After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Or the future,” Bryn replied. “Either is possible, you know. Or maybe you don’t know. Young people these days…”

  At night Dinas began sharing a hut with Meradoc and Tostig. He explained that he slept better close to the ground. Which was true.

  No merchant vessels dared the Oceanus Hibernicus in the dead of winter. The supplies Dinas had purchased with the stolen wine would be almost gone by Christmas. “I should have rationed our food from the beginning,” he said to Bryn. “I don’t suppose you know of any edible roots and herbs we haven’t found yet?”

  “If I did, I would have eaten them by now,” the healer admitted.

  Dinas and Meradoc set out again with packhorses and saddlebags. They visited three separate Dumnonian villages without finding anyone who wanted to buy the Capuan perfume. The women wrinkled their noses. “It stinks like a farting fox,” one haughtily informed Dinas.

  After examining the Corinthian bronze ornaments with grave suspicion, the patriarch of a fourth extended family chose to be insulted. “You offer me the figure of an ass!”

  Dinas took back the brooch and looked at it himself. “That isn’t an ass, it’s an embossed horse. It may not be a very good representation, but I promise you, that’s what it is. A horse is a noble emblem indeed, you should be honored.” Using flattery and guile in equal measure he eventually persuaded the man to buy two brooches for a fraction of their value. A she-goat and a straw basket filled with birds’ eggs. As they were riding away Meradoc said, “You told me those bronze things were fancy cloak fasteners.”

  “They are,” Dinas confirmed.

  “But you told that man they would keep his prick stiff all night if he rubbed them on it.”

  Dinas raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Did I? Who knows; maybe they will. Stranger things have happened.”

  Meradoc laughed. “Now that is funny.”

  In appalling weather they crisscrossed a sizable portion of Dumnonii territory. They did not meet the two chieftains who had greeted them upon their arrival at Tintagel, nor did they find anyone as hospitable. Some helped them out of pity; some shouted at them and threw stones. At last, when nothing was left in the saddlebags but the wooden plate and the stone cup, they made their way back to Tintagel.

  “We can survive on what we have,” Dinas assured his men, “if we go hunting every single day and bring back anything we can find. Even vermin.”

  “I didn’t think the Saxons had come this far,” said Tostig the Otter.

  On the coldest days of winter the entire band crowded into the tower to hear Pelemos tell stories. Although their bellies were cramping with hunger, his words filled the dark chamber with sun and summer. Disheartened, discontented men who had been talking about leaving decided that things were not so bad after all. They felt part of something almost mystical; a brotherhood of heroes extending back into the distant past.

  Albion.

  Standing off to one side, Dinas tried to fathom the power of the bardic art.

  Does everyone dream of a secret Albion; a place in the heart, not the head? Is that what a true leader gives his followers?

  If he knows how.

  I wish I knew how. But at least I have Pelemos.

  Strange to think that I came upon him by accident. I didn’t even want to bother with him at first because I thought he was simple. And he is, though not in the way I meant then. There’s nothing wrong with his mind. His simplicity is his strength. He uses it to lighten the burdens of others, while his serenity lifts their spirits. With Saba’s lambs he showed a totally masculine tenderness I had never seen before. I envy it, as I would envy someone who hears music I can’t hear. Pelemos is the quietest of men; he lives in a world of his own most of the time, yet the less he says, the more he is admired. People are drawn to him like iron filings. My men speculate on his saintliness.

  I, who believe in nothing but myself, am amused by ordinary men crediting sainthood to another ordinary man—though their delusion serves me well.

  Then Dinas stopped speculating altogether and lost himself in the story Pelemos was telling. A story about a band of courageous men who performed many wondrous deeds. In the shadowy tower of Tintagel, it seemed plausible.

  The winter dragged on. Dinas was the only one of the men familiar with eating shellfish; to the others the armored denizens of the deep were creatures out of nightmare. However hunger was a quick teacher. Soon they were scouring the rocks in search of crabs and barnacles.

