Clash of Kings (37 page)

Hengist’s fighting ships, the ceols, made the brief journey out of Thanet to the lands of the Cantii tribe. As Myrddion had recognised immediately, Hengist was an unusual barbarian, a man with a considered, almost cold nature who would never unleash either violence or forgiveness unless he had something to gain. Therefore, Hengist and Horsa brought fire, destruction and death to the south not for the pleasure of smashing the glorious past, but to dishearten the Cantii and to force them to run.

And run the Cantii did, straight to young Ambrosius, the last of the Roman kings, who had his own demons and the fear of failure dogging his heels.

Hengist controlled the seaports of Rutupiae and Portus Dubris, understanding that a good commander always maintained a line of retreat, not to mention a funnel through which allies and supplicant thanes could arrive from Germania to swell his forces. Besides, the Celts had no ships and the Roman galleys had long departed. Hengist was well aware of the great advantage that he held in this regard.

His rear secure, Hengist turned his attention towards Durovernum, with its wealth and strategic importance. Alarmed by the sudden emergence of sea-wolves on his doorstep, Ambrosius stirred at Venta Belgarum. Durovernum fell, and refugees began the long trek to Londinium with every stick of furniture and personal item that could be carried, as Hengist successfully carved a huge swathe out of Ambrosius’s kingdom.

This dangerous situation could not be permitted to endure. Ambrosius looked to the north and placed the blame for the Saxon presence in his domain squarely where it belonged, on the greying head of Vortigern, who had long been accused of treachery. Ambrosius already loathed Vortigern with a hatred that could not be assuaged by land or power. Following the death of their father, Constantine, Ambrosius’s older brother Constans had briefly been High King of the Britons. Vortigern had been his chief adviser, but, hungry for what he saw as his right, a Celt as king of the Celts, he had slain Constans with his own bloodstained hands. The years of Ambrosius’s childhood, spent wandering with his infant brother as homeless refugees from the isles of Briton and living on the charity of the Romans in Byzantium and Brittany, had carved a scar of bitterness through Ambrosius’s soul. Should Vortigern ever dare to come within range of Ambrosius’s sword, the ageing megalomaniac would die.

And so, during the last three years, Ambrosius had played a careful waiting game in which, out of a desire for revenge, he courted Vortimer and Catigern and attempted to destabilise Vortigern’s kingdom and force the old king into making intemperate decisions.

Now, in Venta Belgarum, Ambrosius stared down at the bowed heads of Vortimer and his bastard brother Catigern. The young warriors were little like their father in either appearance or manner, which was fortunate for their continued health. Raised in a land rendered secure by powerful kings, the sons of Vortigern had a soft, deceptive courtliness that sat awkwardly with their traitorous desire for their father’s bloody throne. Despite their usefulness to his ambitions, Ambrosius felt his lip curl with disgust at their easy treasons. For all his viciousness and treachery, Vortigern was a man. The qualities of Vortimer and Catigern were open to debate.

They’ve never had to struggle, or to eat the bread of charity, Ambrosius thought contemptuously as he schooled his face to smile. As the bastard son, Catigern resents his brother. He looks me straight in the eyes, and lies without hesitation. I can understand the barbarian Hengist far more easily.

As always, Catigern rose first, for, although younger than his half-brother by some three years, he was impulsive and often reacted before he had taken the time to reflect. Catigern was the prototype of his people in appearance, with dark brown hair, freckles, a snub nose and a pair of dark brown eyes that had no softness in them. His face was long and far more saturnine than his nose suggested, and he possessed a pair of dark, mobile eyebrows that drew the eye and created an impression of extreme animation. Ambrosius didn’t trust him an inch.

Vortimer was far less impressive in appearance than his brother. While his thinning hair had traces of red in it, the overall effect, out of the sun, was of a rather rusty brown. His eyes were hazel with yellow lights that made him appear lupine in nature. To this unfortunate colouring was added a long nose inherited from his father, and eyes that sat too closely together above a mouthful of crooked teeth. However, this unprepossessing face was set atop a warrior’s body that was hard, compact and disciplined. A traitor to his father he might be, but Vortimer was a thinker with the physique that could put ideas into action whenever he chose to do so.

