Dark North

Twenty-Two

King Arthur pitched his main camp at the south end of the Vale of Sessoine, and for several days after the battle his army scoured the surrounding woods and valleys for Roman survivors. They also located the main Roman baggage train, which had simply been abandoned. Arthur was able to replenish his material losses several times over — not just weapons, munitions and other armaments, but also medicines, foodstuffs, and sacks of pay in gold and silver.

His men spent dismal hours working on the battlefield, extricating those too badly wounded to stand or walk, and taking them to the hospital tents, though these were already overloaded with groaning, bandaged forms and thick with a miasma of sweat, blood and despair. Chief physician Morgan Tud and his staff worked tirelessly, repairing what damage they could. Where possible — usually in cases where mangled limbs must be amputated — they offered the patients cheap wine laced with gall. This was so bitter that many at first refused it.

“If it was good enough for Christ on the cross…”²⁷ the grey-bearded doctor would sternly say, insisting they take a draught.

“It wasn’t,” the patient would whimper. “Our Lord refused.”

“Because he was man enough to endure his pain,” the doctor would reply. “That option is also open to you.”

The matter of the deceased was even less easily resolved. Large companies of troops were employed sorting out the corpses, laying their own dead in long rows which priests could say Masses over before burial. The Romans, they piled in mountains for cremation though they too, at Arthur’s insistence, received holy rites first.

The holding of prisoners was also a tricky issue. Captured Roman grandees were installed in the separate camps of the British lords and captains who had taken them, and were given comfortable quarters, including private tents, changes of clothes, good food and clean water, though in nearly every case they were also put in leg-irons — a state of war still existed. The ordinary prisoners were herded into special pens made with the hafts of their own pikes, roped into fences. They were fed from great cauldrons with thin soup or gruel, which had been taken from the Romans’ own baggage train and which Arthur suspected was all they had been fed on before.

The only hostage in Earl Lucan’s camp was Tribune Maximion, who washed and shaved and allowed the gash on his arm to be stitched, but insisted on wearing his own clothes, soiled rags though they were. He cut an isolated figure, his ankles manacled together, watching without seeing as the knights and men-at-arms went about their duties. On the second day, he was summoned to Earl Lucan’s pavilion.

Lucan was seated in a blackthorn chair which his men had pilfered from the baggage train. He’d dispensed with full armour, and now wore a mail shirt over leather breeches, and cross-strapped riding boots. Maximion was given a stool, and sat. Two of Lucan’s knights stood in attendance, Turold and Gerwin — they too were stripped to shirts and breeches, but leaned on their ungirt longswords.

“The accommodation is to your satisfaction?” Lucan asked.

“It’s certainly more than I expected,” the Roman replied.

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“I wouldn’t say I was enjoying it, my lord.”

Lucan gave a wintry smile. “Compared to what may lie ahead, this camp is the lap of luxury.”

“I see.”

“When we last spoke about Felix Rufio, you gave an impression that you held little admiration for him.”

Maximion shrugged. “I never admire folly. Not even the folly of a child.”

“How well do you know the Malconi family?”

“I only personally know Rufio and his uncle, Bishop Malconi. But they are all cut from the same cloth — they are vain, ambitious and treacherous.”

“In short, typical of the Roman gentry.”

“How well you think you know us.”

“I’ll be blunt, tribune… my war with New Rome has now become personal.”

Maximion looked surprised. “It wasn’t from the beginning?”

Lucan ignored the remark. “At the first opportunity I intend to divert from this army, and pay a visit to Castello Malconi and this fearsome woman, Duchess Zalmyra.”

“You won’t get near the place.”

Lucan’s eyebrows lifted. “Is it so hard to find?”

“It won’t be easy for one who doesn’t know that region. And, as I’ve already told you, she is a mistress of dark lore. Not only that, it’s now late July, and in high Liguria the autumn comes early.”

“The weather does not concern me. Nor does my ignorance of the region… because you, Lord Maximion, will be showing me the way.”

Maximion looked surprised. “You wish me to accompany you?”

“As my prisoner, you must earn your keep. And acting as a guide in your own country will hardly be taxing for you.”

“I won’t do it if I’m to be chained like an animal.”

“The chain can be removed if you give your word as a Roman officer that you will not try to escape.”

Maximion pondered. “I’ll give you my word. There’s no shame in that. Thus far, you’ve been a fair captor.”

“I’m always fair with those who serve me,” Lucan replied. “But to those who oppose me I am the perfect opposite.”

