Camulod Chronicles Book 6 - The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis

by Whyte, Jack

"No, not really."

  I took it from his hand and poured the. remainder into my own cup. "You heard what Connor said as we were coming here. The men will gather after dinner, to drink mead and make their farewells. It will be a celebration, probably long and noisy. The women will attend as well, of course, but there will be much drinking, and no doubt songs and music. I invited you to come with me—I mean as a man— and Connor made no objection." I sipped. "It occurs to me, however, that you might not wish to come with me. Tress, I know, has talked of returning here tonight, after dinner, to show her finest needlework to young Morag. If such things interest you, I'm sure Tress would be proud and pleased to show you her work, too. What say you?' The joy on his face was all the reward I had hoped for. "Very well, then, I'll make excuses for you to the other gathering, since you must be astir and away to Ravenglass early in the morning. Now, there's one thing more: the future. Morag is a king's daughter, and you are a king's son..."

  I went on then to describe to him at length, using Tress's logic and words, how he would, in fact, see young Morag in years to come, providing he and I emerged victorious from our wars. By the time I had finished, he was a warrior indeed, sparks flashing from his eager eyes, and I knew he would ride into Ravenglass the next day with his soul ablaze with hopes and dreams.

  I placed our empty cups on the table top and we walked together to the dining hall, my arm about his shoulders and my chest swollen with the satisfaction of hearing him talking normally again, his excitement and exuberance spilling out into my ears. He did riot mention Morag once by name, but all his fire, his passion and enthusiasm, was for her and for the hope that lay ahead of them.

  THREE

  In my travels the length and breadth of Britain, I have always found time and provocation to wonder at the influence of the Romans—an influence they have continued to exert long decades after their withdrawal. Perhaps one should expect no less; after all, Britain was a Roman province for nigh on five centuries and thus almost purely Roman in all its civilized ways. But the ubiquitous Romans were predominantly urbanites in Britain, seldom venturing outside the vicinity of the towns they built around their forts, which nurtured them and their civilization. Beyond the towns, the land itself knew another life, supporting other peoples who had lived according to their own ancient ways since long before Julius Caesar first turned his acquisitive eyes towards these shores. These were the true Britanni, the real people of Britain, and they were a tribal race, perhaps a mix of races commingled in the lost and ancient past. The Romans, with their passion for organization, named these clans according to their tribal territories, Romanizing the alien sounds of what the federations living there called themselves and labelling them Trinovantes, Belgae, Iceni, Dobunni and similar names, most of which have been long since unused.

  The entire north-western area, through which we travelled first that spring, was the traditional territory of the Brigantes, the clan from which Derek and his folk had sprung, and it stretched clear across Britain to the Eastern Sea, into the area Vortigern had claimed, within living memory, as his Northumbria. We had left Ravenglass and travelled inland, north by east along the Roman road, the Tenth Iter, to a place that had been known as Brocavum and that now lay empty and abandoned, too close to the Pictish lands above the Wall to be safe for habitation. From there, we, turned south, following the high road to yet another empty, ruined fort, this one much smaller and so long forgotten that its name had been lost, despite the fact that it stood at a crossroads. We spent a pleasant afternoon and night in the shelter of its crumbling walls, then swung west on the right arm of the crossroad for a few miles, before turning southward again at an unnamed bridge over the river there. After travelling some fifty miles, we gained the westward fork that would bring us to Deva, the great fortress town of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix Legion.

  There, even decades after it had been abandoned by its renowned garrison, we found that little had changed. The great fortress that had stood invulnerable and inviolable for so many scores of decades had not yet begun to bow its mighty head to decay, and it hosted a strong and self sufficient populace who had no patience with visiting soldiery, even those who came in peace. These people, presumably descendants of the Cornovii whose ancient territory this was, called their fortress home Chester, a corruption of the Latin word castra, meaning the fort or camp. Although the people there showed us no overt belligerence, they locked and barred their massive gates against us and disdained to recognize our overtures of peace and friendship.

