Candless had been so blessed by the saints that a pilgrim had given him the four nails from the True Cross, and he had been granted a vision of another, more sacred icon which would come to him. I was not yet empowered to tell the good queen what exactly that was, or just when it would come to Candless, but this would be a relic of such sacred power that believers would flock to follow it against the Romans. Which reminded me that I had heard of an evangelist called Benedict who had a great following and whose influence might be useful to me.
I asked Emiculea about him. “Benedict is a holy, holy man, Arthur,” she said firmly. “He was educated in Rome but turned away from that city of debauchery and founded centres of religious learning everywhere, all of them under his strict rules of prayer, fasting, service to others and hard work.”
Something rang a bell, and I recalled a story the Pictish bishop Candless had told me one night over pots of ale. One of Benedict’s rules, he said, was that monks in a community must share everything. Nobody was to have personal possessions. Of course, one wayward monk broke the rule, and on his deathbed confessed that he still had three gold pieces that he had brought with him into the monastery as a novice years before.
The abbot ruled that the rule-breaker must not be confessed or given absolution until he had true repentance, and the monk died, unshriven. He was buried, said Candless, in unsanctified ground and the monks threw in the three gold pieces with the body.
For a month, the monks prayed for their dead brother. On the 30th day, the dead monk’s ghost appeared to the abbot, glowing with saintly light. He had, he told the churchman, found his repentance in Purgatory and Jesus had forgiven him.
The abbot, said Candless, then ordered the body to be disinterred and reburied in holy ground. It was an example, Candless explained, of the order’s strict observance of the monks’ vows, and of God’s mercy. I thought privately that the abbot probably had his convenient dream to retrieve the gold pieces, but I never said that aloud. Even pagans can be discreet.
Queen Emiculea was pleased when I referred to Benedict’s rules and offered to give me a tour of the ecclesiastical buildings of the island. I accepted, thinking that I’d rather assess the fortifications, but any examination was better than none. There were a number of towers and a curtain wall ringing the accessible sides of the island, and palisades of sufficient strength around the steep crags of the rest. The causeway was protected by an iron-bound drawbridge guarded between towers and double gates, and a bailey in near-impregnable situation topped the mount. The two small harbours were well protected and promised guarded sea access even during a siege.
Mons Tumba had deep wells, strong walls, and a trained garrison. It had well-stocked granaries, a smithy, armoury, bakery and everything else needed for self-sufficiency in a very long siege.
It would be difficult for any besieger to take the island, as the tidal currents were fierce and would sweep away most siege works or equipment, and additionally engineers had worked to create a moat by diverting a small river that flows into the bay there. They had dug deepwater channels right under the island’s walls, making it difficult even at low tide for an enemy to approach.
All in all, I concluded, this would be a stronghold better than my old one at Bononia, where the Romans had cut off our harbour by building a mole across it at low tide, sealing off the city from seaborne relief. It was a worthwhile survey.
As for the buildings, the monks had grabbed several prime spots for themselves and their temple and I noted sourly that Mithras and the other old gods had no obvious places of worship, but I kept my mouth shut. I needed the Christians’ help, so that week, I attended their temple and knelt patiently through several chanting sessions. I even stayed mute and allowed myself to be choked by incense fumes and sprinkled with water. All the time, I was quietly clutching the Hammer of Thor amulet I kept hidden under my shirt.
Emiculea spent several evenings gently attempting to persuade me that baptism into the Christian cult would be politically a good thing, and had not an Angle king not only converted, but had 10,000 of his subjects be baptized just two Christmases ago? I countered that, in conscience to the memory of her late husband, that good pagan, I could not so easily abandon the gods of my ancestors, but I would consult Guinevia on the matter. Fat chance, I mused. My pagan witch would likely hex me into a toad or slug before she’d let me become a Jesus follower. I smiled, and thought how I missed feeling her snuggling against me, snuffling sleepily against my neck, like a puppy.
