Theodoric

strongly advise the latter. You’ll probably find Myrddin in the infirmary, mixing up his potions. Now, if you’ll excuse me. .’ With a nod, he rejoined his aides.

In an annexe off the infirmary (empty save for one unfortunate who had severed a tendon in his foot while chopping wood), they found, grinding something with a pestle and mortar, a spare elderly man with a gentle face below a cliff of forehead. Introductions over and business stated, Myrddin led them to the refectory, after ordering a meal from the outdoor kitchens.

‘King of Italy!’ he said when they were seated and his visitors were gratefully demolishing bowlfuls of game stew. He smiled and shook his head. ‘When we met — in sad circumstances, at the death-bed of holy Severinus — I sensed that Theoderic would make his mark in the world, but I never dreamt that he would rise so high. Even here, in far-off Britannia, his fame has come to our ears. I’m truly sorry to hear that fortune has treated him less than kindly of late, and that he’s in poor health.’

‘What news should Cella here take back to him regarding yourself?’ asked Connal. ‘He’ll be travelling alone, as I shall be returning to my home in Dalriada.’

‘His message will be brief, I fear. I’m really no more than an extension of Artorius — my function is to help maintain his men in good health, and to tend their wounds sustained in battle.’

‘Tell us of Artorius, then.’

‘Without Artorius — and before him Aurelianus — by now all Britain would have fallen to the Saxons and their kinsmen the Angles.’ Myrddin’s face had lit up, his voice become charged with warmth and admiration. ‘True, we have given ground, but only slowly, making the enemy pay dearly for every yard of British soil. In West Cambria, North Cambria, Cumbria and Lothian, we hold the line, thanks to Artorius’ example and great leadership. Here, the Kymry* are still strong; with the dragon standard at their head, our forces hold their own against the blue-eyed German heathens.’ Myrddin smiled and spread his hands self-deprecatingly. ‘Forgive me — I got carried away. I was forgetting that it was a “blue-eyed German”, Theoderic no less, who suggested we adopt the red dragon as our emblem.’

‘That was good,’ boomed Cella, pushing aside his empty bowl. ‘My congratulations to your cook.’ He shot the medicus a keen glance. ‘The Dux said something about an imminent attack.’

‘Correct. The Angles are concentrating their advance on the north and north-west. Already, they’ve pushed far beyond the Humbri river as far as the Uure,* from where they’re mustering their host for a push westward to Reged here in Cumbria,† where we, of course, intend to stop them.’

‘The Dux offered us a choice,’ rumbled Cella, ‘said that if we wanted we could stay and help. I have some skill as a leech, and my friend here is a fighting man.’ He looked hopefully at Connal. ‘What do you say?’

‘I’d say you’ve made an excellent suggestion,’ replied Connal with a grin.

‘Well, I won’t deny that any extra help is more than welcome, said Myrddin. ‘But it’s only fair to warn you that the coming battle is bound to be a hard-fought, bloody affair. The Angles are ferocious warriors, also stubborn and determined.’

‘I’m not averse to a good scrap myself,’ declared Connal. ‘If you can use us, we’d be glad to help.’

‘Welcome aboard, then.’

Mounted on a grey stallion, and accompanied by his standard-bearer carrying the great red dragon flag, Artorius rode out before the Exercitus Britanniae, the Army of Britain. He raised aloft his sword: the short Roman gladius that had been the weapon of Aurelianus and before him of his ancestors — back to when the dynasty of Severus had ruled an undivided empire.

‘Comrades, fellow Britons,’ Artorius called in a deep, strong voice which carried clearly to the waiting ranks, ‘here is where we stop them. The mountains of Cumbria shall be a wall on which their heathen host will break and shatter like a wave upon a cliff. Fight now as you have never fought before, and we shall ensure that the western lands of this island will remain for ever — Britannia!’

A moment’s silence, then a great cheer arose. It grew in volume to a thunderous roar of acclamation, then slowly died away.

