Unfortunately, the night had no answer.
Suddenly a gravelly voice whispered in his ear. ‘Careful how you go, healer, or you’re a dead man.’
‘Shite!’ Myrddion spun and reached for the small scalpel he always kept in his boot. ‘Who in Hades are you?’
‘I don’t matter, healer. I was watching out, enjoying the night, like, and I wondered if I could sneak up on a Demon Seed. It seems I can!’ The short, heavily muscled man smiled darkly, while Myrddion peered through the moonlight gloom and recognised the unmistakable outlines of a Roman foot soldier.
‘I’m embarrassed,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘No man likes to be caught talking to himself.’
‘It’s only a problem if you’re expecting an answer,’ the old soldier replied laconically. ‘But you’re right in what you said. What sort of general goes galloping off and leaves the rear to make its own way to the war? These brothers seem to have more hair than wit.’
He smiled again in the darkness with a flash of eyes and bared teeth. ‘I know you’re a friend of the High King, so don’t bother to answer that. According to old Septimus – and he’s been in Britain for years – Ambrosius usually thinks his actions out before he makes a move.’
‘What would
you
do, friend, if
you
were in charge?’ Myrddion asked the shadowy figure somewhat testily. Like all men, he felt free
to criticise his friends, but he resented anyone else who voiced the same opinions aloud.
‘Marius, the soldier’s general, sorted this nonsense out years ago. He decided that his men would carry almost everything they required, in pieces if necessary, and still move at the speed of a forced march – even over god-awful terrain. I’m not saying it would work here, mind, not in Britain where the ground’s like quicksand and the rain keeps pissing down.’
The two men had been strolling up a slight rise as they talked, and now paused at the summit. ‘Well, what do you know?’ the warrior said. ‘There’s the sodding North Road. Well done, healer! We’ll arrive in Verulamium long before anyone expects us to get there.’
The soldier pointed one gnarled finger and Myrddion peered in the direction he indicated. ‘I don’t see anything except a few white stones,’ he said.
‘Look! Can’t you see, healer? Only the legions ever made anything as straight as that. Those white stones are distance markers.’
The soldier’s arm and hand tracked the line of a break in the treetops through the faint moonlight. Yes! The steadiness of that moving finger pointed out the inescapable, sword-straight delineation of a purpose-built road.
‘That’s the end of my sleep for tonight,’ the solder growled. ‘If Septimus has half a brain, and he does, we’ll be back to footslogging as soon as I tell him. Now is the perfect time to get onto the sodding road. We don’t want to break out there exhausted, and in the full light of day. I can almost smell the Saxons to the north and they’re big buggers. A little man like me has to aim at their balls.’
Laughing quietly, the soldier turned to return to the wagons, but Myrddion gripped his left arm in passing. ‘Your name, friend? You never told me your name.’
‘Only the men I fight and bleed with have a need to know that. But
you’re well met by moonlight, healer.’ Then the soldier disappeared into the long grass without a sound.
Septimus roused the soldiers immediately, and ordered the baggage train to resume its slow movement. Clearing a path through the underbrush by the light of makeshift torches was a tiring and a slow process, and each foot of ground covered was achieved with scraped knees and sundry small injuries. By the time the moon had set and faint light rimmed the eastern sky, the baggage train was achingly close to the Roman road. Then, when only a matter of a hundred feet separated them from the wide thoroughfare, Septimus ordered the soldiers to hew down the obstructing tree branches and saplings, disguise the wagons, and rest during the hours of daylight.
Myrddion argued. Four days had passed since Ambrosius had left with the main column and the healer worried at the number of wounded men who would inevitably perish while they slept.
‘And how many will die if we’re ambushed on this fine wide road over yonder? Perhaps yourself? How will you save anyone if you’re dead or wounded?’ Septimus growled, and Myrddion was forced to admit that he had allowed his emotions to overrun his normal rational self.
I seem to be out of balance lately, he thought ruefully, as he joined Cadoc under the wagon.
As soon as dusk fell, the soldiers stripped away the concealing branches and the wagons juddered and swayed into movement. The horses strained, the soldiers pushed from behind, and as if regretfully relinquishing its hold on the baggage train, the path vomited the convoy onto the road that would take them to Verulamium.