  The sparse grass atop the cliffs was rimed with ice, it crunched when the horses tried to crop it. But they learned too. Although men and horses grew thin, no one actually starved.

  Yet still it was winter. Dark and cold and relentless.

  One day Docco suggested they might have to eat the horses if things got any worse. “They’re no good to us anyway,” he said. “We can’t gallop along the coast in search of ships when there aren’t any ships. One horse would feed us for at least…”

  The look Dinas gave Docco contained more ice than the winter wind. “One man would feed us almost as long,” he snarled, “and be more tender. You, for example. You have more fat on you than anyone else.”

  After that there was no talk of eating the horses.

  Then one morning there was a perceptible change in the angle of the light. A few days later the omnipresent wind swung around and began to blow out of the south. The horses stopped trying to tear nourishment out of the reluctant earth and lifted their heads, sniffing through distended nostrils.

  The dark stallion whinnied to the chestnut mare. She answered with longing to equal his own.

  Spring was in the air. It sang through the veins like red wine. Men who were weak with hunger began to believe they would be stronger soon. And they were.

  With spring the tin trade resumed. Ships began to appear along the coast again. Most had sails of various descriptions, from square to triangular. Some were exotic in outline. “Byzantine, I think. Or eastern anyway,” Dinas remarked to Tostig. A few of the ships were broad-beamed timber vessels like those known to be used by the Saxons, totally dependent on oar power. Dinas made no effort to attack those.

  He realized their first success had been a fluke. The task of seizing and boarding ships was both dangerous and complicated. The horses were useful for hurrying men to landing sites, but then someone had to hold them during the action, which tended to excite the animals. Once or twice they broke away and their chagrined riders had a long walk ahead of them.

  The men they were trying to rob were also uncooperative. Dinas and his band soon discovered they were not the only pirates at work along the southwestern coast, and merchants from the east had begun arming themselves. “I suppose it was inevitable that others would have the same idea I did,” Dinas admitted to Meradoc. “I just wish they had waited a little longer, until we had more men and arms ourselves.”

  “Perhaps we should have waited until then,” Meradoc suggested.

  Dinas glowered at him. “I’ll take care of the thinking; you take care of the horses.”

  He put Dafydd in charge of what he called “seagoing operations.” When a landing party had been waylaid, captured and securely bound, Dafydd and the other recruits would take their boat and return to the ship, where they captured and bound the crew and then helped themselves to the portable merchandise.

  It only worked once the way Dinas had envisioned. Next time out, Docco got violently seasick in the rough swells and almost fell out of the boat. Dafydd took pity on him and headed back for shore, which gave the crew on board the merchant ship adequate time to prepare to repel them. They seized Dafydd and Cadel as they climbed up the boarding net and threatened to cut their throats unless their sailors were released at once.

  Dinas was furious.

  “You couldn’t have done any better if you’d been there,” Cynan told him.

  “Someone has to wait on shore to oversee the operation!”

  “Then let me do it and you go in the boat.”

/>   “I am your commanding officer,” Dinas said with fire in his eyes, “and I…”

  “You what? If we leave can you do this by yourself?”

  Dinas had not anticipated mutiny. He took it badly. He tried bluster but it did not suit him, and the recruits, having survived a very hard winter, were not easy to bluff. In the end he promised them a larger share of the spoils when there were spoils, and agreed to take his turn in the boat.

  On the next occasion the boat they seized capsized shortly after they left land, headed for the ship. The recruits had to swim for their lives—mountain men who did not know how to swim. Tostig lived up to his nickname by paddling frantically until his body understood what was required. Together he and Dinas dragged the others to safety.

  Except for Hywel. He was last seen only a short distance from safety. A round head with wet hair plastered over it; one arm upflung in entreaty. Then he was gone. They set up a vigil along the cliffs, watching for his body, but nothing came ashore.

