Arthur Imperator

by Paul Bannister

  Guinevia came into the hall, saw Allectus and went pale. She looked at the man who had tortured her father to death, and hissed at him: “I have vowed to Nicevenn, witch goddess of the Wild Hunt, that I will take your foul heart.” I stepped forward and took her elbow, but she shook me loose. “I want his heart,” she said quietly, in a tone that chilled me. I began to protest but she must have sent the thought into my brain, because suddenly my calm vanished like smoke and all I could think was of my brave Chevrons who died so shamefully at this man’s bidding.

  The blood madness swept over me. My ears roared in my head, I felt the fighting mist rising, that tidal wave of thundering rage when nothing matters except to hack and hew, to overwhelm by sheer power and force of will. In that time nothing, not breath nor life nor hurt, matters. All that is important is to wreak violence on whatever, whoever, stands in your way. No price is too much, nothing stands against that berserk insanity.

  My forearm was impacting something, hard. My hand had acted of its own volition, and my leaf-shaped puglio, my punching knife, had gone from its hidden sheath and into my hand, involuntarily. It was tearing up under Allectus’ rib cage, lifting him with the power of my arm from his knees and to his feet and off the ground. A gush of his blood, oxygen-bright, spattered down his chin, his eyes were wide in shock, dazed, just inches from mine.

  “You had it all, but you betrayed us all, you slime,” I breathed into his blanching, dying face. “At least I’m letting you die quickly.” I released my grip and he slumped sideways to the floor, but even before I could step back, Guinevia was kneeling, grasping at the knife I had left protruding from Allectus’ chest.

  The man must technically still have been alive. Maybe there was enough oxygen still in his ebbing brain for him to know, as Guinevia thrust her hand into the opened torso, under the breast bone. She pushed into his vitals, seized and yanked the heart downwards, slashing at the aorta and releasing the organ in a flush of blood.

  She knelt over Allectus, cupping the severed heart in her two hands. His eyes fluttered and he may have seen his own heart pulse several times before his vision blurred forever. He made no sound. Guinevia stood, walked in a matter of fact manner across the chamber, the crowd parting hurriedly, and approached the big fireplace.

  I could not hear and never asked what she said, I merely assumed she was speaking to her goddess, or perhaps to her dead father. After a moment’s muttered incantation, she lowered her cupped hands right into the flames and gently released the bloodied lump that once was a human heart.

  I looked for magical drama, but there was none, no wispy cloud, no thunder or lightning, just the burning smell of bloodied meat and some choking smoke. One part of justice had been done, and Guinevia began properly to heal from that moment. On my way out of the hall, I spoke to the major domo.

  “That,” I gestured at the leaking body, “should be displayed. Put the head over the north gate. Send the hands to his Saxon friends. Give the rest to the beast-masters. The arena bears can eat him.”

  XLIV Defected

  Skegga was readying to move. Spring had arrived a month ago, and the longships of the Saxons were landing daily, so many that the riverbanks at Colchester were crowded with the beached vessels for a half mile downstream. The big Saxon had considered his options and made show of consulting the handful of lesser lords who were his allies and even his relatives and who commanded smaller forces of their own. The coalition members were sworn to follow him, but he knew from bitter experience that they would often obey their own whims and wishes instead, arguing that this or that alternative was better.

  His skill was in persuading these contentious underlings that what he proposed was best for them. This time, his arguments carried the day. Londinium was ruined after the Romans left, Arthur looked impregnable in the west and his strength had grown with the addition of some Christian warriors. So, one place offered no rewards, the other option offered only some bitter fighting. The Saxons’ best chance of land and loot seemed to be in moving north. They could traverse the fenlands, some, whom he knew had secret hopes of extra plunder could even sail north, and join the land forces to take Lincoln and then Eboracum.