To confront the Angles’ advance, Artorius had marched his army from Dacore round the fringes of the Cumbrian mountains to a great lake on the south-east edge of the massif. Here, on a great plain called Camlan, he had drawn up his troops — infantry in the centre, cavalry and archers on the wings. Behind, on the lake shore, a field hospital had been set up under the supervision of Myrddin, assisted by orderlies (now including Cella) and a group of nuns, whose convent was situated on the largest of the islands with which the mere was dotted.* Heavy horse — the riders clad in ancient imperial-issue mail and helmets (many times patched and repaired) — formed his main strength. The site, level and open, was good cavalry terrain, with wooded rising ground on either side affording security against being outflanked. However, these features, combined with the lake to the rear, ensured that, should the battle go against the Britons, there was no avenue of escape. They must prevail — or die.

In the front rank of the infantry, a mail-clad Connal, his Celtic blood racing at the prospect of the coming battle, leant on the shaft of the great battle-axe he had chosen from the stores; it was a fearsome weapon, whose heavy iron head was welded to a cutting edge of razor-sharp steel. Scouts galloping in gave warning that the Angles were approaching; soon the van came in sight, a dense throng of warriors on foot, big, fair-haired men, most of them unarmoured, bearing spears and shields. With a savage roar, they quickened their pace and rushed to meet the British line. Came a tremendous clash as the battle closed, then the two sides swayed back and forth, each striving to break the other’s front.

Filled with the joy of battle, Connal swung his battle-axe, splitting skulls or cleaving limbs with almost every stroke. A trumpet-call rang out, then from either side a mass of armoured cavalry hurtled down upon the Angles, smashing into their flanks to carve red swathes through their close-packed ranks, before withdrawing to let the horses breathe. Desperately, the Angles tried to force a gap in their opponents’ line, knowing that, as long as the British centre held, they themselves would be exposed to constant onslaught from those terrible mailed horsemen.

But the centre did hold. Time and again the British cavalry charged, after each attack leaving in their wake windrows of enemy dead — whereupon the archers took their turn to pour in volleys of deadly shafts. Like standing corn in a wheatfield when the mowers have begun their work, the Angle host by slow degrees attenuated, until at last, weakened and fought to a bloody standstill, they began to give ground. Their retreat was no rout, however; fighting grimly all the way, they withdrew in good order from the field.

At length a trumpet-signal called off the pursuit, and the Exercitus Britanniae took stock. Though the enemy had been repulsed with great loss, British casualties were high, and one appalling discovery robbed the day of triumph. Artorius was sorely wounded; finding a weak point in his armour, a spear had pierced his lung. His captains gathered round the cot where he lay, tended by Myrddin and the nuns in the field hospital beside the lake.

‘Cei, Bedwyr, my faithful comites,’ gasped the stricken Dux, frothy pink bubbles escaping from his lips, ‘I leave the army in your charge. Today we have earned a respite, but no more than that. The Angles will return; persistence is in their very bones. You must hold the ground we have won. To ensure that you can do so, I will send for help to the Votadini, our kinsmen to the north-east, who have offered their aid. Myrddin, old friend, will you be my emissary? You know the way, and your skills in diplomacy will prove invaluable. Meanwhile, these holy sisters here have, in their kindness, offered to nurse me — though I fear they will not save my life, only prolong it a little. So now, dear comrades, I will take my leave of you. Vale.’

Watched by his assembled soldiers, many in tears, Artorius was rowed by the black-clad nuns to their island convent in the lake.

Three days after the battle, three travellers came in sight of an arresting spectacle: a mighty ribbon of stone undulating along the horizon. Twenty feet high, studded with turrets and blockhouses, it dipped and rose across the landscape like an endless serpent.

‘There she is, the Vallum Hadriani,’ announced Myrddin. ‘Built four centuries ago “to separate the Romans from the barbarians”’, as the emperor said. Did a good job for close on three-quarters of that time. But eventually the greater threat came not from the north but from the east, across the German Ocean.