by M. K. Hume
‘So that’s why we’re cowering here? You’re afraid we’ll lose the coming battle because Bran’s a kinsman of the Dragon King? Artor’s dead and rotting. You don’t need to be frightened of a ghost.’ Havar’s tone was insulting, and Cynric’s face was stripped of its condescending smile. ‘No matter how many times the Dragon King beat you in the past, he’s just a collection of old bones. If we attack in force, the Britons will break.’
‘I considered attacking them as soon as their relief column started digging their ditch, but we didn’t have the time to marshal all our troops before they were securely behind their wall. I’m left wondering now what they have in store for us. Everything I’ve heard of this Bran suggests that he’s a cautious planner but an audacious fighter, which is a dangerous combination. I have survived as your bretwalda in this land because I also remain cautious, and I use the enemy’s skills against him. Calleva is just one miserable city. We fight for larger stakes: for Venta Belgarum, and the mortal blow to the Britons when the city falls.’
Cerdic coughed. It was a hacking and painful sound, but the Saxon king hadn’t finished.
‘Calleva Atrebatum is as nothing in the scheme of things. I’d wait for a year outside this fleapit if it gave us the time for our troops from Noviomagus and Vectis to take Portus Adurni. The Britons believe that Venta Belgarum is special because those Roman fucks, Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, used it as their capital and the Dragon King came to power within its walls. Think, Havar, for once in your life. Calleva is just a ruse, a feint, but it’s one that seems more important than it really is because of the roads that it commands. In fact we can do without the roads, and when Portus Adurni, Magnus Portus and Venta Belgarum fall, it won’t matter a shit what happens to Calleva Atrebatum.’
‘But the Britons grow stronger with every day we wait. They were joined by a contingent from Venta Belgarum today. The gods know those cringing cowards have been hiding behind their walls for months since you claimed Vectis, but now they grow over-bold, and are crowing that their Red Dragon king has come again to save them.’
‘You’re still not listening, Havar,’ Cerdic answered with a sigh. ‘You’re thinking with your balls rather than your brain. Let the British make a stand here and there’ll be fewer warriors for us to fight at Venta Belgarum. I don’t care if they dig in here for months, although I’d not be overly happy about it. I’m prepared to lose half my forces at Calleva if it keeps the British tribes focused on this minor town rather than Venta Belgarum, where the real battle will take place. The Britons move like the wind. They’re not rats, Havar. They’re not cowards and they’re definitely not stupid, although you seem to think that their brains are measured by body size. They’ll be the death of you if you continue to underestimate them.
‘And what of this Red Dragon we keep hearing about? Bran’s spies are using our own fears and superstitions against us. They know the effect of the Dragon King on our thinking. By Baldur’s balls, the man was unstoppable, and I thank the gods he’s dead. But a number of his advisers are still alive, and Bran is a kinsman so something of the dragon lives on in him. If they’ve found yet another bastard they can use I’ll be worried, mainly because it’s difficult to defeat an idea. The ghost of King Artor of the Britons could become both an idealisation and a rallying call. If this Red Dragon truly exists, Havar, you have my permission to kill him by any means at your disposal. I don’t want a new hero appearing out of the ruins of Calleva Atrebatum or Venta Belgarum to give the tribal kings someone new to rally around. They still won’t win, because we possess too many of Britain’s broad acres now, but it would slow us down, and we’d only inherit smoking ruins. So tell me: what have you heard about this Red Dragon?’
‘According to one of their scouts who was caught behind our picket lines, a fresh young King Artor has come to Calleva to set the city free. You know better than I do how true these rumours can sound, but there’s no doubt that a very tall warrior has been seen working on the ditch they’ve been digging. Apparently he’s about my height, which makes him extremely tall for one of the Britons.’ Havar paused. ‘Their scout died, but he was defiant to the end. I agree with you – I don’t think we can afford to allow any rumours about a new Red Dragon to grow. I will kill this man personally, if necessary.’
