by M. K. Hume
‘And what will I gain by agreeing to this one-sided and unfair bargain? It seems that I have nothing to gain and much to lose if I obey you.’
The wise woman seemed to listen carefully to something that only she could hear over the sound of rushing water. Her brow furrowed. ‘Your kingdom will be one of the few to survive the upheavals that are to come in the future, and no savages will wrest your acres from the hands of your descendants. In the years to come, your kingdom will remain untouched in a sea of strange tribes. Is that not sufficient justification for you to accept my advice?’
Saraid folded like a dropped length of cloth. He barely had time to reach out for her before she fell down the slope and rolled onto the mossy pebbles of the shrine.
‘Remember the Red Dragon, Caradoc, for he shall come out of Tintagel . . . and all the tribes of Britannia will tremble at his birth.’ She looked up at him as he stood on the sandstone blocks while she lay on the mosses and ferns below. A cut at her hairline bled sluggishly.
And then, Saraid’s eyes flickered and the wise woman was gone.
An hour passed and still Saraid lay as if dead. All Caradoc could do was to make her comfortable . . . and wait.
She groaned.
Caradoc knelt beside her, careless of the mud and crushed ferns. Then her lashes trembled and a pair of tears snaked out from the corners of her eyes to run down her face and into the tangle of her chestnut hair. He wiped those tears away with his blood-stained neck scarf, and raised her torso as she gradually returned to consciousness. The king realised he was sitting on the damp earth with her awakening body across his lap and her head lolling on his breast.
‘My head hurts,’ she whispered faintly.
‘You injured yourself when you fell. Hush now and rest. Whatever took you will let your mind and body go free, so you need to wait quietly. It’s time for you to sleep.’
Although the falling darkness dimmed the shapes of wild nature that surrounded them, Caradoc felt at peace. When he looked up, the stars were so bright and close that he almost believed he could pull them out of the velvet skies. Had he been in full control of his senses, he would have been frightened by the clarity and brilliance of this alien night. Unaware of his actions, he stroked Saraid’s hair.
Saraid’s body stirred against him. She freed her hands and they wandered over the harsh planes of his face with a woman’s tenderness, until Caradoc wanted to weep for something that he knew he could never own. She raised herself and kissed him blindly, mouth to mouth and breast to breast, until the king tried to pull away from her importunate lips.
‘No!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Huw will live and I will have my payment. Here, where the otherworld surrounds us like a dream, there is no time for thinking or for titles, names or symbols of power. What we are and what we do is at the gods’ bidding. They will not be gainsaid, master, and neither will I.’
And so, frightened of the urgency of his own body, as if another power had entered his flesh and guided hands, mouth, loins and bellies so that his will was not his own, Caradoc took Saraid in the garden of the Red Wells.
And he wept for his loveless life in the luxuriant and warm beauty of her arms.
CHAPTER V
The Eagle in the Sun
But if we are guided by me, we will believe that the soul is immortal and capable of enduring all extremes of good and evil.
Plato, The Republic, Book 10
Maximus was fascinated by Tintagel. During the first four days in the citadel, he pored over the lands around the narrow isthmus, while marvelling at the strange, giant footprint that had been scoured deep into the stone of the headland that jutted out into the wild ocean waters. He felt an exhilaration that sent his heart flying with the hunting birds that soared over the long grasses.
His soldierly eyes assessed the underground granary, where too was stored an impressive array of dried foods, wines and beer. A well provided clean water to the fortress and the small circular cottages of servants that clung like shellfish to the sloping sides of the isthmus. A network of dizzying paths linked these tiny cottages. Altogether, Maximus finally came to accept Caradoc’s boast that his fortress could withstand a determined siege for years.
Every part of the castell was utilised for the benefit of Tintagel’s inhabitants. Vegetable gardens flourished on any patch of ground where the soil was deep enough for the plants to take root, although trees weren’t able to survive the perpetual sea winds. The citadel itself was amazingly snug. In a sheltered nook near the kitchen, Maximus discovered a beautiful flower garden. The fortress’s kitchens had been built in a separate part of the castell where the chance of accidental fire was minimised. Here, he found a number of large pots in which a range of herbs and edible plants flourished. A wild rose climbed over the stone wall from a large trough and its heady perfume sweetened this little sun-trap.
