by James Wilde
The wood-priest had leaned on his long staff as he navigated the meandering track, so unlike the straight roads of Rome. He kept his eyes high, watching the paths of sparrows as if they would reveal to him any dangers around the next turn.
They slept beside a still lake that was like a mirror lit by the moon. Myrrdin had told him it was one of the doors to the Otherworld, perhaps even the Summerlands, where the dead walked in fields of bliss. In the night, he’d woken and peered into those shining waters, and thought he could see a face just beneath the surface staring back at him. Oddly, he felt no fear. Instead his heart had soared.
When he woke the next morning, he convinced himself it had been a dream.
And now here they were at the second night. Myrrdin urged him on, determined to reach their destination before they slept. ‘The lands around these places can be dangerous,’ he said. ‘They venture out from underhill and beneath springs and steal men away to their home, where one night passes in wild abandon. But here in the fixed world decades have passed, and all the folk the men knew have turned to dust.’
The druid did not say who they were.
As they crossed the grasslands, Myrrdin ground to a sudden halt. Lucanus followed his gaze. Between two black groves, a mound rose up. One bright star was suspended directly above it, almost as if it was lighting their way.
‘Is that where we’re going?’
‘The barrow. This is where the weapons of the gods were forged in days long gone. Perhaps even that sword you carry, Wolf.’
‘Caledfwlch?’
‘That is one of its names.’
Strands of pearly mist drifted across the grass. It was cooler here. Lucanus pushed on, his hand unconsciously falling to the hilt of his blade. ‘Does this place have a name?’ he asked.
‘Like all the old places, the names change across the years. When I was a boy, learning the ways of the wood-priests in our groves, I was told it was called Goibniu’s Smithy. Goibniu forges the weapons of the gods.’ Myrrdin’s voice drifted out, but Lucanus found himself fixated on that silhouette of a mound with the sprinkling of stars falling across it. ‘Folk have ventured here for a long time, just like us, to make offerings or learn wisdom. Beyond the smithy lie the downs, where the great old road the Ridgeway runs. It brought those seekers here from the east and west.’
‘What will happen to us?’
‘You will die.’ As Lucanus’ chest stiffened, Myrrdin continued with a note of dark humour at the game he had played. ‘And be reborn, if the gods so agree. Or you will die and be welcomed to the Summerlands.’
‘Then let’s hope the wisdom is worth the risk.’ Lucanus forced himself to show an unconcerned face as he clambered over mounds of rock half buried in the ground to where six standing stones guided the way to the black maw of the barrow.
Myrrdin stamped his staff three times, Lucanus didn’t know why. ‘It’s said that if your horse has lost a shoe, then leave the beast here at night, with an offering, and in the morn it will be newly shod.’
‘A fine story. For children.’
‘There is always some truth in the old tales, Wolf. Remember that and you’ll grow wise. In ancient times, teachers hid great learning in the heart of stories that stirred the blood, for folk were more likely to remember it that way. These days fools think they are just stories. But no stories are just stories.’
‘You like your word-games, wood-priest.’
Myrrdin pointed his staff at the stone doorway and said, ‘Enter.’
Inside, Lucanus shivered, either from the dank air or from the wood-priest’s tales of gods and mysterious happenings. ‘Are we alone here?’ he asked, his skin turning to gooseflesh.
‘We’re never alone,’ Myrrdin replied.
At the druid’s urging, he crawled along the stone floor into a darkness so deep he felt he was floating.
‘Enough.’
At the command, he stopped and leaned back against the cold wall. He sensed the wood-priest settle beside him, and a moment later fingers fumbled at his lips. Lucanus tasted the now familiar bitterness of the dried fungi that the druids used in their rituals.
‘We’re to fly?’ he asked.
‘We are to meet the gods.’
Lucanus felt as if the dark was swallowing him whole. ‘How does this help us out of the barbarian trap? We can’t stay in hiding. And if we emerge they’ll slaughter us.’