Cerdic gazed into Havar’s eyes to judge the Jute’s worth. ‘I will give you one thousand warriors to support the two hundred warriors who make up your personal guard. You can attack in the darkness just before dawn. As the Britons have chosen to mass their troops only on the western side of the city, I will move the bulk of my men there to intimidate the Celts as they attempt to repel your attack. The reserves can remain beside the west gate and watch your victory. They need only be pressed into service when you have breached the ditch. Does my strategy please you, Havar?’
That evening, the itch was screaming a warning at the back of Arthur’s brain. Fortunately, he was saved from the embarrassment of having to explain his fears to King Bran when an indiscreet Saxon scout strayed too close to the picket lines. Bedwyr brought the hobbled, spitting captive to Bran’s tent, with the added intelligence that the Saxon scouts watching the cavalry were all moving closer, probably to make accurate assessments of the strength of the British forces.
Bran was already pondering a message sent by mirrors from the southern gate of Calleva. Bedwyr had given Arthur permission to attend the strategy sessions of the kings on the proviso that he kept his mouth shut and his mind open. As Gareth was his ever-present shadow, the lad seated himself near the tent flap and tried to look as inconspicuous as anyone who stood a head taller than most warriors could manage.
‘Lord Myrddion set up a spy network decades ago,’ Gareth hissed at Arthur. ‘Part of the training for members of the group was the use of mirrors to transmit messages. Someone in Calleva Atrebatum has been feeding information back to Bran using some form of code.’
‘Ah,’ Arthur whispered softly. ‘So he’s been aware of the Saxon troop movements from the very beginning. Clever Bran.’
‘Clever Myrddion! Taliesin has been reading the messages as fast as they transmit them.’
Gareth probably knew more about British battles of the past than anyone alive, Arthur decided as he rested on his heels and listened with excited, boyish attention to the plans discussed by the inner circle of commanders.
‘The Jute and Angle troops under the command of Havar began to move as soon as darkness fell. Their bivouac was close to the amphitheatre, but they have reinforced one-third of the whole Saxon line between the north gate and the west gate. I’m certain that an attack will come from that direction, but our scouts tell me that the troops defending the amphitheatre are also on the move. I don’t understand these tactics, not with several thousand men already in bivouac south of the west gate. I know that Cerdic must have some strategy, but I’m damned if I can fathom what it is. Some details of the Saxon battle plans don’t make any sense, and any detail I can’t understand makes me nervous,’ Taliesin told them. His voice was dry and dusty, as if words of warfare had no place in the vocal chords that produced his beautiful songs and poetry.
He gazed around the expectant faces of the commanders in the tent and his eyes were lambent with regret. ‘The Saxons expect to be attacked in strength by your cavalry. The men in this combined force are the tallest and the most ignorant of our enemies. I’m certain they’ve never faced a cavalry charge before and know little about what will happen, apart from word-of-mouth advice from knowledgeable friends. I suspect that Cerdic has arranged this move for some purpose of his own. He will let the Jutes fight under the banner of this Havar, and he’ll try to pin us down here.’ Taliesin stabbed at a piece of hide laid out on Bran’s camp table. Arthur couldn’t see that Taliesin’s elegant finger had pinpointed the northern perimeter of the British force, but he could picture what Cerdic planned. ‘As long as they can’t read the mirrors, Cerdic won’t know that we will be expecting them. No doubt they’ll attack at dawn.’
‘Before dawn,’ Ector interrupted briskly, for he was quite certain of his facts. ‘Saxons prefer daylight for their battles, but Jutes live in a world where daylight only comes for six hours a day in winter. They don’t fear the dark quite as much as the Saxons do. I believe they’ll attack when they think we least expect them in an attempt to catch us off guard.’
‘Granted,’ Bran concurred, and the other kings nodded their agreement. Bran’s forehead was puckered, for above all things he hated being unprepared for any element of a coming battle. His cautious nature screamed at him that there was too much about the Saxon plans he didn’t know.
‘Cerdic must expect the cavalry to crush Havar as soon as it’s light enough for them to ride,’ Taliesin murmured.
‘What is the distribution of Cerdic’s troops on the eastern side of Calleva?’ Bran asked the room in general.