Ambrosius was not so foolish as to judge Vortigern’s son on his appearance. What he saw before him was a man who had always stood in the shadow of his ruthless father. His mother, Severa, had been a Roman with patrician blood, but as Rowena’s sons grew tall he envisaged a future where he was rejected in favour of his younger half-brothers, regardless of his impeccable lineage.

Never, never, never!

Raised with the same harsh necessities for survival, Ambrosius recognised in Vortimer his own capacity for great patience and dark anger. When he examined him closely, Ambrosius understood Vortimer all too well.

The brothers were dressed in Roman battle harness of plated ox-hide, greaves, arm-rings and wrist guards, but they had been forced to relinquish their weapons at the doors of Ambrosius’s official residence at Venta Belgarum. Because he recognised the necessity, Vortimer’s sangfroid remained intact, but Catigern was sulking at the lack of trust exhibited by the Roman king and the loss of his ostentatious weaponry, for the younger man lusted after outward display. Like many bastards, he was always quick to take offence.

‘Your presence, unharmed, suggests that you have won the field, Vortimer. Or should I now address you as the supreme warlord of the north?’

‘Aye, Lord Ambrosius.’ Vortimer was obviously a man of few words.

‘Why dissemble, King Ambrosius?’ Catigern boasted unpleasantly. ‘No doubt your spies have already informed you that we soundly drubbed Vortigern’s warriors. My ambush was especially effective.’

The sneer on Catigern’s face was repulsive to the Roman king, who recognised an immediate similarity to the man who had asassinated Constans. Nauseated and angered by the flail of memory, Ambrosius decided that the younger prince was an obnoxious, snide young man who, jealous of his less demonstrative brother, would attempt to steal the throne without a qualm. He appeared to be proud of the fact that he had driven his harried father into a trap, forcing Vortigern to fight his way to safety without striking a blow against his sons.

Ambrosius smiled ambiguously. Better and better! In Hades, Constans would be fed the rich blood of his murderer
and
his sons should Catigern be left to his own devices.

The younger brother’s irritating, feckless grin flashed again, revealing his perfect teeth, so unlike the crooked fangs of his more responsible brother. At that moment, as an honest man, Ambrosius felt a twinge of shame at his use of such an unworthy tool as Catigern. But necessity makes monsters of all kings.

He stared across the flagged floor of the great hall of Venta Belgarum. A grey building, all told, that would look the better for paint and gilding. It was a dim and dreary countryside, too, after the golden sunshine of Byzantium or the soft fields of Brittany. Gilded domes and walls of shimmering white, cobalt blue or brick red swam for an instant in Ambrosius’s blue eyes. He saw the tessellated floors, rich with gold, silver, precious glass and mica so that imaginative fish appeared to swim in a jewelled sea of dolphins, gods and brilliant anemones. Memory was a trap, a curse that he tried to lock away so that those brilliant days were lost with his grandfather in the glittering illusions of memory.

‘I intend to hold you to your oath, Vortimer. As High King of the north, you are sworn to destroy the Saxon enclave that has taken the lands to the south of the Tamesis. From Thanet Island, Thane Hengist, his brother, his house carls and his slaves have sunk their shallow roots into
my
earth. He must be destroyed before he is joined by other landless Saxons who seek to steal our land. Believe me, Vortimer, in case you harbour any hopes that the legions will return one day, all that was Rome is finished, and all that stands between the Celtic people and slavery is our mailed fists. If you wish to live in freedom, then you must be prepared to shed your blood with the southern tribes.’

‘I remember my oath, my lord,’ Vortimer replied, a little tersely. ‘I will drive the Saxons out and I will dance on their bones. Then I will pursue my father into the land of the Picts, north of the wall, from where he will never return. So have I sworn, Lord Ambrosius.’

‘And will you swear allegiance to me, to Ambrosius, as the High King of all the Britons? You will rule all the tribes north of Sabrina Aest, but you must ultimately bend your knee to me.’

Vortimer and his brother looked up at the man seated on the dais. He was around their own age, twenty-five at the very most, and his eyes were very blue, while his artfully curled hair was fair, short and thick. He dressed in the Roman style, in a tunic and toga edged with the imperial purple; he was clean-shaven and his skin had a deep golden tan, even in the watery sunshine of Venta Belgarum, as if hotter suns had seared him in his youth. His face was beautiful in a cold, patrician fashion, but no man would have dared to call him effeminate. Deep lines scored his face between his golden eyebrows and dragged down his well-shaped mouth. Vortimer shivered, knowing that this man had experienced places, people and abominations that he hoped he would never see for himself.

