Because he held the pouch aloft, dangling from the drawstrings, I saw my chance. I leapt, catching the pouch; and in another leap, dove over the side of the ship, swimming through the still water and losing myself in the mist. Even the shouts and curses from shipboard were quickly muffled in that thick fog.
When my first frantic strokes exhausted me, I tread the water, terrified that perhaps I had swum in the wrong direction. Some early-morning garbage bobbed about me, and listening avidly, I heard the unmistakable lap of water against a shore. I struck out toward the sound.
At last I hauled myself out, gasping for breath and shivering in the raw air, but filled with a sort of triumph. I had escaped! I would join Lord Artos. Had he not said that I was useful to him with my gift of tongues? He would need someone to interpret Tegidus on the long road they would travel together. He would surely need my skills at Septimania.
I opened the purse to count my worldly wealth and found it far more than I had expected. Several small coins of the sort we use in Britain, and two, not one, gold rings of the sort that traders carry, current in any port. I could scarcely believe such good fortune and generosity. This should prove enough-for I knew how to haggle-to buy a warm cloak and leggings, as well as a pony from the farmer. I knew the one I wanted, too small for most men to ride but the right size for me.
None of the traders in the marketplace-all glad of any dealings on such a foggy morning-questioned my wealth or my reasons. I managed to buy some travel bread and grain.
BY THE TIME i REACHED the farm, the fog still held the coastline in its white roll. But the little bay pony I had noted grazed in the meadow. The farmer was in an expansive mood, having sold his best at a good profit to Tegidus and Lord Artos with no recourse to a villain like Baldus. He was quite willing to sell me the pony, for-as
I was quick to point out-it was indeed too short in the leg to suit a man of any tribe. Out of kindness, he patched together a bridle of sorts and showed me how to wrap the folds of my cloak to make a pad.
“I shall call him Spadix,” I told the farmer, naming the pony for his bay color.
“A good name,” the farmer agreed.
I trotted off up the road, certain that Lord Artos would not be far ahead.
BY EVENING, when I had met few travelers, and none I liked the look of, I was having doubts about the whole venture. I ate my travel bread by a stream well off the track, then hobbled the pony in a fair patch of grass. Curling up in my cloak, I spent an uneasy night. The ground had this tendency to roll beneath me, and I kept waking in a fright that I was still aboard the Corellia.
IT TOOK ME THREE DAYS to catch up with Lord Artos’ band. They were making camp and someone had hunted successfully, for a pot burbled with appetizing odors on a tripod over a good hot fire.
Tegidus saw me first, rushing up to me, gesticulating wildly, his expression both welcoming and anxious. “The oak has answered my prayers, young Varianus, for I should not have undertaken this journey so cheerfully if I had known you would not be among their number, to translate the gabble they speak.”
“Lord Artos, it is Galwyn, come to rescue us from ignorance!” Bericus roared. Before I knew it, my pony and I were ringed with babbling men, pulling me one way or the other.
‘Tour uncle relented, then?” Lord Artos asked as he waded through the importunate crowd. He did not stop to hear what my answer might have been, and so I never had to give him a Me at all. “By God’s eye, I’m glad enough to see you. Signs, signals, and smiles do not make good communications. You are well come, young Galwyn, well come indeed.”
“He says that our animals are overloaded,” Tegidus complained to me. “He will not let us cook a midday meal and insists that we all take a turn at watch at night. Watch at night? I? That is why we travel with him. So that he may guard.”
“Those fools have packed their animals so badly that half have sores,” was Bericus’s plaint, “and they will not attend when we show them how to rearrange the loads properly.”
It took me only a few minutes to explain, each to the other, what was amiss, and to set it right.
Then to my everlasting joy, Lord Artos encircled my shoulder with his great arm and led me to their campfire. No matter if I was listed as a runaway apprentice by my spiteful uncle-I would gladly spend the rest of my life on a galley bench to have the mark of Lord Artos’s favor now. Bwlch heaped me a huge plate of rabbit stew, which did much to quiet my stomach. And I did not have to stand watch or help the cooks-at least that first night.
