by Henry Treece
Once water had gushed from the open mouth of the leering leaden satyr, to fill this natural basin, which must have been a drinking-place for the cattle of some wealthy Roman farmer.
Festus felt a strange and unaccountable emotion as he surveyed this pockmarked lead, this lichened stone. In it he saw a symbol of Rome, his true spiritual home, the place whence his fathers had once come, the city of glory.
With a sigh, he led his horse to the upper lip of the hollow, glancing back once or twice in farewell to the grinning satyr. Then suddenly from below the hill came the long skirling of a wild horn that seemed to stab into his ears, so familiar it was! The war-horn of the Bear!
Festus turned and ran to the edge of the slope. There below him in the rich valley, strung out in line of march, was the army he had been seeking all night, with the banner of the Bear floating out before them in the morning breeze.
At first Festus gave a shout of joy, which faded off into silence as it came to his mind that his comrades were moving on without him. Then, without troubling his head with more of such thoughts, he swung into the saddle, and, shouting out their battle-cry, ‘Artos the Bear! The Bear and Holy Cross!’ he put his mount at the slope and slid and cantered by turns towards the cavalcade.
As his voice came down to them across the wind, the troop stopped and gazed up at him. Festus saw Artos, at the head of the column, shading his eyes with his mailed hand, as he looked round, for a moment suspecting a surprise attack, it seemed.
Then, beating his heels into the horse’s sides, the boy galloped among the soldiers and up to the leader himself, pulling back so hard upon the reins that his charger almost slid to a standstill, the foam from the horse’s mouth spattering the Bear’s thigh-armour. Immediately, Festus leapt from the saddle and kneeled in the dust before the Bear of Britain, in one gasp trying to tell his tale, to say how sorry he was drat he had broken camp, to give warning of the Pictish scouting-party.
Then the strained silence about him bore in on Festus’s consciousness. He looked up and saw that Artos did not smile in welcome. Instead, his face was lined and hard. His eyes seemed to look through the boy and beyond him into the green hillside. Then Festus understood that his leader no longer thought of him as a boy, entitled to his hare-brained escapades of truancy. Artos considered him a fully-fledged soldier, after that oath in the cavern.
Festus looked down at the ground, ashamed now and even afraid of what the Bear might say when he did speak.
But Artos said little, and that little in a chill and disinterested voice which sapped all the excited courage from the young boy’s heart.
‘You will march beside the baggage-wagon, boy,’ he said. ‘For that office you will need neither knife nor horse. Give your weapon to the wagon-driver and tether your mount to the wagon-tail. He deserves a rest.’
Nothing more was said. Festus, his eyes filled with tears, walked the length of the now moving column and did as the leader bade him. The soldier who drove the wagon-team took the dagger with averted eyes, as though almost ashamed of having any dealings with a runaway. Festus tied his horse with a leathern thong to the tail of the wagon and, his world fallen in pieces about him, followed in the dust of the cavalcade towards the west, an outcast now.
Later in the day the wagon-driver relented a little and gave the boy meat and a cup of water. He even whispered, ‘A soldier must learn to take what comes.’ He said this with a smile, as though tomorrow the future might not seem quite so black to the boy. But still Festus marched on, footsore and disheartened, unable to smile now whatever was said to him.
Towards sunset, they approached a hilly country, where the crags rose black against the reddening sky like gaunt monsters. This was a deserted part of Britain, it appeared, for they had seen neither man nor beast, nor chimney-smoke for the past four hours.
The wagon driver, who by now was feeling truly sorry for the downcast boy, leaned over and said to him quietly, ‘I am as true a Roman as any living, but I have great misgivings at the prospect before us. We go to meet the Western Kings, who are little better than savages by all accounts. How do we know that we shall ever walk out of their camps again? They have a nasty reputation for maiming those who displease them in any way.’
He glanced down at Festus as he spoke, as though he were watching how the boy took his words. But Festus was too deeply sunk in his own private despair to give much attention to the man.
