After Rome (32 page)

“I tried that. No one else wants him either.”

“Meradoc is the man to deal with this, he's captain of the horse.”

“Meradoc has his hands full already,” Iolo said. “He's been trying to catch that crazy red horse before she injures herself.”

Cynan hurried up to them. “Come quick! We were beating out the campfire when the wind blew some sparks into the dry grass and now…”

Dinas gave a weary sigh.

If Cadogan were here he would create order from chaos. What was it my mother said? “Dinas for dreams, Cadogan for practicality.” Yes. Gwladys preferred dreams. What dream did Vintrex embody for her, I wonder?

The day presented one problem after another. Just when one fire was extinguished a fire of a different sort broke out. And then another. Horses fought, men quarreled. When Dinas sent Tostig and Cadel in search of game to augment their rapidly dwindling food supplies the two came back empty-handed. “We didn't see so much as a hedgehog,” Tostig reported.

Meradoc—in a sour mood because he still had not caught the mare—told Dinas, “We need more substantial food than nuts and berries and a few crumbs of dry bread. You could ride back to that town where you bought the horses and buy some meat and cheese.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

Dinas looked around to be certain no one else was listening. “The problem is this, Meradoc: I didn't buy the horses—not all of them. I bought and paid for the four geldings, who were seriously overpriced, by the way, and started for camp. Then I noticed a fenced paddock where a man was turning out a mare with her foal. Even from a distance I could tell their quality, so I stopped to watch. You don't see horses like that anymore.

“The man who put them into the paddock fastened the gate and walked away. He didn't even look back. The mare ran up and down along the fence, stopping to snatch a mouthful of grass and running again. My horse began calling to her and she answered. I decided it was time to ride on. I didn't expect her to jump the fence and join us.”

“So you stole her?”

“Not exactly, though it might have looked that way. When she jumped the fence she left her foal in the paddock and the little fellow went crazy, trying to get through the fence and go after her. I was afraid he'd hurt himself. I couldn't catch her to put her back in, so I opened the gate to let him out.” Dinas gave a rueful smile. “You can understand why I'd rather not go back there.”

“But you'll keep the mare.” A statement, not a question.

“If you can catch her, Meradoc, I'll keep her. And the foal will be yours.”

Meradoc glowed.

Bryn found Dinas glowering over the depleted contents of his saddlebags. The geldings had cost too much. Everything was costing too much. Following the collapse of empire, people with anything to sell were demanding ridiculous prices.

“I'm baffled,” Bryn reported. “I don't think the problem with Tarates is his head wound. That's healing as I predicted, yet he's in a lot of pain. I gave him a strong infusion of willow and he said it helped, but I don't believe him. There's something seriously wrong inside of him.”

“An injury?”

“Or an ailment that had nothing to do with the attack. I can't treat it until I know what it is.”

Dinas followed Bryn to where Tarates lay. The man's condition had visibly worsened. His discolored face was covered with a slick of greasy perspiration and he seemed to be mumbling incoherently. Dinas bent closer.

“The end of the world,” Tarates was saying. “The end of the world.”

Dinas gave an annoyed snort. “It's no such thing, Tarates.”

“The end of the world. I am dying. Please God I am dying. This hurts too much. The end of the world.”

Dinas stood up. “He certainly will die if he keeps on like that.”

“He will anyway,” said Bryn.

Dinas—who had casually wished the man would die—now was determined to keep him alive. He demanded the healer save Tarates no matter what it took, and sent a scouting party to find herbs and roots and other necessaries for more of Bryn's concoctions. While the battle of life and death was being fought Dinas paced around the encampment, angry at his own impotence. Late in the afternoon he set off on foot to try to catch the chestnut mare himself.

The rest of his band felt as helpless as he did, and found ways to keep themselves busy as far from the sufferer as possible. Only two or three, including Meradoc, were driven by pity to visit him again and again.

When Tarates began to writhe with pain and his eyes rolled back in his head, Meradoc could stand it no longer. “I'm going to get some water for him,” he told Bryn.

