by Jack Whyte
I shrugged. “I know, but Bishop Germanus told me to spend the funds judiciously, according to my conscience and to what you, in particular, did for us. I believe you did far more than we asked of you and so I think of this, a token of our gratitude, as money well spent. Besides, you still have to win home. And now you and I need to make another tryst. In six months’ time, I would like you to return to this same wharf, seeking us. If we are not here, it will be for good and sufficient reason, although I will try to send word to you of why we are not here, and possibly to arrange another meeting at another time. Will you agree to that?”
Joachim tucked the small package into a decorated pouch at his belt. “In six months? Aye, I’ll be here, providing I am still alive by then. And I will stay for ten days, should no one be waiting here to meet me. And look you here, come with me.” He rose, and I followed him outside. He pointed to the ground where an old, flat, badly rusted piece of iron lay at an angle against the base of the wall. “I saw that as I entered. It’s worth nothing and it looks as though it’s been lying there for years. If I have to leave with no word from you after the ten days I spoke of, I’ll leave you written word of when I will next return, and I’ll stuff it under there. That way, if you can’t meet me at the appointed time, you can at least leave word of what your plans are. Agreed?” He paused. “You can read and write, can’t you?”
I smiled. “Aye. I was surprised to find you can, too, that’s all.”
He smiled back at me. “Aye, well, I had a clever teacher when I was a boy. A crazed man who thought it would be worthwhile for me to know how to read and write when none of my friends could. Afterward, when I found myself living among people who could do neither, I thought he must have been insane, for nothing is more useless than being the only person able to read and write. But he was right, of course, and it has served me well.” He reached out a hand and I shook it gladly. “Go with God, young Clothar of Benwick,” he said, “and may He watch over you and those you love. We’ll bid each other farewell again later, but this one is between you and me alone.”
Four days later it was still raining heavily as we headed westward across the first cultivated fields we had seen since landing in Britain. We had been proceeding cautiously, taking all the time we needed and being careful to run no unnecessary risks in this alien land.
We had headed due south from our landing place, following the road that stretched for miles on end with barely a bend or a curve in the length of it, but remembering what Joachim had had to say about there being no escape on a road, I kept us off the road surface and safely to one side, concealed among the trees. Only once in four days had we seen other travelers, and that had been in an area of gently rolling hills that concealed the people approaching us until they crested the brow of a rise in the road and passed us swiftly, riding north, a tight-knit, highly disciplined band of armed men, perhaps forty strong and moving with determination.
I remembered then what Germanus had told me: that in all of Britain, only Merlyn Britannicus’s Camulod had cavalry.
Knowing the newcomers then to be friendly to our cause, I spurred my horse out onto the road, ignoring the dismayed cries of my friends and riding hard after the moving column, shouting at the top of my voice.
The rearmost riders heard me and turned in their saddles to look back, then reacted predictably, shouting to their companions and turning their mounts rapidly to face me. I saw the tight ranks ahead of me eddy and break apart, then reform swiftly to present a solid line of men and horses, all awaiting my arrival. Behind me, I knew, Perceval, Tristan, and Bors were spurring to catch up to me, and I raised my arm and waved them back and away as I slowed my horse to a walk and slowly approached the faceless men ahead of me. And faceless they were, because each of them wore a fully closed helmet, the side flaps pulled together and fastened over their faces, leaving only a black slash of a hole across their eyes.
I pulled my mount to a stop less than thirty paces from their front rank and sat there motionless, waiting for someone to come forward to greet me or challenge me. None of them spoke at all, and I was conscious of their eyes taking in every detail of my appearance. My fine armor was securely wrapped and slung on Bors’s packhorse, and I knew that I did not appear to be armored at all, although I was wearing Germanus’s supple tunic of ring mail beneath my heavy, sodden military cloak of waxed wool. On my head I wore only a knitted woolen cap, soaked through and through, with a long, brightly colored but bedraggled feather thrust into it. The ranks facing me stirred and parted, and a man who was evidently their commander came forward to confront me. He paused briefly, reining his horse in tightly, then kneed it forward again and approached to within a few paces of where I sat waiting, where he stopped and sat staring at me, saying nothing.
