The Eagles Have Flown

by Henry Treece

  Then Festus had no time to be afraid; his eyes and ears were saturated with the thousand sights and sounds of a Celtic encampment - the lowing of cattle, the screaming of stallions, the braying of many war-horns, the clucking and chuttering of terrified hens and swine. And everywhere men, women and children ran to and fro, swarming round the strangers, calling out to Artorius in a language he did not understand, even he, who knew so much of barbarian life. One child even ran to the leader and swung for a moment on his bridle rein, laughing and yelling out some jest, which Artorius smiled at without comprehending. Festus, who rode at the leader’s right hand, still looked in front of him, but as they passed a solid group of warriors, barbaric in woad and eagles’ feathers and bristling with spears, he blushed and almost dropped his head in embarrassment for they were pointing at him openly and calling out to him that he would need to grow a bit before he tackled Aelle in single combat! Everyone roared at this, and then there was a sudden silence and the crowds thinned out. Festus saw that they approached the long pavilion which they had sighted from the hill-top. It was in truth little more than a great awning of many-coloured cloths roughly stitched together, and supported all its length on pine-poles, to which the original bark still hung.

  With a start, Festus observed that set at each end of the pavilion, on a cluster of tall shafts, were many round things, like roughly-shaped balls of leather. When they drew nearer, the boy saw that they were shrivelled heads - trophies from some distant tribal warfare. He shuddered, swallowing hard, with the realisation that these folk of the west were almost untouched by the civilisation of Rome. A hundred years and more of civil war and decay of the municipal offices and control had thrown these westerly tribes back to their origins almost; barbarism had crept back among them just as weed at last overwhelms a great roadway that is neglected for too long, however fine it might have been when it was first laid down.

  Then Festus half-turned in his saddle, his curiosity smothering his self-discipline, for he and Artorius were riding in a sea of silence. No hoof-beats sounded behind them. And Festus saw that they were now separated from their troop of followers; that tribesmen with long lances had thrust a wedge between them, keeping back the column of horse, which stood stationary now, accepting the situation. Festus and the Bear rode forward alone towards the grim pavilion, and the boy’s heart beat madly beneath his cuirass.

  Suddenly a horn skirled out, more penetrating than the others, and Artorius, with a quick sidelong glance at the boy, reined in his horse. Festus did the same, a pace behind his leader, and like him stared straight ahead. In the middle of the awning was set a rough dais on which stood three chairs, big enough almost to be called thrones; and a man sat in each of the chairs - the Kings of the West.

  ‘Hail, Artos of the North!’ called out a herald, cupping his hands round his mouth to serve as a trumpet.

  Festus noticed that the man gave his leader the Celtic name, and that he did not address him as Count of Britain. But the Bear’s voice did not quaver or express any sign of anger as he replied in his deep, firm voice, ‘Artorius, elect of Ambrosius the Count of Britain, returns your greetings, Kings

  of the West. In the name of Rome, I come in peace!’ ‘Artos the Bear, we receive you in peace,’ called back the herald. ‘Not because of Ambrosius or any Count of Britain; not because of Rome or any other state. But we receive you as a warrior and a man of good heart.’

  Once more Artorius spoke. ‘I come to you not as Bear or as Artos, or as anything but a soldier of Rome. One who would

  destroy the Saxon invader; nothing more.’

  For a moment there was some discussion under the long awning, and then the herald called out again.

  ‘Then come in peace, Artorius, or whatever name you choose; for we would destroy the Saxon too, for our own purposes if not for Rome’s sake!’

  While this conversation was going on, Festus had an opportunity of observing the men who sat in the great chairs. He recalled the words of Merddin: ‘You will not mistake them.

  … One lacks an eye and an ear; one speaks only the language of the birds; one has skill with fire that no man of flesh has known before.’ Yet how could these things be recognised in the three men who sat still and silent, staring at the two horsemen who stood in the beaten-earth clearing?

