“Welcome, Corc mac Luigthig,” replied Artorius, looking at the newcomers with keen interest. Feidlimid was a wealthy king, by Hibernian standards, and his envoys reflected that wealth. Corc wore a coat of silver ring-mail under his woollen plaid, which bore a pattern of green and black squares. In the crook of his arm he carried a helmet of hard tanned leather, and slung over his back was a small oval shield. This was of bronze, ornamented with circular rows of projecting studs. The spearmen behind him were not so well-armed. They wore saffron-coloured belted tunics of soft wool and wicker shields on their backs. No man was allowed to carry weapons into the Round Hall, so the Scotti had been deprived of their spears and fearsome long knives.
Corc met the High King’s gaze fearlessly.
“My master sent me to warn you, lord king, and to appeal for your aid as his overlord. All the petty kings of Hibernia, of Osraige and Laigin, Meide and Airgialla and the Uí Néill have banded together to attack him. An unholy confederacy. Their combined war bands have overrun the north of Munster, and even now slaughter and enslave our folk. Villages are being burnt, men slaughtered, widows and virgins leashed together with leather bonds and driven away like cattle. The land bleeds, lord king. Our people are reduced to starvation or devour each other like brute beasts.”
Artorius sat bolt upright. Hibernia had been quiet for years, ever since he campaigned there and slew the rebellious kings in the north. There had been no major trouble since, bar the usual cattle raids and internal feuding.
“Ten days gone, my master gathered his war band and met the enemy in open battle,” Corc went on. “I was at his side, where I belong, and there was two days of good fighting. The warriors of Munster fought with uncommon courage, but there were too many men falling upon us. After heaping the field with their dead, we were forced to quit the field. Now my king is besieged at the Rock of Caiseal. Meanwhile our enemies rove about as they please and lay waste the kingdom.”
Corc blinked back tears. “Soon Munster will cease to exist. Our people were already ravaged by the Yellow Plague, and this latest war may wipe them from the earth. King Feidlimid cannot hold out at the Rock for long.”
“How did you get out?” asked Artorius. His mind raced, calculating ships and troop numbers.
“I crept through the siege lines at night. The enemy lay swine drunk on plundered mead, or else diced and brawled around their fires, and failed to see me.”
Artorius made his decision. His authority in Hibernia had to be restored, quickly, before Munster was overwhelmed. He would not go back to the old days, when Scotti pirates from Hibernia ravaged the western coasts of Britannia, even while the Saxons threatened in the east. Weakened by the Yellow Plague, his kingdom could not survive an attack from two directions at once.
“I will go in person to Hibernia,” he declared, “with an army at my back. Fear not, Corc mac Luigthig. The Companions shall ride to war once again.”
Corc dropped to one knee and bowed his head, as did the men of his escort.
“This is greatness,” cried the Scotti warrior, tears streaming down his face. “We knew you would not fail us, great king.”
Artorius stood up, all business now. The prospect of a new campaign, a fresh foe to fight, caused the blood of his warlike Votadini ancestors to pump faster. He felt young again.
I was born to fight, he thought, to lead men in war.
“Bedwyr,” he cried, “give orders for the fleet to assemble. The boom on the harbour shall be lifted. We sail as soon as our forces are gathered.”
The veteran warrior bowed and strode away. Other captains at the Round Table looked expectantly at their king, waiting for orders. They were all Companions; none of the sub-kings of Britannia were present, since they only attended council three times a year. Their chairs stood empty. Medraut rose from his seat.
“Lord king,” he said, “I would ask something of you.”
“Approach the dais, my son,” Artorius replied indulgently. “Let me hear what you have to say.”
The tall, saturnine young man crossed the length of the Hall and stood before the royal dais.
11.
“Send me west, to Mons Ambrius and the Great Dyke,” said Medraut, “with you in Hibernia, it is vital our western borders are properly guarded. As Magister Militum this duty falls to me.”
His father looked surprised, and stroked his beard a moment before responding.
“The Yellow Plague still rages in the east. You would be placing yourself in danger.”