I knew this was a test, designed to make me speak first out of fear and uncertainty, and so I sat still, determined not to be the first to break the silence, and finally the stranger spoke, his voice sounding hollow and reverberating as it emerged from the cavern of his helmet.
“Who are you, whence come you, and what is your business here in Camulod?”
So, I thought, we are within Camulod at last. I nodded and sat straighter, forcing myself to speak slowly and clearly. “My name is Clothar of Benwick in Gaul, and I come bearing messages and gifts for Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod from his friend Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre, also in Gaul. Behind me are my traveling companions, Perceval and Tristan of Montenegra, and my attendant, Bors. To whom am I speaking?”
“To one who has met Germanus and heard him promise to return here in person.” The helmeted head with its high crest tilted slightly to one side. “Tell me, if you will, why I should believe you have come here from Gaul. Did you swim here, horses and all?”
“No, we came by sea, hoping to land at Glastonbury, but we were blown beyond it by the storms.” My mind was racing, searching for information that I could present to this man that would assure him of our amity yet reveal nothing of our true business here. I knew he was not really suspicious of us. Our very openness in approaching him from behind must have made it clear to him we had no wish to conceal ourselves. But I knew, too, that I had to say something to justify our presence and to establish our bona fides.
“You have met Germanus. Are you then familiar with the name of Enos?”
“Aye, Enos of Verulamium. Another bishop.”
“But a Britannian bishop, is he not?”
“Britannian? If by that you mean he is a Briton then aye, he is.”
“Well, I bear dispatches in the form of letters from Germanus in Auxerre to Enos in Verulamium, concerning matters which the two of them discussed last year in conjunction with Merlyn Britannicus when last they met—in Verulamium, just before Merlyn had to leave in haste because of the word that Horsa’s Danes had sailed for Cornwall.”
The man facing me reached up slowly to his chin with one hand and pulled upward on the end of a short cord that hung there, releasing a metal pin that held the flaps of his helmet together, and as they fell apart he reached higher and pulled the helmet from his head, revealing a strong, evenly featured face, dark haired and dark browed, with a long nose, a wide, square jaw and a mouth that suggested strength of will and good humor. It was the face of a veteran soldier, secure and confident of his own abilities. He flicked a drip of rainwater from the end of his nose with the tip of a forefinger and inclined his head slightly in a grave and courteous acknowledgment that he accepted what I had said.
“Philip,” he said. “Philip Rider, they call me, commander of the Fourth Wing of the cavalry forces of Camulod. Welcome to our lands. Where did you land, the river port?”
“Aye, the place called Glevum. Can you tell me where I might find Merlyn Britannicus?”
“No, Master Clothar, I cannot. I can tell you where you will not find him, however, and that is in Camulod. He was there for a few months, but he left some time ago and told no one where he was going. He told some of his closest friends that he will be away for some time—
for as long as it may take’ was what he actually said, although no one knows what ‘it’ is—and he could, or he would, give them no idea of when he might return.”
He hesitated, then added, “As to where he went, he could have gone anywhere. Merlyn prefers his own company nowadays, would rather be alone, they say, since his misfortunes in Cambria last year.”
“What misfortunes are those?”
The man called Philip frowned. “He almost died in Cambria, was thrown into a fire there and badly burned.”
“Thrown into a fire? By whom?”
Philip almost smiled. “A mad whoreson called Carthac, big and ugly and evil and as strong as ten good men. They thought he was unkillable, invincible. He thought so, too, until Merlyn killed him. But before he died he threw Merlyn into a fire. Arthur arrived shortly after that, leading us, and we were able to save Merlyn’s life. Took him home on a wagon and nursed him back to health. But as soon as he could move freely, he left again, and as I say, no one knows where he went.”
“Are your wars over?”