“I don’t know when you plan to embark, but before we do, I’d like permission to leave your camp and search this bloody field for my son.”

Lucan nodded. “You may search tomorrow. But listen, tribune… you have given your word, so now I will give mine. If you fail to return to my camp at dusk, I will hunt you down and kill you. They call me the Black Wolf of the North. Have you heard this?”

“I have.”

Lucan’s steely eyes gleamed. “When I have killed you, I will hunt your son in Brittany and I will kill him as well. And then I will hunt your other son, wherever he is in your disintegrating empire, and he too will perish. Do you believe this?”

“Yes,” Maximion replied, earnestly.

“Good luck on the morrow. I’ll have your shackles removed at first light, and you’ll be issued with a ticket of leave so that none other may lay hands on you.”

All through that night, bands of unarmed Roman soldiers approached Arthur’s camp, waving improvised white flags. Many who were wounded had become feverish with infection, while others — after a couple of nights in the surrounding mountains, wet, cold and hungry, with wolves howling and no sign in the vale below of the mass hangings and decapitations they’d been led to expect — were only too willing to be put in custody.

At mid-morning the next day, Lucan was summoned to the royal pavilion, where a Council of the Round Table was to convene. His mail and mantle had been cleaned, as had his wolf-fur. Most of the rest of the senior knights were in attendance, mailed and in their finest livery.

King Arthur received them with Kay and Bedivere seated to either side of him. Bedivere was still ashen-faced; the stump of his left hand was bound with bandages and covered by a leather glove. Many others bore lesser wounds. None of their brotherhood had died in the battle, though they had lost many retainers; Lucan’s own household of sixty knights was down to fifty, with only forty fit for duty. Griflet had lost all of his, and had begged absence from the Council to mourn.

“Gentlemen, your attention,” Arthur said, presenting a parchment. “I have here an estimated tally of casualties. In total, we have eight thousand dead, and sixteen thousand wounded, many of whom may still expire. Several hundred are still unaccounted for.

“The army of New Rome, however, suffered an even more grievous loss.” He glanced up, grave-faced. “Gentlemen… to the best of our knowledge, some fifty thousand Romans lie slaughtered.”

There were subtle gasps. The battle at Castle Terrabil, when the insurgent forces of King Rience of North Wales and eleven Irish princes were crushed, had long been thought Arthur’s bloodiest battle, and yet only forty thousand perished that day, and that between both armies.

Arthur continued: “Among the butcher’s bill we must include over three hundred men of very senior rank. Emperor Lucius Julio Bizerta, Duke Ardeus Vigilano of Spoleto and Prince Jalhid Yusuf ibn Ayyub of Cyrenaica are the foremost of these, along with some nine hundred men of middling title.”

“God help us,” Lancelot said slowly. “We’ve depopulated the Roman nobility.”

“Not entirely,” Arthur replied. “They still have several legions in central Brittany. Breton irregulars attack them relentlessly and they have sent negotiators to seek terms. King Hoel and his deputies have ridden to meet them. But they are still a cohesive and well-armed host. In addition, there are numbers of legionaries still on the loose here in France. We cannot assume they will surrender until they actually do. Therefore we remain in arms, here, until such time as the threat is removed… whereupon we will break camp and march south.”

“We’re not going home, sire?” Bors asked.

“We’re going to Rome,” Arthur said, simply. A tense silence followed. “Gentlemen… let us be under no illusions. The aim of New Rome’s mission in France was to lure the kingdom of Albion into war. They sought, unprovoked, to destroy us utterly. The architects of that scheme are still alive, wallowing in their ill-deserved wealth while so many better men, of their nation as well as ours, are wallowing in their own guts. This cannot — nay, will not — be tolerated. We shall camp outside the city of Rome and I will demand the miscreants be handed over.”

“And if they refuse, sire?” Bors wondered.

“We’ll put the city under siege. I doubt they’ll be equipped to withstand one, while we — thanks to the generously donated cargo train of the late Emperor Lucius — have fodder and water for years.”

“Sire… by ‘miscreants,’ I take it you mean the ambassadors who deceived us at Camelot,” Sir Gareth asked.

“That’s correct. I’ll have a gallows prepared for each of them.”

“But three of them were churchmen. The Holy Father will never countenance the punishment of clerics by lay authorities.”

