Behind the family stood the stark backdrop of Londinium. Its one impressive feature was its wall. Tall and thick, the structure was still complete, having been the last major construction project accomplished by the Romans. The rest of the town, though, was in the process of slow decay. Most of the population, British and Roman, were by now long gone, leaving just a few Saxon families to populate the town. The Roman layout of streets, now defined by low-lying, broken walls that were lichen-grey and stained with red, was still plain for any traveller to see, but years of looting and reclamation had removed the roofs and significant sections of wall from the structures. The result was a town that looked victim to an earthquake. Now, goats bleated, and hardy little pigs grubbed amongst the rubble, feeding on scraps and plant growth that had colonized the streets. All the animals wore the mark of their owners; all were a vital source of milk and meat.
The hollow sound of hooves upon the river’s one timber pile bridge had Godwine look up from the net he was unraveling. On the south bank, a host of men had started to traverse the bridge. Godwine immediately called Udela and Hild towards him as the procession of armed warriors filed across the bridge amidst a clatter of hooves and snorting horses. An impressive-looking man with braided hair—his shield emblazoned with the symbol of the juniper bush; his ears and lips studded with Celtic gold— reached the northern shore of the Tamesa and cast a brief look towards him. To Godwine’s relief, the man—who by his bearing and stature had to be the leader of the first group of men—turned from him and shouted at two of his charges who had broken from the line and seemed intent on making mischief towards Godwine and his family. The men checked their progress and rejoined the main group.
To Godwine’s utter amazement the man had spoken the British tongue, not in itself unusual: but what was rare—unknown in fact—was to see Britons armed and in numbers in Saxon territory.
As the Britons passed over the bridge, Godwine’s eyes widened further when seeing another group of riders (this time decorated with the sign of the white bull) follow in their wake. Again, Godwine could hear their shouts as they continued to file over the bridge and through the city; and again their shouts were British—albeit of a different dialect.
He held Udela, her blue eyes awash with January grey as, open-mouthed, she watched the biggest procession she had ever seen. Godwine turned to Hild who was standing beside him, her arm encircling his waist. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘the world seems to be moving again; let us retire to our hut and cook the fish.’
Dominic and Will had flanked Cunedda’s envoy and now watched as the Votadini chief led the company out of Londinium and headed for the Camulodunum road. Earlier, Augustus and Withred—who had ridden with Dominic and Will as far as Londinium—had left them and continued up the Camulodunum road; their destination Norwic and the sea.
‘Their troop didn’t even rest up in the town,’ said Dominic. ‘Their task must be pressing to continue without even looking at the place. But here they come, get down…’
Below them, Cunedda led his men along the broken Roman road, northeast towards Camulodunum. With Cunedda was Guertepir’s man, Diarmait. Both radiated an aura of power and leadership. ‘I know that man,’ whispered Dominic; ‘the one at the front; the captain with the white bull sign on his shield.’
‘Humourless looking shit,’ commented Will.
‘He’s Guertepir’s man, Diarmait. I met him last year when in Dyfed on the western peninsula. Holds a lot of clout with Guertepir’s army; the men would follow him through a forest fire if he asked them to.’
‘And the man who rides with him?’
Dominic’s face was a mask of disdain. ‘He’s of the Votadini tribe; so he’s British for Jupiter’s sake. He must be Cunedda.’
‘He’s not the first man to be a traitor to his own people,’ said Will thinking about Irvine, the British scout who had perished alongside his Saxon master, Ranulf, the previous year, ‘and he won’t be the last.’
It did not take long for the two hundred riders to file past. When the last of the men had gone from sight, Dominic sat up. He looked down to Will who had rolled onto his elbow and lounged upon the turf banking. ‘This is where we part company Will, it’s what Arthur wants.’
Will nodded. ‘I’ll follow them to Camulodunum; you go back to Arthur, that’s what we agreed.’
They stood and took their horses. ‘It’s hard riding for me now,’ Dominic said. ‘Arthur has had fast horses and grooms follow us here. They string the route every six miles from here back to Brythonfort—twenty horses or so. They should get me back in a day.’ He regarded Will with mild concern. ‘You can only go at their pace from now on and make sure you’re not seen.’ Will climbed onto his horse. Roman fashion, he gripped forearms with Dominic as they prepared to part, Dominic’s expression betraying his unease. ‘Be careful Will, that’s all I’m saying. If you enter Camulodunum be extra careful.’
