Authors: Paul Bannister
Grabelius and his four horsemen slipped away from Dun Pelder soon after midnight, heading for the crumbling timber and earth ramparts of the Antonine Wall. It was a barrier in only a token sense, but one that might be manned by Kinadius’ sentries. From there, it was two hard days’ travel on the fine Roman road of Dere Street, south to the formidable Wall of Hadrian.
This stone frontier of the Roman empire ran 74 miles from sea to sea and was a high battlement with a rampart 15 Roman feet high and ten feet wide. It was fronted on the northern side by a wide berm that sat behind a deep, steep-sided defensive ditch. Watch towers every one-third of a mile were supplemented with fortified gateways every mile or so, and where possible the long-ago builders had run the Wall along ridgelines or other landscape features to make it more formidable.
Grabelius had passed through the wall several times and knew that even from the south it was a difficult barrier to cross, for a parallel, 20 feet wide flat-bottomed ditch with earth ramparts on either side protected its rear and created a zone controlled by the soldiery.
Even though the Wall was no longer manned as it had been during the days of empire, it was still operated as a customs barrier, with local warlords enforcing customs duties or tribute from all who passed through its gates.
Grabelius knew this was the chief obstacle on their route south and guessed that his small group would be on the same road as the messengers Kinadius would send. Their task would be to alert his vassals to the three fugitives who had escaped the murders of the prince and his escort. Grabelius’ mission was to elude the pursuers and to cross into the relative safety of Britain to get word to Arthur. Candless’ pigeons might be quicker, but they were less reliable and the message they could carry would not be as explicatory as that from a human messenger. This news was too important to trust to the mercy of a hungry hawk.
The legate urged on his troopers, not sparing their big Frisian mounts and turned the squadron away from Dere Street, which would have led them to the military strongpoint Corstopitum, a major crossing. Instead, he headed across the heaths and marshes towards the east end of the Wall at the Aelian Bridge, named for Hadrian’s family, that spanned the River Tyne.
The cavalryman recalled from a past crossing there that the fort which commanded the bridge was on the north bank, at the end of the Tyne gorge and was the site of a town of about 2,000 people. His calculated gamble was that Kinadius would send first to the larger garrison at Corstopitum, 20 miles to the west of the Aelian Bridge and more centrally sited on the Wall, to spread word of the three escapees both west and east from there. The Pict king could not know that there were not three but six of Arthur’s men on the run, one wounded and on his way to Candless’ stronghold, the others racing to the Wall.
By heading for the unimportant castrum at one end of the great rampart, Grabelius hoped to bluff their way across before word reached the small garrison. There was, he knew, a small, unnamed Roman road on the south side which ended at the bridge. This would offer a link to the metalled north-south road Ermine Street, means of a speedy journey to Eboracum. From there he could dispatch fast couriers across the Pennines to Arthur to tell him of his vassal king’s treachery and of the murder of his son. Speed was essential. Arthur needed the news before Kinadius could rally forces for an undeclared attack on Britain.
On the third day, in late afternoon, the weary group of five trotted their horses into view of their crossing. They had slept, tight-rolled in their woollen military cloaks in the wet bracken for just a scant hour while their tired horses had what rest they could and munched on the sacks of forage and bags of oats Candless’ copers had intelligently provided. The big horses’ strength had been vital to the prolonged pace of the ride and Grabelius thanked the gods for the forethought his king had shown years before when Arthur demanded a breeding programme of the gallant Frisian mounts.
Now, the cavalryman scanned the flatlands ahead of him, a rolling heath that gently descended to the big river. He could discern the line of the Wall itself, a blue-grey blur that crossed their southerly path, but his eye was drawn to the eminence where the Roman strongpoint stood, now occupied by Kinadius’ own forces.
