by Paul Finch
“Not yet!” Arthur replied, stepping back to gain his breath. “We’ve still no more than bloodied their nose. We neither commit our reserve nor move from this position of strength until we are absolutely ready.”
But the ‘position of strength’ was failing them.
The sheer numbers of the Roman infantry pushed them steadily backward. No matter how many were chopped down, more legionaries stepped into the gaps, their sturdy hide and timber shields filled with broken arrows, their blades of their axes or gladii or the spiked and knobbed heads of their maces smeared with a sludge of brains and blood as they cut and hacked and smashed.
“Sire, we can’t hold them!” a ventenar25 screamed, blinded by a gash on his brow.
Arthur fought back gamely, Excalibur flashing as he smote arms, shoulders and necks, sundering all in ruby fountains, and yet he knew he could not ignore the pleas of his men. Bedivere’s sword and shield had broken, so he grabbed the pole-axe strapped to his back. He thrust its spear-point into the groins of the Romans, slammed its hammerhead down on their skulls, reversed the weapon and clove to them to the teeth with its axe-blade. But still the enemy poured forth like a flood-tide.
“Sire!” the wounded ventenar shrieked.
“My liege, he’s right!” Bedivere cried.
Arthur again stepped backward, spattered with ordure. “In that case,” he shouted, “unleash the fire!”
The first projectiles Arthur’s war-machines launched were earthenware pots, each containing a hundred gallons of naphtha, their vents crammed with burning rags. They sailed over the top of the battle-front, spinning, travelling deep into the guts of the Roman force, where they blasted apart, spraying liquid fire in every direction, immolating dozens of legionaries at a time.
Men watched aghast as their own hands blazed in front of their scorched faces, the flesh and muscle melting away, leaving bare bones. They screamed like banshees as they tore off their cloaks, their surcoats, even their corselets and hauberks, but always the unquenchable flame ate its way through. Seared and hysterical, cavalry horses stampeded regardless of their riders’ efforts, trampling over dead and wounded alike, breaking ribs and crushing faces. After the naphtha came tubs of quicklime and sulphur, spreading in corrosive plumes amid the packed, panicking troops, blinding and choking them. Barrels of pitch and bubbling oil followed, scalding and blistering those caught in their deluge, igniting furiously.
“I see King Arthur likes to use fire,” Emperor Lucius screamed. Strands of froth hung from his lips. His eyes rolled like jade baubles in a face grey and running with sweat. “As he likes fire so much, fire will be his future. Write this, scribe!” he screeched, though there was no scribe near enough to take his words down. “All prisoners of war taken this day are condemned to death, the prescribed method to be cremation on the griddle, and in the case of the King himself...” Lucius gave a shriek of deranged laughter. “The King will be fried in a great pan, which will first have been greased with tallow drawn from the burnt husks of his knights!”
But fire was not the only weapon Arthur’s artillery now turned on the Romans still vastly outnumbering him. After the boiling oil, Arthur’s ballistae discharged fresh clouds of arrows, while his onagers hurled linen sacks, loosely tied, each containing ten thousand lead balls. As their bindings broke in mid-air, they spread out and rained across a wide area. Men and horses dropped side by side, struck hundreds of times over.
Inevitably, the Romans’ frontal assault began to wane; Arthur and his infantry felt the force pitched against them weakening. He and his men were no longer retreating but advancing, stepping over the heaps of newly slain. Bedivere broke his pole-axe when he clove a centurion from the crown of his head to the tip of his chin, and in so doing gained a clearer picture of the field beyond. The Romans still had overwhelming numbers, and continued to flow forward, though now their formations were riven apart and they were advancing loosely and in disorder.
“Now, sire!” Bedivere called. “Now must be the time!”
“Aye,” Arthur agreed. “Now is the time.”
Twenty
THERE HAD NEVER been any such person as Saint Belladonna, which ought to have suggested, to the few Ligurian peasants who knew about the Convent of St. Belladonna, that it wasn’t actually a convent at all, even if it did utilise a genuine old convent building located in a high, secluded valley.
