Pendragon

by James Wilde

  He pushed his way between the two men. His friend’s opponent looked down that nose at him, his brow knitting.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A wise man, a peaceful man, a friend in troubled times—’

  ‘A man who likes to talk.’

  ‘True. Talking is always better than fighting.’ Corvus dropped his own hand to his sword, to show there were alternatives.

  His intrusion seemed to have sucked the poison out of the confrontation. The hook-nosed man grunted and took a step back. Eyeing Theodosius, he said, ‘This is not over, you know that.’

  ‘As my friend said, we’ll talk and find a solution.’

  ‘Talking is all we do. I’m sick of it.’ The hook-nosed man marched away, and the groups of opposing soldiers broke up and drifted off.

  ‘For a man who talks so much about peace, you make a lot of enemies,’ Corvus said.

  Theodosius shrugged. ‘He’s an envoy from the Emperor Valens. His master needs supplies for his campaign against the Goths and he was sent here to secure a little more than they have in the east.’

  ‘But our needs are greater.’

  ‘Some of the Goths have accepted Christ into their hearts, but not all, by any means. Valens is keen to show them the error of their ways. That is a good cause. He’s already replaced Sallustius as Praetorian prefect, ready for the attack upon the Tervingi.’ Theodosius sighed. ‘But you’re right. We can’t afford to give too much. Valentinian would never forgive me, never mind my father. I’ve no desire for another boot up my behind.’

  ‘More talks, then.’

  Theodosius laughed. ‘I know they bore you. My abiding memory of you, Corvus, is of a madman riding into the enemy, laughing as you loosed arrows right, left and centre. You need that thrill of battle.’

  ‘I like to think I’m more than that.’

  ‘You’re many things, true. But you’re a good friend. You have my thanks for stepping in there and saving me from myself. However much I pray, I can’t seem to stifle the anger that burns inside me.’

  Corvus searched the yard for his brother. Ruga would be here somewhere, as he always was during the day.

  ‘We’re all slaves to what hides inside us,’ he said, distracted.

  Theodosius led the way to the shade by the walls. ‘True. God sets his plan upon the world, but men will always fight, with themselves, or each other, to bring his vision into effect. This war between the new pope and the anti-pope – it troubles me. We Christians need to be united if we’re to bring light into the world. But this fight seems to be more about power than anything.’

  ‘Men fighting over power. No surprises there.’

  ‘These are men of God.’

  He heard an odd tone in his friend’s voice and realized he had not been taking enough care when talking about his religion.

  ‘Did you hear about the attack upon the temple of Mithras under the baths of Caracalla?’

  Theodosius was watching the gulls swoop across the blue sky, pretending this question held no weight, but Corvus knew better. He’d stumbled around the edges of these traps before.

  ‘The baths? No.’

  ‘I was told you were seen nearby that night.’

  Corvus felt the sweat begin to trickle down his back. ‘If there are taverns nearby, then that’s probably true. You’ll find me wandering the streets most nights.’

  ‘Less wine, my friend. It clouds God’s vision.’ Theodosius studied him for a moment. Whatever he saw, it seemed to satisfy him, for now. He slapped a hand on Corvus’ shoulder. ‘We don’t talk enough these days. Let us pray together tomorrow and we’ll eat afterwards. Remember our days of glory, like old soldiers.’

  ‘All your glory lies ahead of you, if your father has his way. But that would be good. We’ll pray together, then eat.’ And I will do my best not to choke on it.

  He caught sight of Ruga emerging from the row of offices. Theodosius followed his gaze.

  ‘You have a love for life that your brother lacks. He’s too gloomy.’

  ‘One of us needs to be the serious one.’

  Leaving Theodosius, he crossed the yard. The boys who fetched and carried called his name and with a grin he flicked them a coin. They scrambled in the dust for it.

  Ruga waited by the last of the office buildings. He looked hunted, Corvus thought.

  ‘Why don’t you run into the middle of the yard and proclaim your love for the Invincible Sun?’ Corvus said as they huddled together.