“All the more reason for me to go. Our garrisons are decimated. Many forts lie empty. What is to prevent Saxon war-bands breaking through and wasting our lands? The enemy must know we are not defenceless.”
His father pondered awhile. Medraut waited, his back straight as a spear, staring at a fixed point just above the High King’s left shoulder. Long years in the Roman army had taught him the best way of talking to superior officers. It was a case of not meeting their eye.
“There have been reports of activity on the frontier,” Artorius said. “No fighting as yet, but the sea-wolves are on the prowl. Sniffing for weakness. As ever.”
Medraut took a step towards his father’s chair.
“Then let me go and kill a few,” he said with feigned eagerness, “nail up their bodies on stakes, send their heads to Cerdic at Londinium. It will be good exercise for our young Companions.”
“True,” said Artorius with a sigh, “very well. Take fifty riders and patrol the region north of Mons Ambrius to the Great Dyke. Our defences are weakest there, so leave men to reinforce the forts if necessary. Take labourers with you as well. The palisade is said to be broken in places.”
Medraut bowed. “Thank you, father. I will not let you down.”
He gathered his men and set out at once, riding hard for the eastern frontier, on the borders of old Dumnonia. The Great Dyke was the enormous series of defences built by Ambrosius to guard the western half of Britannia from the fury of the Saxons. The dyke ran for over twenty miles, a series of chain-forts linked by earth and timber palisades on raised earthworks. The Yellow Plague, no respecter of even the strongest fortifications, had stormed the dyke and depleted many of the British garrisons. Eight of the forts now lay empty, while others were guarded by only a few brave men who crept back after the worst of the disease had passed.
Medraut had no fear of the Yellow Plague. He put his faith in destiny, and Myrddyn’s prophecy. Whenever he felt weak, and his belief in fate slackened a little, the words of the old seer surfaced again in his mind.
“The people shall go fatherless after the Dragon dies through a Wolf who will wage war against him in the end of his life…”
Medraut was the Wolf. His father was the Dragon. The meaning was clear as day, and a glorious fate stretched before him. Most of the young Companions looked to him now, after the dismal failure of the Quest. Next to his aged father, worn down by decades of warfare and kingship, Medraut cut a flamboyant, dashing figure. He deliberately lived up to it, rode only the finest horses, decked himself out in the best armour and clothing. His crimson cloak, such as all Companions wore, was fringed with purple, the colour of kings and emperors. Medraut wanted to remind the world of his royal blood.
He turned to Duach, one of his most devoted followers.
“My faith is in you,” Medraut told him. “Take a fast horse and ride to Londinium. Succeed in your task, and you will be rewarded when I am High King.”
“Yes, lord,” Duach said obediently. He left before the rest of the company, and rode east into Saxon territory while Medraut took his men to the frontier.
Medraut was careful to follow his father’s instructions. He spent a week marching up and down the length of the Great Dyke, posting men inside the deserted forts and teams of workmen to mend damaged sections of palisade. Afterwards he pitched his headquarters at Mons Ambrius, the old hill-fort south of the dyke, and here spoke to the officer in charge of the defence of the frontier.
“The Saxons ke
ep a close watch on us,” this man explained. “For years they didn’t dare to approach the dyke, but since the plague they have grown bolder.”
“The rampart is broken down in places,” said Medraut. “On the way here, I passed the burnt-out shells of villages and farms. Corpses strewn in the fields. Your task is to defend the eastern limits of the kingdom. You are failing in that task.”
The officer went pale.
“We are thinly spread, lord prince. I don’t have enough men to defend the entire stretch of the dyke. Instead I keep a mounted reserve at Mons Ambrius. Whenever a band of Saxon raiders breaks through, we ride out and chase them back over the border. It has worked so far.”
Medraut snorted.
“At a cost in British lives. Your auxiliaries are supposed to prevent these raids, not deal with them after they occur.”
The officer swallowed, lost for a reply. Medraut shook his head in mock despair, thoroughly enjoying the other man’s discomfort.
This is power, he thought. This is how the Emperor of the Romans feels, when men cringe before him and beg for their miserable lives. This is how my father feels, deny it as he may.
