by M. K. Hume
‘Well, the bridge is still in position down there,’ Septimus grunted with a soldier’s grasp of essential details. The beauty of the valley was of no consequence to the jaded eyes of a professional warrior because it offered neither threat nor advantage.
‘There’s smoke in the hills,’ Myrddion said with equal curtness, and pointed to long, dissipating rags of grey that stained the lightening sky over Verulamium. ‘There’s been some fighting outside the city, but the walls are still standing.’
Septimus gnawed at a hangnail on his thumb as he thought. Then, with the speed that was customary to him, he shouted for Blaise.
‘Back to the wagons, boy! We’ll rest for a short time until the road is fully lit to give the horses the heart for the downhill run. Then, we march – at the double! The wagons must make best speed, hear? The machines are needed at Verulamium.’
Blaise spun on his heel without question and trotted back to the waiting convoy.
‘There’s burned earth down there,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘The defenders have been using hot oil over the walls, and the Mother knows how I hate burns injuries. Most soldiers die of shock, but those who linger suffer dreadfully.’
‘There’s been a battle, healer, so there will be plenty of work for you to do. Look downstream.’ The Roman pointed to his left, where the gory evidence of a desperate conflict was slowly being revealed in the strengthening light.
A brown stain marked a large area of green field, churned by the feet of horses and desperate men. The distance was too great for detail, but Myrddion had experienced enough battles to recognise the physical signs of their aftermath.
‘It’s obvious that the Saxons came out of Verulamium and fought Ambrosius there,’ Septimus muttered. ‘The churned earth leads back to the city and, as there’s a siege going on, I’ll wager Verulamium is still in Saxon hands.’
‘How so?’ Myrddion could barely make out the details of the force surrounding the city, but he could imagine the swift annihilation that would ensue if they drove blithely into the middle of a Saxon camp.
‘I can tell that you’ve not followed Uther,’ Septimus’s voice held neither fear nor admiration, but was simply a recitation of fact. ‘His forces wouldn’t run into a captured enemy city. Ambrosius’s foot soldiers would have forced the Saxons back into their holes once Uther broke their backs with his cavalry.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ Myrddion’s voice was thick with reservations, although he was eager to reach the High King’s troops.
‘I’m not wrong! Ambrosius has been forced to mount a siege on Verulamium, a strategy which will be slow, costly and difficult.’ Septimus’s voice spoke of his hatred for sieges more loudly than words. ‘We must get down there as soon as we can.’
For once, the Roman and the healer were in perfect agreement as they retraced their steps to the wagons and the column.
The teams of horses were weary, but the drivers were ruthless in their application of whips and reins as they forced the beasts into a surge that would take full advantage of the downward grade. Myrddion spurred his horse and soon outstripped the column and the wagons. He needed to know if the bridge had any enemy defenders, and whether they would make their presence known as he approached. His horse’s hooves hit the rough-sawn slabs of the bridge with a loud clatter as the shadows of the night were finally vanquished by a bloody sunrise. With his heart in his mouth, Myrddion urged his horse at a gallop up a low bank on the other side of the river.
Suddenly, cavalrymen appeared through the smoke on the small, agile horses that spoke of the flinty mountains of Myrddion’s home.
‘Who goes there?’ a rasping voice bellowed.
‘Myrddion of Segontium, healer to Ambrosius,’ he panted, the breath almost jolted from his body by his headlong rush. Behind him the column was approaching the bridge in a disciplined run and, behind them, Myrddion caught a glimpse of Cadoc’s red hair atop one of the wagons as the rays of the rising sun limned him with fire.
‘We have brought the baggage train to you,’ Myrddion shouted unnecessarily.
‘You’re badly needed,’ the leading cavalryman snapped, and turned to where the smoke haze was building over Verulamium.
Battlefields are a special, unique kind of hell. The Christians believe that hell is fire and heat filled with unimaginable horrors of physical pain, while the Romans believe that it is cold, shadowy and without substance. Neither comes close to the truth.