THE JOURNEY TO SEPTIMANIA W3S not without its trials: Unusual icy storms in the mountains being the least of them, and steep and rough roads the worst. The best evenings were when we’d sit about the campfire, talking. It was then I learned more about my lord Artos’s plans. I also relearned certain historical facts that I probably had had from my tutor but had forgotten-more likely ignored, as I had been an indifferent scholar. The Comes spoke of Aurelius Ambrosius, who had been his mentor-and incidentally, one of the heroes who had followed Voru’gern when that prince had united the northern tribes to drive the Pict invaders back over Hadrian’s Wall.
“Which is how the Saxons got invited into Britain,” Lord Artos remarked with a rueful smile. “To help repel the Picts. Guests who have long outstayed their welcome.”
His Companions nodded in solemn agreement.
“Why had Voru’gern done that?” The question burst from me, usually silent while my betters spoke.
Lord Artos grimaced at me across the fire, his face taking on a gargoyle look in the flames. “We had no other choice,” he said, and I knew then he spoke as Comes Britannorum, for he was not old enough to have been part of that victorious force. “The Roman legions that had guarded the Wall for so long had pulled out, and Rome itself did not answer our pleas for assistance.” He shrugged. “We had to have reinforcements.”
“Hallelujah!” Bericus said with a wicked smile. I later learned that “Hallelujah!” had been the battle cry that Saint Germanus taught Vortigera’s troops. Many felt that it had helped Vortigern succeed against the Picts.
“If ‘Hallelujah’ and the big horses help us drive the Saxons back into the sea, I will shout it at the top of my lungs,” Lord Artos said, and all about the fire added, “Amen!”
I said nothing then, mindful that Lord Artos and his Companions wore the crosses of the Christian ethic and spoke of God, rather than gods; and of this I was glad. My uncle and his crew were pagan in their superstitions and I had never had a chance to hear mass in my uncle’s employ. At that, I was exceedingly grateful my uncle was not my blood kin, but my mother’s younger sister’s husband.
My mother had looked down on that marriage as beneath what her sister could have achieved. Only now did I realize that my mother had done very well indeed to have attracted the substantial man my Christian father had been. He had adored her and given her everything she desired. For the first time, I thought how bitter she must be about losing the lovely villa that had been our home, she herself driven off with my two sisters after his death, each carrying naught but shawl-wrapped bundles of personal belongings that would have brought my father’s creditors little in their selling.
THE NEXT DAY we traversed the first of the rocky gorges on our way to Septimania. Keeping Spa-dix far from the edges of those sheer-sided drops, I prayed silently but with great vigor and enthusiasm. We lost one pack mule over the side; but while Tegidus mourned the loss of its burden, by the time we had crossed the last of the mountainous barriers to our destination, he was relieved that it had been the only casualty.
As we came down from those mountains, we could see the vast valley of Narbo Martius spread out, with the huge temporary town of the horse fair making brilliant-colored splotches with its tents-some even made of carpets from Arabia. We were two days early and used that time to settle in, camping apart from but near enough to Tegidus’s site to continue the protection agreed upon.
I was sent with Bericus and Bwlch to find provisions from
the stalls and tents of local vendors. A barbarous version of Latin was the main language, but I also heard, and stored, the camp jargon with which Latin was basely mixed. Some words and phrases I understood only from their context, but I was quick-minded enough to figure out what was meant.
Then, with Lord Artos and the others, we toured the animals on display: horses, mules, jennies, donkeys, and even a few of the grotesque parodies of horses that are called camels. One spat a green and slimy mass at me-which required me to wash all my clothing in the river. I was careful not to come close enough to one of those beasts again. The Companions were sympathetic, and they did not laugh at my misfortune, as my uncle’s crew would have done. In fact, they took careful note not to suffer the same treatment.
But that was a small price for me to pay to see the display of horseflesh: the graceful Barbs with their dish faces and delicate ears that nearly met above their polls; the sturdy little steppe ponies; the small fine-boned animals who enlivened our afternoons with their races.
