land and your plunder. But from time to time, if you need coin to complete this mission, this should help. Now for the details.”
For an hour longer, Arthur discussed goals, locations and options with Gawain, and quizzed him, helping Gawain imprint the map on his mind. As the sun sank into the west, Arthur congratulated him, wished him luck and dismissed him to prepare for the evening feast. Gawain returned to the barracks feeling exhausted.
It was a beautiful evening for the feast, with plenty of food and free-flowing ale, wine and mead. The wounded who were unable to walk were carried to the courtyard on litters. The unfortunate souls who had to stand watch were brought food to raise their spirits. Arthur moved about the hall talking to the men, praising their bravery and promising support to those too wounded to continue as soldiers. Every man that Arthur spoke to came away with the distinct impression that Arthur cared for him and believed in him personally. The loyalty and love he inspired were a palpable force.
Following the meal, Arthur stood in front of his table upon the raised dais and called up several of the men there. He told the gathering about acts of valour performed by each soldier, then gave them each a gift of some sort, such as rings, brooches, fine clothing and jugs of wine. The last man he called up was Gawain, and the courtyard reverberated with cheers, table banging and foot stomping. Arthur related the part Gawain played in the battle, embellishing lavishly, and finally rewarded him with a rich green cloak trimmed with gold thread and lined with ermine. When he was finished, Gawain stepped down from the platform and stood near it.
“My lord,” Gawain called up to the king. “I request your judgment, regarding my armiger, Peredur ap Efrawg.” Peredur’s head whipped around from the conversation he was having with Illtud.
“Ah, yes,” Arthur turned solemn, standing up as he was just about to sit. “Peredur ap Efrawg, come forward!” he barked. The crowd went silent, and Peredur, his face pale, stood and walked as steadily as he could to the platform.
“Peredur, I have been informed of your conduct during the battle here,” Arthur said. “And I have been asked to be your judge in this. Is it true that you are Gawain’s armiger?”
“Yes, my lord,” Peredur answered.
“Were you ordered to avoid combat?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did you engage the enemy?”
“Yes, my lord,” Peredur answered with a moment of hesitation.
“Have you been admitted to the warriors’ order?”
“No, my lord,” Peredur’s voice dropped.
Arthur went quiet for a moment, then took a step towards the edge of the platform. The added two feet of height imparted by the dais caused his already imposing frame to be truly daunting.
“The first, the most important, lesson a soldier learns is to follow orders,” Arthur said. “The accomplishment of the commander’s goals and the lives of your fellows depend upon it.” Peredur’s head drooped.
“Do you have anything to say in defence of your actions?” Arthur asked him.
After a moment in which Peredur seemed to struggle with what to say, he simply bowed his head and said, “No, my lord.”
The side of Arthur’s mouth turned up for a moment, then he continued. “Becoming a warrior is not the granting of privilege. It is the burden of duty. To follow the commands of your liege. To be responsible for your every action. To always be loyal, brave, honest and honourable. To defend the weak and to uphold the law.” Arthur paused again. The room was utterly silent. “I am prepared to offer my judgement.” Every man that was able stood with a rumble of sliding stools and thumping boots and faced the king. Even those too wounded to stand made their best effort. Peredur straightened, though his eyes remained downcast.
“Peredur!” Arthur barked, causing the young man to twitch. “Do you understand the responsibilities of a warrior?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Peredur!” Arthur continued. “Are you prepared to accept those responsibilities?”
“I—Yes, my lord!” Peredur’s eyes raised.
“Gawain!” Arthur barked. “Is this man properly trained and prepared to join the brotherhood of warriors?”
“He is, my lord.”
“By what token do you vouch for him?”
“With this, my lord,” Gawain said, unbuckling his sword, the re-worked spatha, and handing it and the belt to Arthur. It brought a gasp from the crowd. Formal training and initiation were uncommon for most soldiers, but when it occurred, such a token would typically be a brooch, a shield or perhaps a well-made knife. This was a kingly gift indeed.
Arthur slid the sword half from its sheath and inspected the blade, nodded with satisfaction and slammed it home. He then looked out at the assembled men and called out, “Is there any man here who would not stand shoulder to shoulder with Peredur ap Efrawg in battle?” The room remained silent.
“Then in view of all gathered here, and under the eyes of heaven,” Arthur called out, “I welcome you, Peredur ap Efrawg, to our brotherhood. Remember always your duty, and the example of our Lord Christ, who teaches us, ‘Greater love hath no one than this: that a man should lay down his life for his friends.’”