Finally, I made agreement with Emiculea. She would commit her forces to an alliance with me, with my Christian forces under Candless, with the Huns, Franks and a motley collection of Gallic tribes that I had brokered to oppose the Romans. In return, I pledged assistance should her enemies threaten.
It was now the tenth month, so we would ready ourselves through the winter, and strike in the earliest part of spring, while the Rhine was still frozen and the Romans were busy keeping back the Alemanni who could walk across it.
I ordered my men to ready for our journey back to Britain. We’d make the week-long march north towards Bononia, find a ship or two for the troop of us, and slip across the narrows of the strait before the winter was properly upon us and made sailing so dangerous. In the corner of my chamber, I did not notice the white rat, sitting up on its haunches and staring red-eyed at me.
Chapter XIV - Ogmia
Maximian was so enraged, his face had turned nearly as purple as the trimming of his imperial robe. Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus Herculius Augustus, Emperor of the West, commander of 22 legions and lord of all he surveyed, had just had bad news. He wanted to beat the messenger about the head with his ivory baton of office. He wanted to clench his hands around Arthur’s thick neck. He wanted to hear that it was a mistake and his invasion fleet and precious shipyards had not been destroyed, again.
“When did this happen?” he demanded. Three days before, lord, came the answer. “And how long...” he was choking. “How long,” he repeated, “does my legate think it will take before the damage is repaired?” The messenger, who had discussed this point with friends, wisely denied all knowledge. He had heard of Maximian’s temper, of how he had once knocked out his horse’s teeth with a single blow of his fist, how he had beaten a slave to death for stealing a beaker of leftover wine. This messenger stayed woodenly ignorant, and undamaged.
Maximian bellowed for his tribunes, who came at the run. They were able to tell him that the attack had come from the landward side, not from the sea, and that Arthur and his men, about 50 of them, they estimated, had marched away along the valley of the Meuse.
Maximian stilled. “Marched away?” he demanded. “Did they march in?” No, said the tribune who had viewed the message and questioned the messenger before he got to the emperor. No, the raiders had sailed down river, then burned their boats as they left. So, Maximian pondered, only three days before, Arthur and his pirates were on foot in Gaul. They would be making eventually for the coast and a ship home, the march south was merely a ruse to fool him.
Within a half hour by the water clock, messengers were leaving to alert garrisons and watchtowers along the coast. The command was simple. Find Arthur, capture him, bring him to the emperor alive, understand, alive?
Two weeks later, word came back to Maximian. A troop of either Celts or British, to judge by their dress and armaments, had arrived at the stronghold of the Queen of Armorica and were being billeted there. Two turmae of cavalry, about 60 men, were being hurried secretly into the area from Bononia. They did not yet know if it was Arthur but spies inside the island fortress would soon be able to confirm or deny his presence. They were also instructed to determine the Briton’s purpose for his visit. The emperor allowed himself a sour grin. Instinct told him: this was Arthur. The upstart would be in his hands, and soon he would know what he plotted with this Roman vassal queen...
In Britain, the enchantress Guinevia Avenae was healing slowly. Her mind had been unhinged by her ki
dnap and abuse, and by the threats to her child, who had been taken with her. The ordeal had taken its toll over the years and afterwards, vulnerable at Samhain, the one night of the year when the souls of the dead are loosed, she had allowed herself to channel her goddess Nicevenn. This cruel, cold mistress is the witch leader of the Wild Hunt that pursues the souls of the dead on that Samhain night, and if the goddess’ hell hounds take such a soul, its torment until the next Samhain is indescribable.
When she had control of Guinevia’s mind, the goddess had directed the druidess to revenge herself on those who had harmed her. The last uncaptured kidnapper had died of poison as Guinevia exulted, and the druidess had also cut out and burned the heart of the murderer who killed her father and betrayed her lover, Arthur.
