Theodoric

NINETEEN

Scudding through a choppy Fretum Gallicum,* the little ship, with a stiff sou-wester blowing on the quarter, approached the landing-stage of Anderida† the last of the forts of the Saxon Shore to remain in British hands, thus providing the only safe entry to Britannia along her southern shore. Beyond the pebble beach loomed the fort’s mighty ramparts, studded with huge projecting bastions ribbed with bonding courses of red tile.

The fort’s main gate opened, and a stream of people, mostly anxious-looking families clutching possessions, crowded on to the jetty. ‘Poor devils,’ the skipper muttered to Myrddin, as the sailors prepared to lower the gangplank. ‘Refugees from the Saxons, hoping to re-settle in Aremorica. Best I can do is dump them in Gesoriacum; after that they’re on their own. Some of them may make it — if they can avoid being killed or enslaved by Franks en route. ’Course, they’ll have to pay me. Most do in kind, occasionally in coins, but there are precious few of those left in Britannia — mostly old nummi of Honorius, from the last issue ever sent.’ Turning from Myrddin, he roared, ‘Get back there!’ as the gangplank thumped on the pier and a swarm of desperate passengers tried to rush it — to be beaten back by burly seamen wielding belaying-pins.

Saddened by the sight, Myrddin, clad in his monk’s black robe, with satchel over shoulder and walking-staff in hand, hurried ashore and sought admission at the gate before it closed.

*

‘Keep to the ridgeways* and you’ll be all right,’ Meurig, the fort’s commander, told Myrddin. They were in the former’s quarters in one of the twin towers surmounting the main gateway. The commander — a tough-looking grizzled veteran — was in charge of a four-hundred-strong garrison, the Numerus Abulcorum. This was the island’s last surviving unit of limitanei, the frontier troops left behind when Rome’s Field Army of Britannia had been withdrawn eighty years before. Since their profession was hereditary, with land being granted on discharge, the limitanei became bonded into the local community, continuing from one generation to the next. ‘The Saxons — lowland farmers to a man — seem to hate the hills,’ Meurig continued. ‘So far, they’ve settled only in the plains and valleys. You want to reach Artorius, you say? Let’s see; last I heard, he’d set up his headquarters near Castra Gyfel.† That’s on the great Roman road running from Isca to Lindum — a hundred and fifty plus miles due west from here; say a week to ten days’ walking.’ He glanced at Myrddin quizzically. ‘Beats me why you’d want to come to Britain, when anyone who’s able to seems anxious to get out. Still, no business of mine. Whatever your reasons, I expect they’re good ones — especially if they’re connected with Artorius. What a man! If it wasn’t for him, the Saxons might have pushed us Brits back to Cambria by now.’ He smiled at his visitor. ‘You’ll stay the night of course; can’t let you go without a proper Anderida send-off. Seeing we protect them, the locals keep us well supplied — boar and venison from Anderida Silva,‡ washed down with home-brewed ale. At least you’ll be setting out with a full stomach.’

Striding along the ancient ridgeway cresting the chalk downs west of Anderida, Myrddin felt his spirits lift on this glorious autumn morning. Below him, to the right, stretched the vast expanse of Anderida Silva, a sea of reds and golds, while before him, starkly beautiful, the sculpted hills rolled to the horizon, the nearest with an arresting figure cut through the turf to the bare chalk, showing a giant holding a staff in each outstretched hand.*

Sleeping at night in shepherds’ huts, or among the banks and ditches of hill-forts which had been old when 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 down the slope and drove through the Saxon host as a sledge-hammer smashes through a rotten door. Reforming on the valley’s farther side, the horsemen charged again, before the Saxons could recover and form a defensive shield-wall. Time after time the tactic was repeated, until at last the Saxons broke and fled, to be cut down almost to a man, by the pursuing Britons.

Learning of their fate, the other column, putting discretion before valour, retreated to the east. Britain to the west of Vectis* was safe, for another year at least.

Looking out to sea from one of the towers surmounting the gatehouse of Anderida, Meurig experienced a twinge of concern. A shimmering wall of white obscured the coastline — perfect cover for a Saxon sea-borne attack. His anxiety was groundless, he told himself. Since Artorius’ great victory at Mons Badonicus† three years before, the Saxons had lain low, licking their wounds presumably. And yet. . All Meurig’s instincts suggested that this spell of inactivity was but the calm before the storm. By nature ruthless and persistent, the Saxons were not the sort of people to be permanently knocked back by one defeat, however costly. Well, whatever happened elsewhere on the island, Anderida was secure. Nothing could penetrate these massive walls — ten feet thick by thirty high, of solid concrete faced with stone, reinforced by twelve great bastions from which a deadly enfilading fire could be directed against any enemy who reached the curtain. The fort was utterly impregnable. Wasn’t it?

What was that? Straining his ears, Meurig picked up a faint sound, a low susurration which slowly grew in volume. Suddenly, as was wont with these seasonal sea-frets, the mist began to thin and shred, then in a twinkling had dissolved away. The commander stared in consternation at the sight that met his eyes: a forest of sails bearing down upon the beach. Beneath the towering squares of canvas, banks of oars dipped and rose — the source of the sound that he had heard. This was no ordinary raid, such as Anderida had seen off scores of times in the past. This was a full-scale offensive which bore the hallmarks of concerted planning. All at once, the fort’s invincibility seemed less assured.

Before the longboats grounded on the beach, the garrison had manned the walls. The great ballistae — new when Theodosius was emperor a century ago, but kept in good repair — were rushed from store and hastily assembled on the bastions. Meanwhile, the Saxons, pouring from their craft, formed up, thousands strong, on the narrow beach. Then, giving a savage roar, they rolled forward in massed formation.

‘Jacite!’ The order to shoot rang out from the ballista platforms on the nearest bastions. Their connecting cords released by a trigger mechanism, the arms of the huge catapults, powered by the enormous stored-up energy of their springs of twisted sinew, flew forwards. A storm of iron-headed bolts smashed into the Saxons, tearing great gaps in their ranks. These were immediately filled up, the enemy advancing without pause to the foot of the walls, to be subjected to a deadly hail of javelins and arrows. Despite incurring terrible losses, the Saxons pressed on. Scaling-ladders were raised, sent crashing to the ground, scattering their human loads; but more and more thudded on to the parapet until at last the Saxons gained a growing foothold on the walkways, and the balance swiftly tilted in their favour. Knowing no quarter would be given, the garrison, by now reduced to a shrinking knot of limitanei, fought on grimly in the fort’s great courtyard until the last man was killed.

‘Let us leave their bodies for the kites and crows,’ said Aelle to his fellow leader.

‘No,’ replied Cissa, resting on his bloodstained sword. ‘They were brave men. We will give them honourable burial.’

So disappeared from Britain the last reflected rays of Rome’s imperial sunset.

* Straits of Dover.

† Pevensey.

* Prehistoric tracks along the crests of the chalk downs of southern England. Parts of some of them are popular with walkers today.

† Ilchester (see Notes). The Roman road is the Fosse Way, connecting Exeter and Lincoln.

‡ The Weald.

* The Long Man of Wilmington (for this and other features mentioned in Myrddin’s itinerary, see Notes).

† Cadbury Castle/South Cadbury hill-fort (see Notes).

* Silchester and Winchester.

* ‘Gwyn’ is Welsh for ‘white’ (hence ‘Gawain’?).

* The Isle of Wight.

† Mount Badon (see Notes).