Bericus lost as much as Bwlch won in wagers on the races. Lord Artos merely enjoyed the sight.
We found the Libyans, finally, late on the second morning-fortunately, before the fair started. By then I had had a chance to become somewhat fluent in the camp jargon and could recognize the words in some of the atrociously accented Latin that was common. Indeed, by the end of the third day, having to translate all sorts of languages and bad accents, my head ached from the effort of concentrating.
Still, the Conies Britannorum had a way with him in dealing with anyone, trader or prince, that seemed to compel respect and foster truth and honesty. He spoke to many, and others sought him out. And really, he was easy to find, for he and his Companions towered over all but the burly blond Goths.
There were displays of the horses, showing then-paces, their skills, even jumping rough barriers to prove their agility. I marveled at the riders, usually slim wiry lads who stayed on the backs of fractious horses that reared and bucked and cast figures above ground as if the riders had been impaled astride. It was glorious and I was all but glutted by so many beautiful horses.
However, I did remember my duty to Lord Artos, and I discovered which one of the many traders could be trusted to sell us horses that were sound, free of vice, and unimpaired by those covert tricks by which clever traders hide defects. The man was an Egyptian, Paphnutius by name, and he was both gratified and pleased that he was the one Lord Artos decided to approach.
Paphnutius was of middle years, with piercing dark eyes and the most astounding hawk’s nose on his thin swarthy face. He exuded a courtesy that others lacked.
“Come, effendi,” he said, for his Latin was fluent if oddly accented. “Come into my humble tent and we will refresh ourselves. A man must have time to see and to reflect before any business.” And he shrugged one shoulder to indicate that business was not as important as courtesy.
The Egyptian’s tent was far more sumptuous inside than its exterior suggested.
“Sit, sit, do. Be comfortable,” he said, with bows and sweeping gestures of his hand as he pointed to the thick cushions piled upon marvelous carpets. They glowed red and blue in a chamber lit by hanging lamps, which
burned a scented oil. Then he clapped his hands. A woman-swathed all in black, so that only her eyes were visible-appeared at that summons; he gave her a curt order in his own language. It was too quick for me to be sure what he said, but I think it dealt with something to drink.
“You are from afar?” Paphnutius asked courteously, when we were all seated. I felt uncomfortable until I imitated his cross-legged posture.
“We are,” Lord Artos said, looking amazingly dignified upon his cushion. “From Britain.”
“Ah!” and Paphnutius’s eyes went round with pleasure at such a revelation. “You have journeyed far indeed to see our poor horses.”
Bericus gave a snort, because it was obvious to us all that the horses were far from poor.
Just then the woman returned with a beautiful brass tray and served us a thick, sweet beverage in tiny cups. One almost had to spoon it into the mouth, but this was evidently part of a bargaining ritual, similar to some I had seen my father perform with alien traders. I could almost think myself a child-and carefree-again in such an atmosphere.
“May I ask what this is we are drinking?” Lord Artos said, his tone one of surprised pleasure.
“It is called qahwa, and comes from a bean that is ground and then diffused in boiling water. The taste pleases the effendi?” Paphnutius was all concern that the drink might not please us.
I found it odd but certainly tasty: better than small beer or watered wine.
“It pleases me greatly,” Lord Artos said, and paused to take another sip, smiling broadly. I caught him glancing about us to be sure we were also displaying pleasure. Which we all were. Odd the drink was, but I liked it.
Just then the woman reappeared, and this time her tray contained dates, pieces of ewe’s cheese, and other sweet-tasting small cubes that were unknown to me.
“Was your journey arduous?” asked Paphnutius; and so we discussed that topic, and then the weather, and the situation of the camp, and only finally the vast number of horses that were on display.
At that point, Lord Artos rightly judged that business could be discussed, and with the sort of gracious reluctance that dealing with the Egyptian required, he explained his requirements. The mares should be proven fertile, preferably already in foal to Libyan stallions, and the stallions should be no more than four years of age and of proven virility. All the horses should be broken to saddle and bridle.