  They might even carry out a river assault on Eboracum, sailing up the Humber and Ouse to rejoin the footslogging army. Then with a proper base established at Eboracum, they could welcome more of their countrymen and re-form. Next year the whole army could move west across the spine of Britain, or across the limestone peaks of its midlands to drive Arthur out of fortress Chester and into the Welsh mountains. First, though, to move north.

  Skegga sent for a Catuvellauni underlord to learn the best routes across the marshlands. He did not yet wish to risk using the north road alongside the Car Dyke because, on the march, with their women and baggage to protect, his men were an unstable fighting force. It was better to establish themselves in a camp somewhere, park the women and loot, and then to lead his oath-men forth, drunk and bare-chested, to battle the enemy. The route described, landmarks noted, all was agreed. The Saxons would move north and would leave in three days’ time. They began stripping bare their winter quarters.

  Guinevia told me they were moving. She had viewed their camp at regular intervals, and she saw the men loading carts, the women wrapping precious cooking pots, and she broke her habit of no interpretation to describe what she saw. I was grimly delighted. For once, I had a sizeable force, comprising my professional soldiers, some promises of aid from the Brigantes, the Welsh, the Coriani and the Cornovii, all tribes from the north and west. I’d lost the support of the Cantii, Belgae and Trinovantes tribes of the south east, where the Saxons had already conquered and enslaved the population, and the invaders’ new subjects around Colchester, the Iceni of Boadicea and the Trinovantes were all crushed under their Saxon heel.

  But I had the deciding factor: a sizeable Christian army raised for me by the bishop Candless and his clerics to carry the banner of Jesus against the Christian-persecuting Romans. Those troops, whom I had trained and armed, would bring my strength up to just over half of that of the Saxons. It would be enough, I felt, when allied to the discipline and organization we possessed and which the Saxons did not. If we brought the invaders to battle at a suitable place and could withstand their initial few crazed charges, we would grind them down with our better-armoured soldiers.

  I sent for Candless, who had taken up residence in a churchman’s luxurious quarters just outside the city walls, and asked him to call in his outlying Christian troops. We had a week to gather and move them. In less than two weeks, I expected to intercept the Saxons, who would move slowly with their huge train, and would probably bring them to battle near Lincoln.

  Candless did his work, and within two days, the Christians who had established their Deeside camp outside Chester so as not to be polluted by our pagan selves were gathered on the vast parade square under the fortress walls. I gave them the news of the Saxons, told them how we would meet and destroy them, instructed them to ensure their weapons were in good order, or to draw fresh from the quartermasters, and went to meet my officers for a final briefing.

  The next day, the Christian troops gathered their possessions and simply went home. The army of the red cross of Jesus melted away like frost under spring sunshine, and just as quickly. The men quietly folded their tents and left to return to their villages and farms.

  Candless explained it to me, patiently and gently, out of consideration for my boiling temper.

  “We only raised a Christian army to fight the anti-Christs, the Romans who would persecute us. Now the Romans are gone, we have decided that we are going back to our homesteads and towns. It’s not personal. We don’t have anything against you.”

  My head was aching as if I had received an axe blow on it. “But what,” I spluttered, “about the Saxons? They are still here!”

  Candless nodded. “Aye, they are, but they are not burning our churches. You and your tribal chieftains will have to deal with them. The bishops do
not think the Saxons are their problem.”

  Just like that, my army was halved. Worse, I was committed to marching against the Saxons. To delay would be fatal because they would only grow stronger, and they would also take our fortress at Eboracum. To fail to march would be just as bad. Word would go to the Saxons that we considered ourselves weak, and they would come for us, before the Christians could be recruited again, if ever they could be, I thought bitterly.

  We had to march, we had to fight. We were outnumbered about five to one, but at least I could fight under the banner of Mithras, not of some rabble-rousing carpenter. I tore off the leather with its red cross that covered my shield. I was a warrior emperor and I was going to war without the blessings of some snivelling priests. It did not surprise me that the Pict Candless showed up at my chamber door, shuffling his feet and requesting to come along. He was, he said, somewhat trained in military matters and would like to… I told him happily that he should shut up, put on his sword again and draw some equipment.

