by James Wilde
‘I’ll settle for a day that isn’t about running and fighting—’
‘Lucanus?’
He turned to see Mato in the doorway at the other end of the corridor. Apullius hovered behind him.
‘You must come,’ the lad said urgently. ‘The barbarians are calling for you.’
Lucanus frowned, but this was no time for questions. In the anteroom, Amarina was standing in a corner where the shadows were thickest, her arms lightly folded. ‘Two worlds,’ she said, reminding him of a conversation they had had that seemed like a lifetime away in Vercovicium. ‘Beware of daemons.’
And then he was out in the cold, the frosted streets turning to grey in the first light.
Climbing the steps by the Ludgate, he found Bellicus waiting. Flecks of snow dotted his red beard and his eyes were wintry.
‘Bad business,’ he grunted.
The Wolf leaned on the parapet and looked down to where the frozen remnants of the vicus were slowly emerging from the gloom.
Two torchbearers flanked a small group of barbarians, swaddled in furs. The torches roared and danced in the wind, the orange light washing over faces of granite. At the centre was one taller than the rest, his head swathed in filthy rags. Arrist, king of the Caledonian south.
‘You thought you were safe there, behind your walls.’ Arrist’s voice boomed out. ‘Instead you have gathered in a pit to be slaughtered. How do you feel now, men of Rome? We have no need to lose good comrades in battle. We can sit by our fires, and tell our stories, and feast, and drink, while you all starve, slowly. Soon there will only be a city of the dead.’
The gale whined in his ears, and the Wolf felt his rage grow at what these enemies had done to so many innocents.
‘You are this Lucanus Pendragon?’
‘I am,’ he called back.
‘Then I speak to you as one king to another. You have a chance to save your people.’
‘We will never surrender.’
‘Nor would I expect you to. You’ve fought well, with what little army you could bring together in the night. You held us back as we flooded across the land. No. All it takes is one small sacrifice and your people can have all the food they need.’
Lucanus sensed a stiffening among the soldiers gathered along the wall. As he glanced along the row, he saw Falx leaning forward, staring intently. There was a light in his face, a hunger, that the Wolf had seen before, in Vercovicium when the centurion had sensed an opportunity to increase his wealth, usually at the expense of some other poor soul.
‘Speak,’ he called.
‘Your woman. The one with child. Send her out to us and we will feed all your people.’
Lucanus felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. It seemed as though everyone along that wall had been frozen by the bitter wind.
‘What is one woman to you? You’ve enslaved enough in your journey south.’ He could hear his voice straining, despite himself.
‘You know my reasons. The prophecy. We’re not going to give this land up now we’ve fought so hard for it. We would seal our gains with this saviour-king. He will be in our hands, and he will do what we say. We have our eyes on greater things too. This is a new age now, Pendragon. The time of Rome has passed.’
‘We stand together here,’ Lucanus called back. ‘We will not sacrifice one innocent soul.’
‘Not even to save an entire city? Thousands upon thousands of people for your own selfish desires? Let us hear what they have to say.’
Lucanus recognized the cleverness of Arrist’s ploy. He could turn all Londinium against him, divide the last true redoubt of Britannia. Once they’d torn each other apart, Arrist and the barbarians could take what they wanted and move on.
‘Don’t be rash, Pendragon. Take your time. This offer will stand, for a while. But keep this in your thoughts while you reach your decision.’
Arrist grabbed one of the roaring torches and waved it in front of him. The circle of light swooped over something that Lucanus hadn’t noticed until that moment: a spike with a rotting head jammed on the top.
‘Here is the fate of all who oppose us. This is the most powerful man of Rome in all the south. Nectaridus, count of the Saxon shore, commander of the army, leader of the empire’s resistance, feast for the ravens.’ His words rolled out across the frozen earth, and when the echoes had died away he added, ‘There is no hope left now. All is dust.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Midwinter
AD 367, Londinium, 25 December
TORCHLIGHT GLITTERED ON sheets of ice. Flames flickered in windows and danced outside doors. Londinium all but glowed in that bitter night. It was the day of feasts, of remembrance; of hope, perhaps, that when the light returned life would get easier.
