Pendragon

by James Wilde

  ‘That scar is from when I was a babe,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Hear, Bucco. Hear.’

  ‘Harsh days. Fire and iron. Crying baby. The reek of burned flesh. But, then … a new age!’

  Catia looked from the merchant to the dwarf, thinking for a moment that they might both be mad. ‘How did you know about this brand?’

  ‘I am more than a merchant, little daughter. Bucco?’

  The dwarf searched through a pile of leather pouches in one corner and returned with a pin. ‘To fasten your dress,’ he said with a bow.

  Catia snatched it and pinned the torn shoulder. ‘What are you, then?’

  ‘There are three worlds. Pay heed, for numbers are important. All that there is is built upon them, and odd numbers have the most power.’ The merchant raised fingers one by one. ‘Three worlds. The world of man that we all see around us. Then there is the secret world of man, the one that lies beneath the things you know. It has its own history … the real history … and its own rules. It is only for the enlightened. In that world you will find the true reasons for all that happens, the wars, and the crimes, the rise and fall of emperors, the rise and fall of religions. Everything that happens is decided in that world of secrets. Most people are never the wiser. They go about their business thinking they know full well why things occur. They do not. And the history of that world is never written down. None will ever discover it. But the keepers of those mysteries, they are all around you and you will never recognize them for who they are.’

  ‘And the third world?’

  ‘That is the world of the gods.’

  Bucco brought his master a cup of wine. Varro continued to scrutinize Catia over the rim as he sipped.

  ‘I am a man who seeks out the wisdom of that second world. By finding those secrets, the road to power can be seen. Power and riches. I seek to understand how to turn lead into gold.’

  ‘Pfft. A tale for children and fools who wish the world were not the way it is.’

  Varro laughed. ‘But lead is not lead and gold is not gold. This is one of the secrets of that world, little daughter. Everything has two faces. What it seems on the surface, and what it truly is beneath.’

  ‘Then what is lead?’

  ‘Lead is a man. Say, your husband. Or that centurion, Falx. Or I.’

  ‘And gold?’

  ‘It is the enlightened man. One who has learned the wisdom of the gods. This is a great secret and tonight you have been allowed to know it. This is your first step into the second world. The search to transform lead into gold is the key to the second world.’ He held out both hands. ‘I am a humble man. All that I know of this, I learned in distant Alexandria under that hot sun, from the teachings of Cleopatra the Alchemist, one of the four great women of this world. Not Cleopatra, the queen, who died from an asp at her breast, no, no. This Cleopatra is greater by far. On her seal it says: “The divine is hidden from the people according to the wisdom of the Lord.” True, all true.’

  Catia wondered if by keeping the merchant talking, all night if necessary, she might be able to escape the fate he had planned for her. And when the sun was up, she could scream loudly enough to bring the entire vicus running to her aid.

  ‘How did you know about this,’ she repeated, tapping her left shoulder blade.

  ‘The Ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail, is a sigil. The serpent … the dragon! A sign that has great meaning and is known the world over. To the wild barbarians in the cold north it is the god-serpent Jörmungandr, who could circle the world. To Plato and the Greek wise men it is the first living thing, the spark, eternal. To the brown-skinned men in the east, it is the same. All there is, the gods and man, together, in the never-ending circle. Birth and death and rebirth. Destruction and creation. The turning of the seasons.’ Varro’s eyes gleamed as he recounted what he knew, a shine that Catia thought contained either madness or an all-consuming passion. ‘We have been searching for a woman marked with this sigil since we first set foot upon this cold island, have we not, Bucco?’

  ‘Shivering at night. Cold to the bones. Aching feet. Long miles. But now we have reached the end of our journey.’ The dwarf danced, kicking his heels up.

  ‘You’re lying. Only my family knew of this brand,’ Catia snapped.

  ‘Only your family knew you had the brand. But a woman marked with the Ouroboros, that has been spoken of for long seasons. The sign of the dragon.’ Varro found a heavy cloak lined with fur and pulled it over his shoulders. ‘You have done well to live your life in this misbegotten place so far from civilization, avoiding all scrutiny. But that time has now passed.’