Arthur smiled as if he had anticipated this. “The Holy Father, I’m sure, will respond to reason. I understand he has concerns about the Moorish influence along the North African coast. How could he not? The Moors are pagans, and their presence in that region grows daily. However, as we speak, Sir Gawaine is at the Court of the Franks in Paris, where he entertains King Childeric and his nobles with drinking contests and tales of his bawdy adventures.”

There were snickers among the knights. This was all too believable.

“My latest information,” Arthur added, “is that Gawaine has befriended his prisoner, Prince Priamus, brother to the late Jalhid. Prince Priamus now has sole rulership of Cyrenaica, for which he is most grateful. When he returns, if we wish it, he will be a moderating influence among the Moorish emirs, of whom our Holy Father is so nervous.”

“‘If we wish it,’” Bedivere reiterated. “Those are the important words.”

“And the cost to the papacy of this moderating influence?” Lancelot wondered.

Arthur smiled again. “The defrocking of those two-faced scoundrels, Bishop Severin Malconi of Ravenna, Bishop Proclates of Palermo and Bishop Pelagius of Tuscany. The lay-ambassadors, I suspect, will be handed over for much less.”

There was a long silence as they absorbed the plan. No-one relished the prospect of remaining in arms for a long siege in Italy, but most, like the King, suspected that it would not be for especially long.

“If that is all, gentlemen,” Arthur said, “return to your posts.”

They left the royal presence with a general clatter and noise, muttering together as they walked away, leaving only Lucan behind.

“Sir Lucan?” Arthur asked.

“Sire,” Lucan said, “you have everything well in hand.”

“Your approval is most welcome.”

Lucan shuffled his feet. “As it appears there’ll be no more hard fighting, might I suggest that my usefulness is past?”

“You may suggest it. I won’t necessarily agree.”

“My lord,” Bedivere interrupted. “I strongly advise that our… comrade be kept in harness. We do not know the fighting is over.”

Lucan glared at his brother, but said nothing.

“I take it, Lucan, you have a private matter you’d like to resolve?” the King said.

“That is so, sire.”

“You wish to detach from the army and go your own way?”

“Now would be the ideal time. While the trail is still warm.”

“I object to this most strongly,” Bedivere said.

“On what grounds?” Lucan demanded.

Bedivere levered himself to his feet. “You know what grounds, Lucan. Revenge has no place at the Round Table. You’ll sully yourself, and all the rest of us.”

Lucan turned to Arthur. “My liege, I have the right to seek satisfaction.”

“You didn’t get enough satisfaction on the battlefield?” Bedivere asked. “That foul sword of yours must have drunk ten gallons of blood.”

“I must take the matter under consideration, Lucan,” Arthur said. “I’m not sure we can spare you yet.” But Lucan didn’t immediately withdraw. “Is there something else?”

“There’s nothing else, my lord,” Lucan replied tautly. “Nothing at all as important to me as this. If you could see your way to making a judgment now?”

“Now, sirrah?”

“In a year’s time, it won’t matter either way.”

“Excellent,” Bedivere said. “Then in a year’s time we’ll give you our decision.”

“Enough, Bedivere,” Arthur interjected. Bedivere sat back, gripping his butchered arm with a grimace. Again, Arthur pondered, watching Lucan from under kneaded brows. “Wait outside,” he finally said. “Until I summon you.”

Lucan bowed curtly and strode from the pavilion.

Outside in the sunlight, the royal enclosure operated with its normal efficiency. Servants ran errands, squires polished armour, cooks cut vegetables and stirred broth. Alaric was seated nearby on a barrel, but jumped to his feet as Lucan approached. Lucan clasped hands behind his back and paced. He sought to look firm and resolute, but saw how he must have looked to his former squire: lost, worried, his future beyond his control.

“I’m sorry all this has happened, my lord,” the lad said. “No-one deserves this less than you.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Alaric. All we mortals can do is search until we find that reason. If the search takes us to perilous places, so be it.”

“Nothing I can say will convince you to return home to Penharrow?”

Lucan glanced at him, and briefly it seemed as if he was contemplating it. “No, lad. Penharrow no longer exists, as far as I’m concerned.”

Alaric’s shoulders sagged, but he tried not to show it. “Wherever your search takes you, I’ll be there too. Every step of the way.”

Lucan gave a forced smile as he paced, his thoughts already elsewhere.

“All things considered,” Kay said, sipping wine, “I see no problem. He does have the right.”

“Right to what?” Bedivere asked. “To murder his wife?”

