Arthur made a dismissive gesture with his empty hand. "I am not searching for a new wife. Ambrosius has suggested it, but I have no time for courtship. With better weather, the Saxons will soon be worrying our borders again."
Kurvenal saw Bedwyr and Cai exchange a quick look and wondered what it meant.
"And what of the tribute you owe to Ambrosius, Marcus?" Geraint asked outright. "How many men can you spare to fight off the Saxon threat?"
"I already sent two centuries."
Arthur smiled and finally took another sip of his wine. "That was two years ago."
"Here on the coast, the threat comes from the Erainn across the sea," Marcus said testily. "As protector of Dumnonia, I need my troops to fight them."
"Fight them?" Bedwyr drawled. "We had heard you were intending to sleep with them until the developments in Eriu fouled up your plans."
Kurvenal saw Marcus's lips tighten. "Well, yes. As I said, I've been trying to negotiate a peace."
"Ambrosius knows that the threat of Erainn raids is not to be taken lightly," Arthur said. "But with your tin mines, you are one of the richest kings of the south, and you could surely hire a few extra men if need be." Although his voice was quiet, it held an undertone which Marcus obviously understood.
"I will be happy to send some troops to Caer Leon with Drustanus once he's recovered," the Dumnonian king said. "I merely wanted to point out that I might not be able to spare as many as you or Ambrosius would like."
"Oh, my men and I could use a few days rest, especially in a hall with such fine wine. We will wait until Drystan can accompany us." Arthur turned to Drystan, who did not seem to have been following the conversation very closely. His head rested on the back of the couch, his wine glass in his hand, seemingly forgotten.
"What of you, Cousin?" Arthur asked. "Would you be willing to join my company to fight the Saxons? It would take you away from Dumnonia, but you would also be in less danger of meeting this Otherworld Amazon in battle."
Drystan lifted his head slowly from the back of the couch and gazed at Arthur for a moment until he seemed to come back to the company present. "Fight the Saxons? Yes, yes, I think I would like to join you."
"Then it is decided," Arthur said, his voice businesslike.
Kurvenal was overjoyed that they would be leaving Dyn Tagell. He'd had enough of Marcus Cunomorus to last him a lifetime. Unfortunately, the man was his best friend's father.
* * * *
They departed Dyn Tagell six days later with only two additional contubernium, eighteen men total, but at least all of them were mounted. The number of men was low, but what Arthur really needed were the horses, so he let it pass. Cavalry was much more important for his purposes than infantry. And all told, he had received promise of nearly three centuries of fighting men from the kings of Dumnonia.
Drystan was glad to go, glad to do anything that would help him escape his thoughts. But even the feel of a good horse beneath him and the sun on his back weren't enough. He tried to find pleasure in small things, in the first spring flowers, in Kurvenal's smile, in the hero-worship on Cador's face when he rode next to Arthur, in the calm melody of Arthur's voice. Now that he'd been spoiled by days of good food and physical comfort, the survival instinct which had driven him on his journey from Eriu could no longer keep dark thoughts at bay.
It didn't help that the trip to Arthur's training camp took over a week and was without incident: it gave Drystan more time with his thoughts than he cared for. And the last half of the journey was through a constant spring rain, which made riding miserable.
All of them were relieved when they arrived at the garrison town of Caer Leon. The town was situated inland from the Sabrina estuary on the river Usk in an area of gently rolling hills and fertile fields and thick woods, now disguised by a film of gray mist and rain.
Riding next to Kurvenal, Drystan inspected the place that might well be his home for as long as he remained among Arthur's companions. It had been many years since he had spent any length of time in a town still as obviously Roman as Caer Leon. Of course, his father had been at pains to maintain the reminders of the Roman port of Durocornovium on the promontory of Dyn Tagell, but despite the tin exports, it had never been as important as Caer Leon. Drystan had spent much of his first years in Isca Dumnoniorum, civitas and provincial capital, but Drystan's memories of those years were vague.