‘You have an army.’
‘We have an army, growing but small. And a mass of old folk, women, children, sick and crippled. If we’re wolves, we now move at the speed of three-legged ones.’
‘You’ve been watched for a long time, Lucanus. You, and Catia, and her mother before her. This plan has been long in the making. It will not be allowed to fail, not now, when it is finally coming into the light. You were chosen as the guardian of the bloodline because it was decided there was no man better—’
‘Who decided?’
‘Powerful voices spoke for you. But that is neither here nor there. You were made the Head of the Dragon because you have a wolf’s heart, and some wit. You’ll be a great leader of men, whatever you might think. Use that wit and show us how the great wolf would bound free from this trap.’
Lucanus thought he heard a sudden flapping of wings in the dark. He was sinking into his toad’s-stool dreams.
‘You poke and prod me to get me to do your bidding. But I’m my own man and I make my own choices.’
Somehow he knew Myrrdin was smiling sardonically.
‘Every man thinks he leads his own story. But all are merely players in a greater tale. Their actions chosen for them, their words delivered to their lips. Mere agents of the Fates, Wolf, who must bring about ends beyond their understanding.’
Those flapping wings seemed to be sweeping back and forth through the belly of the barrow.
‘There are two worlds, Wolf.’ Myrrdin’s voice droned on, lulling him. ‘The world of emperors and kings and armies and wars, and the world of secrets. You hear of one, but not of the other. Yet both have power. So let me tell you one of those secrets that truly shapes all things: there is only one story, one story that surfaces across the world in different forms. And there is only one source of wisdom, which takes on many faces.’
‘You like the sound of your own voice. That’s one thing I’ve learned.’
‘You’ve had no schooling, but even you must have heard of the wise men of Greece from ancient times who have provided so much of our learning. Those teachers were forged by the Eleusinian Mysteries.’
‘And if these Mysteries are so great, why haven’t I heard of them?’
‘The ritual has survived for near two thousand years,’ the druid continued, ignoring him. ‘Think on that. What kind of thing lasts so long in this world, and why? From it, the followers of Mithras developed their own rituals, as did the new followers of the Christ. Aye, and so did we wood-priests, after a fashion. Plato’s wisdom grew from it, and Pythagoras’ music of the spheres. And Cicero too. You have heard of him? No, of course you haven’t. Cicero said, ‘“In the Mysteries we perceive the real principles of life, and learn not only how to live in joy, but also to die with better hope.”’
Lucanus felt himself drifting now. He thought he could hear a resonant heartbeat, in the ground beneath him, or in the stone walls. Or perhaps it was only his own.
Slow, steady.
‘For in that ritual … in our rituals … a man is purified, and initiated, and for a time dwells with the gods where he is taught great things, and to be a great thing,’ Myrrdin continued. ‘And the Mysteries do it through fasting, as we have fasted these last two days, and through stories, in which the secret wisdom is revealed, and through partaking of kykeon.’
‘Kykeon?’
‘Kykeon is the basis of all these rituals, Wolf, in Mithras, under the Christ … you yourself have eaten it this day.’
‘The mushroom?’
‘It is the base of all religions, for it’s the way we speak with the
gods. It brings about death, and then rebirth, and then divine inspiration. You have died and been reborn once, in the cold waters beside the Isle of Yews. This is the next step on your path to birthing the Dragon into the world. Here, in the dark of the smithy, you will die again. And if the gods are willing you’ll be reborn with new wisdom, as many have died and been reborn in this place since the world was young.’
Lucanus fought the deep currents dragging him along. ‘All of this is moot, wood-priest,’ he croaked. ‘Marcus is dead. Who will now carry the bloodline? Perhaps this is all for nothing.’
‘No.’ Myrrdin’s voice cracked. ‘There will be a saviour, come what may. It will be made to happen.’
‘By the Fates?’
