Camulod Chronicles Book 4 - The Saxon Shore

by Whyte, Jack

  "How so?"

  "I'm his Captain," he answered, as though I should not have to ask. "He relies on me. Relies on me to help him govern his domains, and to expand them."

  In the pause that followed, I decided not to ask of these plans for expansion, knowing that there would be a more fitting time. Ambrose, however, was already launched and spoke what was in his mind.

  "Vortigern is ambitious, Caius, but not for himself alone. He is a fine, good man and a strong warrior with a formidable mind. And in a way, his motivation is the same as our grandfather's was. For years he has had to face the question, asked by all who meet him, of what he will do when the Danes he has brought in ask for more land and he has none to give them. Now he is taking steps to solve that problem before it arises."

  "What kind of steps?" I was incapable of not asking.

  "Expansionist steps; acquisitive steps; territorial steps. Vortigern is extending his boundaries."

  "Unchallenged?"

  He smiled at me. "Who is to challenge him? His people, thanks to Hengist's Northmen, are the only folk in all the northeast who have not been decimated by the invaders from north beyond the Wall and east beyond the seas. The lands are virtually uninhabited. All Vortigern has to do is hold them. The surviving people welcome him, with his Danish Northmen, as a rescuer."

  "I see." I had no reason to doubt him. "And when will you return to him?"

  He sucked air audibly through his front teeth. "I spoke of a year's absence. I'll go back then, but it might only be for a brief visit, to let him know what I am doing. I have no foolish thought that I am irreplaceable." He smiled. "Vortigern lacks neither champions nor captains, but he has earned of me at least my loyalty and a final, formal leave-taking." He paused, looking me in the eye. "What are you thinking, Brother? That's a pensive, angry-looking frown."

  I shook my head, erasing my thoughtful scowl and returning his smile. "I don't really know, but I'm certainly not angry. I'm surprised, I suppose, that you should have made such a momentous decision so quickly, before even arriving in Camulod." My smile widened to a grin. "You may not like it there."

  "Oh, I shall like it. Since you began to talk tonight, I have come to realize that it's my home, even though I've never been there. Too many echoes of recognition sounded in my breast while you were speaking, although how I could recognize things totally unknown to me is beyond me. I'm a soldier, not a mystic. It seemed to me, for all of that, listening and hearing much of your tale for the first time—and all of it in sequence for the first time—that this Camulod, founded and governed since its founding by my own immediate ancestors, my father and his father, must have some ties to offer that, having found, I should be loath to lose." I nodded, and he continued. "So, it seems to me there will be work for me, and I am born to do it. You, on the other hand, have other duties. This child in Hibernia, for one."

  "Eire," grunted Donuil.

  "Eire, pardon me. He is my cousin, and yours, too, and he is Donuil's nephew, as well as titular heir to the Queen of Cornwall and grandson to the High King of Donuil's Scots. That says nothing of the additional truth that he is the son of the Pendragon kings, and great-grandson to Publius Varrus and Luceiia Britannicus of Camulod. A formidable lineage."

  "I felt the same when I first saw him," I said.

  "It is the simple truth. So!" He clapped his hands and stood up. "Tomorrow morning we ride into Camulod and I will finally meet my great-aunt Luceiia and the Colonists who know my antecedents better than I do. A few weeks, you say, to put me in place, providing that I do not prove to be a square peg in a round hole or vice versa, and then you and Donuil can leave for Eire and the boy. Donuil, will you return?"

  The question took me by surprise but not Donuil.

  "To Camulod?" He yawned and stretched his huge frame. "Aye, can you doubt it? I hardly dare go home, since I am ruined. I've grown used to bathing frequently, and even to horses, and I've learned your heathen tongue and ways. I would be lost in Eire now." His big head swung towards me. "But before we sleep, Caius Britannicus, I have some other questions about the boy. May I ask them?"

  "Ask away."

  "Did I hear you properly? Connor has no idea the child is his nephew?"

