The Eagles' Brood

XIII

From my lookout at the edge of the little wood I saw the distant figure of my decurion scout emerge from a clump of bushes and wave to me. I spoke over my shoulder.

"There's the signal. They've passed. Let's move up." I kicked my horse to a walk and began to move along the floor of the little ravine-like valley that had hidden us between two ridges. Behind me, four hundred mounted men rode in double file. I crossed the wide, beaten path of the Hibernian Scots Who had passed us transversely and counted one hundred more paces before reining in and turning my horse to the left to face the steeply rising ridge. A glance to my left showed my men lined up and waiting for my command. I looked to the top of the ridge before me and made myself count again to one hundred, slowly. I knew what lay on the other side of the ridge and I did not want to commit us too soon. Finally, I gave the signal and we put our horses to the slope and soon arrived at the crest overlooking the valley below. Four hundred of us, a double line of men and horses, two hundred to a line, now straddled the road that the Hibernians had followed down to the valley bottom. I sat there, gentling my horse with my hand on its neck and looking at the scene before me.

Most of the valleys in this part of the country stretched from east to west, widening to the coast. We were now facing south across a valley that was different, deepening as it fell inland away from the coast. It was almost two miles , wide from where we sat to the top of the opposite ridge. Thick forest blocked it inland to the east and covered the hillside opposite us, but the hill on our side was bare and green, as was the floor of the valley, which rose gradually towards the sea on our right until the valley itself tapered out among high crags. It was the valley floor that had made us choose this spot for our action; a deathtrap of a place, as my father had said. The roadway ran directly south across the centre of it, from crest to crest, and more than half a mile of it lay on the flat valley floor, flanked on each side by innocent-looking grass that covered deep and treacherous bogs capable of swallowing a troop of horsemen and their mounts and leaving no sign of them thereafter. On the other side of this flat stretch, the road began to rise again to the south, through thickening trees that encroached on it from both sides until the road itself resembled a tunnel. From where I sat, I could see no signs of the two thousand men we had hidden among the trees.

Timing was crucial now. The enemy had to be beyond the point of no return before we moved. They had to be hemmed in by the bogs, so that when we began our charge at their backs, they could not spread out defensively to meet us. We wanted to panic diem. But the bogs were as much our enemy as theirs. We had to pull up short of them, and before we did that, we had to make these Hibernians run— up the road ahead of them and through the trees with their two thousand hidden men, and out of the valley to where my father waited with another thousand to receive those who escaped the trap.

I raised my shield arm high, holding it there, gauging my moment and enjoying the strain on the muscles of my arm and shoulder. The enemy force was a great black caterpillar on the road below us, more than half of them already on the road through the bogs. I dropped my arm, our trumpets sounded, and we began to advance at a walk. The effect was instantaneous: those in the rear who heard our trumpets looked back and saw us coming, and even above the noise of our own advance we could hear their shouted warnings to the men in front of them, and could see the worm of panic start to squirm. We broke into a canter, our rear line moving up between the men in front, forming a solid line.

The first signs of real disorder below appeared in the rear ranks as the men there began to increase their pace, crowding in on those in front of them. Not all were panicked, however. A number of figures broke from the column and began to organize lines of defence, but they were too late. My timing had been right. The bogs had them. The lines they tried to throw out on their flanks floundered in mud as men slipped and fell helplessly in the sucking muck. And then the rout began in earnest. I had ordered my trumpeters to sound without let-up, and now my men began screaming. Our pace had been increasing steadily and we were now less than three hundred paces from the rear ranks of our quarry, with fifty paces less than that between us and the start of the bogs. Now there was not a man among the enemy who did not know we were behind them. The increasing pressure from the rear transmitted itself visibly along the column, which was not less than six men deep by about five hundred long. All space between the marchers disappeared, and those at the very front broke and ran from the press, heading for the apparent safety of another open valley at the crest of the tunnel-road through the trees ahead. The entire column was running by the time I pulled my horsemen to a halt just short of the bogs. We sat there and watched the shock wave recoil as the men in front crested the hill to find themselves confronted by two Roman cohorts drawn up in maniple formation, waiting to receive them. As they bunched together in fatal hesitation, our concealed men hit them from both sides.

