After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “We won’t need boats,” Dinas assured him. “We shall continue to be based at Tintagel, but we’ll turn our attention inland. In less than half a day’s ride from here there are at least seven Dumnonian clans that continually fight with one another. And beyond that, who knows how many others? The region is underpopulated; no chieftain has what might be called an army, so no chieftain ever wins a decisive battle.”

  “What about the king of Dumnonia, doesn’t he have an army?”

  “Not like the Romans did, no. What the king has is underkings—chieftains—who profess loyalty to him. They pay him taxes—grain and cattle—and in return he promises to protect them from outside invasion. If he needs an army to defend the borders of the kingdom he calls on the chieftains to send him their warriors. When the battle’s over they go home again, and the king goes back to feasting and enjoying women. The chieftains return to fighting one another to keep their battle skills in order.”

  “I begin to understand why you want to be a king,” said Cadel. “What I don’t understand is why we’ve been trying to be pirates.”

  “I thought it would be a good way to raise enough money to equip an army of my own,” Dinas told him. “But it’s too slow and the profits are too uncertain, I realize that now.”

  “He’s just seeing it now?” Cynan muttered to Iolo.

  Ignoring him, Dinas continued. “Men like Kollos and Geriotis command fifteen or twenty warriors each; thirty at the most. What I propose is to offer ourselves as a private fighting force to the chieftain with the smallest army. We’ll help defend his people—for a price. Then we’ll assume more and more power until we’re able to take over his land and extend our control outwards. By that time others will be eager to join us; a winner has no difficulty attracting followers.”

  Tostig told Bleddyn, “He makes it sound easy.”

  “He made it sound easy the first time,” Bleddyn reminded him.

  * * *

  And for a time, it was.

  That first summer only a few battles took place. Dinas and his band augmented an “army” of but ten men, none of whom were well armed. The shortswords and lightweight javelins Dinas brought from Tintagel impressed them mightily. Their opposition was impressed too. A temporary truce was soon arranged and the two chieftains sat down together for some serious mead-drinking and flirtation with each other’s womenfolk. Dinas was invited to join them because he had been foremost among the fighters, the quickest, ablest of the lot, nimble with a knife and swift with a sword. He fought as if each man he faced were a personal enemy. He did his share of the killing.

  By autumn he was the one doing most of the talking as well, planning the next season’s campaigns. An alliance was formed; the taking of spoils was discussed at length. When one of the chieftains made a clumsy effort at speaking Latin, Dinas interrupted him. “Use the tongue you learned at your mother’s knee,” he insisted. “Show that you are a free man. I’ve heard too much Latin.”

  The Dumnonian was happy to comply.

  Dinas and his men retired to Tintagel for the winter. They divided their winnings from the first season of warfare: a few bits of jewelry, some weapons, and a handful of Roman and Greek coins. Dinas gave the jewelry and weapons to his men and put the coins in his saddlebags.

  Fine weather lingered late that year. The recruits, who considered themselves hardened veterans by now, devoted much of their time to weapons practice. Bryn endlessly brewed potions and medicaments in anticipation of battle injuries that might never happen. On sunny days Dinas rode the stallion several miles along the cliffs to a slope that led to the sea. They cantered in the surf with the white spume flying. Alternatively he amused himself by teaching the dark horse to climb the tower steps to the very top. From there the two of them could gaze out over the dark sea and the shifting fog banks of autumn.

  Britannia—or the idea of Britannia—had become as amorphous as fog. Stability was a thing of the past; borders and boundaries changed constantly. No man could predict what might happen tomorrow. Less than a generation after the departure of the last legion, what had been a peaceful, almost tranquil outpost of the Roman Empire was riven by warfare. Battles had become commonplace between native tribes, foreign tribes, rival chieftains, sons and brothers and anyone with sufficient ambition and weapons.

  Strangers began to appear more frequently in Dumnonia. Refugees fleeing the upheavals elsewhere in Britannia; outlaws searching for a place beyond the reach of any law; slave traders seeking white-skinned merchandise to sell in the Byzantine markets. Such men often gave no names and revealed nothing of their backgrounds. In the general collapse of society they found a sort of freedom.

