The Saxon Shore cc-4

by Jack Whyte

  It was at that point I awoke, a smile upon my face, and for a while I lay there, breaking my lifelong custom of leaping from my bed the moment my eyes opened. I had spent much of my life avoiding my dreams, most of which were dark and frightening and, I had come to believe, prophetic. This one, I felt sure, had been very different, benevolent, and I believed I could interpret it.

  I had been making myself miserable ever since my return from the southwest, I now realised, attempting to avoid my own attraction to Ludmilla, and, having made that admission freely to myself, I now examined it more closely. I was almost thirty-two years old and had lain with no woman since my wife, and my wife had been dead for more than four years! And now, unexpectedly, my mind, my thoughts, my days were filled with visions of Ludmilla. She was more than merely lovely; she was enchanting, beautiful, graceful and lithe. And she was clever; clever enough for Luke to value training her in his own arcane profession. She was accomplished in every other way, too, a valued and highly regarded member of Aunt Luceiia's household. And then I had another thought, quite startling in its novelty, yet strangely lacking any power to surprise me: she suggested, and exactly resembled, the portrait Publius Varrus had set down in words of the woman who had bewitched him when he was my age, Luceiia Britannicus herself.

  "So be it," I thought then. "Today I will seek her out and talk to her and spend some time in courting her and then, when I return from Eire, we shall see what comes of it."

  That decision made, I leapt out of bed, pulled on a tunic and my heavy, sandalled boots, and went for a long run, down the hill to the plain and across its dusty surface to the edge of the forest more than a mile away, where I turned right and ran around the perimeter of the training ground until I could run no more. Then, as I caught my breath before tackling the hill again, I heard a warning trumpet from the guard post at the gate above and turned to see Ambrose's patrol column approaching from the forest.

  I waited for him and ran up the hill with him at the head of his troopers, my hand on his stirrup leather. The patrol had been an uneventful one, he told me, with nothing to report. We parted at the gate and I made my way directly to the bath house.

  Something over an hour later, bathed, refreshed and fed, I made my way to the Infirmary, hoping Ludmilla might be there already. She was not, but Lucanus was, checking some final details with his staff before leaving them to their own devices while he was away. He dismissed them just as I arrived and turned to me with a head-to-toe look of wry appraisal.

  "Well, good morning. You're looking full of vim and vigour. What's on your mind?"

  "Nothing at all," I lied. "Other than our journey, of course. Are you all prepared?"

  "As much as I'll ever be. When do you want to leave?"

  "Before noon, although we're in no hurry other than to get away. I feel like a boy turned loose from his tutors for the summer. Is Ludmilla here?"

  He was looking down at his desk, his thoughts elsewhere. "Hmm? She was a moment ago, didn't you see her?" He corrected himself immediately, his attention fixed on something on his desk. "Oh no, she's in the wards; she left before you came . . . Damnation, I told Cato to take this with him." He picked up the item, a small wooden box, then paused, his eyes widening with surprise as he looked beyond my shoulder. "Ambrose," he said. "Welcome. What brings you here for the first time? You're obviously not sick."

  I had turned as soon as he began to speak, to see Ambrose looming in the doorway at my back. He looked enormous, and again I found myself thinking he must be much bigger than I, although I knew that was not so.

  "Forgive me, Luke," he said, smiling. "But they told me Cay was here and I need to talk to him before he leaves." His eyes swivelled to me. "It's important, Cay, or I wouldn't trouble you, but I forgot to mention it when I first thought of it, before I went out on patrol, and I've only just remembered it again, so I thought I had better do something about it before it slips away again. May I have a moment?"

  "Of course," I said. "What's—"

  I was interrupted by the sound of running feet and Ludmilla dashed into the room through the rear door that led to the interior sick rooms.

  "Lucanus, come quickly! It's Popilius Cirro. He can't breathe!"

  "Stay here, all of you!" Lucanus was gone in a swirl of robes, leaving the three of us alone.

  I spoke to Ludmilla, noting even as I digested her words the way in which she seemed to sag against the door frame, her full breasts emphasised by the way her robe was caught between her and the wall.

