by Paul Finch
“The Empire is strong too...”
“The Empire has died, Urgol. This last week. Emperor Lucius is slain, and he took his empire with him.”
Urgol did not ask how she knew this. His mistress had many complex devices: scrying-stones, crystal orbs, mirrors filled with swirling mist which gave glimpses of the future. But this was troubling news to him.
Duchess Zalmyra held that she lived outside the laws of men, but it had long been a benefit to her family that they were grandees of the Roman Empire. He personally had no love of Rome. In the old days it had persecuted his people, chaining them to the oars of galleys or forcing them to fight to the death in the Great Circus. When the Christians came to prominence they had halted such cruelty, only to try and force his tribe to convert, driving those who refused into the hills, to live as wild men. But despite all this, a strong Rome was a useful ally in times of crisis.
“Not that it would have stopped me, anyway,” Zalmyra said. “We Malconis have always forged our own path. I had no need for the Emperor’s approval. And no human life which is not of our lineage is worth any more to me than its sale-price.”
An eerie, ululating howl rose from the depths of the well.
“Speaking of which,” she said, “it seems the transaction is complete.”
A chorus of inhuman squawking and shrieking carried up from the pit.
“Step back, Urgol, into the far corner,” Zalmyra instructed. “Lest you share the same hideous fate I have arranged for the Black Wolf and his cohort.”
Twenty-Four
EARL LUCAN’S PARTY made their departure from Arthur’s encampment without fanfare.
They were thirty in total, including himself and his scout, Maximion. The rest were his household knights and their squires, and a handful of longbowmen originally recruited from the Penharrow demesnes. Dawn mist still flooded the land as they rode out.
The only person to see them off was Bedivere. He stood by the stockade gate, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Lucan reined up alongside him and dismounted.
“Let her go, brother,” Bedivere advised quietly. “Haven’t you been tortured enough? You can’t force her to love you by violence.”
Lucan pondered. “It’s not about love anymore.”
“So what is it about... hate?”
“You don’t understand, Bedivere. Because...”
“Because what?” Bedivere interjected. “Because I’ve never suffered?” He held up his bandaged stump. “I’m a lesser man now than I was before.”
Lucan half-smiled. “You’ll never be less a man to me.” They put their arms around each other and hugged fiercely – as they often did, for they never knew when, or if, they would see each other again. “I should have given her children, Bedivere.” Lucan’s voice thickened with emotion. “What kind of husband are you if you can’t give your wife a child?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of trying,” Bedivere replied, and faltered. “What I mean is... these things are God’s decision, not Man’s.”
Lucan climbed back into his saddle. “Well, if it is God’s decision that my line will end with me, He needs to be aware... it won’t end easily.”
With a solemn smile and a wave goodbye, he rode away alongside his men.
The troop was fully mailed and heavily armed. They took laden pack-horses, but had also crammed their bolsters with sausages, salt pork and biscuit-bread, for it was uncertain how long they would be on the road, especially if the weather turned before they reached the high country. Most of the men were glad to be away from Sessoine. Much wasted flesh had yet to be interred, and was now putrefying. And the cremation pyres were little better.
IN TRUTH, ONLY Malvolio found difficulty in leaving. He had not taken well to life in the military camp, nor to badly preserved food, or water from animal skins.
“Gods, my bowels are set to break again,” he moaned.
“And you with your mail leggings on,” Benedict chuckled. Over the last few days, he’d grown used to seeing Malvolio walking gingerly around the camp wearing naught but a long-tailed shirt and a pair of socks. “There’ll be no quick evacuations this time.”
“This is a curse, and now we’re away from the physic.”
“You never saw the physic before.”
“I hoped it would pass,” Malvolio said, grimacing as their horses jogged along.
“You’d had it three weeks before we even engaged the enemy, had you not?” Benedict shook his head. “A cynical man might say you hoped it would pass, but not until after the battle.”
“I was on the field with the rest of you!”