‘I for one, would never blame a sensible lad,’ said the driver, making a last effort to persuade Festus, ‘a lad who showed his sense by taking another path when the situation became too difficult.’
Now Festus stared up at him as he walked. ‘Are you telling me to desert this army?’ he asked openly.
The man looked uncomfortable for an instant, then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘I would never tell anyone to desert Artos,’ he said. ‘I was merely saying that a sensible lad would act differently from a fool. That is all.’
Then he turned away and busied himself with a rein that had somehow worked itself out of the bronze bracket on the footboard of the wagon, and he spoke no more. But Festus noticed that he had placed a sword where a boy could reach it easily, if he decided to make off when darkness fell. That was an act of great consideration, Festus decided, for a man without a sword is often a dead man.
The company was now riding almost mechanically, silent and without gaiety, when from the foremost troop came a gasp which spread like a breeze over a barley field down the column. Festus looked up in surprise.
Above them, on the high brow of the hill, had suddenly appeared a horseman, outlined against the rapidly darkening sky. He sat motionless in his high saddle for a while, his long cloak swinging out behind him in the evening wind, the westering sun behind him, glinting on his upright javelin, the tall crest of his helmet, the burnished corselet upon his body.
The men below heard the faint jingle of the horse’s harness as it turned its proud head in their direction and snorted. And suddenly a fierce shaft of light struck across the hill, between the blackest of the western clouds, illumining the horse’s sardonic mask, its golden ornaments and red bridle, even the shaggy hair that fluttered from its belly. It seemed in that moment that both rider and horse were of no common flesh, but creatures of fire itself.
For a while they stood impassively in their mute splendour; then without warning a grouse rose with a harsh caark from the heather on the hillside and Festus noted that both horse and rider swung immediately in the direction of the sound, as sensitive as a fine hound on the scent.
Then, as rapidly as they had appeared, the rider swung the great horse round, its hooves seeming to lift together from the ground, and the hill-crest hid them from view as though they had dissolved into the sombre air.
A great cry of wonder burst from the assembled company of horsemen. They were largely a superstitious body of men, despite the teachings of their church, and many of them had by now almost openly reverted to the less violent of the gods who had been popular among the legions, and especially Mithras, who was often concerned with fire. To them, the sudden apparition appeared like a symbol, perhaps a dread warning, from above.
Artos, however, rode here and there along the column, slapping men on the shoulder and teasing them in his brusque soldierly way, asking them what sorts of men they were to be frightened when a straying hill-shepherd of the country chanced to look down on them before running away to his solitary cave somewhere among the rocks and boulders!
Festus heard the leader’s words and whispered now to the friendly wagon-driver, ‘Was that a shepherd, think you?’
The man looked down at him with a wry smile and shook his head. ‘Nay, lad,’ he said. ‘That was the sort of man we shall often see now. I recognise the stamp of him. One of the old foederati, a foraging warrior with no more mercy in his heart than an adder. It is my guess that he was a scout for the Kings of the West, watching for us. I’d bet the armour off my back that by now he is already rehearsing the w
ords he will use in describing us to his masters, as he gallops as fast as the wind towards their tents. They are great talkers, these western Celts, and no doubt he will make quite a poem of it!’
The man sighed then and scratched his head. ‘Though I personally should find it hard to say anything very pretty about such a worn-out gang of scarecrows!’
7. The Western Kings
That night the army of the Bear camped beneath the hill where they had seen the fiery horseman. Orders were sent out among the camp-fires that every man was to burnish armour and weapons and that all warhorses were to be groomed as for Imperial inspection! The troop had grown slack while on their long and untried march, and for a few minutes there was some grumbling among the soldiers. But soon, after they had eaten and drunk, the camp became as busy as a hive of bees. Everywhere men were rubbing and polishing, hammering out dents in corselets, honing sword-edges that had blunted in horseplay by the tedious roadside. About some of the fires, zealous men even attempted to ply needle and thread in an effort to repair rents in tunic or cloak.