  Regretfully, we left them to their self willed isolation and continued southward, embarking now upon a journey of more than two hundred miles, on roads that stretched through otherwise impenetrable forest, towards the town the Romans had called Corinium, which had been, for untold centuries, the main territorial town of the Dobunni. From Corinium it would be a mere fifty miles to Aquae Sulis, and from there another overnight camp would bring us within reach of Camulod.

  Only near the fort towns where the Roman garrisons and their suppliers once lived had we seen signs of organized, if limited, agriculture: cleared lands, regular fields and marked divisions and boundaries. Now, however, as we approached Corinium, the forests fell away and disappeared and we found ourselves moving through what had evidently once been an arable, treeless landscape with extensive meadows and even cultivated fields, some of which, despite having lain fallow for decades, still showed clear lines of boundaries distinguishing each from its neighbours. We saw no signs of recent agriculture in the first few miles of this terrain; what had once been fertile fields were grossly overgrown with weeds and thistles, rioting shrubs and acres of thriving saplings. Eventually, however, we reached an area where small plots of land had recently been ploughed and planted. These were few and far between, at first, but as we neared the district surrounding Corinium, the cultivated plots grew larger and more numerous. Less than one quarter of the land available had been ploughed or planted, but every field, including those that lay fallow and overgrown, showed the evidence that proclaimed its origins in Roman organization.

  "They grow bigger and more numerous as we approach the town, but you'll see no sign of the fanners. " Philip, who had been riding by my side in silence for more than a mile, must have been watching me eyeing the fields and had read my mind.

  Surprised by his comment, I turned to face him, grimacing and shifting my seat in the saddle. "Why not?" I asked, granting involuntarily as the movement sent a spasm of pain through my buttocks.

  Philip grinned before he answered, his eyes flicking downward to my seat. "Because they've learned to stay well away from targets. Growing things—fresh foodstuffs— attract two legged predators. They fade into the greenwood the moment any unknown faces appear in the region. Farmers nowadays are a strange breed. They've grown afraid of strangers since the armies left, and who can blame them?" His grin widened at the sight of my obvious discomfort. "You've been spending too much time afoot, these past years, Commander Merlyn."

  "Aye," I agreed wryly, "but we've been in the saddle now for fourteen straight days. My seat should be toughened again by this time."

  Philip laughed and shook his head. "This has been a long day. My own backside is sore enough that I can think of nothing else but climbing down. We camped close by here on the way up—an old legionary marching camp on the right of the road, about two miles further on, close by a clear stream. There's little left of it by this time—you can barely see where the old dirt walls used to be—but it's a good spot and still defensible, should the need arise."

  "Excellent. Then we'll use it, soon, I hope." I reached down and dug my fingertips tentatively into my right buttock, then winced from the pain of it. "Tell me more about the local fanners. Ambrose told me some time ago that they had started gathering close by the old Roman towns again but were not living in them. Where do they live, then?"

  Philip shrugged, lifting himself up in his stirrups to look over his shoulder, checking on the group that stretched out behind us. Sati
sfied that all was as it should be, he settled into the saddle again and eased the weight of his helmet from his forehead, loosening the catch beneath his chin and pushing the brim of the heavy headpiece upward with his thumb.

  "Anywhere they can find a place that offers them some safety. And you're right, they avoid the towns." He hawked and spat, leaning forward and away from me. "That seems strange, I know," he continued, straightening again and curbing his horse, which had shied at the sound of his spitting close by its ear. "But it's as it should be. The towns attract unwelcome attention from visitors, and the walls around them too often represent more of a prison than a defence. They also tend to avoid living together in groups of families, and that's something new to me, although I can see a certain sense to it. There was a time when strength in numbers meant safety, but that's no longer the case when the threat to your safety comes from greater numbers who are better armed and trained to fight in concert. Under those conditions, the surest safety lies in flight, and the advantage of flight lies in being alone, or at least fleeing in the smallest possible group.

