After Rome (38 page)

Dinas was furious.

“You couldn't have done any better if you'd been there,” Cynan told him.

“Someone has to wait on shore to oversee the operation!”

“Then let me do it and you go in the boat.”

“I am your commanding officer,” Dinas said with fire in his eyes, “and I…”

“You what? If we leave can you do this by yourself?”

Dinas had not anticipated mutiny. He took it badly. He tried bluster but it did not suit him, and the recruits, having survived a very hard winter, were not easy to bluff. In the end he promised them a larger share of the spoils when there were spoils, and agreed to take his turn in the boat.

On the next occasion the boat they seized capsized shortly after they left land, headed for the ship. The recruits had to swim for their lives—mountain men who did not know how to swim. Tostig lived up to his nickname by paddling frantically until his body understood what was required. Together he and Dinas dragged the others to safety.

Except for Hywel. He was last seen only a short distance from safety. A round head with wet hair plastered over it; one arm upflung in entreaty. Then he was gone. They set up a vigil along the cliffs, watching for his body, but nothing came ashore.

This was different from the death of Tarates. Hywel was one of their own. The recruits could have accepted a death in battle, as they had accepted the frequent deaths involved in quarrying in the mountains. But to have a comrade die in the cold, alien sea appalled them. They were stunned speechless. Even Cadel made no comment.

Bryn retreated to the tower and communed among the shadows with his own gods.

Meradoc groomed the dark horse over and over and over again, until the stallion pinned his ears back and demanded to be left alone.

That night Pelemos thought about Hywel, and the arm upflung in supplication. Thought about dying.

Thought about Ithill.

When she was dying he had laid his head on the straw mattress beside her and pressed his cheek to her temple. Her feverish temple where the hair clung in damp ringlets. He had sought to dream her dream; to dream into death with her so they would never be separated.

It was thus, as he clung to her like a conjoined twin, that he had felt something go out of her. As ephemeral as a shadow yet as real as a flame, it had fled from him to a far place.

He had cried out and clutched her with all his strength. But she was gone.

Yet there had been a single moment—he was convinced of it then, and would be so for the rest of his life—a tiny slice of time when he might have interposed himself between her and the force that was drawing her away. He might have kept her forever.

Forever.

Was that not where she had gone? Into forever?

He had willed himself to follow her but his traitor body would not release him. His heart had kept beating, his lungs had kept breathing. Why? For what purpose?

Surely not to lure others to their deaths.

The following morning Pelemos sought out Dinas and asked for a quiet word alone with him. Dinas nodded assent. The lines in his face seemed deeper than they had been the day before.

The two walked down to one of the terraces where another rectilinear hut was being built. The work was temporarily postponed due to bad weather. “I for one think we've followed your dream far enough,” Pelemos began as they sought shelter from the wind behind the half-built hut. “Creating your own kingdom … a man has a right to attempt that, Dinas. But not to spend the lives of other men for it.”

Dinas raised an eyebrow. “How else does one acquire a kingdom?”

“I never thought about it before. Did you? Do you really know how hard it would be to create a
kingdom
? When I was a boy I dreamed of having my own farm, and even that was incredibly hard.

“You're not a bad person, Dinas, and I don't condemn you for a bit of piracy. We might all have profited if things went the way you planned. But I see no profit in this, only danger and death. The crewmen we waylaid last time told me they had done their trading already and were heading back to the north. The only cargo they had on board their ship was tin ingots; a heavy load of ingots. What would we have done with those? Who would have bought them from us, the Dumnonians? It was their tin in the first place.

“If we were lucky, Dinas, we might have had two or three profitable years here, but merchants don't like being robbed. Either they would find new shipping lanes or start fighting back. Either way…”

“Either way,” Dinas repeated glumly. He stared at his hands. Cracked his knuckles. Looked up with a forced smile. “Suppose we had more men; a hundred, say, or even two hundred—”

“Remember how hard it was to recruit these,” Pelemos interrupted.

“You helped me gain their trust, Pelemos.”

