Dinas followed Bryn to where Tarates lay. The man’s condition had visibly worsened. His discolored face was covered with a slick of greasy perspiration and he seemed to be mumbling incoherently. Dinas bent closer.
“The end of the world,” Tarates was saying. “The end of the world.”
Dinas gave an annoyed snort. “It’s no such thing, Tarates.”
“The end of the world. I am dying. Please God I am dying. This hurts too much. The end of the world.”
Dinas stood up. “He certainly will die if he keeps on like that.”
“He will anyway,” said Bryn.
Dinas—who had casually wished the man would die—now was determined to keep him alive. He demanded the healer save Tarates no matter what it took, and sent a scouting party to find herbs and roots and other necessaries for more of Bryn’s concoctions. While the battle of life and death was being fought Dinas paced around the encampment, angry at his own impotence. Late in the afternoon he set off on foot to try to catch the chestnut mare himself.
The rest of his band felt as helpless as he did, and found ways to keep themselves busy as far from the sufferer as possible. Only two or three, including Meradoc, were driven by pity to visit him again and again.
When Tarates began to writhe with pain and his eyes rolled back in his head, Meradoc could stand it no longer. “I’m going to get some water for him,” he told Bryn.
“Water’s no good to him now.”
“He can’t drink,” Pelemos interjected. “It’s as if his jaws are locked. Just look at him; he’s out of his head, he doesn’t even know what’s going on.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Meradoc.
He returned carrying a stone cup brimming with water from the nearest stream. By this time Tarates was spasming like a half-crushed earthworm. Pelemos was whispering Christian prayers over folded hands. Bryn was muttering incantations to elder gods.
Meradoc knelt on the earth beside Tarates.
“He won’t take it.”
“I know, Pelemos, but let me try anyway.” Cradling the cup between his hands, Meradoc held it to the man’s lips. Which had turned blue and were tightly pressed together.
At the touch of the cup Tarates gave a low moan.
Meradoc pressed the vessel more firmly against his mouth.
The lips slowly parted.
Meradoc tilted the cup.
Tarates swallowed convulsively. Almost choked; caught his breath. Took another swallow, a little easier this time. Then another. His lips caressed the rim of the cup. His eyes resumed their rightful place in their sockets; cleared and were aware. With a sigh of ineffable relief, he smiled up at Meradoc.
And died.
As if a gentle hand had passed over his face, the agony faded. Only the smile lingered.
When Dinas returned to the camp leading the chestnut mare they told him about Tarates, and showed him the dead man. Still smiling.
“I ordered you to save him!” Dinas burst out.
“We did everything we could,” Pelemos assured him. “The poor fellow was hurt worse than we knew.”
Bryn nodded in agreement. “When a man reaches the edge of the cliff there are only two ways to go: step back or step forward. He stepped forward.”
The recruits dug a grave deep enough to put Tarates well beyond the reach of predators and lined it with leafy branches. Though he was not of their tribe, they lowered him into the earth with great tenderness. Standing around the grave, the entire company said Christian prayers for a Christian man. Celtic Christianity had taken root in the high mountains from which the recruits came, but the Roman version had not. The ritual they recited was in the ancient tongue. The language of Albion.
Afterward they built a stone cairn over the grave and rode away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Trying not to look at the spear leveled at his heart, Cadogan said, “Call off your dogs. You have no right to insult a visitor to the fair.” As he spoke Godubnus and Trebellos stepped up beside him, mirroring the other man’s spear carriers.
“I have all the rights I claim,” replied the man with the gold torc. “Call off your own dogs.”
Cadogan made a slight but perceptible gesture to indicate to his companions that they were to hold their position. His heart was pounding so hard he thought surely everyone could hear it. Yet he managed to say, in a tone borrowed from the chief magistrate of Viroconium, “From your appearance you are a Briton, but from your accent you are not one of the Cornovii. This is their tribal territory—and mine. You are the outsider here; identify yourself.”