Apullius crunched across the hoar frost, his breath burning in his chest as he ran. His sword clattered against his thigh, and with every beat he muttered another line of a desperate prayer.
Lucanus was counting on him. All of them were. And if he did not do his duty this night, they all would be dead by dawn.
‘Bow your heads, my sons, and offer up your praise to Sol Invictus. Today the Unconquered Sun is reborn.’
Shadows shifted across the face of Severus, the Hanged Man, from the torches that flanked him at the altar, the only illumination in that cave beneath the old Temple of Mithras.
Corvus shuddered with a silent laugh. They’d taken a risk gathering there, but it seemed right for this most important of days.
He thought back to how he’d crept through the shadows of Londinium to the secret entrance to the Mithraeum, where the bull was usually brought in for ritual slaughter. The rest of the temple above ground looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, the shafts and tunnels to the cave long since filled in with rubble by the Christians who now dominated the town.
‘Nama, to the runners of the sun, under the protection of the sun.’ Severus’ voice boomed out.
‘Nama,’ Corvus replied. Around him the ranks of loyal soldiers muttered their own response.
‘On this day, Mithras was born from the rock,’ the Hanged Man continued. ‘He is the light, and he is the truth, and he will guide us through this age of darkness.’
‘What better occasion to see all our plans reach their culmination, eh, Pavo?’ Corvus whispered. ‘A time of endings and fresh beginnings.’
‘It’s been a hard road, old crow, but you’ve brought us to the end of it.’ His friend’s voice floated to his ear from over his left shoulder.
Corvus felt excitement crackle through his limbs. All the sacrifice, the deaths of his father, his brother Ruga, all leading to this coming dawn, when he would cup power in his hands. The royal bloodline renewed, and always renewing, like the dragon eating its own tail.
Once the ritual was complete, Severus waved a hand to signal that the other torches should be lit. As light flooded the cave, the soldiers lounged on the benches, sweat glistening on their brows.
Corvus’ mouth watered at the aroma of roast beef drifting in from the narthex. They’d dared not risk slaughtering a bull, as they would usually have done for this feast of feasts, even if one could have been found in that starving city. But Severus had bribed Falx, a loyal follower of Mithras, who had bribed a merchant to deliver a cow’s carcass that had arrived from the southern ports.
The Hanged Man loomed over him in his black cloak marked with the signs of the zodiac and thrust a goblet of wine into his hand.
‘Drink deep, my son. You’ve earned your reward. Thanks to your work, this night may celebrate not only Mithras’ birth, but also the beginning of his rebirth, incarnated in man, our saviour.’
Corvus bowed his head. ‘The Dragon will rise again, Father.’
When Severus moved on, he gnawed on a chunk of beef and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. The Feast of Sol Invictus would go on deep into the night, but he couldn’t afford to linger. Catching Pavo’s eye across the cave, he nodded.
Behind the altar, he
slunk through the shadows and waited. After a while, fifteen men joined him, one by one, all of them loyal, all of whom had followed him from Rome at Severus’ behest.
‘You know what you need to do.’ Corvus looked round the silent, trusting faces. ‘No one will be abroad to see you administer justice on this night of feasts and prayer. Go to the whorehouse in the shadow of the amphitheatre. Kill everyone inside, including the women. They would see Mithras torn down, all of us destroyed, and they would betray Rome too. You’ll meet no resistance. They go about their own activities, unaware that death is near.’ He searched the eyes of his men, making sure they could all be trusted. ‘This has the blessing of our Father, Severus,’ he added. ‘You do the work of Mithras this night.’
Each man nodded in turn, and then they marched up the steps to the secret exit.
Out in the cold night, Corvus’ breath steamed.
‘This is the end, Pavo,’ he said.
His friend grinned. ‘And the beginning.’
‘Tonight, the barrier thins between this world of mortals and the Otherworld. Cernunnos leaves the great forest to walk along the streets of men, and daemons hover in the night outside our doors.’