Militarily, I suppose it was a great success. The slaughter was appalling, for as the men we had hidden in the woods moved in for the kill, the enemy packed on the road itself were unable to fight back. We, the cavalry, had served our purpose. All we had to do now was watch and wait for any attempt at retreat that came our way.

At first there were about a dozen, perhaps a score of men who fled back from the tunnel of death that awful road had become. They stopped when they saw us waiting for them.

While they were in no immediate danger, their numbers grew until there were perhaps two hundred of them in a great knot on the road, half-way between the woods and us. After a time, the fugitives from the tunnel grew fewer, until the flow ceased completely. At first, rather than face us, a number of them tried desperately to escape through the bogs on either side of the road, but the man who travelled furthest made less than a hundred steps before he fell for the last time. He had been wearing garish red and green, but he was ho more than a black blob by the time he vanished. I turned to Achmed Cato, my lieutenant.

"How many, do you think?"

"Two hundred, perhaps three? Hard to count, Commander."

"Say three hundred. Out of three thousand." I watched them, remembering Publius Varrus. "Are you a Christian, Cato?"

"Aye, Commander, in Camulod."

"What do you mean?" I looked at him. "Not here?"

He grinned, embarrassed. "Mithras is the soldier's god, Commander. He has not let me down in battle yet."

"I know what you mean. Christianity can be uncomfortable when it comes to killing. Sometimes I think the Druids have the right of it. Their gods are not so prickly. They seem older, somehow, easier to live with." I remembered Uncle Varrus's description of his own dilemma as he faced three bound Hibernians on a stony beach. They were defenceless, but vicious and dangerous. To kill them would be murder, according to .his Christian faith, but if he released them they would surely murder others, and he could not take them with him. I faced three hundred now, and I had no archers poised on the cliffs above me to relieve me from the responsibility of making a choice. I spoke again to Cato. "I wonder if the Christian Church will ever breed soldiers among its ranks?" He looked at me as if I had gone mad. He had no idea of what was in my mind. "Cato," I went on, "these men are going to come to us. I don't want to kill them, but we cannot take three hundred prisoners."

"Then let them fight, Commander."

"They may have no fight left in them. They don't look too belligerent right now."

"Take them as slaves, then."

"To Camulod? We have no slaves, and no need of them. Slaves are a sickness. Have the trumpeters get me attention." Murder is a sickness, too, my mind was telling me, and killing these men would be murder. Even if they chose to fight, they were dead before they started. I wondered how many had got out on the other side of the woods and how they were faring.

A single trumpet blast gave me every man's attention. I raised my voice. "On the next signal, you will form up on me and make a circle, open on the bogs. These men will enter the circle. I want it one man deep. If they choose to fight, every second man from my left and right will immediately form up in three arrowhead formations, one behind me, one behind Lieutenant Cato and one behind Lieutenant Maripo. Those men will identify themselves now." Amid the stir of interest as the troopers counted themselves off from my left and right, I turned my horse around, telling Cato and Maripo to come with me, and rode back until I was a good seventy paces from the point where the road emerged from the bog onto firm ground. I nodded to the trumpeter and another blast started my men forming around me as I had ordered.

"Maripo," I said, "I want you over to my right there, half-way from me to the end of the line. Take position thirty paces back from the circle. Cato, you do the same on my left." I nodded to the trumpeter again and another blast brought all attention back to me. I raised my voice again. "Once the arrowheads have formed, two more blasts will be the signal for those still left in the circle to break to the rear immediately and form up behind my arrow. I want a block formation there, four ranks of fifty. Once the block is formed, I will move my formation to the right, clearing the ground, is that clear?" I saw heads nodding. They understood me. I raised my voice even higher. "I want to intimidate these people, but not to fight them unless we have to. If any of them try to attack a section of the circle while the arrowheads are being formed, that section will fall back and try to avoid them without allowing them to escape. Remember they are on foot. They will have to run to you.