  He pointed at Catia’s cloak where Amatius had tossed it. She realized he wanted her to put it on and she fumbled for it, but she felt her thoughts racing too fast. How could she believe a word that the merchant was saying? And yet he seemed to accept it completely.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she threw the cloak over her shoulders.

  ‘I need to know for certain,’ Varro replied. ‘This is a matter of such importance there can be no room for error.’

  Bucco danced ahead of them, holding back the panels of silk to allow them to pass. Outside in the dusk, Varro led the way over the grey ridges of frozen snow and ice towards the wagons, keeping just close enough to grab her if she attempted to run away. What did he think was so important? How could men a world away have been searching for her? She felt excited by those questions and that confused her. Now she wanted … needed … to know more.

  ‘You’re still loath to give up your secrets,’ she said.

  The merchant grunted. ‘They are hard-earned. A man like me would never have been privy to them. I have had to fight to glean what little knowledge I have. It has cost a great deal of gold. And some blood. But a new power will rise, so we are told, and I will hold it in my hands.’

  ‘And who would not?’ Bucco chuckled. ‘Be lead, or be gold. What a choice!’

  ‘Who keeps these secrets?’ she asked.

  ‘Priests. Seers. Wise men, wise women. The voice of Mithras speaks loudly of these mysteries in his temples. The priests of Jupiter and Apollo too, and the barbarians’ priests. Even the Christians have learned a thing or two of them, cunning as they are.’

  Varro heaved his bulk past his own wagon, and the one that carried supplies, to the third one. Catia looked at it, puzzled. The doors at the rear were bound with rope, but neither the merchant nor the dwarf made any move to open them.

  ‘Lean in,’ Varro said. He pressed his ear against the wood. After a moment, Catia followed his lead, wondering what she should be hearing. The dwarf did the same. What a strange sight they must seem, she thought. In the cold night, the three of them leaning against a wagon door.

  ‘Stir yourself,’ Varro barked. ‘I would have words.’

  Catia jolted. The wagon shifted and she heard a dragging sound as if someone was pulling themselves across the boards to the other side of the door.

  ‘Speak.’ It was a man’s voice, low and throaty and weak.

  ‘We have a woman with the Ouroboros branded upon her back,’ Varro boomed.

  ‘She has a child yet?’ the voice croaked.

  ‘A boy. A shy boy, a sly boy,’ the dwarf chanted.

  ‘How did she come by the brand?’

  ‘Tell him.’

  Catia felt the merchant shove her more roughly than he needed. This was a private thing, something she rarely discussed, but she sensed Varro would not allow any dissent. At least once she’d spoken perhaps she could get some explanations.

  ‘When I was a baby, I was stolen from my home. Taken beyond the wall, into the Wilds. Most feared me dead, but I was found three days later, protected by a wolf pack, with the brand upon me.’

  A long silence followed. Catia could sense Varro growing more tense. But then the voice rustled out, so low it was almost lost beneath the whine of the wind, ‘She is the one.’

  Catia shivered, though she didn’t know why. Varro
clapped his hands.

  ‘We have done it, Bucco,’ he whispered. ‘Now destiny is ours.’

  He grabbed Catia’s arm and pulled her away from the wagon. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we will drink some wine together. And then I will see what pleasures you can offer.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Old Gods

  AS LUCANUS CROSSED the floodplain in the dying light, fingers of fog began to reach among the trees on the slopes of the three hills ahead. Now, at the river’s edge, he could see no more than a few sword-lengths ahead of him.

  For a while, he trailed along the bank until he found a bridge wide enough for one man to cross, just a few timbers, some of them rotten, others missing. Sliding one foot in front of the other, he edged his way over the slow-moving waters.

  On the other side, the ruined walls of the fort loomed out of the shifting cloud. Trimontium had been abandoned long since, during the army’s retreat. He picked his way over stones and shattered bricks scattered across the frozen ground, remembering how his father had told him that the Scoti had tried to build three villages there over the years. Ghosts had chased them out.

  Clenching his hand around a raven’s skull hanging from a leather thong at his neck, he muttered a prayer, and scrabbled over the crumbling outer wall. Inside, he watched the spectre of the fort emerge from the fog. Stumps of walls, blackened areas where fires had once been, cracked stones hiding the hypocaust, fragments of mosaics, the mysterious shapes revealing nothing of what they had once portrayed.

