The other guests were momentarily robbed of words.
‘These are strange dinner manners for an honoured guest, my lord,’ Livinia chided. ‘If the conversation is to be so surprising, I will leave you for my bed. We keep country hours here, good sirs, and I must supervise the wool bleaching in the morning. Come, Caius, you also would be better served by sleep.’
‘I apologize for the want of manners in my friend,’ Myrddion replied diplomatically.
Llanwith pen Bryn did not concern himself with words of apology but simply inclined his head towards mother and son with a brief, regal dignity.
As Livinia and a sullen Caius left the chamber with a hiss of sandals on tessellated floors, the mistress paused briefly at the door.
‘Don’t keep the boy up too late, Ector. I want him fit for work in the morning.’
Ector merely grunted in acknowledgement.
Silence fell after mistress and son departed.
Artorex shuffled awkwardly. He was uncertain how to respond to the visitors, so he stayed in position beneath the sconce.
‘We now know that the boy is strong and fast,’ Luka said conversationally to Ector. ‘But does he read? Does he receive an education?’
‘Why this interest in Artorex, my friends? I took the lad into my household as a favour to Lucius of Glastonbury when the child was newly born. The priest has never asked for word of him, nor has he shown any interest in the lad since that distant time.’
‘I know his history, friend Ector,’ Myrddion said. ‘But I need to know if the boy can read.’
‘Well, yes, he reads as well as can be expected,’ Ector growled peevishly. He was unused to being questioned so autocratically in his own house.
‘May we judge his ability, my friend?’ Luka asked with a conciliatory smile.
The boy was totally bemused by the conversation that was taking place around him. He was conscious that he was being tested, but why? He was just Lump, of little more value than a good hound. In time to come he might be considered worthy of becoming a steward in the place of Cletus, but why should these great ones care a whit for his strength, his speed - or his intelligence?
‘Fetch a scroll from my baggage, Artorex,’ Llanwith ordered with barely a glance in the boy’s direction.
The boy stood, unsure of how to respond, or where to find such an item.
Ector, grumpily, waved a hand at Artorex to indicate that he was to carry out Llanwith’s bidding.
The boy ran from the room to seek out Cletus who took charge of all domestic matters. He escaped from the suddenly dangerous room with surprising agility.
Cletus had obviously been eavesdropping for his master’s orders, and a kitchen slave had already been sent to the guests’ quarters in the west wing to collect the scroll.
The steward said nothing to the boy, but glared at him suspiciously.
Enclosed in a fine hide case, the scroll was quickly found and thrust into Artorex’s hands.
‘Obey your masters, boy,’ Cletus hissed, and Ector’s foster-son slipped back into the dining chamber where the visitors were again speaking of matters in the east.
‘Master.’ Artorex offered the scroll to Llanwith pen Bryn.
‘Read for us, young Artorex. For our entertainment.’ The stranger did not even deign to look at him.
Artorex fumbled with the lacings, even clumsier than usual in his nervousness. The scroll was eventually unbound, and the boy stared down at the bold Latin script that marched across the fine hide. He was immediately seized by panic, for the text was totally unfamiliar.
‘Read,’ Llanwith repeated, his eyes on a stuffed egg speared on the end of his knife.
Haltingly, Artorex began to read the unfamiliar Latin script, becoming faster as he began to recognize more and more words. He had heard of the commentaries of the great Caesar in the Gaul Campaign, but he had never thought to have a copy in his hands.
‘I want you to read this scroll and translate it into the common tongue,’ Llanwith ordered.
His heart in his mouth, the boy obeyed.
Despite his confusion and fear, Artorex became caught up in the blunt, forthright description of the great Julian’s battle campaign.
‘Enough!’ Llanwith ordered. ‘What do you think, Myrddion? You are the scholar amongst us. Does the boy read well?’
Ector was staring at the boy with blank astonishment; there was more depth to his foster-son than he had ever imagined.
‘Surprisingly well,’ Myrddion replied. ‘You are to be congratulated, friend Ector,’ he added, turning to face the master of the villa.