Around Myrrdin’s forehead holly had been entwined, the red berries glistening in the glare of the huge log blazing in the hearth. He was grinning, his eyes gleaming from the wine that he’d downed. He cupped his hand to his ear. ‘Listen. That rattle on the rooftops. It’s not the wind in the eaves. It’s the Wild Hunt riding across the night sky, the hooves of their steeds clipping the tiles, the yowls of the wish-hounds ringing out as they run down lost souls. Listen, you damned, for the Wild Hunt comes for you next.’
‘They’d spit Comitinus back out. Not worth the eating.’ Solinus tossed back the last of his wine and waved his cup for more. Decima swayed across the crowded room in the House of Wishes, now festooned with mistletoe, and sloshed more wine into his goblet.
Myrrdin threw back his head and laughed, the first time Lucanus had heard him voice mirth. ‘Drink deep,’ he roared. ‘This is Midwinter. All that was, is. And all that will be, too. Let’s celebrate our good fortune—’
‘We have some?’ Comitinus slumped sullenly in one corner. The Wolf could see the drink had got the better of him.
‘We live. That’s reason enough.’ With his staff, Myrrdin beat out a steady rhythm on the floor and began to sing in a tongue that Lucanus didn’t recognize. The song soared up, filled with joy, until his voice rang into the corners of the room.
Lucanus nodded along as he watched the flames licking around the ritual log that the wood-priest had dragged in from the gods knew where. Catia lay with her head in his lap, her cheeks flushed, and he brushed away stray strands of hair from her brow.
‘It would be good to see the light of day,’ she murmured. ‘Just once.’
‘We can’t take any risks. It’s not enough that we have enemies hiding here, ready to end our days. Now there are mobs roaming Londinium searching for you so they can toss you over the wall to the barbarians and fill their empty bellies.’
Mato waved a slice of pork in front of his eyes and winced. ‘The guilt eats away at me. How can we feast when there is so much hunger?’
‘You think we don’t do enough for them already?’ Solinus flicked his fingers towards the meat. ‘Give it to me if you don’t want it.’
‘How much longer can we expect to survive?’ Comitinus moaned. ‘Another riot at the Bishopsgate this morning, folk beating each other to death over crumbs. The bodies piled so high by the eastern wall that if you stood on the top you could see the shining sea. Beggars everywhere, starving children and crying women. Londinium is a swamp of misery. And now that crazed Theodosius is hunting down anyone who doesn’t bow his knee to the Christ, as if we don’t have troubles enough.’
With a sigh, Bellicus heaved himself up from where he’d been nestled with Galantha, crossed the room and cuffed Comitinus around the head.
‘Drink more,’ he intoned as the other man rubbed his throbbing ear.
The door swung open and a blast of cold air whipped up the fire. Amarina swept in, her cloak bundled around her. She was clutching an amphora to her breast. Behind her, Aelius and the young lad Morirex jostled to get into the warmth, each of them also hauling more wine.
‘Falx has made more coin this day than in weeks.’ Amarina set down the amphora and threw off her hood.
‘Falx has never missed any opportunity.’ Lucanus held out his goblet for more wine.
‘You’d do well to learn from him,’ Amarina said as she topped his cup. ‘It seems to me that there’s no gain in good deeds. Here you are, the great Pendragon. Leading an army that has fought to protect every man, woman and child in this town. And in one moment you’ve lost their trust because you won’t send your woman out to the horde. You’ll let them all starve to save your love. What a black-hearted cur.’
Lucanus flinched. He could hear the humour in Amarina’s wry tone, but he felt her words strike home. Under the blanket that was draped across them, Catia fumbled for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
Myrrdin’s song ebbed and he strode across the room to stand in front of them. Lucanus looked up at him, but his face was lost to shadow.
‘You’ve done better than any other man could have done, Wolf. You were well chosen.’ The wood-priest’s words were slurred.
‘Few would agree.’
Myrrdin walked back to the glow of the fire, taking a cup from Aelius as he passed. ‘Enjoy this moment of peace. You’ve earned it, all of you. Only better times lie ahead.’