  Lucanus wound his way into the centre of Trimontium.

  Settling into one corner of what had once been a room, he hunched over his knees, listening. The skin on his arms prickled to gooseflesh at the sensation of being watched. His mind playing tricks with him, he told himself.

  He imagined what a sight he must present to any who dared venture near, caked with grey mud from head to toe, white eyes wide in his crusted face. He must look like some revenant that had clawed its way out of the grave. He chuckled to himself, enjoying the feeling of humour after the hardship. That would teach those who sought him to venture into such a haunted place.

  Once he’d collected what wood he could find from the surrounding area, he pulled his flint and cracked out sparks. Soon he was rubbing his hands in front of a small fire, almost overcome with joy as the ice crept from his bones. If he had been as cold as this before, he couldn’t remember it. Once he could feel his fingers, he gnawed on some of the ruby deer meat from a carcass he’d found at the side of the track, and the growling in his belly stilled.

  For a while, he drifted.

  The warmth of the crackling fire tugged at his thoughts. Catia’s face floated in his inner eye, and then his father’s stern features, both of them lost to him, though in different ways. His eyelids were heavy. But he knew he had the senses of his brother wolves. A footfall a spear’s throw away would have him on his feet in an instant, sword in hand.

  Night fell.

  As the flames flickered low, Lucanus raised his head. The shock thumped him and he jerked back against the remains of the wall.

  A man was sitting across the fire from him.

  Thrusting himself to his feet, the Wolf snatched out his blade. ‘One move and I’ll gut you. Who are you and what do you want?’

  The smoke from the fire drifted and Lucanus could see this was no barbarian warrior. The man wore only a plain brown robe under a great cloak hanging loosely over his shoulders, his black hair twisted into ringlets and tied at the end with leather thongs. A hooked nose, a thin face, dark eyes that burned with intelligence. A tattoo of a black snake curled along his cheekbone and down to his jawline.

  The Wolf looked him up and down, but couldn’t see any weapons beyond a long staff lying on the ground beside him.

  ‘My name is Myrrdin.’ Lucanus heard a wry humour in that voice. ‘It was my father’s name and his father’s before him. And it shall be my son’s name, and all the sons unto the end of this world. What do I want? To meet you, Lucanus the Wolf.’

  ‘Everyone in the Wilds seems to know who I am.’

  ‘And with good reason.’

  He levelled his blade. ‘No more secrets or twisted words. If you’re part of this plot to draw me north, speak now.’

  ‘Sheathe your sword. You don’t need to threaten me.’ It was a command, but the stranger made it seem like a jibe between old friends.

  For a moment, Lucanus studied the face before him, and then, satisfied, he put his weapon away and sat down. ‘I want the boy back, unharmed.’

  ‘Not a hair on his head has been touched. Nor will it be.’

  ‘Then bring him to me and let’s put an end to this.’

  ‘I don’t have him.’

  Lucanus clenched his teeth. He was too weary and cold for these games. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘North.’

  ‘Then you want me to go into a place thick with my enemies? You wish me dead?’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  Fresh wood cracked and a shower of sparks swirled up. ‘You lead me by the nose, as if I were a child.’

  ‘You are. A child knows little and has much to learn.’ Lucanus watched Myrrdin lean back, relaxing a little. ‘The choice was well made,’ he added with a nod. ‘You followed the boy. That was the first test.’

  Lucanus snorted. ‘Any man would have followed the boy.’

  ‘Into the heart of the enemy? Where death is only a whisper away?’ Myrrdin shook his head slowly. ‘Most would have left him to his fate.’

  ‘Why are you playing these games?’ Lucanus eyed the stranger. Perhaps he could take his blade and carve out a few chunks to get to the truth.

  ‘Games? This is serious business. Nothing happens by chance, Wolf, remember that. Nothing ever, anywhere, happens by chance. There is always an invisible hand behind it.’

  Lucanus watched a faint smile flicker on Myrrdin’s lips. He seemed to be enjoying this taunting, two warriors circling each other, seeking out the other’s strengths and weaknesses. But here the weapons were words.