“Aye, but late... because you had, as I recall, an evacuation.”
Malvolio scowled, but clamped a hand to his stomach as his innards grumbled. Benedict chuckled again. It was true; Malvolio had made it onto the battlefield eventually, but mainly to encourage the men from behind. No-one was annoyed by this – Malvolio was Malvolio, and this was no less than they’d expected from him. Benedict, for his part, felt rather proud. He had fought well, and hoary old warriors had commended him for it. The gash on his left cheek, neatly stitched but “a lifelong blemish on otherwise pretty features” as the surgeon who’d applied the needle declared, didn’t worry him. It was a badge of courage. Such badges made a pretty fellow prettier still.
IT WAS MID-MORNING by the time they reached fresher climes. The sun had risen, the mist had burned away, and they found themselves proceeding through open grassland. Maximion, who at last had accepted fresh clothing – riding boots, leather breeches and a loose linen shirt with Celtic embroidering at its cuffs and collar – was riding at the point, on a fine roan charger whose master would never have need of it again.
He found himself alongside a rather serious-looking knight whose plate and mail were gashed and dented, and yet who was fresh-faced, almost a babe.
“You are called Sir Alaric, are you not?” Maximion asked.
Alaric seemed surprised to be spoken to. “That is so.”
“Forgive me, but you seem a little young to be a fully-fledged knight.”
“The situation was forced on us by the war. Mine was a battlefield commission.”
“Aah... the honourable way to win one’s spurs.”
Alaric regarded him suspiciously. “Why are you helping Earl Lucan?”
“Why are you helping him?”
“He’s my lord.”
Maximion chuckled. “My reason is more practical.”
“How so?”
“I seek to stay alive.”
“You’re our prisoner. Earl Lucan will not murder you.”
“Are you so sure?” Maximion gave him a sidelong glance, noting the young knight’s tension-taut posture. “I suspect you are not.”
Alaric tried not to show how troubled he felt. “This is a dark quest we embark upon.”
“Well... you serve a dark master.”
Alaric looked stung by that comment, but elected not to respond.
“Do I detect a divided loyalty?” Maximion wondered.
“He’s not as dark as men say.”
Maximion glanced behind them. The cavalcade stretched backward over maybe a hundred yards. Turold, Lucan’s banneret, was closest but out of earshot, the black standard angled over his shoulder. Behind him rode a clutch of squires. Lucan himself rode alongside the squires, but twenty yards to the west – alone.
“On the surface, I would agree,” Maximion said. “But... the ‘Black Wolf of the North’? How did he earn such a soubriquet?”
“Did you not see him in the battle?”
“He fights like a bare-sark. It’s a frightening sight, but that does not make him unique.”
Alaric looked thoughtful. “I think it’s also to do with who his father was.”
“His father was a villain?”
“Of the first order. But... Earl Lucan was never that. He reviles his father’s memory, though there were incidents when he too showed a crueller side.” The lad paused to get his memories in orde
r. “When I was very young – just a child really – I was kept as a slave at Tower Rock Keep, which was held by Baelgron, a robber baron of the Northern March. He used me as a climbing-boy for his chimneys. He and his knights lived by pillage, but they weren’t so foolish as to pillage in Arthur’s lands. They raided across the border into Rheged, where their depredations were merciless. Many complaints were made by King Owain of Rheged. At length, Arthur ordered Earl Lucan, as Steward of the North, to censure the miscreant. Lucan did as required. He assembled his host and invested Tower Rock Keep. Baelgron was happy to surrender, for he had committed no crime in Albion. But when Lucan announced his intent to extradite the criminals across the border to Rheged, there was an outcry; Archbishop Valiance of York threatened dire consequences if Christians were handed to pagans for justice.
“Earl Lucan thus sent a message to King Owain, who assembled his court on the northwest side of the border. Then Earl Lucan took his prisoners, Baron Baelgron included, to the southeast side – and beheaded them. Thirty men in total. Because his vassals feared excommunication, Earl Lucan wielded the blade himself. He used his own battle-sword – Heaven’s Messenger. Satisfied, King Owain and his entourage went home again.”