  There were also a few who had crossed the Severn for legitimate purposes. If they strayed into Dumnonian territory they were slain as intruders by militias similar to the one Dinas had formed.

  His were not the only mercenaries at World’s End. The situation was provoking the rise of fighting men as decaying manure provokes the growth of weeds.

  Dinas kept busy negotiating positions of advantage for himself and his band. Sometimes this involved switching sides. Loyalty had become a debased coin. From one season to the next it was impossible to predict which chieftains would be in the ascendancy. And which would lie, bloody and beaten, beneath a cairn of stones.

  Some warriors—though not his, he strictly forbade it—were reverting to the ancient custom of taking the heads of fallen enemies and putting them up on poles.

  Bleddyn went like that. In a senseless battle between two petty chieftains who were both dead within the year anyway. Dinas did not realize what had happened until he saw the young man’s head raised on a pole outside the tent of a chieftain who wanted to hire him.

  They were all young men. Cynan who died in courageous combat with a Dumnonian almost twice his size; Iolo who suffered what seemed to be a minor injury to his arm, but saw the entire arm blacken and rot in spite of all Bryn could do; Docco who was speared on a pitchfork and died in agony.

  Others were recruited along the way to fight beside Dafydd and Tostig and Meradoc. They were not fighting for a kingdom; that goal had been abandoned. Dinas could not even remember when he had given up on it. Perhaps it was the day he saw Bleddyn’s head on a pole. Perhaps it was the day he encountered a tin merchant who reported that Londinium was in danger of turning into a wasteland. Whole areas in the center of the city were roped off where houses were becoming unstable and a passersby could be killed by falling masonry.

  “Londinium!” Dinas said wonderingly to Meradoc. “The capital city of Britannia Prima, the Western Empire, falling down. Who would have believed such a thing possible?”

  Meradoc asked, “Were you ever in Londinium?”

  “Once. Almost. I rode around the walls but never passed through any of the gates.”

  “Why not?”

  Dinas tried to remember. So much had happened since then. What had seemed a monumental decision at the time was trivial now. “The city was too big for me,” he said at last. “I could hear a lot of noise and see crowds streaming in and out and it made me uncomfortable.”

  “But you grew up in a city.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you ever go home again, Dinas?”

  “Would you?”

  The two men looked at each other. After a long pause, one of them said, “I am home.”

  The next outsider Dinas and his men encountered was, in Bryn’s words, “an exotic bird.” They were returning to their base at Tintagel at the end of a long season of warfare. The band numbered fifteen at the moment, the largest it had ever been, though they had only five rideable horses plus the stallion. The chestnut mare’s first colt, a leggy bay, was yet to be trained to the saddle.

  As they approached the cliffs Dinas saw a ship far out at sea; a long narrow vessel with a triangular sail. Driven by the prevailing wind from the west, the ship was skimming toward land. Dinas drew rein. “See that, Meradoc?” he called over his shoulder to the little man
riding the chestnut mare.

  “I do. It’s a pity we’re not still in the pirate business … or are we?”

  Dinas smiled. A thin, bitter smile; the only kind he ever smiled now. “Let’s wait and see what the gods are bringing us.”

  He led the way onto Tintagel Head.

  It was the first visit to Tintagel for three newcomers to his band. They approached the natural fortress with a degree of awe. No Pelemos had inspired them; they had joined Dinas because of the reputation he had acquired. Leader, warlord, wild man. Wild as the wind was wild, unbeatable and unpredictable. It was the sort of reputation that attracted a young man.

  While Tostig was getting the rest of the men settled in, Dinas made his way down to the shingle beach below the peak. He carried a round wooden shield on one arm and a sword on his hip. He was more curious than worried. When the ship was close enough to make out details he could tell that it was not rigged for battle, nor heavy enough to carry much cargo. A rare sight in these waters.