“And look what it did for Hywel: He's dead. No, Dinas, this life isn't for me. For a while I was like a man asleep, I just trundled along behind you. I'm awake now, and I can see that I don't belong here.”

“What will I do without you?” Dinas asked, trying not to sound desperate. “I can't inspire the men the way you do.”

Pelemos shook his head. “I'm sorry, Dinas. Truly I am. But…”

“But what? Where will you go?”

“I have a place in mind.”

“What would persuade you to stay? What can I offer you that—”

“There is nothing you can offer me, Dinas. Not gold, nor silver, nor anything cold. I'm like Bryn in that respect.”

“I don't understand.”

Pelemos said sadly, “I know you don't. I … wait, there is something I would ask. As a favor; not as a bribe to get me to stay because I cannot. But would you let me take the pony you gave me? And perhaps the horse?”

Dinas was glad of an excuse to lose his temper. Part of his temper; holding on tight to the deep rage within him that could be tapped in an emergency. “Do you think I'm a fool!” he shouted at Pelemos. “You announce that you're deserting me and in the next breath you demand two valuable animals?”

“I'm not demanding,” Pelemos said mildly. “I'm only asking. The pony in particular would be handy where I'm going, but I can walk if I have to. I've walked everywhere all my life, riding is new to me.”

“Handy? A pony? Exactly where are you going?”

Pelemos met Dinas's eyes and held them. “Eryri,” he said.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“He's lost his mind,” Dinas told Meradoc. “If Pelemos wasn't mad to begin with, he is now.”

“If you think he's gone mad why did you let him take the horse and the pony?”

“I doubt if he would get where he's going without them. He may not anyway, but at least he'll have a better chance of reaching the high mountains.”

Meradoc's jaw dropped. “Is that where he's going? To
her
?”

“You knew about this?”

“Not really. But a long time ago he asked me if I could find my way back up there. I didn't think he was serious.”

Dinas shook his head. “I know one thing about Pelemos, Meradoc. He is always serious.”

“And you just let him go? I can't believe it. She's your woman, isn't she?”

Dinas kept his face impassive. “No one can own anyone else, Meradoc, spirits are free. And freedom is the greatest gift of all, my mother taught me that. She abhorred slavery in all its guises, including the domination of women by men.”

“But Saba could come with you if she wanted to?”

“She could,” Dinas said tightly. “She didn't.”

Meradoc thought it would be tactful to change the subject. “What about horses? They have spirits too, don't they? Yet we say we own them.”

“The stallion is as free as I am,” Dinas replied.

*   *   *

The recruits were already upset about the death of Hywel; Dinas was careful in his choice of words when he told them of Pelemos's departure. “Our friend has a calling to a very different life,” he said. “I sent him with my blessing, and a horse and pony. It was the least I could do when he's been so good to us.”

He was not sure they believed him. Looks were exchanged; mutterings were heard. Iolo speculated that Pelemos had gone off to become an anchorite. But no one mentioned the word “desertion,” and when Meradoc backed Dinas up, a possible crisis was averted.

There were more immediate matters to worry about. No matter how much he might struggle against it, Dinas knew the truth when he heard it. And Pelemos had told him the truth.

This isn't working. If I had more men in the beginning … If I had chosen a different territory … If I had Cadogan with me …

There's the problem, I didn't have Cadogan. With his tidy mind he would have spotted the problems before they arose. He would have planned out the whole thing: how many men, how many horses, where to get them, how to use them … Cadogan knew that a man with no experience of the sea should not attempt what I've attempted here.

But I wanted Tintagel. God help me, how I wanted Tintagel! Dinas, you half-aborted ass, what were you thinking? How can it be that a man wants something so much it blinds him to everything else?

Saba.

Too late for that now.

I hope Pelemos finds her and makes her happy. I really do.

I hope he falls off his horse and breaks his neck.

None of this addressed the problem at hand. Pelemos had drawn Dinas's attention to the fact that he had real responsibilities to the recruits. If he called everything off and sent them home—though he knew his pride would not allow that—they would be disgraced. They had left the quarries and their families with such high hopes. To come back slinking like dogs, with their tails between their legs … he could not do that to them.