‘There’s a thousand men camped to the south of the amphitheatre near where Cerdic has sited his command centre,’ Bedwyr answered. ‘I’ve seen the area with my own eyes. There are another five hundred men guarding the baggage train to the east, not counting the troops on the move as we speak that are joining up with Havar’s force of Jutes. Fifty sappers are digging under the walls of Calleva north of the eastern gate, and Cerdic’s personal guard are positioned to move as soon as the wall is breached. A similar troop of engineers is undermining the walls near the western gate, and a further thousand men are stretched from the west gate to the south gate, so that Calleva is effectively surrounded.’
‘Can you be certain of this information, Bedwyr?’ Bran asked carefully, for much depended on the accuracy of the figures he was given, even if he insulted Bedwyr by demanding reassurance.
‘My Saxon is rusty, but it’s good enough for normal conversation, and I can still do a good impression of a disreputable Saxon servant,’ Bedwyr replied a little stiffly. ‘I spent a few hours behind the Saxon lines, and learned everything I needed to know. The Saxons don’t believe that our spies can infiltrate their ranks. We have three other men in place even as I speak, all inserted among their troops along the south-western perimeter.’
‘I’ve asked you on many occasions not to risk yourself so casually, Bedwyr. We need you alive and difficult, not spitted to roast on a Saxon fire,’ Bran snapped, his brows furrowed in exasperation. ‘However, I trust your assessments. So you would agree that Cerdic expects the cavalry to attack the Jute and Saxon forces when the sun comes up?’
‘What are your wishes, Father?’ Ector asked. He would lead the cavalry charges in company with Bedwyr and Scarface, and hungered to know what glory would be offered during the coming morning.
‘You will not attack the Jute forces. I expect Artair, backed by the Ordovice reserves, to hold the northern sector of the ditch at all costs. A small force of our troops will form up before it and lead the Jutes into disaster. When they attack, our warriors will retreat through the gap in the wall.’ Bran smiled, and turned towards the back of the tent. ‘Arthur? I know you’re there in the back near the tent flap. Stand up, boy.’
Embarrassed, Arthur clambered to his feet.
‘I’ve heard rumours within the camp that you’re believed to be the ghost of King Artor, come back from the shades to lead us to victory. Everyone has heard the prophecy that the Dragon King will come again when his people need him, so let’s use a little superstition to stiffen the spines of our own foot soldiers and frighten the shite out of the Saxons. I want you to stand, tall and prominent, in the middle of the front line where you can be easily seen. We will arrange for someone to find a red cloak for you to add to the dramatic effect. And you must plait that mane of yours, for you’re a warrior now.’
‘Yes, my lord, of course,’ Arthur stuttered, and sat down abruptly before his legs collapsed and he fell down. Taliesin turned his back on the gathering. Only Deinol of the Deceangli saw the anger and chagrin on the harper’s face, and he wondered what undercurrents were at play in what sounded like a simple plan. Bedwyr’s expression, too, was mutinous. Bran was using Arthur for his own advantage, and Bedwyr knew it. But before he could voice his objections, Bran issued his orders.
‘The cavalry will carry out a lightning attack on the amphitheatre, the engineers working on the eastern wall of Calleva and the troops guarding the Saxon baggage train. You will inflict maximum damage on the sappers and the baggage train by using some of Rhys and Taliesin’s boxes of tricks. Thanks to Scoular, who collected the materials to create it, Myrddion Merlinus has sent us a little gift from the Shadows. Let’s see what the Saxons make of Marine Fire.’
The room was perfectly still. Legends of the liquid that burst into flame and killed indiscriminately abounded in many lands, although most scholars considered that the ancient recipe had been lost for many centuries. It was appropriate that Myrddion Merlinus had discovered it during his sojourn in Constantinople. He had added it to his scrolls in a private code known only to himself and Nimue, for after discussing the ethics of such a fearsome weapon with his beautiful wife he had determined to keep the recipe secret for fear that this scourge would destroy the world as he knew it. The situation must be truly grave if Nimue now permitted such a terror to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.
‘Meanwhile, our warriors will hold the northern ditch at all costs. Do you hear me? We must hold the ditch; a major breach of the line would be a disaster. The Saxons must fight us on our ground, on our terms, so they must not be allowed to form a shield wall. From the mound above the battlefield, our archers should be able to keep them from breaking through our lines. We have a considerable supply of arrows at our disposal and some of our peasants will make regular collections of used missiles during lulls in the battle. The archers’ targets will be the largest concentrations of Jute and Saxon warriors. The bulk of our army will wait behind the mound until Cerdic himself comes against us – and then hell itself will be summoned forth.’
