After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The necessity to have water close by eliminated a number of otherwise excellent sites. More than one woman set her heart on a house on a hilltop, only to learn she was going to have to live in a valley.

  It was not enough to have a cleared site. The ground where the house would stand had to be leveled before construction could begin, and provision made for drainage. Cadogan showed the others how to pour buckets of water into the center of the space and watch how it ran off. If it simply formed in a puddle, channels had to be dug, filled with pebbles and then covered over before the walls went up.

  Men began reminiscing about drainage tiles in the way the women spoke of peristyles and reflecting pools.

  Thatching roofs was another challenge. In retrospect Cadogan knew he had made a botch of his the first time, but he had tried again and again until he discovered the secret and made it watertight. Sod had to be cut, dried, netted—which necessitated weaving grass ropes—and secured to the roof timbers to support the weight of the thatch. He was forced to use cedar for the cross beams because cedar was lighter than oak and easier for one man to lift. He discovered that the downward slope from the rooftree had to be at a precise angle, steep enough to allow water to run off but not so steep as to encourage the thatch to slide off. Reeds from the river were good at turning water, and the air within their hollow stems added insulation, but they had to be cut, gathered and transported.

  Cadogan demonstrated the art of thatching to the men. And commiserated with fledgling thatchers when they tumbled off a roof.

  Women learned to plait grass ropes and to cut and gather reeds; children learned to chink log walls with mud. Everything had to be learned. Everything was hard. Men and women looked at Cadogan—or rather at his fort—with new respect. Knowing what he had accomplished by himself was a challenge to the other men.

  More than one woman flirted with Cadogan when her husband was not around.

  He was scrupulously careful not to respond to them in any way that could be misunderstood. With every day that passed he was more aware of his responsibilities, his unwanted, unasked-for responsibilities. They were such a small community and their existence hung by such a fragile thread.

  Houses began to rise in the forest; a thatched timber rectangle on each cleared space. To the citizens of Viroconium they might be huts, but they were snug and solid. Expectations were being scaled down. The nature of “civilization” was changing. Civilization meant living with like-minded people who respected and helped one another.

  When he had a rare few moments to call his own and was not fully occupied with planning or building or sorting out arguments between his fellow settlers, Cadogan liked to wander in the forest. Among the trees. Occasionally, in the precious quiet of solitude, memories of the past would pop into his head like isolated jewels. Himself as a small boy, crying over a skinned knee, and Domitia gathering him into her arms and comforting him. The tenderness of her kind face smiling down at him.

  A slightly older version of himself racing his cousin Dinas through the columned splendor of the forum. The light slap-slap of his sandaled feet on the smooth paving stones, and Dinas laughing. Dinas who always won their races, swift as quicksilver; Dinas darting out of sight a moment before one of the civic councillors appeared to chastise the rowdy children. Cadogan standing there with his head down, taking his punishment—until Dinas hurled a pebble from his place of concealment and drew the man’s attention long enough for Cadogan to make an escape.

  Dinas. Laughing. Perhaps dead now. Like Domitia and who could say how many more?

  It did no good to summon up the past, Cadogan decided. Nothing could be gained by it, nothing could be changed; that task was done. Concentrate on the future.

  In the arboreal peace of the living, breathing forest, Cadogan wondered what sort of civilization would come to Britannia with Hengist and Horsa.

  When the settlers gathered at the end of the day to share a meal and discuss the next day’s work, they sometimes spoke of Viroconium. Without actually saying so, they were aware that the city’s wounds had been mortal. No one could have continued to live in those noisome ruins for long.

  “The other survivors are probably scattered throughout the territory by now,” was Regina’s opinion.

  Esoros said glumly, “Or they may all be dead.”

  “I doubt it,” Godubnus told him. “Likely they’re doing what we’re doing, trying to stay out of the barbarians’ way.”

  “Would they not try to rebuild the city?” asked Nassos.