  "None. To consider that, he would have had to accept the death of your sister Ygraine. He had plainly decided not to countenance the possibility of that, so I decided to say nothing of the child's parentage, other than that I was his guardian but not his father."

  "He accepted that?"

  "What else could he do? He had seen with his own eyes that I was prepared to die to save the child."

  "Does anyone else besides your aunt know who the child is?"

  "No. I saw no point in drawing attention to the child, other than as a guarantor that I would return, bringing you. You yourself told me long ago that not all your brothers and uncles are as mild as Connor. Why place the child needlessly in danger as a potential threat to any of their plans at some future date?"

  "Aye. What about Uther's people? Will you tell them?"

  "No, not yet." I responded more slowly, thinking about that for the first time. "And probably for the same reason. I have Uther's ring, his signet, in my keeping for the boy. It will serve to announce his right, when the time comes, but before that time it could place him in needless danger."

  "Of what, and from whom?"

  "Of death, my friend, just as it might in Eire; assassination by any ambitious malcontent who might construe the child's existence as a threat to his own schemes."

  Donuil squirted a stream of saliva between his teeth and into the fire with great deliberation, then wiped his lower lip with the back of his hand. "Good. I'm glad to hear you think that way. I think you're absolutely right. It's not necessary for the child to carry such a load before he needs to; he's already orphaned, and that's burden enough for any mite his age."

  Ambrose had been gazing at his drawn dagger, testing its edge with his thumb. "Orphaned, perhaps, Donuil, but he is well uncled and cousined." He looked at me and smiled. "Well connected."

  Donuil grunted and laughed as he stood up. "Aye, and well protected. A good night to both of you. I'm for sleep."

  VII

  "If Vortigren could see this, he would die of envy." Ambrose was gazing in awe at the spectacle laid out below us, where we stood on the hillside road to Camulod's main gates, looking down on the great drilling ground that stretched out below them.

  "How so?" I asked, knowing what his reply would be, yet wishing to hear it spoken aloud.

  "How so? You can ask me that?" He turned to look at me. "Do you not know . . . Are you aware of what you have here?"

  I laughed. "Of course I am! I have cavalry, but you've seen it before, in Verulamium when we first met. So why should it amaze you now so greatly?"

  He turned back to watch hundreds of our troopers manoeuvring their mounts in tightly disciplined formations, rank after rank, squadron upon squadron, responding to the brazen sounds of trumpets and the swirl of brightly coloured signal banners. He remained silent then, lost again in his thoughts, and I expected him to say no more, but he resumed after a spell as though there had been no pause in our colloquy.

  "Aye, I saw it then and you are right; I should not be surprised. And yet I am, because I did not really see it before . . . I didn't see it!" His head moved in a tiny, negative gesture, directed, I was sure, at himself and his own thoughts, and he continued speaking, as if to himself, although I heard his soft words clearly. "We came to Verulamium proud of our strength, secure in our own discipline. And apart from that first meeting, when your men broke off their charge before they reached our ranks, we witnessed, and we shared in, no hostilities."

  He was referring to the first time we had met, when, mistaking Vortigern's advancing party in the pre-dawn darkness for the rabble of thieves and mercenaries we had been awaiting, I had almost attacked them. Only at the last moment had I seen their disciplined formations and realized my error in time to halt my attack in mid-charge. H
e continued speaking.

  "At the time, I recall, we thought it was the sight of our defences that had halted your charge. We were full of confidence, and had just smashed the rabble you mistook us for. The sight of your men approaching us and then breaking off their attack merely confirmed our own self-confidence, I suppose. It certainly prevented me from gauging the true mettle of your force."

  "Thank God it did," I said. "Else you and I might not be here today."

  "Aye, as you say. But that is beside the point."

  "Which is?"