"We will wait here for them. No talking. No movement. Let them see our discipline." I turned to the trooper who sat behind me on my right, bearing my new standard. "Come with me." I kicked my horse forward into the forefront of the circle and sat there, waiting, for I could see activity among the group at the head of the knot of men on the roadway. Eventually an enormous man who, I could see from even this far away, towered head and shoulders above his fellows, stepped forward and began to advance purposefully towards me. His companions fell in behind him and I sat there and watched them approach.

The rogue walked proudly, and as he drew closer I could see that he was clean-shaven, which surprised me, for those of his people I had encountered before had all worn full beards or luxuriant moustaches. As he drew nearer still, however, I was shocked to see the reason for his lack of facial hair. He was only a boy! A huge boy, but still a mere stripling in age. He had a barbaric splendour about him, too, in a tunic of yellow, bordered with red, a breastplate of bronze on his massive chest and fur leggings tied around his thick calves. He wore an armlet of beaten gold on his left arm above the wrist, and the gold tore of a Celtic chief about his neck. A longish sword hung from a belt slung crosswise from his right shoulder.

When he reached the edge of the bog between the furthest points of the horns of my ring of men, he stopped and looked around the ring from left to right, all the way, before allowing his eyes to return to me. His face held no expression. The men behind him had stopped when he did. None of them moved a muscle. To my right a horse snorted loudly and stomped, fly-bitten. The silence stretched, and then he reached behind him and unslung a battle axe. He swung it gently in his right hand and caught the shaft in his left, just behind the head. He moved forward again, stopping about twelve paces in front of me while his men fanned out behind him, forming a solid half-circle facing my own. He had obviously issued his orders before approaching. His eyes had not left mine.

"So," he said. "It is time for us all to die, it seems." His eyes were filled with scorn as he looked from me around the circle of my men. "You'll find us not too shy about taking company with us."

I realized with surprise that he spoke in his own tongue and that I understood him easily. Some of his words were pronounced differently, the intonation was different, but the basic language was the same as that of Uric's people. I chose my next words carefully and spoke back to him in his own tongue. "If you wish to die, we can accommodate you quickly," I said. "But .ask yourself first if it is really necessary."

His jaw dropped in astonishment. It was obvious that he had been talking to himself before.

"How does a Roman turd like you come to speak the Tongue of Kings?"

"The Tongue of Kings? The Romans call it the tongue of the Outlanders, that I know. But we are not Romans."

His brow creased momentarily and his eyes flickered uncertainly over my armour and trappings. "Not Romans? What does that mean? You dress like Romans. You act like Romans. Who are you, then,' if you are not Romans?"

I gripped the shaft of my long spear and reined my horse in tightly as it tried to move in protest at being bitten by a fly. "We are the owners of this land," I said. "And you are raiders. We may dress like Romans and we certainly fight like Romans, but we are Britons, concerned only with defending our homes, our people and our lands against the likes of you, invaders from beyond the seas."

He threw his head up haughtily. "Invaders, is it?"

I shrugged. "Invaders, pirates, raiders—it makes no difference. You do not belong here and you come in war so, as you said, it is time for you to die."

He fell into a crouch and his men tensed behind him. "Come and kill us then, if you can."

I smiled down at him. "Oh, we can. Be in no doubt of that." I started to raise my arm to give the signal to engage, but he stopped me.

"Wait!"

I dropped my arm. "Well?"

He licked his lips and looked around my men again. All of their eyes were on me. 'Take us as prisoners!"

In spite of myself I had to grin, admiring the fellow's gall. "Prisoners? Three hundred of you? You can't be serious! What would we do with three hundred prisoners? Spend the rest of our lives looking after you and waiting for you to rise up and attempt escape?" I shook my head. "No, that won't do at all, I think—"

He broke in, "You will not have to keep us long. King Lot will buy us free."

Now I laughed aloud. "Lot? King Lot? Has the caterpillar sprouted beauteous wings? King Lot!" I stopped laughing and shook my head. "You are twice mad, my giant fellow. Mad to think that animal would care whether you live or die, and mad again to think we'd sell you to him to let him use you against us a second time."

