Читать книгу The Great Captains - Henry Treece - Страница 16

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So at last they walked into Uther’s dun. The place they had come so far to find lay sprawled in confusion beneath the lowering grey stone crags of a high hill. Wooden and wattle huts were strewn, haphazard, on all sides of a large, roughly square area of earth, beaten hard and flat by many feet for many generations. Beyond that square lay the ruins of what had once been a Roman villa, four-square and red-tiled, its courtyard containing fruit trees and a stone fountain. Yet the building which overtopped all, although it was set away from the others, almost at the foot of the steep rocky slopes of the hill, was a temple, domed and columned in a barbaric imitation of the classical style, but made of wood, an immense parody of a civilisation which had now passed into man’s most distant dreams.

The grotesque hunched shape seemed to brood above the settlement, its columns blackened by fire, its irregular dome decorated by long pikes, at the summit of each of which grinned a parchment-coloured head, some of them still wearing their frayed and tattered trappings of braid and eagles’ feathers.

Within the temple, fires burned at altars raised to many gods, throwing out a black and greasy smoke that hid whatever it swept across and hung about the ragged tents and wattle huts before it dispersed in the direction of the river.

Medrodus shuddered and held his nose as the waves of billowing smoke swung in his direction.

“The Kings of the West live in style,” he said drily.

“At least they live,” said Ambrosius, “which is more than we can say for many jewelled emperors we have known.”

Everywhere about them there was movement, the patternless violent to-and-fro of any primitive encampment. Women dragged long sledges laden with brushwood, or passed wooden buckets from hand to hand from the stream up to the huts; children rolled in the dust between the wattle huts, or stood on the manure heaps shouting and pushing their companions headlong down; drovers brought in their herds of sheep, to the accompaniment of barking dogs; cattle strayed here and there about the houses. Over the carcass of a fallen bull, a group of half-naked men worked, some of them astride the beast, laughing as they hacked, their chests spattered with warm blood. In the beaten-earth square, two parties of young men attacked each other with cudgels, the fight swaying backwards and forwards as one side and then the other gained the mastery. Beyond the Roman villa, a company of horsemen swept in a wide circle, picking with their long lances at some object which rolled on the ground.

Medrodus said, “God, how the place stinks!”

The old man’s face took on a cynical smile. “Almost as bad as the alley-ways of Colchester, I seem to recall.” Medrodus felt a fierce shiver pass down the hairs on the nape of his neck to the muscles of his back, the muscles that would drive a knife into a man. But he controlled himself and said, “Master, you do wrong to taunt me. I am what you have made me. If that is a bad thing, then your training and not my heart may be at fault.”

The old man stopped and said, “I am fallible, like any other man, Medrodus, that is all.”

And Medrodus read a strange menace in that simple speech, though he could not put his finger on the cause of the menace at that time.

There was hardly time for more words, for the horsemen had sighted them and had swung round towards them, galloping furiously. Soon the two men were surrounded by this swarm of half-naked Celts, their long hair streaming behind them, their painted bodies bent low over their horses’ necks as they swept about their visitors. Medrodus made a firm stand, determined not to let them force him to show fear. He smiled above their heads, towards the black smoke of the temple, trying to impress them with his Roman gravity. Old Ambrosius, his eyes made still more blind by the thick dust that swirled about them now, put out a hand to find Medrodus and whispered, “What is it? Are they attacking us, Medrodus? Who are they, think you?”

Medrodus put out his arm to steady the old man, who was in danger of falling down in the giddy confusion. Yet it was not kindness alone that prompted this movement. He intended these savages to see it as a protective gesture to a weak old man, expecting that they would respect that weakness and draw away.

Yet he misjudged these men, to whom an old man was not an object for pity but for sport. One great horseman, his corn-coloured hair caught back on his shoulders by great whorls of copper, drove in so close that he jostled Ambrosius sideways, against the pony of another man, a small dark man whose face was criss-crossed with many ritual scars. The Count of Britain stumbled and fell to his knees. Medrodus acted by instinct and stood above him, one leg on either side of the old man’s kneeling body. He reached down for the great sword, which Ambrosius still clasped as a mother might hold a child. Seeing his intention, the man with the corn-coloured hair gave a rough shout and, levelling his lance, drew back to make a charge at Medrodus, who now felt the sweat of fear trickling the length of his back.

It was at this moment that a great shout sounded behind them, from the river, at which the horsemen halted, and sat waiting, still as carven statues. Medrodus looked behind him to see the man who had been ploughing with bulls. He strode with authority now, his broad head thrown back.