  "Voluntary blindness. We became allies, but we never had to fight, so neither took the measure of the other. The confrontation with the thieves in the town that morning was over before it could begin, with no blood spilled . . . We never saw your cavalry fight, Caius, and thus, we could not know your strength; the extent of it." He interrupted himself with another gesture of his head. "I mean, I passed among your people every day. I saw the stirrups they used and I admired the size and beauty of their horses, and none of it seemed significant. I lived among them, but I never truly saw them. I never stood high above them, looking down on them like this where I could see the potential of their mass and the awesome potency of their manoeuvres. My God, Caius, look at them! They look invincible from here."

  "They are invincible, fighting against the enemy they were designed to fight, boatloads of Saxons."

  His eyes swung back downhill. "I can't believe I didn't see it before now, the power of them, the discipline. Do you use any infantry?"

  "Some, but not much overall. Most of our men are mounted. But then, horses are expensive in time and effort—slow to breed and to mature—and some tasks are better suited to men on foot. Garrison soldiers, for example, are seldom troopers."

  "Why not?" His eyes were fixed on me again.

  "It's wasteful, and hard on the men; attendance to normal duties combined with responsibility for their mounts even though they are not using them."

  "Do you ever use the two combined?"

  "Horses and foot? Not often. Almost never, in fact. If you think about it, you'll see why. Our horses will outstrip our infantry within half a day and our territories are so large that we have need of speed to cover them adequately. We maintain several fixed garrisons, twelve of them nowadays, all small, around our perimeter. Each has a cavalry squadron attached, for local patrol activities and when the need arises, we can reinforce them quickly with additional troopers."

  "So you have made no effort to train the two to fight together, in concert?"

  "No, no great effort."

  "Hmm." He said no more, but together we continued to watch and enjoy the spectacle below us on the plain. This was Ambrose's second day in Camulod and the first opportunity he had enjoyed simply to look around. His first day home—for home is what the place immediately became to him— had been spent mostly with his newly acquired materfamilias, his great-aunt Luceiia, although he had met and been introduced to all the notables of our Colony that night at a welcoming dinner held in the great Council Chamber that served as a refectory for grand occasions such as this arrival of an unknown heir to the name Britannicus.

  This morning had been spent in introductions, too, beginning with a brief, ceremonial assembly of the Plenary Council to welcome, formally, the second son of Picus Britannicus. After that, I had taken him, accompanied by Titus, Flavius and several other senior officers, on a guided tour of the fortress, including a visit to each of the additional hospitals established for our recuperating wounded from Cornwall, and we had ended up here on the road, arrested on our progress towards the valley below and the Villa Britannicus, which was in the course of being refurbished after the damage it had sustained during Lot's attack several years earlier.

  For a day and a half now I had been savouring the general reaction to the first sight of Ambrose, and the novelty had not yet begun to pall, although I was glad I had taken heed of my brother's wishes at the outset. My original impulse, inspired by Donuil's remark on seeing us together again, and fuelled further by Aunt Luceiia's stunned reaction to the sight of Ambrose standing by my side, had been to dress him for this morning's rites in my own best suit of parade armour, to enhance the astounding resemblance between us. Ambrose, however, had demurred at this, and, sensing his discomfort immediately, I had for once in my life been astute enough to diagnose the cause of it accurately and without objection. It was highly important to my newfound brother, I discerned, to present himself as himself and not as a mere duplicate of me. Now I thanked God for enabling me to see the correctness of that. The reaction of our wounded veterans alone had been wondrous to behold. To a man, they had been shocked into awed silence, staring from one to the other of us in stupefaction until one man, in every instance, had muttered some remark that broke the tension and brought forth a roar of laughter and of welcome to the Colony's newest recruit.

  Spurred now by a sudden impulse, I turned to address the small group of officers who stood patiently behind us, waiting for us to proceed. "Gentlemen," I said. "I have changed my mind. Tomorrow will be soon enough to show the villa to my brother. It comes to me that he and I might spend the remainder of this day right here with far more profit. Thank you for your time and your company. We will keep you no longer from your duties."

