Dragons!

by Various

  "Right. Guilty. Crucify him," said the commander.

  Junius looked smug. He stood at the commander's left hand while the man he had dubbed Ursus sprawled on a bench to the right. He still wore the boar's head helm, but now the eyes beneath the brim no longer showed murderous rage. Instead they roved slowly around the hut, silently weighing the worth and transportability of every even vaguely valuable item they spied. They only paused in their mercantile circuit when Junius leaned around the back of the commander's chair to whisper a translation of Caius' sentence in the barbarian's shaggy ear.

  Something like a flint-struck spark kindled in the depths of those tiny eyes. "NEVER!" Ursus bawled—and then all Hades broke loose.

  Afterwards, Caius could not say whether he was more shocked by the barbarian's reaction, or by the fact that he had understood the man's exclamation precisely.

  He quickly shelved linguistic musings in favor of survival. It really was an impressive tantrum the barbarian was throwing; he also threw the bench. Everyone in the com-

  mander's hut who could reach an exit, did so, in short order. The commander and all members of the makeshift tribunal held their ground, but only because they were cut off from the sole escape route by the rampaging dragon-slayer himself.

  Ursus was on his feet, each clenched fist the size of a toddler's skull. He gave a fierce kick, knocking over a little tabouret bearing a bowl of windfalls and a silver wine jug with matched goblets. He picked up the fallen objects one by one and flung them at the hut's curved walls. Though his sword and dagger had perforce been laid aside before coming into the commander's presence, he still looked able to reduce the population barehanded, ad libitum. Throughout this demonstration, he continued to chant, "Never, never, never!"

  The commander's face resembled an adolescent cheese. His jowls shuddered as much as his voice when he inquired so very delicately of his guest, "What? Never?"

  When Junius went to translate this into Geatish, the hero seized him by the throat and shook him until his kneecaps rattled. He pitched the Roman javelin-fashion at the open doorway of the commander's house. Unfortunately, he missed his aim by a handspan. Junius came up face-first against a doorpost and knocked one of the severed heads out of its niche. The commander's woman, a hutproud lady, fussed loudly as she dusted it off and tucked it back where it belonged.

  Junius received no such attentions.

  Ursus glowered at the fallen foe.

  "Far though my fate has flung me,

  Weary the whale-road wandering,

  Still shall I no stupidity stomach,

  Butt and baited of boobies!"

  All this he spat at his retired translator. He used a sadly corrupt version of Latin, admixed higgledy-piggledy with a sprinkling of other tongues. Like most bastards, it had its charm, and was able to penetrate where purebreds could not follow. It took some concentration, but every man of the Ninth who heard Ursus speak so, understood him.

  Caius took a tentative step towards his unexpected champion. "You haven't half got a bad accent, mate. For a bloody foreigner, I mean. Pick up the tongue from a trader, then?"

  Ursus' eyes narrowed, making them nigh invisible. He motioned for Caius to approach, and when the little man complied, he grabbed him and hoisted him onto tip-toe by a knot of tunic.

  "Hear me, O halfling halfblood,

  Lees of the legion's long lingering

  Here hard by Hadrian's human-reared hillock! Your lowly life I love not.

  Murder you might I meetly,

  Yet you are young and useful.

  Wise is the woman-born warrior

  Dragons who dauntless dares;

  Smarter the soul who sword-smites serpents

  Carefully, in company of comrades."

  Caius was still puzzling this out when Marcus Septimus inched up behind him and whispered, "I think he wants a sword-bearer or something to stand by while he does in the dragon for us."

  "Want my opinion," Caius growled out of the corner of his mouth, "the bugger's just as scared as the rest of us. Sword-bearer, my arse! What he wants is bait!"

  "We could still crucify you," Marcus suggested.

  Caius got his hands up and delicately disengaged the barbarian's hold on his tunic. Once there was solid earth under his feet again, he said, "All right, Ursus. You've got me over the soddin' barrel. I'll go."

  Everyone left in the hut smiled, including Junius, who had just rejoined the sentient.

  Ursus clapped the little legionary on the shoulder and declaimed: "Victory velcomes the valiant!"