  Cadogan said, “The Romans built Viroconium, not us. Our people wouldn’t know how.”

  “But we’re learning how to build now,” he heard one man whisper to another.

  Sitting among them, staring into the fire, Cadogan was beginning to dream a new dream. He saw himself rebuilding Viroconium. Not as it had been; he admitted to himself that times had changed. Strength had become more valuable than luxury. He would employ a design of his own, combining half-remembered technology with Celtic resourcefulness. Houses would be adaptations of his own fortress. On the foundations of the courthouse he would erect a great timber meeting hall, rectangular in shape, with the walls curving upward to a vaulted and thatched roof. Not Roman. British.

  Quartilla nudged him with a sharp elbow. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s a lie, you can’t think about ‘nothing,’ any more than you can see ‘nothing.’ Were you thinking about me?”

  “Why would I think about you?”

  “Because you’re a man. All the men think about me, I can see it in their eyes.”

  “You must have remarkable powers of vision, Quartilla.”

  “I do. I can even see the future.”

  “Then tell me what you see.”

  “In my future?” she asked brightly.

  “No, in ours; all of us here.”

  She pursed her lips and tried to look thoughtful. Suddenly she laughed. “You believe I can see the future? Cadogan, you fool!”

  Stung, he replied, “No, I never believe a thing you say, Quartilla.”

  “Good. That makes you a bit less of a fool.”

  As so often before, her reply left him speechless.

  “No one can see the future anyway,” she said after a few moments. She began to fumble with her hair. The red dye had almost grown off, leaving greasy brown locks with crimson tips, as if the hair had been dipped in blood.

  “I know a woman who can see the future,” Cadogan claimed.

  She released the lock of hair. “Do you? Really?”

  “Yes, really. My cousin’s mother.”

  Quartilla asked breathlessly, “Are you talking about Dinas?”

  “I am. When Dinas and I were little she used to send us out looking for owl scat; little pellets of dung with bits of undigested bone and fur in them. She held them in the palm of her hand and told us all sorts of things.”

  “Did they ever come true, the things she told you?”

  Cadogan smiled. “Always,” he lied.

  He glanced up to find Esoros watching him the way a man might watch a snake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The blunt summit known as Tintagel Head was littered with the detritus of habitation. The collapsed feasting hall of the Dumnonii; broken amphorae that stored wine in an early Celtic monastery; the ruins of tiny stone huts built by a tribe that had ceased to exist before the before. When Dinas dug his toe into the topmost layer of soil he turned up a small steel plate broken from a piece of Roman body armor.

  Aha.

  Dinas stood alone on the summit, gazing at the foaming surf below. He raised his eyes to the distant purple line where sea met sky; watched the clamorous seabirds swimming on the wind. Surveyed the tumble of broken stones and the few surviving pieces of salt-rotted timber. The scarred earth, trodden by how many feet over how many generations?

  Tintagel exists outside of time and space, he thought. That is something Gwladys might have said.<
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  Dinas drew a deep breath and filled his lungs with air from beyond the edge of the world. It was cold and sharp and impossibly pure. Turning, he looked toward the men watching from him the cliffs. The mainland, he called it in his mind, divorcing himself from it. Becoming part of sea and sky instead.

  “How’s the view?” Bleddyn shouted into the wind.

  Dinas pretended not to hear.

  Tintagel, Tintagel, he whispered. As a man whispers the name of his beloved.

  * * *

  When he was still a little boy Gwladys had told him, “I can see you up in the sky.”

  “Really?” he cried excitedly. “Am I flying?” He began to flap his arms.

  Her smile was fond and tender. Gwladys understood about dreams. “Almost, little man. What I see is a pinnacle of rock with men staring up at it. You are on the very top, riding a horse in the sky.”

  Dinas had assumed she meant a peak of Eryri, where she had lived as a girl. Eryri had featured prominently in all the tales she told her child. When he was grown Dinas had visited the high mountains repeatedly, seeking the locale of her vision. In time that quest had led him to Saba.