  "What d'you mean, he can't breathe?"

  "I don't know what's wrong, Commander. He simply cannot catch his breath." She had not looked at me at all in speaking. Her eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere behind me and her face was flushed a deep red; from fright, I supposed, and the effort of running.

  "Who is Popilius Cirro?" I heard Ambrose ask, and I realized then how truly new he was to Camulod.

  "Our Senior Centurion," I answered, my eyes still on Ludmilla. "A good friend, and primus pilus to our father for many years in the legions, under Stilicho. He is an old man now, but he was active until he took a wound in the last campaign against Lot, and then he became ill. But he's recovering, and almost fit enough for duty again; at least I thought he was." Even as I was speaking the words I had the strangest sensation that something was wrong here; something that did not concern Popilius. My stomach grew tense and I glanced over my left shoulder to see if anyone else had entered the room behind me. No one had, and I looked back at Ludmilla.

  "Don't you think you should go to Lucanus, Ludmilla? He might need some assistance. I think it was us he told to remain here, not you."

  She looked at me for the first time since entering the room, a hesitant smile flickering on her face. "Yes. Yes, of course, I probably should." She straightened up, preparing to leave, and then her eyes moved away from me again, back towards the point at which she had been staring all along, and finally the realisation came to me that she was staring at the point behind my right shoulder from which Ambrose's voice had come. I turned my head quickly and saw her gaze mirrored in his eyes as he stared back at her, his face entranced. Still not comprehending fully what was going on, I looked again from one to the other. They were completely unaware of my presence, let alone my scrutiny; each was aware only of the other.

  "Ludmilla?" The sound of my voice broke the spell, actually startling her.

  "Oh, Popilius Cirro! Excuse me." She turned and was gone, the door swinging shut behind her. I turned back to my brother to find him gazing at me, his entire face radiating awe.

  "Cay," he said, his voice quiet and filled with wonder. "Who is she?"

  "Her name is Ludmilla," I answered, waiting for the anger I knew must be inside me to come boiling to the surface.

  "I know that, I heard you call her that, but who is she? Does she have a husband?"

  Suddenly, inexplicably, instead of feeling anger or jealousy, I found myself on the point of laughing, and a part of me wondered how I could possibly find any humour here. "Not yet," was all I said.

  "Ludmilla . . ." He was looking at me, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  "Aye," I said, "Ludmilla. What was it you wanted to discuss with me?" His eyes widened in surprise. "You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about."

  "Oh, yes. It was a thought I had about Uther's people and their bows. Do you think we could arrange to have some of them stationed here permanently?"

  "Permanently? You mean living here in Camulod? I doubt it. Why?"

  "Because I would like to start training them to fight with our men, tactically. It would be easier if some of them were based here. Why do you doubt it? Wouldn't you want them here?"

  "No, it's not that, not at all. I simply doubt they'd come down out of their hills, particularly now that Uther's dead. I don't even know who will rule in his place now, but it's quite possible that whoever does might wish to have no more to do with Camulod."

  He frowned. "You think that's likely?"
/>
  "No, but again, I don't know. It is possible. Uther rode to war for Camulod, rather than for Cambria, although Lot moved against Cambria, too. More to the point, unfeeling though it may seem, the fact is that most of those men lost their bows along with their lives, and Uther's people have never had enough bows to be able to afford to lose any of them. It is against their law for any man to own a bow."

  "What do you mean? I don't understand."

  "I know you don't, but it's quite simple. The Pendragon bow, as they call it, is a new weapon. It is made from a specific wood, a wood that has never been in abundant supply, and each individual bow takes years to make. For every bow made, there are a score of men waiting to use it, so each man takes custody of one bow for a year and has the responsibility of caring for it, but he must share it with others. The Druids are growing yew saplings everywhere throughout the Pendragon lands today, but that is a new development and the trees grow but slowly. There must have been hundreds of bows lost in Uther's campaign against Lot. They will be difficult to replace, and impossible to replace quickly."