  Marcus raised one carefully plucked brow and clucked. " `Velcomes?' Hmph. If they're going to come over here and take our coin, they might at least learn to speak our language properly!"

  "Silly Geat," Junius agreed, rubbing his head.

  Ursus was neither deaf nor amused, and his smattering of Latin was enough to parse personal remarks. He gathered up the two critics as lesser men might pick strawberries. Marcus cast an imploring glance at the commander, who was suddenly consumed by a passion to get to know his toenails better.

  "Sagas they sing of swordsmen," Ursus informed them. "Hymn they the homicidal.

  Geats, though for glory greedy,

  Shame think it not to share.

  Wily, the Worm awaits us.

  Guides will I guard right gladly!

  And, should the shambler slay you,

  Sorrow shall I sincerely."

  Caius leered at the two wriggling captives. "In other words, gents, we've all been bloody drafted."

  "Oh, I hate this, hate this, hate this," Marcus whined as they trudged along Hadrian's Wall, fruitlessly trying to keep pace with Ursus.

  "Put a caliga in it, you miserable cow! It's not like he'd tapped you to be his weapons bearer." Caius gave Marcus an encouraging jab with the bundle of spears that had been wished on him by his new boss. "All you've got to do is lead him to the fen where the monster's skulking and take off once the fun starts. Shouldn't be too hard for you."

  "We're all going to die," Marcus moaned. "The dragon will be all stirred up, and it will slay that great brute before you can say hic ibat Simois, and then it will come after us. I can't outrun a dragon! Not in these shoes."

  At the head of the line where he marched beside Ursus, a spare eagle standard jouncing along on his shoulder, Junius overheard and gave them a scornful backwards glance. He said something that Caius did not quite catch, but which caused Marcus to make an obscene gesture.

  "Soddin' ears going on me," Caius complained. "What'd he say, then?"

  "That—" Marcus pursed his ungenerous mouth "—was Greek."

  "Greek to me, all right," Caius agreed. "Junie always was a bloody show-off."

  "He said we were both slackers and cowards, and when we get back and he tells the Commander how badly we've disgraced the Glorious Ninth in front of the hired help, we'll both be crucified."

  "Not that again." Caius shifted the spears. "I'm fucking sick and tired of Junie and his thrice-damned crucifixions. Mithra, it's like a bally religion with him. What's he need to get off, then? A handful of sesterce spikes and a mallet?"

  "He also said that he was going to warn Arctos to keep a weather eye on us so we don't bolt."

  Caius flung down his bundle, exasperated. "Now who's been wished on us for this little deathmarch, eh? Bad enough we're to split two men's rations four ways—sod the commander for a stone-arsed miser—but who's this fifth wheel coming to join us?"

  The clatter of falling spears made the rest of the party draw up short. Marcus was totally bewildered. "What fifth wheel?"

  "This Arctos bastard who'll be baby-minding us, that's who!" Caius shouted.

  Junius regarded the angry little man with disdain. "I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking of our pro tempore commander, Caius Lucius Piso." He then turned to the barbarian and added, "Do not kill him yet, 0 august Ursus. We will need him to carry the spears."

  "Arctos is Ursus, Cai, old boy," Marcus whisp
ered. "Greek, Latin, same meaning, same name. So sorry if I confused you. The drawbacks of a really good classical education." He tittered behind his hand.

  "Sod off," Caius growled, gathering up the armory.

  It was some three days later that the little group finally stepped off on the northern side of the wall and reached their goal. Gray and brown and thoroughly uninviting, the fen stretched out before them. Mist lay thick upon the quaking earth. A few scraggly bushes, their branches stripped of foliage, clung to the banks of the grim tarn like

  the clutching hands of drowning men going under for the last time.

  "—and the best freshwater fishing for miles about." Caius sighed as he viewed the haunt of their watery Nemesis. "If the commander wasn't half such a great glutton, we could leave the fish to the dragon and eat good boiled mutton like honest folk. But no. Off he goes, filling our ears with endless, colicky speeches about the honor of the Ninth and all that Miles Gloriosus codswallop, when the truth is that he just fancies a sliver of stuffed pike now and again. So in he brings this hero fella, and now our lives aren't worth a tench's fart."