Maximion’s eyebrows rose. “That was an extreme resolution.”
“That wasn’t the end of it,” Alaric said. “Earl Lucan tore down Tower Rock Keep, stone by stone. Any wealth he found was sent across the border in reparation. Baelgron’s family were turned out and lived the rest of their days as vagabonds. Archbishop Valiance denounced the earl from his pulpit, but took no further action. Even King Arthur was said to have been shocked by the fierceness of Lucan’s response, but he himself had sent many a brigand to the hangman, and war on the northern frontier had been averted, so he was content merely to voice disapproval.”
“It sounds as if the ultimate outcome was a good one?”
Alaric shrugged, as if this was a harsh lesson that many had been forced to learn. “The northern border was long a lawless realm. Robbers and reivers infested every corner. When Duke Corneus, Earl Lucan’s father, commanded there, he was part of the problem – he was the worst of them. At least Earl Lucan introduced a rule of law.”
“Surely he should be praised?”
“He is, but Arthur’s courtiers temper their praise with fear. In time, Camelot became a place of culture and breeding. The Cult d’Amor found a home there. Those who espouse such virtues find Earl Lucan discomfiting, for they know his ancestry and capabilities.”
Maximion shrugged. “Clearly he has inspired some loyalty. You and these others are mostly here as volunteers.”
“I came on this mission as part of an oath,” Alaric said, though he refrained from elaborating on this – which the Roman noted.
“Do you admire your master?”
Alaric nodded. “I was the only inhabitant of Tower Rock Keep to benefit from its destruction. After the castle was demolished, he saw me wandering, a barefoot orphan with nowhere to go. He took me in and raised me almost as his own. I would lay my life down for him in all circumstances... except one.”
“Indeed? And what might that be?”
“Apologies, my lord, but you ask too many questions. You are still our captive.”
Maximion smiled to himself. “We are all captives, young Alaric – you and your master are the captives of strange, knightly conventions. Our Roman view of the world is less romantic, but more practical.”
“It didn’t save you.”
“No... no more, I suspect, than yours will save you.”
AS EVENING APPROACHED, they left the open countryside and entered a region of forest.
The trail was clear enough, winding between leafy dells filled with lengthening purple shadows. The thickets were not dense, and Lucan did not anticipate an attack. There were brigands on all the roads of Europe, though many of the more dangerous bands had been drawn to the banner of the free-companies, and now were no more. Lone malefactors lurked in the deeper woods who might pose a threat – ettins, trolls and the like – but Lucan had no fear of such beings. To die in battle with Godless forces would be a guaranteed plenary indulgence,28 something he suspected his soul was in dire need of.
But no-one and nothing assailed them, and within a couple of hours the woodland opened into a natural clearing occupied by a rambling stone manse, with cheery firelight shining from its windows. Over the front door hung a sign bearing the image of a red gauntlet. Better, on the sward to one side of the inn, several ox-carts had been drawn up, laden with wine kegs. Two leather clad bravos stood guard over them with crossbows. They became visibly tense when Lucan and his men rode into the clearing, but their master, the wine-merchant, was also present: a portly individual in a blue girdled houppeland trimmed with white fox-fur, and a mustard-yellow chaperon. He was in heated debate with the apron-wearing landlord, who was a typical Frank: big and beefy, with crisp blond locks and thick blond moustaches.
“Eight crowns is outrageous, master vintner,” the landlord expostulated. “I’ll give you six crowns a keg and no more.”
“This is the best vintage I have. It comes from my vineyards in Provence,” the wine-merchant replied. “You’d be getting it cheap at double the price.”
“Six crowns a keg is my final offer,” the landlord said. “Perhaps you think there is someone else around here who will pay more?”
