Shadow of the King (6 page)

miles, all this damned wasted time! Is Rome playing me so easily for the fool?

The Roman officer coughed, unable to retain his pent silence any longer.

“Arvandus, that said traitor, is arrested and on his way to Rome in chains for

trial.” Coldly, he added, “In Rome, we deal with misdemeanours by the means

of civilised methods.”

Bedwyr caught Arthur’s eye, stemmed an explosive retort by saying hastily,

“It could be a mistake.” He spread his hands wide, searching for a more appro-

priate word. “A misunderstanding?”

Again the Roman spoke, his tone haughty, condescending. “Rome will sort

the matter. Punish those who are guilty.”

Arthur stepped a pace nearer to him. “We sail, Mithras alone knows how

many hundreds of miles, in answer to a plea from your Emperor. He begs us to

unite with those loyal to Rome against the barbarian Euric who is seeking for

himself a kingdom. We then sit here for bloody weeks, doing sod-all except

scratch our arses—and I am calmly told, by a man appointed by Rome to

govern Gaul, that a friend of his has written to Euric of the Goths, suggesting

he does not sign the offered treaty of peace with Rome but destroys the British

instead!” He threw the parchment a second time, kicked it at the Roman as it

rebounded off the tent wall, strode after it, and caught hold of the officer by the

throat. Shook him, like a dog with a rat, the reason for his anger bursting from

him like cooked meat in over-stuffed pastry. “What bloody treaty of peace? I

do not give a turd for this traitor or for Rome’s bloody laws—what treaty? If

those stool-sitting arseholes in Rome have been suing for peace with Euric,

why have I not been consulted of it? And if a peace treaty was the intention all

along, why was I damned well brought here?”

The officer was spluttering and choking, his face suffusing red; he had dropped

his helmet, his fingers were grappling with Arthur’s hands, attempting to loosen

that tight grip around his throat—and Arthur let him go, let him drop like a

stone to the floor, discarding him, leaving him to heave and choke for breath.

The other two men, Bedwyr and Meriaun, ignored his discomfort.

“Rome is not likely to want a fight if it can be avoided,” Meriaun pointed

out to Arthur. “After all, you have used the same tactics back home often

enough to secure peace.”

“We would not be here if it were not for treaties,” Bedwyr added, trying to

smooth Arthur’s ruffled temper. “Britain is free, at least for a while, of any uprising

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 1

because of various such signed scrolls of parchment.” He rose from his stool,

strolled to a table, questioned with his eyes whether anyone wanted wine. Arthur

accepted, Meriaun shook his head. Bedwyr ignored the Roman, a man who had

never seen a day’s fighting in his life despite the fancy uniform, would probably

not know which end of a spear to hold. The mental insult was unjustified, but such

men were not soldiers, they were couriers, the Emperor’s lap-dogs; they were

trained to fetch and carry, to look smart, salute. Say aye or nay to command.

Reluctant, the Pendragon had to acknowledge the truth of his younger

cousin’s point. Calming his racing breath, he took the offered goblet of wine,

drank; said, refusing to concede entirely, “Aye, but we proved ourselves first.

The Saex settled along our eastern rivers and coast know me for my strength,

know they cannot defeat my Artoriani. They agree peace because the alternative

is slaughter. This,” he crossed to the offensive letter, picked it up, looked at it

with disgusted loathing, and lobbed it out the open doorway, “this is admitting

defeat before even a blade has been unsheathed!” He turned again to the Roman

who stood warily shaken, his fingers massaging a bruised throat. Arthur asked

again, “Why was I not informed that a treaty had been offered to Euric?”

About to answer with his first-come thought—that Rome’s business was

none of this British king’s—the man shrugged his shoulder instead. “We have

always made friends with the barbarians. This new king of the Goth’s dead

brother, Theodoric, was a follower of Rome, he led his men for us. We have

many such treaties with these new, petty kingdoms. They live in peace under

our laws and rule. It is so with the Burgundians, the Franks,”—he smiled

derisively—“the British.”

Arthur smiled back at him, seeming pleasant enough. Bedwyr, pouring more

wine for himself groaned.

“I,” Arthur said, patiently, “have signed no such treaty with your poxed

masters in Rome.” He held up one finger to stem the protest hovering on

the imperial officer’s lip. “Nor is any treaty proffered by the dignitaries of Less

Britain valid. I am king of Britanniarum, Less and Greater. The island across the

sea is mine, and so is Armorica, as you still call it. I personally own an estate a

few miles from Condivicnum. I rule in my own right, with my laws, my word.

I, Arthur Riothamus the Pendragon, not you.” He poked the man’s chest with

one finger, sending him wobbling backwards a step. “Not this traitor Arvandus,

nor Rome’s Governor, Sidonius Apollinaris, who is so proud of his fawning,

overrated letter-writing; not Anthemius your Emperor—nor his puppet-master

Ricimer, the man who pulls the strings of all Rome’s snivelling governors. I,

3 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Arthur, have the title Pendragon in Greater Britain; and in Less Britain, that of

Riothamus. I am Supreme King.” Each word had been punctuated by a prod

that increased in intensity. The officer was backing away, found the open tent

flap behind him.

Arthur moved suddenly, alarmingly fast, had the man’s arm up behind his

back and was trundling him from the tent, marching him across the flattened

grass that officiated as a parade ground towards the horse lines.

“Get on your mount and go back to the imbecile who sent you! I will hear

nothing of treaties, letters, or peace. I have been asked here to fight and fight I

will. As soon as Syagrius of Soissons joins with me.”