  Now my brother looked quite crestfallen and I reached out to clasp his shoulder. "Look, I may be wrong. They may have more resources than I thought. In the meantime, however, they have to replace a king and recover from a war, as we do. When Donuil and I return from Eire, we will journey to Uther's land and talk to whoever rules there. The alliance of Pendragon and Camulod is advantageous to both parties. We will work at it and build upon it."

  As I spoke, the rear door opened again and Lucanus came back into the room. I swung to him immediately. "How is he, Luke?"

  He stepped to his table and sat down, reaching out to pick up the small box he had been so concerned about earlier. He gazed at it, as though wondering what it was, and then replaced it on the tabletop.

  "Popilius Cirro is dead. Respiratory failure." His voice was flat and emotionless, but then he turned to look at me, although even as he spoke his gaze drifted away over my shoulder. "I am sorry, Commander, there was nothing I could do for him. He was in paralysis when I arrived, and I was powerless to help him. He died almost immediately, while I was trying to clear his windpipe."

  "Clear his windpipe?" My voice sounded strange to me. "You mean he choked to death?"

  "No," he said, shaking his head distractedly. His eyes were fixed on some infinity within his mind, and for several moments he said nothing more, then resumed in a normal tone. "No, he did not. His trachea was unobstructed. He died of some kind of internal convulsion, probably related to the pulmonary condition—the pneumonia he had been suffering from." Lucanus paused and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. "Anyway, he's gone . . . What will you do now?"

  "Do? What d'you mean?"

  "About leaving today. I imagine this changes things."

  "Oh." I had not even thought that far ahead. "Yes, yes of course it does. I couldn't even think of leaving now. We will stay here a few more days and honour Popilius Cirro with the funeral he deserves." It was too sudden, too final, too brutal to be true. How could death come, so swift and unexpected and so final, lacking war or violent strife? And yet Popilius was dead. I could see Lucanus was as shaken as I was. "May I see him before I go?"

  He rose to his feet again immediately, his face expressionless, set in lines of distant coldness that I knew to be the detachment of his professional persona. "Certainly, come with me."

  The primus pilus still lay in the cot where I had seen him last, but he looked very different now. The shape beneath the coverings was still the one I remembered, but the once-familiar face was now hideously lifeless, the skin chalk white except around the blue-lipped, sunken mouth and cheeks.

  "Why is his mouth blue?" I found myself whispering.

  "It's a condition caused by the way he died, the respiratory failure. We call it cyanosis, because of the blue coloration it produces. Much the same result is seen in death caused by cyanide poisoning."

  I glanced at him sharply. "He was poisoned?"

  Lucanus shook his head, a tiny, weary smile twisting his lips. "No, not at all; I merely said the effect was the same."

  Popilius's right arm lay on top of the covers and I reached out and took his hand in my own, finding it still warm as I had known it would be although already I fancied I could feel the chill of death beneath the skin. It was a large, old hand, calloused, hard and heavy. Anguish swelled in my throat, hurting so that I could not swallow.

  "Old friend," I said to the recumbent form, "I will undertake your last commission." I had to stop, waiting for the end of a surge of grief that robbed me of my voice. When it had passed, I spoke again. "You built an armed camp at the bottom of our hill and held it for us in the face of Cornwall's thousands. Later, you tore it down again, but not until all danger was long past. Tomorrow, on the spot where you built the praesidium in the centre of that camp, you will be buried, alone with the glory you have earned, as befits a primus pilus, yet in a place of honour among the others who fell in that battle. Farewell, Popilius Cirro."

  I turned on my heel, with a nod to Lucanus, and went to begin the arrangements for the funeral. Outside the sick ward, in Lucanus's office, Ambrose was still waiting, presumably for me but more hopefully, I guessed, for Ludmilla's return. I reached out and grasped his shoulder in passing, pulling him into step with me. "We have a funeral to arrange," I told him. "Your first, but not your last in Camulod. As well you accompany me now and find out how we do it, because sooner or later you're going to have to arrange one on your own."

