Arthur Invictus (7 page)

Chapter XIV - Ogmia

Maximian was so enraged, his face had turned nearly as purple as the trimming of his imperial robe. Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus Herculius Augustus, Emperor of the West, commander of 22 legions and lord of all he surveyed, had just had bad news. He wanted to beat the messenger about the head with his ivory baton of office. He wanted to clench his hands around Arthur’s thick neck. He wanted to hear that it was a mistake and his invasion fleet and precious shipyards had not been destroyed, again.

“When
did this happen?” he demanded. Three days before, lord, came the answer. “And how long...” he was choking. “How long,” he repeated, “does my legate think it will take before the damage is repaired?” The messenger, who had discussed this point with friends, wisely denied all knowledge. He had heard of Maximian’s temper, of how he had once knocked out his horse’s teeth with a single blow of his fist, how he had beaten a slave to death for stealing a beaker of leftover wine. This messenger stayed woodenly ignorant, and undamaged.

Maximian
bellowed for his tribunes, who came at the run. They were able to tell him that the attack had come from the landward side, not from the sea, and that Arthur and his men, about 50 of them, they estimated, had marched away along the valley of the Meuse.

Maximian
stilled. “Marched away?” he demanded. “Did they march in?” No, said the tribune who had viewed the message and questioned the messenger before he got to the emperor. No, the raiders had sailed down river, then burned their boats as they left. So, Maximian pondered, only three days before, Arthur and his pirates were on foot in Gaul. They would be making eventually for the coast and a ship home, the march south was merely a ruse to fool him.

Within
a half hour by the water clock, messengers were leaving to alert garrisons and watchtowers along the coast. The command was simple. Find Arthur, capture him, bring him to the emperor alive, understand, alive?

Two
weeks later, word came back to Maximian. A troop of either Celts or British, to judge by their dress and armaments, had arrived at the stronghold of the Queen of Armorica and were being billeted there. Two
turmae
of cavalry, about 60 men, were being hurried secretly into the area from Bononia. They did not yet know if it was Arthur but spies inside the island fortress would soon be able to confirm or deny his presence. They were also instructed to determine the Briton’s purpose for his visit. The emperor allowed himself a sour grin. Instinct told him: this was Arthur. The upstart would be in his hands, and soon he would know what he plotted with this Roman vassal queen...

In
Britain, the enchantress Guinevia Avenae was healing slowly. Her mind had been unhinged by her kidnap and abuse, and by the threats to her child, who had been taken with her. The ordeal had taken its toll over the years and afterwards, vulnerable at Samhain, the one night of the year when the souls of the dead are loosed, she had allowed herself to channel her goddess Nicevenn. This cruel, cold mistress is the witch leader of the Wild Hunt that pursues the souls of the dead on that Samhain night, and if the goddess’ hell hounds take such a soul, its torment until the next Samhain is indescribable.

When
she had control of Guinevia’s mind, the goddess had directed the druidess to revenge herself on those who had harmed her. The last uncaptured kidnapper had died of poison as Guinevia exulted, and the druidess had also cut out and burned the heart of the murderer who killed her father and betrayed her lover, Arthur.

But
now, the darkness was lifting from her soul and she prayed to her second deity, the god Ogmia, scion of dangerous, persuasive words that can enchain, to lighten her load. She also sent out her thoughts to her mentor, the powerful Druid sorcerer Myrddin Emrys. “Son of no father, sired by a spirit, Myrddin aid me,” she begged. The silver pentagram ring on her finger throbbed with light and she heard a thin whistling in her ears. The power for good was returning, and relief flooded her mind.

The
sorceress’ plea flew through the mists to the stone house on the under the sacred mountain Yr Wyddfa. Myrddin was working in the high-walled courtyard and an observer would have seen him raise his head and scent the air like a stag that senses the hounds.

“Guinevia,”
he muttered, brushing his hands against his robe and leaving the planting on which he was engaged. He walked briskly into the viewing chamber where his scrolls were ordered, neatly tied, on shelves above the spiral mirror and glossy obsidian block that the necromancer used as mental focusing devices.