The officer was unhurt but affronted and humiliated. He had come as ordered

from Rome to officially, and politely, inform this arrogant bastard of a king that

a traitor had been arrested before rumour permeated the wrong impression—

and had been treated in response as less than a midden boy! These British had less

manners and fouler language than Euric and his barbarian Goth whore-sons!

He scrambled onto his horse, gathered up the reins and began trotting for the

open gate, set between the wooden-fenced palisade. He had to say something,

something to avenge his dignity.

“Syagrius?” He shouted, looking back over his shoulder at the gathering,

laughing men; at Arthur, the British king. “Syagrius has no intention of joining

you. It was he who suggested offering a treaty with Euric, not Rome!” He dug

his heels into the horse’s flanks and galloped off. Remembering, too late, that

his ornate parade helmet lay on the floor of Arthur’s tent.

Nine

Arthur stood beyond his tent, watching the splendours of the

sunset fade into the purple of approaching night. Evening was different

here in Less Britain, quicker, more vibrant. Back home, the coming of night

seemed to settle with a gentle, softening sigh. Here, it shouted at you.

He wondered if the day had been as hot in Britain. Or was it raining there?

Almost he could smell the pleasing, fresh dampness of the Summer Land, the

scent of damp earth and water, the approach of a low-lying mist. Here, every-

thing was dry, brown, beneath the arid scent of sun baked heat. Another sigh.

In the name of all the gods, he should not have come!

He heard Gwenhwyfar’s voice—seeming so close he almost felt that were he

to turn around she would be there, behind him, her copper hair tossing, her

green, tawny-flecked eyes flashing.
Why must you go?

The men were preparing for night, shaking out their blankets, finishing

supper, heading for the latrine ditch.

I need to aid Less Britain, it is as much a part of my kingdom as the lands of Geraint’s

Dumnonia or your brother’s Gwynedd. I am the Supreme Lord; I swore to protect, to

keep peace.

Had she been angry with him because she had seen the whole thing was a slaugh-

terhouse mess of disguised half-truths, deceptions, and hollow fabrications?

He looked again around the sprawling camp, the rows of tents, across at the

picketed horses, the smith’s bothy, the grain tent: the paraphernalia that accom-

panied a king’s army. Looked at his men, his Artoriani, trained, disciplined,

professional men. Almost four hundred had accompanied him, twelve turmae

of his best. Volunteers. He had not demanded of any of them although they had

all wanted to come. He had answered this urgent—huh, where was the urgency

now?—plea for help from the Emperor with the proviso that he would bring

no more than half of his Artoriani. He could not bleed Britain dry, not—for all

the agreed treaties of peace—with so many of the Saex settled along the coasts

3 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

and rivers. Not when Ambrosius Aurelianus, his uncle and a pro-Roman, was

so much more popular with Council than himself. And not with an ex-wife

determined to see her son wearing the Pendragon’s royal torque around his own

neck one day.

Not that the last mattered with Cerdic gone, out of her reach. There

needed to be some secure, loyal force left behind, some stabilising deter-

rent. Someone to keep care of Gwenhwyfar and their daughter if something

happened to him.

I have to add British weight to the counter-defensive.
His argument had sounded

reasonable enough back at Caer Cadan, even knowing that Ambrosius just

might get enough of a taste for ruling to not want to give it up if he came back

after this campaign.

Arthur swore silently to himself, started walking towards the horse lines. He

would see the animals were settled before seeking his bed.
If he came back
, what

in the Bull’s name was wrong with him this night?

The men seemed cheerful as he strode past the tents, some of them calling out

in good humour, sharing lewd remarks about the local womenfolk, exchanging

jests and comments with him. They all seemed happy enough to be here. But

they had come expecting a fight. That was what they were trained for, what

they lived for. They were brothers, comrades, men who lived and fought and

died as one family. His family. And he had told them Less Britain and Gaul

were in danger from Euric and his rabble; that his people, their people, were

threatened, as once, not so very long ago the people of Britain had been threat-

ened. The men had answered that they were willing to join with those allied to

Rome against these Goths. To fight.

Some of the horses were already dozing, their heads drooping, ears flopped,

hind legs resting. One or two, recognising him, whickered softly as he approached,

ran his hand along a neck, gently pulling at an ear, touching a muzzle. You knew

where you were with horses. They did not lie or cheat. They served, proud but

without arrogance, with strength bound within gentleness. A horse gave you all

it could without question. As did the Artoriani, his men.

Arthur groaned, laid his face against the mane of the next horse in line, a broad-

headed grey. Rome had no need of his fine, brave men. Bringing them over, all

this expense and time and effort had been a knee-jerk panic reaction, a show of

bravado, a threat. Live in peace with us, Euric, as did the brother you murdered,

or face the consequences…only the consequences had turned out to be as threat-

ening as a broken spear. He had not seen that possibility back in Britain—or had

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 5

he not wanted to see it? Had he, like his men, been so enthusiastic for a fight he

had turned his eye and sense to the reality? He patted the horse. Too late to realise

the suspected truth now. One nagging question persisted: had he only listened to

what he had wanted to hear or to what he had been meant to?

He moved to another horse, Bedwyr’s chestnut. His own favourite stallion,

Onager, he had left in Britain. A damn good horse in battle, but a bad tempered

brute with a will of his own. He would have been unsafe in the confines of

those flat-bottomed transport ships.

By seeking a treaty of peace, Rome was only doing what he had done as

king, except on a larger, grander scale. Why fight if the need to spill blood

could be averted by other means? He had settled peace in such a way back

home—but by the Bull, he had not wasted all this time and energy in moving

men and horses about unnecessarily! Ah, he countered his own thoughts, but

then, he supposed it had been necessary. To bring his trained men and horses

all this way had taken a great deal of effort and organisation. The loading and

unloading of ships, the sea crossing, the march up from the estuary along the