“Hold your lance, Bedwyr!” he called. “The old one means no harm. It is only the young one who offends.”

Ambrosius struggled to his feet and looked towards the ploughman.

“I owe you thanks,” he said. “Your followers are a little over-boisterous in their play.”

The ploughman ignored the old man’s words. He spoke to the horsemen.

“Get back to your work,” he said. “You, Bedwyr, take these to the Guletic. And keep your lance out of them until he has seen them.”

The horsemen saluted him before they galloped back to their lance-play. The corn-haired savage who had intended to kill Medrodus now laughed just as readily and swung his own horse round towards the decaying villa. “Artos commands,” he said, when Medrodus would have hung back. “Men obey him.”

The ploughman, Artos, had walked away to a wattle hut at the edge of the compound, disinterestedly. He did not once turn round to see if his orders had been obeyed. Medrodus envied his assurance, hating its success at the same time.

The horseman snarled over his shoulder, “Make better speed or I will ride behind you. Then you shall learn a way to make men hurry.”

They followed him through the wide gateway of the villa and across the derelict courtyard, to where Uther Pendragon sat in state, among his chieftains, laughing under an awning by the further wall.

Like Cunedda and Vortigern of earlier times, this Uther was a northern Celt, who had seen more profit in moving westward and appropriating territories outside the sway of the Legions. Of all the foederati, however, he had best learned how to mind his own affairs. There was no record that Uther Pendragon had ever become involved in the many skirmishes that had flared up and faded away along the Borders, in those last ruinous years of Roman domination. When minor wars started, Uther found occasion to visit relatives in Strathclyde, or to go on a long hunting expedition in farthest Gwynnedd. So he was still strong, not having wasted his men in futile battles and his money in entertaining visiting Roman delegates.

The laughter under the tattered awning ceased as the two travellers made their way towards the group. Uther Pendragon stood up on his throne steps as Ambrosius drew near and raised his hand in a careless gesture, as though gibing at the Roman greeting sign. He was a tall and robust man, despite his seventy years. His hair was still plentiful and red, and hung down below his roughly beaten gold head-ring, in two plaits onto his broad shoulders. His drooping moustaches mingled with the fierce fork of his beard below a hooked and hawklike nose. His most remarkable features were his pale grey eyes, that seemed like holes in his head, so faded was their colour—and an old sword-cut that puckered up the left side of his face from temple to nostril, so that he always seemed to be grinning in a savagely humorous way.

His voice was as courteous as he could make it, though sibilant from that same sword wound, which had knocked out his teeth on one side of his jaw.

“Welcome, Ambrosius,” he said. “We wondered how long it would be before you came.”

At these words, there was a subdued rustle of laughter among the chieftains. Medrodus wondered what the reactions of Ambrosius would be to such a jibe. Yet the Count of Britain seemed hardly to hear what Uther Pendragon had said. He stood in the courtyard, his arms folded, a strangely confident little smile wrinkling the corners of his mouth. This was Ambrosius Aurelianus, the Roman, now, and no longer the weary and faintly comic old dotard he had seemed at many points along the journey.

“Uther Guletic,” he said quietly, “what is there left for me to do, for Rome to do? If you will not come to us when we send for you, then we must come to you, as the father must go to his grown-up son, however wayward the boy may be.”

The laughter under the awning turned to a faint gasp of astonishment, and men looked up now to see what Uther Guletic would do as answer to such impertinence. And for a while there was silence while the thick black smoke from the temple altars swept across the enclosed courtyard.

Then Uther Pendragon descended the three steps on which his carved throne-chair was set, and he went to Ambrosius Aurelianus, a smile upon his grim face, his red head slightly bowed. And he held out his hands to the old man, who stood still, staring above him all the while. And Uther Pendragon kneeled in the dust before the Count of Britain and said, quietly, yet so that all should hear, “Master, if such as you had sat on the golden chair in Rome, the world would not be a jungle now.” Lightly he touched the hem of the old man’s tattered robe with his lips. Then, with a movement so feverishly quick that for an instant Medrodus almost suspected treachery, Uther Pendragon swung round to his henchmen under the wall and said defiantly, “This is a man. Look at him and remember that I have said so, should the devils of mischief enter your heads tonight, or any other night.”

Many there present had never heard of Ambrosius, but had feared Uther Pendragon from their cradles. They gazed with wonder on the thin old man who stood before them still clasping the great sword, his blind eyes looking beyond them into a past, or a future, towards which they could not reach. Medrodus saw the little twitch of the Count’s lips, the signal for some cynical comment. Then he saw the mouth straighten itself again, and knew that Ambrosius would leave unsaid that which had come to his mind. Ambrosius said, “Thank you, friend. May this moment heal the wound the silent years have made.”