The structure of the citadel seemed haphazard, but Caradoc explained how each generation added to the structure and built on the changes and improvements made by their predecessors. This accounted for the irregular skyline and the number of steps, odd levels and the maze-like quality of the passageways. Some parts of the venerable building were built in timber, others in flint. The various floor levels were unpredictable and were often in perpetual darkness because of the lack of natural lighting. Tintagel was eccentric, but it had a charm that wasn’t usually associated with an impregnable fortress.
From Tintagel’s Eye, the room that looked out over three sides of the peninsula, Maximus could appreciate what Caradoc had meant during the first night of his visit. From there the king could observe the huge swathe of countryside that lay beyond the approaches to his fortress. More importantly, he could watch the movements of his enemies as they rode down the steep slopes to the foreshore and the first defensive line. Maximus could imagine how a relatively small number of determined warriors could protect the causeway against repeated attacks. Even if the defenders were to fall, the enemy would then be faced with the dizzying black steps that marched ever upwards to the fortress’s heights. No enemy could hope to climb those with arrows, stones and hot oil raining down on them.
To the right and to the left, the land fell away to steep cliffs that would repel climbers, even if they survived the wild seas to reach the peninsula. Yes, this room was Tintagel’s Eye and from here a competent commander could hold a legion at bay.
‘And there’s no timber available to construct ladders or rams. An attacker would have to build their siege equipment miles away in places where the trees are able to grow straight or, alternatively, bring them south from a base such as Segontium.’
‘Are you talking to yourself, Maximus?’ Caradoc had entered on silent feet. He was leaning against the wall, enjoying Maximus’s consternation. ‘I was certain that you, for one, would understand the purpose of this room.’
‘I’d be blind to miss its positioning, friend Caradoc. Any commander could hold Tintagel against a significant enemy – even our legions, if luck was with them.’ The last observation was uttered with some reluctance by the Roman, so Caradoc smiled smugly behind the back of his hand. Maximus had offered sincere praise, grudging but genuine.
‘Tintagel has served us well over the centuries, Maximus. Because all the wealth of the Dumnonii tribe is stored here, our citizens have never been threatened in living memory. Not by land – and certainly not by sea.’
‘You are fortunate, for the rest of Britannia is an island beset by her enemies,’ Maximus replied drily. ‘Are your neighbouring rulers as lucky as you are?’
Caradoc laughed. ‘Those fools? They’re a pack of hounds: some of whom are thin and hungry, while the rest are fat and lazy. But all are dogs who are driven by self-interest. They spend many hours trying to wring concessions out of your master. If that makes them fortunate, then they’re Fortuna’s sycophants.’
‘You’re a ha
rd man, Caradoc.’ Maximus hastily recalled everything he’d ever heard of Caradoc’s neighbours. Several descriptions came to mind immediately, ranging from greedy to idle, brutal and two-faced.
‘You can make your own assessment of my neighbours if you have a few more weeks that can be spent away from your command,’ Caradoc responded. ‘I’ve only just received an invitation from Gwaun pen Mairtin, the king of the Atrebates tribe in Venta Belgarum. The fool likes to think of himself as a second-hand Roman, an attitude that nauseates all good Britons as much as it irritates true Romans. He’s a kinsman of mine through marriage, so I’ve been forced into his company more often than I want.’
‘Hmmmmf!’ Maximus grunted. ‘What does the invitation entail? I take it from your attitude that you’re not overfond of this Gwaun pen Mairtin.’
‘Not much,’ Caradoc replied bluntly. ‘But Venta Belgarum has been tarted up by the Atrebates so it looks like an expensive whore. It certainly has pleasures superior to anything I can provide, so perhaps you’d be amused to see all the local kings pretending to be sophisticates and jostling for your favour.’