When next the young man spoke, there was urgency and conviction in his words. "He will buy us free, I swear it! He has to! He has no other choice."

That gave me pause. I gentled my horse again and looked the giant straight in the eye. "You intrigue me. Lot, from the little I know of him, will always have other choices. But speak on. Tell me what you mean."

He licked his lips again and let the head of his battle axe fall to the ground, straightening from his crouch as he did so. "I am Donuil, High Prince of the people the Romans call the Scotii. My father Athol is Ard Righ, the High King. My sister Ygraine is to be wife to Lot of Cornwall, and alliance has been made between Lot and my father: he aids us in our wars; we aid him in his. This has been our first fight on his behalf."

"You didn't do too well, did you?" I raised my arm and our circle broke apart as I had ordered, leaving a ring of mounted men behind which three large arrowhead formations formed, their points facing inward. He watched my people carry out their orders like machines, his face losing some of its high colour. Three single trumpet blasts told me the manoeuvre had been completed and I raised my arm again. The remainder of the circle broke and formed one massive square formation behind my arrowhead. The young giant in front of me returned his gaze to mine, his face gaunt.

"It is time to die, my friend," I said. "We cannot afford to keep you alive, and besides, with any luck, my cousin Uther has already killed King Lot. Fight well, and farewell." Again I started to raise my arm and again he stopped me.

"Your cousin Uther? That means you must be Merlyn."

I bowed my head slightly in acknowledgement. "I am. So?"

"They say you are a man of sense and honour."

"Do they?" I felt a wry smile on my face and a tug of regret that I had to kill this man. "And who are they? Lot of Cornwall knows nothing of sense or honour, and I would be surprised to hear any ally of his profess to know of them."

"I have heard the Druids speak of you."

I was becoming impatient and ill at ease with this. I had no wish to personalize an enemy before killing him.

"What is your point, man?" My voice reflected my impatience.

"I will make a bargain with you, Merlyn." His eyes were desperate and I felt a formless stirring of distaste.

"What kind of bargain do I need to make with the likes of you?" I asked with half a sneer forming unbidden on my lips.

"Life! Lives.. .Your men and mine."

Now what? "Go on," I said, "I'm listening."

He swallowed hard and looked at the men crowded behind him. Their faces were grim, but I took it as a sign of respect for their king's son that their silence remained absolute. He spoke again to me.

"Enough have died. My people will never recover from this loss. We are beaten." He drew a great, shuddering breath. "If we have to die now we will, but we will take a lot of your men with us."

"So? That is a soldier's risk." I pursed my lips. "I'm still waiting for you to make your point."

"It is this: You fight me, man to man, on foot. If I win, let my men and I go free, back to our boats and home. You have my word of honour that you will hear no more from us."

I raised an eyebrow. "And if I win?"

He shrugged. "Then my people withdraw, leaving their weapons here."

"And go home anyway? You call that a bargain? You win both ways."

He shook his head, a short, violent shake. "No! You do. All of your men remain alive too, but they keep their weapons either way. If my men go home without theirs they will be disgraced forever."

"Disgraced forever? Why?"

He shrugged his huge shoulders. "It is the way of our people. Cowardice is unforgivable."

"So why would you even suggest such a solution?"

He looked me straight in the eye and I saw truth in his gaze. "I think I can beat you. But even if I lose, they will still be alive. They will continue my race."

I decided quite suddenly that I liked this young man. He had a dignity about him that reminded me of my great-uncle Ullic. I considered his bargain and my mind leaped ahead of it. He was big and strong enough to beat me, but that did not worry me. If we fought, I felt that I would have the victory, but then I remembered my father's recent rebuke after my foolish confrontation with the bear. In the fight the young Celt was proposing, one of us must die, and the odds were even that it might be I who fell. It would be irresponsible to take that risk in front of my own troops. I shook my head.

"No," I said. "But I have an alternative offer. Surrender yourself, alone, to me personally, as my prisoner. If you do so, I'll escort your men back to their boats and send them home, with their weapons. You will be hostage for their good behaviour."

He frowned at me. "Without a fight?"