More than likely the few rustics who worked in the convent grounds, minding the sheep and goats, tending the vegetable gardens and keeping the paths clear, were well aware that the nuns of St. Belladonna’s were somewhat younger and comelier than was the norm. They must have thought it inappropriate that the sisters wore habits which were more like sleeveless, knee-length togas, revealing much indecent jewelry, and kept their long, lustrous hair bound beneath dainty head-scarves rather than veils or wimples. But as the regular procession of male callers at St. Belladonna’s included priests, bishops and even cardinals, as well as the usual dukes, barons and merchants, who were the gardeners to complain?
On a warm afternoon in early summer, one particular new arrival set an elderly shepherd called Marcus hurrying from the outer pastures and along the valley road. Marcus was a tough, wiry man, brown-skinned, with long, grey hair and a long, grey beard. And though, at eighty, he didn’t generally hurry anywhere, the sight of the black enamel coach with the eight sleek horses drawing it provoked in him an almost unnatural degree of energy. For all his sprightliness he entered the convent by the tradesman’s door only a minute before the black coach, with its gilded sculptures and its colossal red-cowled driver, halted at the front entrance.
As Duchess Zalmyra stepped onto the forecourt, the convent door swung open, and the ‘Mother-Superior’ emerged. Her name was Esmerelda. She too had once been a comely lass, though now her slender form had turned buxom and her golden hair had wizened to grey. As such, the garb she wore was perhaps more in keeping with her title. Her robe was cinched at the waist with a simple leather belt, and fell to her sandalled feet. Her head-scarf was more demurely tied, so that not a lock or even a wisp of hair escaped to hang fetchingly over her handsome young-old face.
“Ma’am?” she said, hands clasped.
“You received my message?” Zalmyra asked brusquely.
“I did, ma’am. I have a girl who I think will please you.”
“Let me see.”
ZARA WAS NOT yet seventeen, but pretty as a Mediterranean flower: lightly tanned, with hazel eyes and lush ripples of dark brown hair. She had only been at St. Belladonna’s six weeks, but had already serviced many illustrious clients, including some who had been back to see her again and again. She had thus learned quickly, and already had a pouch of personal gold stored in a knapsack in her boudoir.
She stood upright as she waited in the antechamber, hands behind her back. She possessed an air of confidence, for she knew that she filled her knee-length toga to perfection. But she also affected humility, for some of those who came here were not always happy unless they felt they were depraving an innocent.
When Esmerelda showed in Duchess Zalmyra, Zara did not blink. She had entertained wealthy women before – it was not unusual, and this one had the regal air of an aristocrat. By her flimsy attire and the fine naked form beneath, she was also, quite evidently, a sensualist.
Esmerelda stood primly to one side while Zalmyra circled the patiently waiting ‘sister,’ who smiled meekly.
Zalmyra finally spoke. “You will come with me, girl. To my home.”
For the first time, Zara was surprised. This had never happened before. She glanced at Esmerelda, who nodded.
“Bring all your belongings,” Zalmyra added.
Again, Zara was surprised. Again, she glanced at her mistress.
“This will be a lengthy assignment,” Esmerelda explained.
Zara shrugged. She supposed it was all in a day’s work for her. Or a week’s. Or even a month’s. It made no real difference in the end, except that on this occasion maybe s
he would be even more lavishly treated than usual. Bowing to Zalmyra, she withdrew from the room. When the door was closed, Zalmyra turned to Esmerelda.
“There is no-one who will miss her?”
“No-one, ma’am. She came to us a foundling.”
“But she has made close friends in the order, no doubt?”
“All my sisters know that some must move on. Not all vocations are strong.”
“And none of them will seek her out?”
“They haven’t sought any of those others who’ve left with you.”
Zalmyra smiled coldly. “When she comes down again, escort her to my carriage personally. It may put her at ease.”
Twenty-One
“THE SIGNAL!” BENEDICT cried from above. “The signal!”
The knights and men-at-arms glanced up, alerted. They too heard it – the three-note clarion call they had been waiting for.
“Mount up!” Lucan called to his mesnie.
