Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  “It is a bounding otter,” said Culain. “It kicks off with its powerful hind legs and comes down on its front paws. The rear paws then land just behind the front, and the beast takes off for another bound, leaving four tracks close together. Obviously it was frightened.”

  At other times Thuro would walk with Laitha, whose interest was trees and flowers, herbs and fungi. In her cabin she had sketches, richly colored, of all kinds of plants. Thuro was fascinated.

  “Do you like mushrooms?” Laitha asked, one day in early spring.

  “Yes, fried in butter.”

  “Does this look tasty?” She showed him a beautifully sketched picture of four capped fungi growing from the bole of a tree. They were the color of summer sunshine.

  “Yes, they look delicious.”

  “Then you would be wise to remember what they look like. They are sulphur tufts, and a meal of these would leave you in great pain and probably kill you. What of this one?” It was a foul-looking object in cadaver gray.

  “Edible?”

  “Yes, and very nutritious. It also tastes pleasant.”

  “What is the most dangerous?” he asked.

  “You should be interested in the most nutritious, but since you ask, it is probably this,” she answered, producing a drawing of a delicate white and yellow-green fungus. “It is usually found near oak,” she said, “and is called death cap; I leave it to you to guess why.”

  “Do you never get lonely up in the mountains?”

  “Why should I?” she replied, putting down her drawings. “I have Culain as my friend and the animals and birds and trees to study and draw.”

  “But do you not miss people, crowds, fairs, banquets?”

  “I have never been among crowds or to a banquet. The thought does not thrill me. Are you unhappy here, Thuro?”

  He gazed into her gold-flecked eyes. “No, I am not lonely—not with you, anyway.” He was aware that his tone was too intense, and he flushed deep red. She touched his hand.

  “I am something you can never have,” she told him. He nodded and tried to smile.

  “You love Culain.”

  “Yes. All my life.”

  “And yet you cannot have him, as I can never have you.”

  She shook her head. “That has yet to be decided. He still sees me as the child he raised. It will take time for him to realize I am a woman.”

  Thuro closed his mouth, stopping the obvious comment from being voiced. If Culain could not see it now, he would never see it. Added to which, here was a man who had known life since the dawn of history. How many women had he known? How many had he wed? What beauties had lain beside him through the centuries?

  “How did he find you?” Thuro asked, seeking to move from the painful subject.

  “My parents were Trinovante, and they had a village some sixty miles south. One day there was a raid by Brigantes. I cannot remember much of it, for I was only five, but I can still see the burning thatch and hear the screams of the dying. I ran up into the hills, and two horsemen pursued me. Then Culain was there with his silver lance; he slew the riders and carried me high into the mountains. Later we returned, but everyone was dead. So he kept me with him; he raised me and taught me all I know.”

  “It is hardly a surprise that you love him. I wish you success … and happiness.”

  Every morning Culain would put Thuro through two hours of heavy exercise: running, lifting rocks, or making him hang by his arms from the branch of a tree and raise his weight until his chin touched the branch. At first Thuro could raise himself only three times before his arms would tremble and refuse the burden. But now, as spring painted its dazzling colors on the mountainside, he could manage thirty. He could run for an hour with no sign of fatigue, and he had dispatched twelve of the ghostly opponents Culain had created. The last had proved difficult; he was a Persian from the army of Xerxes, and he fought with dagger and saber. Four times he defeated Thuro before the youth won through. He did it by leaving a fractional opening twice and covering late; the third time he lured the Persian into a lunge, sidestepped, and cut his gladius into his opponent’s neck. Culain had clapped him on the back and said nothing. Thuro was sweating hard, for the fight had lasted more than ten minutes.

  “Now I think,” said Culain, “that you are ready for the reasonable swordsmen.”

  A movement to Thuro’s left, and a ghostly sword cut into his shoulder, numbing his left arm. He threw himself from the log on which he sat and rolled to his feet. The man before him was a blond giant over six feet tall, wearing a bronze helm adorned with a bull’s horns. He held a longsword and was wearing a chain-mail vest.