Arthur held the sword out to Gawain, who took it, knelt and buckled it around Peredur’s waist. Gawain then stood back as Arthur stepped down from the podium and embraced Peredur. The courtyard erupted into cheers, floor stamping and table pounding, as Gawain embraced Peredur, followed by the other members of the turma and then soldiers who stood nearby. Peredur, a smile etched into his face, was in a daze, overwhelmed by the surprise and the attention that went on long into the night, with drinking, singing, hearty backslapping and friendly insults.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Gawain struggled to get out of bed. Illtud and Cadwal were even less pleased, but agreed to meet with him in his room.
“This must be about the upcoming campaign,” Cadwal croaked. He choked down a mouthful of boiled cabbage broth, a dubious remedy for hangovers.
“What do you know about it?” Gawain asked. He had heard the rumours going around the night before but had said nothing.
“Idle chatter around the courtyard last night,” Illtud answered. “Mostly speculation, but generally that the next step is to march south and take a city or two. Pictavis, likely.”
“So do we ride to meet the army at Andecava?” Cadwal asked. “Or does the army come here first?”
“Neither,” Gawain said. “What I’m about to say is not spoken of again until we are well away from here. Is that understood?”
That caught both men’s attention, and they agreed, leaning in conspiratorially. Gawain related the gist of Arthur’s plan to them, leaving out unnecessary details such as the political situation. The men were stunned. Cadwal was excited at the prospect of roaming unfettered, while Illtud was apprehensive about being alone deep in enemy territory.
“Our primary goal is to convince Euric that Arthur is moving
against Pictavis,” Gawain continued. “To do this, we’ll expose ourselves in different places and times to appear to be the scouts in advance of his army.
“We must also reconnoitre the region so we may help guide the army when the time comes to move on that city. Finally, we’re to disrupt Euric’s ability to supply his army from that region. If he must bring supplies from further south, it’ll slow his movement, confine him to certain routes and make him more vulnerable to ambush.”
“We’re at the end of the harvesting season,” Illtud interjected. “It’s too late to burn most of their crops.”
“That’s true,” Gawain responded, “but, they’ll be busy with the threshing and storage of their grain, and the transportation of their food renders to Euric. We’ll target those activities.”
“A much more dangerous proposition,” Cadwal said, with an approving smile.
“Yes, it is. Moreover, there are certain restrictions the Rigotamos has put upon us,” Gawain said, using Arthur’s title to emphasise the seriousness of what he was to say.
“First, we do not harm innocent civilians,” Gawain continued. “If they oppose us, we do what we must, but we won’t be razing villages.”
“What’s this?” Cadwal scowled. “Is the Rigotamos so consumed by his Christian platitudes that he’d leave a hostile population in place to oppose him or to pursue us?”
“Consider your place,” Gawain growled. “And think beyond the reach of your spear. We won’t be able to destroy all the food they’re gathering, but every living mouth will need to be fed from what remains, leaving even less for Euric.
“You should also know that the Vesi conquered those lands to take tribute, preferring to settle their own people further south. Many still live there who were born Roman citizens. Arthur intends to foment rebellion against Euric whenever possible, and our orders work towards that goal, as well.”
Cadwal, chastised, grunted and nodded, showing grudging respect and sudden understanding.
“Second, we do not pillage churches,” Gawain continued. Illtud nodded approvingly, though Cadwal showed his frustration.
“Then they’ll learn to hide their riches in the churches,” he protested.
“How much do you think you’ll be able to carry?” Gawain asked. Cadwal started to speak but paused as he tried to think of Gawain’s angle. Gawain waited a moment before resuming. “We’ll constantly be moving, often pursued. Wagonloads of gold won’t be an option. And when we return with the army, we’ll know where to look, won’t we?” Gawain grinned, soothing Cadwal’s ire.
“What other restrictions has our lord placed upon us?” Cadwal grumbled.
“Only those two,” Gawain answered. “And that we avoid capture for at least a month. After that, anything torture could get from us will be useless to the enemy.”
That sobering comment caused even Cadwal to pause before he shrugged and replied, “I’d rather avoid capture altogether.” The other two agreed, chuckling.
Gawain wrapped up with a few instructions for the turma to depart the next day, then they went out to wake the others and have them prepare. The rest were only told that they would be scouts in advance of the army’s march on Pictavis, but when Gawain and Gareth were alone, inspecting the horses, Gawain told Gareth everything he knew.
“Why do you tell me this now?” Gareth asked, alarmed. “You want me to swim after those ships heading home?”
“Of course not,” Gawain grimaced. “You’re the one I trust most, and if something happens to me, it would be good if someone knew enough to get our people home. Also, you speak Latin and lie better than Satan, which will be useful if we must deal with locals.”
“Only if they’re wealthy widows,” Gareth shot back, leading a pair of horses out to exercise.