With hurried shouts and a neighing of nervous steeds, men leapt into the saddle. Lucan turned to Turold, who hefted the black banner. They nodded at each other. Lucan glanced at Alaric – the lad’s face was bright with sweat, but he, too, nodded.
“Remember, this is not a tourney,” Lucan instructed him gravely. “These Romans have come here to kill you. To kill all of us. And when we are gone, to enslave and despoil our families. There’s only one penalty for that... they must die.”
Alaric mopped the spittle from his lips, and lowered his visor.
THE WEST GULLY wherein Lucan and his household had been waiting contained the retinues of a many other illustrious names: Bors, Cador, Lanval, Bellangere, Daniel, Sagramore, Agravain, Galezzin, Tor and the two sons of the late King Pellinore, Lamorak and Aglovale – some six thousand men in total, all skilled and seasoned to battle.
They thundered down the gully at a canter, their horses picking up speed as the narrow passage widened out, finally emerging on the hillside to the rear of Arthur’s infantry. Briefly, Alaric lifted his visor to survey the scene. To their right, the longbow men were at rest – they didn’t want to strike their own men, and at any rate were surrounded by empty carts and wagons which earlier in the day had been piled with sheaves of arrows. Directly ahead, the infantry broke apart to create an aisle maybe fifty yards in width. Beyond that lay the open field, and a monstrous clutter of the dead, dying and maimed, stretching as far as the eye could see.
But the Romans were not yet at bay. Immense numbers were still to the fore. Their foot-companies clashed with Arthur’s infantry, and to the rear of those, more cavalry cohorts were advancing, although there were broad gaps between them.
As Arthur’s cavalry drove down through the carnage, their canter accelerated to a gallop, the rumble of their hooves amplifying to a thunderous roar. Alaric glanced left. There was no sign yet of the knights from the east gully.
At the point of the charge Lucan rode like the wind, his pace never flagging as the two forces meshed. One Roman horseman came against him after another, many armed with lances. He bore past them all, Heaven’s Messenger striking flesh and bone like a spear of flame. If they weren’t in his path, he veered towards them, his wolf-fur billowing. They drew blades and mattocks against him, but his sword always struck true, colossal strokes dispatching legionaries from this world as wind blows flies from a carcass. Even when he found himself amid a cluster of them, Heaven’s Messenger spun in a blur, smiting skulls, chopping necks. These were the men of the Eighth Legion, distinctive in their maroon livery. Expert horsemen by all accounts, masters of the sabre. But Lucan slew all he came to. He barely felt their retaliatory blows, barely noticed that his shield was soon broken or his mail rent and leaking blood. He slew and slew like a thing possessed, striking the blades from their hands, shearing through their corselets and helms.
Alaric could barely keep up. He too engaged with the Romans. He found their resistance strong, a genuine challenge; the savagery of this fight was a far cry from the practised skills and gallant courtesies of the tournament. He dispatched a couple, but in many places he only just managed to evade their slashing blades. A stinging blow from a chain-mace tore his visor away and almost knocked him senseless. He struck back, but his attention was divided between the honour of combat and the pursuit of his master, who he felt sure was now ranging the field like a spectre of death with but one target in mind.
Lucan was already halfway down the vale, much of the Roman horse having fallen back under the first onslaught of Arthur’s knights, when Alaric galloped up to him, pink-faced and sweating, blood dribbling from his broken nose. Lucan whipped around, fleetingly mistaking the lad for an enemy. Alaric reined back, but Lucan saw him in time and restrained his blow. Before they could speak, Alaric saw something else which distracted him. He pointed past Lucan’s shoulder, eyes wide. Lucan glanced around, and then removed his helmet. His sweat-soaked hair was streaked across his ghost-like features, and his steel-grey eyes gleamed like dagger-tips as they focused on the immense construction which had emerged from the Roman ranks and was now advancing ponderously towards them. It resembled a wheeled fortress, some forty yards across and maybe fourteen feet tall. It was built from solid timber and hung with shields, and had a battlemented upper rim. Even from this distance the earth seemed seemed to shake to its progress.