The lamp of the full moon shone down on white waves of snow sweeping across the religious precinct. At that time of the evening stillness settled on that area, close to the river, between the bath-house and the western wall.
No longer able to feel his toes, Apullius crunched through the calf-deep drifts, following the stream of footprints. His breath clouded as he prayed he was not too late.
The black bulk of the church loomed up against the starry sky, and as he neared he could hear the drone of voices from inside. All around, the temples of the old Roman gods had started to crumble. Plaster cracked away. Self-set elders thrust out from sagging walls. Their stories were done. But the new church stood proud. The stone for the walls looked as if it’d been stolen from some of those other buildings which had once throbbed with supplicants.
Apullius heaved on the creaking door and slipped inside. He shivered; it was as bitter cold within the church as outside. Candles glowed against the whitewashed walls at the far end beyond the altar. In front of God’s table, the bishop droned on, no doubt warmed by his thick robes. A gold ring glinted on his finger as he raised his right hand.
‘Let us join together to celebrate the birth of our Lord on this day,’ he intoned. ‘Sent by God to light our way out of the darkness.’
Apullius shoved his way through the congregation. Hands clipped his head and shoulders, but he pressed on until he found Theodosius near the front of the crowd. The soldier clasped his hands to his breast, his face shining with grace. ‘Is this not the greatest story of all? That our Lord will send back his only son to save us all?’
Apullius frowned. Had he not heard the wood-priest telling this very same story to Mato during their whispered discussions that reached deep in the night? But that one was not about the Christ.
The bishop lowered his hand and the congregation knelt on the cold stone floor, bowing their heads as they prayed.
Apullius wriggled in beside Theodosius and tugged on the soldier’s sleeve. Theodosius elbowed him away, pressing his hands together harder and growing more annoyed as he tried to lose himself in his prayers.
‘Please,’ Apullius whispered. ‘Lucanus sent me. He wants his woman, Catia, to be baptised into the religion of the Christ. To fall under the protection of the Lord … and … and all who follow him.’ To fall under your protection.
‘That is good,’ the soldier hissed. ‘But this is not the time.’
>
Apullius remembered the desperate look on his master’s face when they discussed this plan in secret. Lucanus was afraid that once the festivities were done, the people of Londinium would rise up as one and go from house to house searching for Catia. He hadn’t even discussed it with the others, or with Catia, for fear that they might find some reason not to go ahead with it. It was their one last hope, he had said.
He’d felt honoured that Lucanus had asked him and him alone. But this was harder than he thought. ‘I beg of you—’ he began.
Theodosius rammed the flat of his hand into his chest and he crashed on to the cold stones. ‘Away,’ the man snapped. Clearly irritated, he jumped to his feet and turned to search the congregation. Whatever he was looking for, he couldn’t have found it, for his face hardened. When he knelt back down he glared at Apullius, even angrier than he’d been before.
‘Away, I said,’ he snarled.
Apullius sagged back. He’d failed Lucanus. He’d failed them all, and now they were doomed.
Corvus hummed to himself as he followed his column of men hurrying through the deserted streets. He was surprised he remembered the tune, one his mother had used to sing to him when he sat in her lap as a boy.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for singing later,’ Pavo told him.
‘Before or after I drink the tavern dry?’
‘You’ve earned it, ’tis true. Why, a plan like this is a stroke of genius.’
‘I thought so.’
‘To use the cover of the midwinter feasts, when all are lost to their prayers or deep in their cups. Who would notice or care about the deaths of a few arcani, especially ones loathed for keeping the whole of the town hungry?’
Corvus nodded. ‘You know, I might toss my sister’s body over the wall anyway. Those filthy barbarians only demanded her presence. They didn’t specify alive or dead.’
‘And then all of Londinium will love you.’
‘My genius knows no bounds.’
The bulk of the amphitheatre rose up against the night sky, and Corvus blasted a low whistle. His men slowed their step. Once he’d found the rose carved into the doorframe that Bucco the dwarf had identified, he whisked his hands left and right. The soldiers fanned out around the entrance.