The old Roman fort stood near a bend in the river. As Arthur's principal training camp, Caer Leon was a bustling place, the streets full of soldiers and merchants and whores. The barracks still standing could house nearly four cohorts of six centuries each, and now, in late spring, they appeared almost full. Young men lounged under the colonnades near the taverna. Soldiers wandered together in groups between the workshops and the barracks, eyeing the young women who passed, or calling out evening appointments to each other in a mix of Latin and native British tongues. Their clothing too was a mix of Roman and British garb, and Drystan assumed they also adopted a mixture of British and Latin names.
They came upon the impressive baths complex, a tall building with a red-tiled roof and wide courtyard. The southern wall surrounding the baths had been torn down, and workers were still clearing rubble away to create an open entrance to the complex. On the journey, Arthur had told him that the baths within the fortress walls were still largely functional, but one side of the courtyard was being used as a cattle pen, and small dwellings had been built into the portico of the surrounding colonnade. Many buildings which had fallen into disrepair had been replaced by buildings of timber rather than stone: the knowledge of stone masonry was eroding with the buildings. What would have been fixed when the oldest were the youngest, was now dismantled and used for the construction of more modest buildings when repairs could not be made.
Opposite the baths, several larger building appeared to have been converted to whorehouses, if the inviting gestures of the dark-haired beauty leaning on the balustrade who caught Drystan's eye were any indication. The weather was barely warm enough for it, but a number of scantily-clad women lounged against the columns in front, some waving to the troops riding down Via Praetoria, some merely watching their prospective customers.
The headquarters stood in the middle of the garrison, where Via Principalis met Via Praetoria. The closest barracks buildings to the west had been converted to stables, and they gave their mounts into the hands of stableboys before entering the principia, a wide building nearly as impressive as the baths, with two arcades supporting a high nave roof. Caradog, son of King Honorius in nearby Caer Gwent and Arthur's deputy in Caer Leon, met them in the atrium of the headquarters.
Arthur drew off the gloves he had worn for riding and turned to the newcomers. "Drystan, there should be a room for you and your man-at-arms in one of the former tribune's houses. After you have settled in, I would like you to report to me in my offices here."
Drystan had hardly expected to be housed in the barracks eight to a room, but after seeing how full the fortress of Caer Leon was, he was relieved anyway.
Relieved. What an odd thought — he was miserable and tortured, remembering over and over the look of hatred in a beloved pair of pale blue-gray eyes, and he was relieved he would not be sleeping on a bunk in a room with seven other fighting men. Shaking his head at the strangeness of his own moods, he and Kurvenal followed the servant to one of the tribune's houses reserved for Arthur's companions and were shown into a very comfortable room with two beds and a low couch pushed up against one wall.
"Better than I would have expected."
Kurvenal nodded, watching him carefully.
Drystan shoved the satchel containing his harp into a corner of the room and returned to the headquarters building, eager to get away from his friend's watchful eyes.
When he found his way to Arthur's offices in the principia, in the former aedes which had once housed the legion's eagle and banner, Cador's father Geraint was already there.
"I have a special job for the two
of you," Arthur began, coming forward across the patterned tile floor. In places, the tiles had been replaced by simple mortar, blotches in the regular pattern. "You have some experience at sea, I believe, Drystan?" Arthur asked.
Drystan nodded. "When I was still in fosterage in Armorica, I led several sailing expeditions for my foster-father, Riwallon."
"Good. I would like you and Geraint to be in charge of putting together a small force capable of fighting at sea. You will need to interview the men, find the ones who have some experience at sea, and begin training them as soon as possible."
"A number of my men from Caer Gurrel on the coast of Dortrig will be perfect for the job," Geraint said. He was a big man — if Cador was ever to take after him, he still had a lot of growing to do.
"My armsman Kurvenal is experienced at sea," Drystan added, "but I know nothing of the men my father sent with us." He was surprised to be given so much responsibility so soon after joining Arthur's companions, especially since he suspected Arthur did not completely trust Marcus.
Arthur smiled. "Then you will have to get to know them, will you not?"