Then, with good grace, Vortimer and Catigern vowed to serve Ambrosius to the death.

‘I have watched the ruination of Rome, Vortimer, and the decay of order in Gaul. I have seen the barbarians burn, loot and rape everything that was ordered, beautiful and pure. I have watched the fall of the gods and, unless we succeed, we will oversee the destruction of these isles and all that has been constructed out of mud and struggle. You must win this battle, Vortimer. You must kill Hengist and his brother, or else they will go elsewhere in this land and take chaos with them. They have nowhere else to run to, you see. In fact, they are rather like us.’

Then Ambrosius laughed with such bitter humour that Catigern looked at his brother with raised, questioning eyebrows, as if their ruler was a man wanting in his wits. But Vortimer had caught a glimpse of a possible future in Ambrosius’s pale blue eyes, and remembered the tall, chill power of Hengist when he was a member of his father’s guard. Although he had tried to convince himself then that such a brute had neither the intelligence nor the character to pose a threat to his ambitions, Vortimer had suspected that Hengist could read the treason that already lived, full grown, within his mind.

‘Hengist is a clever man and he’s been tested by years as a mercenary to the Danish king and anyone else who would pay in coin,’ Vortimer said. ‘He’s a mercenary by necessity, for he is the grandson of a king who was forced to flee to the far north where the winters freeze the body while the blood of the warriors runs hot. Homeless and bitter, Hengist and his brother Horsa seek a homeland for their people – at any price.’

Although Catigern snorted with contempt, Ambrosius smiled in regretful agreement with Vortimer’s assessment of Hengist’s character. The Saxon brothers had known the same brutal childhood as Ambrosius and his younger brother, Uther.

‘Very good, Vortimer; you begin to understand the enemy.’ He paused. ‘Gentlemen, our way of life is changing. For years beyond counting, the Romans maintained the rule of law across most of the civilised world. But the Caesars have deserted their cities and their citizens, and have run to the old capital of my ancestors in the far east, leaving the wild tribes to march out of the north. Bring me Hengist’s head, for nothing else will convince his brethren to stay within the lands of Frisia, Bernica and the Anglii.’

Then Ambrosius dropped his head and stared at the grey flagging, his thoughts far away in space and time, as if this short audience had sapped his spirit. When the brothers backed away and left his presence, Ambrosius scarcely noticed.

Catigern had his uses, Vortimer decided, as his brother began the onerous task of provisioning Vortimer’s wholly inadequate army for a prolonged campaign. For his part, Vortimer pored over maps of the terrain, exploring the probable outlines of Hengist’s strategies. As an irregular, the Frisian was a man who always had an exit strategy, but Vortimer was certain that only a dire emergency – like a huge, conventional army in direct attack – would convince Hengist that he must withdraw his forces from the field.

But Hengist on the loose with small bands of independent warriors meant that a strategic genius would be at large, and the worst fears of Ambrosius would come to fruition. No! Vortimer knew that a strong army would be vital if they were to crush the Saxons, once and for all.

As soon as Catigern secured sufficient provisions for his army, Vortimer sent him to the great cities of Londinium and Durobrivae. Built on flat land, these ancient centres had no defences against a determined invading force and, therefore, were eager to halt any Saxon attackers in their tracks. Acknowledging Vortimer’s only possible strategy, Ambrosius sent a scroll demanding that the city fathers of these two wealthy centres place a levy on their young men and provide well-armed and experienced troops for the coming conflict.

Catigern was amazed at the enthusiasm of the city fathers of Londinium, who quickly provided supply wains loaded with food, a large number of experienced foot soldiers and archers, all of whom were Roman-trained, and a war chest of gold pieces donated specifically to fund the campaign.

‘They’d have given me anything I asked for, brother,’ he enthused on his return. ‘Shite, but they fell over themselves to be helpful. Why were they so eager?’

‘Just look around you, Catigern,’ Vortimer replied evenly, having ridden to the outskirts of the city. ‘It’s flat, transport is easy and it’s the hub of many major roads, so how would you keep out determined invaders?’