  The rowboat that landed on the shingle beach held five men. Four burly sailors who, from the scimitars in their belts, were obviously bodyguards as well. The fifth individual was a short, swarthy man with a divided beard and eyes like polished jet. He was swathed in yards of colorful fabric shot with gold thread, and wore a turban of crimson silk.

  By the time the strangers had clambered out of the boat, Tostig and Meradoc had made their way down to the beach to stand beside Dinas. Other members of the band ranged along the downward path, weapons at the ready, while Bryn watched from above. Advancing age had not dimmed his curiosity.

  Dinas drew in a deep breath, inhaling unfamiliar scents. The wearer of the turban smelled of rich spices and musky perfume. Dinas forced himself to recall his Latin, which had grown rusty with disuse. Once he had condemned Latin as the language of the conquerors. He was glad of it now. Rome had enforced a common language for the sake of trade which simplified situations such as this.

  Meradoc and Tostig listened as hard as they could, trying to catch some hint of meaning, while Dinas and the man in the turban carried on a long, occasionally testy, conversation. Dinas stood with his feet planted wide apart and his arms folded. The stranger chattered like a magpie and constantly gesticulated. When their talk was concluded the foreigner returned to his boat and his crew pushed off. Dinas stood watching while they rowed back to their ship and prepared to sail away.

  “What was that about?” Meradoc asked as they climbed back up the peak.

  “Later,” Dinas said tightly.

  He did not explain until the three of them—himself, Meradoc and Tostig—had retired to their hut for the night. “There’s no need for the rest of them to hear this,” Dinas said. “They know little or nothing about our earlier enterprise, which is just as well. The man who was just here is an agent from Constantinople. He represents a cadre of merchants who deal in tin.”

  Meradoc was impressed. “Syrian?” he asked. “Or Egyptian?”

  “You remember everything you hear, don’t you?” Dinas said approvingly. “I’m not sure just which it is, Meradoc; that’s not important anyway. Here’s the heart of the matter: An effort is underway to reestablish the Byzantine trade network that once included the Western Empire. Our visitor’s mission is to warn people like us against interfering with shipping around the coast.”

  “But we haven’t done that in years!” Tostig protested.

  “I know it and you know it, but he didn’t seem to. I tried to convince him.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Perhaps.” Dinas gave a sigh. “Of all the crimes I’ve committed, it’s ironic to be blamed for one I’ve given up.”

  Meradoc said, “He warned you? What kind of warning?”

  “Veiled threats, mostly. I suspect they’re flexing their muscles now they no longer have to deal with Rome. By comparison we’re very small fish. That’s why Constantinople is sending this emissary, or whatever he is, with so little apparent military support. It’s the sort of thing the Romans did at the height of their power to show their contempt for ordinary people. I know their tricks and I’m not impressed.”

  But although Dinas tried to sound confident, the encounter had upset him. In a few years life had shrunk from an unlimited horizon to a series of petty wars he sometimes won and sometimes lost, and which never seemed to represent any advance. His world had become very small indeed. Now a bolt of lightning from a far distance had singled him out. For what purpose?

  That night Dinas left the hut and sought out the dark horse. At the familiar command the stallion lay down and allowed him to pillow his head on the warm and silky neck.

  “What are we doing here?” Dinas wondered aloud.

  The horse had no answer for him.

  There aren’t any answers. Once I thought I knew them all until … the unavenged—unavenged!—murder of Gwladys left me with a rage I can neither throw off nor satisfy. What I should have done in the beginning was hunt down Ocellus and kill him with my bare hands. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not my own father. It’s too late to find him now; he might be anywhere. He could even be dead. Would that make me feel any better?

  Would anything make me feel any better?

  He had no answer for that question either.

  Spring brought another battle season: two men killed, little booty taken, but a new alliance formed with, of all people, Kollos, the chieftain who had greeted them on their arrival at Tintagel. Kollos and Geriotis had quarreled and now Kollos wanted to seize his brother’s land. He would pay, of course; he understood the mercenary business.