Paphnutius never asked why such breeding horses would be required by this foreign lord. Perhaps he could understand without explanation. After all, Lord Artos and all his companions were tall men; clearly they would need large mounts.
When we had finished our pleasant repast, Paphnutius guided us outside again and, clapping his hands, began the parade of the horses he had for sale.
“The mare is but four years old, and as you see by the foal at foot, she is fertile. This is her second foal.” Then, from a parchment scroll he produced from somewhere in his voluminous robes, he rattled off a long pedigree that seemed to deal more with the performance of the dams than the sires. “She is in foal again, to the same sire.”
This mare was big, wide hipped; and the foal at her foot was certainly five months old, for he had lost his fuzzy foal coat and was strong and lively. And nearly black. Both animals had good confirmation and a fine sheen to their hides.
Paphnutius then gave us the stallion’s pedigree, speaking as fast as he could for some time. “Is he among those you have for sale?” “Oh, no,” and Paphnutius looked almost shocked. “He is renowned for his speed, and much in demand.”
Lord Artos nudged me briefly as the mare and her energetic foal were taken back to the picket line.
“When will she foal, Paphnutius?” he asked as he watched her movements.
“In your springtime. I have the date …” And he consulted his parchment roll. “Ah, yes, she was covered in the third month and then confirmed in foal. Yes, yes, she is a fine mare to breed from.” He looked a little wistful and I wondered why. I didn’t know then that the Egyptians and Arabs preferred mares to stallions. On the other hand, Bwlch looked concerned. “What’s wrong?” I asked discreetly, in our own tongue, lowering my voice so that the Egyptian didn’t hear us.
“Spring at Deva, where Artos plans to send the horses, can be a cruelly cold season. We breed so that the mares will have their foals in late spring. The later the better. At least that one is well enough in foal so she’ll be all right on the sea journey.” Bwlch shook his head, already worried about that leg of the way back to Deva.
The parade of mares, some with foals at foot and others guaranteed in foal, continued. I tried to figure out which ones met with Lord Artos’s approval; his expression remained the same, pleasant, smiling, outwardly favorable, throughout the entire display.
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bsp; The stallions were shown next, and worked in circles on long lines to show their proud paces. The second one, not much taller than the first, displayed himself with just that little extra flick of his feet, a prouder carriage of his head and tail, an assurance that caught the eye, and a blue gleam to his silky black hide.
“Now, that’s just the one for me,” Lord Artos murmured to Bericus, although he kept his expression bland. “I would name him Cornix.”
“What else, Artos!” Bericus whispered back, and winked at me. Cornix means “raven.” I did not then know that ravens are the birds of good omen for the Comes Britannorum.
Paphnutius had nine stallions, more than were needed; but not all measured up to the criteria in Lord Artos’s mind. Finally the parade ended, and then Lord
Artos singled out his choices of mare and stallion. I missed out on only one mare and one stallion in my private selection.
“Ah, but come into my humble abode, Lord Artos,” Paphnutius said then, bowing and scraping as he led the way, “for you must surely be thirsty. And one cannot discuss matters of such importance out here, where there are so many distractions.”
So we retired again. More of the thick sweet qahwa did indeed moisten a throat made dry by the dust the parade of horses had swirled up around us. I did justice to the sweetmeats, too, and more exotic ingredients were served this time. I don’t remember half of the subtle combinations that passed into my mouth and down my gullet, because I had to concentrate more on the nuances of bargaining.
Memory of my father’s tactics returned to me, and if I say so myself-and Lord Artos was very kindly complimentary that evening-I did very well at this business. Better than I ever did for Uncle Gralior; beatings do not encourage as surely as praise. I also wanted to prove to Lord Artos how indispensable I could be. I did not aspire to become a Companion, for I was too young and would never be of that size, but surely I could serve my lord in many other ways that could further his ends. My instruction in the short Roman swords still favored by soldiers had ended with my father’s death, but perhaps I could retrain and join Artos’s cohort.
Black Horses for the King Page 3