  ‘Stop making light,’ Ruga snapped. ‘Are you thick-headed? Can you not see how things are going? The few of us who still follow Mithras are being dragged into the open. Informed on by our friends … friends! We break no laws. But those Christian zealots don’t care about that. They see it as a badge of their faith to bring down unbelievers, and the authorities turn a blind eye while we are beaten and ruined and … and … worse.’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  Ruga glared at him. ‘You’re more mad than I thought. The Christians have even been killing each other in those bloody riots. This is not just about being exposed. We could lose our lives.’

  ‘You need to be stronger. Running scared will only make things worse.’ How could their mother have put so much faith in such a coward, he thought? ‘There’s much we need to talk about.’

  Ruga eyed him, suspicious now.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mother. About your plot—’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘There’s no need for us to fight about this—’

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut.’

  As Ruga started to turn away, Corvus caught his arm, a little more roughly than he intended.

  His brother glared at him. ‘Would you strike me now?’

  Corvus let his hand fall. ‘I’m worried. Mother is frightened.’

  ‘Our plans have taken a turn for the worse. It’s nothing. We’ll find a new road.’

  ‘Let me help. I’m good with a sword, and a bow.’ And you are not.

  ‘This is not something for you.’

  ‘What is this? Keeping all the glory for yourself?’

  ‘This is not about glory. Mother chose me for good reason.’

  Corvus felt the heat rise up his neck. ‘Perhaps she chose the wrong brother.’

  ‘She chose well.’

  His irritation burned as Ruga looked him up and down with contempt.

  ‘You? You drink too much, you …’ Whatever he was about to say, Ruga caught himself and turned away. ‘Leave, now, before I say something I regret.’

  Corvus stood his ground. ‘I won’t let this drop.’

  Ruga whirled, unable to contain his anger. He thrust his face forward until it filled Corvus’ vision. ‘No one likes you, brother. No one trusts you.’ Spittle flew from his lips. ‘Not me, not Mother. Not Hecate. Leave us all alone. This is a job for grown men.’

  Ruga stormed away and Corvus watched him disappear into the churn of life in the barracks.

  When he peered down the steps into the gloom of the cellar, Corvus smelled the reek of age in the dank air current that rushed up to meet him. No one should be living in a place like that.

  ‘Are you there?’ he called.

  ‘Yes.’

  Hearing Hecate’s voice, he descended into the dark. Though he’d offered to give her his own room, the witch had insisted she found some comfort in that miserable cellar. It reminded her of her home, cold and filled with shadows.

  As he reached the flagstones, he looked around and saw a single flame flickering in one corner. There, he breathed in other, more comforting scents from the herbs and spices that Hecate had requested in order to carry out whatever strange rituals she saw fit.

  In the many hours he’d spent with her, he’d only heard her complain a few times. She felt lonely and adrift without her dead sisters, and at least here she believed there were people who cared for her.

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he watched a figure rise up and cross the floor to h
im. At first he thought he saw his mother standing there, the same face, the same outline, but it was Hecate. She was smiling at him. His brother had been lying, of course he had. But still the doubts had flickered at the back of his head.

  ‘I wanted to be sure you have all you need,’ he said.

  ‘You are kind.’ She looked around. ‘I need little, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mother is kind too. She takes me to the forum and buys me gifts and gives me good food. But still …’ He heard a wistful tone in her voice. ‘I am not sure this is the place for me.’

  ‘You must stay.’ He’d spoken more forcefully than he intended and he saw the surprise in her eyes. ‘It’s good to have you here. Who else would I talk to?’ He grinned, making light.

  ‘Your brother has asked me to be his bride.’

  He flinched. He’d expected this, of course, but Ruga and his mother had never mentioned a word of it. Another sign of their pushing him out into the wilderness. Yet he could see in her downturned eyes that this was not something she wanted. ‘Have you answered him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Bide your time until you give him an answer. That’s your right. Let me think on this.’

  He watched her frown, but he left before she could ask him any more questions.

