by M. K. Hume
Luka, on the other hand, had aged considerably since Artorex last bade him farewell. His plaits were threaded with white and he was heavily bearded. Most noticeable, beside a torc of massy gold around his throat, was a band of that same ruddy metal worn across his forehead. Power and responsibility had settled into the deep creases that ran from each nostril to the corner of his mouth, and extra flesh now padded his lithe frame with the trappings of authority.
As for the ever-silent Llanwith pen Bryn, the seasons had taken their toll on him also. His hair was thinning, even as his beard was now beginning to curl upon his breast. A great disc of the eternal serpent devouring its tail held his cloak at the shoulder, and heavy golden arm rings adorned each wrist.
The three men wore their might like great cloaks, so that Artorex wondered how he had ever dared to speak aloud in the presence of these noble leaders.
‘What news from the east?’ Ector asked, as was his custom each time the travellers arrived at the villa. The three guests looked grave and, as was usual, it was Myrddion who bore the weight of imparting unwelcome news.
‘The Saxons advance daily, swelled by more and more shiploads of warriors, so that even Londinium will fall if Uther doesn’t find a way to slow their march.’
Ector was shocked. Londinium was the greatest of the Romanized Celtic cities and the centre of Britain’s commerce. Such news could not be immediately absorbed, least of all believed.
But Luka bore news that was even more alarming.
‘My father, king of the Brigante, fell in a minor skirmish across the great mountains near Cataractonium. I am now king, and my warriors hold the mountains safe - but barely.’
‘Your loss is our loss, King Luka.’ Ector spoke with genuine regret and amazement. That the barbarians had moved so fast, in only three seasons, seemed impossible to credit.
‘With every attack, they destroy our buildings, only to rebuild again in their own fashion,’ Llanwith added gruffly. ‘Every temple of Rome or church of the Christian God is razed to the ground and, behind them, the barbarians leave only a path of death and carrion birds. The holy oaks are felled to provide the timbers that make their halls. Our world is slowly dying, my friend, even though, as my father’s heir, I now hold the Marches strong. They will be the last to fall, I swear, while my hand can still wield a sword.’
‘Sore news travels tardily to us, for we are far removed from the centres of commerce, my lord, and your words are hard to imagine,’ Ector replied. ‘But the Villa Poppinidii will do everything in its power to aid the High King, especially if it keeps the barbarians away from our own fields.’
‘That’s good, friend Ector, for we are called to Venta Belgarum in the south. We wish to take your steward, Artorex, with us, so he might see for himself what chaos is brought to the goodness of the land, and also to swear allegiance to the High King,’ Myrddion stated. This was not a request, it was an order. His words were heavy with authority and left no room for protest.
Yet Artorex dared to question his instructions.
‘My lords, I am newly married. I have a small daughter, and even now my wife quickens with another child. How can I leave them, husbandless and fatherless, in these perilous times?’
The three lords looked at each other and amazement and chagrin were written in equal measure on three sets of tightened lips.
‘You’re married?’ Llanwith queried with amazement.
Artorex chose to be insulted, for Gallia’s sake, if not for his own.
‘Yes, my lord. I have wed Gallia of the House of Gallus.’
‘This is preposterous!’ Llanwith snapped and Artorex rose to his feet with his hand hovering near his dragon knife.
Myrddion, as always, eased the sudden tension that filled the dining room.
‘A worthy wife, and a worthy family,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘As I recall, she’s the young lady who was here on the Night of the Innocents.’ He smiled at Artorex. ‘Is she still scarred or was my handcraft good?’
‘Your work on her wounds was excellent, Lord Myrddion. She had to cut the rest of her wonderful mane but her hair grew back soon enough and covered the wound.’
‘So speaks the lover,’ Luka muttered drily under his breath.
Ector broke into the conversation, for he recognized the rise in Artorex’s slow but inexorable temper, and he could see the dangerous flattening in his foster-son’s eyes.
‘If Artorex is needed, then Artorex must go, and he can be assured that the Villa Poppinidii will care for his family as surely as if he were present. Caius and I can muddle our way through his duties during his absence.’ He turned to Myrddion. ‘I’m still not entirely sure, my friend, why you should need the boy so badly.’