Festus, feeling sadly remote from all this activity, lay by a great blaze of brushwood, watching a soldier trimming the red horsehair plume of his helmet and grimacing with annoyance at the bluntness of the shears. Behind him sounded the sharp and measured tread of a man on a special errand. The boy turned and saw a captain from the Bear’s own guard, a man named Agricola who spent much of his time explaining to enquirers that it was all a mistake, that his people never had been farmers, that since the times of Claudius they had always been soldiers. No one ever believed him, which gave him a jaundiced outlook on life. He was consequently sharp and exceedingly military with anyone on whom he could impress his authority.
To Festus he said, ‘I am commanded by the Count of Britain to conduct you to his pavilion immediately.’
Roused so abruptly from his daydreaming, Festus was about to ask who the Count was, when he remembered that old Ambrosius must have been dead a week now, and that Artos had taken over that ancient title, established so many years ago and dying and reviving itself so many times….
The boy rose and followed the captain, who marched as though conducting an Emperor to inspect a guard of honour. Festus began to sense a new atmosphere in the camp, the old Roman military atmosphere. Troopers even started from their fires as the two passed by, dropping their helmets or sword-belts and polishing-rags, to salute the captain, who never once turned his head, but moved on like a sharp-prowed ship towards the Bear’s purple tent.
‘Wait there,’ he said sharply, then, pushing aside the flap, he saluted and raising his voice as though addressing a distant squad of horse, said, ‘Salute, Artorius! The boy is here. ‘
Festus noticed that the soldier used the Bear’s Roman name now, and that in itself seemed significant. Then, before he had time to make any more speculations, he was inside the big tent and facing the man who had sent for him.
Artorius looked at him across a parchment-littered folding-table, Festus saw that a great map of Britain was spread out behind him, on a frame. The Bear beckoned the boy forward, into the light thrown by a tall oil-lamp that stood behind the officer’s gilded council chair.
This was a new leader, a Roman and no longer the hardbitten forager who had started out on that ride from the south. The deep tawny hair had been drawn back tight and rolled in a knot at the nape of the neck, so that for a moment Festus thought that the Bear had sacrificed his long hair. He had indeed made some such offering to Roman pride, for the long moustaches had gone now and the square beard had been trimmed short until it merely covered the chin. Now the bronze and gold ornaments were gone from arms and throat.
The Bear of Britain sat, cross-legged, in the purple linen tunic and burnished breastplate of a cavalry general, His stout legs were bare, but for light doeskin caligulae which reached up to the knee, exposing the brown skin of calf and of shin between the crossed strappings. Festus remembered that the captain had called him Artorius. It was the appropriate name now; Artos would have been out of place.
Artorius spoke then. ‘Your name is Festus. You are a true Roman whose father was once a soldier and a fine swordsman. You yourself are a brave fighter; so much I have observed. Moreover, you have ridden with this company since it was formed and have done me a great service after the treachery among the hut-folk. So much to the good; but the evil weighs a little heavily in the scales yet. I remind you that you took an oath of fealty to me in the cavern, and that despite your soldier’s oath you broke camp and rode away who knows where…. It could have been to inform an enemy of our strength and our plans…
Festus began to protest at this, but Artorius held up his hand and even smiled, a calm, almost cold smile, like the sun breaking through the clouds for an instant on a December morning.
‘No, no, you will say, you did not. Very well, I accept your word. But consider, Festus, how can an army keep its ranks firm against the foe if half the troop decide to go riding for amusement through the night?’
Then as Artorius spoke of amusement, Festus remembered how he had ridden crying out for his lost friend. Then his mind went back to the bloody affray in the moonlit glade; his terror at waking and seeing the leaden satyr; his joy that soon turned to dismay when at last he did find his company…. The boy’s face must have shown his feelings, for Artorius suddenly rose from his chair and came round the littered table. He placed his great arm about the boy’s shoulders and looked down at him almost as his father used to do.
Now Festus could bear it no longer. He lowered his head and the tears ran from his eyes without shame.
