Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Regretfully, we left them to their self willed isolation and continued southward, embarking now upon a journey of more than two hundred miles, on roads that stretched through otherwise impenetrable forest, towards the town the Romans had called Corinium, which had been, for untold centuries, the main territorial town of the Dobunni. From Corinium it would be a mere fifty miles to Aquae Sulis, and from there another overnight camp would bring us within reach of Camulod.

Only near the fort towns where the Roman garrisons and their suppliers once lived had we seen signs of organized, if limited, agriculture: cleared lands, regular fields and marked divisions and boundaries. Now, however, as we approached Corinium, the forests fell away and disappeared and we found ourselves moving through what had evidently once been an arable, treeless landscape with extensive meadows and even cultivated fields, some of which, despite having lain fallow for decades, still showed clear lines of boundaries distinguishing each from its neighbours. We saw no signs of recent agriculture in the first few miles of this terrain; what had once been fertile fields were grossly overgrown with weeds and thistles, rioting shrubs and acres of thriving saplings. Eventually, however, we reached an area where small plots of land had recently been ploughed and planted. These were few and far between, at first, but as we neared the district surrounding Corinium, the cultivated plots grew larger and more numerous. Less than one quarter of the land available had been ploughed or planted, but every field, including those that lay fallow and overgrown, showed the evidence that proclaimed its origins in Roman organization.

"They grow bigger and more numerous as we approach the town, but you'll see no sign of the fanners. " Philip, who had been riding by my side in silence for more than a mile, must have been watching me eyeing the fields and had read my mind.

Surprised by his comment, I turned to face him, grimacing and shifting my seat in the saddle. "Why not?" I asked, granting involuntarily as the movement sent a spasm of pain through my buttocks.

Philip grinned before he answered, his eyes flicking downward to my seat. "Because they've learned to stay well away from targets. Growing things—fresh foodstuffs— attract two legged predators. They fade into the greenwood the moment any unknown faces appear in the region. Farmers nowadays are a strange breed. They've grown afraid of strangers since the armies left, and who can blame them?" His grin widened at the sight of my obvious discomfort. "You've been spending too much time afoot, these past years, Commander Merlyn."

"Aye," I agreed wryly, "but we've been in the saddle now for fourteen straight days. My seat should be toughened again by this time."

Philip laughed and shook his head. "This has been a long day. My own backside is sore enough that I can think of nothing else but climbing down. We camped close by here on the way up—an old legionary marching camp on the right of the road, about two miles further on, close by a clear stream. There's little left of it by this time—you can barely see where the old dirt walls used to be—but it's a good spot and still defensible, should the need arise."

"Excellent. Then we'll use it, soon, I hope." I reached down and dug my fingertips tentatively into my right buttock, then winced from the pain of it. "Tell me more about the local fanners. Ambrose told me some time ago that they had started gathering close by the old Roman towns again but were not living in them. Where do they live, then?"

Philip shrugged, lifting himself up in his stirrups to look over his shoulder, checking on the group that stretched out behind us. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he settled into the saddle again and eased the weight of his helmet from his forehead, loosening the catch beneath his chin and pushing the brim of the heavy headpiece upward with his thumb.

"Anywhere they can find a place that offers them some safety. And you're right, they avoid the towns." He hawked and spat, leaning forward and away from me. "That seems strange, I know," he continued, straightening again and curbing his horse, which had shied at the sound of his spitting close by its ear. "But it's as it should be. The towns attract unwelcome attention from visitors, and the walls around them too often represent more of a prison than a defence. They also tend to avoid living together in groups of families, and that's something new to me, although I can see a certain sense to it. There was a time when strength in numbers meant safety, but that's no longer the case when the threat to your safety comes from greater numbers who are better armed and trained to fight in concert. Under those conditions, the surest safety lies in flight, and the advantage of flight lies in being alone, or at least fleeing in the smallest possible group.

'The farmers nowadays tend to isolate themselves in small, tight family units. Each family takes care of its own fields from a distance, travelling to and from them every day. It makes sense, considering the risks involved in growing crops. If a family decides to tackle it at all—and they really have no choice—they'll farm at least two fields, but more often three or more, and they take care that each is as distant from the others as possible. Once the crops are ready to be harvested in safety, then they'll bring them in as quietly as possible, one field at a time. If a crop is lost for any reason—if one, let's say, is harvested by bandits forcing locals to do the work for them—why then the family simply hopes that their remaining fields will rest untouched, and they'll be able to live off those crops. In the meantime, they live in a hut or a lean-to somewhere close to the woods. If they're threatened, they flee into the forest, and if their hovel is burned or torn down, they can build another just like it within a day or so."

As I listened to Philip, the realization came to me, tinged with a sense of shame, that I had never thought, analytically, about the lives of ordinary people, out here in the open countryside, without the benefit of a colony or a fortified town to protect them. While I had dreamed of the future of Britain in the safety of my secluded fort, with the strength of Camulod's troops and all the trappings of Roman civilization at my disposal, these people—the very people who would live out that dream and bring it to fruition— were leading lives that were brutal, bloody and fearful. I found myself staring at Philip, appalled both by the implications of his words, and by the casual way he uttered them. I had to fight down an unjust urge to turn the rough edge of my tongue on him. Instead, I forced myself to sit quietly and look about me until I had regained control of my suddenly turbulent emotions.

"So," I said eventually. "I have not heard you say so, but you give me the impression you believe these people deserve their lot in life?"

Philip looked at me now as if I were the one saying appalling things, and then his eyes narrowed and he nodded, a tiny gesture of acknowledgement. "They live the only kind of life they know, Commander, and it is their lot, beyond our power to change or influence." I noted his use of my formal title, rather than the name he was entitled to use as an old friend. "All we can do is thank God our lives are as they are, and not like theirs. Short of establishing a garrison in Corinium, which would be impossible, I can't think of a thing we could do to improve their lot."

I grunted, and spurred my horse to a trot, leaving Philip behind. He made no effort to catch up to me, and for the next half hour I rode alone, mulling over what he had told me.

I was still thinking on it when we reached the appointed campground and our people began setting up our tents and horse lines for the night. I maintained my distance from everyone, even at supper, carrying my meal away and sitting alone with my thoughts. Tress obviously knew that I had some concern or other nagging at me. She was clever enough and considerate enough to keep her distance and allow me to stew in my own juices for as long as necessary, knowing that I would come to her soon. I was grateful to her for that, and aware that she would also keep others away from me.