‘I don’t see how, for I never heard him read so well in the past.’ Ector may have been a hard man, but he was also bluntly honest.
‘Have you read the memoirs of the great Caesar?’ Luka asked the boy.
‘No, my lord. But I am certain that I would like to do so,’ Artorex managed to reply.
‘Then keep this small gift, in payment for your diligence,’ Llanwith stated casually, as if this strange conversation had been insignificant. ‘Now leave the wine jars and get yourself off to bed. That is, if your master will give you leave.’
Ector waved Artorex away, his eyes troubled and gleaming in the light.
Clutching the precious scroll and its case to his chest, Artorex scurried to the door and was gone. Yet some wickedness in his curious nature caused him to pause outside the room and continue to listen. Even though he was aware of the presence of the faithful Cletus at his back, he could not bear to miss the last of the peculiar conversation.
‘We have intruded upon your hospitality, friend Ector, but you must believe me when I vow that we would not have imposed on you if our reasons were not of the gravest importance.’ Myrddion spoke with a statesman’s glibness overlaying a current of urgency.
‘Nor can we explain further tonight, Ector,’ Luka continued seamlessly. ‘Great affairs of state are marching on, old friend, and you and your family are a part of them, whether you will it to be so or not.’
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Ector grumbled through his beard.
‘You must trust us until such time as we can reveal more of what is to come. Twelve years ago, the good Lucius of Glastonbury sent you a gift, and asked you to take care of it. You have done well with that charge,’ Llanwith responded gravely.
‘Besides,’ Myrddion continued, ‘perhaps nothing will come of our fears, and you will have an admirable steward to serve your family when you are gone from this world.’
‘But it would be profitable for us all if childhood ceases for Artorex at this time,’ Luka stated. His companions nodded in agreement. ‘We ask that you commence to teach him those skills of the warrior that we ourselves learned as boys, old friend. Blade and shield! Horse and fire! Pain and bravery! Would you undertake such a task for us?’
‘Aye, but—’
‘And the boy must no longer be referred to as
Lump
by any member of your household,’ Llanwith interrupted. ‘He will be of no use to us without self-respect.’
Ector recognized the sound of command in the voice of his guest.
As Artorex turned to leave his listening point, he saw Cletus bow his head low. The boy turned. Llanwith pen Bryn was leaning against the doorpost, regarding him with fathomless black eyes.
‘Learn your new duties well, boy. And remember that those who listen to private matters can sometimes hear more than they would wish.’ Then he grinned at Artorex, and returned to his friends.
‘He speaks wise words, young master,’ Cletus hissed with frightened respect. ‘You could yet get us all hanged if that black-eyed devil has any say in it.’
Artorex ran.
Back in his sleeping cubicle, he tried to chase the faces of the three strangers from his mind. Nothing had changed. He was still a fatherless son, not much higher than a house slave and only permitted to sleep in the main body of the villa complex on sufferance. He dwelt in the no-man’s land of Roman life, a foster-son without status.
Then he reached down and felt the scroll beside his sleeping pallet, and knew that his life was changed forever.
CHAPTER II
THE BLADE AND FIRE
Although Artorex’s sudden change of status was the talk of the villa for several weeks, masters and servants soon forgot him, and the narrow world the boy inhabited soon returned to its mundane unswerving routine. Wood had to be chopped into kindling for the kitchen ovens, the kitchen gardens required persistent, tedious weeding and birds stole the new fruit from the orchards and must be deterred with well-aimed stones. Mistress Livinia ensured that Artorex was never idle.
Except in one significant detail.
Each morning, after drawing water for the kitchen, currying the horses and feeding the hounds, the boy was ordered to attend on Targo.
Targo was a scarred veteran of indeterminate race who had served a lifetime in the noble art of soldiering. Small, bow-legged and deceptively white-haired, Targo had been washed up at the river port of Glevum, at the end of the Sabrina Aest, and had sold his skills to Ector as arms trainer to his son and captain of the small troop of men-at-arms who served the dual roles of field workers and protectors of the villa. The veteran had married a local widow from the nearby village, and was a man feared for his quick temper when drunk, and his even faster blade when sober. Who he was, and where he was originally born, was unknown to all save Ector.