  This was different from the death of Tarates. Hywel was one of their own. The recruits could have accepted a death in battle, as they had accepted the frequent deaths involved in quarrying in the mountains. But to have a comrade die in the cold, alien sea appalled them. They were stunned speechless. Even Cadel made no comment.

  Bryn retreated to the tower and communed among the shadows with his own gods.

  Meradoc groomed the dark horse over and over and over again, until the stallion pinned his ears back and demanded to be left alone.

  That night Pelemos thought about Hywel, and the arm upflung in supplication. Thought about dying.

  Thought about Ithill.

  When she was dying he had laid his head on the straw mattress beside her and pressed his cheek to her temple. Her feverish temple where the hair clung in damp ringlets. He had sought to dream her dream; to dream into death with her so they would never be separated.

  It was thus, as he clung to her like a conjoined twin, that he had felt something go out of her. As ephemeral as a shadow yet as real as a flame, it had fled from him to a far place.

  He had cried out and clutched her with all his strength. But she was gone.

  Yet there had been a single moment—he was convinced of it then, and would be so for the rest of his life—a tiny slice of time when he might have interposed himself between her and the force that was drawing her away. He might have kept her forever.

  Forever.

  Was that not where she had gone? Into forever?

  He had willed himself to follow her but his traitor body would not release him. His heart had kept beating, his lungs had kept breathing. Why? For what purpose?

  Surely not to lure others to their deaths.

  The following morning Pelemos sought out Dinas and asked for a quiet word alone with him. Dinas nodded assent. The lines in his face seemed deeper than they had been the day before.

  The two walked down to one of the terraces where another rectilinear hut was being built. The work was temporarily postponed due to bad weather. “I for one think we’ve followed your dream far enough,” Pelemos began as they sought shelter from the wind behind the half-built hut. “Creating your own kingdom … a man has a right to attempt that, Dinas. But not to spend the lives of other men for it.”

  Dinas raised an eyebrow. “How else does one acquire a kingdom?”

  “I never thought about it before. Did you? Do you really know how hard it would be to create a kingdom? When I was a boy I dreamed of having my own farm, and even that was incredibly hard.

  “You’re not a bad person, Dinas, and I don’t condemn you for a bit of piracy. We might all have profited if things went the way you planned. But I see no profit in this, only danger and death. The crewmen we waylaid last time told me they had done their trading already and were heading back to the north. The only cargo they had on board their ship was tin ingots; a heavy load of ingots. What would we have done with those? Who would have bought them from us, the Dumnonians? It was their tin in the first place.

  “If we were lucky, Dinas, we might have had two or three profitable years here, but merchants don’t like being robbed. Either they would find new shipping lanes or start fighting back. Either way…”

  “Either way,” Dinas repeated glumly. He stared at his hands. Cracked his knuckles. Looked up with a forced smile. “Suppose we had more men; a hundred, say, or even two hundred—”

  “Remember how hard it was to recruit these,” Pelemos interrupted.

  “You helped me gain their trust, Pelemos.”

  “And look what it did for Hywel: He’s dead. No, Dinas, this life isn’t for me. For a while I was like a man asleep, I just trundled along behind you. I’m awake now, and I can see that I don’t belong here.”

  “What will I do without you?” Dinas asked, trying not to sound desperate. “I can’t inspire the men the way you do.”

  Pelemos shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dinas. Truly I am. But…”

  “But what? Where will you go?”

  “I have a place in mind.”

  “What would persuade you to stay? What can I offer you that—”

  “There is nothing you can offer me, Dinas. Not gold, nor silver, nor anything cold. I’m like Bryn in that respect.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Pelemos said sadly, “I know you don’t. I … wait, there is something I would ask. As a favor; not as a bribe to get me to stay because I cannot. But would you let me take the pony you gave me? And perhaps the horse?”