Maximus almost laughed. Since their first meeting, he had been impressed by Caradoc, who was proving to be a man with a steely core under his amiable façade. Unlike so many of his peers, Caradoc had no desire to ask for any favours from his Roman guest and offered the familiar, homely pleasures of riding, hunting, and dining on wholesome produce. Caradoc’s wines were excellent and his women were gracious, despite the sullen queen. Maximus had taken pains to court the lady who had unfurled like a flower under his flattery, while Caradoc watched with dry amusement. Much to his own surprise, the Roman realised that he actually liked the Dumnonii king.
‘Who’ll be at Venta Belgarum, Caradoc? I’m interested in making such a journey, especially if we were to meet with Britons who might be of use to Rome’s interests in this part of the Empire.’
Caradoc grinned like a lazy predator.
‘Let me see,’ he began. ‘The Dobunni king will certainly attend. He’s called Adwen, which means fiery in our language, but don’t expect any exuberance or passion out of that one. He’s erected his hall in the style of a Roman villa and he pretends to have Roman blood inherited from the daughter of a tribune who came to these lands with the original expeditionary force led by Caesar.’ Caradoc snorted derisively. ‘If such a woman ever existed, she would have been a camp follower, so you may take his pretensions with a grain of salt. For comfort’s sake, he has built a bathhouse and a hypocaust, so he’s clean – if nothing else! Yes, Roman, you may laugh! In the lives of the kings of Britannia, cleanliness is an unimportant consideration. I might add that Adwen also sports a purple-edged toga.’
‘Ye gods! I’m so tired of second-hand Romans aping their betters. Is he the only one, apart from Gwaun, who thinks of himself as a citizen of Rome?’
Caradoc considered the affectations of Gwaun and Adwen were laughable, but he couldn’t help bridling a little. The Roman’s contempt still stung.
‘Aye! But Gwaun and Adwen are easier to mix with than some of the others, all of whom are less than fragrant.’
‘Lovely,’ Maximus muttered, and found his nose was wrinkling in dislike.
‘Bleise ap Bladud takes pride in living much the same way as his ancestors in the days before the Romans occupied our lands. To Bleise, tradition is far more important than good relationships with Rome. He’s the king of a small but very wealthy tribe, the Belgae, who are positioned along one of my borders. Bleise’s land is very rich and very ancient, so we’ve always accepted that the Belgae people are peculiar.’ Caradoc snorted deprecatingly as Maximus muffled a hoot of laughter.
‘I know! You’re suggesting that the Dumnonii shouldn’t throw around insults like I’ve done, because all Britons are a little strange. But the lands in which we live dictate the way we view the world. Do you agree? Our land is bounded by water. The sea has become our master, but it is the source of our wealth.
‘By comparison, the Belgae lands were once covered by water, but those inland seas have all but gone now. The tors, the standing stones and the remnants of strange religious worship are signs of a landscape that remains mysterious.
‘Bleise is a neighbour of mine. I know him well, but I have no faith in him. His acres might be few, but they bear prodigious quantities of produce. He’s a very devious man, so I’d avoid placing any trust in him, even if you can get close to him without gagging.’
‘Now that you’ve convinced me to lock myself away in Tintagel, is there anyone that might be worth my attention? You’ve described a thoroughly unlovely group.’ Caradoc was almost certain that the Roman wasn’t joking.
‘At the risk of frightening you off entirely, Fiachna ap Tormud of the Durotriges is a violent and brutal man with an uncontrollable lust towards rape. He is a loathsome man on all counts and is so venal that his taxes have stripped his tribe bare of any wealth, so that he can glory in his hoard of gold. His lasciviousness is second only to his miserable parsimony – he’ll keep loaves of bread for the sake of having them, even if they rot while his family and servants are chewing on dry crusts.’
‘You’re fast convincing me to avoid this feast,’ Maximus warned.
‘The last of my neighbours with whom you will meet, however, is probably the most dangerous of all. Fortunately, his lands are regularly attacked by Saxons and Angles who appear every spring to prey on his kingdom and his subjects. This king is clever, violent and ruthless, so he would happily wage war against his friends if he had no outland enemies. He is Sorcha ap Sion and he will try to wrest men and weapons from you to protect his people in the Regni lands.’
