Shadow of the King (77 page)

Gwenhwyfar had been laughing with Gweir and the other men, she had

not heard. Arthur checked his mare from snatching at an appetising clump

of grass, rode in silence a while. Medraut bit his lip, hung back slightly from

the merry group. He had been stupid to ask. His father was not a Christian.

Arthur referred to Mithras, the soldier’s god—though in all reality, he was

not a dedicated follower. And he was needed at Caer Cadan, to be trained as

a warrior, to fight, to lead, but oh by all that was dear to him, he wanted to

go to Ambrosius’s school! To read the scriptures, to learn how to perfect the

technique of using styli and ink. To hear the histories, the great works of poetry

and oratory! He wanted to learn, to become a scholar, not a soldier.

“Is that what you truly want? To leave Caer Cadan, go to Ambrosium?”

Medraut rode, looking intently at his hands gripping around the reins.

He did, oh he did! But to say so, to tell his father he would rather be with

the monks of Ambrosius Aurelianus’s religious school. It would sound so

ungrateful, so hurtful. He said nothing. It was only a hoped-for dream after

all, a boyish wanting.

“I wanted to be the greatest leader when I was a boy,” Arthur said. “Even

before I knew who my father was. Not king, I did not know I had the birthing

to be king, I just wanted to be a good leader, good enough to have men eager

to fight with me.” He had eased his mare slower than the others, had pulled

back so that he rode beside Medraut. “Wanting something so badly can hurt,

more than a wound sometimes.”

Still Medraut made no reply.

“Are you so unhappy living with me at Caer Cadan?”

Medraut’s head shot up, protest quick on his lips. “
Na
, father, I am not

unhappy, it is just that…” he broke off. He did not want to leave, he was

happy, but equally he wanted to be at Ambrosius’s school.

“You helped me kill that deer well today. Happen you have a better talent

with a bow than you appear to possess with spear or shield?”

Medraut’s smile was tentative. “I will keep practising until I am as good

as you.”

“Aye, lad.” Arthur released a slow, resigned, sigh. “I’ll ask Ambrosius to

ensure you do.”

Twelve

June 478

Had he been a more cynical man, Ambrosius could have been forgiven

for believing Amlawdd arrived at the time he did to be deliberately

annoying. Always a man for routine, Ambrosius insisted on following a rigid

day: prayer at dawn, a light breakfast of goat’s milk and cheese, the morning

devoted to correspondence and judicial matters, midday hours delegated to

his school of learning, attention directed during the afternoon to overseeing

the stronghold’s farming estate and expanding settlement. With the third

hour firmly set aside for a strict continuation of Roman order and civilisation.

Ambrosius spent an hour relaxing in the steam and hot-waters of his bath-

house. Such a typically Roman thing—and with so many estates forgoing the

costly upkeep and maintenance of a private bathhouse, Ambrosius’s modest

little building had become something of a personal symbol for his immovable

sense of loyalty to Rome. This single, self-indulgent luxury, a daily ritual of

private solitude with only the presence of a necessary body-slave had become

an opportunity to relax, to quietly peruse mental ideas of worldly plans and

Godly thoughts.

The law of hospitality decreed a guest be welcomed, offered shelter, suste-

nance, and the sharing of comfort. In Roman terms, this included use of the

bathhouse. Ambrosius was preparing to wander down the hill to his small

complex of buildings as Amlawdd and his eight-strong bodyguard entered the

outer courtyard at Ambrosium. Initial formalities concluded, he was obliged

to extend the courtesy of asking Amlawdd to accompany him. Naturally,

Amlawdd accepted. Masking his annoyance, Ambrosius disrobed in the modest

changing-room, his nostrils wrinkling against the putrid-stench that wafted

from Amlawdd’s travel-grimed body.

“Damned uncomfortable journey,” Amlawdd complained. “Saddle needs

seeing to, my backside’s been chafed raw. See?” He thrust his buttocks outward

for inspection, rubbing at the fatted folds of skin with his hand. Ambrosius

4 6 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

murmured some appropriate comment of sympathy, declining to look at the

overlarge rump.