  But the peak in his mother’s vision, he had realized the first time he saw it, was Tintagel Head.

  Now he stood there. Now everyone was staring up at him. Meradoc and Pelemos and Bryn and the recruits. His men; his band. The foundation of his army.

  He wanted the moment to last forever.

  Realistically, he knew that of the eleven, only eight could be considered warrior material—nine if he counted Meradoc, which was doubtful. Of those men, one, Cadel, had made it plain he would never mount a horse again. So Dinas had a possible cavalry of seven or eight and one foot soldier. Not an auspicious beginning.

  Yet on an afternoon in early summer when the sun was blazing fit to split the stones and the wind off the sea was like an invigorating slap in the face, Dinas knew he could do anything.

  * * *

  Meradoc was holding the reins of the dark horse, who had grown impatient to be with Dinas and was pawing the earth. “How long is Dinas going to perch over there like a frog on a log?” Cynan wondered aloud.

  “No frog would be pacing back and forth the way he is now,” said Docco. “I know a lot about frogs, they make good eating.”

  “Perhaps he’s planning the layout of our stronghold,” Hywel suggested. “Deciding where the walls will go and all that.”

  “Or pens for the horses,” said Dafydd.

  “He’ll call us when he’s ready,” Meradoc told them.

  “I’m ready now,” Cynan growled. “It’s rotten cold out here.”

  “It will be just as cold over there; that’s the wind from the sea you’re feeling.”

  Iolo leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the angry surf breaking against the foot of the cliff. “I’m not sure I like the sea.”

  “You’d better learn to like it,” Tostig advised. “We’re going to make our living from it.”

  Cadel, who also was gazing with trepidation at the sea, said, “That’s going to be a lot harder than quarrying.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bleddyn told him. “It can’t be anywhere near as difficult as a cold winter in the high mountains.”

  They had been assigned to tend the horses, who were gathered into a little herd on the cliffs. Both horses and men grew restless while Dinas paced and gazed and measured and planned.

  And saw the future growing.

  “Are we going anywhere or are we just going to stand here?” Docco shouted at last. He had been put in special charge of the chestnut mare, who as usual was skittering about and making the others nervous. Although Dinas and Meradoc working together finally had succeeded in catching her and putting a head collar on her, no one had yet tried to ride her.

  Dinas was not thinking about horses now. From his vantage point atop Tintagel Head he could see what his men could not. A group of people were coming toward them from the east. When Dinas raised a hand to shade his eyes he could make out twenty or thirty men, but no women or children. Two of the men were on horseback. The rest were afoot, walking briskly and with purpose.

  A muscle twitched in Dinas’s jaw. Raising his arm, he silently pointed in the direction of the approaching men. Tostig was the first to react. He turned to look. Saw nothing. Mimed a large shrug.

  Dinas shook his arm emphatically and pointed again.

  This time they all looked. Docco cried out, “It’s an army!”

  His shout startled the chestnut mare. She jerked the lead rope out of his hand and galloped away. Her colt, who was growing fast but as yet unaccustomed to a head collar, raced after her.

  On Tintagel Head, Dinas swore a combination of pagan and Christian profanities.

  Meradoc had his hands full trying to hold on to the dark horse. The stallion was determined to follow the mare. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Dinas shouted, “Come over here now, all of you, and bring the horses with you.”

  Immediate chaos followed his command, but they were beginning to learn discipline. After a frantic scramble, eleven men and all of the horses except for the mare and her foal joined Dinas on Tintagel Head. The horses were relegated to the large artificial terraces; aprons of level land where monks had once grown their crops of peas and beans.

  As the strangers drew nearer Dinas could make out details. The two riders wore mantles trimmed with seal fur. One had a sword on his hip. Some of their followers were carrying weapons—mostly hunting spears or farming implements—but there was no sense of an organized army. This was simply a collection of tribesmen hastily summoned to investigate an incursion into their territory.

