Theodoric

Roman legions stormed them, his thick wool robe proof against the worst of the chills, Myrddin made good progress westward. The ridgeways took him through a magical landscape: huge rounded hills like frozen billows, some with chalk-cut figures of giants and horses adorning their bare flanks; strange mounds like bells, inverted bowls, or upturned longboats — tombs from ancient times when men had only tools of flint or bronze; concentric rings of standing stones, one such overlooked by a tall hill so perfectly conical it could only have been raised by man — but why or when was something only to be guessed at.

On the eighth day, spotting far below the settlement of Castra Gyfel on a Roman road running arrow-straight towards the north-east, Myrddin descended from the ridgeway he was walking, to the plain — a land of streams and water-meadows, yet unconquered by the Saxons. Given directions to Artorius’ headquarters by a farmer who spoke glowingly about the British leader, Myrddin found himself, after a pleasant walk of a few miles, approaching an extraordinary edifice, an ancient hill-fort from its earthen banks and ditches, reinforced with recent defences of stone and timber.† Presenting himself before a crude but massive timber gateway, Myrddin got ready to produce his documents.

‘This says you helped Aurelian, and that now you wish to help me. Should I feel flattered?’ Artorius, a flame- haired giant, clean-shaven in the Roman manner, and with a hint of humour about the shrewd eyes and the decisive mouth, handed back Myrddin’s letter of introduction. ‘Subscribed by Odovacar no less, I see,’ he went on with mock reverence. ‘We are impressed.’ He shot the other an appraising look. ‘Well, my friend, if you really are what you claim to be — a healer, not a quack — we might, I suppose, find some use for you. Let’s put you to the test. As it happens, a man of mine’s just come in from hunting, with a dislocated shoulder. Our own sawbones seems to be having a spot of bother putting it to rights.Perhaps you’d care to have a try?’ They were in a great timber hall (the largest of the many buildings — barracks, stables, kitchens, workshops — within the fort’s vast courtyard), its roof supported by a double row of pillars made from tree-trunks, the walls hung with weapons and trophies of the chase: antlers, skins of deer and wolf. A dozen men, retainers of some consequence from their gold arm-bands and neck-torques, lounged on chairs or settles, chatting, drinking ale, playing dice or board games.

On Myrddin’s nodding in response to the question, Artorius went to the hall’s entrance and bellowed a command. White-faced with pain, a man entered the hall, his shoulder-joint projecting in an ugly lump. Accompanying him was an elderly personage, who skipped around him, fussing.

‘Get this torturer away from me,’ growled the man.

‘How can I help him, Sire, if he won’t keep still?’ bleated the old man.

‘I’m sure you’ve done your best, Camlach,’ Artorius replied soothingly. ‘But you won’t object to a little help, surely?’ And he signalled to Myrddin.

‘I’ll need two assistants, sir.’

‘Cei, Bedwyr, give our friend a hand.’

Two young men arose and joined Myrddin. Following his instructions they held the patient securely, while Myrddin gripped the affected arm. He gave a sudden pull and twist; with a click, the joint slipped home.

A spontaneous burst of applause broke out, blending with the patient’s thanks.

‘It was nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, feeling quietly elated. He couldn’t have asked for a more opportune way to demonstrate his skill. What he had done looked (and sounded) impressive, but was really just a trick, easily mastered given a modicum of training and experience. Had he been asked, say, to treat a fever or internal injury, that would have called for a far greater degree of skill, without, necessarily, the bonus of success.

But it would take more than such a facile feat to impress Artorius, Myrddin realized, as the leader whispered in his ear, ‘First time lucky, eh? You can stay — for now. Just remember, you’re on probation.’