  Then the herald began to announce the names and titles of his masters…. ‘Constantine of Dumnonia, whose green fields are washed by the blue seas of the west.’ Festus saw an old man, whose grizzled head and thin hands shook constantly. On his head he wore a great helmet, much too big for him, of the ancient Grecian mode, its lion-head mask, now much dented and rusty, surmounted by a high and sweeping crest of many-coloured hairs, red, brown, yellow and grey. Festus’s sharp eyes saw immediately that they were not the customary horse-hairs, and, recalling the shrivelled heads above the tent, he shuddered again.

  ‘Cuneglassus, Lord of the lands that reach from the Midlands to the southern sea and the Isle of Vectis.’ The herald indicated with a princely wave of the hand the man who sat in the centre of the group. Cuneglassus was monstrously fat and as he lolled sideways, leering from his gilded chair, Festus looked at him with a revulsion which was mixed with awe, for this man was immensely built and dwarfed the two who sat on either side of him. The thick oiled dark hair curled about his head and down over the ears; his skin was of an olive hue and shone in the sunlight. About his bull neck he wore a heavy-gold chain, at the end of which dangled a great square-cut emerald. It was this precious stone which captured the attention of Festus. The short-sighted emperor Nero had carried such a stone which he used as a quizzing-glass. Even as the boy called this to mind, Cuneglassus stirred in his chair and took the emerald between his thick fingers, and, raising it slowly to his right eye, negligently surveyed the two who stood before him. With a thrill, Festus saw that the king kept his other eye closed; this must be the one who lacked an eye, and yet he seemed to have his ears…. Or did he? The oiled dark hair hung in heavy ringlets upon either side of his head, effectively covering his ears from sight. Festus’s eye roved over this massive man; he saw the faded purple linen tunic, with the rough key-pattern at sleeves and throat; the thin silver belt that only just seemed to span the massive middle, from which hung two long daggers in sheaths of red leather; the light woollen breeches which ended where the strapped caligulae began. There was something weak and flaccid about the man, yet one must not be deceived by this outward appearance, Festus decided, for each of his wrists was encircled by a broad iron bracer, as though the man were a blacksmith or an archer - one who often depended on the strength of his wrists. Besides, although he was bare-headed, by the side of his gilded chair stood a round and highly polished helmet, with back and side-flaps of scale-armour.

  Even as the boy was absorbing these details, the herald’s voice was going on, ‘Votiporix, most ancient monarch of the Demetae, ruler of mountain and valley glen, lord of wild horses and rider on the wind…’

  The third king bowed his head slightly and, it seemed, with an almost weary contempt for the world at large. Thin almost to emaciation, his skin was as swarthy and his head and beard so dark that he might have passed for a man of the Barbary coast. His thin, hooked nose and his bright bead-like eyes gave him the look of a hawk. Votiporix belonged to the oldest peoples of the island, the first-comers, who had later been ousted by the fair-haired ones. In dress alike he belonged to an earlier age, the epoch of the tribal guletics. The conical leathern helmet, fringed with eagle-feathers, the massive shoulder-brooches of bronze and enamel, the golden torques and gorgets on throat and wrists, all proclaimed a Celt of the old school; as did the breeches of red and yellow squared pattern, bound from ankle to thigh with criss-crossed thongs of embossed leather.

  This, Festus decided, was the most dangerous of the Kings; the long, double-bladed axe that rested across his knees seemed to indicate a ruler who did not leave all the fighting to his followers.

  The boy was just wondering whether Votiporix or
Constantine was the one who spoke the language of the birds, when the old man in the Grecian helmet and the greasy sheepskin cloak turned his shuddering head and tried to address the herald. The spittle ran down his lips and into his grizzled beard. His blue-veined hand and claw-like finger strove to stress his words; but what they were no man but the herald could tell, for Constantine suffered from some deformation of the mouth and could not form his sounds properly. The words that came from his lips resembled more the crying of rooks than the sounds made by a man. Then Festus understood what had been meant when Merddin credited the king of the Dumnonians with the speech of birds. The herald, a tall handsome young man with long fair hair, which was held in place by a circlet of gold, addressed Artorius with smiling scorn. ‘Constantine, king of Dumnonia, is a Greek, my lord, as you will see from his helmet and hear from his voice.’ Festus saw that the old king nodded vacantly and that his pale blue eyes gazed stupidly out across the compound as the herald spoke. The boy decided that Constantine was also a little wanting in his senses. Then the old man began to play with a little greyhound that snuggled among the fleeces in his lap, and seemed thereafter to lose all interest in the meeting.