  Outside in the last of the sun, he hurried through the streets, searching for Pavo. He was sick of all the questions that continually raced through his head. Great things, perhaps dangerous things, were moving just beyond the edge of his vision.

  He found his friend exactly where he thought he would, at a table near the window of a tavern, watching the sun set. He called for some wine, and turned to Pavo, who was grinning at him, puzzled. ‘You look as though you’re about to fall apart. What are you – angry, questioning, frustrated? Jealous, perhaps?’

  ‘All of that and more,’ Corvus conceded. ‘You always give me good advice, and mostly I ignore it.’

  ‘Probably wise. A lot of it comes from the bottom of a cup.’

  ‘I need to hear some wise words now. Are you ready for it?’

  Pavo raised his goblet, his eyes twinkling. ‘Sit down, then. We have much to talk about.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Survivors

  FOR THREE WEEKS, the Grim Wolves led the way south and Mato found his spirits lifting. Lucanus had guided them along a winding route through the forests and the wind-lashed high land, avoiding the road from Luguvalium to Mamucium, or the road to Eboracum. But though they had encountered no one, at times they had heard cries swept up on the wind and tasted ashes on their tongues.

  Then they came to a land of purple-topped mountains and steep-sided valleys where shimmering lakes reflected the clouds marching across the blue sky. The days were warm, the sun burning bright. Every tree was flush with green and flowers bloomed in the woodlands, perfuming their passage. The birds sang and butterflies flitted across the grasslands.

  As they stood on the summit of a high hill looking down on one of the biggest lakes they had seen so far, Mato turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. There was peace here, even in the midst of war. This was why he was arcani. To be at the beating heart of the land.

  Here he could still hear his sister’s voice. Here his life had meaning.

  ‘Folk.’ Bellicus was standing beside him, sniffing the air. ‘Shit and smoke.’

  ‘I’d happily avoid all meetings. But the others will want to hear fresh voices, I’d wager. Some comfort. Some news.’

  ‘I have a craving for good wine. Even poor ale. And if we could beg some skins, we’ll not have to grub around looking for fresh water every step of the way.’ Bellicus glanced back to where the others lay on the grass, basking in the sun. ‘And if truth be told, it will be good to dilute the whining and the carping of some of those who travel with us. Come. Let’s do this.’

  The track wound along the side of the hill, moving past the weather-scarred upper reaches where chunks of granite punched through the earth, to a sea of swaying grass on the lower slopes, and then on to the lush valley bottom. Out of the wind, Mato’s skin burned in the sun and flies droned lazily among the trees. After a winter that seemed as if it would never end, summer could not come fast enough.

  On the banks of the great lake, the riders slipped to the ground and led their horses along the rocky shore. As they rounded a finger of land, the settlement hove into view: a pier reaching out into the water with several small boats moored to it; a few huts scattered along the shoreline. Mato could see a small boat-maker’s yard next to it. Yet despite the small size of the place, he could hear the unmistakable throb of life, easily as loud as Vercovicium at its most raucous.

  Puzzled, he trudged on, and as he closed on the edge of the settlement he felt astonished to see a sprawl of shelters stretching deep into the shadows beneath the canopy. Those huts looked as though they’d been thrown up in a day, with low mud-brick walls and roofs of interwoven branches that would provide little cover when the rains came. Clutches of people huddled around small fires, and as their heads turned to study the new arrivals Mato was shocked to see how some looked little more than bones covered with skin, eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks hollow. Children bawled everywhere.

  ‘Hunger,’ he said. ‘Want.’

  ‘Poor souls. They must be fleeing the fighting.’ Mato could hear the dismay in Catia’s voice.

  ‘We’ll not find much for us here,’ Bellicus added.

  Six men trudged out of the camp and lined up along the shoreline. Mato looked along the row of scowls and hooded eyes. Only one had a sword. Adzes hung from the belts of the others.

  ‘What’s your business?’ The speaker’s face was a spider-web of wrinkles, his long black hair streaked with grey. He had a hooked nose and dark eyes that made him look like a hungry falcon.