  Back at my mensa, I looked over the army list and checked off my assets: Parthians and First Mithras, some Sarmatian horse archers, two detachments of Augusta; Cragus’ heavy cavalry, some good squadrons of light cavalry under the decurion Celvinius, and Grimr’s depleted but effective fleet.

  I had other assets in reserve, too. I had money for mercenaries if I could find some, and I had sent riders out to do just that, I had two sorcerers who were worth a legion and I had some smoke-and-looking-glass ideas. I gave the orders, sent a polite request asking Myrddin if he would care to follow us as soon as was convenient for him, and assigned a bodyguard to Guinevia and her two Celtic warrior women. These had attracted considerable interest among our archers after they had demonstrated some prowess with the hunting bow. I wondered sourly how Candless’ white-clad angel fitted with some lethal Diana, then shrugged.

  The next morning we left Chester along Trajan’s road through Northwich and Mancunium to the big legionary fort at Castleshaw. From there, the Nont Sarah road across the Pennine chain went along ridgelines and high places where the chill winds whistled in our ears and the vistas were treeless moorland and wide skies of high, scudding cloudscapes populated only by the occasional curlew. We felt we were on the roof of Britain, and the wild country exhilarated us and showed us what we were fighting to keep.

  We tramped east and north along a line of ruined Roman way forts, through Slack to Tadcaster where a small garrison was stationed, and we encamped. That night, we had local beer, roast pig and a warm, unexpected celebration with the bored local troops, who welcomed the prospect of action. From there it was a short morning’s travel on to Eboracum.

  We had made excellent time, quick-marching right across Britain, a testimony to the good roads those old engineers had built. Just four days after leaving Chester, we marched north over the Ouse bridge, through the Praetorian Gate with its inscriptions to Trajan and the Ninth Legion and into the fortress where I had been acclaimed emperor. That day, I recalled, a hawk had dropped a white Rat of fortune at my feet. I had not understood the augury until later.

  Now I eagerly looked for that Rat at important, decisive moments of my life, to see if the gods were guiding me still. This day, I looked carefully, but in vain. Perhaps, I thought as I rolled into my red woollen officer’s cloak to sleep, this time the gods have forsaken me, perhaps because I had pledged to the Christian Jesus. Before I slept, I humbly told Mithras: “Please stay with me. I never truly left you.” I even sent a prayer to thunderbolt-stupid, mighty Thor, but there was no response, no sign. My last thought before sleep was that I should find and sacrifice a bull. After all, Eboracum boasted a fine Mithreum and I had a week or so left before I would be killed. I may as well offer a small bribe before I joined the others in Valhalla.

  XLV March

  Like a huge migrating herd of beasts, the Saxons covered the land as they moved north. Their swarming mass of humanity had abandoned the flea-infested, wattle-and-mud halls where they had wintered, outside the conflagrated ruins of Colchester, and King Skegga himself threw a burning brand onto the thatch of his own mead-hall. This was a narrow, rectangular, moss-insulated building that stank of smoke, human grease, wet wool and animal dung.

  “Someone else wants to live here, they can build their own. I’ll have a stone palace soon enough,” he said cheerfully as the flames leaped high and a handful of field mice scampered for safety. It had not been a lucky place, he felt, with the disease that had followed them from their previous camp, and with the desertion of so many troops the previous winter. Let the fire have it.

  The trek north had begun hours before the king burned down his hall. First, even before wolf light had edged the darkness, the mostly Jutish scouts had trotted their ponies out of the palisaded settlement. Behind them, once full dawn had brightened the sky, spear-carrying pickets had marched out, shields slung over their backs, leading and guarding the pioneers whose task it would be to clear the muddy tracks and good, paved roads of obstacles. They would prepare the way, cut gradients into stream banks for the following waggons and ensure the solidity of any bridges their army must cross.

