Pendragon

by James Wilde

  ‘There’s another way out of the temple? Where the bull was brought in?’

  ‘This way.’ The Hanged Man lurched into the gloom in Ruga’s footsteps.

  As Corvus followed, Pavo snorted at his back. ‘Looks as though your brother saved his own neck. I expected no less.’

  The three of them plunged into the dark. Corvus pushed himself close to Severus. He couldn’t see a thing, but the priest knew the way blindly.

  ‘Go on,’ Pavo breathed. ‘I’ll watch your back. But if we get out of this alive we’ll have words, you and me.’

  Corvus and Severus burst out of the door behind the baths and scrambled into the shadows of the towering aqueduct. They ran alongside the great arches, south towards the Appian gate, until Corvus heard Severus gasp for him to stop. In the dark under one of the arches, the pair slumped against the stone, catching their breath. Corvus listened, but he couldn’t hear any sounds of pursuit.

  Severus shuddered. ‘The temple is lost.’

  ‘What will they do?’

  ‘Fill it with earth and rock so we can never go down there again, as they have done to every other temple they have found.’

  ‘But we have a right …’

  ‘Not in their eyes. This is only the start. I had some hope when Emperor Julian tried to revive our fortunes. But once he was seen to fail, the Christians gained the upper hand. They will not let it slip away.’

  Corvus thought of that cruel look in Theodosius’ eyes, that cold determination. If even the son of one of Valentinian’s most trusted advisers could lead an attack like this, then the persecution would only get worse.

  The priest seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘Valentinian and Valens both have too much on their minds to trouble themselves with religious strife. Valentinian has let this struggle between the pope and the anti-pope drag on because he hopes it will burn hard and then die. But one day we will have an emperor who will cleanse Rome of all who do not follow the Christian path, mark my words.’

  Severus rubbed his twisted neck, and Corvus felt that there was more to the story of his disability than an argument between rival businesses.

  ‘Already they destroy our temples, and all the pagan temples they find across the empire, and build their own churches on top of them, and they turn old gods into their saints. They are clever, these Christians. They steal what is not theirs and make it their own.’ Corvus winced at the hollowness of the other man’s laughter.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Whosoever tells the story best holds power in his hand.’

  Corvus thought how bitter the other man’s smirk was. Here was someone who was fighting a war he knew he was losing, but could not see why.

  Severus drew himself up and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Enough of this. Dark thoughts will get us nowhere. I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.’

  ‘I did what I could, nothing more.’

  The Hanged Man nodded, smiling. ‘We are all grateful for your mother’s work.’

  ‘What does my mother have to do with this?’

  ‘She came to us with an offer of gold when our temple had fallen prey to the Christians moving to deny us our rights.’ He pursed his lips, remembering. ‘And she told me she had heard talk … some rumour … some hidden knowledge she had discovered in Britannia … about Mithras incarnate.’ Severus batted his thoughts away with a wave of his hand. ‘Your mother is a woman who keeps many secrets. All I can say is that before he died your father accepted the light of Sol Invictus, and your mother wished to aid us on his behalf. She has given you and your brother into the service of the Invincible Sun, and she donates much to our cause. But sometimes I wonder if she plays another game entirely, one that none of us ever quite see.’

  Corvus nodded. ‘I am just a simple soldier. I know nothing of my mother’s plans.’

  Severus thought for a moment. ‘There was a man who used to serve your mother. Titus Didius Strabo. He came with her from Britannia, and helped keep her safe when your father was lost at sea, if I recall. You remember him?’

  Corvus pictured a gruff man with a face like knapped flint. ‘I think I do.’

  ‘I once saw him break the arm of a man who tried to snatch your mother’s hand as she crossed the forum. After a while, she had no further need of him and he left her employ. The last I heard he was working in one of the taverns near the Pinciana gate, throwing the drunks out into the street. He may well know what your mother learned in Britannia, and what she plans, and if anyone’s tongue could be loosened with a little gold, it would be his. Should it be of interest to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Corvus looked round the arch and saw a solitary figure trudging along the street. Pavo was searching for him. Now they would have to put off any drinking to celebrate their escape. They had work to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A Voice in the Dark

  THE NIGHT WAS filled with fire and fury.