  ‘Know then, Artos or Artorius, whichever you call yourself, that these great kings welcome you as their servant. When you have proven your fitness as a war-maker they will confer on you some honour which they have in mind. Yet, should you fail them, should you prove less than men have boasted of you, you will find the patience of the Western Kings is short, and the best you can hope for is impaling. You and your body-servant!’

  He spoke the last words as an afterthought, it seemed, as though anxious to frighten the boy. Artorius sensed this too and leaned over to pat Festus reassuringly on the thigh.

  But the fat Cuneglassus spoke, and his voice was absurdly thin and high-pitched. ‘Nay, herald,’ he said, ‘we may not harm the boy. He looks a useful young fellow. I might take him into my own service. But we shall see. Yes, we shall see!’

  There was something about those words and that voice which set Festus trembling more than ever. Then Artorius spoke. ‘Kings of the West,’ he said, unmoved, ‘I come with my chosen warband on a desperate journey, to gather about me all men of good faith who would see our land free of the invader. For myself I seek nothing. I am dedicated to Britain and will serve her whatever you in your ancient wisdom may decide to do. Say the word, and I will lead your armies for you, together with my own. Or if that does not please you, let us eat together in friendship and tomorrow I will ride on with my army. But know, my lords, that freely we came into your country to be of service to you, and freely you must let us ride out of it again. We are not slaves to be imprisoned, but freeborn Romans, every one of us, who may be touched by no one but our legal magistrates.’

  Votiporix, who had been looking fixedly over the head of Artorius, bored, it seemed, suddenly made a sign to the men beyond him, his bare-chested tribesmen in their tartan breeches. One of them shouted back at him in obedience and then the lances were raised as the army of the Bear marched forward to join their leader.

  Only now did the Kings deign to treat Artorius as a man of some quality. ‘Dismount, Bear,’ fluted Cuneglassus. ‘We will send for a chair and you shall sit at our feet and tell us of your war-making until it is time for our feast.’

  But Artorius, now more the Roman than ever before, bowed stiffly in the saddle and said quietly, ‘My first duty is to my company. I shall see them housed and fed and the horses groomed. Thereafter we may have talk together if you gentlemen will honour me by visiting the tent I am given.’

  Then he saluted stiffly and turned to lead his troop from the compound. Old Constantine suddenly awoke and tried to call out something to the Bear. But he was overcome by a fit of coughing and the last that Festus saw of him that afternoon was Cuneglassus leaning over and thumping him on the back a little too cruelly, while the dark Votiporix smiled sardonically on them both.

  When his own tent had been pitched, Artorius sat among his captains and said to them, ‘Tonight we shall feast with our hosts, who seem to be men of uncertain manners. It is my order, therefore, that none of you carries a sword into that feast - but that each of you hides a knife about him, where it may not be noticed by even the most suspicious. Moreover, although I shall expect every man to protect his own honour,

  I shall punish most heavily any of my company who strike the first blow. Let that be understood among all the troop.’

  One of the captains asked, ‘Which of the Western Kings are we to fear most, Artorius?’

  The leader stared through the man and said, ‘You are to fear none of them, my friend. You are a Roman! But you are to watch Cuneglassus for treachery and Votiporix for anger. As for the old dotard, Constantine, I think he is nothing in himself - though he may bite with the teeth of his herald, who is a renegade. That herald is Aurelius Caninus, who claims descent from Ambrosius himself, and who is rightly nicknamed “the Dog”. He has some claim, he thinks, to a kingdom, and it runs in my mind that he is only waiting for Constantine to die. Then we shall have a King Aurelius in Dumnonia, no doubt!’

  He laughed and waved aside all further questions. ‘Make ready for the feast, and be secretly armed,’ he said. ‘You may go now.’

  Nor did Artorius speak to them again then.