All through the night, freed of mud, thick grass and the brutally uneven ground, the wagons made a good pace towards their destination
while the soldiers trotted beside them. The miles were steadily devoured by that bone-numbing action that Caesar had used so brilliantly to defeat the savages of Gaul. Without complaint, at a speed between a walk and a trot, the soldiers held formation while maintaining an intent watch on the nearby copses for any sign of Saxons.
With the approach of dawn, Myrddion knew that one last push would bring them to their destination. As they climbed the final hill, he was aware that only a stretch of flattish ground, a few miles in width, separated them from Verulamium.
‘You! Yes, healer, I’m talking to you. Let’s check the terrain. The sun will be up shortly, and then we’ll see what we’ll see. Blaise, come along too, and keep your eyes peeled.’
Septimus was in his usual foul mood, but Myrddion was eager to be at Verulamium, so he hoped to persuade the dour Roman to continue if the road ahead should prove to be clear. The two men stood on the brow of the hill, with Blaise a little in the rear, as the light slanted upward on their right, gilding the crowns of a deep forest to the east. Gradually, that feeble glow brightened, revealing the details of the long valley and the river that ran through it, serene and still with the increasing light of the dawn.
‘Well, the bridge is still in position down there,’ Septimus grunted with a soldier’s grasp of essential details. The beauty of the valley was of no consequence to the jaded eyes of a professional warrior because it offered neither threat nor advantage.
‘There’s smoke in the hills,’ Myrddion said with equal curtness, and pointed to long, dissipating rags of grey that stained the lightening sky over Verulamium. ‘There’s been some fighting outside the city, but the walls are still standing.’
Septimus gnawed at a hangnail on his thumb as he thought. Then, with the speed that was customary to him, he shouted for Blaise.
‘Back
to the wagons, boy! We’ll rest for a short time until the road is fully lit to give the horses the heart for the downhill run. Then, we march – at the double! The wagons must make best speed, hear? The machines are needed at Verulamium.’
Blaise spun on his heel without question and trotted back to the waiting convoy.
‘There’s burned earth down there,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘The defenders have been using hot oil over the walls, and the Mother knows how I hate burns injuries. Most soldiers die of shock, but those who linger suffer dreadfully.’
‘There’s been a battle, healer, so there will be plenty of work for you to do. Look downstream.’ The Roman pointed to his left, where the gory evidence of a desperate conflict was slowly being revealed in the strengthening light.
A brown stain marked a large area of green field, churned by the feet of horses and desperate men. The distance was too great for detail, but Myrddion had experienced enough battles to recognise the physical signs of their aftermath.
‘It’s obvious that the Saxons came out of Verulamium and fought Ambrosius there,’ Septimus muttered. ‘The churned earth leads back to the city and, as there’s a siege going on, I’ll wager Verulamium is still in Saxon hands.’
‘How so?’ Myrddion could barely make out the details of the force surrounding the city, but he could imagine the swift annihilation that would ensue if they drove blithely into the middle of a Saxon camp.
‘I can tell that you’ve not followed Uther,’ Septimus’s voice held neither fear nor admiration, but was simply a recitation of fact. ‘His forces wouldn’t run into a captured enemy city. Ambrosius’s foot soldiers would have forced the Saxons back into their holes once Uther broke their backs with his cavalry.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’ Myrddion’s voice was thick with reservations,
although he was eager to reach the High King’s troops.
‘I’m not wrong! Ambrosius has been forced to mount a siege on Verulamium, a strategy which will be slow, costly and difficult.’ Septimus’s voice spoke of his hatred for sieges more loudly than words. ‘We must get down there as soon as we can.’
For once, the Roman and the healer were in perfect agreement as they retraced their steps to the wagons and the column.
The teams of horses were weary, but the drivers were ruthless in their application of whips and reins as they forced the beasts into a surge that would take full advantage of the downward grade. Myrddion spurred his horse and soon outstripped the column and the wagons. He needed to know if the bridge had any enemy defenders, and whether they would make their presence known as he approached. His horse’s hooves hit the rough-sawn slabs of the bridge with a loud clatter as the shadows of the night were finally vanquished by a bloody sunrise. With his heart in his mouth, Myrddion urged his horse at a gallop up a low bank on the other side of the river.
Suddenly, cavalrymen appeared through the smoke on the small, agile horses that spoke of the flinty mountains of Myrddion’s home.
