Theodoric

THIRTY-FIVE

‘There she is, Dacore!’* exclaimed Cella to Connal. Far below them was a distant cluster of timber buildings surrounded by a palisade, near the head of an immensely long and twisting sheet of water, whose placid surface reflected the majestic surrounding mountains.

Accompanied by Cella, a full-bearded, jolly bear of a man, one of a breed of itinerant monks — a familiar sight on the roads of the Empire and the Christian West — Connal had travelled from Italy through Gaul and thence by ship to West Cambria in Britannia.† Advised by Theoderic, who had adopted the same guise himself when journeying to meet the holy man Severinus, the pair had adopted the distinctive robe, staff and scrip of pilgrims (bound for Candida Casa in Galweya and Dun Patricii in Hibernia‡). Thus equipped, they could travel without fear of molestation in Christian lands, such was the reverence in which these pious travellers were held.

Skirting the mountains of North Cambria (having learnt that Artorius was campaigning in the north-west, near the great Vallum Hadriani), they had walked in fine spring weather through the ‘kingdoms’ of Dyfed, Ceredigion and Gwynedd, to the port of Bangor. Here, they had met a holy man of great repute, one Deiniol, who was in the process of setting up a monastery-cum-centre of learning. Deiniol was able to tell them the whereabouts of Artorius, who, he assured them, was accompanied by Myrddin. On his advice, they had taken a ship to the mouth of the Deruuentis river in Reged,* in order to avoid raiding-parties of the North Angles which had recently begun to trouble the intervening coasts. From the estuary, they had travelled eastwards through a most beautiful region of tall mountains, waterfalls and silvery streams, studded with tarns and lakes.

Descending to the lakeside, Connal and Cella approached the settlement they had spotted earlier, and, after affirming their credentials (emissaries of Theoderic, king of Italia and vicegerent of the emperor, status confirmed by a sealed royal statement of authorization), were admitted by gate guards into an extensive enclosure. It was thronged with men-at-arms, artisans at work, grooms attending to horses, and was dominated by a massive timber fort overlooking a scatter of lesser buildings — stables, workshops and storehouses. They were escorted to the fort’s upper storey; it was furnished as a military headquarters, with maps set out and tables loaded with documents and writing paraphernalia, at which clerks sat working. At the room’s far end, deep in discussion with a ring of aides, towered a giant of a man, upright and robust-looking despite being advanced in years, as betokened by a mane of silver hair. He projected authority and confidence.

‘Visitors from Italy, my lord,’ announced the escort. ‘The Dux Britanniae,’ he murmured to Connal and Cella, then withdrew.

‘So, gentlemen, you’re here to convey greetings from Theoderic to Myrddin,’ said Artorius, when the pair had introduced themselves and explained their mission. ‘The King of Italy must think highly of my medicus to have sent you all this way. Your timing could be better: we’re expecting a major push by the Angles any day.’ He shot them an appraising glance. ‘It’ll get nasty. Once you’ve seen Myrddin, you have two choices. Either stay and help, as orderlies behind the lines when battle starts; or head for home. I’d 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. As we know to our cost.’

‘Makes you wonder how a people who could raise a thing like that could lose an empire,’ murmured Connal, awestruck. (A combination of skill, strength, stout mail protection and a modicum of luck had enabled him to survive the battle unscathed, barring a few contusions and minor cuts.)

At Petriana, a fortress near the western end of the great Wall, they requested shelter from the ‘commandant’. He was a chieftain of the Selgovae who, with his war-band, occupied the fort, continuing a tradition established by Cunedda, a Romano-British leader who had maintained a military presence on the Wall after the departure of the legions. Myrddin was known by repute among the Britons everywhere. Following the disclosure of who he was and what his mission, the welcome given him and his companions was warm indeed. (As a result of Connal and Cella staying to help Artorius, a strong bond of friendship had developed between them and Myrddin, leading to the pair deciding, for reasons of comradeship and mutual security, to accompany the medicus on his mission to the Votadini.)