“Nothing a whore’s touch can’t cure though, eh?” Amlawdd belched and

passed wind simultaneously, loosing a worse stench into the confined space.

Surreptitiously dabbing at his nose, Ambrosius gestured for Amlawdd to proceed

before him, to enter the hot pool.

Waves heaved as Amlawdd leapt into the gently steaming water splashing

against the tiled edge, slopping over the top to puddle the hypocaust-heated

mosaic flooring. Sedately, Ambrosius descended the three shallow steps, waded

to the edge of the pool and, gripping with his hands, allowed his legs to float

before him. He laid his head back into the relaxing warmth, closed his eyes;

tried to close his ears against Amlawdd’s prattle.

For most of it he succeeded, not hearing the repetitive detail of that tedious

journey; “Lazy brute of a horse wouldn’t go faster than a trot, only slightly

lame, damned thing’s fit only for sausagemeat.”

Complaints against the poor state of the roads; “Mud wallows, Arthur ought

make repairs an urgent priority.”

The coldness of the wind; “Gets right round your balls when it blows from the

east.” The inhospitality of a passed inn. “The whore there smelt of pig’s muck!”

Ambrosius said nothing. From Amlawdd’s similar stench, he assumed he had

rutted with her anyway.

“This school of yours has expanded since last I was here, Ambrosius, must

be making a gold piece or two from fees, eh?” He idled a few more lumbering

swimming strokes, trod water. “Think I might start something similar, get a

few of those eunuch monks of yours to teach the lads.” He scratched at his

private parts. “Better still, have a few young girls, eh? I see you’ve got some

around the place.”

Ambrosius averted his eyes from the obvious pleasure this erotic statement

evoked in Amlawdd, did not condescend to clarify the inaccuracies. Men who

offered their celibacy to God were not geldings; the girls attending his school

were noviciates of the women’s holy house and were the educated daughters

of noblemen, not whores. Useless explaining to a dolt like Amlawdd who had

interest only for the perverse and the crude.

“You ought spend more of your profit on personal comfort, Ambrosius.

Look at these tiles man, they are a disgrace!” Amlawdd had swum to the pool-

side. It would be the one part most in need of repair. He picked at the loose

edging, pulling a cracked tile away, tossed it out to the floor where it shattered,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 6 5

unrepairable. Ambrosius’s body-slave immediately trotted forward to gather up

the pieces. “This water’s not as hot as it ought to be either. I would supervise

your slaves more carefully if I were you. Here, you!” Amlawdd beckoned to

the slave, a thin-faced man in his late second decade. “Feel this, it’s damned

cold!” Guffawing, Amlawdd splashed water over the slave, drenching him.

“He’ll make sure it’s warmer next time, eh?”

So he went on, passing comment, making criticism, rankling Ambrosius with

references to the quality bathhouse he intended to build. Ambrosius took several

calming, deep breaths, blotting out the rambling monotony. Amlawdd, a bath-

house? How many times had Ambrosius endured this same boasted conversation?

The water was becoming chill. The stoke-hole had not functioned as effi-

ciently since it had partially collapsed a year past. The rebuilding had been

unsuccessful, the quality of bricks poor, the mortar too soft. Shivering slightly,

Ambrosius left the pool, settled himself on the couch for the slave to begin

work with the wooden strigils, scraping away the sweat and grime, followed

by massaging oil into his skin. The experienced kneading of taut, tired muscles

brought a pleasurable, clean glow, marred by the raucous, indecent song

Amlawdd bellowed while floating on his back in the pool, his rotund belly

bobbing, visible, like a white, bloated corpse.