Uther looked a little uncomfortable for a moment and then he turned and called out for a slave-girl to fetch water so that the feet of Ambrosius should be washed, a ritual sign of hospitality. Medrodus suddenly recalled an incident of his childhood, when his mother had been asked to attend a ceremonial dinner at the municipal offices in Colchester. She had assumed that her invitation was due to the fact that her husband was a person of some standing, at least in the tax department. She borrowed a dress from a neighbour and spent hours trying to make her face and hands look as though she were a lady of leisure. Yet in the end, she still looked much the same as she had for years. The wrinkles were too deep, the callouses too hard, for a mere day to remove them. And that evening, she found that she was not to sit at the great table of the visiting Vicarius, but had to stand, with other wives of petty officials and clerks, along the wall, as a servant. Her special task was to hold the golden bowl of rosewater, with which the feet of the Vicarius were washed. Medrodus recalled her tears when she returned to their wretched home that night. Now he watched the slave-girl washing the feet of Ambrosius. He clenched his lips tight.

“Soon they shall wash my feet,” he said to himself, “those laughing savages under the awning, Uther Guletic himself. Yes, and the one who ploughed with the bulls. Especially he. I will throw the water into his face afterwards.”

Medrodus looked again at Uther Pendragon. He noted the full red cloak, held at the shoulder by a massive garnet brooch, its setting of dark bronze; the sky-blue tunic, pinched in about the waist by a belt of a hand’s span in breadth, bossed at intervals with red coral, from which hung a silver-hilted hunting knife in a scabbard of heavy Spanish leather.

His envious gaze travelled down the man’s body, to the bright red and yellow breeches, strapped round thigh and calf with thongs of plaited hide. He observed the thinness of those legs, the limbs of a man who had walked little for exercise, but who had lived a long lifetime in the saddle. Medrodus made a mental note that if ever he had to face the Guletic in anger, it should be on foot and not mounted.

He came from his daydream to hear Ambrosius say, “This is my ward, Medrodus, who has served me well since his boyhood.” Nothing more than that; no announcement of the election. Medrodus looked up in irritation, but then was forced to walk forward to take the hands of Uther, who waited to greet him. The Guletic’s grip was so strong that for an instant Medrodus knew himself to be powerless. The young man made another note, not to meet the Guletic unarmed!

“Young man, you are welcome for the sake of Ambrosius,” said Uther Pendragon. Then he went back to his chair and seemed to forget him.

Now the Count of Britain was sitting among the war lords, who regarded him with respect, listening to his halting Celtic as he explained that Britain could only be free again if the people of the west joined forces and swept the Saxon invader from the coasts.

Uther listened attentively, stroking his beard and grinning because of his sword-cut. Only once did he interrupt, when he said, “The western folk are many. It would need a strong man to hold them together. You and I are too old for that task now, Ambrosius.” The heart of Medrodus leapt into his throat, for he expected that the old man would make his announcement now. But Ambrosius was silent, as though in his blindness he forgot that Medrodus still stood there. And the moment was lost, for Uther went straight on, saying, “Moreover, friend, we can never bring back Rome again, even if we wished to do so, for Rome has gone from the world’s face; she is as torn and bleeding as we are. By force, perhaps, we might drive out the Saxon, but it would be to create a rule of our own, and not of Rome.”

Ambrosius bowed his head. “I am not a fool, Uther,” he said. “I know there is a price to be paid. Men fight for different dreams, and yours is not mine. Yet the end could be the same, peace and comfort for a well-ordered land. Britain is still rich, if one only knows where to look for the riches. Her people still have strength, if one only knows how to call it forth. Together, you and I, Uther, might lead this land back to ordered peace and prosperity. No, not as warriors, I know; but as counsellors. A British Council, over which we presided, you and I, having chosen a dux bellorum, a battle leader, to do our fighting, would be the answer.”

The chieftains began to talk to each other now, shaking their feathered heads and beating their hands, one upon the other, to stress their words. Pendragon listened to them for a space and then said to the old man, “We are not certain. We are tribesmen and not legions. We have never followed anyone but our blood leaders, no, not from the beginning. We are a roaming people, who fight here and there as the whim takes us and as the loot draws us! And when we are not fighting, we have our cattle to tend, and our fields to plough, and our babes to get and rear. It is not easy for us to follow an idea like the one you speak of, for we have never known an ordered comfort, friend.”