"You've had your fight." I nodded to the road behind him. "You lost, remember?"

He shrugged his shoulders again and looked down at the axe in his hands. "I have no choice, have I? How long will you keep me prisoner?"

I had not even considered that. I did so now. "Five years," I told him. "If at the end of that time we have had no more trouble with your people, I will release you."

"Five years?" He was aghast. "Five years of bondage? Chained up like a bear?"

I shook my head slightly. "I made no mention of chaining you up. You will be my prisoner. You gave me your word that your men would leave and stay away as part of your initial bargain. You did so in a manner that made me believe I might trust that word. I would be prepared to trust it still if you promised not to attempt escape, but to serve your time with me."

"Serving you?"

"Serving with me."

Our eyes locked and his narrowed as if trying to see beyond mine, into my head. Then he gave a curt nod. "Agreed. But let my people go."

"I will. Did any escape from the far side of the woods?"

"I don't know." His eyes were bleak.

"Well," I said, "we will find out. If there are survivors there with my father's troops, Will they be bound by your bargain, too?"

His eyes narrowed again. "They will. They are my father's people."

"Good, then we had better go and find out if any of them are still alive. Tell your people what is happening. I'll tell mine." I turned to my standard-bearer and spoke in my own language. "Bring Achmed Cato and Lieutenant Maripo here to me." When they arrived I told them what I had arranged. Maripo said nothing, but Cato looked worried.

"Commander, can you trust a man like this? A pirate?"

I nodded. "I think I can, Cato. He is no pirate in the ordinary sense. He's an envoy of his father, the king of the Scotii. Anyway, time will prove me either right or wrong, and in the meantime we have saved ourselves from losing men needlessly. I want to send an escort of two hundred back with them to the coast. You will lead them. I don't expect you to have any trouble on the way, but if you do, I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly. If they break faith with you, wipe them out. We'll disarm them before they leave and keep their weapons under guard. See them loaded into their boats and under way, then make your own way directly back to the Colony."

"Are we allowing them to keep their weapons? Really?" His eyes showed his surprise.

"Aye." I gave a small smile. "When the men are aboard, let them have their weapons back;"

He still looked dubious, but he did not demur, merely shrugging his shoulders. "You're the commander, Commander," was all he said.

My smile grew wider. I instructed him to hold the prisoners there pending other arrivals and further orders, then I returned to my young prisoner, who had finished talking to his own men. "Did you tell diem they would be allowed to keep their weapons?" I asked him.

"Aye. I told them they would have them back once aboard ship."

"That is correct. I have instructed the commander of the escort that will accompany them back to their boats. They are aware of the terms of your hostage status?"

"Aye. They are aware."

"Good. I hope they hold you in high esteem. Ask them now to throw down their weapons, all of them in a pile, and move away from them. My men will load them on to one of our commissary wagons later. Do you ride?"

"No."

"Then I hope you can walk quickly. We are going to check the extent of the slaughter up ahead there, in the woods. You will have to come with me. It will not be a pleasant passage, but if there are any of your people left alive on the other side of the woods, we should try to get there before someone decides to execute them all Let's go."

"What in the name of God possessed you to enter into such a stupid bargain with a bare-arsed savage?" My father had ridden hard to the top of a knoll and drawn his horse up there to wait for me, greeting me thus before I had reined to a halt, but I was ready for him.

"Perhaps the very name of God itself, Father."

His horse pranced uneasily, dancing sideways to keep clear of mine.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He was almost snarling at me. "Spare me your fancy words, Caius. This is no time for sophistry."

"There's none intended, Father. I meant what I said." I turned and looked down over my shoulder to where his own prisoners stood huddled in misery, surrounded by vigilant troopers. At a glance, I estimated their number as at least equal to that of my own captives—perhaps a few score more. I looked back at my father and shrugged. "Two thousand and more men went into that wooded road and to my eyes, only three hundred came back out. I did not know how many had come through on your side, but I did know that more than a thousand died there in that trap."

"So?" He had no patience with this line of reasoning.

"Well? What are you saying? Is there something strange about that? They were soldiers, Caius. Soldiers expect to die."