As the weeks passed, with autumn slipping into winter, Myrddin quietly consolidated his reputation, by treating with skilled efficiency a variety of ailments among Artorius’ followers. These ranged from petty injuries such as cuts and broken bones to agues, boils, coughs and toothache — the last invariably ‘cured’ by drawing the affected item, an operation calling for a degree of dexterity and strength. His stock-in-trade consisted of — besides surgical tools such as probes, scalpels and suturing needles — salves based on extracts of plants: henbane, St John’s Wort, poppy and comfrey. With a combination of tact and patience, Myrddin gradually won over old Camlach, whose pride had suffered as a result of the other’s preferment, from jealous aloofness to valued partnership.

This was a happy time; the campaigning season over, the days were spent in hunting and martial exercises and contests, the evenings in feasting, storytelling and song. Drawing on his experience of travel within the Roman Empire and beyond, Myrddin became popular as something of a raconteur. In addition, he discovered a certain talent for diplomacy and problem-solving. For instance, at meals or conferences held at the high table with the Dux (as Artorius was addressed, inheriting the title from Aurelianus) and his dozen chief retainers, there was often a certain amount of jockeying for position, those finding themselves at the table’s ends tending to feel diminished in status. Myrddin’s suggestion that a round table be substituted was put into effect, and harmony prevailed.

With spring came the news that more than one large Saxon war-band was pushing towards Calleva and Venta* — the farthest west the Saxons had yet penetrated — and that they seemed to be acting in concert. This was worrying. Hitherto, bar in a single case, the Saxons had operated as small independent parties, each carving out a piece of territory then settling in it, without the help of other bands: a process of slow attrition which, if it could not be halted, could at least he slowed down and, to a certain extent, contained. But should the Saxons start co-operating, the effects might spell catastrophe. Haphazard occupation could quickly escalate into all-out invasion, as had happened with the Western Empire when hostile German tribes coalesced into confederations powerful enough to smash through the frontiers. Only once, years before, had Saxon forces combined. On that occasion, Aurelianus, aided by Artorius, had fought a mighty Saxon host to a standstill, deterring further westward incursion until now.

In response to this ominous intelligence, Artorius summoned a council of war at which, besides his twelve lieutenants (mostly grandsons of landowners or decurions from the days of Roman rule), was also present Myrddin, now a respected member of the team, thanks to his insight and sound judgement.

‘According to my scouts’ reports, the Saxons are advancing in two columns — each about two thousand strong,’ announced the Dux, when all were seated round the new, circular high table in the great hall. ‘Our strategy, it seems to me, must be at all costs to prevent the columns joining up.’

‘Why, Dux?’ inquired an open-faced young man, distinguished by a shock of hair so fair as to be almost white. ‘If we attack them both together, we can end this threat at one blow, surely?’

‘Simple arithmetic, old Gwyn,’ smiled Artorius, addressing the other by his nickname.* ‘Our total force is five hundred heavy horse, enough — just — to take on and defeat two thousand men on foot, provided we have surprise and terrain in our favour. But four thousand? Work it out.’

‘Oh.’ Gwyn paused, then added, ‘See what you mean, Dux.’

When the laughter had subsided, Myrddin put forward a suggestion. ‘I know in theory it’s dangerous to split one’s force. But suppose we were to try to keep the columns from converging by luring one of them away; letting them spot a small dismounted party. If the Saxons took the bait and followed, our main force could then lie in ambush. .’ He glanced enquiringly round the table, to be rewarded by a buzz of interest.

‘I like it,’ declared Artorius at length. ‘I think I like it very much. Anyone disagree? No? Then that’s what we’ll do.’

Perhaps made over-confident by easy pickings further east, the Saxons advanced boldly up the valley, where at last the exhausted Britons had turned at bay to face them. With a triumphant shout, the Saxons broke into a trot.

Hidden in the woods crowning a hill which formed one side of the valley, the British horsemen waited for the signal. Clad in old imperial armour salvaged from the limitanei, long, cutting spathae in hand, they sat mounts descended from Roman cavalry stock — big, powerful beasts, bred more for weight than speed.

High and clear, a trumpet note rang out.

A solid mass of mailed cavalry, red dragon banner streaming in the van, burst from the woodshore, swept