  'The farmers nowadays tend to isolate themselves in small, tight family units. Each family takes care of its own fields from a distance, travelling to and from them every day. It makes sense, considering the risks involved in growing crops. If a family decides to tackle it at all—and they really have no choice—they'll farm at least two fields, but more often three or more, and they take care that each is as distant from the others as possible. Once the crops are ready to be harvested in safety, then they'll bring them in as quietly as possible, one field at a time. If a crop is lost for any reason—if one, let's say, is harvested by bandits forcing locals to do the work for them—why then the family simply hopes that their remaining fields will rest untouched, and they'll be able to live off those crops. In the meantime, they live in a hut or a lean-to somewhere close to the woods. If they're threatened, they flee into the forest, and if their hovel is burned or torn down, they can build another just like it within a day or so."

  As I listened to Philip, the realization came to me, tinged with a sense of shame, that I had never thought, analytically, about the lives of ordinary people, out here in the open countryside, without the benefit of a colony or a fortified town to protect them. While I had dreamed of the future of Britain in the safety of my secluded fort, with the strength of Camulod's troops and all the trappings of Roman civilization at my disposal, these people—the very people who would live out that dream and bring it to fruition— were leading lives that were brutal, bloody and fearful. I found myself staring at Philip, appalled both by the implications of his words, and by the casual way he uttered them. I had to fight down an unjust urge to turn the rough edge of my tongue on him. Instead, I forced myself to sit quietly and look about me until I had regained control of my suddenly turbulent emotions.

  "So," I said eventually. "I have not heard you say so, but you give me the impression you believe these people deserve their lot in life?"

  Philip looked at me now as if I were the one saying appalling things, and then his eyes narrowed and he nodded, a tiny gesture of acknowledgement. "They live the only kind of life they know, Commander, and it is their lot, beyond our power to change or influence." I noted his use of my formal title, rather than the name he was entitled to use as an old friend. "All we can do is thank God our lives are as they are, and not like theirs. Short of establishing a garrison in Corinium, which would be impossible, I can't think of a thing we could do to improve their lot."

  I grunted, and spurred my horse to a trot, leaving Philip behind. He made no effort to catch up to me, and for the next half hour I rode alone, mulling over what he had told me.

  I was still thinking on it when we reached the appointed campground and our people began setting up our tents and horse lines for the night. I maintained my distance from everyone, even at supper, carrying my meal away and sitting alone with my thoughts. Tress obviously knew that I had some concern or other nagging at me. She was clever enough and considerate enough to keep her distance and allow me to stew in my own juices for as long as necessary, knowing that I would come to her soon. I was grateful to her for that, and aware that she would also keep others away from me.

  Philip and the others might think of these farm folk as a breed apart, but I knew that opinion to be a vessel that would not hold water. Most of the soldiers of Camulod, and the majority of our most worthy Colonists, had been drawn from this region and from the ranks of these same people. We had been forced to close our gates against the others, immuring ourselves for our own protection and welfare in the face of the impossibility of feeding and protecting everyone in Britain. This was something I had always known and accepted, from my earliest boyhood. Why then, I asked myself, should I be feeling guilt and anger at myself now?

  I was still thinking the same discomforting thoughts as I made my way to my tent, but there was to be little sleep for me that night. I had barely begun to unbuckle my armour when I heard a minor commotion outside. I refastened my harness and made my way back out into the firelight, wondering what was happening. At first I could see nothing, although the rising sounds of voices and approaching feet told me that I would, soon. I started towards the centre of the encampment and saw the crowd come into view: at least half a score of men carrying spears and looking purposeful.

  Philip had emerged from the headquarters tent and was moving towards them, but as I approached the central fire I heard my name being called quietly and saw Dedalus coming towards me. He held up his hand to silence me before I could speak, and, taking me by the elbow, he steered me away from the fire again.