  ‘The same as all those other folk, I’d wager.’ Lucanus waved a hand towards the settlement in the wood. ‘We are running for our lives.’

  ‘There’s nothing for you here,’ the one who seemed to be the leader said. ‘We can’t feed you. We can’t feed ourselves. We’ve near been washed away in the torrent, and more arrive every day, every hour.’

  ‘All we ask is a night or two. We have no wish to stay long.’

  Mato smiled, holding his arms wide. ‘We are kindly folk.’

  The leader peered past him to where the others waited in the wagon. ‘Women. A child,’ he mused.

  ‘And an old man. He’s been sick; still ails. It would be a kindness to allow him a few nights here to rest and recover, where it’s safe,’ Mato said.

  One of the other men sneered. ‘You think it’s safe here?’

  The leader weighed the request. Mato watched him look the Grim Wolves up and down, his attention lingering on their swords. Frowning, he reached out and rubbed Lucanus’ wolf pelt between thumb and forefinger. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Arcani,’ Lucanus replied.

  ‘Fighting men?’

  ‘Scouts.’

  ‘But you’re with the army? You know how to use those weapons?’ Mato saw the leader’s eyes gleam.

  Lucanus said nothing.

  ‘My name’s Kunaris.’ The leader held out an open hand. ‘We have farmers and smiths, merchants and beggars. But we have no one who can defend us. Put those swords to good use and you’re welcome here, for as long as you want. And if you show your worth, if there’s any food that can be spared, it’ll be yours.’

  Mato looked to Lucanus. This seemed a fair deal. But he saw his leader frown.

  ‘Defend you from what?’ Lucanus asked.

  The camp seemed to go on for ever.

  Mato felt a pang of despair as he looked into the faces of the hungry, desperate people huddling near the entrances to their shelters. Most had nothing but the clothes on their backs, and those were filthy. A child ran up, begging for food, and Mato was sickened that he couldn’t offer even a crumb. Some lay too weak from hunger to move. Others coughed, their tunics soaked with sweat
as they slumped on their sides.

  ‘Some hope, that is what these people need,’ he said. ‘A beacon. The lights are going out everywhere.’

  ‘A war is coming that will make this land run red for a hundred years. That’s what the three wise women said to me in the Wilds.’ Lucanus looked around the misery gathered in that shadowy world beneath the branches. ‘This is why the king who will not die is needed. The saviour. To lead these people out of darkness and into hope.’

  ‘You still believe what those women said, then? And the wood-priest?’

  Mato watched his friend’s brow furrow. The Wolf didn’t take his responsibilities lightly. When he’d confided in them what he’d learned north of the wall, about Marcus’ destiny, they had all found it hard to take in. But every man in the Grim Wolves trusted their leader above all others, and he had told his tale with such passion they couldn’t deny him. Every one of them had vowed to stand by him.

  ‘These poor bastards,’ Bellicus muttered. ‘They need a saviour now, not in a hundred years’ time.’

  Solinus cracked his knuckles. ‘We all need a saviour, but they’re a bit thin on the ground right now. Still, if we can hold off those nightly attacks that worry them so, they’ll at least be free to hunt, and plant crops.’

  For three nights now, strangers had come in the middle of the night, dragging off a man or a woman each time. The victim’s screams had drawn out the sleeping refugees, who had seen spectral figures disappearing into the dark. Superstition was rife there, as it was everywhere away from the biggest settlements. But Kunaris had his feet upon the ground, they’d all soon realized. He was convinced this was a band of barbarians, and Lucanus was convinced he knew which ones.

  ‘We’re not warriors,’ Mato cautioned. ‘Knowing which end of a sword to stick in a man may not be enough.’

  ‘Not if it’s the Attacotti.’ Comitinus looked around as if the Eaters of the Dead might be at his back at that moment. Mato saw an involuntary shudder.

  ‘They can be beaten, like any other enemy,’ Lucanus said. ‘I’ve looked in their eyes.’

  ‘Should we fight here, that’s the question? Or would it be better to flee and keep Marcus away from prying eyes?’ Comitinus asked.