  "I heard that!" Junius called. "And when the commander finds out—"

  "Junie, love, why don't you go nail your balls to a board?" Marcus Septimus remarked over-sweetly.

  Caius patted the former secretary on the back. "You know, Marc, old dear, you're not a bad sort for a catamite."

  The barbarian directed his helpers to pitch camp, which they did in swift, efficient, legion fashion. Despite their internal bickerings, proper training made them work well together. Even Marcus did not manage to get too badly underfoot. When the lone tent was pitched and dinner on the boil, Caius flopped down on the damp ground without further ceremony.

  "Oh, me aching back! Mithra knows how many friggin' milia pasuum we've covered, and for what? Just so's we'd be on time to be ate tomorrow morning!"

  A gaunt shadow fell across his closed eyes. "Get up, Caius Lucius Piso," Junius said, using the tip of his foot to put some muscle behind the order. "The food is ready and we can't find Ursus anywhere."

  "Can't we now?" Caius did not bother to open his eyes. "Here's me heart, bleeding like a stuck pig over the news. Run off, has he? Jupiter, I never figured the big ox to have a fraction so much sense as that. Commander shouldn't've paid him in advance."

  "He was paid nothing." Junius' words were as dry as Goewin's onion tart. "Nor has he run off. Ursus is a hero."

  "Says who? Himself?"

  Junius tucked his hands tightly into the crooks of his elbows. "Our commander is not without his sources of information, nor would he engage such an important hireling blind. He heard nothing but the most sterling reports of our man's prowess at disposing of supernumerary monsters. Granted, the fellow's one of those Ultima Thule types who hails from where they've the better part of the year to work on polishing their lies for the spring trade, but even discounting a third of what they say he's done—"

  Caius made that blatting sound again.

  "In any case, our noble commander is not the sort to make a bad bargain, and were he to hear you so much as implying that he might, he would—"

  "Yes, yes, I know, crucify me." Caius forced himself to stand. "I'll go fetch 'im, then, before you get yer hands all over calluses from nailing me up."

  Caius didn't have far to go before he found his temporary leader. The barbarian squatted on a little hummock of high ground overlooking the fen, his sword jammed into a large, moldy-looking log some short distance away. His helmet was off, propped upside-down between his ankles, and his left hand kept dipping into it, then traveling to his mouth. Caius smelled a penetrating sweetness above the fetid reek of the marshland.

  "Hail, heart-strong helper!" Ursus beamed at the little Roman. Viscous golden brown strands dripped from his beard and moustache.

  "Hail yerself," Caius replied. He sauntered up the hummock and scrooched down beside the barbarian. "Got something good, have we?" He peered into the upended helm.

  Ursus nodded cheerfully, his expression miraculously purged of any bloodlust. He jerked one thumb at the log, while with the other hand he shoved the helmet at Caius.

  "Hollow this harvest's home,

  Fallen the forest friend

  Ages ago, several seasons spent.

  Rotten and rent, core and root,

  Toppled to turf the tall tree.

  Gilded the gliding gladiators,

  Plying their pleasant pastime,

  Sweetness sun-gold instilling,

  Honey they heap in hives.

  Noisy their nest they name,

  Daring and daunting dastards,

  Stabbing with stings to startle

  Thieves that their treasure try taking.

  Came then the conquering caller,

  Scorning their scabrous squabbles,

  Their dire drones disdaining,

  Helping himself to honey.

  Right were the runes they wrought

  When saw he first the sunlight,

  Bidding the birthed boy Bee-wolf

  Never another name know."

  "Boy? Who gave birth to what boy hereabouts?" Caius'

  eyes darted about suspiciously.

  The barbarian struck his own chest a fearsome thump.

  "Oh." Caius dipped into the honey. Through gummy lips

  he added, "Going on about yerself, then, were you?"

  The barbarian bobbed his head eagerly.