“Water's no good to him now.”

“He can't drink,” Pelemos interjected. “It's as if his jaws are locked. Just look at him; he's out of his head, he doesn't even know what's going on.”

“I'll be right back,” said Meradoc.

He returned carrying a stone cup brimming with water from the nearest stream. By this time Tarates was spasming like a half-crushed earthworm. Pelemos was whispering Christian prayers over folded hands. Bryn was muttering incantations to elder gods.

Meradoc knelt on the earth beside Tarates.

“He won't take it.”

“I know, Pelemos, but let me try anyway.” Cradling the cup between his hands, Meradoc held it to the man's lips. Which had turned blue and were tightly pressed together.

At the touch of the cup Tarates gave a low moan.

Meradoc pressed the vessel more firmly against his mouth.

The lips slowly parted.

Meradoc tilted the cup.

Tarates swallowed convulsively. Almost choked; caught his breath. Took another swallow, a little easier this time. Then another. His lips caressed the rim of the cup. His eyes resumed their rightful place in their sockets; cleared and were aware. With a sigh of ineffable relief, he smiled up at Meradoc.

And died.

As if a gentle hand had passed over his face, the agony faded. Only the smile lingered.

When Dinas returned to the camp leading the chestnut mare they told him about Tarates, and showed him the dead man. Still smiling.

“I ordered you to save him!” Dinas burst out.

“We did everything we could,” Pelemos assured him. “The poor fellow was hurt worse than we knew.”

Bryn nodded in agreement. “When a man reaches the edge of the cliff there are only two ways to go: step back or step forward. He stepped forward.”

The recruits dug a grave deep enough to put Tarates well beyond the reach of predators and lined it with leafy branches. Though he was not of their tribe, they lowered him into the earth with great tenderness. Standing around the grave, the entire company said Christian prayers for a Christian man. Celtic Christianity had taken root in the high mountains from which the recruits came, but the Roman version had not. The ritual they recited was in the ancient tongue. The language of Albion.

Afterward they built a stone cairn over the grave and rode away.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Trying not to look at the spear leveled at his heart, Cadogan said, “Call off your dogs. You have no right to insult a visitor to the fair.” As he spoke Godubnus and Trebellos stepped up beside him, mirroring the other man's spear carriers.

“I have all the rights I claim,” replied the man with the gold torc. “Call off your own dogs.”

Cadogan made a slight but perceptible gesture to indicate to his companions that they were to hold their position. His heart was pounding so hard he thought surely everyone could hear it. Yet he managed to say, in a tone borrowed from the chief magistrate of Viroconium, “From your appearance you are a Briton, but from your accent you are not one of the Cornovii. This is their tribal territory—and mine. You are the outsider here; identify yourself.”

The other man's eyes glittered with amusement. “You have not heard of me, then? But you will, I assure you. I am called Vortigern.
King
Vortigern.”

The name meant nothing to Cadogan. “King of what tribe, what territory?”

“That remains to be determined,” Vortigern replied smoothly. “Now it is your turn to identify yourself.”

To his surprise Cadogan heard himself say—exactly as his father would have done—“I am called Cadogan, citizen of the Roman Empire.”

Vortigern blinked. It was an unintentional reflex, but enough to reveal a chink in his armor. Cadogan quickly pressed home his advantage. “Kings in Britannia are elected by their tribes, Vortigern, and they rule with the consent of the emperor. Which tribe elected…”

“Which emperor?” Vortigern interrupted. “The Emperor of the West or the Emperor of the East? The child Valentinian in Rome, or Theodosius the Second in Constantinople?”

Be very careful, Cadogan warned himself. This man is not only clever but knowledgeable. “The empire is being ruled jointly as a matter of expedience, but it is still one—”

“One nothing,” Vortigern interrupted again. “The West has collapsed under the weight of its own corruption and the East is busy rediscovering its Greek heritage. Neither of them knows nor cares what happens in an insignificant backwater such as Britannia.”