The square-cut Roman stones withstood the bitter northeastern winds, and the high ramparts, pierced on each of the four sides by twin, gable-topped watchtowers, gave the sentries a fine view over the surrounding district. Grabelius knew he had little chance of approaching unnoticed, and knew too that the bridge would be closed and guarded after nightfall. He pulled his weary troop into a small wood and rummaged in his saddle bags for his best tunic. While the horses were watered, the men scrubbed themselves as clean as possible of the journey’s dirt and beat the road dust out of their cloaks, so that the troop that trotted out of the woods a half hour later looked respectably fresh and military. Grabelius rode ahead, the troopers maintained a crisp formation and they arrived at the barrier across the bridge, under the looming wall of the fortress. Oddly, it was built on a peninsula so that defenders could only exit by the western gate, but five horsemen posed little threat and the guard had not been turned out.
Evidently, thought Grabelius, word about us has not yet reached here. “Your business?
” demanded a slovenly watchman.
“None of yours,” responded Grabelius, staring down at the man from his high saddle.
“I am on the king’s business.”
“You carrying go
ods?” asked the watchman.
“Do I look like a trader
, you fool?” snarled Grabelius.
“You can’t pass until I know,” said the guard, stubbornly. “Anyway, you’d best wait for the officer.”
His men stirred, and Grabelius responded quickly. “The king’s man does not wait for some peasant.” Three more watchmen appeared from a small shelter and glanced at them nervously. The horsemen looked competent, trouble could be costly. The first watchman reached to his belt and produced a small hunting horn, which he put to his mouth and blew several times. “Best wait now,” he said, smiling sourly at Grabelius. “Officer’s coming.”
The cavalryman assessed matters. He could easily enough overpower this oaf and his companions and cross the river, but his horses were in no condition for a chase. A garrison officer eager for action or vengeful at the death of his men might well mount a serious pursuit, and Eboracum was still too far away for the Britons to escape. “We will wait, our horses need a rest,” he said loftily, inwardly cursing.
A few minutes later, a cavalry guard of a dozen riders trotted out of the fortress above them and wound down to the bridge. The exchange was polite, but brief. The travellers must accompany the guards into the fortress and have their goods examined in case there was customs duty to be paid. Privately seething, anxious at the delay and irritated with himself for not simply dropping a few coins on the oafish bridge guard, Grabelius allowed his squad to be escorted up and into the fortress.
The guard officer had done this before and swiftly separated Grabelius from his m
en, leading him into a chimneyd stone chamber bare except for a coal fire and two tables and benches. It appeared to be the officer’s business quarters. The troopers were invited to dismount and their horses led away, ostensibly to be watered, rubbed down and fed, but the additional armed guards who appeared signaled that no refusal of their hospitality would be brooked. The unhorsed Britons were led to a courtyard and given bread, cheese and thin wine, for which the officer planned to demand payment after he had settled a fee with Grabelius for allowing him to cross the Tyne.
The Briton recognised the petty blackmail and decided to play along. A gold piece would satisfy matters, but he must not appear too eager to be on his way, or the officer, who was already obviously wondering about the troop’s business, might decide to hold them for longer, and then word might arrive of the fleeing fugitives.
“Good to sit and rest for a moment,” Grabelius said cheerfully, stretching his booted feet towards the fire. “Get much traffic here?” The officer, a swarthy fellow descended from some long-ago Serbian legionary posted to Wall duty, shrugged. “Not enough,” he said curtly, wondering how much he could safely extract from this affluent-looking traveller.
Before he could continue, a clatter of hoofbeats sounded across the cobbled yard and the sentry at the officer’s door leaned in to announce the arrival of a messenger from along the Wall. “Send him in,” said the guard captain. Grabelius stood as casually as he could, ostentatiously easing his neck and back. His hidden punching knife lay waiting there for an over the shoulder draw. He turned away from the door to gaze out of the unscreened window, the messenger came in and handed the officer a leather cylinder containing his missive. Even as he considered the dangerous message that might be in the container, Grabelius incongruously thought how the Romans’ operations and practices yet remained. The message cylinders they employed were still in use by the Pict tribes along the Wall the Romans had left.