“Well,” he said, clapping his hands. “The damage is done, and there is no use picking over past mistakes. The High King sent me here to guard the border. I mean to do just that.”
He dismissed the officer and ate his supper alone, in the private chamber screened off from the hall by a curtain. This chamber had once been occupied by his father, in the days when Artorius was Magister Militum, and Ambrosius before him. The fort itself, Mons Ambrius, was named after Ambrosius. Both men had risen to wield supreme power in Britannia. Medraut took it as an omen.
The next day Duach returned from his mission in the east. Shortly after dawn he clattered through the gates of Mons Ambrius, having ridden all night from Londinium. Exhausted and splattered with dirt, he flung himself down before Medraut and gasped out his news.
“Success, lord prince,” he panted. “Cerdic has agreed. He is already on the march, and in two days will meet us on the highway, ten miles west of Mons Ambrius.”
Medraut flushed. His heart skipped wildly in his chest. The time had come.
“Rouse our men,” he ordered. “Have them gather outside the barracks. Go!”
Tired as he was, Duach ran outside. Medraut paused a moment to compose himself, took deep breaths to calm his heart. Then he swiftly armed, and with shaking fingers donned his mail shirt, sword-belt, gauntlets and helmet.
Once ready, he strode out of the hall to meet his men. The Companions were already arranged in neat ranks, fully armed, outside the row of timber barrack-huts. Every man knew what to expect. The sentries on the ramparts of the fort glanced down at them with mild curiosity.
Medraut halted to take in the scene. The world around seemed to slow, as though holding its breath. All was peaceful and orderly. A few slaves pottered to and fro, hens scratched about in the dirt. The dragon banner on the gatehouse fluttered in a gentle breeze. Medraut gazed at it for a moment.
He slowly drew his spatha. A gift from the Emperor Zeno as a reward for valour in battle, it had tasted the blood of many barbarian peoples; Visigoths, Saxons, Scotti, Picts. Now it would gorge on Medraut’s countrymen.
“Attack!” he shouted.
His men immediately dispersed and set about their work. The peace of the fort was shattered by a dreadful high-pitched shriek as the first slave died, pinned against the wall of a hut and stabbed through the heart. Others swiftly followed. The screams of terrified men and women rose into the sky, futile pleas for mercy, howls of agony.
A few of the slaves scattered and ran for their lives.
“Let them go!” shouted Medraut. “Kill the soldiers!”
The Companions knew their business. Duach led half of them onto the walkway to attack the sentries, while Medraut took the rest to storm the barracks. Men tumbled out of the huts, amazed and baffled, taken completely unawares. Medraut charged at the nearest, who stood gaping at him in shock. The man wasn’t even armed, yet Medraut cut him down anyway. He dropped, shuddering and spurting blood from a livid gash in the side of his neck.
Medraut stepped over his body and swung at another man, who instinctively raised an arm to guard himself. The keen-edged blade of the spatha sliced through his forearm, severing hand and wrist. He backed away, whimpering in pain as he clutched the stump. Medraut smashed him aside. The Companions swarmed in their leader’s wake, baying like hounds. They speared and chopped down the hapless soldiers, butchered them until the ground was slick with British blood.
“Search the barracks!” Medraut howled. “Kill everyone you find! No mercy, no survivors! Do you hear me? No survivors!”
He watched in grim satisfaction as the task was carried out. The barracks were swept clean of life, occupants murdered in their beds or dragged outside to be hacked to death. Medraut had planned this massacre well in advance. Not a single member of the garrison must be allowed to escape and carry the tale of his treachery back to the High King.
The commander of the fort stumbled out of his quarters, sword in hand, clad only in his braccae and undershirt. He stared around him in total confusion, hair dishevelled, mouth open, eyes full of confusion. Medraut stalked towards him.
“What...” stammered the officer, “lord prince, what is happening? Is it the Saxons? Why was the alarm not sounded?”
He realised his danger just in time. Cursing, he fell on guard and parried the savage cut Medraut unleashed at his sword. Their blades clashed twice more, until Medraut thrust under his ribs and drove the point of his spatha deep into the man’s gut. His victim gasped, exhaled like a burst sack, and collapsed to his knees.