"Not so, sir. Not soldiers. They were men. Ours were the soldiers, and they struck from hiding, in stealth."

My father was completely baffled, thinking I had lost my sanity. "And?* he demanded in disbelief, "Would you rather they had died? Our men?"

"No! You misunderstand me. Give me at least a chance to try to make you understand." I undid my chin strap and removed my helmet for the first time that day. "Will you hear me out?"

"Do you doubt it?"

"No, Father, I don't. Forgive me." I clawed at my hair, matted and soaked with sweat from the heat of my helmet, "I know what I want to say, but I don't know where to start." I dismounted and sat on the grass and my father did the same, leaving me time to collect my thoughts. Finally, I began to talk. "I knew they had lost more than a thousand men, perhaps two thousand, in what seemed like moments. And I did not like the thought of killing three hundred more.

"We are Christians, Father, are we not? We are told to love our enemy, to turn the other cheek. We cannot do it, of course, in life. But surely we can try? We cannot claim to be Christians if we condone senseless and unnecessary slaughter. You are the one who taught me about taking personal responsibility for my own actions." I broke off, and thought again about what I wanted to say. "I suppose what I mean is that I did not choose to be responsible for what I saw as the needless deaths of three hundred beaten men plus those of my own men who would have died in the killing of them." I looked at him, fully expecting him to interrupt me there, but he said nothing and I continued. "I suspect you were having precisely the same kind of thoughts when I arrived. Am I correct? Or would you have had your troopers kill these people out of hand, in cold blood?" He frowned and his lips thinned, but I hurried on before he could respond. "That's rhetorical, of course. Had you intended that, you'd never have taken them as prisoners in the first place. In any case, young Donuil offered a way out. His life, in servitude, as hostage for the absence of his people from our lands. It seemed to me to be a fair solution."

"From what viewpoint?" My father's voice was calmer now.

I plucked a long stem of grass and nibbled on the soft end of it. "From the viewpoint of history, I suppose. Our own history. Rome herself set the example centuries ago, and has continued to do so ever since. Better, I thought, to let them leave with their lives and be responsible for the life of their own prince than to exterminate them and await reprisals."

He was biting at the skin of his lip, his eyes fixed on mine. "And you would trust this prince, this Donuil, to keep his own word?"

"Yes, Father. I would trust this Donuil."

He twisted sideways and fumbled with his swordbelt, trying to make it lie more comfortably beneath him. He was only partially successful, and ended up drawing his dagger from its sheath and gazing at the point of it.

"Vortigern," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Vortigern. It's a man's name. He's a warlord in the north-east. Have you heard of him?"

I shook my head. "No. Never. Should I have heard of him? Who is he?"

My father stabbed his dagger into the ground, hard, and then drew it out again, the gritty, alien sound of the earth scraping against the iron blade setting my teeth on edge. "Vortigern is doing what you're doing," he said. "He is putting his life and the lives of his people into jeopardy by trusting an alien people who have no conception of what trust means. Reason tells me that the idea of trust, as we understand it, must be a truly alien concept to them." He stopped and looked at me and then, seeing my incomprehension, wiped the blade on the hem of his tunic and went on to explain.

"Vortigern's lands are up on the north-east coast, in the area that has been getting the heaviest raids and the roughest treatment from invading Saxons. He and his people fought them well enough for years, but there were more fresh raiders coming in each year, while Vortigern's best people were being killed off steadily. Finally, he made an arrangement with a man called Hengist, one of the Saxon chiefs who came back year after year. He would give the Saxons land, he told them, land for them to farm and live on, if they would agree to help him defend his own land and theirs from other raiders."

"And?" I finally had to ask him. "Did they agree?"

For a long time I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all, but then he shrugged and sighed deeply. "Aye, they agreed."

"Why, that's marvellous," I said, full of enthusiasm.

My father looked at me with a strange expression, part pity, part impatience. "Is it now? And what happens tomorrow, or next year, or the year after that, when the Saxons he has invited to live with him want to go home and bring back their wives and children and brothers and families? And what happens when all their friends and families come here and there isn't enough land for them to farm?"