Maximus scratched his chin. His brown eyes were acute and hooded under the long eyelids that gave his face a sly look from some angles. Then, as if he had come to a difficult decision, he began to chuckle. As his laughter began to fade, he slapped his knees, rose to his feet and opened a shutter in the Eye so he could see the mainland spread below him like a vivid green carpet.
‘I’ve a notion that I may regret this decision, but forewarned is forearmed. Any intelligence I can provide for my commander will be of incalculable worth to Theodosius. After your intriguing descriptions, how could I not be anxious to meet such a cadre of interesting men, if only to discover whether they are truly as objectionable as your descriptions suggest. It’s always useful to know the natures of the local aristocracy.’
‘Rome always tries to look ahead,’ Caradoc said with no emotion in his voice.
‘True! My masters rarely gamble, and they never take risks on the characters of minor kings. I will attend your feast, Caradoc, but I’ll be depending on you to warn me of any bear-traps that have been set to mutilate or humiliate me.’
With a gasp of surprise, Caradoc accepted that this Roman was unaccustomed to sarcasm.
A useful detail to remember, the king thought with pleasure. The man’s a fool! He believes that Rome, and all things Roman, are superior in every way.
So, with a promise to travel to Venta Belgarum with his friend, Maximus sent word to his guard to ready themselves for travel within the coming week.
Decius swore vigorously. ‘Why in hell are we riding to Venta Belgarum? So the master can meet some mucky-muck minor kings who have no bearing on the security of this damned country? He’s up to something, but I’ll be damned if I can work out what it is. In the past, the tribune would never have given a cracked pisspot for the opinions of the tribal kings.’
Grumbling, he warmed his body before a fire that had been allowed to burn brightly inside the barracks at Tintagel, while a circle of horse guards gaped at their officer, puzzled. They were accustomed to his cursing, but Decius was usually very respectful of Maximus and his edicts.
One of the enlisted men polishing his greaves looked up from his task and grimaced at Decius’s show of temper. This soldier, Lorn, was distinguished
by his shock of sun-streaked tow-coloured hair, a rare colouring for a Roman or even a Briton. Nothing marked his outlander birth more clearly than his pale blue eyes.
‘For Christ’s sake, Decius, we have to obey all orders given by the tribune, so why are you complaining and bitching like a woman over decisions that aren’t yours to make?’
Decius moved from the fire pit to stand threateningly over Lorn, so the younger man was forced to put his greaves to one side and stand so he could face his superior officer.
‘You’ve no cause to question me, Lorn. You’re no Roman, and nor have you ever seen the back of these isles. I’ve been told that you were born in the far north beyond the Vallum Antonini and Bodotria Aest, where the Picts and outlawed tribesmen live in perpetual misery.’
Lorn’s equanimity was shaken and his clean-shaven jaw jutted forward obstinately.
‘Are you accusing me of being a traitor, sir? How many men in this room have ever seen the River Tiber or walked the pavements of the Palatine? No one here can sneer at our comrades’ lack of pedigree. We’re not mongrel dogs, sir, and I object to being treated like one, just because I commented on your bad temper. We’ve obeyed all orders from our master, regardless. Why would we complain about this latest one, when we can’t do anything about it? Why bitch at me?’
Decius fumed. His face and neck became a fiery red and his dark brows furrowed, while his tense jaw jutted forward even more aggressively than Lorn’s had done.
‘If you were Roman, and if we were under the command of a born aristocrat from the City of the Seven Hills, then you’d be flogged to death for your comments. Fortunately for you, I’m a generous man who grew to manhood in Sicily, so I don’t hold with mindless violence to enforce discipline. But don’t push your luck, Lorn! Let’s see how you enjoy riding halfway across this benighted land in the rain, just to attend a feast of local kings in Venta Belgarum. These Britons have no call to love us and any hand extended in friendship does so for a reason. Check your fingers, your toes, your prick and especially your purse, if any Britons should smile towards you. I’d not wish to be inside Venta Belgarum’s walls, unless our number was significantly larger than it is now. I don’t trust these bastards as far as I can kick them.’