  Dinas dispatched his largest men, including Pelemos, to meet them at the neck of land that connected Tintagel to the cliffs. A brief conversation ensued. The two riders dismounted. Accompanied by five of their followers carrying spears and two with pitchforks they made their way along the natural causeway and onto the pinnacle, where Dinas met them.

  The horsemen wore masses of jewelry to identify their chieftainly status. Large brooches set with roughly cut gemstones, elaborately twisted earrings, silver and copper on their fingers and wide bronze bracelets halfway up their arms. The older of the two also wore a massive gilded chain around his neck. An even more massive ornament depended from the chain: a gleaming brass eagle that once had topped a Roman standard. As he walked it swung heavily against his belly.

  Seeing the direction of Dinas’s glance, he said emphatically, “Mine. Mine by right.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Dinas replied. “I was just admiring it. It must take a strong neck to carry that.”

  The eagle wearer’s stern features softened ever so slightly at the compliment. “A chieftain’s neck,” he said. “And your rank, stranger? What gives you the right to occupy Tintagel?”

  Dinas had expected such a decisive moment, though it had come earlier than he liked. It would have been far better to greet the first challenge with a stronghold already built and fully manned. Instead he had eight or nine untrained warriors and a pile of ruins at his back.

  But he was ready. He began by introducing himself as “Dinas of Tintagel.”

  The other two exchanged surprised glances.

  “And your names are?” Dinas inquired politely.

  In a grudging voice the eagle wearer said, “I am called Kollos. This is my brother Geriotis.”

  The three men nodded to one another, following the ancient tradition. Dinas promptly launched into the speech he had composed many weeks ago; during the long nights beneath the stars. “I am Dinas of Tintagel because I have claimed and occupied this place. Abandoned land belongs to the man who is strong enough to take it. That is the way in Britannia now.”

  “Britannia?” queried Geriotis. “You are in the kingdom of the Dumnonii. We recognize no authority but our own.”

  Dinas directed his reply to Kollos. “Yet I see you take pride in displaying the symbol of Roman authority.”

  The eagle
wearer hesitated. “Are you claiming to have Roman authority?”

  His question confirmed what Dinas had suspected: The inhabitants of this remote corner of the island remained unaware of events beyond their own borders. For all they knew, Rome still had its foot on British necks.

  Instead of answering the Kollos’s question, Dinas told him, “What you see here is an advance party only. There will be more coming, of course. Under my direct command,” he added, wanting the Dumnonians to infer that Rome knew about and sanctioned the expedition.

  Geriotis gestured toward the group that had accompanied them, and was now strung out along the edge of the cliffs. “We have more than thirty men with us,” he boasted.

  Dinas responded with an easy laugh. “Thirty men; as many as that? I have a hundred within two days’ march, and more on the way.”

  The bejewelled Dumnonians exchanged glances again. “Will they be bringing their women with them?” Kollos wanted to know. His voice betrayed his eagerness. At the end of the world too many women died in childbirth.

  Aha.

  Dinas let his laughter subside to a knowing smile. “What army travels without women?”

  Geriotis cleared his throat. “We are famed for our hospitality,” he said rather stiffly.

  “So I understand. We shall not abuse it; we only wish to establish a settlement of Britons; Celtic people like the Dumnonii. Our women are very beautiful,” he added as if it were an afterthought.

  “So this is not a hostile invasion?”

  “Of course not, we are suffering from hostile invasion ourselves. Tribes of foreign barbarians,” Dinas elaborated, dropping his voice to a sinister near-whisper. “They’re crowding our people off their land; that’s why we need to settle elsewhere. Among our own kind,” he emphasized. He raised his voice. “Bryn, step over here! Just look at this man,” he said to the Dumnonians. “What invading army puts scrawny old men in its front rank?” Another smile.

  “Dinas is pushing his luck,” Pelemos murmured to Meradoc. “I don’t like this.”