Nor could he continue trying to subsist on inept piracy while ostensibly creating a kingdom.

What would Cadogan do?

Take over an already existing kingdom, perhaps?

Not the entire territory of Dumnonia, that would be impossible. For now.

But one of the petty kingdoms that made up the whole—that could be done. Not all at once, though. First he would need to ingratiate himself with the current chieftain and …

Having a new dream to dream increased Dinas's appetite and put a spring in his step.

“Does that mean we won't have to go out in a boat anymore?” Dafydd said hopefully when the plan was presented to the recruits.

“We won't need boats,” Dinas assured him. “We shall continue to be based at Tintagel, but we'll turn our attention inland. In less than half a day's ride from here there are at least seven Dumnonian clans that continually fight with one another. And beyond that, who knows how many others? The region is underpopulated; no chieftain has what might be called an army, so no chieftain ever wins a decisive battle.”

“What about the king of Dumnonia, doesn't he have an army?”

“Not like the Romans did, no. What the king has is underkings—chieftains—who profess loyalty to him. They pay him taxes—grain and cattle—and in return he promises to protect them from outside invasion. If he needs an army to defend the borders of the kingdom he calls on the chieftains to send him their warriors. When the battle's over they go home again, and the king goes back to feasting and enjoying women. The chieftains return to fighting one another to keep their battle skills in order.”

“I begin to understand why you want to be a king,” said Cadel. “What I don't understand is why we've been trying to be pirates.”

“I thought it would be a good way to raise enough money to equip an army of my own,” Dinas told him. “But it's too slow and the profits are too uncertain, I realize that now.”

“He's just seeing it
now
?” Cynan muttered to Iolo.

Ignoring him, Dinas continued. “Men like Kollos and Geriotis command fifteen or twenty warriors each; thirty at the most. What I propose is to offer ourselves as a private fighting force to the chieftain with the
smallest
army. We'll help defend his people—for a price. Then we'll assume more and more power until we're able to take over his land and extend our control outwards. By that time others will be eager to join us; a winner has no difficulty attracting followers.”

Tostig told Bleddyn, “He makes it sound easy.”

“He made it sound easy the first time,” Bleddyn reminded him.

*   *   *

And for a time, it was.

That first summer only a few battles took place. Dinas and his band augmented an “army” of but ten men, none of whom were well armed. The shortswords and lightweight javelins Dinas brought from Tintagel impressed them mightily. Their opposition was impressed too. A temporary truce was soon arranged and the two chieftains sat down together for some serious mead-drinking and flirtation with each other's womenfolk. Dinas was invited to join them because he had been foremost among the fighters, the quickest, ablest of the lot, nimble with a knife and swift with a sword. He fought as if each man he faced were a personal enemy. He did his share of the killing.

By autumn he was the one doing most of the talking as well, planning the next season's campaigns. An alliance was formed; the taking of spoils was discussed at length. When one of the chieftains made a clumsy effort at speaking Latin, Dinas interrupted him. “Use the tongue you learned at your mother's knee,” he insisted. “Show that you are a free man. I've heard too much Latin.”

The Dumnonian was happy to comply.

Dinas and his men retired to Tintagel for the winter. They divided their winnings from the first season of warfare: a few bits of jewelry, some weapons, and a handful of Roman and Greek coins. Dinas gave the jewelry and weapons to his men and put the coins in his saddlebags.

Fine weather lingered late that year. The recruits, who considered themselves hardened veterans by now, devoted much of their time to weapons practice. Bryn endlessly brewed potions and medicaments in anticipation of battle injuries that might never happen. On sunny days Dinas rode the stallion several miles along the cliffs to a slope that led to the sea. They cantered in the surf with the white spume flying. Alternatively he amused himself by teaching the dark horse to climb the tower steps to the very top. From there the two of them could gaze out over the dark sea and the shifting fog banks of autumn.