‘Artorex is a man, not a boy, and he is also a weapon,’ Luka said imperiously. ‘Have we not honed him to sharpness over these many years?’
Artorex was pale with anger. ‘My lords, I am a person! I am myself ! I am Artorex! If my master orders me to journey with you, then so be it. But I’m no man’s tool, even if he is a king.’
All three visitors looked up at Artorex’s haughty, angry face. They exchanged closed, knowing glances.
Luka nodded unwillingly in his direction. ‘Perhaps my words had a sting that was not intended, Artorex. I was merely surprised by your change of circumstances.’
‘You’ve been absent from the Villa Poppinidii for more than two years, my lords. How could my life not change during your absence? For, in truth, it doesn’t wait upon your bidding.’
‘Be silent, Artorex!’ Ector ordered sharply, for he was becoming seriously alarmed by the words and manner of his foster-son. He was usually so equable of temper and so rational by nature that to see the rise of killing rage turn Artorex’s eyes almost colourless and blank gave the old warrior a nasty twinge. ‘You’ll go to the Mistress Gallia and assure her that I’ll be as a father to her during your absence. And you’ll send word to Targo in the village. Gallia will sleep better if she knows that the old rogue will guard your back.’
‘I’ll abide by your advice, Master Ector.’
Artorex and Caius bowed and took their leave, but Artorex lagged behind and, as soon as Caius had disappeared down the colonnade, Artorex crept back to the doorway. He didn’t hold with secrets that concerned him, even secrets held by the great ones of the west.
‘Why did you allow the boy to marry?’ Llanwith grumbled at Ector, as if the master had conspired with Artorex to wreck long-cherished plans.
‘My friends, I don’t understand your concern for the lad. The match was very good, and was well above what Artorex could normally expect to achieve.’
‘Above his station?’ Luka scoffed.
Ector stared at him in surprise.
And then, almost as if Llanwith guessed that ears listened, the voices became indistinct rumbles, and Artorex was left frustrated and angry - and feeling extremely foolish.
Gallia greeted the news of her husband’s imminent departure with a hot flood of tears. Normally, she was not a woman prone to fits of weeping but to be deprived of her husband in the depths of a harsh winter and for no particular reason that he could explain, dismayed and frightened her.
Her moods had been mercurial since Licia’s birth, and Frith had counselled Artorex to be patient with her for women sometimes acted strangely when they bore children. And so Artorex accepted her occasional mood swings and periods when she feared that all her happiness was doomed.
He privately agreed with Gallia’s complaint on this occasion. Why his presence on the journey to the south was so important was a mystery to him. Why would his absence matter? Artorex made a valiant attempt to soothe Gallia’s fears and passed on Ector’s promises, but all she could envisage was bearing a child alone while her husband was deep in the south and riding into unknown dangers. She was certain that he would never return to her arms.
‘I know that Ector’s orders are hard to understand, my love, especially when he only accedes to the desires of the travellers. I
don’t wish to leave you, but perhaps I’ll discover what threats might come to the gates of the Villa Poppinidii in time to avert them. I’ll return, I swear to you, and I’ll be as deeply in love with you as I am now. I care for our little Licia too much to extend my absence and, with luck, I’ll return before the new babe is born.’
‘And perhaps you won’t.’
Gallia wept until Artorex kissed away her fears and took her to bed. There, as he stroked her warm little body and kissed her belly, where the swelling showed that the child grew, he felt the same tenderness that he had felt when Licia was born. For a short moment, as they moved together with the sensuousness and passion that Gallia always brought to their bed, Artorex was sickened by a fear that he might lose her.
Perhaps Gallia felt the same fear.
‘You’ll forget me when you see the ladies of the High King’s court. My breasts are chewed by a babe and the purple marks of childbearing cover my hips and stomach,’ she murmured wetly against his chest.
‘I consider each mark to be a badge of honour, far more honourable than the scars of battle,’ Artorex joked lightly. ‘Truly, if the badges of childbearing were left on the bodies of men, there’d be no babes born at all. Besides, your breasts are beautiful, so how could I forget them? I think you’re more likely to forget me, now that you are mistress of a house. You can have a dozen men as good as me, if not better.’