“Have some wine,” said the guard captain to the courier, gesturing to the table where a few leather cups and a wineskin were heaped. Muttering a grateful thanks, the courier turned aside to jet a spurt of wine, Grabelius, knowing full well what was the message he brought, stretched, drew his knife and, as the officer pored over the message, mouthing its import under the light from the window, he quietly stalked the messenger from behind, clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and pulled him onto his blade. The steel went up and into the man’s vitals and he collapsed gurgling to the floor. Grabelius, cat-quick, stepped over him and put the knife point at the officer’s throat as the man turned. “One shout and it is your last sound,” he said. To further emphasise his point, he clapped his hand over the Pict’s gaping mouth and pushed him against the wall.
The officer’s eyes widened, Grabelius scrabbled at the man’s belt and unhitched his short stabbing sword, which clattered to the flagstones. He patted him down and grunted as he found the concealed boot knife he expected, withdrew it and slid it into his own belt. “We’re going for a walk,” he said. “Call out and you will spend your last moments watching your life blood pump onto the stones.” He pulled the dead messenger behind the door of the bare room, he gave the Pict some careful instructions, fastened the man’s right wrist to his own belt with the messenger’s leather belt and pushed him out of the chamber, locking the door behind him with the officer’s own iron key.
To a casual onlooker, the guard captain was walking freely, but a closer look would have shown that his right hand was tethered and there was a dagger held at his kidneys by the Briton who followed him. The officer led Grabelius to his own men, who started up, surprised at the brevity of their break. “We’re moving now. Our friends are helping us,” said Grabelius, lifting an eyebrow that one trooper instantly comprehended. At the Pict officer’s orders, fresh horses for the Britons were brought out of the stable block, and the Britons’ own tired Frisians were put on leading reins. Grabelius had no intention of leaving such valuable war horses, even if they did slow his escape..
Soon the Britons and the Pict officer were mounted, and the puzzled guards dismissed. “I’ll show them the route,” said the officer, after a prod from Grabelius’ knife point. “Watch for my return in a short while.” The party trotted sedately out of the fortress’ high gates and began the winding descent to the bridge when the officer tried to pull aside, and twisted to shout to his squad.
A Briton knocked him sideways with a blow from the flat of his sword and the troop left him in the sand as they began a canter towards the waiting watchmen at the bridge’s end. The slovenly Pict who had called in the fortress guard was waiting and held up his hand importantly. He evidently had not seen the officer felled. Grabelius kicked his mount forward, leaned down as if to speak to the watchman, and, still moving forward, punched him full in the face, pitching the man over with the force of the blow and the added impetus of his horse.
In moments, the whole troop was cantering, the bridge boards were thundering under their horses’ hoofbeats and they were up onto the far bank of the Tyne. “How soon before they chase us, s
ir?” a trooper asked Grabelius.
“We’ll have a good start,” said the cavalryman. “Balcus over there,” indicating an evil-visaged villain, “cut all the reins h
e could find in their stables.”
Balcus, who wore the rare, coveted chevron of Arthur’s originals, grinned. “Slashed the lot,” he said proudly.
“And I nicked their wineskin.”
The news that Grabelius’ messenger brought made my heart feel as if it were gripped and squeezed by an icy fist. Milo was dead. Milo had been murdered by the king with whom I had sealed a treaty in blood. I had not truly believed it but a day later, two of my own men arrived, bearing the shirt that Guinevia had made for Milo. They told how they had seen him die, how they had been sent with a false tale they had sworn to tell, but an oath made under threat is no oath, and they were my handfast men. Numbly, I took what they gave me, and held the blood-stiff linen of a tunic that had become Milo’s shroud. My son was no longer on this earth.