  9. The Feast

  When the merriment was at its height at the three long tables under the great awning, Cuneglassus, lolling on a thickly-cushioned chair, waved aside a harpist who was singing a long saga of the ancient days, and leaning drunkenly towards Artorius simpered, ‘What can you do to amuse us, lord?’

  Artorius, who had been drinking the heavy mead very sparingly, said with a smile, ‘Is it the custom to make your guests perform, king?’

  Votiporix put down his drinking-horn with a thump and said, ‘What the hosts are willing to do, guests should follow.’ He glared at Artorius so fiercely that Festus, who stood immediately beside the Bear, felt sure that there would be a great uproar about the tables in the next moment. But Artorius only smiled back at him gently. ‘Who could match your talents as an entertainer, my lord?’

  Votiporix, slightly taken aback, muttered, ‘What have you seen of my talents, Bear?’ Then, still angry, though obviously flattered, called out for a boy to tear down a torch from the wall-posts and bring it to him. It was a thick strand of tarred and resin-soaked fibre and blazed fiercely, sending off clouds of dark smoke up into the thick air. Votiporix took the torch and passed his thin hand through the smoke. Now the dark smoke faded and gave place to blue and red and yellow cascades of sparks. The feasters about the table called out in amazement. But those who knew Votiporix the best held up their hands for silence, for better was to come, they said. Now the king of the Demetae held his hand above the flame, raising and lowering it twice or thrice. Suddenly the flame began to follow his hand, as though obeying its movements; rising when the hand rose, sinking when it fell. This time the tables resounded as men beat on them with knife-hafts and drinking-horns. Then once again there was silence and this time Votiporix rose and turning from side to side held up the torch as though it were a mead-cup and he giving the toast. Once, twice, thrice he raised it, then, with a high shout, he put it to his lips and made as though to drink from it. To the eyes of all men there, it seemed that the flame turned to red wine and disappeared down the dark man’s throat. He straightened again and the torch was out and smouldering. The long pavilion was as silent as the tomb, for no man could fathom such magic. Then, with a strangely gay gesture, Votiporix waved the dead torch in the air and called out to the boy to put it back into its socket. Even as the lad stepped forward, the brand burst into life again, flaming as fiercely as ever, throwing up its dark and resinous smoke towards the flapping awning of the roof-tree. Now there was a great gasp, followed by thundering shouts in praise of the thin dark king, who smiled wryly and sat down, looking hard at Cuneglassus.

  The fat man gave a little sigh, as though distressed that his rest should
be disturbed. Then, with much grunting and blowing out of the cheeks, he too rose, and walked in a heavy and ungainly manner to the centre of the pavilion, in the clearing by the fire-stones. He looked from side to side of the tent and men came from all sides towards him, his own men, who knew what the trick would be this time. The immense man bent slightly and two great warriors clambered on to his shoulders, bent and swaying as he stood up again. Two more then climbed up and stood, one on each hand. At first, Festus thought that this must be the extent of the exhibition, and, though it showed the king to be of great strength, it was poor stuff after what Votiporix had shown the banqueters. Yet Cuneglassus had not finished. A length of rope was looped round his thick neck, one end before him, one behind, and two men took each dangling rope-end, and, at a signal from a man on his shoulders, began to pull with all their force.

  Cuneglassus braced himself and tensed the muscles of his neck, and, although Festus saw that the hide rope bit into the flesh cruelly, the massive king never budged an inch, nor did the men on his shoulders and hands waver in their balance. And at last, when the four pullers on the rope were tired out, Cuneglassus seemed to shrug his thick shoulders and to shake his hands. The men fell from him to the ground, landing lightly on their feet, and the rope-pullers fell backwards about him.

  Even Artorius began to shout now, forgetting his Roman manners in the great excitement. And Cuneglassus, seeing that he had impressed even the Bear of Britain, spat in a show of scorn, and, reaching down, took up a great iron-shod battle-axe that lay near the fire-stones. Holding the shaft in one hand and the iron head in the other, he gave a quick wrench and the two fell apart. Casting the broken weapon to the ground, he lumbered back to his chair, calling out for a flagon of mead as he did so.