They packed and prepared for the rest of the day. Gawain sent several of the junior men to the market to buy food and other necessaries. When Illtud and Cadwal looked askance at this decision, he shrugged and said he wanted to test their honesty and ability. In fact, he was counting on loose tongues to spread the word that the army was preparing to move on Pictavis.
Mabon was irritated to learn he would have to leave his slave behind, but he found a convalescing soldier of the Alt Clut contingent to entrust him to.
The next day, as the sun began her climb up the eastern horizon, Gawain and his men gathered at the south gate with their horses and gear. They were twenty-nine, as Peredur now took his place in Illtud’s line, in the position formerly held by Atfodla.
While they were adjusting saddles and other gear, Arthur and Lloch rode up with several of Arthur’s guard. Arthur greeted each of Gawain’s men warmly, expressing his appreciation and admiration for their bravery and dedication. If anyone had doubts or fears, they were swept away by the force of Arthur’s personality and enthusiasm.
Lloch was a short, wiry man, beardless, with leathery skin and a fringe of greying hair around a shiny dome. He went barefoot and dressed lightly despite the chilly morning. He fell into Gawain’s line, requiring a man to move to Cadwal’s line to replace Got. Mabon volunteered, as he and Cadwal had become good friends.
After introductions, Arthur pulled Gawain aside and quizzed him on some of the mission details. After ensuring Gawain had committed everything to memory, Arthur glanced around, then removed a small, heavy package from under his cloak and handed it to Gawain.
“I need this delivered to someone,” Arthur whispered. “Before you begin the operation. He’s a wine merchant named Nonus with a shop outside the walls of Pictavis. Offer him the contents of this bag for some wine of Treveris, accept whatever he offers, then leave. Have no other contact with him, nor tell him who you are.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gawain nodded, curious, but holding his tongue. “Will you return to the army soon?”
“Soon,” Arthur answered, turning and walking with Gawain to the open gate. “Hoel, the king of these lands and those to the north-west, will be arriving today with his soldiers to take custody of the city. It’s too bad you won’t be able to meet him; he’s a good man. I’ll leave in a few days with our garrison and those wounded who can travel, as well as additional horses and supplies he’s providing.”
After some final words of encouragement and blessings from Arthur, the troop filed out of the gate, leading their horses. They passed the burned remains of the town that had stood outside the walls and made their way to the wharf.
The Leger was a wide river dotted with marshy islands. The old wooden bridges built by the Romans had long before deteriorated to the point that they were pulled down to prevent the ruins from blocking shipping. Barges ferried them across to a deserted town that had been known as Ratiatis. The ghostly ruins made the men uneasy as they waited for everyone to be brought across, and they were happy to set off on a dilapidated road that ran south.
Lloch soon led them off the road and into a forest where Gawain called a halt and caught them up on the details of their mission. There was some apprehension at being so isolated from the army, but pride in being chosen for such an important assignment kept the men positive and enthusiastic.
Lloch led them along narrow, hidden paths away from the few settlements and homesteads that dotted the region. On the fourth day, he led them into a small, wooded valley and announced that they were within a few hours of Pictavis.
“Set camp here and explore the area around,” Gawain said. “Tomorrow Lloch will give us a closer look at the city.” They went to work following the same stealthy principles used on the march to Namnetis.
The next morning, he left Mabon to supervise the camp while Gareth, Illtud and Cadwal joined him and Lloch to get a view of the city and its surroundings. They rode west and then south to circumvent the town and approach from the opposite direction.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they sat concealed in some trees overlooking the valley and the town on its hill. T
hey could see movement but were too far away to make out any military activities. Cadwal suggested they get closer, but Lloch warned that they might be discovered by a patrol. This provided Gawain with an excuse to go into town himself.
“A pair of travellers on their way through would be less suspicious,” Gawain said. “Gareth, you come with me. Lloch, lead the men around to the eastern road. We’ll meet you along that route after we get a closer view.”
Illtud and Cadwal argued that it was a reckless plan, and though Gareth said nothing, it was evident he agreed with them. Lloch said nothing, and Gawain was firm in his decision, so he and Gareth left their weapons and anything that marked them as soldiers with the others and made their way down to the road. They walked into town while Lloch led Illtud and Cadwal to the east to go around the city.
“The hero talk seems to have gone to your head,” Gareth grumbled once they were well away from the others.
“I know it looks that way,” Gawain replied. “But I have to do this to complete another task Arthur gave me.” He handed the bag to Gareth and told him about Arthur’s peculiar instructions. Gareth peered into the bag and extracted a long, thin leather belt with a very crude gold buckle.
“What’s this about?” Gareth frowned. “The buckle looks like it was made in a mud mould.”
Gawain had already examined it and noted that it was similar to the belt he had delivered to Myrddin a couple of months earlier. The leather was different, but it also bore the strange mixture of straight and slanted hash marks cut into the leather along both edges.