  The pioneers’ horse-drawn carts were piled high with tools and axes, with coils of braided rope, sawn timbers, blocks of tar pitch, even some flagstones; all the paraphernalia needed to build, reinforce or repair the route the heavy waggons must take.

  Behind the pioneers marched the vanguard, roughly-formed phalanxes of spearmen flanked by a few archers, all mustered by tribal affiliations. Minor warlords in heavy furs led their own small war bands, but a handful of the greater thegns formed a mounted group around their king, Skegga. He rode proud at the head of the next contingent, which was the main body of his army, and his under-chiefs vied to imitate his bearing. They were bearded and long-moustached men, shaggy as Bactrian camels, with scarred faces and bodies. They showed bare arms heavy with bronze and silver rings, blue with tattoos, hands that were thick with rings made from the weapons of defeated enemies. All wore the big seax daggers that marked them as Saxons, the leather-wrapped hilts glinting with wrapped gold wire.

  Beside them trotted their personal house carls, one carrying his lord’s elm-and-leather shield, another hefting his heavy, ash-shafted spear. Trailing them was the main army, bearded, long-haired spearmen in conical leather and horn helmets who carried small round shields. They kept together in rough columns and village or tribal groups that spread wide across the fields and fens, and they foraged as they went.

  The multitude travelled at different paces and moved not much more than ten miles a day. Some squads marched steadily, some men dawdled and straggled idly. Some spent the day busily elbowing their way forward, hurrying to reach the front, others could be seen simply standing still in the track, letting the onward tide of humanity wash around them. And some had fallen out of the line of march and were sitting, picking at their feet, eating or drinking, or just watching the world walk by.

  After the main body of the army came the baggage train, strung in a long column along the roadway. Lines of patiently-plodding packhorses carried bundles and bales in wicker baskets slung over their sides; slow-moving oxen pulled the rumbling wooden-wheeled farm waggons that brought heavier impedimenta, everything from grain and cooking pots to siege ballistae, animal-hide tents, caged chickens and sharpened stakes that would serve as palisade pickets.

  Mules stepped daintily under tall loads of forage and firewood, flocks of sheep bleated and skittered under the supervision of shepherds and their crazy-eyed dogs, some scrawny cattle were herded by small boys and even a few goats plodded along in the mud, droppings and farm stench that trailed the host.

  Behind all that was the rearguard, who comprised the most disciplined-looking group of all, swinging along in unison, sometimes chanting or singing, their officers riding beside them. These men carried their spears and shields purposefully, well aware that any attack would likely involve their participation, and they were staying alert to the threat. The last couple of
ranks of the rearguard were made up of archers who constantly looked around, nervously checking the woods and ditches, conscious that an arm’s length of iron-tipped pinewood loosed silent from cover could steal a life in seconds.

  Last of all on the rutted mud trail that spread wide on either side of the roadway came the stragglers, laggards, whores, pedlars, fake doctors, cutpurses, bards, holy men, thieves and beggars, a ragtag horde of camp followers, their curs and their children like those that have trailed every army in history. They and the rest of the motley progress were scattered far across the landscape, but the horde still covered several miles from head to tail. All trudged slowly north, moving at every muddy step or rumbling turn of a cart’s wheels inexorably closer to battle, fire and plunder. The wealth of Britain’s woodlands, and the lure of its landscapes of fertile farmlands had drawn these Saxons. They had come to seize and settle the land for themselves. The British could concede, or die, and only Arthur could prevent a Saxon conquest.

  XLVI Humber

  Even by Roman standards, the palace at Eboracum was lavish, but I had no inclination to enjoy its luxuries. The emperor Septimius Severus had used it as his base for an invasion of Pictland, but had died here, the task unfinished. I needed to accomplish my goals, or I’d be like Severus, and dead. I had to turn back the Saxons with a much-outnumbered force, now that the Christians had deserted. I called on Guinevia to send out her mind’s eye and tell me what she could, I had a squadron of mounted scouts viewing the Saxon horde as they moved slowly north, and I was forming a plan.