‘By all who stand to gain by the end of Rome’s rule and a return to the old ways. We are marching into the long night. The only light to guide our way is a king who will unite the old tribes. If he does not come into being … if our enemies destroy that thin hope … there is only darkness ahead.’
Those wings again, beating harder still. He could feel his thoughts slipping away on the brink of a deep, dark well.
‘You’re in the labyrinth now, Wolf. As are we all, to a degree.’
‘In the stories I’ve heard, there’s usually a monster at the end.’ Lucanus felt his blood run cold. The flapping wings had died away and now there was only a deep, abiding silence. But in that quiet he felt sure he could sense some brooding presence.
‘Think on this. What makes a king? Blood alone? Or is it, like the sign of the serpent eating its own tail, something more? What makes a king someone who will be heeded, and followed? Belief. Folk must believe that that royal blood has special qualities. They must believe the story. That is why kings wear crowns, for a crown is a story of a kind, that sets the man apart. Magic swords gifted by the gods. Words of power. Feats of legend. A man who is purer in heart, filled with greater honour, and greater courage, who will command the obeisance of all people, simply by being. Who will lead and they will follow, without question. The King Who Will Not Die will have all these things. A band of followers who will lay down their lives for him. A sword that shows his power. A great palace, so that all who look upon it will know what he stands for. For that is the only way the rule of Rome will be broken. This story has already been told. Now we only need to bring it into being.’
Lucanus turned his head, trying to pierce the oppressive gloom. ‘Why me, wood-priest?’ he muttered, distracted by his mounting unease. ‘I’m nothing. A mud-crawler in the Wilds. A scout, not a warrior.’
‘A warrior kills. A scout sees the dangers ahead and finds a hidden path.’ When Myrrdin breathed a sigh, Lucanus thought he heard a deep sadness in it, perhaps even pity. ‘Keep this candle burning in your heart: there is a mystical land, in the west, where the dead go. Avalon, it is called. There will be your seat of power.’
Lucanus turned to the sound of the druid’s voice. It echoed further away now, as if rolling from the end of a long tunnel. ‘The road to the west is cut off by the barbarians. We’ll not be able to reach it until they are broken, or we’re strong enough to cut through their lines.’
‘Avalon waits for you, Wolf.’
Lucanus imagined a shining palace and felt warm. A place where they could all be safe. He slumped back against the wall.
In the dark, he thought he could see fireflies swirling, coalescing into a form. He half slid Caledfwlch out of its sheath, but his muscles felt like stone and his fingers fell away. Dim sounds reached his ears.
‘I hear my father calling to me, wood-priest. He wants me to join him.’
A shiver.
‘Wood-priest?’
He was alone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Second Dragon
Gaul, 25 August
THE CRIMSON TIDE washed in.
Pink eddies swirled around jutting elbows and crooked knees. Pale faces stared like beached fish. Beyond the new reef of tangled bodies winding through the shallows, so many corpses drifted that a man might think it possible to walk from the beach to the moored ships without getting his feet wet.
Lucius Aurelius Corvus laughed and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. Across the wet sand he thundered, towards the Alamanni trying to form a defensive line in the surf. With their hair dyed red for battle, they looked like a splash of blood drifting on the heaving grey ocean.
He lived for moments like this.
Salt water splashed his face as his mount crashed into the incoming tide. Around him, a mad confusion of steeds and glinting armour churned. He only half heard the battle cries of his brothers-in-arms and the thunderous oaths of the barbarians. Cool and calm, he narrowed his attention to one target.
The warrior came at him, swinging an axe. Corvus dug his heels in again, refusing to slow as he steered his mount just out of reach. As he passed the off-balance warrior, he leaned to one side and swung his spatha. The blade cleaved off the top of his enemy’s head.
Corvus didn’t see him fall. He was already riding on to the next, and the next.
And then the cavalry pulled round, pounding back up the beach to regroup.
As he turned his horse, ready for the next assault, Corvus flexed the cricks out of the muscles between his shoulder blades. His arms felt like stone, so much hacking and stabbing had he done. But now the fighting was almost over.