Will laughed it off, although feeling anything other than comfortable with his role. ‘I’ll be alright, Dom. Remember the scrapes we survived when scouting for Rome; this is but a stroll in the woods in comparison—a mere spying mission.’
‘Spying can be fraught with danger,’ warned Dominic as he nodded up the track towards Camulodunum. ‘And don’t forget, that place is a viper’s nest.’
Two days travel along the northeastern Roman road saw Cunedda and Diarmait reach Camulodunum. Their journey had been uneventful; their passage promoting looks of astonishment from the few travellers who were on the road. Britannia was in the grip of grey January, and British war bands were a rare sight.
Raedwald, who to Cunedda’s eye looked increasingly edgy the nearer he got to Camulodunum, now rode at the front beside Diarmait. He glanced at Cunedda, then rushed his gaze back towards Camulodunum as the enormous oak gates of the town came into view. That they were open and unguarded told its own tale: quite simply, the Saxons did not fear invasion or attack, such was their dominance of south-eastern Britannia.
Raedwald spoke to Cunedda, his tone verging on the jittery. ‘Only the two of us speak Saxon so you must help me out once we enter the town.’
Cunedda squinted at Raedwald, his expression curious. ‘It’s me who should be on edge, not you,’ he said. Not waiting for a reply, Cunedda nodded towards the gates. ‘Looks like I’m about to practice my Saxon whether I like it or not.’
A party of fifty emerged from Camulodunum as Guertepir’s envoy approached the gates. Raedwald inwardly recoiled as he recognised Hrodgar—the man who had ridiculed him weeks earlier.
By now, Diarmait had joined Raedwald and Cunedda at the front of the British group. ‘Fewer of them than I thought,’ he said. ‘Obviously fragmented and unorganized just as Raedwald would have it.’
‘Their leader rides towards us,’ said Cunedda. ‘At least we get to talk before we fight.’
Hrodgar was arrogance itself as he brought his horse to a stop before Cunedda and Raedwald who now fronted him. Flanking Hrodgar were two tough-looking men, one of whom Raedwald recognised from the inn.
‘A little birdie tells me you’re British,’ said Hrodgar, as he insolently appraised Cunedda. He looked scornfully at Raedwald, then addressed Cunedda again. ‘So what are you doing riding with this little spunk spurt?’ The two men beside Hrodgar tittered brutally. ‘And a horse thief to boot,’ continued Hrodgar. ‘Could it be you’ve ridden all this way to deliver him back here so that we can pull him apart between two oxen? ... A death befitting a horse thief, I think.’
‘No it‘s for a greater purpose we travel here,’ said Cunedda. ‘Not to deliver a horse thief to you’—he shot Raedwald a you kept that quiet look—‘but to offer you the kingship of south-west Britannia.’
Now the Saxons positively roared their hilarity at Cunedda. Hrodgar was genuinely unable to talk such was his mirth, as his gaze alternated between his riding companions and Cunedda, who sat stock still and serious before him. ‘Oh ... oh my ... oh, Woden’s balls ... I don’t know which is the funniest .
.. your sorry British accent, or ... or what you’ve just said,’ he snorted.
‘We have four thousand men ready and waiting to go to war in the west,’ said Cunedda. ‘We will ride against Arthur with or without you. We ask that you provide two thousand men only. Does that still sound funny to you? Six thousand men to ride against Arthur? Six thousand men to end his dominance in the west, once and for all.’
Cunedda’s words did not completely mute the Saxon’s laughter. Rather, they merely served to slow it to a halt. Hrodgar wiped his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his tunic. Slightly breathless, he addressed Cunedda, the residual smile from his hysterics still lingering upon his face. Interested, in spite of himself, he asked: ‘Four thousand men you say. Where in Woden’s name have you got four thousand men from in the west? More importantly, where have you got four thousand men from who are prepared to turn against Arthur?’
‘That can wait for now,’ said Cunedda, his tone leaving Hrodgar in no doubt that this had gone far enough. ‘One thing I do know is that Saxon courtesy is piss poor. We have ridden far to offer your warriors an opportunity which will not be repeated ever again. Now do you invite us into your town and hear what we have to say, or do I turn round now with my men and return to Aquae Sulis and take the town without you?’
