Jack Whyte - The Eagles' Brood

"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."