That earned me a quizzical look that told me Philip found it difficult to accept that anyone would have to ask such a thing. “For this year, you mean? Aye, they seem to be. There’s peace in Cambria, to the north of here—Carthac was the festering thorn there, and with his death things soon died down. And in Cornwall to the south, the troublemaker was a man called Ironhair. But he seems to have fallen out with his henchman, Horsa, who hanged him for his troubles.” A tiny smile flickered at the edges of his mouth. “So there’s peace in these parts, at least. But then there is continuing war against the Saxons to the east, although some won’t come out and call it that. The Saxons are a permanent curse and the confrontation out there is more of a chronic condition than a state of war. North and south, though, Camulod is at peace for the moment.
“Our leader, Arthur, is on a grand sweep to the north and east, far beyond our lands, showing the banners and the cavalry of Camulod in other parts of the land in the hope of rallying people to stand up together and confront the Oudanders—Saxons and Jutes and Danes and all the other hordes swarming on the eastern side of Britain.” He waved a hand to indicate the men behind him. “We are but the advance party of a full cavalry wing of a thousand mounted troopers, coming less than a mile behind us. A strong force, but our mission is peaceable. We ride merely to show our strength, patrolling our territories.”
I nodded, thinking rapidly. “I see. And Arthur Pendragon rides to the north and east, you say. Where is he now, exactly, do you know?”
Philip made a wry mouth. “No one will be able to answer that question until Arthur himself returns with the word of it. He has been gone for two months and more. He could be anywhere by now.”
“And Merlyn would not be with him?”
Now the man looked puzzled. “Why would Merlyn be with him? Arthur’s no longer a student. He’s a commander of cavalry in his own right, commander of the First Wing. He looks after his responsibilities and Merlyn looks after his own. Besides, Merlyn could not have known which way Arthur went, other than north, because Arthur left from Cambria, while Merlyn was still abed in Camulod, recovering from his wounds.”
“Hmm,” I grunted, thinking deeply about what we should do next. “Thank you, Philip Rider. Can you show me the shortest way to Camulod from here? And this damnable rain, does it ever stop?”
Philip flashed a smile. “Why, man, it seldom starts at all. It will blow by within the next day or two, and the weather will turn fine again before winter sets in, you wait and see. And as for, the route to Camulod, that’s easy. Simply follow this road south from here until you reach a garrisoned town called Ilchester. They’re our people there, and they’ll point you in the right direction. You should stay here, however, until our thousand pass you by. I’ll leave a decurion with you to explain your presence to Commander Rufio, and after that you can proceed. Now, if you will permit me, I have to make up time and distance.”
He slipped his helmet back onto his head and saluted me, bringing his clenched fist to his left breast, then turned his horse around and gave the signal to the men in front of him. In a matter of moments they had regrouped, leaving only one of their number with us, and were cantering away from us.
The decurion greeted us with a courteous nod and then sat silently beside us, and within a short time we heard the approaching cavalry squadrons. Their leaders, riding in the vanguard, drew rein on our side of the road as they neared us, and the decurion rode forward to explain our presence. They listened and nodded, then rode on by us with the decurion, nodding courteously but otherwise paying us no attention. When the last of the thousand had passed us by, their remounts, several hundreds in number, followed after them, herded by a large number of boys below fighting age, and we sat watching until the last of the animals had disappeared from view along the road behind the shrouds of falling rain.
Only then did Perceval turn to me with an admiring grunt. “I can’t believe that the only thing in this godforsaken country that I haven’t hated on sight is one and a half thousand of the finest horses I’ve ever seen. Where do they find beasts like that? I can’t believe they breed them here in such an unholy climate.”
“Believe it,” I told him. “They breed them all here now, according to Germanus, but their origins were Empire-wide. Let’s be off. It’s not far now to Camulod and I would like a roof over my head as soon as it can be arranged. I’ll tell you what Germanus told me about their cavalry as we ride.”
We kicked our horses into motion, and Perceval and Tristan ranged themselves on either side of me while young Bors rode close behind us, straining to hear.