The other man’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You have not heard of me, then? But you will, I assure you. I am called Vortigern. King Vortigern.”
The name meant nothing to Cadogan. “King of what tribe, what territory?”
“That remains to be determined,” Vortigern replied smoothly. “Now it is your turn to identify yourself.”
To his surprise Cadogan heard himself say—exactly as his father would have done—“I am called Cadogan, citizen of the Roman Empire.”
Vortigern blinked. It was an unintentional reflex, but enough to reveal a chink in his armor. Cadogan quickly pressed home his advantage. “Kings in Britannia are elected by their tribes, Vortigern, and they rule with the consent of the emperor. Which tribe elected…”
“Which emperor?” Vortigern interrupted. “The Emperor of the West or the Emperor of the East? The child Valentinian in Rome, or Theodosius the Second in Constantinople?”
Be very careful, Cadogan warned himself. This man is not only clever but knowledgeable. “The empire is being ruled jointly as a matter of expedience, but it is still one—”
“One nothing,” Vortigern interrupted again. “The West has collapsed under the weight of its own corruption and the East is busy rediscovering its Greek heritage. Neither of them knows nor cares what happens in an insignificant backwater such as Britannia.”
“Who told you that?” Cadogan asked. His curiosity was piqued. Vortigern was arrayed as a king, but aside from wars with their neighbors, British kings rarely left their own territories. He was surprised that Vortigern knew anything about the forces that were ripping the empire apart.
“My information comes from Hengist of the Jutes,” said Vortigern, jerking his thumb at one of the spear carriers. “The man aiming his weapon at your heart is Hengist’s brother, Horsa. These two led a large band of Saxon settlers to Britannia, and at my invitation are going to bring an army north to defend my borders from the Picts and the Scoti.”
This time Cadogan made no effort to hide his astonishment. “Your borders? I told you before, this is the land of the Cornovii!”
“And I explained before,” Vortigern stressed, “my territory is where I say it is. I say it runs from here to Hadrian’s Wall, and I am prepared to fight for it with the aid of my Saxon friends.”
Cadogan was dumbfounded. This naked landgrab was so unexpected he could think of no appropriate response. “But what about … what about…” To his dismay, Cadogan’s numbed brain refused to supply him with the name of the king of the Cornovii—a man whom he had met many times in Viroconium.
“Ogmeos,” whispered Godubnus.
Cadogan shot him a grateful look. “What about Ogmeos?”
“He is willing to cede his office and titles to me,” Vortigern replied smugly. “So many Picts and Scots are flooding into his kingdom that he is unable to cope with them. Rather than admit defeat, he and the other chieftains have accepted me as their new king provided I drive the invaders back over the Wall. Hence, my two generals here.”
Cadogan glanced from Hengist to Horsa. Horsa was the taller, Hengist the more battle scarred, but there was no doubt they were warriors. As was Vortigern himself from the look of him. His face was set in the implacable lines of a man determined to have his way at all costs.
Cadogan recognized the expression; he had seen it before on Dinas. Its familiarity steadied him. “I assume you have confi
rmation of this from the proper authorities?”
“What proper authorities? The only authorities in Britannia now are the sword and the spear, and I am well equipped with both. Tell me, Cadogan, citizen of the empire: Have you come to pay tribute to your new king, or to buy and sell merchandise to enrich my treasury?”
“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” Cadogan suggested, “as befits men of equal rank.”
Vortigern blinked again. “Equal rank?”
“You have not heard of me, then?” Cadogan was pleased to repeat his own words back to him. “I am the son of Vintrex, chief magistrate of this entire province. For the duration of his current illness he has appointed me to serve in his stead. So as you see, there is still authority after all.”
Horsa lowered his spear.
Vortigern said, “I don’t believe you.”