He
took a deep breath, pushed back his braided hair with both hands and leaned over the mirror, looking at the shifting shapes he could see in its depths. In a minute or so, images appeared, and he exhaled gustily. “So that is what it is,” he said quietly. “Yes, Guinevia, you need some assistance. And you, too, Arthur-bach, you have a stony road ahead.”

Chapter XV - Blizzard

With the darkness of late afternoon came the snow, thick, soft flakes that muffled and hid from us the sky, the fields, even the cross-country landmarks we needed to navigate. I was shivering and cursing it for arriving so unseasonably early and thick. The weather hadn’t been right since old Gaius Julius changed the calendar. We were only in Octo, the eighth month of the old calendar, and it was like the tenth, and we were dealing with heavy snow and bitter cold.

We
were travelling away from the road where we might meet military patrols, and the snow at least gave us the advantage of concealment from spying eyes, but we were only three days out from the island citadel and this would make the rest of our trek slower and more difficult. It would certainly reduce the chances of finding the ship or two we would need to carry us across to Britain.

This
was the most dangerous stretch of our journey, for the Romans monitored the coast for pirates and bandits, and now we had to cope with a snowstorm that froze and blinded us while we moved and would leave tell-tale tracks when it ceased.

The
gallant little ponies the Huns had gifted us seemed not to notice the cold, but we men were suffering. Apart from our military cloaks, we were ill-equipped for such conditions, as we had travelled light on our shipyard raid. This swirling, feathery, wet enemy blanketed us in a grey world, sifted inside our cloaks to steal body warmth with its wetness, blocked our eyes, ears and mouths, numbed our faces, soaked our frozen feet, iced our beards and turned our bare hands into stinging, clumsy lumps whenever we beat some feeling into them.

We
had to find shelter and lie up until the storm passed, or we would lose men to the insidious cold that makes even warriors want to lie down and sleep themselves into death. I resolved to commandeer the next cottager’s hut, barn or bothy, to kill the occupants if needed to keep them from giving us away. All we had to do was to grope through the blizzard and find somewhere. We made that find, but it took long, miserable hours.

It
was the smoke that led us to the place. A whiff of woodsmoke came to my frozen nostrils and I snuffled like a hound. The young decurion Iacomus Aureus had already detected it. He had pulled up his pony and I came alongside. He whispered urgently: “A settlement, lord, somewhere here!”

“Right.”
I gestured for the horsemen following me to halt their steeds, then we edged forward again, but slowly, cautiously, though there was little chance of anyone or anything moving in that blinding whiteout.

Aureus
again spotted it first. A glint of light, not even a beam but a glint had leaked from behind a leather window covering and it guided us to a low, wood-walled building. Aureus was already off his pony, sword in hand, two of his men following, before I waved. The door creaked and a wan light showed us the drifting snow, the shapes of the three soldiers as they moved inside and there was a muffled shout that was cut off.

Two
women were backed up against the wattle of the wall, a dark-visaged man was held from behind by Aureus, who had a hand clamped over the man’s mouth, and his gladius blade held across the peasant’s throat. The two soldiers were urgently questioning the women. I could not hear what they said, but one of the soldiers nodded and came to me. “There’s another house a few hundred paces away, just an old woman lives there, but that’s all there is for an hour’s walk.” I sent four men to find the other house and bring the old woman back, and looked around.

The
house was small, the thatch dripping snowmelt onto the muddy, packed dirt floor but the cooking hearth in the middle of the room gave off heat, smoke and some poor light. One end of the room was planked, with a short ladder down into a straw-filled pit where three sheep were penned. I gave the orders. The ponies were to be hobbled outside. Their shaggy coats were protection enough against a Gallic winter storm.

Ten
of our 22 men could billet themselves in the old woman’s hut, the rest would sleep here. The peasants were to be tethered here and guarded. If the old woman’s hut had a fire, the troop billeted there could butcher and cook one of the sheep, and bring half of it back for their comrades. We had food supplies in our saddlebags, but I didn’t know how long we would have to make those last, so the sheep was a windfall.