‘Let me see that hand,’ Cella said sharply to Myrddin, as the three companions prepared to bed down in one of the fort’s old dormitory blocks, which they were to share with members of the war-band. ‘I noticed you’ve been favouring it — at supper you used your left hand to hold your spoon.’

‘It’s nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, holding out his bandaged right hand. ‘Caught it on the barb of a javelin I removed from a patient’s thigh, during the battle.’

‘Infected,’ pronounced Cella, after removing the bandage. He shook his head at the sight of the puffy, inflamed flesh that surrounded a ragged gash below the thumb. ‘It’ll need regular cleaning and dressing — as if you didn’t know that. Lucky I’m here to do it for you.’

Next day, the trio headed through the Wall via the fort’s North Gate, and pressed on in that direction across open heathery moorland, until intersecting a considerable river flowing to the south-west. This Myrddin pronounced to be the Isca.* Over the next three days they followed the stream to its head, travelling through a desolate landscape of great rounded hills, and sleeping rough at night wrapped in their thick woollen robes. The weather kept fine and dry, which was as well, since the condition of Myrddin’s injured hand continued to deteriorate, despite constant washing, rebandaging and treating with salves, a supply of which the medicus had in his scrip.

From the headwaters of the Isca, they crossed a watershed to pick up a young river flowing north and east, the Tuesis,* according to Myrddin. His hand was now grotesquely swollen, with an ominous red line ‘tracking’ steadily up his arm. Urgent medical attention was called for, but in this wilderness of moors and barren hills that was a forlorn hope. There was nothing for it but to press on and hope soon to reach a settlement, where rest, and the ministrations of persons skilled in the arts of healing, combined with the patient’s own medical lore, might effect recovery.

But it was not to be. After two days following the course of the Tuesis, Myrddin was delirious and could go no further. Making him as comfortable as possible, his companions laid him down on a bed of bracken. For a time he tossed, and muttered incoherently, then he fell into a slumber. When he awoke a short time later, the fever seemed to have left him, for he began to speak in a faint but clear voice. ‘My friends, you must complete my mission for me. The way is not hard to find. Follow this river for a further two days; it will take you to Trimontium, a fortress of the Romans beneath a three-peaked hill. There you will meet the great road Agricola built, which will lead you north through a range of hills. From the summit you will see the plain of Lothian stretching to the Bodotria Aestuaria, and in its midst a huge eminence shaped like the shell of a tortoise. That is Dunpender, crowned by a mighty hill fort, the capital of the Votadini.† You know what you must tell them.’

‘But we cannot speak the British tongue,’ Cella pointed out, his voice breaking.

‘You both acquired a smattering when we travelled through the Cambrias. It will be enough for your purpose. Besides, some may have a little Latin. The Votadini were always Friends of Rome, and maintained contact with the empire to the end. You will manage, that I know. And now, my friends, I must say farewell, for the sands of Myrddin’s life have run their course.’

Weeping, they clasped his left hand in their own, and in a little space he breathed his last. With their knives they scraped a shallow grave, and gently laid him to rest.*

* Near the site of the present Penrith, north-east of Ullswater.

† West Wales or Cornwall as opposed to North Cambria, Wales.

‡ Whithorn in Galloway and Downpatrick in Ireland, where the shrines of, respectively, SS Ninian and Patrick were located.

* The Derwent in Cumberland, then part of the Confederacy of the Britons, which was bounded to the north by Dalriada (Scots) and Alban (Picts).

* From ‘Cambroges’, fellow countrymen.

* The Humber and the Wear.

† Reged corresponded roughly to the old county of Cumberland. ‘Cumbria’ covered a far greater area than the present county, extending well into what is now Scotland.

* Belle Isle on Lake Windermere.

* The Esk.

* The Tweed.

† The three-peaked hill is the Eildon range; Agricola’s road (named Dere Street by the Angles) is now the A68; Bodotria Aestuaria is the Firth of Forth; Dunpender is Traprain Law in East Lothian.

* And he lies there to this day, at Drumelzier by the Tweed, his resting-place marked by a notice stating simply, ‘Merlin’s Grave’.