  "We have a prisoner."

  "A prisoner? Ded, we're not at war."

  "Well then, we have an unwilling guest."

  "Who is he?'

  "I don't know. A local, I suppose. Falvo's people picked him up, on the far leg of their patrol. He was alone, and armed. He tried to run and they surrounded him. Didn't know what to do with him, so they brought him back."

  "Very well, then, what was it about this man that made Falvo decide to bring him in? I'm presuming the man's no ordinary farmer, otherwise, knowing Falvo, he'd have knocked him on the head and left him there asleep, where they found him. And yet you said the fellow's local."

  "Well, that's my guess, but he's no local Celt. I'm sure of that. He's Roman or I'm a barbarian. And judging from his clothing and weapons, he's wealthy."

  "What d'you mean, Roman?'"

  The answer was preceded by a snort of impatience. "What should I mean? He's short, squat, arrogant, black eyed, clean-shaven, and he's got a beak like an eagle. He's as Roman as I am."

  I sighed. "Hmm. Roman, well dressed, well armed and wealthy. Well, we haven't seen much evidence of his like around here. So let's go and meet him." I paused, looking across the fire to Falvo's patrol. "Before we do that, though, perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened."

  The knot of men surrounding the newcomer was no more than ten long paces from where Ded and I stood watching, and I could see the glint of firelight reflecting from their spearheads. Philip, who was Officer of the Watch, was huddled there with Falvo, slightly apart from the group, his head down as he listened. I looked beyond them, hoping to find a glimpse of the stranger, but I could see only my own men. Dedalus, in the meantime, had launched into his account.

  "Falvo and his troop were at the far end of their sweep, about ten miles from here—"

  "Ten miles? What in Hades was he doing that far away?"

  Dedalus shrugged. "What he was supposed to be doing, scouting. He had good reason to be there, too. Falvo will tell you all of it himself, in his patrol report, but I think you should hear the gist of it now, before you speak to our pris—, to our guest. They were about five miles out, on a normal, uneventful sweep, when one of Falvo's men remarked that the fields they were riding through were very different to those they'd passed earlier. They were bigger, and more of them were under cultivation. Falvo realized the man was rig
ht and that the further they went, the more fields they saw, but they'd seen no farms, no houses, no people. He was curious, and so he decided to keep riding. Within a few more miles, they were riding through the richest farmland Falvo has ever seen. He says it looks as though someone has organized land holdings out there at least as big as ours in the Colony.

  "They were riding in an arc, veering eastward and following a river valley, looking for any signs of life they could find, and they saw none. It was about mid-afternoon, and Falvo told me he was starting to grow itchy—not because he was afraid, but because he knew he was well beyond where he ought to be, out of touch with us. Anyone he met out there would be hostile—because they'd think he and his men were up to no good. And he was beginning to realize, too, that trouble could come in large numbers. Hundreds of fields, hundreds of angry people.

  "Falvo decided to finish his sweep then and there by swinging east. There's a road there, which leads directly south again to join this one just outside Corinium. Then he discovered that there's a mile thick belt of forest between the fields and the road—obviously a screen to discourage visitors. As they approached the edge of the trees, riding in skirmish line abreast, one of his men, Samuel Cato, flushed our visitor, by sheer accident. The fellow's a fighter, that much is obvious. He attacked Cato on foot immediately he was discovered. Charged right at him with only a shortsword. He should have died right then and there, but he succeeded in frightening Cato's horse and unseating him. He ran then, making no attempt to injure Cato once he was unhorsed, but before he could get away the troopers on either side caught up to him and one of them, seeing what the fellow was wearing, tripped him by thrusting a spear between his feet. Knocked the wind out of him, apparently, and by the time he recovered they had him in custody."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "Armour—Roman armour."

  "Hmm Quick thinking on the part of the trooper who tripped him. He should be commended. Was Cato badly hurt?"