  Thuro blocked the man’s sudden charge, but his opponent’s shoulder crashed into him, sending him sprawling to the grass. Thuro rolled as the longsword flashed for his head. With his enemy off balance, he regained his feet and launched a blistering attack, but his arm was weary and he was beaten back. Three times he almost found a way through, but his opponent—with his longer sword and greater reach—fended him off. Sweat dripped into the youth’s eyes, and his sword arm burned. The warrior lunged; Thuro parried, swung on his heel, and hammered his elbow into the man’s face. The warrior staggered back, and Thuro, still moving around, plunged his sword into the man’s chest. As his enemy disappeared, the young prince fell to his knees, his breath coming in great gasps. After several minutes his angry eyes locked on Culain.

  “That was unfair!”

  “Life is unfair. Do you think your enemies will sit back and wait until you are fresh? Learn to marshal your strength. Were I to produce another warrior now, you would not last five heartbeats.”

  “There is a limit to every man’s strength,” Thuro observed.

  “Indeed there is—a good point to remember. One day, perhaps, you will lead an army into battle. You will be filled with the urge to draw your sword and fight alongside your men. You will think it heroic, but your enemy will rejoice, for it is folly. As the long day wears on, all enemy eyes will be upon you and your weakening body. All their attacks will be aimed at you. So always bear that in mind, young prince. There is a limit to every man’s strength.”

  “And yet do the men you lead not need to know you will fight alongside them? Will it not raise their morale?” Thuro asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then what is the answer to the riddle? Do I fight or not fight?”

  “Only you can decide that. But use your head. At some time in every battle there is a moment when it can turn. Weaker men blame it on the gods, but it has more to do with the hearts of the warriors. You must learn to read those moments; that is when you enter the fray, to the bitter dismay of your enemies.”

  “How is such a moment recognized?”

  “Most men recognize it only in hindsight. The truly great general sees it in an instant. But I cannot teach you that, Thuro. That is a skill you either have or do not have.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I thought that I did, but when Paullinus lured me to attack him at Atherstone, my talent deserted me. He sensed the moment and attacked, and my brave Britons collapsed around me. We outnumbered him twenty to one. An unpleasant man, Paullinus, but a wily general.”

  Often, when not with either Culain or Laitha, Thuro would wander the hillsides, enjoying the freshness of spring in the mountains. Everywhere was color: white-petaled wood anemone tinged with purple, golden celandine, mauve violets, snow-white wood sorrel, and the tall, glorious purple orchid with its black-spotted leaves and petals shaped like winged helms.

  Early one morning, with his chores completed, Thuro wandered alone in the valley below Culain’s cabin. His shoulders had widened, and he could no longer squeeze into the clothes he had worn a mere two months earlier. Now he wore a simple buckskin tunic and woolen leggings over sheepskin boots.

  He sat by a stream, watching the fish glide below the water, until he heard a horse moving along the path. Then he stood and saw a single rider. The man spotted him and dismounted. He
was tall and slender with shoulder-length red hair and green eyes, and he wore a longsword at his waist. He walked to Thuro and stood with hands on hips.

  “Well, it has been a long chase,” he said, “and you are much changed.” He smiled. His face was open and handsome, and Thuro could detect no malice there.

  “My name is Alantric,” said the newcomer, “I am the King’s Champion.” He sat down on a flat rock, tugged free a length of grass, and placed it between his teeth. “Sadly, boy, I have been instructed to find your body and bring your head to the king.” The man sighed. “I do not like killing children.”

  “Then return and say you could not find me.”

  “I would like to … truly. But I am a man of my word. It is unfortunate that I serve a king whose character is less than saintly. Do you know how to use that sword, boy?”

  “That you will find out,” said Thuro, his heart rate increasing as fear wormed into his heart.

  “I will fight you left-handed. It seems more fair.”

  “I wish for no advantage,” Thuro snapped, regretting it as he spoke.

  “Well said! You are your father’s son, after all. When you meet him, tell him I had no part in his killing.”

  “Tell him yourself,” said Thuro.

  Alantric stood and drew his longsword, and Thuro’s gladius flashed into the air. Alantric moved out onto open ground, then spun and lunged. Thuro sidestepped and blocked, rolling his gladius over the blade and slicing a thin cut on Alantric’s forearm. “Well done!” said the champion, stepping back, his green eyes blazing. “You’ve been taught well.” He advanced once more, this time with care. Thuro noted the liquid grace of his enemy’s style, the perfect balance, and the patience he showed. Culain would have been impressed by this man. Thuro attacked not at all, merely blocking his opponent at every turn while studying his technique.