The hell that is battlefields is hard, grinding and muscle-cracking work. The soldier, if he is to have any chance of survival, must be strong at the shoulders and forearms so he can hold his shield and swing his sword past that point of exhaustion when every rational thought tells him to drop his guard. He must have legs made for running, but also knees that can lock hard to assume the position, in concert with his fellow warriors, to absorb the shock of a charging enemy, whether on foot or on horseback. He must possess deft feet that can grip the earth, no matter how thick the bloody mud might be, and yet still be able to spin and pirouette in the dance of sanctioned murder.
Battlefields are noisy, distracting and filthy places. The sound deafens the ears, in grunts of effort, screams of rage, prayers to callous gods, whimpers of pain, the clash of metal kissing, cutting and killing and the endless rumbling and drumming of horses’ hooves, wheels of wagons and siege machines and the feet of running men. To survive, a soldier must be able to ignore the sounds and smells that assault him, and focus only on the man who stands toe to toe against him. He must narrow his focus so that his enemy is the only person who is real, for every muscle twitch or movement can be a warning of danger. So the battlefield belongs to the strong, the dexterous and the focused, those men whose temperaments and physiques have been honed for survival.
Myrddion rode through the battlefield outside Verulamium and thought darkly of the temperaments of those men who killed for their bread. Across the river, and on level ground to the left of the approaches to Verulamium, Ambrosius’s cavalry had met the Saxon defenders of the city who had ventured outside the perimeter to win glory by claiming Celtic heads. The healer saw clearly defined circles, dug with heels and shields into a field that had been designed to grow vegetables. And now the tender shoots of lime green and emerald, as fresh as jewels against the brown loam of the field, were flattened, smashed and uprooted by careless boots. Here, the shield wall had been formed in ever narrowing circles round the thane standing proudly at the centre of his warriors. There, where hooves had cut wide furrows into the turned earth, as straight as a ploughshare, the Celtic cavalry had attacked from two sides at once. A day before, on the morning of the battle, men had been scythed like corn, and their blood had blurred the shoots of surviving growth with sanguine stains that would only disappear after the next heavy rain.
Myrddion kicked his horse towards the smoke rising from piles of burning bodies beyond a ruined farmhouse in the distance. Experience told him that the wounded would be found somewhere near the shelter of that building, where the dark rain clouds would be held at bay by a partial sod roof. With Cadoc and Praxiteles driving the wagons on easier ground through the muddy field, Myrddion knew he could set up a tent hospital quickly and efficiently. He hated to think of what injuries awaited him.
While Praxiteles set up the tent in the lee of the farmhouse, Cadoc set off with the emptied wagon towards Verulamium, with Rhedyn aboard to assist in transporting the wounded men from the siege of the city to this position of relative safety. Although the city walls were less than half a mile from the healers’ tent, the short distance would be difficult to cover by warriors suffering serious wounds. Initially, Cadoc’s task was to bring them back to Myrddion’s care as quickly and as carefully as possible.
On makeshift stretchers made from cloaks slung between spear shafts, the wounded from the earlier battle were borne from the farmhouse to the healer’s tent. Brangaine had already found what women were available to assist with the nursing, and the myriad tasks of building cleansi
ng fires, heating water and assembling the salves and painkillers of the healer’s art were in train. Myrddion missed Finn’s calming, experienced presence but Dyfri, even with his crippled leg, was quick to provide Myrddion’s every need. As the wounded arrived, the bloody work began.
Few seriously wounded men on either side remained alive, for the battle had been fierce and those warriors with gross sword or axe wounds had bled to death long before the baggage train had reached the outskirts of Verulamium. Some chance remained for those suffering bow injuries, concussions, or wounds received during the cavalry attack. Broken bones would heal, arrows could be cut from strong young flesh and head wounds would either heal – or not. Myrddion laboured with scalpels, pincers, forceps and needles over his folding surgical table, his hair plaited down his back and his body stripped to the waist under his leather apron. During this critical time nearly as many would die as would live, for Myrddion could not prevent the foul humours in the air from poisoning any breach in the bodies of the sick. The inflammation of infection, the early signs of gangrene and the reek of cauterisation were all around him.
