David Pilling - Flame of the West

The other officers were all young men, bold and valiant in their way, but hopelessly drunk, and unable to comprehend what was happening. Narses held us all in the bowl of his hand.

“Caesar’s sword is the property of the Empire,” Narses squeaked, “as the Emperor’s chief representative in Italy, it is mine to dispose of as I see fit. King Theobald has heard the stories of your famous ancestor, Coel, and wants his magic sword. He thinks it will bring him good fortune in war.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “It is also the price Theobald demands for not supporting the Goths in this war. They are all kin, these barbarians. Unless we give him the sword, he will lead a hundred thousand warriors over the Alps into Roman territory. There will be no famine to stop them this time.”

“Come,” he added, spreading his hands, “it is only an old sword, after all. Place it on the carpet at Pharamond’s feet, and let us all be friends.”

I became aware of the presence of armed men at my back. Narses’ guards had shuffled into the pavilion. At least one of them, I knew, would relish the chance to stick his sword in my liver.

A tense silence filled the silken chamber. Narses sat upright, his short legs dangling over the edge of his divan. Beside him, John looked distrustfully at everyone, long fingers curled about the jewelled hilt of his dagger. Pharamond glared at me and my son, willing us to give up our rightful property.

I turned my head slightly to the left. “Beware of rust,” I whispered, and ripped out my sword.

Arthur threw himself aside in time, else I might have taken his head off. I struck blind, knowing there were at least two men behind me. The blade smacked against a silver helmet, severing a cheek-guard and knocking its owner to the floor.

The sound of clashing steel jerked Bessas to life. He threw himself at one of the guards, and they went down in a roaring, cursing heap, scrabbling for their daggers.

“Stop this madness!” shrieked Narses, his voice resembling a kettle coming to the boil, “guards! Guards – someone turn out the guard!”

Most of his guests remained where they were, frozen in shock, but one or two saw an opportunity to win their general’s favour. They struggled to their feet, looking around blearily for their swords, only to have Arthur descend on them like a raging giant.

His fists smashed them to the floor, and then John flew at him, curved dagger raised to strike. Arthur blocked the strike with his forearm, kneed John in the crotch and threw him bodily across the pavilion. The screeching nobleman crashed into Narses’ divan, overturning it and sending the eunuch flying.

He landed heavily against the pillar carrying the bust of the Emperor Elagabalus. The bust toppled from its perch and landed next to Narses, who lay stunned, staring into the late emperor’s marble eyes in dumb confusion.

“Run!” shouted Bessas, who had got on top of his opponent, “run, you fools!”

I beckoned at Arthur, and together we ducked out of the pavilion into the night. Four more of Narses’ guards were running towards us, drawn by the noise.

“Get those horses,” rasped Arthur, pointing to a pair of beasts tethered to a tree beside the pavilion. They were being tended by a small, fair-haired servant boy, and probably belonged to Pharamond.

He bounded towards the guards, Caledfwlch whirling in his hand. The sword was like an extension of himself, and I could only watch in admiration as he made short work of the four men, killing one and severely wounding two. The last wisely took to his heels, howling for aid.

I had the easier task of dealing with the boy, who required only a sharp word and a cuff round the ear before he yelped and ran off into the darkness.

My fingers shook as I fumbled to untie the reins. I picked out the smaller of the horses for myself, a roan mare, and handed Arthur the sleek black stallion.

“He will better carry your weight,” I said, throwing him the reins. He nodded and leaped into the saddle, while I scrambled aboard the mare with distinctly less grace.

Oaths and shouts came from the pavilion, mixed with the sound of fighting, as we steered our stolen horses to the north and heeled them into a gallop. None tried to stop us. Arthur was popular among the soldiers, and in place of a hail of arrows we were sent on our way by laughter and encouraging shouts.

They were the last Roman voices I ever heard.

Just a little longer, and I reach the end of my tale. The mere effort of writing and remembering has drained the last of my strength.

Abbot Gildas, poor man, has watched me slowly fade away these past two years, since I first took up my pen. Only his respect for my age, and the knowledge that it would strip me of purpose in life, prevents him from forbidding me to write.

I began this, my last despatch, with an account of how I lost my son. It ended with me lying half-dead near the banks of the Po, bleeding my life out from a host of wounds.

The Frankish soldiers left me there to die. I was no value to them. They had pursued us all the way from the Roman camp at Taginae, to seize Caledfwlch and deliver it to their avaricious young king. If that meant killing me, and Arthur, then so be it.

I would have crawled to my horse, but the Franks had taken her. In any case, I could not ride, or even stand. My injuries were too great. As I lay in the mud, weeping in pain, I knew I would never be whole again.

All my concern was for Arthur. I last saw him riding west, towards the border of Liguria. The Franks would give chase, but he was a better rider than the lot of them, and had a fine horse.

I had no means of knowing his fate. All I could do was lie there, a used-up wreck, and wait for the spectre of death. All my contempt for Narses and his crippled state came back to haunt me. I was the cripple now, alone and friendless, and destined for a miserable end.

God was not quite done with me. Somehow I lasted the night, and in the morning an unwanted saviour came in the form of a Perugian priest. Like the Samaritan, he knelt by my side, whispered soothing words, and did his best to bind up the worst of my wounds.

“Leave me, father,” I begged, but he would have none of it. He was an old man, lacking the strength to help me stand, so he went and fetched a couple of farm boys from the nearest village. They brought a cart, drawn by an ox, and lifted me aboard under the priest’s careful supervision.

For weeks I lingered, hovering between life and death in the back room of a farmer’s cottage. He resented my presence, and the duty of caring for me, but the old priest’s word was law in the village.

“You are not well, my friend,” my saviour said to me one chill winter’s morning, “we have done our poor best, but your leg…God denies us the skill to heal you entire.”

He was lonely in his little church, and wished me to remain as his assistant. I had no intention of ending my days as the lackey to some village priest, no matter how kind.

My left leg was badly twisted, but I could limp well enough with the aid of a stick. One moonless night, while the farmer was lying abed, swine drunk and shaking the rafters with his snoring, I crept into the stable and took his horse.

I had not ridden for weeks, and the horse was a fat old mare, ruined by years of heaving ploughs. Grunting with pain, I managed to fix a saddle and bridle onto her, opened the stable door, and led her out into the night.

We made a fine pair, one ruin riding another, but she bore my weight without protest for many miles, across the rolling Perugian landscape. I had half a loaf of rye bread in my pocket, and a little flask of water, and these sustained me until we reached the next village.