“My God!” Alaric stammered. “What... what is that?”
“A Hell-Breather,” Lucan replied grimly.
“A Hell-Breather?”
“I’ve heard about these things, but never actually seen one.”
“How does it move?”
“Inside it there’ll be maybe a hundred oxen yoked together, and their drivers. And elite troops, of course, waiting to burst out once it breaches our defences.”
The approaching monstrosity’s upper deck supported ballistae, onagers and packs of archers, who moved freely from one parapet to the other and were already busy picking off those of Arthur’s horsemen who’d been reckless enough to ride into range. However, its lower deck was even more heavily armed. From the front and on either side of it, great fire-tubes – cast-iron cylinders, their muzzles carved like dragons’ mouths – protruded from horizontal ports. Smoke poured out of them; inside the belly of the beast they’d be attached to cauldrons filled with bubbling, flaming mixtures of sulfur and pitch, constantly heated by glowing-hot coals, and immense pairs of bellows, which teams of sweating engineers would work frenziedly. The result was plumes of jetting fire, which could engulf any opponent venturing within thirty yards.
Alaric watched, aghast, as gouts of liquid death blazed out, men and their chargers tearing away shrieking as they turned into living torches. Those who evaded the flames were simply shot from their saddles by the archers on the roof. One fellow – Lucan recognised him as Crispin Roncesvalles, the messenger who had first brought news of the crisis – was struck by maybe six shafts at once. He’d have dropped to the ground had he not been sewn to his own saddle. His corpse hung limply, flopping back and forth, as his terrified animal bolted away.
OTHERS OF LUCAN’S mesnie now rode up: Wulfstan, Turold, Gerwin, Brione, and Benedict. All were begrimed and bloodied.
“God’s bread,” Turold said. “Is that a Hell-Breather?”
The great machine was now about seventy yards away. They could hear the heavy trundle of its wheels and iron under-carriage, the creak and groan of its timber bulwarks.
“These machines are not invulnerable and have slow impetus,” Lucan said. “But if it reaches our line, the King’s position is compromised.”
“Lure it within range of our catapults,” Alaric suggested.
Lucan shook his head. “No. It would have won the Romans too much ground by then. Look what’s coming behind it.” Large numbers of Romans, mostly those who had fallen back under the British cavalry charge, were re-forming to its rear. “No,” he added. “We need to stop it here.”
He licked his lips as he studied the contraption, assessing it for any weakness. On campa
ign, Lucan always carried a rope and a grappling-hook; even now it hung in a coil alongside his saddle. But on this occasion that would make him too easy a target. He spied another way to gain entrance. The Hell-Breather’s front hoardings cleared the ground by about a foot and a half, to allow it to progress over a field littered with corpses; more than enough for Lucan’s purpose.
“Turold. Take any men you can gather and attack it from the west.”
“My lord?” Turold looked baffled and not a little frightened.
“Draw its archers’ attention away from the front. You hear me?”
Turold nodded and slammed down his visor.
“Alaric, go with him.” Lucan handed his reins over and dismounted. “And take Nightshade.”
Alaric looked startled. “You’re not taking that thing on alone, my lord? You could be killed!”
“We’re in the middle of a battle, Alaric. We could all be killed.”
“Everyone, follow me,” Turold shouted. He wheeled his animal around and commenced a wide, circling gallop westward of the vast machine. The others followed, including Alaric, now leading the riderless Nightshade. Arrows slanted towards them as they entered range; one of the gallopers at the rear – a straggler from another formation – was hit in the armpit and slumped sideways from his saddle.
The Hell-Breather, meanwhile, was drawing steadily closer.
Lucan replaced his helmet and lay down flat in its path, hoping to conceal himself among the many other sprawled, broken bodies. As furtively as he could, he slid Heaven’s Messenger from its scabbard and placed it by his side, one hand clasping its hilt. With a noise like the breaking of the heavens, the mechanism was now maybe twenty yards away from him. The ground quaked to the clanging of its undercarriage, to the squeal of its wheels, to the lowing and grunting of the animals inside.