By the time Cadoc returned with the first casualties from the walls of Verulamium, Myrddion had finished with the first wave of seriously injured patients, and was stitching and bandaging minor wounds on warriors who had managed to transport themselves to his tents. Praxiteles took the reins of the wagon after the casualties had been unloaded and set off for the wall to collect the next batch of wounded men, while Cadoc set to work alongside his master in the primitive surgery.
And so the day passed as the healers fought their own battle against pain and death.
In the cool of the evening, Myrddion received a summary order to treat the High King for a minor injury. The impatient messenger gave Myrddion no choice, and because the young healer had experienced the sad truth that kings do not wait on the needs of ordinary men, he packed his satchel and followed the courier outside to where a young officer awaited him. Smoothly, Cadoc took up a new needle and finished stitching the long slice on a soldier’s arm that Myrddion had been treating before the interruption.
‘Where is Lord Ambrosius?’ Myrddion asked as he mounted his horse in the darkness.
‘In his tent. The main walls are still resisting the catapults, but the engineers predict the gates will fall to the rams before morning. The High King intends to lead the charge into Verulamium.’
Something in the officer’s voice caught Myrddion’s attention. ‘Is that you, Ulfin?’
The man turned in his saddle to look at him. Myrddion could barely make out his eyes in the shadow of his helmet.
‘Yes, healer, it’s Ulfin. So you survived in the north? A few of us hoped you’d meet with a nasty accident.’
Knowing that Ulfin was Uther’s creature, Myrddion ignored the insult. ‘What is amiss with the king? Is his wound serious?’
Ulfin shrugged and dug his heels savagely into his horse’s belly. The startled beast leapt away and Myrddion was forced to follow at a brisk gallop.
Even though darkness had fallen, the main Celtic encampment was well lit. What did Ambrosius have to hide? Thorketil knew the size of the force that opposed him and trusted to the vicious, individual contests within Verulamium’s narrow streets to win the day for him once the Celts gained entrance to the city. Meanwhile, Ambrosius needed light to bombard the town with the hastily reconstructed siege machines, while a long battering ram, protected by a stout roof of timber, pounded steadily on the thick iron-braced gates. Periodically, the Saxons poured burning oil down on the battering ram, leaving a steady stream of blistered and suffering men in its wake. Dourly, the Celts replaced the injured men and continued to assault the gates.
Myrddion wished that he had the leisure to consult his precious scrolls. The Greeks had mastered the use of fire as a tool of terror, and their healers had devised a wide pharmacopoeia to combat the results on human flesh. ‘There is too little time,’ he whispered, as Ulfin drew his horse to a halt before the large command tent that the brothers used while conducting their campaigns.
‘Don’t take this amiss, healer, but the health of my masters is my chief concern,’ Ulfin muttered as he roughly searched the healer from head to toe. He raised his eyebrows when he found the scalpel in its narrow leather sheath within Myrddion’s boot.
Myrddion laughed. ‘Would you begrudge me my protection, Ulfin? I wield little blades like this every day in the course of my work. If I had wished to harm you, there’d have been an extra grin below your face before you even tried to search me. Enough. Take me to your masters.’
Ulfin grunted, unconvinced that Myrddion was really capable of violence. The scalpel was replaced, and Ulfin held the leather tent flap open so that the healer could enter.
Ambrosius was holding a pad of cloth to the right side of his face as he examined a chart of the inner city. Uther hovered behind him like a huge, black shadow, and Myrddion felt dark wings begin to beat in the back of his mind, as if the curse of prophecy stirred in the coils of his brain.
‘I am here as you asked, my lord.’ He bowed over Ambrosius’s hand and kissed the large ring on his master’s thumb. The huge pearl in its centre looked like a blinded eye.
‘Myrddion!’ Ambrosius exclaimed with obvious pleasure. ‘I’d heard you had joined the column and I was glad. Somehow, our twisted fates are clearer whenever you’re around. Take heed, brother, should you ever stand in my shoes. This healer brings good luck to us and must be held close to your heart. With him beside us, we shall never fail.’
‘I wish it were so, my lord,’ Myrddion answered carefully, noting the flash of Uther’s eyes in the shadows. ‘Now, show me what’s amiss with your face.’