I raised my voice until I was almost shouting over the noise of the rain. “The story goes that seventy-one years ago, in the year 376, in a place called Adrianopolis in Asia Minor beyond the eastern edges of the Middle Sea, a Roman consular army of forty thousand men, commanded by the Co-emperor Valens, was overrun and wiped out by a mounted force of Ostrogoths. It was a freakish accident and it should never have happened, but it did. The Goths were migrating from one region to another. They even had their women and children with them. But they were all mounted, on small, shaggy ponies, and they crested a mountain ridge to see an entire Roman army below them, marching in extended order along the edge of a lake. They charged immediately and caught the legions before they could form up in battle order, then rolled them up like a carpet. Forty thousand Romans died that afternoon, including Valens and his entire staff, and the word went out that the Romans were vulnerable to attack by massed formations of horsemen.” I glanced from side to side and saw that both my friends were listening closely, so I kept talking.
“Theodosius was still Emperor at that time, and Flavius Stilicho, who was half Roman and half Vandal, was his most brilliant legatus., Stilicho had been appointed commander in chief of the Imperial Household Troops—in other words, commander in chief of all Rome’s legions and the most powerful soldier in the world—at the age of twenty-two. They say he was the greatest natural military genius since Alexander the Great of Macedon. Anyway, Stilicho launched an immediate-priority program to reequip and retrain all the legions of Rome in order to counteract this new threat of mounted attack, and within the space of twenty-five years he had increased each legion’s cavalry strength from the traditional five percent of light, skirmishing cavalry—mounted archers whose sole duty was to form a mobile defensive screen while the legion was forming its battle lines—to twenty-five percent heavy, disciplined cavalry that operated in the manner of Alexander’s heavy cavalry of six hundred years earlier, riding in tightly packed, disciplined formations and carrying heavy spears.” I paused, allowing them to absorb what I had said before continuing. “Now that might not sound like much of a feat when you hear someone say it as quickly and plainly as I have just said it, but don’t let that mislead you. Think about what was involved in those changes.” I paused again.
“It was an enormous undertaking, according to everything the Bishop
told me, and he had made a study of all it involved. That Stilicho was able to achieve such a transformation at all was astonishing, Germanus says, for in order to succeed he had first to confront and defeat the opinions and the plotting of the stubborn, old-guard traditionalists who didn’t want anything to change and who believed that the old ways were always and would always be the best ways. And the fact that most of them resented him for his youth and his brilliance did not make his task any easier. Stilicho simply never quit, never wavered in his resolve, and eventually he won. But that he was able to achieve what he did within twenty-five short years was nothing short of miraculous … .” I stopped talking and looked from one to the other of them and they stared back at me, waiting. “I know the Bishop likes to talk of miracles and miraculous occurrences. He is a bishop, after all is said and done. But it really is astounding, if you but think on it even for a few moments. Imagine, for a start, the sheer size, the scope of the program that was required, throughout the whole world, to breed the number of horses they would require to equip every single legion in the armies with that many horses, including remounts and pack animals. Then think about the size of the animals involved. Light skirmishing cavalry needed only small, light horses, and Rome had always had plenty of those. But for heavy cavalry you need big, heavy horses. Those they did not have, and they needed thousands of them. So where did they find them? Where did those big horses come from?
“Well, I’ll tell you where they came from. They created them; bred them out of what they had available. Once again, they launched a new, specially-designed program all across the Empire: a cross-breeding program, to mate the largest, strongest animals they could find with the best they had that were smaller, in order to breed larger offspring. By the end of twenty-five years, the results were astounding.
“But then they discovered, too, that the new ‘heavy’ cavalry, mounted on huge horses, was poorly equipped. The riders were armored heavily on top, as Roman troops had always been, but now their legs were vulnerable, hanging down among the enemy, who were on foot. So new armor had to be designed to protect the riders’ legs, and that required new techniques of metal crafting for making such armor. And swords had to be lengthened and strengthened, for even the traditional cavalry spatha was too short to be effective from the back of a large, tall horse. And so a new study of metal crafting and smithing was launched in order to find new ways of working iron and steel to make longer, stronger weapons. It goes on and on, each problem giving rise to new solutions that led in turn to other problems in a never-ending cycle.