“You...” he choked, blood pouring from his mouth. “Traitor...why...traitor...”
“No time to explain,” said Medraut. He sliced downwards at an angle, cleaved through the officer’s skull, split flesh and bone and sinew. He gave a sharp twist and yanked it free. Blood sprayed into the air and dirtied his armour.
The pitiless slaughter continued. Medraut’s men hunted in packs, put all they found to the sword. Fighting raged on the walls as Duach’s men struggled to overcome the sentries, who were armed and had some warning of the massacre. Medraut told his men on the ground to fetch bows from the armoury. This was done, and the defenders on the wall shot down until all lay dead or dying.
Medraut surveyed the carnage. He breathed hard, used the cloak of a fallen soldier to wipe his blade clean.
“Mons Ambrius is ours,” he cried. “The war against the tyrant has begun!” His men, slathered and reeking of gore, raised their bloodied weapons and shouted in triumph.
Two days later, soon after first light, Medraut waited nervously on the highway ten miles west of Mons Ambrius. This was the old Roman road from Londinium, made of square-cut flagstones laid together to form a straight route to and from the capital into the west of Britannia.
It was also Saxon territory. The invaders had allowed the highway to fall into disrepair, just as they left the old Roman towns and villas to decay. It was broken and overgrown with weeds. Entire sections of stone were missing, plundered by local peasants for their own use. Yet still the line of the ancient highway could be traced across the land.
Dawn came laden with mist, draping the hills in a grey mantle. Medraut strained his eyes to see through the murk.
“Where in hells are they?” he muttered to himself, over and over. Consumed with agitation, he gnawed at his bottom lip until it bled. At his back were forty mounted Companions. The others had been left behind at Mons Ambrius, with the unenviable task of clearing up the previous day’s slaughter. Medraut wanted the corpses of their victims to be carried out of the fort and dumped in pits. They were not to be burnt: such a fire would alert the garrisons along the Great Dyke. Too many of those men were still loyal to Artorius. The rebellion had to be kept secret for as long as possible.
Medraut heard the Saxons before he saw them. First the baying of their wa
r-horns cut through the heavy stillness of dawn. The direful noise echoed back and forth among the hills. Then the ominous pounding of drums, the steady tramp of thousands of marching feet. The voices of their warriors, a thunderous deep-throated roar, were raised in song. Medraut, who had no grasp of their language, thought it sounded like the bellowing of so many angry bulls.
“God help us,” he exclaimed. “I warned Cerdic to meet us in silence. Does he wish to rouse the entire country?”
He glared at Duach, who gave a helpless shrug. Medraut switched his attention to the Saxon host, now visible through the mist. The men in the centre were the huscarls, Cerdic’s bodyguard, huge warriors in byrnies of silver ringmail, helms with boar crests, round shields and spears. They carried the dreaded long Saxon knife, the seax, stuck into their belts, and double-headed axes strapped across their broad backs. On the flanks marched the lesser men, the thegns and ceorls. Most of these were armed with spears and shields and wore no armour, save an iron helm or mail coat here and there.
Before the army came the Saxon priests, a rabble of men in loincloths and ragged cloaks. Their pale white bodies were smeared with garish tattoos, hair spiked with cow dung. They twirled their spears, chanted in weird ululating voices, danced and leaped like madmen. Medraut wrinkled his nose at their stench.
His pulse quickened at the sight of Cerdic, the Bretwalda himself. The dread king of the Saxons was borne aloft on a high chair, carried by a team of eight sweating slaves. Burly and red-haired, he wore a red cloak fastened with a brooch of red gold in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head, and under the cloak a byrnie painted gold. More gold glinted from the heavy rings on his fingers, the torc on his thickly muscled neck, the twisted metal serpents adorning his brawny upper arms. He was bareheaded, and his heavy features might have been carved from stone. One powerful hand rested on the red and gold hilt of his sword, thrust into a red scabbard decorated with gold clasps and multifaceted jewels and garnets, glinting dully in the weak morning light.
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