‘It’s a trifle, Myrddion! A little love tap from an amorous Saxon! But it’s hot, and I’m being cautious for I have no intention of missing the final defeat of Thorketil. He’ll bow to me or I’ll have his head.’ Ambrosius lowered the pad.
The wound was neither deep nor dangerous, but it was spectacular. From the right eyebrow to the jaw, narrowly missing the corner of the eye, a long slice showed where an axe had almost cloven Ambrosius’s head in two.
‘Damn me, but he almost got me,’ he said with an admiring smile. ‘At the last moment, I saw his eye twitch to the right, so I threw myself to the left. I almost made it. Uther spitted the poor sod, didn’t you, brother?’
‘He’ll not use his head again,’ Uther said laconically.
Myrddion recognised the telltale redness at the points where the muscles of Ambrosius’s face were most active.
‘Your wound is becoming infected, highness. The Saxon used a fouled blade, probably on purpose. So the enemy grows ruthless.’
‘Any enemy is ruthless. Set to work then, Myrddion, and do what you must. I’ll not complain, and Uther won’t separate your head from your shoulders if you hurt me.’ Ambrosius carefully turned his head to engage his brother’s eyes. ‘Will you, Uther?’
Like a chained bear, Uther growled softly in the back of his throat.
Hot water and an open flame were brought swiftly, and Myrddion sterilised his blade. Although Ambrosius bit his lips until they bled, he did not blench as the healer quickly reopened the wound. Then, while the cauterising iron sizzled in the coals of the fire, Myrddion staunched the flow of fresh blood.
‘You’ll have an impressive scar, master, for I have to burn your flesh to scour out the infection,’ he whispered as he removed a small flask from his satchel and measured out several drops into Ambrosius’s wine cup. ‘But first you will have to drink this poppy juice in a little wine.’
‘I’ll not be drugged,’ Ambrosius groaned, moving his lips carefully. ‘I’ll need my full wits tomorrow.’
‘And you’ll have them, master. But the Saxon blade came close to your eye, and even a stone golem would flinch from a white-hot blade there. I can’t afford to have you move. So drink, my lord, and I’ll fix this love tap in a trice.’
‘Aye, you don’t lie,’ the High King
said, meeting Myrddion’s eyes with an intense blue stare. ‘Do your worst, Myrddion. I’ll thank you in the morning.’
Then, with a flourish, the king drank his wine and grinned at his healer. A world of trust lived in that action, and Myrddion realised that he loved Ambrosius.
‘You will start to drowse shortly, my lord, and then I’ll begin. But I fear you’ll not be pretty when I finish.’
Outside the tent, the engineers continued to loose the catapults, sending a deadly rain of stones, old iron and fiery, fat-soaked bundles of wool into Verulamium. If he listened carefully, Myrddion could almost hear the screams of pain.
THE CELTIC TRIBES OF BRITAIN
NB: The lands controlled by the various tribes in the map above are approximations only, for the details have been lost in the mists of time and the relative geographic positions of territory controlled by the Saxon invaders.
CHAPTER IX
THORNY BURDENS
Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.
[Hail, Emperor, we who are about to die salute you.]
Suetonius, ‘The Life of Claudius’
Myrddion was still awake when the final assault on Verulamium began. From the dim tent hospital, quiet now in the last moments of darkness before the dawn, the sound of the ram carried clearly from the city gates. The dull thuds were regular and Myrddion could tell from the hollow echo that reverberated through the aftermath of each blow that the wood and iron resisting Ambrosius’s efforts for so long were finally starting to weaken. Like a faltering heartbeat, the main gates of the city were about to fail.
Myrddion could imagine the scene.
Boom! The ram had a cap of thick iron, bound at the end of a long wooden trunk that swung forward and back in a cradle, powered by the cracking muscles of the engineers and common soldiers who controlled the swing of its pendulum.
Boom! The iron cap was shaped and decorated with a ram’s head, horns lowered to strike the gate in the traditional Roman style. In that final darkness, trembling on the edge of success, the sweating, exhausted soldiers must have prayed each time that the next swing of that brooding, threatening head would shatter the crossbar that held the poised army at bay.