  Through the haze of pain, Lucanus felt hands grip him and drag him away from the heat. He heard the voice thick in his head as if bubbling up from deep water.

  ‘Take a while to dwell upon what you have lost and what you have yet to lose,’ Erca said. ‘Then you will return here, and we will see if your tongue has been loosened. If not, then the Attacotti will find another morsel. And another. And more, until there is nothing left.’

  And then those hands were pulling him through the flapping tents. He saw sparks swirling on the breeze. He heard the cheers of the warriors, as if a huge beast was roaring for blood.

  The world blurred by.

  Within a moment of reaching the wooden hall, he was tumbling across the cold ground. Blinking away crusted blood, he stifled the agony ringing in his skull and looked up at Logen and the two guards, silhouetted against the orange glow from the fire.

  ‘Bind his feet,’ the rat-faced man commanded.

  As the barbarians yanked bonds tight around his ankles, Logen loomed over him. ‘The night is long, but your time is short. Lie here. Feel the throb where your ear once was. Drink in that agony and learn from it. Then choose if you will speak to save the rest of you.’

  The three men walked away into the gloom. Lucanus sagged down, willing the earth to open up and swallow him. Behind his eyes swam the ghastly white faces of the Attacotti and he knew there was no hope. Even if he told everything he had ever learned, he would still be offered up as the next feast for those Eaters of the Dead. He felt his stomach knot. Erca had been right. Death did not scare him, but to die that way … eaten while still alive … that was a horror he could not contemplate.

  ‘Thank the gods.’

  Lucanus jumped at the whisper rustling in from the dark at his back. He rolled over and hissed, ‘Who’s there?’

  At first he thought he was seeing a spectre. A small figure separated from the dark and crawled towards him. Only when the light filtering in from the distant campfire hit the face did he see it was Marcus. At first he couldn’t comprehend what lay before him – a vision caused by the pain, a visitation come to guide him into the otherworld? His lips worked but no sounds came out.

  The boy smiled. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘You’re alive,’ the Wolf croaked.

  ‘I disobeyed you, Lucanus.’ Marcus’ mouth turned down. ‘When I saw you beaten and carried away, I knew I couldn’t leave you. I followed. Here.’ From somewhere he pulled out a knife and began to saw at Lucanus’ bonds.

  ‘How did you survive?’

  ‘I’m quick. And cunning. I crept into the barbarians’ camp at night as they travelled along the road. I stole food, and this knife. And while they slept, I slept too, by the dying fire. But with one eye open, as you taught me.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Lucanus could scarcely believe what he was hearing. When the bonds at his wrist fell away, he grabbed the knife and sawed through the rope at his ankles. Once he was free, he ruffled Marcus’ hair, then pulled the boy to him and hugged him tight. ‘You’re a
good boy,’ Lucanus repeated, ‘and your mother would be proud of you. I’m proud of you. But now we have to hurry before we’re found.’

  He lurched to his feet, swaying for a moment.

  ‘You’re weak,’ Marcus said.

  ‘My strength has deserted me.’ In the gloom, and with his hair falling, the boy couldn’t see his missing ear. Lucanus grabbed the lad by his shoulders. ‘And this time you must swear to me. If I fall, you’ll run on alone. They know of you now. They know of your value—’

  ‘My value?’

  The Wolf waved a hand to silence him. ‘If I fall, there will be no saving me. Do you hear? I’ll be dead in no time. You must save yourself. Swear.’

  After a moment, the boy replied, ‘I so swear.’

  ‘Good. Now follow me.’

  Lucanus snatched up his wolf pelt where it lay in one corner. When he slipped it on, he felt the fire in his chest blaze higher, and the spirit of his wolf-brother enter him. Immediately, he was stronger, braver. With a glance over his shoulder at the glow from the campfire, he prowled to the rear of the hall and beckoned for the boy to follow.

