Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  He cleared his throat once more, and this time the savage noticed him. Grephon bowed.

  “Is there anything you desire, sir?” The man belched loudly.

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you have a choice in mind?” The Briton’s pale blue eyes fixed on Grephon. “No. You choose.”

  “Very well, sir. Let me show you to your room and I will send someone up to you.”

  Grephon moved slowly, aware of the guest’s disability, and led him up a short stairway to a narrow corridor and an oak door. Beyond it was a wide bed surrounded by velvet curtains. It was warm, though there was no fire. Prasamaccus sat down on the bed as Grephon bowed and departed. Damned if he would send the Nubian to such as this, he decided. He walked briskly to the kitchen and summoned the German slave girl, Helga. She was short, with hair like flax and pale blue eyes devoid of passion. Her voice was guttural as she struggled with the language, and though she was good enough at heavy work, none had so far seen fit to bed her. She was certainly not good enough to catch Victorinus’ eye.

  He explained her duties and was rewarded by a look close to fear in her eyes. She bowed her head and walked slowly toward the inner house. Grephon poured himself a goblet of fine wine and sipped it slowly, eyes closed, picturing the vineyards beyond the Tiber.

  Helga climbed the stairs with a heavy heart. She had known this day would come and had dreaded it. Ever since being captured and raped by men of the Fourth Legion in her native homeland, she had lived with the secret fear of being abused once more. She had almost come to feel safe in this household, for the men were happily indifferent to her. Now she was being used to humor a crippled savage, a man whose deformity would have ensured his death in her tribe.

  She opened the door to the bedroom to see the British prince kneeling by a hot air vent and peering into the dark interior. He looked up and smiled, but she did not respond. She walked to the bed and unfastened her simple green dress, a color that did not match her eyes.

  The Briton limped to the bed and sat down.

  “What is your name?”

  “Helga.”

  He nodded. “I am Prasamaccus.” He gently touched the soft skin of her face, then stood and struggled to free himself from the toga. Once naked, he slipped under the covers and invited her to join him. She did so and lay back across his arm. They stayed motionless for several minutes, and then Prasamaccus, feeling her warmth against his body, drifted to sleep.

  Helga gently raised herself on one elbow, looking down into his face. It was slender and fine-boned, lacking cruelty. She could still feel the soft touch of his hand on her cheek. She had no idea what to do now. She had been told to make him happy so that he could rest well. Now that he was resting, she should return to the kitchens. Yet if she did, they would question why she had returned so quickly; they would think he had sent her away and perhaps punish her. She settled down beside him and closed her eyes.

  At dawn she awoke to feel a soft hand touching her body. She did not open her eyes, and her heart began to hammer within her. The hand slid slowly across her shoulder and down to cup her heavy breast. The thumb circled the nipple, then the touch moved on, up and over the curve of her hip. She opened her eyes and saw the Briton staring at her body, his face lost in a kind of wonderment. He saw that she was awake and flushed deep red, pulling the covers back over her. Then he lay down and moved his body more closely alongside her, softly kissing her brow, then her cheek, and finally her lips. Almost without thinking, she reached up and curled her arm over his shoulder. He groaned … and she knew. In that instant she knew it all, as if she held Prasamaccus’ soul under her eyes.

  For the first time in her life Helga knew the meaning of power. She could choose to give or not to give. The man beside her would accept her choice. Her mind flew back to the brutality of her captors, men she would have liked to have killed. But they had been men unlike this one.

  The man left her free to choose, not even understanding that he did so. She looked into his eyes once more and saw that they were wet with tears. Leaning forward, she kissed each eye, then drew him to her.

  And in giving freely, she received a greater gift.

  Her memories of lust and cruelty dissolved and returned to the past, devoid of the power ever to haunt her again.

  For several days Victorinus rose early and returned late, seeing little of his houseguest, who spent most of the time locked in his room with the kitchen maid. The Roman had weightier problems on his mind. The Fifth Legion was stationed at Calcaria, auxiliary militiamen who were allowed home in the spring to see to their farms and families. Now, with Eldared and his Selgovae and Novantae allies ready to invade and the Saxon king, Hengist, preparing to ravage the south, there was no way these auxiliaries could be allowed to disband for two months. Tension was running high among the men, many of whom had not seen their wives since the previous September, and Victorinus feared a mutiny.

  Aquila had asked him to help build morale by offering coin and salt to the men, but that had not been enough and desertions were increasing daily. The choices were limited. If they allowed the men to go home, Eboracum and the surrounding countryside would be defended by only one regular legion—five thousand men. Ranged against them would be a possible thirty thousand. Alternatively, they could recall a legion from the south, but the gods knew how badly the general Ambrosius needed men around Dubris and Londinium.

  The third choice was to recruit and train a new militia, but that would be the same as sending children out against wolves. The Brigante and their vassal tribes were renowned warriors.

  Victorinus dismissed the Nubian slave, Oretia, and climbed from his bed. He dressed and made his way to the central room, where he found Prasamaccus sitting by the far window staring out over the moonlit southern hills.