  It would be the last campaign of the summer, Dinas promised his men. But first they would return to Tintagel for a few days’ rest and to prepare their weapons.

  More importantly, the horses needed rest. The chestnut mare was in foal again, carrying the second offspring she would bear to the dark horse. The stallion had been slightly lame off and on all summer. When they reached Tintagel Bryn said the problem was a sprain in the shoulder muscle, and treated him with evil-smelling poultices. Meradoc insisted there was damage to the knee joint, though Bryn could not detect any swelling. Their constant fretting over the horse began to irritate Dinas.

  “Whatever’s wrong, you’re only making it worse,” he told them. “I know him better than either of you. All he needs is a long canter in the sea to tone him up again. Have him ready for me in the morning, Meradoc.”

  Morning dawned crisp and clear. The seabirds were more raucous than usual, which indicated a possible change in the weather. Before taking the stallion for his canter Dinas and the other men went to gather firewood while it was still dry. The nearest trees were some distance inland, but by using the horses they could carry back enough wood to last for weeks.

  When they had gone, Bryn retired to his hut to steep and strain and simmer. Meradoc massaged the stallion’s knee with a concoction of his own made of rancid butter and salt water, then gave him a thorough rubdown to have him ready for Dinas. He put on the saddle and bridle and tied on the saddlebags. Whenever Dinas rode the stallion he always carried the saddlebags with him, though they currently contained little more than a spare cloak, the stone bowl and the cracked plate. There had been few spoils from the summer to add the clink of coin to his hoard.

  When everything was ready Meradoc led the dark horse to the foot of the tower and stood waiting. He would wait for half a day if necessary, he had done it before. Even if there was nothing important to do Dinas would be in a hurry when he returned. Lately he always seemed to be impatient.

  But for what? Meradoc wondered. Their days had become almost predictable, one following the next in a similar pattern. Faces changed, however. And Dinas was getting silver threads in his hair. At least the dark horse remained the same. Meradoc reached out to stroke the silken neck and check the belly band that held the saddle in place. He might as well loosen it if they had a long wait.

  That was when he saw them. Coming up the narrow path from the bay. Stooping ove
r as they ran, agile as cats, some with knives held in their teeth.

  Meradoc gave a shout of warning. There was no one to hear except Bryn in his stone hut. Bryn stuck his head out the doorway, took in the scene at a glance, then ducked back inside.

  The attackers were not Britons; the most cursory glance told Meradoc that much. They were bearded, swarthy men wearing outlandish clothes. They must have been watching for their chance from the bay, or a ship out at sea … and there were so many of them! They swarmed onto Tintagel Head shouting to one another. One ran into Bryn’s hut. Meradoc heard a scream, then silence.

  The stallion was plunging wildly by now. He tore the reins from Meradoc’s fingers as one of the attackers struck the little man on the side of the head. Meradoc instinctively rolled with the punch. Down onto one knee, twist sideways, up again with fists at the ready. But too late. The invaders had already formed a circle around Meradoc and the horse. One man drew a huge curved knife from his belt and brandished it in the air, laughing. The others urged him on with barbarous cries as he tried to catch the stallion’s reins. What he meant to do was obvious to Meradoc. Whoever they were, they intended to slaughter every living thing on Tintagel.

  With a defiant cry Meradoc flung himself at the stallion. Miraculously, the horse stood still for him. He scrambled onto the saddle and clutched the animal’s mane with both hands.

  The circle around him tightened. Jeering. Bloodlust in their eyes.

  For the first and last time Meradoc felt the power and spirit of the horse beneath him. He clamped his legs against the stallion’s sides and drove him toward the tower steps; the only avenue of escape open to them.

  Up, up they went. The attackers did not try to follow. Instead they stood at the base of the tower, watching in amazement.

  Up, up to the very top.

  Only then did one of the invaders—he with the scimitar in his hand—put a foot on the bottom step.

  Meradoc cast a despairing glance toward the land. He saw Dinas and the others approaching, but they would not arrive in time to save anyone on Tintagel.