  His eyes fell upon Caledfwlch in the shadows where Erca had tossed it earlier that day. He was minded to leave it there and spit on it as he passed. Could he believe a single word that Myrrdin had told him? But that would only spite himself. He needed a weapon. Snatching it up, he fastened the scabbard around his waist.

  ‘This is a good time,’ he murmured. ‘All here are enjoying their feast. But soon they’ll come looking for me. We must be fast.’

  The boy nodded. In that moment, Lucanus could believe that the blood of a great king coursed through Marcus’ veins. He felt a swell of pride, and then pushed the boy out into the night.

  Through the camp they ran, keeping low, listening for any sounds of pursuit through the din of singing and laughter. When they reached the place where the horses had been penned, he pressed his finger to his lips to warn Marcus. The steeds snorted and stamped their feet, sensing someone they didn’t know. Creeping forward, Lucanus made the low noise deep in his throat that he knew would calm them, and whispered soothing words.

  Selecting one, a black stallion, he stroked its neck until it was ready, then hauled himself on to its back. Snarling his fist in Marcus’ tunic, he lifted the boy behind him.

  ‘Hold tight,’ he whispered. ‘When we are beyond the edge of camp I’ll ride hard.’

  His head still fizzing from the pain and the lack of food, he dug in his heels and guided the horse away from the tents to the road that led east.

  As the track began to rise to the edge of the forest, Lucanus glanced back to where the sky glowed orange from the campfire. Now that he had some distance, he could see the flickering smaller fires in the vast bowl of night that revealed the scale of this council of barbarians, and he felt a rising chill at what this portended for the days yet to come.

  Before he could begin to wonder what the tribes planned to do with their common cause, a cry rang out. It leapt from lips to lips, growing louder by the instant, and then the cheering at the fire died away. For a moment he could hear only the murmur of the wind in the branches, and then the roar rushed in with a vengeance, this time tinged with fury.

  Lucanus kicked the horse’s flanks. Hooves pounded the hard ground and he felt lifted up, the breeze tearing at his hair. In the dark of the forest, they would not be able to ride at this speed for fear of being brought down by the uneven track. But there were miles to go until they were safe and those barbarians would risk all to capture them.

  Lucanus felt Marcus’ arms wrap around him and the boy’s head press against his back. He had to find a way to survive, for the lad’s sake, and for all those at home who did not realize what was waiting for them in the cold north.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Flight

  THE HOWL ROLLED out across the forest, echoed by another, and then another. The barbarians were the wolves now, whipped into a frenzy by the scent of blood.

  Lucanus clasped his arms around the horse’s neck, his head flopping against the mane. For two days, they’d grabbed nothing but quick sleeps along the way, their bellies empty, their thirst quenched only by brackish water gulped from pools. He’d avoided the well-used tracks for fear their enemies might be lying in wait, and instead weaved through a world of shadows and dark green light. When night fell, they floated through an abyss.

  His eyelids flickered. The few patches of thin light dappling the forest floor faded and the dusk pressed in on every side. He could sleep, deep and long, sleep for the rest of his days.

  ‘Your skin burns. I can barely touch it.’

  Lucanus swallowed, but there seemed no moisture left in his throat. He’d almost forgotten the boy was there, clinging on to his back. But of course that was why their enemies ran them so hard.

  Whoever was master of the royal blood was master of the land.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m cold now,’ and as he said it he shivered as if a blast of freezing air had rushed down from the northern mountains.

  Marcus reached round and wiped his forehead. ‘You’re sweating.’

  ‘Hard work makes a man sweat.’

  ‘You’re sick, Lucanus. When I’m unwell my mother always wraps me in blankets and sits me by the fire. “Sweat out the poison,” she says.’

  ‘Your mother isn’t here.’ Even as he said it, Lucanus saw Catia in his mind’s eye, standing on the wall, praying for the return of her son. She was counting on him.