  Alantric attacked, his sword flashing and cutting, and the discordant clash of iron on iron echoed in the woods. Suddenly the Brigante faked a cut, twisted his wrist, and lunged. Caught by surprise, Thuro parried hastily, feeling the razor-sharp blade slide across his right bicep. Blood began to seep through his shirt. A second attack saw Alantric score a similar wound at the top of Thuro’s shoulder, close to the throat. The youth moved back, and Alantric sprang forward. This time Thuro read the attack, swayed, and lanced his gladius into Alantric’s side. But the Brigante was fast, and he leapt back before the blade had penetrated more than an inch.

  “You have been taught well,” he said again. He raised his sword to his lips in salute, then attacked once more. Thuro, desperate now, resorted to the move Culain had taught him. He blocked a thrust and spun on his heel, his elbow flashing back—into empty air! Off balance, the young prince fell to the grass. He rolled swiftly but felt Alantric’s sword resting on his neck.

  “A clever move, Prince Thuro, but you tensed before you tried it and I read your intent in your eyes.”

  “At least I …” In the moment of speaking Thuro kicked Alantric’s legs from under him and rolled to his feet. The Briton sat up and smiled.

  “You are full of surprises,” he said as he stood and sheathed his sword. “I think that I could kill you, but the truth is I do not wish to. You are worth ten of Eldared. It seems I must break my word.”

  “Not at all,” said Thuro, sheathing his gladius. “You were sent to look for my corpse. It is true to say that you did not find it.”

  Alantric nodded. “I could serve you, Prince Thuro … should you ever be a king.”

  “I will remember that,” Thuro told him, “as I will remember your gallantry.” Alantric bowed and walked to his horse.

  “Remember, Prince Thuro, never to let your enemy read your eyes. Do not think of an attack—just do it!”

  Thuro returned the bow and watched as the warrior mounted and rode from sight.

  Prasamaccus followed Victorinus to the Alia stables, where the young Roman ordered a chestnut gelding with three white fetlocks to be saddled for the Brigante. Having not genuinely believed he would be allowed to pick his own mount, Prasamaccus was therefore not disappointed with the beast. Victorinus mounted a black stallion of some seventeen hands, and the two rode west along the wide Roman road outside Caerlyn. They skirted Eboracum and continued west for an hour until they came to the fortress town of Calcaria.

  “My villa is beyond the next hill,” said Victorinus. “We can rest there and bathe.”

  Prasamaccus smiled dutifully and wondered what, under the sun, was a villa. Still, the sun was shining, his leg felt almost at ease, and he was not yet hungry again. All in all, the gods must be sleeping. A villa, it turned out, was a Roman name for a palace: white walls covered with vines, a garden, terrace steps, and pretty maidens running to take the reins of their horses. Gorgeous young creatures—all with teeth.

  He fought to look dignified, copying the solemn expression on Victorinus’ swarthy face. Unfortunately, he could not slide from the saddle with the Roman’s grace, but even so he climbed down sedately and made every effort to keep his limp to a minimum. It surprised him not at all when no one laughed. Who would laugh at the guest of so important a chieftain? They moved inside, and Prasamaccus looked around for evidence of a fire, but there was none. The mosaic floor depicted a hunting scene in glorious reds and blues, golds and greens. Beyond it was an arch, and there the two men were helped from their clothes and offered goblets of warmed wine. It seemed bland compared with the water of life distilled in the north, but even so Prasamaccus could feel its heat slipping through his veins.

  Yet another room contained a deep pool, and Prasamaccus gingerly followed the Roman into the warm water. Below the surface there were seats of stone, and the Brigante leaned his head against the edge of the bath and closed his eyes. This, he thought, was the closest to paradise he had ever known. After some twenty minutes the Roman climbed from the water, and Prasamaccus dutifully followed. They sat together on a long marble bench, saying nothing. Two young girls, one as black as night, came from the archway bearing bowls of oil. If the bath had been paradise, there was little left to describe the sensation that followed as the oil was softly rubbed into their skin and then scraped away with rounded knives of bone.