Cunedda felt satisfaction as the Saxon group fell silent. He knew Aquae Sulis was well known; knew it held a legendary status amongst the Saxon community; was also aware that rumours of the city’s beauty and magical waters had fostered its own mythology.
Hrodgar nodded towards the city gates and addressed Cunedda. ‘You’—he pointed to Raedwald—‘and him, and ten others—no more. We will hear you out. Maybe I’ll get another chance to piss my pants. As for the rest of your men—they camp outside the town until we’ve decided what to do.’
CHAPTER TEN
Three days after bypassing Camulodunum, Withred and Augustus viewed the unmistakable sea-blue sky of the eastern horizon. Though still twelve miles from Norwic, Withred noticed a definite mood change in Augustus. He stopped his pony. ‘Are we near the place it happened?’ he asked.
Augustus’ expression was bleak as he gestured ahead towards a low hill. ‘Yes we’ll see it as soon as we round yonder knoll.’
Withred was aware of Augustus’ epic struggle at the abandoned arena the previous year. He was also conscious that it was something he rarely talked about; and that told its own tale, because Augustus would talk about anything: the weather; the state of the road; the wind in his guts; the cut of Withred’s beard. Just about anything. He would also frequently boom out his baritone laugh after baiting Withred. That he had done none of these things for the last eight miles of their journey, told Withred that the man was troubled; more precisely that he was concerned over what had happened in the arena.
As they rounded the hill, the outer broken walls of the old amphitheater came into view. A shadow-filled archway led into the bowels of the stadium. Painted in red beside the tunnel was the word: Færgryre. Augustus shivered. ‘I walked from there, bloody and dying,’ he said. ‘How I got onto my pony and sought out Griff’s villa after the struggle I went through in there—that I’ll never know.’ He peered at the inscription, but not being a man of letters turned to Withred. ‘What does it say?’ he asked
‘Just some nonsense written by a Saxon wizard,’ replied Withred, who knew it would be folly to tell Augustus that the symbol read, ‘awful horror,’—a warning to any passersby to keep out; advice he knew must have been heeded by the superstitious Saxon folk. Hardheaded and anything but superstitious himself, Withred had an idea. ‘Like to take a look inside again, Gus?’ he asked.
Augustus was taken by surprise. ‘What? Go back inside the arena? Why, man?’
To get it out of your system. To stop it plaguing you, maybe. ‘I would like to see the place,’ said Withred instead. ‘It won’t take long to have a look. Roman antiquity interests me … it always has.’ He affected concern for Augustus. ‘Oh ... I’m sorry, Gus. I know the memory of what happened in there mustn’t be easy to bear, so I’ll go alone if you like.’ Before Augustus could respond, Withred set his pony into a trot down the hill. He called back over his shoulder. ‘Won’t be long. I’ll take a peep and come straight out.’
Augustus frowned, anxious, as his companion rode away. Indeed, Withred had hit the nail on the head. It was not easy for him. In fact, the place had infested his dreams since the day he had walked from it. The sight of it made his skin crawl. Yet the thought of Withred disappearing into the arena tunnel and not coming out was far worse. ‘Hold on!’ he shouted. ‘Steady your scrawny Angle arse a moment; I’m coming with you.’ Withred’s smile was borderline smug as he continued to ride towards the ruin.
The arched roof brushed against Augustus’ bald head as he followed Withred down twenty paces of darkness. When they reached the arena floor, Withred stopped to take in the depleted grandeur of the inner combat area. Behind him, a full head taller, Augustus felt a cold trickle of sweat worm down his back as he took in a scene that frequently inhabited his sleeping hours. ‘Christian Jesus hanging on his cross,’ he muttered. ‘The covered wagon’s still here.’
Withred gave him a questioning look, before stepping into the open. Thirty paces away, the wagon stood, weather beaten and dilapidated. ‘Ah ... the same wagon you climbed on,’ said Withred, realising now. He had heard the story from Dominic who was the only living man to have heard the tale from Augustus himself.
‘Yes, still here, just as I left it ... more or less.’ Augustus strolled towards the wain as wind-blown dead leaves skittered at his feet. As well as leaves, bones—human bones picked clean—cluttered the arena floor.