  "Nice bit o' puffery, that. Bee-wolf, eh? That'd be yer

  common or garden variety bear, ain't it? So that's why Junie

  stuck you with Ursus, leave it to him not to have more

  imagination than a badger's bottom. Kind of a circumlocu-

  tionariatory way to go about naming a sprat, don't ask me

  why you'd want yer kid associated in decent folks' minds

  with a horrid great smelly beast what hasn't the brains of a

  turnip, though it does make for a tasty stew, especially with

  a turnip or two, gods know I hope you didn't smell like one

  from the minute you were born—a bear, I mean, not a

  turnip; nor a stew—but you can't bloody tell about foreign-

  ers, now can you? Never one word where twenty'll do, no

  offense taken, I hope?"

  Bee-wolf nodded, still grinning. His find of wild honey

  had sweetened his temper amazingly well.

  "'Course, not that a name like that don't have its poetry to it, mate. A man needs a bit of poetry in his life now and again." Caius chewed up a fat hunk of waxy comb and spat dead bees into the fen with casual accuracy. "'Mongst my Goewin's folk—Goewin's the jabbery little woman you came near to filleting with yer dagger—they keep a whole stable of bards plumped up just to natter on about how this chief slew that one and made off with his cattle. It's a wonder to me the poor beasties have a bit o' flesh left on their bones, the way those mad Celts keep peaching 'em back and forth, forth and back, always on the move. Savagery, I call it; not like us Romans. Compassionate, we are—one of the refinements of civilization. Cruelty to dumb brutes makes me want to spew."

  Caius leaned forward, encouraged to this intimacy by the barbarian's continued calm. "Now if it were up to me," he confided, "I'd leave this poor soddin' dragon alone, I would. Live and let live, I say—that's the civilized way to go about it. It's not as though he's ate up more'nfive of our men, after all, and we've just got guesses to go by even for that. Only one witness ever come back to tell us it were the dragon for certain as ate 'em , or even was they ate, and that man was our signifer Drusus Llyr, what no one knew his parents was first cousins 'till it was too late, and he died stark bonkers that very night. You want me considered opinion, them fellers went over the Wall, they did, fed up to their gizzards with the commander and the whole glorious Ninth fucking Legion." He drew a deep sigh. "Can't say as I blame 'em. Can't even rightly say as I wouldn't do the same."

  Ursus looked puzzled.

  "Came t
he commander's call.

  Summoning my sword to serve him.

  Nobly the Ninth he named,

  Home and haven of heroes."

  "Arr, that's just recruitment blabber." Caius waved it all aside. "Lot of fine talk, all of it slicker than goose shit, just to rope in the young men as are half stupid, half innocent, and t'other half ignorant, no offense meant. Once in a while

  he manages to gammon a few of the local brats into uniform, but mostly it's sons of the legion following in their Da's footsteps because a camp upbringing's ruined 'em for honest work stealing cattle. Na, the Ninth's not what she used to be."

  "When, I do wistful wonder,

  Was this, thy lonesome legion

  More than a muddle of men

  Prowling the piddling plowlands,

  Wandering the Wall's wide way?"

  "Wozzat? Oh, I get yer. Well, truth to tell—" Caius leaned in even closer and nearly rested his elbow in the honey "—I haven't the foggiest. See, mate, used to be as the Ninth was as fine a lot of pureblood Roman soldiers as ever you'd fancy—and didn't our commander just! But then, well . . . you know as how things have this narsty way of just . . . happening, like?"

  "Fate do I fear not.

  Still, circumstances stun stalwarts.

  Here, have more honey."

  Caius did so. "Like I been saying, what with the wild upcountry folk the Ninth was first sent here to deal with, always on the march, camp here today, there tomorrow, try to keep the Celtic chieftains in line or even learn to tell 'em apart one from the other, and what with the odd carryings-on back home in dear old Roma Mater, inside the city, out in the provinces, up 'crost the German frontier with them as must be yer kissin' cousins, Saxons and Goths and that lot, well, in comes one rosy-fingered dawn and gooses our then-commander with the fact that there ain't no orders come through from Rome or even Londinium to tell us arse from elbow. No orders, mate! You know what that means to a professional soldier and bureaucrat like our commander?"