He turned to Geraint. "That will be all for now."
As Drystan turned to leave with Geraint, Arthur touched his arm. "Stay. I still wanted to speak with you in private."
When the door closed behind Geraint, Drystan glanced at him, curious.
"Cousin," Arthur began. "I will not be so callous as to tell you it will pass."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Erainn princess."
Drystan looked away, at the arched alcove where the legionary standards had once been kept. It now housed the banners of the Pendragon Ambrosius Aurelianus and his general Arthur the Bear.
He turned his attention back to Arthur. "I don't want to talk about it."
"But I do."
"Why?"
"You are one of my men now. And however little you might care for your own life, I do not want you endangering the lives of others."
Drystan drew in a deep breath. "Oh, I care for my own life. I dragged myself back, didn't I?"
Arthur gave a business-like nod. "Yes, you did. You are stronger than you think."
"And you?"
A faint, sad smile touched the young widower's lips. "Oh, I too am stronger than I think. But I do not let others see it as much." He grasped Drystan's shoulder in a brief, hard grip and released it.
Drystan repressed a sigh, trying to be as strong as Arthur seemed to think him. He didn't feel strong. He felt wounded and miserable, felt as if he would never be able the enjoy the soft touch of a woman's hand or a glass of fine wine the same way again. He gave himself a mental shake. He was not the only one suffering from loss. But it was his loss he felt. And when memory and regret twisted in his stomach like rotten food, it was hard to sympathize with the loss of others.
"I will try not to let others see it as much anymore, Cousin." Arthur's cause was his cause. He wanted to save Britain, his patria, from barbarism and ruin. The fine, tall buildings of Caer Leon were a testament to what was good in this land. While he found the way his father clung to the glory of Rome exaggerated, he too preferred living where tiles still graced the roofs and the baths were still functioning. He had enjoyed the music and magic of Eriu, but Yseult was the true reason he would have stayed.
Well, now he had baths again, and he would make use of them. If much of the time he felt wildly lost, he'd have to learn to live with it.
* * * *
Drystan threw himself into the training, staying either too bone weary or drunk to be bothered by the memory of Yseult, finding comfort in wine, heavy and strong, burning away the cold of his body and soul. His only problem was that Caer Leon, as a training camp, was too safe, too far from the enemy.
At least there was much to do. With Geraint, he interviewed a number of the recruits from the south and the west, from kingdoms with a coastline, warriors from the provinces of Venedotia, Demetia and Dumnonia. Coroticus's experienced sea raiders were busy far to the north, so they would have to make do with what they had.
In addition to the standard training in combat and horsemanship, wrestling, throwing weights, and footraces up and down the hills outside of Caer Leon, the men under Drystan and Geraint's command practiced pushing landing boats into the water and dragging them on land again, raced Roman-style galleys in the Sabrina Estuary, and learned techniques for grappling and boarding an enemy ship. Much of what they learned was new to Drystan too — his experience with Riwallon was mostly either commercial or in the form of patrols of the Armorican coast.
Two weeks after their arrival in Caer Leon, Drystan was coming up the hill from the banks of the River Usk, wet and dirty from practicing speed techniques with the landing boats and sorely in need of a bath, when Bedwyr hailed him.
"Drys!"
Drystan shook his head and smiled — several of Arthur's companions had taken to calling him by Kurvenal's nickname for him.
Bedwyr gave the scroll he held to one of the workers in charge of repairing the external baths complex and hurried over to him. They all had many jobs here in Caer Leon, and Bedwyr was leading a construction team trying to keep ahead of time and wear at Arthur's main training camp.
"I saw Arthur earlier," Bedwyr said as he came up to him. "He wanted you to stop by headquarters when you returned."
Drystan gestured down at the wet legs of his breeches. "Like this? I hope I am allowed to change and wash first?"
Bedwyr gave a sardonic chuckle at the sight of the mud on his ankles. "Yes, I think he will have to excuse you a bit longer yet."