‘Who goes there?’ a rasping voice bellowed.
‘Myrddion of Segontium, healer to Ambrosius,’ he panted, the breath almost jolted from his body by his headlong rush. Behind him the column was approaching the bridge in a disciplined run and, behind them, Myrddion caught a glimpse of Cadoc’s red hair atop one of the wagons as the rays of the rising sun limned him with fire.
‘We have brought the baggage train to you,’ Myrddion shouted unnecessarily.
‘You’re badly needed,’ the leading cavalryman snapped, and turned to where the smoke haze was building over Verulamium.
Battlefields
are a special, unique kind of hell. The Christians believe that hell is fire and heat filled with unimaginable horrors of physical pain, while the Romans believe that it is cold, shadowy and without substance. Neither comes close to the truth.
The hell that is battlefields is hard, grinding and muscle-cracking work. The soldier, if he is to have any chance of survival, must be strong at the shoulders and forearms so he can hold his shield and swing his sword past that point of exhaustion when every rational thought tells him to drop his guard. He must have legs made for running, but also knees that can lock hard to assume the position, in concert with his fellow warriors, to absorb the shock of a charging enemy, whether on foot or on horseback. He must possess deft feet that can grip the earth, no matter how thick the bloody mud might be, and yet still be able to spin and pirouette in the dance of sanctioned murder.
Battlefields are noisy, distracting and filthy places. The sound deafens the ears, in grunts of effort, screams of rage, prayers to callous gods, whimpers of pain, the clash of metal kissing, cutting and killing and the endless rumbling and drumming of horses’ hooves, wheels of wagons and siege machines and the feet of running men. To survive, a soldier must be able to ignore the sounds and smells that assault him, and focus only on the man who stands toe to toe against him. He must narrow his focus so that his enemy is the only person who is real, for every muscle twitch or movement can be a warning of danger. So the battlefield belongs to the strong, the dexterous and the focused, those men whose temperaments and physiques have been honed for survival.
Myrddion rode through the battlefield outside Verulamium and thought darkly of the temperaments of those men who killed for their bread. Across the river, and on level ground to the left of the approaches to Verulamium, Ambrosius’s cavalry had met the Saxon defenders of the city who had ventured outside the perimeter to win
glory by claiming Celtic heads. The healer saw clearly defined circles, dug with heels and shields into a field that had been designed to grow vegetables. And now the tender shoots of lime green and emerald, as fresh as jewels against the brown loam of the field, were flattened, smashed and uprooted by careless boots. Here, the shield wall had been formed in ever narrowing circles round the thane standing proudly at the centre of his warriors. There, where hooves had cut wide furrows into the turned earth, as straight as a ploughshare, the Celtic cavalry had attacked from two sides at once. A day before, on the morning of the battle, men had been scythed like corn, and their blood had blurred the shoots of surviving growth with sanguine stains that would only disappear after the next heavy rain.
Myrddion kicked his horse towards the smoke rising from piles of burning bodies beyond a ruined farmhouse in the distance. Experience told him that the wounded would be found somewhere near the shelter of that building, where the dark rain clouds would be held at bay by a partial sod roof. With Cadoc and Praxiteles driving the wagons on easier ground through the muddy field, Myrddion knew he could set up a tent hospital quickly and efficiently. He hated to think of what injuries awaited him.
While Praxiteles set up the tent in the lee of the farmhouse, Cadoc set off with the emptied wagon towards Verulamium, with Rhedyn aboard to assist in transporting the wounded men from the siege of the city to this position of relative safety. Although the city walls were less than half a mile from the healers’ tent, the short distance would be difficult to cover by warriors suffering serious wounds. Initially, Cadoc’s task was to bring them back to Myrddion’s care as quickly and as carefully as possible.
On makeshift stretchers made from cloaks slung between spear shafts, the wounded from the earlier battle were borne from the farmhouse to the healer’s tent. Brangaine had already found what women
were available to assist with the nursing, and the myriad tasks of building cleansing fires, heating water and assembling the salves and painkillers of the healer’s art were in train. Myrddion missed Finn’s calming, experienced presence but Dyfri, even with his crippled leg, was quick to provide Myrddion’s every need. As the wounded arrived, the bloody work began.