But now, the darkness was lifting from her soul and she prayed to her second deity, the god Ogmia, scion of dangerous, persuasive words that can enchain, to lighten her load. She also sent out her thoughts to her mentor, the powerful Druid sorcerer Myrddin Emrys. “Son of no father, sired by a spirit, Myrddin aid me,” she begged. The silver pentagram ring on her finger throbbed with light and she heard a thin whistling in her ears. The power for good was returning, and relief flooded her mind.
The sorceress’ plea flew through the mists to the stone house on the under the sacred mountain Yr Wyddfa. Myrddin was working in the high-walled courtyard and an observer would have seen him raise his head and scent the air like a stag that senses the hounds.
“Guinevia,” he muttered, brushing his hands against his robe and leaving the planting on which he was engaged. He walked briskly into the viewing chamber where his scrolls were ordered, neatly tied, on shelves above the spiral mirror and glossy obsidian block that the necromancer used as mental focusing devices.
He took a deep breath, pushed back his braided hair with both hands and leaned over the mirror, looking at the shifting shapes he could see in its depths. In a minute or so, images appeared, and he exhaled gustily. “So that is what it is,” he said quietly. “Yes, Guinevia, you need some assistance. And you, too, Arthur-bach, you have a stony road ahead.”
Chapter XV - Blizzard
With the darkness of late afternoon came the snow, thick, soft flakes that muffled and hid from us the sky, the fields, even the cross-country landmarks we needed to navigate. I was shivering and cursing it for arriving so unseasonably early and thick. The weather hadn’t been right since old Gaius Julius changed the calendar. We were only in Octo, the eighth month of the old calendar, and it was like the tenth, and we were dealing with heavy snow and bitter cold.
We were travelling away from the road where we might meet military patrols, and the snow at least gave us the advantage of concealment from spying eyes, but we were only three days out from the island citadel and this would make the rest of our trek slower and more difficult. It would certainly reduce the chances of finding the ship or two we would need to carry us across to Britain.
This was the most dangerous stretch of our journey, for the Romans monitored the coast for pirates and bandits, and now we had to cope with a snowstorm that froze and blinded us while we moved and would leave tell-tale tracks when it ceased.
The gallant little ponies the Huns had gifted us seemed not to notice the cold, but we men were suffering. Apart from our military cloaks, we were ill-equipped for such conditions, as we had travelled light on our shipyard raid. This swirling, feathery, wet enemy blanketed us in a grey world, sifted inside our cloaks to steal body warmth with its wetness, blocked our eyes, ears and mouths, numbed our faces, soaked our frozen feet, iced our beards and turned our bare hands into stinging, clumsy lumps whenever we beat some feeling into them.
We had to find shelter and lie up until the storm passed, or we would lose men to the insidious cold that makes even warriors want to lie down and sleep themselves into death. I resolved to commandeer the next cottager’s hut, barn or bothy, to kill the occupants if needed to keep them from giving us away. All we had to do was to grope through the blizzard and find somewhere. We made that find, but it took long, miserable hours.
It was the smoke that led us to the place. A whiff of woodsmoke came to my frozen nostrils and I snuffled like a hound. The young decurion Iacomus Aureus had already detected it. He had pulled up his pony and I came alongside. He whispered urgently: “A settlement, lord, somewhere here!”
“Right.” I gestured for the horsemen following me to halt their steeds, then we edged forward again, but slowly, cautiously, though there was little chance of anyone or anything moving in that blinding whiteout.
Aureus again spotted it first. A glint of light, not even a beam but a glint had leaked from behind a leather window covering and it guided us to a low, wood-walled building. Aureus was already off his pony, sword in hand, two of his men following, before I waved. The door creaked and a wan light showed us the drifting snow, the shapes of the three soldiers as they moved inside and there was a muffled shout that was cut off.
Two women were backed up against the wattle of the wall, a dark-visaged man was held from behind by Aureus, who had a hand clamped over the man’s mouth, and his gladius blade held across the peasant’s throat. The two soldiers were urgently questioning the women. I could not hear what they said, but one of the soldiers nodded and came to me. “There’s another house a few hundred paces away, just an old woman lives there, but that’s all there is for an hour’s walk.” I sent four men to find the other house and bring the old woman back, and looked around.