Medrodus had edged to the foot of the throne steps, and would have raised his own voice at that moment, had not a slave-woman offered him a horn-cup of wine. As he set it to his lips, he noticed that Uther and Ambrosius were also being offered wine, but from golden cups. It seemed to him now that everything possible was being done to humiliate him. Yet he would show them that he could control himself as a Roman should. He put the cup to his lips and drank a little. The wine was thin and sour, made from local grapes, he thought. His grimace went unchecked.

Then Uther Pendragon leaned forward in his chair and knocked the cup from his hand. The wine spilled at the feet of Medrodus, splashing over the pavement onto his sandals. He turned in anger to meet the cold light eyes of the Guletic. Uther was smiling differently now and the gap in his teeth was openly displayed.

“I would not have my guests suffer from my hospitality,” he said. “Our wine is not to your taste. We shall not inflict it again.”

Some of the tribesmen were on their feet, looking down at him, their eyes flaming like those of animals. Somehow they assumed that this stranger had insulted Uther, their overlord. Medrodus made himself smile.

“Guletic,” he said, “I have travelled far and am weary. My manners may improve when I have rested.”

Uther still bared his teeth, a nerve at the side of his neck throbbing with suppressed anger.

“There is a bed for you,” he said; “may it be more to your liking than our wine was.”

Ambrosius half rose, as though he realised at last that the young man was going to leave him among these strange folk. But Medrodus could not wait now. He saluted Uther Pendragon and followed the slave-girl who waited to take him to the room set aside for wandering guests.

As Medrodus sat on the thong pallet, dangling his legs and biting his knuckles with frustration, the door-curtain opened and a young fair-haired man came in. Medrodus saw his wavering blue eyes and the sharp, mean nose. He sat in silence, trying to summon up as much dignity as his anger had left him.

The young man said, “I was there when he spilled the wine over you. He is a violent man. You must always beware of his anger.”

Medrodus did not speak. He feared that this might be some trap. The other sensed this and went on hurriedly. “I am not of this folk. You may trust me. I am from Dumnonia, Ambassador to Constantine. I only say, take care. Uther Guletic is to be watched. Yet his son, Artos the Bear, is even more fearful.”

Medrodus said, as urbanely as he could, “I look forward to meeting a son who contains within himself more graces even than the father.”

The Ambassador looked at him strangely. “But you have met him,” he said. “I saw him through the archway, stopping Bedwyr from running his lance through you.”

Medrodus said, “So that is Artos! Artos the Bear! He is well named, indeed. Tell me, my friend, is it his usual habit to plough the fields with bulls in the yoke? That seems a strange custom, even for such an unusual people as this!”

The other came forward, but listened before he spoke lest there should be someone in the corridor that led to this room.

“Friend,” he said, “you have met a man who is under a curse of the gods. Artos is cursed. He is forced to plough with bulls as a penance. His father, Uther Pendragon, put that punishment upon him. It is one of their old punishments. Most often the bulls are intractable and gore the ploughman. Yet this Artos subdued them, and can now plough as straight a furrow with bulls as another man can with oxen.”

Medrodus looked back at him in bewilderment. “His father caused him to risk death?” he asked. “But why should that be? A father does not do that to his son if he loves him.”

The other said, “Make no mistake, Uther loves Artos, but the priests made him pass the sentence, for it is the old law. Artos had offended the oldest of laws. Had he been the son of a mere warrior, they would have cut his throat over the altar stones and said no more about it. But Artos is of the precious blood, the oldest blood, of kings.”

Medrodus said simply, “What has he done to merit such punishment?” But the fair-haired man drew back. “I may not tell you,” he said. “The word must not be said, lest the old gods hear it and bring me to the same thing in my dreams.”

Medrodus said, “Get out of my room, for God’s sake! I have come from a different land, I see, although I have only crossed a few hundred miles of waste dungheap. Go, and keep your gossip for the other old women you know. They will relish it about the smoking fire, no doubt. But I am tired.”

He flung himself onto the bed, his face to the rough stone wall, and closed his eyes.

“You will not live long here, my friend,” said the other, turning from him. “Your temper is too quick—yet even so, it cannot match the fury of Uther Pendragon. A man must stay awake all night to catch Uther with his breeches down!”

Medrodus sat up again. “We shall see who is master,” he said, unable to control himself. The young man laughed quietly and went to the door.

“At the feast,” he said, “we shall doubtless see many things. There you will learn more perhaps than you wish to know.”

He turned then, and without saying another word, went through the door-curtain. Medrodus bit his knuckles until the blood came in thin trickles. Then he beat his bleeding hand against the grey stone wall, unable to contain his anger any longer.