The boy didn’t enjoy his morning hours spent training with Targo. After being given a short, wooden sword and a wicker shield, Artorex was forced to learn the fighting positions practised by the old legions.
In spite of his ageing body and a limited reach, Targo managed to beat Artorex black and blue with the flat of his sword every day until, out of sheer desperation, Artorex began to take his training seriously and to learn the rudiments of thrust, parry and guard.
At first, these simple exercises in the farmyard were a source of loud amusement for the servants from the Villa Poppinidii. As they wandered out to the fields, or brought the cows to the barn for milking, the farm workers were entertained by the sight of young Artorex, awkward and frustrated, swatting at empty air with his wooden sword, while Targo danced negligently away. Even Caius dallied on his way to the stables to watch the red-faced and sweating boy as he tried to dodge Targo’s flashing weapon. But the predictability of the entertainment soon palled, so teacher and student were left to practise the manipulation of blade, spear, shield and dagger in relative peace.
Gradually, albeit painfully, Artorex realized that the exercises were similar in nature to a village dance and, soon, he found himself captured by the grace of weapons drill. Then, just as his superior reach began to give him a little confidence, Targo changed the rules and, once again, the boy found himself pinned to the ground or stripped of his weapon, with Targo’s sword held firmly against his throat.
‘Remember, boy, any fool can pick up a sword and learn the motions. He’ll live just as long as it takes for him to meet an enemy who thinks faster than he does.’
‘Is that how you were cut across the nose?’ Artorex panted as Targo attacked from a new, and totally unexpected, direction.
‘Of course, boy. You either learn or you’re dead.’
‘Then I had better start to learn.’ Artorex stifled a cry as Targo used the flat of his sword across the back of his right knee.
‘You are now crippled for life. What are you going to do to live?’ Targo asked, and swept the boy’s feet from under him.
Artorex hit the ground with the base of his spine and even old Targo had the sensitivity to wince.
‘You’re cheating,’ Artorex complained as he drove his wicker shield towards Targo’s nose, a move that would have smashed that scarred feature if the blow had ever landed.
Targo merely took one step backward.
‘That’s better. Remember, cheating is just good common sense.
Only a short-lived idiot pretends to bring honour on to the battlefield.’
Targo set Artorex strengthening exercises with small ingots of lead to force muscle on to his growing frame. The weights were tied to his wrists so that collecting eggs or picking the last of the apples became a painful chore.
Nor was Artorex permitted to fight only right-handed, for Targo would switch sword hands regularly and, on occasion, would instruct his pupil to wield his sword with both hands.
Artorex soon learned the deadly disadvantage of fighting a left-handed enemy.
‘If one arm is wounded, you must make do with the other. Now raise your sword.’
Artorex underwent many further weeks of bruising until he learned to fight with his left hand. To build up its strength, Targo tied his right arm to his side. Artorex suffered innumerable cuts and bruises as he endeavoured to separate the whey from the cheese during threshing and as he struggled to keep his balance while feeding jostling pigs. He learned how to use the distribution of his weight to his advantage, just as Targo had planned.
Artorex’s days were now measured by the severity of his cuts and bruises, his weary muscles and the field work that Targo invented to strengthen his spine. Reaping was a particular Targo favourite and, in the afternoons, Artorex used his razor-sharp hook until his back was one long scream of pain. For the whole of autumn, all household tasks were done at a run and, although Artorex dreamed constantly of grinding Targo into splinters of bone and flesh, he was aware that muscles that had once been whipcord thin were now beginning to harden and thicken into ropes.
Meanwhile, his thirteenth birthday passed unnoticed.
‘Will I ever be strong enough to be an able opponent for you, Targo?’
‘Aye! Else we’re wasting our time. But are you fast enough, boy?’
‘Oh, shite!’ Artorex swore, as Targo disarmed him once again.
Then, just as he was becoming comfortable with sword and shield, Targo changed the rules once again.