The house was small, the thatch dripping snowmelt onto the muddy, packed dirt floor but the cooking hearth in the middle of the room gave off heat, smoke and some poor light. One end of the room was planked, with a short ladder down into a straw-filled pit where three sheep were penned. I gave the orders. The ponies were to be hobbled outside. Their shaggy coats were protection enough against a Gallic winter storm.
Ten of our 22 men could billet themselves in the old woman’s hut, the rest would sleep here. The peasants were to be tethered here and guarded. If the old woman’s hut had a fire, the troop billeted there could butcher and cook one of the sheep, and bring half of it back for their comrades. We had food supplies in our saddlebags, but I didn’t know how long we would have to make those last, so the sheep was a windfall.
With a thought about the Romans, I ordered sentries posted at both houses and at dawn, which I estimated was about six hours away, the remote unit should send a messenger here to me for fresh orders. A cook’s detail was told off, everyone else except the sentries was to rest until the meat was ready. I rolled myself tighter into my officer’s red cloak, found a relatively dry corner and slept.
First light arrived on a whitescape that blinded the eyes although the sky was grey, lowering and ominous. The chill was so brutal that even the winter-hardy Hunnic ponies had gathered together, huddled in the lee of the hut away from the biting east wind. Inside the hut, the thatch glinted with small icicles, the fire unable to keep up with the snow it melted. The old woman snored loudly, her two neighbour peasant women dozed, arms around each other while the dark man glared, indignant at the loss of his sheep. One of my men spoke a version of Senonian and he spoke with the peasant. “He’s called Robnic, lord,” he reported, “He says he should be paid much gold for the animal, it was a prized beast.”
I glanced at the man, bald, squat and stinking, and shook my head. “Give him this,” passing over a couple of pieces of silver. The man bit them to test they were not soft lead, and counterfeit, then squirrelled them away in his rags.
I knew he’d be hurrying to tell the authorities when we moved on, for more reward. He’d be lucky, I thought, to keep the silver because an astute officer would question him about a bribe from us. I went outside to relieve myself. Bitter, bitter chill. I opted to rest the men for another day in hopes the weather improved. It was a fatal error.
After another day and night in the animal-stinking huts, we were all ready to face the cold and snow, so we left at wolf light, leading our p
onies through the deeper drifts and avoiding the stands of woodland where the snow had piled even deeper. From time to time we spotted the curl of smoke where some cottager crouched indoors, and we struggled on through the bitter wind, eyes smarting from the cold and the occasional ice showers that whipped our faces red raw. I judged we were five or six miles inland, moving parallel to the shore and at our slow rate of progress it could be five more days before we reached a favourable place to seek ships, somewhere west of Bononia.
The decurion Aureus’s young eyes saw them first across the smoothed white landscape. A glint of metal, a tall dot of scarlet, more glints. My heart sank. All the signs pointed to organised military, and the scarlet could well be the military cloak of a mounted Red Dragon, a Roman officer. Suddenly, we were prey. I had muddied my own red wool cloak, in hopes of disguising it, but our party of a couple of dozen men and horses was too large to conceal in that white plain. We turned north, towards the coast and the cover of a stand of bare-branched winter trees. It was futile.
Our ponies could not make good speed through the drifts, and the interceptors, for it soon turned out that there were at least two different columns of them, had the angle on us. I ordered ten of my men to hide in a copse of trees and continued on with their horses, in hopes those dismounted riders at least could backtrack and escape, come dark. The ruse failed. A third, mounted column, alerted by fire and flag signals from the coastal watch towers, scooped them up for the loss of two of our longtime heroes of the Chevron, Beaumaris and Tregearius. These were hardened warriors who had been with me since the days when we recovered the lost Eagle of the ninth legion. To buy time for their comrades, they attempted a defiant rearguard action against 30 mounted archers, and perished.
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