  “Good evening,” Victorinus said. “How are you faring?”

  “Well, thank you. You seem tired.”

  “There is much to do. Does Helga please you?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  Victorinus poured himself a goblet of watered wine. It was almost midnight, and his eyes ached for the sleep he knew would evade him. It annoyed him that the Briton was still there after six days. He had invited him only to offset the rough treatment he had received in being gaoled; otherwise he would have placed him in the barracks with Gwalchmai. Now it looked as if he had a permanent houseguest. The small fortress town was alive with rumors concerning the Brigante; all had him marked as a prince at the very least. Grephon had purchased some new clothes for him, and they only added to the image: the softest cream wool edged with braid, leather trews decorated with silver disks, and fine riding boots of the softest doeskin.

  “What is your problem?” Prasamaccus asked.

  “Would that there were only one.”

  “There is always one larger than the others,” said the Brigante.

  Victorinus shrugged and explained—though he knew not why—the problems with the militiamen. Prasamaccus sat silently as the Roman outlined the choices.

  “How much of this coin is available for the men?” he asked.

  “It is not a great sum—perhaps a month’s extra pay.”

  “If you allow some of the men home, the amount for each man left will grow, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then make known the total amount on offer and tell the men they can go home. But explain that the coin will be distributed among those who choose to remain.”

  “What will that serve? What if only one man remains? He would be as rich as Crassus.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Prasamaccus, though he had no idea who Crassus was.

  “I do not follow you.”

  “No; that is because you are rich. Most men dream of riches. Myself, I have always wanted two horses. But the men who want to go home will now have to wonder how much they lose by doing so. What if—as you say—only one is left? Or ten?”

  “How many do you think will remain?”

  “More t
han half if they are anything like the Brigantes I have known.”

  “It would entail great risk to do as you suggest, but I feel it is wise counsel. We will attempt it. Where did you learn such guile?”

  “It is the Earth Mother’s gift to lonely men,” Prasamaccus answered.

  His advice was proved right when three thousand men chose to stay, earning an extra two months pay per man. It eased Victorinus’ burden and earned him plaudits from Aquila.

  Three days later an unexpected guest arrived at the villa. It was Maedhlyn, hot, dusty, and irritable from his ride. An hour later, refreshed by a hot bath and several goblets of warmed wine, he sat talking for some time to Victorinus. Then they summoned Prasamaccus. When the Brigante saw the portly Enchanter, his heart sank. He sat quietly, refusing the wine Victorinus offered.

  Maedhlyn sat opposite him, fixing him with his hawklike eyes.

  “We have a problem, Prasamaccus, one that we think you will be able to solve. There is a young man trapped in Brigante territory far to the north of the Antonine Wall in the Caledones mountains. He is important to us, and we want him brought home. Now, we cannot send our own men, for they do not know the land. But you do and could travel there without suspicion.”

  Prasamaccus said nothing, but he reached for the wine and took a deep draft. The gods give, the gods take away. But this time they had gone too far; they had allowed him to taste a joy he had previously believed to be fable.

  “Now,” said Maedhlyn persuasively, “I can magic you to a circle of stones near Pinnata Castra, some three days ride from Deicester Castle. All you will need to do is locate the boy, Thuro, and return him to the circle exactly six days later. I will be there, and I will return every night at midnight thereafter in case you are delayed. What do you say?”

  “I have no wish to return north,” said Prasamaccus softly. Maedhlyn swallowed hard and glanced at Victorinus as the Roman sat beside the Brigante.

  “You would be doing us a great service and would be well rewarded,” Victorinus told him.

  “I will need a copper bracelet edged with gold, a small house, also enough coin to purchase a horse and supply a woman with food and clothing for a year. Added to this, I want the slave Helga freed to live in this house.” As he had been speaking, the color had left his face, and he feared he had set the price at an awesome level.

  “Is that all?” asked Victorinus, and Prasamaccus nodded. “Then it is agreed. As soon as you return, we will arrange it.”

  “No,” said the Brigante sternly. “It will be arranged tomorrow. I am not a foolish man and know I may not survive this quest. The land of the Caledones is wild, and strangers are not welcome. Also the boy, Thuro, is the son of the Roman king. Eldared will wish him dead. It is not meet that you should ask me to undertake your duties, but since you have, then you must pay … and pay now.”

  “We agree,” said Maedhlyn swiftly. “When do you wish the marriage to take place?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “As a Druid of long standing I shall officiate,” Maedhlyn declared. “There is an oak tree back along the trail, and we shall travel there in time for the birth of the new sun. You had best tell your lady.”

  Prasamaccus stood and bowed and, with as much dignity as was allowed a limping man, returned to his room.

  “What was that about marriage?” asked Victorinus.

  “The bracelet is for her. It marks the ring of eternity and the never-ending circle of life that springs from the union of love. Touching!”