The roaring in my ears was like the surf of the Atlanticus dragging over shoreline shingle. I wanted to cry out for my boy, I wanted to crush the skull of his treacherous killer, I wanted to see that filthy Pict’s eyes start from their sockets as I strangled him with my bare hands. The Berserker blood that never failed me in battle was swamping me now. I called for my horse, I would ride directly to Alba and hack that traitor Kinadius into pieces, I would burn his hall and enslave his family and… Milo was dead. Milo was dead. In a short while, when Guinevia, his mother
, returned from the exile at Yr Wyddfa that I had imposed to keep her safe from the pestilence, I would have to tell her. I dreaded it. She was already so fragile from the torments she had undergone that I had to wonder if this latest blow would shatter the eggshell of her sanity.
“Lord King, Arthur, Caros, my friend,” it was Celvinus gently shaking my shoulder. “Drink this.” Dully, I took the goblet he offered, some apothecary’s brew to calm and ease me. Death was all around, my country was stinking with death and plague. For all our efforts, my son’s wife had died of it, dozens of my retainers had succumbed to the foul thing. Now my son himself was dead, but not by the blows of nature, instead by the treachery of a creature who was his kinsman by marriage.
Myrddin strode into my chamber, unselfconscious, arrogant as always, impervious to my rank as his king. “You will be going to war with Alba,” he said. There was no question in his voice. “You will want to punish all the Picts. Arthur,” he said, “you will be wrong.”
I raised my head, angered at this meddling sorcerer and his daring to tell me what I might or mi
ght not do.
“Good,” he said, catching my mood. “Be angry. You cannot afford the lux
ury of wallowing in self-pity.”
By the gods, I was out of my chair and grasping for Exalter where she hung over its back. I’d have the wizard’s head for his impertinence.
Myrddin eyed me calmly, and I saw his look. Where there was usually only the aloof, cruel gaze of a hawk now was sympathy, compassion, wisdom. “Keep living until you become alive again,” he said. “And act as the king you are.”
My anger ebbed as fast as it had flooded my heart. The sorcerer was right. I had no time for self-pity. I was Britain’s guardian, my country had to come before me. “Get Grabelius – is he here yet?” I demanded. “Celvinus, where is Grimr?” I asked my legate, the hero who had saved the bridge at Londinium. I would need Grimr, the big Suehan who commanded my fleet.
The old litany of readying for war ran through my head: “Objective, intelligence, personnel, communications, supply and transport.” Mentally I ticked off my army list, although the gods alone knew who or how many of them had survived the pestilence. There was the 20th Valerian, 2nd Augusta, fragments of the 9th Spanish; the good and great Sarmatian cavalry, 2nd and 3rd Parthian, elements of the 8th Augusta and of the 1st Minerva. I still had a few foreign auxiliaries on the rolls, although all the mercenaries had long since departed.
Candless could provide some forces, too, I thought, then considered with a small shock how I had totally forgotten about my old friend. Kinadius would be hunting Candless, and the bishop who never was could be in mortal danger by now. My lassitude was brushed aside like cobwebs. Grieving would not bring the return of my son, but an armoured legion could bring me the head of his murderer. Or I’d take it myself, I swore.
Grabelius was striding into the room. My cavalry commander looked drawn. He had arrived just that morning from his long ride south and had snatched a few hours’ sleep that obviously had not been sufficient. He saluted, fist to chest, then we grasped wrists in the old Roman way. “We’ll take his head,” he said quietly, and we both knew of what he spoke.
“Candless,” I said, “must be in danger. What do we have close to the Wall that we can send up there to him?” He looked to his fellow legate, Celvinus. “Elements of the 20th Valerian and the 9th Spanish are at Eboracum, and we have a reasonable cavalry contingent, Sarmatians, at Carlisle,” said Celvinus. “We could put a mixed force, say a half-legion, fast up Dere Street to get to him.”
“Candless has a fine defensive position at Dun Pelder,” said Grabelius. “With enough men, he could hold Kinadius for a long time. It’s no chess game, but that king will find it hard to take the bishop’s castle.”
“Good,” I said, “I don’t want to attack Kinadius piecemeal. We’ll gather our force and hit hard the first time.” I passed over the phrase ‘with enough men.’ The problem of this chess game was that the b
ishop was nearly out of pieces.