  When they had gone, I gripped Ambrose by the shoulder and we walked back together to the fort, saluting the guards at the gate who crashed to attention at our approach.

  "You will become my second-in-command as soon as you are ready, Ambrose," I told him as we passed through the main portals.

  He looked at me, one eyebrow raised high. "You still intend to move that quickly? Do you think that's wise?"

  "I know it is necessary, but not until you are ready."

  "And how will you know that?"

  I grinned. "I won't. You will, and you'll tell me." I was steering him towards the centre of the main courtyard.

  "But I'm not qualified to command cavalry, Caius."

  "Nonsense. You are, or have been, one of Vortigern's most trusted captains, and Vortigern's neither fool nor incompetent. How many men have you commanded at one time?"

  "Armies," he said. "But armies of infantry."

  "How many men, in total?"

  He thought for a moment. "Twenty thousand, in our last campaign in the north."

  "That's almost four Roman legions. You were in sole command?"

  "Overall command, yes."

  "Did you win?"

  "Of course I did."

  "Of course you did, and thus you are qualified to command my men . . . The horses have nothing to say about it, you know. I said you must be my second-in-command. I didn't ask you to share my saddle with me. You'll have to learn to ride with stirrups and a saddle. As you do that, once you begin to grasp the advantages those bring, you'll learn quickly enough what cavalry can do. And here in Camulod, remember, your credentials come built into your appearance, your name and your family. No one will doubt your worth -; none will quibble with your authority; and your staff—my staff—will guide your steps until you wish to strike out alone. I have no doubts that will be soon."

  We had reached the spot towards which I had been guiding him in more ways than one, and now I reached out my arm and stopped his progress, directing his eyes downward to the ground at his feet. He looked down curiously. The ground on which we stood was hard-packed, but three wide slabs of hand-dressed, dark blue slate were recessed, side by side, directly in front of us.

  "What are these, Cay?" I could tell from his tone that he already suspected what they were.

  "Your credentials," I said, feeling a roughness in my throat. "Your right to be here in Camulod, and in command in Camulod. In the centre lies your grandfather, Caius Britannicus, founder of this Colony; on his right, your great- uncle by marriage, Publius Varrus; and on his left, the ashes of your father, the Imperial Legate Picus Britannicus. This is the very heart of Camulod, Ambrose, the centre of a dream created by these three. I wanted to show it to you with no
one else around."

  We stood there for some time and then he sighed, a sudden, gusty sound. "Thank you for this," he said. I did not know if he was thanking me or speaking to the people in the ground.

  I cleared my throat. "Come on, there's more to see." I led him now towards the Armoury, that room in the Varrus household that contained Excalibur. He had been there the previous day, late in the afternoon, but he had seen only what all people saw therein: the wealth of weaponry collected empire-wide during the lifetimes of two men, Publius Varrus and his grandfather, to whom Publius had referred as Varrus the Elder. On the occasion of that first visit, there had been too many others around for me to show him the room's hidden treasure. Now we were alone, and having barred the heavy, double doors, I opened the secret hiding-place beneath the floor with the ease of long practise and produced the polished wooden case that held the sword. Impatient now to see his reaction, I remained sitting on the floor with my feet dangling down into the hole beneath as I placed the case on the floor in front of me, springing the hidden lock and handing him the weapon wordlessly, hilt first.

  For long moments, neither of us moved or spoke as he stood there staring at what he held in his hand, but then he leaned forward slowly, dipping into a fighting crouch, and began to wield the sword in slow, exaggerated motions, spinning and pivoting, rising and falling on his toes, his movements resembling some solemn, ritual dance of sacrificial awe and reverence. He began by holding the weapon in his right hand, but by the time he had completed his first, tentative series of moves, both of his fists were locked about the long, sharkskin grip and his eyes glittered with the play of light along the edges of the flashing blade that circled his head. Gradually, almost without volition, the tempo of his movements began to increase, until the air hissed audibly with the passage of the lethal, lovely, whirling silver blade.