With
a thought about the Romans, I ordered sentries posted at both houses and at dawn, which I estimated was about six hours away, the remote unit should send a messenger here to me for fresh orders. A cook’s detail was told off, everyone else except the sentries was to rest until the meat was ready. I rolled myself tighter into my officer’s red cloak, found a relatively dry corner and slept.

First
light arrived on a whitescape that blinded the eyes although the sky was grey, lowering and ominous. The chill was so brutal that even the winter-hardy Hunnic ponies had gathered together, huddled in the lee of the hut away from the biting east wind. Inside the hut, the thatch glinted with small icicles, the fire unable to keep up with the snow it melted. The old woman snored loudly, her two neighbour peasant women dozed, arms around each other while the dark man glared, indignant at the loss of his sheep. One of my men spoke a version of Senonian and he spoke with the peasant. “He’s called Robnic, lord,” he reported, “He says he should be paid much gold for the animal, it was a prized beast.”

I
glanced at the man, bald, squat and stinking, and shook my head. “Give him this,” passing over a couple of pieces of silver. The man bit them to test they were not soft lead, and counterfeit, then squirrelled them away in his rags.

I
knew he’d be hurrying to tell the authorities when we moved on, for more reward. He’d be lucky, I thought, to keep the silver because an astute officer would question him about a bribe from us. I went outside to relieve myself. Bitter, bitter chill. I opted to rest the men for another day in hopes the weather improved. It was a fatal error.

After
another day and night in the animal-stinking huts, we were all ready to face the cold and snow, so we left at wolf light, leading our ponies through the deeper drifts and avoiding the stands of woodland where the snow had piled even deeper. From time to time we spotted the curl of smoke where some cottager crouched indoors, and we struggled on through the bitter wind, eyes smarting from the cold and the occasional ice showers that whipped our faces red raw. I judged we were five or six miles inland, moving parallel to the shore and at our slow rate of progress it could be five more days before we reached a favourable place to seek ships, somewhere west of Bononia.

The
decurion Aureus’s young eyes saw them first across the smoothed white landscape. A glint of metal, a tall dot of scarlet, more glints. My heart sank. All the signs pointed to organised military, and the scarlet could well be the military cloak of a mounted Red Dragon, a Roman officer. Suddenly, we were prey. I had muddied my own red wool cloak, in hopes of disguising it, but our party of a couple of dozen men and horses was too large to conceal in that white plain. We turned north, towards the coast and the cover of a stand of bare-branched winter trees. It was futile.

Our
ponies could not make good speed through the drifts, and the interceptors, for it soon turned out that there were at least two different columns of them, had the angle on us. I ordered ten of my men to hide in a copse of trees and continued on with their horses, in hopes those dismounted riders at least could backtrack and escape, come dark. The ruse failed. A third, mounted column, alerted by fire and flag signals from the coastal watch towers, scooped them up for the loss of two of our longtime heroes of the Chevron, Beaumaris and Tregearius. These were hardened warriors who had been with me since the days when we recovered the lost Eagle of the ninth legion. To buy time for their comrades, they attempted a defiant rearguard action against 30 mounted archers, and perished.

Now
we were just 12 strong, desperately booting our tiring ponies through the snow and headed directly for the coast. Our sole hope was to outrun the twin columns of pursuers and to seize a ship. The hope was forlorn and I tasted the bitterness of defeat when I saw a third group of horsemen trotting along the coast road that crossed our path, a mile or more ahead.

Our
last chance seemed to be to make a stand and attempt a parley. Ahead was a rocky promontory dark against the snow, right on the moors above the beach and we made a last, despairing spurt to reach it before the Romans did. We arrived in a shower of arrows that killed several ponies and sent a few more scattering, squealing and injured, but not one of our group was wounded.

The
rocky outcrop was promising, rising steeply on three sides to provide cover against any attacks from the north, or coastal side, but had a tongue of land bridging it to the moor in the south. I killed three ponies myself, dropping them as carcasses where they stood on that land bridge. They would provide a modicum of shelter from archers, and I offered the sacrifice to Odin and to Mithras, asking for the help of them both.