  “Would you feel better for a massage?” asked Victorinus as the girls moved away.

  “Of course,” said Prasamaccus, wondering if one ate it or swam in it.

  Victorinus led them through to a side room where two tables had been placed next to each other. The Roman stretched his lean, naked frame out on the first, and Prasamaccus took the second. Two more girls entered and began to rub yet more oil into their bodies, but this they did not scrape off. Instead they kneaded the muscles of the upper back, stroking away knots of tension of which Prasamaccus had been unaware. Slowly their hands moved down, and the men’s shoulders were covered with warm white cloths. The Brigante sensed the girl’s uncertainty as she reached his ruined leg. Her fingers floated over the skin like moths’ wings, and then she began, with skillful strokes, to ease the deep ache that was always with him. Her skill was beyond words, and Prasamaccus felt himself slipping toward the sleep of the blessed. Finally the girls stepped back, and two male servants approached with togas of white. Dressed in one of them, Prasamaccus felt faintly ridiculous and not a little overdressed. Yet another in an apparently interminable series of rooms followed. There two divans were set alongside a table laden with fruit, cold meats, and pastries. Prasamaccus waited while the Roman settled himself on a divan, leaning on his elbow; then the Brigante once more copied the pose.

  “You are obviously a man of some breeding,” said Victorinus. “I hope you will feel at home within my house.”

  “Of course.”

  “Your bravery in aiding us will not go unrewarded, though I can imagine that your distress at being taken from your home and family must be great.”

  Prasamaccus spread his hands and hoped his expression conveyed the right emotions—whatever they might be.

  “As you no doubt kno
w, there will be a war between the tribes that follow Eldared and our own forces. We will of course win, but the war will hamper our battles in the south against the Saxon and Jute. What I am saying is that it will be difficult to assist you in getting home. But you are welcome to stay.”

  “Here in your villa?” Prasamaccus asked.

  “Yes, though I don’t doubt you would rather risk the perils of the road north. If that is the case, as I said, you must pick your own horse from the stable, and I will assist you with supplies and coin.”

  “Does Gwalchmai live here?”

  “No. He is a soldier and lives in the barracks at Caerlyn. He has a woman there, I believe.”

  “Ah, a woman. Yes.”

  “How foolish of me!” said Victorinus. “Any of the slaves who take your fancy, you may feel free to bed. I would recommend the Nubian, who will guarantee a good night’s sleep. And now I must leave you. I have a meeting to attend at the castle, but I will be back at around midnight. My man, Grephon, will show you to your room.”

  Prasamaccus watched the Roman leave and then wolfed down the food. He was not hungry, but he had found that it never paid to waste the opportunity to eat.

  The servant Grephon approached silently, then cleared his throat. He watched as the Briton gorged himself but kept his face carefully void of expression. If his master had chosen to bring this savage to the villa, there was obviously a good reason for it. At the very least the man must be a prince among the northern tribes and therefore, despite his obvious barbarism, would be treated as if he were a senator. Grephon was a life servant to the Quirina family, having served Victorinus’ illustrious father for seven years in Rome; he ran the household with iron efficiency. He was a short man, stocky and bald—despite being only twenty-five—with round unblinking eyes that were dark as sable. Originally he had come from Thrace, a boy slave brought into the Quirina household as a stable boy.

  His swift mind had brought him to the attention of Marcus Lintus, who had taken him into the household as a playmate for his son, Victorinus. As the years passed, Grephon’s reputation grew. He was undeniably loyal and closemouthed, with an eye for organization. By the age of nineteen he was organizing the household. When Marcus Lintus had died four years earlier, young Victorinus had asked Grephon to accompany him to Britain. He had not wished to come and could have refused, for he had become a freedman on the death of Marcus. But the Quirina family was rich and Grephon’s future was assured with them, so with a heavy heart he had made the long journey through Gaul and across the sea to Dubris and up through the cursed countryside to the villa at Calcaria. He had staffed it and run it to perfection while Victorinus followed the High King as Primus Pilus, the first centurion to Aurelius’ ragbag auxiliaries. Grephon could not understand why a high-born Roman would concern himself with such a rabble.