I blinked. "They'll clear more land and farm that."

"Aye, Caius, that they will. And they'll need more and more as their numbers grow, and one day they will decide that there isn't room for Vortigern and his people there any longer, because by that time it will be their land, and they'll throw Vortigern and his descendants out, alive if they're lucky." His voice had been rising as he spoke and now he paused and gathered his patience again, lowering his tone. "Vortigern is playing a suicidal game, Caius. He is not merely welcoming strangers to his lands. He is allowing uncontested entry to an alien race, an alien culture, an uncivilized and savage people who are intrinsically inimical to Vortigern's traditions and way of life. He will lose everything, sooner or later. It's inevitable." He paused. "Inevitable. You do see that, don't you?"

I nodded. "Yes, Father, I do, now that you explain it so graphically. But I can't see how it affects my own decision regarding this young Celtic chieftain. I am not inviting him to come here and farm my land. I can't find it in me to think that I have made the wrong decision."

My father squeezed his face between his palms and rose to his feet, his decision made. "Very well, Caius. You are my son and a soldier. More than that, you are your own man, with the right to make your own judgments. I have my doubts, but I will not say I told you so if you are wrong. I'll only hope you learn from your mistake—if you have indeed made one. How do you intend to proceed now?"

I tried hard not to allow my relief to show in any way, but got to my feet as casually as I could and replaced my helmet on my head. My father could still make me feel like a small boy. "I will have Donuil speak to your prisoners and explain the situation to them. I expect no trouble, since they have no choice. They are barbarian, but I think they do not lack honour. I will escort all of them back to the coast and send them home. Then we'll return to Camulod. We should be no more than three days behind you."

"How many are we freeing altogether?"

"Six hundred here, five hundred at the coast, guarding their ships."

"Eleven hundred men..." He shook his head again. "I hope you have the right of it, Caius, for if you are wrong they will eat you alive."

"I know that, Father. I believe I'm right."

He nodded. "Well, don't be longer than three days behind me or I'll pronounce you dead."

I smiled. "No need of that, Commander. By the way, what were our losses on the road?"

"Less than a hundred," he said, looking around him. "We lost one for ten. Not a bad exchange, under the circumstances."

"No," I said. "I suppose not."

He glanced at me, sharp-eyed. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. This is my first major battle, in terms of the numbers of men involved. I suppose I'm still trying to adjust to the thought of eleven or twelve hundred lives being snuffed out like lamps within the space of an hour. Eleven hundred. That's a lot of corpses. They'll breed a lot of maggots."

He frowned slightly. "It's half as many as it would have been without your bargain! But you're right. That road will be unpleasant to travel for the next few months. I don't think, however, that you have lost sight of what would have happened at Camulod had we let them get through this valley unscathed."

I nodded agreement. "It had to be done, I'm aware of that, but it doesn't make it any the less sickening." I put my foot into the stirrup and swung myself up onto my horse. "As long as people like the Scotii and the Picts, and the Saxons for that matter, see us as weak, helpless victims in a leaderless land, this kind of carnage will go on. But it galls me that Lot of Cornwall should stoop so low as to bring in invaders to help him."

My father cleared his throat derisively and I marvelled again, for the first time; in ages, at how clear his speaking voice had become. "Well, my son, I can guarantee you that Lot would not describe himself as stooping low to achieve his ends. That one is aiming high. He seeks dominion. Lot of Cornwall sees himself as High King of Britain, I fear." He mounted his own horse.

"High King of Britain? Lot of Cornwall? You jest, surely, Father?"

But there was no humour in my father's grim face. He grunted and spat, clearing his mouth before he spoke again. "No, by the ancient gods, I mean it. I have ill reports of him. He looks to conquer all of us."

"Then his ambition will kill him, for he has to reckon with Uther, myself and you, and he's not man enough for any of us. I wonder how Uther is faring right now?"

My father hitched around in his saddle, peering backward to where his army awaited him. "We'll find out soon enough," he said, abstractedly. "Go you and see your prisoners out to sea. And don't take too long about it. We'll be waiting for you in Camulod."