Arthur was surprised. “You think he’ll kill her?”

“Don’t you, sire?”

Arthur seemed unsure. “Has he done such a thing before?”

“No,” Bedivere admitted. “But he’s never been slighted like this before.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kay said. “Lucan is a savage on the battlefield, but there’ve been no complaints about his governorship of the March.”

“Not recently,” Bedivere countered.

“Besides,” Kay said to Arthur, “this Tribune Rufio is another of those Roman bastards on your death-list, isn’t he? He was at Camelot. He did his bit for the Emperor. How better than to send Lucan after him?”

Arthur turned to Bedivere. “What is the basis of your concern?”

Bedivere had no obvious answer prepared. “Well… he’s still wearing that damn wolf-fur. The battle’s over. What’s the purpose of it?”

“It’s his insignia,” Kay replied.

“His insignia!” Bedivere scoffed. “He inherited that mantle from his father, a monster by any standards. I’ve long feared he’s inherited more than that.”

“Haven’t you yourself argued that he’s mellowed in recent times?”

“Yes, but more recently still, Lucan was bitten by the Penharrow Worm,” Bedivere said. “Who knows what kind of effect it’s had? I mean, he even looks different.”

“Looks can be deceptive,” Arthur replied.

“I hope you’re right, sire.”

“What this boils down to, Bedivere,” Kay sneered, “is concern for your family’s reputation.”

“And concern that my brother’s soul will be lost,” Bedivere said.

“Well,” Arthur rejoined. “As his earthly overlord, I can’t legislate for something he might do. He’s a knight of the realm — I can’t restrict his movements because he may commit a crime. Answer me this, Bedivere… if I were to refuse Lucan leave to go, would he not just go anyway?”

Bedivere rubbed tiredly at his brow. “I fear he may, sire.”

“Even though his lands, castles and titles would be forfeit for disobeying me?”

“You may make such a ruling,” Bedivere said. “But the Northern March would beg to differ.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Arthur agreed. “I’ve just lost a sizeable part of my armed forces. I can ill-afford a civil war. Your brother’s been dishonoured and he needs to clean his name. Let him find his wife and kill the wretch who stole her.”

“And if he causes havoc in the process, sire?”

Arthur chuckled grimly as he poured himself a goblet of wine. “Beyond this tent, there are sixty thousand unburied corpses. Could your brother do worse than that?”

Lucan was summoned back and informed of the King’s decision.

“Of course,” Arthur added, “you may not take the entire northern host. That would denude my army too much. This war isn’t over yet.”

Lucan nodded. “That’s as I expected, my liege.”

“So how many men do you propose to take?” Arthur asked.

“Thirty should be sufficient. All will come from my personal household.”

“You have volunteers?”

“I will have. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Very well.” The King nodded and waved Lucan away. Lucan withdrew, but glanced back when the King called after him: “Sir Lucan… I’ve given you leave to undertake this quest, but I want you to remember that you are a knight of the Round Table. You carry our status with you. It will not please me if it comes back tarnished.”

Lucan regarded them coldly before bowing and leaving.

When he got back to his own camp, Alaric had got there ahead of him, and was busy at the hewing block with his longsword.

“Has Maximion returned?” Lucan asked.

“He has, my lord. It seems he found his son slain in front of the stakes we used as baulks on the infantry line. He made a pyre from broken pikestaffs.”

Lucan found Maximion sitting, hollow-eyed, on an upturned bucket.

“At least you’ve returned,” Lucan said, “which means that your other sons will live.”

Maximion nodded vaguely. “Now we’ve both lost someone close to us.”

“You have the consolation that he was lost to a valorous deed.”

“I’ll try to remind myself of that whenever I picture my youngest boy with his face cloven, his limbs dismembered, his chest laid open to the heart and ribs…”

“You’re not devoid of guilt in this matter,” Lucan advised him. “You were happy enough to serve Rome when the conquests were easy. Presumably your sons were following your example?”

Maximion glanced up at him. “And what part, I wonder, did you play, Earl Lucan, in your loss? Perhaps you’re not devoid of guilt yourself.”

“Perhaps not.” It was easy to admit that now, Lucan reflected — to his own surprise. “In any case, if your son’s heroism is no consolation, you must find something that is — because duty calls. We depart for Castello Malconi first thing tomorrow.”

Maximion rose to his feet. “Good.”

“That pleases you?”

“Most certainly. You think I wish to linger in this blighted place?”