“Who told you that?” Cadogan asked. His curiosity was piqued. Vortigern was arrayed as a king, but aside from wars with their neighbors, British kings rarely left their own territories. He was surprised that Vortigern knew anything about the forces that were ripping the empire apart.

“My information comes from Hengist of the Jutes,” said Vortigern, jerking his thumb at one of the spear carriers. “The man aiming his weapon at your heart is Hengist's brother, Horsa. These two led a large band of Saxon settlers to Britannia, and at my invitation are going to bring an army north to defend my borders from the Picts and the Scoti.”

This time Cadogan made no effort to hide his astonishment. “
Your
borders? I told you before, this is the land of the Cornovii!”

“And I explained before,” Vortigern stressed, “my territory is where I say it is. I say it runs from here to Hadrian's Wall, and I am prepared to fight for it with the aid of my Saxon friends.”

Cadogan was dumbfounded. This naked landgrab was so unexpected he could think of no appropriate response. “But what about … what about…” To his dismay, Cadogan's numbed brain refused to supply him with the name of the king of the Cornovii—a man whom he had met many times in Viroconium.

“Ogmeos,” whispered Godubnus.

Cadogan shot him a grateful look. “What about Ogmeos?”

“He is willing to cede his office and titles to me,” Vortigern replied smugly. “So many Picts and Scots are flooding into his kingdom that he is unable to cope with them. Rather than admit defeat, he and the other chieftains have accepted me as their new king provided I drive the invaders back over the Wall. Hence, my two generals here.”

Cadogan glanced from Hengist to Horsa. Horsa was the taller, Hengist the more battle scarred, but there was no doubt they were warriors. As was Vortigern himself from the look of him. His face was set in the implacable lines of a man determined to have his way at all costs.

Cadogan recognized the expression; he had seen it before on Dinas. Its familiarity steadied him. “I assume you have confirmation of this from the proper authorities?”

“What proper authorities? The only authorities in Britannia now are the sword and the spear, and I am well equipped with both. Tell me, Cadogan, citizen of the empire: Have you come to pay tribute to your new king, or to buy and sell merchandise to enrich my treasury?”

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” Cadogan suggested, “as befits men of equal rank.”

Vortigern blinked again. “Equal rank?”

“You have not heard of me, then?” Cadogan was pleased to repeat his own words back to him. “I am the son of Vintrex, chief magistrate of this entire province. For the duration of his current illness he has appointed me to serve in his stead. So as you see, there is still authority after all.”

Horsa lowered his spear.

Vortigern said, “I don't believe you.”

“That is of supreme indifference to me,” Cadogan replied, gaining strength from the other man's uncertainty. “Whether you believe me or not the authority is mine. If you doubt me ask your friend Ogmeos, who knows both my father and myself very well. He has dined in our home on more than one occasion.”

Both Hengist and Horsa were now looking directly at Vortigern.

The self-proclaimed king shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He has strange eyes, Cadogan thought. You can almost see him making calculations behind them.

Vortigern cleared his throat. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “We should be discussing this between ourselves. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my tent.” Without waiting for Cadogan to accept, he took hold of his elbow to guide him.

Cadogan subtly pulled away. Just enough to establish his independence; not enough to be a rejection. Turning to Godubnus, he said, “You two wait here for me. If I do not return soon, you know what to do.”

Godubnus nodded. “We know what to do,” he echoed.

Hengist and Horsa looked at each other.

Vortigern's tent was the largest on the fair grounds. Fifteen cattle hides had gone into its making, augmented by strips of red deer hide and yellow wildcat fur. Its design was British; Celtic British. Wolf-fur robes were piled deeply on the ground inside, and the air was redolent with the bloody remains of a meal. When the two men threw back the flap and entered the tent a young woman jumped to her feet and ran out, carrying a piece of meat in her hand.

“One of my wives,” Vortigern commented. “I appreciate some of the old customs.”

Cadogan tried not to look shocked. “I assumed you were a Christian.”

“Oh, I am. When it suits me. But a king should be able to impress his people with his virility—among other things. Hence I have three wives. Well-satisfied wives,” he added with a grin.