Artorius said ‘Bear a brave heart, lad. I have been hard with you, but a soldier would not have it any other way, and you are already a soldier, the makings of a fine one indeed. Come, dry your eyes. What’s done is done and there’s no going back. Life is like a stream - it passes on and on, and only fools run back to the source of it; for there is nothing to be seen but a thin trickle of water!’
Festus did as he was bid and then Artorius sat down on the edge of the table. Now his face was pleasant again. ‘I have sent for you to offer you a position at my side. You have taken your punishment well, as a soldier does, and now it is all over. Look, Festus, tomorrow we ride to visit the Western Kings, to persuade them to join our company and ride against Aelle and Cissa in the south. I offer you a post which the son of a Vicarius would not have hoped for; will you carry my cup?’
Festus heard the words as though through the thick blanket of a dream. He blinked his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Then he fell on his knees before the leader. Cup-bearer to the Count of Britain; his body-servant, who attended him in all his feasts and councils, his right-hand man!
The boy was too full to speak. He clasped his hands before him, almost as though praying, for he did not know what else to do. Artorius seemed embarrassed and the hard look of gravitas flickered across his face again. He turned back to his chair and sat down, shuffling through his parchments.
‘Go back to your camp-fire and collect your arms,’ he said. ‘Report to my tent in an hour with all equipment burnished. You take up your quarters with me tonight and ride at my side in the morning.’
Festus rose and began to stumble away over the turf floor of the pavilion. Then he turned to salute, remembering this only just in time. Artorius looked at him quizzically.
‘You realise, Festus,’ he said, ‘that a cup-bearer has as one of his duties to taste the wine before his lord drinks? Just on the off-chance, you understand, that someone has tried to poison the great one!’
Festus smiled and said, ‘Who would poison you, Count of Britain?’ Then he saluted again and left the tent
‘Yes,’ said Artorius, his chin in his hand, ‘who indeed?’ Then with a bitter smile he bent to his documents.
Festus lay at the foot of Artorius’s couch that night, a sword by his side. He did not sleep a wink for excitement.
‘Oh, if Wulf only knew!’ he said to himself again and again.
‘If Wulf could be here to share this honour!’
At dawn he rose and looked down at the leader. Artorius was not asleep either. He gazed back with wide-open grey eyes. Then he smiled and said, ‘Go to sleep, lad. Put the sword by my side and I’ll keep watch over you now! It will never happen again, so take advantage of it. You will tell your grandchildren of it one day! Give me the sword.’
So Festus slept till the trumpets howled and the camp rose and prepared for this important day.
At midday the company halted on the summit of the last hill of their journey. Artorius, splendid in purple cloak and burnished ceremonial helmet of the old Imperial pattern, sat like a coloured statue on his great charger, Festus at his right hand, his ten captains behind him and the cavalry ranged in three companies of thirty in the rear. They looked down to the plain below, the Place of the Kings. Did their true journey begin or end here? thought Festus. Then, almost frightened at this thought, he stole a glance at Artorius, the Count of Britain. His face too, beneath its set lines and habitual severity, seemed to express the same thought, the same wonder, the same doubt.
Below them Festus saw a vast encampment, with tents and a central pavilion of immense size. Banners fluttered everywhere and riders cantered to and fro in great companies.
Among this mass of men, they would find the Western Kings, and then… Artorius raised his hand and the cavalcade moved down the slope.
8. The Long Pavilion
As they rode on, a party of horsemen detached itself from the multitude and galloped at them, shrieking wildly, and swirling about them like madmen, their feathers floating in the wind, their sheepskin cloaks flapping out behind them. Artorius sat bolt upright in the saddle and seemed not to notice them. Festus, though suddenly afraid, did likewise. And so the army of the Bear went forward at a slow march, each man looking ahead in the old invincible Roman manner; though many a rider of that column, especially those at the tail-end felt anxious; already sensed that painful itch in the broad of the back, where the barbarian arrow often strikes.