  ‘Your life is not important. Nor mine,’ the other man said. ‘This game is greater than all of us.’

  ‘On the road, I met three women. Witches. They cast their spells and set me flying, though I couldn’t tell if it was all a dream. But they talked about prophecy and war and the blood of kings.’

  ‘They shepherd lives, those three. A man thinks he chooses his own path, but they are cunning. They shape many things to their will.’

  ‘And you?’

  Myrrdin shrugged.

  ‘They bade me seek out the company of men … the kingmakers. You’re one of them?’

  The other man nodded. ‘In days long gone, my brothers and I wielded power across this land, and beyond. We chose the kings. We spoke with the gods. The old gods, who still watch, who still hear our prayers, who still guide our hands.’

  Lucanus struggled to recall the name the youngest woman had told him. ‘Cernunnos?’

  ‘He is one. Cernunnos stands deep in the forest and howls at man.’ He smiled and the Wolf felt his irritation bubble. ‘Your memory’s short. You only know what you’ve lived. But there were other gods here before the Romans brought their own. Those old gods didn’t go away. They’re still worshipped, in secret, away from the eyes of the invaders. In the villages, in the groves. If you’re wise, and careful, you can find their altars along the great wall. Here in the Wilds and on your side too. These are humble folk. But they scribe the altars in the Roman tongue, as best they can. Dibus veteribus. To the old gods. If you were of a mind, you could find these signs, Lucanus, and you’d know another world, an older one, hides behind the one you see around you.’

  ‘And you’re a part of this older world?’

  ‘Aye. You are arcani. And we are too, in our own way.’

  With his foot, Myrrdin pushed a log deeper into the flames, sending the sparks showering once more. The Wolf listened to the fire crackle, but the fog that pressed hard ar
ound them muffled the sound.

  ‘Let me tell you a story. So you know who we are, and the power we wielded, and which we still wield, in the shadows. A story of an age long gone. Before your father was born, before the Romans came to this island. When your kind roamed free, and you were not forced to kiss the feet of any master.’

  Lucanus could see no threat in the face opposite him, but he trusted no one, not in this world beyond the wall. He slid his fingers close to his sword, ready to strike if necessary. ‘Tell me, then. Who are you, kingmakers?’

  ‘Druids, we were. We are.’

  The Wolf frowned. He’d heard this name somewhere, once. ‘Priests?’

  ‘Priests, aye, and more than that. They called us wood-priests. Teachers. Guides. Wise men. We know the movements of the stars, and the plants that heal, and the speech of birds, and the ways of the beasts. In the wind we hear the whispers of what has once been, and read the omens of what is to come in the crows’ flight. We speak with the gods and they speak with us. We were here when the first men walked upon this land and we are here still. We are everywhere, in all parts of Britannia and Hibernia, and beyond. When the Romans came for us with their swords, we slipped back into the forests, where our sacred groves were, into the wild places, the mountain tops, the moors. We became ghosts among the trees, speaking only to those we could trust with our lives.’

  ‘Why do you hide?’

  ‘When the Romans invaded, they wouldn’t rest until they’d cut out the heart of what they found here. Crushed all resistance and slayed all druids. They knew we would never bow our heads to them. The kings of the tribes would always heed our words. The warriors would always fight. There would be never-ending rebellion.’

  Lucanus heard Myrrdin’s voice harden. A thick seam of loathing lay there, crushed down and made harder by the many seasons that had passed.

  ‘The Romans marched north and west, seeking out the island that was our head and heart. Sacred to us, it was, Ynys Môn, for it had been given to us by the gods and they came to us there in our groves. And our school was there, where the youth learned our great wisdom, so they could follow in our footsteps. When we heard word the army was marching upon Ynys Môn, we prepared our defence as best we could. But we knew their might, these Romans: swords and javelins and horses and armour. We knew this could be our last stand. And so we sent out the wisest and the strongest, to the hills and forests, where they could keep our wisdom alive and pass it on to new blood. Our ways would not die. The wood-priests would live on. But they would bide their time, stay strong, stay hidden, until the time was right to return.’