  8

  ALANTRIC KNEW HIS life would be forfeit should anyone find out about his meeting with the prince, so the only person he told was his wife, Frycca, as she stitched the wound in his arm. Frycca loved him dearly and would do nothing to harm him, but she was proud of his gallantry and spoke of it to her sister, Marphia, swearing her to the strictest secrecy. Marphia told her husband, Briccys, who only told his dearest friend on the understanding that the secret was to remain locked within him.

  Within two days of his return Alantric was dragged from his hut by three of Eldared’s carles. Realizing at once that he was doomed, he turned and shouted back to Frycca: “Your loose tongue has killed me, woman!”

  He did not struggle as they pulled him toward the horses but walked with head down, totally relaxed. The guards relaxed with him, and he tore his right arm free and smote the nearest man on the ear. As the guard staggered, Alantric pulled free the man’s sword and plunged the blade into the heart of the second soldier. The third stepped back, dragging his blade into the air, and Alantric leapt for the nearest horse, but the beast shied. Now a dozen more guards came running, and the King’s Champion backed away to the picket fence, a wild smile on his features.

  “Come, then, Brothers,” he called. “Learn a lesson that will last all your lives!”

  Two men rushed in. Alantric blocked a blow, sent a backhand cut to the first man’s throat, and grunted as the second attacker’s sword slid into his side. Twisting, he trapped the blade against his ribs and skewered the swordsman.

  “Alive! Take him alive!” Cael screamed from the battlements above.

  “Come down and do it yourself, whoreson!” Alantric shouted as the guards came in a rush. Alantric’s blade wove a web of death, and in the melee that followed a sword entered his back, tearing open his lungs. He sank to the ground and was hauled into the castle; he died just as Cael ran into the portcullis entrance.

  “You stupid fools!” Cael bellowed. “I’ll see you flogged. Get his wife!” But Frycca, in her anguish, had cut her own throat with her husband’s hunting knife and lay in a pool of blood by the hearth.

  Eldared’s torturer worked long into the night on the others who had shared the secret, emerging with only one indisputable fact: The boy prince was indeed alive and hiding in an unknown area of the Caledones mountains.

  Eldared summoned Cael to him. “You will go to Goroien and tell her I need the Soul Stealers. We have six people below whose blood should please her and as many whelps as she needs. But I want the boy!”

  Cael said nothing. Among all the dark legends of the Mist, the Soul Stealers alone made him shiver. He bowed and left the brooding king to sit alone, staring into the hills of the south.

  * * *

  Thuro awoke still feeling the pain of the wound that had killed him, a lightning-fast roll and thrust from the Greek’s short sword. Culain helped him to his feet.

  “You did well, better than I could have hoped. Give me another month and there will not be a swordsman to rival you in all of Britain.”

  “But I lost,” said Thuro, recalling with a shiver the ice-cold eyes of his young opponent.

  “Of course you lost. That was Achilles, the finest warrior of his generation, a demon with sword or lance. A magnificent fighter.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died. All men die.”

  “I had already surmised that,” said Thuro. “I meant how.”

  “I killed him,” said Culain. “I had another name then; I was Aeneas, and Achilles killed a friend of mine during the war against Troy. Not only that but he dragged the body around and around the city behind his chariot. He humiliated a man of great courage and brought pain to the father.”

  “I have heard of Troy. It was taken by a wooden horse with men hidden inside.”

  “Do not be misled by Homer, for he was jesting. ‘Wooden horse’ is slang for a useless object or for something pretending to be what it is not. It was a man who went to the Trojans pretending to betray his masters, the Greeks. The king, Priam, believed the man. I did not. I left the city with those who would follow me and fought my way to the coast. Later we heard that the man, Odysseus, had opened a side gate to allow Greek soldiers to enter the city.”

  “Why did the king believe him?”

  “Priam was a romantic who saw the best in everyone. That is how he allowed the war to begin, by seeing the best in Helen. The face that launched a thousand ships was merely a scheming woman with dyed y
ellow hair. The Trojan War was begun by her husband, Menelaus, and planned by Helen. She seduced Priam’s son, Paris, into taking her to his city. Menelaus then sought the aid of the other Greek kings to get her back.”

  “But why go to so much trouble over one woman?”

  “They did not do it for a woman or for honor. Troy controlled the trade routes and levied great taxes on ships bound for Greece. It was—as are all wars—fought for profit.”

  “I think I prefer Homer,” said Thuro.

  “Read Homer for enjoyment, young prince, but do not confuse it with life.”

  “What has made you go gloomy today?” asked Thuro. “Are you ailing?”

  Culain’s eyes blazed briefly, and he walked away toward his cabin. Thuro did not follow at first but noticed the Mist Warrior glance back over his shoulder. The prince grinned, sheathed his gladius, and followed to find Culain sitting at the table, nursing a goblet of strong spirit.

  “It’s Gian,” said Culain. “I have caused her distress; it is not something I intended, but she rather surprised me.”

  “She told you she loved you?”

  “Do not be too clever, Thuro,” snapped Culain. He waved his hand as if to wipe away the angry words. “Yes, you are right. I was a fool not to see it. But she is wrong; she has known no other man and has lifted me to the skies. I should have taken her to a settlement long since.”