“That is of supreme indifference to me,” Cadogan replied, gaining strength from the other man’s uncertainty. “Whether you believe me or not the authority is mine. If you doubt me ask your friend Ogmeos, who knows both my father and myself very well. He has dined in our home on more than one occasion.”
Both Hengist and Horsa were now looking directly at Vortigern.
The self-proclaimed king shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He has strange eyes, Cadogan thought. You can almost see him making calculations behind them.
Vortigern cleared his throat. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “We should be discussing this between ourselves. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my tent.” Without waiting for Cadogan to accept, he took hold of his elbow to guide him.
Cadogan subtly pulled away. Just enough to establish his independence; not enough to be a rejection. Turning to Godubnus, he said, “You two wait here for me. If I do not return soon, you know what to do.”
Godubnus nodded. “We know what to do,” he echoed.
Hengist and Horsa looked at each other.
Vortigern’s tent was the largest on the fair grounds. Fifteen cattle hides had gone into its making, augmented by strips of red deer hide and yellow wildcat fur. Its design was British; Celtic British. Wolf-fur robes were piled deeply on the ground inside, and the air was redolent with the bloody remains of a meal. When the two men threw back the flap and entered the tent a young woman jumped to her feet and ran out, carrying a piece of meat in her hand.
“One of my wives,” Vortigern commented. “I appreciate some of the old customs.”
Cadogan tried not to look shocked. “I assumed you were a Christian.”
“Oh, I am. When it suits me. But a king should be able to impress his people with his virility—among other things. Hence I have three wives. Well-satisfied wives,” he added with a grin.
“Now down to business, Cadogan. You know my intentions and I assure you I am able to carry them out. Is there any reason why the provincial magistrate or his deputy would disapprove? Under the circumstances, I should think that anyone who is able to turn back the tide of invaders would be considered a hero.”
“There are suitable rewards for heroes, but they do not include giving them entire provinces.”
“Come now, Cadogan. You speak like an educated man, surely you have studied history. The ultimate reward for a hero has always been land. When we are successful here I plan to give large tracts to my two generals as their reward.”
“You will turn back the Picts and Scots yet give more land to…”
“To the Saxons. Yes. In my opinion they cannot be stopped anyway; there are too many. Is it not better to make friends of them rather than enemies?”
“A lot of people won’t see it that way, Vortigern. Especially those whose land you give to the foreigners.”
“There may be trouble,” Vortigern agreed. “In fact I am sure there will be trouble. But change happens anyway. I intend to ride the tide rather than be swept under by it.”
“You don’t happen to know my cousin Dinas, do you?”
“I don’t think so. Do I need to know him?”
For the first time since they met, Cadogan smiled. “There is always that possibility.”
* * *
As Cadogan and his companions were returning to the fort Godubnus remarked, “I’m glad to be going home with my head on my shoulders. When you said ‘You know what to do’ back there, I had no maggot’s notion of what to do.”
Trebellos added, “I thought you meant for us to attack those two bodyguards of his. We would have been slaughtered.”
“I didn’t want you to do anything,” Cadogan told them. “I just wanted the others to think there was something you could do; something they might not like.”
“How did you leave things with Vortigern?”
“I have no doubt he will ask Ogmeos about me, but Ogmeos will back me up. He’s always had great respect for my father. No one really knows who has any authority in Britannia now. Or how much. Vortigern seems to be new at this business of making himself a king; he’s causing a lot of noise but treading carefully. I can’t prevent his usurping a kingship; what I can do—I hope—is ensure our safety within his territory. That’s what we talked about. We came to an agreement that the refugees from Viroconium would be allowed to settle and farm without interference, and if necessary, his warriors would protect us. In return I promised him that neither Vintrex nor myself would oppose his kingship.”
“And Vintrex will agree to that, will he?”
“I’m not going to tell him about it.”
“He’ll find out sooner or later,” Godubnus warned.