Bran gazed around at his silent audience. ‘May all the gods be with us in the coming conflict, for it will mark the end of the west if we do not prevail.’
‘What in the name of all that’s holy is Marine Fire?’ Arthur asked Germanus as soon as he reached their tent, Gareth hot on his heels. He had hurried through the camp as if the Ferryman was after him, ready to drag him off to the River Styx. Excitement, nervousness at the role allotted to him, and the feeling that he had been manoeuvred into a situation not of his choosing made his strides so long and swift that even Gareth’s lanky legs could barely keep pace with him.
‘Marine Fire? I’ve heard of it. It was the ultimate sea weapon used by the Greeks in centuries past,’ Germanus answered, and Lorcan swore colourfully. ‘It was described to me as the work of the Devil.’
‘The battle is expected to start before dawn tomorrow so you must have our weapons prepared for what is to come. But Bran told us that our commanders have access to a supply of Marine Fire that will be used on the enemy. I’d like to know what the fuck it is, but no one seems to know very much about it.’
Germanus raised his head, now polished and bare under the light of a fish-oil lamp hanging on a chain from the tent pole. Although he still had his huge blond moustaches, the absence of his thinning braids made the arms master look years younger. However, his expression registered his disgust at the mention of the fearsome weapon, while his unease was palpable.
‘Marine Fire was invented by the Greeks for use in sea battles against the Persians and the Phoenicians. It cannot be quenched by water, which seems to make it spread, and it sticks to any surface it finds with murderous, unquenchable heat. Only earth or dry sand can extinguish it. As you can imagine, any warrior dowsed with the flaming liquid would suffer a hideous death.’
‘The weapon would be a hell’s brew,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Do you know how it’s made?’
‘No, Arthur, I don’t. And as far as I know, nor does anyone else, although I heard that it was used on a number of occasions by Emperor Anastasius of Constantinople to put down revolts.
He used it as a weapon of last resort some twenty years ago, but after that his commanders refused to damn their souls again. As far as the scholars know, the secret had been lost for a hundred years until the emperor rediscovered the recipe. Fortunately, it was never made known to the Romans, for they’d have left little of the world unburned. I spoke to an old apothecary once who told me what he believed to be the ingredients, but he didn’t know the proportions or how it was mixed. Marine Fire is made from quicklime, saltpetre, bitumen, sulphur, resin and pitch. My source thought there might be other ingredients that he didn’t know, but I never heard what they could be.’
‘A Greek historian, Thucydides, described such a substance near to a thousand years ago,’ Lorcan added. ‘Praise be to God, the secret of the weapon he described has been lost.’
‘But obviously not permanently. Bran has managed to get his hands on something!’ Arthur said quietly. He left the tent, determined to find Taliesin and discover how a poet could countenance the use of this liquid fire, a weapon that would appear to contradict any warrior’s idea of honourable combat.
He was in luck. He found Taliesin in Bedwyr’s tent beside the picket line, involved in what had obviously been a prolonged and passionate argument. A folded red cloak lay at Bedwyr’s feet, and as Arthur edged into the tent both men turned their hot eyes to take in his bent form, while he apologised for the unexpected interruption.
‘Don’t ask, Arthur, for I can guess what you want to know. Like Bedwyr, you’re confused by Bran’s need to use Marine Fire. Correct?’ Taliesin’s voice was cold, but under it Arthur could detect a plea for understanding. ‘Only the direst situation would force me to approve the use of this weapon, and nothing will persuade Rhys to part with the knowledge of how to make it. He would die first.’
Bedwyr began to protest, but Taliesin silenced him with his raised hand. ‘Arthur deserves to know, as he will be in the forefront of our army, only yards from the ditch where, we hope, Cerdic will be forced to make a final massed attack on our defensive position. When the Saxon has no other choice, Arthur’s presence will be used to lure these poor souls to a hellish death. He deserves to know, Bedwyr.’