  He pushed himself upright, forcing what little strength he had into his feeble limbs. What could he tell the boy: that he was probably dying? The wound on the side of his head had been left open to the elements. Soon the flesh around it would smell like rotten apples as the sickness ate its way through him until only black rot remained. He’d seen that terrible death more than once, and here there was no leech to try to save him.

  The night came down hard. Everything rushed away, and he felt himself falling.

  Be strong, Lucanus. Be strong.

  Rough bark scratched his back and his nostrils were filled with the sweet scent of sticky resin. His fingers dug into the sharp pine needles on the ground where he sat, and through heavy lids he looked into a hazy light among the trees. It seemed to be that quiet hour of dusk, the one that Mato loved so much.

  A light was dancing there in the gloom, a flame it seemed, but this had a sapphire sheen to it. He watched it slither towards him across the forest floor. At first he thought it looked like a river of fire, then a winding road; not the ones that Rome built, but the sinuous paths of old.

  We walked like serpents in those days, someone had once told him. He could not remember who.

  Where would this road take him?

  Grey shapes flitted among the trees on either side of that sapphire glow. Gradually some solidified, took on form. Others remained mist-like, fading away when his gaze fell upon them.

  Ghosts, he thought. Daemons. And then: I’m dying. This sickness was eating away at his thoughts, breaking them up into pieces.

  Behind the misty shapes, other figures waited on the edge of the darkness that engulfed the rest of the forest. He thought he saw a woman there, dressed in black, her hair black too, surrounded by ravens that circled endlessly. A man who glowed golden, like the sun, like Catia. Another who seemed constructed from the very forest itself, bark and leaves and ivy and holly.

  Dying.

  His thoughts spun away. A procession drifted by, a king and queen and their court, and they looked at him with such sadness he felt tears sting his eyes. Bellicus and Mato were there too, and the other Grim Wolves, and his father, though his face was a blur. A bear trudged behind, walking like a man, its glassy black eyes flickering with that same blue fire. The bear was carrying his sword, Caledfwlch.

  ‘That’s mine,’ he said.

  ‘It is yours and mine,’ the bear growled back.

  As they all moved away into the dark, only one figure remained, a sentinel wa
tching silently. He seemed to be judging, Lucanus thought. He was a warrior with a helm that covered all his face, and a long shield, and a great sword that he held loosely in his right hand, pointing towards the earth. His armour, his weapons, all were green, the deep green of the endless forest.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lucanus croaked.

  The warrior did not answer. He only judged.

  Be strong, Lucanus. Be strong.

  He shuddered awake and realized he was no longer sitting at the foot of the tree, if he ever had been. The icy ground chilled his cheek and he breathed in a loamy odour, mingled with sweat, and a familiar spicy perfume, though he couldn’t remember where he had first experienced it.

  ‘Death was close, Wolf. You were almost lost to us.’ A woman’s voice, one he knew. Her breath warmed his ear.

  ‘Catia?’ he murmured.

  Laughter. Three women’s voices joined as one.

  ‘Where is Marcus?’

  ‘Near,’ the woman nearest him whispered.

  ‘Searching,’ an older voice added.

  Lucanus shivered as slender fingers probed where his ear had been. His skin tingled at the touch of something cold and wet and he breathed in a pungent aroma of herbs and lamb fat. After a moment the gash began to burn and he jerked up. A cool hand pressed him back down.

  ‘This will help fight the sickness,’ the woman said. ‘Leave it there until you feel well again.’

  Now Lucanus smelled a rich, sweet scent and he realized the woman was coating his wound with honey to seal it.

  ‘Will I live?’ he asked, not wholly sure if this was really happening or one of the dreams that had afflicted him.

  ‘If the gods so wish.’

  ‘The barbarians—’

  ‘Your enemies roam the night, but they have lost the scent of you. They follow your horse, and that is long gone. You must make the rest of the journey on foot, unless death claims you first.’

  ‘I have to get Marcus back to Catia,’ he croaked, almost to himself.

  He sensed the woman leaning in as if she were about to kiss him. It was so dark that he couldn’t see her even though she was close, but the bloom of her skin warmed him. ‘You must prepare the way for the Bear-King,’ she whispered.