She seemed so grave and serious hovering over me in the dusk, I tried to lighten the mood a little. “There’ll be other things, Eleyne. Don’t pledge away your life before you have the handle of it. A fine girl like you will be married soon. Were I landed and settled, I might speak to your father myself.”
But Eleyne was light as lead. “Oh no, you are unsuitable. You are much too ungentle, Lord Arthur. And inclined to lewd-ness, my brother said.”
Had I felt better, it might have tweaked my vanity to be
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31
discarded so out of hand, but my body suddenly weighed a thousand stone and had to lie down. Eleyne covered me carefully.
“Sleep now,” she murmured, “and I will pray for you.”
“Fine.” ! tried to stretch, but it hurt too much. “And if! find a man of sufficient grace, I’ll send him to Dyfneint.”
“I would thank you for that, Lord Arthur.”
She took my meaning as she took all, in deadly earnest. For all her father’s “kingdom,” she was only a Cornish tribeswoman, unused to equality with men. I’ve said somewhere else that proportion and humor are the mellowing gift of time, but some souls will always be passed over. Still the gods must have a sense of humor or at least irony. There was a worthy, gentle man for Eleyne. You see, it was I who sent her Lancelot.
Few of the Second Legion even knew of my going to Dyfneint; my return caused no large ripple. I submitted my report to the imperial staff and waited for my chest to heal. I was still unable to wear harness over it when the whole camp suddenly snapped and bustled to attention with the arrival of Ambrosius. The emperor gave little warning of his arrivals anywhere, but moved with the speed of the cavalry he dreamed of. Some time had passed since we’d last spoken. It was a surprise when my tribune sent for me.
A thirty-year veteran, the tribune had little use for dead weight in the legions. He considered me a royal pet, one of those myriad lordlings trickling into service for whom a safe, comfortable place is always found near the top of the promotion list.
“The emperor has asked for you, of course. He seems fascinated by your little holiday in Dyfneint. Those scratches about closed?”
“Still a bit raw, sir.”
“Pity; nevertheless suffer your way into proper harness before you see him. And shave, damn it. You and Gryffyn look like a pair of failed mountebanks.”
“When am f to see the emperor, sir?”
“Now, my lord. If it is not too much trouble.”
I got the breastplate over my linen tunic with Bedivere’s help. Carefully he slung the baldric over my right shoulder and sheathed the longsword Geraint gave me. It seemed glaringly unmilitary. Bedivere suggested a short ceremonial sword for lightness.
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Firelord
“No, I want Ambrosius to see this blade.”
Bedivere cursed over the straps and buckles as he did me up. “God fry that rutting trib, making you square off like this. You’ll open those wounds again. You’re sweating already.”
“I think Ambrosius read my report. Got to go.”
“Na, how do you feel under all this harness?”
“Like I’ve been dead two days. Rest easy till I get back.”
The Via Praetoria, central street of the legion camp, was crowded with soldiers, singly about their business or in small detachments. The armor already caused me a good deal of discomfort. To avoid returning salutes the whole way, I shunted behind the first line of tents. As gingerly as possible, I started across the Via Principalis, giving way for a small group of mounted tribesmen in tartan trousers and dark hooded cloaks, barely noticing when they turned to stare at me.
“Lord Artos!”
The Dobunni accent halted me. One of the riders shoved back his hood, jumped down and ran for me with open arms.
” ‘torius!”
“Kay!”
With his beard and rough leather tunic, my brother looked less a prince than the country horse breeder he was. But timer’s gold armlet shone on the worn sleeve. Before I could stop him, Kay hugged me to his chest: “By the gods, we’ve missed you so—”
“Don’t squeeze me, Kay—”
“What’s the matter, you’re white as milk.”
“Easy on, lad. I’m half bandage under all this,”
Th$ smile vanished from my brother’s round face. “Then you were hurt. Your letter said it was only—och, mother will be sick with it.”
“Unless she doesn’t know. It will be well, Kay.”
His dark eyes welled and glistened with tears he wouldn’t let fall. “They didn’t honor you for Dyfneint? Not even a word of thanks?”
“A day’s work in the army, Kay.”
“Is that what they call it, then? Well.” Kay breathed deep. “Well, then. Emrys, take my horse, I’ll walk a bit.”
“I can’t,” I told him. “The emperor is waiting for me.”
My brother made a face. “Don’t I know. I’m bringing my taxes. I’m one of the few that pays regularly.” He brightened quickly. “Where’s Bedivere?”
“In my tent; any officer will direct you. Will you wait for me? There’s much to talk about.”