  Dinas was glad of an excuse to lose his temper. Part of his temper; holding on tight to the deep rage within him that could be tapped in an emergency. “Do you think I’m a fool!” he shouted at Pelemos. “You announce that you’re deserting me and in the next breath you demand two valuable animals?”

  “I’m not demanding,” Pelemos said mildly. “I’m only asking. The pony in particular would be handy where I’m going, but I can walk if I have to. I’ve walked everywhere all my life, riding is new to me.”

  “Handy? A pony? Exactly where are you going?”

  Pelemos met Dinas’s eyes and held them. “Eryri,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “He’s lost his mind,” Dinas told Meradoc. “If Pelemos wasn’t mad to begin with, he is now.”

  “If you think he’s gone mad why did you let him take the horse and the pony?”

  “I doubt if he would get where he’s going without them. He may not anyway, but at least he’ll have a better chance of reaching the high mountains.”

  Meradoc’s jaw dropped. “Is that where he’s going? To her?”

  “You knew about this?”

  “Not really. But a long time ago he asked me if I could find my way back up there. I didn’t think he was serious.”

  Dinas shook his head. “I know one thing about Pelemos, Meradoc. He is always serious.”

  “And you just let him go? I can’t believe it. She’s your woman, isn’t she?”

  Dinas kept his face impassive. “No one can own anyone else, Meradoc, spirits are free. And freedom is the greatest gift of all, my mother taught me that. She abhorred slavery in all its guises, including the domination of women by men.”

  “But Saba could come with you if she wanted to?”

  “She could,” Dinas said tightly. “She didn’t.”

  Meradoc thought it would be tactful to change the subject. “What about horses? They have spirits too, don’t they? Yet we say we own them.”

  “The stallion is as free as I am,” Dinas replied.

  * * *

  The recruits were already upset about the death of Hywel; Dinas was careful in his choice of words when he told them of Pelemos’s departure. “Our friend has a calling to a very different life,” he said. “I sent him with my blessing, and a horse and pony. It was the least I could do when he’s been so good to us.”

  He was not sure they believed him. Looks were exchanged; mutterings were heard. Iolo speculated that Pelemos had gone off
to become an anchorite. But no one mentioned the word “desertion,” and when Meradoc backed Dinas up, a possible crisis was averted.

  There were more immediate matters to worry about. No matter how much he might struggle against it, Dinas knew the truth when he heard it. And Pelemos had told him the truth.

  This isn’t working. If I had more men in the beginning … If I had chosen a different territory … If I had Cadogan with me …

  There’s the problem, I didn’t have Cadogan. With his tidy mind he would have spotted the problems before they arose. He would have planned out the whole thing: how many men, how many horses, where to get them, how to use them … Cadogan knew that a man with no experience of the sea should not attempt what I’ve attempted here.

  But I wanted Tintagel. God help me, how I wanted Tintagel! Dinas, you half-aborted ass, what were you thinking? How can it be that a man wants something so much it blinds him to everything else?

  Saba.

  Too late for that now.

  I hope Pelemos finds her and makes her happy. I really do.

  I hope he falls off his horse and breaks his neck.

  None of this addressed the problem at hand. Pelemos had drawn Dinas’s attention to the fact that he had real responsibilities to the recruits. If he called everything off and sent them home—though he knew his pride would not allow that—they would be disgraced. They had left the quarries and their families with such high hopes. To come back slinking like dogs, with their tails between their legs … he could not do that to them.

  Nor could he continue trying to subsist on inept piracy while ostensibly creating a kingdom.

  What would Cadogan do?

  Take over an already existing kingdom, perhaps?

  Not the entire territory of Dumnonia, that would be impossible. For now.

  But one of the petty kingdoms that made up the whole—that could be done. Not all at once, though. First he would need to ingratiate himself with the current chieftain and …

  Having a new dream to dream increased Dinas’s appetite and put a spring in his step.

  “Does that mean we won’t have to go out in a boat anymore?” Dafydd said hopefully when the plan was presented to the recruits.