‘I love you more than my life, Artorex,’ Gallia said, smiling back at him. ‘Now, I have no wish to sleep, my lord, since we will part tomorrow. You must remind me of all that I will miss in the long weeks to come.’
Artorex spent the next morning detailing the many necessary duties that must be handled if the Villa Poppinidii was to function like the well-ordered machine he had developed. During the discussion, Targo arrived, a sword and dagger at his side and an old Roman shield slung over his back. He was obviously eager to travel south with his most favoured pupil.
But Artorex was still troubled and sought out the faithful Frith to calm his growing dread. As usual, he found the slave woman in her accustomed warm corner of the kitchen, while maids bustled about her, packing provisions for his journey.
‘I’ve been expecting you to visit me,’ Frith said calmly. ‘The world has come to Artorex, and he’s afraid!’
‘My fears aren’t for myself, Mother Frith, but for Gallia, Licia and the child that will soon be born. I ask you to keep them safe. I’ll sleep easier for knowing that your wise eyes are upon my family. I sense danger in the air. It smells of blood and, yes, I’m afraid!’
Frith clasped both his large hands in hers and he felt the strength of her character and purpose that even great old age could not dim. She smiled up at him with the same openness and trust that Livinia had given to him as she died. Artorex felt a surge of affection - of love - so complete and visceral that he considered, for a moment, how blessed he was. Strong, extraordinary women had nurtured him and he had accepted their affection for him without thought. Livinia was dead and she would never be able to know his gratitude and love for her. But Frith was still alive. Before he departed on a journey that might be dangerous, Artorex decided to tell the servant woman how important she was to him.
‘But Artorex,’ Frith said seriously when he had told her of his feelings, ‘I always knew that you cared for me, even though you found it difficult to tell me your feelings. You can be assured that I’ll keep your family safe, my dear. Aye. And Gareth will help me. The villa can spare me for a time, so your family will be within sight of these tired old eyes. Trust me, Artorex, for I swear I’ll do as I have promised - until death takes me.’
‘Death wouldn’t dare to come near you, old Frith, for you’ve scared him witless your whole life,’ Artorex joked. ‘I’m comforted by your words, little mother.’
‘Ah, my lad, I wish I’d been your mother. I always have!’
Frith chose to be silent concerning her own dread. The old woman felt something unfurl its dark wings and take flight from her withered breasts, something that had waited decades to take to the winds. She’d dreamed of crows for three consecutive nights and her brave words hid her unspoken thoughts.
I’ll not let anything harm my boy, even if the gods have decided otherwise, she swore to herself as she hurried over the fields to Artorex’s house. Perhaps I’m imagining horrors that don’t exist - for who would threaten the peace of a provincial steward?
Still, Frith felt that Artorex’s destiny was unfurling at last and even as she comforted Gallia with well-chosen platitudes, her arthritic fingers trembled with an incomprehensible anxiety.
So Artorex departed from the Villa Poppinidii and the civilized world of Aquae Sulis for the first time in his memory. Although darkness had seeped into the weak daylight that struggled to light their journey, no fear of wolves or outcasts would shake the purpose of the travellers to ride all through that first long night. A rutted track would lead them south across the mountains to meet the Roman road that would carry them to Sorviodunum, and thence, by an easier route, to Venta Belgarum itself. Coal set his hooves dancing on the treacherous black ice of the road and the scent of snow filled the evening air.
‘I’ll see the Giant’s Dance on my journey,’ he marvelled. ‘And I’ll see the great plain where the strange stones lean drunkenly - the place where wights are said to steal away a man’s reason.’
In some matters, Artorex was still a boy, so little of the world had he seen during his twenty-three years. The adventure of his journey was exciting, for all that he was already missing Gallia. Only thoughts of her, waif-like in her warmest cloak and clutching her squirming toddler to her breast, dampened his anticipation. His ordained place in life lay with the Villa Poppinidii, small as that place might be in the thinking of Celtic kings. His place in the world could never be Venta Belgarum, Sorviodunum or even Londinium itself.