“You know the condition my father’s in; he may never be able to understand what’s taking place. Anything could happen before then. As I understand it, Vortigern’s arrangement with Hengist and Horsa won’t be complete until they drive the northerners back across the Wall. In the meantime Ogmeos and the other chieftains may decided to rebel against Vortigern. He’s impressive but it takes more than that to make a king. If those two Jutes fail…”
“Did you see the way they looked at me? They knew I was a Caledonian.”
“But they didn’t attack you, Godubnus,” Cadogan pointed out. “That means hostilities haven’t begun yet. We have a little time to get ourselves settled.”
“You mean, get ourselves dug in.”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“What about the livestock we came for? We didn’t buy a single animal.”
“I thought it best not to let Hengist and Horsa know we had any money on us. We’ll find pigs and cows somewhere else.”
“Or live on roots and berries,” Trebellos muttered to himself.
* * *
The work on the settlement continued. Cadogan pushed the others harder than ever, anxious to have as many as possible under a snug roof before the winter came. Building was only a part of it. Without anyone to teach them, they had to learn long-forgotten skills such as making charcoal and brewing beer and tanning leather. For some of them it came easier than for others. It was as if the blood of their ancestors spoke to them.
There was a social dimension to be considered as well; one Cadogan had not thought about before. Among the group there were four men for every grown woman.
While everyone was desperately busy it did not seem to be a problem. Cadogan was only vaguely aware of fleeting glances, occasional touches. Simmering rivalries. The time would come when those things began to matter.
Meanwhile Vintrex grew increasingly irascible. Esoros withdrew into a hard shell of negativity, like some old turtle caught on a sand bank. And Quartilla’s mannerisms were maddening. Yet whenever Cadogan needed something urgently, she was there. Unfortunately she was also there when he wanted to be alone. She had an unerring sense of those times when he retired into contemplation to work on a plan or solve a problem, and would interrupt at the crucial moment, shattering his thoughts like windblown seed.
None of the men showed any interest in her, though she boasted of imagined conquests. Cadogan would have been delighted for anyone t
o take her off his hands. He began to think of offering a dowry with her.
“Godubnus, have you ever thought of marrying again?”
“After four tries? No thank you. I struck lucky with the last one; that means it’s time to quit.”
“Nassos, you’re a sturdy young man. Surely you feel the need for a wife.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Quartilla would do for you, she’s a—”
“I don’t think so.”
“Karantec, what about you? I assure you Quartilla is the best cook in—”
“No,” Karantec said firmly.
“Even if she came with a dowry?”
Karantec narrowed his eyes. “How much?”
“Let’s say … a gold denarius?”
“And where would I spend it? Better I remain celibate. You should marry her yourself, Cadogan.”
“I don’t have time for a wife,” Cadogan said hastily.
* * *
There had been a time—how long ago it seemed now!—when the leaders of Viroconium society had ordered their servants to load a wagon high with delicious edibles and potables, soft blankets and folding stools, and had driven several miles out into the country to enjoy “a rustic feast.” Which lasted only until the first drop of rain or the first wasp sting.
Those pleasant pastimes now seemed like fantastic tales invented to entertain credulous children. Members of the former upper class were becoming intimately acquainted with the realities of rustic nature. Bathing only rarely, in icy streams populated with things that squirmed or bit. Squatting uncomfortably behind bushes in the rain, with only leaves to wipe their buttocks. Eating whatever they were given without asking what it was or where it came from.
The forest that had looked so picturesque in the distance, so invitingly cool on a summer’s afternoon, consisted of living trees that held on to life with a tenacity to match that of human beings. Every axe blow meant to kill an oak left human muscles aching. And it was not enough just to fell a tree. Smaller trees were used whole, as logs for the walls, but larger trees had to be debarked, their branches removed, and their trunk sawn into planks. In the beginning this basic task took a team of neophyte woodcutters several days. Clearing an entire site for building could take weeks.
After Rome Page 25