Withred saw the change in Augustus. He viewed his ashen face with concern. ‘Maybe we should leave,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen all I want to.’
‘No. Now I’m here I need to look around ... replace my thoughts with real images and hope they go away.’
‘What? The images or the thoughts?’
‘Both—perhaps then I’ll get a good nights…’ His voice trailed away as he neared the wagon. ‘Shit ... oh Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘The wagon door’s still secured by the rope I tied it with.’ He walked to the door, fingered the knot, then began to work it loose. ‘I left one of Griff’s dogs in here, it will just be a heap of bones…’ He fell silent as he pulled open the door. A clutter of stripped human bones and a skull met his stare. Of the dog, nothing remained.
Withred joined him at the door and took in the scene. ‘Nerthus,’ he murmured. ‘The dog really had it in for that fellow.’ He raised his head. ‘And it looks like it made its escape after feeding on him.’
Augustus perused the hole he had smashed in the roof the previous year. Again, he shivered as he revisited his ordeal. He turned away from the wagon to look at the broken terracing encircling the arena. Absently, he said: ‘I once heard the Romans used this place for theatre and plays; but it took a Briton’—he looked at Withred, disgust now lacing his tone—‘can you believe ... it took a Briton to blood this floor.’ Hollow eyed, he went on. ‘Fed them to his dogs, he did. Let them rip the life out—‘
Withred gripped his sleeve, silencing him. ‘Over there, Gus, in the shadow of the wall.’
At first, he struggled to see anything. Withred, aware, pointed to a section of low wall overhung by a tangle of leafless clematis. As they watched, a black mastiff emerged from the shrub, gave a slavering yawn, then dropped to its chest as it stretched the stiffness out of its back.
‘Shit, it’s Griff’s dog,’ said Augustus. ‘The one I threw into the wagon.’
Withred peered at the animal, ready to move should it come at them. He removed his dagger. Augustus did the same. Withred kicked at some small rib bones at his feet. ‘It must feed on rabbits and the like that wander in through the tunnel.’
‘And now we’ve wandered in through the bastard tunnel,’ said Augustus. He started to back away. ‘Look, it’s seen us, get ready to run or fight.’
‘No sudden movement, Gus,’ said Withred, his voice surprisingly steady. ‘I hunted with dogs similar to this when I was a boy in Angeln; I think I know what to do here.’ He removed his pack from his shoulder and took out a piece of dried fish.
‘What ... are you mad?’ Augustus looked at Withred (who had gone down on one knee, holding the fish out at arm’s length, trying to entice the dog) as if he had indeed gone out of his mind. ‘Stand up man! I killed its sister for pity’s sake. Leave it be. We need to leave.’
But it was too late; the dog had sauntered towards them. However, this was no mad, snarling rush—if anything the dog looked nervy as it approached. ‘Come ... come boy.’ Withred, ignoring Augustus, enticed it nearer. When within reach, he threw it the morsel. The dog caught it with a hollow snap of its jaws and gulped it. To Augustus’ utter surprise, the mastiff then sat down, brought up its hind leg, and proceeded to scratch at its ear.
‘See ... it just needs a bit of love and attention,’ said Withred, distractedly, as he rummaged in his bag for another scrap.
Augustus crouched beside Withred, all the better to get his attention. He touched his shoulder and Withred looked at him. Augustus gave him a faint, incredulous smile. ‘Withred, I’ve seen what this thing is trained to do. It’s trained to eat … people … alive.’ He emphasised the last three words with an awed whisper as if talking to a dullard, then continued. ‘Now stop this tomfoolery and let’s get on with our journey.’
In response, Withred nodded towards the animal. By now it had dropped to its belly; its head resting upon its paws, its amber eyes inquisitive and trusting—the very epitome of the faithful dog yearning attention from its master. He threw it another morsel, and again the mastiff caught it mid-flight—the maneuver requiring only a slight movement of its head. Withred looked at Augustus and saw he had relaxed a little. Maybe if you see the animal as a dog and not the demon that plagues you, then you might sleep better tonight. He stood up and offered his arm to Augustus, who still sat on his haunches. ‘Come then, Gus, as you wish, we’ll get on with our journey.’ When eye-to-eye with Augustus, he said: ‘It’s just a dog, man; its master turned it into a demon, but now he’s gone.’
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 62