A
swift assessment of our situation was not reassuring. Two soldiers had Scythian bows they had obtained from the Huns as trophies, but they had a very limited supply of arrows. Because we had travelled light on our shipyard raid, burdened as we then were with fire-making materials and other equipment, most of us had only swords and daggers, but no spears or throwing darts and only several javelins.

Our
best weapon was in the hands of a Sarmatian called Chubio. He had once been a shepherd and could kill a wolf at a hundred paces with one of the lethal pigeon-egg-sized lead bullets he fired from his deadly sling, but had only a half dozen of that ammunition at this time. “I can fire rocks, boss,” he grinned. “I can send them 300 paces if they’re the right shape.” Two of his comrades began at once to gather suitable stones for him.

The
sky was still dull and threatening and I judged it to be about the eighth hour, or two hours past midday. Darkness was still several hours away, even in this winter gloom. If we could hold off the Romans long enough, maybe we could slip away after dark. A glance over the parapet we were busy raising from the rocky rubble showed their commanders were efficient. They had already effectively surrounded us, keeping discreetly out of range, and were gathering a force on the moor to our south, where I sourly expected they would launch their main attack.

Before
that happened, I hoped they would send someone to parley. I could delay matters and bring us closer to dark without conflict. They didn’t bother. A spatter of arrows fell into our stone redoubt and I raised my head to see 20 or so legionaries trotting towards the small land bridge, shields up, the red-cloaked officer at their head.

“Nail
that Rupert,” I snarled at Chubio. He stood, whirred his sling and released the deadly leaden egg at 40 yards’ range. It could not have been a better shot. It struck the officer square on the brow of his helmet, killing the man outright and dropping him like a beast under a poled axe.

Our
two archers were a Catuvellaunian Briton called Malnic and a skinny eastern Alan tribesman we had recruited from the Huns and who had aroused envy and disbelief among us when he claimed to have fathered 17 children. At a nod, both released their feathered missiles. At that range, they could hardly miss.

The
centurion who was half-turned, bellowing to his shaken legionaries to continue forward took an arrow under the jaw and pitched onto his face, his blood steaming as it turned the snow crimson. A soldier who was brandishing his spear and exhorting his comrades was fatally pierced in his left armpit by a bodkin-pointed shaft that sank an arm’s span deep, right through his body. He too went down in a welter of slush and blood.

Chubio
released a second leaden missile that shattered the shinbone of an infantryman despite the iron greave he was wearing over it. He collapsed, howling, and the whole attack sputtered to a halt. Two more arrows that inflicted minor wounds turned the rest of the advancing line into a rabble who retreated, shouting defiance.

“Garrison
troops,” said Chubio contemptuously. “Good for sentry-go, useless in a scrap.” I wasn’t so sure. We had benefitted from surprise on their first, hasty advance. Now, I could see a mounted officer leaning down to speak to three helmeted legionaries who even at a distance had the stamp of experience about them. As I watched the trio broke up, separated across the snowy moor and began marshalling their squads. The next advance, I supposed would be in
testudo
– the armoured shell of raised shields that protected Roman infantry like the turtle for which the tactic was named.

A
dozen lightly-armed men fighting from behind a low parapet of rocks should hardly pose a problem to such a disciplined, armoured advance. I was right. The tortoise came inexorably over the parapet onto our blades and inevitably, we lost.

The
fight was short, violent and bloody. At the end of it, the Alan with 17 children had left a widow and 17 orphans, young Aureus was coughing blood into the snow as his life ebbed away and two of our infantrymen whose names I never knew were dead and being stripped of their equipment.

I
had suffered some battering wounds and could only see out of one blood-crusted eye, but I had taken two Roman lives with Exalter, which fine blade was now in the possession of the mounted officer. The slinger Chubio was folded up on the snow after taking a savage beating. His deadly bullets had claimed three more Roman lives, and their comrades wanted revenge, but were shortly called off by a hard-faced centurion whose helmet sported a green horsehair plume.