  As we emerged from the Infirmary and swung towards the administration block that housed my office and those of Titus and Flavius, we came face to face with Peter Ironhair. He stopped, stock-still, several paces in front of us, his face setting into a scowl as he saw me and then betraying shocked amazement as his eyes went from my face to my brother's. Unsure of what to say or how to react to the evidently unexpected sight of two of me, he drew himself to his full height. I gave him no chance to recover from his shock.

  "Ironhair," I said, acknowledging him. "You've been away, obviously. You have not yet met my brother, Ambrose Britannicus. Ambrose, this is Peter Ironhair, one of our smiths and a member of our Council."

  Ironhair nodded to Ambrose, a cautious, hostile gesture. For me he had nothing. No trace of a smile or sign of any courtesy marked his features. Ambrose, sensing the man's dislike, merely nodded in return, his own face blank. This unforeseen exchange dispensed with, Ironhair walked on, swerving slightly to go around us We proceeded in silence for several paces before Ambrose spoke.

  "Who was that?"

  I glanced at him. "I told you, Peter Ironhair, a smith and a councillor."

  "I know that, but who is he? Why does he dislike us so intensely?"

  I smiled half-heartedly, thinking of Popilius. "Not us, Brother, me. He thinks I did him a disservice, when all I really did was save his life."

  "From whom, or what?"

  "From me. He is an ambitious fool and a newcomer who cares nothing for the way things are done here. He had pretensions of a future role for himself here in the Colony that bore no resemblance to the role designed for any man in this place." I told him the story of the Farmers and the Artisans, and about the confrontation Ironhair and I had had by the main gate the following day, and he listened without interrupting until I had finished. We were at the entrance to the administration building before I reached that point and I held him there until my tale was done.

  "Hmm," he said, when I had finished. "Sounds like a danger well identified. Certainly looked the part. It's a good thing you returned home when you did, in time to neutralize him. Had I arrived before that, or even later, I would not have noticed anything amiss. I have a lot to learn, Cay, before I'll be fit to deputize for you. D'you think he'll cause any more trouble?"

  I thought about that for a moment and then shook my head. "No," I said. "I doubt it. He knows I'll kick him out of Camulod if he misbehaves from now on; and as you will be responsible in my place
whenever I'm away, the same threat will hold good for you. Does that cause you any concern?"

  He shook his head with finality. "Not in the least. . . as long as I know what I should be looking for."

  I laughed. "You'll know, Brother. You'll know."

  · · ·

  The arrangements for the funeral were well in hand by late afternoon, and Ambrose followed them all with interest. It was an unfortunate sign of the times that such rites had been sufficiently numerous in the recent past to entail no great logistical or procedural difficulties. Popilius, however, had been highly ranked and highly regarded, so the formalities of the occasion were more elaborate than most and it was decided that an honour guard of senior centurions should attend his bier and I myself should deliver his eulogy. No priests were involved. Despite his official Christian status, Popilius had been an old soldier, bred in the old ways, and was a disciple of the ancient military cult of Mithras. We had no Mithraic priests or representatives in Camulod, so we honoured his convictions by interring him as a soldier of his soldier's god, dressed in his finest armour and weapons. The ceremony took place the following afternoon and, in spite of the relentless rain, it was attended by almost every adult in the Colony, including my aunt and her women, the only people there afforded shelter beneath a leather awning.

  In the middle of my oration, while I was speaking of the Popilius I remembered from my boyhood, a face leaped out at me from among the rain swept crowd. Peter Ironhair again, the cowled hood of his cloak thrown back from his forehead, looking at me in scorn from the faceless, huddled ranks, a bitter sneer twisting his face into a mask of resentment. The sight of that sneer, the anger and rage it bespoke, almost succeeded in making me forget what I was saying, but I closed my mind to it, forcing myself to feel instead the trickling rainwater inside my harness, and brought my mind to bear again upon Popilius Cirro and what he had meant to Camulod. My own anger, however, once kindled, did not fade; it merely moved aside and waited. I knew that some day, come it soon or late, Ironhair and I were destined to meet sword to sword.