“You have not enough flesh on you to keep a bed-flea occupied,” Amlawdd

observed between choruses. “You’re thinner than my black-haired bitch from

Gaul—and that’s saying something! A hay-fork has more meat on it than she

has
. O…oh, for a feast! I stuffed the hare and stuffed the pig, and stuffed the girl who

served it!
” Fortunately for Ambrosius’s bruised ears, the lewd song had only a

further three verses and, his massage finished, he had the excuse to retire to the

sanctuary of the changing-room.

“Arthur has taken most of my best horses, you know,” Amlawdd called after

him, climbing from the pool, adding a comment that a massage would be the

more satisfactory from a female body-slave.

Ambrosius ignored him, was tempted to ignore the previous comment also,

but felt obliged to answer. “It is the Pendragon’s policy to purchase good stock.

You have the misfortune to have stallions that relate to the old breeding lines

of Gwynedd.”

“Purchase!” Amlawdd sat up, jerkily thrusting the slave aside, bellowed again.

“Purchase? I think not! He took them, stole them, two weeks back! Eight of

my best-bred colts and five mares. Said it was for tax tribute, pah! The bastard’s

no more than a common thief.”

4 6 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Draping the final fold of his toga, Ambrosius called up a vague semblance of

polite sympathy. “Taxation has always been a cause for contention.” His glint

of amusement went unnoticed by Amlawdd, who was wriggling himself into

a more comfortable position on the couch. “Harsh measures can even lead

to uprisings, I believe,” he added, but again the sarcasm was lost. It had been

Amlawdd’s suggestion to tax the Saxon settlers heavily, which had led to the

beginning of Ambrosius’s downfall. That Arthur would make the same mistake

was highly doubtful.

The Pendragon was lenient in those areas where trouble could arise, took

only from those who could afford to pay—and, damn the man, took within

the bounds of reason, never too much, never more than necessary. Ah, but

why should he worry over the failings of the past? Ambrosius had no wish to

rekindle thoughts of leadership. There were a few, a mere handful of like-

minded men, who would willingly donate a fortune to re-alight the flame

of Rome, to return Britain to sanity and discipline. But to what point? Even

Ambrosius had to admit, now, what was gone had gone. A clay pot once

broken could not be mended.

At least here in the calm confines of his stronghold, within the walls of

his religious school, he was his own master. A little piece of what was once

the Roman way flourished here. Ambrosius realised that his mind had been

wandering, that Amlawdd was still making complaint against Arthur. Huh, was

he ever not?

“We ought be looking ahead, I say, to securing our future. What do we do

when he has gone, that’s what we ought be asking!”

It was a question they all mulled over, aye, even Arthur quietly, to himself. Who

would follow the Pendragon, when death eventually came to claim his corpse?

“There is Medraut, the bastard-born,” Ambrosius suggested.

Amlawdd heaved himself from the couch, gesturing a crude sign of dismissal,

stalked into the changing-room, began to dress. “We have two choices. We

look to the daughter or to Cerdic.”

Were the second option not so absurd, Ambrosius would have laughed outright.

“She will not be far from reaching the age for breeding. Find her a suitable

husband, get her with child,” Amlawdd said.

“And you, I have no doubt, would be willing to offer yourself for such a

role?” It was pointless adding that edge of mockery.

At least Amlawdd had the decency to laugh. “Of course! I could not secure

the mother, why not have a go at the daughter?”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 6 7

“The daughter,” Ambrosius replied, “has the promise of an even sharper

temper, so I hear.”

“My blade could cut her down to size!” Robed, clean, Amlawdd headed

for the doorway, his stomach audibly growling for food and drink. He pointed

nether-wards, indicating the blade he meant. “How was your last brewing

of ale?” he asked. “Mine was poor, but I know you stock other stuff of a

superior quality!”

Ambrosius suppressed a groan. Amlawdd knew, full well, there was always

sufficient wine.

“Breed with the daughter, aye, but it would also be wise to nurture Cerdic.”

Later, Amlawdd continued the conversation as if there had been no substantial

interlude. They sat in Ambrosius’s private chamber, already one flask of wine