‘You have a talent for killing, I will give you that.’
At his side, his constant companion grinned. Tiberius Annaeus Pavo was shorter, stockier, a hunk of meat and gristle with a remarkable capacity to survive any atrocity. His own spatha blade hung loosely in his fingers.
‘Blood and death is no work for a man with the soul of an artist,’ Corvus said. ‘But Mithras has seen fit to bless me with these talents and so I shouldn’t grumble.’
His gaze spun to the foot soldiers now striding in formation towards the ragged remnants of the barbarian warriors, helms shining in the dying light. The enemy, in comparison, were disorganized, dressed in rags and furs, roaring their fury, but half drunk as they always seemed to be when they fought.
When the emperor Valentinian first took control of the western provinces with his brother Valens installed in the east, the Alamanni had believed him unseasoned, a ruler who didn’t know how to keep the tribes in line with gold, as past emperors had. They’d learned he planned an assault to stifle their restive ways, and thought if they moved first they would cut through the Roman forces, perhaps even deter them for good. And so, with some Franks and Saxon allies, they’d attacked along the border and the Gaulish coast. Little good it did having that first move. Led by Jovinus, Valentinian’s favourite general, the army was now in sight of regaining imperial control of the coast.
‘All is well in the world, eh, Pavo?’ Corvus called as if his friend could read his thoughts.
‘All is well, with better yet to come.’
And more than anything, Corvus hoped this would be the end of it. His destiny waited in Britannia.
An arm fell, an order was barked. Corvus dug his heels in once more and leaned across his mount’s neck.
As he neared the foaming surf, one of the barbarians rushed straight at him, swinging a notched axe. His mind cooling, he raised his shield and levelled his sword.
The stone came from nowhere, ringing off the side of his helm.
Corvus spun backwards. Jagged bolts crashed through his skull from the impact of the missile. He slammed on to the wet sand, half realizing his sword was no longer in his hand. The barbarian loomed up against the rosy sky above him and flexed his biceps to bring his axe down.
Barbs of gold flashed across his vision: light shimmering off three blades in motion. One hacked through the barbarian’s forearm. Another carved into the ribcage and the third cut into the neck. Corvus watched, fascinated. A red rain fell upon him. As the barbarian toppled backwards like an oak that had been felled, he felt hands grasping him, hauling him to his feet, pressing his sword back into his hand.
‘Our Lord smiles upon you!’
Corvus glanced round at the familiar voice. Theodosius the Younger was striding towards him, pulling off his helm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His friend was not a good-looking man, Corvus had to admit. His eyes bulged like a toad’s and his sandy hair was already starting to thin, but no doubt his god loved him as much as any other.
‘That’s true. I will give my thanks in prayer tonight.’
Theodosius looked towards the three young soldiers throwing themselves back into the battle and shook his head in quiet bafflement. ‘Your courage in battle appears to have earned the respect, even the love, of the men who fight beside you.’
Corvus only smiled. Humbly, he hoped.
The whoops of carousing soldiers rolled up from the twinkling lights of the camp in the valley. After the day’s great victory, the order had been given for celebration. Ample quantities of good Roman wine had been brought in along the supply routes well in advance, and Corvus could still smell the sticky aroma of roasting venison.
‘Ah, to wallow in wine, instead of traipsing into the dark for dull devotions.’ He grabbed a branch and hauled himself up the steep slope.
‘Nights lost in your cups are behind you now that you’re a man of destiny.’ Pavo’s voice floated up from the trees behind him, thick with irony. ‘There is only sacrifice, and struggle.’
Ahead, a shadow separated from the rest and Corvus whistled through his teeth to announce his presence. One of the men who had saved him on the beach stood guard beside a gash in exposed rock.
‘And here is my first sacrifice,’ Corvus muttered. ‘Hiding away like mice while the cat prowls.’