After washing, donning a fresh tunic and breeches, and rebraiding his hair, Drystan made his way to the principia. As he came through the entrance arch and into the colonnaded courtyard, he was greeted by a large crowd — all of those who were the closest he had to friends in this new life.
Kurvenal stepped forward with a glass of wine and presented it to him. "Happy birthday, Drys. I knew you would have forgotten you are turning twenty today, so I decided to remember it for you."
The well-wishers, men he knew with a scattering of women he didn't in their midst, clapped and pounded him on the back. Kurvi was right — he would gladly have forgotten his twentieth birthday, but now that he was surrounded by so many people who wished him well, he couldn't help but smile and drink with them. Arthur was there, of course, with Indeg, the young woman who presently warmed the commander's bed. Next to her, Bedwyr stood grinning at him in his typical sardonic fashion. Arthur's companions who had accompanied them north from Dyn Tagell, the men of the fighting unit he would be leading, Tuthal, Ruan, Flavius and the rest, all were there to congratulate him. Cador gave him a big hug, and his father Geraint and tutor Antonius hearty handshakes.
The wine was plenty, and judging by the smells coming from the tables set up beneath the colonnades, Arthur had even sacrificed a pig for the occasion.
Arthur came forward, a hero-worshiping Cador at his heels. Arthur cousin barely had time to shake Drystan's hand before Cador pestered him with his next question. "Which battle was your favorite in your northern campaigns?" Cador asked.
Arthur gave Drystan a wry, sidelong glance and turned his attention back to their younger relative. "There is no such thing as favorites when it comes to battles, Cador. Friends die in all of them."
Cador did not look completely convinced, but he didn't persist. "Are you glad to be in the south now, as Dux Bellorum of all of Britain?"
Arthur shrugged. "At least it's warmer here."
Drystan smiled, wondering if Cador would ever be able to find a more promising figure for his hero worship.
"Will we also be fighting Erainn pirates now that I'm your standard-bearer, or only Saxons?"
Erainn pirates. Eriu. Yseult. Drystan no longer heard Arthur's answer. The pain was back, as it almost always was. Sometimes it felt as if he spent all his energy avoiding the thought of her, pushing her to the back of his mind and tying her up in a neat little box, usele
ssly. The innocent question of a fourteen-year-old let her out again, waylaying him with the force of memories strong as presence. Memories and regret.
Yseult.
He turned away, towards the tables of wine at the far side of the courtyard, not wanting any of the others to see in his face what he was going through, wanting to be alone with the wrenching feeling in his stomach and his battle with himself and his thoughts.
Everyone said the pain would fade with time. If only time could pass more quickly and give him peace.
Chapter 15
Before Geraint, the enemy's scourge,
I saw white horses, tensed, red.
After the war cry, bitter the grave....
In Llongborth, I saw the clash of swords,
Men in terror, bloody heads,
Before Geraint the Great, his father's son.
In Llongborth I saw spurs
And men who did not flinch from spears,
Who drank their wine from glass that glinted....
In Llongborth I saw Arthur's
Heroes who cut with steel,
The Emperor, ruler of our labor.
Elegy for Geraint
Their first major battle that year came sooner than anyone expected. It had looked to be a calm summer. The scouts of Ambrosius had seen no troop movements along the border with Ceint where the Saxons had their strongholds, and the British army was using the time gained in further training and recruiting efforts. The battles in the north against the combined forces of the Picts and the Saxons had taken a heavy toll on their forces.
When the news came of Saxon ships landing on the southern coast, Arthur gathered his cavalry and as much of his infantry as the defense of the Caer Leon could spare and headed south.
* * * *
In Venta Belgarum, they joined forces with the troops of Ambrosius and Cerdic, grateful for the chance to pause and regain their strength after their journey halfway across southern Britain. Cai, Master of Horse, had complained constantly about the abuse their mounts had endured, but his judicious management of the spare horses saved them from any losses on the grueling ride. Whenever they could, they had requisitioned new mounts along the way, but Arthur did not want to resort to that if it could be avoided, since it often led to resentment among the general populace and local nobles.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 22