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“There is. I’ll wait for you.” My brother cast a disgusted look at the camp around him. Then, agile as a monkey, he vaulted to his saddle, pointed to me with fierce pride and roared to every ear on the Principalis, “Who was it routed Cerdic at Dyfneint’s Neth Dun More?”
His men bellowed back, “Artos ap Uther!”
Passing soldiers and officers stopped to gape at him, but Kay faced them straight and stern as a sword. “And who was his right arm?”
“Bedwyr, son of Gryffyn,” roared the men.
Now Kay’s voice must have carried to half the camp. “And are they not of the Dobunni?”
“Aye!”
Kay wheeled round to me, eyes shining. “I just thought someone should know.”
Ambrosius’ guards saluted as I approached his tent. “Centurion Pendragon on the Emperor’s command.”
“You’re to go in, sir.”
Ambrosius was alone, working at a plain table. He was grayer now, near white, and the compact body had gone lean and stringy. I knew for a fact he was not well, that he drove himself too cruelly, that he had not seen his family for months, but he still wore full harness as if bom in it. The gaudier toys of kingship, the heavy purple robe and jeweled circlet, hung in the corner out of his busy way. Ambrosius looked like a harried officer of the line. I saluted sharply: “Ave. Imperator.”
He returned the salute, then came forward to grip my arm in friendship. “Welcome, Artorius. I wish you found me in better health, but …” His eyes narrowed as he perceived my pallor. “You’re not healed yet either.”
“Well enough, sir.”
“The hell you are. Sit down.”
I sank gratefully into a chair. Careless of ceremony, Ambrosius filled his own cup with wine mixed with water and squeezed fruit, and offered it to me. “I’ve heard your tribune’s opinion of those he considers royal favorites. He has his point; thirty years is a long climb, and men don’t take readily to change. When change comes in the form of capable young men, they sometimes regard it as walking impertinence. Nevertheless, I plant for fruit, not flowers. You’re part of my harvest. Tired of being the trib’s messenger boy?”
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Firelord
I swallowed some wine. “Heartily, sir.” Ambrosius smiled thinly. “It’s done you no harm, but I think you’re about ripe for picking. There’s a command if you want
it.”
My heart leaped with a hope and fell again with the prayer that stepped on its heels: Jesu-Mithras, not the line, not the bloody infantry.
“Your own ^quadron of horse with the sixth north of
Eburacum.”
More relief than joy: “Thank you, sir.”
Ambrosius changed tack abruptly. “I read your report on Dyfneint. Three against eighty is damned reckless, don’t you think?”
For that carnage reckless was a wanting word. “Not my
charge, sir.”
“You were the ranking officer.”
“Only by chance. Geraint was on his own land. He knows it and the Saxons. I would have been a fool to assert rank, and there was no time to argue.”
Ambrosius nodded, pacing in front of me. “Do you think Geraint a good officer?”
I weighed the answer. “In a fight, Prince Geraint is a divinely inspired butcher.”
“So is a boar hog. I said an officer.”
“He has no tact and only one tactic; close and kill. Fine in a charge, but to maneuver or follow precise orders … no. Sir, his squadron’s not an army unit, but a lord’s levy with personal loyalty to him and Caradoc.”
“So are most of them,” Ambrosius observed. “And so we must use them. Tell me how it went.”
“We burned their boats; that was easy enough. We should build craft like that—”
He waved it away. “I saw your drawings. Get on.”
“They were on foot. We were mounted with boar spears.”
A spark of particular interest: “What length?”
“About nine feet. We couldn’t keep Geraint with us, but Bedivere and I stayed together. We hit them again and again as a wall. When they finally unhorsed us, we closed and worked together still. That’s what saved us.”
The emperor stopped pacing. “And the divine butcher? Unhorsed and surrounded? What saved him?”
I unsheathed the longsword. “This, sir.”
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Ambrosius hefted the blade. Minutely, he observed the length, wide hilt and precise balance. “Over three feet.”
“Three and a quarter, sir. Long and heavy enough to give a horseman more reach than the spatha.”
Ambrosius motioned me to his table. He spread out a sheepskin palimpsest used and reused till it was smooth, thin and dark. There was a figure sketched on it: nothing like a boar spear or even a heavy pylum, the object flared gradually from the point through most of its length to a wide metal collar, narrowing in the haft or butt. It was a spear designed to be used from the saddle. The problems were obvious. The right wood would have to be selected, the proper length and balance would have to be found and standardized. But a charging wedge of these lances would be near invincible. Strange thoughts, fragment-scenes, fled through my mind. I felt suddenly light and unreal, staring at the picture, drawn into it as if it were a magic talisman.