In the darkness, lit only by a moon as bloated and as pale as the face of a drowned man, the horses picked their way cautiously through frozen mud. Luka pressed the small group onward, at a walk but without wasting time for rest or comfort. In the early morning, as the weak sun rose over the horizon to reveal a rough landscape of treacherous shale and glowering trees, Luka brought the party to a halt to allow the travellers a short period of sleep. The horses were hobbled so they could not escape yet could search out what dry grass might be found in this wild and unforgiving place.
‘You may have four hours only for sleeping,’ Luka warned. ‘Time marches onwards, and our presence is awaited at Venta Belgarum.’
The earth was hard with frost, but Artorex was very weary after a day and two nights with little sleep. Yet, on the very brink of dreaming, his exhausted brain conjured up an image of his family. Already he was beginning to forget those fair and familiar faces, and tears leapt unbidden to moisten his sleepy eyes.
Only a moment seemed to pass before Targo nudged his ribs with his soft riding boot.
‘It’s time to eat, boy,’ the old man said cheerfully and thrust a small bowl into Artorex’s numb fingers. ‘It’s gruel, and it’s hardly fit to eat, but I still recall how I enjoyed such meals.’
‘You’re nostalgic, you old faker!’ Artorex waved a hand over the rising landscape, the silent valleys and the crows that called hoarsely from a stand of nearby pine trees. ‘You actually love all of this. If I’d known that you took pleasure in this jaunt, I would have demanded payment from you before allowing you to come with me.’
‘Master Ector gave me my marching orders, lad, and don’t you forget it.’ Targo smiled crookedly at the young man. ‘He told me I was to guard your back - it was so plain that even I understood. But aye, I’ll admit to you, boy, I love being on the road. I’ve missed it for near on fifteen years while I’ve been in Ector’s service; there’s nothing like the tang of wood smoke, danger and blood to make a man feel alive.’
As noon turned to afternoon in their steady climb up the low hills, even Artorex couldn’t maintain his feelings of ill use and resentme
nt. The cold air flushed his face under his grey, wolf-pelt collar which he used to fashion a half cowl to cover his head and shoulders. Gallia had lined the hide with soft wool, and Artorex knew he cut an odd but not uncivilized figure. The boy inside him was fascinated by the circling hawks as they hunted for unwary rabbits, and the presence of rooks, ravens and huge black crows that seemed more numerous than in the softer landscape of Aquae Sulis.
‘They always give me the horrors,’ Targo said conversationally, nodding towards the carrion birds as he eased his horse next to Coal on a wider part of the track. ‘The buggers will take the eyes out of a dead man’s head as neat as can be. Actually, they aren’t too fussy if the man isn’t quite dead, either.’
‘Thank you, friend Targo, for one more lesson on the pleasantries of the battlefield,’ Artorex retorted sardonically. ‘But I suppose even birds have to eat.’
‘With them it’s more than hunger - they’re nature’s way of cleaning up the mess, I suppose. I’ve fought in places where it was so hot, I thought my armour would burn my skin black - and those carrion eaters were there. I’ve fought in places where you piss ice - and they’re still there, waiting to clean up the mess.’
‘All things must live, Targo,’ Myrddion called back to the old veteran without bothering to turn his head.
‘I just don’t want them to live on me,’ Targo muttered, and tapped the side of his nose.
Artorex laughed out loud and disturbed the crows, which rose from the trees in a small cloud of black wings.
At Luka’s urging, they rode as fast as the landscape and the condition of the horses would permit. Another day passed as the small troop climbed over the last of the low hills and approached a flat, grey-green expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘The Great Plain,’ Myrddion said. ‘And over yonder, that’s the Giant’s Dance.’
Artorex could see that the Roman road on which they now travelled bypassed the Giant’s Carol that was a familiar marker on the road to Sorviodunum. He also deduced that the road was designed to avoid the structure, for the Carol was a magical thing that was beyond rational explanation - even rational Roman understanding. There was no opportunity to closely examine the stone teeth with their great raised lintels but the gaping open circle seemed incomprehensible and menacing.