“There is,” Lucan interrupted. “You... wine-merchant! I’ll take your entire stock.”
Hoots and cheers sounded from his men, who had been thirstily eyeing the laden carts. The wine-merchant looked startled. Perhaps he didn’t believe that these travel-stained ragamuffins – mercenaries, he presumed, for they wore no colours save the Penharrow black – could afford such a price. But then Lucan threw a sack of Roman gold at his feet, and the merchant sank his hands into it greedily.
The landlord was naturally disgruntled, but Lucan turned to him next.
“Innkeeper, my men have earned themselves a feast. Several days ago we won a great victory and have had no chance to celebrate. Can you provide for our needs?”
“Our dining room is only small, my lord...”
“No matter. We will pitch camp. But there’s more gold where that came from, if your food is good.”
“My wife bakes a splendid game-pie, my lord. It’s as large as a table...”
That will do. Bring us six such pies.”
“Six?”
“You also have suckling pigs?”
“Erm, yes my lord, we have suckling pigs.”
“Fowl, salmon from the Loire?”
“We have all these things...”
“Bring us suckling pig, salmon and fowl. And bring bread as well. In short, bring us everything your kitchen can provide.”
“I will, my lord, yes.” The landlord stumbled away. He turned back, almost giddy. “Uh... thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, just serve me.”
“Fattening them up for the slaughter, my lord?” Maximion wondered.
“Better they be crammed with food, tribune, than with lies,” Lucan replied.
“You must join us, tribune,” Turold laughed. “I’ll wager your Emperor never promised you fare like this.”
“No,” Maximion agreed. “In that respect at least, my expectations were low.”
THE MEN ATE and drank with gusto.
It was a warm night, but the entire company gathered around the large bonfire they had built, while the landlord and his serving wenches came in constant procession. One after another, the wine kegs were axed and their contents poured, foaming, into cups, chalices and horns. Turold strummed on his lute and the men regaled each other with bawdy tales. Malvolio expressed a desire to be in Rome, where the brothel keepers would shortly be making Arthur’s army very welcome.
“I’d have liked to see Rome,” Wulfstan mused. “The Vandals made a mess of it, or so they say, but there are holy shrines there where even such as I might find shrift.”
“It is still a cit
y of bells and steeples,” Maximion put in. “The Vandals did damage, but Emperor Lucius commissioned many public works. The defaced buildings were cleansed, the broken columns replaced, the sanctuaries where Gaiseric and his chieftains stabled their horses were re-sanctified.”
“And how did Emperor Lucius pay for all this?” someone wondered. “By draining the coffers of foreign lands?”
Maximion shrugged. “The citizens of New Rome paid for the capital’s restoration.”
“How many slaves did he use?” someone else asked.
“None. The workforce was voluntary – masons and labourers came from all over the West, and were well-paid for their skills and efforts.”
“And while these well-paid volunteers worked, the ghosts of a million martyrs looked on,” came a voice from the beyond the firelight.
It was the first thing Lucan had said for a couple of hours. For a moment, he was a gaunt outline in the dancing shadows, his black garb rendering him almost invisible. Only his pale features were visible beneath his anthracite mane.
No-one responded, least of all Maximion, who watched his captor warily.
“Have you all forgotten what Rome once stood for?” Lucan said. “Blood on the sand. Bodies flayed by scourges, boiled in oil, hanged on crosses with their legs broken. Old Rome, New Rome... why should a different name wipe clean the sins of the past?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his metal-grey eyes roving from face to face. “I think it’s time we showed the sons of Romulus and Remus29 that the world has done with them once and for all. If I had my way, we’d put a fire under every last one.”
A moment passed, during which no-one dared respond.
Lucan tossed his wine-cup away. “I’m for bed. The rest of you should follow. We rise with the sun.”
The men stood up, yawning, throwing the dregs of their wine into the fire.
“A rare sign of weakness from your seigneur,” Maximion mumbled to Alaric. “In drink, he crosses completely to the other side.”